Earlier this evening, I was watching AFV (America’s Funniest Home Videos). It reminded me of something that happened many years ago that I wish (with every fiber of my being) that I had managed to catch on film.
My youngest was about 5 or 6 years old. She came into the kitchen, where her father and I were sitting at the table, having a cup of tea. She was all excited because she had a magic trick to show us.
After placing a crayon on the table, she covered it with a paper towel. She closed her eyes, waved her makeshift wand (a pencil) over it with some dramatic flair, and said “Abracadaba!”
She lifted the paper towel, but the crayon was still there. So she did it again, covering the crayon, closing her eyes, waving her wand, and saying “Abracadabara.” The result was the same. Never one to give up, she tried once more, but this time, when she closed her eyes, I quickly lifted the corner and palmed the crayon.
She opened her eyes and lifted the paper towel. Immediately she began to jump up and down screaming.
“I did it! I did it! I did it!”
“Wow! That’s great!” I said. “Can you make it come back now?”
She stopped jumping up and down, and looking completely stricken, she replied, “I don’t know! I didn’t practice that!”
Showing posts with label humorous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humorous. Show all posts
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Ho, Ho, Ho Sleep Deprivation
"One of the possible side effects of a continued lack of sleep is death"…Serendip/brynmawr.edu
Aside from all the other bad habits in my life, I’m hoping my continual aversion to hitting the sack doesn’t do me in! I fell asleep three times today, once sitting in the living room after dinner, and twice at this computer screen. I think this says something profound about my sleep habits or, more appropriately, my lack of sleep habit.
I suppose I haven’t been taking my own symptoms to heart very well. I stumbled across this little story I wrote up after a funny “sleep deprivation” moment many years back…when I was still wrapping up Christmas presents after the kids went to bed. I called the story “Ho, Ho, Ho Sleep Deprivation.” Enjoy!
Ho Ho Ho Sleep Deprivation
I’m not sure about you, but I seem to run 24/7 even at uneventful times of the year. Trying to squeeze all the things I need to do for the holidays into my already crowded schedule is extremely stressful. Keeping this in mind, I will share with you a recent happening for your amusement.
On Tuesday, after an extended day at work, I came home, ate some dinner and headed off to church for choir practice. I was already dragging when I got there, and due to all the extra songs for the upcoming Christmas services, choir practice ran particularly late. But regardless of how tired I was, I had a task that needed to be done when I got home come hell or high water. I had to wrap all the gifts. This needed to be done on Tuesday because the rest of my time for the week was already spoken for…cooking, baking, caroling, etc.
I sat down in my office with a card table to my side and began wrapping. It was already 11:00 and, by most sane thinking, I should have been in bed or headed that way. After all, I had to get up for work in the morning at 6:30. But I was determined, so box after box became a glittering jewel to place under the tree. I pressed on into the wee hours; 1 a.m., then 2 a.m. passed me by. By 2:30 I was about finished, but I was at that point of hitting the wall. When I began dozing off as I wrapped, I admitted the insanity of the situation, turned off the lights and headed to bed, making a last bathroom stop on the way.
I took my place on the throne as we women are pretty much required to do. Then being forward thinking, and not wanting to disturb Jim at that late hour by turning on a light in the bedroom, I leaned over and untied my hiking boots. What I didn’t realize was how VERY tired I was, and soon I dozed off perched atop the throne. I’m not sure how long I was out of it, perhaps a minute, perhaps more, but it was at least long enough to have that moment of complete stupor that often precedes full recognition of one’s surroundings on waking.
I woke with a start, and in that moment, glanced toward the floor. There, between my feet, and moving, was a striped snake, half blended into the gray-beige throw rug!!! In one tremendous movement, I leaped from the throne to the bathroom door while emitting a sound that can only be described as the shriek of the banshee!!
I turned around, shaking like a leaf, to see where the snake had gone. I could not see it! I was panic stricken! My heart was in my throat. My eyes scoured the floor. I couldn’t see the snake! Where was it? This was very bad. It meant the snake was hiding, waiting to come out and scare or bite the unwary (most likely me) on some other occasion!
Then I looked down and was startled to see the snake, still at my feet! The light bulb in my head snapped on at about 1000 lumens, and I dissolved into a heap on the bathroom floor, laughing hysterically, as I realized I had just scared myself half to death with my own brown and beige striped shoe laces!
Jim, awakened by the noise, was pounding at the bathroom door, wanting to know what in bloody hell I was screaming about. Needless to say he was not amused at being rousted from bed because of a demon shoe lace.
The real irony, however, is that after getting the rest of the house settled back in, I tossed and turned, awake, unable to sleep as the adrenaline that had surged into my system slowly ebbed away, adding to my ever-growing case of HHHSD (Ho Ho Ho Sleep Deprivation).
Aside from all the other bad habits in my life, I’m hoping my continual aversion to hitting the sack doesn’t do me in! I fell asleep three times today, once sitting in the living room after dinner, and twice at this computer screen. I think this says something profound about my sleep habits or, more appropriately, my lack of sleep habit.
I suppose I haven’t been taking my own symptoms to heart very well. I stumbled across this little story I wrote up after a funny “sleep deprivation” moment many years back…when I was still wrapping up Christmas presents after the kids went to bed. I called the story “Ho, Ho, Ho Sleep Deprivation.” Enjoy!
Ho Ho Ho Sleep Deprivation
I’m not sure about you, but I seem to run 24/7 even at uneventful times of the year. Trying to squeeze all the things I need to do for the holidays into my already crowded schedule is extremely stressful. Keeping this in mind, I will share with you a recent happening for your amusement.
