Category Archives: Humor

Battery by blender

Humor, parenting May 3, 2013 Comments: 10
It took three hours to get eight stitches.

Awaiting stitches, and imprisonment.

“MOLINARI!” the ER nurse bellowed, jolting us out of our waiting room stupor. Tearing our eyes from hypnotic crime show reruns playing on the wall-mounted television, we scrambled to move our 12-year-old daughter, who’d been placed in a wheelchair to elevate her lacerated foot.

“So, what happened?” the nurse asked.

“It was the blender,” I blurted, nervously.

“The blender?!” the nurse looked in horror at our daughter’s foot, wrapped in a dishtowel.

“Well, no, her foot wasn’t actually in the blender . . . it was on the floor . . . and the blender was in the freezer.”

“In the freezer?” the nurse asked, confused.

“I . . . it was me . . .,” I mumbled culpably, “I put the glass pitcher in the freezer. When my daughter opened the door, it fell out and cut her foot.”

“Ah,” the nurse seemed relieved to not be dealing with a frappèd foot, “let’s take a quick look.” As our daughter winced and whined, we carefully unraveled the dishtowel. “Hmmm . . . looks like you’re gonna need a few stitches young lady.”

The nurse fired questions at us – “full name, date of birth, address, phone number, insurance carrier, policy number” – while tapping away at her computer.

Then, after a pregnant pause, she looked intently at us and carefully enunciated, “Has your daughter ever had stitches before?

“No,” I answered immediately.

My mind waffled and my eyes darted as I thought, “Should I tell her about that face plant she did into the side of the backyard playset? She didn’t need stitches, but if I don’t mention that, will she think I’ve got something to hide? Why is she asking this question anyway? Does she think we’re abusive parents with a long history of suspicious ER visits? I guess the whole blender story does sound a bit suspect, and I was the one who put the blender in the freezer to begin with. I should’ve known it would slide off that bag of chicken tenders!?! It was my fault! I’m sure she’s alerting the police right now! I think I hear sirens!”

“Sit tight in the waiting room. When the doctor is ready for you, we’ll get you all fixed up.” the nurse said with a smile.

We settled back into the waiting room, just in time to see Matlock render a withering cross examination. Stagnating under the unforgiving fluorescent lights for another hour, we reassured our daughter, analyzed the people around us, leafed through dog-eared magazines, and watched an episode of “Hill Street Blues.”

Just as I thought cobwebs were forming, our name was called.

The x-ray technician, the billing rep, the nurse, the doctor – they all asked the same questions. First a battery of rapid-fire queries regarding tedious details were launched in robotic succession, followed by one carefully worded question delivered police-interrogation style.

I can’t recall if the final question was “Has your daughter had stitches before?” or “Are you the abusive parent who negligently put the blender in the freezer sideways?” but I am certain that they had it out for me.

I prayed they wouldn’t find out about our two older kids, who have had their share of emergency room visits. Three broken bones, two pulled elbows, and at least a dozen stitches; with such typical excuses — fell off the couch, fell off the playset, fell into the playset, fell down the stairs. It all sounded so textbook, I was sure that the police were on their way to haul me off to jail.

But finally, after 30 minutes of treatment and three hours of waiting, we were released. Feeling like some kind of middle-aged jailbird, I sheepishly wheeled my daughter back to the ER entrance.

Suddenly, “YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!” blared from the waiting room. I considered bolting, but I was still a little sore from that body sculpting class, and besides, I would need to pack my fiber pills and contour pillow before I could lead a life on the run. Just as I turned to face the wall and spread ‘em, I noticed that the order had come from CHiPs Officer “Ponch” Poncherello on the wall-mounted TV, and I realized that I was free to go.

On our way home, while my daughter sipped a conciliatory Whataburger chocolate shake, I turned to her in an effort to relieve the still-fresh pang of guilt, “Lollipop, if I hadn’t put that blender in the freezer sideways, none of this would’ve happened. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK, Mom,” she said between sips, “it’s not your fault. It was just an accident.” Along with my heart and that chocolate shake, my mother’s guilt finally melted away.

The cast of "CHiPs" (from left: Erik...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Happy Easter to our deployed soldiers and sailors!

Humor, military March 30, 2013 1 Comment
God Bless our soldiers and sailors this Easter!

Courtesy of Grigoriy Kogan at http://www.gagcartoons.com.

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To heel or not to heel, that is the sandwich

Humor, marriage March 24, 2013 Comments: 10
Image via eatingbender.files.wordpress.com

Image via eatingbender.files.wordpress.com

“Welcome to Subway, may I take your order?”

“Sure, I’ll take a tuna on wheat, toasted, please.” While the polite but pierced teen prepared my favorite sub, I chatted with my husband, who was next up. “So Hon, did you like that new club deli meat I put in your lunch today?”

