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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/ September 2007 Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
August/
September 2007 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Rule #752: Never
Laugh Out Loud When Your Child Does Something You Don't Want To Happen
Again
By
Cameron Castle,
Washington
Today was finally a hot summer August day, which we here in Seattle have
been yearning for. I was changing Carter’s diaper after his very long
and probably heat induced, afternoon nap.
A fun game for
Carter when I change his diaper is for him to touch any emblem that
might be on my shirt and have it produce a funny sound from me. If my
shirt has a little horse on it (garage sale I think, I wouldn’t have
paid for that) I make a horsy sound, “whinnie.” If I have my Cubs shirt
on and he touches the emblem I say, “Cubs win!” or “Let’s get some
runs.” All of this results in peels of laughter from Carter.
Today, though, I learned a valuable lesson. Rule #752 on the list. Being
so hot out, I was not wearing a shirt. Where there normally is a horse,
or some logo, or the Cubs “C,” was only a nipple. A nipple as different
from his mother’s as any two things with the same name could be. He
pressed it once nonetheless, and as you can imagine, produced a funny
sound. There are some men, I assume, who couldn’t care less about
someone touching their nipples, and some that even enjoy it. I, on the
other hand, can’t stand it. It is my super-tickle spot that I would
prefer left alone.
He was ready to press it again, when luckily, he spied something else of
interest. My belly button. A spot that I was about to be reminded, I
hated being poked even more than my nipples. Carter’s eyes focused on
it. What used to be an outie, time and a decadent lifestyle has been
transformed into an innie. Suitable to house one toddler’s index finger.
Carter looked up at me for a moment, looked at his finger, looked at my
belly button, and plunged his digit in. I made a sound that was a mix of
the foghorn on a ferryboat, the sound of a twenty-foot long alpenhorn
playing in the Swiss mountains, and an amplified, scared mouse. It was a
high-pitched “Aah-Ooo-Gaa” sound. Carter loved it. He laughed. I
laughed, and he jammed his finger in there again. Same sound. He
laughed, and I couldn’t help myself. I laughed very hard. The
combination was way too much for my common sense to control.
Back to the rule. “Never laugh out loud over something you don’t want
your toddler to do again.”
If Carter does something to make someone laugh, especially me, he will
want to do it again. And again. And again. After twenty or, let’s say,
thirty thousand times, he starts to tire of it.
It was horrible. Worse than when my older sister held me down and
tickled my ribs and wouldn’t quit. Worse because I had set up the entire
situation, and there was nothing for me to do to immediately rectify it.
I had to finish changing that very significant diaper. I couldn’t leave
him on the changing table, to go get a shirt. I couldn’t pick him and
that diaper up. I was helpless. Working frantically, as Carter was
joyously thrusting his finger into my belly button and cackling. I was
trapped in a fit of uncontrollable and unwanted laughter. The more he
did it, the more I laughed. The more I laughed, the more he did it.
I will never change his diaper again without my shirt on. That is
obvious. But the damage to my nervous system from that ordeal is so
severe, I think from now on I might just put a piece of duct tape over
my middle as added protection under my shirt.
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 Tails
of Courage
By
Cy Creed,
New
York
Though several of my friends have cats, not one of them has actually
ever purchased one. You don’t need to. They just show up. Like dandruff.
And like dandruff, when they disappear, it’s not a very noticeable
absence. Not like, say, your garage is missing or even your vacuum
cleaner (wait, I wouldn’t notice that missing, either.) The point is-
cats just appear. You don’t ever need to buy one - like those return
address labels that come in the mail daily.
So imagine my surprise when I found myself actually looking for a cat.
Years of Christmas lists from my daughter always had a familiar slant.
The initial ninety or so items differed as she aged but at the bottom of
every single list was the request for a kitten. It was bordering on
pathetic as her tastes changed from American Girl Dolls to Sephora
makeup. There was always the pitiful...”and a kitten, too” as the last
line of the list.
Having made the decision to obtain a kitten and appease said daughter, I
was dumbfounded as to the lack of them to be found. It appeared I was
actually going to have to look for one so during a wintry Buffalo day, I
told my co -workers I would be bringing back a kitten after spending my
lunch hour at an animal shelter.
I found a kitten that appeared to have all the required kitten
qualities, scooped him up and began to walk out the door. Immediately, I
was halted by the animal police scolding me that I had to fill out a
form and PAY FOR IT!!!
“Pay for what?” I asked.
“The cat.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! Who pays for a cat?”
“You do if you want one. That will be $50.”
Being that it was two days before Christmas, I acquiesced and forked
over the dough. Opening the exit door, I was accosted again.
“What now?” I asked.
“We need to do a credit check on you,” I was told.
“But I just paid you in cash.”
