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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/ November 2007 Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our October/ November 2007 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
If Only I
Could Remember What I Forgot
By Burton Cole, Ohio
For years, I have feared that one day I will develop Alzheimer’s disease
and nobody will notice. According to the latest research, I’m right.
Goal-driven, conscientious achievers are less prone to contracting
Alzheimer’s disease, according to a study just published in Archives of
General Psychiatry. That means disorganized people who keep putting off
until next week or next year the dishes in the sink are more likely to
be affected. And more likely to have an odiferous kitchen.
It’s not that I don’t have goals. I just don’t remember what they are.
There used to be one about playing small forward in the NBA. I’m only 6
foot, 48, overweight and lacking a jump shot. I’m guessing that’s not
one of my goals anymore.
I wish I could remember where I left the list. Or if I wrote one. I
think the last time I accomplished something was when I finally finished
reading that issue of “Donald Duck.”
Basically, I’m in trouble. But I knew that. Alzheimer’s disease is in my
family. Both sides. And if watching it take apart my family wasn’t
enough, for years now I myself have been able to walk into a room, look
a person square in the eyes and forget his or her name.
Usually, I try to gloss this over until searching my mental databanks --
which are disorganized as my muddled and well-littered desk -- until I
can pick up a clue in the conversation. “Hey there, good to see, uh, you
again,” I’ll say to a woman I come upon and know I should know somehow.
“So what have you been up to?”
And she’ll say, “Burton William, I am your mother and I wish you’d stop
pretending you don’t know me!”
Oh. Yeah. I knew I recognized her from somewhere. They lady who made my
bologna sandwiches back in second grade. Or maybe it was seventh.
Anyway, I tend to blank out a lot. Previous studies have linked social
connections and brain calisthenics such as working puzzles with a lower
risk of Alzheimer’s. The same researchers reported previously that
people who experience more distress and worry about their lives are at a
higher risk. I like crossword puzzles, but mostly I exercise my mind
with rounds of spider solitaire on my computer. I use the difficult
setting.
I used to worry a lot. Fretting is the official pastime of my family.
There isn’t a problem too small that we can’t figure out at least 16
ways to worry it into a proper tizzy, suitable for framing. Sadly, I had
to give up anxiety when I realized I couldn’t remember what I was
suppose to be worrying about. Now I worry that studies will show that
the serenity of not worrying is bad for my health.
I don’t have social connections. I like to work on anti-social
connections. I am studying to be a crotchety, old man when I grow up,
and so far, I’m progressing nicely.
Hey, wait a minute! I just remembered what my goal is. I’m not sure if
that makes me goal-driven, but at least I have a goal. And I’m very
conscientious about forgetting. So I’m fine.
But if Alzheimer’s comes a knockin’, don’t worry -- you won’t notice a
thing.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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 Grocery
Shopping, Feminine Hygiene and My Daughter
By Len Di Gregorio, New Jersey
My wife and I were shopping at a local grocery store recently, when our
teenage daughter called us on her cell phone, asking us to purchase a
feminine product for her. My wife knew the type and brand she preferred,
but this particular style apparently was out of stock. Having relayed
that message to me, I decided to offer my assistance, being the
concerned and involved parent that I prefer to believe I am.
And of course, I was eager to come to the rushing aid of my only
daughter, during her time of need. After all, how difficult could this
be? This was a major grocery store chain, and these feminine things took
up approximately half of an isle -- on both sides.
“They must be here, somewhere,” I told myself. And I have been down this
road before, or, in this instance, this aisle, having shopped for
feminine products for both of them, over the years.
Knowing, from prior experience, that a woman has several different
products to choose from, I decided to talk to my daughter directly. So I
asked my wife to pass me her cell phone, because I have developed, over
time, into a confident, if not cocky, well-educated shopper for such
items, during my illustrious career as a father and a husband.
When I broke the news to my daughter that her desired product was,
indeed, currently unavailable, I offered her a few options. I mentioned
to her that they have other brands on display, in the most common
varieties that I usually purchase -- Regular, Mini and Maxi.
“But if these will not suffice,” I suggested, “the store does have the
following styles in stock and readily available for purchase -- Super
Maxi, Maximum Coverage and Super UltraThin.” A man’s man type of
product, I’ve always thought -- super, maximum and super ultra, which
translates easily into tough, strong and durable. The company should
include a picture of that Mr. Clean muscle guy on their package as their
logo, for proper representation of this seemingly stellar product.
“But wait,” I continued, now suddenly becoming a bit uncomfortable and a
mere mortal in my area of expertise. “They have even more types and
styles! They have Longs. And they have Longs with Wings, which I
wouldn’t recommend wearing with a sun dress, because if you should
happen to get caught in a windstorm, these wings could lift you off the
ground, causing injury.”
