Tag Archives: essay

Why DQ Blizzards Should Be Traditional

Vintage neon Dairy Queen sign, Ottawa, Canada.

Vintage neon Dairy Queen sign, Ottawa, Canada. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Traditions are nice, as a rule. For instance, in order to celebrate the Fourth of July, a holiday which commemorates a bloody war with England, we shoot off firecrackers, reminding us that muskets are loud and less than accurate. I’m not sure how pyrotechnics became involved but I am far more confused about The Easter Bunny and the role he plays in the resurrection of Christ. It must be one of those mysterious ways that God is always going on about, which He can because he’s God.

Imagine if you or I began yelping like a seal at Macy’s and when people asked us what we were doing, we replied, “Hey! I work in mysterious ways!” Nobody would nod in acceptance and feel like they were privy to a great truth. It’s not really fair, but it’s traditional for God to use that excuse.

Christmas traditions are slightly less bizarre than mutant bunnies, but still, dragging a tree into the house, propping the thing up while spewing a steady stream of expletives, hanging various paraphernalia on the thing, taking off all of the paraphernalia and then discarding the tree at the curb. What’s up with that?

Ever wonder what dogs think of this practice? Cats figure it’s for them because they think everything’s for them, but dogs? It has to give them pause about the whole humans are god thing, but so long as there’s kibble blessed be our name.

Halloween is weird, because Americans rarely open their door to strangers, but on this night, not only do they open their doors, but once opened, are faced with the kinds of things nightmares are made of; little girls with princess complexes and teenagers pretending their every day clothes are costumes, which adults believe year round.

You have to wonder, if the mothers of adolescents said, “You’re not going out until I can see 90% of your underwear, young man and make sure your shirt is so big that people think we can’t afford to purchase one in your size,” if they would then resort to tailored slacks and polo shirts.

Looking ridiculous between the ages of 13-18 (I’m being generous here) is also a tradition. It always surprises me when Boomers get their concealed underpants in a bunch because kids feel the need to celebrate their boxer shorts. Take a moment and picture the outfit you hit the streets in when you were 15. If you didn’t look stupid, you were a dork.

Plus, you have to feel bad for today’s kids. They seem to be running out of ideas of how to scare their parents into thinking they’ve done something terribly wrong. I mean, showing your underpants? That’s a little desperate and hilarious from my way of thinking, and when Boomers grind their teeth and post photos of droopy drawers on Facebook, the wearers of said drawers have succeeded in their mission and that’s when the world grinds to a halt. Or not.

Anyway, the only problem I have with traditions, unless those traditions are racism and eating live monkey brains, is that only old time folks get to make them up. I’ve been trying to gain acceptance of my own holiday and it’s been slow going. My holiday is called Blizzard For Lunch Day and I would think you would all be 100% behind this by now, but still you people are eating sandwiches and leftovers on Fridays rather than subscribe to my newly created tradition.

Perhaps some history will persuade. Dairy Queen Blizzards are delicious and although a large cup of ice cream mixed with copious amounts of additional calorie rich and fat laden items may seem like health food to the average individual in the USA, (Dairy, right? Plus some of them have fruit,) the treats have upwards of 700 calories, 25-ish grams of fat, and that’s for the medium. (They have small, but in for a penny, in for 10 pounds, that’s what I say.)

So, to save myself from waddling, I replace my large plate of Fettuccine Alfredo with the much healthier concoction of love, commonly known as The Blizzard, thereby creating a healthier choice and a deep-seated sigh of contentment.

Why are you people fighting me on this? It’s not like I’m asking you to drag a tree into your house or even procure the dairy segment of the product yourself. Simply, put down your fork on Fridays and grab a plastic spoon. It’s just that easy. And, before you know it, a tradition will have developed, leading back to me as it’s patron saint, thereby offering me immortality. Is that too much to ask?

