© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

.Return to Top

My suburban sedentary lifestyle was taking its' toll around my midsection. So I challenged myself to start a daily running program.

I tried to recall the last time I ran and remembered exerting myself once back in the summer of 1998. Hal Dibner had invited the neighbors over for a barbeque. Edna Krandall attended with her feisty Yorkshire terrier, Mr. Beasley, which for some reason, had an insatiable desire to start a family with my right leg. I rebuffed his amorous advances with several kicks to his stomach but this only enticed him further. He chased me around the yard but I gave him the slip somewhere in the landscaping. On my way back to join the barbeque, I saw Mr. Beasley decided to satisfy his procreative itch with an unsuspecting yard gnome.

I’ve read it’s a good idea to keep a progress journal when engaging in a new activity. The following is an excerpt from Day 1 of my running journal:

Down the driveaway, off and running. Feel good. Cool morning, no wind. Legs feel good. Wave to next door neighbor. He tosses me an apple. I eat the apple; healthy, crunchy...good energy.

1/8 MILE: Breath getting heavy. Pins and needles sensation on knee caps. Feel a cramp on right side. Can't control steady flow of nasal secretions. Apple might not have been a good idea.

1/4 MILE: Coughing up some kind of gelatinous wad. Breathing has given way to wheezing. I sound like Teddy Flynn after running the 600 yard dash in the fifth grade, just before he required a blast from his puffer. Promise to quit smoking TODAY! Remember that I don't smoke. Edna Krandall and Mr. Beasley pass by me on their morning walk. She moves well for an old woman...works that walker efficiently. Nose has dried up, along with mouth and eyeballs.

3/8 MILE: Breathing has become optional. Decide air is overrated. Second wind coming on. Here comes the endorphin rush. Not much of a rush. More like a trickle. Only a single endorphin has leaked out of my brain and settled in my left nipple. Entire body feels like its been through a rock tumbler but my left nipple feels fantastic! Wife drives up and has me sign an increase in my life insurance policy. Starting to have second thoughts on whole running thing.

1/2 MILE: Euphoria has disappeared from left nipple. Both nipples feel like they're crimped with jumper cables. Lost all feeling in lower extremities. Praying moisture running down my leg is only sweat. Mentally offering my right testicle for one short blast from Teddy Flynn's puffer. Promise God I will attend mass if He helps me survive this ordeal. Thighs are clapping together in a rhythmic slapping of flesh. Not alone anymore. Grim Reaper decided to keep me company.

5/8 MILE: Reaper has bailed. Pansy! I’m alone with my thoughts now. My thought is to kill myself. Promise God I’ll move to Vatican and become Pope. Constant pounding on pavement has jarred my internal organs loose. Can feel pancreas settling in next to my ankle. Only inspiration to fight on is the steady supportive applause coming from my clapping thighs. Start to think I’m unusually tall, Asian and later today I have a Squash match with Donny Osmond.

3/4 MILE: Reaper is back, way down the block, impatiently tapping his foot on the sidewalk, looking at his watch and shaking his head in disbelief. I’m now legally deaf. Heart has stopped. Liver has taken over life support systems and bile is now coursing through my veins. Tendons in knees have snapped and I now look like a break dancing marionette puppet.

7/8 MILE: Almost home. Passing Dibner's house. Reaper couldn't wait any longer so he took Edna Krandall. Serves her right! Show off. That'll teach her to pass me up. Mr. Beasley has rekindled his passions with the yard gnome. I’m now the Pope. Have decided to hunt down Teddy Flynn and beat him senseless. I start to smell the color brown and it ain't good!

FINISH LINE: Home sweet home! Jog by neighbor. Return apple via projectile vomit. Stop at driveway and check pulse. There is none. Collapse on lawn and recover slowly. Heart resumes control of blood flow. Mental clarity and feeling in lower extremities return. I abdicate my claim on the Papacy and recall mental sacrifice of my testicle. I survived!

Looking back, I realize some important facts: I'm not Asian, Teddy Flynn's days are numbered and I can take comfort knowing I’m not a yard gnome.

www.ebloggy.com/MatthewFoley

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

.Return to Top

(Editor's Note: Chris A. decided he wanted his last name shown after all!)

I was pretty competitive as a kid (no one could smoke more of his father's cigarettes before throwing up, or run faster from his angry father), but I eventually learned my limitations and felt I no longer needed to test myself (basically, I discovered girls).

