Sunday Fun Day

A short (300 words or less), weekly column, posted on Sundays.



(To all my lovely Followers, thinkandponder will soon be coming to an end and will officially become the blog of Cheaper Than Therapy – A Storytelling Show. Posts will be made in both locations until June 30, 2015. If you wish to stay in touch, please follow the CTT page so you don’t miss anything!)


Sunday, June 14, 2015

(Really, Friday, June 12)

th75MGCBESSoutherners don’t like rules.

Yankees may not like rules either, but they sure got a lot of ’em.

As a Southerner — though as a Kentucky native living in Alabama, by Old Dixie’s standards, I’m practically a Union sympathizer — and as someone who suffers from oppositional defiance disorder (self-diagnosed), traversing the foreign soil of the free states is fraught with instructional intervention from folks who think I just got off the boat.

In New Jersey, it is illegal to pump your own gas. Maybe they should pass a law that it is illegal for me to wipe my own ass, that is a service I would appreciate.


You can be fined for touching these without specialized training in New Jersey.

In Maryland recently, I entered the hotel lobby barefoot, with my daughter in her bathing suit.  We were told we had to have on shoes and not have on bathing suits. In the lobby of a hotel on the way to the pool.

And MD hotels are required to have lifeguards. Every day at this business hotel in a working district, I would see the teenage lifeguard staring vacantly at the empty pool, and at night, alone in the dark, guarding that still water with her life until 10 p.m. and the pool was only 5′ deep. There probably weren’t two people staying in the entire hotel who couldn’t touch the bottom.


The Loneliest Lifeguard in the World.

Now, some people say that requiring trained personnel to pump our gas and watch our hotel pools is keeping us safe.

To that I say, “bite me.”

But that’s just my disorder talking





June 7, 2015

Top 5 Things I Would Enjoy about being a Man


5. Raining hell-fire noxious gas and (a) not being affected by it personally and (b) suffer no sense of embarrassment. As a matter of fact, I might even look around and pretend like I don’t know what everyone else is talking about.

4. The expectation that when I am sick with a little summer cold, that I get to lie on the couch and be waited on, complaining in a hoarse voice that I am going to die.

3. Having an extreme amount of body self-confidence in direct proportion to nothing but my own belief that I am awesome and with no relationship at all to the reality of my actual body.

2. Lying on the couch or sprawled out in a recliner all day on the weekends watching sports like that was my job.

1. Being able to pee standing up. Really, the one thing I have penis-envy over. It is supremely unfair that the sheer convenience of this animal adaptation eludes half the species.

The Best Thing about Being a Lesbian

(To Me)


I’m not one of those women that believes that living with another woman would make my life easier. No, I’m sure there are many a female partner who can fart like a man, whine like a man and never take out the trash. And I can’t imagine being me and living with another me. That would be unbearable. But I am terribly envious of the fact that they don’t need to worry about birth control. Just imagine being a sexually active woman and NEVER having to consider pills, injections, or devices implanted in your uterus and to never worry about a late period. That kind of blissful freedom is unimaginable… to everyone but lesbians.



Sunday, May 24, 2015

My ass.

Actually, one-size-fits-all doesn’t fit my ass either.

But right now, I’m talking about hats.


I am not a petite woman. I could give a drag queen a run for her money in the shoe department, and my head is not small either. I contend it is all those brains stuffed inside, but you probably won’t find many people who will back me up on that.

I can’t find a casual sun hat that will encircle my gigantic noggin. I have NEVER been able to find one. I imagine there are some specialty stores for mutants out there where I could special order a Godzilla-sized hat for a hundred bucks, but I am talking about spending $20 at Target.

And I have tried every retailer you can imagine. I should have lice… and fleas… from the amount of random hats that I have tried to squeeze on my dome every summer.

I can buy one of those sun hats that roll up and leave the top of the head uncovered, but what is the point of that?  Shade for my face, but a bright red racing stripe down the center of my head? I don’t want a sunburned scalp. I don’t want a sunburned anything. And yes, I can wear an adjustable baseball hat, but I don’t want to.

I WANT A SUN HAT! And every time I try on one that says “one-size-fits-all” and I can’t squash it past my eyebrows, I want to burn a place down. One size fits all. My ass.