“That sandwich had meat in it?” he asked sarcastically.

“What are you talking about? I made you a nice big sandwich with that new club deli meat I got at the commissary. You know, the one made of both ham and turkey with bacon wrapped around it. Geeze, I thought you’d like it!” I declared incredulously.

“Well, Hon, it was kind of hard to taste anything inside the sandwich because the strong flavor of the two heels of bread you gave me overpowered everything else.”

I grumbled, but he was right. After making the kids’ sandwiches that morning, I noticed that two heels of bread were left. I could’ve opened a new loaf and thrown the heels away, but my mother had instilled a certain frugality in me.

I thought my husband would appreciate the fact that I was not wasting two perfectly edible bread heels that his hard-earned military salary had purchased. Besides, I thought, he must be grateful that I’m the kind of wife that gets up every morning and packs him a nice lunch, right?

“What would you like on your tuna, Ma’am?” As I selected toppings that were salty, sour, crunchy and spicy, all I could taste was bitterness. “That’s it,” I ruminated. “He can make his own stinking sandwiches from now on.”

As my sub was being salt-and-peppered, I remembered a conversation I’d had with a salt-and-pepper-haired lady in the YMCA locker room two tours ago in Virginia. We had just finished our morning exercise classes – I, advanced step; she, senior water aerobics – and the women’s locker room was steamy and abuzz with conversation.

I regularly got a chuckle out of listening to the water aerobics group as they pulled on their support hose, stretch gabardine pants and embroidered tops. All the old women would cackle away about their ailments, medications, aches and pains. I always noticed that the salt-and-pepper-haired lady would listen and show concern for her friends’ self-absorbed grievances, but never complained herself.

I thought she was a real class act, and made a mental note to myself to try to become that kind of old lady, rather than the kind that went on and on about things like glucosamine and condroitin.

On this particular day, she and I found ourselves simultaneously brushing our hair at the shared vanity. “Are there any decent car washes around here?” I asked, after some cursory remarks about the weather.

“Well,” she started, with that Old World throw-back southern accent common in Richmond and Norfolk, “I must admit I’m not very familiar with automotive services around here.”

“You see,” she went on, “my husband died last fall, and don’t you know, during our entire 45 years together, I never once put gas in my own car.”

It took me a minute to process the significance of what this tasteful elderly lady had just said. “Wait, you mean he always put gas in the car for you?”

“Why yes, he certainly did,” she said, somewhat melancholy.

Of course, my immediate reaction was to get mad at my own husband, who never put gas in my minivan. Just as I was mentally making plans for real doozy of a husband-wife argument, the salt-and-pepper-haired lady continued:

“I never asked him; he wanted to do that for me, so he did. And there were things I always did for him – cooking his meals, gardening, and such. I must say, we loved taking care of each other.”

I stood, mouth half agape, staring at the lady in the shared mirror. Like a scene from “Cocoon,” it was as if she had just bestowed upon me the secret to a happy marriage.

“Will that be all?” the bolt-studded Subway employee said, jolting me back to the present. I realized that making my husband’s sandwich every day didn’t render me subservient to him. It was something I did to take care of him because he takes care of me.

With a fresh outlook on my marriage and a fresh tuna sub in my hand, I decided that there was no reason for me to dig my heels in. I’d continue making my husband sandwiches for the rest of our lives, and hopefully he’ll endure a heel or two along the way.

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When the lights go out at Disney . . .

Humor February 25, 2013 Comments: 7

DSC02990The following is a daydream I had while waiting in line for 90 minutes at Space Mountain . . . . 

An hour after the last mouse-eared, turkey-leg-filled, balloon-carrying tourist leaves the parking lot, the Magic Kingdom is cloaked in darkness and silence.

But at the forested edge of the park, muffled voices gather, a flame is lit, and low music can be heard in the woods on Tom Sawyer Island.

“D-D-Dawg? Did you bring th-the winecoolers for the Princesses?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down, Piglet,” Pluto warns, “I haven’t gotten the call that maintenance is gone yet!”

While the Dwarves gather more wood for the bonfire, Bella whispers, “Listen, Girlfriend, you need to kick that no good cheater to the curb once and for all.”

“I know, I know,” replies Cinderella, anxiously awaiting Buzz’s arrival. The rest of the gang have grown tired of their on-again, off-again relationship, and they can’t understand why Cinderella keeps putting up with Buzz’s constant philandering and verbal abuse.

Pluto’s ringtone suddenly cuts the silence and he fumbles to answer his cellphone. “Yea? They’re gone? You sure? Ok, c’mon over and don’t forget to bring more ice.” Pluto snaps his phone shut and bellows, “Crank up the tunes, Donnie Boy!”

