Category Archives: humor

Shedding Sheldon

The first line of the blog post read, “I was flying in to Cape Corral Fla. on southwest” and I was forced to swallow the bile that immediately rose.  Admittedly, the rest of the story was entertaining, but I had too much difficulty getting past that first line to enjoy it.  You see, I’m a grammar Nazi.  A spelling Nazi.  A detail in the written word Nazi.  Had the line read, “I was flying in to Fort Myers, FL on Southwest”, I could have enjoyed it more.  I happen to know that Southwest likes their name capitalized, that Cape Coral doesn’t have an airport, and I know how that particular city spells its name.  I’m my own worst enemy.

I have a group of friends online that are the same.  We skip through the interwebs and get together in little groups to point our collective cyber fingers at the grammatical miscreants and laugh at them privately.

But, I realize I need to change my ways.  I have friends who tell me they’re afraid to comment on anything I post because they fear I’ll point out their errors; if not to them, then to my other grammatically high-brow friends.  It’s gotten to the point that I actually annoy myself.  I won’t go into a store with a misspelled word on their marquee or in their windows.  Cutsie spellings just piss me off, and I won’t ever buy ice cream at Kustard Korner, even though I crave their root beer floats more than breath.

Yes, Sheldon. I, too, am a loser.

I realize that I have become Sheldon Cooper; I’m annoying, and not in a cute way.  I feel superior and refuse to take into consideration the fact that I can’t shoot a hoop, work a mathematical equation or rebuild an engine.  My grammatical skills have made me a snob.

So, from here on out, I’m going to try to amend my ways.  Tpyos are just something taht happen.  Kyootsie spellings will be overlooked and I’ll learn to think of them as kewl.  txt spk wl b 4gvn  No, I’m sorry.  I just can’t go there.  Pour grammar n speling will be… Oh, hell.  Who am I kidding?  Certainly not me, and probably not ewe.

Did I mention that the book I’m currently reading is set in 1977 and they drink bottled water and play Pac Man at the arcade?  Do you have any idea about just how much this pisses me off?

It’s baby steps, Bob.  Baby steps.

*Image of Jim Parsons as Sheldon Cooper courtesy of Google


Giving Each Other The Bird

You know you might need to find something else to do with your time when you start to snap about the little things.  I mean, the really, really stupid little things.

This is Feldman, our travel flamingo.

Feldman on Key West

He goes on vacations with us and is generally used as a marker on beaches so we can easily find our chairs after taking a stroll down water’s edge.  He’s always held a spot of honor in our home, and since our move to Florida, he’s on display outside at all times.

Now that we’re fairly well settled into our retirement down here, we’re finding ourselves with more time on our hands to play with silly projects.  That’s where Feldman’s updated look began.

For some completely warped reason, I decided he needed dreadlocks.

Kevin stepped in to help and drilled holes in dear, little Feldman’s head while I was still sleeping one morning. I was mildly annoyed, because I’d pictured the holes to be more like slits, and I knew there was no way I’d be able to weave the dreads through these tiny openings. Kevin, in his never-ending need to fix things for everyone, then created a tool for me to use in the task.  OK, it wasn’t how I wanted it to proceed, but I could grumbling and mutteringly see where it would work, although differently from my plan.

I laboriously drew the black strands through the holes. Black yarn was wrapped around each dread to keep them looking dreadful.  The bottom of each strand was sealed with a dot of red nail polish, to give it the look of a bead.  My creative juices were flowing like our now thinner, Florida blood!  I was rejoicing in my stupidity!  The top was knotted and sealed with clear nail polish so it wouldn’t fray.  However, that left the top of his head looking kind of unkempt, so I decided he needed a hat.

I mentioned to Kevin that I was going to search online for a Rastafarian hat for Feldman, and before I even had the opportunity, my “fixer” reported that he’d done an internet search and couldn’t come up with anything.  However, he found Rasta shoelaces that I might be able to work with.  I went to Amazon, found something similar and ordered them, all the while grumbling to myself about the fact that he stole my internet search.  In record time, they were in my mailbox.  I then spent a very enjoyable morning fashioning one lace into a really cool hat.  When I tried it on Feldman, I realized it needed to be glued on to his head.

