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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April
/ May 2007 Contest Results |
Jack
By
Chris Allen,
US
Army
At a combat outpost in northeastern Afghanistan where donkeys are a
valuable source of transportation for goods, one soldier decided to
purchase a local donkey for $200.
That was a great idea and everyone was in agreement. So now we have a
donkey, that we promptly name ""Jack"", for obvious reasons. We pile
water and MREs (meals ready to eat) on him every few days to take up to
the personnel at the observation post 400 meters up the mountain just
south of our location. One day we put 4 cases of MREs on Jack and he
walks slowly up the almost 75 degree angle hill. He gets slower with
each step and only gets about 10 meters up the hill when he flips over
backwards and comes tumbling down the hill, MREs and all! Jack stops at
the bottom of the hill, gets up, looks at us, and starts to continue up
the hill. We stopped the determined animal, took 2 of the boxes off his
back, and up Jack goes without any problems.
Later on in the month, we find out more things that Jack is interested
in or ""has talent"" doing. By one of the living areas we call
""b-huts"", there is an old ammunition can that is used for cigarette
butts. Well, Jack decided to turn it over and eat all the butts, I
assume, so the soldiers would not have to get their hands dirty and
empty the ""butt can"". We later noticed that there are no cigarette
butts in site on the ground anywhere, so Jack is also a ""squared-away""
soldier and conducts outstanding ""police calls""(details which pick up
trash).
The last thing, and probably the funniest, was what Jack did the day
before I rotated back to my camp from the outpost and left him to harass
the other platoon. We cooked a huge pot of spaghetti noodles and sauce
in out outdoor kitchen over an open fire. Everyone had eaten dinner
except my Lieutenant, and when he went to get some spaghetti about 2
hours after everyone else had eaten, he found Jack in the kitchen with
noodles strewn all over the ground. Jack was nose down in the sauce pot
and bellowing out donkey noises, obviously because he was in hog (uh,
donkey) heaven!
www.chrisallen.com
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 Phil
Is No Miser (He Just Wants To Rest In Peace)
By Kenny Blade,
Alabama
Phil ducked behind the old oak next to Lyle Wannaker’s head stone. The
picture atop the granite monument of Lyle’s toothless smiling face
brought back memories of playing checkers at Clark Creek. He missed his
old fishing buddy. He had no time for reminiscing he reminded himself.
There were more pressing matters. He leaned against the rough bark and
sighed silently to himself.
“ How could I have been so blind?” Phil mumbled. The signs had been
there for weeks. His slippers beside his chair each evening. Monday
night goulash replaced with his favorite meatloaf casserole. The smell
of fresh shoe polish wafting up from the shelf where he stored his golf
shoes. His wife Clara was leaving clues that something wasn’t right with
the frequency of a puppy on people food.
Why could he not remember what occasion he had overlooked? It wasn’t
Christmas. He knew that for certain because no college football bowl
games had been played yet. He was also sure that it wasn’t Halloween. He
was still in the doghouse for suggesting that it was when his wife Clara
and her sister Mabel returned from the church’s “Make-Over Madness”
meeting last Thursday. No, it was Friday, Phil surmised. That was the
day he and his best friend Claude loaded the pick up in preparation for
the game against the Montrose Panthers and his hometown Vipers. The
glare from the sun beaming off of their make- up shellacked faces had
blinded Claude so badly he’d staggered into the rose bushes and dropped
the chicken legs they’d cooked up. Thank the good Lord for the 3 minute
rule.
After resting a moment longer, Phil continued his way across the
graveyard. He decided that whatever significant date he had missed,
Clara was never going to know it. The main thing was that he wasn’t
missing her birthday. He knew that for certain because every year on the
day before her birthday, he bought a large container of fresh stink bait
and as any fisherman knows, good stink bait will last a year stored
properly. It was fine this morning when he went fishing.
