Parts is Parts

The big question remains unanswered. Nobody, as far as I can tell, has even asked it. Am I the only one whose morbid curiosity is piqued? Am I the only one gauche enough to wonder what became of the stolen souvenirs?

sale on partsIt’s Shakespearean, really – the epic stuff of overblown tragedy in the violent days of yore. Thank Christ people are more civilized now. We’ve moved beyond all that dark lusting and evil plotting and vengeful retribution and bloodletting.

In this case there was no blood, since the victim was already dead (natural causes). Embalmed, even – all dressed up with nowhere to go, lying there at the funeral home taking her eternal rest.  Her hair was hacked up, her makeup smeared, and her forehead slashed. Surely it was overkill to slice off her big toe and breasts, even if she was your ex-boyfriend/ex-husband’s (legal status unclear) former girlfriend?

Don’t believe me? You can google on this! Type in “Shaynna Sims/Smith” or maybe “jealous psycho steals shoes of corpse she’d just mutilated.” Just beware the tags your computer will add to your online profile (necrophilia, dismemberment – like me, you’ll get on some really interesting advertising lists. At least you’ll be in good company).

The news tells us that Shaynna was arrested later that day, still carrying a box cutter and switchblade linked to the crime. There is no mention anywhere of either the toe or the boobies.

Parts is Parts (find it on YouTube, you youngsters)

Enquiring minds want to know!

And why the poor toe? Breasts you can see, so to speak, in a case of romantic rivalry. Or take the hand that once caressed what was yours. Take the tongue that lied. Take the ear that was whispered into. But the toe? Toes tend to be fairly innocuous. And why just one? For the sake of symmetry, wouldn’t you want both?

VENGEANCE IS MINE, saith the Lord. I’ve always had a secret irrational fear of those words (surely intoned in a booming Charlton Heston voice), and am happy to let the jealous god handle matters of retribution. It’d sure be nice to see justice meted out as I see fit, though, and sooner rather than later.

All I see now are bastards and cream rising to the top (one of my father’s better aphorisms). Still, I’m too squeamish to take things into my own hands. The most vengeful thing I ever did was burn the original birth certificate of an ex-boyfriend.  I found it in my papers months after he’d moved back east, and ceremoniously consigned it to flames of woe out in the barbeque pit. In memory, I then roasted a wiener on a stick over the embers – but memory is a whimsical and unreliable thing.

Ex-Boyfriend deserved that harsh treatment. Yeah, I’m the one who cancelled the wedding and stayed in Colorado. But he should have been grateful. I spared him a lifetime of misery and a messy Missy divorce. Instead, he robbed me of my typewriter – an arrest-me-red IBM Selectric he’d given me when first we took up housekeeping. That typewriter was the most perfect vote of confidence ever cast for me! Ex-Boyfriend could ill afford it (top of the line, at the time) and he didn’t get the whole “I want to write” thing, but he believed in me enough to invest in the best.

To spite me, he swiped it. To rub salt in the wound, he sent me a pawn ticket for it long after the reclamation date had passed. Vengeance was his, but only for a time. I soon had another IBM Selectric — and another boyfriend.

 Revenge is a dish that tastes best when it is  published.
Revenge is a dish that tastes best when . . . published.

Actually, I already had the other boyfriend. But that’s a story for another day.

What then becomes of trophies fueled by the fires of fury? Perhaps Shaynna the Slasher is a student of Greek tragedy, and planned to serve her man his lover on a plate. She strikes me as a woman more into Burger King than Thyestean feasting, though. Did she plan to mail that toe to him? Did she plot to plant those rootless nipples in his bed? Or did she just toss the tits into the trash, breasts among the cigarette butts?

Whatever happened to that sexy red typewriter? Was there a page of perfect prose in it, lost forever? Where is the treasured pearl pendant that vanished along with it, a gift from my parents when I turned 16? Ex-boyfriend probably gave that to his next girlfriend; he was into recycling before it was trendy.

I hope it brought her joy; I doubt that he did.

Thanks for reading! Missy
Thanks for reading!


“does frankencense cause pooping”

My blog server keeps me up to date on Google searches that lead people to my website. It’s often rather horrifying. I’ve written about cheerleaders and girl scouts and boobs and Bigfoot and underwear and strippers and space aliens and hookers and guns and God and Godzilla and Republicans and ankle socks and outhouses, after all. The Google Overlords stir it all up in a steamy stew of perversion with my name on it.

