Tag: funny

M. and B.

The other night we attended a large graduation party for one of my daughter’s tennis team members. The party was held in a big banquet hall, and it was the size of a medium wedding reception. We knew the graduate, my daughter, a few of my daughter’s friends, the graduate’s parents and one other mother attending. That’s it. In a hall of at least a hundred people, we knew about eight of them, and four of those people who we knew were kids who, understandably, had no interest whatsoever, in hanging out with parents. We had been having work done on our house that day, so in waiting for the workers to finish up for the day, my husband and I ended up arriving to the party, a little later than most. Our daughter was already ensconced in some corner tables with a bunch of her friends, and was fully engaged with talking and laughing with them. The graduate and her parents were being excellent hosts, going from table to table, talking to everyone. I nodded “hello” to the one other mother who I knew at the party, who was sitting at a table, with all of the seats already taken. I could feel a little social anxiety creeping into my gut, especially with being so out of practice, from dealing with the pandemic shutdown, for over a year.

But then, my eyes glommed on to the buffet tables, which were overflowing with incredible delicacies (all handmade by the graduate’s mother). The graduate’s mom is Italian, and so it naturally follows that she is an amazing cook. It’s just in their genes. I have never had an Italian friend who wasn’t an incredible chef. I don’t mean to stereotype, but this has been my divine experience, and I have my fair share of Italian friends. Seeing the delightful spread, I got over my sinking feeling of not knowing anybody, and I got right to the task of filling up my plate, as high as it could go. My husband followed suit.

With my mountainous, overfilled plate, I started scanning my seating options. What appeared was several full tables of people laughing, and enjoying each other’s familiar company. There were also two empty tables, which I started to make a beeline towards, but then the table with M. and B. appeared. M. and B. (keeping their names private), were two older ladies sitting by themselves at a table, quietly eating their food. To get to the empty tables, I would have had to walk right past M. and B.’s table, but my arm was getting heavy with my food (and my husband was at the buffet, still filling up his plate), and plus, my mama taught me good manners. “Are these seats taken?” I asked M. and B politely, with a frozen smile on my face. “Oh no, please take a seat!” they both exclaimed.

Okay, this is the part of the story in which I admit that I am an ASS. As the saying goes, “When you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME.” I had already made a bunch of assumptions. I assumed M. and B. were elderly family members. (wrong, they were neighbors of the graduate and her family) I then assumed M. and B. were a lesbian couple. (wrong again, they lived on either side of the graduate’s family and they were both widows. They did get a charge out of the question, though. M. looked at B. with her eyebrow raised and said, “Well, I never considered that before . . . ” B. just laughed) The biggest assumption which I had made is that I was going to be bored to tears, making polite, careful conversation with two senior citizens. Ha! M. and B. were a blast! They were interesting, inspiring, witty, edgy, and funny as hell. They teased and flirted with my husband, who teased and flirted right back. Before long, we had become “the raucous table”. I wasn’t even getting to gorging on my delicious food, because I was having so much fun. We were creating so much merriment, that the other mother, who we knew, noticed, grabbed her purse, and excused herself from her own table (full of boring, dull people of our own age, according to her) and joined and added to the merriment. I was sick when M. and B. said it was time for them to leave. We were having such a good time.

It turns out that M. was 83 and B. was 79. We were all shocked. Besides the teens, M. and B. were the most lively, fun-loving, vivacious people at the party. (on an aside, shocked to learn their ages, my friend asked them what creams they used on their faces. “Oh you know, that stuff in a red jar,” M. said, which I assume is Olay and I am not surprised.)

