Tag: humor

Star Spangled Dream

One night during my illness–stuffy head, equilibrium-hampering, sinus infection–I dreamt that I was attending either a concert or a movie in an outdoor arena. Just before the event began a giant screen flashed the words:

Please Stand For Our National Anthem

I immediately stood, and began urging those around me to stand, as well. Grudgingly they did. The strains of The Star Spangled Banner began and then abruptly stopped. 

Sorry, technical difficulties!

Flashed across the screen. Then a voice from a loudspeaker boomed, “Will anyone lead in the singing of our national anthem?”

With no hesitation I began, 

Oh, say can you see…

and to my delight people joined in and we all sang the entire song on key. It was a gloriously impossible rendition of our national anthem, especially considering that I knew immediately that I’d begun the song an octave too high. Dreams are wonderfully forgiving.

Once the song ended and we were congratulating one another on our performance a woman in the next section came to me and offered me a role in a traveling Disney performance. I agreed immediately, but then looked over at Studly who was clearly upset by the thought of me leaving, and subsequently declined the offer. 

When I awakened I realized my throat was scratchy. That’s what happens when one sings The Star Spangled Banner an octave too high. 

Peace, people!

  

Singing in My Sleep

I’ve been sick for the past couple of days. It’s nothing life-threatening, just a nasty sinus infection that has messed with my equilibrium and given me horrendous headaches. My doctor prescribed an outrageously expensive and difficult to obtain antibiotic that I finally tracked down at a local CVS pharmacy. Truthfully it was available at a Walgreens, but even with the coupon my doctor’s office provided the cost was going to be $238, so I set out in search of a better price.

CVS did honor the manufacturer’s coupon, so I ended up paying only $35.00 for the antibiotic. There is a lesson to be learned here, but I’m sick and can’t formulate what that might be. Something to do with comparison shopping and challenging the status quo I think. This post was supposed to be about the strange dream I had this morning anyway (note the title). 

I’m going back to bed.

Peace, people.

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Sick Blogging

i am sick
not tragically,
or terminally,
but sick,
nonetheless;
therefore,
this poem
was all I could
manage.

peace, people.

  

Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team

Disclaimer: I have the natural grace of a boulder.

Binge watching the series Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team might lead to delusions of grandeur, or a case of severe depression. I didn’t intend to binge watch, but after one episode I had grown fond of a couple of the rookie wannabes. 

Before long I was standing in front of the television shaking my imaginary pompoms and tossing my hair to the music. I’m quite good when nobody’s watching.

Then I was sobbing uncontrollably when Melissa H. a small town girl from somewhere in Idaho, failed to make the team, and had to return to the Midwest, a victim of shattered dreams all because her kicks weren’t quite high enough.

Maybe it’s time to take my antidepressant.

  
Peace, people!

Imagination

When I was diagnosed with having a slight case of cancer several years ago, my imagination ran wild. “What if” became my go to sentence starter: What if it’s worse than they think? What if it’s spread? What if I die? What if our insurance doesn’t cover everything?

In many ways the “what ifs” were worse and more debilitating than actually having cancer. 

After my lumpectomy when a beaming surgeon told me that everything looked great the “what ifs” took a big break. Now my imagination could be used for good and not for evil. That came in handy when I began the tedious process of radiation therapy.

Every weekday for six weeks I had to lay completely still for 15-20 minutes while a machine slowly rotated around my upper torso delivering carefully measured doses of radiation. My view was lackluster, featuring yellowing acoustic ceiling tiles and one small poster of a forlorn looking puppy with a sappy saying printed underneath.

During my first couple of radiation treatments I imagined I was sunbathing on a favorite beach in Florida. But without a book sunbathing is no fun, and soon that fantasy fell by the wayside. 

Then I concocted an elaborate scenario in which I was a captured American spy being interrogated by the KGB. Every day my captors brought me into the Chamber of Truth and did their best to extract critical information from me. Every day I was able to resist their interrogation techniques. I was that good.

Once I graduated from radiation therapy I almost missed my daily interrogation. Maybe I developed Stockholm Syndrome, but I never divulged state secrets.

  

Prince Credentials

  
In real life,
princes are the ones
who hold your hand
when you’re sick,
and help potty train
the kids.
Real princes don’t
feed you fairy
tales or promise
butterflies and
rosebuds.

Chances are your
prince is already there,
right in front of you,
princess.