And since I knew she enjoyed sleepovers, I asked her if these Overnight
ones would be appropriate. And many brands even manufacture Overnighters
with Wings, which would be ill-advisable to wear during a camping
expedition, or any other outdoor activity, for reasons previously
stated.
And there is also the type with 4 channel protection, not advisable for
watching cable TV, which has far too many channels for these to be
effective.
The one type I didn’t dare offer to mention to my daughter, was the one
commonly known as UltraThin + Wipe. Upon noticing this particular
product line, I quickly handed the phone back to my wife, wondering why
I offered my assistance in the first place. Whatever happened to my
confidence, experience and expertise in this subject?
Apparently, these attributes had grown Wings and had mysteriously flown
away.
© Copyright
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Spagmaphobics
Unite
By Laurie Fabrizio, Minnesota
With the onset of online shopping, I have fallen victim to the ease of
Holiday ordering right from my computer. I confess I have become the
“Queen of Free Shipping” and the “Master of Promo Codes”. The UPS man
and I have formed a coffee klatch.
This is not the lazy way to shop; it’s the only way to shop! Why get
aggravated fighting rude holiday crowds? You can avoid the embarrassment
of suffering from “Harleyshock” (trying to pull into the last remaining
parking spot only to discover a motorcycle), waiting in line and finding
the item you desire is out of stock, and dealing with “Expressholes”
(people who sneak extra items into the express checkout).
Unfortunately, with this convenience comes an inevitable influx of
shipping boxes and a cornucopia of useless packing materials. This year
I even had packages arrive blanketed by what looked like shredded
grocery bags glued together. The contents were reminiscent of mummies,
wrapped with various materials, forcing you to work your way layer by
layer, akin to unearthing a valuable archeological artifact. I’m not
sure which was more satisfying, popping the bubble wrap or finally
viewing my new treasure.
I can finally admit I am a “Bubblict” (one who is addicted to the
systematic popping of bubbles in packing material) as a way of dealing
with stress. At my family’s request, I recently began a “Twelve Step”
program to deal with this condition.
I’d like to personally thank who ever created “Spagmumps” (those
irritating Styrofoam wads that accompany mail-order items)… for I now
suffer from “Spagamaphobia”. I cringe upon the opening of a shipping box
for fear those little buggers will jump out and attack me. My therapist
is helping me to work through this.
Emptying these boxes is indeed a true art form. Trapping those suckers
in a garbage bag before they multiply like Gremlins, is like trying to
catch a group of five-year-olds at Chucky Cheese after too much soda and
birthday cake. Quickly close the bag or they will inevitably escape and
ride the wind like confetti at a ticker tape parade.
I ventured into the garage to rid the house of these Christmas pests. I
immediately tripped over the mogul of lazily tossed trash bags and
slipped on the boxes my husband neglected to recycle. I catapulted into
the air, and performed a “triple klutz” as I skated across the remaining
cardboard. I landed in the mountains of boxes and snow piles of
Spagmumps. I picked myself off the floor and realized if I had broken my
neck, my family might not have found me until the spring thaw. With any
luck, the absence of homemade Christmas cookies and wrapped gifts, would
have initiated a search party.
Intending to compose myself and hide my uncoordinated ballet move, I
furiously picked the Styrofoam peanuts out of my hair. I inadvertently
stepped on and punctured several of those connected, air filled tubes,
and discovered they pack quite the punch. For a moment, I felt like
Marilyn Monroe in her famed windy sidewalk scene.
I then removed the bubble wrap hanging like an Anaconda around my neck.
Unconsciously, I began popping it, and was filled with euphoria. Without
realizing it, I had fallen off the wagon. What was my sponsor’s number?
Limping into the house, I now understanding how “scrooge” came to be. I
found myself humming “It’s beginning to look a lot like I’ll be in the
Looney Bin for Christmas”. If Frosty the Snowman suddenly appeared at my
door, I’d nail him with my hair dryer.
Accepting that I will continue to deal with a bounty of packing
material, I have taken the offensive and compiled a list of creative
uses. I made a wreath by gluing spagmumps around a ring formed with the
shredded grocery bag packing material. Cushioning my daughters ski pants
with Styrofoam wads prevents rear-end damage. Covering Fido’s feet with
bubble wrap, warded off frost bite. I even padded my bra with bubble
wrap for extra holiday cleavage and generated quite a few second looks.
I am now a member of a Spagamaphobics support group. The UPS man hopes I
will learn to stop screaming … “there better not be any Styrofoam
peanuts in that package.”
