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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/ September 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
August/
September 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
On The Verge Of
Scurvy -- Cleavage and Character on the Campaign Trail
By Megan Brown, California
This summer was an interesting one to say the least. I had the
opportunity to drive several hours from home to a desert town, where I
knew nobody, and had no resources. As a volunteer campaign organizer, I
learned how to subsist on donated carbohydrates, how to surrender
control and how to stay cool and hot while registering voters.
My experience with the campaign was a character building one. Quite
frankly, I thought I had enough character, but I guess I needed more. In
addition to developing a healthier sense of entitlement as evidenced by
asking strangers to work with me and give me things, I am also quite
sure I came close to getting scurvy. Scurvy, an infection resulting in
Vitamin C deficiency, was at one time common among people who worked at
sea because of limited access to fresh fruits and vegetables. Enter
vitamin “enriched” packaged foods that give us carbs, fat, and even
folic acid, which is great for pregnant women on the campaign trail.
Luckily I was not one of them or I might have scavenged for health food
bars that also included something a bit bolder.
Campaign work is very much like sales, except I didn’t get paid on
commission. Or paid at all for that matter. But when you think about it,
it’s all sales. I thought the product was good. And since I was expected
to sell more of it than humanly possible, I was prepared to give my
pitch not only over the phone and in person, but at some point also
considered auctioning my candidate on eBay. To maintain sanity and
increase call volume, I learned to delegate to campaign volunteers. Most
of these folks were excellent on the phone, but there’s always that
person who goes off message a bit. Let’s take Ed. Ed volunteered to make
calls to registered voters whose presidential preference was unknown to
the campaign. Instead of following the script, Ed just came right out
and asked if the person on the other end of the line would like to come
in and volunteer. Ed said he figured he would just cut to the chase,
resulting in an average call time of about thirty seconds.
What I enjoyed most about speaking with registered voters is what I came
to identify as courteous disdain. One man I reached on the phone told me
he wouldn’t vote for my candidate if the candidate gave him “seven
bazillion (a lot of zeros!) dollars” and then he said “thank you for
calling” as he hung up. This sort of made me feel like I did growing up
when my mother would say: “I don’t hate you, I hate your behavior.”
While it’s true that some of the folks I encountered sent me to Hell (I
didn’t go), a few people actually thanked me for facilitating democracy.
There was the guy outside the DMV who used my cell phone to call the
county clerk, an elderly lady who had questions I could actually answer,
and that mother of four whose car broke down just after our conversation
about her voting rights. Finally, there was a nice young man who said he
was a felon just so I would leave his doorstep. Hey, you can’t win them
all.
But you can sure look cute trying. It all comes back to the question of
what would my mother say? When I was a teenager, mom seemed to think I
could keep my sexuality hidden indefinitely. At her urging, I used to
wear my school uniform skirt over my gym shorts when I took public
transportation home after volleyball practice. But this summer, when I
was trying to hit my voter registration numbers in the middle of the
day, I had to put mom out of my mind. The desert summer calls for
shorter hems, exposed shoulders, and cleavage.
For better or worse sex does sell, and I intentionally wore short shorts
while walking around an outdoor concert holding a small sign that read
“Voter Registration.” One gentleman jokingly asked whether my mother had
actually named me that. Mom would have told him to “just register to
vote, but keep your hands off of her. She’s only sixteen,” to which I
would add that I am actually thirty one with job-related nutritional
deficiency.
And stockpiles of character.
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 The
Red Mark
By Joe Cappello, New Jersey
Phil is about to open the medicine cabinet when he spots it in the
mirror. Until now, his morning ritual moved along as it did every day,
practically without him. He barely remembered the shower, giving more
thought to the lottery numbers he would play that day than his hands as
they moved the wash cloth over his spindly legs. Until this moment when
his mind skids to a sudden stop at what it now sees in the mirror.
Just above his forehead where he used to part his hair (before he went
bald in second grade), there’s a red mark, insidious, fiery, burning
with unhealth. Phil let’s out an “Aaaahhh” as he takes a step back. He
turns sideways, his paunch punctuating his profile. Take another look,
he thinks; you must have been mistaken. His round eyes bounce from
stomach to mirror. “Aaaahhhh!” It’s still there. He brings his nose
closer to the mirror. He shrinks back.
He clutches both sides of the sink. He knows what these types of
blemishes mean. He never gave it much thought; he wasn’t a sun
worshipper. Besides, he hated the gooey sun blocks, especially when he
applied it to his head. It always streaked, white and oily and made his
head look like a glazed donut. Now, he is paying for his lack of
concern.
He doesn’t know how, but he’s got to tell his family. His wife,
Christine, is probably starting breakfast. He can hear the twins,
Jennifer and Jerry, listening to Sesame Street waiting for their mom to
call them to the table. Phil breathes deeply and senses their presence,
tranquil, content, the kids mesmerized by Big Bird and Christine pouring
cereal in time to the music on her Bose radio (forgetting about the two
eggs frying into oblivion as she hums some Rolling Stones tune). Serene
worlds, peaceful ones, that he is about to shatter. The thought shakes
him.
His thoughts rewind to work and Phil thinks about Wiley Davis, his rival
for the Marketing Director’s job. He removed the double A batteries from
Wiley’s desk clock and made him late for an important meeting. He
spilled a coke on Wiley’s lap just as an important client entered the
room. As Wiley shook his hand, Phil stood behind him and mouthed the
words, “Peed his pants” to the client. Wiley left work yesterday in time
to see his car being towed from the lot (Phil reported it stolen a few
minutes before).
How could he do those things to Wiley? What does the job matter now? He
collapses in a heap on the shaggy white throw rug his wife bought only
yesterday from Wal Mart (on sale for $3.95, thanks to cheap Chinese
labor). He places his hands over the top of his head where the red mark
has taken over that part of his body for now, no doubt planning a full
fledged assault on the rest of him. With great effort, he stands up
covering his head and eyes as he faces the mirror. He removes his hands
and shakes his head. He stops suddenly.
Do I believe what I am seeing, he thinks. The red mark. It’s gone. That
can’t be, these things don’t disappear. He quickly gives his head a
three stooges swipe with both hands searching for the spot where the
mark resided only moments ago. His eyes are suddenly attracted to his
left hand where a red speck, similar in size and color to the one that
he had seen on his head, appears on his palm just below the pinky. He
looks at it with monkey like curiosity. He pokes at it gently with the
index finger of his right hand. Once again, only harder, and this time
it winds up on the tip of his finger.