“Sorry. We need to know you’ll be able to afford the care of a cat.”
Care? I asked myself. What care?
Brother, I said to myself and filled out a credit application.
“Okay, can I go now?”
“We need 24 hours before we get the results of the application. Once we
receive that you can pick up the cat. Also, we will need you to write a
paragraph as to why you want a cat.”
So after two hours, $50, a credit application completed and a brief
essay on why on wanted this cat, I came back to work sans kitten. When
my colleagues asked where it was, I just told them they were fresh out
of cats. Explaining what had happened would be painful!
We named the cat Courage. His tumultuous beginning at the shelter was
indicative of how his days would be with us. There wasn’t a basket of
clean clothes he hadn’t defecated on nor did he ever pass up the chance
to vomit- on everything. We learned early on in the relationship to
smell bath towels before drying our hair with one. Often the mistake was
caught too late and many a day we went to work with cat urine in our
hair. A nice touch working in a crowded office!
Courage was apparently disgusted with the bad press he’d received and
disappeared. Feeble attempts to locate him were fruitless and we
eventually became used to wearing clean clothes again.
We do now think we know where he is. One Sunday morning, I was amazed to
see the subject matter of the Parade section in The Buffalo News with
the following caption:
TALES OF COURAGE IN THE MIDDLE EAST
Apparently, this cat was going to infiltrate the insurgents with his own
particular brand of weaponry. We couldn’t be prouder!
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Home
Is Where The Fart Is
By
Windy Lynn
Harris, Arizona
When my alarm
clock beeps I whack it with my hand and wait for my dog. She walks from
her cozy canine blanket at the foot of my bed to join me on my pillow. I
make our morning snuggle time quick and leap out of bed before she can
dole out “morning thunder”, that predictable first dog fart of the day.
If I move fast I can avoid it, but sometimes I’m not so lucky.
My dog, Jewel, likes to be with me in the home office most mornings.
That’s where I get to enjoy “silent thunder.” I am busy at work when my
eyes start to water. I never heard it coming, but it smells like rotten
eggs or that time we went to the hot springs. All I can do is fan my own
face and say her name but she isn’t affected. She isn’t the slightest
bit embarrassed either. Jewel is asleep with a smile on her face.
We eat dinner together as a family. Jewel waits under the table so she
will be nearby when some food is dropped. The kids know not to give her
any people food – we have enough trouble without upsetting her gastric
balance. But the mere thought of what might drop from the table gets my
dog so excited that we hear “eager thunder” from under the table. This
sends the kids into fits of laughter and prompts my husband to ask me
what I have been feeding that dog.
“Nothing,” I say defensively. Why does he always blame me?
Then I think about the dog treat I gave Jewel for chasing the birds off
the lawn. And the one I gave her for keeping me company while I folded
the laundry. Oh, and the hunk of cheese I gave her for telling me the
mailman was there. She loves cheese.
Then there was that bite of sandwich she got earlier. I didn’t really
feed it to her, I dropped it. Why bother picking it up when I have my
own furry vacuum nearby? I gave her a bite of my cookie to thank her for
cleaning up the sandwich. And later there were a few Doritos she got
from the table when the kids weren’t looking.
I was feeling guilty. My poor dog and her room clearing gas; maybe it
wasn’t all her fault. Maybe I should put her on a strict diet. Maybe I
should ignore her big brown eyes when I’m having a cookie and keep it
all for myself. I was planning my confession to the family when it
happened.
A loud noise quieted the room. My dog was so startled she ran to the
door to escape. My family looked at Jewel but I just laughed. That one
was “mom thunder.”
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We
Are Not Amused
By
Anita Lanning,
Oregon
Recently, my Muse decided to go on strike.
Alarmed at my dearth of words, the ones as a writer I rely upon, I do
some checking and sure enough--there's my Muse, picketing the corpus
callosum, that creative center of my brain.
"So what's the deal?" I ask my Muse. "Why are you striking now? I have a
novel to finish, stories to write, poems to pen, experiences to
chronicle. Can't we discuss whatever issues you have?"
But my Muse ignores me and keeps marching, picket sign held high. "On
Strike" it said, with no further explanation. No matter how I implore,
beg and cajole, my Muse remains mute. For a writer, nothing's worse that
a Mute Muse!
Desperate to continue my often-bumpy writer's journey, I recall
something I learned in a college course many years ago, a solution to
the dreaded "Writer's Block": Just keep writing!
So, as my Muse walks that line and I stare at a computer screen, the
modern equivalent to blank pages, I am reminded of exercises we did in
junior high school typing classes, the ones designed to nimble our
fingers and hone our typing skills.
One was, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their
country." Nowadays, of course, in this era of political correctness, it
would read, "Now is the time for all good men and women to come to the
aid of their country."
