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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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Feb./ March 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
February/ March 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Tattle-Tale Tags
Try To Put Mom On The Shelf
By Burton Cole, Ohio
I’ve found another reason to fear Big
Brother: He’s trying to put Dear Ol’ Mother out of business.
On my way to the comics in the newspaper the other day,
my eyes strayed to the science section, where I was smacked by a
high-tech scare. Apparently, several manufacturers are implanting
products with microchips called radio frequency identification -- RFID.
And once they kick into high gear, those nosey RFIDs probably will call
your doctor if you buy more brownies that your diet allows.
Mom used to be the person who clucked when I snuck.
According to The Associated Press article, microchips
already are built into some computer printers, car keys, shampoo bottles
and clothing tags. Retailers say this helps them keep shelves stocked,
cut shoplifting and guarantee that products aren’t counterfeit.
OK, that sounds reasonable so far.
The next step, they say, is placing chips in all
products and outfitting the doorways with RFIDs to scan your purchases
as you leave the store, charging it right to your debit card. No more
waiting in line! No more shoplifting, either.
But think about what comes next: Manufacturers will have
a database of everything you buy and know your shopping Achilles heel!
They can call you personally.
Mom used to scold me about wasting money. "Burton
William," she’d say, "You don’t need any more Play-Doh. Now go put it
back."
It’s embarrassing to have her do this now that I’m 48
years old, but she still harbors hope of teaching me common sense.
Not the RFID people. They’ll blitz me with deals to
entice me deeper and deeper into the toy department – or the electronics
because they’ll already know I want a big-screen TV – to the point that
I won’t be able to afford the grilled chicken salads and raw carrots I
so crave.
(Nuts! Those RFIDs probably will call Mom to claim I was
buying bacon burgers and hot fudge sundaes again.)
But it gets worse.
The technoids envision a global network of electronic "sniffers"
to scan tags in public settings to instantly identify people and their
tastes so they can beam "live spam" at them as they move about.
They also plan sneaky houses they slyly call "Smart
Homes," filled with sensors that would monitor possessions, eating
habits, medical supplies, clothing tastes and so on, reporting them all
to the stores who sell them.
RFID refrigerators would keep tabs on the food, zapping
shopping lists onto interactive TVs and beeping whenever the sour cream
or orange juice went past its expiration date.
I thought that’s what mothers did. Technology wants to
make moms unnecessary. Or maybe let them have a chance to use the
La-Z-Boy.
Remember that loose floorboard in your bedroom or that
trick panel in the back of your dresser when you were growing up? We all
had hidey-holes to keep private stuff from our moms or baby sisters. It
sounds like we’ll need to do that again, say maybe build a little
clubhouse in the backyard where we can eat Ding Dongs in private.
Of course, we’ll have to run there naked lest the tags
in our T-shirts act like tattle-tale little sisters and rat us out to
Big Brother.
Life was less paranoid when moms were in charge.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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 Traveling
Outside The Comfort Zone
By Mary Ellen Collins, Florida
As my husband and I prepared for a trip to Kenya and Tanzania, travel
angst threatened to sideline me long before it was time to board the
plane. I worried about eating strange food, sleeping in strange beds,
and traveling with strangers; as well as falling victim to parasites,
poisonous plants, and rampaging beasts. But the #1 thing that caused
sleepless nights and fretful days was figuring out how to use the
facilities …when there weren’t any.
Our itinerary included spending the nights in a succession of spiffy
lodges, but the tour company brochure made a subtle reference to
“occasional primitive conditions” during our daytime travels. I know
bathroom code when I see it, and that phrase sent my anxiety meter
soaring.
I am not outdoorsy and I don’t camp. I’m a small-town girl who grew into
a city woman, and I’ve never relieved myself anywhere that didn’t
feature porcelain and/or tile. On the rare occasions that I join people
in outings that take us away from traditional restrooms, I’m always the
one who risks dehydration by drinking as little as possible, and is
still the first to bolt from the car when we finally get to a gas
station.
