Bacon Nation

Daily Prompt: 2100

The language of the future: what will it be like? Write an experimental post using some imagined vocabulary — abbreviations, slang, new terms.

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There’s this new Facebook game going around in which you’re encouraged to replace one word of any movie title with the word bacon.

This of course only works with movie titles that are more than one word long, as my son and I soon discovered.

The boy, being 11 (almost 12) decided that this is now his new favorite game, and on our drive home from work yesterday, he started musing to himself over this whole bacon bit of fun. I, of course, added my 2 salty cents, and before we knew it, we were embroiled in a contest to see who could come up with the most amazing bacon movie title.

I was admittedly in the lead with “Mr. Magorium’s Bacon Emporium” and “Percy Jackson and the Bacon Thief”, both of which he found uproariously funny, until he, after about 20 seconds of silence and some careful, face scrunching consideration, blurted out, “Harry Bacon”. We both laughed the remaining mile home. I conceded. The kid won by a landslide.

Then I got to thinking about this amazing little game and the awesomeness of bacon. What if bacon becomes so big, that someday, we’ve replaced every adjective and verb with the word bacon, just like the Smurfs always did with the name of their race. Bank tellers would send us off with a smile and encourage us to, “Have a bacony day!”

What if bacon became currency?! Bacon bits could be spare change, of course, and our wealth could be counted in terms of how many slabs we have. Okay maybe that wouldn’t work; we’d always be eating up our assets.

Bacon could become so huge, though, that it replaces all other amazing things in life. Like hugs and kisses. Can’t you just see yourself holding your arms out to your spouse as they walk through the door, saying, “Come on over here and give me some bacon.”

What? It could work.

There’s a whole bacony world out there, just waiting to be explored. I’m betting that bacon will become so big someday,  that I can almost taste the future.

Just some food for thought.

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Freshly Unim-Pressed

Daily Prompt: Secret of Success

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The Queen is Clearly Unimpressed.

What would it take for you to consider yourself a “successful blogger”? Is that something you strive for?

Nope. Why would I strive for that? I write so that my adoring one and a half fans have something to read while they’re sitting on the porcelain throne. I would never wish to branch out and bring my musings to the masses!

Yes, that was sarcasm. What a silly question. Well, the second one, anyway.

The first one is fairly simple, though.

Finally, WordPress powers that be! I thought you’d never ask!

I strive to one day be pressed. Freshly Pressed, that is. Not my clothes, silly, I don’t iron!

I have no shame. I’ll admit it. I’m fairly certain that there isn’t a WordPress blogger out there that wouldn’t greatly appreciate the same honor.

My friends don’t help, either. They get me all fired up.

“You’re an awesome writer,” they say.

“You should write a book,” they say.

“Stop staring at me like that, it creeps me out,” they say.

So I get this big ego, and think, “Yeah! I’ve got this! Thousands of eager fans waiting with bated breath until my next installment of awesome goes live? Piece of cake. I’ll still have time left over to work on winning that Nobel Peace Prize while I cure cancer and write Def Leppard’s next big hit.”(Oh come on; you know you want to see them make a comeback just as much as I do.)

And then the next batch of Freshly Pressed posts go up.

And I read.

And then my over-inflated ego doesn’t just fly around the room like a balloon that’s been filled and let go of, it audibly pops. My neighbors knock on the door and say, “What was that noise?”, and I’ll say, “Oh just my ego bursting. No biggie.”

I’ll go off after that to sulk and shed a few tears into my box of Nilla Wafers (comfort food, hello…) and say to myself, “Self, you really aren’t all that. Now these people, they’re all that, and a bag of lightly sea salted organic vegetable crisps.” (That’s for all of you health conscious folk. You’re welcome.)

So, maybe I’ll just save myself some heartache and make my goal somewhat more realistic:

How about I just shoot for my one and a half followers to someday become two, and reward myself with this award:

Not imPressed Award

And if any of you one and a half readers want this snazzy award for your blog, too, simply add an image widget and link the following image url into the correct slot. Enjoy!