Much like Tony Bennett, Donald Duck is one of the originals who has been able to reinvent himself as “hip” and “old school” to stay relevant in today’s social scene. “The Don” flips his hat backwards, plugs the extension cord into his portable DJ booth, and the speakers jump to the beat of LMFAO’s “I’m Sexy and I Know It.”

Pluto, Piglet and the Princesses start to dance, just as Huck Finn’s raft arrives with the rest of the gang. With the tunes blaring, drinks flowing and bonfire ablaze, the party on Tom Sawyer Island is in full swing.

“Hey Baby, what’s shakin’?” Buzz says as he grabs Cinderella’s drink and takes a huge gulp.

“You’d better say your prayers that Winnie doesn’t show up tonight,” Bella cautions, glaring at Buzz with contempt. “Ah, you can tell that honey licker I said to get some pants,” Buzz declares with a confident scratch.

But everyone knows Buzz doesn’t want to see Pooh Bear tonight. Pooh, ever the idealist, has been increasingly disappointed in the gang’s inappropriate behavior, and despite his kind-heartedness, even Pooh has his limits.

Last month, Pooh found Buzz making out with Snow White afterhours in the Mad Hatter’s Teacups. Buzz had cheated on Cinderella one too many times, and this time he was going to pay for it.

Out of nowhere, Pooh went into a rage and jumped Buzz. When the dust settled, Buzz had a broken nose, and Pooh was ordered to undergo anger management classes or lose his job.

“Is Goofy coming?” Sleeping Beauty inquires. “I d-d-don’t think so,” Piglet answers with sadness in his eyes. For years, Goofy had been the life of the party, but Management had him neutered after tourists complained that he was mounting the Dumbo cars and Alice in Wonderland filed a sexual harassment suit.

Minnie and Mickey arrive separately, as usual. Their tumultuous split is yesterday’s news, and the two have only been able to maintain a working relationship through court appointed mediation.

Minnie, fresh out of rehab for addiction to Xanax and Percocet, was scanning the crowd for Doc in hopes that he might write her new prescriptions. Mickey had always been the King, The Leader of the Club, The Master of Ceremonies, but nowadays he’s a washed up, old, has-been, pathetically sipping Boone’s Farm out of a brown paper covered bottle.

Jack Sparrow weaves his way through the crowd, handing out leaflets. “Aw, Jack, give it up and come party with us like the old days,” pleads The Little Mermaid. But ever since some Jehovah’s Witnesses got a hold of Jack and his crew, he’s been on a mission to convince the others to repent and see the error of their ways.

Buzz looks up from canoodling Cinderella to exclaim, “Uh oh! Looks like Beast and Woody are on one of their secret walks again!” Buzz obnoxiously doubles over laughing. “HA! How much you wanna bet they are headed for the Log Ride! No, wait, I know! I can see it now, a new hit movie starring Woody and the Beast entitled, ‘Brokeback Space Mountain!’”

Despite Buzz’s repulsively pompous ego, the gang erupts with laughter.

Bashful arrives late with Jasmine. Her hair was a bit disheveled and her olive cheeks were flush with pink. “Sup,” Bashful says to the other Dwarves with a wink. Despite his soft-spoken demeanor, the word on Main Street was that Bashful was a real Casanova with the ladies, and he never came to a bonfire without a Princess on his arm.

The Don starts beat boxing, when Mickey stumbles into the DJ stand, spilling wine all over the turntable. “Gimme that microphone you old quack!”

An ear-piercing tone blares from the speakers as Mickey struggles for the mike. After a hiccup and a muffled belch, Mickey puts the mike to his lips and slushily croons, “Who’s the leader of the Club that’s made for you and me….M-I-C…”

“Dude!” shouts Jiminy Cricket, “Go find a rocking chair Old Man!” To keep Mickey from further embarrassment, Genie slings Mickey over his shoulders and carries him down to the riverboat to sleep it off. “I usta be somebody!” Mickey wails.

The Don mixes the beats, the Princesses dance, and the party rages on. When it was all over, the gang agreed: Although it may not be the Happiest Place on Earth after all, it had been a magical night indeed.

The Moody Foodie

Humor January 28, 2013 Comments: 7
"It just needs a bit of hot sauce."

“It just needs a bit of hot sauce.”

I’ll try anything once. Well, maybe not cliff diving, or running with the bulls, or a Mohawk hairdo, or snorting angel dust, or silicone lip injections.

But when it comes to food, I’m totally adventurous.

When our military family moves to a new place, I’m always excited to try the local cuisine. Sometimes, our experimentation with native dishes produces an instant fondness, and we adopt local recipes into our regular meal routine.