And then there's the one where all 26 letters of the alphabet are used:
"The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog's back." That one has
always conjured in my mind an interesting visual:
We are in a huge stadium where track meets take place, bleachers filled
with enthusiastic spectators. On the track at the finish line, Lazy Dog
lies in repose, seemingly oblivious to the noise that fills the air
around him. At the starting block is Quick Brown Fox, prepared for the
race of his life. The gun pops and Quick Brown takes off, running down
the track flat-out toward Lazy Dog. As Quick Brown races onward, the
crowd roars and Lazy Dog, still languishing, perks one ear, opens one
eye but does not move. Quick Brown reaches Lazy Dog and, airborne, sails
over Lazy Dog's back, clears his goal and executes a perfect four-paw
landing. The crowd goes wild! Quick Brown Fox, laurel wreath draped
around his neck, takes his victory lap, acknowledging the accolades of
his adoring fans. Lazy Dog stirs but does not move. He is, after all,
Lazy Dog and he has once again fulfilled his purpose in the world of
typing exercises.
As I contemplate this scene in my mind's eye, I detect a motion, turn
and there stands my Muse, picket sign at her feet, hands on her hips.
"Is that the best you can do?" she asks, rolling her eyes.
"Well, yeah," I reply. "How else am I supposed to fill up this blank
screen you've left me to deal with since you pulled your walk-out?"
My Muse shrugs. "All right, all right, I'll talk. But I'm telling you
right now, I want some better working conditions."
"What?" I respond. "So now we're re-negotiating our contract?"
"Ah, you get it at last! Yes, indeed, it's well past time. So, are you
ready to listen to my demands?" Clearly my Muse is ready for me and she
places her list before my waiting eyes.
Soon we come to agreement on the essence of her complaints. We cover
normal work hours (subject to interpretation in the Wonderful World of
Writing), vacation time, sick leave, lunch and coffee breaks, overtime
and perks. Just as we are to sign the contract, I think of one last item
on the table.
"Listen," I tell my Muse firmly, "I want a No Writer's Block clause."
"You want what?" she gasps. "A clause precluding writer's block?"
"Yep," I respond, "that's it. I'm getting pretty tired of words failing
me at the most inconvenient times, especially when it's your job to keep
the words moving from my left to right brain across the corpus callosum,
that source of creativity you have charge of."
"Well, okay," my Muse sighs resignedly. "But that means we'll have to go
back and revisit one of our contract provisions."
"And that would be?" I ask.
"The one," she replies, "covering overtime."
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Speak
Up
By
Carol
MacAllister,
Puerto Rico
Mumblers have laced through the centuries. The Greek, Demosthenes, spoke
to the ocean with stones in his mouth.
In the 70s, my son listened to the car radio when I drove him to grade
school. He had his favorite tunes and, like most popular songs, the
lyrics were artistically garbled.
“Turn it up,” he said.
“What song?” I asked.
“It’s a Family of Bears.”
“Huh?” He gave me cause to pause. (pun) “Oh. You mean, It’s a Family
Affair?”
A generation earlier, Jeff’s uncle, young Bobby, stayed home and
listened to the singing contest on the radio. When his parents asked,
“Who won?” he answered, “Some woman.”
“What’d she sing?”
“Horrible eyes.”
A moment after his mother paused (no pun), she said, “You mean, Harbor
Lights?”
Nephew Dillion listened intently to Alice In Wonderland read by a
mumbling granny. The tree-bound grinning Cheshire Cat captivated him.
When Santa left him a kitty for the holidays, he clearly had a name in
mind.
“I want it to be the same as the cat in the story. Chester.”
My sister, Janet, went to lunch with Pop. A real kid’s treat. “What did
you have?” Mother asked.
“It starts with a “B”, she answered. Janet shook her head at each of
Mother’s guesses.
“Burger? Bacon? Bananas?”
“Nope,” Janet announced. “Bis-sketty and meatballs.”
Mother took a break (starts with a B) (pun), paused (no pun) and from
that time forward made an effort to speak more clearly to us children.
Mumbling can happen with large numbers of people all at once. Jose came
home from the baseball game elated that everyone in the stadium had made
sure he had an unobstructed view of the playing field. He told his
mother, “They all got up and sang, ‘Jose, can you see, by the lawn’s
early light.’”
I hope foreign leaders who discuss world issues have interpreters who
speak clearly. I wonder what incorrect results have billowed from
interpreters interrupters with the challenging combo - mumbling in
foreign word orders with accents. An innocent holiday decoration might
start a war. “We send mistletoes,” might be misheard as two missiles.
Friend Patricia is learning Spanish and told the kid at the Puerto Rican
McDonald’s counter to shut up. (Callate) She’d thought she’d responded
with the jargon meaning, to go. (Calle) Both words, close in
pronunciation, were problematically spoken in a mumbled English accent.