Damn, he thinks. A speck. He brings his finger closer to his eye so that
he can get a better look. A speck of nothing, a piece of miniature
garbage that somehow found its way on to his head. Phil pauses then with
one motion, wipes his index finger on the side of his underwear and
reaches for the floss.
Got to hurry, he thinks, before the Stones groupie ruins the eggs and
the little buggers eat what’s left of the cereal. He smiles broadly in
the mirror as he thinks that maybe…just maybe... this red mark thing
might work on Wiley.
© Copyright
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Here's
What Really Happened
By Pierce DeBauche, Wisconsin
People always ask me: How did you get that burn on your hand? Did you
fall asleep next to a lit stove? Did you get too close to a roman candle
at a Fourth of July party? But I merely reply, "No, it's from sulphuric
acid."
It happened on my way home when I was still in high school. I went
around to the back parking lot to take a trail that went up a hill and
through a patch of woods, when suddenly something caught my eye. It was
one of those rare moments in nature that eye-witnesses brag about seeing
for years, yet whenever a picture is taken it always comes out blurry: a
battle of the over-acheivers.
The mathletes, clad in red windbreakers with an enlarged plus sign in
white embroidered on their back, were coming from the east; approaching
from the west, in dull brown tweed jackets, was the Junior Historical
Society. I could tell, as both groups took the flying V formation geese
use when heading south, that it was going to get messy. This I could not
miss so I dove behind the football team's parked coach bus: knowing
neither group would dare come near a vehicle that transports their
living nightmares.
The mathletes leader, a kid named Spencer whose copious pimples offset
the thickness of his glasses, was the first to start. "I just heard an
interesting tidbit from Miss Shilling the librarian. She says you
requested the library's new extension for the Hi-dork-ical society to
practice in after school." At this the two mathletes on either side of
him gave each other a high five, but missed, hitting each other on the
nose instead.
"Yeah, we did," replied Egwin, the squat JHS captian who was showing
signs of premature balding. "Are you and the bad-breath-aletes going to
do something about it?"
With a quick retort Spencer snapped back "You're going to go from a
triangle to a trapezoid when we're through with you!"
With a gleam in his eye Egwin yelled "The damage George W. Bush did to
the Republican Party is microscopic campared to how bad we are going to
wreck you!"
Spencer turned red in the face, blurting out "Before we're finished
there are going to be more pieces of The National Honors Society than
there digits in pi!"
Egwins eyes suddenly lost their luster, turning into puffy red balls. In
a whimpery yelp he cried out "'President' Al-Bashir is going to take
notes on how we eliminate all of you so fast and efficiently!"
At this Spencer grew a grimacing look comparable to that of an
aggravated duck, and began flailing his hands at Egwin's face. Egwin
began to cry, galvanizing both parties into a clumsy melee. It was
insanity. Loafers were flying through the air, ink sploched all their
faces and clothing as a few dozen pens from pocket protectors were
broken, and there were so many pairs of glasses shattering that it
sounded as if the Notre Dame Cathedral was being demolished. When
suddenly, right over the center of the brawl, a small circular shadow
appeared. It kept growing larger and larger until SPLAT! My hand, which
was hugging the side of the bus closest to the scuffle, became enflamed.
Everyone in the battle stopped and began screaming; anyone within
earshot would have thought there was a slaughterhouse for swine nearby.
I looked up onto the hill behind the parking lot: there was Phil, the
head of the Physics club rolling on the ground laughing. To his left was
an enormous wooden catapult, and to his right was a giant sign reading
"History and Math are alright, but Science is KILLER".
© Copyright
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Mom's
Tears Nab Olympic Gold
By Laurie Fabrizio, Minnesota
First there was Michael Phelps, then there was Shawn Johnson, but the
big scuttlebutt seems to be surrounding a local Minneapolis mother of
two, who recently received a gold medal in the latest post Olympic
event.
“Endurance Crying.”
Given that the Olympics coincide with the time that parents are sending
their children off to college, it seemed only fitting that the Olympic
committee add this post event to what had been a spectacular
competition.
Michele Phelps’s mom’s tears were captured by national television, but
her moment in the spotlight was short lived when “Minnie Mom,” (as she
is affectionately referred to) captured the headlines as she skyrocketed
in the “empty nester polls.”
She drove her daughter to college, tears streaming down her cheeks. The
state police pulled her over after water was seen gushing out of the
driver's door. She was ticketed for driving with an obstructed view from
the soggy tissues piled in her rear window.
Eye Witness news was first to report Minnie Mom’s unfortunate encounter
as she was headed back to the privacy of her own home.
The event began drawing curious onlookers and Olympic judges who had
recently returned from Beijing. CNN and Fox News were soon parked on her
front lawn, anxiously awaiting the latest tissue count.
“Wow, her speed of dabbing and wiping is utterly amazing,” reported a
Fox news reporter. “There hasn’t even been any sleeve action.”
With in days, she was reported to have set the world record for "most
tissues used in a single day." The Olympic judges voted unanimously to
award her the Gold medal and declared “Endurance Crying” the hottest
event to watch in the 2012 games.
Plagued by Proctor & Gamble phone calls, she signed an extremely
lucrative deal to be their new spokesperson.
Seeing her youngest off to college was extremely traumatizing for this
veteran mom. She and her daughter had a history of singing off key to
their favorite songs when they played on the radio.
Minnie Mom was convinced that there was a cosmic conspiracy by radio
personalities, when the same songs played every time she stepped foot in
her car, resulting in a sobbing frenzy. She was spotted by local
paparazzi on a recent trip to the grocery store, when she had her face
buried in the air conditioning vent, attempting to dry her eyes.
Petco and PetSmart sent free dog treats to Minnie Mom, after it was
reported that she was using her daughter’s dog as a large tissue. Both
are in mourning and have finally agreed to see separate therapists.
Minnie Mom’s husband was supportive during this traumatic ordeal, but he
drew the line when he came home from work one night and discovered their
daughter’s room was now a shrine. Everything was incased in plastic, her
favorite junk food was placed on her candle lit desk as Mom hummed
Kumbaya.
“This has to stop,” he shouted out of desperation.
“You don’t understand, you’re not a Mom,” she said stringing her
daughter’s baby teeth.
But wait. Her husband had a point. She could go see her when ever she
wanted.
Mom’s shrilling rendition of Kumbaya screeched to a halt.
