“Seems my cleavage hitched a ride with other body parts and migrated south. So much for maintaining property values.”

I dedicate this article to the memory of the beloved Disney character, Tinkerbelle, who died this summer after flailing for days on a gummy fly strip. Tink is survived by her somewhat less diminutive sister, Tankerbelle.
Speaking of faeries, I’d planned to dress as one at a recent Renaissance Faire. But the mosquitoes were so brutal, I didn’t want to spray my newly winged body with OFF and then spend the whole day repelling myself.
Last year I rented a queen costume with yards of taffeta billowing over an eight-foot-wide hoop skirt. Oh, so elegant was I. And then some nice young firemen came with axes and freed me from the porta-potty. So, this time I dressed as Joan of Arc. Inspirational. Dignified. Until my crocheted “body armor” of soda can pull-tabs and silver yarn caught on my authentic elk boots, and (oops!!) unraveled. Those damned antlers.
Ever been to a Renaissance Faire? The cleavage quotient soars off the charts. I don’t begrudge the lassies who flaunt their chestitude, but I sure miss mine. The once deep valley of my mammenhanced youth has morphed over time into an empty lot with drifting berms of sand. Seems my cleavage hitched a ride with other body parts and migrated south. So much for maintaining property values.
When I was “twenty-something” just a few tiny decades ago, my zealous commitment to feminist ideology consisted of sometimes going bra-less. (I am nothing if not superficial.) Back then, an advice columnist wrote that if you could snug a pencil under your busomness, you HAD to wear a bra. Why is it I never remember my online account passwords, but easily cough up this ancient crap?? Anyway, I failed the pencil test, despite private tutoring. Maybe I shoulda tried a No. 4 Ticonderoga….
Gravity aids this sneaky mammigration. That’s okay. Given our climate-change troubles, I’m relieved the laws of physics still rock. But if body parts keep wandering, eventually both units of my pectoral campsite will be entirely vacated, leaving me a clueless landlady with no tenants.
When did this start? I suspect my bifurcated adipose skipped town while I was inspecting hundreds of new menopausal moles and setting up a memorial fund for my skin tone. My cleavage remains at large, even though I ran the rascal’s photo on milk cartons. Yes, I know. Ironic. I pray that it’s safe and happy, perhaps cruising the scene somewhere in a double-breasted suit.
Of course, if you or I decide to retire elsewhere, moving might be easier if our fleshly valuables did relocate separately at their own pace, rather than wait for us to shlepp ourselves en masse. Golly, I’ll be thrilled if all of me reunites in a warm state! One that licenses old folks to drive without fussing over silly details like vision exams and road tests.
We hear about preventing falls with exercise to preserve our sense of balance. Not to worry. Mammigration is making women’s bodies safer than ever. It’s true! The descending breastiferous tissue acts as a counterweight for the ballast accumulating on our back porches. The downside, so to speak, is that with bodies so misshapen, falling may be the only exercise we can do.
So, just when I’d gotten used to the mammigration thing, I attended the Renaissance cleavage circus, and reawakened my sense of dismay. The event teemed with brocaded ladies, serving wenches, and the busty pirate babes I call “Captain Hookers.” They strutted around in mammiful corsets strained near to bursting with glandular phenomena that resembled rabid balloon animals.
Dear lords and ladies, NOBODY’S breastitude can be that high! How do those women breathe?? Was this a cleverly run mammoScam? I think not! Forsooth, I say we know real derma-firma when we see it! Egad, what could cause such acute busomation?? The logical answer…and let’s hope it’s covered under healthcare reform…
Collarbone goiters.
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Tompsett
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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

“With our new Baked Alaska package, we’ll gladly toast you crispy, sweep you into an ice cream cone, and then freeze your sorry ash.”

“Ode to an Amaryllis”
What a thrill to see your first leaf,
and your blooms will soon be a treat.
But this phase in between?
Budded stalk, you’re obscene!
Can I get you some boxers or briefs??