It’s not that I haven’t tried. I just never developed that combination
of strong thighs, good balance, and a relaxed bladder that allows other
women to mosey behind a rock and take care of business as easily as guys
do.
So when well-traveled friends recommended handy cardboard contraptions
that, according to the catalogue description, “allow a woman the freedom
to urinate in a standing position,” I thought I’d hit on the perfect
solution. I didn’t consider the humiliation factor until I was actually
on the phone, ordering item# ZD415.
“That would be the cardboard urination funnels, ma'am?"
“Uh. . .yeah.”
“How many?”
“Just one box…or, uh…gee, maybe two…I don’t know….”
“Where are you going?”
“Africa.”
“Take two.”
While I waited for my order to arrive, I crafted a little prototype out
of a pantyhose package insert, and gave it a test run the privacy of my
own bathroom. No luck. Considering the position, the act, and the prop….
it was as if my mind and body issued a stunned “You have to be kidding!”
before completely refusing to cooperate.
When my two boxes arrived, I tucked them into the suitcase and hoped
that the reality of those primitive conditions would spur me on to
funnel victory. But when I found myself in the middle of the Serengeti,
several hours after drinking milk and juice for breakfast, some speck of
cave woman cellular memory floated to the surface. I retreated to a
private spot deemed wildlife-free by our guide, lowered myself down
gingerly, and victory was mine. The funnel never left my pocket.
“Wow! Look at me! I finally did it!” Like a kid who had just shed the
training wheels, I was giddy with the sense of accomplishment, and
couldn’t wait to share my news with John and every female member of the
tour group.
For the rest of the trip, I relied on our comfortable indoor facilities
at night, but during the day, I morphed into wilderness girl
extraordinaire. Well-stocked with antiseptic wipes, tissues, and a
funnel just for insurance – I boldly strode into the bush, or into dark,
ramshackle structures that encased the inevitable, uninviting hole in
the ground. As long as I had a funnel, I didn’t have to use it. Without
one? I don’t even want to think about it.
It took a flying leap of faith to get me to Africa, and two little boxes
of cardboard insurance to let me go with the flow once I arrived. That
trip proved that an angst-ridden old dog can learn new tricks, and it
broadened my vacation comfort zone by miles and miles. The great
outdoors will never be my natural milieu, but I can go anywhere now,
primitive facilities notwithstanding. Have funnels, will travel.
© Copyright
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Four
Old Ladies And A Check
By Vicky DeCoster, Nebraska
My husband and I sat next to each other at a restaurant the other day
for lunch. As we enjoyed a delicious meal and lively conversation, I
noticed a ruckus at the table next to ours and turned slightly to see
what was going on. Four women who looked to be in their eighties had
just received their check.
“Sylvia,” one woman said to her friend across the table from her. “You
owe $5.88.”
Sylvia replied, “But Mildred, I had one stuffed mushroom and three chips
from the appetizer platter. I think I owe $7.13 because four of us split
the appetizer which was $5.00.”
“If you pay $7.13, then I don’t know how much I owe because I only ate
two chips and a ½ of a stuffed mushroom,” Mildred said.
“Pass me two dimes and five pennies for this quarter,” Sylvia replied as
she slid her coin across the table.
My husband shook his head and whispered, “There’s more money being
traded across that table than has been exchanged at the Federal Reserve
Bank this entire month!”
Mildred passed the coins to Sylvia. There was a long silence as they all
stared at the ticket. “Does anyone have five ones for a five?” asked one
of the women to anyone at the table who hadn’t already turned their
hearing aids off.
“Wait a minute,” Gertrude pointed her finger at the ticket. “We didn’t
add the tax and drinks in our totals!”
“Oh God,” my husband muttered.
“This is a fascinating study of the human race,” I laughed. “And it’s a
bit scary because right now, I can see into my future and I know I will
be one of those ladies someday.”
