One Last Thang

by Myrna McAdam Mills

Judgments

I find I do little thangs wrong:

I park in a handicapped space in front of the drugstore. I figure I won't be long because I only have two thangs to buy and besides, since one of them is a prescription I figure I'm handicapped enough.

I buy a couple of throw pillows and put them on the couch. Little white thangs stick out of them, the thangs that say "Do not remove under penalty of law." Whose law? I lock the door and draw the curtains to make sure nobody sees me cut them off.

I throw batteries away in the regular trash.

I go through the express checkout line in the grocery store. I have eleven thangs. The sign says "Only Nine Thangs Allowed." I hide two thangs under the other nine so the lady behind me won't sound the store alarm.

I go to the "Five and Ten Dollar" store that used to be the "Five and Dime." While examining a very fragile, pretty thang, it jumps from my hands and the sound of breaking glass echoes throughout the store. I pick it up and push it back into the box. I make a run for the next aisle and push it under the wicker baskets and walk slowly out the door. I don't want the thang now. Who would? It's broken.

I reuse postage stamps. I check my mail and sometimes I catch one of the thangs that hasn't been canceled. I peel it off and save it next to my thang of rubber cement so I can use it when I mail out my next bill.

Now I'm going to get myself a really good job. Then I can save enough money to do some big thangs wrong.

AND IF ELECTED

I am officially throwing my hat into the ring. I have decided to run for President of the United States.

If I am elected, I promise to....

Call a national emergency and declare martial law so I don't have to deal with a shifty, self-serving congress.

I promise to institute immediately

Executive Order #1:

All Wall Street banks and investment firms who had to pay back a miniscule portion of the illegal bailout in the last administration ($68.3 billion on the $229.7 billion owned) last June will have to pay back the balance, with interest. JPMorgan Chase, Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, US Bancorp, and Capital One Financial will be among those responsible. The investigation will continue. The funds will be used to help homeowners pay down their current mortgages.

Executive Order #2:

There will be a cap of 5% on all credit card interest, recalculated retroactive to whenever the bearer of the card started charging. Anyone with no income or who has defaulted on their credit cards for good reason will be charged 0% interest. Chances are there are many people out there who will have their credit card principal paid off from exorbitant fees through the life of the card. Any overage will be returned to the card owner compounded at a 5% interest rate.

Executive Order #3:

The "You Can Work if You Want" program. Anyone over the age of 16 can get a job paying $10 flat rate. Employment offices will open around the country in a city or town near you. Just come in and you are guaranteed a job doing something you like: working outdoors in a garden, or indoors in an office; driving equipment or traveling. This program will be easily paid for by the existing unemployment payouts and we might as well use it now before it's all gone. These jobs will all be in the Environmental and Conservation sector and investments will be available through municipal funds and government bonds called the "Mickey Mac."

The other planks in my platform will be hammered in soon and I will be reporting them here. Anyone with suggestions on future programs, please put a comment in the appropriate area and we'll take them into advisement.

VOTE FOR ME! Gaiaharpoona

And Another Thang

Divorce

by Myrna McAdam Mills

My husband wants to "find himself" and find out "who he is." I tell him to look at his driver's license.

He moves out, taking all his thangs and some of mine.

The first thang I notice is there's only one of the matching pair of guest towels left in the bathroom. I want my towel back.

He insults me by filing for divorce before I get first shot at the thang. I get papers and go to the lawyer who was recommended by one of my bridge club friends. She doesn't tell me he's eighteen years old and I'm his first case.

"What can I do for you?" he asks.

"Grow up."

He sits with half of his mouth in a grin as I hand the sheath of papers to him.

"Divorce papers," he says as he looks at the thang.

"Bingo."

"What would you like for me to do?" he asks.

"Do you have a gun?"

He looks frightened.

I don't tell my lawyer how long it has taken to make myself unbearable to live with and all the thangs I've done: About when I told him I was horny when he was watching a football game, or how I drew a line down the middle of the bed and told my husband, "Never cross this boundary," or any of the other thangs I had done to make him move out. I tell him I've been deserted and abandoned. I want the house, the cars, and a steady income. I leave his office knowing he'll see to it that I'll get all the thangs I want.

I call his office a month later and ask for him.

The receptionist says, "He's no longer taking divorce cases."

"Well...of all the thangs!"

One Thang After Another

by Myrna McAdam Mills

It's like this: In Texas, if a woman doesn't know the term for an object, she calls it a "thang." That covers it. Or uncovers it, depending on what the thang is. And if she doesn't know, she will ask, "What is that thang?" The other person, a Texan, not knowing what the speaker is talking about, will ask, "What thang?" We understand each other. Learning the proper use of the term "thang" is essential to becoming a woman in Texas.

The Ticket

I can't see to drive at night. Well, I can see, actually, but I can't tell what thangs are.

I run a stop sign. A policeman pulls me over and I do the right thang. I cry.

He walks to my car. "Did you know you ran a stop sign?"

"I knew I ran something, but I didn't know what it was."

"Could I see your driver's license?"

I pull out my billfold and give him my MasterCard.

"This isn't your driver's license."

"Well, it looks like it." I give him my driver's license and put the MasterCard away.

"I'll have to give you a ticket."

I wait.

"You shouldn't be driving at night."

"How else am I going to get there? They only have it at night."

"What do they only have at night?"

"Driver's Ed."

The policeman shifts his weight and looks skyward.

I ask, pointing, "I hate to bother you, but what's that thang in the middle of the street?"

"It's the curb, and it's not in the middle."

He hands me the ticket and shakes his head as he walks to his car.

I hold the ticket out the window and wave at him. "What do I do with this thang?"

He turns around. "Pay it."

Government and The Great American Legal System

Well, the votes are in, the ballots are counted. We've looked through countless tomes, novelettes and political magazines trying to come up with enlightenment about our legal system and our government. Luckily every one of them was a virtual comedy-house of laughter, so we had plenty of material to work with.