Early in our marriage, my husband was assigned to the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California. At first we were bummed that we couldn’t find a “Mom & Pop” pizzeria, which we took for granted back east. Much to our dismay, pizzas in California had foo-foo toppings such as sprouts, gorgonzola, shallots, walnuts, fennel, pears, and chicken. And the waitresses wore trendy glasses, thumb rings and Greenpeace t-shirts. What ever happened to good old fashioned pepperoni and mozzarella, served by someone named “Ang” with bad highlights and a moustache, for goodness sakes?

However, once we tasted the local foods — fresh caught squid, Gilroy garlic, Castroville artichokes, and San Francisco sourdough bread – we were hooked.

Similarly, our next tour in England (granted, not exactly known for its cuisine) added crumpets and Shepherd’s pie to our repertoire. Chesapeake Bay Blue Crabs and plump Virginia peanuts became staples after back-to-back tours in Virginia Beach. Germany brought us countless European delights including schnitzel, beer, goulash, beer, spaetzle, beer, chocolate and beer. Oh, and did I say beer?

Now we find ourselves in the Deep South, where we are becoming connoisseurs of fried chicken, hush puppies, shrimp and grits, barbecue, cornbread and biscuits. Dee-licious!

But, hold up. For every delectable indigenous morsel that has passed favorably over my taste buds, there have been countless other native foods that triggered my gag reflex.

I said I was adventurous, but I’m not stupid. Our experiences living in different areas has taught us that every region has its share of really bad foods, and I’m not such a foodie that I will pretend to like them.

There are certain “red flags” — a clear sign that the food you are about to eat is not that tasty. For example, if someone tells you that you have to “develop a taste for it,” that means you will need to consume copious amounts of the substance to desensitize your taste buds to its wretched flavor. When I first ordered southern boiled peanuts at a football game, I found a slippery, mushy nut that tasted like a mutated potato. But after giving them several tries, I find that I can now eat a few without shuddering.

If someone tells you, “It taste’s like [chicken or some other familiar meat],” beware that you are about to eat mysterious animal parts. Whilst in England, I was served black pudding with breakfast, and told it was a variety of sausage. A tiny nibble filled my mouth with the taste of bloody vital organs, no thank you. At a B&B in Scotland, I was offered a sliver of haggis and told that it tasted just like pork and oats. One swallow and I felt as if I’d just licked the salty underbellies of a herd of sweaty sheep.

If someone says, “It’s great with butter,” that generally means that the food is dry as the Sahara.  Does anyone really like Irish Soda Bread? No one really knows, because we all slather it with butter so we can swallow it.

If someone tells you, “it just needs a little hot sauce,” they are saying that you will need to distract yourself with pain in order to ingest this foul tasting dish. At the risk of igniting another Civil War, let me say that greens are not as good as southern folk proclaim. Collards, kale, mustards, Swiss chard – isn’t it suspicious that they are all slow cooked in bacon fat and disguised with Texas Pete?

On the other hand, there are, in fact, certain truisms that hold eternal in the world of local cuisine: beware of anyone who tells you to “suck the juice out of the head, because that’s the best part,” and you can always trust someone who says in earnest “it’s great deep fried,” because let’s face it, what isn’t good deep fried?

"Sure, why not, I'll try anything once."

“Sure, why not, I’ll try anything once.”

If you liked this post, remember to vote for Meat & Potatoes of Life as a Top 25 Funny Moms blog on Circle of Moms! 

Working out a time to workout

Humor January 13, 2013 Comments: 20

IMG_4913“Did this thing shrink?” I think to myself, while stuffing the relevant bits and pieces into my sports bra. I had resolved to drop a few excess pounds after the holidays, and putting on workout clothes was half the battle.

“Now I have to exercise today,” I mumble before trudging to the kitchen for coffee.

After driving the kids to school in our dirty white minivan, I head home, fully intending to jog directly to the base gym and lift weights. Pulling into my driveway, I notice how messy the interior of the van is. With a loud “tsk” I decide that it is imperative for me to Shop Vac the van before my run.

There’s something about a Shop Vacs, leaf blowers and a power washers. Once I get one going, I can’t seem to put the thing down. It’s exhilarating to cleanse one’s life of debris and clutter, and I never seem to want that feeling to end.

Two hours later, I had not only vacuumed the van, but I had also sucked the cobwebs out of the garage, the sand off the screened porch, the dog hair off the living room floor, the peanuts from under the couch cushions, and the crumbs out of the utensil drawers.

I breathe a huge sigh of cleansed relief, and then notice the time. “Criminy!” I blurt, “I need to get on that jog!” I decide to save the weight lifting for tomorrow, and just get the run in. That is, right after I hit the bathroom.

My middle-aged bladder is no longer cooperating. I was always one of those girls who could “hold it” forever like some kind of sub-Saharan camel. But once I hit age 40, my bladder got fed up and took my urethra hostage. Essentially, when the urge strikes, I’d better hit the porcelain throne within a minute or two, or my bladder will open the release valve on my own little Hoover Dam.