On Tuesday, after an extended day at work, I came home, ate some dinner and headed off to church for choir practice. I was already dragging when I got there, and due to all the extra songs for the upcoming Christmas services, choir practice ran particularly late. But regardless of how tired I was, I had a task that needed to be done when I got home come hell or high water. I had to wrap all the gifts. This needed to be done on Tuesday because the rest of my time for the week was already spoken for…cooking, baking, caroling, etc.
I sat down in my office with a card table to my side and began wrapping. It was already 11:00 and, by most sane thinking, I should have been in bed or headed that way. After all, I had to get up for work in the morning at 6:30. But I was determined, so box after box became a glittering jewel to place under the tree. I pressed on into the wee hours; 1 a.m., then 2 a.m. passed me by. By 2:30 I was about finished, but I was at that point of hitting the wall. When I began dozing off as I wrapped, I admitted the insanity of the situation, turned off the lights and headed to bed, making a last bathroom stop on the way.
I took my place on the throne as we women are pretty much required to do. Then being forward thinking, and not wanting to disturb Jim at that late hour by turning on a light in the bedroom, I leaned over and untied my hiking boots. What I didn’t realize was how VERY tired I was, and soon I dozed off perched atop the throne. I’m not sure how long I was out of it, perhaps a minute, perhaps more, but it was at least long enough to have that moment of complete stupor that often precedes full recognition of one’s surroundings on waking.
I woke with a start, and in that moment, glanced toward the floor. There, between my feet, and moving, was a striped snake, half blended into the gray-beige throw rug!!! In one tremendous movement, I leaped from the throne to the bathroom door while emitting a sound that can only be described as the shriek of the banshee!!
I turned around, shaking like a leaf, to see where the snake had gone. I could not see it! I was panic stricken! My heart was in my throat. My eyes scoured the floor. I couldn’t see the snake! Where was it? This was very bad. It meant the snake was hiding, waiting to come out and scare or bite the unwary (most likely me) on some other occasion!
Then I looked down and was startled to see the snake, still at my feet! The light bulb in my head snapped on at about 1000 lumens, and I dissolved into a heap on the bathroom floor, laughing hysterically, as I realized I had just scared myself half to death with my own brown and beige striped shoe laces!
Jim, awakened by the noise, was pounding at the bathroom door, wanting to know what in bloody hell I was screaming about. Needless to say he was not amused at being rousted from bed because of a demon shoe lace.
The real irony, however, is that after getting the rest of the house settled back in, I tossed and turned, awake, unable to sleep as the adrenaline that had surged into my system slowly ebbed away, adding to my ever-growing case of HHHSD (Ho Ho Ho Sleep Deprivation).
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Nothing like a Blond Moment!
I came home from work one day last week, took my laptop upstairs to my office and made the usual post-drive pit stop. I noticed something peculiar when I entered the bathroom. There was a bottle of body wash, a bottle of color specific shampoo and a bottle of companion conditioner sitting on the edge of the bathtub. None of these products were mine, and I was pretty certain that my minimalist husband was sticking to his Zest and Pert.
I tossed back the shower curtain and found a used disposable razor sitting on the soap tray. Barring the possibility of having an uber-clean ghost in my house, I made the assumption that my daughter, who no longer lives with us, had been at the house during the day and had, for some unknown reason, availed herself of my shower facilities.
I pulled out my cell phone and gave her a call.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s with coming home to take a shower? Are you having a plumbing problem?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You came here and took a shower,” I replied. “You left your stuff all over my bathroom.”
“Oh. Well, I came over to pick up some clothes out of my old room. I realized I had forgotten to take a shower, so I jumped in.”
“Well that sure explains it,” I said a bit sarcastically.
“Sorry about leaving my stuff all over the bathroom,” she said. “I didn’t mean to forget to move it all back to my room, I guess I was just having a blond moment.”
I started laughing. “I beg to differ,” I said. “Not putting your stuff away was forgetful…but forgetting to take a shower before you left home…now THAT is a Blond Moment!”
I tossed back the shower curtain and found a used disposable razor sitting on the soap tray. Barring the possibility of having an uber-clean ghost in my house, I made the assumption that my daughter, who no longer lives with us, had been at the house during the day and had, for some unknown reason, availed herself of my shower facilities.
I pulled out my cell phone and gave her a call.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s with coming home to take a shower? Are you having a plumbing problem?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You came here and took a shower,” I replied. “You left your stuff all over my bathroom.”
“Oh. Well, I came over to pick up some clothes out of my old room. I realized I had forgotten to take a shower, so I jumped in.”
“Well that sure explains it,” I said a bit sarcastically.
“Sorry about leaving my stuff all over the bathroom,” she said. “I didn’t mean to forget to move it all back to my room, I guess I was just having a blond moment.”
I started laughing. “I beg to differ,” I said. “Not putting your stuff away was forgetful…but forgetting to take a shower before you left home…now THAT is a Blond Moment!”
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Tiger Boy Rides Again!!!
Every year about this time, when the weather gets hot and sticky, and the thing I most want to do is go take a swim; I open the top drawer of my dresser, reach waaaaaaaaaay back and pull out the gaudiest bathing suit I have ever owned. You will note I say owned, not worn. I lovingly call it Tiger Boy for reasons that will soon become clear. I perform this ritual every summer. Then, unable to actually bring myself to wear it, I place Tiger Boy back in the drawer until the next year.
It all started about 25 years ago. I am what you might call a "substantial" woman, but I was more than twice as "substantial" back then. Buying clothing of any kind was the bane of my existence. I detested it. I made most of my own clothes, simply because I couldn't find anything to fit when I did drag my bulky form to a department store. But there are always occasions when something sewn at home just won't do. And it was one of those times.
So a friend and I made the dreaded trek to the mall and wandered into a store that had a large-women's department. I knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I would find something to fit for the upcoming occasion, but I dragged things off the racks anyway and headed to the dressing room.
