RE: MS-WRITE NOW (Humor) Batteries Not Included (Rated AAA)

Batteries Not Included (Rated AAA)
I’m staring at my non-functioning flashlight for the fourth time in as many months, wondering why I never seem able to get ahead on this whole stocking up on batteries deal.

So, how about if we talk about batteries for a few minutes?

Now, I don’t want to lead you astray and make you think this is one of those naughty columns that will get you all hot and bothered. My suppositions are usually bookended between “information” and “How weird is that?” Pretty tame stuff.

I engage in these combination observational/query-ational activities mainly because it beats doing all of the things I should be doing like paying bills, making money to pay bills, or making sure I don’t make more bills.

Now, lest your mind go somewhere a wee bit too kinky we’re just discussing batteries here. That’s all. No double entendres, no hyperlinks to some sort of We-Are-Waiting-To-Turn-You-On dot com website.

I’ve been thinking about the kinds of batteries we need and why do we need more than one size? All right. You know what? I’ll give that one to you.

When I began this piece I knew I would run the risk of turning out a piece of writing that was filled with innuendo, allusion and insinuation, but I can see I had no reason for concern. I think this is going really well so far because we have a great opportunity for discussion and scrutiny. (Hey, is it just me or does that word, “scrutiny” just look nasty, like the word “moist?”)

I know it may seem I’ve wandered off topic, but I think I can get us back on track by addressing the whole size issue.

It seems like the larger they are the more of them you need. We are really going to have to fight the urge to yodel out, “That’s what she said!” at this juncture, aren’t we?

Again, I’m talking about batteries. Help me out. Let’s concentrate, shall we?

Why is it that the whole battery lettering series thing begins with an “A,” followed by “AA,” and an ensuing “AAA?”

Was the first “A” battery so positively received by the masses that a stuttering “A” system was introduced launching into “AA” and “AAA?”

Quite frankly, I don’t get the battery lettering logic at all. I mean, would it have sounded any odder to query with, “Do we have any B’s?” rather than inquiring, “Got a “triple A?” Was the originator of this clever system afraid that we would ask for bees and then we would be chased by them when others misunderstood and presented us with honey bees?

Or maybe there was a first Inventor Type who decided not to mess with a good thing, but then along came Inventor Type Number Two who might have asserted, “Hey, dumb bunny (this is thrown in as a nod to Easter weekend when I’m posting this), you need to move along the alphabet scale! Pick another letter and it doesn’t have to be a vowel.”

That’s when the battery folks must have added the “C” and “D” batteries into the series.

(I'm guessing that, subsequently, Inventor Type Number One began working on the educational grading system of A’s, B’s, C’s, D’s, oops E’s sound weird, we’ll go with “F’s.”)

Couldn’t the bra lettering lady have helped this industry out, assuring them that the consumer really could handle consecutive lettering? Therefore, you can actually begin with the first letter of the alphabet and still experience the fun of double and triple lettering; therefore, preserving your ability to expand into 25 other available letters. (Or if you don’t use all of the other letters, then don't skip any letters.)

And while we’re on this subject, why do we need more of the larger ones which, let’s be honest, are terrible in the endurance department? Uh-oh. Out of context I can certainly see what type of message this might be sending. Not exactly the one I intended.

Boy, is it just me, or is this whole double entendre thing getting worse? Let me try again.

Think functionality. Think weather. Stormy, unpredictable, tempestuous and steamy weather that makes the power go out. Focus! That’s when you require a flashlight in order to see, don't you?

Unfortunately, power outages mean darkness and so you must feel your way toward the desk where you keep the batteries. You then play the drawer version of hide and go seek, searching for those slick, solid, cylindrical cartridges…batteries.

You know, this trying not to be suggestive thing may be a lost cause. We can all agree I was never able to get the whole thing up and running, so I’ll just cut to the chase and be done with it.

Plugging things in is so much better.

RE: Humor About Undergarments of All Things

Ode to Foundation Wear


I enjoy a good Ode, whether it’s an Ode dedicated to a Grecian Urn, a Nightingale, or a spatula, the latter having been a topic of mine during last year’s spate of seasonal columns.

I also appreciate support; friends who support me, support hosiery, and even customer support.

Now you might wonder how those two references – odes and support – manage to connect. I suppose it’s safe to say it takes an unusual mind like my own to forge such a bond, but forge the bond I do as I offer up this – my ode and love letter, really, to foundation wear.

No post-holiday series of columns would be complete without one addressing what’s on all of our minds – underwear.

If you’re like me, every season, not just those pinned to holidays, presents new opportunities for creative carbo loading. In fact, during this time of year I imbibe all manner of high-calorie beverages and foods heretofore not previously on my caloric radar, so to speak.

Perhaps I am simply speaking for myself here, but it is January and I am fully reaping what I have sewn, which consists mostly of seams stretched beyond the manufacturer’s recommended limit.

Suffice it to say my recent “look” may best be described in two words: Tightly bound.

Ergo, because I have accumulated holiday girth, I require underthings creating an optical illusion or, at the very least, a diversion.

Yes, my rocking, sweet-as-a-cupcake physique has given weigh to full-on muffin top. Thus, I think it’s a good time to talk about the kind of support that truly means something in my life. Shapewear.

Ironically enough the whole undergarment movement has developed into a non-movement rendering our squishy parts immobile. Girdles are back, baby!

Oh, sure, they may be euphemistically renamed Spanx, Hourglass Angel, or Flexees, but make no mistake. These are in the same class as the waist cinchers of yesteryear.

The funny thing is I grew up watching the women in my family shimmy themselves into second generation corsets as though they were drumsticks being dipped into a bag of shake ‘n’ bake. These devices incorporated more clasps, snaps, and straps than a turn-of-the-century life vest.

I vowed never to subject myself to that kind of torture, as did most freedom-loving, rage the machine, the-calendar-is-on-my-side women. Accept us as we are. Real women ARE this size, so deal with it. Blah, blah, blah.

Fast forward to the external byproduct that is decades of truth wrought upon our bodies subsequent to childbirth, metabolic failure and sunlight with a double helping of “U” along with the “V.”

This is when I finally understood why my foremothers were so slavishly devoted to their foundation wear. They wisely understood that though we say we want truth in all things this doesn’t count in dress size or personality tests.

To quote one of my favorite bands, INXS:

It ain't pretty After the show It ain't pretty when the pretty leaves you With no place to go

After “the show” that is youth is when tight underclothing comes into play, providing no place for our body to go, thereby establishing important boundaries. (Think carp in a koi pond and how they will grow to the size of their environment. If we just allow ourselves large environments we will grow large…koi parts.)

I never thought I would see foundational items again, let alone utilize them. However, nowadays I find myself wondering why the “Hello Dolly” these articles of clothing ever went out of vogue.

There is an even newer term out there now: compression wear. I had always associated compression with applying it to open wounds, but somehow it makes perfect sense that we are applying it as a term for underclothes. More compression equals less psychic pain.

At this juncture you may find yourself asking, “What is the difference between undergarments that are too tight and undergarments that are helpful in bodily downsizing?

I’d say about 10 to 15 pounds.

RE: (Holiday Humor) Oh, Christmas Tree of Controversy

Oh, Christmas Tree of Controversy

Trees. Oh, converter of carbon dioxide, emitter of oxygen; rife with all manner of positive symbolism such as growth, life, and knowledge. They are genuinely nature's good guy.