Only twenty minutes away…think of the possibilities. She could meet her
for lunch, restock her dorm room and unload some of those darn crates of
tissues that Proctor & Gamble had sent her. Wait… she could supply the
entire campus. Cold and flu season was looming on the horizon and she
would have a captive audience.
The sniffling stopped, the pool of tears at her feet began to dry, and
the dog stopped howling, relieved the torture was over.
She had a new purpose in life.
Minnie Mom has set up shop outside her daughter’s dorm room, as she
offers free tissues to passing college students. She proudly displays
her newly earned gold medal. No tear goes unwiped and no nose is allowed
to run.
The Dean is considering filing a restraining order.
© Copyright
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Stick
Shift
By Jean Follmer,
California
I turned 16 in 1986 and was given the
family station wagon to drive. If you’re envisioning a large, clunking,
gas-guzzling wood-paneled, Ford Country Squire in metallic peat, relax.
My car wasn’t that eye-catching. My wheels were attached to a
murky-white automatic-transmission Subaru wagon with a tiny 1.8 liter
engine and manual windows. But it had 4-wheel-drive! That one fancy
feature came in handy during my first two driving (sliding) winters in
Chicago.
My little brother got his license at the beginning of winter #3. Unlike
me, he was willing to plunk down his own cash to drive a cooler car than
the family wagon. He became the proud owner of a Chevrolet Camaro (think
Dead Milkmen) complete with a “Stussy” bumper sticker. The Camaro was
not equipped with 4-wheel-drive or automatic transmission…enter the
Subaru.
It was a dark and snowy night and my brother borrowed the Subaru to go
out with his girlfriend. I still have questions about what happened, but
I’m told that a blind, crazy woman with a purple mohawk lost control of
her Ford Pinto and plowed into the Subaru. My brother was unharmed, but
the Subaru was dismembered. I can still see it sitting at the body shop
the next morning…lonely, violated and covered in purple hair. After the
crash, my brother drove us to school in the Camaro. He kindly offered to
teach me how to drive it and that seemed like a good idea. After killing
the engine countless times, we called it a day when I put it to rest on
the railroad tracks. Neither of us pursued further lessons.
That was it for “driving a stick” for 20 years. By that point, I was
married with two kids and drove a loaded, automatic-transmission Nissan
Quest minivan – FAST! You get the picture…stay-at-home-mom with Bose
speakers, highlighted hair, Kate Spade sunglasses, padded bra (the kids
had not been kind) and a sarcastic mouth. Talk about a cool, yet common
mental picture. This was the point that my husband decided to dump his
foxy company-issued cornflower-blue Ford Taurus for a gunmetal-gray
Infiniti G-35 coupe. He decided he was going to finally teach me how to
drive a stick. We drove to a deserted parking lot in suburban Houston
and I got behind the wheel. Despite my husband’s incredibly annoying
teaching style (which includes much repetition and little patience) it
didn’t take long for me to get the hang of it. Full of shock and awe, I
drove home through the flat, forgiving streets of Houston…victory…I
could drive stick! But, wait, there’s more!
A few months later I had another “opportunity” to drive the Infiniti. My
husband had ridden his bike to the gym to work out. He called to say
he’d forgotten the key to his lock and asked me to come get him. Uh
oh…the Infiniti was parked behind my van in the driveway. He was
supposed to park on the street! I nervously entered the Infiniti, pushed
in the clutch and turned it on. I moved the stick into “reverse” and
killed it. I killed it a couple more times before my cell phone started
ringing. It was my husband. “WHAT!” I shouted into the phone. “Where are
you?” he asked. “I’m in your @#$%^&* car & I can’t get it out of the
driveway!” “What do you mean?” he stupidly asked. I hung up. He called
back again. In protest, I opened the door & threw my phone into the
lawn. I tried again, got it into reverse and backed out. I shifted into
1st gear, but didn’t turn the wheel quickly enough and crashed into the
curb in front of our house. Realizing defeat, I turned off the car, put
on the hazards and got out.
The kids and I got into the van and drove to get my husband from the
gym. As we rounded the corner onto our street, he saw his Infiniti
parked at a perfect 45 degree angle with hazards flashing. He wouldn’t
stop yelling and I couldn’t stop laughing. Shortly after we pulled in
the driveway, our neighbor came over to find out what happened. He had
wondered if my husband had driven home drunk and “parked” his car. While
I would have loved to perpetuate that belief, I was stone-cold busted. I
cannot drive a stick-shift. I will never drive a NASCAR. I am forever
doomed to the Richard Petty “ride-along”.
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Easter
By
Elesa Hagberg,
Utah
The true meaning of Easter is a tricky
thing to teach to a 15 month old little boy, so I didn’t even try. I was
pretty sure the main thought in his head Easter morning was going to be,
"Yea! A basket full of stuff for me to throw on the floor!"
So I just
focused on restricting his sugar intake. I stuffed my husband's basket
with a ridiculous amount of candy, but for Baby, I simply filled his
basket up with grass and toys, and then gave him animal crackers, fruit
snacks and just a few jelly beans. It was a good plan. He was still very
little and I'm sure he didn’t notice. But somehow my plan was thwarted.
Those "few" jelly beans I gave him seemed miraculously to multiply in
his basket because he was eating one every time I saw him. And of course
he didn't actually eat them at all, instead he liked to suck off the
candy coating, and then drop the slimy jelly innards onto the carpet.
Also, he kept making the "I'm stuck" noise and I would find him trying
in vain to get the Easter grass off his sticky fingers. I would pull it
off and wipe off his hands and face, but before I knew it he was making
the noise again, and I would catch him with a sticky face, sticky
fingers, Easter grass stuck all over the place, and little jelly
carcasses all over the floor.
I started to think that, unawares, I must have dropped a handful of
jelly beans on the floor somewhere and with his Baby-Radar he had found
them, so I spent a while crawling around with my face pressed to the
floor, looking under all the furniture. I didn't see anything untoward,
but I wasn't convinced, so I kept dropping to the floor real suddenly,
thinking that if I was fast enough, I could catch the sneaky beans
before they had the chance to run away. Fast though I was, I didn't find
any jelly bean hang out spots underneath my bookshelf, but my highly
advanced surprise tactics did enable me to uncover the answers. His
father was giving them to him.