I hope to be cured by next Christmas.
www.fabrizios.com/laurie
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Taste
Test Tales
By Cathy C. Hall, Georgia
Some families have scintillating dinner conversation. They discuss the
pros and cons of nuclear proliferation, like Jimmy Carter and his
daughter, Amy. Or they debate the ramifications of gun control, like the
Cheneys. And I’ll bet Paul McCartney and his kids have a field day with
the “pitchiness” problems of American Idol contestants.
But we’re not the McCartneys. We’re not even close to that kind of
sparkling banter. Just take a look at a recent actual dinner
conversation from the Hall house:
John: These Cheese Nips are not as good as Cheez-Its.
Mom: They’re the same thing.
John: No, they’re not. What do you think, Dad?
Dad: Mmmmm. (Tasting a cheese cracker) Definitely different.
Mom: They’re the same. They’re CHEESE crackers.
Dad: Oh, no, no, no (licking cracker) no, no. Cheez-its go better with
wine. Obviously.
I will spare you the details of dad extolling the virtues of the Cheez-it
cracker with red wine. But suffice it to say that it all comes down to
one word: Tart. Now once my husband starts using the word “tart” I know
we’re in trouble. It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to this dinner table
conversation degenerating into something, well, degenerate. So I nip
things in the bud. No offense to the Cheese Nips.
Mom: If I put the Cheese Nips and the Cheez-Its in a bowl, you wouldn’t
be able to tell the difference.
John: Bring on the taste test.
Mom: FINE.
John: FINE.
Dad: HOLD on. Remember what happened the last time you pulled this
stunt? The stunt he is alluding to happened years ago when Joey (John’s
brother) was 10 years old. Joey is about to graduate college. But every
time we have these kinds of conversations (And believe me, comparing
cheese crackers is just one of many food comparison conversations we’ve
had over the years), it always comes back to the Lucky Charms Fiasco.
Ah yes, Lucky Charms, that “magically delicious” cereal that happened to
be the only cereal that my precious pre-teen would eat. No other bowl of
cereal would do. Captain Crunch? Throw him overboard! Rice Krispies? Get
the snap, crackle, pop outta here!
There was something magical about Lucky Charms, all right. Maybe that’s
what made them so expensive. Sure, I know all cereal is expensive. What
I don’t know is why a box of cereal costs more than a six pack of beer.
Or why a generic cereal is almost half the cost of the name brand stuff.
The whole cereal thing is one of my “hot button” issues. And one day,
strolling down the cereal aisle, I snapped. I bought a generic box of
sugary oats and pink marshmallow-y cereal called “Fortunate-O’s” or
“Irish Knick-Knacks.” Whatever. I poured them into the empty Lucky
Charms box while picky Joey toiled away at school.
The next morning, I placed the box on the table. So far, so good. Joey
poured the fake cereal into his bowl. Spoon poised in his little hand,
he stopped, mid-air.
“What?” I asked.
“These aren’t my Lucky Charms,” said Joey.
“Yes, they are.”
Like you’ve never lied to your kid.
“No, they’re not.” Joey is smarter than he looks.
“They were in the Lucky Charms box,” said I. “What else would they be?”
Technically, I did not lie. Lying twice in a row would be wrong. Joey
took a bite. I suppose he was resigned to humoring me. But he didn’t
chew.
Splat! Into the bowl went the “Stinky Oats and Mallo’s.” And into the
trash went the rest of the fake cereal.
Now every time we have a “taste test” argument, the whole sordid story
gets dragged out again. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. So I
bought a box of Cheese Nips and Cheez-Its. John used a tube sock as a
blindfold. FIVE times in a row, he answered correctly.
“Don’t test the taste buds, mom.”
That was John’s parting shot. But I got the last laugh. There were
plenty of Cheese Nips left from the taste-testing. And they’re pretty
darn good with Merlot. Downright tart.
www.cathychall.blogspot.com
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The
Paintbrush Calls
By Mary Kirchhoff, Pennsylvania
I was getting new carpeting in my apartment, which was desperately
needed. I’d been there for 10 years and it was kind of shoddy when I
moved in. It would be a couple of weeks before the installation. Since
my walls were in an equal state of disrepair, that’s when I got the
brilliant idea to paint. Myself.
My sudden ambition was largely due to the fact that I’d gotten quotes in
the range of $1,000 to have it done by professionals. I was determined
to be a successful
do-it-yourselfer-no-matter-how-long-it-takes-and-how-much-pain-and-misery-you-will-be-in.