Until Christmastime, that is, when regular ol' evergreens transform into seasonal symbols eliciting spirited debates. That's when the Douglas fir really starts to fly and away we go in a manger.

Like so many insidious instruments of divisiveness it goes by many ambiguous names. However, no matter which way you cut it down — whether you call it a Yule tree, a Christmas tree, or a Holiday tree — it is, most assuredly, a Tree of Controversy.

I don't know if my personal “Wonder Years” represented a simpler time, or if it's merely that I was simpler, but when I was growing up a Christmas tree was just a Christmas tree. The majority of the people I knew who had a pine of some sort seemed to have the identical version — slightly spindly and decorated with tinsel — but some of the “rich folks” had flocked trees.

The truly daring (usually estrogen-heavy households) opted for a pink, flocked tree. Certainly where there was not a tree, there might have been a Menorah or some other cultural talisman for the season. In fact, there wasn't much ado being made about the having of a Christmas tree or the not having.

Nevertheless, the times, they are a changing. This means the wind they're blowing in may not be pine-scented in the future since one man's decorative highlight is another man's perceived nose thumbing.

To summarize the political hullabaloo: It seems several people are ticked off that other citizens are making them gaze upon a Christmas tree when it's so not their thing.

While separation of church and state may be at the crux of the public controversy, I would venture to say there's a fair amount of separation of husband and wife in the private sector as well, due to this non-deciduous symbol of incitement.

The disagreements may not be exactly alike, but there is a shared premise: Two parties do not view the same thing the same way and no one is coming out of this thing unscathed. This argument pits them against one another and they need to hash it out and come to a mutually acceptable decision.

To summarize the domestic hullabaloo: It seems several family members get ticked off when they are forced to stare at a type of Christmas tree that is so not their thing.

Let me elaborate based upon my own experience. The real lightning rod of controversy centers on scoring the perfect evergreen. During this process our family uses technical terms like “bushy” and “branchy” when communicating our desires and expectations which apply to our prospective tree.

(We are quite devoted to the little known art of adding “y” to most any word in order to tone down the overwhelming connotative load of the aforementioned word in its original form-y.)

Which type of tree we adopt — the aforementioned bushy or branchy one — is dependent upon who won the rock-paper-scissors contest for that year. The branchy one is more like the tree
of our youth and it makes my husband very happy when we stare gape-mouthed at that vision of wonder.

Historically, I have been a fan of the branchy. In any case one thing is for certain. We will acquire a tree that is much too tall for our non-cathedral ceilings.In point of fact, it will barely fit through the door and will not be able to assume the vertical position until Edward
Scissorhands gets to it. Now, my husband is a musician and, as such, you would think a man who relies upon his hands to create dulcet, sweet, thrashing rock ‘n' roll chords would be careful. Nope, nope, nope.

You would be wrong because he is darned confident in his slashing abilities, perhaps due to his admirable musical chops.It's like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre guy has taken on a part-time job as a tree trimmer, there are so many plant parts flying.

I am always petrified I will have to fashion a tourniquet out of evergreen boughs as
I wait and watch to see if Rudolph will be emerging in topiary form.

When we're all done, there's more tree on the floor than in the stand, but it is now
lofty, poised, and looks as though it was meant for that corner.

It's a lot like childbirth in that way; you remember only the joy, not the pain … until the next
time.

RE: (Humor) Thanksgiving is near which is also a fabulous place to keep our gratitude...

Gratitude Where Gratitude is Due...to the Near-sighted

I have now attained the age where my time is better spent plucking multiple bodily quadrants, developing my personality and making gratitude lists, than it is perfecting my “image” with the attendant hair styling, make-up applying, and accessorizing with purse dogs that would be needed.

Yes, as we slide into the retail double play that is Thanksgiving and Christmas — THANKS-GIVE-US — I feel it is only appropriate to initiate one of our family's child rearing requirements – the gratitude list.

(In fact, I still have a list my daughter drafted when she was about 6 years old and fretting over her young lot in life that was being born into a family devoid of heiresses. Her beatific listing of things to appreciate was so heart-meltingly sweet. She was “great full” to have a cat, sheets, a mommy, a daddy, and a sissy. I think she still feels the same way all these years later.)

Maybe it's because my red-letter day (actually, I prefer purple) often coincides with the Thanksgiving holiday that I'm more inclined toward throwing a festive, life-affirming birthday party than I am a depressing, poor-me-I'm-aging pity party. The former provides me with an undeniably rich opportunity to look at my Big Gulp serving-sized life glass that is full right up to the straw.

What am I grateful for? I am grateful to the near-sighted for it is you who have genuinely made my aging so much easier.My own near-sightedness is a fact that has forced me to compensate for the unrelenting march of time by implementing the Larger-than-life Letter Labeling System (LLLS) of which my favorite tool, the Sharpie, is an integral part.

Without the utilization of such a system, I am left to my own devices and the results are never pretty, occasionally hazardous. For instance, when showering it is essential that I correctly identify which of my many bottles of delightfully smelling girlie stuff I require for use on my hair. When I haven't taken the time to alter the ant-dropping-sized font to a larger proportion, my day gets out of whack immediately.

We are all familiar with launching the requisite shampoo sequence of lather, rinse, repeat. In the absence of my method I'm likely to implement a flawed system whereby I lather, condition, lather, lather, rinse, lather.

My gratitude to the near-sighted folks who have crossed my path extends to those who may be classified as such both by virtue of physical and emotional myopia.

After all, it's really all about how the people you adore, value, and respect view you. You allow them entrée into your personal bubble, they get “magnified one thousand times” close and, lo and behold; they like what they see. There is no better gift than this kind of unconditional love.

I don't have enough space for an all-inconclusive list, but 365 days a year, 7 days a week, 25 hours a day, I am grateful for:

— My husband who tells me I'm beautiful and that my appearance hasn't changed even a little bit over the years, (although one time I did catch him lusting over a photograph of the 24-year-old me standing next to my beloved Camaro).

— My mom who still views me as her baby.

— My Bob who looks at me like his new baby.

— My sassy daughters who tell me I'm a pretty mama and that I dress hip, but appropriately (although sometimes a little too matchy-matchy according to the youngest).

— My treasured friend since junior high school, Mady, who assures me we both haven't aged one iota and darned if she didn't produce a Facebook-worthy profile picture that almost proved her point.

— My photogenic, photographer confidante, Sharon, who always uses the word “gorgeous” when she talks to me.

— My beauteous friend, Sue, who promises me I'm still “hot” at this point in my life (flashing hot, baby!).

— My all-around, forever gal pals, Sandy, Julie, and Tami who tell me every time I see them that I look “Great!” and that my hair looks wonderful, even when I had that '80s, hairbrush-breaking perm and pregnancies that turned me into a female Humpty-Dumpty.

— My adopted “big sis” Bev for looking at my college dance pictures and saying, “You know, you really haven't changed at all.”

— That older gentleman I hope I see again really soon who said I look like a young Natalie Wood.

— All those folks out there who exclaim, “You don't look old enough to have a teenaged daughter,” when the aforementioned teenaged daughter is actually my youngest child.

— The multitudes of young people working at my favorite caffeinated beverage purveyors, grocery stores, and retail outlets who don't say “you remind me of my mom/grandmother/older maiden shut-in great aunt” AND stop themselves every time they start to call me “Ma'am” and refer to me as “Miss” instead.

That's my kind of “Miss” – as in miss the mark on my biological age.