Now, if you’re reading this post on the day I’ve unleashed it, you will slap yourself on the forehead and declare, “Holy crap! It’s Blizzard for Lunch Day!” (Not the use of capital letters. That means it’s an honest-to-goodness holiday.) “Man,” you will continue. “Time flies. Seems like just last Friday it was Blizzard for Lunch Day,” and you will be correct and ahead of the future minions, because, traditionally, Blizzard for Lunch Day always lands on each and every Friday.

Before you know it, you can judge your inner worth upon whether you practice Blizzard for Lunch Day and look upon those who choose to make another lifestyle choice with unbridled disdain and isn’t that what tradition is all about?

Great. Happy Blizzard for Lunch Day and a Merry Yelp Like a Seal at Macy’s.



English: Elisabeth de Meuron, commonly known a...

English: Elisabeth de Meuron, commonly known as Madame de Meuron. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Recently, I traveled to the marriage of my baby nephew to a person whose family, I can only assume as they are from Indianapolis, (a foreign land almost four hours from here unless you drive like my son and teleport,) considers his female counterpart to be toddler-aged. Shockingly, they were not only allowed to be married, a serious condition known to end in death, one way or the other, but were celebrated as they took this step in broad daylight.

Now, both children claimed to be in their mid-twenties, but as all parents know, the time it takes to pass twenty years lasts longer than the time it takes to pass a large kidney stone, which is forty or fifty years. So, for this couple of tots to claim that they had achieved the advanced years needed to marry was less than believable for most attending adults, but once a priest throws holy water around there’s no getting out of things, so there you go.

But the subject of this blog is not this sham marriage (Congrats to them, btw. Despite their lack of age credentials, I’m sure they’ll be mostly happy, so long as they take their naps and eat regularly.) My subject today, as you’ve probably guessed, is hearing loss.

Yes, hearing loss, a parents-were-right-kind of affliction, which, in my case, is most likely the result of having musician friends in my twenties.

Aside from being lots of fun and a good source of varying and sundry pills, (I’m kidding, of course. Musicians are well-known for their sober lifestyles and rarely, if ever, alter their brain configurations with illicit pharmaceuticals unless someone offers them, as musicians are often too poor to pay for their own beer and cigarettes, let alone what used to be know as “the good stuff.”) musicians can be hazardous to your health.

Now, you may be asking yourself, “Jamie? Are you trying to say you were a drug abuser as a child?”

No kiddies. Despite close association with with people who rattled as they walked, if they could walk at all, I missed out on that experience as I was afraid of heights and odd smells. I’m serious. I never even achieved a contact high. Let that be a lesson to you. You decide which kind.

Anyway, my point was, and I have completely lost it, um…drugs are bad and…AND I am nearly deaf because of the existence of musicians. There!

This is how it happened.

Once upon a time, I grew 21 years and as a result was compelled to drink alcohol in establishments that grew musicians. These musicians became more like friends, if you’re friends scream at you in a rhythmic fashion through large amplifiers.

Still, these particular friends performed British Invasion music, which made them the pied piper to my rat, or some less repulsive analogy. (These, by the way, are not the same people who partook in illegal substances. Those are an entirely different set of musician friends.)

Most often these completely drug-free individuals would play in night clubs and bars, where I’ll admit to drinking Amaretto Sours, a totally eighties drink of which I no longer partake and frankly, am a little surprised I did so at the time, but it was a different era and you could tell that by the large hair and enormous shoulder pads.

While at these dens on iniquities, and sometimes Denny’s of iniquities afterward, my preference was to sit near enough to the band, to watch them hop about in an adorable fashion and also maintain proximity to the dance floor where I would hop about in a different kind style of adorable fashion.

These two factors collided with my youthful decision to cozy up against amps which would rattle my teeth, buzz my toes, or the other way around, hard to tell in that situation, and render me deaf for hours after each event, which took place on the average of 3 times a week, for a handful of years. And I liked it.

That’s how you can tell you’re too young to get married in the mid-twenties, although I was already married so it made more sense. (Do you see what rock music does to you?)