I'll never know what possessed me to stop and look at a bathing suit that was hanging on the return clothes rack next to the changing area. It wasn't all that bad looking, at least on the hanger. It was a bit gaudy; it was a very large size and, when I took it in my hands, it was incredibly stretchy. For reasons beyond my own understanding, I decided to try it on.
I went into the dressing room and dutifully donned one item after the next. As expected, I found nothing that looked decent for the occasion. After trying on the last blouse, I took the swimsuit off the hanger. It was a rather disgusting dark yellow color with a narrow black strip down the length of each side and was covered in black tiger strips. I stepped gently into the suit. I was amazed! It went up over the thunder thighs with no problem and gently stretched over my mountainous front and rear girth! It fit! I couldn’t believe it. I was ecstatic! I had not owned a real swimsuit in years!
Then I turned to look in the mirror.
Oh…my…God!
I was staring at a 450-pound tiger atop two pasty white legs! The sheer absurdity of it struck me like a bolt of lightening. I began to roar with laughter.
My friend and the clerk were standing outside the dressing area. "Are you okay" they asked. But I couldn't reply. I was laughing too hard. And as I stood there laughing in front of that mirror, all those lovely tiger stripes began to jiggle up and down. Needless to say, I was literally screaming with laughter, tears streaming down my face. But the harder I laughed the more those pesky tiger stripes jiggled. I am sure you can see how this might be a problem; a vicious circle of laughing and jiggling had begun.
I can't say for certain how long the episode lasted. The clerk knocked at the dressing room door to make sure I was okay, but that just made me laugh all the harder. My friend kept asking what was wrong and got the same hysterical laughter in reply. I do, however, remember what brought the episode to an abrupt halt…
I laughed so hard, I wet the suit.
Barely able to breathe by this time, I changed my clothes. I took the price tags off the swimsuit and emerged from the dressing area with the balled-up suit clutched tightly in my hand.
"I'll take it," I said, handing the price tags to the clerk.
"Here," she said, "let me put that in a bag for you."
"I think I would prefer to do it myself," I replied as I snatched the plastic bag from her hand.
I have no idea if the clerk ever figured out why I was acting so strange, but my friend and I drove home in absolute hysterics. We’ve laughed about the incident for years.
Tiger Boy remains in the back of my drawer, a monument to that episode.
Laundered once, but NEVER worn.
It all started about 25 years ago. I am what you might call a "substantial" woman, but I was more than twice as "substantial" back then. Buying clothing of any kind was the bane of my existence. I detested it. I made most of my own clothes, simply because I couldn't find anything to fit when I did drag my bulky form to a department store. But there are always occasions when something sewn at home just won't do. And it was one of those times.
So a friend and I made the dreaded trek to the mall and wandered into a store that had a large-women's department. I knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I would find something to fit for the upcoming occasion, but I dragged things off the racks anyway and headed to the dressing room.
I'll never know what possessed me to stop and look at a bathing suit that was hanging on the return clothes rack next to the changing area. It wasn't all that bad looking, at least on the hanger. It was a bit gaudy; it was a very large size and, when I took it in my hands, it was incredibly stretchy. For reasons beyond my own understanding, I decided to try it on.
I went into the dressing room and dutifully donned one item after the next. As expected, I found nothing that looked decent for the occasion. After trying on the last blouse, I took the swimsuit off the hanger. It was a rather disgusting dark yellow color with a narrow black strip down the length of each side and was covered in black tiger strips. I stepped gently into the suit. I was amazed! It went up over the thunder thighs with no problem and gently stretched over my mountainous front and rear girth! It fit! I couldn’t believe it. I was ecstatic! I had not owned a real swimsuit in years!
Then I turned to look in the mirror.
Oh…my…God!
I was staring at a 450-pound tiger atop two pasty white legs! The sheer absurdity of it struck me like a bolt of lightening. I began to roar with laughter.
My friend and the clerk were standing outside the dressing area. "Are you okay" they asked. But I couldn't reply. I was laughing too hard. And as I stood there laughing in front of that mirror, all those lovely tiger stripes began to jiggle up and down. Needless to say, I was literally screaming with laughter, tears streaming down my face. But the harder I laughed the more those pesky tiger stripes jiggled. I am sure you can see how this might be a problem; a vicious circle of laughing and jiggling had begun.
I can't say for certain how long the episode lasted. The clerk knocked at the dressing room door to make sure I was okay, but that just made me laugh all the harder. My friend kept asking what was wrong and got the same hysterical laughter in reply. I do, however, remember what brought the episode to an abrupt halt…
I laughed so hard, I wet the suit.
Barely able to breathe by this time, I changed my clothes. I took the price tags off the swimsuit and emerged from the dressing area with the balled-up suit clutched tightly in my hand.
"I'll take it," I said, handing the price tags to the clerk.
"Here," she said, "let me put that in a bag for you."
"I think I would prefer to do it myself," I replied as I snatched the plastic bag from her hand.
I have no idea if the clerk ever figured out why I was acting so strange, but my friend and I drove home in absolute hysterics. We’ve laughed about the incident for years.
Tiger Boy remains in the back of my drawer, a monument to that episode.
Laundered once, but NEVER worn.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Juan Valdez and High Colonic? Who knew there was a connection?
Research has always been the bane of my writing life. It is, however, an absolute necessity when writing non-fiction. And though you may be secretly snickering about the research I did for Virtual Strangers; sitting smugly with your cup of joe; I will ignore the hisses and whispers long enough to percolate a little true story that gives a whole new meaning to "good to the last drop."
Virtual Strangers is about on-line relationships. In order to research the topic, I interviewed countless Internet users who were involved in such activities. And, in an effort to gain first-hand information, I traveled to several introduction sites and posted my own profiles to gauge the number and types of responses one might expect when choosing this venue for meeting people. These profiles ranged from general and/or suggestive to ones specifically designed to screen out all but those in upper echelon professions with advanced degrees. E-mail responses from each profile were directed to different addresses, making it easier to determine the kind of response to a specific type of profile.
Needless to say I was flooded with responses ranging from the incredibly mundane to the exceptionally bizarre. It was an avalanche of information falling on the head of a rather typical working wife and mother who was, for the most part, ignorant of such things, but gearing-up for a rude awakening. I ingested caffeine by the two-liter bottle as I filtered through the vast numbers of e-mails. Each night, I sorted them, by profile, into three categories: 1) worth contacting to interview, 2) worth answering if I was actually looking, and 3) wouldn't answer on a bet.
The "wouldn't answer on a bet" pile ran the gamut from complete boredom (one-liner's like, "I'm Gary. Write to me, Babe") to those who spent inordinate amounts of time, and page after page, attempting to seduce by extensive descriptions of whatever deviant behavior was their flavor of the week. I had no idea that the variations on this theme were more extensive than the coffee menu at Starbucks! At the end of this sorting exercise, I would take that particular pile of e-mail and toss it into the incinerator with one notable exception.
A single letter caught my eye. The gentleman in question sent me a lengthy dissertation, complete with pictures, regaling me with example upon example of why he thought I should allow him to introduce me to the stimulating and highly erotic pleasures of…coffee-retention enemas??? They were wonderful to share, he said. They cured all his ills, and, as a bonus, had rid him of his migraine headaches.
I have to confess that by the time I finished the reading of it, I was laughing so hard that Depends would have been a welcome addition to my wardrobe. Vivid images of Maxwell House and Folger's Crystals on the same shelf as Fleet's in the drug store came suddenly to mind. Café "oh lay" would require sloshing bags of ground roast hanging from IV poles. Beano would not just be for gas anymore. And, "Oh miss, I'll have a danish and a bag of frothy crappachino, and can I make that a bottomless cup, please?"
Quite frankly, I had experienced a few enemas in my youth, and it would be a cathartic stretch clean around the equator to say I found anything the least bit pleasurable in the procedure. On the other hand, I will say that, as a migraine cure, he might actually have hit on a useful discovery…after all, the amount of caffeine in a pot full of coffee, traveling directly through the intestinal walls into the blood stream has got to do something stimulating, right? In the end, Juan Valdez could become a very rich, headache-free man!
Tears rolling down my face, lungs ready to explode and ribs in dire need of ibuprofen from uncontrollable laughter, I looked at the letter in my hand. This guy was a nut job. I knew that. I should not respond. I knew that, too. But as surely as I knew those things, I knew I would answer it anyway. I could not help myself; such unswerving java loyalty demanded a reply. Through a haze of tears and rib pain I wrote the following…
Dear Mr. Mugbottom (name changed to protect the innocent),
I am writing to thank you for your interest in and response to my profile. I enjoyed reading your letter, and, I have to say that I found your descriptions of the coffee-retention enema procedure, its benefits and results, to be most educational and highly enlightening.
I must tell you, however, that although I, personally, have never had the dubious pleasure of experiencing a coffee-retention enema, considering the smell and taste of the stuff, I can't think of a better place for it.
Would you care for a doughnut with that?
Thank you for your interest.
Needless to say, the gentleman in question did not respond again. But I may never recover. I succumb to instantaneous hysterical laughter every time someone asks, "Wanna go do coffee?"
Virtual Strangers is about on-line relationships. In order to research the topic, I interviewed countless Internet users who were involved in such activities. And, in an effort to gain first-hand information, I traveled to several introduction sites and posted my own profiles to gauge the number and types of responses one might expect when choosing this venue for meeting people. These profiles ranged from general and/or suggestive to ones specifically designed to screen out all but those in upper echelon professions with advanced degrees. E-mail responses from each profile were directed to different addresses, making it easier to determine the kind of response to a specific type of profile.
Needless to say I was flooded with responses ranging from the incredibly mundane to the exceptionally bizarre. It was an avalanche of information falling on the head of a rather typical working wife and mother who was, for the most part, ignorant of such things, but gearing-up for a rude awakening. I ingested caffeine by the two-liter bottle as I filtered through the vast numbers of e-mails. Each night, I sorted them, by profile, into three categories: 1) worth contacting to interview, 2) worth answering if I was actually looking, and 3) wouldn't answer on a bet.
The "wouldn't answer on a bet" pile ran the gamut from complete boredom (one-liner's like, "I'm Gary. Write to me, Babe") to those who spent inordinate amounts of time, and page after page, attempting to seduce by extensive descriptions of whatever deviant behavior was their flavor of the week. I had no idea that the variations on this theme were more extensive than the coffee menu at Starbucks! At the end of this sorting exercise, I would take that particular pile of e-mail and toss it into the incinerator with one notable exception.
A single letter caught my eye. The gentleman in question sent me a lengthy dissertation, complete with pictures, regaling me with example upon example of why he thought I should allow him to introduce me to the stimulating and highly erotic pleasures of…coffee-retention enemas??? They were wonderful to share, he said. They cured all his ills, and, as a bonus, had rid him of his migraine headaches.
I have to confess that by the time I finished the reading of it, I was laughing so hard that Depends would have been a welcome addition to my wardrobe. Vivid images of Maxwell House and Folger's Crystals on the same shelf as Fleet's in the drug store came suddenly to mind. Café "oh lay" would require sloshing bags of ground roast hanging from IV poles. Beano would not just be for gas anymore. And, "Oh miss, I'll have a danish and a bag of frothy crappachino, and can I make that a bottomless cup, please?"
Quite frankly, I had experienced a few enemas in my youth, and it would be a cathartic stretch clean around the equator to say I found anything the least bit pleasurable in the procedure. On the other hand, I will say that, as a migraine cure, he might actually have hit on a useful discovery…after all, the amount of caffeine in a pot full of coffee, traveling directly through the intestinal walls into the blood stream has got to do something stimulating, right? In the end, Juan Valdez could become a very rich, headache-free man!
Tears rolling down my face, lungs ready to explode and ribs in dire need of ibuprofen from uncontrollable laughter, I looked at the letter in my hand. This guy was a nut job. I knew that. I should not respond. I knew that, too. But as surely as I knew those things, I knew I would answer it anyway. I could not help myself; such unswerving java loyalty demanded a reply. Through a haze of tears and rib pain I wrote the following…
Dear Mr. Mugbottom (name changed to protect the innocent),
I am writing to thank you for your interest in and response to my profile. I enjoyed reading your letter, and, I have to say that I found your descriptions of the coffee-retention enema procedure, its benefits and results, to be most educational and highly enlightening.
I must tell you, however, that although I, personally, have never had the dubious pleasure of experiencing a coffee-retention enema, considering the smell and taste of the stuff, I can't think of a better place for it.
Would you care for a doughnut with that?
Thank you for your interest.
Needless to say, the gentleman in question did not respond again. But I may never recover. I succumb to instantaneous hysterical laughter every time someone asks, "Wanna go do coffee?"
Friday, July 24, 2009
If You're Gonna Plagiarize, then Plagiarize Only the Best
Several years back, before I was an honest-to-God "published" author, I used to get away from the house, the teens, the husband and the ever-blaring TV by heading off to a local coffee shop in the evening. It was quiet, except on open mic nights, and served one heck of a cup of hot Oregon Chai with whipped cream and cinnamon. It was a great relaxing place to sit undisturbed and edit manuscripts.
Open mic night was always a crapshoot. Sometimes they had good singers and musicians; sometimes they had bad ones, sometimes totally unbelievable ones. But one thing was certain….you never wanted to attend on the one Tuesday night a month when open mic hosted…BAD POETRY NIGHT!
I always avoided bad poetry night like the plague, but once in a while I would forget and end up subjecting myself to some of the most incredibly vile and inane phrases ever to pass for poetry. But since I always had my manuscript in tow, I would sit and edit, ignoring the readers of the bad poems as much as possible.
The woman who ran poetry night was a local, self-proclaimed expert who, if I remember correctly, taught creative writing at one of the local community colleges. She was old, very short and a bit on the trollish side. She had one heck of an imagination, because the themes of all her poems, at least the ones I had the displeasure of hearing, were about her incredible sexual escapades.
On one extraordinarily memorable occasion, I was plodding right along on my editing chores, dutifully ignoring the troll's sex poems. When she finished, she introduced a rather odd little man who lumbered up to the microphone.
"I am going to read Eckle Sates." He said quite loudly.
Oh no! Not another one of these weird ones! I rolled my eyes in despair. The poem didn't even have a decent name…and what the hell was Eckle Sates anyway? I dreaded the upcoming reading and forced myself back to the task at hand…but my focus was blasted out of the water when he began his poetry reading.
"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven….A time to be born, a time to die…."
I spit a mouthful of chai across the table. The strange little man proceeded to read the entire of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, Verses 1 to 8, and I snickered the whole time while mopping up the mess with a thick stack of napkins. Eckle Sates indeed!
The poetry fans glared toward my table with obvious disdain. I’m normally not rude, but I honestly could not hide my reaction. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as he finished. My relief was more than little premature. What I heard next sent me skittering to the ladies room to avoid utter and total embarrassment.
One member of the audience stood up and headed toward the stage. He walked up and greeted the strange little man as he stepped away from the microphone, patting him on the back and shaking his hand. In a clear and very serious voice he said...
"Wow, John, that was really great! Keep writing!"
Open mic night was always a crapshoot. Sometimes they had good singers and musicians; sometimes they had bad ones, sometimes totally unbelievable ones. But one thing was certain….you never wanted to attend on the one Tuesday night a month when open mic hosted…BAD POETRY NIGHT!
I always avoided bad poetry night like the plague, but once in a while I would forget and end up subjecting myself to some of the most incredibly vile and inane phrases ever to pass for poetry. But since I always had my manuscript in tow, I would sit and edit, ignoring the readers of the bad poems as much as possible.
The woman who ran poetry night was a local, self-proclaimed expert who, if I remember correctly, taught creative writing at one of the local community colleges. She was old, very short and a bit on the trollish side. She had one heck of an imagination, because the themes of all her poems, at least the ones I had the displeasure of hearing, were about her incredible sexual escapades.
On one extraordinarily memorable occasion, I was plodding right along on my editing chores, dutifully ignoring the troll's sex poems. When she finished, she introduced a rather odd little man who lumbered up to the microphone.
"I am going to read Eckle Sates." He said quite loudly.
Oh no! Not another one of these weird ones! I rolled my eyes in despair. The poem didn't even have a decent name…and what the hell was Eckle Sates anyway? I dreaded the upcoming reading and forced myself back to the task at hand…but my focus was blasted out of the water when he began his poetry reading.
"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven….A time to be born, a time to die…."
I spit a mouthful of chai across the table. The strange little man proceeded to read the entire of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, Verses 1 to 8, and I snickered the whole time while mopping up the mess with a thick stack of napkins. Eckle Sates indeed!
The poetry fans glared toward my table with obvious disdain. I’m normally not rude, but I honestly could not hide my reaction. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as he finished. My relief was more than little premature. What I heard next sent me skittering to the ladies room to avoid utter and total embarrassment.
One member of the audience stood up and headed toward the stage. He walked up and greeted the strange little man as he stepped away from the microphone, patting him on the back and shaking his hand. In a clear and very serious voice he said...
"Wow, John, that was really great! Keep writing!"