Consider religious leaders who encourage followers to celebrate,
misheard as celibate.
Margaret, a pious church-going type, though the cult selling roses on
New York City’s Streets were the Hairy Christians. I guess she never
wondered about their name or origin. Maybe, they didn’t get it right
either, figuring she was too busy to give them the time of day because
she was praying with her rosemary beads: a fragrant ritual learned for
her first Holy Reunion.
I know my husband understands my words. I do not mumble, but how did
this happen?
We were lying in bed. My head rested on his hairy chest. The hairs
tickled my nose. So, I picked up my head and rubbed my nose. I repeated
the action several times.
“What’s going on?” he grumbled.
“The hair on your chest tickles.”
“What? What’d you say?”
“The hair on your chest tickles.”
“What? What’s wrong with the hair on my testicles?”
Did the proverbial table turn? Maybe, I’ve subliminally learned the art
of speaking in mumbles.
We stood together on the third floor, looking out over the hotel
property that we’d just checked into. I spied a cute ceramic frog on the
edge of the pool. I know that I said, “Look at the frog spitting in the
pool.”
“What?” my husband said. “Where?”
My comment confused him, so, I repeated, “Look at the frog spitting in
the pool.” Then I realized he might have thought I’d said something
else, so, I immediately blurted, “No, no. The frog isn’t relieving
himself in the pool.”
“What are you saying?” He grew aggravated. “Those girls aren’t spitting
in the pool. They’re splashing. I see the fog.”
Hello. At this juncture, the conversation left planet Earth. Where did
it go?
I glanced around and realized he was quizzically staring out beyond the
hotel property to the fog bank moving in, wondering what that had to do
with the girls in the pool.
Is there any hope for this maddening situation of mumbling? Perhaps one
should just say, “Speak up,” or “Take the stones outta yah mouth.”
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Milk
At A Starbucks
By
Jim Monti,
Illinois
I am an official milk addict, and I have to have a glass every morning.
As a result of this, I always keep a weather eye on the amount of milk I
have in my refrigerator. I never let it get too low. I’ve even
contemplated purchasing my own dairy cow, but the methane pollution
would be too much for me. However, one morning I woke up to a scene that
can only be described as utterly macabre; someone drank the rest of my
milk. This was a major crisis, and I was on a mission to find milk to
drink before I entered the doors of my workplace.
I had to walk to work that morning and there were no grocery or
convenient stores along my route. I was beginning to get very nervous,
and just before despair set in, I came up with a radical idea. I
wondered if I could do something so simple, yet at the same time, so
bold; I wanted to stop at Starbucks and order a regular glass of milk.
I wasn't sure if they even sold regular milk; I know they have milk
since all of their drinks require it. The question was, would they be
able to simply transfer milk from the gallon container directly to the
glass, or would it have to undergo some type of steaming and frothing
process to pass Starbucks standards? I decided I had to try it.
I cautiously entered the Starbucks and got in line. While I waited for
my turn I noticed that this Starbucks ran with machine like efficiency.
Customers ordered complex items such as “iced caramel macchiatos” and
“orange mocha frappuccinos,” and the employees at the register gleefully
repeated the order so the employees making the drinks could hear the
order. The drink makers then jovially repeated what they just heard,
just so everyone in the entire coffee shop knows what everyone else is
having.
When it was my turn to order, I took a deep breath, squinted at the menu
and said, “Can I have a… venti… milk please? At this point the sound of
a needle being abruptly taken off a record echoed throughout the
Starbucks. The Starbucks assembly line, which five seconds ago was
merrily buzzing through orders, stopped as quickly as an automotive
plant at shift change. In the distance there was the sound of mugs
breaking as they fell from the hands of shocked customers.
The employees stared at me dumbfounded. I turned to survey the other
customers in the store, and the picture I saw was grim. The men met my
eyes with menacing glares, while the women tried to get their crying and
frightened children out of the horrible environment I just created.
I returned my focus on the transaction I was trying to complete, and the
woman at the cash register asked, “You just want a regular glass of
milk?”
“Yes,” I responded. “Just a regular glass of milk.”
“And you don’t want it steamed or frothed or…?”
“No thank you. Just milk please.”
""OK then, one venti milk."" the Starbucks cashier said, with a fair
amount of contempt, to one of the beverage artists.
I watched as several, ""baristas,"" huddled in a corner to try and
figure out how to meet the complex demands of my order. These people can
“frapify” anything, but a simple milk order throws them off of their
game. I wanted to lean over the counter and yell, “All I want you to do
is tip the gallon of milk enough so the liquid comes out the top! Then
catch it in a cup and give it to me” However, the tension at Starbucks
was still very high, and I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.