Coming into the clearing next to the mausoleum, Phil began to walk
slowly with his head lowered. He passed “Pig” Cannon, the groundskeeper
and nodded. Slowing even more and peering over his shoulder to assure
that “Pig” was around the maintenance shack, Phil breathed a sigh of
relief. “Perfect!”, he whispered. “ “Pig” is always the last one to
leave.” A part of Phil felt guilty. For fifteen years, his routine had
been the same. Forget a special occasion, head to the graveyard. People
said he was a miser. Cheaper than jewelry from a candy machine. He
really wasn’t. He just knew the value of a dollar.
“Wealth is accumulated one penny at a time!”, his father always
proclaimed. He wasn’t like his father. His father was the definition of
a penny-pincher. He ate one meal a day for 43 years so that he could be
married and buried in the same suit. Phil just knew what he wanted in
life. His retirement was going to be one filled with the luxuries of
wealth.
Phil waved to Claude as he rolled into his drive way. Claude was
sunbathing on the hood of his station wagon and didn’t want to smear his
lotion, so he just wiggled his big toe.
Clara met her husband at the front door with a somber face. “ What’s the
matter, pumpkin?” Clara dragged her finger along the door facing and
stared. “ Hey, I think I know who could use some cheering up!” Phil
pulled his left hand from behind his back, revealing eight of the most
beautiful lilies Clara had ever seen. “ I’ll bet you thought I’d
forgotten.” Clara’s face lit up like a bag of Kingsford Matchlight
charcoal. “They are just beautiful!”, she whispered through her tears.
Taking the lilies from his hand, Clara went into the kitchen to put them
in a vase.
Phil meandered over to his favorite chair and melted into the soft
cushions. He still didn’t know what occasion he had missed, but Clara
was happy. That, in the end, is pretty much all that mattered. He said a
little prayer for the family of the late Gretchen Selney. According to
her head stone, she lived a long life filled with generosity. Phil was
glad she had been generous one last time. The lilies saved his bacon…and
his chance at true prosperity.
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Acrobatic
Aerobics Do (Several) Hearts Good
By Burton Cole,
Ohio
I read somewhere that riding a bicycle is good for the heart. I didn't
know it could get so many hearts pumping all at once.
It started when my car demanded an oil change. A dashboard light
suggesting an immediate oil change had been flashing for a couple weeks.
Then the vehicle started muddling around like a mother of four before
her morning cup of coffee. It was time.
I had the oil. I needed to dash into town for a filter. But not in the
car.
I rooted around the house until I found my daughter's old Dora the
Explorer backpack and contorted my shoulders until it squeezed into
breath-pinching place. I snapped on a shiny purple riding helmet hidden
in the garage so as not to blind anyone. Lacking riding gloves, I pulled
on fuzzy, brown winter mittens.
I blew the dust off my bicycle and started pedaling for town.
It would, I calculated, do my heart good.
Halfway there, I felt the handlebars loosen.
I am too tall for my hand-me-down bike, so I notch my seat up extra high
to keep my knees out of my chest. Likewise, I pull up the handlebar as
far as I can without it falling out, then bolt it into place.
Apparently not tightly enough. The swaying handlebars considered a
southerly direction while the rest of the bike held steady to the west.
With careful aiming, I made it to the auto parts store. It was a large
parking lot. I bought the filter, chucked it into the Dora the Explorer
backpack cramping my spine, checked wind direction and sun position, and
aimed for home.
That’s when the steering gave out. The bars flopped all the way to the
left while the front wheel pondered right.
Twisting my torso just right and holding pressure on the handlebars
while manipulating what center of gravity was left, I could control the
direction I was headed, as long as I wasn’t too specific.
Then the bolt let go. The jacked-up bars thunked to the bottom of the
steering column, and the top half of me crashed out of sight with them.
So with aft waving high, purple helmet down low, trunk twisted and Dora
battering my neck, I continued to hold handlebars to the left to pedal
forward. Sometimes left, sometimes right, but mostly forward.
Then the seat began to buckle.
I stretched my high-flying rear as far back and as high as I could go
while maintaining the sharp drop with a twist to my body necessary to
hold the handlebars in place while almost being able to look in front of
me.
I was thankful I changed sweatpants before setting out. Under normal
circumstances, you would hardly notice the rip. Under these conditions,
no secrets could be long concealed.
