Tag: humor

Falalalala, It’s November

I had dinner with friends last night. While walking through the town to get to the restaurant where we were meeting, I noticed Christmas lights everywhere. They were adorning shop windows, street lights, and there were even a few animated Santa Clauses. One building had already changed its spotlights, to bright red and green. (and keep in mind, here in our town, it’s still 85 degrees outside)

My eldest son, who lives outside of New York City, texted a picture of the interior of a NYC German restaurant where he had met his friends for dinner, this past weekend. I’ve attached the picture above. The decorations are decidedly amazingly beautiful. But how long do decadent holiday decorations need to be displayed before “amazingly beautiful” turns into “claustrophobic-ally repellent”? Is it the subconscious Grinch in me, or even more so than ever before, are we going to skip right over Thanksgiving this year, into Christmas-on-steroids?

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Star Wars

My family, friends and regular readers know that I faithfully read my horoscopes every day. Cue in the prayers for my soul, from my more traditionally religious friends, family, and readers. Cue in the sighs for my naivety, from my more intellectual friends, family, and readers. Cue in prayers and sighs and tongue clucking, from the smartest and most religious among them all. Cue in the eye rolls from my kids. Cue in the cute wink from my patient, amused, “totally gets me” husband.

Okay, now that that’s out of the way, I feel the need to warn you all, that today’s stars forbode angry tempers among all of the signs. There is a Pluto-Mars opposition that only occurs once a year, happening today. According to the stars and the scopes, it is likely to be an edgy, ornery day for all of us. So, my advice is to take a few breaths before you react to anything or anyone. My advice is to respond calmly versus reacting, reaction-ally. My advice for today, is to think before you speak, give others the benefit of the doubt, and protect yourself from undue toxicity.

Now some would argue that this is good advice to heed any day of the week or of the year, for that matter, and I concur. See, my point is proven. Is reading your horoscopes such a bad thing or is it just a reminder, on a daily basis, to be your best self, while also providing an explanation and an excuse, when you are not quite your best self? All bases are covered. You are welcome.

“The only day to watch is Tuesday when Mars squares Pluto, a combustible situation. Friends or team members could be ornery, so sit tight and let this pass.” – My Stars

“Tempers could flare on Tuesday, when warrior Mars forms a combative square (90-degree angle) to controlling, domineering Pluto. Fortunately, this challenging transit only comes around once a year, but when it does, a clash of egos could quickly escalate into an epic showdown. People will be hotheaded and ready to sting, and even the most enlightened among us won’t be able to totally dodge the intensity. If emotions are intensifying, step out for some air instead of getting sucked into the drama. Socially, beware the wolf in sheep’s clothing. That quiet observer could be an undercover competitor with a secret agenda—or not! But since it’s going to be hard to tell near Tuesday, keep your cards closer to your vest. Mars and Pluto are the lusty co-rulers of Scorpio—and in a combustible square, they can stoke passion. Simmering attractions may explode, but they might also get complicated quickly. Rule of thumb? Get a grip before you strip.” – Astrotwins


No Fish Pucky – A Fish Story

I had a “first time in over twenty years” moment yesterday. I had to spill out a gallon of milk because it had gone bad. I think I am going to have to start buying the smaller cartons of milk. Life sure is different with just our baby girl at home.

Speaking of over 20 years, I have another “no horse pucky” story (see previous “no horse pucky” stories in my blog, if you end up liking this one) to lighten all of the somberness of the news lately. Over the summer, it turns out that I was only the second person to ever fall out of my fly-fishing tour guide’s upgraded canoe, in his over 26 years of being a guide. The water was cold – breathtakingly cold. Let me give you some background.

My husband loves to fly fish. He loves all things outdoors and the biggest highlight of our summer vacation in Montana (and in celebration of his 50th birthday) was to be his treating of the rest of his family, to fly fishing lessons. He set up three tour guides, each equipped with upgraded canoe-type boats that were going to drift down the river, and by the end of it all, we were going to be expert fly fisher-people, with all sorts of pictures of our catch and release beauties, to prove our proficiency. Now, at dinner parties, when I have told this story, people usually interrupt me to say, “Oh, I always thought that you did fly-fishing on the side of the river, in waders and cute hats, with those old-school wicker baskets for your fish.”

