Mrs. T and I had some time to kill yesterday between appointments. I was driving and she was telling me where to go. She’s very good at that. We went to the mall. She announced that she was going to “Bath, Body and Beyond” to buy some “stuff” she “needed”. I headed to the clearance racks at JC Penney to buy some stuff that I “need”, but only if it was on clearance. I found a sport coat that was GREAT deal! Seventy percent off! However, I had to wait on Mrs. T’s approval before purchasing. And, she likes to use her JC Penney card because that triggers something in their database which causes them to send her more stuff such as coupons and flyers (essentially, it’s another cult she belongs to). She was gone a VERY long time. I knew in my heart this was not a good thing. She finally showed up. And she readily agreed that I should buy the coat. I should have know her quick approval was not a good thing. We paid and as we were leaving the store, she told me that she had been “looking” at some things and wanted me to go and “look” at them. Her previous “quick approval” was now explained. I was subjected to an hour of “parading” as she tried on what seemed to be every item in the store, each time accompanied by a chorus of “oooo” and “ahhhhh” from the female sales associates. And each time she would ask me “What I thought?”…she would be surrounded by four sales associates, cheerfully smiling and nodding their heads in approval. At least the store had a place for me to sit down. If I ran a women’s clothing store, I would provide couches, big screen and stocked refrigerator for “guys in waiting”. We left the store with two jackets, slacks and more. She had once again successfully applied her Golden Rule of shopping: “One for him, more for me”.
We then moved on to “The Buckle”. And I don’t know why they call it the “buckle. I didn’t see any belts with buckles. I didn’t see any shoes with buckles. However, the goth girl that met us at the door had a buckle in her eyebrow. For those of you who claim I never step outside my comfort zone, you can shuddup now. The goth gal had more hardware in her face than I had ever seen on a girl. I assumed she was a girl. Sometimes it’s hard to really know with the short black goth hair and black goth baggy clothes. I didn’t ask her/him/it for gender verification. We were shopping for a pair of blue jeans for a member of our family. I picked a pair and looked at the price tag. It was $120.00. Suddenly, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I asked the goth gal if the $120.00 price included anything else besides the jeans. She looked at me like I was an alien from outer space. And, quite frankly, I felt like alien from outer space. The jeans had holes in them! And they were faded and paper thin! I quietly tried to tell Mrs. T that we could buy a pair of nice Wrangler jeans at Wal-Mart for about $25.00. I didn’t want to cause the goth girl to go postal, so I tried to be discreet when saying this to Mrs. T. However, Mrs. T dismissed me with a wave of her hand. And to add insult to injury, it was the hand in which she was holding her credit card.
I left and went to Anne’s Hallmark store. I read some of their new “Get Well” cards and browsed their latest inventory of “Precious Moments” figurines. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It was very calming and soothing and it lasted until Mrs. T showed up and told me that we were going to “Express”. I thought, perhaps, she was trying to talk really cool to me, and she was implying that we were going to “leave the mall really fast”. I was wrong. And I soon returned to Anne’s. . .
==
Couples who have lived together a long time have their own way of communicating.
A woman overheard her aunt and uncle one day, "What are you looking for in that closet?" she asked.
"Nothing," he answered.
"Well, it's not in there. Look under the bed."
==
A big corporation recently hired several cannibals. "You are all part of our team now” said the HR rep during the welcoming briefing.
"You get all the usual benefits and you can go to the cafeteria for something to eat, but please don't eat any of the other employees." The cannibals promised they would not.
Four weeks later their boss remarked, "You're all working very hard, and I'm satisfied with you. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?" The cannibals all shook their heads no.
After the boss had left, the leader of the cannibals said to the others, "Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?"
A hand rose hesitantly, to which the leader of the cannibals continued, "You fool! For four weeks we've been eating managers and no one noticed anything, but noooooo, you had to go and eat someone important!
Friday Levity (2010.02.12)
The dogs were howling. Mrs. T was howling. And I was crumpled in a fetal position on the bedroom floor, with sharp, stabbing, tingling pains shooting up and down the left side of my body. The alarm clock was dangling in midair, next to my head, blaring obnoxiously. Not a good way to start a day.