Well, we have a good marriage because I don't nag and he always acts
very innocent when confronted. And, since it was Easter, I decided to
let it go. Besides, it seems that the bean supply had finally been
depleted; thankfully. Before long it was time to get dressed. I gathered
up my little monkey so that I could put some clothes on him, and found
him to be quite the ball of energy. No little boy wants to sit still
while his clothes are changed, but we usually do all right. Now,
however, it was all I could do to get him to stay in my lap. It was like
a tiny explosion of little arms and legs. And he didn't cry. Oh no. He
was having a great time; giggling his little head off while he squirmed
like a piranha in my arms. Luckily I remembered that he'd had quite a
bit of sugar, otherwise I might have been concerned. It was like trying
to put a T-shirt on a Tornado. I managed it finally, in a state of shock
at the awesome power of the sugar high, and he sped off like a demon.
After that I had to lie down for a minute to catch my breath. In that
moment I couldn’t help but wonder what my mother must have suffered at
the mercy of my sweet tooth. Not to mention the general decay it caused
to my teeth and the bulges to my body. I resolved then and there never
to let my Baby have any of that evil sugar ever again. Now that was a
good plan. It would be tricky to pull off, but I was sure I could do it.
I just had to think it through. In the mean time, I wandered off to find
myself some marshmallow peeps.
http://elesahag.blogspot.com
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Famous
Quotes Revisited In The Joseph Household
By Stephen Joseph, India
So here I am, having turned
forty years old, married with two small but growing children. I have no
debts to speak of, I love my job at the bank, and I don’t have an ounce
of fat on me. Thankfully, I am married to a nice enough woman. Or so I
thought. She takes care of our children, she manages the household
affairs with aplomb and she regularly puts out. But this state of peace
and happiness in the Joseph household came to a blistering halt at last
year’s Christmas party. I have thought back on some famous quotes that I
have heard over the years and I have taken time to reflect on how these
well-known quotes apply to my sudden twist of fate.
1. “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”
Everybody knows that Neil Armstrong made this famous statement when he
set foot on the moon back in 1969. But in the Joseph household, I made
this same statement when my wife finally agreed to hold a Christmas
party in our house after ten years of failed negotiations with her.
2. “Can’t we all just get along?” Sure Rodney King uttered these famous
words back in the 1990s after the infamous Los Angeles police beating
video surfaced. But I had occasion to utter the same phrase as well. It
was just an innocent butt- grabbing in a state of drunken stupor at our
first Christmas party, but unfortunately for me, the posterior I grabbed
on that fateful night belonged to none other than my wife’s sister. I
never realized that my two seconds of folly when my cranium was
saturated with vodka would cost me so much grief. First of all my wife
saw me doing the misdeed. She surmised (correctly) from that fleeting
incident that there was more to the story than just a one-time act of
marital mischief by a drunken husband. I tried to deny everything to my
suspicious wife but she would have none of it. Waving a vodka bottle in
my hand, I asked my wife for forgiveness by mimicking, “Can’t we all
just get along?” She didn’t take too kindly to my feeble attempt at
contrition. The sarcasm likewise didn’t go over too well with her.
3. “A day that will live in infamy.” President Franklin D. Roosevelt
etched these famous words into our collective memory in response to the
Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. But in the Joseph household, I had
occasion to use this same phrase. Shortly after the Christmas party
incident, the sister (she the villain in my story) had the nerve to tell
my wife that this was not the first time that we had been intimate. The
truth is, the sister and I had a thang going on for the past ten years.
But my wife wasn’t supposed to know of this. The day that the sister
revealed everything to my wife was in fact, a day that will live in
infamy in the Joseph household.
4. “Na, na, na, na, na, na, na na, hey, hey, goodbye.” Some unknown
singing group sang this little diddy and it has been played and replayed
at everyone’s party for ages. Unfortunately for me, my wife sang this
same song to me as she served me with the divorce papers. I will never
forget the punishing words she used as she threw my belongings onto the
road: “You wait and see. I’ll screw your happiness.” Ouch!
5. “I’ve got all my life to live; I’ve got all my love to give, and I’ll
survive, I will survive.” Gloria Gaynor sang these famous words back in
the 1970s as an anthem to feminism, a tribute to women’s independence
and emerging self-confidence. After the court ordered me out of the
house I paid for, I too became a philosopher of sorts, singing the same
anthem to any gullible single woman who would listen to and understand
my tale of woe and misery.
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Banking
On The Tooth Fairy
By Sue Langenberg, Illinois
Income from the tooth fairy was my last financial windfall. It was a
whole quarter, shiny and solid found beneath my pillow one Sunday
morning in the second grade. That year, with my extra quarter in my
piggy bank, my school picture looked like a jagged-tooth wolf in
pigtails.
Then with inflationary tooth fairies of the time, my next windfall was
in the third grade with a fifty cent piece. That was big money then,
with its etched eagle and solid silver promise. A half dollar weighed
heavily in your pocket and went far at the dime store.
That was my last real income that meant meaningful profit. Unless you
count, of course, the 50 cents-per-hour babysitting income here and
there in high school. But expenses kept up at the same time because
there was always a new shade of white lipstick to buy.
I got my first job, and it’s been down hill ever since.
These days, financial profit still requires the banking services of the
tooth fairy. She flies past, invisible, with imaginary money whipping
around in the imaginary e-atmosphere creating assets in your mind only.
And there are no coins under the pillow to prove that you actually have
physical money.
I think I heard a tooth fairy flit past the other day. I was going to
tell her that I was out of the losing teeth business but would be happy
to have her services later when they fall out. She waved her wand and
said, “Sell.”
So I propped my feet up on the desk and phoned my broker. He also had
his shiny shoes on the desk and leaned back with his designer
three-piece suit and conservative tie. His costume and glass desk meant
that I would be instantly rich along with all his other clients that
believe pigs fly.
I had a slick look on my face and talked from the side of my mouth. I,
too, was dressed to get rich. I had on my thread-bare sweat pants with
holes in the back, seedy tee-shirt that read the name of the last dead
end job I had and worn sneakers, green with grass stain.
“Sell,” I said with a sophisticated tone that meant great things in my
bank investments.
“Sell what?” he was aghast. Oh, whoops. How do you define “assets”
again? He carefully explained that in order to sell something, you have
to have something.
I forgot about that. I went through the list of my assets and was
prepared to have the upper hand. What does a goofy broker know, anyway?