I’ve said many times before and I’ll say it again. I think it’s easier
to be a man. If four men go to lunch with each other, one inevitably
will pick up the check and insist on paying for the entire lunch. Women
ask for separate tickets because we’re too cheap to pay for four lunches
because we think to ourselves, “I have to buy pantyhose, milk, a carton
of eggs, and Metamucil after I leave here and I only have $15.00 cash in
my purse.” Plus, we don’t have an extra hour at the end of each meal to
argue over who owes what.
Men never ask for individual checks because they are comprised of two
key components: testosterone and an ego. As a result, any member of the
male species would be humiliated if anyone ever even suggested they
request separate checks. After the meal, they all carefully watch for
the waiter coming their way with the little black book in hand. They
crouch like tigers, ready to pounce on a raw steak. The waiter tries to
place the black book in the middle of the table, but each time, one of
the men has been blessed with cat-like reflexes and manages to quickly
snatch the ticket. There might be a fist fight or boisterous protests
from the other males at the table, but money is never exchanged across
the table.
I was jolted back into the present by the sound of coins rattling.
Mildred was shaking the contents of her purse on the table. “I know I
have another dime in here,” she mumbled.
“Look,” her friend exclaimed, “All I know is that I had a tuna sandwich
and a coffee and my total is $16.45 according to Sylvia. That doesn’t
seem right.”
Sylvia argued, “I don’t even remember what I had for lunch it’s been so
long since I ate it. We’ve been arguing over this check for 25 minutes!”
My husband sighed and stood up. He walked over to their table and placed
a twenty dollar bill in the middle. They all gasped. “Ladies,” he said,
“I’m buying your lunch today. And you might want to think about bringing
an accountant to lunch with you the next time.”
As he walked away from their table to get his coat, I managed to squeak
after him, “What about my lunch?”
“You’re on your own,” he said. “I’ve had too much exposure to estrogen.
I’m starting to feel light-headed.”
As I grabbed my purse and pulled out money to pay our waiter, I
overheard one of the women at the table say, “That’s great that stranger
bought our lunch, but does anyone know how much I should contribute to
the tip?”
There’s just so much to look forward to as we get older.
www.wackywomanhood.com
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Inner
Super Freak
By Cara Downs, California
Well, it’s true. If you’re a single
gal in New York City, the best way to find a husband is to move. Far
away. After moving to California in August – I immediately started
dating a great guy who, not-so coincidentally, has been friends with my
brother for over 15 years.
As of March 1, I am Mrs. Cara Downs.
When I told my parents I would be changing my name, they
were very, very, very, very thrilled. Worth is not my maiden name. For
some reason, I’d been hanging onto my ex-husband’s name for 10 years.
It’s just easier than Gizzarelli. People have a hard enough time with
Cara without me having to spell out Gizzarelli on top of it.
At a certain coffee chain that shall remain nameless,
(Hint: it rhymes with CarChucks), where they try to make you feel like
you’re at home by taking your name and calling it out when your drink is
ready … the barristers yell out, "Carol!? Skinny latte!" Or, "Laura!!!
Skinny mocha!! …. Laura? LAURA!!!?" And my favorite, "Paris! Chai
latte!" How one gets ‘Paris’ out of ‘Cara’ I’ll never know.
Aside from the name change (which still isn’t completely
official … there are many hoops to jump through), the biggest adjustment
to marriage is that someone is watching and getting to know my Inner
Freak.
I’d been living on my own, in the concrete jungle of New
York City, for 10 years. I’m used to putting things down and finding
them where I left them. I’m used to eating a whole pint of ice cream
without someone staring at me in fear. I’m also used to having full
conversations with my cat, something I’m not entirely proud of because
at a certain age it starts to be really sad. At 25 it’s kind of cute. At
35 you may consider therapy. Nearing 40 … you’re starting to be that
lady that children are afraid to visit on Halloween. Don’t get me wrong,
I still talk to the cat. She just doesn’t answer me much anymore.
