|
|
|
| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
|
|
|
April/May 2011
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
April/May 2011 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
My Husband Has
Taken Up Tree Planting
By Susan Antony, South Carolina
My dilemma began last Monday afternoon when my husband returned home
from Lowes with three or four fruit trees in the back of his truck. For
the last few evenings he has been hard at work in the backyard digging
holes and planting. Now, I am not complaining about this because trees
are good, and I’ve been delighted that he has been occupied and out of
my hair. But last night—given his track record—when my husband grabbed a
shovel and said, “one more to plant,” I should have known my delight was
about to come to a screeching halt.
After about an hour of absence he stuck his head in the door and called
out for a glass of water, which I promptly readied, ice and all, good
spouse that I am, and then I went outside to hand deliver his drink. I
don’t know what possessed me to go out the front door, when I presumed
him to be planting in the back, maybe it was some kind of sixth sense,
or maybe it was some strange kind of foreboding, but no sooner had I
crossed the threshold when I saw my husband's head bobbing up and down
on the other side of my car. I scurried across the lawn, hand over my
mouth, and there, four feet from the driveway, was a hole.
“What are you doing?” I asked in my not so nice wife voice.
“I’m planting an apple tree,” he responded. His glance never veered from
the hole.
I took a deep breath, and calmly said, “You can’t plant an apple tree
there. Apple trees grow huge. We’ll have rotting apples dropping all
over the neighbors yard, our driveway, and my car.”
I was sure my logic would persuade him to move it because even a
squirrel brain could figure that a tree that grows between 12 and 20
feet high and bears fruit does not belong next to the driveway, but my
husband kept digging and said, “Don’t worry about it. When the tree gets
that big, and if it produces apples, then will talk.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Stop. That tree will have to come down in a
few years. We have a large backyard. Plant it there."
My husband kept digging.
"I know you're not stupid. (Wink, wink.) Don't plant the tree there!” I
screamed. Loudly!
“The tree stays,” he growled in his deep alpha voice, and I knew he
meant it. Then he looked up from the ground and said, “Go back in the
house. I can deal with your mental illness inside, but not outside in
front of all neighbors.”
Why I thought I could reason with someone whose frontal lobe is
obviously broken is beyond me. I had to think of another way, a more
clever way to get through to him. Although extremely appealing, removing
my husband, over a tree, would prove too costly, and possibly time
consuming. And a bout of fisticuffs with a 230-pound gorilla would most
likely prove deadly—to me. So, with "my mental illness" in full swing, I
marched back into the house and Googled, “what kind of soil will kill an
apple tree?”
I feel bad for the little tree, really I do, but it's either my car and
my sanity, or it. And today, I’m headed to Lowes to buy some lime, hide
it under the top layer of soil, and pray for root rot. It's going to be
a slow process, so it's not too late to stop me if you have any other
suggestions.
http://blastfromthepast.blogspot.com/
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
 Possessed
By The Daredevil
By Susan Antony, South Carolina
The Kid learned to ride a two-wheeler, and in the first week of
practicing his new skill, he rode out in front of a car. Twice!
I need to confess something. I am not a young mom. I did the Hollywood
starlet thing. I gave birth to The Kid when I was in my “new twenties.”
And while the mental image I have of myself may be new, my nerves are
not. My poor old nerves are frazzled from four-plus decades of
experience. And, two days ago, after The Kid's second near miss with a
minivan, they reared their ugly neurons.
My body ran down the street, hands in the air, screaming like a banshee
while all the neighbors stood gape mouthed in their front yards. I
yanked The Kid off his bike, and then dragged them both home.
My first instinct was to throw the darn bike in the trash, but I
realized that would be selfishly witchy of me, so I took a different
approach, a more sensible one. Bound and determined to teach The Kid the
rules of the road by example, I pulled my rusty ten-speed out of the
garage.
“Follow me,” I said.
Surprisingly, The Kid listened for once, and the ride went rather well.
We were on the way home, when from a peripheral glace, I spied the dirt
trails near the power lines.
“Come on Kid, we’re going on four-wheeling.” I called out.
