Be verwy, verwy cwy-et, we’re hunting skwurrul, heheheheheheheheheheheh!
It is officially spring at my house when I hear first thing in the morning my mother shouting at the squirrels to get out of the bird feeders. Yes! The battle has begun, and the squirrels will win—again!
We live on about two acres of wooded land, mostly pine with just a few maples and oaks. We think the pines may have been one of the many projects supported by the FDR years because of the approximate age and the fact they grow in pretty straight rows. Our house and “tamed” yard make up about half an acre, while the rest in back remains “wild” for the birds and deer. Of course it’s the birds that Mom tries to draw to the feeders. She was content with just a couple feeders, but when Grandma moved in, more were added for entertainment purposes—just not the kind Mom had expected.
The spring battles started about six years ago, and now moves through a specific sequence.
Step one: Mom yells out the window to scare the hell out of the trespassing squirrels, and then struts around the house as the world’s “champeen squirrel scarer-offer.”
Step two: Mom yells out the window and the squirrels take notice. But instead of running off they flip her the finger or their tails or both and go back to eating.
Step three: Mom hauls open the sliding glass door, which is heavy. She then rattles the sliding screen door, which is flimsy. The squirrels scurry away, laughing at her poor attempt at keeping them out of the food.
Step four: The glass door is kept open but not the screen door. Mom opens the screen door and yells at the squirrels, who snicker and amble away for a nap.
Step five: Mom opens the screen door and steps out onto the deck, yelling as she moves from inside to outside. The squirrels still snicker but scurry away because you never can tell if the crazy human is actually going to run after them.
Step six: Mom hunts for the BB gun and puts it near the sliding doors for the rest of the warring season.
At the start of the new day during June and part of July, steps one through five must occur before moving on to the next step.
Step seven: Mom picks up the BB gun and starts the pumping action, all the while shouting at the squirrels. She opens the screen door, takes aim, squeezes off the shot, and misses by a mile. The squirrels scurry away from the crazy human.
Starting about the middle of July until the squirrels settle in for the winter, Mom may or may not follow steps one through five. It mostly depends upon how tired she is, how badly the Tigers played the day before, and how crazy she feels after interacting with Grandma.
Step eight: Mom pumps the BB gun even more, yells, opens the screen door, shoots, and misses by yet another mile. The squirrels fall over from laughing so hard.
Step nine: Mom starts to talk to herself and wonders if any BBs are actually being shot out of the gun. She pumps a few times, takes careful aim at the tree two feet in front of her, and realizes no BBs have left the gun since the battle started.
Step ten: Mom fixes the gun problem, repeats steps seven and eight, then finally throws herself into her chair when it is too dark to see to shoot.
Who needs a dog that barks at squirrels when you have more entertainment watching your own mother?
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com
AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com
This happens to be one of my favorite sites. This picture Bunny Ears
May 27th, 2010, kind of says it all.
This happens to be one of my favorite sites. This picture Bunny Ears
May 27th, 2010, kind of says it all.
That Damn Dream of Mine
There are those nights when I wish I didn’t have dreams or at least not remember them so well. I don’t like dreams that fool me into thinking I’m really awake and that for just a few fleeting seconds, my life is happy, the happiest it’s been in almost ten years. I hate being reminded of what my life used to be like before my best friend, Joan, died in my arms. I hate those nightly reminders that she’s gone and my life will never be the same nor as happy nor as satisfying as I would like.
I had one of those dreams last night. I dreamt that I was at a friend’s house. I knew it was a female friend, but I couldn’t recall her name. She was someone I liked a great deal, but her identity eluded me—up to a certain point. I never know when that moment comes, but suddenly I know I am with Joan again. Everything that I’m missing from this life is suddenly all there in my dream. Nothing is lacking. I am at peace with the world because that horrible death scene with Joan is gone and she’s whole again. She’s my fiend, my confidante. I have someone to talk to again. My loneliness and despair are gone.
This time I was at her house. I had slept over for some reason and when I woke up she was gone, but I knew she was coming back. I knew it to the depths of my soul. She was not leaving me again. I knew I was someplace safe and warm and accepting. I looked around her house, for this was someplace new to me. I knew that it was newly built and was close to work and her sons. It was a simple house, a condo, really, with the usual amenities of a kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom. Nothing more, but when you live alone, how much do you need?
It was in the bathroom when I realized something was wrong. A feature that has creeped into many of my dreams was present. This bathroom was setup like any other. You walk in and on the left was the sink, then the toilet and then the bathtub/shower. Except, this time, there was no tub. There was perhaps a two-inch lip on the floor to retain water, but you couldn’t take a sit-down bath. You could only take a shower. I looked back at the sink and realized there was a shower nozzle above the medicine cabinet. Looking at the door of the room, I noticed it was supposed to seal itself so that if you cared to, you could take a shower while you stood in front of the sink. In fact, you could take two showers at the same time, or turn the entire room into a giant shower.
Seeing that bathroom, I knew for sure I was dreaming. I hadn’t really slept over. I hadn’t really gotten up to look around. I wasn’t somewhere I wanted to be. I was still just plain old Shonda, plain old lonely Shonda, who missed her friend so desperately, yet again she let herself be fooled by a damn dream.
This is what I face when I’m at my lowest. I take medicine to help with the depression and I do try to get on with life. Still, it’s hard to be something I am not but I feel I should be. I go home and I wonder how much longer I have to be like this. When will the loneliness end. When will the agony stop. When will I be happy again.
Despite being fat, I’ve learned to live my life. I can ignore the morons who think I need to be reminded yet again of what I look like on the outside. I’ve learned to live with those who insist they know what I’m like on the inside. I‘ve learned to live my life without my best friend and to accept that her death was not my fault. But how do you continue to do all this when your subconscious keeps replaying all that you’ve learned to accept and ignore, to remind you time after time that life is not perfect?