My Inner Freak also doesn’t understand why my husband
won’t allow me to hang up my framed Cheap Trick albums. What? Stop
looking at me like that! THEY’RE REALLY COOL LOOKING! They remain neatly
rested against a bare wall in our apartment. They’re waiting for him to
weaken and acquiesce. Besides, if his Inner Freak can have a huge framed
photo of Hank Aaron in our bedroom, why can’t the product of my Inner
Freakdom be prominently and proudly displayed? Isn’t that what marriage
is all about? Accepting each other’s Freakishness?
My Inner Freak also has me up and awake at 6AM on
Saturdays. The naked wall is calling to me. The husband’s Inner Freak
has him sleeping far into Saturday mornings (although, that’s actually
quite normal from what I’m told). The hammering of the nails won’t even
wake him. {Insert evil Freakish giggle here.} Ah, marriage.
© Copyright
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The
Magic Pants
By Jean Follmer, California
Marjorie Randall dropped the kids off
at school and returned home for Laundry Day. Five loads later, Marjorie
remembered she needed to run to Safeway and pick up the cupcakes for the
Teacher Appreciation Day luncheon.
She quickly grabbed her True Religion jeans
and pulled them on. Still warm from the dryer, she could not help but
pause and reflect on one the great luxuries of being a modern homemaker.
Marjorie gazed in the mirror while applying her thick lip gloss and
thanked God that she’d taken the time to bleach her teeth last night.
She rushed into the garage and hopped into
her loaded Honda Odyssey. As she pulled out of the driveway, she reached
for her cell phone, dialed voicemail and sped through the subdivision
gates. With Madonna’s "Lucky Star" blaring through her Bose speakers,
she cruised into a prime parking spot at Safeway.
After grabbing the cupcakes, Marjorie
glanced at her Cartier watch and realized she was going to be late for
Teacher Appreciation Day. She picked up her pace on the way to the
registers, her Manolo Blahnik heals clicking. She suddenly felt movement
in the right leg of her stylish jeans and was stopped in her tracks by
the mouth-wide-open look of utter shock from an approaching younger
fellow. Laughing loudly, he nearly shouted "Hey, Lady, how’d you do
that?!"
Shaking with humiliation, Marjorie bent down
to scoop up her cheetah print La Perla thong that had slid out of the
bottom of her jeans, stuffed them into her Gucci bag and stumbled to the
register.
© Copyright
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The
Hairy Ape Revisited
By Dr. Zanzibar E. Fleece
(a.k.a. Ryan Glaser, Illinois)
Contributor’s Note: Dr. Fleece is the
Disney-appointed Chairman for the Study of Raccoons Milk and Its
Soothing Effects on Agrizoophobia at Pomona College and has twice
received the eminent Daisy Duck Emotional Maturity Award. He has
authored several books including his latest, Examining Freud’s Theory of
Beard Envy: The Sordid Sea Tales of the Gorton’s Fisherman, and is a
regular contributor to the Northeastern Wisconsin Journal of Medicine.
He currently resides in Claremont, CA where he’s cultivating a
mid-playoff hockey beard under the supervision of his wife and esteemed
University of Phoenix Adjunct Professor Cassandra “Mama Cass” Fleece.
No longer can you roam shirtless about your yard, master of your domain,
without an influx of assorted syrup-drenched Little Debbie snack cakes
lobbed over your fence and the din of childish cackling comparing your
man suit to that which takes a dump in the forest. The flames of marital
passion have been extinguished to the black smoke of a papal succession
ritual on account of a hairiness that draws comparisons to everyone but
Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. But before you slowly drain the
family funds on wax kits, disposable razors, and industrial-sized
bottles of Drano, consider prescription TuftAway®. TuftAway® is
available discreetly from your doctor who can ascertain from your
knuckle hair that there’s no need to bother with the rigmarole of trying
on a gown.
TuftAway® is only for those who’s heart and wife are healthy enough for
sexual activity since your wife’s been pawing up the hairless Maltese
pup like it owes her money. Side effects include a decreased interest in
picnic baskets, fear of public landfills, and a newfound kinship with
seals. Women who are pregnant or nursing should not handle prescription
tablets of TuftAway® lest their child morph into the infant incarnate of
Clint Howard.