I lived alone so I’d have to recruit some help. Painting is a task I had
only taken on once, under parental supervision, some 30 years ago. Since
then, I’ve had back surgery and have developed arthritis in my back as
well. I’m not quite as mobile as I once was, not to mention that I’m out
of shape and about 80 pounds heavier than when I did my last paint job.
I’ve also developed a severe case of lazyitis.
The landlord kindly supplied me with the paint and accessories. I stared
at the stuff for about a week, hoping it would somehow transpose itself
from the five gallon container sitting on my floor, to the walls.
When that didn’t happen, I called my daughter for help. She’s 20 and has
a pretty busy social life, but we usually talk every day. When I
mentioned the words, “paint” and “need help” she suddenly had numerous
dropped calls, stopped answering her phone and stopped calling me. I
began to worry and thought I should report her missing.
So I called 911 and explained the situation.
“You’re saying you think your daughter is missing because she doesn’t
want to help you paint.”
“Yes, exactly. Ever since I asked her to help I have not been able to
get in touch with her. I’m worried. But I don’t know if she’s genuinely
missing or just avoiding me.”
“Ma’am, she probably just doesn’t want to paint. We get these kinds of
calls all the time. It’s even worse when it comes to hanging drywall.”
I called a friend. I got the same kind of reaction when I mentioned
those two deadly words, paint and help.
“I’m sorry, you’re cutting out. I can’t hear you. And the baby’s crying,
I’ve got to go, sorry!”
Baby? When did my friend have a baby? She’s in her 50’s. What was going
on?
Desperate for help, I even tried to get in touch with the 911 operator
who was so friendly. After all, my walls were in a state of emergency.
When I finally got him on the phone, he recalled me as the “paint lady.”
He told me, sorry, but 911 was temporarily out of business and he
promptly disconnected.
I finally came to the conclusion I would have to do this dreaded job by
myself. So I put on elbow length gloves, stuck my hand into the paint,
and began throwing it on the walls. It was a little messy but when I
rubbed it in with my palm it started to look okay.
Then I remembered some kind of brush and roller thingie. I picked it up,
eyeing it curiously. A lightbulb went off. I poured some paint in the
little tin thing and stuck the roller in. I was well on my way to
becoming a professional painter.
After three days, one room was finished. And it looked pretty darn good.
All I had left now was the living room, dining room, my bedroom, the
hallway, the kitchen and the bathroom. A breeze! It was November 2007,
and at this rate, I’d be done before November 2010!
Each day, I was covered from head to toe with paint. Having used muscles
that hadn’t seen any action in years, I felt pretty much like someone
had beaten me up. Too exhausted to wash the paint off, I’d pass out in
my bed and go into a deep painting-induced sleep.
One night, I dreamed that I painted my two cats and they were stuck to
the wall. I woke up screaming and ran to the one completed room to make
sure I hadn’t dreamed that I finished painting it. Sure enough, the room
was still painted, as were the cats, but at least they weren’t stuck to
the wall.
Gotta run, the paintbrush calls!
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Simply
Ducty
By Carol MacAllister, Puerto Rico
A major news show reported: Man holds up a convenience store. His photo
flashed across my television screen. To conceal his identify he wrapped
his head in duct tape. He left a slit for his eyes and as he misaligned
the silvery tape across his mouth, his lips pursed up and puckered out.
I suppose he was able to quack out the words, stick ‘em up, but I’m not
sure if he heard his victim’s response. He left the store with a few
rolls of coins and was apprehended in the parking lot.
The seriousness of the hold up was lost in the news interviews because
of the absurdity of the criminal’s appearance. Even the storekeeper
found it hard to keep a straight face as he was interviewed.
I wonder how the bandit planned to remove the sticky substance from his
head for a quick get away. It would be worse then ripping adhesive tape
off a wound, especially because he’d wrapped it around his full head of
hair. I began to suspect the news show was spoofing its viewers, but I
soon realized the holdup did happen.
What drove the criminal to this absurd hold-up disguise? I think it was
the government. Yes, the US government or least some of its
representatives. Why? Because years back, politicians said stock up on
duct tape to remedy… well, I don’t really remember its purpose… maybe
seal doors for toxic gas attacks or crisscross windows for storms. All I
know is, like a slew of citizens, I still have an ample supply of the
silvery tape on hand. This holdup guy probably had a shelf full of tape,
too.
I’ve seen duct tape used in many applications: repair of antennae,
sealing parcels for mailing, fixing shoes, taping up dress hems instead
of stitching them with thread, securing a weak airplane wing strut, car
and boat repair, luggage strapping and duct taping kidnap victims to
chairs.
