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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/
May 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our April/ May 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Think Outside
The Crate
By Jennifer Angelo, Pennsylvania
Exiting the sliding doors of my local Target, I knew I’d stepped over
the line. I hadn’t broken any laws, like the one in Alaska that fines
owners who tie dogs to the roof of their cars. All I’d done was buy my
puppy, Chewy, an infant-carrying sling.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking. I must be one of those crazy women who
own 17 worm-infested cats, 236 dogs, and a family of inbreeding gerbils.
But you’d be wrong. I hate cats.
I never intended to wear Chewy. It all happened so innocently.
My daughter begged for a puppy and I bought her one because I am the
president of Stupid Parents of America. Like all children, my daughter
promised to care for the little creature. And—to my surprise—she did.
She fed, walked, groomed, walked, trained, and walked the puppy. Right
up to when school started.
As the dog and I inhaled school bus fumes I realized the puppy wouldn’t
wait until my daughter returned for her next walk. What could I do? My
office with Stupid Parents of America kept me plenty busy. So I turned
to the experts.
Puppy training manuals say dogs should be crated until housebroken. So I
put her in her crate. But I couldn’t look at that flattened little nose
behind bars, as if she was a criminal because she had a bladder. Okay,
it wasn’t the face that got me. It was the barking, whining, and that
shrill, ear-splitting sound at the end of a long row of yips.
So I let her out. She laid down and went to sleep. I took this as a
positive sign and went to the basement to do laundry. When I returned,
the toy lobster with the wiggly eyeballs was now a mere head. A kitchen
chair appeared to be leaking. A dainty pool of liquid lay underneath.
Clearly I needed help. Enter the flowered-print infant sling. Even
though I was alone, when I put it on, I felt as conspicuous as an
Alaskan Husky pregnant with enough puppies to win the Iditarod.
Undertaking certain tasks with dog-in-sling were ill-advised. I lifted a
roast from the refrigerator. Her nose wriggled until she toppled out. I
peeled potatoes. She sneezed on them.
And I still had to walk her. I knew it was time to go when she scrabbled
her little feet as fast as a chipmunk, a piece of kibble in it’s jaws, a
rabid dog in hot pursuit. Now the sling as an air vent. The dog sticks
her tail out of it and thumps my leg for service.
In the beginning the pup was the size of a hamster. Now she’s as heavy
as a watermelon—with more liquid.
I’ll reread the housebreaking manual. In the meantime, I’m checking out
infant strollers.
www.jangelo.com
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 Dad's
Work
By Dewey Cassell, North Carolina
My son, who is studying "community helpers" in kindergarten, came up to
me the other day and asked, "Dad, what do you do at work?"
It is important to note that he asked what I do, not where I do it. I
have taken him and his older sister to my office on several occasions to
spin around in the swivel chairs and write on the white board while I
futilely attempt to accomplish something constructive over the din of
youthful enthusiasm.
After pausing momentarily to think about it, I replied, "I go to
meetings, talk on the telephone, and write reports."
This drew the chuckle I intended from my son, who enjoys the wry sense
of humor that I inherited from my father. The more I thought about it,
though, the more I had the sense that I had in fact given him a truthful
answer to his query.
To whit: I was in a conference call the other day that began at 9:30 in
the morning and ended at 4:15 in the afternoon. This was a rare
opportunity to both talk on the telephone and go to a meeting at the
same time. The only break was a scant half hour to race to a nearby fast
food restaurant, purchase and consume some form of sustenance that the
average self-respecting epicurean would walk away from, and race back to
the office to rejoin the festivities. (Notice I said consume. I don't
believe that digestion took place until a couple of days later.)
When later relating the story about the conference call to my son, he
asked the obvious question, "What was it about?"
A couple of days earlier we had captured the attention of the entire
project team, which is scattered across three states, when we attempted
to define the End of Time. Now, there was a practical reason for
undertaking this effort, and it had nothing to do with philosophy or
religion. There was considerable disagreement about what constituted the
End of Time, although it was agreed that the answer likely lie in the
hands of a higher power, which one presumed meant Upper Management. In
reality, Upper Management did not want to be responsible for having
prematurely brought about the End of Time, so after hours of meeting on
the subject, a volunteer (read: low man on the totem pole) was recruited
at 4:00 p.m. to handle the problem. By 4:15, he had arrived at a
solution, having had the foresight that Upper Management was lacking to
recognize that neither he nor anyone else in the company would likely be
around to find out whether he was right or not, and it wouldn't really
make any difference at that point anyway.
When the conference call was finally over, we had to write a report
about it.
One of the few things about my childhood that I remember with great
clarity is going to visit Dad's office, where my sister and I would spin
around in the swivel chairs and write on yellow legal pads while my Dad
futilely attempted to accomplish something constructive. He never
complained. Now I know why. After all, it's really because of the din of
youthful enthusiasm that we go to work in the first place, whether we
work in an office or someplace really cool like a fire station.
Forgive me, I've got to run. The phone is ringing and I'm late for a
meeting.
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Bold
And Beautiful Rams Save Our Grandkids’ Backside
By Burton Cole, Ohio
In case you’re behind on your genetic engineering updates, scientists
isolated the gene that causes big-bottomed sheep. This, they say, will
help their ongoing quest to solve the genetic disorder that predestines
some of us to waddle around life with oversized end zones.