Ask your doctor if prescription TuftAway® is right for you and look for
their ad on specially marked packages of Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies.
© Copyright
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Women's
Issues
By Carol MacAllister, Puerto Rico
My friend’s daughter
just gave birth to a 10 lb. 7 oz baby.She raced off to see her first
grandson, Liam. There was no mistaking him through the window of the
nursery. His chubby body filled the isolette. One stander by remarked,
"Are you related to the toddler?"
Her experiences flashed me
back to the woman I’d roomed with in the hospital years ago. The woman
wasn’t the world’s brightest, she basically rowed with one oar. I asked
her what she had named her little girl and she remarked, "They already
gave her one."
"What?" I replied.
"It’s on this paper. Her
name is Fe-mal-e Jones."
She’d asked the nurse a
question and I heard the answer. "Yes, Pregnancy." When she left the bed
to use the toilet, I whispered to the nurse, "What did she ask?"
The nurse responded, "Is
there something I should avoid while recovering from childbirth?" The
nurse rolled her eyes and grinned like a Cheshire Cat.
In my birthing class, a
woman had asked, "When will my baby move?" The woman next to her who was
working on her seventh child grabbed her belly and groaned, "Hopefully,
when he finishes college."
Listening to a huffing woman
worry about pregnancy and age, I held back my answer when she’d asked,
"Is it okay to have a baby after 35?" I wanted to say to her, "Why not
stop at two?"
Vitamins for pregnant women
were once capsules with one pink end, the other blue. The doctor told
me, "If you want a boy, swallow the blue end first, pink for a girl."
"Doctor." I laughed.
"Really. What’s the best way to tell?" He looked over his glasses and
mumbled, "Childbirth."
"What about labor pains?" I
asked with concern. "Oh, don’t worry about them. It’s more like
pressure, just like an air current." I remembered his words and at my
check up said, " Why didn’t you tell me a tornado is just an air
current."
I grew past the
child-bearing years and faced estrogen issues that materialized in
strange ways: chocolate chips in cheese omelets, aspirin bottles that
empty in a day, days when everyone has an attitude problem, washers that
shrink clothes and little key-stealing elves hiding under the beds.
But, I’ve learned there is
one phrase that quickly straightens things out. I just reach in my purse
and say, "I’d like to show you my new menopausal hand gun."
© Copyright
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Get
A Grip
By Lesley Marijke McCandless, North Carolina
Okay so yesterday my world simply fell apart leaving me a bundle of raw
nerves, something like might happen if injected with about ten shots of
pure adrenalin. My husband had slipped into a mini depression and I
slipped right along with him. Soon I was in the pits of despair, no
maybe the pits of hell, probably just the pits of hormones .. .
Yeah, I know, not
very enlightened. Sometimes life is like that, I guess. Funny thing
though, I woke up today feeling ever so slightly better, for no real
reason. Life is like that too. I was teetering wondering which way to
fall: celebrate life? or sink into despair? Celebrate? or despair? I
weighed the odds, but really I wanted answers.
I made my way over to Whole Foods and meandered around in an
unstructured way. Eventually I found myself in front of the teas, who
were, well, “teasing” me. My gaze landed me right smack in front of ‘Get
a Grip” tea. I cracked up. I couldn’t help it, it was too perfect. “Get
a grip,” is one of my husband’s favorite expressions. When the world is
coming down upon the shoulders of one or the other of our kids – you
know, the “I have too much homework and I’m going to fail everything”
throes – his standard response is “Get a grip!” Or when I have succumbed
to hormonal blues, he’ll roll his eyes and say “get a grip.” Yup, this
is particularly endearing coming from a man who suffers from his own
bouts of crippling depression.
I reached over to get the “Get a Grip” tea, thinking it would make a
cute gift for him. I could spout it back at him. But no, the universe is
always one up on me. I read the description: “an herb tea for
PMS/Menopause” - hmm.
I read the label a little further:
“Women are complex creatures . . . .” it started out. Got that right.