So, flash forward to the baby wedding. I’m standing outside of a restaurant when my sister-in-law asks me if I’m petite. I’m flattered, I have to say, since petite has always been an unattainable goal for me. I answer, “No! I wish!”

My husband leaned into my megaphone and yelled, “ SHE SAID, FATIGUED! ARE YOU FATIGUED?”

Sadly, I agreed that I was. I was also fatigued.

Later, that same night, my lovely niece who claims to be a grown woman with a husband and child who is not her brother (the groom,) asked me a question that I found amusing, so I laughed heartily. I don’t remember the source of my laughter, but that’s another cautionary tale.

She smiled at me like you smile at someone who thinks they are making fun balloon animals and is, in fact, not, and says, “NO, REALLY. IS YOUR DRESS NEW?”

This really isn’t the sort of question which results in peals of laughter so I considered explaining my mistake to her, but assumed she’d be less than intrigued by my story of hearing loss so, instead I told all of you.

So, either take this as a warning to stay away from musicians or as a reason I tend to laugh inappropriately. In either case, It’s not snowing! Why do you ask?

Why Ma’am is OK With Me and Men Should Still Read This

Scared of the Dark

Scared of the Dark (Photo credit: jbelluch)

There we were, two friends, standing in line to get popcorn for a long ago forgotten movie. As we stepped up to get our chemically enhanced butter flavored popcorn, the punk behind the counter looked at us and used the word that The Huffington Post declared as the ultimate no-no for (a-hem) mature women.

According to The Post, which is always right about everything, women hate the word Ma’am.

Ma’am, according to those polled, (and who allows that to happen in public, let alone admit to it just so that generalizations can be formed?) is reserved for women not only past their prime, but so far beyond it that they would require a GPS device to return to the half way point.

In keeping with every poll ever taken, no one has asked my opinion, probably because I don’t answer phone calls unless I recognize the name on the caller id and try to look busy when people try to catch up with me at the mall; this strategy consists of walking as if I have a purpose and frowning lightly.

This works apparently, as once, as I walked through a hotel lobby, a man stopped me to ask about the establishment. When I asked what made him think I would know, he told me that I walked with a purpose and that was true, as the hotel gave out warm cookies and I wanted to get to my room so that we could have some alone time before it cooled off, which is generally the purpose of hotels if you exclude sleeping.

Anyway, my point, and I did have one, is that I no longer consider myself a miss. The last time I thought of myself as a miss was a long off yesteryear when I was still dewy with youth (which is a good name for a band,) and, since that time I have found the cure for the dewiness and it isn’t matte makeup (well, it can be, but for my purposes, just go along with me.) The cure, unfortunately, is a few decades of living, especially if you engage in shenanigans and less then stellar behavior.

So, back to the counter and the kid whose world was about to be rocked and not in a good way. This excuse for a nearly completely formed human being, who was mostly made up of acne and brace and who is probably a bank president by now, had the outright gall to call one of us, ma’am. (I’m pretty sure , it was my friend.)

Okay, breathe, majority of people who answered the Huff Post poll. Breathe! You’re going to hyperventilate.

In response, my friend leaned over and took this puzzled piece of nonsense by his crooked clip-on bow tie and…

Actually she leaned over and said, “Just a tip. Women don’t like being called Ma’am.”

Now, this is where this story goes right off the rails, so, as Dave Letterman says, hold on to your wigs and keys. I elbowed my friend aside and said, “Here’s another tip. Some women don’t care.”

I know. This is the equivalent of a man telling a young girl that men can be less than sincere when it comes to, you know what. And then another telling her nothing of the sort is true.

Actually this is nothing like that at all. This is the equivalent of women having different opinions on things, which many men seem to interpret as pure lunacy designed to confuse them.