Whenever I start into a new decade (I turned fifty last December), I find myself looking at the generations older than me. I am goal oriented. I like to look ahead to be inspired to be who and what I want to be, when I become of the next age subset. When I am in my eighties, I want to be young. I want to be lighthearted. I want to get a kick out of living, no matter what I am doing. I want to be M. and B. I want to pleasantly surprise the hell out of a fifty-year-old woman, who almost walked right past me, full of her dumb assumptions. And I want to have good skin, so I am going to run out to Walgreens, after I post this, and get some Olay.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Quills and Spikes

I came across these Coyote Vests in my morning readings, and I think that they are wonderful! We live in an area where it is not unusual for small dogs to be mauled, and killed by a whole bevy of creatures such as alligators, coyotes and even hawks. These vests are an attempt to make adorable dogs look formidable. Still, I think that there are certain dogs that are just made even cuter by any embellishment that you put on to them. (Who doesn’t get an emotional lift from seeing a Dachshund in a hot dog Halloween costume?) You can’t erase “adorable” with quills, and spikes, and evil eyes. Still, these vests may at least give the pups a “not worth the effort” kind of a look. We can relate when we think about how often we avoid ordering crabs or crawfish to eat at a restaurant, even if we love shellfish. You have to be focused, famished, bibbed and full of stamina, to get your money’s worth, from a lobster dinner.

I won’t be ordering these vests for our three dogs, ranging in size from 40 pounds, to 90 pounds. When the daily wrestle mania event occurs with our canines, I can only imagine that scene, with neon colored quills and sharp spikes and evil eyes, added to the mix. I imagine that my couch might end up looking like an abstract Picasso painting, after the mashup, with the eyes staring up at me with an “I told you so” look, coming straight from the mess of it all. I like to think that my dogs have size on their side, when it comes to any predators, plus they are all separation-anxiety ridden, Velcro dogs. If I stay away from gators and things that go bump in the night, so do they.

I was thinking that I might like to have one of these Coyote Vests for myself, on days when I am feeling vulnerable, raw and exposed. The vests do have a way of saying, “Back off, Bozo!” without using any words. “Step off, stupid, lest you want a hot pink quill in your eye!” Maybe, if I keep checking the website, they’ll eventually have one in my size.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Lil’ Friday

Hello Friday!!! Hello Holiday Weekend!! Fridays are the best, aren’t they? They are just so full of anticipation and relief. On Fridays, I don’t go for the deep dive. On “Favorite Things Friday“, I list three favorite songs, books, TV shows, websites, beauty products, etc. that remind me why it is so much fun to be alive. What is the material “stuff” that you love in life? Please add your favorites to my Comments section, and please check out previous Friday postings, for more good stuff. Here are my favorites for today:

Better Call Saul – If you missed this spinoff/prequel to the TV series Breaking Bad, like my husband and I almost did, this is your lucky reminder to check this series out. It has become our new nightly, couch event. This show is excellent and is full of flawed, but interesting, colorful characters who you can’t help, but to love and to root for, despite all of their shortcomings. Better Call Saul is so good, that last night we were attending a really fun, joyous graduation party, and yet, in the back of my mind, I was hoping that we would get home in time to watch another episode. We did. 🙂

Embellish Creative Co-op Tote Bag – I recently purchased this tote bag at a little local shop, because it was adorable, reasonably priced, large, soft and smooshy, and looked easy to clean. It appears to be made out of a bath rug, with a tassel for flourish. It is the best bag for boating, or for the beach, or for other fun summer activities. It came in a variety colors. I went with boring, blah taupe and I love it. Which brings me to my next favorite . . . my next favorite is a fun prompt to just put out there, when you are hanging out with your friends this weekend. You may remember my blog with the prompt “Your Drag Queen name is your Grandmother’s first name and the last dessert/sweet you ate. Go.” That was a good one. Here’s the new prompt for today’s shenanigans:

“Your Rapper Name is “Lil” then the last thing you spent money on. Go.” – It so happens that I purchased the above mentioned bag right before I saw this thought provoking prompt, hence my rapper name is officially “Lil’ Beach Bag.” I tried this prompt with my best friends from college and here are some of their rapper names:

Lil’ Biscuit, Lil’ Cookie, Lil’ Books (this rapper friend said that the books were for her daughter, Lil’ Money Pit), Lil’ Hula Hoop (she has much better hips and dancing skills than I could ever dream of having), and Lil’ Shorts (who we changed to Lil’ Shorty, even though she is taller than any of us)

What’s your rapper name? This is an important question, on a Friday.

