Tag 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


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)

Adventures in Gerontology

My latest adventure in taking my octogenarian parents out included a trip to Sam’s Club, among several other stops.


After trip to the doctor for Mom, we stopped back at their house to pick up my father and go to lunch. We dined on fine cuisine at Steak ‘n Shake, where they inevitably under tipped the server. (My mother can’t wrap her head around the concept of tipping for service. She thinks that if you eat in a cheap place, you also cheap out on the tip.) As usual, I left the rest of the tip on the table when they went to pay the tab.


Once in the car, the argument about who had the Sam’s Club card ensued. Dad insisted that Mom had taken it from him a few weeks before, and Mom was adamant that he had it. I assured them that I had a card of my own, so if theirs was lost, we could still get in. They argued this point all the way to Sam’s, which was really just a trip across the parking lot. Just as we were pulling into our parking spot, Mom found the card in her wallet. My father exulted in, “I told you so!” as we made our way to the door. Once at the door, the greeter asked to see the card. Mom had already put it away and wanted to know why I hadn’t gotten mine out to show her, instead.


I exchanged a goofy grin with the greeter who could see what was going on, as I quickly pulled my card out and made my way into the inner sanctum of the store. Mom was still in the lobby, looking for their card again. Being more than just a little hard of hearing, I had difficulty getting her attention to get her to realize we had been granted permission to enter. She eventually found her card and came forward, while the greeter and I exchanged more smiles and knowing looks.


We made our way through the aisles and down to the bakery department. Mom wanted cheesecake, but it was too big. Mom wanted baklava, but there were too many in the package. Mom wanted Danish, but they only came in packages of twenty-four. She was getting angry and was loudly complaining about everything being in such large sizes. I had to remind her that we were at Sam’s, and everything at Sam’s came in that size before she stopped being so vocal about her disappointment.


We hit the meat department, and I took the cart and stood off to the side while I waited for her to peruse and reject everything in sight. She picked up a large, poorly wrapped pork roast and called me over to see if I thought it was two roasts together. She turned the package this way and that, while bloody juices dripped all over the floor. She thrust it into my hands to get my opinion before I could point out the poorly wrapped quality and the mess she was making. Luckily, I had a paper towel in my pocket to wipe our hands on.


We proceeded down various other aisles, where she seemed to forget that other people were also shopping. Thankfully, most of them caught the gist of my dilemma and no one ran her over with their cart, nor did they get nasty with her when she walked in front of them and stopped dead in her tracks to compare prices on olive oil. I mouthed silent apologies to many shoppers when she nearly caused a collision, and they were all gracious in their awareness of an elderly lady being taken shopping by her middle-aged daughter.


The check-out line couldn’t come too soon.


I put all of their purchases on the conveyor belt and the cashier rang them up. This is when my mother decided it was time to argue a coupon with this poor gal. It seems that she had gotten a “$10 off all new memberships” coupon in the mail that morning. She thought she should be able to get $10 off because she was renewing her membership. I took this opportunity to go sit at one of the picnic tables behind the registers, once again mouthing silent apologies to a clerk who had a hidden smile, just for me. She had to call the manager to the register to explain to my mother, who continued to argue. The line was growing longer behind her. The manager finally told her that she could claim the coupon, but would have to fill out an application at the front of the store. My mother thought that was ridiculous and too much of a waste of time, so she gave up the idea of the coupon.


Thankfully, we were able to get out of the store at this time. She just wanted to make one more stop at the grocery store on the way home, for a couple of small things she couldn’t get at Sam’s. Dad and I decided to wait in the car for her on this trip. Forty-five minutes later, she emerged with two small bags. She was furious and complaining about some “old lady” in front of her at the express register who wanted the clerk to just take the money out of her bank account, without a debit card, check or credit card to present. The store manager had to get involved and the situation deteriorated.


“Vhat iss vrong viss some people? Dat dumb old vooman! She made effrybuddy vait!”


I think the concept of Karma was lost on Mom.