We discovered, much to our surprise, that justice, legality, why even our government itself, are ruled by the almighty dollar. And that's as it should be, since, as Ayn Rand once pointed out, the symbol for our country is the dollar sign. Slide the S over the U and you get $. Well, the original symbol had two vertical lines. Our forefathers were plenty smart. I wonder how it would have been if our foremothers had had a say in the matter. It's never too late to start over, but since I'm totally a-political (we already have enough people trying to run this overburdened land), I'll leave that to my very learned sisters who want the job.

Aren't you thrilled there are more women in government now? There are 17 women in the Senate! Of course that's out of 100. But 17% isn't so bad, considering we finally got the vote in 1920 and that was only, uh, 90 years ago. We wouldn't want to rush into power and change too much right away. I voted for Hillary!

Personally, I'm grateful there are so many women in government. Some may be assholes, but so what? At least they're female assholes! We've certainly been saddled with enough male assholes through the years. It makes for a nice change.

While assembling this issue, we found that our confusing system of punishment is of grave concern. What works best? Corporal? Capital? Fines? Spanking? What about incarceration? We stuff all those criminals into a nice comfy building, give them three square meals a day and lots of exercise, no unduly cruel treatment, a wonderful library and education, movies, loads of time to enjoy it all, and somebody else paying for the privilege...hey, when do I move in? The only thing these people can't do is vote. I don't know...give up my right to vote versus lie around every day reading romance novels. Wait, this is punishment?

So herein we invite you to take a glance at what runs our country. Some of it is governance, some of it is justice, some of it is just plain strange. But, hey, that's Government and the Great American Legal System.

Different Opinions

by Kim Buoy

As the woman of the house, I have developed a definite routine for dealing with my spouse. This came about only after years of practice beginning immediately after the license was signed. It has become a monotonous symphony played again and again.

I really do love my husband, and I've found him much easier to live with since I put my routine into practice and began to understand him. His is really a very simple philosophy: If he can't hunt it, eat it, mechanic it, or get it into bed, it is not worth his time or consideration.

This gives me eternal hope: I fit into at least one of these categories.

I came to this understanding during one of the greatest passages of my life - the time I attempted to get my man to communicate.

Bolstering my courage, I approached my husband, who was seated as usual in his chair oblivious to all but the TV screen.

"Dear, I was hoping you could help me to better understand how you see the feminine side of marriage." I said.

"Huh?" Glazed eyes continued to stare at the football game on the screen across the room.

"Could you tell me what irritates you about women?" I asked.

His neck snapped, his head whipping toward me like a king cobra ready to strike. His eyes were wary, darting from side to side like a cornered animal.

"Why?" he asked.

"I would simply like to hear your opinion." I replied.

He sat in thoughtful silence or so I presumed. There was always the chance he had returned to his trance-like state. Slowly he began, licking his lips, his eyes flitting around the room in nervous anticipation.

"They spend too much," he announced.

"How do you mean?" I asked, fighting down the desire to whip out the checkbook and make comparisons.

His arms swept in an arc toward the living room walls as he warmed to his subject. "Like all these pictures and stuff. Wouldn't it have cost less to cut them out of magazines and frame them?"

"Certainly," I replied, repressing a snarl.

"You women see the sign, 'Sale', and you go nuts. A sale isn't a sale unless you need the stuff." He emphasized each point by jamming his finger into the arm of the chair.

To this I readily agreed. Very rarely do I go to sales. Spurred on by the belief I agreed in all areas, he continued.

"Women always have to be right. Doesn't matter what the subject is, they gotta be right." He was deeply into his subject now -- arms gesturing, eyes rolling back into his head in grotesque agony.

"Why can't women be happy with a little fried food now and then? What's with all these experiments?"

He had forgotten the dangerous lesson of fried hamburgers morning, noon, and night, for three days.

He slammed down the footrest on the recliner, leaned forward, elbows propped on knees, hands gesturing frantically.

"So what if a few magazines lay around for awhile? This is my house, too! I should have some rights, shouldn't I?"

I nodded, glancing at the cobweb-coated, dusty, three-foot stack of Fur, Fish, and Game crammed into the corner by his chair. Biting my tongue, I did not remind him who scrubbed his floors, washed his clothes, dusted his furniture, and cooked his meals.

Something had happened I never dreamed I would witness in a million years. My husband -- the couch potato, TV addict, the blob -- was talking to me. Just as if I were one of his buddies.

He had gotten out of his chair, hands on hips, eyes vivid with excitement. I felt a smile creep across my face.

"Well, am I right?" he finished.

I rose to my feet, arms encircling his torso. He was more alive and exciting than I had seen him in a very long time. He'd said everything I knew he would. I'd heard it all before but that seemed unimportant at that moment. I had witnessed my fantasy come to life.

"You're absolutely right, Dear. I'll try to do better," I said, pulling his lips nearer to mine.

It was, after all, just a man's opinion.

Dear Jackie - Life's Passages

SECOND CHANCE QUIZ

Women's Harpoon wants to know:
What would you do differently if you had to do it all over again?
Comment on this and we'll tally it for your edification!

1. If I had to do my love life over again, I'd
a. be gay
b. be a doctor
c. do the same thing I did (yawn)
d. shoot myself

2. If I could change my career, I'd be
a. a urologist
b. a garbage collector
c. what I am now (booorrrinnng)
d. a romance novelist
e. a sex goddess in porno flicks

3. If I could change my household, I'd
a. never have gotten those damn ferrets
b. have only 3 kids
c. keep it exactly the way it is now (come on!)
d. have a pet cougar

4. If I could live any way I wanted, I'd
a. live in a little cottage in the English countryside
b. live in a castle in Switzerland
c. live exactly where I do now (we're getting really tired of you)
d. jaunt around the world with the jet set on yachts and stuff

5. If I could change my life's companion, I'd
a. live with June cleaver
b. live with someone who can cook
c. have the very same person I have now (gag)
d. live with Gonzo

6. If I could do it all over again, I'd do it as
a. a blonde
b. a brunette
c. I am right now (are you for real?)
d. anything as long as it had hair

7. If I could pick one moment in my life to repeat, it would be
a. the moment I met my true love
b. the moment I made my first million
c. right here, right now (maybe we could kill you?)
d. the moment I murdered my worst enemy

