Tag: humor

Unnerving

I’d just left Chicken Salad Chick where I’d enjoyed the Cranberry Kelly and a side of grape salad. The day, sunshiny and Forida-perfect, insisted that I take a stroll and pop into the shops in a strip mall on Market Street in Tallahassee.

With no agenda, no cash, and all my credit cards gone to live with a bunch of nasty thieves, I truly was merely window shopping. 

I was dressed casually–cropped jeans and a soft white tshirt, flip flops. As I headed back to my car I saw a well-dressed woman walking toward me on the sidewalk. I smiled. I always smile, I can’t help it. 

She began laughing. Not a happy laugh, an insulting laugh, like, “Lady, who do you think you are?”

As she passed, close enough to touch, she looked me up and down. Now I’m wondering if I have food on my face (it wouldn’t be the first time) or a breast exposed (it could happen) or perhaps I’ve developed a unicorn type appendage between my eyes (not likely, but might be worth a snicker).

As soon as I got to my car I flipped the visor down to check my image in the mirror. Ok, I’m no beauty, but I couldn’t see a thing to laugh about. Well, my hair was a bit Dumb and Dumber-ish, but still….

I needed to stop at a grocery store for a couple of items on my way home, so once I entered the store I made a beeline for the ladies room. Again, America’s Next Top Model isn’t going to be calling any time soon, but I looked like an average 59-year-old grandmother with a touch of hippie grunge.

So why did this stranger feel the need to laugh at me? I want to track her down and ask. Why does it bother me that she laughed? Insecurity? Curiosity? 

Regardless, it was unnerving. Like that Denzel Washington movie, “Fallen,” where the devil keeps possessing different people, jumping from one host to another, singing The Rolling Stones’ Time is on My Side.

https://g.co/kgs/OnH8N
Hope she wasn’t possessed! That seems a good spot to end this. 

Peace, people!

Drama In Illinois

One of my best friends in this old world lives near Champaign, Illinois. She and her husband are in the process of relocating to the east coast. This morning I received the following email from her and laughed so hard I snorted coffee out of my nose. With my friend’s permission, I’m sharing with you. Enjoy.

Do you need a laugh? If so, read on. . . Last Friday morning at 6 a.m., I went out in my bath robe (fairly short – with nothing underneath since I had just taken a shower and hadn’t bothered
to go to my drawer to pull out undies. After all, I’m on my own in the house!).

Anyway, I tried to open the front door after getting the paper only to discover that I was locked out! The Realtor had been in the house the day before and must have locked both locks. We usually only lock the dead bolt. No problem! We have a keyless pad to open the garage door. However, since I’ve been living alone, I’ve been locking the door between the garage and house at night. Why didn’t I ever hide a key in the garage?!?

Needless to say, I was locked out at 6 a.m. with no undies, no phone, no car keys, no clock. . . I waited what seemed to be an hour (but was really about 1.25 hr.) before knocking on the neighbor’s door (our State Farm Agent). I didn’t want to wake anyone up at 6:00 a.m.

I used the neighbor’s phone to call the number on the For Sale sign in my yard. However, that was the real estate office number and the message stated that the office would open at 8:00 a.m. I put in an emergency plea anyway for someone to help out a client in a bath robe.

Then the neighbor remember that the dad of their daughter’s friend in Mahomet was a real estate agent. They gave him a call and he came over at 7:30 to let me in. Luckily, the lock box with a key was still outside the house, so any realtor could access the key. Yes, I sat in my garage for 1.5 hours in a bathrobe! Good thing I didn’t have to pee! Seriously, that would only happen to me. However, any chance this sounds like something that would happen to you?  

She knows me well. It’s a miracle I haven’t had this happen to me.

Peace, people!

Mermaids

Swim if you will with mermaids three, Barbara, Irena, and finally me.

We swim together in the warmest seas, as the scent of salt air floats in the breeze.

Our tails undulate in time with the waves, while we frolic and sing all of the day.

Fish bubble our names and swim by our sides, slips of bright scales into the tide.

Alas at day’s end our tails start to shrink, and legs sprout anew, shiny and pink.

Then off we go to our respective lives to masquerade quietly as respectable wives.

  

Stroke of Luck

I glanced at my Fitbit. I’d walked exactly 555 steps. Five is my lucky number.

I thought, “Wow! Something wonderful is about to happen!”

That’s when the cat puked.

  

Feeling Surly

  

Normally I’m a Pollyanna sort, but the events of this past week have me feeling more like Maleficent. Let me count the ways:

My car window was smashed in while I was swimming at a local park.

My favorite handbag, the one I bargained for entirely in Spanish on my visit to a mercado in La Antigua de Guatemala, was stolen.

My credit cards were used in questionable locations. At least the thieves are interesting.

My passport is gone, along with my driver’s license, insurance, and prescription cards, etc. 

I’ve made more phone calls in the past four days to take care of this stuff than I’ve had to make in the last four years. I could have built and furnished a three story treehouse in the time I’ve spent on hold.

I had day surgery which, while not related to the robbery, sure didn’t make me feel like a princess. 

I have enough intestinal gas to power a small fleet of cars.

My completed “buy ten massages, get one free” card was in my stolen handbag. This might piss me off more than all the other losses combined. I NEED that massage.

I just dropped a 32 oz. diet Dr. Pepper in the driver’s side floor of Studly Doright’s pickup truck. He’s already angry at me for the loss of my purse, so I need to go and clean up my mess.

I know Pollyanna is still in here somewhere, but I might need to exorcise the villain first.

  
Peace, people!

Thor and Embla

Thor and Embla slowly
Walking
Holding hands in the
Gloaming
Wrapped up in their
Forbidden love
They languished ‘neath
Yggdrasil.

He bent his head
Tenderly
Cupping her face.
Tearfully
She clung
to his broad chest,
Embla cried to her god
Do not leave,
She sobbed.

Odin, help me!
Embla begged.
Do not tear
Us apart!
Mighty Thor
Has claimed my
Mortal
Heart.

With a nod of
All-father’s
Shaggy head
Sleipnir was
Summoned
To carry them
Woman and God
Into Helheim’s 
Cold halls.

  

Ask and Embla were the first mortals created by the gods according to Norse mythology. While I’m sure Embla was faithful to Ask, surely she could’ve been forgiven a tryst with Thor….or maybe not. Hels was the destination of the dead.

Interesting, is it not, the similarities in Norse and Christian mythologies? Ask and Embla (Adam and Eve), Helheim (Hell).

The Remainder of the Day or Get Along Little Polyp

I was shocked and a little disappointed that no one attended my colonoscopy  party this morning. Studly Doright reminded me that I didn’t actually put a date, time, or location on my invitation, though, so I suppose I only have myself to blame.

With no one but Studly by my side I checked into a local surgical center at the crack of dawn for the procedure that was scheduled to begin at 5:45 a.m. Apparently half of the 55 and older population of Tallahassee and surrounding counties were having procedures at the same time and place, for the waiting area filled quickly. 

Studly made me refrain from asking if they were there to celebrate with me. Sometimes he can be such a fuddy duddy. 

My name was called right on time and along with Studly I was escorted to a tiny curtained cubicle. Apparently privacy isn’t a concern in this center for we could hear every word of conversation from both sides, including the woman who kept asking loudly if she could use, and I quote, “the shitter.”

That’s why, when the nurse asked me if Studly was my husband, I answered in an exaggerated whisper, “Oh, he’s not my husband. He’s my lover.” 

Instantly there was silence all around us. The nurse took down the rest of my information warily. I behaved, though, knowing that soon she’d be inserting a needle for my I.V.

My veins are incredibly small. Normally I remember to caution nurses that baby-sized needles work best on me. Unfortunately after two nights of little sleep and paltry nourishment I forgot to mention that little tidbit that might’ve saved me ten minutes of agony as she  poked and prodded my right arm in search of a vein. 

Finally a savior in the form of Nurse “K” floated in, declared I needed a smaller needle and quickly had me ready to roll. They wheeled me into a surgical suite where I listened to the nurses gossip as they awaited the doctor’s arrival. 

Part of me wanted to tell them I found their babble terribly unprofessional while another part of me knew they’d soon be controlling and monitoring my vital functions. I kept my mouth shut.

Once the doctor came in drugs were administered and I was out. I vaguely remember some pressure and movement, but other than that I knew nothing until around noon, even though Studly took me to eat around 8:30 a.m. because I’d told him I was ravenous. Apparently I had French toast and bacon. I sure hope it was good.

I’ve slept on and off throughout the day. My stomach is tender, and I don’t know how to phrase this delicately, but I’ve farted like a constipated rhinoceros all afternoon. 

Apparently the doctor removed a small polyp to be sent away for analysis. He even sent me home with a photo of it. Should I frame it? Display it with the photos of the grandkids? I’d have bid polyp adieu if I’d been conscious. It had better behave itself out in the lab. 