Midwesterners aren’t as backwards as some of the “coastal elite” may think. No, by cracky, we have our BlackBerries, same as elsewhere. Pears and melons, too. But I’ll admit, a stray clump of hay can wreak havoc in our rotary phones.
The Midwest even has its own cryonics facilities. Also known as cryogenics, the process involves freezing a dead body until future technology can restore it to life. Holy jumper cables, we’ve come a long way! Gone are the old days when we stored Uncle Larry in a jumbo Tupperware filled with frozen corn. Some FAQs now, for our curious readers.
“What happens at death?” Hey, we never use negative terms like DIE and DEATH! Instead, we say the body enters a state of apparent de-animation. This sounds way perkier, but don’t expect the stiff to keep holding up its end of the conversation. Of course, on a cellular level all hell is breaking loose, with entire neighborhoods heading for the dumpster. So, it’s important to quickly chill and ship the de-animated lump to a cryogenic facility. We recommend certified truckers, such as Birdseye, Green Giant, or Ben & Jerry’s.
“Is cryonics expensive?” Nah. We calculate the cost/value ratio as a paltry $30K/600 months x 365 + a-b + (x%) x 24/7 + 12. The cost of a Dove Bar per day. Clients may also select the cheaper Turtleneck Option. That’s when only the brain is frozen, without all those extra organs, muscles, and other bodily doodads taking up storage space.
Yup, the Turtleneck is your basic beheading. Besides lowered cost, freezing only the head has other advantages: no more missing socks, constipation, or toenail fungus. At last, say goodbye to that “muffin top” midriff!
“Will I be stored belly up?” Very funny. No, you’ll be dunked, upside down, into a giant thermos of super-cooled liquid nitrogen, sharing it with several other corpsicles. Think of it as carpooling to the future! Turtleneck clients, however, will repose in semi-private neurocranial lounging compartments, i.e., a big ice cube tray we call the Noggin Toboggan.
“But I want my own thermos!” Why is everything always about you? This is precisely why everyone thinks you’re a selfish bastard.
“What happens after I’m thawed out?” Depends. How disgusting is your freezer burn? Are you willing to become an amputee? To switch genders? If you’re on Team Turtleneck, your head will wake up to fresh coffee and Danish. Cool, huh? Then we’ll either regrow the rest of you or set up a Meet & Greet with a headless goon from the temp agency.
“Freezer burn?!? I don’t like the sound of that.” Oh, picky, picky. We friggin’ bring you back to life, and you whine about a little disfigurement?
“What else could go wrong?” Jeez, you really are a worrier! I suppose there’s a chance that the company may founder and turn the place into a Starbucks. It’s also possible that a minimum-wage high school kid will botch the critical thawing process. Then again, you could be successfully thawed but wake up in July on the outskirts of Tucson. And I don’t mean poolside, sipping a Margarita. No, I’m talkin’ a wake-up call inside a dark, locked U-STOR-IT shed. And if you’re a Turtleneck dude, good luck dialing 911.
“If I eat a big dinner before I, uh, de-animate, will I be full when I wake up? Will there be a bathroom nearby? Any vending machines?” Man, you are so fried, I suggest cremation.
“Can I be cremated and also frozen?” Righto! With our new Baked Alaska package, we’ll gladly toast you crispy, sweep you into an ice cream cone, and then freeze your sorry ash.
Personally, I hate being cold. So, instead of cryonics, I’m gonna have my rotting carcass dipped into brightly colored wax, labeled, and packed in a cardboard box with other dead artists. That’s right. Crayonics.
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Tompsett
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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

“The current Edward is a lanky dude with an attitude darker than my ex’s chest hair and a brow ridge that would dwarf a park pavilion.”