I am grateful for not-corrected-to-20/20 vision!

Biography. Diane Dean-Epps is an author, teacher and comedienne. She can be reached at mswrite10@yahoo.com or for more writings, clips see: http://www.dianedeanepps.com/

RE: (Humor) Carol Wright is All Right By Me...'tis the season for crazy catalogs...

Carol Wright is All Right By Me

Start your retail engines and warm up those credit cards. 'Tis catalog season!

On more than one occasion I've written about the odd array of catalogs seeming to find their way into my cobweb-encrusted mailbox, my recent acquisition being Carol Wright Gifts.

I must tell you, this offering is quite a boon for a humorist in addition to the discerning consumer who long ago might otherwise have given up on finding “must have” items, such as bottle tops that turn drink cans into drink bottles. (Everyone knows a can is gauche. Now a bottle? You can really pour on the class with this receptacle.)

What caught my eye instantly was the “the world's first bake, slice, and serve brownie maker.” Come to Mama! Where have you been all my life? If only my metabolism would allow for it, I would purchase this necessity pronto, enabling me to fulfill my lifelong dream of baking and consuming the perfect brownie. (You so get me. I don't care so much about the baking. I'm all about the consuming.)

Then there's a particular favorite product of mine — Liftight life serum — if only just for the “before” and “after” pictures provided rather than the outcome. However, speaking of results; the handsome gray-haired model illustrating the aftereffects looks surprised such a procedure would work, let alone that anyone would buy it in order to “look years younger in just 90 seconds.”

If you're math-oriented, and I know you're out there, a 60-year-old who wants to look, say, 30, would need 450 seconds for each set of five rolled-back years, so the total seconds tallied for the full 30-year regression lands somewhere around 2,700. What is, no doubt, the outrageous price for such a miracle product you ask? Only 14 bills. It's a steal at double that price!

There is one issue with this time machine in a bottle, though, and it resides in the fact there is a warning about the elixir lasting a maximum of 10 hours. Consequently, you must be ready for a future whereby your life will play out as the NeverEnding Cinderella story only you'll turn into a wrinkly pumpkin.

Next we have the perfect-posture back support, which is to posture what the chastity belt is to virginity. If you can slip into this rather daunting apparatus, you will likely achieve the desired result.

I will admit to giving more than a cursory glance to the sonic molechaser, but in my defense that was on a day when I was acutely irritated at our front yard wildlife known as Odocoileus virginianus. (The white-tailed deer.)

As a result of the voracious appetite of deer for deer-resistant foliage, I was forced into a first, second, and third planting of my vegetation, so I was a wee bit miffed.However, once I viewed the illustration featuring — I kid you not — a cartoon mole running away from a pencil-sized stake with its little mole paws up in a stick-'em-up-and-give-me-your-money gesture mouthing, “Eek!” I lost my thirst for the ruination of deer hearing.

I just consider anything we manage to grow my contribution to the propagation of a healthy food chain and utter a sacrificial, “Damn!”

Carol Wright is similar to other bygone catalogs that were ever-present in my grandparents' household, a relic of the popular pastime that was shopping by mail.

In business since 1952 and founded by a housewife out of her Mount Vernon, New York, apartment, Lillian Vernon is one of these. I remember my grandfather spending hours looking through catalogs, ordering items he didn't really need simply because it tickled him to get stuff in the mail.

He's been gone for over two decades now, but I am reminded of love not loss whenever I look at the Geisha doll he ordered for my grandmother so long ago.

I don't order from the catalogs I receive very often, which may explain why the delivery of them is so sporadic. I guess that's why I also don't need to order the featured pamphlet, How to Solve the Little Mysteries of Your Life.

One mystery down; just another couple hundred to go.

RE: (Humor) Care to take a poll? Pole fitness that is...THE NORTH AND SOUTH POLE

The North and South Pole

I’ll try just about anything (legal) once which is what propelled me into giving pole fitness a whirl. Literally.

The week leading up to the event I gleefully told anyone I came eyeball-to-eyeball with about my impending class. I loved seeing the look on their faces; something akin to horror and curiosity – horriosity maybe.

Eventually it dawned on me I needed to quit fooling around and prepare for the class mentally and physically.

Thus, I commenced with carrying out the equivalent of balloon flight offloading of unnecessary items and applied it to unnecessary calories.

I didn’t just purchase fruits and vegetables, so they could sit prettily in hand-painted bowls, but I actually ate them. All of them. All of the time. Because I was starving.

Then I turned my attention toward mental preparation. I needed to become at one with my not-as-yet-grasped pole. Be the pole.

I envisioned a mini training pole that I would twirl like a middle-aged Ninja, in readiness for the full Monty, so to speak. Then “wa-cha,” (a well-known Ninja sound effect), it would unfurl into full-scale and I would install it as easily as a shower curtain rod, albeit in a different direction.

My pole fitness instructor would be my Miyagi and it would feel as though I had been waiting my entire life for this moment. Okay, then I snapped to, hitting the humbling reality that was my pole. Literally.

As it turns out pole dancing is more pole than dancing.

Though Cirque de Soleil has never come knocking on my door, I have been dancing my whole life, even matriculating toward a dance minor and performing in a dance company. I was amazed at how well all of that did NOT prepare me for this particular foray.

I had fun stretching to the upbeat pop tunes and, initially, I was all sensuality and smiles as I shimmied closer to my pole. I’m on my way, oh, sexy, silent sentry.

As long as I was swinging along as though I was clutching a benign maypole I was in decent shape. Literally.

Arches, hip rolls, galloping horsie kicks. All good. Until we initiated our choreographed routine.

As executed by me, it did not manifest so much as an artistic form of expression, as it did a survivalist’s form of expression illustrating what it looks like to be hanging outside a 40-story building by a pole.

As I watched our teacher demo how the piece was supposed to be performed I realized I was so far out of my league I didn’t have a league.

Additionally, it is not a welcome sight to be standing adjacent to a reed thin pole in comparison to my not-so-reed-thin-like physique.

A few moves sent me into an ice skater death spiral, only I wasn’t on ice or skates and I was spinning on a pole.

The mirrored room that had looked so inviting when I arrived now garishly reflected my moves from the perspective of a fun house mirror. It mocked my every purposeful and not-so-purposeful move with exaggerated reflections of an act gone dreadfully wrong.

(By the way, screaming “Here I go!” does nothing by way of mastering the routine or scoring “pretty points.”)

The solution, and as it turns out the problem, was body weight. Not only was I attempting to launch, hold and swing my Rubenesque lusciousness up and onto a pole, but we were schooled to use our body weight for momentum. Uh-oh.

While our instructor beautifully rocked to and fro, using her pole as a prop that accentuated her lithe stature, flowing flexibility, and athletic prowess I was juxtaposed as the opposite of all that. I had taken my own advice to “be the pole” to heart; stiff, immovable, unable to change my form.

I’ve never been known for my skills at defying gravity as my severe pommel horse flashbacks will attest.

At one point I had the oddest sensation that I was being watched. As I glanced out the window I saw a group of someones standing in the parking lot – no less than 20 of them – watching my one-ring circus act due to my awesome pole positioning.

Pole fitness should encourage the inner vamp in you. For me, instead of a “come hither” look I had more of a “come hither and take me down” look.

While it was all good fun I’m not sure whether I’ll be working pole fitness into my regular exercise schedule.

I’m still undecided. Maybe I need to take a poll?