Well, where we went, they preferred the row boat method because the water is cold – breathtakingly cold, even in June. (plus, there are grizzly bears, but that is for another blog) Anyway, we got divided into twos. My husband and my second son (the most outdoorsy child of ours, the one who counts Bear Grylls as one of his idols, the one who has mused more than once, about chucking college and living “off the land”) were, appropriately, in one boat. My youngest two children, both good fishers and extremely competitive with each other, jumped into another boat and already started betting each other (and their zany, also hyper-competitive guide) who would catch the most fish. That left my eldest son and I, to the final boat. My eldest son and I are the ones in the family, who get bored with fishing, the quickest. (usually within the first fifteen minutes) We’re the ones in the family who rent the “out there” indie films that the rest of the family groans about, and we talk about the movie, after it is over, for longer than the movie lasted. I felt sorry for our guide. I was already calculating, in my mind, a large tip for him.

Our guide, it turns out, was a very serious, quiet, Thoreau-type guy who after being an English major in college, decided to spend the rest of his life in nature, teaching people alternately, to fly fish and to ski, depending on the season. We were the same age, 48 years old. My first question to him, as I entered the boat, was, “Do you have any good juicy stories about any mishaps with your clients?”

“No, I don’t,” he said with a little tone of puzzled disgust, in his quiet, slow, hard to hear cadence, with already, an annoyed look on his weather-lined face. “Most people who come out here are just so relaxed and happy to be in nature – one with it, so to speak,” he said as he waved his hands to the beautiful horizon with the towering mountains in the distance.

Our guide was very patient. My son and I got our lines tangled together more than the average clients, I suspect. Our guide was an expert detangler. (I kept thinking that I wish I had brought that old ball of costume jewelry. He would have had that thing detangled, in no time flat, with no broken necklaces, to boot!) One time, I got my line tangled on the anchor. I thought that I would discreetly pull the anchor up, and detangle it myself, so as not to add to the tally of his detangling efforts. Of course, that was an epic fail because the boat starting flying down the river, so fast, you would have thought that it had a motor.

Still, thanks to our guide’s peaceful centering, and patient instruction, my son and I started to get the hang of fly fishing and my son, even, started catching fish. I really enjoyed the constant action of fly-fishing, and my instructor kindly stated that while my casting form was getting to be very good, I must remember that the fish are in the water, not in the air. I decided that sitting on the bench seat was probably impairing my abilities and I asked my guide if I could stand.

“Yes,” he sighed. “You can stand, but you must remain in the middle of the boat in the guard area.” This area he pointed to, looked kind of like a pulpit, jetting out from the middle of the boat, so for now on, I’m just going to refer to it, as “the pulpit”.

I loved standing in the pulpit and casting and casting and casting and casting and casting my line. I, admittedly, would get excited from time to time, and move out of my pulpit and lean a little too much on the side of the boat and that is when our guide would say to me (a little more firmly each time), “Remember to stay in the guarded area, or you will fall out of the boat, and be sorry. The water is breathtakingly cold.” I think one time he may have even said (and rightfully so), “Stay in the center guard area, dammit.” I can’t be sure, though, as he was a very quiet, serious man.

Towards the end of our excursion, all three of our boats were in sight of each other, on the river. My daughter had beat her brother by catching one more fish than he had (9-8, or something like that) and I was enjoying watching her amazing form, while fishing. My eldest son, had caught at least 5 fish and had even offered to stop fishing, so that I could catch one, instead of him. My husband and our second son, had caught a couple of fish each. I hadn’t caught any fish. None. Nada. Our guide didn’t like that fact.

“I’m fine. I’m just enjoying watching my kids fish,” I said to him, with an earnest smile.