  

Sweating the Small Stuff

  
In a perfect world we’d all be as chill as this cat. 

Instead, I seem to follow the scenario below:

  
Like my mother before me, if I don’t have something to worry about I get worried. I heard recently in an interview on NPR that humans developed the ability to worry as a survival skill. At least I think that’s what the expert said. If so, I’m well equipped to survive. Unless of course I’m not. I guess I should worry about that, as well.

  
Peace, people!

Cat Dancing

I am a dancer. 

I am a dancer in the same sense that I am a writer. 

I dance, but no one pays me for my efforts.

I dance, and sometimes people laugh.

I dance even when no one is watching.

I dance just because I can.

My cats are puzzled by my dancing, though, whereas they are completely oblivious to my writing.

Often I dance on the soft, faux fur rug in front of the flat screen tv in our den. The rug tickles my soles and cushions my steps.

This same rug is the cats’ favorite spot to curl up for a nap on a sunny afternoon, so my dance steps must be careful lest I squish one of my best friends. I like a little danger in my dance.

The truth is they could move at any time, yet they choose to be part of my choreography. I could dance elsewhere, but then my feline audience would be deprived of my display of grace and natural rhythm. I really am gifted.

Just ask the cats.

by Burton Silver

The Princess and the Socks

  
Remember the old story of the Princess and the Pea? The queen wanted to make sure her son’s new romantic interest was a true princess, so she secretly placed a tiny pea beneath a stack of mattresses to see if the girl could detect the pea’s presence. Of course, the girl got a terrible night’s sleep and was declared a true princess.
That’s me. I’m the princess, only in my case the irritant isn’t a pea, it’s the little poky part of the toe seam in socks. Even short walks in my athletic shoes rub blisters on my cute little toes unless I put preemptive bandages in strategic places.

You see, I’m a delicate little flower. No, really. Stop laughing. At 5’8″ tall and I’m not saying how many pounds, I hardly look the part, but it’s true.

I’ve spent many years and many dollars trying to find a sock with non-irritating seams. Finally, I think I might’ve succeeded in my quest. The brand is Balega, and the socks are made in South Africa. The key to their comfort is that the toe seam is hand linked instead of machine linked. Big difference! 

I’m not saying this is the only sock with this feature, but it’s the only one I’ve come across in a light weight running/walking sock. SmartWool, I believe, has the same feature, but even their lightweight socks are just too hot for walking in the Florida summer heat, and this princess’s skin is too delicate for wool. 

See, I told you I was a delicate little flower.

Peace, people!

  

Fitbit Fanaticism 

I’ve done a lot of strange things in my life, but since strapping on a Fitbit I have to admit my list has grown much longer.

The first thing I do each morning is look at the number of steps I’ve taken in the night. With a goal of 10,000 steps every one counts. I know exactly now how many steps I take going to and from the toilet with a stop off at the sink on the way back (25).

Then I check the quality of my sleep. My Fitbit indicates how many times I was awake during the night and how many minutes I spent in a restless state. Finally I have evidence proving that I don’t sleep. Studly Doright has to believe me now!

I also have become efficiently inefficient. Take laundry for example. In the days B.F. (Before Fitbit) I would carry arm loads of folded laundry from the chaise lounge in the den, dropping off various items in their appropriate places. 

After Fitbit (A.F.) I make a separate trip for each grouping of items. Studly’s boxers get one trip, his socks another, and so on. I do the same with clothing I’ve hung to dry in the laundry room, sometimes making a dozen separate trips. 

You don’t even want to know my new grocery shopping technique. Suffice it to say that by the time I’ve completed purchasing basics like milk, bread, and beer (yes, beer is a basic) I’ve crisscrossed the nearest Publix a dozen times. And parking has become a game to see just how far from the store I can park. 

Since the Fitbit also counts the number of flights of stairs I’ve climbed I’ve found myself walking in strange patterns at both of our malls. I never thought I’d say it, but I’ve become a mall walker. 

I can get all of the flights climbed in my own neighborhood just by walking up my side of the loop three and a third times, but until fall comes along it’s just too darned hot and humid out there. I did buy a small container of pepper spray so that some day in the future I’ll be brave enough to walk the entire loop again.

Have any of these machinations paid off? I don’t know yet, but if they allow me one beer in the evening, they’re worth it.

Peace, people!