And this is where my pissed-offitude really took wing.

We only had Python Glue.  I don’t like Python Glue.  Kevin likes Python Glue.  I wanted Gorilla Glue, but the last time we were in a store and I tried to buy some, Kevin insisted on buying Python Glue, because he uses glue, too.  The nasty Python Glue wouldn’t work the way I needed it to work.  It needed to be held on for hours.  I wasn’t holding a hat on a stupid, plastic flamingo for hours.  (Sorry, Feldman!)  I told him that I’d be waiting for pay day to go buy the glue I wanted, all the while internally seething that I could have had my project already done if only he’d have butted out of my need for Gorilla Glue the last time and let me buy what I wanted.  But, noooooo…

The next morning when I woke up, Feldman was up high on a cabinet with rubber bands securely holding my Rasta creation to the top of his head… with Python Glue!  Kevin wasn’t around, so I was able to get a real, good snit going.  WTF?!  This was supposed to be my project! Did he really think he was helping me?  I couldn’t even look at my darling Feldman.  I had a unique way that I wanted to attach the hat so it would slouch down his back, and I was sure he didn’t do it the way I wanted it done.  I spent the rest of the day avoiding looking at Feldman on top of the cabinet, and avoiding Kevin as much as possible.  I knew he thought he was helping me, but I felt he’d destroyed… yes, destroyed!.. my project.

Oh, but it got worse.  The next morning, Feldman was waiting for me by my computer.  The rubber bands were gone.  Swallowing a huge lump in my throat, I picked him up to see how he looked.  My masterpiece of a hat was glued firmly, dead center, on top of his head.  He looked like a Chinese coolie flamingo. The tip that I’d sewn over to form a slouch pocket down the back was pointing to his left.  I was livid.  I didn’t want to make a scene (quite yet, but I was certainly masterminding one), so I just left poor Feldman laying on the table by my laptop, while I worked on letting myself get into a real snit, and mentally prepared for the hissy I was going to throw.  I picked him up a few times throughout the day and lamented all the hours I’d put into the beauteousness of him.  My upper lip trembled with repressed rage. My nostrils quivered with anger. He was ruined in the final hour.  RUINED!  A coolie hat!

I could barely talk to Kevin.  I kept my distance.  I growled to myself over and over and over about Python Glue and Gorilla Glue and holes instead of slits and leave my shit alone and maybe I could have found a pre-made hat if he hadn’t interfered and rubber bands and coolie hats!  I even thought of throwing my beloved Feldman away.  I was working up an enormous head of steam and I was just about to blow when I finally took a deep breath and picked Feldman up.  Sniffling and with unshed tears filling my eyes, I started folding parts of the hat this way and that.  I imagined what I could do with it if I bought some Gorilla Glue to use in certain, small spots.  I realized he might not be a total loss, and as much as I wanted to severely punish Kevin and make the rest of his life a living hell, it probably wasn’t worth ruining my marriage over.  After an extended cool-down period, I grudgingly made myself hug Kev, thank him for his efforts and tell him I was going to go buy some Gorilla Glue.  A couple of days later, I was even able to laugh and tell him how angry I’d been and how I’d planned on never speaking to him again because of his interference with my dreadlocked, pink, plastic flamingo project.

I’ll just save all my evil revenge plans for his next infraction of my unstated rules.

Feldman, mon.

Adventures in ADD

The plan to sleep in as late as I could was known by my husband, so maybe I should have been a bit more curious about his 6:15 a.m. wake-up call, beseeching me to run downstairs and turn off the pot of beans he left on the stove.  In an almost surreal state, I moseyed downstairs and saw a pot on the stove that looked fine.  I turned off the burner, peeked under the lid at the plump and (nauseating) lima beans as Kevin ran in through the kitchen door, dripping sweat, hyperventilating, wide-and wild-eyed and totally freaked out.