I reached for my credit card to pay, but then suddenly realized I wanted
to pay in cash. Due to the extreme negative response my order caused, I
was under the impression that I just triggered an international
incident. Therefore, I didn’t want to leave a paper trail linking me
back to the Starbucks where the milk was ordered. Nevertheless, I did
indeed take my receipt, and I display it proudly in my bedroom as a
constant reminder of the day I did the unthinkable; the day I ordered
milk at Starbucks.
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A
Recent Trip
By
Sue Thompson,
Minnesota
This past weekend my daughter and I were in Minneapolis for a wedding.
As with all trips to Minneapolis, which include my daughter that is, a
trip to the Mall of American is required. I would rather visit many
other places than Mall of America, such as my dentist, my gynecologist,
or an auditor’s office at the Internal Revenue Service. Nevertheless,
there I was, perhaps in pursuit of the unreachable “Mother of the Year
Award”, following my daughter around what can best be described as hell
on earth.
My daughter insisted on visiting the store, Hollister. Having never been
inside a Hollister, and vowing never to go back, I was unprepared for
the humiliation that followed me.
The minute I walked into the store, I knew disaster would follow. For
one thing, the store had absolutely no lighting. Secondly, the volume on
the sound system was playing at decibel levels I did not realize
existed. I was holding on to my daughter not in fear of losing her, but
for fear of bumping into something and hurting myself. With the noise
level and lack of lighting in the store, I figured no one would hear me
scream as I fell, nor would they see me lying on the floor. I continued
holding on to my daughter when I noticed that she was giving me “the
look”. “The look” was my cue to disappear.
Now, as a former Parole Officer, I have toured maximum-security prisons
without nearly the level of fear I possessed by being left alone in this
store. God must have been on my side though because I wandered into in
the boys, oops, “Dudes” section of the store. I was safe. Or so I
thought.
I decided I would kill time (I knew I wanted to kill something, and time
seemed like the only “legal” option) by shopping for my son. I was
thrilled to find a pair of jeans and shirt. I now wanted to head back to
the girls, oops, “Betty’s” section in an attempt to locate my daughter.
I thought I left the “Dudes” section exactly the way I entered it from
the “Betty’s” section but I was wrong. Disoriented, perhaps from the
lack of sufficient lighting and constant pounding in my ears, I
unintentionally excited the “store proper”. This would not have been a
problem. However, I had, in my arms, two pieces of clothing that I had
not yet paid for. Oops.
The shoplifting sirens went off at about the same time as my cell phone.
Still unaware that I was the shoplifter in question, I answered my
phone. I chatted on the phone for several minutes before realizing the
covey of store clerks circling me. I politely told them that I did not
need any help and continued with my conversation. To make a long story
short, I was humiliated and not arrested by my shopping faux-pas.
After the clerks stopped laughing, I went to the counter to pay for my
clothing items. My daughter was convinced she would NEVER be allowed
back in the store because of her mother…hey I guess you really can find
some good in everything.
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Busy
Days
By
Sue G. Thompson,
Minnesota
A few weeks ago I was working on a paper for school. I was in a hurry,
not only because of my deadline, but also because I was hoping to cross
this item off of a very crazy “to do” list. Yes, it was one of those
weeks which required serious focus and attention. There was no room for
dilly-dallying. And so as the beads of sweat began dripping off of my
forehead, I emailed my paper and began prepping our foyer for a new coat
of paint. I then noticed my son sitting on the couch in our living room.
“Hey mom”, my son says, watch what I can do?” As I turned in the
direction of my son, I noticed the huge bowl of grapes on his lap. “Hey
mom, I have been practicing and watch how good I am?” And then he began
to show me what he had been working on for who knows how long. Yes, my
son was spending his morning throwing grapes up in the air and catching
them in his mouth. Of course our dogs were circling him like sharks for
those grapes which missed his mouth and landed on the floor.
As I looked at the length of my “to do” list I found myself a bit
jealous and began to wonder just how I arrived at this place. And then
it dawned on me – I have hit middle age! (I really hate it when that
happens). It seems like just a few years ago I was the one spending
oodles of time carelessly wasting a day by doing absolutely nothing.
Yes, do you remember those days when you kept busy with really important
and meaningful activities like spending hours searching for four-leaf
clovers? (I always wondered what I would do if I ever found one). Or,
perhaps the hours you spent lying on the grass in your attempt at
defining the shapes of clouds? Where did those days go?
Remember the days when stopping for a bathroom break was a huge
disruption to whatever it was you were doing outside, whether you were
in the middle of a serious game of kick the can or flashlight tag. Now
it seems like I hide in the bathroom simply to get away from my kids,
who, by the way, always find me and for some reason feel it necessary to
hold serious conversations during such private moments (And then they
have the nerve to complain about the smell…Hello? You are the ones who
followed me in here, what did you think I was going to do, bake a pie!!)
