Tag Archives: humor

The Little Acorn


My Goddaughter called yesterday to tell me she just got her beautiful, long hair cut into a short pixie style.  “Short hair is in now”, she told me with the usual authority of a sixteen year old aware of all the latest cultural conventions.

“Of course it is”, I replied, having just grown mine out from the short cut I’ve worn for years.

As certain as she was about the current fashion trend she was a bit reticent about how it looked on her.  “I’m sure it’s lovely”, I told her, “But if you don’t like it don’t worry.  Like I told you the first time you talked me into getting your hair cut when you were three the beauty of hair is that it always grows back.”

At three she was convinced she wanted the hair dresser to cut her hair short “just like Godmom’s”.  She begged to have it cut.  She told the woman over and over again she was absolutely sure it was what she wanted.  We left the hair salon, the one with chairs shaped like animals and special cartoon videos for the kids to watch so they’ll sit still during their haircut, and the first time she caught site of herself in a shop window she began crying uncontrollably and couldn’t stop, blubbering over and over again, “my hair is gone, my beautiful hair!”.

“I remember Godmom”, she tells me now on the phone.  “You know I wrote that story as part of my autobiography for school.”

“Really?” I replied, always happy to know when the girls have a lasting memory of our time together.

“Yeah, we were supposed to interview someone and ask them about a story from our childhood and I didn’t want to interview anyone so I just pretended I interviewed you and wrote it up.”

Now, as a parent, I knew the correct response to this last comment, and I followed through and told her it was unethical to write something and pretend she’d interviewed someone when she hadn’t.  “Don’t worry”, she replied, “I made you sound cool”.

Inwardly, however, I had to admit I was impressed.  It shows an imagination and writing ability that not everyone is capable of.  I did something very similar my sophomore year in college.  I took a Child Psychology class and my term project was to meet with a child between the ages of three and six several times and write up my observations about our interactions and their play.  Well, I didn’t know any children in that age group back then so I simply made up a five year old and observed her in my mind, writing about how she acted and the things she said.  My project came complete with the child’s simple drawings (which I did myself).  I remember feeling guilty (I still feel a bit guilty relaying it to you now) but I received an “A” on the project, and in the class, and couldn’t help also being pleased with myself.

So, while I’m telling my God Daughter it was inappropriate of her to pretend to interview me for her class I’m actually thinking, “The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree”.  Even though we aren’t blood relations, and share no family connections at all, she sometimes looks and acts a great deal like me. I realize regardless of how misguided her actions may have been my heart is swelling with pride that she takes after me at times.

Unfortunately, although I’m sure she is like me in many ways, including both good and bad traits, it’s usually the rather naughty ones that get noticed.  It’s times like this when her Dad looks at me with a quizzical look and I’m fairly certain he’s asking himself, “Were we wrong to allow our girls to spend so much time with her during their formative years?”


A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Fake


I woke up this morning out of a sound sleep with what my mind at 6am believed was a brilliant idea.  In order to force myself into much needed weight loss I thought I’d tell myself I was losing weight in order to fit into my beautiful wedding dress!  Great idea, and if you don’t know me you may not think there is even anything out of the ordinary about the plan.  Those who do know me, however, are probably more than aware that I’m not getting married any time soon.  No wedding date set, no plans under way, in fact no groom in sight!

My thought process goes like this:  if I pretend I’m getting married, and I really want to fit into that dress, then I might be able to fake myself out and actually lose the weight, thereby attracting a man, and once attracted, who knows, we might end up getting married.  See, it’s a simple direct line from my craziness to reality.

Strange, I know, but I try to do things like this to fake myself out all the time.  I make deals with myself: no eating in front of the TV; no eating in that particular chair; you can only have popcorn on weekends; if you don’t eat any sweets this week you can have those new shoes you want; etc.

I know that I’m only affecting the symptoms of my disease, but if 30 years of therapy can’t eliminate the root cause of my emotional eating, I’m willing to fake myself out and simply try to eliminate the symptoms one by one.

The only problem is, I’m a pretty smart cookie, and it’s often really hard to fool me.  Unless you’re a 50-something man who’s a total loser and trying to get me to believe you’ve got it together.  In those instances, I’m apparently a pushover!  The rest of the time, however, my rational mind keeps intruding and saying things like:  “You’re not really getting married.  Go ahead and eat the chocolate cake.  Eat in that chair if you want to.  It’s your chair.  You paid for it.  You can do what you want.”