Scientists celebrate this like it’s good news.
It’s not. It’s too late for us. We are stuck with all the body parts
that centuries of disproportional ancestors installed on us.
A good chunk of those ancestors frolicked through time when big was
beautiful. They didn’t know any better. They counted it as a favor to
endow us with a long line of big butts.
But not us. Oh no. It’s for our grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
And what will they, with their genetically perfect body parts, do in
return? They’ll flicker through the family video albums and yell, “Wow!
It looks like Grandma’s smuggling a couple dancing hogs under there!
Yikes! I think one just slapped a headlock on the other!”
Sometimes I wonder if science can develop anything that would be useful
to us without a time machine.
All science can give us is rear-view mirrors because most of us don’t
even realize what’s going on back there.
We’ve gotten used to the paunch up front because we can see that. It may
not be pretty, but hey, I’m sure that’s also the fault of fat ancestors
and not the cheeseburgers at the drive-through window.
But the other day wandering through a store, I caught sight of myself in
a security monitor and it startled me. The camera was over my shoulder.
I couldn’t remember having called in that many reinforcements to fortify
the rear guard. But I must have, because there they were, taking up a
considerable amount of the screen space.
Why didn’t science know about this gene disorder before?
This latest marvel of the genetic world blossomed after 10 years of
studying the behinds of sheep, according to a report in USA Today.
Scientists figured out that the wide-loaded ones shared a breakdown in a
gene called callipyge, which is Greek for – are you ready for this –
“beautiful buttocks.”
Normally, this gene shuts down fat cells and turns energy into muscle.
When it doesn’t work, airline attendants make Mr. Ram buy two tickets to
fly.
To be fair, scientists do have a good cause in mind. They figure that by
tracking down the big butt genes, eventually they can trace where the
breakdowns occur and fix it. Not for us, of course, but for those
ungrateful great-grandchildren of ours.
Let us hope that science also will obliterate a number of other
destructive genes, like the one that cause people to shout on cell
phones in restaurants. Or how about the gene that causes drivers to cut
you off on the interstate?
In this wonderful, new world, telemarketers no longer would interrupt
supper to try to sell you siding because the gene that causes phone
sales would be erased.
And possibly – and I might be pushing it here, but just dream with me a
moment – possibly science even could eradicate the gene that causes
significant others to spend so much time in the shoe department! It may
be too late for me, but maybe my great-grandson-to-be will have improved
quality of life by being able to spend more time in the electronics
department, as it should be. Ah, bliss!
When this all happens, we can fall asleep contentedly at night counting
little lambs wagging shapely tails. And we’ll owe it all to a
big-bottomed ram.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Put
Upon By Carry-On
By Lucia Duff, Minnesota
Many people
are talking these days about the sacrifices some wives make in the name
of their husband’s career.
There are times, as a wife, to fall on your spear in a corporate
marriage.
“Honey, it would be great if you would sleep with McMillan MacDougall so
we can get a better shot at managing MacDougall Industries pension
funds.” That would be one.
“Tell the SEC that you directed the destruction of those documents so me
and good old Peyton Wentworth don’t lose our trading licenses.” That
sort of thing.
But carry-on luggage isn’t one of them.
In my former incarnation, I was the wife a corporate CEO. We traveled in
groups of forty to four hundred regularly.
I packed for these soul-fortifying corporate boondoggles in a small
regulation carry-on bag.
I did it because, to my husband, carry-on luggage meant mobility and
agility. To me, it meant looking like a Sunday newspaper insert for
“easy care” separates that I could pay for over time.
Now take it easy. I am aware this is not one of the greatest sacrifices
ever made.
But you try producing suitable outfits for events described as “Adriatic
Casual,” and “Weekday Evening Upscale” from what is essentially the size
of diaper bag.
They might a well have said “ festive mammal coverings” or “resort flesh
adornment.”
Some of the other wives packed as if they were escaping Czarist Russia.
Lucky devils.
My choice was carry-on or carry on, as it were.
I have one memory that clearly illustrates the inventiveness and sheer
bravery that one must possess to turn one outfit into another.
We were at a resort in the Napa Valley and my spouse decided to work out
after a day of meetings.
“But you only packed business clothes, and your bathing suit,” I pointed
out.
And my point was? Scarlet O’Hara’s outfit comprised of drapes had
nothing on this get-up.
Soon, we were trudging down a path to the spa building. He had thrown
together a unique and serviceable outfit: his bathing suit, purchased a
decade ago, served as shorts. A plain white t-shirt would cause no stir.
Any port in a storm for shoes: black brogues paired with knee-length
white socks.
Rising to the challenge. I had put on athletic shorts, my pajama top and
slipped into black sandals (these were meant to take me from day to
night and apparently to the treadmill).
The workout room was located next to the pool. So our Beverly
Hillbillies-like appearance could be seen by everyone else on our trip.
Swell! Maybe I could fall out of the plane bathroom on the flight home
and moon them all to complete my humiliation.
My spouse had been with the company his entire career. So he took the
good-natured shouts of “Get a second job, and buy some tennis shoes,”
and “My eyes, my eyes!” in the spirit they were intended.