Sunday, May 17, 2015

I’m not a hugger. I don’t mind hugging; I just never know when to do it. This touchy-feely greeting ritual is fraught with social anxiety for me. To hug or not to hug, that is the question.

If I am meeting an “always hugger” then I know just what to do; I hug them, feel minimally socially competent, and move on with my day.  But what about the “sometimes hugger” or the “situational hugger?” Like the person who doesn’t hug you when they see you on a daily basis, but does if you’re picking them up at the airport after an extensive overseas trip? Or they don’t hug unless you meet up at a wedding or funeral. How the hell are you supposed to know when to hug?

The worst is when, upon greeting, they make the slightest movement towards you for a hug, realize you aren’t bringing it in, then pull back, and right there, the minute you see that infinitesimal shift in their body weight, you know you f@cked up. I hate that. But you can’t fix it. If you try to restart the hugging process by going in late, then they know, that you know, that they were just left hanging and you are now only doing it because you feel sorry for them.  The moment is ruined. A spontaneous hugging moment of genuine affection has a very tiny window of opportunity.

I think I am going to solve this problem by becoming as “always hugger.” So watch out. There will be no pulling back from me. When I see you, I am going to hug you each and every time, in a giant, affectionate bear hug. You will not be able to escape it.  Now, ya’ll go out and hug someone today!



Sunday, May 10 – Mother’s Day 2015


Today, the day before my special day, I begin my annual tradition of preparing for MY SPECIAL DAY.  Mother’s Day is not about me but about my daughter.

First, her birth is what gave me “my special day” to begin with.

Really, tomorrow, most of us would probably just like to be left alone in a dark, quiet room for four hours with a cold cloth over our eyes and the sound of soothing ocean waves playing.

But no, our sweet babies expect us to be pampered with breakfast in bed. They expect us to have fun and not do any work. They expect rainbows and unicorns pooping glitter.

And they expect this ON A SUNDAY, the day before a Monday, when school clothes must be clean, lunches must be packed, shoes and backpacks by the ready at the back door, and if you have any hope at all of having a decent week, a clean house before you shut your eyes on Sunday night.

How does this, a miracle that surpasses the virgin birth, happen?  Well, it happens because I work like a dog TODAY, on the day before “my special day”, to clean house, do laundry, prepare meals and get ready to RELAX tomorrow.

I even make my own breakfast-in-bed.  My husband and daughter have taken care of the gift and card, but no one in this house can peel an orange or make toast without my assistance. I shudder to think what would be on my tray in the morning if my husband, bless his heart, was left to his own devices, and my daughter would be disappointed.

THAT is why, today, I am cooking turkey bacon and pancakes which will be ready for my husband to heat up in the morning, on my special day.



Sunday, May 3, 2015

The first Saturday in May, as all good Kentucky natives – and international gamblers – know is The Kentucky Derby.


This year, I attended “Thurby” – the “Derby” that runs on Thursday before the main event.

It was the culmination of many important sartorial choices for me, but none more critical than “The Hat.”  Festive chapeaus are a staple of the horsey set and I wanted to fit in, plus, when would I ever again get to wear a hat that made me look like a resident of The Capitol in The Hunger Games?

I have been blessed with a large head. Not encephalitis or anything like that, just a nice round cantaloupe-shaped dome, and those “one-size-fits-all” toppers are a flippin’ joke.

Seventeen years ago, I won a contest that gave me a high roller’s track- side view of how the other half lives at Derby.  I had a big head then, too, but I wound up finding one straw hat that would encircle my generous cranium. I hot glued some white flowers on it and wore it with a black and white polka dotted dress. I’ve worn it a few times over the years since then. Apparently, it was destined to be the only hat I would ever own unless I had some skull-liposuction.

This weekend, after a frustrating and fruitless search for a new hat, I wound up executing a desperate, last-minute raid on Michael’s to purchase $10 worth of artificial flowers which I hot glued into a new festive arrangement.

I don’t think I did too bad, if I do say so myself, and now that I know this is the only hat that I will ever have, I will plan to hot glue on a new arrangement in another decade or so.


%d bloggers like this: