Category Archives: Humor

October 20, 2011 · 0:00

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today is Mom’s birthday.  Her 92nd.

I called to get her some flowers – yellow roses, of course.  Her favorite.  But when I nearly became homicidal trying to get some, well, I decided she’d understand it if she didn’t get any.  I knew she wouldn’t complain, though.

You see, Mom passed away 14 years ago.  So her birthday is always a bittersweet day for me.  On this day, I want to celebrate her life and I want to let her know that I’m thinking about her.  It’s always a day that finds me with a bit of a sad smile on my face.

Not this year.

This year I called to get some flowers put onto her grave and ended up wanting to kill.  Kill and not bury.

I’m sure you’re wondering by now what the hell I am talking about.  Patience is a virtue, you know.  I don’t have it, so you need to.

I know I am not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but well, I’m gonna.  My parents had terrible taste.  Tacky taste.  And the cemetery they chose to, umm, inhabit, well, please don’t think that I picked the god-awful place.

Now, you ask, what could possibly be so terrible about a cemetery?  Aren’t they all alike?  I used to think so.  And maybe they are.  But this one is in Florida.  So maybe this one is special.

They don’t allow fresh flowers on the grave sites.  They don’t allow live plants at the grave sites. They don’t allow silk flowers at the grave sites.  And I think that folks are buried under Astroturf.

They only allow plastic flowers.  Plastic flowers that they alone sell.  So while I want to put flowers on my parents far away graves, well, I’m kind of limited.

But it’s Mom’s birthday, I thought.  I have to call them.  I have to get her some tacky flowers.  Mom, after all, had a bowl of plastic/wax fruit on the kitchen table for 25 years.  She lived for this sort of stuff.  Ooh, sorry.  Bad word choice.

Ok, so I called up the Cemetery folks to ask what choices I had in tacky plastic flowers.  The surprisingly perky young woman on the other end had to ask someone else, so she put me on hold.  And that’s when my blood began to boil.

There was no sound track of classical music playing on the line.  There was no gospel music.  There were no Big Band Era swing tunes playing.  Most of the cemetery’s residents would have preferred any of those.  Nope, while I was on hold there was no Frank, no Bing, no Nat.

There was an advertisement for the cemetery’s crematorium.

Needless to say, I did not want to put an urn on my mother’s grave for her birthday.  That would be too tacky even for Mom.  I let the perky young woman know, as politely as I could through my teeth, that their recording was insensitive and vile.

“Oh?” she said.  “I’ve never heard it.”  She then informed me that I had a choice between plastic roses and plastic peonies and plastic poinsettias.  Lovely.  Actually, Mom would have been happy.

“In what colors?” I stupidly asked.

“Let me put you on hold, while I find out,” she said.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” I screamed.   But too late.  I screamed it to the voice that told me the different types of wood caskets available.  The voice that told me that I could have brass, silver or pewter handles.  The voice that told me the colors of satin liners available.  You could spend an eternity choosing.  Oh, sorry.  My bad.

Perky came back on the line to tell me that I could have red or pink roses, but she had forgotten the colors of the other flowers.  She wanted to put me on hold again.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” I said, far more quickly.

“Do the folks who run this place think,” I said in as polite a manner as I could muster, “that caskets and cremation services are impulse purchases?  That by putting that recording on while I am on hold I will suddenly get inspired to buy a walnut casket with pink satin lining and brass handles?”

Now, I realized that it is not Perky’s fault that ghouls own Memorial Funeral Park.  Maybe she was just a temp.  But I was not yet ready to give up trying to educate her on just how inappropriate the recording was.

“You know,” I continued, “my Mom and Dad have been gone for a while now, so the pain is not fresh.  But if I had just lost either of them, I’m pretty sure a robo-sales talk would not make me choose your facility.”

“I think you need to take that up with the manager,” she said putting me on hold again.  I learned about the different size and location of burial plots.

I was going to wait for the manager, but he took so long in coming to the phone that the recording came around to the crematorium and urns again.  I had to hang up.

So this year Mom is going to get a visit from me in person.  And I’m bringing a shovel .

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October 18, 2011 · 0:00

Life stinks

Here it is, fall.  The beautiful changing colors, the graceful tease of the orange and yellow leaves as they flutter down to the ground.  The cool, comfortable temperatures.  The stink bugs.

Yup, they’re here.  Stink bugs.  Got them?

Two years ago, when my friend Judy and I were having lunch, riding up in an elevator, she first mentioned them to me.  I had never heard of them.  In fact, I thought she was using code to refer to the woman standing in front of us –because the woman reeked of cigarettes to the point where I feared we would be asphyxiated then and there.

But no!  She was referring to real live, invasive species-type insects!  Whodda thunk it.  They are annoying beetles that get into your house and can become quite an expensive pest.

I am actually quite confused about stink bugs.

My husband, John, who knows everything and who more annoyingly is never wrong, insists that they do not stink when you smush them.  John claims that the ones WE get are a special invasive species from Asia that do not stink.

“Why do they call them ‘stink bugs’ then?”  I keep asking.  He never answers.  And he never produces genetic evidence that they are, in fact, Asian.  Disillusion is starting to penetrate my marriage.

