Speaking in code.

After months and sometimes years of working together, someone just happens to blurt out a familiar phrase, and it is readily understood and thoroughly enjoyed.

At least it is like that….. in the back room:


Hey girls, I think I am gonna need breakfast tomorrow.

No, no, no.  The formulary goes on the top!

Does anyone have any extra lettuce?

How does she get away with ….

being bossy.

being too nice.

being a martyr.

being crazy.

eating a salad on the way home.

Do you remember when “she” used to work here?  More importantly, does “she”?

Take you out back and shoot you?  Get in line.

Did you know you are the reason for all my problems at work?

Who ate my hot sauce?

That’s it.   I am going on a diet on Monday.

That’s it.  I give up.

That’s it.  This is BS.

That’s it:  I need weed.

Hey, you idiot!  Turn down the music.

Hey, you goof. Knock off the celery chewing.

Hey, you nincompoop, you going to prepress?

OMG.  MOG.  SJ.  (All religious connotations):  There she goes again.  I am calling her pastor.

Oh girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls.  How was your day?

Oh girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls. It’s a 3 bottle night.

Oh girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls.  I love you!





Flipping and flopping

Feet:  They long to be free, to escape the confines of socks and panty hose.

Toes: They want to wiggle, displaying their colorful nails of red and green and blue and yellow.

The work place:  Only closed toes and heels, please.

Summer time:  Sand in between my toes, and an occasional dip in the ocean.

Time to buy shoes:  What do I buy?

If you are Erica:  I am going to the coach store, to pick out my shoes.  What? The coach store only sells hand bags?  And they are selling for 200 bucks plus?  I am still going.  And when I leave the coach store, I am headed for the dollar store, to pick out a pair of flip flops….. or two.

If you are Miranda:  I only purchase orthopedic flip flops.  My feet deserve orthos, as long as they reflect my gloomy Irish outlook, and hold up in the rain. If there is anything I love, it is a glass of wine, a black pair of ortho ffs and an occasional avocado.

Then there is Candis:  Hello summer!  Hello flip flops!  I love baseball, chocolate labs, file maker and the burgers at Queens.  But above all, I love the back room. I can finally say what I want, do what I mean, and act like an idiot, and still remain the queen.

Pat?  Where are your flip flops?  What?  You would rather wear your steel toed shoes?  What are you spraying in your shoes?  And those socks!  Huh?  Your cats used to love them and now they run from them when you toss them in the air after a rough day at work?  It just might be time to change, Pat.  Your feet have been constrained, controlled and restricted, for 60 years.  Let them out of the closet. Kick up your heels, and join the rebellion. Flip flops forever!

And Wolf, you goofy old goat.  Do you now or have you ever owned a pair of flip flops?   Just as importantly, did you ever wear them?  And if so, how did it feel?  And if you didn’t, why not?

And Wolf reflected on the questions, and replied:

Huh?  I have been flopping around this flipping world for a half a century or more, and I have never flipped the bird to anyone I didn’t like.  But I have done my share of flopping.

And so it goes.

Wear what you like, do what you do, say what you mean, and if you happen to run into someone wearing flip flops, you most likely are in the twilight zone, in the back room.



Changed? I doubt it.

Baltimore is rioting.

Another life has been lost.

I flash back to the 60s.

To Ohio, to Chicago, to California, to Mississippi, to Alabama, to Detroit.

I wonder if in the past 50 or 60 years, have we really changed?

Or in the past several hundred years, has it always been this way?

I listen to the voices….

Is it really about race?

Or about inequality?

In that split second, when life is hanging in the balance, would you shoot to save yourself?  Or someone else?

Would you shoot to kill?  Or is your motive to protect?

Trust is fragile.  And in the inner city, that trust rests on the fine line of a single life.

There was no answer in 1960 and there is no answer in 2015.

Burn baby, burn.

Can someone please tell me if one life is more important than another life?

Do you believe that there is no grey?  Only black vs white?

Oh what a night, late December back in 63…. and now late April, in 15.

Tonight is senseless….tonight is a statement.