The shop that I purchased my beach bag from, had this sign in the window:

Apparently this comes from the title of a book by the actress, Reese Witherspoon, which came from a phrase her grandmother used to describe Southern women: “her grandmother used to describe Southern women: Like whiskey in a teacup, they’re beautiful on the outside and fierce on the inside.” I suppose this is another phrase for “Steel Magnolias”. Frankly, I think that this phrase describes most women, whom I have known, and whom I have loved in my life, from all over the United States, and the world. Embellish the outside of yourself however you like, ladies, but remember, the inside of you is FIRE. Have a wonderful weekend!!

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

The Ring Thing

My husband had to have his wedding band cut off of his finger the other day. It’s only the second wedding band he has ever had in our almost 27 years of marriage. The first wedding band that he had, he actually lost on our honeymoon, while we were snorkeling. It was the opposite problem, that time. That ring was improperly sized, and ended up being too big for his finger. It either still lies at the bottom of the Caribbean, or it became fish food, or perhaps some lucky scuba diver found a little sunken treasure. It’s always been a fun story to tell, at cocktail parties.

Ever the practical businessman, my husband didn’t want to waste a lot of time at the Emergency Room, but time was of the essence. His ring finger had turned purple and was swollen like a balloon. We tried using almost a whole tub of greasy Go-Jo, and other tricks suggested on the internet involving string, etc. in order to try to get the ring to slide off, unharmed, but it wouldn’t budge. So, my husband went to our local jeweler and asked him to cut the ring off. Our jeweler had just the tool for the job, and my husband’s fingers are all back to normal, proportional size.

We will get the wedding ring re-sized, but in the meantime, the proud, protective, possessive part of me who likes everyone to know that my husband is “MY MAN”, did not like seeing his naked and exposed ring finger. So, while the ring is in the shop, we went to the Amazon Prime website and we purchased a package of seven of those gummy, silicone rings that a lot of men in the younger generations, seem to wear. The package was $20 for seven rings, and they are black with different accent shades, so he can match them with his clothes. The rings honestly look kind of edgy and cool and according to my husband, they are pretty comfortable.

I thought to myself, “Damn, the ladies of this current generation are so clever and astute. While the average diamond engagement rings seem to be bigger and blingier than ever, they’ve duped the guys into wearing $3 rubber rings. The money saved goes towards a bigger sparkler for her hand. These young women have also convinced guys that they think “Dad bods” are hot, so that their husbands spend more time at home, helping with the kids and around the house, and less time at the gym. I say, brilliant!”

“For years my wedding ring has done its job. It has led me not into temptation. It has reminded my husband numerous times at parties that it’s time to go home. It has been a source of relief to a dinner companion. It has been a status symbol in the maternity ward.” – Erma Bombeck

“A man’s got two shots for jewelry: a wedding ring and a watch. The watch is a lot easier to get on and off than a wedding ring.” – John Mayer

“A wedding ring is sort of a tourniquet worn on one’s finger to stop circulation.” – unknown

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Happy Furthday!!!

Josie (collie, who turns 3 today): It’s our shared birthday today, dear Ralphie! May I be the first to wish the both of us, a very lovely and Happy Birthday! (prim, beautiful and alert with white-tipped tail swishing, like an overgrown, elegant fox)

Ralphie (yellow Labrador retriever, who turns 4 today): Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! (jumping around and licking everything in sight, hitting a few notes on the piano with his chin and leaving some dog slime on the keys, grabbing a now formless/headless toy and running around the house with it, tail going like a helicopter blade)

Trip (Boykin spaniel, who is a little over a year old): Treats!!! Does this mean treats?!? Does this mean lots of treats?!? Does this mean extra treats?!? Huh?? Huh?? Huh?? (springboards off of the couch and exuberantly and fearlessly jumps on top of Ralphie, despite $600+ dollars worth of training to stop this behavior, so as to not be mauled by Ralphie, a large dog who has 70 pounds on him, and a huge retriever mouth, full of sharp, white teeth. Ralphie, despite having a saint-like amount of patience, has shown that even a Labrador retriever’s renowned patience has its worldly, and understandable limits.)