I realize this isn’t a funny blog entry. But you can see the irony and some of the small “ha ha” moments. If you take anything away from this blog, let it be the idea that life goes on, even if our dreams keep trying to drag us back. I may bitch about the bathroom dreams, but they are just dreams. And I’d rather dream about an entire bathroom that can become a giant shower than to relive those moments when Joan died. A shower versus death? Water is symbolic of birth and new life. Death is the end. As I said, dreaming about water isn’t so bad.
I had one of those dreams last night. I dreamt that I was at a friend’s house. I knew it was a female friend, but I couldn’t recall her name. She was someone I liked a great deal, but her identity eluded me—up to a certain point. I never know when that moment comes, but suddenly I know I am with Joan again. Everything that I’m missing from this life is suddenly all there in my dream. Nothing is lacking. I am at peace with the world because that horrible death scene with Joan is gone and she’s whole again. She’s my fiend, my confidante. I have someone to talk to again. My loneliness and despair are gone.
This time I was at her house. I had slept over for some reason and when I woke up she was gone, but I knew she was coming back. I knew it to the depths of my soul. She was not leaving me again. I knew I was someplace safe and warm and accepting. I looked around her house, for this was someplace new to me. I knew that it was newly built and was close to work and her sons. It was a simple house, a condo, really, with the usual amenities of a kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom. Nothing more, but when you live alone, how much do you need?
It was in the bathroom when I realized something was wrong. A feature that has creeped into many of my dreams was present. This bathroom was setup like any other. You walk in and on the left was the sink, then the toilet and then the bathtub/shower. Except, this time, there was no tub. There was perhaps a two-inch lip on the floor to retain water, but you couldn’t take a sit-down bath. You could only take a shower. I looked back at the sink and realized there was a shower nozzle above the medicine cabinet. Looking at the door of the room, I noticed it was supposed to seal itself so that if you cared to, you could take a shower while you stood in front of the sink. In fact, you could take two showers at the same time, or turn the entire room into a giant shower.
Seeing that bathroom, I knew for sure I was dreaming. I hadn’t really slept over. I hadn’t really gotten up to look around. I wasn’t somewhere I wanted to be. I was still just plain old Shonda, plain old lonely Shonda, who missed her friend so desperately, yet again she let herself be fooled by a damn dream.
This is what I face when I’m at my lowest. I take medicine to help with the depression and I do try to get on with life. Still, it’s hard to be something I am not but I feel I should be. I go home and I wonder how much longer I have to be like this. When will the loneliness end. When will the agony stop. When will I be happy again.
Despite being fat, I’ve learned to live my life. I can ignore the morons who think I need to be reminded yet again of what I look like on the outside. I’ve learned to live with those who insist they know what I’m like on the inside. I‘ve learned to live my life without my best friend and to accept that her death was not my fault. But how do you continue to do all this when your subconscious keeps replaying all that you’ve learned to accept and ignore, to remind you time after time that life is not perfect?
I realize this isn’t a funny blog entry. But you can see the irony and some of the small “ha ha” moments. If you take anything away from this blog, let it be the idea that life goes on, even if our dreams keep trying to drag us back. I may bitch about the bathroom dreams, but they are just dreams. And I’d rather dream about an entire bathroom that can become a giant shower than to relive those moments when Joan died. A shower versus death? Water is symbolic of birth and new life. Death is the end. As I said, dreaming about water isn’t so bad.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
There Went Another One
Mr. Linkletter was one of those people my parents didn't mind if I stayed up late to watch his program. I always wondered why I couldn't be on one of them. I'm funny and say awful things.
TV's 'People Are Funny' host Art Linkletter dies
AP – FILE - In this Oct. 4, 2009 file photo, television host Art Linkletter poses on the press line at the …
By LYNN ELBER, AP Entertainment Writer Lynn Elber, Ap Entertainment Writer – 45 mins ago
LOS ANGELES – Art Linkletter, whose "People Are Funny" and "House Party" shows entertained millions of TV viewers in the 1950s and '60s with the funny side of ordinary folks and who remained active as a writer and speaker through his ninth decade, died Wednesday. He was 97.
Linkletter died at his home in the Bel-Air section of Los Angeles, said his son-in-law, Art Hershey, the husband of Sharon Linkletter.
"He lived a long, full, pure life, and the Lord had need for him," Hershey said.
Linkletter had been ill "in the last few weeks time, but bear in mind he was 97 years old. He wasn't eating well, and the aging process took him," Hershey said.
Linkletter hadn't been diagnosed with any life-threatening disease, he said.
Linkletter was known on TV for his funny interviews with children and ordinary folks. He also collected their comments in a number of best-selling books.
"Art Linkletter's House Party," one of television's longest-running variety shows, debuted on radio in 1944 and was seen on CBS-TV from 1952 to 1969.
Though it had many features, the best known was the daily interviews with schoolchildren.
"On `House Party' I would talk to you and bring out the fact that you had been letting your boss beat you at golf over a period of months as part of your campaign to get a raise," Linkletter wrote.
"All the while, without your knowledge, your boss would be sitting a few feet away listening, and at the appropriate moment, I would bring you together," he said. "Now, that's funny, because the laugh arises out of a real situation."
Linkletter collected quotes from children into "Kids Say The Darndest Things," and it sold in the millions. The book "70 Years of Best Sellers 1895-1965" ranked "Kids Say the Darndest Things" as the 15th top seller among nonfiction books in that period.
The prime time "People Are Funny," which began on radio in 1942 and ran on TV from 1954 to 1961, emphasized slapstick humor and audience participation — things like throwing a pie in the face of a contestant who couldn't tell his Social Security number in five seconds, or asking him to go out and cash a check written on the side of a watermelon.