Sleepless in Ohio

My eyes shot open and, at once, I knew the awful truth. It was still dark, but I was again awake. I laid there for a few moments before I rolled over to look at the clock, knowing it must be about 2:30. Yup. It was 2:38 am, my usual menopausal waking time. If I wake around that time, I’m doomed to lay awake for the next several hours. I began my usual routine.

I rolled to my other side and smoothed out the covers. I snuggled deeper into my pillow, determined not to let my mind start to race, but I was too late. Just that thought alone ensured that something would come to mind that I couldn’t possibly wait until morning to think about, like the litter box I forgot to empty the day before or my grocery list. Yeah! Let’s lay awake and think about what’s missing from the cupboards. Kind of a mental treasure hunt! That’s worth losing a few hours sleep over, isn’t it?

I’m now aware of my husband’s breathing. He uses a bi-pap machine due to apnea and snoring. While it has helped tremendously with these problems, he’s now the purveyor of some amazing, expiratory noises. He can go from cheek puffs to lip plops. Some nights, for my amusement and torture, he even creates words. Word Nights leave me terrified of the hidden meanings. My imagination has him possessed or even worse, running for public office. Whatever sound he unconsciously chooses, it’s repetitious until he changes position. I reach over to my nightstand and grab an earplug, to block the night’s “plurp plurp plurp plurp” ‘s. I can only use one at a time, because two make my head feel like it’s in a vacuum and about to explode. I then turn my own head so that my exposed ear is in the pillow. Anytime I roll over, I have to move the earplug to the other ear. If he rolls onto his side, the expiratory noises end and I take the earplug out, else I wake up to a vacuum sealed ear canal. This routine continues all night.

After about an hour of this nonsense, I decide that emptying my bladder might help me get back to sleep. A trip to the bathroom ensues and then it’s back under the covers. Determined to get at least a few more hours of sleep, I repeat my mantra in my mind. I drift off into a thin and fitful sleep that’s dotted with nightmares. I snort myself awake with my own fat induced snoring episodes. A position change allows me to doze for a few more minutes of uneasy dreams until a hot flash becomes my next alarm clock. I’m grateful, because my sleep wasn’t restful and the nightmares were disturbing. I kick off the covers and grab a tissue off of the nightstand to blot the sweat from my face. I look at the clock and see that it’s 4:11. I’m now going between hot flashes and cold flashes. The covers are off, then on, then off, then on. Take out the earplug and put it in the other ear as I roll over to find the cool spot on the bed, then look for the blankets when the chills overtake me. I notice my husband is on his side and take the earplug out and put it in the little earplug dish on my nightstand. It’s now time to kick the covers off and blot my face again.

My body temperature settles down and I’m able to pull the covers up and settle down a bit. It’s at this point that it happens. The Dreaded Nose Whistle. Every time I breathe in, I hear the high-pitched squeal of my own dry, nasal passages. Whistle in, breathe out. Whistle in, breathe out. After attempting to relieve myself of this new malady for a few minutes with some hefty inhalations, I get up and go back into the bathroom and give it a few mighty honks, even though it’s so dry there’s nothing to release.

Back in bed, I’m relieved to find out the Nose Whistle is gone. The hot and cold flashes are over. I can deal with the earplug utilization, as that’s something that just has to be done. I finally drop off to sleep again, around 5:30.

At 5:49, my phone rings. “Hello, Ina? This is June at work. Would you like to come in and work extra today?”

And once again, I’m awake.

Ode to Autumn

Autumn rushes in

Temperatures drop back

Sweaters are donned

Windows are closed.

Wrapping my fatness in fleece

Hiding the rolls

That tank tops firmly


Relief from embarrassment.

Scuffling through the house

In slippers.

Dust bunnies fly up

And make snot appear.

The wind whispers

At the closed windows.

What’s that smell?