So, in order to make this wedding dress thing work, I’m going to have to get fairly involved in my delusion.  I’ve begun looking for the perfect dress and telling my friends at work about my upcoming nuptials.  I’ve already received a lovely “We think you’ll make a beautiful bride” card and two women have volunteered to be bridesmaids.  (I’m not certain that good taste allows for bridesmaids at third weddings.  I’ll have to check into it.  I think just the thought of a third wedding would make Miss Manners faint!)

Can this plan work?  I have no idea, but stay tuned for further details and feel free to check out my Bridal Registry at www.target.com.


A Caution About Drinking and Driving This Holiday Season


by Anonymous

I would like to share an experience with you all about drinking and driving.   As you may know, some of us have been known to have had brushes with  the authorities on our way home from the odd social session over the years.

A couple of nights ago, I was out for a few drinks with some friends and had a few too many beers and some rather nice Merlot.

Knowing full well I may have been slightly over the limit, I did something I’ve never done before – I took a bus home. I arrived home safely and without incident, which was a real surprise, as I have never driven a bus before and I’m not sure where I got this one.


Happy Holidays!


 

I got a” Happy Holiday” greeting the other night

from a man I used to date.

He’d dumped me hard more than one time.

So why be nice now?   Isn’t it a bit too late?

I thought I wasn’t angry any more.

I thought I’d moved on and could feel no more pain.

But his holiday wishes put an edge on me

and they seemed particularly lame.

I wish for him several things

but none of them have to do with holidays or joy.

I wish he’d suffer at least as much as me.

I wish someone would treat him like he’s their toy.

I hope someday he realizes the mistake he’s made.

But it’s too late to change his fate.

I hope he forever wants what he can’t have.

I hope he tries but never has another date.

I hope his clothes never fit right again.

I hope his face breaks out in hives.

I hope he grows hair where men never should.

I hope he learns to hate being alive.

I hope his car breaks down every day.

I hope his bank account gets emptied out.

I hope his penis remains forever limp.

I hope his ankles swell up with gout.

I hope no one will be his friend;

that men walk away and women run.

I hope his misery never ends.

I hope he never again has any fun.

I hope his balls swell up and fall right off.

I hope the doctor can’t stop his cough.

I hope dogs and cats chase him wherever he goes.

I hope he grows numerous warts upon his nose.

I hope every day for him is worse than the last.

Meanwhile I hope I’m having a blast!

I hope he learns from his mistakes

no matter how long on earth it takes.

More than all this I wish for me

that I had never really cared.

I wish I hadn’t let him get into my heart.

I wish my pain had all been spared.


Bah Humbug!


by McKenzie James

 

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

It’s a Bah Humbug Scrooge kind of year.

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

Silent Night, Ho Ho Ho, Screw the Cheer!

 

Uncle Ned hit his head and it brought on his Tourette’s

and he sadly told Aunt Betty the truth about her Christmas dress.

Now there’s no going back for poor Uncle Ned.

He’s in the dog house and she won’t get out of bed.

 

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

It’s a Bah Humbug Scrooge kind of year.

 

Just last week Mom caught Dad eating lunch with his ex.

Apparently more than lunch had been shared.

Now all Dad’s belongings are out in the street

and I don’t think they were put out to be aired.

 

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

Silent Night, Ho Ho Ho, Screw the Cheer!

 

Zachary wants a high speed racer.

Zoe wants a baby doll that cries.

The house is on the market on a short sale.

Daddy drinks his beer with whiskey chaser and sighs.

 

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

It’s a Bah Humbug Scrooge kind of year

 

Aunt Mary’s been single forever.

No one wants to be her boo boo bear.

She usually buys the best presents of anyone.

But she’s broke, broken-hearted, and glum.

 

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

Silent Night, Ho Ho Ho, Screw the Cheer!

 

Jake had too much fun at the office party and got hammered.

He had fun with a woman he can’t remember.

But now his boss lady is clearly enamored.

He’ll be living down that night of fun forever.

 

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

It’s a Bah Humbug Scrooge kind of year

 

Everyone’s feeing glum, no one’s having any fun.

No one’s jolly, no one’s gay.

No one’s decking the halls, no one’s hanging any balls,

We’re just hoping the holidays will go away.

 

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

It’s a Bah Humbug Scrooge kind of year.