My sister has dressed the kids up like the tin man from OZ for three
Halloweens in a row. The main item in the costume mix: duct tape. At one
time, I’d taught school and appreciated odd ball supplies sent in by
parents. I managed to think up projects for the kids. I’d be
hard-pressed for crafts from duct tape donations.
In fact, duct tape no longer inspires the plumbing/HVAC trades that it
was created for. New specialty tapes are the rage. Actually, duct tape’s
specific use is nil. Is that why the politicians pushed its use onto the
general public? Did some duct tape lobbyist group get to them?
The news reporter noted, with tongue in cheek, that duct tape was a poor
choice for a disguise. As the man’s head heated up from lack of
ventilation and touches of perspiration rolled, the adhesive let loose
and his duct taped mummy head-wrapping slipped around.
I guess duct tape ends ups with a booby award and the bandito-challenged
perp definitely ends up in jail.
© Copyright
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Dog
Sounds
By Dan McGinley, Connecticut
Dog owners are used to certain sounds that can often send dog-less
owners to the phone for a 9-1-1 call.
For instance, a loud CRASHING sound off the hallway wall means a tennis
ball thrown high and outside for our *Jack Russell, who responds with
scrambling and sometimes frantic or angry yelps as the ball bounces back
from the end of the hall. This forces her to re-adjust pursuit, twisting
or launching in all directions to get the ball. Most baseball people
associate this move with Derek Jeter on a double-play, but it’s really
the “Bridgy Twist”, named for our Jack Russell.
This doesn’t mean she’s going to actually retrieve the ball. Retrieving
the ball is not in her job description. Labradors and other dogs with
“Retriever” attached to their resume are – with proper training, steroid
abuse and copious blood-doping – supposed to actually bring the ball
back and drop it at your feet. Jack Russells challenge you to take it
away, sometimes pressing it into your palm for a friendly game of “rip
it out of my vise-like grip you pathetic weasel.”
As stated above, any CRASHING sound off the hallway wall signifies this
great tradition. BARKING and GROWLING like a wolf are the universal
sounds of dog ownership, unless your spouse has just returned from the
annual office party dressed in someone else’s wardrobe.
Barking and growling signifies one of several billion things occurring.
For a simplified explanation of “Things Which May Cause a Dog to Bark or
Growl,” we’ll take a very short look at paragraph three, sub-context
twenty-nine in the “notes” section of “Squirrels”:
1) A squirrel is in the yard..
2) A squirrel has just gone by the yard.
3) A squirrel in Australia just had a passing thought about something
that may resemble your yard, before becoming the subject of yet another
Australian wildlife expert wearing khakis and yelling endless facts.
4) An acorn bounced off your roof, reminding the dog of squirrels -- or
acorns -- which should never attack your house and need to know this
immediately, with a good barking or two, usually for hours, starting at
2 am.
Often your neighbor is also warned about this allusion to squirrels,
just in case. Often the neighbor consists of a temperamental strong man
for a large mob family.
SCRATCHING is often employed once BARKING and GROWLING has been used to
exit the home. If scratching is used for signaling the owner that a dog
would like to please re-enter the home, that owner is often rewarded
with a doggy-gift, which can be a pleasant surprise and/or horror,
ranging from a lost wallet to any number of headless rodents in various
states of decay and/or death throes.
MINOR EXPLODING SOUNDS is another dog sound with possible dire
consequences. A lot of these can quickly escalate into MAJOR EXPLODING
SOUNDS, and owners should beware. A lot of these sounds are accompanied
by heinous gaseous expulsions similar to rotten eggs, or lethal gas
encountered during any number of military operations. Also known as
FARTING, explosive sounds can often be controlled by diet, or access to
garbage, certain leftovers, or headless rodents.
I’ll end it here, as this is a subject we’re all very familiar with,
which seems to gain more exposure every year in kid’s movies, books, and
toys. It’s very much like a prat-fall, funny to witness from a distance,
painful to experience firsthand.
BREAKING GLASS is another sound dog owners can relate to, often
accompanied by SCREECHING CAT, SCREAMING KIDS, SWEARING SPOUSE, LOUD
SIRENS, and the most famous of all, WORLD WAR THREE. Breaking glass
often signals an all-out attack on the cat, while dragging your kid by
the leash , while your spouse verbally reacts to the affair, with an
ambulance responding to possible lacerations or a call from the
neighbor. Of course, the whole thing could spiral, and an endless
butterfly effect would bring the end of life as we know it. These are
all familiar sounds to your average dog owner.
* Yeah they call ‘em Parsons Terrier now, but only across the pond,
where proper English language means more to the British than our
football season, which is just insane. Not that they even play football,
which in Great Britain actually means soccer, which is even crazier,
like driving on the wrong side of the road. They don’t even run on
Dunkin’, they walk on tea. Slowly. With attitude. Like our greyhounds.