It might be easier for the opposite sex, ie: dudes, if we all thought the same on every subject, but in all honesty, I don’t have the wherewithal to take a world-wide opinion poll and then point out the error of everyone’s ways. The grading process itself would be a real time suck, so you’re just going to have to live with the idea of a vastly divergent female gender, unless you’re gay, in which case you’re just going to have to live with that because women still exist outside of a man’s sexual interest.

And, here’s the thing. This preponderance of diverse opinion is not specifically gauged to confuse our male counterparts. If I were really trying to confuse the male gender I would teach all women to ask this question: Are you worried that I’m getting fat?

Any male readers who have not yet wandered off to find the TV remote are now beginning to sweat profusely, because, although they don’t know the correct answer, they sense danger, kind of like a gazelle wandering into a lioness bar.

(Those of you which are still reading, stop sweating on your laptop, it’ll kill it and it won’t be my fault.)

Back to the secret answer; as every woman has probably guessed, there are two answers far as men are (wrongly) concerned; no or yes. And here’s the scenarios as these two answers are played out.

Gal: Are you worried that I’m getting fat?

Trembling guy: N-no?

Gal: “So, you’re not worried about how fat I’m getting?”

(At this point the man in question will burrow around his brain through the sports and ways to burp the national anthem and, without thinking it through, will make the following fatal mistake.)

Quivering wreck of male gender: Yes!

At this point, the woman can make several choices. She can hold back tears before clapping her hand over her mouth and bolting from the room or she can try the classic,“Are you saying I’m fat?” It is entirely up to her. Have fun with it.

The answer of course is “You are simply perfect, my little dove, in every way. Do you want chocolate?”

Now, there are some women who are angry at me for disclosing this, as angry as they would be if they’d been called Ma’am at the popcorn counter and I may be vilified for it, but I have a very good reason for parting with this knowledge; I’m the mother of a boy and I like it when he’s not having nervous break downs, so I actually drew up this lesson in order to give him a leg up on other guys.

(Turns out , according to a recent poll, most guys hate when other guys put their legs up on other guys, so this may be a bad idea all around.)

In full disclosure, I also told some of my son’s friends about this, but, in my defense, guys don’t talk to each other about relationships and they forget everything women tell them, almost immediately. So, I’m not really giving away the store.

Finally, back to the whole ma’am thing. There are two choices when youngsters are trying to be polite to women; one is to say Miss and the other is to say Ma’am. To me, calling me Miss is like a handsome young man telling me I’m spry for my age. We both know that I’ve long ago past the finish line on the Miss thing and my feeling is, if a young man wants to compliment rather than patronize me, he has to acknowledge that I’m a fully formed female human being who has lived too long to be to let foolish flattery turn my head and not long enough to think those days are completely behind me.

So, young men, here’s what you say: Yes, Ma’am. Whatever you say, Ma’am. Here’s some chocolate, Ma’am and, want a massage Ma’am? And we’ll get along just fine.

Anyway, since my son has shown no signs of returning to the days when mommy was the sun and the earth revolved around me, (and wouldn’t that be creepy if he did?) I’ve decided to throw my energy toward preparing him for life with a woman.

I don’t want to overstate this, but I believe I have come up with a single question which encapsulates the land mine that exists in the heart of many women and have offered it to my son as practice if the future mother of my grandchildren tricks him in to marriage.

Are you worried about how fat I’m getting?” Can you taste the genius? I’ll wait while you ask your male significant other, (it may work for gay couples, someone will need to research this and get back to me) the question that will cut all mystery away from the husband/wife dynamic. Go on. Print it out if you need to. I’ll wait.

So, you asked? And he presumable replied yes or no. (Gazing at you in abject terror doesn’t count. He has to answer.) The treasure is not in the asking of the question, or even the answering of such. The gold comes in your reply.

Most will say, something along the lines of, “No?” in a small but mandatoryily terrified voice. Here’s what you will reply: “So, you’re not worried about how fat I’m getting?” He will most likely try to rectify this answer with the opposite answer having forgotten what the original question was. His face will light up and he will proclaim the word he hopes will save his life, “Yes!”