It’s a Bah Humbug year here in Weird Town.

Silent Night, Ho Ho Ho, Screw the Cheer!


For Sale…


One heart.

Great interior.

Still runs well.

Should provide someone with many more years of service.

Exterior in horrible condition.

Broken repeatedly.

Going for a smile.

All offers considered.


The Black Cloud of the Gypsy Curse


There will be a delay in posting Part II of “Friends for Life”.  Unfortunately my house was broken into and, among other things, my laptop with all of my wrting was stolen.

We have often joked about the bad luck that seems to plague my family and for years I have refused to believe in it.  Now after experiencing two floods, two fires, two robberies, famine (if living on saltines and water counts), and already having been diagnosed with one incurable disease I am slowly becoming convinced that it may be real.

I don’t know if the hospital I was born in was built on an ancient Indian burial ground thereby angering the spirits, or whether my Mom pissed off an old Gypsy woman passing through town who put the Curse of the Black Cloud on her, but clearly something is going on.  Right now I’m just waiting patiently for the plague of locusts to descend.

However, over the last few years several workmen have been forced for one reason or another to enter the crawl space under my house and they tell me they’ve never seen as many different kinds of spiders or such massive quantities as live under my home.  I fight them off daily as they try to take over my house entering through any crack or crevice they can find.  So maybe the plague is already upon me and just taking a different form?

McKenzie James


Adventures in home making


I never intended to be a homemaker, not because of disdain but rather because I am rarely impressed with my organizational or cleaning skills. Yet in this in between year of life that I also never intended to have I find myself enjoying the process entirely too much. A job is going to be an extreme hindrance in my propensity for cleaning the kitchen and catching up on my shows, not to mention my coffee dates with girlfriends and the new hobbies of sewing and pencil sketching that I have picked up. I’ve come to enjoy my leisurely mornings of juice, coffee and a run followed by clean up and then writing. When one of my mentors suggested we meet for coffee at 9 AM I gasped audibly.

“Does it have to be that early?”

One morning I was feeling particularly inspired after several days of half heartedly keeping up with everything and decided to tackle the Everest of dishes in my sink. Cleaning and scrubbing and loading the dishwasher ensued, and satisfied with myself and feeling productive enough to ride out the next two hours without lifting a finger I opened the cabinet and pulled out the empty container of dishwasher soap. A litany of curses flowed out of my mouth and, completely put out, I closed the cabinet door with a flourish and petulantly put my hands on my hips. After all, True Blood was not going to watch itself but somehow these dishes had to be cleaned. I glared at the offending culprit but the snide little green bottle did not magically fill up.

“So clean your dishes will sparkle!” it cruelly teased me with.

I opened every cupboard I could think of wondering if we had any more soap when all of a sudden, like an angel parting to show the holy way, a stream of light fell across my sink and illuminated the deep blue bottle of Dawn that I had been using to clean my non conforming dishes with.

“Soap is soap!” I sang to myself and joyfully filled the entire container in the dishwasher with the magical blue liquid. I shut the door, hit the right cycle and off I went to occupy myself with whatever was next on my list.

Fifteen minutes later my house smelled incredibly clean and I felt an enormous pang of self love at my own brilliant genius. The dishwasher never smelled this clean when we used the boring old dishwasher soap! I practically pranced down the stairs to get a glass of water and then screamed with a combination of anxiety and panic when I saw what awaited me.

The dishwasher was spewing out bubbles like an angry white monster and my counter tops and floor looked like someone had gutted them with a knife and they were oozing soap instead of blood. It was everywhere, small specks of it flying around the air and the dishwasher just kept spilling more and more out as if to punctuate the stupidity of my decision with each passing bubble.

Immediately I thought to myself  “This is all Asher’s fault” followed with an ever increasing sense of dread of what he was going to do when he came home and his house was just a giant bubble, consumed with soap and water. I briefly considered running away and claiming that I had no idea what he was talking about but thought better of it. After all, who was going to believe that the next crime wave was an intruder who was putting the wrong kind of soap in dishwashers? If I was going to make a run for it I needed a believable alibi.

“This is why we need a dog” I muttered to no one in particular.

Finally I faced the fact that the dishwasher was still running, there were still bubbles everywhere and that something had to be done. Standing in my underwear in the kitchen while it was being continuously bombarded with soap bubbles was clearly not a viable option. Using my hands as machetes I cut through the attacking forces until I could see the front of the machine and found the customer service number. Spitting soap out of my mouth I frantically dialed the number and waited.