The down-to-earth charm of Linkletter's broadcast persona seemed to be mirrored by his private life with his wife of more than a half-century, Lois. They had five children, whom he wrote about in his books and called the "Links."
But in 1969, his 20-year-old daughter Diane jumped to her death from her sixth-floor Hollywood apartment. He blamed her death on LSD use, but toxicology tests found no LSD in her body after she died.
Still, the tragedy prompted Linkletter to become a crusader against drugs. A son, Robert, died in a car accident in 1980. Another son, Jack Linkletter, was 70 when he died of lymphoma in 2007.
Art Linkletter got his first taste of broadcasting with a part-time job while attending San Diego State College in the early 1930s. He graduated in 1934.
"I was studying to be an English professor," Linkletter once said. "But as they say, life is what happens to you while you're making other plans."
He held a series of radio and promotion jobs in California and Texas, experimenting with audience participation and remote broadcasts, before forming his own production company in the 1940s and striking it big with "People Are Funny" and "House Party."
Linkletter was born Arthur Gordon Kelly on July 17, 1912, in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. His unwed mother put him up for adoption when he was a baby; when he was about 7, he and his adoptive parents moved to the U.S., eventually settling in San Diego.
He recalled his preacher-father forced him to take odd jobs to help the family. So Linkletter left and became a hobo, hopping trains across the West, working where he could. He recalled later that he felt the religious faith instilled by his father had been a great gift.
After leaving daily broadcasting in 1969, Linkletter continued to write, lecture and appear in television commercials.
Among his other books, were "Old Age is Not for Sissies," "How To Be a Supersalesman," "Confessions of a Happy Man," "Hobo on the Way to Heaven" and his autobiography, '`I Didn't Do It Alone."
A recording Linkletter made with his daughter Diane not long before she died, "We Love You, Call Collect," was issued after her death and won a Grammy award for best spoken word recording.
"Life is not fair ... not easy," Linkletter said in a 1990 interview by The Associated Press. "Outside, peer pressure can wreak havoc with the nicest families. So that's the part that's a gamble.
"But I'm an optimist. Even though I've had tragedies in my life, and I've seen a lot of difficult things, I still am an optimist," he said.
Linkletter had extensive business interests. He headed a company involved in real estate development and management and operation of cattle ranches in Montana, New Mexico and California. He held interests in oil and gas wells, owned livestock in Australia and was involved in a solar energy firm.
He is survived by his wife, Lois, whom he married in 1935, and daughters Dawn Griffin and Sharon Linkletter, as well as seven grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren.
I'd say he's getting the little angels in line for his newest program on heavenly television.
TV's 'People Are Funny' host Art Linkletter dies
AP – FILE - In this Oct. 4, 2009 file photo, television host Art Linkletter poses on the press line at the …
By LYNN ELBER, AP Entertainment Writer Lynn Elber, Ap Entertainment Writer – 45 mins ago
LOS ANGELES – Art Linkletter, whose "People Are Funny" and "House Party" shows entertained millions of TV viewers in the 1950s and '60s with the funny side of ordinary folks and who remained active as a writer and speaker through his ninth decade, died Wednesday. He was 97.
Linkletter died at his home in the Bel-Air section of Los Angeles, said his son-in-law, Art Hershey, the husband of Sharon Linkletter.
"He lived a long, full, pure life, and the Lord had need for him," Hershey said.
Linkletter had been ill "in the last few weeks time, but bear in mind he was 97 years old. He wasn't eating well, and the aging process took him," Hershey said.
Linkletter hadn't been diagnosed with any life-threatening disease, he said.
Linkletter was known on TV for his funny interviews with children and ordinary folks. He also collected their comments in a number of best-selling books.
"Art Linkletter's House Party," one of television's longest-running variety shows, debuted on radio in 1944 and was seen on CBS-TV from 1952 to 1969.
Though it had many features, the best known was the daily interviews with schoolchildren.
"On `House Party' I would talk to you and bring out the fact that you had been letting your boss beat you at golf over a period of months as part of your campaign to get a raise," Linkletter wrote.
"All the while, without your knowledge, your boss would be sitting a few feet away listening, and at the appropriate moment, I would bring you together," he said. "Now, that's funny, because the laugh arises out of a real situation."
Linkletter collected quotes from children into "Kids Say The Darndest Things," and it sold in the millions. The book "70 Years of Best Sellers 1895-1965" ranked "Kids Say the Darndest Things" as the 15th top seller among nonfiction books in that period.
The prime time "People Are Funny," which began on radio in 1942 and ran on TV from 1954 to 1961, emphasized slapstick humor and audience participation — things like throwing a pie in the face of a contestant who couldn't tell his Social Security number in five seconds, or asking him to go out and cash a check written on the side of a watermelon.
The down-to-earth charm of Linkletter's broadcast persona seemed to be mirrored by his private life with his wife of more than a half-century, Lois. They had five children, whom he wrote about in his books and called the "Links."
But in 1969, his 20-year-old daughter Diane jumped to her death from her sixth-floor Hollywood apartment. He blamed her death on LSD use, but toxicology tests found no LSD in her body after she died.
Still, the tragedy prompted Linkletter to become a crusader against drugs. A son, Robert, died in a car accident in 1980. Another son, Jack Linkletter, was 70 when he died of lymphoma in 2007.
Art Linkletter got his first taste of broadcasting with a part-time job while attending San Diego State College in the early 1930s. He graduated in 1934.
"I was studying to be an English professor," Linkletter once said. "But as they say, life is what happens to you while you're making other plans."