I’m tired now, having been awake for more than ten consecutive minutes. Please don’t feel guilty about missing the shindig. Chances are I wouldn’t have known you were here.

Peace, people!

Not my polyp. Mine is cuter, and much smarter.

Milestones

We humans celebrate the milestones in our lives and in the lives of those closest to us: first steps, birthdays, first dates, etc. As we age those milestones become ever so much more important to honor.

Since I live far away from most of my family and friends I consider my blog followers to fall under this umbrella of camaraderie. 

Therefore, I invite you all to celebrate an upcoming milestone with me: 

The Colonoscopy! 

To get this party started there’ll be plenty of clear liquids and balloons, Popsicles and party hats. I’ve booked a four-piece heavy metal band, The Raging Duodenum to play well into the night. They aren’t all that great, but they’ll play loudly enough to cover the sounds emanating from my intestines. 

We’ll play games, too, like “Spin the Bottle of Magnesium Citrate” and “Pin the Tail.”

Once the festivities are over I’ll send my guests home with a complimentary tube of Preparation H and the softest baby wipes on the market. It’s going to be the social event of the season. 

Prepping has begun! Let the festivities commence! R.S.V.P. ASAP. It’ll be a blast. 

  
Peace, people!

Sad, but oh so True

 
I was born in Lubbock, Texas, and lived there off and on until I was four or five, then we moved to the small town of Floydada, just 55 miles northeast of Lubbock.
So, it is with a great bit of authority that I can attest to the truth of the quote featured above. And yet, I survived, with my sanity somewhat intact.

Peace, people.

Southern Belle with a Touch of Jackass

Once upon a time I held frequent flyer status on several airlines. My job seemed to keep me in the air more often than I was on the ground. I enjoyed flying, and good memories still outweigh the bad ones. 

My mantra when traveling by air was, “Patience, little jackass,” and I’d whisper it to myself over and over when luggage was lost or flights were delayed or I found myself in the middle seat between Dumb and Dumber. “Patience, little jackass,” is the punchline for a joke I can never remember, and it served me well. Most of the time.

After one particularly trying week, I was stuck in Chicago’s O’Hare airport awaiting my flight home to Studly Doright in Florida when the gate attendant for Northwest airlines announced the 5:15 flight was overbooked and they needed ten passengers to voluntarily give up their seats in return for travel vouchers and a seat on the first flight to Orlando the next day. No one volunteered. 

Every five minutes the gate attendant would repeat the request. Finally she sweetened the pot with an increase in the amount of the voucher, lodging, and shuttle service to and from a nearby hotel. I looked around, dialed Studly, and asked if a delay in my arrival would cause any great distress in his plans. He assured me he’d be ok, so I took the deal.

Nothing about the deal went well. There were no hotels with vacancies anywhere near the airport, so it was 9 p.m. before the plucky band of ten volunteers made it to the reception desk of a hotel thirty minutes away from O’Hare. My mantra was still serving me well, “patience, little jackass,” swirled around in my brain through the checking-in process. I politely bided my time behind the family of five and an elderly couple from my flght. 

When my turn came I graciously asked about our promised shuttle back to the airport in the morning. For our 6:15 flight, we’d need to depart the hotel at 4:30 a.m.

“Our shuttles don’t begin until 6 a.m,” came the response.

“The airline assured us we’d have shuttle service back to O’Hare,” I replied.

“The airline had no right to say that,” came the tight answer. 

By now all the volunteer passengers had gathered behind me, adding their voices to mine.

“You need to contact your manager immediately,” I countered, “We will have a shuttle in the morning at 4:30.”

This continued for a few heated moments before the receptionist contacted her manager. I didn’t give an inch. Bottom line, we got our 4:30 a.m. shuttle. 

On our way to our respective rooms one man, a New Yorker from his accent, stopped me and shook my hand. 

“You went from sweet little Southern Belle to calculating bitch in the blink of an eye, without ever raising your voice. Well done.”

But I didn’t sleep even a wink that night. I had no nightclothes or clean underwear, and only the hotel room toiletries were at my disposal. Worst of all I’d let my patience slip. Argh!

And, to add insult to injury I never got to use that voucher, so narrow were the restrictions attached to it by Northwest. I refuse to fly with them ever again. It’s a personal boycott, and I hope they feel the pinch.

I found this meme on Facebook one morning this week, and it prompted this post. I think it says it all:

  
I do try to keep the bitch, er, jackass, corralled.

Peace, ironically, people.