Furtive glances, brooding pouts, and cryptic comments, interfaced with fabulous tap dancing and glass-shattering vocals. Yes, kids, it’s a toothy parade of hungry, prowling adjectives describing “Twilight: The Musical.” Opening on Valentine’s Day in a cave near you.
Teen vampires are “in” now, a reminder that the family who preys together stays together. Like, for centuries. Hoping to rebuild your 401K? Consider investing in Gothic apparel futures.
When it comes to teenage vampires, anyone who’s willing to live forever as a 17-year-old has more guts than I do. Personally, the only thing I’d want from those days would be my eyesight. Okay, young knee and hip joints would also be peachy. And the skin tone. But the shallowness, insecurity, and self-absorption of that age? Nah. Fortunately, I’ve kept all that intact anyway.
But how accurate is the movie version of undead high-school hotties? Let’s poke around for a closer look. Originally, Twilight’s lead vampire was a pudgy kid in braces, named Spanky Larsen. But the producers cleverly changed the name to Edward Cullen because it rhymed with “bedhead” and “sullen.” The current Edward is a lanky dude with an attitude darker than my ex’s chest hair and a brow ridge that would dwarf a park pavilion.
So, what we might find inside Edward’s school locker? Hmm. Sunless tanning lotion, check. An orthodontic retainer and a smushed hunk of 18th-century birthday cake. Check. Ooh, and here’s a heart-shaped box of goodies for Bella, his main squeeze. But instead of lame-o chocolates, the shiny foil papers are packed with Coumadin blood thinner. That Ed, what a lovebunny.
Indeed, Ed’s true love and flavor of the month is Bella Swan, a morose chick whose name rolls off the tongue leaving an aftertaste of long-necked prey. In her locker are (1) a hoodie that reads, “Suppersize Me!”; (2) a meeting list from Codependents Anonymous; and (3) a dinner bell! OMG, Bella, Y R U a dinna bella 4 U fella?!?
Competing for Bella is Jacob, a werewolf who smells suspiciously like Rogaine. Now’s a good time to check out his locker while he’s in detention for marking territory in the lunchroom. Whooeee! That locker smells like wet dog! Lookee here, we find an expired rabies tag, chewed Frisbee, toy mailman and…what’s this? Eeeeeeeuuw…a pooper scooper!?! And these crumpled papers? One is a suspension notice for rolling on a decayed woodchuck before homeroom. The other is an invoice from “Critter Gitters” pest control. Seems our Jacob crept over to Bella’s house for midnight obedience training and got stuck in the pet door.
How come vampires and werewolves get all the good movie roles? To even things out, I’m producing a TV series about unpopular teen monsters. In one episode a young mummy named Pickles makes the swim team. Though he has a killer butterfly stroke, Pickles’ swim career unravels, so to speak, after he clogs the pool filter with ancient spices. In another show, he protests the school dress code by wearing his wrappings low and baggy, in hip-hop gangsta style. But a look inside Pickles’ locker shows a fastidious side, as evidenced by the steam iron, spray starch, and hemming tape.
I’ve also created a role for Frank Stein, a boy in ill-fitting blazers and high-water pants, with a really bad haircut. He’s rebellious and misunderstood by his parents, a plastic surgeon and a fashion designer. In chemistry class, Frankie bonds with Furina, a she-wolf who shares his terror of Bunsen burners. She lovingly reminds him to not pick at his stitches, and he French-braids her back hair.
As for the current stars of Twilight, how do their lives turn out? Well, Edward eventually dies of high cholesterol, the classic “steak in the heart” for a vampire. Jacob the wolf returns to the family cattle ranch and falls for their prize heifer. And Bella? She marries real-life Benjamin Button, thereby becoming (prepare to wince)…a Bella Button.
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Tompsett
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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

Man, what a rough winter. Not the temperature, but the humiliation. For months my down coat has leaked feathers through the lining. Then, during each workday, bits of fluff waved to the world from my back and butt. My work subordinates…oh, wait…I have no subordinates…um, my co-workers clucked through staff meetings and hid corn in my desk. Read the rest of this article »

“Eeyore, don’t pick your nose!” Waiting in the checkout line, I tore my attention from the tabloid photos of Big Foot’s fanny lift, to witness a boy mining his nasal Eeyorifaces and the droopy-eyed mom who resembled a donkey herself.

Obviously, popular names have changed a smidgen since Bobby, Tommy, Karen, and Darlene pranced across the original Mickey Mouse Club set. Gee whiz, Annette was such an exotic name! And if a parent yelled for John or Linda, half of the neighborhood kids deserted our backyard kickball game. Read the rest of this article »

While waiting for an oil change, I pawed through the usual grimy reading material—back issues of The Taoist Purgatorial Review, Elephantiasis for Dummies, and some 1999 meeting lists for Quilters Anonymous. My hand hovered over the OSHA Hazardous Waste Guide until I spotted a pamphlet on survival techniques. Survival, huh? As in running out of organic cat litter? Or when your hair stylist moves to LA to work for Howie Mandel? Nope. The article bypassed such tragedies, and focused on muddling through the everyday bear or shark attack. Read the rest of this article »