While doing my business, I notice an interesting article on space exploration in the latest National Geographic …

With a resounding flush, I emerge from the bathroom with an empty bladder and a brain full of newfound information on space exploration, scatology, airborne microbes, and Ecuadorian parakeets. “Fascinating…” I mutter while tying up the string on my workout pants.

The clock dictates that it’s on the early side of lunchtime. I can’t go on a run with an empty stomach, of course. Ever a multi-tasker, I eat lunch while checking e-mails on our computer.

Computers can be evil. Just like I can’t just buy just one thing at Target, I find it nearly impossible to just “check e-mail” on our computer. Somehow, tabs get opened, links get clicked, and next thing you know, I’ve told someone what I ate for lunch on Facebook, bid on a set of vintage Pyrex nesting bowls on Ebay, and watched three You Tube videos of babies laughing at stuff.

Suddenly, my watch alarm sounds, signaling that it’s time for me to get back in the minivan to pick the kids up from school. “Well, darn it,” I say, “I guess I’ll just have to power walk later this afternoon.”

Back home a couple hours later, I’m ready for that walk, but decide I’d better fluff and fold the laundry real quick so my husband’s uniforms won’t wrinkle. Since folding laundry is about as entertaining as watching paint dry, I turn the TV on for a little background noise.

I must say, those shows about hoarders are riveting. It’s like a train wreck – it’s awful and tragic, but you can’t stop watching.

An hour later, I try to go on my walk, but I have to defrost the pork chops, I have to take Lilly to her tennis lesson, I have to load the dishwasher, I have to scratch the dog’s belly, I have to watch that new episode of “Modern Family”.

At 10 pm, my husband wakes me on the couch to follow him to our bed. My workout clothes are quite cozy, so in a “Flashdance”-inspired move, I take off my sports bra, and climb right into bed.

“My workout clothes will already be on when I wake up in the morning,” I think to myself before dropping off to sleep, “so I’ll have to exercise tomorrow, for sure.”

The Keys to Happiness in 2013

Humor January 7, 2013 Comments: 5
My column in the January Issue of Military Spouse Magazine!

My column in the January Issue of Military Spouse Magazine!

As we milspouses board life’s runaway train for another year of twists and turns and ups and downs, we can’t help but wonder, “Will this ride be better than the last?” We make resolutions, set goals, and hope for the best, but so many factors are simply beyond our control. The economy, deployments, orders, our health, the future – how on earth are we supposed to ensure our happiness in the coming year?

After much analysis, I’ve formulated a hypothesis to address this fundamental question. My research indicates that there are three basic lifestyle choices that positively correlate with human contentment.

In other words, I’ve discovered the keys to happiness!

#1 Wear comfortable underwear.

Ever had one of those days when your knickers keep inching up your derriere? You dig your skivvies out of your crevasse, but they creep back in. The constant wedgie adds a subtle undertone of discomfort to your day, making you grumpy. When you’re grumpy, you snap at your boss. When you snap at your boss, he fires you. When you get fired, you go broke. When you go broke, you are not happy. See how that works?

It doesn’t matter if you prefer the near-commando feel of a thong, or the maximum coverage of cotton briefs – wear comfy undies if you want to this to be a good year.

#2   Install a new shower head.

Does your shower head emit a wimpy trickle, making it difficult to lather, rinse and repeat? Do you dare to condition, only to find it impossible to rinse it all out? Do you spend the rest of the day feeling greasy and lacking self-confidence?

When you lack self-confidence, you can’t decide what to cook for dinner. When you can’t decide what to cook for dinner, you make frozen chicken nuggets. When you serve chicken nuggets for the third time this week, your spouse gets annoyed. When your spouse gets annoyed, you argue. When you argue, he sleeps on the couch. When he sleeps on the couch, you are not happy, and neither is he.

So dash to your nearest hardware store, and find a shower head with a water output similar to that of a regulation fire hose. The therapeutic massaging action of the pelting water will blast away stress, tension, toxins, troubles, soap, conditioner . . . and sometimes the first layer of skin. Regardless, you will emerge clean, refreshed, and ready to face the year with confidence.

#3 Attain digestive regularity.

Have you ever had one of those days when your pipes are clogged? Do your intestines occasionally go on strike? Does your digestive tract stubbornly maintain a holding pattern, hovering with no landing scheduled on the flight plan?

Let’s face it – if the “magic” doesn’t happen, it can ruin your day. You feel full, heavy, lethargic, bloated. When you feel bloated, you are irritable. When you are irritable, you yell at other drivers when they cut you off. When you yell at other drivers, they stop to give you a piece of their mind. When they give you a piece of their mind, you swat them with your purse. When you swat them with your purse, you get arrested. When you get arrested, you are not happy.