“That’s not good enough,” he said to me. He anchored us at his favorite fishing spot and told me to cast away. I casted and casted and even let the fly sit on the surface for more than a minute and then, for the first time, all day, I felt a bite.

“You’ve got one! You’ve got one! Bring it in!” my guide exclaimed, in the loudest voice that I had heard him speak all day. His voice startled me. It was the first time all day, that I didn’t have to lean in, to hear what he was saying. He was so excited. My son was so excited. I got excited and all instruction of what to do next, completely blanked on me. I started to jump up and down. I jumped out of the pulpit. I backed up against the edge of the boat. When, the guide reached over to grab me, I leaned back . . . . the next thing I knew, I was gasping, desperately for air. The water was cold – breathtakingly cold. Still, I had my rod in hand and the fish was still on it. Much to the relief of my guide, I started laughing. He smiled, handed the rod to my son, pulled me into the boat, handed the rod back to me. And I brought in my first and my last catch of the day. Freezing, soggy, but triumphant. I would post the picture of the fish that I caught, but my phone was in my pocket when I fell out of the boat.

“You’re welcome,” I said to my guide, as we were leaving and saying our good-byes, at the end of the excursion.

“For what?” he said, looking at me, quizzically and piercingly, at the same time.

“You’ve got your story.”

True story. No horse pucky.

Vodka and Mongolian Rocks

I slept in. I’m feeling a little lazy today. There is no great inspiration here, at my end, to provoke any deep thoughts or ideas for myself or for anybody else. I hope that today is just a silly day.

Speaking of silly, when my family and I were on vacation, trying to find a place to eat, we started laughing about restaurants which serve artistic, small morsels of food and how they describe those delicate bites. While I have a deep appreciation for great chefs and their creative endeavors, after hiking all day and burning up thousands of calories, that type of gourmet eatery was not the kind of restaurant that we were looking for, to serve us dinner. We were tired and starving and punchy, so we started laughing at the pretentious way those teeny nibbles are often described. We laughed at how restaurants often describe flavors of food.

“This exquisite lamb nibble is touched with just a hint of rosemary, a suggestion of coriander, an idea of cayenne, a whisper of brandy, a notion of saffron and an impression of tarragon.” Wow, they were able to do all of that in that microscopic kernel of meat topped with a sprig, a z-shaped sauce on the small plate, and an edible flower?!? Culinary chemistry at its best.

I guffawed out loud when my husband added, “Don’t forget that it has an aura of chervil.”

Would you like some vodka with your Mongolian rocks?

(Above picture taken from an article in The Village Voice entitled “Our 10 Most Pretentious Restaurants”)

Sticker Shock

I’ve been going through the fun experience of “sticker shock” as I have been opening up our credit card bills corresponding to all of our summer fun and the finishing up of our house renovations. It’s not that we didn’t consider our budget when planning all of this. We had a good general idea of the cost of all of this fun and upgrades. It’s just when looked at, as individual costs, they didn’t look so bad. All lumped together, it’s breathtaking. It’s daunting.

I get “sticker shock” at certain stores every single time I check out. Costco and Target come to mind as my biggest, “Oh Wow! Did I really just spend that much? There must be some sort of mistake.” It happens every time. My daughter and I now laugh at ourselves when we say we are just running into Target for Advil or toilet paper. Ha! My favorite experience is when I try to hone myself in and I try to get away without getting a shopping cart. I still end up hobbling up to the checkout counter with a toppling pile of awesome stuff, often running into other shoppers because I can’t see over the pile of things that I am trying to carry, to the checkout line, to buy.

Costco is another harrowing experience of sticker shock. The checker usually whispers to us, the amount of money we owe, I guess in fears of setting us over the edge. How do incredible bargains add up to incredible sums owed, so fast? The person at the front of the store, assigned to check people’s carts, who are leaving the store, never bothers to check over our cart very much. We hand the person our mile long receipt with the scary sum total owed and they just highlight it real fast with looks of fear and sympathy, as they pat our backs on the way out of the store.