At long last, I came to my turn. I tucked my purple-helmeted head under
my armpit to glance behind me. I nearly finished tying myself into a
knot when I saw that a string of cars had sneaked up behind me. I hadn’t
heard them over the huffing and puffing and the extremely healthy
pounding of my heart.
I picked up one fuzzy, brown-mittened hand to signal one direction while
the handlebars aimed for a second, the front tire lurched for a third
and my butt pointed to a fourth, more glorious choice.
Judging by the expressions behind the windshields, mine wasn’t the only
heart palpitating as we all tried to figure out which of the four
directions I’d wobble next.
That's when my shoelace caught on the pedal and I discovered a new
option to the meanderings. The bike’s sudden change of plans inspired a
whole new dimension of aerobic activity in the motorists and me.
Now I know why spinning is a popular exercise – those bikes never leave
the building.
When I finally careened into my driveway, I clunked the oil filter on
the garage shelf and told the car it would have to drink a cup of coffee
instead. I wasn't going near anything else with wheels.
Any more health and my heart will attack.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Shopping
For Love In The Green Beans Aisle
By Burton Cole,
Ohio
A single friend complained to me the other day about a disturbing trend:
grocery shopping dates.
‘‘Making out right there in front of the Wheat Thins – it's disgusting.”
She re-enacted a recent showing in the canned goods aisle: ‘‘‘Oh, which
corn do you want, snook'ems, creamed or whole kernel?' Giggle, giggle.
‘Anything's fine with me as long as it's what sets your taste buds on
fire, my Dove bar.' Smooch, smooch.
‘‘They kept at it through fresh produce all the way to the dairy
department. What a pair of fresh fruits! Yuck. Take it to the back of
the movie theater where it belongs!''
One thing I can say with reasonable certainty is that these grocery
store lovers are not married. Or at best are newlyweds who have yet to
face the reality of marital blisters.
You may love this person dearly. You may nurture this person, die for
this person.
But disagreements always will break out over his or her taste in food.
And spices. Side dishes. Clothing. TV shows. Relatives.
Especially relatives, which shows how silly these arguments become. You
have no more control over who your relatives are than over your cravings
for Cheetos for breakfast. But your spouse will question you anyway:
‘‘Are you sure you have to claim him as your brother? Can't we just tell
people he's a foreign exchange student?''
The only thing the significant other doesn't call into dispute is your
choice in spouses – which is the only taste you are beginning to doubt.
When the two of you want to rekindle that flame, it sure won't be
standing next to the flour.
I used to be married. And we used to shop together, sometimes as a
family of four. But my wife grew tired of the whining, the grousing, the
sneaking of chocolate chip cookies and Cap'n Crunch into the grocery
cart.
In my defense, sometimes the kids did that stuff, too!
Anyway, we soon settled into the proper arrangement of shopping for
married couples: One person shops and the other person waits in the car.
Or at someplace that serves wings.
For married couples, the shared grocery experience goes something more
like this:
‘‘Stop staring at the shredded cheese and grab a gallon of milk. Not
that one, dummy. The skim milk. You know we always use skim.''
‘‘Oh, c'mon, I'm sick and tired of that watered-down stuff. Can't we at
least do 2 percent. You're sucking all the life out of me.''
“What!”
“Uh, I don’t know why I forgot to grab those towels that suck up spills
for the life of me. And I wish you’d stop crying over me wanting it to
be whole milk that gets spilt.
‘‘Look, tubby, you know you have to watch your cholesterol. Seems like
that's something that should concern you. It's a good thing at least one
of us pays attention. Now grab that milk and hurry up. We've got a lot
of shopping left.''
‘‘I'm not going to drink it. How about some Coca Cola instead?''
‘‘Oh, all right, if it will make you shut up. Go get a bottle of Cherry
Coke and let's go!''
‘‘Cherry?''
So please, young lovers, go to lookout point and watch the submarine
races. Let the married couples have their food fights in peace. And
allow us singles to shop on settled stomachs. Or we're going to start
throwing tomatoes.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Don’t
Trip While Springing Forward
By Laurie Fabrizio,
Minnesota
I can’t sleep.