Eat leafy greens, guzzle copious amounts of coffee, get new reading material for the bathroom — do whatever it takes to convince your nether regions to declare a truce. Succeed in attaining digestive regularity, and you will face the challenges of this year with a cheerful spring in your step.

In all seriousness, I’m sure that none of us will end up broke, on the outs with our spouses, or in jail in the next twelve months.  Nevertheless, if we want to be happier this year, we need to remember that, sometimes, it’s the little things in life that matter the most.

01_Jan2013cvr

Little things that make us happier:

  • Good morning, Sunshine!  –Not only will 15 minutes of exposure to sunlight three times a week boost your body’s supply of vitamin D, but sunshine (even in artificial forms for those of you stationed in Alaska) can have a positive affect on people prone to depression and anxiety.
  • Get to bed – According to the National Sleep Foundation, adults need 7-9 hours of sleep. Lack of adequate sleep negatively affects physical and mental health, attention span, memory, learning and even body mass index.
  • The Dog Days aren’t over – For the last 25 years, research has shown that living with pets lowers blood pressure and anxiety. And some new studies actually indicate that children who grow up in households with pets are LESS likely to have asthma and allergies. Who knew?
  • Mange, mange! (Eat, eat!) –Overindulgence during the holidays may have you wanting to eat less, but “grazing” throughout the day really can make you happier. Eating six healthy meals/snacks spaced evenly throughout the day will keep your blood sugar, energy level, weight, and mood on an even keel.

Happy Renew Year

Humor December 24, 2012 Comments: 8
What's HOT for 2013?

What’s HOT for 2013?

At the risk of sounding like an old coot who walked uphill to school both ways, I must confess, I’m tired of new. Sure, modern technology, progressive thinking, and scientific advancements have enabled our society to do more, but what if I just want to do less in 2013?

Maybe I’m not smart enough (a distinct possibility), or maybe I’m just getting old (an undeniable fact), but I think all the emphasis on new is making life too complicated.

Thanks to technological advances, I can send hundreds of messages simultaneously without so much as licking a stamp or touching pen to paper. But an unfortunate consequence of these advancements is that people today spend countless hours staring into digital screens of all shapes and sizes, checking, organizing, answering, forwarding, and deleting electronic messages.

When I finally got a digital cameral five years ago, I loved being able to snap away without any fear of wasting film, and took countless photographs with my newfangled device. Interestingly, however, I do not have one photo album after 2008. Thanks to modern technology, our family photos are now buried in a massive computer file on an external hard drive.

Television is another gadget that is always changing “for the better.” We finally got cable after watching Armed Forces Network and bad German game shows while stationed overseas for three years. At first we were thrilled to have so many options, and gorged ourselves on sitcoms, movies and reality TV. But eventually, we settled into a television viewing routine: of 999 channels, we now bounce between six shows and football.

Furthermore, progressive trends in thought have enabled us to consider alternative fuel sources, alternative lifestyles, and alternative political policies, but do new ideas always benefit society?

I recently went to a new base department store at the Walter Reed Military Medical Center outside of Washington, DC. As I entered the parking lot, I passed a serviceperson with prosthetic limbs walking beside another in a wheelchair. My heart went out to them.

Then, I noticed that first seven parking spaces in each row closest to the entrances were not labeled “wounded warrior” or “pregnant woman” or “mother and child” or “US Veteran” or “base commander.” No, other than four token handicapped spots at one entrance, the best spaces in each row were reserved for “Energy Efficient Vehicles.” On a base with a huge population of military veterans and hospital patients, our “new” ways of thinking dictate that a 21 year old with the Chevy Volt deserves a more convenient parking spot than the elderly, the infirm, women with children, and decorated military servicepersons. Seriously?

In 2013, instead of moving forward, why can’t we go back a little? Back to a time when things weren’t complicated. Let’s try writing full sentences again, paragraphs if I might be so bold, in cursive (OK, that was going a bit too far), without abbreviations such as “btw,” “idk,” “wtf,” and “lmao.”

snooki

Let’s go back to a time before reality television shows followed the morally bankrupt lives of stumbling drunk, foul mouthed, promiscuous New Jersey youths. Why not revive harmless entertainment like The Three Stooges and Hee Haw? Admit it, seeing Gordie Tapp blow raspberries in Archie Campbell’s face or watching Moe poke Curly in the eye was pretty funny, and all without causing irreparable damage to our culture.

I’d love revert to a time before jamming a huge rivet in your ear or showing your thong strap over your jeans was mainstream fashion. Let’s get back to the days when men kept their pants up and women looked sexy in huge undergarments.