The Kid and I had a blast! In fact, The Kid had such a good time, the
next day, he begged me to take him on another “fun” bike ride.
Recently, a dear old friend reminded me, that as a child, I was the
neighborhood purveyor of fun. And now--sniff--my eight-year-old kid
wanted to go bike riding with me. The thought of being a "fun mom," a
"cool mom," swam in my head, and my chest swelled with pride. I wiped a
happy tear from my cheek, ran to the garage, grabbed my bike, and
yelled, “Come on Kid!”
The two of us happily rode off toward the four-wheeler trails.
We chose the exact same route as the day before, but towards the end of
the trail, rather than turn right, The Kid requested to go straight.
Being in an adventurous frame of mind, I agreed. But what awaited us at
was more challenging than anything else we had encountered. At the end
of the trail was a six-foot by six-foot ditch. It looked steep, but not
impossible to cross by bike. My inner daredevil possessed me and I said,
“Kid...let’s do it!”
The Kid went first. I plunged in after him. But, something went terribly
wrong. On the way up, The Kid tipped over. I hit the hand brakes, and
next thing I knew I was on the ground lying on top of the handlebars,
the rear wheel of my bike up in the air.
After I realized what happened, I pushed my bike off me, and then hopped
up to make sure The Kid was fine. He was. In fact, he was laughing at
me. Next, I looked around to make sure no one saw what happened. When
you are my age and fall down, people become overly concerned, making
such incidents even more embarrassing. Fortunately, this time, The Kid
and I were alone. I quickly pulled The Kid’s bike from the ditch, hopped
back on mine, and the two of us rode off into the sunset.
(Today, I have a slight limp, two black and blue goose eggs on my
thighs, and a pedal-bruise on my shin. Thankfully, I don’t have to bend
my wrist to type.)
But even if I could have a “do over” of yesterday, I wouldn’t.
My Kid learned to navigate over small hills, wheel through tire tracks,
and jump mud puddles. The twinkle in his eyes and ear-to-ear grin after
each new accomplishment was worth my few minor injuries any day.
I also learned something about myself I deem to be important. This old
gray nag maybe ain't what she used to be, but she still has guts.
http://blastfromthepast.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Just
A Mom
By Cheryl Burns, Illinois
The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never
existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is
something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh
As I read this quote I screamed “YES!! THANK YOU!” Of course I was in a
doctor’s office and should have kept it down a little. Being a mom
myself, I just couldn’t help myself. It is the wisest quote I ever heard
about motherhood and something to remember when the urge comes to give a
mother a bad rap.
We give birth to these beings and then are expected to know what to do
with them? Not one comes with an instruction manual. Sure there are
books and TV gurus telling us all how to do it the “right” way. I hate
to break it to them but really it’s mostly trial and error.
Just when you think you might be getting a handle on things and can sit
back, put your feet up with a nice big bowl of buttered popcorn
anticipating the delights of the latest chick flick, they come in,
change the channel and put their grubby little hands in your bowl. It’s
never ending. The different ages, challenges, personalities and do I
dare speak of puberty’s wrath. Someone once said teenager is not an age,
it’s a disease.
Even so, we continue to reproduce and sometimes I wonder why? Could it
be simply because babies are so darn cute? Capturing our hearts with
their big, wondrous, loving eyes right before they bait us with a
precious smile. Awww. After that you’re in, hook, line and sinker.
Natures little trick to keep the population going no doubt.
What if we had to birth a teenager, which of course would bring on an
entirely new set of problems in the delivery process alone (sorry for
the visual), but that would fix us wouldn’t it? Literally we would all
scramble to snip, insert or digest a prevention solution and quick!
I recently had to “cut the cord” with my twenty year old sponge master
and giving him those two extra years was pretty generous on my part. He
didn’t see it that way. He just doesn’t get me. I must have skipped the
chapter on teaching my child “How to Identify with your Parents Point of
View in Five Easy Steps”. Something told me to keep on reading…….
I did shed some tears over my bird leaving the nest (ok he got pushed
out but how else are we going to know if he can fly?) I decided to write
him a little prose. It may not make him feel better, but it did tons for
me.