RE: (Humor) No Iphone, Iswear...technology you can almost laugh about

No Iphone, Iswear

When our family sets out to enjoy some scheduled spontaneity, it seems the only way “normal” works its way into the experience is if we watch other families on their outings.

Witness our recent adventure when we all got together for a bit of revelry marking our birthdays.
There we were, waiting outside an eatery, having a good ‘ole time engaging in the laugh riot that ensues as we torture each other with the usual conversational fodder.

This non all-inclusive list of topics consists of: our advancing age, “what were we thinking?” presents, and a wealth of stories with embarrassing moments that are sure to mortify the subject.

Just about the time our table was ready a young woman advanced upon us, ostensibly seeking solace as she set forth her tale of woe.

It seems her cousin had set her Iphone on the bench, over yonder, and though she didn’t think it was the case, she was wondering if we had seen it.

We assured her that we had not seen such an item. (Heck, truth be told, we hadn’t even seen the bench.)

We made the appropriate sympathetic noises one would make when a stranger reports the loss of something and, thinking we were done, we made our way over to the front of the establishment.

Then it got ugly. Real ugly.

Immediately the launch sequence was initiated for one of my least favorite spectator sports – the public scene.

I distinctly noted her glowing red eyes, octaval voice drop, and six-inch height increase as she tuned up for an orchestral rant.

The kicked-up-a-notch-shrew told us it sure was funny we hadn’t seen her iphone since we were talking about it when she walked up, to which I cleverly interjected, “I what?!”
[By the way, that play on words thing may work well in columns, comedy clubs, and even congregations, but not with an angry, unhinged fruitloop.]

Oh, sure, that’s right. Just call me Ma Barker. That’s what me and my younguns do for kicks on the weekends. We travel to area restaurants, absconding with folks’ iphones, making a passel of trouble for ‘em.

As an aside to my aside, the she-devil was wearing a particularly fetching frock, which did not even hint at the unpleasantries to follow.

Timing being everything, it was at this juncture that the bistro maître d (that’s fancy talk for “person holding menus”) called our party’s name. A good thing too, because I was just getting ready to helpfully offer “Young Yeller” a southernmost locale where she might seek out her missing Iphone.

After such a bizarre interlude we somnambulated our way toward our table, shaking off the road dust and our odd experience. We even managed to laugh about the incident as we sat down to consult our “quick pick” 30-page menu.

I laughingly advised my family, from now on I was going to ask everyone, “Want to see my new Iphone?”

By the end of the meal we’d all but forgotten about our rendezvous with crazy in the form of “America’s Next Top Possessed Model.” We were excitedly contemplating the embarrassing birthday festivities at the end of our meal, having long been the hallmark of restaurant merrymaking; singing, clapping, and lighting a delicious confection on fire.

It was at this moment our server returned, inquiring as to whether we had an Iphone. I was aghast, affronted, and apoplectic, in addition to other words not beginning with an “a.”
Heretofore my ire had remained a stowaway on my skiff of outrage, but it now launched on the behemoth ship known as, the U.S.S. Incensement.

I took a shallow breath and ahoy, matey, full steam ahead!

“Oh, for pete’s sake. We don’t have a flipping Iphone. This is ridiculous. Did that girl actually get you to ask us that? She is one cuckoo short on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, let me tell you. How about she reels it in and takes responsibility for whatever happened and then she can quit harassing us?”

Our nonplussed waitress looked at me in growing bafflement, commenting matter-of-factly, “Oh, yeah, I heard someone lost their phone. No, no, no. I was asking because if you have an Iphone there’s an app you can access to get a restaurant coupon.”

Chagrined, my response was vintage Gilda Radner, via that inimitable “Queen of the Misunderstandings” character, Emily Litella, from “Saturday Night Live.”

“Oh.” [Insert long pause.] “Never mind.”

RE: Oh, Fiddlesticks! Humor about outmoded expressions known as minced oaths

Oh, fiddlesticks!

We are a perpetually surprised species. Attesting to this fact is the sheer volume of astonished utterances we boast in our distinctly American lexicon and language.

No doubt, many of these outmoded expressions now reside in the Smithsonian of Jargon.
We have always been willing to travel quite a piece, euphemistically, in order to avoid objectionable words or terms, rather than giving voice to the blasphemous ones that erupt rather more naturally.

Since the Crusades we have made every effort NOT to take the big guy’s name in vain, resulting in the accumulation of a runneth-over treasure trove of idioms that are not so much logical as plentiful. These terms are known as minced oaths.

I’m sort of a closet linguist and, believe you-me, this is not the kind of closet anyone wants to see me step out of any time soon. Be that as it may, because of this fact (the linguist part, not the closet part), my observational pursuits stretch far beyond what folks are doing and well into what they are saying and how they are saying it.

Word count and my ability to sustain my own attention span necessitated that I only cover three minced oaths this time around.

OH, FIDDLESTICKS!
Last uttered by the last Confederate widow when she learned her husband’s pension would continue to be issued in Confederate currency, which was no longer legal tender, at least on this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
What I thought was the origin.
Fiddles were once played with sticks.
How I fared.
I was almost right.
What seems to be accepted truth about the origin.
There appears to be a wee bit of controversy here. Some folks are like-minded with yours truly, asserting that fiddles were played with sticks, while the oppositionally inclined non-fiddle-lovers say fiddling itself is nonsense; therefore, the saying is synonymous with “that’s nonsense.” Of course, the Fiddle Players for Change in the World through String Instruments are all up in arms, if not sticks.

HEAVENS TO BETSY!
Last uttered by the last World I veteran when he figured out he had been collecting his pension for longer than all of America’s combined years at war.
What I thought was the origin.
I was pulling for a Betsy Ross connection.
How I fared.
I could be right or I could not be right.
What seems to be accepted truth about the origin.
There are countless derivatives for this one, including Heavens to Murgatroyd, my heavens, for heaven’s sake, and heaven help me, but the provenance of the phrase has baffled linguists and bored laymen for a couple of centuries. Two consistent explanations offered up are that it’s a reference to the rifle “Old Betsy,” which has offended every young Betsy who ever lived, and the infamous Betty Ross flag lore supported by her relatives, rather than historical accuracy.

JIMINY CRICKET!
Last uttered by Walt Disney when he realized he’d given Mickey Mouse a girlfriend, but neglected to do the same for Jiminy Cricket.
What I thought was the origin.
Though the peanut and the cricket shared the same clothing designer, the peanut always scared me while a childhood visit to Disneyland established the cricket as a favorite of mine. In short, I knew who Jiminy was.
How I fared.
Partial success on this one. I was spot on knowing from whence the cricket came, but I had never made the association with Jiminy Cricket’s initials of J.C. and why he would then be an apt substitution for a colorful, though potentially sacrilegious interjection.
What seems to be accepted truth about the origin.
You need to be a certain age to even remember anyone bellowing, “Jiminy Cricket!” let alone know who – or what – Jiminy was. However, my friend Wikipedia has provided me with a solid frame of reference. As it turns out, Jiminy was created by one dude for his appearance in the children's book Pinocchio, but revamped by one of Disney’s Nine Old Men animators for his future starring role in Disney films.

So, if you’re bored some Saturday evening and, no, it doesn’t have to be a Saturday evening, smarty pants, go to the font of endless, senseless information – any search engine—and tap in “origin of expression” plus any ‘ole turn of phrase that comes to mind.

The hits will just keep on coming.