I am made of weaker stock. I walked behind him mumbling, “I can look a
lot better than this,” and “He made me do it.”
It’s funny how one sacrifice is replaced by another: my life now
involves a lot less travel, but a whole bunch more luggage when I do.
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The
Bathroom
By Jean Follmer, California
It was our monthly Moms Night Out and
the evening was starting to fade. We’d reached the usual point where
Penelope had lost track of her drinks and had resorted to aggressively
dominating the conversation.
We all knew from past experience that there
was no point in trying to participate as Penelope managed to change the
conversation to a monologue. If anyone attempted to engage her, Penelope
would glare at the speaker and nod vigorously until she found the
“opportunity” to jump back in with “As I was saying…”
That night she decided to drone on once again about her glorious days as
the Sorority President at the state university she’d attended. How many
times had we heard this?!? I was tired and was starting to get a
headache. Every time I looked at Penelope, I was blinded by the glare
from her shockingly white teeth, the tips of her French manicure and the
two carat diamonds in each ear. I wondered why I kept engaging in these
monthly experiences and suddenly wished I were on the couch watching The
Man Show with my husband. Who was going to be the brave one tonight and
say they had to leave? Although we were all ready to go home, none of us
wanted to be the one who ended the evening…one of many ridiculous and
unspoken social pressures.
As Penelope detailed the various and intriguing steps which lead to her
name appearing on the sorority ballot, my friend Andrea politely excused
herself and went to the ladies’ room. I fumed to myself as I thought
about Andrea quietly retreating to the welcome and solitary silence of
the bathroom. Having had a few drinks myself, I suddenly experienced a
simultaneously disturbing and compelling thought that I absolutely had
to act on. I excused myself from what was now Penelope’s table and went
to find Andrea in the ladies’ room.
Upon entering the restroom, I was pleased to see that the coast was
clear and I quickly approached the one occupied stall. I began to bang
loudly on the outside of the stall door, shouting “Get Out!” in a
muffled deep voice. At that point, I was unable to stop myself from
shaking and doubling over in a fit of hysterical drunken laughter. I
heard the flush through my laughter and with hands on hips offered a big
“gotcha” smile as she came out of the stall.
When she came out, the look of shock she wore was truly beyond words. At
that point, I stopped laughing altogether and resorted to shaking and
then quietly said “hello” to the wife of my husband’s boss. I nervously
whispered “I truly apologize. I thought you were someone else.” I was
quite sure my excuse did not exactly relieve her sudden bout of
constipation, but it was all I could offer at the moment. I promptly
excused myself, entered the stall and vomited heartily into the toilet.
I waited for her to leave before exiting the stall and cleaning myself
up as best I could. I then made my way back to the table and discovered
that nothing had changed. Penelope was still describing her life as
Sorority President and Andrea was missing.
As it turned out, Andrea was the brave one that night. Instead of using
the ladies’ room, she had simply paid her portion of the bill and gone
home.
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From
Humiliation To Joy
By
Kimberly
Keenan, Illinois
The joy of eccentricity profits with age.
As a child, anything slightly diverse can be cause of humiliation as was
my life growing up in an old country schoolhouse.
I reflect back on those days fondly now, but then, I would criticize my
home like one would speak of a quirky relative with jokes and stories as
if they are never to be taken seriously. Best to make fun of you first,
I always say. Nostalgia posted no such things as “stay-at-home moms”
they were just moms. Mine wore an incalculable set of spongy rollers
wrapped in an orange-netted scarf. Smoking was considered a leisure
activity for which I believe my mom mastered the art of driving while
preserving an ash string of 6 inches.
Joy was relative. A good day meant riding our mini bike to the nearby
farm to collect a dozen eggs not kept in proper refrigeration. We
gathered them from an old tin pail placed on their stair well. I might
spend all day constructing a pool party for Barbie or Midge by digging a
hole for a vintage plastic butter dish and arrange a date with Ken since
G.I. Jo was always off cavorting with his headless army buddies.
Joy was scarcity. The lack of money meant each of us five kids placed
our feet in the paint of our choice and walked around our brown speckled
kitchen floor. This is what my family considered both entertainment and
purposeful planning.
Joy was getting paid a double Popsicle for an hour worth of work
rounding up the cattle that happened to stray from the field, by bike no
less.
Joy was problem solving. Believing that blackbirds were really evil
creatures who wished nothing more than to wait all day on a telephone
line for that unsuspecting banana seat stingray to come cruising down
the gravel road where they dive frantically at a toe headed child like
an eagle fishing for trout. I was convinced that if I could race fast
enough while throwing handfuls of blackberries over my head, the
confusion alone would buy me time. It took around 20 attempts to prove
my theory incorrect.
Joy came with no safety instructions. Our wood covered station wagon
drove like a boat over rough seas. Seat belts weren’t discovered until
the end of my second decade of existence which helped me conquer fear of
flying by jumping from the backseat to the front seat in as many
attempts as possible between home and the Piggly Wiggly.
Joy can be as small as a minute collecting tadpoles or as large as a
lifetime spent forgetting a place once considered an embarrassment. I
have chosen to remember and recreate pieces of a life I now crave for.