“I’ll have you know,” my head swiveled, “I have more leftover knitting
yarn in six different baby colors than the nearest yarn shop.” I looked
around for more assets. “Furthermore,” I continued, “the contents of
every room in this house is worth all the king’s men on E-bay with a
clawed tub thrown in.”
I was on a roll now. “If I sold all my out-of-print books about
nineteenth century operas and Mrs. O’Leary’s cow in Chicago, someone in
this country would pay premium for these finds. Even my tooth flossers
are high-end quality. Sell!”
I guess my broker hung up. Even the tooth fairy flew away.
One of these days, maybe I’ll actually have some of those flush funds,
toilet securities or striped tube stocks to brag about. Then I can sell
my irresponsible debt and have more money than I can find.
Meantime, I am waiting for the tooth fairy to flit back into my life
when my teeth fall out again.
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Wash
Day Blues
By Anita Lanning, Oregon
My Mama grew up on a farm in North Texas during the 1920s, where one
thing was always certain: Monday was wash day.
Laundry was an assembly-line affair: A large metal tub filled with water
heated on the wood stove inside the house was where Grandma scrubbed the
clothes on a washboard, lathering them with a bar of soap. Alongside was
a second tub, rinse water in which my Aunt Lona vigorously rubbed the
just-washed items on yet another washboard until they were soap-free.
Aunt Vila would then wring out the wash, hand it off to Mama who would
hang the laundry on nearby clothes lines.
Another step in the process was bluing, a liquid that whitened and
brightened clothes to prevent "tattletale gray." Mrs. Stewart's Bluing
came in a metal container and a few drops were mixed with the rinse
water for those articles to be "blued". Until it was time to use it, the
container sat on one end of a long wooden board balanced between two
sawhorses.
One particular wash day, the local preacher dropped by for a visit.
Grandma stopped scrubbing when he walked into the yard. He was new to
the area, getting acquainted with his parishioners by making house
calls. He was dressed in a cream-colored suit and a straw hat to match,
which he doffed politely as he greeted Grandma and acknowledged her
three daughters.
"Good mornin', Reverend," Grandma said. "Mr. Mills is down at the field
right now." She knew the preacher would want to talk to the man of the
house. Then, "That was a mighty good message yesterday."
"Why, thank you, Miz Mills," the preacher smiled, pleased at her comment
on his sermon. "I was glad to see y'all at service."
"Would you like to set a spell and wait for Mr. Mills?" Grandma offered.
"He shouldn't be too long." She motioned toward the makeshift bench near
the wash tubs. "The girls and I need to get on with the wash, if y'all
don't mind."
The preacher nodded, moving toward the bench. Just before he sat down,
Mama realized the error of her ways. "Reverend, wait!" she cried out.
Alas, it was too late. The preacher sat on the bench, it tipped up
behind him and the container of bluing lifted into the air, its bright
blue liquid arcing skyward, headed directly toward the Reverend.
Lona, Vila and my mother watched in stunned silence, their eyes
following the blue streak above them until it reached its final
destination and soaked the preacher, now sprawled on the ground. The
container hit the dirt with a resounding thunk while the preacher's
cream-colored suit, drenched with bluing, turned the color of the sky.
Mama and her sisters struggled to control gales of laughter, Grandma
rushed over to the preacher exclaiming, "Oh, my stars," over and over.
"Girls, get some towels," she shouted at her daughters. "Hurry now!"
"Oh, Reverend, I'm so sorry!" Grandma stammered, not knowing what else
to say as she helped him up. He was speechless. Lona, Vila and Mama
rushed over with a stack of unwashed towels and watched Grandma’s futile
attempt to dry off the preacher’s jacket.
"Well, I declare!" the Reverend finally managed, swiping at the blue
stains on his face and hands. Grandma offered to take him into the house
to get a change of clothes.
"Mr. Mills has something you could wear," she assured the hapless
minister.
Clearly in a state of disbelief, the Reverend declined, saying through
blue lips, "No, Miz Mills, I reckon I'll just head on home."
As he walked across the yard, Grandma called out, "We'll see you next
Sunday then, Reverend." The preacher did not turn around, only waved his
blue hand limply until he disappeared from view. Lona, Vila and Mama
lost control then and giggled for as long as Grandma allowed them to
while she suppressed a smile.
There were a couple of lessons learned that day: Grandma and her
daughters learned that the bench upon which the bluing container rested
should always be well anchored, especially when inviting a visitor to
have a seat at the other end.
And doubtless the preacher had learned that wash day might not be the
best time to go calling on parishioners.
At least not when wearing a light-colored suit.
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When
A Balloon Is A Cell Tower
By Daniel McGinley, Connecticut
Sometimes I fly a balloon.
One day someone is going to get upset and tell me to go fly a kite, and
I will calmly proclaim that I often fly a balloon.
The purpose of these four-foot round helium vessels is to mark the spot
for a proposed cell tower, located with a surveyor’s map and GPS unit.
The balloon is tied to a nylon string and lofted anywhere from eighty to
almost two-hundred feet, in compliance with the cell tower’s projected
height, and it looks quite festive.
The balloons are usually red, but if nothing but bright blue sky is in
the background, black shows better. It all has to do with visibility, so
people can see the balloon clearly, and imagine how the proposed cell
tower will look. It also shows better in the photos I have to take from
as far away as two miles.
When I’ve taken photos from every possible vantage point, a graphics
wizard in the office will replace the balloon with an actual tower in
the pictures, and people can see what it will truly look like from their
backyard barbecue, living room window, or favorite fishing hole. It all
makes for very colorful town meetings, and the occasional lynch mob.
Unless the cell tower is going on your property for a monthly
compensation (often $2,000 dollars a month), it is considered very
obtrusive.
In short, those big festive balloons will get me killed.
“We learned to use the four-footers,” an experienced balloon handler
named Mike told me one day, explaining balloon size. “We used a much
bigger balloon once, and the wind took her down fast, right into a
traffic situation.”
“Traffic situation?” I asked.
He shrugged, explaining the only time a balloon has actually attacked
the public. “No serious injuries . . . a cop was nearby when the balloon
bounced off a car, and sent people skidding.”
“Oooooooooh . . .”
“Not good,” he said. “The early days involved some trial and error.”
It was very impressive, since these balloons have often been the
helpless victims of irate neighbors with scoped rifles. I once lost a
balloon to an aggressive bird at a large farm, dive-bombing the bright
red intruder until it exploded loudly, sending the bird off to regroup
while I sent up another potential victim. Luckily, the rattled bird
didn’t return.