At this point, you’re on your own. You can either hold back tears before nodding, clapping your hand over your mouth and bolting from the room or you can reply, “Are you saying I’m fat?” Either way. You can even improvise from this point on. It’s all for the sake of education, after all.

You may wonder, not that it matters, if there is a reasonably safe answer to this question. Of course. That answer must be, without deviation: “You are simply perfect, my little dove, in every way. Do you want chocolate?”

Why I’m Always Right


I am right about everything and here’s how you can tell; this is in print, which means this is a one-sided conversation where I control what’s being said. Also, everything in print is correct unless I deem it otherwise. Same goes for television and radio. I doubt you care about my exceptions to the rule, as you are convinced that I must be correct, but there is a list available as soon as I write it up.

The above is a phenomenon known (by me) as The Petrie Law. Those of you with good taste will have, at some point in your life, watched The Dick Van Dyke Show, considered by many, (not just me) as one of the finest comedy programs of all time.The show, written by the hilarious Carl Reiner, concerned a TV comedy writer named Rob Petrie.

 (Those of you not crying, Ohhhhh Rob!, are of the wrong generation, because I say so.)

His wife Laura is the “Oh Rob,” declarer of the show, which many times followed her hijinks and her capris pants, which were very risqué at the time. (I’m serious, look it up. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0054533/trivia?tab=tr&item=tr0621492)

Anyway, Rob and Laura had neighbors and friends with whom they interacted, and a child who eventually ended up in juevie because his parents paid little to no attention to him, what with their hijinks and shenanigans.

On the episode which gave rise to The Petrie Rule, Rob and Laura had a very cute argument and proceeded to describe it within the boundaries of their self-righteousness. Rob told fellow comedy writers; the New Yorky Sally and Buddy, while Laura told Millie, the wacky neighbor, over coffee and ignoring their children.

Rob’s description is played out as he returns from a hard day at being funny. He veritably inhabits Fred Astaire, dancing throughout the home as he seeks out his wife who doesn’t even have the courtesy to meet him at the door dressed in nothing but Saran Wrap. Once found, she is a shrew in capris pants, laughably claiming her life as the more difficult what with, the cooking, cleaning, laundry…um…doing, mothering, not to mention the amount of coffee she makes.

In Laura’s version, she met her husband at the door decked out in what the modern wife would describe as, “stuff I wouldn’t wear unless an expensive dinner was involved,” and offering up that same dinner made with her own finally manicured hands, which were only attended to because Rob is a tyrant who demands it. (I made that manicure part up.)

Of course, the truth came somewhere in between. In that vein, I’d like to describe an incident which happened recently when my husband and I went out for dinner with two our friends who happen to be of the gay persuasion.

Now, some of you are thinking, “The Gay Persuasion! That must have been Fabulous!” No, although they’re really great guys and one of them goes by the name of one of the few rappers I recognize, and not in a “call me by the name of one of the few rappers you can recognize” sort of way, but because Jay Z doesn’t own the name, it was simply a lovely evening.

We covered a variety topics, none of which included Neil Patrick Harris or Cher, so it was sort of like we were out with normal people.

Suddenly, the conversation took a troubling turn when the couple became openly hostile, which is to say they disagreed with me on a subject I am always right about. Guys. And everything else.

The matter at hand was a cutie pie who had walked behind me en route to the facilities. How did I know he was of the cutie pie variety when he was behind me? Well, I noticed my companions, who were facing me, were becoming distracted,  following something I couldn’t see, their eyes synchronized, left to right, while trying to seem engaged with our conversation.

They reminded me of cats staring down a laser point pen and, continuing with the metaphor, choosing to believe the red pinpoint on the wall is actually prey and therefore willing to smash into a wall to prove it.

The smashing into a wall question was; is said cutie pie gay?

Of course, there was no way to tell for certain, short of a fixed game of spin the bottle followed by the yuck factor or my opinion.