Daily Prompt: Life Line

Daily Prompt: Life Line

You’re on a long flight, and a palm reader sitting next to you insists she reads your palm. You hesitate, but agree. What does she tell you?

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I’m nothing short of bursting at the seams with excitement as I sit and wait as patiently as one with “ants in their pants” could possibly wait. I chatter continuously at my husband, as has always been my custom when I’m filled with sheer elation at the prospect of a joyous event that has finally been set in motion. He responds by playing the latest game that he’s downloaded to his cell phone, never bothering to glance in my direction, but often throwing in the occasional “uh huh” or “me too, dear” as I ramble on, as has become his custom over the years. I don’t allow his lack of interest to tarnish the silver lining surrounding the cloud on which I’m currently riding. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for far too long, and nothing can curb my highly elevated enthusiasm at this point.

It has always been a dream of ours to visit Ireland. So much so, that it’s one of the 3 things that I can now contentedly cross off my miniscule bucket list. I have yet to find buried treasure or learn to drive a stick-shift automobile. I likely never will. I consider this for a moment. Well, 1 out of 3 isn’t terrible, I muse, and I’m about to embark on an adventure of such epic proportions  that the other 2 list options can just fade off into oblivion as far as I’m concerned.

Ah, Ireland. The rolling hills, the beautiful countryside, the sheep in the fields, the castles, the food…oh my goodness, the incredible Irish dishes, yes please! The quaint little pubs with local elderly gentlemen regaling visiting foreign folk with fantastically spun tales of wild Irish youth and love gone by, in thick Gaelic accents. I want to drink in the sweet nectar of all this and more.

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The calling of the first class passengers and those needing special assistance snaps me back to reality from somewhere inside my grand daydream. “I still can’t believe it’s finally happening!” I exclaim to my husband for quite possibly the 50th time today. He just smiles and nods as he continues to busily work his fingers over his phone screen.

The kids are finally grown and gone, and we celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary in January. We’ve had our hardships over the years, but we made it through all of them and we deserve this special treat to celebrate how far we’ve come. To celebrate us.  We’ve managed to painstakingly pinch every last penny until Lincoln screams in pain to make this trip possible. I lean over and give my husband a peck on the cheek, before resting my head on his shoulder for a moment. He presses his cheek against the top of my head. I’m proud of us both for finally turning this amazing dream into reality.

I check the time on my phone and fidget in my seat, before deciding to make sure that my passport, I.D., and boarding pass are at the ready for the thousandth time today as I wait for our seat assignments to be called. It’s hard to say if this newfound ritual is compliments of my OCD, or the adrenaline fueled excitement that I’m currently running on. Likely a little bit of both, I surmise.

They finally get around to calling rows 20 through 25. I nudge my husband with my elbow and say, “that’s us.” We proceed to gather up our belongings and head toward the quickly lengthening boarding line.

We finally reach the robotically jovial stewardess at the front of the line, who looks over our boarding passes with an obviously overworked smile. She repeats our seat assignments to us as though we are feeble minded and couldn’t possibly read them on our own, and wishes us a safe and pleasant trip through her gleaming pearly whites.

We make our way down the long gangway, my husband whistling a Christmas tune the entire way as has been his habit for the 20 years that we’ve now been married. It’s July. I stopped bothering to point this fact out to him years ago, and now I just smile and shake my head.

We are greeted by yet another methodically friendly set of flight personnel at the door to the airplane, who welcome us aboard and once again wish us a pleasant journey.