“When those hormones are out of balance, or monthly blues cramp your
style, it’s reassuring to know you can get a grip with a simple cup of
this herbal tea.”
Works for me, I thought. (I love marketing.)
The scales were tipping. Hanging out in the pits of hell seemed less
appealing – well, my mind reasoned, that either means I won’t become
enlightened because I can’t hang out in the pits of hell long enough or
that I am closer to enlightenment because I didn’t hang out there too
long.
I don’t know. I seem to hear it both ways. I don’t even care.
I grab my tea and think, well either way, the pits of hell have a battle
coming. I have a secret weapon and shall smite them with my “get a grip”
tea.
At home, I sit down to brew a fine cup of herbal tea and reach for a
magazine:
“You share 25% of the sames genes as a banana.” I read. I ponder this
profundity and smile. Perfect, I think. I’m nearly as good as a banana.
The pits of hell retreat in horror.
Eventually I make my way to my computer which is slyly beckoning me to
search the net yet again for the secret of enlightenment. Surely Google
has the answer somewhere. For the hell of it (no pun intended,) I punch
in one of my favorite teacher’s names and find an article he’s written.
I didn’t really know he wrote any, so I am intrigued. He is expounding
on a recently discovered 8th chakra, which has come to be known as the
clown chakra. Yes, that’s right I said “clown” not “crown.” Turns out
this new chakra is located somewhere between the heart and the throat
chakras, or was it the throat and the third eye? Well, anyway, when it
is blocked, life gets a bit miserable. So, how do you unblock your clown
chakra? According to my esteemed teacher - you just need laugh and take
Life less seriously.
So, you see, Life, through several diverse channels, did present me all
the answers I desired: Get a grip lady. Take life less seriously. Open
your clown chakra and remember you are ¼ Banana.
© Copyright
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Holiday
Miracle
By Rich R., Minnesota
I like holiday music, but it hasn’t always been that way.
I grew up attending a parochial school, a very strict, oppressive and
frightening parochial school. I believe this is where I developed my bad
association with holiday music. Being a pursuer of truth and freedom, I
frequently found myself being escorted by the guards…err…umm, I mean
teachers, to the Principles Office to await judgment. It was there that
I would sit and sweat, wondering what kind of dark ages torture device
was being set-up to deal with me, all the while upbeat holiday music
played over the schools loud speaker like I was in a Stanley Kubrick
film. A Pavlov’s Response was set. People thought I just hated Perry
Como, but it ran much deeper that that.
I was able to keep this problem to myself until 1997. I had my first
really serious girlfriend and we were driving to her parents’ house for
Christmas. I wasn’t worried, I was much more mature now, that was all in
my past…I thought. That night as we finished the family feast her
parents adjourned us to the living room for some family tradition: the
singing of Christmas Carols! As they began singing I felt that mouthy
little demon, coming back to life. All the rebellion, the snottiness,
every ugly response that got me in trouble as a kid was resurfacing.
My girlfriend’s mom noticed that I was quiet and looking a little pale
and decided to help me feel at ease with a friendly comment: “You’re not
singing, Richard,” she sang out. “Neither are you!” I barked back. And
before I could stop myself I finished the night off with, “I think they
call that bellowing!” and that was it. Nice girl, nice parents, nice
night all ruined by my strange affliction. I never underestimated
holiday songs again.
Around 4 years ago I found myself as a project manager of an arena
development in rural New Mexico, and I mean rural. We loaded up a weeks
worth of supplies and headed out to a ranch in the southeast corner of
the state. We were short workers so each of us had to double as
equipment operators; I ended up on the bulldozer. The next morning I
noticed I had a ringing in my ears from spending all day on this
thunderous machine. I grabbed some ear phones and wore them for the
first few minutes, but the sound of the dozer was still there. I noticed
that my ear phones had a radio switch and flipped it on to drown out the
noise. I scanned the entire dial, but found only one clear station and
guess what it was? That’s right, a 24 hour holiday music station that
exist for only one month a year, lucky me.