8. If I could live one moment over, it would be
a. that time I streaked through the cafeteria
b. that time I asked "but will you respect me?"
c. nothing, my life's been perfect (let' s all gang up on this person)
d. that time I said "kids sound fine, honey"

9. If I could change myself, I'd be
a. younger
b. thinner
c. nothing different, I like myself the way I am (ok, that's it, you're dead meat)
d. sexier
e. a,b, and d above

10. If a rich, good-looking stranger asked me to run away I'd
a. say "when?"
b. call my lawyer
c. say "sorry, I'm happy where I am" (ringer!)
d. call my mother

11. If I had a million dollars, I'd
a. probably blow it all in one, huge, conspicuously consumptive shopping spree
b. become a disgusting layabout
c. start a foundation for some worthy cause (send this kid to camp!)
d. start a foundation for the poor, starving bloggers of the world who need money from their avid readers (oops)

12. My advice to youngsters:
a. find what you want to do and let nothing stand in your way
b. marry a rich guy early
c. study politics and become president
d. don't have kids

Score: More than 4 c's -- you're so well adjusted you're frightening. More than 4 b's -- well, maybe you should do it over again. More than 4 a's -- you're my kind of person: who cares if you're maladjusted? More than 4 d's + e's combined -- not even doing it again will help you, Honey, but this is all just one scorer's opinion and I'm no prize either.

Old Things

by Gina Skurchak

Before I got out of bed this morning, I lifted my-54-year-old legs perpendicular to the bed and admired how girlish they looked. I do this every morning. For about thirty seconds this exercise lets my legs look sexy. Like they used to when Elvis was King and my father drove a black Cadillac with fins.

Fantasy time over, I plodded into the bathroom to contemplate my graying hair. In no time, I thought, I'll forget my natural color. I considered dyeing it black. It worked for the eternally glamorous Liz Taylor -- when she turned sixty, Disneyland threw her a party.

The phone interrupted my thoughts. My mother called to tell me a kid I used to baby sit had died of a coronary at the age of 48. As an afterthought, she mentioned a talk show she'd seen about how women could determine their probability of developing turkey necks, jowls, and crows feet. What is this? I asked myself as she prattled on, do we all become poultry in the end?

Completely depressed about both my hair and rapidly sagging skin, I hung up the phone and picked up a note left for me by the love of my life -- the man who's shared my life for more than 30 years. The passionate message stated, "pk up pctr hks + calking at hrdwr str."

An hour later I found myself in Hennessey's Hardware Store, where the wood floors creak and the shelves dip and sag under cans of future toxic waste. Hardware stores are designed for men: They smell like someone sprayed burnt rubber with turpentine, dumped a 50 lb. bag of fresh manure on top, and set the whole mess in a barrel behind the door. Guys like that outdoorsy aroma.

This is a really old building, I thought. Paul Revere probably bought solder here.

I felt someone staring at me. I looked up and our eyes locked too long to be decent. I'd never seen eyes as blue as a gas flame before. He smiled a slow, beautiful smile and dipped his head a little as if to say hello. He had thick gray hair and eyes that could melt rocks. And he was flirting with me. I hooked a hard left into the first side aisle.

"Can I help you, Miss?" I turned around. Even at close range, the man was a stud. Sixty, maybe? Old enough to be my father! Well, he used to be old enough to be my father. Ten years ago I'd have offered to help this geezer cross the street.

"Hi, uh, um, sure, uh." I sounded like a sow in heat. I heard him contain a chuckle somewhere deep down behind his Adam's apple. Estrogen-laced blood flushed my cheeks. Blush or hot flash? I backed carelessly into the rakes.

"I'm looking for picture hooks, the kind with the paper tabs. And some caulking for the tub," I said. How romantic.

He grinned. "You're in the wrong aisle, Miss. You just follow me, and I'll show you where those hook hide."

He slipped a blister pack off the peg board and in slow motion he softly set them in my open, sweaty palm.

"There you go," he said. "If these hooks aren't right, you bring them right back. Satisfaction's always guaranteed." He winked. I began to wonder if the man was stable. Then, in a husky voice with his eyes fixed on mine, he said, "Now I'll show you my caulking. How big a tube would you like?" Who cared if he was stable?

I was Silly Putty. My knees had turned to jelly. I pulled the first tube I saw off the shelf and quickly paid for the items. I had to get out of there before the scenario got out of hand.

The man handed me my bag, laid those killer blues on mine and whispered, "Thank you very, very much, Young Lady. Have yourself a great day, now."

I floated out of the store, across the sidewalk. . .and right into the path of a taxi cab. I jumped back and tripped, my Hennessey's bag flying into the air. I was flat out on the ground, unharmed, but trying to get my wind back.

The driver, a wild-eyed, long-haired, diamond-ear ringed young man, exploded from the cab.

"Hey, ya fucking old broad! Why don't ya wake up!"

Passersby and store employees gathered as the lunatic cabby ranted on. The man from Hennessey's gallantly extended his hand and helped me pick myself up, joint by aching joint. Finally upright, I stood next to my would-be suitor and waited for the taxi driver to wear himself out. Finally, he shut up, waiting for me to respond. The silent crowd waited as well. Facing the cabby, Blue Eyes and I, magically in sync, slowly raised our hands to shoulder level and treated the entire gathering to perfectly straight, fully extended middle fingers.

Smiling, we went our separate ways. There's spunk in the old things yet.

More Classifieds....Life's Passages

ShHe's Getting Old

Poor Jackie. She's starting to feel old. She went into her medicine cabinet and this is what she saw...

That Terrible "G" Word!

by Janet Glatz

One night last year I got a call from my son. Not to worry, I thought, he just wants money. As I reached for my checkbook, he laughed and said, "Hey, Mom, Vicki and I are pregnant!"

This is from my baby, the nine-pounder who fell into my life only nineteen short years ago! My mouth went dry; I couldn't speak. How could I feign happiness when all I could think of was calling a plastic surgeon?

"Alan, that's wonderful!" I croaked. How can you do this to me? I thought. I have a terrific life -- a great career, no worries, and a boyfriend who's twelve years younger than I am!