Typically, I am wide awake before the alarm ever goes off, but this morning, I was asleep. As I swung my arm up to turn off the alarm, which sits on the headboard above my head, I found out too late the entire left side of my body was still asleep, essentially turning my arm into a heavy battering ram which crashed into the wall above the headboard, then crashed down on top of the alarm clock. I fumbled to find the buttons on the alarm with my useless, numb fingers and knocked it off the headboard. But instead of crashing to the floor, it was caught in midair by the power cord, causing it to swing and crash into the wall several times. I struggled to get out of bed and found out too late that my left leg was also asleep. I stumbled, and crashed into the wall, finally crumpling to the floor. The dogs, I’m sure, thought intruders were breaking through the walls of our house and probably thought Mrs. T was being attacked because she was screaming like a banshee…she was telling me to turn that %^#&# alarm clock off. . .like I didn’t know it needed to be turned off??? I’ve taken steps to ensure this scenario does not happen again. However Mrs. T and I are disagreeing about the duct tape. I personally don’t think it looks bad. I DO know that ^#&# alarm clock isn’t going to fall off again. . .
Recently, I have been encountering a guy that I met several years ago, but hadn’t seen for a long time. He’s a cashier at a local quick stop where I buy gas. He’s a great guy. He always calls me Michael. That’s fine, even though that’s not my name. I’m thinking he might be hanging around the gas pumps too much. I am an authority on petro fumes, having had some extensive childhood experiences, but that’s another story for another day. I have never corrected him. I’m not sure why. I suppose I don’t want to offend him or hurt his feelings. Besides, I’ve been called a lot worse, especially by Mrs. T. and her family. And, I can’t really blame the guy too much, because there is a guy named Michael that shares my last name. He’s my younger brother. Michael has blonde hair, blue eyes. I have dark hair, dark eyes. And I weigh 150 pounds more than Michael. But, hey, I suppose we could be mistaken for each other. I’m pretty sure the guy knows my brother, otherwise, where would he have come up with the name Michael? I often wonder if he also calls my brother Michael too. And I wonder if he’s ever curious why my parents named two of their sons Michael. I bet he’d like to meet my two brothers named Sheldon . .
==
Some funnies forwarded my way this week:
==
I didn't know if my granddaughter had learned her colors yet, so I decided to test her. I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me and was always correct. It was fun for me, so I continued.. At last, she headed for the door, saying, "Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these, yourself!"
==
A second grader came home from school and said to her grandmother, "Grandma, guess what? We learned how to make babies today." The grandmother, more than a little surprised, tried to keep her cool... "That's interesting," she said, "How do you make babies?"
"It's simple," replied the girl. "You just change 'y' to 'i' and add 'es'."
==
"I have to talk to my girlfriend every day on the phone.”
My husband says, 'Why do you have to talk to her again today? You just talked to her yesterday. What could you possibly have to tell her?'
'Well, for one thing, I have to tell her you just said that.'" --Rita Rudner
==
"A list has been published of the foods that are most likely to expose you to infectious disease, and surprisingly all of them are healthy foods like leafy greens and fresh fruits. In other words, America is gonna be just fine." -Conan O'Brien
Typically, I am wide awake before the alarm ever goes off, but this morning, I was asleep. As I swung my arm up to turn off the alarm, which sits on the headboard above my head, I found out too late the entire left side of my body was still asleep, essentially turning my arm into a heavy battering ram which crashed into the wall above the headboard, then crashed down on top of the alarm clock. I fumbled to find the buttons on the alarm with my useless, numb fingers and knocked it off the headboard. But instead of crashing to the floor, it was caught in midair by the power cord, causing it to swing and crash into the wall several times. I struggled to get out of bed and found out too late that my left leg was also asleep. I stumbled, and crashed into the wall, finally crumpling to the floor. The dogs, I’m sure, thought intruders were breaking through the walls of our house and probably thought Mrs. T was being attacked because she was screaming like a banshee…she was telling me to turn that %^#&# alarm clock off. . .like I didn’t know it needed to be turned off??? I’ve taken steps to ensure this scenario does not happen again. However Mrs. T and I are disagreeing about the duct tape. I personally don’t think it looks bad. I DO know that ^#&# alarm clock isn’t going to fall off again. . .