I’ve stared at the ceiling for hours. The fan over our bed has rotated
three hundred and sixty three times. Here comes another hot-flash ebbing
like high tide at Cape Cod.
Some people count sheep…I count Worry Warts.
Worry Warts are virtual worries that plague you in the wee hours of the
morning that you carry with you 24/7 and can’t seem to shake like a
pimple on your skin. If they were real, they would be the gruesome skin
lesions we visualize, on the noses of witch’s from our childhood fairy
tales. They have no sense of humor, riddle you with guilt, and find
fault with everything.
I have them because I worry the moldy leftovers in the back of the
refrigerator will be eaten before I can toss them out. I worry the
back-up system on my car will fail and I’ll have an accident while
driving in reverse.
Hope the airbags deploy.
I worry my car is so filthy my neighbors won’t recognize me and will
assume there are gypsy’s living at my house and we’ll be kicked out of
the homeowners association. I forgot to return a phone call yesterday.
I’m now on the “worst responder” list.
The Mom-Worry Warts are powerful, containing Catholic-Italian guilt.
I’m not Catholic or Italian and I still have them.
My family will be recycling their underwear because I neglected to do
laundry. I forgot to have the vacuum fixed and now the dust bunnies are
planning an upheaval. There is no lunch money in my youngest daughter’s
account, so she had to take her lunch in a Barbie lunch box …she’s
sixteen.
She’ll be scarred for life.
Unisom…take me away.
I try to justify to myself that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
constitute a home cooked meal because we ate fast food three nights this
week. The dogs are so furry, a shepherd tried to herd them for his
flock. I could save time and money if I use them as mops.
I sleep with Darth Vader.
My husband has sleep apnea and he is bed partners with a trendy c-pap
machine. His breathing hose might kink, cutting off his air supply and
I’ll have to do CPR.
I’ll break his breastbone.
He could get some exotic disease from not cleaning the bacteria from his
mask. I worry that he’ll have a nightmare; try to yell out, only to
sound like Squidward from SpongeBob SquarePants. Worse yet, we could be
robbed during the night and the intruders might think he is an alien or
a pilot from “Top Gun.”
Even the dogs are reaching REM sleep.
They sleep contorted on their backs, having a puppy dream that never
wakes them, but has the opposite affect on me. They are watch dogs by
day, but by night, they expect you to protect them from things that go
“bump in the night.”
Everyone is counting Z’s but me.
I also suffer from RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome) that I affectionately
refer to as Obnoxious Leg Syndrome. They rudely interrupt my sleep. I
try to grab some shut eye but my legs are doing the Cha Cha. My aerobic
workouts are at night… pacing the house, break dancing and “sweating to
the oldies.”
The Worry Warts and my legs have formed a dance team and are auditioning
for “Dancing with the Stars.”
I’d do anything for a good night’s sleep…
The good news is there isn’t any room in my bed for bed bugs. The Worry
Warts have squatter’s rights.
Terrific, I forgot it is daylight savings this weekend. What moron came
up with that idea? I am so sleep deprived now I can’t afford to lose
another hour of shut eye. However, that means one less hour for the
Worry Warts to gather. Right now it would be a struggle for me to walk
and drink coffee.
Now I’m worried I’ll trip while springing forward.
www.fabrizios.com/laurie
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How
to Stalk...Err, Meet Celebrities in New York
By Windy Lynn Harris,
Arizona
After working a long day in Manhattan, my boss/friend/bad influence
Maria and I hit the streets with one goal: meet someone famous. Anyone
famous. On previous trips we have spotted celebrity look-alikes and a
rap star, but one day Kiefer Sutherland came walking into our favorite
restaurant. As working moms only in town for one week we couldn’t miss
the opportunity to return home victorious. Kiefer Sutherland was GOING
to talk to us.
He was standing near the door. We needed to get his attention before he
got too far away. I figured something simple would do so. I scooted a
plate near the edge our table and tapped it while reaching for my
martini. Very clever of me, I thought. But it turned out Keefer’s phone
rang at the same time and he was too busy answering it to hear the loud
crash. My apologies to the guy at the next table. I don’t know why he
was so mad. Salad doesn’t stain you know.