The Great White Hunter and the Groundhog Basketball
Many years ago, my father moved our family from Cleveland to a farm out in Ashtabula County, and we became misplaced city folk. I managed to slip the surly bonds of the farm and move back to the city after I returned from OSU, and there in the big city I met my future husband, Jim.
Now you must understand that Jim was a born and bred city boy, who longed for the country air. He became a Boy Scout early on and was still scouting as an assistant when we met. He also envisioned himself to be a great white hunter...one who traveled with friends to the dark and dangerous jungles of Western Pennsylvania on an annual hunt for the sacred Bambi each fall. This was something to which I objected vehemently. I didn't mind that he wanted to hunt deer, only that he wanted to go to Pennsylvania to do so. Pennsylvania in deer season is rather like walking through a firing range. Gung-ho idiots from every nearby state go there, hunker in, and shoot anything that moves in their quest for a 12-point buck. I had a lost a friend and classmate a few years earlier in a deer-hunting accident (fellow St. John attendee, Chuck Cott), so I suggested, quite strongly, that Jim drive out to my parents' farm and hunt deer there.
This suggestion was taken well, as it gave him carte blanche on 100 acres of private property. He packed up his trusty weapons and headed out to the farm. I sat smugly in my apartment figuring I had won the round. I'd seen him shoot and was fairly certain he wasn't likely to hit anything anyway, but at least he would be out of harm's way while doing his bit. That was important, since our wedding was only a few weeks away, and I wanted to be make sure he would still be alive for the event. If I had known what was to come, I might have sent him to PA with my blessing!
Late that afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was Jim with a mile-wide smile on his face, but he was straining to hold his hunting duds away from the front of his neck. I gave him a puzzled look. He walked in, set down his weaponry and, looking like a cat bringing home an offering of a dead bird, said, "Look what I got!" In the game pouch hanging on the back of his hunting vest, and strangling him due to the sheer weight of it, was the largest ground hog I had ever seen. This critter tipped the scales at around 40 lbs.
"I take it you didn't get a deer?" I asked innocently, secretly happy I wouldn't have to deal with a "venison" situation.
"Nope," he replied, "but I got this ground hog and here's a recipe to cook it."
"Cook it??? You want me to cook it? I don't have a pot or pan large enough to cook it!" I was mortified.
"Don't worry," he said. "It will be a lot smaller when I'm done dressing it!"
With an acute sense of dread, I put on a coat and headed to the local hardware store where I purchased a 5-gallon soup pot and a huge, blue enamel, roasting pan with a lid. They were the biggest I could find, but they would have to do.
By the time I got back to the apartment, the deed had been done. There on my kitchen counter on a cookie sheet sat the "hog." It was marginally larger than a fully dressed 20-lb turkey! Jim left for his place, fully intending to come back for a wonderful dinner compliments of his hunting prowess.
I looked at the thing with resignation, picked up the recipe and began to read. The process involved boiling the "hog" in vinegar water for three hours to remove the gamey taste and smell. Then roasting it with herbs and marinade for a couple more hours.
I put the soup pot in the sink, forced the "hog" into the pot and covered it with water. But, with the added weight of the water, I couldn't lift it out of the sink. I grabbed a measuring cup and began bailing the water out of the soup pot until I lowered the level enough to drag the soup pot from its confines. How I managed to get the thing over to the stove is beyond my remembrance.
Once more I covered the "hog" with water by filling my juice pitcher several times and pouring it into the pot. I added the prescribed quart of apple cider vinegar, turned on the burner and went into the living room to watch TV.
Within half an hour, the apartment was inundated with a hideous odor! Ewwww! I raced to open all the windows. I was sure that the odor would dissipate, after all, that was one of the reasons to boil it, right? I wrapped up in a blanket and went back to watching TV.
The first knock came shortly.
Mrs. McInnes stood at my door: 73 years old, feisty, a lace-edged hankie over her nose. "Do you mind telling me what in heaven's name you're cooking down here?" I attempted to explain my predicament, but she was neither amused nor the least bit understanding. She headed back up the stairs in as much of a huff as one might expect from a 73-year-old woman. But she was only the first.
They came in a steady stream for the next two hours. Every last one of my neighbors in the apartment building came down to inquire as to what I was cooking that smelled so horrible! The odor of cooked ground hog filled the halls, permeated three stories of the complex and hung in a cloud-like stench around the outside of the building! Needless to say, they all pretty much reacted in exactly the same way as Mrs. McInnes!
As the end of the third hour approached, I bailed some of the odiferous fluid off the "hog" and struggled with the pot back to the counter. I promptly dumped the mess down the drain, leaving this rather strange-looking thing lying ominously in the sink. I proceeded to step two, mixing the herbs and marinade, hoping with all my heart that this part of the process would negate the smell of the first part. I managed to lift the "hog" into the roasting pan, doused it with the herb mix, and put it in the oven. I then went in the bathroom and bleached my hands, as the hand soap had not removed the odor acquired in the handling of the "hog" itself. It never occurred to me that things might get worse.
I went back into the living room and resumed watching TV. An hour later, the phone calls began. Once again the neighbors were complaining, and begging me to stop what I was doing. I explained that it only had an hour or so left to cook so it would all be over soon. They were still not amused. Mrs. McInnes threatened to call the police. I suppose she intended to have me arrested for endangering the public nostrils!
When the timer finally buzzed, indicating completion, I gave a hearty "Thank goodness!" and leaped up to take the critter out of the oven. I opened the roaster lid. There it sat; the bizarre delicacy. It was dark brown, perfectly round and looked almost good enough to eat. It still smelled pretty gamey to me, but, I had followed the recipe exactly. I got on the phone and called Jim at his apartment across the parking lot.
"Dinner's ready," I said sweetly.
"Great! I'll be right over," he replied.
The knock on the door seemed a bit hesitant. I opened it and found Jim standing there looking as though he had swallowed something extremely foul!
"What's that awful smell?"