Just a mom
I know you may see me as someone who should have all the answers and
never make mistakes
I know you see me as a servant, a bank and a punching bag (figuratively
speaking of course)
But I’m just a mom
Just a person
Born one fine day in the 1960s, stole the hearts of my parents, grew up,
rebelled, became a wife, then a mother
No training or schooling on the subject, just kinda shootin from the hip
most of the time
Like my mother (love you mom)
Sorry for this surprising news. Sorry you put so much into my role and
not enough into yours. Sorry I can’t be the scapegoat for all your
troubles. Oh, wait, I could be, but it doesn’t work believe me
I tried
If you only knew the pressure to be Supermom, but in real life……just an
ordinary person
The only thing special and unique about me - my love for you, that’s it
I know it’s hard to take, you thinking I was the fairy princess with the
magic wand and all
It was hard for me too
Nothing left to do now but I guess, grow up. It happens to the best of
us someday only difference some pick it up quicker than others. I was
one of the others, too. I know it’s hard, but here’s the good news………YOU
CAN DO IT!
Oh, and did I forget to mention? I love you and………..don’t forget to
write!
Yes being a mom is
complex and we are the subject in just about every therapist’s room
around the globe. But you know we wouldn’t change a thing.
That reminds me, have to add another line………
I’m just a glutton
for punishment…….
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
A
Tragic Tale of When Good Texting Goes Really, Really Bad
By Burton Cole,
Ohio
Every word of the following cautionary tale is true. I know so
because the cautioner texted the tale to me herself. (If you cannot
believe a text, you cannot believe anything.)
Many of you know the texter in question. Some of you are her neighbors
and may wish, after reading the full scale of the horrors within, to
take certain precautions.
However, I cannot reveal her name because I pinky-swore that I wouldn’t.
(Until then, I hadn’t realized a person could pinky swear by text
messages. Modern technology is a marvel.) I think pinky-swearing means
that she gets to break my pinky finger if I rat her out. And her aim, as
is about to be revealed, is a bit unreliable, so while my pinky may be
safe, other parts remain at risk.
This woman – let us call her “Jane,” as it would be good to call her
something – and her husband were attending a very dignified dinner and
Gospel concert with her in-laws when a matter of some urgency arose.
“I had to use the little room,” Jane told me, “but got distracted by
getting a text on my cell phone.
“Anyway, after I accomplished my purpose for going into the little room
by going into an even smaller little room, I opened the door to see in
the mirror the backs of three men. I realized where I was. I was in the
men’s little room!”
She wondered why she didn’t notice the difference in decor and, uh, wall
hangings when she wandered in even if her eyes were glued to her text
messages. She wondered if there were guys in the room when she walked
in, guys who watched in wonder as she closed herself inside the even
smaller little room.
Jane wondered how she would escape with her dignity. Forget dignity, she
just wondered how she could escape.
She considered calling her husband out in the fancy restaurant theater
but knew the men in the men’s room with her would hear a female voice
coming from a hallowed place that it shouldn’t.
Then she tried texting him (a risk considering that texting was
responsible for her predicament in the first place) but her fingers
“were too rattled to cooperate.” She also forgot that he doesn’t have
text messaging.
“So, I prayed, then looked under the door for shoes – big, black ones –
all this time considering my options, like, ‘Gentlemen, we have an
unfortunate situation here, and I think the best option for all of us is
to close our eyes, count to five and then open them and forget this ever
happened!’ – and of course that would be my chance to run.”
I assume Jane meant to keep her eyes open so as to find the correct door
this time, but I cannot be sure about this detail.
“But, after a few minutes,” Jane said, “there was only one pair of big,
black shoes left and they walked into the stall on the other side of me.
“Oh, this was just too weird!
“I knew this was my window and ran out of the room! And then, of course,
when I opened the door, I was facing a long line of women waiting to get
into the ladies’ room. Needless to say, I didn’t hang around to chat.”
Slinking back to her table, her blissfully unaware husband asked if
everything had come out okay. She assured him that yes, she had.
“But halfway through the wonderful concert, while holding my husband’s
hand, it dawned on me that I never did wash my hands!” she said.