Don’t worry, readers. We are fine. Our bills are paid. I am not going to be adding a tip jar to my blog. Once again, I am just trying to get a laugh at what I hope is often a universal experience. I am going to age myself, when I say that I grew up at a time when things only had sticky price tags attached to them (UPC codes, huh?), and moms walked around grocery stores with little plastic clickers to keep a check on how much their carts were adding up to, in order to avoid the panic of literal “sticker shock” when the time came to write a check. Back then, no one got angry at people writing checks at grocery stores. I wonder if there is now a retro app on my phone, equivalent to the little plastic clicker. I guess that would be called a calculator. I may have to start using the calculator a little more handedly, if the ultimate “sticker shock” starts really affecting my health adversely. In the meantime, I’ll just nervously giggle.

The Cable Guy

The other day, I had the pleasure of having “the cable guy” at my house for the span of the entire day. We decided to finally switch cable companies, overcoming a long span of inertia, by the fact that we were being gouged by our previous TV/internet provider for years. But when our cable bill started competing with our grocery budget, when it started coming in right under the mortgage payment, I could no longer sit idly by, letting our money fly out of the window, at high internet speeds.

Frankly, I look at TV/internet providers, the same way that I view politicians: just a big pot of mess and evil, to greater and lesser degrees. So when the new provider told me that “the cable guy” would be at my house for an hour to an hour and a half, tops, I already blocked off the whole morning, on my calendar. Ever the optimist, I didn’t plan on blocking off my entire day to allowing a small, angry, sweaty man race all over my house and attic, swearing under his breath, digging up my yard, only to hand me the channel changer to one of my TVs, to have us both realize, that we could no longer turn the TV off. So the break that I was getting in a cheaper cable bill, would now be made up in our electricity bill.

During the new cable set-up day, I texted friends complaints throughout the day. We came up with a brilliant plan to light a fire under future cable guys’ butts. We decided that whenever you are having cable/internet/phone service (or any of the like) set up, you should invite over your most annoying, know-it-all, relative or neighbor. We all know the guy (sorry, but it IS usually a guy) who I’m talking about. He’s the guy who knows more about, and how to do everybody’s jobs, than they do. He is the guy standing behind “the cable guy” holding a coffee cup, filled with high octane coffee, barking out tips and suggestions and platitudes on how to get the job done right. My friends and I figured that would at least shave off a few hours from the job, as long as things didn’t escalate to murder, hence involving police and ambulance workers.

Reality is though, I won’t be having a cable guy out to our house any time soon. I will complain to friends and neighbors about outages and prices and the ridiculousness of having 879 TV channels, of which, only about three of those channels interest me. Then, decades down the road, I will finally get fed up with, “Sorry, but you just don’t qualify for any of our fantastic discounts as this point in time.” (once they get you hooked in with inertia and fear of a day spent with an angry “cable guy”, discounts no longer apply – ever.) I will call a new provider. They will tell me the change will take only a few minutes (this is decades down the road, remember). At this juncture, I will invite “that guy” over to make sure that “the cable guy” stays in his allotted time frame, for rigging and wiring my media to the price gouging setting. I have a plan in place.

The Disrupted Nest

Once upon a time there was this little bird who loved her nest. She loved being in her nest with her mate and her hatchlings. Of course, her hatchlings quickly grew to be big birds themselves and they started leaving the nest more and more. One hatchling grew up to be his own bird and left the nest and created his own nest, in a tree, far away, of his own liking. The bird family still flew to see each other, though. They were chatty birds, who liked each other’s company.

This story isn’t about hatchlings leaving the nest, though. This is about the time when the little bird’s nest was completely disrupted and the poor little bird thought that she would go cuckoo or even batty. Though a bit flighty, this little bird wasn’t a natural cuckoo, and bats, obviously, are a whole different species, but this little bird found that she was really starting to empathize with cuckoos and those beings sometimes described as batsh*t-crazy. You see, the disruption in her nest felt like it would never end and it was turning her into a whole different animal as much as she tried to stay pleasant and chirpy.