He held a series of radio and promotion jobs in California and Texas, experimenting with audience participation and remote broadcasts, before forming his own production company in the 1940s and striking it big with "People Are Funny" and "House Party."
Linkletter was born Arthur Gordon Kelly on July 17, 1912, in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. His unwed mother put him up for adoption when he was a baby; when he was about 7, he and his adoptive parents moved to the U.S., eventually settling in San Diego.
He recalled his preacher-father forced him to take odd jobs to help the family. So Linkletter left and became a hobo, hopping trains across the West, working where he could. He recalled later that he felt the religious faith instilled by his father had been a great gift.
After leaving daily broadcasting in 1969, Linkletter continued to write, lecture and appear in television commercials.
Among his other books, were "Old Age is Not for Sissies," "How To Be a Supersalesman," "Confessions of a Happy Man," "Hobo on the Way to Heaven" and his autobiography, '`I Didn't Do It Alone."
A recording Linkletter made with his daughter Diane not long before she died, "We Love You, Call Collect," was issued after her death and won a Grammy award for best spoken word recording.
"Life is not fair ... not easy," Linkletter said in a 1990 interview by The Associated Press. "Outside, peer pressure can wreak havoc with the nicest families. So that's the part that's a gamble.
"But I'm an optimist. Even though I've had tragedies in my life, and I've seen a lot of difficult things, I still am an optimist," he said.
Linkletter had extensive business interests. He headed a company involved in real estate development and management and operation of cattle ranches in Montana, New Mexico and California. He held interests in oil and gas wells, owned livestock in Australia and was involved in a solar energy firm.
He is survived by his wife, Lois, whom he married in 1935, and daughters Dawn Griffin and Sharon Linkletter, as well as seven grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren.
I'd say he's getting the little angels in line for his newest program on heavenly television.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
My Mother's Influence
My mother’s contribution to my sense of humor is definitely her fault. I couldn’t help it if I got those genes. I even know why I’m so warped. My dad, who never finished high school, suddenly got the calling to be a pastor long before I was gleam in their eyes. They moved to Springfield, MO, for Dad to attend college. While there, my next oldest brother, Randy, was born and my father came down with a nasty case of hepatitis. http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/hepatitis.html
He was bad enough he had to be put in quarantine, which lasted about 24 hours before he got dressed and started walking down the hall toward home. The doctors, in their wisdom, saw things Dad’s way and sent him home with the promise not to go out in public. So, with Dad home, Doug was barely three, and a new one was coming, Mom threw up her hands (to stop trying to do something because it is too difficult.) and insisted they return to Michigcan. Moving back home was good because Doug had all kinds of family to play with. It was good for Mom because she could get more sleep. It was bad for Randy because he died from pneumonia. http://www.mychildhealth.net/all-about-pneumonia-in-children.html I came along less than a year later, which was good for me.
And how does that affect my sense of humor? I was warped from the very start. Someone was fooling around with someone else when I was conceived, and since I look like my father, sound like my mother, and have the worst of both their senses of humor, yous knows whats thats means. I’m okay with telling stories because of Dad. If you didn’t know him, you didn’t always know if he was joking or not. Mom can do that too, but not as convincingly as Dad could. Actually, I’m not good, I can be downright convincing. And the more I dislike a person, the better I can be, assuming those in the know can keep their faces straight. I remember I had one poor girl thinking that my youngest brother was having trouble but I wasn’t about to help him because I was tired of him. Just to let you know, I am the youngest child in my family.
One of the games that I like to play with Mom is based on words and how stupid but plausible definition we can give them. To wit: When I turned 40, Mom took me and a few of my colleagues out for lunch. While waiting for our meal, I turned to Mom and asked, “Mom, what’s sex?” The table went silent. Remember, these are all women I have worked with and they all know my sense of humor. Mom looked around the table and the faces my colleagues were making, then she looked at my grinning face and answered, “Shonda, I’ve told you a hundred times. Sex is the number after five.” We giggled, then looked at my colleagues who still looked a bit stunned, and then a couple giggled, and then they lost it. I had finally put to rest that “Yes, this really is how she talks to me.”
Just the other day I asked Mom the meaning of porn. She said it was the first two letters of “pop” and the last two of “corn.” It made sense to me. This is what some word play is like with my mother. We’ll use perfectly good words, but bend them to fit our need. If we saw a tiger, I would ask why it wasn’t a lion. Mom would say only if it was asleep would it be a lion. I would say that a lion is a falsehood while resting on your back. Mom might say that was a recline-on. It pretty much goes downhill from there.
Another word game we’ve used is when we’re struck in traffic and desperate for something to do. We’ll start making anagrams from license plates, signs, anything that’s hand. Given the sign “We Luv to Serv” I’d make the anagram “uv”; Mom, “vuw”; me, “swell”; Mom, “vesul”; me, “luser”; and so on. (In case you weren’t paying attention, I did use the semicolons correctly here.)
Do I blame my parents for my warped sense of humor? Damn right, I do. Do I wish I had something more sedate? Hell no.
You must understand a couple things. 1. I was born fat. It’s just a word. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.
IT. JUST. A. WORD. But, the more you look at it as a way of life, the more miserable you become. I have lived long enough being miserable, and I refuse to live that way anymore.
2. Because your society is soooooooooooooooooooo hung up by the word FAT, we forget to see the person below the flab. And, like most people with problems, we don’t forgive them their faults until they accept themselves for what they are.
Case in point: In August of 2002, I was lying in my motel bed, which on vacation, thinking about why my left shoulder and arm hurt like they were on fire. When I finally admitted I need to go to the hospital, I told my companion (Joyce) and also my colleague, that we need to go to a hospital, she said fine. I stood up to get dressed and found I couldn’t breathe, so I laid down and said we needed an ambulance. To cut it short, I went in early Friday morning and got out Tuesday morning after having had angioplasty, and with a lot of drugs including something for angina, depression, high blood pressure, and hi triglycerides. I was 41. Talk about a messed up life.
