Dena Taylor | HUMOR
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A St. Patrick's Day Poem, by 83YO Mom of Irish Catholic descent

Greetings! Been busy working on a "pillar" or evergreen post about my book and blog (how the book and blog came to be with the target audience being newcomers). It's a longer piece but nearly done. Until then, it is St. Patrick's Day and my 83YO Irish Catholic Mom sent me a delightful card with a poem. Honestly, it's a pillar too. To Dena the Irish lassie! Very classy but Also sassy & brassy & (sometimes gassy)! Ha Ha ...

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Who's Sandra? — 83 YO Mom's Year End Best

The holidays are over and 2014 is underway. People certainly seem busy, even stressed and grumpy already (cough, cough, me). So here's a little end-of-2013 collection of Janeglish aka 83-YO Mom's native language for comic relief. It's like the stocking stuffer that almost got away. She's a pistol and we wouldn't have it any other way. While reading a tag on a Christmas present Mom: Who's Sandra? Sis: You mean Santa? Mom: Who's the bad writer? ♦♦♦ After going to see the movie Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom So where's Ida Iba from? ♦♦♦ While opening gifts with the family Mom: What'd you get? Sis: It's a tealight candle Mom: Camel? Me: Yes. You put a camel in there and light it on fire. ♦♦♦ While discussing party wear He was wearing Versausage. ♦♦♦ No context Mom: How do you say cru ti tay? Sis/Me: Crudité? Mom: Yes! When you overturn the government. Bro-in-law: You mean coup d'état ♦♦♦ Me: I might get a new project. They need some branding work. Mom: Is it a...

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Embracing comfort, not so worried about joy

I'm getting on a plane tomorrow. Going to spend time with some people I love, people who have known me since before I could talk (oh how they must cherish those days!). The weather could be frightful, the flight could be delayed. The people could be frightful, their stress unchecked at the gate. I could be one of those people, giving in to impatience. But I'm going to try not to. I'm not going to wear a sweater with bells and snowflakes on it or force a joyous demeanor, mind you, I'm just going to carve out some moments of comfort along the way — pockets of peace, if you will — to help make it easier to go with the flow. Whether it's getting to the airport early enough to enjoy a cup of coffee, rereading David Sedaris's Holidays on Ice during the flight or listening to random favs...

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Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, that's not how I thought I'd go: Denver or bust 2013 – Arrival

November 22 - Up at 7. Breakfast taco/coffee. Movers arrive 9:15am. Sleeping neighbor's car blocking. Eventually clears, truck loaded. Clean apartment. Transport cat, luggage to friends' house.  Pick up boots from shoe repair. Pick up Jim from airport. Get truck. Jim to hotel, me to friends Linda & Steve's. November 23 - Awful early. Coffee. Load car. Hugs. Decide to tow car. No tow dollies or trailers in Austin.  Jim follows me to Round Rock. Car on dolly. Freeway. Moving now. I'm moving. Blechy I-35 construction, shoulderless stretches. Rain. Traffic. Accident. Jim unfazed, steady. Me: grateful. Cat lightly sedated. Later that day - Oklahoma. Icy. Jim still unfazed. Me: still not driving, still glad. Later still - Kansas. Billboard: Where will you spend ETERNITY? Next billboard: McDonald's, next exit. Pit stop: Restroom stall. Stopover - Salina, Kansas. Recall Shawn Colvin's Wichita Skyline song, always loved. Getting there looks mostly like this: "...

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Homer, Alaska, Final: Mead, Wine and Farewell

"Is my finger in water or on land?" Mom asked. "It's in Port Dick," Paul replied. Paul, Melinda, Mom, and I were at Captain Pattie's on the Homer Spit for dinner, known for its fresh local seafood. Under the glass top of our table was a map of the area. Mom, was fingering the sweat from her glass of ice water and wondered what part of the map she was hovering over. Sure enough, her finger was in a port. A port called Dick. [caption id="attachment_2730" align="aligncenter" width="301"] Port Dick. For real. It even has a left arm. Do you think there was ever a right arm? Do you really want to know?[/caption] Captain Pattie's was the perfect end to a sunny day in Homer that began with breakfast at Duncan House Diner, a brief stop at the quaint Homer Farmers Market, and continued to a barefoot stroll on Bishop's Beach. [caption id="attachment_2732" align="aligncenter" width="512"] Reminds...

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Homer, Alaska, Part 3: I got region

"Is it always so windy in your region?" Mom asked. "Not always," I replied. "It can can sneak up on you." Mom maintains that I was named after her neighbor, Dena, a woman she and Dad lived next to when they lived in Cleveland. It wasn't because they had become great friends, or that Dena had once stood for 12 hours filibustering a bill,  or more likely, that Dena was a nun. "I just liked her name." Zzzzzzzz. So when Melinda handed me a map of the Kachemak Bay and south central Alaska, and I saw my name, I couldn't help but get a little excited. "I have a region! I have a region!" I exclaimed. "Look, right here. The 'DENA-EENA" region," I said, sounding it out. "My way!" "Oh," replied Mom flatly with a roll of her eyes. "I'm pretty sure it's pronounced 'De-NAI-na,'" said Melinda'inda, as I will now refer to her. No one was impressed. But...

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Homer, Alaska, Part 2: Homer 911

"Did you hear they're bringing back the hairy mamas?" Mom asked. "You mean the woolly mammoths?" Melinda replied. "Wha'd'I say?" Unrestrained by the chains of location or time, this exchange could have just as easily occurred over a morning cup at Coal Town Coffee and Tea as over bloody marys at Land's End.  As it were, we were in the truck on the way to the Fritz Creek General Store and Post Office (website in progress but some info here). With the cabin cloaked in weather and the time until Paul had to head back to the platform dwindling, we were Homer-bound. The next best thing was to eat, drink, shop, play games, watch movies, see some sights, and hit the beach. Fritz Creek got us off to the perfect start on Tuesday, not only because of the ambiance and hearty sandwiches, but because of a hunk of heaven they call the...

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Homer, Alaska, part 1: Shower optional

"You've gotta stop showering," Mom said. "The girls can't smell ya!" Mom and I were at my brother and sister-in-law Melinda's house in Homer, Alaska, for a 10-day visit when Mom asked Melinda's handsome single nephew, who is staying with them while working on an oil platform, about his local dating prospects. When he revealed that he showers every day, Mom was kind enough to shed some light on the error of his ways — if the ladies can't smell him they won't know he's there. But he didn't seem to mind. Not even a little. Remote locations and infrequent showering seem to go hand-in-smudgy hand. And while I'm sure a lot of people imbibe in a daily scrub, I'm absolutely certain, based on first-hand exposure, some don't. And guess what? I wasn't planning to either, mainly because the majority of our stay would be at my brother's even more remote cabin...

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When I was sick. Guest post on Cancer, Cancer bo-Bancer

When I came across @DeeAnne_Barker on Twitter and saw the whimsy in her blog title, Cancer, Cancer bo-Bancer, and the spirit in her tagline, "I'm the boss of me!" I had to follow. When I learned more about her story, I was humbled and inspired. This incredible woman has faced cancer not one, not two, but three times, and maintains a sense of humor. In one of my favorite posts, her response to Facebook's blunder in failing to capture her most important moments of 2012, she writes: "Well $#%!&! you Facebook and Mark Zuckerberg, I've got moments!" We can learn a lot from her. As her 500th follower, she allowed me to guest post on her blog. An honor. Thank you DeeAnne! ...

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