The next eight months passed far too quickly. Before I was even ready to acknowledge the fact I was going to become a, well, uh . . . never mind, I got another call from Alan. It was nine-thirty on a Thursday night and I was lounging in bed, fantasizing about an upcoming rendezvous with Mr. Twelve Years Younger. In fact, I expected his voice on the other end when I picked up the receiver (he always had a thing for steamy phone sex).

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Another potential quarterback had come to fill my life with . . . joy! That's the word I wanted, I told myself firmly. How positively thrilling to know my son and his wife were experiencing the wonders of first parenthood. After hearing that the babe was neither blue nor attached at the hip to a Siamese twin, I cooed proudly into the receiver and said my good-byes.

I tumbled into a grease pit of dismay. What was I going to do? Now that my eldest son was a father, it might seem a little iffy to maintain I was still on the sunny side of thirty-five, not to mention trying to explain my appetite for Led Zepplin and red licorice! And what about all my mini's? This was going to be difficult. How would I break it to my boyfriend?

The phone rang again and I picked it up on the second ring, knowing who it was and dreading the announcement I had to make. But wait a minute, I thought, if I kept my compulsive mouth shut, how would he ever know? He effectively avoided my entire family anyway; maybe I could just pretend it never happened.

"Hello? Yeah, I know it's been busy. My, uh, my son called." (I told you I was compulsive.)

A forty-three-year-old woman in tears is one thing, but had anyone videotaped me at the moment, I would cheerfully have garroted her and eaten her for dinner. I whined, I sobbed, I behaved like a spoiled debutante who had no date for the prom.

And what did Mr. Twelve Years Younger do?

He laughed at me.

It was the last time he ever got the chance. I don't know; maybe becoming a . . . g- g-, well, you know . . . had readjusted my priorities or something. Suddenly a man who wore hightops with the tongues and laces flopping and hung bloated foam dice from his rearview mirror had less appeal.

Perhaps now I'll settle for a mature, intelligent guy -- one who's only five years my junior. Let's see, that would make him . . . . Maybe he'd believe I had my son when I was fourteen?

And now....Life's Passages!

On Life's Passages....

Passages are funny things. Everybody has them, but we don't realize we've passed anything until we look back through our rear view mirrors. We share these milestones notwithstanding. They link us to one another, no matter what our background, age, color, goals, beliefs, religion, or spirituality.

Because we age, either gracefully or kicking and screaming, and because we've made our way through the same natural phases, we are a sisterhood. Some of our baggage may be heavier than others' and some of our locks may spring open at different times. Some of us can afford Gucci luggage and some use A&P brown paper bags held together with twine. Nevertheless, what's inside are Mother Nature's gifts that only women must endure. Thanks a lot, Mother Nature!

From the time we feel our bodies changing and we get that first private lecture from Mom about the joys of budding womanhood to our sitting through countless cartoon features on Stanley Sperm and Olivia Ovary or whispering and giggling secretly with our friends or shrieking from the bathroom during a family reunion, "MOM, I GOT MY PERIOD!" we understand that Mother Nature's sense of humor knows no bounds and she gets her last laugh no matter what we'd rather be doing at the moment.

So take a second and put up your feet. Sip some wine, tea, or cappuccino, and laugh back at her a little. She deserves a pie in the face for what she's done to use....so let's give her one! Ya ready?.....

Dear Jackie, Where's My Gun?

More classifieds

CLASSIFIEDS

Beavis & Butthead revisited

The Shootist

by Hally Abbott

It's the Twilight Zone.... You've stepped into an alternate reality where the West was never lost and women reign supreme. After 20 years on Gunsmoke, Kitty finally got pissed off at Matt and Doc, killed them and all the rest of the low-lives, ran for President and now reigns supreme in Washington. Gunslingers are all women and they only get married to have babies that their husbands stay home and watch. In the evenings, they hang out in bars, gossip and gamble, and maybe give a tip or two to the cute waiters. "Come 'ere, honey, and blow on my dice!"

She was just another gun slinger, as far as I was concerned. How was I to know...well, let me begin at the beginning...

I was perched on my usual comfortable stool in the corner of the bar at Connie's Night Owl Cafe, my usual night club hangout, sippin' my usual Margarita.

I know the folks hereabouts and I felt pretty relaxed, so I took my purse off my shoulder and placed it on the foot rail by my feet. It's pretty heavy after all. Some say fanny packs are the way to go, but I'm an old-fashioned kinda gal who likes the security of a large purse. It tends to hamper my draw, but I like all the room for my extra clips and ammo. Plenty of women hide their extras beneath their skirts, but that's a bit tacky. It's also uncomfortable.

Anyways, there I was, enjoyin' the evening. Jake was at the bar and Leslie was at the piana, honky tonkin' along. Somebody called out for something slow and easy, so Leslie started singin' some Bette Midler thing. We was all hushed and listenin' when suddenly the door flew open and in came this hussy in a red sequined dress. All the men swung around to look. It set my teeth on edge right away: I've always felt red sequins are just plain trashy. I prefer the understated look of rhinestone-studded khaki and camouflage.

Red worked her way across the crowded dance floor over to the bar and sat on a stood about three down from me. She ordered a Bonnie Rait -- a strange concoction of vodka, lime juice and root beer.

I noticed she was totin' some beautiful ivory inlaids. I'd never seen more delicate workwomanship and was dyin' to get closer. I didn't want to be rude, though, so I held my peace and waited a while, watchin'. That's my style anyways -- I just kinda hang out and watch 'til I feel the time's right. I may be a gun slinger, but I ain't rude.

She finished her drink and leaned across the bar to whisper somethin' in Jake's ear. Sure enough, it wasn't but a few minutes later she went upstairs. The place sports some sterling studs in the upstairs bedrooms, if you get my drift, and she didn't look like she was askin' about the ladies' loo.

I danced a few rounds with a couple of the local guys and was workin' my way through another Margarita when Red ventured back down about an hour later lookin' mighty relaxed -- a bit of a smile on her face, a bit of a swagger in her stride. Leslie was takin' a break, so the CD player was crankin' out a Billy Joel song fest. Red sat on her stool and ordered another one of them root beer concoctions.