Camera pans on Ralphie, the yellow Lab, dreaming of what his perfect birthday would look like: Ralphie, swimming in the pool from dusk to dawn, with his whole pack, humans and dogs, all swimming with him, and throwing his disgusting, wet, soggy toy into the pool endlessly for him to retrieve at the surface, and even from the bottom of the pool, and then clapping for him, enthusiastically, each time, as if we have never seen him do this 800,000 times before. Ralphie only comes out of the pool once, for a whole, hot, delicious steak, fresh off the grill, without even having to beg for it.

Camera then pans on Josie, the elegant collie, dreaming of what her perfect birthday would look like: A day when herding Ralphie, while he is swimming in the the pool would not be necessary, because Ralphie would not be in the pool. A day that the squirrels stay in their own nests, in the neighbor’s yard, far, far way, so that she does not have to worry about those icky, little squirrels dirtying up our trees and our lawn. A day when there will be no deliveries from Amazon Prime, so she can save her voice. A day when Trip would stand still long enough, so that she could tidy him up, licking him carefully, as if they were both Fancy Feast Persian cats. Josie, enjoying a long, long, long wonderful walk with no kids roller skating nor skateboarding on the sidewalks, to disturb her peace and comfort.

Trip, the boisterous Boykin spaniel: F*ck birthdays! I do whatever I want to do, every day!! Give me another treat!!

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Monday Fun-Day

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This feels like the story of my life, lately. The mystery of why I came into the kitchen (well, I might as well get a snack, while I’m in here) . . . . why am I looking at my calendar? Am I sure that I even wrote on my calendar, whatever it is that I am searching for? . . . . Oh no! Something smells mildew-y. I forgot to put the clothes in the dryer! . . . . Where are my glasses and phone? Oh, they’re on top of my head and next to my ear (frightening true story) . . . Did I already take my vitamins? . . .

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Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Go Mom!

I am writing this on the pre-night of a serious competitive sporting event for my only daughter. I have a love/hate relationship with these kinds of events. Why do I have this twisted relationship with my kids’ sporting events, you ask? First of all, I personally stink at all activities that require any kind of coordination, so I have so much pride in having remarkably athletic children (that’s the love part), and secondly, I detest the person whom I become at these venues (that’s the hate part). “Sports Mom” is not a good look on me. And I detest all of the other parents at these affairs, because their behavior amplified, makes me reflect on the worst part of my own self. “Sports Mom Multiplied” is not a good look on any of us. The kids, on the other hand, are great. They are fun. They roll with the “ups and downs”, and they just enjoy the actions of doing their sport. However, usually, the rest of us “adults” decide that these events are for us to showcase our worst possible demons and traits, and to make the deeply flawed mistake of trying to live vicariously through our children. Today, I will do my best to “cheer quietly from my heart”, as my daughter, directly and enthusiastically requested from me. Today, I will try to keep things in perspective, and I will try to keep my ego in check. This will be a much more challenging task, than trying to physically win a States championship, or anything like that. I hope to prevail. My daughter hopes that I prevail, too. She’s rooting for me.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Monday Fun-Day

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Dear Hostess Cupcake,

I recently read this quote attributed to Jon Sinclair: “Failure is a bruise, not a tattoo.” Whether you get the job at Phil’s Phine Dining or not, you are headed to your ultimate destination. In fact, scratch that, you are already living your destination: You are living the adventure of being a Hostess Cupcake. That’s it. That’s the goal. And you are doing just fine at it! If you don’t get this particular job, it may sting a little. The rejection may take a little bite out of you, but there will be many other jobs along the way. And you will look back at your beginning years so tenderly and fondly and compassionately. You will be so proud of each step of your journey. It will all make sense to you in the end (and sometimes even in lucent moments along the way), Cupcake. Trust that. Trust the journey. Always just be your delicious, truest, sweetest self, and know that everything is going to be okay. Everything is okay. Look inward. The best part of you is inside of you, Cupcake. It’s pure and clean and lovely, and all of the other Cupcakes have the same sweet inners, too. It’s easy to forget that fact with all the fancy icing we use to cover up the insides, but in the inside, we are all just sweet, mushy, fluffy love trying out this adventure called Life. Enjoy the ride, Cupcake!