RE: Parenting Humor...the real reality show: SURVIVOR...Parent Style

SURVIVOR: Parent Style…the real reality show about survival

Perhaps I am only one of a handful of people able to make this claim, but I’ve only seen the show, Survivor, a few times.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten through an entire episode, although I was drawn in ever so briefly by the exotic locales and resultant geography lessons, such as in the case of Survivor: Marquesas, which provided me with a look-see at Nuku Hiva, the largest of the Marquesas Islands.

To me this show isn’t hardcore enough, barely registering on the ‘ole endurance meter.
Nope, my idea for a REAL show about REAL survival would be called, Survivor: Parent Style.
None of this namby-pamby eating of bugs, ratting each other out to narrow the playing field, and being subjected to Generation Y-ME’s hook-ups that – gasp! – don’t seem to ever work out.

No living the unreality of a reality show, as contestants vie for a cash prize and the chance to be on the cover of People magazine as the “hottest” television survivalist of the year.

In my production Survivor: Parent Style features parental contestants leading the way as they plan and implement a family journey out back, out front, or out in the middle of nowhere.
This set-up is rife with possibilities illustrating what it’s really like to be challenged beyond the limits of human capacity.

(In point of fact, most of you know what we usually call this kind of adventure: camping.)
In a civilized society parents are challenged by family life every ding-dong day. Imagine how entertaining it would be if this domestic show hit the road.

Survivor: Parent Style wouldn’t be a wimpy show with whiny people dispatched to a gorgeous island where they’re interviewed about how hard it is to balance, standing on a raft, for hours. Huh-uh. No, sirree!

This reality show would follow whiny families living on a marginally attractive land mass where we hear kids ponder existential topics. For instance, the concept of time as applied to destination by asking, “Are we there yet?” to which their wise, well-spoken mother would reply, “We are here, Josh. There is here. Now be quiet, eat your pill bug, and pass the larvae.”

Think of the hilarity that would ensue as the sheer volume of scenes roll out, fueled by rich family history guaranteed to incite one another to achieve personal bests in emotional wrestling. It would be Swiss Family Robinson on steroids.

And the visuals. Ever balance over a latrine while holding a three-year-old’s hand? Moms, I know you have.

Now, there’s a challenge America is probably not ready to see, but that’s what true survival looks like. There could be plot twists, like temper tantrums that scare the natives so badly, they try to figure out how to get off of their own island.

One set of flying flip-flops, soaring across the forested treetops after they’ve been launched by an entitled child hearing the word, “No!” from their parent for the first time is all it would take.

The only problem is that Survivor: Parent Style might not be the ratings bonanza networks are looking for because this would be “real” reality and that may be too darned scary.
Nevertheless, I have come up with a pretend introduction for my pretend show:

“Watch Survivor: Parent Style as ordinary people, previously living ordinary lives, take their extraordinary children into an extraordinary world filled with dangerous obstacles.

Observe parents spending 18 years raising their children in the wild, without losing them, their own sanity, or the keys to the jeep that will escort them out of this hellhole when, and if, the jeep starts up at the end of their almost-two-decade-long journey.”

That’s right. I forgot to tell you the best part of my idea for the series, Survivor: Parent Style.

The show would air for 18 years OR until all of the minor children attained non-minorhood OR until all of the majority-aged adults were majorly nuts.

Whichever comes first. Care to lay odds on this one?

RE: 'Tis the Season for Fitness Humor...It's Not that It's NOT Time to Get Fit

The Not Not List…10 Reasons to Not Not Be Fit

I love lists, don’t you? I’m thrilled by the power that surges through me as I check-off one nagging task after another, watching my chores dwindle from countless to count ‘em down.

Daily, I leave brightly colored pieces of paper in my wake with “To Do” emblazoned on the top of the page, heading up the most scintillating tasks known to woman; buy cat food, make bank deposit, acquire drain unclogging liquid, and “Be Here Now.”

Everything from menial tasks to mantras of inspiration are reflected on these shreds of paper which also document my hobby of running hither and thither.

In a nod to my love of lists and humor applied to just about anything, including fitness and test taking experiences of all things, I’ve created this particular “Not Not” list.

The general provenance of “Not Not” lists comes by way of my experiences as an adolescent student when I navigated countless test questions that ended with: “Which of the following answers do not best describe…”

These drove me crazy because I spent my entire educational career matriculating toward the right answers, so why on earth were the blasted test makers having us identify the wrong answers? I swear I heard electricity in my brain whenever I was presented with this ilk of examination.

(Also, truth be told, I’m also somewhat of a closet “knock, knock” joke fan, so “Not Not” is designed to sound like that classic joke set-up.)

The “Not Not” is not just for lists either. The reference can also work as a conversational gambit, such as when folks ask you for money.

“It’s not that I’m not interested in donating to your organization.” This leaves them confused and you off the hook.

In honor of the fact that summer seems to have finally arrived and with it the moment of truth that is, “Oh, no, my traditional build does not bode well for swimsuit season,” I will address the topic of fitness.

Even now, as I skim the aisles for a beach burka that will highlight the parts of my body that actually do illustrate the fact that I work out, I have come face-to-face with that never fun, always true revelation – I’ve got to stop eating the wrong things.

Since I will not be spending my summer stuffing my piehole with pie I must stuff my mind with humor, so here is a Low-Cal helping.Ten Reasons to Not Not Be Fit:

1. During the parent-teacher conference you’ll be able to avoid that cursed excuse, “Oh, no I’m not stuck in the chair, I’ve just got a kink in my leg” when trying to escape the student chair that has you wrapped like a human burrito;

2. Not having to assert that you’re big-boned and from hardy stock when you’re 5’2,” wear a size five shoe and you hail from people who paid people who were of hardy stock to do things that your decidedly non-hardy clan couldn’t;

3. Once and for all you can put an end to those “Red Rover” flashbacks from childhood when you simply couldn’t make it over;

4. You will no longer have to make excuses for your “does not play well with others” metabolism that always seem to include the words “thyroid,” “medication” and “mumu”;

5. Squeaking furniture will no longer sound accusatory;

6. Driving up hills won’t wear you out;

7. You can postpone the improvement of your personality, instead drafting off of the fact that your fit body will encourage more looking than talking;

8. You will no longer need to generate fantastical stories like, “I’m in the witness protection program” to justify your NO PICTURES policy;

9. You’ll be able to quit saying, “This runs small,” even when you’re talking about jewelry;

10. When others say they need to get fit, you’ll just smile, flex your new muscles, and mentally cross this one off your To Do list.

RE: PRONING THE ACCIDENT...humor about being a wee bit accident prone...

Proning the Accident

I’m a wee bit accident prone and though there isn’t a support group, or 12-step recovery program for this condition, the distinction may at least merit qualification as an unofficial club.

I will call those of us who possess this tendency “proners.” (I almost said for the sake of clarity, but even I know that’s a bit of a stretch.)

I often joke I can dance, but I can’t walk because I not only bump into inanimate objects on an almost hourly basis, but I have patented a type of running trip that often lands me somewhere I wasn’t planning to go, narrowly avoiding full implementation of my full coverage insurance.

My clumsiness has always been a part of my life, but as I’ve gotten more – mature – I seem to have incorporated a new twist into my customary movements around this earth. I don’t even notice when they‘ve occurred.

It isn’t unusual for me to be told things like: Your zipper is down, your hair is stuck in the car window and your sweatshirt is zipped over your seatbelt, often at the same time.