"That's your dinner!" piped up Mrs. Delaney from across the hall.
"And I hope you choke on it." She slammed her door.
I rushed Jim inside and closed the door. I had visions of an apartment riot and things didn't seem to be improving. Jim held back a bit as I brought the offering to the table.
"Well, it looks good," he said.
I handed him the big carving knife and fork. He stood up and tried to carve, but the fork bounced off the roasted ground hog ball. No matter how he poked and prodded he could not get the sharpened fork tines to pierce the rubbery thing. Finally he put the fork down and tried to hold it with his hand while attempting to carve, but the knife found no more purchase than did the fork!
"You ruined it!" he said.
"I did no such thing. I followed the recipe exactly!" I replied.
I grabbed the recipe pamphlet off the counter and began to read. "Oh, I see what the problem is."
"Yeah, you ruined it," he repeated.
"No, I followed the recipe as written, all except for the most important part. It says use a tender young ground hog and you brought me a geriatric case! Did you actually shoot this thing? Or did it drop dead from a heart attack when the bullet whizzed over its head?"
Jim sat there sulking and hungry. I picked up the "hog" and tossed it in the sink. I rinsed the goop off of it as best I could and tried to pat it dry with paper towels to prevent dripping.
"There is only one place for this," I said.
It slipped from my hands, hit the counter, and bounced about an inch. Jim snarled a bit as I laughed and bounced it again, a bit harder this time.
"It's a basketball!" I said as I headed for the incinerator room.
The "hog" felt rubbery in my hands. I had to try it. I reached the incinerator room with its concrete floor. I gently dropped the hog. It bounced up almost to my knees! Pretty neat. So I bounced it down again, this time hard.
Bits of "hog" flew everywhere as it exploded on impact. I scrambled around corralling the horrible, smelly parts and shoving them in the incinerator as fast as I could, a process that was greatly inhibited because I was howling with laughter as I imagined the entire east side of Cleveland reeking of roasted ground hog! After tossing the last of it into the burner, I went back to my apartment, bleached my hands, put all my pans and utensils to soak in bleach and informed Jim that we were going shopping.
We found a convenient market that was still open and bought massive numbers of air fresheners, which we apologetically dispersed to the other apartment dwellers in the building. They were hardly mollified by the gesture, but at least they tolerated me for the duration of my time there.
That night, we ended up eating at McDonald's. I forgave Jim, and married him anyway. I moved out of the apartment very soon after the wedding (the neighbors seemed quite happy to see me go, if you can imagine that).
Needless to say, the great white hunter pretty much retired from the profession, and, although he still shoots targets (he's actually gotten better at hitting them, too), he never brought home another "fresh-killed offering" for dinner (one of the main reasons we're still married).
I'm still amazed at the stupid things a woman in love will do (ground hog indeed!). My advice to any woman, in love with her very own Great White Hunter, is to always remember that both you and the groundhog are much better off if Punxsutawney Phil remains a fur-ball predicting spring and doesn't become a rubbery basket-ball type of thing!
Now you must understand that Jim was a born and bred city boy, who longed for the country air. He became a Boy Scout early on and was still scouting as an assistant when we met. He also envisioned himself to be a great white hunter...one who traveled with friends to the dark and dangerous jungles of Western Pennsylvania on an annual hunt for the sacred Bambi each fall. This was something to which I objected vehemently. I didn't mind that he wanted to hunt deer, only that he wanted to go to Pennsylvania to do so. Pennsylvania in deer season is rather like walking through a firing range. Gung-ho idiots from every nearby state go there, hunker in, and shoot anything that moves in their quest for a 12-point buck. I had a lost a friend and classmate a few years earlier in a deer-hunting accident (fellow St. John attendee, Chuck Cott), so I suggested, quite strongly, that Jim drive out to my parents' farm and hunt deer there.
This suggestion was taken well, as it gave him carte blanche on 100 acres of private property. He packed up his trusty weapons and headed out to the farm. I sat smugly in my apartment figuring I had won the round. I'd seen him shoot and was fairly certain he wasn't likely to hit anything anyway, but at least he would be out of harm's way while doing his bit. That was important, since our wedding was only a few weeks away, and I wanted to be make sure he would still be alive for the event. If I had known what was to come, I might have sent him to PA with my blessing!
Late that afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was Jim with a mile-wide smile on his face, but he was straining to hold his hunting duds away from the front of his neck. I gave him a puzzled look. He walked in, set down his weaponry and, looking like a cat bringing home an offering of a dead bird, said, "Look what I got!" In the game pouch hanging on the back of his hunting vest, and strangling him due to the sheer weight of it, was the largest ground hog I had ever seen. This critter tipped the scales at around 40 lbs.
"I take it you didn't get a deer?" I asked innocently, secretly happy I wouldn't have to deal with a "venison" situation.
"Nope," he replied, "but I got this ground hog and here's a recipe to cook it."
"Cook it??? You want me to cook it? I don't have a pot or pan large enough to cook it!" I was mortified.
"Don't worry," he said. "It will be a lot smaller when I'm done dressing it!"
With an acute sense of dread, I put on a coat and headed to the local hardware store where I purchased a 5-gallon soup pot and a huge, blue enamel, roasting pan with a lid. They were the biggest I could find, but they would have to do.
By the time I got back to the apartment, the deed had been done. There on my kitchen counter on a cookie sheet sat the "hog." It was marginally larger than a fully dressed 20-lb turkey! Jim left for his place, fully intending to come back for a wonderful dinner compliments of his hunting prowess.
I looked at the thing with resignation, picked up the recipe and began to read. The process involved boiling the "hog" in vinegar water for three hours to remove the gamey taste and smell. Then roasting it with herbs and marinade for a couple more hours.