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Middle-Age
Spread is NOT a Condiment
By Victoria Milillo, Pennsylvania
I weighed myself yesterday. I'm not sure if I was feeling lucky, or
brave. One thing's for sure, nothing wakes you up quicker than stepping
on the scale. Not even coffee.
I have a measly 9 lbs. to lose and I am obsessed with losing these
monuments to my overindulgence. This is weight left over from when I had
my daughter over 11 years ago. Or perhaps I lost that weight and these
are different pounds now.
Who knows? I just know these pounds have taken root and simply refuse to
leave my body. They seem to have congregated around my waist, hips and
thighs. A perfect example of what is called "The Middle-age Spread".
They like to jiggle when I walk and stick out when I zipper my pants as
if to say "Hi! Remember that dessert you ate? You just couldn't say no
to that chocolate cake could you?" A constant reminder of my
over-indulgence in one kind of 'bad' food or another.
I have given up eating potato chips (my absolute favorite snack), cake,
pies, M&M's, and everything else that made life bearable. And still they
won't leave. They are the most stubborn 9 lbs. to ever exist.
One morning I actually caught myself talking to these unwanted
hangers-on. "Why don't you just leave? What do I have to do to make you
understand that I can't stand you and want you gone."
Just my luck my husband overheard me. "Who are you talking to, Vick?"
I stood there feeling like an idiot for talking to the fat pockets on my
body. Then I realized he probably thought I was talking to him.
"No one - I'm just being weird and talking to the flab on my body," I
tell him.
"Flab! What flab? You're crazy - you don't have any flab."
I smiled thinking to myself, "I trained him so well."
So, anyway, after weighing myself I felt like a fat slob all day. I even
wore one of my "fat outfits" because I wanted to have room for it to
spread out I guess. I didn't feel like eating dinner -- as if that would
help. Skipping that one meal will really make a difference and I will
miraculously lose the pounds.
Of course if I exercised maybe I would lose them. But that's another
thing that bothers me. I can't believe I have to come up with some kind
of an exercise routine and follow it religiously. Life itself is
exercise. Just going through the course of my day should be enough.
Especially my weekends when I'm doing laundry, grocery shopping,
cleaning, running one errand after another. Surely that should be enough
exercise to get rid of a paltry 9 lbs.
When I was in my twenties and gained a few pounds all I had to do was
watch what I ate for the next two or three days and poof! the weight was
gone. Well those days are gone too. Nowadays whenever I eat something I
know that I am feeding ten - me and my 9lbs.
It's not an even ten pounds, that's what makes it seem like it shouldn't
be too hard to lose. I guess I should be glad that it isn't 90 lbs. or
190 lbs.
But honestly, I'm sure these 9 lbs. could find a better home - a place
where they will fit in better and not be so noticeable that they get
scolded everyday for being where they aren't welcome.
Can't they take the
hint?
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Beauty
on the Beast
By Joel Schwartzberg, New Jersey
I ran out of shampoo this morning. That may not sound like a big deal to
you, but it is to me. You see, I bought the industrial-sized Costco
"salon-style" shampoo eons ago. When I first placed it on the shower
ledge, I thought to myself: Where will I be when this runs out? Will we
have a new President? Will "My Two Dads" still be on the air? Will
humankind have evolved into big-eyed, hairless creatures with
super-sized brains (and if so, what would I do with the remaining
shampoo?)
Then, another thought: what kind of shampoo should I buy next? I'm
normally not that finicky about "product," but things have changed since
I last bought shampoo. I've always been the kind of person who believes
that shampoo and conditioner could legitimately coexist in the same
container; that soap should come in a bar and be called soap, not shower
gel; and that luffa sponges belong in aquarium exhibits, not shower
stalls. In other words, I'm a guy.
But more and more, guys are starting to consider "product" for hair,
eyes, and skin. Depending on where you stand in the state of New Jersey,
this phemonenon is either a vital life necessity or a gender
abomination. Perhaps we're becoming more self-conscious. Or maybe we're
jealous of the attention some women lavish on themselves and their
bodies. Or possibly we just want what's rightfully ours: more medicine
cabinet space.
Regardless, it was clear I needed some expert insight if I was to
effectively investigate this phenomenon. And with holiday season around
the corner, it might also be time for people to start thinking
creatively about gifts for men that don't require batteries or "some
assembly."