We have a long way to go.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have miles to go before I sleep.

And before I sleep, my sincere wish is to find a common ground with my brothers and sisters, in Baltimore and in all the great cities of our country. To bond with one another, to unite in our goal to sustain our freedom and democratic society, and in sprite of our differences, to live as one.


Let’s just say it was a wild one.

What kind of a week was it?

You decide.

Started out on a happy note, Monday, 420, my birthday.  What?  That’s not my birthday?  It is now.  I have officially changed it.  If Bruce can change his gender, and if Erica can change her mind about our team building meeting, I can change my birthday.  I celebrated by eating white pizza and german choclolate cake. And had 3 doubles on the way home.

Then the disintegration began.

One day, an iceburg.  Sinking the ship.

The next day:  The Hindenburg: Crashing on the corn fields of rural Pennsylvania.

And finally, the A bomb,(fat boy) exploded, releasing the kind of havoc that forced me to drink 3 doubles every night of the week.

Oh the joys of deadlines.

There is truth in Robert Burns’ writing:  “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.”

I guess no matter if you are a mouse or a man, things can get hosed up.

And they did.

Naturally, this mouse adapted as best she could, and put a bandage on the wounds, limping home after the war.

And keeping in the spirit of the week, I crashed early. The crash happened at 830pm on Friday night, after, of course, 3 doubles.

Saturday morning:

To market to market to catch a fresh pig.  Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

Not wanting to reflect on anything that would cause me to inflict additional pain on my brain, I decided it would be best to get some rest, and immediately took a snooze.

When I returned to consciousness, it was Sunday.

The usual chores awaited me.

I gently declined.  Actually, I violently declined, and stayed in my pajamas eating chocolate covered pistachios and tacos.

I vow to do something worthwhile tonight, like watching reruns of forensic files, while laying in bed like a beached whale.

When I get to work tomorrow, I can hear it now:  “How was your weekend, Wolf? Did you do anything exciting?”

And I will smile, wink and say, “Let’s just say it was a wild one.”

And so my reputation will remain intact:  A crazy wild lunatic partying her ass off all weekend.

After all, it was my birthday.









Tickling our fancy

A balloon.

Ok, so blow it up.

Puff. Puff.

Oops.  Somebody asks me a question.

The air escapes.

I look at the balloon.

My, my, what a limp excuse for a balloon.

Blow, blow.

The phone rings.

I squeeze the end of the balloon, and lightly release the pressure.

The balloon flies out of my hand, making a sound that reminds me of something.

What is it?

Oh yeah.  A gaseous release.

Now what?

Where is the balloon?

I become obsessed.

I must find the balloon.

I see it.

It landed on Erica’s head.

She is unaware of a deflated balloon lodged in her curly locks.

It looks like a condom.

I think about it.

Should I ask her if I can have my condom, uhm, balloon that is hung up in her curls?

Not a scenario that I want to pursue.

I take out another balloon.

I blow.

The phone rings.

This time, the balloon flies over the cube and lands in Beaver’s feta cheese.

I see her eating the cheese.

She doesn’t notice the balloon.

She eats it, the cheese and the balloon.

She complains of a belly ache.

I keep silent.

I blow up another balloon.

Phone rings.

Balloon lands in Candis’ salad.

I saunter up to her desk and try to retrieve the balloon, from her salad.

She beats the @$@%@ out of me.

I am bruised and battered.

I blow up my last balloon.

The phone rings.

Oh no!

My balloon!

Not in Pat’s soup!

Pat eats it.

I ask her: Did you enjoy your lunch?

She says:  Yes, I had soup.

I say :  What kind?

She tries to answer, but she starts floating above her desk.

I see a large bubble emerging from her mouth.

She continues to rise above it all.

I take a deep breath and sing:  Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon?

Oh oh.  Our rally point meeting.

Everyone ok?

Anyone need help?

By the way, where is Pat?

I point to the ceiling.

Oh there she is.

What the hell?

Get down, right now, from that ceiling.