There you have the whole sordid affair. It’s an error in direction that
I suspect most of us started to make at one time or other in our lives,
but few of us are so wrapped up that we blunder as far as Jane did
before finding we need extrication.
The moral of this story is, of course, not only should you never text
while driving, not only should you never text while operating heavy
machinery, but you especially never should text while conducting urgent
business.
Also, you may wish to be careful how you greet anyone you suspect of
being “Jane,” what with the hasty retreat that bypassed the sink. But
she says that honest, she has since washed her hands. Pinky-swear. It
says so right here in her text.
www.facebook.com/pages/Burton-W-Cole/136002170959
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Your
Daughter's First Date: Etiquette for Mothers
By
Francine Garson,
New Jersey
Your daughter’s been asked on her first date! She’s excited, she’s
nervous, she’s unsure, and she needs you…not to embarrass her! Do you
remember the time your own mother, wearing acid washed jeans and leg
warmers, answered the knock of the eighth-grade John Travolta-lookalike
who had finally asked you to a movie? Or what about when she sent the
two of you off with a peck on HIS cheek and a cheery “Be good, kids?” Do
you also recall that there was no second date?
Enough said!
By following a few simple rules, you can ensure that your daughter
doesn’t remember YOU as the reason her first date didn’t lead to a
second.
1. Preparation, yours as well as your daughter’s, for a first date
begins well before the boy/guy/young man rings your doorbell. And yes,
he must knock or ring that doorbell. Do not allow your daughter to dash
out the door in response to a honk, text, or cell phone summons. If you
cannot obtain her cooperation in this matter, discontinue reading
immediately and return to Parenting 101. For the rest of you, establish
a reasonable curfew for your daughter in advance. Assure her that
discussing when everyone else must be home while her date stands in the
doorway and stares at his shoes would not be a good idea.
2. Review your daughter’s clothing choices. Tell her that you don’t want
to whisper in her ear about a visible pink thong or tuck a wayward bra
strap into her tank top while her date stands in the doorway and DOESN'T
stare at his shoes.
3. Review YOUR clothing choices. Avoid visible thongs, wayward bra
straps, and leggings with above-the-hip shirts. “Mom” jeans should only
be worn as a last resort.
4. Mashing tuna fish or chopping onions should be avoided for at least
six hours before the date’s arrival. Kitchen smells of lasagna or tomato
sauce, especially the homemade kind, are acceptable. Freshly baked
brownies or sugar cookies are even better. Peanut butter is iffy.
5. If you have a husband or significant other, outlaw vintage rock band
t-shirts, too-short jeans that expose dingy sweat socks or hairy ankles,
and snoring on the couch or anywhere within earshot of the front door.
6. About ten minutes before the young man’s scheduled arrival, inspect
the area surrounding the entrance to your home. Remove all abandoned
sneakers and forgotten book bags. Persuade any crotch-sniffing dogs or
hissing cats that you might own to perform these behaviors away from
your front door. Any runaway hamsters or unaccounted-for gerbils should
have been rounded up earlier in the day. Enlist the aid of other family
members, friends, or interested parties as needed.
7. Take a few calming breaths shortly before arrival time. Think yoga,
not Lamaze. This is an opportunity to spend “quality time” with your
daughter; invite her to join you. Navel contemplation or the chanting of
“Om” is optional.
8. Knock, ring, or buzz…Whether you greet your daughter’s date at the
door or are introduced to him a few moments later, meet his nervous gaze
with a smile. In this case, “smile” does not mean the full-toothed,
apple-cheeked grin you display in response to your brother-in-law’s
“Cheese!” Nor does it mean the thin line that you press your lips into
when your four year-old nephew’s spill-proof sippy cup leaks grape juice
onto your off-white couch. Aim for the midway point between Mona Lisa
and Jack-O-Lantern.
9. Allow the young "couple", although it might be best to avoid using
that “c” word when thinking about your daughter and a young man with big
feet and even bigger shoulders, to exit quickly.
a. Do not bring out the photo album with pictures of your
pre-orthodontia, buck-toothed daughter.
b. Do not call your daughter “honey bunch” or “sweetie pie.”
c. And do not kiss her big-footed, big-shouldered date, even if he looks
like a “honey bunch” or a “sweetie pie.”