Yes, the lazy days of summer have quickly turned into the
hurry-up-and-get-all-of-your-outdoor-projects-done-before-fall-arrives-days.
And so as my son continues practicing the useful art of grape catching
(Which I am sure will look really awesome on a resume some day), I, like
many of you, will continue to add and hopefully cross off items on my
“to-do” list.
www.suegthompson.com
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Jeffie
and the Hypodermic Skeeters
By
Kathleen M. Wooton, New Jersey
It has been a bit rainy here in scenic New Jersey. By a bit rainy, I
mean it has rained nine days out of the last fourteen. Not biblical
downpours, mind you, I’m talking the kind of precipitation that
transforms suburban backyards into prime swampland, minus the
alligators.
Such generous rainfall brings a wealth of wildlife to the suburbs.
Squadrons of flying arthropods have come from neighboring states to
vacation here at the Jersey shore. They are increasing their surplus
population while frolicking at the beaches, rivers, streams, swamps, and
backyards of the Garden State. I’m talking mosquitos, people, or as I
like to call them, moreskeeters. Wherever I look, there are more and
more skeeters. They are big. They are angry. And they are using their
right of freedom of assembly to push their agenda - all for one and
blood for all.
Only my dogs appear immune to these ravaging swarms of blood suckers.
Far from protecting us in our hour of need, these dogs appear to be
taking some perverse pleasure in providing the pterodactyl sized winged
insects of doom with running, swatting, screeching targets for their
bloodlust.
Prior to the rain surplus, my dog Jeffie had always been ready to
protect me from harm, whether real or imagined. He laid by my side while
I recovered from four surgeries, growling at anyone he deemed to be too
close for comfort. He jumped on my chest each and every time I sneezed
within earshot, ready to perform canine CPR. Jeffie had my back, nursing
me when sick and protecting me from harm.
That all ended two nights ago. I was burning the proverbial midnight
oil, completing an humor writing course assignment, when a low-pitched
woof pierced the silence. Not wanting to interrupt my creative mojo, I
ignored said woof. Bad move, for soon Jeffie was scratching a tunnel to
the earth’s core via his crate. I was pretty sure that my home owner’s
insurance wouldn’t cover such canine-powered structural damage. I had to
face facts, Jeffie had to relieve himself, and I was the only one awake
to take him out.
Ever the responsible dog owner, I went to the back door, turned on the
patio light, and froze in terror. Mutant mosquitos had organized around
the back door, and they were staring right at me, scanning me for weak
points, performing the complex calculations needed to mobilize the
highest number of bloodsuckers in the shortest amount of time. I pleaded
with Jeffie, bribing him with all manner of succulent tidbits, if he
would just hold off until morning. I rattled off all the diseases spread
by mosquitos, and begged my dog to spare me from them. Who knew that a
lowly canine knew the exact probability of a Jersey humorist contracting
dengue fever from a marauding army of skeeters (damn near nil). I’m
pretty sure he knew, for he looked at the gathering swarm of winged
hypodermic needles and said “wuss”. Or at least I think he said wuss. I
was too busy planning my sprint out the door while simultaneously
covering all exposed flesh to hear anything.
Upon release from the bonds of the back door, Jeffie, the canine
formerly known as loyal, seized the opportunity to perform the ancient
canine helicopter dance. This ceremonial dance was a wonder to behold -
his pooper shooter performing a maddening number of figure eights before
depositing his fragrant offering into the ancestral dumping grounds.
Sadly, warding off the advances of carnivorous insects cut into my usual
appreciation of the canine rear-cycling act.
Only after I provided a most generous involuntary blood donation to the
arthropod vampires, did my traitorous pooch scamper through the back
door and back into his crate. Not a single mosquito touched Jeffie’s
delicate skin. Stupid helicopter butt.
Please, if I get dengue fever, malaria, Eastern Equine Encephalitis, or
yellow fever after this fiasco, I want you to promise to remember me in
song. For some reason, this song keeps springing to mind*.
Wasting away again in damn Mosquitoville,
Looking for my lost spray can of Off®.
Some people claim that there’s the weather to blame,
But I know, it’s my damn dog’s fault
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The
Twenty-Five Dollar Quarter -- My Summertime Tale of Woe
By
Kathleen M. Wooton, M.D., New Jersey
Summertime, and the living is easy...yeah, right. I have just finished
five weeks of acting summer camp, and boy, are my tires are tired. Okay,
truth be told, my teenage daughter is the acting camp graduate, I am
just the stage mom wannabe who was the wheels beneath her wings.
