How to Leave the Planet

1. Phone NASA. Their phone number is (713) 483-3111. Explain that it’s very important that you get away as soon as possible.

2. If they do not cooperate, phone any friend you may have in the White House–(202) 456-1414–to have a word on your behalf with the guys at NASA.

3. If you don’t have any friends in the White House, phone the Kremlin (ask the overseas operator for 0107-095-295-9051). They don’t have any friends there either (at least, none to speak of), but they do seem to have a little influence, so you may as well try.

4. If that also fails, phone the Pope for guidance. His telephone number is 011-39-6-6982, and I gather his switchboard is infallible.

5. If all these attempts fail, flag down a passing flying saucer and explain that it’s vitally important you get away before your phone bill arrives.

(Taken from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams)

Cover image taken from Goodreads

The recliner incident

The past two weeks past in a blur of back to school and edits and random need-to-dos, and honestly, I have no idea where the time went.

But I’m back and today I’m posting the follow up to Barth the Moo and his panty-liners, and how “I” almost became a murderer.


Once settled in one of the guest’s suite, I headed to join the family and friends gathered in the patio, passing by aunt Crozella’s relaxation room. I ducked my head inside, found it empty.

Five minutes, I told myself.

I’d been sitting in the comfortable recliner for almost half an hour, watching some classic show I didn’t know the name of when I picked the wrong remote and clicked. Instead of the channels switching, the chair behind me began to vibrate and undulate. Delighted, I forgot about the bad show, leaned my head back so my neck could benefit from the massage and moaned with pleasure. After my long flight and sweaty, horrifying drive with Barth the Moo and his scented panty liners, I really needed this.

As if my thoughts had conjured the guy, I heard him call my name, his voice so close. Alarmed, I closed my eyes just as his steps stopped at the door.

“Hey,” he said, but I didn’t reply.

In hindsight, I should’ve paused the massage, maybe even turned off the TV. Still, , nothing would’ve prepared me for what Barth did next.

Moving closer, he tried again, “you asleep?”

I swallowed my “duh” and suppressed the need to roll my eyes, as well as prevent a groan of gratitude from escaping when the back of the recliner changed into a rhythmic percussion.

“It’s a seizure!” he shouted, and startled, my reactions were two seconds too slow. I suddenly found myself dragged to the floor with Barth over me, one hand – thankfully without any panty liner – holding my head sideways.

Before I could say anything, Barth had the audacity of shoving two meaty fingers into my mouth and pinning my tongue.

“Uhmmmmmmmmm” I tried buckling, but all I accomplished was getting Barth to pin my legs down with his knee. In the back of my mind, I was pretty sure he was doing it all wrong.

“Call for an ambulance!” Barth shouted, and soon a stampede of running feet approached.


“It’s a seizure!” Barth shouted to whoever reached the relaxation room first.

I tried moving my head to see who had come and plead for mercy with my eyes. Barth shouted, “see how her eyes are pin wheeling! Call the ambulance!”

And Victor, the good Samaritan he was, dialed 911 while everyone piled around me. I let myself go limp, hoping someone would have the good sense to pull Barth off of me – and keep him far, far away until my murderous urges have passed. I’d never live this one down, I was sure of it.

**Did you miss the previous piece and the panty liner incident? Check it out here:

Hope you had fun!

Pun, fun and carefree

It was the strangest summer of my life. It started with a wedding invitation that required me to leave my comfortable, quiet hills for a week in the noisy, stinky and crowded city.

The first incident happened when my designated chauffeur, a guy from overseas called Bartholomew, affectionately dubbed Barth the Moo for his quirky character, arrived at the airport in aunt Crozella’s ancient van – the one she used to pick us from the school’s playground when my parents were out of town.

Climbing into the passenger’s seat, I noted the pack of carefree panty liner, sitting open above the dashboard at once. If Barth found it strange, he didn’t say anything as he climbed into the driver’s seat and thumped the door shut with so much force, the van rocked for a few seconds.

“Ac ain’t workin’ so we gotta leave the windows down,” he said as he started the ignition. The old van farted, burped and finally roared to life, the sound like of those old western trains chugging along the railroad. And god, just as loud. I could just see myself dying in half an hour from a headache, or a heat stroke (temps were over three digits!), maybe even an accident when the old metal can exploded with us inside.

I saw it then, how could I miss it? Barth had a panty liner stuck to his right palm. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands – the thing looked like it needed a sailor to navigate – unaware that he had something glued to his hand.

I recalled Cousin Deloris talking about Barth’s prostheses, but I was pretty sure it was the left leg, not the right arm. And then I saw the second panty liner, stuck to the headrest of the driver’s seat. And when I pulled away, there it was, another one on the headrest of the passenger’s seat.