This is why I laugh. This is why I must laugh. I cannot let something simple like a bum ticker and diabetes rule my life. I refuse. Therefore, I laugh. Relapses? Not yet. Although Dr. Brill, the cardiologist, says it’s nice to see me in the office at least once a year since I refuse to go twice a year and hear him say I’m fine and come back in six months. I am not made of money, thank you. Anyone have a legal recipe for a money tree?
He was bad enough he had to be put in quarantine, which lasted about 24 hours before he got dressed and started walking down the hall toward home. The doctors, in their wisdom, saw things Dad’s way and sent him home with the promise not to go out in public. So, with Dad home, Doug was barely three, and a new one was coming, Mom threw up her hands (to stop trying to do something because it is too difficult.) and insisted they return to Michigcan. Moving back home was good because Doug had all kinds of family to play with. It was good for Mom because she could get more sleep. It was bad for Randy because he died from pneumonia. http://www.mychildhealth.net/all-about-pneumonia-in-children.html I came along less than a year later, which was good for me.
And how does that affect my sense of humor? I was warped from the very start. Someone was fooling around with someone else when I was conceived, and since I look like my father, sound like my mother, and have the worst of both their senses of humor, yous knows whats thats means. I’m okay with telling stories because of Dad. If you didn’t know him, you didn’t always know if he was joking or not. Mom can do that too, but not as convincingly as Dad could. Actually, I’m not good, I can be downright convincing. And the more I dislike a person, the better I can be, assuming those in the know can keep their faces straight. I remember I had one poor girl thinking that my youngest brother was having trouble but I wasn’t about to help him because I was tired of him. Just to let you know, I am the youngest child in my family.
One of the games that I like to play with Mom is based on words and how stupid but plausible definition we can give them. To wit: When I turned 40, Mom took me and a few of my colleagues out for lunch. While waiting for our meal, I turned to Mom and asked, “Mom, what’s sex?” The table went silent. Remember, these are all women I have worked with and they all know my sense of humor. Mom looked around the table and the faces my colleagues were making, then she looked at my grinning face and answered, “Shonda, I’ve told you a hundred times. Sex is the number after five.” We giggled, then looked at my colleagues who still looked a bit stunned, and then a couple giggled, and then they lost it. I had finally put to rest that “Yes, this really is how she talks to me.”
Just the other day I asked Mom the meaning of porn. She said it was the first two letters of “pop” and the last two of “corn.” It made sense to me. This is what some word play is like with my mother. We’ll use perfectly good words, but bend them to fit our need. If we saw a tiger, I would ask why it wasn’t a lion. Mom would say only if it was asleep would it be a lion. I would say that a lion is a falsehood while resting on your back. Mom might say that was a recline-on. It pretty much goes downhill from there.
Another word game we’ve used is when we’re struck in traffic and desperate for something to do. We’ll start making anagrams from license plates, signs, anything that’s hand. Given the sign “We Luv to Serv” I’d make the anagram “uv”; Mom, “vuw”; me, “swell”; Mom, “vesul”; me, “luser”; and so on. (In case you weren’t paying attention, I did use the semicolons correctly here.)
Do I blame my parents for my warped sense of humor? Damn right, I do. Do I wish I had something more sedate? Hell no.
You must understand a couple things. 1. I was born fat. It’s just a word. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.
IT. JUST. A. WORD. But, the more you look at it as a way of life, the more miserable you become. I have lived long enough being miserable, and I refuse to live that way anymore.
2. Because your society is soooooooooooooooooooo hung up by the word FAT, we forget to see the person below the flab. And, like most people with problems, we don’t forgive them their faults until they accept themselves for what they are.
Case in point: In August of 2002, I was lying in my motel bed, which on vacation, thinking about why my left shoulder and arm hurt like they were on fire. When I finally admitted I need to go to the hospital, I told my companion (Joyce) and also my colleague, that we need to go to a hospital, she said fine. I stood up to get dressed and found I couldn’t breathe, so I laid down and said we needed an ambulance. To cut it short, I went in early Friday morning and got out Tuesday morning after having had angioplasty, and with a lot of drugs including something for angina, depression, high blood pressure, and hi triglycerides. I was 41. Talk about a messed up life.
This is why I laugh. This is why I must laugh. I cannot let something simple like a bum ticker and diabetes rule my life. I refuse. Therefore, I laugh. Relapses? Not yet. Although Dr. Brill, the cardiologist, says it’s nice to see me in the office at least once a year since I refuse to go twice a year and hear him say I’m fine and come back in six months. I am not made of money, thank you. Anyone have a legal recipe for a money tree?
Friday, May 21, 2010
I Was A Television Remote Control
I was born near the tail end of the era of the “Baby Boomers.” Life was practically idyllic then. There were only three networks; four, if you lived close to Canada; five, if you were close enough to the Channel 50 broadcast tower. We could go outside and play, confident that we would be safe roaming the streets all hours of the day and night. American Graffiti was a way of life, not a movie. It was also a time for new wonders. The greatest, of course, was the invention of the television remote control. (www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/remotectl.htm).
What made the remote so great? The freedom it represented. No more did Dad or the kids have get out of their chairs to change channels or turn up the volume or turn the damn thing on or off. If he was comfortable, having a remote meant he didn’t have to endanger his peaceful existence of pizza on his lap, a beer on the side table, chips at his left elbow, and his right arm and hand free to wallop any child who would dare to interrupt Dad while he spent quality time with his favorite sports team.