10. After a polite “Have a good time,” close the door, repeat calming
breaths, which may now be accompanied by a glass of merlot (or pinot
grigio, if you prefer), congratulate yourself on a job well done, and
remember that you never have to survive your daughter’s first date
again, that is unless the 'family member' who helped you put away the
book bags and sneakers, find the missing gerbil, and keep the
rambunctious cat or dog away from the front door is…your younger
daughter!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Moments
to Remember--or Better Yet, Forget
By
Anita Lanning,
Oregon
As any mother of teenage daughters can
attest, their threshold of embarrassment begins at subterranean levels
and goes downward from there. “Mom, really!” is their mantra and the
offenses that generate that response are multitude. When I shared space
with not one but two adolescent females, the term walking on egg shells
did not begin to describe where I trod. And most often there was no way
of discerning just what would prompt the mortification designed to bring
them shame and despair.
It was innocent enough, on my part. One night I attended a football game
at my Daughter the Cheerleader’s high school. As I approached the field
between the bleachers filled with frenzied fans, I spotted my daughter
and her fellow cheerleaders, going through their paces as they led the
crowd in routines that would spur their team to victory. I watched with
pride as she performed the chants and accompanying movements she had
practiced at home. I neared the front row bleacher nearest her and
attempted to get her attention by calling her name and shouting, “Go
Team!” punctuated by a hearty wave.
Well, by her reaction you’d think I’d swooped onto the field in front of
the entire student body sporting my high school cheerleader outfit
(wrong colors, by the way, not to mention the fact I’d never fit into
it) while frantically shaking a pair of pom poms. Her stricken
expression clearly conveyed the news: I’d humiliated her. Totally,
completely, without a doubt the worst humiliation she’d experienced in
her 16 years.
Ah, what a short memory she had, my little pom-pom girl. It was not too
long before that awful wave and shout when I did something far more
egregious. It was December and both daughters and I attended an annual
holiday festival in a nearby city. The building was an array of
gloriously decorated trees and all manner of handmade Christmas
ornaments, glittering with lights and color. The girls and I wandered
through the aisles of lovely crafts and delicious goodies, reminders
that the most wonderful time of the year would soon be upon us. We were
in a celebratory state of mind, but the inevitable moment came when I
had to use the rest room. The girls waited near the entrance, and when I
made my exit we continued our meandering.
It was but a moment when I heard a woman’s voice behind me. “I know you
might think this is a joke,” she began, “but I need to tell you there’s
a long trail of toilet paper attached to your waist.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and bent my head around. Sure enough, a long
trail of toilet paper was attached to my waist. Flustered, almost
speechless, I reached quickly to remove the offending object, while
muttering a word of thanks to the lady who pointed out this utter breach
of etiquette. As I crumpled the paper into a wad and looked for a place
to dispose it, I turned to see my daughters, who had by now moved
several feet away from me. Their expressions were, not unexpectedly,
those of absolute chagrin. Humiliation doesn’t quite cover their
reaction to the debasement to which their mother had just subjected
them. “Mom, really,” did not pass their lips, because, well, it just
wasn’t adequate to the situation. Truly, I had committed the ultimate
public disgrace. I mean, we’ve all heard about toilet paper stuck to the
shoe, indeed almost the definition of impropriety, but attached to the
waist? Clearly, my girls wanted everyone to know they had no connection
with me. As I observed them stroll away, careful to avoid eye contact
with me, I sensed I had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.
Burned a bridge that could never be rebuilt. If divorcing one’s parent
was an option, I’m sure they would have availed themselves of it at that
very moment.
While I attempted to overcome by own embarrassment—who knows how many
festival goers have been witness to my social blunder of blunders—I
could not suppress a laugh. My breach of decorum was of course,
unseemly. My girls’ reaction, predictable. But that look on their
faces—priceless. We soon met in the crowd and they decided not to disown
me, since they needed a ride home to their warm and comfortable rooms.
And it was not the last of embarrassing moments I would bring into their
lives.