My friends were adamant, however and ticked off a number of talking points about why the fellow, who would most likely be mortified to know his most personal predilections were being discussed by four strangers (some of us were stranger than others,) in detail, with no information ( to my recollection which is the only one that counts,) other than the designer jeans he wore; the ultimate criteria of gayness according to our dinner companions.

The conversation, despite the details, was about gaydar and whose equipment was more sensitive. (I’m not going to sink to the level of spinning a double entendre of that last sentence, but you should feel free.)

I don’t think I should be penalized because, as a teenager I dated two men who grew up to be gay. I choose to think they chose the gay lifestyle, despite what reality has to say about that, because I was no longer interested in pursuing a relationship with them.

Also, I was pretty sure Jodi Foster was a lesbian, (even before I knew what that meant) before she kind of came out at The Oscars while rambling on about her lack of privacy as it pertains to her sex life, so, more points for me.

In the end, the lady’s man left the restaurant, having never known that his straightness had been weighed and, incorrectly found wanting by two out of three diners, (my husband abstained.)

Soon after, we agreed that I am always right, which I can say because this is my laptop and my blog and because I’m correct, after which dessert was had by all and order was restored.

In all fairness, however, after reading this piece over, I realized the Petrie Rule insinuates that I overstated my half of the experience to convey a sense that I was being less than fair, thereby giving the impression that I was not completely correct. And I was completely correct.

Hey, nobody’s perfect.

Why Sting Hasn’t Been Arrested

The Very Best of Sting & The Police

Sting needs a hobby (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Recently I was discussing one of the most famous cases of blatant stalking in which Gordon Sumner trailed after a woman who prefers to remain anonymous, noting every breath she took, every step she took, every single day.

This horrible creature then proceeded to publicly declare that he would continue watching her, and there was little or nothing to be done about it because, and I quote, “you belong to me.”

Creepy, right?

If the stalkee in question ever got a restraining order, it never came to light. Maybe because Gordon Sumner became Sting, thus making everything all right.

But why is it different if Sting shows up in your shrubbery, peaking through your window while you’re breathing and stepping, etc?

Imagine watching TV and you see a shadow at the window. At first you’re terrorized, but when you get a closer look, you see that it is Sting, famous musician and collector of inappropriate relationships, (Besides the woman in EBYT, there’s the schoolgirl in “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” and of course, ROXXAAANNNE! and her habit of buying red bulbs for her porch.)

Would you then scream and call the Police and see if they would come over and collect their wayward former band mate? Or maybe even law enforcement?

Or would you recognize him and say, “Oh. Sting. Does this mean you’re stalking me? Great! Here’s the keys to my house.”

Don’t lie. You’d feel pretty good about yourself. It would probably be a little off-putting when he showed up at your work. Not the first time. The first time it would be like, “Did you know some blonde guy followed you into the parking lot and is now sitting outside in a limo?”

You’d be all, “Oh him.” You might even yawn here. “That’s Sting. He’s stalking me.”

Your co-workers would, most likely throw pencils at you and call you a dirty, rotten,no-good, liar whose pants were currently ablaze, what with you lying and everything.

But, then you’d pull back your chair, settle into your seat and say, “Go ahead. See for yourself.”

When your co-workers returned, not a one would say, “Oh you poor dear, have you called the Police?” (Because I already used the play on words, I’ll just let it be, hoping you will recognize it this time around.)

No. Your fellow employees would rush back into the office and see you with new eyes, especially if Sting bought everyone wildly expensive designer sunglasses in order to buy their silence.

Because you would then have to counter with something way better than designer sunglasses in order to make sure your office mates tell everyone, it would be inconvenient. If you’re being stalked by Sting, you want it spread around.

Or you could ask everyone to take a solemn vow not to tell a living soul, in which case everyone would make the promise, and you’d be assured to trend on Twitter within the hour.

