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Archive for the tag “humor”

Fat Like Your Mama

mom

Mama loved to cook almost as much as she loved to eat. Her chicken-fried steak with gravy, smothered potatoes fried with onions, chicken and dumplings, Mississippi Mud Cake, Banana Pudding and every calorie-laden, heart-attack inducing dish you can imagine were the staples of my childhood. I always woke to the smell of breakfast cooking, even on those early pre-dawn mornings before school. She managed to make homemade biscuits and gravy for us on most mornings, her apron tied around her round midsection, before leaving for work as a cook in either a nursing home or school cafeteria. For Mama, feeding us was her way of showing her love for us.

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The Battle

“The Battle”

Karen Muston, 2001

 

In misty pre-dawn

light

I peer into a

silvery depth–

They are here again

this time their number

has multiplied.

My heart pounds,

and I run

to escape the

Dark Purpose of

their visit

I shudder to think

of surrender,

Of the repercussions.

My pace too slow,

they attack my

lower extremities,

in a scarring,

hailstorm force

that becomes

hideously disfiguring

I battle valiantly,

with a hunger

to be victorious.

I run faster

until they suffer

violently

in their retreat.

Cautiously,

I slow my pace

and return once

again

The Victor

in the

Cellulite Battlefield.

 

Crooked Legs

        I tried to catch myself, but only managed to catapult down those steps like an awkward bouncy ball that rolled and bounced in a haphazard, unpredictable path for what seemed like an eternity. With every roll down those steps, I could hear the crowd gasp in a collective “ohhhhh” and could feel my dress ride higher up on my hips.

I was born with crooked legs. I am told I first learned to walk while wearing metal braces, very similar to those the main character wore in the beginning of the movie Forest Gump.  Mama used to tell me I was “knock-kneed, pigeon-toed and bow-legged, with one leg longer than the other”, though I see no signs of any of those conditions today. Mama was known for her inventive exaggerations, so I am inclined to believe my sisters’ accounts of my childhood maladies, which are less interesting but a bit more believable. Read more…

Sister vs. Sister

Soon, a police officer showed up to the scene, as did Mama. She had to leave work to come check on us, and still wore her white plastic apron and hairnet. Below the hairnet the pencil-drawn eyebrows were furrowed, she was very angry.

normann

Pictured, in earlier years: My sister Annette, my brother Troy, my sister Norma Jean and me.

When I was six, we had the misfortune of living in an old farmhouse located across the street from the local high school. I was the youngest of four children, with two sisters who were nine and twelve years older than I, and a brother who was only eighteen-months my senior. It was as if my mother had given birth to two sets of warring opposites. Read more…

Life With Mickey D.

“The sight of Mickey D. pursuing them, red-faced, angry and with his blue flannel shirt flapping over the pistol in his belt was enough to instill fear in the teenagers …”

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Mickey D. wasn’t normally a man prone to vengeful acts. Perhaps it was the recent stress brought on by the “thugs” who had just moved into the neighborhood– those young punks whose thumping speakers boomed so loudly throughout the neighborhood they shook the family pictures on Mickey D.’s living room wall. The loud bass music truly angered Mickey D. He had even been seen running down the street after the lemon yellow jeep on a lifted frame, yelling “you better turn that crap down!” and punching in the number to the police department on his flip phone. The sight of Mickey D. pursuing them, red-faced, angry and with his blue flannel shirt flapping over the pistol in his belt was enough to instill fear in the teenagers in the yellow jeep; they had not been back by his house since then. Read more…

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