Not everyone could afford a remote control television, or were too cheap to buy something you didn’t need, not when you had kids: thus, my place in life. I was one of “those” kids. Being the youngest of two children, it was my job to let my brother tell me what to do with the television controls. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Doug does all the talking.
Change it.
Change it.
Wait.
Change it.
Go back.
Change it.
Turn it up a little.
Go back one more.
Seen it.
Change it.
Change it.
WAIT!
Seen it.
Change it.
Etc.
Sometimes just to be mean or rude or both, Doug would make me stand there by the t.v. for eons—maybe ten minutes or until Mom got tired of listening to me whine about wanting to watch t.v. too. Worse yet, if I complained too much, Mom would punish both of us for “fighting.” I was not “fighting,” thank you. I was whining. There’s a big difference. When we were both punished, sent to our rooms for a couple hours, Doug would administer his own form of justice, a punch in the arm for being such a baby and wouldn’t shut up like he said.( http://www.preventchildabuse.org/index.shtml We get along a whole lot better now.)
For some reason, I didn’t mind being a human remote control for my father—probably because I worshiped the ground he walked on. My father. Oh, my father. Dad was 6’6” tall and was covered with fur (hair). When Mom trimmed his hair, she had to trim his eyebrows too. He had to shave twice a day, sometimes three. He wore a size 15 shoe. My father was also one of the most gentle men I have had the privilege of knowing. I was also fortunate because my father was a commercial printer and worked at home in his print shop. Dad worked long and hard at his caft. Thus, when it was the end of the day and he was tired, changing the channel for him was th elast I could do t make him happy.
(www.printingmuseum.org.au/Equipment.htm). [FYI: I know how to run about half the machinary found at the Web site. Running a linotype is not easy, even if you are just hitting the correct letters in order to cast a line in lead. Of all the machinary shown, I was never allowed to use the smelter when it came time to make new pegs.)
Okay. Fine. I whined about changing the channel for him, too, but as long or as annoying as I did with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Dad did most of the talking, but sometimes he asked what I thought about a program.
What channel is that?
Turn it, please.
Shonda.
Shoooooooooon-duhhhhhhhhhh!
Hey! I’m talking to you.
Yes, I can see it’s Barbie.
Now change the channel.
Shonda.
Shonda!
SHONDA!
Will you please change the channel?
Thank you.
Turn it down now.
No. We are not going to watch the Brady Bunch.
Why are you crying?
You want to see Marcia get hit by the football? (http://www.bradybunchshrine.com/)
Fine.
Whatever.
Bev! (my mother) Where’s the Journal?
Not all sessions went like that with Dad. There were some days I didn’t mind rotating the channel selector time after time after time after time after time. At least when I whined with my dad and my mother couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d let Dad handle the punishment. Most of the time he made me change the channel and tell me to “shut up.” And don’t think that he said “shut up” in a mean and nasty way. It came out more as a mild rebuke, like we were both in the secret that Dad had done as Mom the Shrew had insisted. (Even I knew my father loved me more than my mother because my mother was always bossing him around and he hated that kind of thing. But that's another soon-to-come blog entry.)
Besides changing the channel, I also learned the secrets of the vertical and horizontal holds. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, get back into your time machine and check out the late 60s at any store that sells televisions. I can’t say that I was the best “keeper of the holds,” but I got to do the job a lot, especially with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Doug did all the talking.
It’s skipping now.
I can’t see it very good.
You must have changed the resolution thingy again.
Go back to what you had a minute ago.
Can’t you do anything right?
Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Dad did the talking.
Shonda, Go fix the t.v.
Put your Barbies down and come help Daddy.
No, Barbie doesn’t want to live in the television.
No, Francie doesn’t want to be on t.v.
Shonda, please fix the television for Daddy.
Yes, that’s better.
Shonda, if you put Barbie (http://www.barbiecollector.com/) down you won’t get another shock like that again.
Sweetheart, if Barbie gets too close to some parts of the t.v., she’s going to melt and then Ken won’t have a date for the wedding.
Thank you, Shonda.
Now go play.
Take Barbie with you.
No. I don’t think Ken would really like to wear Barbie’s wedding gown. Because it won’t fit him.
Honey, Ken is a boy and boys don’t wear dresses.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Breeching_(boys))
(http://www.manbehindthedoll.com/)
What?
Yes, Jesus wore what looks like a dress, but it’s not really a dress.
You’ll understand when you get older.
Now go play.
Did we ever switch to a real remote control for the t.v? We sure did—about the time I started taking classes at Mott.
What made the remote so great? The freedom it represented. No more did Dad or the kids have get out of their chairs to change channels or turn up the volume or turn the damn thing on or off. If he was comfortable, having a remote meant he didn’t have to endanger his peaceful existence of pizza on his lap, a beer on the side table, chips at his left elbow, and his right arm and hand free to wallop any child who would dare to interrupt Dad while he spent quality time with his favorite sports team.
Not everyone could afford a remote control television, or were too cheap to buy something you didn’t need, not when you had kids: thus, my place in life. I was one of “those” kids. Being the youngest of two children, it was my job to let my brother tell me what to do with the television controls. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Doug does all the talking.
Change it.
Change it.
Wait.
Change it.
Go back.
Change it.
Turn it up a little.
Go back one more.
Seen it.
Change it.
Change it.
WAIT!
Seen it.
Change it.
Etc.
Sometimes just to be mean or rude or both, Doug would make me stand there by the t.v. for eons—maybe ten minutes or until Mom got tired of listening to me whine about wanting to watch t.v. too. Worse yet, if I complained too much, Mom would punish both of us for “fighting.” I was not “fighting,” thank you. I was whining. There’s a big difference. When we were both punished, sent to our rooms for a couple hours, Doug would administer his own form of justice, a punch in the arm for being such a baby and wouldn’t shut up like he said.( http://www.preventchildabuse.org/index.shtml We get along a whole lot better now.)