My friend Judy is also one of the smartest people I know.  She is far less annoying about it, though.  Besides, she is a much more practical sort of smart.  She assured me that when smushed, stink bugs smell like stinky socks.  She assured me that her son is far away and that her husband, Steve, has delightful feet.  Therefore, to Judy, there is only one place the stinky sock smell can come from.  Smushed bugs.

So I just don’t know who to believe.

Me, I am a very careful person.  As a rule, I am a bit of a life-lover.  I have never actually smushed a stink bug.  Why tempt it?  Actually, though, I try not to smush stuff intentionally.  There is always something else, some other way, something natural you can use to rid the house of pests.

For example, when we lived in France about 10 years ago, we were informed by the animal control squad that the best way to keep certain rodents at bay was for a man to pee in the area where they had taken up residence.

Huh?

Yup.  That’s what French Animal Control told us.  You may not know this, but the French don’t always like Americans.  Sometimes there are clues.

So when my husband was told by guys in uniforms to go up in to our attic and pee into the dark corners, well, we thought twice about it.  John more so than me, I’ll admit.  One of those thoughts, naturally was that the critters we were trying to evict had long, sharp teeth, and were known to be rather aggressive.  They were “fweens,” a type of weasel.  A type of weasel that is not afraid of humans, of the peeing or non-peeing variety.  A type of weasel that is too ferocious to be made into a coat.

So back to the stink bugs.  I think I’ve figured out a compromise.  We catch the stink bugs in toilet paper, throw them into the toilet, John pees on them.   We flush.  Everyone is happy.

And we make the French proud.

Asian Stink Bug -- Courtesy of Google

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October 17, 2011 · 0:00

You can bank on it

I’m ready to go along with the folks occupying Wall Street.  Because I too am getting rather peeved with the whole banking industry.  It’s gotten so irritating, I just don’t know what to do.

My husband, John, got annoyed as anything last month when he looked at his bank statement and realized that every time he goes to the ATM and wants his balance, or wants one of those little statements, they charge him a buck.

I would have been annoyed had I seen that charge, too; then again, I would have had to open up my statement.  And since I can proudly say that I have not, in fact, actually opened a bank statement since 1973 when my father carefully taught me how to reconcile one, well, I didn’t notice the fee.

But there are more and more of these annoying surcharges, and they are sooner or later going to affect how I spend my time.  And if I have to start actually paying attention to my money instead of simply letting it run through my fingers on luxury items like bread and water, well, there will be hell to pay.

And another thing:  What is with all these bank mergers?  I have been banking at the same place for about 25 years.  Well, the same building, anyway.  The bank’s name changes more often than the tide.

In fact, it is this last name change of my bank that has me ready to join up with the Occupy Wall Street gang.  Because the bank’s name went from the throat-clearing-aid name “Wachovia” to “Wells Fargo.”

Now every time I got to the ATM I get stuck with two things:  those damn fees, AND the tune and lyrics of the most annoying song ever.  The Wells Fargo Wagon tune from Music Man:

 Oho, the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin’ down the street

Oh please let it be for me

Oho, the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin’ down the street

I wish, I wish I knew what it could be!

It sticks in my head each and every time I go to the ATM.  I’m not happy about this, nor is my husband.  John thought it was bad when I kept singing the same verse of “Desperado” over and over again.  For some reason, it annoyed him no end, even though I explained to him that it was the best verse of the song.

But with the bank’s new name, I end up singing that stupid song all the time.  I’m going to start standing outside my office building with a cup and a sign to get some cash, just to avoid the ATM and spare my husband.  Yes, I do try to be a good wife.

But you know, I’d be happy to have them double the fees if they would just change the name again.  Here’s my suggestion:

“The Impossible Dream” Bank.

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October 15, 2011 · 0:00

Sign of the times

It is election season here in Virginia.  In fact, it always seems to be election season in Virginia.  We have elections just to show off Virginia’s historical connection with the U.S. Constitution – Madison, for example, was a Virginian, and he wrote most of it.  Jefferson, another Virginian, wrote him letters from Paris with helpful hints on how to write something that would one day be put into a really cool frame.  George Mason was in on it too, so were a whole bunch of other Virginians we all learned about in grade school.  Folks from other states had their fingers in the pot too, Virginians admit, but only when pressed.

But Virginia still takes its voting rights very seriously.  So we have elections frequently just because we can.  It is now mid-October and I’ve already voted twice this year. We will, of course vote again on the 1st Tuesday in November.   Yay.

Actually, I don’t really mind.  I vote in every damn one of them.  I value my right to vote.  Even more so since 2000 when I was living in Europe and my absentee ballot didn’t show up.  You know what happened – George W. Bush became President.  The world went to hell in a handbasket.  If only my ballot had shown up, things might have been different.

For a while, I blamed myself – until, of course, I realized that my absentee ballot would not have been for a vote in the Supreme Court.  Damn!  I want to get one of those, but I’m not quite sure where to apply for it.  In fact, the longer John Roberts remains Chief Justice, the harder I’m going to try to find a way to get a vote there on the Supreme Court.  One of those awesome black robes would be pretty cool, too.