I remember one guy who was outraged that a cell tower was proposed
behind his lovely McMansion, demanding that we “hold on a moment,” while
he made “a quick call to get to the bottom of this invasion upon the
rural character of my neighborhood.”
He produced a cell phone but was unable to make the all-important call,
due to – and I quote -- “lousy cell coverage in my area.”
And let’s be honest, you’re thinking: “Yeah, I want cell coverage, but
do I really want to see that THING ruining my view of:
a) The lake
b) The woods
c) The endless telephone poles and sagging lines that connect our house
phones.
“You wait,” Mike said. “One day towns will rally to protect and preserve
their precious cell towers. A part of our town’s history! An important
nesting site for the purple pleated plovers!”
Such is the human condition. Do you sense the cause of my heavy
drinking?
Once I told an irate woman that the tower would resemble “a towering
ship mast in the distance, approaching shore as eager families awaited
the return of their voyaging loved ones.”
“You’re on crack,” she said, deadpan.
Ah yes, I have seen the ugly town meetings with impassioned mothers
reading bogus and unchallenged research, proclaiming violent death rays
like something Mars would use against us. I have seen frightened
children cowering at their feet, staring at the town fathers who have
sold them all out for decent cell coverage and better communication to
fire and police.
Speaking of police, I’ll never forget the state trooper who braked on a
steep mountain road after spotting me in the early morning hour, about
to enter deep woods with a bright red balloon.
When I turned at the sound of his car halting, he simply asked, “Do I
even want to know?”
“No,” I answered. “You don’t.”
And unlike everyone else, he nodded and drove away.
After all, what possible harm could a red balloon do?
Well, I remember some spirited horses in a big corral once . . .
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You,
Too,
Can Be A Hitman
By Avant Point Guard, New York
Here, at our highly respected institute of
higher education (with the emphasis on high), you too can become a
Hitman, or Hitwoman, just by sending in your application to the
Household Institute of Technology.
Some of our courses:
1.When you wear a stop smoking patch, is it better on your right arm or
your left?
(3 credits) Wed. 5-6 pm.
2. How many questions can a wife ask in one day?
(3 credits) Tues. 6:30 pm. Cocktails at 7.
We are a hopefully credited rehab facility for the formerly single. We
thrive on original research. Here's part of a lecture given by Professor
Bob Wuss, recorded in a squad car en route to the police station:
Yes, thank you, I will have the scotch. No, really, we've been studying
this question of a wife asking questions, and I must say, it's no easy
subject to tackle, but tackle it we did—I got my wife by the ankle, she
dragged me into the kitchen, hit me on the head with a phone—(she was
talking to one of her sisters at the time)—but, where was I--oh, yes,
what has happened recently, is we have had to study the important
related subject, second hand questions. By this method, wives can
actually exceed their daily, allotted regimen of 1500 to 1700 questions
by getting their children to ask questions too. Here, I'll give you an
example, from an actual case study. Put it in the VCR.
"What?"
"Dad, when can we come back in the house?"
"From where? What do you mean?"
"From the exterminator—when is he going to be finished bombing the
house?"
There are whispered comments heard in the background of the tape.
Our case study has just learned an exterminator is coming to bomb the
house. A new added element—the possibility of strangers asking
questions, is added to the mix.
“How do I know? I didn’t even know he was coming. When did this happen?”
”Mom told us to tell you you’ll have to leave when the guy comes to bomb
the house, and to find out when we can come back. Do you have ten
dollars?”
Prof. Wuss hits the pause button to comment:
By this clever method, wives arrange to have their husbands verbally
communicate with their children, without even being there themselves. It
is helpful for wives to have jobs outside the home where they make twice
as much as the husband, which is usually accomplished if the wife is
reasonably attractive. Now, back to the show.
“How much will this cost?”
”Mom said you have to give him a check before he starts, and to not
forget to ask him about the bat. Do you have ten dollars?”
Wuss hits pause button again.
Now, the wife has caused our subject to engage in conversation with the
exterminator. The husband will be asked questions about the bat, like,
did he fly out of the chimney? What did he look like? Did you kill it?
Stuff like that.
Hey, Officer H. Nelson says. Stop hitting the pause button.
Okay, Wuss says.
Back on tape, the subject asks;
“Is he coming about the bat, or the bees in the attic?”
“What, you only have five dollars?” his daughter says.
“Sorry, sweety-pie. What do you need the money for?”
The tape ends, in its graceless way.
It’s too late for the subject to actually get his own questions answered
once he has parted with the cold cash.
Oh, yes, I will have another scotch. What street light?
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Love
Me Tender… Or Just Plain Cooked-to-Death!
By Pam S., Virginia
If there’s one topic that bores and
irritates me enough to want to viciously hurl dried out and grizzled
breasts (not mine… the chicken’s) against the wall… it’s “COOKING.”
Again, I’m the odd-woman out who can’t find a remedy for the “I Gotta
Cook Again Blues.” Okay, eating out is a given. But it’s a bit
embarrassing to attempt to do it three times a day.
My husband of almost forty years and my three grown boys have gotten
used to my ‘absolutely no desire to emulate Paula Deen or Rachael Ray’
bad attitude. To be honest, I just don’t care what these spatula-driven
divas can whip up in only a few minutes. So slap me with a wet lasagna
noodle. The truth just doesn’t hurt anymore.
The first breakfast I ever made for my husband was “Stick-to-it
Waffles.” They didn’t have a chance to stick to the poor guy’s ribs
because they were stuck to the waffle maker…and burnt to a crisp to
boot. Then, there was the macaroni casserole. When I went to serve this
bubbling culinary delight, it lifted (in its entirety) right out of the
bowl.
Hubby’s favorite veggie growing up was asparagus…until I served it
almost every single night as soggy green sticks. He figured a safer bet
would be corn-on-the-cob. That’s difficult to ruin…unless you forget
it’s on the burner boiling madly away while you are busy with more
important things in life.
The truly sad part is that my mother-in-law was a first class cook. She
grew up in New York City amongst many German, Italian and Polish
immigrants. She only had to throw handfuls of this and that into a pot
and she created a gastronomical miracle. I gained twenty five pounds
after I married…and I blame it all on her.
When my kids were young, they would beg me to please buy brownies for
their class because their friends got yelled at by the teacher for
making such a mess trying to peel off the burnt bottoms. It got to a
point where the PTA would avoid me when bake sale time arrived. Instead,
I got phone duty.