“Thank you for calling customer service! Your call is important to us and will be answered in the order in which it was received”

“MY KITCHEN IS FLOODING WITH SOAP BUBBLES. IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY AND GOOD SOMEONE ANSWER THE..”

“Hi this is Matthew… ma’am is everything okay?”

“NO. Um. Hi Matthew. I was wondering if say, someone had hypothetically put dish soap in the dishwasher instead of the right detergent, just hypothetically, what would one have to do to fix that?”

There was a quiet silence in which I imagined Matthew covering the phone while laughing and then high fiving his buddies at the customer service line. I hate Matthew. Then his voice came back on the line with an almost unbelieving strain of restraint came forward over the line.

“Miss, please do not put dish soap in your dishwasher. And if you did then run the rinse cycle until there aren’t any more bubbles, it should only take a few cycles”

I stared at the mountain of bubbles cascading out of the dishwasher and wondered if the angry sounds emitting from the machine were normal or if the soap had worked its way into the inner pipes of the house. I imagined lying in bed that night reading to Asher and having the pipes groan and burst, the soap bubbles frothing in revenge until finally the walls and ceilings exploded in an ecstatic display of clean white lace. He was not going to be pleased.

Arming myself with three towels and disposable gloves that I imagine psychopaths also keep stock of I took to battling the soap with ferocity. I cleaned, swept and chopped at the bubbles until finally I could see the controls of the dishwasher.

16 rinse cycles and three hours later, the bubbles had subsided and my floors were spotless. It is exhausting business, channeling Lucille Ball.

That evening the door opened and in walked Asher. I was attempting to play off the whole incident as non-chalantly as possible which as I came skidding down the stairs to greet him was instantly betrayed by the look on my face.

“Baby why does it smell like a Laundromat in here?”

I sighed inwardly and related the events as calmly as I could. He ducked his head down and pursed his lips, attempting in vain to keep the smile to himself but it burbled out of him and shook his shoulders. He does the only thing he can which is wrap me in a hug and wonder how on earth this tornado of a girl hasn’t burned his house down yet, and worse yet how it is that even if she did the story would surely be worth the ashes.


The Long Good-Byes


In my experience breaking up isn’t as hard to do as the song suggests.  The actual break-up is usually short and sweet.  The hard part is the much longer good-bye that takes place inside your own head for months, sometimes years, after the relationship ends.  The things you were too polite to say; the things you wish you’d said but you know they couldn’t hear, and; the questions you wish you’d asked but knew they wouldn’t answer honestly.

NOTE:  Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Dear Garei (pronounced Gary),

                I know you think spelling your name strangely makes you unique and interesting but really it just makes people think your parents were stupid.  No, I don’t think smoking pot and drinking daily is a normal pastime for a middle-aged male unless he’s a total loser.   It’s called addiction.  Did you really think a woman would continue to respect a man who couldn’t make it home from the bar without stopping for more beer at the grocery store and then had to ask her to come in with him because he didn’t have any money to pay for it himself?

 Dear Geoffrey,

I told you the first day we met that I had no problems dating a recovering alcoholic but that if you ever took another drink the only word you’d hear from me again was good-bye.  Did you think I was kidding?

Dear Frank,

                You have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to such an extent that you can’t fit anything, or anyone, new into your daily routine.   Astronauts go to the moon with less planning than it takes you to go to Hawaii for a week.   Just for the record, having sex between 3 and 6 in the afternoon won’t fit most working women’s schedules even if that is the only time of the day when your “mojo” is working.  Plus, it was just plain stingy of you not to share your blueberries with a woman you were willing to share your bed with.

 Dear Paul,

I can’t believe you didn’t even call to apologize after the woman you failed to mention you were living with chased me across the yard and tried to pummel me.  I was pleased to note as I drove away that she had redirected her aim toward the true villain of the affair.

Dear Samuel,    

               Exactly how long had you been sleeping with the woman you told me you’d “just met”?

 Dear Bruce,

I vacillated for months between wondering if you were the cruelest man I ever dated, or simply the craziest, until one day a good friend reminded me that the two are not mutually exclusive.

Dear Larry,

               Please stop calling me.  No, I’m not mad.  Sadly I never cared enough to get mad.  The truth is you simply bore me.