A little back story seems to be in order…

Our plan to eat everything in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry before going to the grocery store had led Kevin to an early morning discovery of a puddle of goo, next to a bag of lima beans in the bottom of the freezer.  After cleaning the goo, he decided to cook the lima beans and take them to work for lunch.  With the beans cooking, he started to unload the dishwasher.  With the door to the dishwasher still open, he threw away the lima bean bag and realized the garbage can was full.  He deserted the dishwasher and took the bag of garbage out to the shed.  Once back by the shed, he found a plant that needed to be staked up, so he tended to that, before heading over to our tiny pool and doing a little maintenance on it.  He’d worked up a bit of a sweat by this time and decided to take an early morning bike ride to cool off.  He rode down to the beach, where he moved a picnic table to a more favorable location, thinking that he’d come home and wake me gently with the romantic notion to have coffee on the beach at sunrise together.  He then continued his bike ride down the pier.  He was almost all the way to the end of it when he remembered the beans on the stove.  In a dead panic, he turned his bike around and made like Lance Armstrong toward home, simultaneously calling me on his cell.  Visions of the house in flames and a wife dead of smoke inhalation flew through his mind, so the sight of me standing sleepy-eyed and morning-rumpled in a perfectly safe and calm kitchen nearly brought the man to his knees.  I was greeted with one of the sweatiest and most grateful hugs I have ever received.

When he told me about his plans for us to have coffee on the beach at the table he’d moved, I canned my immediate plans to go back to bed.  I mean, how could I resist that?  His angst and self-flagellation were enough punishment for him, so I bit my bitchy tongue, filed the event away, never to be brought up again.

That is, of course, unless I need to.  ;o)

The NotJoker

We were so looking forward to just sitting at the tiny, three stool bar at the restaurant attached to our hotel.  We needed to slum it, in the fashion we were most accustomed to.  From our balcony, we could see that there was only one person sitting at the bar, and I joked that I was sure I could chase him away in no time.  We meandered downstairs and grabbed the two empty stools at the bar, looking forward to some plain old beer and camaraderie with the bar staff.


The guy who was sitting at the other stool was the epitome of every annoying bar patron that we’d ever run across, and then some.  He was truly in a league of his own.  I’ve been know to tell the crude and the rude to just shut the fuck up and leave us alone in other establishments, but this guy wouldn’t quite cross the line between pathetic to disgusting.  He remained lonely and sad, and after five minutes, we certainly could see why.

The moment our butts hit the stools, he turned to us and said, “Did I ever tell you the one about…”  No, you couldn’t have, since we’ve never met you before.  He then proceeded to tell us some tired, old internet joke that we’d each heard at least thirty times.  We politely laughed, which was the wrong thing to do.  You can’t encourage this type.  He continued to tell us one joke after another, all of which we’d heard countless times before.  We both even began to mention that we’d heard that one, and even that one, but he continued to tell them all the way to the end, regardless.  This went on through four jokes.  Five jokes.  Seven jokes.  Finally, I did it.

I faked a phone call.

I pulled my cell from my pocket and started carrying on an animated conversation into which I dragged Kevin.  He quickly picked up the idea, and repeatedly told me things to tell the person on the other end.  In the meantime, NotJoker kept poking him in the back, needing to tell him another one.  I passed the phone to Kev so he could be more involved and possibly give this dude the idea to leave us alone.  After both of us kept telling the non-existent caller that we would certainly discuss this between ourselves as soon as we hung up, we finally decided we were safe enough to end the pretend call.

Wrong again.

The moment the phone was back in my pocket, NotJoker got up and stood between us so he could say, “And then there’s the one about…”  Surprise!  Another not funny joke from 1947!

I swear that if it wasn’t for the adorable little girl that looked like Gwyneth Paltrow who appeared at the counter to pick up an order for her family, he would have never given up.  With a new target to hold hostage, we were finally able to shake him.  Otherwise, we still might be sitting there, listening to his stale jokes and not wanting to hurt the feelings of an ugly, lonely little man.  We could still be sitting there with him, under the palm trees and blue skies, with dolphins jumping and manatees swimming nearby, and listening to his pathetic form of stand-up comedy,

The snow in Ohio really didn’t seem like such a bad trade-off, after all.

Read This or I’ll Slap You

I’m hormonal as hell.  Menopause sucks scissors.