When the boys went off to college, they were the only students on campus
who constantly raved about how delicious the cafeteria food was. How
embarrasing is that?
When we lived in England, I wanted to have a proper little birthday
party for my youngest son who was turning four. I decorated the house in
a Sesame Street theme and decided to make him a ‘Cookie Monster’ cake. I
baked the thing and it came out as a humongous fudge-like lump. A
friend’s daughter helped me just shape and mold it so that it finally
looked like some form of monster. The blue icing was a cinch and the
marshmallow eyes stuck to it well. The kids loved it, but their Mums
weren’t thrilled that their Sunday-best pretty little dresses and crisp
shirts and trousers were smeared with chocolate (their plastic forks had
all broken).
A friend in Connecticut invited me over to her house and treated me to a
big slice of her fantastic orange pound cake with drizzling lemon icing.
I copied her recipe and drove back home, thinking that I could double it
and put it into a Bundt cake pan and make it for my husband’s birthday
the next day. I was thrilled after baking it. The only problem was that
I soon got into a tizzy trying to figure out how to get the cake out of
the pan. Not to worry. I drizzled the icing over it and left it there,
thinking that I would just cut and serve from the pan. That evening,
hubby looked happy as a lark. His wife had made a real effort to make
him a cake. He started to cut into the cake stuck to the pan and
grinned, “Hey, this is neat…a cake with a cream filled center!” he
announced. Every single birthday since, we've bought ice cream cakes.
‘Nuff said.
We used to vacation each summer with three other families. One year we
all met at Martha’s Vineyard. Trying to help with the food, I had frozen
my homemade six-inch deep lasagna to bring along for the first night. It
had been a very long drive for many. Nine adults and ten kids waited
patiently for the thing to thaw and cook. None of us regretted heading
out for pizza.
When we have long term company, I only cook and serve five
dishes…chicken or potato salad, lasagna (never higher than an inch
nowadays), stuffed peppers, veggie soup, and mushroomed soaked beef over
rice. If company stays longer than five days, this menu repeats itself.
Most company we have suggests we eat out.
Can you imagine moving eighteen times? Well, that’s our number since we
married. So, when looking for a home, the kitchen is never a priority on
my list. Just give me the plain old sink, stove, oven, and especially
the fridge. I have a lot of “cooking” signs to stick on the fridge…my
very favorite being, “If you don’t like my cooking, lower your
standards!"
Bon appétit!
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Georgian
Elevators
By Brian Tolentino, Minnesota
American elevators are generally civil and
benign constructions of machinery. They don’t try to kill you; they try
to help you. They are generally spacious; lack strange, mysterious goop
dripping on the walls; are not cluttered with trash wrappers and beer
bottles; and they don’t have a small coin slot for you to pay for their
use (at least any I have used). Since they lack a coin slot, you are
saved from the customary procedure of beating and punching the money box
to enable the elevator to process your money which then allows you
proceed to your next destination. Call me overly apprehensive, but I
find it disturbing when I must beat an object before it lifts me six
stories. My vehicle service teacher in high school used to poke fun at
people who, when angry and bitter at their electronics and car parts,
would resort to hitting or kicking them. “Hitting is for dimwits. It
will never make things work.” He used to say. He obviously never went to
the Republic of Georgia for Orthodox Christmas. Georgia has taught me a
simple, three-step protocol for fixing things: 1. Hit it. 2. Curse at it
3. If it still doesn’t work, blame the damn Soviets for their cheap
crap.
The best part about American elevators, though, is their gentleness and
patience. When the doors begin to close a simple nudge or even a
fingertip will stop them. They are in no particular rush. Safety seems
to be their chief concern. Georgian elevators, meanwhile, have no regard
for my clear intentions in both staying alive and keeping my four limbs
functional and connected to my body. I am therefore the strange,
ultra-paranoid American who has a phobia of elevators.
“Brian, hurry up.” The Georgians tell me. “We’re taking the elevator.”
“Ah, umm, that’s okay guys. I think I prefer to walk up seven stories in
the dark over shards of broken glass and dozens of illegal electrical
hookups. I need the exercise.”
Perhaps the strangest thing about Georgian elevators is their size. If
you are a tad larger than a hobbit, a Georgian elevator is rather
unpleasant. A good maximum number is three average-sized people. For
some reason, people like to cram and finagle as many people as possible
into elevators. It is sort of like a human jigsaw puzzle. Being 5’6” is
usually advantageous for me while traveling, especially when it comes to
leg room. But when scrunched in a Georgian elevator, it is better to be
tall. While my tall friends usually lurk above everyone where they can
breathe the remaining fresh air, I always seem to have some man’s ass
rubbing against my back while my face is planted in some other man’s
armpit. So besides feeling physically violated while taking the
elevator, I must also listen to a man punch and curse the money box
before we are lifted.
My most traumatizing elevator incident occurred in a hotel in Tbilisi. I
had finished a seven hour train ride from my small village and was
poised to take my first shower in over a month. I checked into the hotel
and, seeing two of my friends standing in the elevator, darted across
the lobby with my backpack hopping on my back. “Must get to elevator.” I
chanted across the lobby. “Must take shower as quickly as possible!”
Yelling English across a lobby where people are quietly reading
newspapers and drinking coffee is a great way to get people’s attention.
So when I lunged between the crashing elevator doors and realized they
were not going to retract, my seven second battle of man vs. machine was
witnessed by the entire lobby. After twisting, pulling, pushing and
emitting several high-pitched screams, I escaped the elevator’s wrath
and found myself drenched in sweat in front of a lobby full of people. I
wanted to explain myself:
“Umm, hello. I am from America and…well…our elevator doors usually stop
for people. I assure you, I am not stupid.”
Unfortunately, with my horrible Georgian accent, my speaking would
probably have generated two reactions:
1.“What language is that strange man speaking?”
2.“You see, the man is nuts.”
So I did what I should have done from the beginning: I took the stairs.
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The
Real Psycho
By Kathy Welch, Nevada
I was on the couch the other night watching
one of those reality shows (the kind I claim to despise) when a mountain
lion attacked me. The savage creature leapt up and ravaged my arm right
when I was about to discover which obnoxious person was getting voted
off. Just latched onto it. There it was stuck inside the predator’s
mouth. I screamed at the top of my lungs forcing my husband to break
down the door to rescue me. Actually, he nonchalantly strolled in from
the other room (ten minutes later), saw the blood gushing from my arm
(by then I had managed to detach my chewed up limb from the beast's
mouth) and said, “Now what has she done?”