The next plan was a drive by. “I’m going to go to the bathroom,” said
Maria. She is an ex model who can swing her hips and strut like a pro.
She was within a foot of him and he didn’t even notice. I watched her
get closer and closer while he was oblivious, still talking on the
phone. At the last possible minute she took a right and headed for the
ladies room, crashing into our waiter. “More bread please,” Maria said
without missing a beat. She is really good under pressure.
We were going to need a diversion. One that required something the
entire restaurant would notice, like a fire. Luckily it was my turn to
do the work so we didn’t have to repeat that ugly scene from last spring
when Maria was sure she saw Matt Dillon at Macy’s.
We waited until he was seated. I took a deep breath and stood up.
“Help!” I yelled. “She’s choking!” Maria put her hands to her throat and
made gagging noises. I looked over to see Kiefer’s reaction when a big
hairy guy came behind Maria and squeezed her hard. She looked a little
panicked but pretended to spit something out before resuming her regular
breathing. The whole restaurant clapped, except Kiefer. He was still on
the phone.
We sat back down feeling defeated. “You know what we need?” I asked.
“His phone number,” said Maria watching him chat away.
“We need the check.”
After paying the bill we got our coats and walked outside. We were
determined to stay as long as it took for him to come out. How long
could that take anyway? After an hour of pacing Maria went back in to
use the bathroom. Guess what? He was gone. Apparently some crazy fans
were stalking him so they let him leave through the kitchen!
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Bad
Match
By Anita Lanning,
Oregon
One morning my husband and I hopped in the car to leave for our
respective places of employment when suddenly a string of expletives
issued from his mouth.
Alarmed, I asked, ""What's wrong?""
""My socks don't match!"" he bellowed, raising his feet above the
pedals. Sure enough, one sock was dark blue, one was black. Obviously, I
had made this egregious error while folding laundry the night before.
I controlled the urge to laugh. My spouse was not amused.
""Do you know,"" he snarled, ""what would happen if I showed up at my
office with socks that don't
match?""
Before I could respond, he headed back into the house to fix the
problem. I resisted the temptation to call out, ""I'm guessing you'll
find a pair just like it in your dresser drawer."" Some things are
better left unsaid.
I did of course know what would happen if he went to work with unmatched
socks.
As he entered the office, his co-workers' eyes would be on his feet,
drawn there by those socks. Horrified, they would gasp and look away.
His boss, equally horrified, would have no option but to immediately
terminate my husband's employment. Company policy specifically excluded
such fashion blunders.
Jobless, with no chance of finding other employment in his chosen field
(word gets around!), my husband would make futile attempts to hire on
flipping burgers at a fast food restaurant or pumping gas at a local
service station. Of course, no respectable business would want someone
on their staff whose dark past included wearing mismatched socks!
My job would not support us and besides, my boss would not keep an
assistant whose husband had committed such a fashion faux pas. I, too,
would be unemployed.
We'd lose our home, forced to leave town in the dead of night.
Eventually we'd have to sell all our possessions and take up residence
under a freeway overpass in the nearest big city where no one knew us.
Our children would stand on street corners holding tin cups, their
haunted eyes staring up at passersby as they begged, ""Please sir,
ma'am, we are homeless and haven't eaten in days. Please, could you
spare some change?""
Indeed, the whole scene played out in my mind as I awaited my husband's
return to the car with properly matched socks. Thank goodness his keen
eye had spotted my gaffe before our lives were reduced to rubble.
And I learned a valuable lesson. For many years after that near
disaster, my husband folded his own socks. Our future was thus in his
hands.
But to this day, when I hear about people living under freeways, I
breathe a sigh of relief.
I was, after all, only a pair of mismatched socks from being one of
them!
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Church
Lady
By
Mary McCarthy,
Maryland
With four children ranging in age from 13 years to 20 months, it is a
wonder our family has ever simultaneously seen the inside of a church.
But my oldest daughter had signed up (during Sunday school and without
my knowledge, of course...) to do the reading at Sunday Mass.