I put the soup pot in the sink, forced the "hog" into the pot and covered it with water. But, with the added weight of the water, I couldn't lift it out of the sink. I grabbed a measuring cup and began bailing the water out of the soup pot until I lowered the level enough to drag the soup pot from its confines. How I managed to get the thing over to the stove is beyond my remembrance.
Once more I covered the "hog" with water by filling my juice pitcher several times and pouring it into the pot. I added the prescribed quart of apple cider vinegar, turned on the burner and went into the living room to watch TV.
Within half an hour, the apartment was inundated with a hideous odor! Ewwww! I raced to open all the windows. I was sure that the odor would dissipate, after all, that was one of the reasons to boil it, right? I wrapped up in a blanket and went back to watching TV.
The first knock came shortly.
Mrs. McInnes stood at my door: 73 years old, feisty, a lace-edged hankie over her nose. "Do you mind telling me what in heaven's name you're cooking down here?" I attempted to explain my predicament, but she was neither amused nor the least bit understanding. She headed back up the stairs in as much of a huff as one might expect from a 73-year-old woman. But she was only the first.
They came in a steady stream for the next two hours. Every last one of my neighbors in the apartment building came down to inquire as to what I was cooking that smelled so horrible! The odor of cooked ground hog filled the halls, permeated three stories of the complex and hung in a cloud-like stench around the outside of the building! Needless to say, they all pretty much reacted in exactly the same way as Mrs. McInnes!
As the end of the third hour approached, I bailed some of the odiferous fluid off the "hog" and struggled with the pot back to the counter. I promptly dumped the mess down the drain, leaving this rather strange-looking thing lying ominously in the sink. I proceeded to step two, mixing the herbs and marinade, hoping with all my heart that this part of the process would negate the smell of the first part. I managed to lift the "hog" into the roasting pan, doused it with the herb mix, and put it in the oven. I then went in the bathroom and bleached my hands, as the hand soap had not removed the odor acquired in the handling of the "hog" itself. It never occurred to me that things might get worse.
I went back into the living room and resumed watching TV. An hour later, the phone calls began. Once again the neighbors were complaining, and begging me to stop what I was doing. I explained that it only had an hour or so left to cook so it would all be over soon. They were still not amused. Mrs. McInnes threatened to call the police. I suppose she intended to have me arrested for endangering the public nostrils!
When the timer finally buzzed, indicating completion, I gave a hearty "Thank goodness!" and leaped up to take the critter out of the oven. I opened the roaster lid. There it sat; the bizarre delicacy. It was dark brown, perfectly round and looked almost good enough to eat. It still smelled pretty gamey to me, but, I had followed the recipe exactly. I got on the phone and called Jim at his apartment across the parking lot.
"Dinner's ready," I said sweetly.
"Great! I'll be right over," he replied.
The knock on the door seemed a bit hesitant. I opened it and found Jim standing there looking as though he had swallowed something extremely foul!
"What's that awful smell?"
"That's your dinner!" piped up Mrs. Delaney from across the hall.
"And I hope you choke on it." She slammed her door.
I rushed Jim inside and closed the door. I had visions of an apartment riot and things didn't seem to be improving. Jim held back a bit as I brought the offering to the table.
"Well, it looks good," he said.
I handed him the big carving knife and fork. He stood up and tried to carve, but the fork bounced off the roasted ground hog ball. No matter how he poked and prodded he could not get the sharpened fork tines to pierce the rubbery thing. Finally he put the fork down and tried to hold it with his hand while attempting to carve, but the knife found no more purchase than did the fork!
"You ruined it!" he said.
"I did no such thing. I followed the recipe exactly!" I replied.
I grabbed the recipe pamphlet off the counter and began to read. "Oh, I see what the problem is."
"Yeah, you ruined it," he repeated.
"No, I followed the recipe as written, all except for the most important part. It says use a tender young ground hog and you brought me a geriatric case! Did you actually shoot this thing? Or did it drop dead from a heart attack when the bullet whizzed over its head?"
Jim sat there sulking and hungry. I picked up the "hog" and tossed it in the sink. I rinsed the goop off of it as best I could and tried to pat it dry with paper towels to prevent dripping.
"There is only one place for this," I said.
It slipped from my hands, hit the counter, and bounced about an inch. Jim snarled a bit as I laughed and bounced it again, a bit harder this time.
"It's a basketball!" I said as I headed for the incinerator room.
The "hog" felt rubbery in my hands. I had to try it. I reached the incinerator room with its concrete floor. I gently dropped the hog. It bounced up almost to my knees! Pretty neat. So I bounced it down again, this time hard.
Bits of "hog" flew everywhere as it exploded on impact. I scrambled around corralling the horrible, smelly parts and shoving them in the incinerator as fast as I could, a process that was greatly inhibited because I was howling with laughter as I imagined the entire east side of Cleveland reeking of roasted ground hog! After tossing the last of it into the burner, I went back to my apartment, bleached my hands, put all my pans and utensils to soak in bleach and informed Jim that we were going shopping.
We found a convenient market that was still open and bought massive numbers of air fresheners, which we apologetically dispersed to the other apartment dwellers in the building. They were hardly mollified by the gesture, but at least they tolerated me for the duration of my time there.
That night, we ended up eating at McDonald's. I forgave Jim, and married him anyway. I moved out of the apartment very soon after the wedding (the neighbors seemed quite happy to see me go, if you can imagine that).
Needless to say, the great white hunter pretty much retired from the profession, and, although he still shoots targets (he's actually gotten better at hitting them, too), he never brought home another "fresh-killed offering" for dinner (one of the main reasons we're still married).
I'm still amazed at the stupid things a woman in love will do (ground hog indeed!). My advice to any woman, in love with her very own Great White Hunter, is to always remember that both you and the groundhog are much better off if Punxsutawney Phil remains a fur-ball predicting spring and doesn't become a rubbery basket-ball type of thing!
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