Although I’ll never give up modern conveniences like my microwave, and thank the good Lord for boneless skinless chicken breasts, why can’t we get back to the days when families ate dinner together, and there was always a drawer in the kitchen full of aprons because people actually cooked. Let’s stop teaching our kids to value pre-packaged instant gratification, and extol the virtues of hard work, patience, and the comfort of a home cooked meal.

I know, I know, it’s impossible to go back in time. No one is going to forfeit their smartphones, and I highly doubt Hollywood producers are working on a remake of Hee Haw. But instead of blindly moving forward in 2013, desperately grasping for something new, let’s pause, look back, and revive the simple things that worked before.

 

The Stooges during their prime years with Curl...

The Stooges during their prime years with Curly Howard on board. Promotional photo from the 1938 short Wee Wee Monsieur. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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The Holiday Games

Humor December 16, 2012 Comments: 2
Milspouse Dec

My December column in Military Spouse Magazine!

Ah, the holidays — that wonderful time of year, when selfish materialism and greed are banished as we ring in The Season of Giving.

Right? . . . Well, not quite.

While it’s true that even Scrooge himself can’t resist gift giving during this time of year, there’s a persistent evil lurking at holiday get-togethers and office parties. It tempts us, taunts us, and threatens to turn us all into ruthless criminals.

What, pray tell, is this wicked presence which endangers our merriment?

THE WHITE ELEPHANT GIFT EXCHANGE, of course.

Otherwise known as a “Yankee Swap,” “Parcel Pass,” or “Dirty Santa,” this apparently innocent holiday game rouses merciless thievery and coldblooded materialism in even the most virtuous of participants. But do not fear! It is possible to keep from getting sucked into the criminal maelstrom, as long as you keep your wits about you.

As you walk into the holiday gathering, you will most certainly be drawn in by sparkly decorations and twinkling lights. Remember — you are a human being, not a ferret. Do not get distracted by shiny objects and lose all sense of morality!

Before the competition begins, you will engage in enjoyable chitchat with your fellow attendees. It will seem like loads of fun, and you might even chuckle. Get a hold of yourself! Never lose sight of the fact that the people you are nattering away with are about to rob you blind.

As you mingle, you will be enticed by celebratory cocktails, tasty finger foods, fancy-schmancy cookies, and the Holiday Party Staple – red and green M&Ms. Go ahead and feast – you will need your strength, after all – but beware of overindulgence which might cloud your thinking.

At some point, the host will ask you to gather around for the gift exchange. As the first few people open their chosen gifts, others will utter friendly “oohs” and “ahhs,” and everyone will undoubtedly remain civil at this early stage of the game.

Don’t be fooled by the jovial ambiance! As more merchandise is revealed, eyes will dart, mouths will water, and brains will calculate odds as the participants begin to silently strategize.

During the fourth or fifth turn, someone will nervously propose “stealing” an already opened gift. This timid suggestion is all it will take to shatter the courteous atmosphere, giving way to what will soon become a bloodthirsty battle. Participants, who have been repressing their competitive fervor, will soon burst into sputtering chants of “STEAL! STEAL!” Holiday merriment will turn into hectic mayhem as the scene becomes reminiscent of a Roman Coliseum.

The partygoer-turned-thief will rise to her feet and lunge at the desired gift, seizing it from her prey as the crowd erupts in hoots and applause. The victim of the theft will seethe with vengeance and plot her revenge.

As the snarling guests mercilessly snatch gifts from each other, the host, in an effort to maintain some semblance of order, might offer, “Now, remember everyone, a gift is dead after it’s stolen three times.” But the mere mention of “death” will only ignite more savagery in an already depraved scene. Contestants may murderously shout, “It’s DEAD!” and the crowd will gnash their teeth as if a bloody carcass has been dragged back to the den.

When all the gifts have been killed, reality will dawn upon the guests. They will realize that they just jeopardized friendships, offended co-workers, and engaged in quasi-criminal behavior for a boysenberry scented candle, snowman ornament, or reindeer chip-n-dip platter that could be purchased for $10-20 at any Exchange.

Still, what fun would a holiday gift exchange be without the thrill of theft, murder and mayhem? So, remember folks: steal the gift you want before it dies, mercilessly exact your revenge, and have a very Happy Holiday!

