RE: MS-WRITE NOW (Humor) It's Taxing!

IT'S TAXING!

DUHN-DUHN-DUHN...It's Tax Day!

If you're like me, it's all over, but the crying...and paying!

I'm always amazed at how simple public servants like myself, who cling tenaciously to their lower middle class status, can owe on their taxes. But, hey, I still can't believe I'm not fixin' to celebrate my 30th birthday, so I've got all kinds of denial going on up in here.

In order of this auspicious occasion, I have decided to post the synopsis here for my humorous mystery entitled, K-I-L-L- TV which features a murder that takes place on -- you guessed it! -- tax day.

You can circumvent this little attention-grabber and just go directly to the newly-uploaded-for-your-reading-pleasure Chapter 1 on my website, accessing it by clicking the freshly minted "KILL-TV" tab. The WEBSITE of which I speak is: www.dianedeanepps.com

And, hey, if you like what you read, why not order this beast? I've got one more kid child to put through college and if I have too many more tax years like this one that's looking more challenging than keeping my hindquarters above sea level with exercise.

It could be that not only will I be yodeling out to my daughter, "Junior college is an efficient use of our time and money this year," but subsequently, "There's nothing wrong with being in junior college four years and then transferring to the college of your dreams."

Ahhh, the American Dream. Not so much elusive as wily. Onward we go to that synopsis I promised.

SYNOPSIS FOR K-I-L-L- TV

It’s April Fifteenth. Tax Day. And while this is not, traditionally, a source of merriment for any citizen, K-I-L-L TV adds a new twist to Ben Franklin’s axiom about “death and taxes” by telling the humorously suspenseful tale of news director, Leslie Lloyd.

Fateful timing finds Leslie foraging around for a tape in the television station control room when she notices something is off besides the lights; station manager Lincoln Delaware Bradley III is dead.

Unfortunately, our alliterative heroine was known to disagree with the head honcho publicly, loudly and frequently. The fact that Leslie and Lincoln had one humdinger of an argument a mere day’s worth of hours before Lincoln’s death doesn’t escape anyone’s attention, least of all the police.

As if that isn’t enough, Leslie’s husband, that rat-bastard Bob, is leaving her, her income taxes haven’t been filed, and she’s in desperate need of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting—or ten.

An unexpected diversion in the form of a love connection with policeman, Jared Stanford, provides a welcome breather, even as a veritable Lombard Street of plot twists threaten to send her careening into a metaphorical wall representing her future.

The song title chapter headings set the tone for the intrigue as we get a closer look at Leslie’s life, friends and struggle to stay on top in the uncompromising world of broadcast journalism, as her

story plays non-stop on every station, including K-I-L-L TV.

MOMISM #4...Parenting IS a Popularity Contest...You're Just Not Going to Win...

February 26, 2010

It’s no surprise to you, I know, we aren’t always so much popular with our kids when we make the kinds of sensible decisions we have to make as parents. In fact, oftentimes when we’re doing our job well, setting boundaries, enforcing accountability and making them eat their vegetables, those are the times that our kids subject us to the best they have in their arsenal of “fabulously fun” ways to torment their parents. These include, but are not limited to: the silent treatment, temper tantrums (this includes door slamming), personal notes written to us detailing our transgressions, phone calls to their grandparents, letting them know where they went wrong with their kids and letters to their lawyer seeking representation in order to pursue their claim(s) of unfair practices.

One day, as I sat drinking a cup of lukewarm coffee, my body having just absorbed massive aftershocks as a result of my child’s door slamming because I wouldn’t let her go to a party with an unknown party in order to party, I came up with this particular MOMISM:

MOMISM #4

As it turns out, parenting IS a popularity contest, it’s just one that you’re never going to win, but you do get one of those nifty participation ribbons...metaphorically.

The Technology Shuffle...Part V...Building a Humor Column From the Ground Up...

February 13, 2010

We are headed down the home stretch of my now book length humor-column-in-the-making that takes a look at technology and our attempts to co-exist peacefully with it. In my last blog, I made the prediction that it would take another four installments to wrap this puppy up, so that would mean three more segments, and counting, if you are...counting that is.

By the way, digressing to talk about technology in action...did you watch the Winter Olympics opening ceremonies last night? Fabulous! Only one glitch, even with the use of, what was it, at least 70 LCD screens? My personal favorite? The part where it appeared that whales were spouting and swimming in the ocean. Now THAT was gold! I can only imagine how incredible it was when you were right there.