The dog farts

Insult to Injury

I woke up on a Tuesday morning that was free of any duties. I had a day to myself! This was a good thing, as my misery had reached a crescendo. I was so depressed that I couldn’t talk to anyone, and functioning was only possible by force. The day dawned blessedly cooler. Highs in the mid seventies, clear skies and a nice, stiff breeze awaited me. I thought I’d take a break from my usual routine of watering the gardens early in the day, and go for a bike ride. Exercise is good for the soul, and the bonus of a few endorphins certainly wouldn’t hurt things. I mounted my trusty steel and rubber steed, and headed toward the pier. I was anticipating the wind over the lake and river to assist in cleansing my mind of worries.

Just as I hit the concrete of the pier, I saw two fishermen. As I was about to ride past them, one of them began reeling in his catch. He’d snagged a seagull in the wing. The poor bird was flapping and squawking as the man attempted to bring it to solid ground to free it. You could see that the fisherman was very disturbed over having caught this poor bird.

Disturbed? I was freaked.

I fought a massive case of the shudders while my gorge rose. I pedaled faster in an attempt to get away from the poor thing, which I was certain would be set free and immediately find me to peck out my eyes while flapping it’s broken wings on me, covering me with seagull blood and poop. I made all kinds of whimpering noises as I forced my bike into Mach 1. This wasn’t easy, as I was pedaling right into the wind, which was stronger than I had anticipated. I persevered, made it to the end of the pier; a wild-eyed, sweaty fat woman, with hair that was akin to Medusa’s.  With much trepidation, I turned my bike around and headed back in the direction of the captured bird.

With the wind at my back, this leg of the journey was much more enjoyable. The waves were crashing high into the side of the pier. As I approached the beginning of the pier again, I noticed the fishermen and snagged seagull were gone.  I also noticed that the waves were crashing up into the corner and over the walkway.

The area in question is right under the large sign. This splashing often happens on windy days.


Yes, I know there’s a big freaking heron in this picture.  I was actually planning on using this picture for something else when this happened to me.

This corner is always full of a delightful collection of river scum:


I watched as the waves crashed up and over onto the surface of the pier on my journey in. Each crash was monstrous on its’ own, and another wave didn’t follow it for at least a few seconds; sometimes as long as a few minutes. As I pedaled closer, I planned my getaway to be immediately after a major splash. The anticipated splash happened, I stood upright on the pedals and went as fast as I could, only to catch a ginormous wave of scum along the entire left side of my body.

Nauseated, I made it home as fast as I could. I was certain that the green slime that was in my hair and coating my arms contained a certain concentration of seagull poop and dead fish parts. I hit the shower, put on fresh make-up, did my hair again and then decided to water the gardens, as I should have done in the first place.

So, I don’t understand why I was surprised when the connection between the hose and spraying wand failed and shot a gallon of water directly into my face.


Background information: Ina and Kevin are the owners of several animals, including a shi-tzu named Lily and a cat named Hitchcock.

From a conversation between Ina and Kevin on a recent, long car ride, out of a dead silence, comes:

I: I think Chalupa would make a great name for a Chihuahua.

K: You’re right. I don’t want a Chihuahua, though.

I: I don’t either. I’d just like to name one. I don’t want anymore pets, but I’m not done naming them.

K: Chalupa is a great name. I’ve never been fond of Lily’s name. We could rename her.

I: That’s definitely an option. How do you think she’d respond to a name change?

K: I think we’d have to change her entire image or she could be traumatized. She has to identify with the Chihuahua. What say we get her shaved down to the naked skin and start calling her Chalupa?

I: That’s a thought, for sure. We could just tell the neighbors Lily ran away, so we brought Chalupa in to take her place.

K: And then when we got tired of the name Chalupa, we could let her fur grow into little pom poms on her tail, ears and feet. We could name her Fifi and tell everyone we got a poodle.

I: Could I choose her poodle name? I don’t like Fifi.

K: Sure. And when we we’re tired of the poodle, we could get her ears and tail clipped and she’d be a mini boxer. Then we could start a game show called Pimp My Pooch. We could start a trend and people could have designer dogs. They could paint them.

I: Any plans for Hitch?

K: You mean Sinatra?

I: I should probably write this conversation down.

K: Definitely. Want to stop for coffee?

I’m pretty sure I found the right partner for life.