This worries me when I watch elder care commercials and the words “surrendering your estate,” “power of attorney” and “best placement of least restraint” flash by.

Proners beget proners and clumsiness begets antics and that brings me to my mum.

She has always been a source of slapstick comedy and, thus, hours of amusement. She is Lucy and we’ve always had a “Lucy and Ethel” sort of relationship.

Instead of stuffing chocolates in our faces as the conveyor belt runs rampant we‘ve found ourselves stuffing overdue bills in our purses as my father wonders why we never seem to receive any mail.

And speaking of my father. He was a hilarious guy, there’s no doubt about it, but his physical comedy chops were unparalleled, albeit unplanned.

One sweltering summer we were engaged in the delightful pursuit of the American Dream that is traveling via motorhome, necessitating the purchase of a cooling unit due to the aforementioned swelter.

I can still see my father standing at the front of the vehicle, explaining to us all how he had installed a fan right up front and we needed to watch our heads. He cautioned us that if we were “…too stupid to avoid the fan, then I don’t feel sorry for you. I’m only going to tell you this one time. Watch your head.” It’s not like I retained a transcript, but that is the phrase we chant when my family tells the story.

As my father climbed off his makeshift podium he managed to snag the edge of the newly installed fan with his noggin, causing him to shift his weight slightly. We didn’t say a word.

One hour later we were at the side of the road taking a potty break – ya gotta love the comforts of the Winnebago – the motor home as opposed to the American Indians – when my father attempted to scoot back into his seat. It looked as though he was going to clear that multi-bladed contraption too, but it all went wrong in a split second and he managed to wing the side of his head.

We immediately guffawed, covering nicely with some coughing. Later that day we pulled over again to enjoy a nourishing, motorhome-cooked meal which always seemed to contain three elements: meat, potatoes, and a can of vegetables. In short, the same fare as we had at home.

As my father made his way past the almost-regular-sized table located behind the driver’s seat, he nearly made it to the driver’s seat, but at the last second he hit his head so hard on the fan that the force threw him down the aisle, bouncing him all the way back down the aisle like an errant pinball in a pinball machine.

We never saw the fan again and I suspect it disappeared somewhere in the oil fields of Texas, arcing into the derrick-dotted landscape.

To this day I cannot look at a fan without chuckling, which makes for some interesting moments when I’m by myself purchasing a fan during my own sweltering summer.

Re: Humor About Raising The Not So Wee Ones...Gauging My Reaction

Gauging My Reaction

Kids gauge their ears now. Do you know this term, “gauge” in this context? It refers to the process by which you gradually stretch a “regularly sized” pierced earhole into a larger one. (I’m nothing, if not informative.)

[By the way, don’t indiscriminately toss out some sort of descriptive reference like, “stretched ears,” or you’ll need to immediately deduct several points from your coolness rating. If you’re like me this occurrence would firmly place you in the negative numbers.]

I used to only use (or know) the word “gauge” in terms of its “back in the day” meaning, as in:

I gauged my parents’ reaction when I came skidding in past curfew, simultaneously providing them with the farcical excuse that my gas gauge wasn’t working which caused me to run out of petrol, ergo, the resultant lateness.

This seemingly extraneous apparatus – the earlobe – is thought to provide balance, so I’m wondering if getting your ears gauged means you’re seeking balance or that you have better than average balance?

If you look up the word “gauge,” dictionary.com style you’ll find that it’s either a verb or a noun, dependent upon what you’re looking to do with the word.

Gauge as a verb means, “to determine the exact dimensions, capacity, quantity; to estimate, judge, or measure.” The noun version is, “a standard of measure or measurement.” See, there. Nothing about ears. Not even a reference to the auditory.

The funny thing is that I’ve displayed gauged ears for quite some time. This is of the INvoluntary sort; however, subsequent to my youthful pursuit of donning heavy chandelier-type earrings which just about equaled the weight of real chandeliers.

I didn’t realize I was sporting abnormally large piercings until an acquaintance helpfully mentioned to me that I had not so much earholes as slits and large slits at that.

Though she succeeded in undermining my ear confidence she also succeeded in accomplishing something else much more memorable – she rendered me speechless.

I simply made a squeaking sound. Now that I think of it, perhaps the utterance was not so much validly vocal as aptly auditory; the result of air flowing through my enlarged piercing as we listened to the sound of silence.

I mean, what is a person supposed to do with this physical feature? Are there ear burkas? Earlobe tucks? How about earhole lifts?

Her observation has reverberated throughout the ensuing ears…years which is likely why I look at people’s earlobes almost as much as I do their eyes.

Thus, I noticed this whole gauging of the ear trend early on. That and the fact that my own fully-lobed child decided to live large, piercing style. I call the look “going tribal,” only her tribe is not so much aboriginal as a confident, I-am-the-best-original. I admire that.

I certainly get that every generation has its own version of how they assert “rage the machine” tendencies and claim their freedom.

Babyboomers usually translated the concept of freedom into not doing things (think letting hair grow, not bathing, and eschewing undergarments), but today’s youth is much more take charge. Our rebellion meant we weren’t gonna let “the man” command us on every level, including hygiene. There weren’t too many of us who marked ourselves up either, tattoos being seen mainly on sailors, prisoners, or people who were related to a tattoo artist who needed practice.

It’s the norm for Generation Z, or the Net Generation, to exhibit markings and piercings of all kinds. In fact, I often joke with my kids that if they want to be exceedingly different – don’t do anything. They’ll be the only ones in their age group in possession of an unmarked body canvas by the time they’re thirty.

I do appreciate adornment though, but I assert that I shouldn’t be able to read the restaurant specials of the day through my daughter’s 9/16th window to the world piercing. She assures me it’ll grow back, “it” meaning the lobe, but I can’t stand to see any part of her gone, so I exact revenge with my marginally amusing commentary.

For example I’ve taken to yelling, “Hellllooooo!” into her gauged earholes and you can imagine the reaction I get – initially. Truth be told she usually ends up laughing.

Earlobes, in general, are fascinating, almost as diverse as a fingerprint. Who knew that decades later I would finally fit in with my formerly objectionable attribute, sliding right into style?

The only problem is now that I’m all gauged up and ready to roll I’m ENgaged in and focused on, “my temperature gauge has gone kablooey and my blood feels like lava flowing through my body” phase of my life.

Timing really is everything. Pass that towel, would you?

RE: (Humor) What the heck is a flippernugget?

Flippernugget

I write so much that I’ve practically got words sweating out of me in the most inconvenient places – the words, not the sweat – forcing me to scribble on any surface I possibly can – fast – lest I forget the idea.

As it turns out, a simple piece of paper is not all that easy to come by when you’re out and about spreading around joy as I am wont to do. My peripatetic ways force me to commandeer writing surfaces in transit which is why I’ve been known to put pen to often-non-paper upon quite an array of items; fast food bags, receipts, the car door, neighborhood children, bank deposit slips. (With regard to the latter I was informed that humor column text does not convert to legal tender.)

The problem with this modus operandi is that afterward I’m left to decipher my own notes and that can be a tricky business, my penmanship being marginal when I’m stationary, let alone in forward motion.

Placing a receipt on the steering wheel and writing on it with an eyebrow pencil makes it difficult to get my own drift because that’s all I’m often left with. Drift. As in: the writing implement is drifting downward leaving the semblance of letters from what appears to be an extinct language. Perhaps Atlantis-ian?