Enter Illyne Anidjar, owner of beautylounge in Summit, New Jersey. If
anyone can give me a beauty awareness makeover, she can. A former
executive manager with Frederic Fekkai in New York City, Anidjar opened
her store exactly one year ago, something of a lifetime for New Jersey
small businesses that don't dry-clean your clothes, make pizza, or paint
your nails. Anidjar tells me that modern men, particularly in their 30's
and 40's, are extremely interested in taking care of themselves.
"These days it's considered okay for a man to express an interest in
grooming -- almost cool to be versed in different types of products,"
she said.
Men who come into her store, she told me, are not afraid to ask for what
they want, be it anti-wrinkle cream, something for thinning hair, or
something that can help them smell differently than the inside of their
cars.
Among the most popular men's grooming items at Beauty Lounge are
"anti-oxidant skin moisturizers with age-inhibitor complex," "eye
moisturizers with rice bran protein," "thickening shampoos," and
"fragrances like Rum Tonic or Lotus Root". It's important to keep all
these names straight, because you won't impress anyone by saying you
enjoy rice bran, smell like rum tonic, and have a thickening age
complex.
As for philosophy, Anidjar said, "I believe in prevention. The earlier
you take care of your skin, the longer it will hold out. Men usually
don't realize this until they see the first line and then panic."
She dispelled the myth that all shampoos are the same, and told me "a
man that smells good is a man to have around."
Some might think such grooming is a pointless exercise in narcissism.
"Joel, you're so vain," you might say. "I bet you think this essay is
about you. Don't you? Don't you?"
To you I say, you're listening to too much soft rock. Also, there's
nothing wrong with being indulgent from time to time. If you can do
something that makes you both feel good and look good, not to mention
smell good, then... more powder to you.
http://blog.nj.com/njv_joel_schwartzberg
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What
To Do When the Neighbor's Dogs Won't Stop Barking for Thirty-Three
Nights in a Row
By John Sheirer, Massachusetts
1) Call the "will do odd jobs" guy whose number you found on the
bulletin board at the supermarket. Offer him twenty bucks. He'll know
what to do.
2) Turn up the Republican National Convention really loud on the
television. (This won't stop the dogs, but it will give you a new
appreciation for their barking as a comparative source of intelligence
in the world.)
3) March right up to those dogs and tell them in a stern voice, "Cut it
out you guys, and I mean right now."
4) Invent a sound-proof fence. Install it in the appropriate location.
5) Go on the internet and see if you can find one of those whistles only
dogs could hear that everybody seemed to have when you were a kid. What
the heck -- anything's worth a shot.
6) Place a personal ad in the "singles" section of the newspaper.
Emphasize that you are looking for someone who really, really likes
dogs.
7) Tie an anonymous note to a brick and toss it through your neighbor's
window. The note should say that you "know what they're up to" and "it
had better stop really soon or there might be more bricks.
8) Bring six quarts of water to a boil. Add a bullion cube. Add a dozen
sleeping pills. Reduce heat to medium. Cover and let simmer for half an
hour. Serve at room temperature in a doggie dish.
9) When the dogs finally stop barking and fall asleep around 4:30 a.m.,
tiptoe up to them and yell, "It's about freaking time!"
10) Purchase a large bucket of "Bark-be-Gone." Apply liberally.
11) Ignore them. Sure, that'll work--just like it did with that bully in
junior high.
12) Eat lots of vegetables, exercise, take your vitamins, and outlive
the hairy beasts by sixty years.
13) Help the dogs open a dot.com business. That should make them
disappear pretty quickly.
14) They say that living well is the best revenge, so buy a
twenty-year-old Chevy, drink wine with a screw cap, and take a vacation
to Dollywood.
15) Enroll in that community college continuing education course about
dog mind control that you've always wanted to take but couldn't quite
fit into your schedule.
16) Walk by the windows naked every few minutes. That should confuse
them into silence.
17) Go to the library and check out a book about dog behavior. Make sure
it's a really big book. Throw it at them. Throw it hard.
18) Radio their coordinates to central command.
19) Read to the dogs from that notebook full of love poems you wrote in
tenth grade.
20) Throw the dogs a surprise birthday party. Get a poodle in a bikini
to jump out of a cake.
21) Become friends with the neighborhood kid who's really good with his
slingshot. Invite him over for a snack and target practice.
22) Take up the tuba. Practice late at night. Don't worry so much about
improving you ability to play. Volume is key.
23) Move. Now.
24) When your neighbor finally comes out on the porch at midnight and
says, "Will my sweet puppies please stop their barkie-warkies? Who's my
good boys? Yes, you are, yes, you're my good boys, yes, you are, oh, my
pookie-wookie puppies!" videotape the whole thing. Make sure your lawyer
gets the tape into evidence at your trial.