I didn't mean to stare, but I just couldn't take my eyes off them inlaids. They reminded me of somethin' from a long time ago. I wracked my brains, but I don't have much of a memory. All those guns explodin' near my head through the years has kinda addled me somewhat. But those ivories bugged me. I tried to shrug it off. For all I knew, they coulda once belonged to my mama.

Finally Red turned to me.

"I don't know what yer problem is, Sister, but you're bein' kinda rude," she said with a mean squint.

"I'm sorry," I answered, "I just was admirin' your revolvers. I haven't seen such beautiful work since...." I frowned at the sudden recollection. Since grade school! I had known someone who had one of them guns in grade school! The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled up a tad. I cleared my throat and asked, "Hey, you know a Kitty Blade?"

Her heavily made-up eyelids lowered ominously over steel blue eyes as she squinted down at me suspiciously. "Who wants to know?" she asked guardedly.

I didn't like her attitude.

"Listen Sister, I just asked a civil question is all. You ever run into Kitty Blade?"

She pushed herself off the stool and stood squintin' and glowerin' at me.

"What if I did?" she asked belligerent-like.

I leapt off my stool and made sure I had clear access to my holster. The place went silent and the couples on the dance floor scampered off to give us clearance. Jake, who's a tad portly, ducked behind the bar with a grunt.

Red planted her high heels squarely beneath her and pushed her holster more snugly down on her hips, tearing off a few bright sequins in the process. They fluttered down between us to the floor.

"Oh, for the love of George Krikey!" she shrieked. "I paid $4,000 for this dress and now look at it. It's ruined!" Her eyes filled with tears as she examined the bare spot the holster had torn in the side of her dress.

"What did you just say?" I asked, frozen in horror.

"I said my dress is ruined, ya fool!" she sobbed, her face goin' as red as her dress.

Well, I'm too sportswomanly to duel with a cryin' woman. Ya just can't see straight to shoot when you're all emotional like that. And besides....

"You said 'For the love of George Krikey!' There's only one woman alive who uses that expression. You're Kitty Blade!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, so what if I am?" she asked, squintin' at me and blowin' her nose on a tissue she had extracted from her cleavage. I realized she was extremely near-sighted. The squintin' she'd been doin' was to see clearly, not to look nasty.

"Kitty, ya damn fool!" I'm Aggie Stiletovich, the Stiletto Queen!"

"Little Aggie from fifth grade?"

We fell into each other's arms and started huggin' and cryin'.

"Aggie! Why, I almost killed you!"

"Probably not, Kitty. I almost killed you."

"Doubtful Aggie. I've always been faster than you."

"Oh yeah? Well, ya look like ya need glasses to me, ya old fart!"

We started laughin'. It was just like old times.

We sat back down on stools next to each other. As we sipped our drinks we admired the beautifully inlaid revolvers Kitty had set on the bar.

"So where'd you get the other revolver, Kitty?" I asked after a while.

"My mom gave it to me as a graduation present from college. Made a matched pair. Ain't they just gorgeous?"

"I shoulda know'd it was you, Kitty, sportin' such a fancy red dress. You always was prone to overdoin' it," I said.

"Watch what you say, Bandit" she retorted, unzipping her bodice to reveal not the two hefty breasts I expected, but two cleverly concealed micro-pistols built right into the dress. "All I hafta do is cross my arms, squoosh my boobs together, and you're history, Sister," she threatened good naturedly.

I couldn't help but stare as she proceeded to show me other clever little devices she'd had incorporated into the dress -- even some nasty little computer-controlled gizmos. No wonder she'd been upset at the ripped sequins.

"Get with the program, Girl," she admonished, referring to my old-fashioned approach to gun slingin'. "That stupid purse will get ya killed someday."

I nodded. She was right: I had a lot to learn even after all these years.

Before we parted company, we vowed to remember the evening's lesson, and may it also be a lesson to all you smart, know-it-all shootists out there: Look before you leap off that bar stool and start shootin'. The woman you aim at might be an old school chum!

Not Your Average Little Old Ladies

Dedicated to Jean Stern, always ready for anything. Rest in peace.

I know What I Heard

by Liz Hoban

I was relaxing on the couch one afternoon practicing levitation on the piles of toys surrounding me, when suddenly my powers of concentration were broken by my six year old. He barged in through the back door toting a toy plastic automatic machine gun in one hand and a dilapidated garbage can lid in the other.

After catching his breath, he blurted, "I need some catsup." When I asked if he had started the barbecue grill without my consent, he quickly said, "No, Mom, don't be silly. I just shot Justin and we need some blood." Sure, take some eggs while you're at it, I thought before sternly telling him "No."

When I tucked him into bed that night, I told him he was playing a little too violently for my liking. He asked, "Then why do they sell guns for little kids?" Good question. I sat beside him and went into a twenty-minute dissertation about how real guns can be very dangerous but can sometimes also save your life. I finished with a brilliant synopsis of the Constitutional right to bear arms.

He paused for a brief, thoughtful second and replied, "Wow, my friend Victor's father has a real deer head hanging in his living room, but I think bear arms would be much cooler. Where can you buy those?"

I kissed him and said, "I can't say for sure, but you can probably find some in the same store that sell turtle necks."

That conversation reminded me of how I came to hold my current opinions about self-defense.

My beloved husband, a Navy fighter pilot, was killed during the Libyan Crisis in 1986. This benevolent warrior left me with wonderful memories, two beautiful sons, and a gun neither of us had ever fired.

We bought the gun after our first son was born. My husband heard an intruder in the kitchen late one night when I was eight months pregnant. He grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hall closet and silently raced for the kitchen. He flicked on the overhead light, armed and ready to spray, only to find me sitting in a chair, scraping the sides of a nearly empty quart of Rocky Road ice cream. I know I've been complaining of heartburn, I thought, but isn't this fire extinguisher thing a little drastic?

The incident led to a discussion about self-defense. We talked about how women prefer to protect themselves as tidily as possible by, say, poisoning a perpetrator. Men, on the other hand, will bench press economy cars and throw them at each other in order to make a point. This is why my husband's idea of a good weapon was a gun and mine was a dog.

Both of us were allergic to dogs, so we were limited to a few hairless breeds that cost in the neighborhood of three grand. In order to ensure adequate protection, this bald dog would have to be male and so large I couldn't be comfortable near it unless it wore underwear. Dog's out; gun's in.