Pat blasts through the tiles in the ceiling, releasing Air Gas and Products, and lands in the parking lot, where the geese immediately fly to her rescue and sit on her eggs.

In 25 days, the goslings arrive.

Strangely, they bear a familiar resemblance to Pat.

Moral of the story:

There is none.

Unless, of course, you believe in Dr Seuss and Mother Goose.

And if so, celebrate good times! There’s a party going on right here.  A celebration to last throughout the years.  So bring your good times, and your laughter too.
We gonna celebrate your party with you.

Let’s face it: Life is meant to be enjoyed.

And there is nothing like a balloon to tickle our imagination.


Who? Who? Who are you?

Are you smoking pot on your lunch hour?

Are you stopping after work to get loaded?

How come you are so goofy when you come home at night?

Don’t you think you should quit working all that overtime and get home at a decent hour?

At your age, you really need to quit putting in all those hours.

I have noticed that you are not lucid, when you arrive home.

Can’t you just say no to excessive demands?

Who are you, anyway?

Have you noticed that your speech is slurred at the end of the day?

And in the morning, your eyes are red?

Isn’t it a fact that after 50, most people settle down and live a quiet life?

What the hell happened to you?

And why do you seem to enjoy every day?

Don’t you know that life is challenging and rough?

If you don’t look out for yourself, and put yourself first, isn’t it true?  You will go down in  a puff of smoke?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Some of us have to step up to the plate, have a few blasts,  and regardless of the onslaught of criticism, we live our lives, and enjoy each moment.

Are you real?

Or are you an illusion?

I am what I am.

So who are you?





Honk, honk.

Some days are diamonds.

Some days are cubic zirconias.

Other days are broken glass.

Today was not in any of those categories.

It just plain sucked.

And blew.

And hissed.

And moaned.

At one point, during the worst of the onslaught, I leaned back, took a deep breath, and thought:

What the hell am I doing?

Let me rethink this scenario:

What would Beaver do?

Knowing the Beav, like I do, she would turn up the music, open her book and drift off into her private world.

I can recall approaching her, when she was adrift, and getting that look.  Don’t even think about it.  I need my space.  And my MTV.  Money for nothing and chicks for free.

Ok, So what would E do?

What?  What do you want?  Can’t you see I am eating my salad?  I need you to leave me alone, while I am eating my broccoli and garlic infused chicken.  And by the way, I quit.

Moving on to Pat, I say, “Hey, Pat, how you doing?”

She beats me to a bloody pulp and then grabs her purse along with Barb and the 2 of them go to the dollar store and to Yoccos.  When she returns, she says she has a belly ache and informs all of us she won’t be talking to us for the rest of the day.

I quickly turn to Candis. “Having a good day, Candis?”

Candis laughs.

I guess that means she is either having a good day or she isn’t.

I ask again:

“So, enjoying your day, Candis?”

By then, 42 people are lined up at her desk, asking her for help.

I don’t wait for a response.

I grab my trench coat and go for a walk.

The geese see me.

I flash them.

They hiss.

They moan.

They blow.

Hmmmm….Life among the geese is not that different from life among us humans.

As I walk back into the office, I ruffle my feathers, I stick out my tongue, and I honk.

And the result?


Bread flying from the hands of Tara and Kelly.

I eat several loaves of bread and sit on an egg, in the middle of the office.

I watch as everyone gingerly walks around me, afraid that I will goose them.

I love my new role.

I am poultry.

I am omnipotent.

I am in charge.

And then I get so caught up in myself, I leave the nest.

Erica sees the egg.

She boils it and puts it in her salad, for her ride home.

And so the story ends.

If you leave your egg unattended, someone will eat it.

Moral of the story:

Take a lesson from the geese:

Protect that egg with your life.

If you don’t, that egg will be someone else’s lunch or family.



Location, logistics, luck and love.

April 21, 2015:  Coworkers in a strange land.

You might as well face it, when you work, it is all about location.

If you sit by 4 other screwballs, you tend to take on their characteristics.

And that brings me to what I overheard today:

“How does one know if a hard boiled egg was bad?  Is it because it tasted funny and made me nauseous?  Never mind that I ate a pint of feta cheese on a sliced avocado, prior to eating the bad egg.”