12_Dec2012CVR

TIPS for making a White Elephant Gift Exchange even more fun:

  • Propose a theme. Rather than leaving the field wide open to anything from auto parts to lip gloss, narrow the choices to items such as holiday ornaments, holiday entertaining, kitchen items, books, or (my all time favorite) fashion accessories!
  • Bring a “Hidden Treasure” gift. Wrap up some old thing that no one would want, such as an ugly hat or outdated DVD, and keep quiet as the guests avoid your gift. At the end, tell the seemingly unlucky recipient that something is hidden inside, and watch guests’ reactions as she unveils a gift card or trendy jewelry!
  • Be specific about the cost of the gifts. If you set vague parameters such as “around 20 bucks” or “at least $10” guests might worry that they haven’t spent as much as everyone else. It’s better to tell everyone up front to spend, for example, $15 – no more, no less.
  • Throw in a “dud” gift. The poor slob who ends up with the 8-track tape of KC and the Sunshine Band, the hideous embroidered holiday sweater vest, or the old fruitcake will feel like a loser for sure. But add an ironic twist by awarding the loser a special bonus prize at the end like a bottle of wine or centerpiece!
  • The Annual Lazarus gift – if your group has a white elephant exchange every year, it is fun to have a recurring nonsense gift. The one who ends up with the Lazarus will have the honor of keeping it until next year’s party, so it is fun to make this gift a bizarre display piece such as a singing trout plaque, a scary clown figurine, or velvet Elvis painting.

 

Merry Christmas and may 2013 bring a heaping helping of Meat and Potatoes to all!

 

Do you see what I see?

Humor December 10, 2012 Comments: 11

IMG_4584 2Ever since the Navy ordered us to live in sunny Florida, I just can’t seem to locate it. I keep waiting for Marley to show up at my bedroom door, but where will I find Christmas Spirit in the meantime?

Growing up in idyllic small-town western PA, finding Christmas Spirit was easy. All I needed to do was climb onto my mock-brass twin bed with the Kliban Cat sheets, scratch a peephole out of the intricate frost that had formed overnight, and stare out at the Currier and Ives winter wonderland right outside my window.

No effort on my part was required — it was involuntary, automatic, purely intrinsic to my circumstance. With dissolved candy canes coursing through my veins, I’d grab the parka handed down from my brother, and my Steeler cap (a Western PA requirement), and head for the hill behind our house. The kids in our neighborhood would sled, ruthlessly pelt each other with snowballs, and eat gritty icicles broken off the gutters until our numb faces could not feel the snot running out of our noses, which were in imminent danger of becoming gangrenous.

With a warm sludge of hot cocoa and fresh baked cookies in my belly, I’d thaw before a roaring fire, staring up at the hazardously hot but beautifully bright lights on our tree. There was one bulb in particular, a transparent magenta screw-in candlestick bulb, which seemed to emit pure saturated pink splendor, infinitely refracted by sparkling silver tinsel. I was hypnotized by its magical brilliance and spilling over with joy, anticipation and awe.

I didn’t look for it – The Spirit of Christmas found me, drew me in, captured me. I was helpless to fight it and gladly surrendered.

But here I sit in a Starbucks in North Florida in December. Despite the fact that they insist on keeping the central air at a frigid sixty-odd degrees, and I’m surrounded by trendy holiday decor, it just doesn’t feel like Christmas.

After I get my vente latte’s worth of free Wi-Fi, I’ll go out into the sub-tropical 70s Florida winter and head for my minivan. I won’t have to put on a coat, or scrape any ice off my windshield. I’ll drive home on roads clear of rock salt and ash. At home, I might open the windows to let the ocean breeze in. Maybe I’ll take the dog for a walk on the beach. Or maybe I’ll just sun myself in the back yard.

Woe is me….

I’m not quite sure how these Floridians can take it! If the Christmas Spirit is not going to find me down here, then I’ll just have to recreate it for myself.

First, I’ll turn the AC down until my nose starts to run, then I’ll blast “Let It Snow!” on a continuous loop. I’ll double up on deodorant and put on a wool sweater and boots. I’ll cut out paper snowflakes until my fingers bleed, bake a million chocolate chip cookies, and string miles of popcorn. I’ll make our artificial tree glisten with the magical electricity of a thousand LED lights, and in the absence of a fireplace, I’ll set the house ablaze with dozens of pine scented candles. And then, I’ll hang candy canes on every…

Wait just a minute here.

As I sit in this trendy coffee shop buzzing with flip flop and Ray-ban adorned Floridians, I wonder if I need to rethink this. I hear the ring of the cash register and realize that it sounds a little like jingle bells. I sip my latte, and smell a hint of cinnamon. I suddenly notice the cranberry red hue of the Florida Seminoles t-shirt worn by the man sitting next to me. And then, I look up at the trendy pendant light hanging overhead. I hadn’t noticed before, but the blue of its cobalt shade is mesmerizing.

“Merry Christmas,” the strange man in the cranberry Seminoles shirt utters as he gets up from our shared table to leave, snapping me out of my hypnotic gaze. In that moment, I realize that the Christmas Spirit comes in all shapes, sizes, colors, locations and climates, but I had been too clouded by my own memories to see it.

“Merry Christmas to you, too!” I eagerly reply to the festive gentleman, happy to have finally seen the light.

blue-light

 

 

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