Barbara Walters would make you person of the year along with some housewife with her own TV show, a politician who told the truth on the second Thursday of February and Sting who will have to explain while he feels compelled to follow you around to the detriment of his career, reputation and relationship to his wife, despite the restraining order you took out, because it’s not cool to admit you’re delighted to hear “Message in a Bottle” being sung outside your window at night, although it has absolutely nothing to do with the situation and he probably has a better song is his vast library.

You tell Barbara Walters to take a hike because you never forgave her for making Ringo cry in 1980 and because her face has begun to look like a puppet in that only her mouth moves while the rest of her features remain eerily still.

Tabloids begin to follow you around as well, but cease to do so after several “reporters” fall asleep mid-chase due to your lackluster life outside of the whole Sting state of affairs.

The whole situation would probably lose some luster after a month or six, but you continue to let the situation slide because Sting is British and may know Chris Martin and, when you ask him to get you some French Roast coffee, he flies to freaking Paris to retrieve it.

You may even miss Sting when he wanders off when he finally realizes he’s stalking, well, to put it bluntly…you.

Now, the same scenario with Gordon Sumner and a beat up Chevy Impala. Sure, he has a British accent and therefore probably knows Chris Martin, but after he follows you to the office for the third time, you tell your big brother who has a conversation with him after which he disappears from the face of the earth like all the boys you told on before him.

So what’s the difference? We all know it’s because crazy behavior from celebrities is different from crazy behavior from your basic Gordy. It shows up on ET, Letterman makes fun of it and everyone goes back to Charlie Sheen and his antics.

Now let’s just say a 54-year-old woman plants a tent in the yard of another British pop star to have more efficient access to someone whose name I don’t want to mention (again) but his initials are Chris Martin. How long do you think it would take for him to call the police (small p) and have me…or her dispatched? Turns out about seven hours and I can only blame my inability to write a catchy tune about the hypothetical situation.

In closing I want to say that stalking is a crappy thing to do, it is not about a person’s love and desire for another person, it’s about devious narcissism and celebrities should stop it immediately. I, of course, have not pitched a tent in Chris Martin’s yard because I live in Chicago and hate camping. Also because, unless someone has written a multi-platinum selling song about it, it’s just the wrong thing to do.

Why You’ll Need a Dictionary to Laugh


Bamboozled. Loopy. Wasabi. According to an article in Writers Digest, these words, when added to an essay, will cause readers to titter. (I added titter, not only because it’s a funny word, but because, if the word is spoken aloud, millions of men will tune in and hopefully stay put, even when they get to the “ter.”)

This article made me scratch my noggin and wonder if I have the gumption to write a post with as many of these words as I can possibly stuff in to see if it can make even your basic curmudgeon finagle a grin.

Now, I know my blog readers won’t be bamboozled into laughter, just because I write the word didgeridoo. Indubitably, my readers are more persnickety and would most likely eschew that sort of falderal. (that one’s mine too.)

This sort of thing can be a little janky (yeah, I had to look that up. It means of poor quality,) so I’ll try not to get all gunky, so you can get back to canoodling (if you’re lucky.)

Here’s the thing, even though the most lackadaisical namby-pamby enjoys a good laugh, no one can be all things to all people. My humor is probably best understood and dismissed as the musings of an unstable mind by Americans. So I’m always gobsmacked when someone in Sri Lanka reads my doohickey.

Are people in countries where they still wear pantaloons amused by my love for Chris Martin? Do the Bahamians enjoy the word wenis when they look it up and realize it means the extra skin on your elbow? Or do they wander off, and give up on the whole shebang feeling hornswoggled?

Since I’ve received hits from 29 countries, I have to believe that a bevy of folks make the attempt to understand what I’m talking about, even those in Canada, whose national anthem I’ve mangled in a previous post.

At this time, I’m going to interrupt this blog to say, I’m not going to use smegma in a sentence, even though it’s pretty amusing on the surface, it’s icky underneath. You’re welcome, Words with Friends players.