I knew I needed that music on or possible ruin my hearing. Of course, I
was also worried about how well I could perform my job with all that’s
rotten in me begging to get out. I put them on. I turned on the music. I
started operating my machine. At first it was Bing Crosby and my dozer
kept pulling towards the parking lot where I could have some fun, but I
fought it off. Then it was Dolly Parton and an urge to spell my name in
the dirt so the airplanes could read it, but it passed. Then something
wonderful happened: The sun came out, it was a beautiful day, I was
enjoying my work, and better yet, I was starting to enjoy holiday music!
Nat King Cole, Barry Manilow, it’s as if I was being reprogrammed. They
played Elvis Presley’s, “Blue Christmas,” every fifteen minutes and I
actually found myself singing along and even wearing the slanted, lazy
lip look that the King made famous. It was a new day!
I’ve made lots of progress over the years. I have tried to make amends
to the people I’ve wronged while under the spell, some wounds were just
too deep, sadly. Today, I am engaged to a wonderful girl and can’t wait
to start our life together. I head down to meet her parents for the
first time this weekend, their Southern Baptist. I’m going to hold onto
my apartment for now... just in case.
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How
I Became A V.I.P.
By Liz Stuart, South Carolina
This may sound unusual, but I've been pondering my
"state of being" lately. After hearing my office-mate describe another
office-mate as a NAP (a person who has a Non-Anxious Presence), I began
wondering if I had the serene, comfortable, calming presence that she
described. The more I thought about it, the more I desperately wanted to
be a NAP - "I want to be viewed as a peaceful, tranquil, unruffled sort
of person!" I thought inwardly.
Deciding that it was time to be brutally honest with myself, I began
reflecting on my life and interactions with others. After much careful
consideration, I came to the conclusion that on most days I would
definitely qualify as a SNAP - a Somewhat Non-Anxious Person. Of course,
I do have to admit that I can be a little nervous in the area of health
and safety. Not too long ago I developed a very suspicious headache and
began writing my Last Will & Testament in case it was a brain tumor. (My
husband informed me that most people would take a Tylenol rather than
writing their will, but what does he know?)
Maybe I'm actually a SAP - a Semi-Anxious Person - but I figure as long
as I am calm and quiet on the outside, surely it doesn't matter that I
am inwardly preparing for any type of natural disaster that could occur
at any moment. (Lightning is especially unpredictable - one should
always avoid contact with water or metal objects, and stay away from
windows and tall trees!)
No one needs to know that I am continually calculating
the nearest emergency exit and planning my escape route from office
buildings, malls, schools, airplanes, and other public facilities.
Guarding against identity theft and being constantly on the lookout for
stalkers and suspicious persons are simply part of being a responsible
adult -- these are signs of common sense and do not affect my tranquil
demeanor in any way. (Of course, there was that time my alert vigilance
caused me to mistakenly convince my boss that there was a time bomb in
an unidentified box in our office, so we both dove behind the desk and
crouched there for several minutes waiting for the explosion before he
heroically carried it outside and deposited it on the sidewalk... But
that was just an isolated incident!)
My husband might not vouch for the fact that I am a calm, non-anxious
person. As much as I try to convince him otherwise, he insists that it
is not soothing when I scream and clutch his arm wildly when he passes a
semi-truck while driving on the freeway. (I have often assured him that
just because I gasp and shriek "We're all going to die!" while he's
driving, it is no indication whatsoever that I lack confidence in his
driving abilities.) Besides, he has seen me keep my composure in all
sorts of potentially stressful situations, such as encountering an
ex-boyfriend unexpectedly while shopping in the grocery store. (I calmly
dropped to the floor like a Marine commando and demonstrated a brilliant
knack for the army crawl while managing to knock over only one row of
canned goods!)
The more I think about it, the more I am on my way to becoming a VAP - a
Very Anxious Person! I don't want to be a VAP! (Or a SAP or a SNAP or
even a NAP, for that matter!) Without the excitement of living in
constant chaos and suspense, my life would be plain boring - so I have
decided to coin a new term for myself - a VIP: Very Interesting Person!
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