I saw that change as a sign of maturity, but my P.E. teacher saw it as the sign of my becoming a loser. At that time, his opinion mattered to me and I felt a little guilty. I then reminded myself that this was a man who had the body odor of a long-dead gorilla and whose breath smelled like a well-used whistle. If being a “winner” like him meant surrounding myself with an impenetrable zone of stink I was okay with coming in second, or just not playing the game at all.

That attitude has gotten me through life pretty comfortably so far (remember, “second place” is actually “first loser!”) My wife Lily informed me, however, that we owe it to our daughter Rachel to instill in her a healthy competitive spirit. Sweet little Rachel? Competitive? A five year old whose favorite pastimes are petting our cat Nigel until he's almost furless, or spinning in circles until she collapses into the flower bed? Competitive?? I had images of Rachel bulked up on steroids, grunting with pride as she set Nigel on fire with the friction of one firm rub.

I found that image terribly disturbing and voiced these concerns to Lily. She calmed me down and agreed that we should be aiming toward the philosophies of good sportsmanship and that having fun is more important than winning (basically, the excuses commonly used by losers). She then added, “But we still want her to kick butt now and then.” And so began our efforts to raise a butt-kicking Gandhi.

This brings me to the subject of competitive parents, which Lily and I promised each other that we definitely would not become. You know the type: parents who shriek obscenities at their kids during the soccer game or spelling bee. They moan and bellow, grimacing as though they're passing a stone and it's somehow the fault of the referee, coach, or judge at the third grade science fair. For Lily and me, this obsessive and domineering parent was epitomized by the mother of one of Rachel's playmates, a mother named Judith Valhalla.

Judith Valhalla once broke the nose of a man who accidentally put one fewer piece of Halloween candy into her daughter's bag than he did into the other kids'. Judith sued a four-year old who grew more over the summer than her daughter did. The coaches in our Tiny Tot T-ball league wear a cup to every game solely because of Judith's size-eight foot. I've never seen Judith's husband and my theory is that he's either been cowering behind the couch since their wedding day, or she ate him.

My wife and I had enrolled Rachel in an art class for the summer and decided this might be an opportunity to start gently encouraging her competitive side. I prepared myself to make comments like, “Good job honey! You ate more paste than any of the other kids!” or “It's not important that Billy's picture is prettier than yours, as long as you had fun putting crayons up your nose.”

Lily and I were thrown a bit though when, on the first day of class, Judith Valhalla showed up to drop off her daughter. This pleased Rachel who now had a friend to paint on, but Lily whispered to me through a forced smile, “Now the kids can hear, so be nice. Just watch her feet.”

We made pleasant small talk until Judith switched from bragging about her own daughter to belittling ours. “Do you really think Rachel could be an artist? She doesn't seem terribly bright to me.”

At this point I realized I alone would be responsible for raising Rachel because my wife's true competitive side suddenly showed itself. I intercepted Lily's fist on its way to punching a hole through Judith's brain, and then wrestled her to the ground clawing and snarling. As I pinned Lily down (a feat comparable to giving the Incredible Hulk a nurple) all the children from the class crowded around to see the spectacle. I knew everything would be okay, though, when over my shoulder I heard Judith's daughter say to Rachel, “Your parents need to chill out.”

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

.Return to Top

Now that Drew Carey has been named to replace Bob Barker on "The Price is Right," producers have recently released their audition remarks about recent high-profile applicants. Sadly, none of them were asked to "come on down."

------------------------

Applicant: Lewis "Scooter" Libby


Snappy name, nice hair...the next Wink Martindale?

Keeps whispering details of prizes to contestants before they are revealed: "Pssst. It's a new car, but you didn't hear it from me."

------------------------

Applicant: Donald Trump


Needed reminding that losing contestants are not "fired."

Some inappropriate comments : "You really want that?" and "Whoop-dee-doo, a new car."

------------------------

Applicant: Alberto Gonzales


Might appeal to Latino demographic -- with small exception that Latinos hate him.

Deferred contestant questions to his attorney, whom he then immediately fired. Later had no recollection of the entire matter.

Confirmed "showcase showdowns" not bound by the Geneva Convention.

------------------------

Applicant: Michael Moore


Kept commenting on how the products are cheaper on Canadian, French, and Cuban Price is Rights.

Secretly took contestants backstage to see what was behind Door #2.

Wouldn't wear a suit.