Humiliation – to- longing. Who would have thought?
www.believegitm.com
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Five
Days Gone, But Who's Counting?
By Leslie Lange, New York
It’s been five days, nine hours, 12
minutes and 34…35…36…seconds… 39…40… since my daughter left for college.
I cannot believe she’s going to college. I mean, wasn’t it just a couple
years ago she was playing dress-up and thinking boys were icky? Even
though she still plays dress-up, she no longer thinks boys are icky,
despite my best efforts to convince her.
Regardless, the morning of her departure dawned as gray as my roots.
She’d had all her stuff packed for days but felt the need to check and
recheck to be sure she had the essentials.
“Let’s see… Clothes, check; makeup, check; curling iron, check; blow
dryer, check; straightener, check…
“May I remind you, you’re going to college to expand your mind, not win
a beauty contest,” I said in my underutilized mother-knows-best tone.
She glared at me for a moment, and then continued. “Mousse, check; hair
spray, check; anti-frizz stuff…ohmigod, where’s my anti-frizz stuff… Oh
there it is. Whew! That was close. OK, where was I? Oh yeah, nail
polish, check; nail polish remover, check.”
While she droned on I looked over at the boxes and crates packed neatly
against the wall. Is this what it’s come to? I thought. Am I actually
allowing my first-born to head out into the cold, cruel world with a box
of styling products and a few articles of clothing? What kind of mother
does this?!
I suddenly had a thought. “You know, you don’t have to go,” I said
cheerfully. “We could home-school. Yeah! We could home-school or, or…
‘home-college’ if you will. Yeah, this could be good!” I said and
clapped my hands.
“Mom,” said my daughter clasping my hands in hers and looking me square
in the eye. “Mommy… You need to get a grip. I’m in pre-law.”
“Well, I know but, but… I’m sure there are books for that. We could
learn together. C’mon. It’ll be fun!”
“Mom. We can’t do that,” she said in a slow, clear monotone. “That’s
what colleges are for and I - have - to - go - to - college.”
“Oh… Well of course you do! I was just being silly! You know me, ‘silly
Mom,’ that’s me!” I said with a shrill giggle. The time was drawing
near, and I knew I was apt to lose it very soon.
We got her little car packed up and I steeled myself for a poignant
goodbye.
“OK. Gotta go.” She gave me a quick hug and headed for the open door of
her vehicle.
“Is that it?!” I said, arms still open. “That’s all you’re gonna say to
your mother? Your mother who scotch-taped a pretty bow to your head when
you were a hairless little baby? Your mother who nursed you through
chickenpox, the flu, bronchitis and mono? Your mother who sat up with
you through break-ups and break-downs? Your mother who taught you to
drive and almost suffered whiplash while you practiced going from zero
to first gear? Your mother who took you to Girl Scouts, dance class and
Rolling Stones concerts?”
She stopped and turned around, her big brown eyes were wavy with tears.
We came together in a crush, pretty much knocking the wind out of each
other. The tears flowed freely and, in my mind, my 18-year-old college
student reverted back to the 5-year-old kindergartner clutching me at
the yawning door of the big, yellow school bus.
I don’t know how long we were there before she left. I guess it had to
be a while for me because my sister came over to escort me into the
house after a concerned neighbor reported that I’d been “standing in the
same spot since this morning for no particular reason.” Nosy neighbors,
anyway.
Update: Phone message, second day at college. “Hi Mom. Things’re good.
Me and Amanda (Amanda who?) are going to this great mall today. Love you
bye!”
After hearing that, I wasn’t sure if I should be concerned or relieved.
I chose the latter, and then I had a horrifying thought. I get to go
through this two more times. If giving birth three times isn’t hard
enough, then there’s the whole ‘rearing the child’ thing.
I’m sure it gets easier… It does, doesn’t it?
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Flunking
Car Seat 101
By
Sue Anna Langenberg,
Illinois
Sure, I went to school and
somehow along the way got a four-year degree. Like most college students
pursuing an academic goal, I had to survive various lab sciences,
English courses, history surveys and even a quick test on our state
government.
<What universities ought to require in their curriculum these days is
Car Seat 101. That would really weed out the lightweights. Especially
unsuspecting new grandmothers that have already raised children in 1972
Mustangs or used Chevy something-or-others without seat belts.
My newborn son, in fact, was hand-delivered to me in the passenger seat
by a hospital nurse standing in the mud and rain. I had already argued
with my husband about parking illegally and holding up traffic. We
practically sped off before I could even shut the car door, newborn in
tow.
Then when we drove from Chicago to Florida on some vacation, the baby
slept on my lap. The only road hazards were my husband’s tailgating and
my permanently damp lap due to his refusal to stop the car long enough
to change a diaper.
Then my daughter had some sort of car seat, but no directions as thick
as a standard “Anthology of American Literature” to operate the thing.
Two simple straps came around, the baby was in and I drove off. The only
hazard was that in Chicago traffic I kept turning around to admire my
perfect little girl in her pink ruffles.
So here comes the next generation, and a whole new world of car seats.