She is our cat. Our psychotic and often possessed cat. Okay, she’s not
officially a mountain lion but she’s close.
When Squeak first came to live with us as an adorable seven-week-old
kitten I was filled with joy. That is until I picked her up and she bit
me on the neck.
“She’s like a baby Nosferatu directly from Transylvania,” I told a
co-worker.
I was informed it was a love bite. Her “love bites” soon turned into
“madly in love bites” for I was getting gnawed on several times a day
with extra bonus nibbles on the weekends. Even though I was forced to
survive on a diet of hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin, I didn’t lose a
pound. “Help me,” became my daily mantra as I tried to pry her vampire
fangs from whichever limb looked tasty that day.
“She’s just a little cat,” my husband said every time I was terrorized,
which was every moment spent at home.
“I don’t see open wounds on your body,” I said every time blood oozed
from my veins.
Somehow she only liked the taste of my blood. After consulting other pet
owners, I discovered why.
She considered my husband master of the house and I her equal. “You’re
just another cat to her,” a friend said. I didn’t realize I’d been
licking body parts and visiting the litter box. Another friend told me
to spray her. I had pepper spray that needed to be tested and was ready
to teach my psychotic stalker a lesson when I was presented with a
squirt bottle. “Fill with water and you’re ready for battle,” she said.
I felt like a proud gun slinger with my weapon intact. But there were
times when I forgot my weapon, when I couldn’t locate my weapon, or my
weapon was out of ammunition and I couldn’t make it to the faucet to
reload.
In weak motherly moments, the psycho predator seduced me into allowing
her to sit on my lap. After all, she never sat on my husband’s lap.
“Don’t get sucked in,” he said. And sure enough, I’d be running for the
Band Aids.
Before she grew into a full fledged mountain lion, I couldn’t decide
whether she was Baby Girl Dracula or some other evil creature. The
sounds she emitted when preparing to attack were purely demonic. I
expected her head to start spinning like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.
Most people would have returned the merchandise from whence it came, but
not me. I was determined to mother a loving pet. Having no connections
to Van Helsing, I decided on an exorcist.
Unfortunately, there were no listings in the yellow pages and no one
seemed to have an exorcist’s number handy. I couldn’t approach the
Catholic Church because of that divorce from the first husband so on to
Plan B:
“Spectacular teeth,” Dr Warner said. My exorcist had a degree in
veterinary medicine and a fondness for sharp fangs. He didn’t think
Squeak was a vampire or a four-legged Linda Blair. His diagnosis:
behavioral problems. His solution: drugs.
“This injection contains Deprovera,” he said. I’d heard that word before
at the … GYNECOLOGIST’S?
“No birth control for me,” I said.
He explained something about hormones controlling the animal’s behavior,
not mine. I was ecstatic. For a while. The attacks occurred only a few
times a week as opposed to every day. Life was great. Then the shots
stopped working. She was determined to be a psycho cat who grew into a
full fledged psycho mountain lion eleven years later. Did I say eleven?
As I stare at my very infected arm, from the attack that interrupted my
reality program, I have to wonder: Who is the real psycho?
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A
Conversation With My Sister
By Glanda Widger, North Carolina
I am sure that my younger sister has
attention deficit disorder. Yes, I know she is thirty five.
I don’t care. I swear this is her problem. I offer
as proof a recent phone conversation I attempted
to have with her. I am not sure whether or not she
ever actually absorbed the message, but I doubt
it. Peg tends to not hear what she does not have an interest in.
I dial her number and...
“Hello”
“Peggy, hi it’s Diane. I have some news for you.”
“Really? No, don’t tell me; let me guess. You’re expanding the company.
Wait, it’s something better. I got it. You’re getting married .”
“No, I ...”
“Whew that’s a relief I thought you were going to tell me you wanted to
marry that creepy William.”
“He is not creepy.”
“Is too. I mean, ewwww, he cleans up blood and guts and all that yucky
stuff.”
“He does not. He is a forensic scientist you nit-wit. I have told you
that a dozen times.”
“Right, he cleans up blood and guts. I’m glad you are not marrying him.
You should break off with him Diane. He is gross. It’s like dating a
mortician. What would I tell my friends?”
“I am not dating him Peggy. Listen. I have some...”
“Good for you. I knew you would come to your senses and dump him.”
“He dumped me. Never mind, I have to tell you about mom.”
“He dumped you? What the heck is wrong with that moron. How dare he dump
you. You’re a successful business owner. You could have kept him in
style. Boy wait till I see him. I will tell him a thing or two or
three.”
“Forget it Peg and listen.”
“You got a new boyfriend? I knew it. You always call me first. What’s he
like? Does he want to get married?”
I am gritting my teeth in frustration. I love Peggy; but she can be
somewhat trying on occasion. I have only the highest regard for her
husband. He must have the patience of a saint.
“Peggy, let’s get back on the subject, okay?”
“What subject? No new beau? Darn.”
“Our mother, that’s what subject.”
“What’s mom got to do with you finding a husband? Good grief Diane.
Leave mom out of this. Tell me why you don’t have a boyfriend. You
aren’t getting any younger you know. The old biological clock is running
down.”
“Forget my clock okay? I am trying to tell you...”
“What, what? Spit it out Diane. I swear you procrastinate more than any
human I’ve ever seen.”
“About mom.”
“Aww, come on sis. I am really not in the mood to hear about mom’s
newest disease. I have a major crisis on my hands. The world is not good
today. ”
“What crisis? What happened? Are the kids okay? Has something happened
to Jake?”
“Jake is fine, the kids are fine, the toilet is not fine.”
“The toilet?”
“Yeah, Billy flushed a tennis ball down the darn thing. My whole house
is flooded. That might be a good thing though. Now that the carpet has
to be cleaned and the placed aired out, Jake will have to take us
somewhere for a few days. Yipee . I’ve been hinting for a vacation
forever. Where would you go, sis? The beach? Mountains? Boy thanks for
the idea, this will take some thought.”
“Peggy, Mom is getting married again.” I finally blurt out while she is
drawing a breath.
“That’s nice. Oops, gotta run, the plumber is here. Talk to you later
sis and please find a husband soon. Everyone is driving me crazy calling
all the time to find out if you are serious about anyone yet.”
The phone went dead.
Oh well, maybe I will be able to tell her about mom’s next divorce.
.
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