Who'd have thought this would attract knee-sock fetishists? Except, of course, knee-sock enthusiasts.
Who’d have thought this would attract knee-sock fetishists? Except, of course, knee-sock fetishists.   Missy circa 1968.

Missy’s name, rather.

Today’s title came from an April 21 internet inquiry. I’m able to see the query, but not the queer duck who sent it.

Here’s a quandary: I desperately want to use that word “queer” to cleverly tie in with the word “query.” These are the things that delight a geeky pseudo-writer’s heart – poetic niceties and rhyming games and sophomoric alliterative phrases (an especially harsh critic once accused me of intellectual masturbation, and yes, it’s that, too). It’s fun to mess around. Yet that once-respectable old-fashioned word “queer” was perverted or subverted or everted (you see, I can’t help myself) into hate speech. While the LGBT community has reclaimed it with pride, methinks Missy should retire it — after today. My gay friends will forgive me this one last indiscretion (please).

Today’s post ought to be a big winner in terms of web-search terms (there I go again. Perhaps I should just turn off the computer and go scrub the toilet or wash those mildewing towels piled on the floor downstairs; the pile is at least in the laundry room). One paragraph in, I’ve used the words “pooping” and “masturbation” and “perversion,” along with the ever-popular and always-paired “cheerleaders” and “boobs.” What strange new roads will now lead to MIRTH?

On May 5, a lonely soul with double-negative issues searched for “the team who has cheerleader with no panties neither bra” and found me. I fear he was disappointed.   On April 30, someone looked for “small tits asia babysitter” and was directed to my site. Really? I’ve also had “sex with bigfoot,” “exotic bitches panties,” and “raped by hot aliens” show up (April 2, April 24, and May 9). No lie.

You'll live to regret googling on that.
You’ll live to regret googling on that.

I’ll apologize in advance for making fun of you, should you be responsible for any of those searches. Or maybe I won’t. You may THINK you have internet privacy, but some social engineer somewhere is compiling a list of all your shameful prurient late-night obsessive dark-underbelly interests. God is doing that, too, but at least His motives are pure. He won’t be targeting you with ads for blow-up dolls or blue movies or male enhancement vacuum pumps. He just wants to condemn you to hell.

An older gentleman I know works very hard to keep up with technology and probably does a better job of it than I – I have no right to patronize (not that that will stop me). This fellow is apt to say, altogether earnestly, “I’ll just google on that.” That phrase has now become part of O’Brieniana – we are forever googling on stuff.

I’m proud to say there is one item you can google on that will pull MIRTH up as the first and best match — #1 on the hit list, in all the vastness of the blogosphere! That that item exists only in the realm of O’Brieniana does not matter. It is the Segregated Knife, which we treasure along with our Ovulating Fans. People have actually sought on-line information about segregated knives. You can, too – Google will lead you straight to my February 2013 post. There are companies out there who pay big marketing bucks to position themselves at the top of Google searches, and I’ve accomplished it with a joke. Not bad, for an English major.

But I digress.

While frankincense has been used as a traditional medicine for thousands of years, I don’t believe it causes pooping. My hope is that my use of it here doesn’t – do let me know if that’s a MIRTH subscription side-effect.

On March 29, someone asked the web about “frankenscents and mirth and there uses.” I love the happy misspelling of myrrh. Somebody made my point without actually getting it at all.

. . . if you look closer it's easy to trace the tracks of my tears.
. . . if you look closer it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears.

Frankincense is an aromatic resin long used in incense and perfumes. In many cultures, it’s thought that burning frankincense daily in the house brings good health. A 2008 study went further, reporting that frankincense smoke is a psychoactive drug that relieves depression and anxiety in mice. I’ve not tried that myself (yet), but it’s a mirthful thought. And frankincense oil can be used for relief from bites such as scorpion stings – a cure for the slings and arrows of this world.

Like all good things, this comes at a cost. Boswellia trees are slashed and left to bleed — the lost sap hardens into what are called tears. The tears are then gathered by hand, sorted by size, and turned into fragrant pleasures. How perfectly poignant is that? I suppose it’s what I hope to do here.

Thanks for reading! Missy
Thanks for reading!

By The Pricking

I’ve heard that death by freezing isn’t such a bad way to go. Still, it was hard to watch it happen from the warmth and comfort of my home. It also took a lot longer than I’d anticipated, giving me far too much time for guilty second thoughts as I watched precious life seep slowly away. Later, there was the frozen corpse to deal with – I had to have at it with a hacksaw out there in the back yard, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t notice. It was straight from FARGO.