A few months after Justin was born, my husband brought home the gun, and overnight we became nervous gun owners. We never touched it, although we joked that if we ever had a teenage daughter, we would mount the gun on the wall when a date came to pick her up.

Several months after our second baby arrived, my husband died. I continued to keep the gun in my bedside table in a lock box with the key taped under the drawer. The weapon and I co-existed peacefully until one frightening night. I was sitting in bed watching the David Letterman Show with my toddler sons sleeping next to me, safe and sound. Letterman was wearing a wet suit and was swimming in a huge bowl of Rice Krispies and milk. As the show broke for a commercial, I heard a very distinct but strange noise come from the hallway.

I immediately muted the TV and sat paralyzed, straining my ears for another sound. I heard the noise again and knew for certain another living thing was in the house with us and was right outside my bedroom. As if it was yesterday, I know what I heard.

I heard someone fart.

I realize this sounds crazy, but it was one of the scariest moments of my life. I kept repeating to myself, "Of course this could happen." I broke free from my painful, frozen pose when I realized I had to protect my babies. Someone was in my hall, and he had eaten gas-producing food for dinner.

I reached for the gun. Considering the most dangerous thing I had shot up until then was a stapler, I was relieved to find myself holding the correct end of the thing.

Weapon in hand, I took a looming stance over my boys, dialed the police with my free hand, and requested back up. My heart was pounding so loudly I was afraid it would wake the boys. The thoughts racing through my head ranged from hiding the boys in my dresser drawers to contacting my late husband telepathically. Reality crashed in when help arrived.

I could have had Chinese food delivered quicker, but was glad to see the officers. They checked the premises and, finding nothing, proceeded to take a report. When the part of my story came up about the unmistakable sound I had heard, the investigation took a steep, downhill slide.

I can still hear myself trying to bring some shred of credibility to the crime scene by drawing on my medical expertise: "Well, maybe the intruder had an intestinal affliction and ran out to find a bathroom. Come on, stop laughing. I could happen!"

I hated those two rude men standing in my house almost as much as I hated the gaseous burglar; however, in a sick way, I felt safe. I contemplated asking them to sleep over until I realized that request could have gotten me arrested.

Through periodical bouts of hysterical laughter, the officers managed to issue me a warning for not registering my gun. How was I to know they weren't talking about voting when they asked if I was registered?

Before they left, the officers got in one last comedic overture. Turns out the bullet clip was missing from my gun, so the only way I could have hurt the intruder was to throw the gun at him.

To this day, I don't know who made that sound, but having grown up with four shameless brothers, no one will ever change my mind about what the sound was. I do, however, recognize the difficulty the police department might face trying to identify the prowler. The thought of a line-up makes me cringe.

Naturally, I turned to my parents for comfort. My mother started mailing me highlighted articles on self-defense for the non-violent and/or stupid. My father confiscated the weapon and said I could have it back when I learned how to use it responsibly.

I am more comfortable without a gun anyway. Life with two growing sons has altered my mentality so much that if I had a gun, I'd use it on people like the geniuses who decided only one prize per cereal box is necessary, or that it is reasonable to claim, "Batteries not included."

I now carry a key-ring canister of Mace. My only hope is that my kids won't use it on me when they wake up Christmas morning to discover, once again, they didn't get those "bear arms" they've been wanting.

SELF-DEFENSE

And now for something completely different

I'm tired of supermarkets. All that hunting and gathering has gotten me interested in gun control and self-defense.

It started with my boyfriend coming home one night with an NRA bumper sticker. When Christmas rolled around he put matching Glocks under the tree. Eventually he took me for a romantic getaway in the Poconos where we ended up at an outdoor shooting range. I must confess that shooting that Uzi was extremely fulfilling on some level. If it's so much fun, how come there is so much confusion about it all? Women's Harpoon decided to pose the question to its contributors.

The husbands and boyfriends took great umbrage with the whole subject. "It's tooooo serious." "It's not funny at all." "It takes too much research -- too much thinking!" "This sucks."

But I said to them, "Listen, guys, take your bitching over to Kick Boxer's World and Guns & Ammo magazine, we're not interested." Luckily our female contributors were very forthcoming about their experiences. It appears that it isn't the wars women object to, it's the weapons! No woman, if sufficiently provoked, would hesitate to start swinging her purse. But pull out a gun and actually shoot someone in the supermarket aisle? I haven't seen that one on Lifetime for Women yet. Women's Harpoon research shows that 98 percent of our readers have absolutely nothing against guns. It's the bullets they hate.

As for war, Women's Harpoon readers just can't seem to find anything worth starting a war over. There are many things to be upset about, like the economy, our sex lives, and the fact that nobody can seem to find a decent manicurist. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, but fighting over a bad manicure?

So read on, my gentle friends, and let's explore....

SELF-DEFENSE & GUN CONTROL

Shopping With Kids:

Another Joy of Parenting
by Elizabeth Hoban

It's a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I had used every conceivable excuse to avoid grocery shopping the previous week, but when we ran out of toilet paper I had no choice but to go to the store.

As usual, I managed to ignore the warning bells clanging in my head as we approached the front of the store. Even before I could find a cart that had at least three functional wheels and wasn't dripping or loaded with soggy flyers, my sons had run in and out of the automatic doors 19 times. Thanks to some marketing genius, this store now supplies my children with miniaturized shopping carts of their own. Due to previous near-death experiences with these demonic vehicles, I was forced to limit the boys to one cart between them. They took off in a flash to their usual hangout in the cereal aisle.

I used this brief reprieve to contemplate dinner preparations. Cooking has never been my forte: The last time I cooked something in the oven, Justin, justifiably confused, asked if it was Thanksgiving. Luckily my children aren't picky eaters: They hate everything except fast food. They're also born forages and always seem to be able to find something to snack on, like uncooked pasta or salted ice cubes.

In any case, I decided to make meatloaf because the last time I made it no one got ill. I could have made something more elegant; after all, I own a Julia Child cookbook more cumbersome than the slabs Moses carried down from the mountains. Curiously it doesn't contain one recipe calling for Gummi Bears: Julia should really have considered a more appropriate last name.