So now that it is just a few weeks away from the next election, the political signs are out all over the place.  Big clumps of them at every corner.  A big mish mash of signs advertising people I’ve heard of and people I haven’t, for positions I have never heard of either.  What does a delegate do?  Or a county supervisor.  Who does he/she supervise?  And if they need to be supervised, shouldn’t we just get rid of them?

This time around, there are also candidates running for School Board, and one candidate made me nearly get out of my car and knock over each and every one of his signs on principle.  Or maybe on principal.

Why?  Because the guy is not running

FOR School Board

Nope.  He’s running

4

School Board

Is it just me, or should folks on the school board know how to spell those sound-alike words?

The sign made me realize that, yes,  it IS bad when the Supreme Court overrules the popular vote of the country.  But when you start out with a school board full of cretins who cannot distinguish between “for” and “four” (and probably “there, their, and they’re”), well, that’s when you can pretty much be sure the next generation is going to be dumber than we are.

You can vote on it.

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October 9, 2011 · 0:00

… comes around

A friend of mine told me that this weekend was her 20th high school reunion.  Immediately, I was transported back to mine, back to one of the best nights of my life, back to when someone who had bullied me showed everyone else his true colors.

My hometown was a wealthy suburb, a place where rich, well-schooled, successful folks go to raise their families.  A town filled to the brim with liberals who mostly commute to New York City, just a short train ride away.  A town of folks that raise their kids to be liberals too.

My classmates and I were at the tail end of the Baby Boomers, old enough to protest the Vietnam war but not old enough to serve.  Old enough to remember and mourn the Kennedys, Martin Luther King, Jr., to have seen the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.  We participated in protests, celebrated the Women’s Movement, went braless through high school, and believed that all you need is love.

My family landed in town when my father bought a run-down Victorian house, sight unseen, in 1963. Kids in the neighborhood thought it was haunted; we moved in on Halloween.  My two brothers, two sisters and I started school the following Monday.

Within a week, I had ruined my life.

You see, in 2nd grade, every Friday at my new school, we had Show and Tell.  I bet you did too.  But I bet you didn’t, well, show and tell quite like I did that very first week.

You remember Show and Tell, I’m sure.  Everyone gathers together on the floor and everybody raises their hand to perform; three or four kids are chosen every week.  They sing songs, tell jokes, juggle.  That first week I anxiously raised my hand, but the teacher didn’t call on me.  I performed anyway.  There in the middle of the circle, I wet my pants.

I do not recommend “showing” in this manner if your goal is to one day be voted “Most Popular.”

I don’t remember what happened for the rest of the afternoon.  I don’t know if I went home early, if my classmates got wet and ran screaming from me.  I have buried that memory.  I do know that it started four years of hell.

Tommy was the lead bully.  He dubbed me “Weenie Girl” and teased and tormented me through 6th grade.  He was truly cruel, and tried to keep others from being my friend.  I hated him.  I saw him less as we got older, but he was still a classmate when we both graduated in 1974.

But by the time of my 20th reunion, I had more or less gotten over my shame over the incident.  And I did it with a very public therapy session.  One night, when I had had way too much to drink at a bar, I climbed onto a table and told everyone in the bar my hilariously funny/sad story – how I ruined my own childhood during Show and Tell.   I had always feared that someone would find out and ridicule me.  Instead, there I stood, making the room love me, as I showed them the humor and the pain.

It had taken me years, but I had to admit it was funny.  I mean after all, I didn’t do it during naptime.  I didn’t do it during storytime.  I didn’t pee while learning long division.  I wet my pants during Show and Tell!  Why hasn’t anyone put that scene into a sit com?

So on the night of my 20th reunion, when I saw lead bully Tommy heading towards me to say hello, I had forgiven him.  Completely.  And although I thought of all the things I could say to the nasty bully, I smiled politely, chatted amiably to him and his wife, and moved on with my life.  It was a proud moment.

But the night got better.  Much, much better.

You see, Tommy was the MC of the evening.  It was his job to introduce particularly successful classmates, tell who was living in exotic places, and what surprising career choices had been made by a few.  He showed pictures of us when we all still had hair, when we were thin, when we were young.

And Tommy did a good job speaking to that extremely liberal crowd of editors and publishers, doctors, public interest lawyers.  People who still wanted to save the world.  Good people, people with heart and soul.  Liberals.

And then it happened.  Towards the end of the evening, Tommy stood up on the dias and started to wind things down.  And he said to my extremely PC friends and classmates:

“My wife told me not to tell jokes tonight.  But I’m just going to tell the one.”

“Why is a man like a linoleum floor?”

Tommy paused for effect.

“Lay him right the first time;

walk all over him from then on.”

The room went silent, as one by one, each head turned towards the dias and each person either thought or said aloud:

“What an asshole.”

And after realizing that everybody agreed on that one point, I cracked up.

“Hell, I’ve known he was an asshole since 2nd Grade!” I said.

I’m pretty sure that when I am taking in my last breath, I will still be smiling about that night, knowing that in this life what goes around really does come around; sometimes it just takes a while.

The scene of the crime

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