Look Homeward, Angel.
Look Homeward, Angel.

Husband has been very nice to me since I hauled that heavy hulking cactus outside in a fit of pique and left it to die. He has not been thorny or prickly or sharp or mean, and it’s a damned good thing. He’d likely end up out there in a snowbank, too – it’s been a long winter.

OK, OK, it’s arguably spring now (although we had an inch of snow on Mother’s Day). Winter in May sent me back to these half-finished February thoughts.

It was Husband’s cactus, really, and I had no right to kill it. But it fell on me one time too many as I moved it to sweep the floor. Wedged itself into my neck and back and dumped desert potting soil (read, “hundreds of tiny rocks”) all over the room. And its resident spider ended up down my shirt.

I’d been after that spider for years; squashing him was worth his burrowing in my bra beforehand. He’d spin cobwebs all over the ceiling-high cactus, cobwebs that were impossible to brush away given the inch-long spikes and spines. While I am not a woman who lives to clean, cobwebs draped through the kitchen collecting visible grease and dust got to me.

I am sure that your kitchen is free of grease and dust and cobwebs. You never have to scrub the haze of old bacon fat off the cupboards over your stove. You scour the underside of your range hood every Saturday morning, right after you pull the refrigerator out from its niche to vacuum behind and beneath it with a special attachment you ordered just for that particular cleaning job. Inside that fridge, I bet you’ve never had a jar of sun-dried tomatoes grow half an inch of mold tucked away there on the bottom shelf behind last year’s mostly-empty bottles of BBQ sauce and that weird jam your neighbor made. I bet you never find dark wet unidentifiable produce in your vegetable drawers. You never have chronic dark smudges on kitchen drawers where dirty fingers rub, or lacquered dribbles of unknown origin below the counter where your can opener sits. You probably even clean your can opener. You don’t know what the death throes of a potato smell like, never having had one roll to the back of your cupboard and rot.

Yes, that's a wall of wine corks.  And now I've started down the basement staircase.
Yes, that’s a wall of wine corks. And now I’ve started down the basement staircase.

But I digress.

This is a picture of the cactus in his salad days, when he was green in judgment and decided to outgrow the height of his kitchen. For ten or twelve years, we hauled him outside every spring and back inside every fall. He’d put out tall brave shoots during the summer which I had to heartlessly amputate in order to fit him back into the house for the winter. We’ve no room for a large unfriendly cactus indoors. He blocked the kitchen heating duct and threatened passersby and started encroaching on the back entrance. It was very bad Feng Shui.

I seem to have become more-than-usually prickly of late. Perhaps the cactus is haunting me (next time I see that dermatologist, she’ll be pulling out thorns).   Husband, if he were feeling brave, would no doubt agree, especially after the fight we had last night.

Husband meant well, without a doubt. His intentions were good – or not so good, since the fight involved ordering me some lingerie. I know, I know — every gray-haired middle-aged matron should be so lucky as to have a husband of thirty years who still wants to buy her lingerie. Since catalogs of ladies’ undergarments tend to be fussy and complicated things, he warily approached me waving the size chart.

Goldie Hawn I ain't.
Goldie Hawn I ain’t.

A perfectly reasonable and even admirable course of action, say all you males. The horror, the horror! say all you females — at least those of you who carry around an extra 15 or 20 pounds. I died a thousand deaths at a work wellness event lately when a perky young size 4 nurse came at me with a tape measure; I am certainly not going to report those results to Husband. My hope is always that he thinks of me as I was at 25. That is how I think of him, after all. Reality and the harsh light of day are overrated. Tape measures are overrated, too.

So I will take a lesson from the murdered cactus, lest I too be pitched summarily out into the cold. I will watch my barbed tongue and my prickly temper and my thorny disposition. I will not bristle at Husband, at least when he is most vulnerable and trying to be kind. I may even finally lose the fifteen or twenty pounds and eliminate that sharp and needling source of pain (but that’s far too straightforward a solution).

Thanks for reading! Missy
Thanks for reading!

Six Feet, But Not Under Yet

In the end, it was hardly worth shaving my legs so damned carefully for (yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition. Lighten up). I’d even re-painted my chipped toenail polish and pumiced the gnarly parts of my feet. They were, to quote my dad, as smooth and soft as a baby’s rear end (he’d never say “ass” in front of women and children). My various parts – all over a half-century old, now; how did that happen? — were all prepped and propped, as presentable as possible.