My daughter studied the directions in the living room before her baby
was born. She opened up the folding map and instantly made sense of the
arrows, clicks and safety suggestions. She got it, I didn’t. It was
headlined “some assembly required” (bad start) and the need for a course
in Car Seat 101.
Two belts came down and across the chest, right over left (or was it
left over right?), attached to another belt that came from underneath to
spiral around a baby-techno-gizmo and clicked into another torso fairy
button that sings lullabies while blowing kisses. At the first whimper,
there is yet another button to strap everyone bumping heads in the back
seat to cool tempers.
This is after the other set of belts that attach to the car. For that,
there’s another anthology chapter for rear-facing versus front-facing
babies complete with a weight and height chart of all participating
family members including grandmothers whose stomachs hang out.
After the baby was born, it was soon discovered that a second car seat
was in order. In two car families, or in this case on the farm, old car
and one-ton truck, it was too much trouble for one seat to go back and
forth.
The second seat turned out to be a bit more new grandmother-friendly for
those who haven’t taken Car Seat 101. So I happily used that one in my
car until my son-in-law unwittingly absconded with it and jerry-rigged
it to the field combine. When I protested, he said that it was now
permanently attached to the combine unless, of course, he needed it in
the one-ton truck.
I appealed to my daughter and said that I honestly couldn’t understand
how to attach the anthology-instructed car seat. What was I to do about
taking my most perfect grandson somewhere if I couldn’t operate the car
seat?
“OK mom, concentrate,” she felt sorry for me. And she went through the
right over left stuff while we bumped heads to examine the gizmo belt
inserted into the fairy button. My eyes glazed over.
But I failed again while her eyes rolled upward because I flunked Car
Seat 101.
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What
You See Is WHAT?
By Carol MacAllister, Puerto Rico
Our family is full of great sayings: that and a nickel gets you a cup of
coffee: Get ready – hold your teeth: Don’t believe anything you hear and
only half of what you see.
After my airplane stopped at the debark gate, an announcement told
there’d be a delay in deplaning. So, I relaxed and glanced out the
window. What is that? I thought as I stared out at a pilot walking on
the tarmac, wearing sunglasses, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a
leash in the other. One might think, so what, but the dog he walked was
a Seeing Eye dog in a harness. Is that my pilot? A result of job
discrimination? I panicked, then realized we had landed safely, the
flight was over and I was on the ground. The dog? Perhaps, another
passenger’s and the pilot was helping out?
I thought our friend Larry approached my husband and me as we strolled
through the boat show. But, the FL show was far from our home in NJ. I
swore it was Larry. My husband said, “No.” As the man neared, I put out
my arms, ran up to him and said, “Hi, Larry.” The man backed away. It
wasn’t Larry. However, it was Larry’s brother.
Yes, my husband flashed me that look and I flashed it back. Earlier that
week, he’d finished up a construction project in a local dance club. He
came home to tell me about the beautiful girls rehearsing their act for
that evening. I wondered what he looked like when they told him the
beautiful women were men in drag, female impersonators.
A very long day of travel brought me to my bed in the southern Tuscan
mountains of Italy. I had opened the windows that night to let in the
cooling air and, in the morning, I woke weary, wondering about the time.
As I lay in bed, I heard the clock chime out the hour. I counted the
cuckoos. When I go to cuckoo number fourteen, I knew something was
amiss. At breakfast, I asked the innkeeper about the clock. “No clock,
lady. Youa hear local cuckoo birds.”
A man walked into our local restaurant with 5 women and 10 children. The
staff quickly rearranged the tables to accommodate the group. The man
sat in the middle, the women clustered around him and the children sat
at the ends. This is a resort town and I figured, leave it be, until I
noticed all the women looked similar in body shape and coloring. He
likes medium builds, dark hair, I thought. I eves-dropped on their
conversations. All the children called the man father. Oops!
As I got up to leave, curiosity got the better of me. I paused and said
to one of the women, “What well behaved children.” She smiled. Then I
asked, “Are you all one big family?”
“Yes, we are,” was the reply. Well, I’ll be dipped, I thought.
Saturday night, the same group came into another restaurant as we sat
waiting for meals. I whispered to my friends about my previous encounter
with the man, his women and children. They stared at the group. “Heard
about them,” one friend said, “but never seen them.”
The next morning, I received a phone call that woke my Sunday morning
sleep-in. My friend from the night before whispered, “Guess what. I’m in
church. The father from the restaurant just served mass. That’s why they
all called him father. He’s here visiting with his cousins, the women,
because he’d been invited to serve the mass.”
What you see is what you get. But, what you get might not be what you
saw.
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Could
You Hold Please?
By Lesley Marijke McCandless, North Carolina
For the last 20 years, I have been self-employed as a freelance ...
well, anything: writer, mediator, purchaser, project manager, director
of marketing. My office is equally flexible and includes my house, my
yard, Barnes and Noble Café, dressing rooms, wherever. Nonetheless,
being a professional, I endeavor to at least create an illusion that I
am sitting in my recently pressed Armani suit in a lush high rise.
So here’s the real play when a call comes in and I am at home. First,
there is a brief but mad rush to hush all environmental sounds. Then, I
close the door to my home office, tie the cord of my bathrobe, and give
the call my 100% focus. Occasionally, however, calls come in to me
during the “arsenic hour” – you know that time in a home around 5:00 or
6:00 pm when the kids are home, chaos is reigning, and you have just
started burning .. I mean cooking, dinner.