 Dear Steven,

You’d pull me towards you and as soon as I got close you’d push me away.  I still can’t decide if it amused your ego or if you really were that confused.  Regardless, it was suppose to be a relationship – not a swing set.

Dear Geezzz,

                We haven’t broken up yet.  We’ve barely begun to see each other.  But you did say you’d like to see your name on my BLOG. 

               When you do break up with me I suspect you’ll do it using very few words in the same strong, responsible, calm way you take care of everything else.

 

McKenzie James

October 6, 2011


Lulu


The other night when Asher and I were preparing ourselves for sleep, I looked up onto his dark wall and noticed a spider comfortably squatting above one of the picture frames. Turning to Asher, I politely pointed out that there was an intruder in the room.

“I know, and when you’re sleeping he’s going to come and crawl right onto your face” he responded.

I’m not particularly afraid of spiders, a trait which Asher and my father seem to think can be broken with enough grotesque images of flesh mutilating arachnids. However both their attempts to instill this paranoia in me have only proven to me that spiders are about as snobby as cats, and generally like to be left alone. In response to Ashers picturesque night time pillow talk of how spiders were going to slowly scavenge parts of my anatomy, I decided to name the spider Leroy.

I have an unfortunate habit of naming most creatures and inanimate objects in my life, thus creating intense attachment to things that were not meant to last a lifetime. My cactus is named John Wayne, my bike Ted. Now there is Leroy the spider and, of course, the one time a slug came in with the garden collection he was promptly named Gary. When I asked Asher if he had seen Gary the next morning, he looked at me curiously and asked who Gary was.

“The slug that was on the lettuce, I put him on the glass and now he’s not there”.

Asher’s eyes just get bigger and he peers at me in utter disbelief.

”Why did you keep him in the house?”

So it goes, with me collecting friends left and right and Asher shaking his head and cursing under his breath as slugs, spiders, and cacti assort themselves like old drinking partners along our windowsill.

One sunny day, I managed to find myself running meaningless errands in an attempt to avoid the cleaning ladies at the house, and while walking up the curb to the grocery store around the corner I heard a faint and distressing peeping from a baby bird struggling for life. The pavement was hot, and from the perspective of the little creature looked like a barren, flat desert being marauded by large screaming figures and metal boxes on four wheels. I kneeled next to the bird and then looked around for its nest. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, but returning it to its home seemed like the best idea. I couldn’t find the nest anywhere, so the next step was to call my best friend, who happens to be a biologist, and an avid nature lover, and therefore would know a lot more than me about what to do next.

“Let it die” she heartwarmingly said.

“I can’t let it die its little and bald and ugly! No one else is going to save it!” I was aghast at the idea that nature had any idea of what it was doing.

“Fine. Then find its nest. Don’t touch it, whatever you do. And if you do touch it, don’t bring the diseases over to me”

Horrified I searched my car for some container I could save the little bird in. Finally I found one, and brought it back safe and sound to my backyard. The cleaning ladies were still at the house and tilted their heads in confusion to see me frantically running around the backyard clutching tufts of grass and twigs before kneeling down to speak to a Tupperware container.

In a state of perpetual anxiety, I decided to go back to the parking lot and find the nest. As I was rolling my bicycle down the driveway, Asher was pulling in. He rolled his window down to smile at me and say hello and in response I waved my arms over my head and shouted

“There is a baby bird in a plastic box in the backyard! Don’t kill it!”

He blinked twice and then just nodded, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. I of course could still not find the nest and when I got home he wrapped me up in arms that love me entirely too much and said

“Baby girl, we can’t keep it and raise it, and it’s dying right now”

“Lulu” I sobbed “her name is Lulu”

“Okay. But we still can’t keep her”

I nodded and turned away while he did the hard part, a small tragedy in the blink of an eye. Later, we buried the Lulu in the backyard, and Asher made sure she had flowers. It is his unending strength and steadiness that guide me, and that he loves me so much is a testament to why I am still here. He kept his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me in tighter as I dropped a small note alongside the little bird that read:

Life is a shipwreck, but we must remember to sing in the lifeboats

                                    -Voltaire-

That night he wrapped me in blankets and watched cartoons with me until we laughed. Leroy was still sitting comfortably on the wall and Asher breathed evenly next to me, I thanked whatever forces were at work that I had the capacity to live, and more so, to clutch his hand when tidal waves overtook me.


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