My husband and I usually negotiate to amazing lengths on Saturday night
about who will take which kids for Sunday school, whose turn it is, etc
(I think I nursed my youngest for almost two years strictly because it
got me out of going to church on Sunday mornings.) But this time our
daughter was doing the reading, so we both wanted to be there and thus
the six of us would be attending together. Ugh.
We arrive at the church. We are seated, and my first prayer to God of
course relates to my children sitting angelically through the next hour.
I curse myself for forgetting to generously give out Benadryl to at
least half of these four kids, because the only 'peace' I'm going to see
in this Mass is when the priest starts shaking hands.
My three year old loudly stage whispers,
""Mommy, the church is so pretty! How come it's only open on Christmas
and Easter?"" soliciting a number of giggles from the surrounding
no-doubt-more-diligent churchgoers.
Ok, so far so good- it's almost time for the reading- maybe I will make
it outta here in one piece! My oldest begins to walk up to the altar. We
have already fought about the raggy jean skirt and flip flop-style
sandals. I just hope she does ok.
""MOMMY, SARAH IS GOING UP THERE!! SHE IS NOT SITTING DOWN AND BEING
QUIET!"" loudly declares three year old.
At which time the toddler boy farts loudly and begins making the classic
""I'm having a poop"" grunting sounds while his oldest sister begins
reading. My eight year old looks like she is going to die of
embarrassment. Toddler boy starts climbing under the pew while red-faced
oldest is reading. In an effort to pick him up, my too-tight,
had-four-kids-and- haven't-worn-a-skirt-in-awhile skirt loudly rips. In
the back.
Three-year-old: ""MOMMY YOUR SKIRT RIPPED! AND BOBBY POOPED!""
13 year old returns from the (don't even ask me what the scripture was)
reading. I grab the toddler and the three year old's hand, figuring my
husband can deal with the older two and Sunday school, and try to
escape, holding my three year old's coat awkwardly behind me so no one
sees my grannie panties. God, why have you forsaken me?!?!?
As I exit the church I hear the priest say ""God Bless Us"" and I am
hoping it is not directed at us- but judging from the laughter, it is.
www.marytmccarthy.com
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Dead
Alumnus
By
Tom O'Brien,
Ontario
""University Alumni Office, my name is Penolope Plinth, third p is
silent, and how might I help you today,"" said the cheery voice.
I was abruptly taken back to an incident 46 years previously when a well
known M's Plinth fell asleep during a History of Ancient Antarctica
final exam. I was accused by my friends O'Malley, Rothstein, and
Saaunderscuke (Cokehead), of blowing marijuana smoke up her nose during
a pajama party the night before. Will she remember and start a hissy
fight, I said deep inside myself.
""I'm calling you about bringing my profile up to date,"" I said.
""And what year did you graduate?""
""Nineteen Sixty-one.""
""Goodness, that's my grad year too! What was your major subject?"" Mine
was abnormal psychology and embalming""
Well, might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I said to myself,
while in deep mystery about what was to come.
""Biology,"" I said with heart in throat.
""OOOoooah…..ahhhoooo-ah,"" and realizing there was a lurch between the
""oooo"" and the final ""ah"" I figured I was in for much rage and
condemnation.
""And what is your name please?""
""T-t-t-om O-O-O-O-B-u-u-r-i-en,"" I stuttered.
""Let me see here, I don't recall your name…..were you on the dean's
list?""
I choked. After five years in a three year program, the dean ordered me
flushed …. off the campus … and said I'd lose my essentials if I dared
return. (He never appreciated freethinking)
""Nope, I missed that class too.""
""Oh yes, we have you listed as deceased,"" she said carelessly and
without care and no hint of emotion.
I was caught without words. I felt better when my finger discovered a
pulse near my thumb.
""Well, I'm now breathing unassisted.""
""So what, the records show that you are dead, as a result of a dog sled
collision, in Miami Florida, and that was reported by three of our very
fine graduates, namely O'Malley, Rothstein, and Saaunderscuke.""
This is too good to be true, I said to myself and my mind raced in
search of gaining an advantage on my ancient sophomoric friends.
I straightened my face.