On this particular day, I warned my kids as soon as they got home that I
was expecting a very important call and that they should not disturb me
under any circumstances. “Look,” I told them tripping over the dog, who
had just decided to roll in . . .well something particularly foul
smelling, “I am going to be negotiating a complicated deal with this
Wall Street executive and I am supposed to be in the office, so “Shush!
when he calls.”
“Okay mom,” they chimed and we all went on with our business. Several
hours later, I figured the call wasn’t going to come in after all and
started dinner. No sooner had I put the frying pan on, poured in the oil
and set the burner to high, did the phone ring. Immediately, all my
attention went back to work. I mentally buttoned up that Armani suit and
shooed everyone out of my room.
“Hello Gary. I got your last offer and I had a couple thoughts I was
hoping we could discuss . . .” I pushed aside yesterday’s cereal bowl,
today’s math homework, and glanced out the window noting the overflowing
bags of kitty litter cluttering the patio, then turned my attention my
“smoking gun” document. Rubbing my hands together, I couldn’t wait to
send it to him, followed with an “Is that your signature?”
“Mooom!,” I heard in the back ground
Gary was talking, so I stuck my hand over the speaker, stepped out of my
chair quietly and poked my head out the door. “Guys!!! Shhhh I can’t
talk right now,” I whispered urgently. “Remember . . my call? Well, this
is it.”
Without waiting for their response I closed the door again and took my
hand off the speaker
“mmhmm,” I murmured – wondering what he’d actually said.
“MOOOOMMM!” I heard in the background.
I ignored it. “Well, see Gary, I understand your reasoning for coming up
with this number, but my review of the docu-. . . . . .. “
“MOOOOOM!!!” I heard frantic running across the floor and quickly
covered the speaker just as the door burst open and both my kids
entered, wild-eyed.
“Hello?” Gary inquired. “Did we get cut-off?”
“FIRE!!” the kids shouted
pause
“Um Gary,” I said. “Could you hold please?”
Being at home meant that “holding please” did not involve pushing a
button down, but rather firmly planting my hand over the speaker and
clutching the phone to my chest as I dashed into the kitchen.
The flames, 4 feet high already peeling the paint off the hooded vent
and licking on past, threatened to engulf the ceiling. Oh yeah, I was
cooking. . . .
I looked at the kitchen and then at my phone. . .the flames licked
higher.
“Gary, I’m terribly sorry but a little, um . . fire . . has cropped up
in the office.” I hoped fervently my honesty brought to mind a
teary-eyed secretary quitting or something . . . “Can I call you back?”
“Baking soda!” I whispered urgently to my kids as Gary grumbled
something about checking his planner . .
“Thank you Gary. I’m sorry to end this call in such a hurry. I’ll send
something over for you to look at . . . “ I smiled at the thought of
what state that document might leave his Armani suit in ..
I hung up. Then calmly proceeded to douse the fire in my kitchen.
All in a day’s work.
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Coffee
Logic
By Marina Richards, Massachusetts
Hubbie dropped me off at the Super Hardware Store because I wanted to
buy some paint for a project I was working on. Yes, a hardware store. If
they sold paint at a boutique or bookstore, we would have gone there, of
course. So I'm in the store and Hubbie goes to wait for me in the car. I
finish buying my stuff, only taking fifteen minutes, and return to the
car. There he is all happy to see me, and ready to go home, however, my
gaze goes forth to large cup of coffee in his hand, then onward in
search my own. Oh, goodie, he's bought me a Skinny Latte, I think, proud
at how thoughtful my partner in life can be.
I cast about the SUV in full search.
It's not there.
In fact, nothing is waiting for me.
“Where's mine?” I ask.
His eyebrows become one. “Well, I thought about getting you something,
but we were so close to home I figured you could have some coffee at
home. Here, have the rest of mine," he adds, handing me his cup.
“But how could you not buy me a cup? How could you get something for
yourself and not for me?" Obviously, I'm incensed. "How could you not
think of me?”
“I did think of you. But I decided it made more sense not to buy
anything.”
What?! Hello? Is this some kind of twisted male logic? How had I missed
it?
And, so, I feel myself wanting to kill him.
Me: “How could you do that? How could get yourself that big cup of
coffee and nothing for me?”
“It’s not big. It’s medium.”
“I don't care if it’s thimble-sized, it would have been nice if you’d
gotten me something, too. I would have done that for you.” I then
explain how doing little things for each other brings us closer, yada,
yada. I do this as if he is five.
“But I felt I was doing something by waiting in the car while you
shopped.”
“Shopped? I was the hardware store, Mr. Magnanimous."
“Now I feel bad,” he says, and then shakes his head. “But I still don’t
get why you’re blowing this all out of proportion.”
“I wouldn’t blow anything out of proportion as if you’d thought of me,”
I reply.
He sighs, and it’s like all the air zooming out of tires of a
semi-truck. “But I did think of you,” he insists.
“And how do I know this? By the way you didn’t buy me anything?” And
they say women are less logical than men.