Thus, I’m left to decode jottings like “tennis shoes,” which I’m convinced are, no doubt, an integral part of a brilliant book waiting to be written. If only the crucial springboard to this unforgettable literal legacy could be understood.

When I reflect upon these same doodles later, not when I’m more sane or focused, but simply later, I have no idea what I was thinking. This brings me to my recent Dead Sea scrolls finding when I excavated a torn and rather lonely-looking piece of binder paper from underneath the detritus of my passenger seat upon which was inscribed one word. Flippernugget.
Now, what could I have been thinking? I know we call those dealies we convulsively punch on the side of pinball machines, convinced we’re pinball wizards, flippers, but no nuggets there.

In an effort to jog my out-of-shape memory I looked the word up on the Internet, but all I came up with was a mythical cartoon, rainforest-dwelling animal. Oh, and some random blog entries about not being able to sleep. I know. I don’t get the connection either, but I’m guessing these folks write all sorts of arbitrary things like I do, but they turn them into blog entries, not columns.

At first, the search engine helpfully inquired as to whether I meant, flipper nugget, two words, as though that was going to net me a bigger answer fish. I got bupkus whether it was expressed as a compound word or not.

I’m going Old School and getting out the dictionary. Finagle, finfoot, first mate, Flemish, flocculate. Nope. No FLIPPERNUGGET. What if I parse it out, like I was done taught to do during my turn-of-the-century education?

Okay. Flip. “Someone or something that flips.” I think we can all agree that doesn’t contribute much to the goal of clarification. The entry also mentions a fin and then a flat or hinged something-or-other in the theater. That sure doesn’t ring any proverbial bells, so let’s go for some whistles. I’m going to go look up, “nugget.”

I’m back. Basically, it is a “lump of matter.” If I put the two together I’ve got a lump of matter that flips. Huh.

Perhaps the 1960’s show, “Flipper,” starring that loveable dolphin by the same name that was smarter than the average human had a full name of Flippernugget? Probably not.
Maybe when a certain fast food restaurant first came up with their fish fillet they thought they’d try fish nuggets and they were going to call them flippernuggets? Nah. I’m reaching now.

Well, I’ll have to chalk this one up to, “I have no idea what I was thinking” and file it. Mental note: This file is almost full. Purchase a bigger folder.

It’s clear there was no reason in the world why I would have written that word down and who knows how you would…hold on. Maybe I’ll go on over to Wikipedia. I can probably be the first to create my very own entry. What? It asked me if I meant, “flippilodge?”
Oh, flippernugget!

Ohhhhh. I just made it up as an expression. Well, mystery solved AND there’s no need for a new “I have no idea what I was thinking” file folder...yet.

RE: Fetch, Heimlich!...a humorous take on the care of your pooch...

Fetch, Heimlich!

Did you know there is actually a prescribed Heimlich maneuver for hounds? That’s right. When Fido gets that nasty rawhide stuck in his craw you, as his loyal, trustworthy, non-insurance-holding owner are responsible for removing said rawhide from said craw. [As an aside, the craw is located just below the wishbone.]

There are actually many websites devoted to the emergency management of choking canines. Evidently, dogs are “notorious for swallowing just about anything that will fit in their mouths.”

Now there’s a news bulletin. I once found myself attempting to pry an entire ham out of my dog’s mouth that most certainly did not fit, although he rectified that situation in a hurry.
In my experience, these resourceful and independent cusses resolve any issues with potentially dangerous materials on their own, but it’s still a good idea to have a back-up plan.

The doggie version of the Heimlich maneuver situates the pet owner in a most unflattering standing position whereupon the choking creature is straddled backwards. Wait. It gets better with the most specific of instructions.

Knees should be slightly flexed, bracing the dog’s shoulders as you place your hands in a hand-over-fist position on the bowwow’s abdomen, sliding them toward the aforementioned knees. Have you tried to find a dog’s shoulders lately? Tricky work, that. I can barely find my own shoulders without a mirror.

We are then instructed to feel for the bottom of the animal’s rib cage (because that’s where the diaphragm is located, silly) which is where we are to land sharp, short thrusts, followed by a quick release.

Lest you get the wrong idea, you are not to lift the critter off of his feet, but rather you are focused on dislodging the object in order to keep your pet earthbound in more ways than one.

You must repeat this sequence every two to three seconds until the dog is breathing freely, even if you’re not because you’re so stressed out by the entire ordeal.

If you should be unlucky enough to possess a small breed you are instructed to lie down with the pup and perform the above procedure. I don’t know about you, but as much noise as our mutts are always making, what with the blowing, barking, gagging, snoring, yapping and snarfled begging, I’m not sure if I’d be able to identify whether or not my dog is in real trouble.

Over the course of several years I’ve taken my share of mandatory and otherwise CPR classes, rendering it nearly impossible for me to ever look at a mannequin or an extremely thin person the same way again, at which time we were instructed to shout at the victim, “Are you choking?”

I guess that won’t work in this scenario for obvious reasons. The animal wouldn’t be familiar with the word “choking.” More than likely she would think we’re asking her if she’s a good girl which often leads to the receipt of a treat and that’s how we got into this sticky wicket in the first place.

In light of these newfound tips our family has imposed a mandatory “no dangerous treats” policy in our home which should alleviate any problems that may arise as a result of our pets sneaking off unsupervised as they chew on anything but AKC-sanctioned snacks.

Meanwhile, speaking of sneaking and treats, I think I’ll wrap this up and toddle off, so I can treat myself to a new pair of sneakers. It’s odd, but I can’t seem to locate any of the six pairs I own, all of which sported some pretty snazzy leather trim.

Training Horn...humor...honk if you've got a real horn

Training Horn

We have an absolutely adorable, possibly even sporty car which, other than a blind spot or two contributing to the maintenance of my zippy heart rate, is quite the enjoyable little number to drive.

I must say, though, there’s one smallish car feature and consequential largish issue that seems to have been overlooked by the overpolite manufacturer in creating a robust image of this automobile. The horn.

This Standard Issue item emits an embarrassing braying sound reminiscent of a malfunctioning bike horn in mid-squeak. The incongruous effect is not unlike a situation where, let’s say, one is appreciating the artistic value that is a stunning specimen of a man only to have him ruin the effect by opening his mouth and uttering a few words in a prepubescent voice register higher than any testosterone-fueled human being should possess. It’s off-putting and even unnatural.

Not only is our horn an auditory embarrassment, but the tone renders it ineffectual to the nth degree. Whenever I need to avoid someone backing into me, merging into my lane or getting ready to pull out in front of me, I, as the beeper, tap the horn, emitting a staccato blast that is not so much a warning as a come hither.

People commence to looking around for the Huffy bicycle that’s sure to be in the vicinity and they are aghast to see it’s really a car and not one of those scaled down electric models either. Meanwhile, whatever action the beepee was taking often just goes forward because they’re so thrown off by my incompatible delivery system for the horn.

Worse than that is the state of affairs when the errant driver doesn’t hear my inoffensive toot at all. Whether I invoke a sustained tap on the apparatus or a briefer Morse Code approach, the resultant aural effect leaves much to be desired in the usefulness category.

This has me practicing maneuvers identical to the ones I’ve witnessed on television automobile advertisements with the warning in ant dropping-sized font at the bottom of the screen, “Do not attempt. Professional driver on a closed course.”

In point of fact, I’ve had more luck waving my arms, buzzing down my window and screaming, “Stop!” in avoiding collisions.