After all, what’s a mother for?
www.wordsinflight1.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Helpless
Housewives
By
Laurie L., New York
(Last name withheld by request.)
This piece was written from my basement
while I taught my youngest to swim. I never intended to own an indoor
pool, but with all the rain that filled our bottom floor, we have no
choice.
But my flooded basement is only partially the problem. More accurately
this piece should be called, “Helpless wives and their husbands who
leave as disaster strikes.” Mine in particular seems to have an uncanny
ability to get out of Dodge before a household crisis. Several years ago
he was out of town when lightening struck our well pump leaving us
without power and water for days.
At least this time he was in the same time zone, but that didn’t help my
basement dry out. You see, when it comes to all things house, I am, in
the words of a close friend not a “can-do” kind of gal, which I guess
makes me a “cannot do” kind of gal.
That’s right- it takes a village to raise this housewife. So when my
husband’s train pulled out of the station, I felt like I would drown.
Luckily, my close friend, Mrs. “Can-Do” came to the rescue to pump my
basement dry, all the while reprimanding my inability to remediate
household catastrophes.
And it is downright embarrassing to be so dependent on a man or a
childhood friend because I pride myself on being a self- sufficient,
modern woman. So when my husband returned home to a still wet basement I
tried to gain an education.
It was futile.
As soon as he mentioned drywells and down spouts I looked at him, glazed
over and become Charlie Brown, sitting in the classroom, hearing only
nonsensical phrases from the teacher at the front of the room.
I thought perhaps television might be a more animated teacher. I tuned
into Handy Manny on the Disney channel first, figuring I needed to be
eased into things. Manny is so affable, and if I could only get tools
like his that would talk me through repairs I might not panic every time
my husband leaves town.
After Manny helped me master the difference between a philips and a
slotted I felt I had graduated to reruns of Holmes on Homes, an HGTV
Canadian show where Mike Holmes, a General Contractor, helps people with
renovations gone awry.
He was so supportive that I wept along with the couple whose kitchen was
functional by the end of the hour. I still didn’t understand his
methods, but I did understand that Mike would never roll his eyes (like
my husband) or tell me a monkey could install gutter extensions (like
Mrs. Can Do). I am considering flying Mike in for the next home crisis.
Until that happens, I will continue with the dumbed down version of
Household 101, which is titled “Get on the phone and call a service
person!”
I had absolutely no idea who to call for the basement. Plumber?
Excavator? Pool guy? I consulted my cheat sheet that my husband leaves
for me with all the important numbers and was still stuck.
When my husband returned and the proper service person was reached and
scheduled, I decided it was my turn to get out of Dodge, as I had
suffered enough humiliation over my inability to control the flood
waters. So when I answered the door for the basement specialist-who knew
there was such a person- I told him my husband was available but I was
on my way out. “Where is your basement?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I am really not sure. I will have to call my husband.”
http://ljlicht.wordpress.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Spring
Break-Up
By
Maggie Phenicie,
Pennsylvania
How do you break up with a dog? You can’t
whip out any classic excuse: “It’s not you, it’s me.” “I’m not looking
for a boyfriend right now.” Dogs just don’t understand that stuff.
My parents had wanted a dog for about a year, and finally stopped their
wishy-washiness about six weeks ago and got their pug, Cole. They saw
him as some kind of savior, a lovable rascal who’d cure their empty
nester syndrome and reenergize the house.
I certainly didn’t see him that way. I’m not much for animals, mostly
because dogs’ constant motion startles me. Plus, I just wasn’t used to
dogs---the only pet I ever had was Jellyroll, a snail I got at Girl
Scout day camp that lived in a baby food jar. He (or she? I’m no scholar
of snail anatomy) died the day after I brought him or her home.
Also, I was certain that my parents’ getting a dog meant we’d turn into
“dog people.” I had this vision that we’d soon buy tiny capes and hats
for a canine Halloween costume and hang up a Christmas stocking for our
pet. After that, we’d head over to Kinko’s to get photos of the dog
eating ice cream screened onto mugs and sweatshirts. A slippery slope,
indeed.