I. Don’t. Think. So.
As I contemplate separate bedrooms for at least a year, we continue our
discussion at home. Finally I note a gleam in his eyes, which I read as
an epiphany. Yes! He finally gets what I'm trying to tell him. He
promises to stop applying logic to everything having to do with our
relationship, and to instead think about what I would like.
Oh, happy day!
The next afternoon, my husband goes out to run some errands for me.
Winking over his shoulder, he asks me to make some coffee for him when
he returns. I know he’s serious. Coffee, as you can tell, is serious
business at our place. So I brew up a cup of cappuccino, and when he
returns, I am drinking it.
“But where's mine?" he asks.
"I thought of you, honey, I really did. But I figured it made zero sense
to make you anything when you could just as easily buy yourself a cup at
Dunkin’ Donuts. But I swear, I did think of you.”
He turns crimson, and I note a brand new epiphany in his gaze. Then we
burst into laughter, and I hand him the remainders of my cappuccino.
After all, it’s only logical.
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Frozen
Turkey Vacations In Hawaii
By Shawn Underwood, Washington
What is it about the seventy-plus
generation and packing for a trip? How many suitcases full of bathing
suits and light summer wear does one need for a month. My neighbor’s
travel with 4 wheel-less fifty-pound suitcases, this does not include
their hand carried bags. Said neighbors fly to Hawaii every year and
relax for an entire month. They stay in a condominium that has a washer
and dryer, very civilized.
I think this packing issue is a common problem with people who grew up
in the “depression era”. I am a child of the fifties, and for much of my
young life I could not relate to the concept of “you better save it
because there will be none available tomorrow.” Isn’t this ironic that
this is the essence of recycling today? My grandmother, God Bless her,
saved used tin foil, she had a drawer where we could find carefully
folded used tin foil or a giant ball of bits of string and a massive
rubber band ball. I remember thinking that the rubber band ball would
bounce like a regular ball…wrong. The ball bounced around the kitchen
like a drunken sailor; breakage of various objects would ensue.
Punishment to follow.
My neighbor saves boxes, you need a box, you go to her. “Hey Irma, do we
have a box for these pajama’s your sister left at our house, I better
mail them to her before she decides to come visit again.” “Head on down
the street to Mabel’s house and pick through her box collection, can’t
miss it, boxes are spilling out the garage.”
Until she moved, my neighbor had what I used to call her “ high end box
collection”. No wimpy collapsible boxes for her, only the finest
hard-sided boxes resided in her garage. No amount of cajoling or teasing
would move her to discard her boxes. The orphanage for boxes filled the
entire back half of her two-car garage; the boxes crept out the side
door to take over her lovely little courtyard, where they became houses
for the birds and other critters.
She also collects used plastic butter containers. These obviously make
fine food storage dishes. I discovered her butter dish collection had
blossomed into a full-blown menagerie when I helped her move. Lord,
somehow the butter dishes had migrated an hour from her house in our
neighborhood and had taken up residence in the very tight kitchen of her
new home. There was very little storage in the kitchen but apparently
room enough for 600 old butter containers. My neighbor’s sister told me
not to throw away the old butter dishes. I threw a few away, I could not
help myself, surely she would not miss fifty or so of the butter
containers. Somehow, my neighbor knew, I could see it in her eyes.
I now realize that this “pack-rattage” obsession is not the fault of the
ratter but a learned habit. This helps me make sense of the four fifty
pound suitcases, possibly filled with boxes, butter dishes, and
seersucker suits of ages gone by. I am not sure my husband understood
pack-rattage mentality as he strapped on his “heavy lifting” belt and
prepared to heave the suitcases into the car for the trip to the
airport. The last piece of luggage out of the car was our neighbor’s
carry on. Strangely enough it was a cooler.
Now, when I think of coolers on airplanes, I think of someone carrying a
fish back from Alaska or some type of body part for an emergency
transplant, maybe I watch too much television but that is what comes to
mind. Craig pleasantly asked our neighbor; “Mabel, what do you have in
the cooler?” She matter of factly replies that she is carrying a frozen
turkey. What the heck? Maybe frozen turkeys are not available in Hawaii.
I can only imagine what the TSA screening people thought. “Mam, will you
please step to the side, I need to look inside your cooler.” I don’t
think my neighbor would have batted an eyelash; doesn’t everyone carry
frozen turkeys to Hawaii?
Come to think of it, the depression era lessons are still applicable
today. What they “saved” due to various shortages, we now recycle to
“save” our resources. Hmm, food for thought, best wrapped in old tin
foil.
www.shawnunderwood.com
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My
Dance Partner Is A Broom
By Dara Lyon Warner, North Carolina
I am a North Carolina State Bar certified
paralegal, educated as such in a program approved by the American Bar
Association, and holding a couple of graduate degrees along with my
paralegal certificate. So, naturally, I am working in a flower shop.
“What?” I hear you ask. “How does ‘naturally’ fit into that sentence?”
The answer is a mere six words: Intelligence is not a marketable
commodity.
This is one of my favorite rants. I excel at ranting, which may be the
reason some of my friends – whose primary exposure to the legal
profession is through the medium of lawyer jokes – say I should think
about becoming an attorney. I feel compelled to share with you, instead,
some of the things I have learned in the course of my current job –
mostly doing deliveries – which I try to look at in the same way an
actor looks at waiting tables: Survival until the break comes along.