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We inch our way toward the back of the aircraft from among the throng of inconsiderate individuals stopping in the middle of the aisle to fight with overhead bins or argue with other passengers and flight attendants over confused seat assignments. I can see frustration growing on my husband’s face as we shuffle along. Finally, we arrive at seats 24 B and C. I feel a little pang of sadness as I realize that neither of them are a window seat. Ah, well, you get what you pay for I suppose, and we did our best to cut traveling expenses as much as possible so that we could fully enjoy our 2 weeks exploring the lush green land for which we are about to embark. I hand my carry on over to my husband, and he makes quick work of shoving it into the overhead compartment, before we settle into our seats. My husband has Closterphobia issues, so I know he’ll want to sit in the aisle seat. He always does in crowded places.  So I grab the middle seat and proceed to try and get as comfortable as possible, not really paying much attention to the person that already occupies the window seat.

I barely get myself situated before I hear a strong, cheerful, feminine voice  from my left announce, “Hi, I’m Anna.” This boisterous greeting is accompanied by a slim fingered hand boasting pale pink polished nails and 3 over-sized silver cocktail rings extended in front of me. I turn slightly in my seat so that I may comfortably surrender my right hand in acceptance of her handshake.  We make eye contact for a moment and I take in Anna’s friendly features while quickly looking her over.

She’s perhaps 50, Caucasian, taller than I by a good 6 inches, and fit. Her long, frizzy, grayish blond waves are held back from her face by a pink, orange, and black oriental flowered silk scarf wrapped around her head and tied at the nape of her neck. She has a wide pink-lipped smile accompanied by a beautiful set of large, dark grey eyes with soft creases gently nipping at the corners. I take note of her clothing; a bright pink tank top under a thin white cotton off-the-shoulder shirt, with small pink, orange, and yellow flowers embroidered along the neckline. This was tucked into a matching, floor length, gypsy-style skirt held securely around her waist by a tied woven hemp belt. She had kicked off her silver-beaded leather sandals that are now shoved partially under the seat in front of her, and I can just barely make out her perfectly pedicured and pale pink polished toes peeking out from under her the hem of her skirt. In truth, she looks somewhat like she just stepped out of the 1970’s.

I smile and introduce myself in return. I then point to my husband next to me, and introduce him as well. He leans over me and offers a hand for her to shake. After the proper introductions have been made, I point to her skirt and tell her, “My daughter would absolutely love your outfit.” She flashes her brilliant smile once again and says, “Your daughter sounds like my kind of girl.”

The next words out of her mouth admittedly catch me off-guard. “You’re very short,” she proclaims. “Excuse me?” I say. While this is an all too true observation, I’ve yet to have a practical stranger make that assessment so boldly.  I wasn’t quite sure I had even heard her right. She laughs off the expression of shock that must be noticeably written on my face. “I mean your life line; I was noticing that it’s quite short and shallow.” She must have then noticed my expression change to concern because she goes on to quickly add, “Oh no, no. It’s nothing to be concerned about. It doesn’t mean that you have a shortened life-span; it simply means that you have a tendency to be controlled by people and situations.” She extends her hand once again, palm side up, and says, “Here, let me see your hand. I’d be happy to give you a full reading…”

She had misread my cause for concern. The words, “Oh, no thank you, I don’t…” barely escape my lips before my husband, who had, to my surprise, been listening to the exchange over his phone follies, interjects with, “We’re Christians. We don’t have anything to do with astrology or palm reading or any of that sort of thing.”

“Ah, okay,” she rather impatiently snaps, and proceeds to pull out and open a thick paperback novel that she had apparently jammed between her thigh and the armrest before we sat down.

That’s it. The conversation has been called to an abrupt halt. I could read a lot into her tone and half smirk though, which said, “I’ve dealt with you closed minded freaks before, and I’m not about to travel this road again.”

I look at my husband. He peeks over my head at Anna leaning her forehead against the window, now quietly and rather quickly engrossed in her novel. He then looks back at me and shrugs as he shakes his head no.