But despite my reservations, my parents persisted. They instantly fell
in love once they got him. They tried to sell me on the dog, so much so
that I felt like I was being set up for a blind date. “You really will
like him, he’s so nice and lovable,” my mom assured me. She kept
emailing me updates with news about the dog. Today he sat next to me as
I got ready for work. Yesterday he barked at the golden retriever across
the street. Et cetera.
And she usually even began her sales pitch with the disclaimer, “I know
you don’t like dogs, but…” It was the “but” that got me. In sitcoms, the
characters are always discussing what their new date’s “but” is, as in,
“He’s a great guy, but he’s got this weird love of asparagus,” or
something else innocuous. Cole, though, couldn’t change his “but”----I
knew I wouldn’t like him just because of his species.
So when I came home for spring break, I didn’t have any time to prepare
my big entrance, to craft my first impression. No, as I opened the door,
there he was. We didn’t shake hands, or say hello, things you do on a
first date. Instead, he just sniffed me. Smelled my legs. Licked my
shoes. Stared at me with optimistic, glassy eyes. He seemed nice enough.
I thought maybe we’d hit it off.
And for the next few days, our chemistry continued. We watched Jeopardy!
together; Cole barked at Trebeck’s pretentious pronunciations the same
time I’d ridicule Alex. Cole kept me company as I folded laundry. In
fact, I was pretty sure he’d turned into the perfect companion: he
didn’t even mind when I hummed bits of musical soundtracks as I went
through my daily motions. Not many people have that kind of tolerance.
My parents were right. I did like the dog, after all. And I even began
to waiver on my initial stereotype: maybe I wouldn’t start to spend all
my disposable income on doggie sweaters. Maybe I’d just tape a photo of
his scrunched-up face to my dorm room wall.
It didn’t work out that way. Our romance and chemistry fizzled. We spent
too much time together. He got clingy, quickly. Soon, he didn’t just
want to sit next to me while I watched TV; he wanted to sit on my lap as
I enjoyed my morning cereal. He didn’t just tolerate my absent-minded
humming (or my presence, for that matter); he actively whined when I
left the house.
So on the last day of break, I knew what I had to do: break up with him.
It wouldn’t be easy----we’d shared quite the week. Cole followed me into
the garage, whimpered as he saw me load my suitcase into the car. His
once optimistic eyes now looked sad, even pathetic; he wasn’t the same
dog I’d liked just a week earlier.
Unwilling to leave, he rooted himself to the concrete by my car. I ended
up picking him up and sort of gently tossing him inside. It wasn’t how I
planned it, but it was our break up. For now, at least.
Sorry Cole. It’s not me, it’s you.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
If
You Want To Know The Truth
By
Mary Taylor,
Mississippi
I have reared my children to critique my
appearance to ensure that I never leave the house looking unkempt, or
heaven forbid, frumpy! Every morning before we head to school,I get
dressed and visit first my daughter and then my son, so they can assure
me that I am well-groomed, nothing short of gorgeous, and ready to meet
the day.
After many years of following this daily routine; however, I became
concerned when I noticed that with every critique, whether I asked the
question or not, my son began to follow up his review of my appearance
with,“No, Momma, you are not fat!”
At first I was puzzled by his response. I wracked my brain trying to
figure out why he felt it necessary to add such an affirmation. Could my
actions in some way prompt him to feel this need? Quite curious, I began
to analyze the time my son and I spent together...
Hmmm... Let’s see…we play the "Who is
Fatter" game? (This is played by asking the question, “Sam, Who is
fatter, ______ or me? (Fill in the blank with randomly chosen female’s
name.)
Then there is the "Who is Prettier" game.
This game is played by asking the question, “Sam, Who is prettier,
______ or me? (Again fill in randomly chosen female’s name.)
He always answered that I was the
prettier and thinner of the choices I gave him, and there is no way that
his answer was a conditioned one. After all, they always say if you want
to know the truth ask a child, right? No, after careful consideration I
was sure that he was merely being honest with me, and that my actions
were in no way affecting his answers, therefore, not taking away from
his childlike honesty and innocence.