25) Take comfort in the knowledge that only cats have nine lives.
26) Enter your neighbors in one of those
"win-a-year-long-vacation-to-Madagascar" contests at the local mall.
Make sure it's the pet-friendly "win-a-year-long-vacation-to-Madagascar"
contest, not that other one.
27) Join a support group. Confront your feelings. Get in touch with your
inner child. Make peace with your demons. Pass the talking stick.
Revisit past lives. Tame your gremlin. Don't be afraid to cry.
28) Contact that horse whisperer guy. Ask him if he does dogs.
29) Begin a novel with the line, "It was a dark and stormy night, and my
neighbor's dogs were barking again." Find for a literary agent to handle
this can't-miss bestseller.
30) Write a complaint letter to President Bush. If anyone can help with
such a difficult diplomatic situation, it's him.
31) Mark your territory.
32) Knit each dog a really nice sweater--maybe some booties and scarves
too. They've probably been trying to tell you that they're a little
chilly.
33) Bark right back and see how they like it.
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Beauty
Is In The Eye Of The Beholder, But What If No One Is Beholding?
By Judi Veoukas, Illinois
“Do these pants make my hips look wide?” I asked my husband as I stared
horrified into the mirror.
“Define what you mean by ‘wide,’ ” he said.
“Wide!” I repeated. “Do my hips look wide?”
“Uh, uh, uh . . . ,” he stammered.
“OK,” I explained. “If you say they are the width of one of the Olsen
twins, well — both of the Olsen twins together — that is good thing. If
you say they are as wide as our giant plasma TV screen, that is a bad
thing.”
“Who are the Olsen twins?”
“Oh for god’s sake,” I shrieked. “You DO think my hips are wide!”
He disappeared from the room. I obviously saw in the mirror that my hips
had expanded, but still I would have loved to have heard, “Honey, you
look wonderful just as you are,” completing the sentence with “and not
the least bit wide.”
But, as I said, he'd escaped to wherever it is husbands escape to when
they know that whatever they say is probably a lost cause.
So where can I turn if I want positive feedback on my appearance, even
if it’s not quite — shall we say — accurate? My children? When my kids
were little, I could wear a ratty bathrobe, let my hair stand on end
like a rooster’s comb, and have both eyes inflamed by pink eye, and yet
one of the three would never fail to say, “Mommy pretty.”
Now they are grown with children of their own and how I look is of
little consequence to them. Mostly I appear in their lives to baby-sit
their offspring and they wouldn’t notice if I came dressed in Goth, so
eager are they to get out the door. Not quite the source I need.
As for my children’s children, I remember cuddling with my oldest
granddaughter, awaiting her first sentence. I fully admit to feeding her
the words, “Grandma so lovely.” Her actual first sentence, “Grandma neck
wiggly.”
Now she’s a teenager and pretty much just rolls her eyes when she sees
me, or any adult. But there is a place I can go. I have women friends.
At least when I need positive affirmation on my appearance, they’ll give
it their strongest shot. When my hair was unfortunately dyed crimson
before my last vacation they studied my trip photos and said, “You match
the autumn foliage,” keeping their faces straight.
And, they did the best they could when I showed up at a fancy event
looking like a football player in the shoulder-padded suit I’d bought
for my daughter’s wedding 18 years earlier. “Retro is so you,” they
gushed.
Or, when they saw my new center-lined bifocals for the first time, one
said with such earnestness, “That line pinpoints the blue in your eyes
so well.”
Female friends are indeed wonderful, but still, I think a woman needs an
occasional compliment from the man in her life. To that end, I picked a
strategy that just had to work. As we were dozing off I said to my
spouse, “Honey, what was the first thing you found attractive about me?”
“Uh, uh, uh,” I heard, followed by silence.
“Well,” I told him, “while you think about it, let me describe what
attracted me to you. It was your liquid brown eyes, your wavy hair, and
the way you barely spoke above a whisper.”
Silence. The man is technically oriented and must think everything
through so I waited. And waited. Soon I was asleep. What seemed like
hours later, half awake, I heard a murmur.
“Your teeth.”
“What?” I said, not quite coherent. He still barely speaks above a
whisper, only now it’s annoying.
“Your teeth. That was the first thing I noticed about you. You still
have nice teeth, even though they’re getting a kind of yellow . . . .”
I stifled the urge to use my yellowing teeth to bite his head off.
Instead I uttered, “Define what you mean by a kind of yellow. Do you
mean garish yellow, like a school bus, or soft tan like Old Yeller?” I
followed with, “Remember, positive is good.”
“Old Yeller,” he whispered. “He was such a good dog.”
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