It all started when the little bird and her mate for life, decided that their nest was in serious need of some new straw. They found some birds who were particularly good at nest renovation and they agreed to give lots and lots (and lots) of seed to these birds, in exchange for some fresh straw. When it was time to take out the old straw and bring in the new straw, the expert new straw birds arrived and hung out with the little bird all day long, every day, for months and months. The poor little bird tried to stay positive and she could see that the new straw would soon look very nice, when she looked past all of the old straw, and dust feathers lying all around the nest. She tried not to pluck out the feathers in her chest, in distress, but she found it hard to resist sometimes. She tended to get a little “pecky” with her mate and nestlings who still lived in the nest with her, when they came home to the nest in the evenings.

This little bird was an old bird who had been around the flock for a while. She had even been through previous nest renovations in earlier times in her little birdy life. She knew that the process of the rebuilding of a nest would be annoying and disruptive. The little bird knew some calming yoga poses like standing on one leg that helped her get into balance. (a lot of birds stand on one leg). Still sometimes she felt pushed to the edge of her nest . . . and her sanity.

This story doesn’t have any ending yet, but the nest is progressing a lot and I suspect there is going to be a happy, calming ending for the little bird and her mate. I suspect that they are really going to appreciate the changes and updates to their nest, to the point that they will soon forget about all of the upheaval and disruption that this renovation has caused. And I suspect a few years down the road (maybe give it a decade), they will have conveniently forgotten how stressful it was to have their nest torn apart and displaced (they have little tiny bird brains that aren’t known for good memories – see elephants, for good memorization skills). Then, the little birds again, will get a wild hair (or a wild feather, in their case) and decide to yet again, exchange piles and piles of seed for an updated nest. That’s just how birds work.

Happy Reunion

Watching Game of Thrones last night was like going to a big, happy reunion, getting reacquainted with a bunch of people from your past. (In the case of Game of Thrones, there was also a major feeling of relief – oh, yay, Jorah, Theon, Gendry – that’s right! You are still alive! Hooray!) Reunions, when you haven’t seen familiar people in a long, long time, are always joyful. You find that you are even happy to see the “less than savory” characters, because of the familiarity of your shared history. There’s been enough time and distance to soften the level of annoyance that person brought to your life and if you are honest, the annoyance that you may have brought to their life, as well.

Our two youngest children sat down with us to watch the start of the final season of Game of Thrones. They are not the GOT addicts that their parents are, so they had only seen a sprinkling of episodes. Other than what they heard anecdotally from us and their friends, they had no idea what was going on.

“You can watch with us but you can’t talk and ask questions while the show is on. Understood?” was my very serious proclamation before the show began and while HBO was ceremoniously teasing us with a countdown to the beginning of the final season.

Of course, throughout the show, I made several lively comments, as I joyfully recounted the history of the various characters to my children. They looked at each other knowingly, but dutifully kept quiet throughout the viewing of the episode. I must have used the word “remember” 18,000 times to my husband, as an old familiar face would pop up on the screen and we would try to recount what had happened to that particular character throughout the history of the Game of Thrones TV extravaganza. My only disappointment was, just like the weekend, the show was over way, way too fast. I had to check the clock to really be sure that we got our full hour’s worth.

“I was eating in a Chinese restaurant downtown. There was a dish called Mother and Child Reunion. It’s chicken and eggs. And I said, “I gotta use that one.” – Paul Simon

“Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection.” – Arthur Schopenhauer

Smack Dab in the Middle

We are at the halfway point of our home renovation project. We are at the crescendo point, where every bit of fatigue and frustration with the whole thing is meeting at a head and ready to explode. There is no turning back. You can only keep your eye on the prize – the end result. It’s like being halfway through earning an advanced degree or being halfway through a pregnancy. It’s like being a little over 13 miles on marathon day. It’s like Christmas break for seniors in high school. The end is not close enough in sight, for real hope or for that last, exciting burst of energy. But the beginning is far enough away, that there is no turning back.