I pushed away the cloud of concern and went on my way, but I found
myself revisiting these thoughts several times over in the next few
weeks wondering if my poor self esteem was in some way playing games
with my poor son's childhood tendency to tell the truth. Was he saying
what he thought I wanted him to say just to keep from hurting my
feelings? This could not be healthy could it? If that were indeed the
case, what was I teaching my child with my insecurity?... To be
dishonest?.... To hold back his real feelings? To lie to shut me up????
Was I denying him the short lived right of a child to toss out the truth
without any fear of repercussion??
Fortunately, it didn't take too long to have my fears permanently laid
to rest. Just a few weeks into my parenting skill re-evaluation, I woke
up late. I rushed to get dressed, make breakfast, round up backpacks and
homework, lunches and jackets,and shove both my children and me into the
car. Grabbing the wheel and preparing to tear out of the driveway on two
wheels causing jelly toast to be stuck to the car windows, I realized
that I had not had time to ask my then nine-year- old daughter and
five-year-old son my usual, “Do I look o.k.? Already being in an
incredible hurry, I forewent the usual drill and cut straight to the
chase. “Do I look fat?” I announced. My question hung ominously in the
air – the ugliness of my desperate need for reassurance juxtaposed
against the purity and innocence of my precious elementary schoolers.
The silence was deafening…for about a split second. Then from the back
seat, a very sleepy and grumpy five- year-old voice replied, “You got a
fat head!
HMMMPH!! His response hit me in the back of my “fat” head and ricocheted
around the car. My eyes began to well with tears!! This was not the
response I had expected at all… and I was ecstatic. My waning ego had
not tarnished the purity of my children after all. Their honesty had not
been hijacked by my poor self-esteem!! Alas, all was well with the
world, and more importantly I had learned a very important lesson that
day. What they say IS true. If you want to know the truth, ask a
child!!!!.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Fitting
in Fitness
By
Barbara Valentin,
Illinois
It started innocently enough. Rushing to
get dressed in the dark of a recent morning, I grabbed a clean pair of
jeans out of the laundry basket, eyeballed the length and pulled them
on. Twenty minutes later, I was pouring a cup of coffee in the kitchen
absently wondering why the pants I had on felt, well, a little funny.
Then it happened.
“Mom. Are you wearing my jeans?”
He may as well have told me that I had a spider crawling on me.
“What? Of course not!” I gasped as I quickly examined my legs wondering
how the denim covering them had gotten so torn and worn looking.
I blame the long winter that kept me inside baking cookies and
casseroles and away from my walking routine. Nonetheless, it was an
unsolicited pre-pool-season wake up call.
While my weight still falls within a normal range for my height, things
are starting to shift south. I know this shouldn’t surprise me. I’m
finding out the hard way that age and gravity are BFFs (best friends
forever). Combine that with the fact that working parents are notorious
for putting the needs of others before their own, and I am not sure what
to do about my, um, predicament.
Like it or not, the whole “eat-less-exercise-more-reduce-stress” mantra
flies in the face of my plate spinning lifestyle. I eat on the go and
guzzle coffee like a semi does diesel. Even through all five
pregnancies, I credited my caffeine and refined sugar diet for keeping
me alert in staff meetings and well within the weight limits dictated by
my mortified obstetrician.
My sister, well versed in all things weight loss, recommended cutting
back on sugar. After I stopped laughing, I argued the futility of her
plan. High fructose corn syrup is hidden in everything from breakfast
cereal to shampoo. There’s no getting around it, even if I wanted to.
As for exercise, I attribute my bicep of steel (right arm only) to the
coffee curl reps I make a point of getting in each morning. More weight
training, really. What I need is regular aerobic exercise. And to stick
with something like that, I need a motivating element. Something with a
deadline.
My son, a runner and, yes, the true owner of the jeans I had mistakenly
swiped, waved a recently-received postcard at me. It announced reduced
early entry fees for a 5k race scheduled for early June. “I dare you,”
he said, handing it to me with a smirk.
Not one to back down from a challenge, I snatched the postcard and
examined the fine print closely. The words “free t-shirts to the first
2000 registered runners” popped out at me.
I returned his smirk.
Bring it.
Now, pass the pasta. I’m in training.
http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/plate-spinning-101/
.
|