Before I reached the cereal aisle, my sons came careening around the corner on two wheels, carting a box of Battletoads cereal the size of a footlocker. Examining their treasure carefully, I noted the contents were not pictured on the box, and the fine print listed the number one ingredient as, you guessed it, sugar. After a lengthy argument, the boys assured me that it wouldn't be like before: They made a solemn promise to eat every bit of the contents, no matter what it looked like or how it tasted, before they asked me to buy anything else.

I gave in, just as my older son blurted, "It's about time you bought us what we like!" His younger sidekick, Ryan, bravely added, "Yeah, you never buy anything for us." Then they were off again with the kiddie cart from Hell, headed toward the ice cream section. Meanwhile, I grabbed a huge box of unsweetened Bran Flakes with devious intent: Later, at home, I would switch the contents of the Battetoads box with the healthier tree bark.

I felt rejuvenated enough by this stroke of genius to select toilet paper that actually matched the colors in my bathroom. Just then, I saw a father wheeling his anxious toddler down the aisle. He looked rather frustrated as he reviewed his shopping list -- which was as along as the Declaration of Independence -- and was mumbling, "Why couldn't she write this in alphabetical order according to aisle?" Then Dad did something very foolish: he parked the cart with Junior in it right next to a rack of brooms. Before he could react, the child had grabbed a broom and swept an entire shelf of shoe polish onto the floor.

Dad stood bewildered for a moment and then calmly removed the broom from the child's grasp. Affectionately, he said, "I wish you hadn't done that." Lifting his child into his arms, he added, "Not bad, but next time, choke up a little more on the bat and follow through on the swing."

Now that's creative parenting I thought, as my boys came screeching toward me, one pushing the mini-cart into which the other's hind-quarters had been wedged, the other waving a box of ice pops.

I felt the young father's eyes on me: It was my turn to display my own brand of impressive parenting.

Through gritted teeth, I pried Ryan out of the cart and instructed him to return the vehicle to the front of the store. I reminded Justin of his promise with the cereal and told him the ice pops had to go back. With creative rationalization, he stated he'd changed his mind and quickly removed the cereal, replacing it with the box of colored ice. Then, as if knowing we were being observed, he pointed to a container of mushrooms in my cart and, thanks to an expensive set of kid's science encyclopedias, yelled, "Why are you buying fungus?" He ran off clutching the cereal before I could intelligently explain it was easier than scraping it off the bottom of our shower curtain.

As I stood there with my mouth hanging open, the father and son team walked passed me, smirking. I wanted to tell the Dad it was easy to maintain a sense of adventure when you have only one shopping jaunt per year and that someday soon the tables would turn and he would be the one frantically doing the weekly grocery shopping while his wife stayed home to run her own business. Then we'd see him standing in the front of the store cursing under his breath because all the coupons he'd meticulously cut from the weekly flyers had been left home on the kitchen counter.

Instead, quiet and dignified, I left the aisle only to discover my sons wrestling in front of the courtesy desk, rolling on the floor holding each others in headlocks. I pretended they were someone else's children and got on line at the register.

I spotted the young father again. This time he was attempting to control a now-hysterical child who was demanding candy from the rack next to the checkout. In his frenzy to write a check and hold onto his squirming son, he compromised and let the kid chose one item. The child picked out Rolaids, and the two left.

Perfect, I thought, they can share.

Meanwhile, my sons had moved on to more mature things. They were diligently applying bubble gum machine tattoos they had somehow managed to appropriate. Relieved, I turned back to a riveting tabloid article I'd been reading about a woman who had committed suicide in her dishwasher.

It wasn't until I glanced down at my near-empty cart that I noticed the dog food and shoe polish. Struggling out of my Enquirer-induced fog, I realized we don't have a dog. I had just had someone else's groceries rung up.

"Will that be cash or check?" the polite cashier asked. Just a loaded gun, I thought, as I glanced around me hoping to spot a family therapist or the guy from Totally Hidden Videos. All I got were impatient stares, so I paid and left.

It took me 20 minutes in the rain to find the car and load it with kids and groceries. (I'll never understand how I consistently lose my car: It should magnetically attract my cart to its bumpers with just as much force as it attracts all the other carts in the parking lot!) My stunned silence was broken when my sons asked what I was making for dinner. Not having the slightest inkling of what I had just purchased, I told them it would be a surprise. I grinned wickedly when I realized we weren't the only ones in for a surprise.

If the victim of my shopping stupor is reading this, I want you to know that Bran Flakes and mushrooms really can enhance a meatloaf.

IT'S HELL IN THERE

WOMEN'S HARPOON, the e-zine for women, by women

You read here the reprinted e-zine of the premier issue of what was to be one of the most hilarious women's zines of the 1990's. That's not saying much, since there were only two women's humor magazines ever published. We were a group of women who decided that getting even was more fun than getting mad so we started a magazine for women, by women to protest...well, pretty much everything.

Why did women buy Women's Harpoon? Because when they were young, they read MAD Magazine and wondered why practically every character was male. If there was a female, she was some small, stupid, dorky girl with dorky curls and dorky freckles, and she carried around a dorky doll. Or, if she was a woman, her back was about to break from counterbalancing the size Q breasts she sported.

After all these years, women were just about convinced the humor arena belonged to sophomoric, infantile, flatulent, air-bursting men. But women had finally made it to stand-up comedy, and we decided they should branch into literature, it was about time.

So we now dedicate this updated e-zine to you. We salute you for taking a fresh leap of faith in believing women have every right to laugh at ourselves, at men, and at anything else we damn well please.

Table of Contents

She's Gotta Have It

by Laurie Greenwald Saloman

It's 8:32 pm. My empty Lean Cuisine tray sits on the coffee table. I'm staring glassy-eyed at the tube, wearing my stretched-out green bike shorts and see-through, tie-dyed tank top, braless. I'm not a pretty sight, but then, I don't plan on leaving the house.

Suddenly, I'm hit with a huge Ben & Jerry's ice cream craving. The dark, rich, drool-inducing, chunky richness is calling me from its cooler in Foodtown. Thus summoned, I jump in the car and shoot away from the curb. Ahoy, Foodtown! Oh, no! The store is closed due to a strike! I race to Pathmark, careening over the railroad tracks, up the incline and down a one-way street the wrong way. YES! IT'S OPEN!