I’m not saying when you purchase a car you should test out the horn…okay, you know what? Yes, I am. I don’t know if an awkward honk is a deal breaker, but it certainly is a shock deflector at the very least.

At the time of purchase, for some reason we tested out everything except the horn. We sat in all driver and passenger positions, we flicked on the windshield wipers, we activated the blinkers, regular and emergency, and we listened to the very fine sound system as we engaged every launch sequence the car offered.

Finally, we test drove the car, kicked those tires, toted that barge and at no time in our checking of lists twice did we think to determine if we might be adopting a baby horn or a horn that would be in need of a transplant some time in the near future.

I just assumed our car would come equipped with an adult-sized version of the blasted thing, so I never thought to confirm that fact and there is no upgrade. I asked.

As the polar opposite of an ooga horn our “klaxon,” which is the other moniker it goes by, is a blow of indignity to one of the most important of our five senses. That’s bad enough, but now I’m beginning to dread using it.

Off I go anyway, defensively driving my way safely around town, not so much to keep my suave ride from getting dented, that’s a given.

I’m more careful than the average motorist because I dread close calls when I have to hit the horn, lest people look around for a phlegmy roadrunner with a chest cold. Cough, cough! Beep, beep!

Honk if you’ve got a real horn.

RE: (Humor) Drive in, Drive-through...social commentary via my own special brand of " logic"

Drive-In Drive-Through

In my pursuit of the American dream of instant gratification, during which time I hit the drive-through 2.4 times a week with my 2.4 children, I’ve noticed some alarming trends I’d like to discuss with you.
The first trend of note is the line of questioning currently being used as we frequent the fine fast food establishments that dot our great American landscape, the primary offender being: Will you be eating that in your car?
As opposed to what? In someone else’s car? In a hotel room? In the bushes that run parallel to the drive-through lane?
In view of this disturbing questioning movement, I think we can all agree that we’ll need to keep an eye on the situation and, not to be a killjoy or anything, but there’s more.
Even more disturbing is the fact that I’m being forced to take the Nestea plunge, quite frankly, many, many more times than I care to. I’ve tried to alleviate this happenstance by asking a seemingly simple question but, as you are aware, drive-through establishments are not known for their Dolby, high-quality sound systems, so my, “Is the iced tea brewed?” question, I am told, sounds just like, “Is there iced tea, dude?”
This is when I receive a positive response, netting me a drink testing positive for instant tea status, leading to an unhappy interlude when I utter unladylike sounds like, “Urgh, blech, pooey,” as well as using ultra unladylike language.
As I’m driving away, sucking down a huge mouthful of what should be icy, caffeinated, teabag-utilizing liquid goodness, I’m instead chewing chunks of powder. I want you to know that I do understand the dichotomy that is my lack of desire for instant tea at a fast food business, but I don’t care. I likes what I likes.
The third thing I’ve witnessed as I’ve traversed this fine country of ours seeking sustenance is when ordering a simple item, such as a beverage, I am queried as to whether I would like a hamburger and fries with that. This, as though I’m so dense I could have forgotten I was hungry, though I remember being thirsty. When is the last time you said to yourself, “I think I’ll go pick-up a diet cola,” and then you get to your favorite fast food purveyor, you smell, say, pizza and decide you’re hungry? Oh, okay, well, you know what. I may have to give that one over.
The fourth one is not so much about the fast food folks, but about those who utilize these mini-roads to quick nourishment. Has anyone else noticed an increase in the alarming trend that is trucks powering into the drive-through with dogs in the back? What’s the problem, you ask?
As I see it, the trouble with taking your dog through the drive-through is that you’re imposing friendliness upon the driver behind you. This poor sap has embarked upon a solitary venture, enjoying some “me” time and then there’s your adorable critter, complete with wagging tail and pleading eyes.
In my case, this is quite a nuisance because I then commence with my, “Oh my heavens, look at how cute that dog is,” waving, smiling and carrying on sequence, as though I’m a pet sitting candidate.
I can’t seem to help myself. I see that precious, perennially hungry, furry creature and it’s all I can do to grab my hand and say, “Down!” I don’t mind telling you this has gotten me into a bit of a sticky wicket a time or two, mainly because the owner thinks I’m telling her dog to get down, leading to some spirited discussions in the drive-through and at the local sheriff’s office.
Ah, well, I must admit, just writing about these troubling social issues has made me feel better. Instantly.

RE: (Humor) Who You Calling a Heifer?...catalogs are a perennial source of amusement...

Who You Calling a Heifer?

Heifers for the Holidays. It sounds like a “Jeopardy” category, doesn't it? “Heifers for the Holidays, for five hundred dollars, Alex.”

Until I became familiar with the organization that offers this program and how valuable it is, I was rather bemused to receive a catalog in the mail illustrated by what looks to be a woolly lamb with the words, Heifer International, emblazoned on the cover. I looked around to see if there were any cameras visible, it was such a laughable moment.

Having recently received the special “Holiday Edition” of this fine publication, I'm viewing an entirely different world than I've ever seen before. I have no reason to doubt their claim that this is, “The Most Important Gift Catalog in The World” is true, but what bothers me is WHY me? I do knit quite a bit, so I'm wondering if it's aimed at providing me with a direct supplier for yarn byproduct.

These days I am rather concerned that my mail has sunk to a new low. While I often grouse about junk mail, direct mail, and unsolicited mail, the latest is that I am receiving a plethora of catalogs which I have no recollection of requesting. It's bad enough that Victoria wants to tell me her secret or that Frederick encourages me to see what's up in Hollywood, but I find the latest animal kingdom offering to be just as much out of my league. Or out of my barnyard.

Upon opening the delightfully festooned red catalog I learned there are, indeed, “four easy ways to place my tax-deductible gift order.” Oh, good, because I hate it when I can't claim my livestock credit on my income taxes. Most entities request money for undisclosed reasons, sent to undisclosed people in undisclosed regions. Not so for Heifer International because for over half a century, HI has provided livestock and training to more than four million families around the world and they show you the “who” and “what” of it right there in the photo album that is their catalog. Won't my family be proud to count itself as number four million and one?

The festive campaign, Heifers for the Holidays, offers some fine choices: You can bestow the gift of an entire heifer for a mere five hundred bucks or you can share a heifer at the reduced rate of fifty bucks. (I want the drumstick! Whoops, nope, wrong beast of non-burden).

There are also the following gift options, featuring a veritable animal variety pack: The gift of a goat, which goes on the open market for $120, but you can share it with your friends for a sawbuck or spring for an entire pig which is a squeal of a deal at the same rate as the goat. On the subject of potential bacon and their needs, “pigs need little land and can eat crop and garden scraps.” This is good to know if pig sustenance is an issue for you.

While sheep are “shear joy” as the literature proclaims, $60 gets you a trio of rabbits which is the best bang for your buck, although bucks are not for sale. We all know it only takes two appropriately gendered rabbits to grow this particular investment. The finest deal is a flock of chicks for a twenty spot. By the way, they are a flock and not a gaggle, like geese.

Heifer International will also throw in bees, llamas, or a water buffalo for the hard-to-buy-for-person who has every creature. I just hope these are separate shipments.There's even a testimonial on the back, which is a fine propaganda tool, by a young woman named Beatrice who is seen feeding her seemingly content goat. She proclaims the day she received her goat, “It was the best day in my life.”

Just like the day I received this catalog.

(Please note: No animals were harmed in the writing of this column.)