""Is O'Malley still flying loops around the Ambassador Bridge and
causing havoc in Detroit?"" I asked.
""Goodness no, he is a Rabbinical Scholar,"" she said somewhat
irritated.
""Who informed you of that?""
""Bishop Rothstein, Bishop of Manitoba and Prince Rupertsland.""
""What church?""
""His own.""
By now I had forgotten about my demise and inquired of Cokehead
Saaunderscuke.
""He's a Supreme Court Judge.""
I waited for the return of any ability to talk normally. My numbed head
shook while thinking about past pranks involving borrowed hearses and
city buses.
Then I uttered, ""What must I do to get deleted from the page of
stiffs?""
There was a full mortuary silence. ""You might try talking with the
dean. I'm sure he remembers you.""
www.tomobrien12.blogspot.com
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A
Refrigerator Organizes My Life
By Joanne Palmer,
Colorado
It’s hard to forget something you are reminded of 31 times a day. If my
child reminded me of something that frequently I’d go berserk. But the
zen-like hum of my refrigerator is something else, indeed. That
something else, frankly, is my hard drive.
Truth is, my refrigerator organizes my life. Totally and completely.
I’ve tried “Week-at-a-glance,” Post-it notes, and even a razzle-dazzle
cell phone complete with calendar and calculator but nothing works as
well as the low-tech door of my refrigerator. The door holds my on-going
grocery list, the school lunch menu, and inspirational quotes. My
favorite by Emily Dickenson, “We turn not older with years but newer
every day.” It has a reminder notice for my high school reunion,
emergency phone numbers and displays all of my appointments and a
“to-do” list. Two magnetized bins on the side are crammed with take out
menus from local restaurants, receipts, bills, household budget, class
schedules from the gym, and coupons, which I faithfully clip and fail to
use. The door displays magnets that wonder where my hormones went,
proclaim my status as a chocoholic and two that dare me to follow my
crazy ideas. Every time I open the door to get milk I laugh at the
cartoon that reminds me I’m under the care of two therapists, “Ben and
Jerry.”
According to an in-depth study conducted by, “Me, Myself and I” the
average family of four opens the refrigerator door 31 times a day; 48 on
weekends. This excludes holiday and diet periods when rates can soar.
This means I am exposed to all my reminders 251 times a week—which is
precisely the number of times I need to schedule an appointment to
rotate my tires or schedule a bone density screening.
When I was single I had no trouble carrying a planner and keeping track
of my schedule. I exercised three times a week, remembered birthdays and
got eight hours of sleep a night. I even flossed my teeth. My
refrigerator door held concert and movie schedule, a list of food high
in antioxidants, and my astrological compatibility guide.
As a newlywed, the compatibility guide surrendered to decadent desert
recipes and a list of romantic getaways. Once I crossed the threshold
into motherhood, I discovered what all mothers know but medical science
doesn’t—all memory cells are destroyed during childbirth. New mothers
carry planners that weigh 7 lbs 8 ozs. and keep them up half the night.
Reminders stuck on the refrigerator door are the only hope of getting
somewhere in the lifetime you’re suppose to be there. After a
particularly maddening day with three children under the age of five,
one frustrated mom I know posted her last will and testament smack in
the center of her refrigerator door.
Interestingly, fatherhood enhances memory. New fathers never forget
bowling leagues, poker nights or tee-off times. Their contribution to
the refrigerator door will most likely be the stat sheet for the
football playoff pool, a sale flyer for a new power tool or mulch.
Beware the individual with nothing on their refrigerator door. They
suffer from a rare condition known as, “fridgafreakaphobia.” They are
under the misguided notion that the sole purpose of a refrigerator is to
keep food fresh. The adjusti-temp shelves are perfectly positioned to
maximize air circulation. They date and label leftovers, alphabetize
condiments and arrange them in descending height order. These people
should never be invited to join your potluck group.
Somehow in this jumble of magnets, paper, photos and bins I find
whatever I need and get where I’m going on time. Since I’ve given up on
plastering Post-it notes reminders on all available surfaces and just
used my refrigerator door I haven’t had an overdue fine from the library
or the video store.
And my hard drive never crashes.
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