For some reason, I didn’t mind being a human remote control for my father—probably because I worshiped the ground he walked on. My father. Oh, my father. Dad was 6’6” tall and was covered with fur (hair). When Mom trimmed his hair, she had to trim his eyebrows too. He had to shave twice a day, sometimes three. He wore a size 15 shoe. My father was also one of the most gentle men I have had the privilege of knowing. I was also fortunate because my father was a commercial printer and worked at home in his print shop. Dad worked long and hard at his caft. Thus, when it was the end of the day and he was tired, changing the channel for him was th elast I could do t make him happy.
(www.printingmuseum.org.au/Equipment.htm). [FYI: I know how to run about half the machinary found at the Web site. Running a linotype is not easy, even if you are just hitting the correct letters in order to cast a line in lead. Of all the machinary shown, I was never allowed to use the smelter when it came time to make new pegs.)
Okay. Fine. I whined about changing the channel for him, too, but as long or as annoying as I did with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Dad did most of the talking, but sometimes he asked what I thought about a program.
What channel is that?
Turn it, please.
Shonda.
Shoooooooooon-duhhhhhhhhhh!
Hey! I’m talking to you.
Yes, I can see it’s Barbie.
Now change the channel.
Shonda.
Shonda!
SHONDA!
Will you please change the channel?
Thank you.
Turn it down now.
No. We are not going to watch the Brady Bunch.
Why are you crying?
You want to see Marcia get hit by the football? (http://www.bradybunchshrine.com/)
Fine.
Whatever.
Bev! (my mother) Where’s the Journal?
Not all sessions went like that with Dad. There were some days I didn’t mind rotating the channel selector time after time after time after time after time. At least when I whined with my dad and my mother couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d let Dad handle the punishment. Most of the time he made me change the channel and tell me to “shut up.” And don’t think that he said “shut up” in a mean and nasty way. It came out more as a mild rebuke, like we were both in the secret that Dad had done as Mom the Shrew had insisted. (Even I knew my father loved me more than my mother because my mother was always bossing him around and he hated that kind of thing. But that's another soon-to-come blog entry.)
Besides changing the channel, I also learned the secrets of the vertical and horizontal holds. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, get back into your time machine and check out the late 60s at any store that sells televisions. I can’t say that I was the best “keeper of the holds,” but I got to do the job a lot, especially with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Doug did all the talking.
It’s skipping now.
I can’t see it very good.
You must have changed the resolution thingy again.
Go back to what you had a minute ago.
Can’t you do anything right?
Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Dad did the talking.
Shonda, Go fix the t.v.
Put your Barbies down and come help Daddy.
No, Barbie doesn’t want to live in the television.
No, Francie doesn’t want to be on t.v.
Shonda, please fix the television for Daddy.
Yes, that’s better.
Shonda, if you put Barbie (http://www.barbiecollector.com/) down you won’t get another shock like that again.
Sweetheart, if Barbie gets too close to some parts of the t.v., she’s going to melt and then Ken won’t have a date for the wedding.
Thank you, Shonda.
Now go play.
Take Barbie with you.
No. I don’t think Ken would really like to wear Barbie’s wedding gown. Because it won’t fit him.
Honey, Ken is a boy and boys don’t wear dresses.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Breeching_(boys))
(http://www.manbehindthedoll.com/)
What?
Yes, Jesus wore what looks like a dress, but it’s not really a dress.
You’ll understand when you get older.
Now go play.
Did we ever switch to a real remote control for the t.v? We sure did—about the time I started taking classes at Mott.
Monday, May 17, 2010
How my Father Influenced my Sense of Humor
My mom’s youngest brother lived with us for a couple years in the middle 1970s. He got a job at the local Vlasic Pickle Plant in Imlay City. Like many in his family, Don was partially deaf, and while he could hear okay, he didn’t hear high-pitched sounds a whole lot.
One Sunday night, Dad took the phone off the hook and went to Don’s room, saying he had a phone call. We could hear what Dad said because Dad made sure we could. As Don walked through to the living room, I had a hard time keeping my face straight because I knew what Dad was doing.
Don picked up the phone, said hello a couple times, then hung up. He just looked confused and said that who ever it was must have hung up. No one laughed at that moment, but Mom did the leave the room pretty quick.
Twenty years later, I was living with my best friend in Columbiaville. She had three sons and son number two, Roy, and his fiancée, Kristen, came back to Michigan from California to spend Christmas with us and her parents. On a dull afternoon, Kristen was reading while I was channel surfing. If you haven’t already guessed it…
I got Kristen’s attention and told her that Roy was calling for her. He and his mom, Joan, were in the office/bedroom working on the computer. Roy is a electrical engineer or something like that and he fixed the computer problems when he came to town. Anyway, Kristen put down her book and then trotted across the house to the bedroom. About ten minutes later she returned and said that I must have misheard Roy because he hadn’t been calling for her.
A few minutes after she was again engrossed in her book, I told Kristen that Roy was calling for her. She put down the book and stood up, stopped, and then looked at me with a curious stare. She said, “Did Roy really call me?” I told the truth and said no, to which she sat down, said something about idiots, and continued to ignore me the rest of the day.
My father never pulled a prank that would endanger or hurt someone. If he did do something, it was always to have some fun and he didn’t mind it if he was found out or that he made a fool of himself for having tried. I am the same way. I will not humiliate anyone in public on purpose. Nor will I say the obvious, even if I know that person will not hear. It doesn’t matter. The news will get back to that person regardless. I don’t care if I look like a fool if the participants understand that I am not out to get them. Thus, I don’t pull pranks on anyone I know, and very seldom on people I do know.