Recently, I have been encountering a guy that I met several years ago, but hadn’t seen for a long time. He’s a cashier at a local quick stop where I buy gas. He’s a great guy. He always calls me Michael. That’s fine, even though that’s not my name. I’m thinking he might be hanging around the gas pumps too much. I am an authority on petro fumes, having had some extensive childhood experiences, but that’s another story for another day. I have never corrected him. I’m not sure why. I suppose I don’t want to offend him or hurt his feelings. Besides, I’ve been called a lot worse, especially by Mrs. T. and her family. And, I can’t really blame the guy too much, because there is a guy named Michael that shares my last name. He’s my younger brother. Michael has blonde hair, blue eyes. I have dark hair, dark eyes. And I weigh 150 pounds more than Michael. But, hey, I suppose we could be mistaken for each other. I’m pretty sure the guy knows my brother, otherwise, where would he have come up with the name Michael? I often wonder if he also calls my brother Michael too. And I wonder if he’s ever curious why my parents named two of their sons Michael. I bet he’d like to meet my two brothers named Sheldon . .
==
Some funnies forwarded my way this week:
==
I didn't know if my granddaughter had learned her colors yet, so I decided to test her. I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me and was always correct. It was fun for me, so I continued.. At last, she headed for the door, saying, "Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these, yourself!"
==
A second grader came home from school and said to her grandmother, "Grandma, guess what? We learned how to make babies today." The grandmother, more than a little surprised, tried to keep her cool... "That's interesting," she said, "How do you make babies?"
"It's simple," replied the girl. "You just change 'y' to 'i' and add 'es'."
==
"I have to talk to my girlfriend every day on the phone.”
My husband says, 'Why do you have to talk to her again today? You just talked to her yesterday. What could you possibly have to tell her?'
'Well, for one thing, I have to tell her you just said that.'" --Rita Rudner
==
"A list has been published of the foods that are most likely to expose you to infectious disease, and surprisingly all of them are healthy foods like leafy greens and fresh fruits. In other words, America is gonna be just fine." -Conan O'Brien
Friday Levity (2010.02.05)
People often ask me if what I write has any truth to it. And that question is typically followed with “How does your wife tolerate you?”
I could, and should, be offended by those questions, but I am not. I am taking the high road. This sporadic weekly rambling called “Friday Levity” comes from the heart and is an effort to get my plight known by the world. Ironically, people continue to feel empathy towards Mrs. T, which I struggle to understand. Obviously, I am doing something wrong. Thus far, I have only met one person who said he believed me, but then he quickly followed up with “But of course, I’ve never met your wife, so you’re the only one that has given me any information”. I appreciated that, sort of. I didn’t tell him that most people have not met my wife and it makes no difference to them as they continue to take her side. Especially women. Women are like thieves…they stick together. We men should probably learn from that. But then, that would be like reading the instructions or asking for directions. And that’s just crazy talk! Men communicate directly without all the surrounding fluff about what we’re wearing, where did we buy it and was it on sale. Women could learn from men on this and learn to communicate with only direct questions and answers about the necessities of life like computers, guns, pickups, cars, boats, gas, oil and beef jerky.
In reality, my ramblings always have some truth to them. I then, perhaps, at times, apply a dose of “writer liberties”. Sometimes, perhaps, I apply a very liberal dose. It is the job of the reader to ascertain which parts contain truth. And, as many of you seem to enjoy pointing out, there are some weeks which contain fewer parts of truth than other weeks.