By this point, many of you are unable to read through your tears of laughter or have wandered off after realizing titter means giggling. Personally, I’m not sold. First of all, it seems like a lot of hullabaloo (note to Boomers: You’re thinking sixties rock programming, aren’t you?) for a single blog post read by tens of people.

Secondly, it’s just too much work, which is not something to do for a hobby. Hitherto, I’ve just typed what goes on in my head, much to everyone’s chagrin.

So, to avoid a rumpus, I’ll return to my usual loopy meanderings once I’ve tested spell check to it’s limits.

However, for a change of pace. See if you can count the funny words and I’ll tell you if you’re right.

By the way, I had to introduce four of these words to my dictionary.

Why Mothers Should Worry


Explaining motherhood to the uninitiated can be difficult, especially when it comes to the love factor, because the type of love required to attach you to a person who comes into the world by forever altering your body for the worse is a 2,000 on a ten point love scale.

Whoever came up with integrating mother love into a female did a much better job than they did with say, gnats. Really, what’s the point with gnats? They simply live a life to irritate normal people who are just trying to enjoy the summer, much like family BBQs.

I remember telling a terrified acquaintance,who feared she wouldn’t love her infant, that she would feel overwhelming love for her own baby after introductions were made, even though there wasn’t a chance in the world that her baby would be as adorable as mine. After all, my son broke off my tail bone as a how-do-you-do and it only took three or four months to forgive him and treat him like a member of my family. (It took my dogs forever. They were really pissed about the tailbone thing, but it’s quite possible that they misunderstood what happened, as they often had a tendency to do when they were distracted by the word “bone.”)

I’m kidding about my reaction to the tailbone incident of 1988, of course; it wasn’t my son’s fault he had a head like a basketball; that lies with me. I can’t even try hats on in public because they sit on top of my skull like a thimble, thus making other shoppers think they are in a clown hat store and shop owners less than happy to see me.

Anyway, mothers-to-be tend to worry, and not just about the fact that her upcoming baby won’t hold a candle to mine. (and don’t let your baby hold a candle; that’s the number one rule.) Yet, unless your baby is a trouble maker, and most of them aren’t, as there is little trouble to be caused while lying in bed drooling, you don’t have to worry about baby generated nonsense, that’s for grown men.

At this point I’m going to pause and say, no first time mother has, or ever will believe this to be true. I guess you have to have more than one child to understand this from the get go. Because I have no back-up children, it took me a few years to truly understand this and you can ask the 24-year-old version of my Angel Bunny, who is, as we speak, yelling at Congress in my basement.

So, here’s a list of what you should worry about: is your baby, warm, fed, clean and not likely to hold candles? Yes? Now you can stop worrying unless spots appear and you don’t own a firstborn armed with a marker.

Worries can be as varied as the mothers who lie awake at night. (Trick point. All mothers like awake, their babies don’t let them sleep. A friend of a friend once worried that if God gave her an ugly baby, she wouldn’t know about it as she thought of all of her children as the most beautiful ever born. She was wrong, of course as we have already covered, but I’m sure her baby was pretty good.

Most mothers worry about situations that will never happen no matter how many times other mothers insist that they will. A favorite, in my situation, was that my mellow, loving baby with a head full of hair would, at most milestones, become bald and likely to pull a gun out of his diaper.

This never happened; not at nine months, not at two years, not at seven. My son didn’t become cranky until he learned about politics, and who can blame him? At that point, it was a Pandora’s box sort of thing, without the sexual connotation. Luckily, he rarely displays anger towards me unless I sing London Calling like Robert Goulet , so I didn’t become involved when he sent a hornet’s nest to a former member of his band because UPS wouldn’t deliver my box of exploding itching powder and something needed to be done.

Here’s the thing: for as long as you live, what makes your child angry, makes you angry, what makes your child sad, makes you sad, what gives your child joy…you get the idea. And that’s something to worry about.