Like Dad, I am more inclined to the gentle art of humor. If I look like a fool, then I look like a fool. But more important, was it funny or at least humorous?
One Sunday night, Dad took the phone off the hook and went to Don’s room, saying he had a phone call. We could hear what Dad said because Dad made sure we could. As Don walked through to the living room, I had a hard time keeping my face straight because I knew what Dad was doing.
Don picked up the phone, said hello a couple times, then hung up. He just looked confused and said that who ever it was must have hung up. No one laughed at that moment, but Mom did the leave the room pretty quick.
Twenty years later, I was living with my best friend in Columbiaville. She had three sons and son number two, Roy, and his fiancée, Kristen, came back to Michigan from California to spend Christmas with us and her parents. On a dull afternoon, Kristen was reading while I was channel surfing. If you haven’t already guessed it…
I got Kristen’s attention and told her that Roy was calling for her. He and his mom, Joan, were in the office/bedroom working on the computer. Roy is a electrical engineer or something like that and he fixed the computer problems when he came to town. Anyway, Kristen put down her book and then trotted across the house to the bedroom. About ten minutes later she returned and said that I must have misheard Roy because he hadn’t been calling for her.
A few minutes after she was again engrossed in her book, I told Kristen that Roy was calling for her. She put down the book and stood up, stopped, and then looked at me with a curious stare. She said, “Did Roy really call me?” I told the truth and said no, to which she sat down, said something about idiots, and continued to ignore me the rest of the day.
My father never pulled a prank that would endanger or hurt someone. If he did do something, it was always to have some fun and he didn’t mind it if he was found out or that he made a fool of himself for having tried. I am the same way. I will not humiliate anyone in public on purpose. Nor will I say the obvious, even if I know that person will not hear. It doesn’t matter. The news will get back to that person regardless. I don’t care if I look like a fool if the participants understand that I am not out to get them. Thus, I don’t pull pranks on anyone I know, and very seldom on people I do know.
Like Dad, I am more inclined to the gentle art of humor. If I look like a fool, then I look like a fool. But more important, was it funny or at least humorous?
Friday, May 14, 2010
I'm laughing my way through the semester
I will be blogging about my sense of humor. It’s a good topic and there is much in my life that will definitely be good fodder.
I have a dry sense of humor and, fortunately or unfortunately, it’s genetic. My mother’s side of the family is loud and laughs at just about anything. Unfortunately, they laugh just as much to the funny stuff as they do the malicious stuff. I really that. I was a very sensitive kid and I didn’t need the added pressure of performing well in front of my mother’s family when I could barely walk across the room without tripping on something, mostly my feet. My father’s side makes much the same jokes and comments, but it’s never meant to hurt just because the opportunity arose. I like that side of the family better.
So I’m stuck with this sense of humor and I try to use it as much as possible without hurting anyone on purpose. I do this by observation and then making low key comments. For example, my mother once went to Maine with two of her sisters-in-law, Virginia and Loraine, and Cousin Doris to visit with a third in-law, Janet. The “girls,” none of them less than 60, spent time doing Maine-like stuff. One of their outings was to pick blueberries.
In Maine, the bushes are low to the ground, looking more like moss than bushes. One of those cranberry commercials that touts the greatness of blueberries and the pitchmen are in a blueberry orchard, they ain’t in Maine. In order to pick blueberries in Maine, you have to bend low to the ground and use a tissue-sized box to sweep the blueberries into it. There is no standing up and picking them one by one.
Anyway, while the “girls” were picking their blueberries, Mom took a picture of the four other ladies as they bent over to scoop. When I saw the picture, I pointed at each butt pointed toward the camera and said, “That’s Virginia, Loraine, Janet, which makes that Doris.” I am not kidding you. You could tell by their who was who. I didn’t have to say anything more about the picture because my mother just shook her head, although she was agreeing with me.
And that’s just the Stimer side.
Well, that's just one example of what I can write about. If you have any special requests, I just might have a story to cover that topic.
I have a dry sense of humor and, fortunately or unfortunately, it’s genetic. My mother’s side of the family is loud and laughs at just about anything. Unfortunately, they laugh just as much to the funny stuff as they do the malicious stuff. I really that. I was a very sensitive kid and I didn’t need the added pressure of performing well in front of my mother’s family when I could barely walk across the room without tripping on something, mostly my feet. My father’s side makes much the same jokes and comments, but it’s never meant to hurt just because the opportunity arose. I like that side of the family better.
So I’m stuck with this sense of humor and I try to use it as much as possible without hurting anyone on purpose. I do this by observation and then making low key comments. For example, my mother once went to Maine with two of her sisters-in-law, Virginia and Loraine, and Cousin Doris to visit with a third in-law, Janet. The “girls,” none of them less than 60, spent time doing Maine-like stuff. One of their outings was to pick blueberries.
In Maine, the bushes are low to the ground, looking more like moss than bushes. One of those cranberry commercials that touts the greatness of blueberries and the pitchmen are in a blueberry orchard, they ain’t in Maine. In order to pick blueberries in Maine, you have to bend low to the ground and use a tissue-sized box to sweep the blueberries into it. There is no standing up and picking them one by one.
Anyway, while the “girls” were picking their blueberries, Mom took a picture of the four other ladies as they bent over to scoop. When I saw the picture, I pointed at each butt pointed toward the camera and said, “That’s Virginia, Loraine, Janet, which makes that Doris.” I am not kidding you. You could tell by their who was who. I didn’t have to say anything more about the picture because my mother just shook her head, although she was agreeing with me.
And that’s just the Stimer side.
Well, that's just one example of what I can write about. If you have any special requests, I just might have a story to cover that topic.
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