The malfunction didn't occur until the very end of the ceremonies and I wouldn't have known it as such, if the anchors hadn't, oh, so helpfully, mentioned it. I guess one of the four columns didn't spring up for its part in the lighting of the Olympic trough, so the four torch-bearing Canadians, including the odds-on favorite Wayne Gretzky, were standing there waiting for a wee bit of time. No biggie. The show went on and it seemed that the lighting was accomplished just fine with three columns, instead of four. Anyway. Where was I? Right. The next segment of my blog...

The Technology Shuffle – Part V

…the proverbial monster or what? Have you ever gotten the bright idea to “get back to basics” and remove the cellular device from your child’s claw-like grip? This you do in an effort to bring about eye contact and reconnect them with their environment as you helpfully point out, “You can take a break from this thing for one day,” all while s/he whines piteously, “But I won’t be able to talk to anyone all day!”

It’s not long before the pathetic turns to the demonic and you see the child of your loins morph into a creature from Frankenstein where you can almost see bolts sprouting from the neck area or, alternatively, maybe this still looks like your child, but you know it won’t be long before the neck swivels around in a full 360 and split pea soup comes shooting out of their mouth. It’s enough to scare even the most experienced of parents.

Fast forward to the end of the day, after you’ve had a chance to savor the smug satisfaction that is rightfully yours over the fact that you’re “helping” your child’s entrée into the Focus Kingdom…

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Un-Cougar...humorous column about the latest babyboomer trend...

February 6, 2010

The Un-Cougar

Okay, so I’m a friendly girl; always have been, always will be and that has always been something I counted as a strength for me. It never led to any problems in my life and, in fact, has kept me skipping along on my happy little trail to Optimism Land where all things are good and, even if they’re not, they will be shortly. Until recently. When the whole concept of being a Cougar came into play.

Now, I have a pretty darned good sense of humor, the only exception to this being excessive anatomical humor or bathroom humor. They just don’t bring out the guffaws in me and we all know that humor is subjective, so that’s no biggie. The funniest moments in my life usually occur at my own expense, anyway, because I am one of those people who turns the very simplest of experiences into the very not so simplest of experiences, i.e., simple walking in high heels turns into a long forward trip spanning multiple city blocks, drinking my coffee ends up turning into a cup juggling act and so on.

But this Cougar thing, now that is not so fabulous. My poor fellow babyboomer females and I are not reaping the rewards of keeping ourselves fit, realizing the (relative) dream of social equality, and retaining one or two of our marbles along the way. What am I talking about? Whenever I chat up someone from the opposite sex who is younger than the cookie sheets I own, I am accused of being a Cougar. Yuck! Witness a seemingly innocuous interaction I had in the presence of my daughter. Again, just to reiterate, I’m friendly. Always have been. Always will be. Well, maybe that last one is still up for debate.

I’m moseying on out of my car, getting ready to take advantage of one of our local retail outlet’s “buy 7, get 1” great deals, when I espy a totally darling dog out with his master. As I jog over and twitter about, asking the young man how old this precious puppy is, confirming the breed – it was a Golden Retriever – I note that my daughter is watching me with “that” look on her face. I don’t get it, but not to worry, I’m full-on in the throes of my doggie doting, being a pound puppy mom to the third power. These kinds of interactions are instinctual for me, really. I thought the youth was nice and as I waved good-bye, telling him to have a nice day, my daughter hissed, “Oh, my God, mom, do you not get what you just did?”

Okay, I’m really not going to be able to play this one off because, for the life of me, I can’t see how talking to a young guy about his dog, running over there energetically, all the while talking in an animated, friendly tone…oh, hey, wait a minute. Hold on. It’s one of those Cougar moments, a term I couldn’t get right for a while, insisting on saying ocelot until I employed the use of mnemonics.

I turned to her, a bit nauseous and say, “Don’t tell me. That’s what people do to pick-up on people, right? That was a come on?” She nods affirmatively. I mean, in my defense I have been out of circulation during a span of five presidential terms. And then I got irritated and I’ve remained irritated every time I am just a normal person interacting with other folks who, oftentimes, also happen to be males half my age.

This whole thing is making me a bit twitchy, so my clumsiness has amped up even more, rendering trips to my local fine purveyors of caffeinated beverages as not so much trips where I score caffeine as outings where I display my cleaning prowess. I find myself blurting things out in moments of unabated Tourette’s Syndrome making comments like, “We’re just talking here,” or proclaiming loudly my status as a married woman, “Boy, it’s sure great being married…and ordering a skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latté.”

All of this has just made me look like a nutcase which, in point of fact, is just a notch below Cougar status. At least it’s a Cougar of a different stripe.