I’m hot flashing and night sweating and crying and bitching and yelling and blaming and wanting to kill something.

I’m fat and bloated and hot and cold and horny and you better not touch me and then I’m happy and sorry and apologizing and crying and eating all the chocolate and drinking all the beer and wine and crying more.

I want your attention and you better give it to me but you better leave me the hell alone if you know what’s good for you after you give me more chocolate and wine and tell me that I don’t look fat and that’s an order.

I love you all.

General Admiral CEO Diva

He came to the nurse’s desk and demanded to know, “How many people have put their fingers on my clothes since I came to the hospital?!  Cops, doctors, nurses…I demand an answer!”

Disheveled and unkempt, hair cut in an unusual fashion and sporting a strong body odor, Bradley Coffey did his delusional best to get the attention of the nurses on Sunday morning.

“Brad, we’re washing your clothes for you.  They were soaked and growing mold.  We’ll give back whatever you can have after they’re dry,” I informed him.

“They’re my special uniform!” he bellowed.  He now had the attention of a combination of about eight other patients and staff members.  “The Legion demands that no one touch the uniform!!  They’re special to me!  I paid for them with money I actually earned!”

From the report we heard about him from his admission on the previous night shift, and the condition of his belongings, it was obvious that he’d been off of his meds and living on the streets for some time.  The clothes were all he could relate to that he knew were absolutely his, and gave him some small measure of control.  They helped to feed into his delusion of his own importance as a ranking official in some imaginary military.  He’d already approached us several times in the previous hour with requests regarding his clothes.  His behavior had escalated enough that the secretary knew to immediately call security and we locked the outside doors to the nurse’s station.  He wasn’t my patient, but his nurse wasn’t around when this started, so we did what we do up there when that happens; we take over in their absence.

I asked, “Brad, do you want some medicine to help you settle down?”  He was less than enthusiastic about my offer.  I then offered him a choice between taking pills or getting a shot.  His resounding F*BOMB!! echoed off of the walls and gave me, and the floors both above below us, the answer I needed.  I went into the med room to draw up the injections.  I opted to use two of them together, as I know deep psychosis when I see it, and this guy was a powder keg.  The more meds, the merrier.

Security arrived and tried to deescalate Brad, verbally.  I knew it wasn’t going to work, because he was so sick and focused on his tiny bit of control that they were going to set him off even worse by trying to reason with him.  Since I was his current target, due to the fact that I was holding two syringes, I kept telling the guards that his argument was over.  Take him to his room.  Go to 264.  Now.  They kept trying to talk him down and he started edging ever-closer to me around the nurse’s station. I kept backing a few more feet away, every twenty seconds or so.  I got firm with Security and directed them to do it now. I’m a veteran up there.  I knew this situation wasn’t going to get any prettier, but it had the potential to get even worse.

As they started moving him to his room, Brad pivoted around, saluted, clicked his heels, and in front of the entire nurse’s station and several patients, declared, “I am Major Benjamin Forthnicker and my serial number is 8736595!  You can only inject me if you outrank me!”  At this point, our secretary blurted out, “She’s a general.”  Bradley then spewed many epithets at me and my “generalness” as he turned and went to his room, followed by security, three other nurses and myself, armed with syringes and alcohol swabs.

He got the injections, but not without much spewing of venom, a bit of wrestling and more than a few threats on myself.  I gave him a time-out, (Yes, we actually use time-outs on adults up there.) but he remained challenging with security, long after I left the room.  They hung around until the meds started kicking in, then left.  He slept for the rest of the shift.  That always makes me happy, because I know that the meds are working and he’s getting some relief.  (Not to mention that I know I won’t get my ass kicked.)

The situation was deescalated before his nurse got back from dealing with her other patient.  I was given the name of “General” for a minute, until I informed them that I needed to be sure no one ever out-ranked me again on the unit, for safety’s sake.

I’m now known as the General Admiral CEO Diva of the psych unit.  The delusions of the mentally unstable ain’t got nothin’ on me!

Sunny Day Haiku

Sunshine bathes the world

Skyward reaching arms and smile

Bird poop on my face