Being the designated driver for a future musical theater diva is, in
itself, a daunting prospect to someone whose musical theater experience
ended in 1979 with a high school production of Man of La Mancha. I had a
great set of lungs, but I couldn’t act my way out of a paper bag, and my
dancing involved counting aloud to avoid tripping over my two left feet.
Hiding me in the pit orchestra would have worked if I weren’t prone to
tripping over my seat in the dark. I had no talent for anything other
than the high school choir and orchestra, as neither involved moving
from my designated spot. But I digress.
Back to my designated driver status story, already in progress. Filling
the role of the seasoned stage mother slash designated driver to a
future star of stage and screen involved a modicum of acting skill on my
part. I had to play the part of a woman confident in her ability to
chauffeur her daughter across two counties, into unfamiliar territory,
without getting royally lost. This was no small task for me, for I have
a talent for getting lost in familiar territory, i.e. driving the three
blocks to my daughter’s high school (the same one I attended in my
youth). I did not feel up to the task, so in preparation for my
mandatory twice daily trips to acting camp, I utilized an online map
site for fool proof driving directions.
Unfortunately, a part I do play exceptionally well is that of the absent
minded professor. After carefully charting out the driving directions to
and from the acting camp, I put them aside in the kitchen, and promptly
forgot about them. The night before the dry run drive to the camp, my
husband asked for said directions. No sooner had I reached the kitchen,
had I forgotten the objective of my mission. I knew I needed something
in the kitchen. I went looking for directions and I returned with sliced
ham. Three times. Clearly, I had stage fright.
The first day of acting camp arrived, fraught with intense nerves on my
part. I feared my opening day as stage mom would end with me, the teen
diva in training, and my tag along son lost somewhere deep in the
Canadian tundra, asking polar bears for directions. Imagine our
collective surprise when I actually found the place. Twice in one day,
in fact. And no one had to be committed.
Fast forward four weeks and two days. There were two days left to go
until my twice daily, adrenalin powered commute would be over, and I
could once again restrict my driving experience to a few
well-delineated, carefully memorized routes. I was feeling triumphant,
having conquered my fear of driving. I was a fool.
I didn’t exactly get lost, for I got to the camp on time for pick up. I
even found a great parking spot. I dropped a quarter into the nearest
parking meter and strolled confidently to the camp, passing a meter maid
on my way. I almost said “Hi” in passing, but a sudden wave of restraint
got hold of me, and I chose silence. Another unwise decision.
Twelve minutes after depositing my quarter, I returned to my car with my
daughter in tow, to find a parking ticket neatly tucked beneath my right
windshield wiper. I almost wasted a friendly greeting on a meter maid
who charged me twenty five dollars for dutifully feeding the meter the
required toll. I was livid.
I was in the right, I was sure of that. To prepare for the court case I
just knew I’d win, I returned the next day, camera in hand, to
photograph the meter that ate my quarter. I was flabbergasted when I
realized the meter maid was correct. I did feed the nearest meter, but
alas, it was not the correct meter. I got lost finding a flipping
parking meter.
Twenty five dollars for feeding the wrong meter. I’m sure I could
explain my mistake to the judge and have the fee waved, but I’d rather
pay the fine online than have my inherent ditziness be a matter of court
record. Twenty five dollars is a small price to pay for my self respect.
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The
Pet Conspiracy
By
Carole Wyatt,
Ohio
I’m certain in the pet world that a well-rounded owner is the preferred
status symbol. I think my pets want me fat. They weren’t bringing me
Godiva chocolates, but they were doing their best to keep me from
shedding weight. My two lazy dogs and lethargic cat have unified to stop
me from exercising.
The first time I turned on an exercise tape, they came to watch because
that is mainly what I was doing at the time. By the next day, I had
psyched myself to exercise along with the tape. The high stepping
cardio-vascular moves had the dogs barking in agitation. Perhaps I
reminded them of a fleeing paperboy. When it was time for floor
exercises, they laid down beside me boxing me in with their warm, smelly
bodies. Each ab crunch earned a large tongue swipe from my oversized
mutt. When I reached for my barbell, I grabbed the cat.
Thinking it was a fluke, I tried exercising the following day. Cautious,
I locked the door to keep out my observers. Of course, I had to blast
the volume because the dogs barked their opinion at their exclusion. The
cat even climbed up the screen window distracting me from the lunges,
which I didn’t mind being distracted from too much.
To fool my wayward pets, I worked out behind closed doors in different
rooms. When they heard the music, they practically tore the house apart
to reach me. My husband joked that they seemed to like the exercise
routine or at least their part in it.
As far as being athletic, there wasn’t an active bone in the bunch. The
cat’s most vigorous activity was climbing up the screen door when I was
late with his food.