“Uh, Barth?” I began, unsure how to continue. How did you tell a guy he had a female sanitary napkin stuck to his hand?

Barth noted my flushed face, gave me a reassuring smile that showcased white, crooked teeth, swiped his right palm over his face, patted the sweat from his neck.

“You’re hot?” he asked, reaching for the carefree box and offering it to me. “It’s great absorbent,” he dropped the box on my lap. “It’s perfumed as well, so you don’ smell sour either.”

I stared at the box in horror, and all I could think was that I had an entire week ahead.


This is just a piece my muse spat out amidst the edits – I know, we need a break!

Hope you had fun!

Check out the next Barth incidents here:

The Recliner Incident:

The Baking Soda Incident:


Have you met Boredom and his twin, Time?

I miss you, Boredom, my love

Gone are the days when Boredom and I’d roamed around the house, searching for something to occupy Time.
Or sit and think about nothing and everything, life, friendship, love, hate, enemies, the sky.
For hours I’d sit and have nothing to do, wishing for something.
Boredom was a fixture, a permanent guest, an annoying presence.
I complained about Boredom a lot, talked behind Boredom’s back to a friend, a family, a passerby, even the parrot.
I guess Boredom finally got the point, because Boredom got up and left me, and took Time, his twin with him.
And now my life is a quick marathon, with me always on the losing side.
I catch glimpses of time every now and then, but all twenty four legs pass me and I can never catch it again. But of Boredom , there are no signs.
I wish I could see Boredom again, for a couple hours once or twice a week, to reminisce some times.
For old time’s sake.
**Once upon a time, I had a friend called Boredom. Boredom and his twin, time, kept me company – until one day when they packed up and left me.

A famous author

“My brother’s got a few books under his belt.” The girl boasted to her new classmates.
“Oh, short stories?” The most cynical of the group asked.
“No no.” The girl hurried to impress. “They are all full novels.”
“Ah, he must cinch his belt very tight.”

What the size tags are really saying

Have you ever wondered what the bra cup size means?
Below is a list:

A almost gone
B barely there
C considerable
D damn
DD double dam
E enormous
F fake
G get a reduction

I read this once back when I was still in school and I never forgot.

The woes of being blind

Blind coordination and frequency

People who are blind depend on their other senses to go on their day to day lives. Taste, odor, touch, sound, and even instinct, though you may argue the latter is not part of our senses.
Today I awoke with a cold, sore throat, runny nose, left ear full of pressure.
Now, to a normal person that’s nothing but annoying, but to a blind person it can be argued a cold is actually dangerous.
When a blind person is familiar with his surroundings, he doesn’t need a guide dog or any help to move around. For example, inside my house, I know where everything is, everyone is, what’s on the stove. From the sounds, scents, and the position of which the sound came from. I can tell when someone is talking to me while looking on the opposite direction, if my kids are standing or sitting when they speak to me – all from the position of the sound.
So when there’s pressure in my ear (the left one), it means I hear better from my right, so naturally, I become disoriented. The door that should have been to the left is now to the right, and POW! I crash into it. It’s also easier to poison a blind person with a sore throat, because the sense of taste? Practically useless. Starvation is also a possibility.
My mother always tells me that the eyes eat first, but if that’s true, I don’t know why the entire world hasn’t gone blind.
And if the house suddenly starts burning down? I can’t really smell it now, can I?
Usually when I develop a cold, I tell people I have no frequency. The screen is out, the sound is often too low, requiring people to keep repeating themselves.
So you see, a simple cold to me means the loss of frequency and coordination.

13 things i learned during my time blogging

Thirteen things I learned during my time as a blogger

1- Many people like a post without bothering to read it.
2- Not everyone you follow follow you back
3- Not everyone you like like you back
4- Every comment you leave is either liked, commented or both.
5- It’s actually fun
6- It’s also time consuming
7- It keeps your brain running
8- There’s one of every kind out there
9- Those who have too many followers always ignore the new ones
10- Bloggers who ignore most of the follows and likes get ignored by most as well
11- Comments are like beloved guests, treated kindly and with respect
12- A lot of posts share the same titles, same contents, though written with different words, by different bloggers
13- Sometimes it feels like I’m playing tag

The ocean, the teacher and the student

School is like the ocean, where,
Teachers sale,
And the Students float,
And the Grades, well, they sink.
–author unknown

I was a kid when I first read this, some twenty years ago, in another language, another country, but yesterday when my son was protesting about school, I remembered it and decided to share.