I knew exactly what he was thinking. Though my husband has been known to dive into a religious debate with all of the passion and fervor of an Olympic gold medalist, he wouldn’t be pressing Anna in further conversation. It was clear that she stood firm in her convictions and had closed off any further exchanges at that point. My husband and I both knew that pressing people that were not at all open to hearing what you had to say would just push them further away from wanting anything to do with God and those that serve Him.

I close my eyes and lean my head back. It’s going to be a long flight. I silently say a prayer for our safety during this flight, and for Anna. May she have a life filled with peace and perhaps, someday, be receptive enough to at least listen to a Christian point of view.

Closed minds comes in many different packages, after all.

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Note from the author: This story is completely fictional but has several truthful ideals and undertones. Though I understood that the point of this prompt was to accept the offer a palm reading and write about what my future may hold therein, for certain obvious reasons, I could not.  I chose to take my story in a different direction, and I hope that those of you that are spiritual and non-spiritual alike are still able to enjoy my story and accept it…open mindedly. 

50 Wishes

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Everyone has been asked that eternal question by now, “What would you do with 3 wishes?”

Well, I started thinking…why 3? Where did we get 3 from? Is it some standard that we’ve set based on childhood tales of genies popping out of lamps and fairies rescued from unspeakable dangers? Is 3 some magic number that, if we were to surpass it, would cause us to burst into flame, or worse; be imprisoned for life only to suffer endless torment at the hands of some unseen wish warden?

Maybe we’ve just trained our brains not to think past this miniscule number, or maybe, just maybe, most of us feel that we wouldn’t be deserving of any more wishes than that based on a history of past transgressions?

Whatever the case, I’ve decided to think outside of the 3 sided box. How many wishes would I really limit myself to?  I think I’d shoot for 50…that seems like a good, solid number to me, how about you? What would you do with 50 wishes? Here’s my list:

Wish List

If I had 3 wishes…but wait, why stop there?
To limit my wishes just seems so unfair.

I do believe fifty would be much more just,
‘Cause too many things are a definite must.

Before I give in to my personal greed,
I’d like to help out all the people in need.

I’d wish food for the hungry, homes for the poor,
Clean water on every impoverished shore.

Some shoes for the orphans, and widows alike;
That weary man walking, well, he needs a bike.

Love for the lonely; a partner, a mate,
Love for each other; abolish all hate.

A world without stealing, or murder, or crime,
And people that care more than some of the time.

Now me, I would like my own laundry fairy,
Then I’d want legs that would never grow hairy.

I’ll need a few dollars; ten mill would be nice,
Then maybe some diamonds, ‘cause girls love their ice.

I’d want a fit body, and then beyond that,
I’d wish for some thighs that would never get fat.

I’d like to be crowned Miss America, please,
And have a new bladder that withstands a sneeze.

Strumming songs on the guitar might be quite grand,
While singing lead vocals in some famous band.

I wouldn’t mind being a big movie star,
But please wax my brows or I won’t make it far.

My own Private Island would suit me just fine,
And then, some new sports cars, at least eight or nine.

I would like a tiger, no; how ‘bout a zoo?
To staff it, please send me the finest zoo crew.

I’d wish for a mansion with twelve maids to clean;
A garden out back full of plants lush and green.

A whole room of nothing but bath tissue rolls;
Make them all thick so there’s no chance of holes.

A twelve seater hot tub would be pretty cool,
For after a dip in my new swimming pool.

And create a soda that never goes flat,
To sip by that pool in my new floppy hat.

I’d like a masseuse on call at any time;
And a waiter to serve me spritzers with lime.

My own chef to cook me the tastiest food,
Please join me for lunch; wouldn’t want to be rude.

I’ll take a tiara that sparkles and shines,
To wear while I’m drinking the priciest wines.

A thousand new shoes, and then without a doubt;
The finest silk stockings that never wear out.

Please send me an eighty foot yacht, on the double,
along with a Captain or I’ll be in trouble.

A pilot to chauffer my own private jet,
And take me to places I haven’t seen yet.

A vacay to Candy Land’s shores would be swell,
For chocolates as big as the liberty bell.