One thing I have learned is that a global positioning system receiver is
a mixed blessing. Aside from atrocities in pronunciation – such as
“Puh-SASS-fa-ree” for Paces Ferry Drive, “Ba-KAL-a-reet” for
Baccalaureate Boulevard, and the “Bloody Pope” (rather than Claude E.
Pope) Memorial Highway – the system is only as good as its database is
current. With new subdivisions springing up every ten minutes or so, all
unknown to the GPS, it’s amazing anyone who lives in one of them ever
has anything arrive at their door!
When other means of attempting to find a given address fail, a phone
call to the Sheriff’s Department is the usual resort. These folks are
seriously under-appreciated, in my opinion. This is particularly so when
they have to deal with people – me among them – who have no idea of
where they are and are trying to find their way to someplace they never
knew existed. Whoever happens to answer the phone at the Department is
unfailingly polite and normally patient as well. Mostly, they are quite
helpful. On occasion, though, I get someone who could probably fall out
of a boat and not find water. I have learned that I can usually count on
this happening when I have the least amount of time to spare.
From contract work I did a few years ago, entering crash report data for
the Division of Motor Vehicles, I discovered there were far too many
people without licenses to drive that were doing so, anyway. Based on my
observations while making deliveries, I’d say this is still the
situation. I also believe I have figured out who the chief licensing
examiner is: Mr. Magoo. (In fact, having lived in a few other states
during my life so far, I’d also say he works a circuit.) Only a blind
guy could have passed some of these people on a road test. Did I miss
the “Daytona” sign, or something? People drive through parking lots like
they think they are on the Interstate. They drive on the Interstate –
and along city streets, for that matter – like they are looking for a
NASCAR sponsor!
There are things I have learned in the shop, too. I have learned that
there are hundreds of flowers I’ve never heard of. I have learned that
piles of wet flower stems are difficult to sweep up, and cellophane is
impossible. And I have learned that, since a broom is the only thing I
seem to have time and opportunity to dance with, I am happy to have no
complaints about stepping on someone’s foot.
www.lyon-roars.com
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That
Girl's Just Not Right
By Kathleen M. Wooton, M.D., New Jersey
A Canadian radio host slash humorist
attended a three day writers’ workshop. The hotel she stayed in had
comfortable accommodations, good food, and great company - three hundred
twenty three humor columnists from United States of America and her
native Canada. And a raccoon. Rocky the raccoon.
This is a story about that writer. This is a story about Rocky. This is
a story about that writer’s encounter with Rocky the raccoon. This is a
story about one lone humorist’s very special take on the writer -
raccoon encounter. This is a story about that lone humorist’s parents
getting the last laugh when they read her humor column this month. For
this a story that proves them right when they told her husband “That
girl’s not right”.
I was sitting at dinner with this lovely radio host slash humorist as
she recounted an exercise she had written for one of the workshop
sessions. The exercise challenged the writer to develop ideas for essays
by starting sentences with “this is a story about”. Her story was about
a raccoon, the aforementioned Rocky, who had spent his evening keeping
her awake.
Rocky, a young raccoon just emerging from fragile raccoon adolescence,
tried all night to launch himself from a tree outside the radio host’s
hotel window to some out of reach shelter. Tried was the operative word,
for he kept landing smack against her window, wailing a frantic
eee-eee-eee as he slid down.
Our radio hostess was recounting her sleepless night, courtesy of her
raccoon buddy, Rocky, when my mind started churning. Instead of seeing
an epic struggle between a young mammal teetering on the brink of
adulthood, and the encroachment of human society, I saw a far different
struggle. A struggle so wrong, that I almost kept silent. Almost, but
not quite.
Rocky the raccoon was indeed a young mammal on the verge of adulthood,
but shelter was not what our hero was seeking. He was seeking love, and
he wasn’t going to let a mere window separate him from the object of his
passion. The “eee-eee-eee” our host heard was the pained, repeated
uttering of her name as he failed, yet again, to find his way into her
world.
What began as a family-friendly tale of nature and our expanding society
deteriorated into a sordid tale of forbidden, inter-species desire, a
passion that could never be, a love that dared not speak its name. I
apologized for my inappropriate interpretation of her wildlife
encounter, but I doubt she heard me. She was far too busy coughing up a
lung.
We spoke again over breakfast, my Canadian friend and I. I felt
compelled to apologize for taking her exercise to a place it was never
meant to be. I needn’t have bothered. Rocky had made a repeat visit, and
after a sleepless night, my friend decided to check out the scene of the
critter’s attempted break and enter. That rascally male mammal had set
up house near her hotel room window, and just as I suspected, he had
returned to woo his intended lady love. As she recounted Rocky’s
fruitless efforts, I just had to push the envelope. “What did you
expect?”, I said. “Once you go Canadian, you never go back”.
At that precise moment, the clouds parted, and sunlight streamed down
upon my parents, as they were proven right. Ask my friend, she’ll tell
you - That girl’s not right.
http://www.savvy-women-magazine.com/Humor/humor-column.php
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