You, I am sure, have no gnarly parts. You certainly would never admit to them publicly. You’re a little horrified that I did so. You’re trying to bleach from your brain the stain of my tired callused feet.

Gnarly feet, but a gnarlier floor.  I can at least fix the floor.
Gnarly feet, but a gnarlier floor. I can at least fix the floor.

For what that flurry of fussing, you wonder? A new lover? A clandestine noontime tryst? An unprecedented urge to please the long-suffering husband?

All that primping was, alas, for a dermatologist, who consequently spent a cursory four minutes casually and perhaps even disinterestedly glancing over my limbs before pronouncing me free of lurking danger.

That’s it? That’s the formal full-body skin cancer screening I’d been dreading for a month?

While checking in for my 10:30 AM appointment, a sun-leathered old lady elbowed me out of the way and declared that she was there for a 10:40 AM one with the same physician. I gave her a pitying look, since she was most certainly in error — exploring The Wonder Of Me would surely take the doctor more than ten minutes.

It didn’t. That’s what I get for casting pitying looks.

Feet at Work:  Standing desk = ugly comfy shoes
Feet at Work: Standing desk = ugly comfy shoes

I’d never been to a dermatologist before, and was expecting a minute inspection of my every curve and crevice under harsh lighting and a magnifying glass, with tsk-tsking over various and sundry imperfections. And, hey – I was a new patient. I wanted attention. I wanted a bonding experience. I wanted advice on maintaining my natural beauty. I even wanted a lecture on UV damage and the proper use of sunscreen – I’ve always relied on authority figures for salutary scolding (self-discipline has never been my forte). I hoped for encouragement and, pathetically, perhaps a token compliment if I were lucky, some hint that I was holding up reasonably well given the ripeness of my years. I was also fully prepared to fork over big bucks for the upscale skin care products I was sure she’d be huckstering.

I didn’t even get a chance to crack the joke I had at the ready – something about my chronically red Irish nose and the chronic Irish penchant for drink. I wasn’t able to mention that weird little rash that lives on my leg. I couldn’t point out the peculiar peeling inside my ear. These things, I discovered, are fascinating only to me.

I can’t even pay someone to care.

What bothers me most is the heartless corporate stinginess of it all, the cattle-call ticking-clock impersonal approach to my person. Would it have killed her to have called me by name as I stood there before her, vulnerable and naked but for a stupid little smock? Chat me up a little before you ask me to take my clothes off. Take a moment to actually see me. Pretend to be generous with your time and attention. Feign interest. Act like it’s not about the money. Even hookers know to do that.

Or so I hear.

It’s been a week for open-handed generosity. Take this, for instance:

Dear Staff,

In Recognition of Staff Appreciation Week, please help yourselves to ONE ice cream sandwich in the staff lounge!

Thanks for all that you do.

Working Feet: Who else refinishes floors in ballet flats?
Working Feet: Who else refinishes floors in ballet flats?

I did not add the emphasis to ONE. It was part of my employer’s heartfelt expression of gratitude. How can one little word, even in bold capital letters, be so irritating? Spare me the pointing reprimanding finger, lest I point a finger at you in return. I wanted so badly to go downstairs and stuff a dozen ice cream sandwiches into my face. I wanted to sit there in the employee lounge and eat ice cream sandwiches slowly and deliberately, one after another, putting my gnarly feet on the table and leaving a big sticky pile of wrappers there. I wanted to write #2! on an ice cream sandwich with black Sharpie and waltz through the office waving the package.

Instead, in protest, I refused to go and claim my treat. That showed ‘em, by God.  I’m not that desperate for recognition (usually).  I don’t need their 12-for-$3 Walmart artificially-flavored vanilla ice cream sandwiches — twenty-five grudging cents of appreciation.

I want generosity. I want open hands and open hearts, and open minds if I can get them. And of course I want it both ways — who doesn’t? I resent having to spend big money on my professionals, yet I want my professionals to spend big money on me. I want the precious gifts of time and attention, but a fat wad of cash would be nice, too.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes. Walt Whitman wanted it both ways, too; I’m at least in good company. And I bet his feet were gnarlier than mine, what with all that hale-fellow-well-met tromping around he did.

Thanks for reading! Missy
Thanks for reading!