An opal in silver, an emerald in gold,
A ruby in platinum would never get old.

I’d wish for some sapphires, the deepest of blue,
Then if the mood strikes me, I might wish for YOU!

Daily Prompt: Singular Sensation

If one experience or life change results from you writing your blog, what would you like it to be?

Enable Daydream Sequence as I sit with my cheek in my hand and a half crooked smile…

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I step out of my pink stretch limo and tell my driver once again how amazing he is as he stands holding the door open for me. “Oh Roberto, you’re such a gem, I don’t know what I’d do without you” I say, and flash him a gleaming pearly white and impeccably capped smile. With a sly wink I slip him 2 or 3 Ben Franklins, as has become our usual routine because I’ve become wealthier than Bill Gates. I adjust my Vivian Westwood halter dress, don my favorite bejeweled Prada sunglasses, and place my hand atop my oversized Gucci hat to keep it from blowing off my head in the gentle summer breeze. I look up at the gloriously blue California sky. Helicopters circle overhead carrying reporters and photographers trying to catch a glimpse of the scene laid out below.

It’s another marvelous day to be alive and to be…well…me.

My husband exits the vehicle and makes his way around to where I’m standing. He extracts my bulky Chanel bag from the back of the limo and holds open the straps as I slide my arm though. It’s naturally the latest edition, barely off the line. I’ve placed my small, nervous Teacup Pomeranian, Chloe, inside. She blinks repeatedly and trembles for a moment before repositioning herself atop the pile of silk scarves that I carry for her personal comfort. After she’s adjusted herself to her satisfaction, she pokes her freshly groomed head out of the top of the oversized purse. We survey the scene around us.

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It’s hard to believe that it all started with one little blog, and now here I am, attending the dedication ceremony as I receive my own Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I strike a pose and flash the same brilliant smile that I had given Roberto just a moment ago, this time directed at the gaggle of assembled paparazzi. I am looking fabulous after all, thanks to my personal trainer, Jacques, and my nutritionist and food prep guru, Alfonze. Why not flaunt it a little?

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Chloe and I then start to make our way toward the cordoned off section of sidewalk that now bears my name, surrounded by a handful of my personal security team, and my darling husband. He’s such a peach. So supportive. Then again, I’m sure that the new showroom that I had built for him and the acquisition of a dozen ‘mint condish’ classic sports cars helps maintain a level of support that he wouldn’t otherwise display while being drug to these events.

I sign a few autographed pictures of myself along the way for my adoring fans that have amassed in droves to celebrate this great honor with me, as my security team continuously pushes a pathway through the forceful crowd. It’s quite a turnout today. Then again, I’ve come to expect no less in recent years as my fame has grown impressively larger than the Duggar family’s offspring count.

I finally find myself standing in front of the grand display and reason that I’ve come here today. Ah, there it is…my own personalized shrine of stardom, in all its glory. I stoop to touch the gleaming section of walkway. “This will make a stunning picture for the cover of people” I think, as I try not to make my signature duck face at the eager camera wielders.

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After sufficient photos have been snapped and a short speech has been made thanking my wonderful fans for their amazing support, my entourage and I begin the pilgrimage back to the waiting limo. We’re finally able to slip inside after struggling with the enormous crowd of spectators once again. Roberto climbs in behind the wheel and proceeds to whisk hubby, Chloe, and I off into the sunset toward Spago for a deliciously prepared meal of…

A customer at the Thrift Store counter snaps me back to reality. I ring up their 2 dollar and 50 cent purchase of used clothing and wish them a wonderful afternoon. I heave a sigh and scratch at one of my mosquito bites. I bet that celebrities don’t get bug bites. I wonder if I should have Ramen or Macaroni and Cheese for dinner tonight? Someday Filet Mignon and Lobster Tail…someday.  It’ll be a date.

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My Response to Daily Prompt: Singular Sensation