“Tomorrow is the day.  I will be a mess.  My baby gets his balls cut off.  He will probably hate me forever.  What?  My son?  No, you idiot, my dog.”

“My daughter:  She reminds me so much of our E.  Two of a kind.  I lovingly tell E that she and my daughter are so much alike.  (wink wink)  Drama queens, both of them.  Oh oh, here comes E now.  Watch her say it is so hot in here, it must be 1000 degrees.”

“Oh M G.  Mother of God.  (phone rings)  What do you want from me?  That’s it.  I quit.  Shut up Miranda. Shut up Candis. Shut up Pat. Shut up Carol.  O M G.  I am out of lettuce. It is so hot in here, it must be 5000 degrees.”

“Quiz time:  Who am I?

Director of all things, omnipotent and bossy.

Pollyanna, who recently cut her bangs and is now contemplating cutting other things…..Poor doggie.

Long suffering, martyrdom, quoting Mother Theresa, as she takes the sword.

A marked woman, living in Bethlehem, the village with no lettuce, no parking spaces, heavy snow squalls and illegal cookie sales.

And finally, an aged bar fly, an innocent bystander, a soon to be canonized saint, and a candidate for medical marijuana.

What a wonderfully magical logistical miracle!

5 totally different people, who will always maintain their own identities.

And celebrate the differences, in one another.

It makes every day a special day.

Let’s see what tomorrow will bring.




Ripped and slinking around

Ok.  Hunker down and slink around.

There’s a bad moon on the rise.

A stormy day, with soaking rains.

And a twister in the skies.

At 5 o’clock, sneak past the geese,

As I dive into my car.

I made it through another day.

Oh please, let me make it to the bar.

I saunter in, a familiar scene

The boys are laughing at me.

I am looking like a deranged old bag.

Could it be the chicken hat on me?

Oh who cares?

I love to have fun.

After a stressful day, I resolve to let loose.

And celebrate this Monday like a son of a gun.

Happy weed day, b wolf.

Enjoy your b day, Chicken B.

Watch out for the twister, mister.

And can you please excuse me cuz I have to pee?

(Wolf has left the building, giggling and hungry as a bear)

Hunker down and slink around.

Arrives home late again.

Hubby says: Hey, you old goat, there is a bad moon rising..

I look at this person, my husband, for years, and wonder what the hell is he talking about.

And he doesn’t wait for my answer.

He just drifts off.

We may be married for 29 years, but I often wonder if we really know each other.

I tell him I have changed my birthday to 420 and he tells me I am an idiot.

I go to bed.

The tornado rips

I am ripped.

He tucks me in.

We survive.

Until the next time.







Social media at its finest

I get a kick out of things that are posted on facebook.

I was a royal princess in a former life. What were you?  Take this quiz and let your friends know.

Here is a pic of the mac and cheese I made for dinner.  It was fabulous, and it came from a box.

A mysterious rant is another one of my favs:  I am done, fed up.  I will no longer be a doormat.  You know who you are, you dirt ball. If you were really a friend, you would call me.

I lost my job.  My husband is missing.  I have no groceries.  I chipped one of my nails.  I ran out of wine.  I have decided facebook is a waste of time.  Nothing but depressing people on it.

A spider bit me on my leg.  My leg blew up. I went to the ER.  Here are photos of my leg, in the ER during surgery, in the recovery room and several which I have taken at home, as I am changing the bandages.  Hope you enjoy.

Taco Bell is giving away a million dollars.  Just click “I love Taco Bell” on facebook and your check will arrive next week.   This is a true story. I clicked and now I am a millionaire.

I bet you will not repost this, you coward.   Only those who believe in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy will have the guts to post this.  I will be watching your time line to see if you posted, by the way.  And if not, you are dead to me.

For you:  A good luck 4 leaf clover.  Send it to 135 people and watch what will happen on your computer.  Do not break this chain, or you will experience ramifications.

Hey, it’s raining!

Facebook:  What a hoot it can be!