Every dog walk consisted of walking a few feet, engaging in a sniff
fest, then squatting was the extent of the canines’ physical exertion.
There was very little fat burning going on our walks, although I do have
superior upper body strength from yanking on their leashes whenever they
engaged in prolonged sniffing. It seemed as if they were auditioning for
the part of the bloodhound on Mystery Theatre, without the baying or
running after the criminal part.
My overly opinionated pets didn't dissuade me from exercising. They
became part of the routine. Chance, my Rottwieler-Boxer mix would lie
across my belly to prevent me from arching my back when working on my
triceps. Patti, my elderly spaniel, would stand by the weight bench, so
I could pet her between sets. They knew how many reps I should do and
would bark if I cut it short. They are great exercise partners because
they never laugh when I fall off my balance ball.
However, I have caught them smirking.
www.morganwyatt.00server.com
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Handbag
Hell
By
Christopher Yeager,
Ohio
Once upon a time there was a handsome prince who lived happily with his
wife Cinderella till, one day, she dropped her handbag on the palace
steps. The prince picked it up, and immediately turned into a pumpkin.
As this alternative version of the famous fairy tale shows, guys would
rather model diapers than be seen with a purse. That’s why you’ll never
see a purse-snatcher sentenced to carry one. That would be considered
cruel and unusual punishment.
It wasn’t always this way. Renaissance gentlemen carried purses in case
they happened upon a succulent peasant, er, pheasant on the way home.
But nowadays you’ll sooner see Pat Robertson performing in a cabaret
than a guy with a purse. Including me.
I’d like to think I’m not threatened by my feminine side. But after
snuffling around in my head like a pig after a truffle, the best I can
turn up is the same old moldy fear of being cut off at the knees. Or a
bit higher.
Superficially, it’s a matter of style. Our cowboy mystique encourages
men to travel light. We don’t need a change of heels, lipstick,
fragrance, sunglasses, and brake pads to go to 7-11. We’d cheerfully
wear the same sweats to practice three years straight. Unwashed. The
Tokyo subway incident several years back was actually caused not by
nerve gas but by a soccer player’s gym bag opening accidentally.
But it’s more than style. The same WWF devotee who’ll face down an irate
Cape buffalo with a slingshot will blanch to his root canals at the mere
suggestion of touching a woman’s handbag. In the innermost recesses of
our being there’s a strand of DNA that says, Never, under penalty of
listening to Roseanne sing duets with Fran Drescher, mess with a woman’s
purse. You learn this in junior high. It’s included in health ed books
under the heading Biohazard: ‘The sanctity of a woman’s purse is like
unto her virginitee. Keepa you hands off.’
And women enforce this rule. I get the feeling they’d rather endure a
surprise gyno exam in the middle of a department store than reveal the
contents of their handbag. Abuse this notion, you’ll be lucky to escape
with your life. You may think you’re dating Teri Hatcher, but if a woman
catches you going through her purse, presto-- Aileen Wuornos!
Even when a man has permission to handle one, he treats it like anthrax.
Ever notice a guy holding his wife’s handbag while she’s trying on
clothes? He may as well have NOT A TRANSVESTITE stamped on his forehead.
He’s got the strap bunched in his hand, very graceful, wearing a pained
expression suggesting he walked the dog prior to entering the store and
the bag contains the results. He’s not looking or moving around very
much, which is just as well, because his movements suddenly have become
so stiff he’d trip over a thumbtack. Obviously, such a klutz could
easily be mistaken for a slinky female wannabe.
Men’s pursehandling skills are so poor we can’t even wear a fanny pack
properly. Zipper bags, so indispensable to dropping a month’s salary at
Epcot, traditionally are worn either behind us, so that we can be
deprived of our valuables discreetly, or low in front, as if we’re
auditioning for Chippendales. You’d think we could at least remember how
the West was won and wear it on our hip.
How sad. There are times when pockets just ain’t adequate. Especially if
you’re packing a few extra pounds in thighs and tush. Stuff wallet,
change, keys into pants, you’re risking a serious wedgy. And you don’t
exactly endear yourself to cashiers when you hand over a fistful of lint
along with the change.
Then there’s the sheer melodrama of purse ownership that we’re missing.
Boffing the Other (Wo)man over the head with it. Sitting on it when you
visit a grungy relative. The seasonal ritual of changing handbags, which
women look forward to more than sweet corn.
We need help. Fashion designers, so adept at garnering the female buck,
need to step into the fold, the billfold, and appeal to our vanity. At
least one has accepted the challenge. Designer Louis Vuitton recently
retailed a purse for $40000. With a handbag like that around, who needs
a set of gold golf clubs? You could stow it in your Ferrari with room to
spare. Enough for a carton of truffles.
www.breakfastatnoon.com
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