------------------------

Applicant: Paul Wolfowitz


Immediately offered show announcer's job to his girlfriend.

World Bank experience impressive, but thinks a light bulb cost $75.

Test audience thought he was CNN Host Wolf Blitzer, seemed disappointed when it was not him.

------------------------

Applicant: Paris Hilton


Seemed more comfortable around models than contestants.

Kept falling out of her dress when demonstrating The Bonus Wheel, sending one Florida-based contestant into immediate cardiac arrest.

Insisted on a larger dressing room to cure her "really bad claustrophobia."

------------------------

Applicant: Donald Rumsfeld


Scored well with older audiences, even better with senile ones.

Kept overruling show judges on product prices.

Told one contestant week-long European tour should "only take 3-4 days, max."

------------------------

Applicant: Katie Couric


Shows great relief at both standing up and interacting with live people.

Discouraged contestant risk-taking: Told one contestant: "The regret alone will eat you alive!"

Begged for job, offered bribe, ultimately escorted out by studio security.

------------------------

Note to self: Call Rosie again.

http://blog.nj.com/njv_joel_schwartzberg

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

.Return to Top

There comes a time when a woman’s hormones start fleeing her body faster than a man can click past Lifetime or he can lie when his wife asks, “Who’s prettier, me or my sister?’’

At this stage, a woman of a certain age must decide if she wants “hormone replacement therapy’’ also known in medical circles as “A small pill a day keeps the bomb squad away.’’

Doctors will give her advice on this. But it is usually up to the woman, which would be fine, except for one complication: Her hormonal tsunami makes her feel what my husband safely calls “a little edgy.’’

Example: “Honey’’ he says. “You’re ‘a little edgy’ tonight. Let’s put down that cleaver. That’s right, babe, put it down. Now hold our your hands where I can see them.’’ Certain here are no concealed weapons, he locks up the cutlery, draws me a cool bath and things go back to normal.

As you can see, making medical decisions in this state of mind can be difficult. But taking the short quiz below can help you along. If most statements describe you, see the doctor.

Ditch that. Run, run to the doctor and demand hormone pills. Take the cleaver in case he gives you some crap about staying with the “natural’’ alternatives you’ve been choking down for the last two years.

Here’s the quiz.

- You hum “Lizzie Borden had an axe” in the shower.

- You disrupted your block party by running down the street with your shirt over your head, trying to catch a breeze.

- You take detailed notes during a PBS documentary on serial killers.

- You think Larry King is looking damn sexy.

- You run out of chocolate peanut butter cups and cry for three days.

- You made a voodoo doll of the 20-something at work who asked where you bought your suit because she thinks her “mom would look good in something like that.’’

- You lose your cell phone for three days, then find it suspended in a Jello mold with pineapple chunks.

-You personal credo is: I sweat, therefore I am.

I passed this quiz with flying colors. Still, I wasn’t sure what to do about those pills. It became all too clear right before my 50th birthday, during my annual OB/GYN visit, or as some women of a certain age like to call it, “a date.’’

The doctor wanted to discuss the daily hormone pill, but frankly, the room was so freaking hot, I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. The mother of all meltdowns was taking place inside my body while I sat on the examining table. I was already practically naked so there was no sense in stripping and doing laps around the place (my normal practice at home.)

At one point, the paper table runner beneath me disintegrated and stuck like glue to my bottom and my back and they had to help me peel it off (and I am not exaggerating!)

It would have been the most embarrassing moment of my life, but I had just had a pap smear for the 33rd year in a row, so that puts things in perspective. When the doctor mentioned hormone replacement therapy I wanted to kiss him, then strangle him. Possibly in the reverse order, which would have been more kinky and fit right in with my mood.

Right then, I knew it was time for the daily pill. Apparently, so did he because he whipped out the prescription pad and then ran for his life, leaving the nurse to deal with the rest of the scraping bits of paper off my rear end.

There was an upside, though. The skin on my hindquarters was smoother for about a week. So try this at home if you don’t want to shell out bucks for a real skin peel: During your next hot flash, take off your pants, sit on a newspaper and then rip it off. The headlines may make an interesting tattoo, but you’ll have a baby’s behind when you are done.

Anyway, I started taking the little pill and it seems to be working. Thoughts about the cleaver involve pork roasts. I don’t want to kill my doctor anymore.

And Larry King looks like an old guy in suspenders once again.