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Five

A friend and I were watching a girl on our tennis team play an opponent from another school.

“Damn, she’s such a five,” my friend said to me.

“What do you mean, “she’s a five”? I asked.

“She’s so even keel and unflappable, ” my friend said.

“Yeah, you’re right she doesn’t play emotionally. She keeps her composure. She never gets “too high with the highs, and too low with the lows”, I said.

“Exactly,” my friend said. “I’m Italian and I’m menopausal. I’m not a five. At all.”

“I’m not Italian and yet I’ve never been a five,” I said. “I’m a five until something sets me off, and then I go from five to ten in nanoseconds,” I said, not so proudly.

We watched the “five” girl, play her match. Her matches tend to be long and close, but she almost always wins them. She never tries too many fancy shots. She remains steady and even and reliable and determined and polite and kind and pleasant. She just stays focused on winning each point. Nothing seems to phase her.

When Five (I’ll call her that for now on) got off the court, I congratulated her on her long, hard-earned win and I relayed what my friend and I noticed about Five. “Is that your natural state? Do you have to work on being so calm, cool and collected? Are you always so self-possessed?” I peppered her with questions. I, a middle-aged Five-to-Ten-Rocket, was trying to learn skills from a young adult solid, locked-in Five.

“I think that’s just how I am. I don’t see the point in getting upset about anything,” Five answered. Then she smiled at me sweetly and handed me a Snickers bar.

Are you passing on love, or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Dolly

Are you passing on love, or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

This is my little Worry, Trouble doll. Don’t worry, she’s not in this terrible, tragic state of being because of trying to deal with all of my worries. I don’t have any more worries than anybody else. Plus, I have been working really hard at practicing what I preach – in short, “Don’t worry, be happy.” She used to have this adorable, colorful outfit with a headdress to match. That disappeared somewhere, never to be seen again, when I found her in the jaws of death, i.e. the mouth of our adolescent Boykin spaniel, named Trip. Imagine having the job of taking on other people’s worries, while fighting for every inch of your own life in the stinking, steamy mouth of an energetic, stubborn, enthusiastic chewer of a dog. Thankfully, Trip has a soft mouth, which most sporting breeds do, thus my darling little trouble doll, still wears that easy-going, calm, placid and serene expression on her darling little face. I didn’t have the heart to pitch her. If anything, her new crumbling state-of-being helps me to keep perspective, now, even more than ever. Any time that I take a new worry or concern to the worry doll, she doesn’t have to say the words. I look at her, and inevitably, my worry pales in comparison to the ordeal that she has been through. “Oh trouble doll, I’m worried about picking out some paint colors. There are just sooooo many greys to choose from! The horror of it all!!” She just gives me that look on her face. And it says it all:

What I think the Trouble/Worry doll’s expression is saying, “You know, dear, no worry is too small to give to me, and I’ll be sure your worries get to the Highest Authority who can do something about them, but really? REALLY? REALLY?!?!?! Can you please get a grip, girl?!? Can you step outside of your own 800 pairs of shoes, just for once, and imagine what it feels like to be Worry/Trouble doll?! Everybody dumps their daily dismal dialog on to you, and then afterwards, is otherwise careless with your own life, to the point that a Godzilla type creature lurks around, not caring to use your for the purpose for which you are intended, because let’s face it, Boykin spaniels don’t worry about jack sh$t. And honestly, being chewed up by Trip wasn’t nearly as bad as watching you let your stomach be all tied up in knots for endless hours, over many situations that almost always magically and easily worked themselves out when you really, finally and completely, let them go.”

Moral of the story: Don’t be a Trouble/ Worry Doll. It’s an awful gig. You’ll end up chewed up and spit out. Don’t let dramatic people dump all of their “problems” on to you. Trust that the Highest Authorities “got this” for all of us, and get on with your day. That’s what Boykin spaniels do, and their tails are always wagging.

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