Once inside, I head straight for the ice cream section without even grabbing a basket. Why bother putting up a front? Finally, I arrive at my destination in Aisle 10.

Uh-oh. I see many, many flavors of Ben & Jerry's, but not one has the distinctive purple cover that identifies it as Chocolate Fudge Brownie. For a moment I almost break down and take strawberry. Then I remember what time of the month it is...Keep foraging.

A small pile of ice cream and yogurt containers is growing on the floor around me; perhaps other customers will mistake me for a stock person? Who cares.

At the very back, at the bottom of the stack, lies a single, pathetic, drippy container of Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Under ordinary circumstances it would be the runt of the litter, but it looks like Nirvana to me now. I scoop up the pile of containers at my feet and shove them back into the freezer. With prize in hand, I jog toward the checkout line.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the lettuce. Did I really venture out looking like this? My eyeliner is now around my temples, and I believe I've forgotten to shave my kneecaps. Well, I'm in the supermarket, so I guess I can look as slovenly as I please. Maybe I should've stuck some curlers in my hair, just for effect.

Amazingly, the market is hopping at this hour. I wend my way toward the Express checkout line, $5 bill in hand. A haggard mother beats me to the cashier; evidently the only light in her day is winning this race. I ignore her superior grin as she unloads her items -- definitely more than 10, not counting the kid. She picks up an Enquirer and nonchalantly reads while reaching down periodically to replace, without looking, the candy items her son is snatching from the stand.

I can feel the ice cream melting as my blood pressure rises. I should've brought a spoon and started eating on line. A few more minutes of this and the craving will be gone, for goodness sake!

Ten minutes later, the mother is finally ready to pay for her purchases and runs a credit card through the automated teller machine. The "Confiscate" sign flashes, the cashier whips the card away and calls the manager. I hear my ice cream sloshing a bit.

Suddenly, manna from Heaven. "Open over here," calls a cashier from the far end of the store. Everyone in my line runs for it, leaving me (once again) at the end.

It's 10:32 pm by the time I arrive home. Passing through the kitchen, I reach for a spoon, think better of it and grab a straw. As I throw myself on the couch and puncture a hole in the lid of the container, I wonder -- was it worth it? I slurp -- it isn't easy getting the brownies up, but yeah, it was.

Dear Jackie!

The Great American Procurement Predicament:

A New Look at Alternative Shopping

We’ve all wandered through the supermarket muttering, “There’s gotta be a better way to put food on the table.” That’s why Women’s Harpoon interviewed three forward-thinking women actually doing something about it. We hope you’ll be as inspired by their stories as we were.

Olivia Marshall lives by the motto “Waste not, want not.” A savvy procurement expert, Olivia makes an art out of food selection. Women’s Harpoon caught up with her behind Leonardo’s Restaurant in downtown Omaha.

“People neglect the obvious,” Marshall said upon greeting us. “Look here -- somebody threw away an entire serving of Fettucini Alfredo. Why, my husband Jeremy can have that for dinner tonight.”

She stepped over to the recycling bin and grabbed several wine bottles as she continued, saying, “If I combine what’s left in these three bottles, Jeremy will have a nice wine to go with his pasta and there will be plenty left for me to drink with the Chicken Marsala I picked out for myself.”

Marshall claims most people are unaware of how much food they waste. They’re also oblivious to how much money they could save making use of what other people throw out.

Said Marshall, “Listen, this is a great way to extend my food budget. There are no lines, no coupons to shuffle, and no snotty stock boys to trip over. All they need to do is put striped canopies over the dumpsters and it’ll be perfect.”

Marshall thinks dumpster diving will continue to be a growing food trend. “People like to rummage; it’s in their blood. Just look at the churches -- they’ve known this for years,” she said. “Anyway, with economy the way it is, we just have to evolve.”

&&&&

New Jersey gubernatorial candidate Golda Fleischmann is also on the forefront of change in the area of food procurement. She recent announced that if elected, she will establish a Hunting & Herding Committee as an adjunct to the Fish & Wildlife Department.

“We have such a wonderful natural resource here in New Jersey, I’m amazed no one thought of this before,” Fleischmann said during a stop on the campaign trail. “We have more deer and geese here in Central Jersey than in the states of Montana, Kentucky, and Illinois combined. For years these succulent beasts have been hurling themselves at passing cars on highways in some strange suicidal ritual, only to rot by the roadside. Oy, such a mess. My Hunting & Herding idea is the perfect solution. Within two months of my election we’ll be feeding the entire inner-city population of Camden and Newark with venison steak and pate de fois gras. I’m drooling here, for God’s sake,” Fleishmann concluded.

The candidate said she expects the unemployment rate to decline by 2 percent a week once the State ok’s her proposed butchering classes for current welfare recipients. BRAVA, Candidate Fleishmann!!

&&&&

Humphretta Bogart of Oakland, California has an innovate solution to the problem of grocery shop

ping: she avoids it whenever possible.“Actually, I do shop, but only to lay in a good variety of cat food,” Bogart said during an interview in her favorite eatery. “Oh, you mean people food? I buy coffee and tea, because I’m perfectly capable of heating water in the microwave, and I can melt cheese for nachos if we have guests. I don’t mind buying the packaged goods, but we a

sk that guests bring their own cheese,” Bogart added.

Bogart said her idea of a perfect dinner is reservations, which led her to design and patent an innovative kitchen appliance: The MicroPhone.

Explained Bogart, “It’s really a small microwave with a built-in telephone. The best part is the MicroPhone has enough memory to store up to 200 telephone numbers. You can input the numbers of your favorite restaurants or buy our ‘Dial-A-Meal’ program that includes pre-programmed information about every restaurant on the West Coast. It’s a real time and energy saver.”

The MicroPhone is the first of many kitchen appliance innovations Bogart has in mind. She said her next project is to develop the “Cook ‘n Serve ‘n Trash Stovetop.” This smooth-surface range can also be used as a kitchen table, and it has a built-in disposal unit.