Yesterday, the swirling ball of frustration and the “Will this ever end?” drama cloaked me in a gray cloud of doom. I feel sorry for anyone who had contact with me yesterday. Please accept my apologies. I am just getting a little tired of sharing a powder room with my daughter and having half of my bedroom being encased in a plastic tent. I keep peeking through the plastic, half expecting to see scientists working on E.T. or for Walter White from Breaking Bad to be cooking up some meth in what used to be my ridiculously ugly, yet intact and usable 1980s bathroom. But all I see now are bare naked walls and a project that feels like it is moving at a snail’s pace – a snail who is taking a nap.

I have been through long renovations before in other homes that we have owned. I thought that I had prepared myself and set my expectations correctly. But just like any long, arduous, expensive project one decides to partake on, you can never fully be prepared. It is best to just keep a stiff upper lip and carry out the old British adage, “Keep Calm and Carry On.” Of course, one of my favorite coffee cups has the American version of this adage printed on it: “Now Panic and Freak Out.” I’m an American.

There Are Two Sides of the Brain

As I’ve mentioned, we have some bathroom/laundry renovations going on at our home right now. A very nice young man is supervising the project and he seems to be doing a lot of the woodwork, many times solo. When the project first started and there were a few men here, I heard the soft sounds of country music in the background. However, as it became time for the woodwork and it was solo time for the young man, I didn’t hear any music being played. I heard a woman speaking with a prim, crisp British accent. Curious, as I am a naturally curious person, I found myself wandering over to the corner of the house where they are working, under the guise of offering refreshments, honestly, to see what the woman’s voice was all about.

From what I could tell, it became obvious to me that the young man was listening to recorded books as he did the work on our house. I was so admittedly, pleasantly surprised. I have three “young men” sons myself, and honestly, I think that they would be listening to rap music (or sometimes zany podcasts), if they were in this young man’s shoes. It was also a self-awareness moment for me. I already had preconceived notions of what young men listen to, what they are interested in and maybe even a little bit of “if you are a tactile person with talents like woodworking, you aren’t a cerebral person who likes books.” Damn, this self-awareness movement has me looking at myself in a whole new light and sometimes, it ain’t pretty!

Here’s the best part. The curious part of me who doesn’t have a great filter, couldn’t leave it at that – I had to know for sure that he was listening to recorded books, I was curious about what book he was listening to and I was little disconcerted that he sometimes goes outside to cut wood and the English woman reading the book is still prattling on. Doesn’t he get confused and miss some of the good parts? Maybe he just gets lonely and likes to hear a voice in the background as he works?!?

So, one morning, while I probably hadn’t even pulled a comb through my hair yet (think bedhead), I just couldn’t help myself.

“Excuse me, I have a personal question for you . . . ” I said.

At this juncture, the young woodworker looked up at me in horror. Reflecting back, I wonder if he was thinking, “Oh gross! Another desperate, middle-aged housewife!” He had a very concerned, guarded look on his face. In retrospect, the curious part of me wonders if the renovation company trains these young woodworkers and plumbers on how to stave off advances (kind of like they do for young NBA players). It’s quite possible.

“Are you listening to recorded books while you work?” I asked quickly and furtively.

The young man still looked a little disturbed but relieved at the same time. This started a conversation between us about what book he was currently listening to and what his favorite genre of reading is (sci-fi/fantasy). It turns out that he is listening to Game of Thrones. I love the TV series of Game of Thrones, but he told me that they leave so much out in the TV remake and as always, the books are so much better. As for being concerned about missing sections, he told me that he has already read a lot of the books (over 700 pages each) and he has seen the show, so he can fill in a lot of the dots, when he misses a few pages being read. We, as two lovers of literature, had a really great conversation before he reminded me that he had to get back to work.

“The reality of life is that your perceptions – right or wrong – influence everything else you do. When you get a proper perspective of your perceptions, you may be surprised how many other things fall into place.” Roger Birkman

I am so grateful that my curiosity usually overtakes my perceptions! I learn about life and those who live it, that way. And often reality is a hell of a lot more interesting than my perception of it. Isn’t that grand?