Last week, I attended Mrs. T’s annual conference of music educators. I typically sit and work while I wait on her as she attends her daily sessions. This allows me ample opportunity to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes: people watching. Years ago I came to the conclusion that there is little doubt why these people belong in the Arts. . .most of them are a real work of art. But I’m glad they do what they do, because I really like music and for that, I am willing to not be judgmental and to put up with their many idiosyncrasies. I’m sure they too frown upon me as I sit with my headphones, laptop computer and tri-colored beanie cap with a propeller on top. I wear the cap in an attempt to blend in. It doesn’t work. I am probably not verbose and/or flamboyant enough. But, I do not apologize for that. If I want to know where the nearest bathroom is, I ask where the nearest bathroom is. I don’t start off with comments about what you’re wearing is “to die for” and “we just have to get together and compare notes” and “I’ve just been to the most awful session ever…well, the worst since the session before that”. I’m probably considered a mute by most. If I were a mute, I’m pretty sure most of them would understand sign language because I saw several of them using it when expressing their displeasure at getting water and slush splashed on them by passing cars. And apparently, they thought those drivers were not only mute, but deaf, because some very loud and colorful language was used, along with signals from both hands. Music people are like that. They like to use variety of techniques when attempting to teach a lesson. . .however, I imagine most of their fell on deaf ears. . .I really doubt that any of those drivers own a bassoon, and even if they did, I doubt they’re going to stick anything up it…as was suggested on many occasions by those music educators. . .
I could, and should, be offended by those questions, but I am not. I am taking the high road. This sporadic weekly rambling called “Friday Levity” comes from the heart and is an effort to get my plight known by the world. Ironically, people continue to feel empathy towards Mrs. T, which I struggle to understand. Obviously, I am doing something wrong. Thus far, I have only met one person who said he believed me, but then he quickly followed up with “But of course, I’ve never met your wife, so you’re the only one that has given me any information”. I appreciated that, sort of. I didn’t tell him that most people have not met my wife and it makes no difference to them as they continue to take her side. Especially women. Women are like thieves…they stick together. We men should probably learn from that. But then, that would be like reading the instructions or asking for directions. And that’s just crazy talk! Men communicate directly without all the surrounding fluff about what we’re wearing, where did we buy it and was it on sale. Women could learn from men on this and learn to communicate with only direct questions and answers about the necessities of life like computers, guns, pickups, cars, boats, gas, oil and beef jerky.
In reality, my ramblings always have some truth to them. I then, perhaps, at times, apply a dose of “writer liberties”. Sometimes, perhaps, I apply a very liberal dose. It is the job of the reader to ascertain which parts contain truth. And, as many of you seem to enjoy pointing out, there are some weeks which contain fewer parts of truth than other weeks.
Last week, I attended Mrs. T’s annual conference of music educators. I typically sit and work while I wait on her as she attends her daily sessions. This allows me ample opportunity to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes: people watching. Years ago I came to the conclusion that there is little doubt why these people belong in the Arts. . .most of them are a real work of art. But I’m glad they do what they do, because I really like music and for that, I am willing to not be judgmental and to put up with their many idiosyncrasies. I’m sure they too frown upon me as I sit with my headphones, laptop computer and tri-colored beanie cap with a propeller on top. I wear the cap in an attempt to blend in. It doesn’t work. I am probably not verbose and/or flamboyant enough. But, I do not apologize for that. If I want to know where the nearest bathroom is, I ask where the nearest bathroom is. I don’t start off with comments about what you’re wearing is “to die for” and “we just have to get together and compare notes” and “I’ve just been to the most awful session ever…well, the worst since the session before that”. I’m probably considered a mute by most. If I were a mute, I’m pretty sure most of them would understand sign language because I saw several of them using it when expressing their displeasure at getting water and slush splashed on them by passing cars. And apparently, they thought those drivers were not only mute, but deaf, because some very loud and colorful language was used, along with signals from both hands. Music people are like that. They like to use variety of techniques when attempting to teach a lesson. . .however, I imagine most of their fell on deaf ears. . .I really doubt that any of those drivers own a bassoon, and even if they did, I doubt they’re going to stick anything up it…as was suggested on many occasions by those music educators. . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)