Put on Your Easter Bonnet

Years ago I bought my two little greyhound girls Easter bonnets.  One was black velvet with white polka dots with a big white flower on top and the other was deep purple velvet with a big brown flower on top.  I thought that since both girls had fake white fur coats with little pom-poms, the bonnets would make lovely accessories.  The black velvet hat was for Miranda, my black and white little girl and the deep purple one was for Kira, a fawn brindle. 

Each little girl looked lovely in their Easter outfit.  After all, it’s important to be fashionable.

When I brought the bonnets home I left them on my kitchen table.  When my daughter asked me if they were what she thought they were, I said ‘why yes.’ 

She told me she was calling the ASPCA and reporting two cases of animal cruelty.    

Geez, she sounded like I should have bought her something.

AssK Me No Questions

When my husband turned 50 I scheduled an appointment for him to have a complete physical.  A prostate exam was included. 

After the physical, my husband told me his doctor said his prostate was slightly enlarged and that he should take a supplement to try and help shrink it.  I went to the store and picked up the pills for him and figured I’d put one out for him each morning, lest he forget.

The first morning, before I had the opportunity to put out his supplement, my husband opened up the cabinet and asked me where his ‘ass’ pills were.  I considered asking him if he realized that these were supplements and not suppositories, and that, even though his prostate condition was diagnosed via one orifice, the supplements were actually to be taken through a totally separate one.  I decided to keep my mouth shut.  Luckily he popped the darn thing in his mouth but I’m not certain this is likely to continue without constant monitoring.

Now in the morning when I get out his supplements, I ask him if one ‘ass’ pill will be enough to ensure that he will remain an ‘ass’ all day. 

It's Not That Easy Being Green

I know we’re all trying to go “green” these days, but God, isn’t there a limit?  I was in the ladies room at work when I noticed a new brand of toilet paper.  It was called Renature® Bathroom Tissue and the label said that it was 100% RECYCLABLE.  I stared at it for a while making sure I was reading it right since I was confused by toilet paper that boasted that it had the capability to be recycled.  When?  After I used it?  And into what?  Dinner napkins?  And where were they going to fish it out of?  The septic system?  Really?

When I mentioned it to a co-worker she said that it must have meant that it was MADE FROM recycled materials.  Well then shouldn’t it have said that it was 100% RECYCLED which would indicate that it was from previously used material?  And shouldn’t it specify exactly what these previously used materials were?  Because if it’s previously used toilet paper, we’re still in the same sinking bowl.

Frankly I was pretty unhappy no matter which way was right.   

I’m thinking I may not have been the only employee who was put off by the brand because I noticed that the company stopped using it.  Right after somebody overflowed the septic system with paper towels.

Yes You Ken

Does Mazda still make the Miata?  If not, they should.  They reminded me of my childhood when I used to play with dolls. I would put Barbie and Ken in Barbie's Dream Car and parade them around the living room.

Have you ever seen a big guy driving a convertible Miata?  Tell me that doesn’t look like Ken in Barbie’s Dream Car with his head hanging over the windshield.

The Division of Church and Fate

I was raised Catholic.  If you’re not familiar with this religion, it means I feel guilty about everything.  I went to 8 years of Catholic school and attended church every Sunday as a youngster.  As I've gotten older though, I've realized I'm just not a religious person anymore.  I feel guilty about that.

While I don’t believe much in religion, I am a big believer in fate.  I believe that things happen for a reason, and that these happenings are sending us messages.  We just have to look at the signs and know how to interpret them.  For instance, the last time I went to church a bird crapped on my hand as I left the building.  If that’s not a sign to stay away, I don’t know what is.

Animal Nation

Here’s why dogs are better than kids:  I don’t have to pay for their college.  I don’t have to worry about them drinking and driving or what creep they’re dating.  And I know where they are at 10 pm - on my bed.

Having dogs also makes me the easiest person in the world to buy a gift for.  If there’s something out there with a greyhound’s face slapped on it, you can buy it for me and I’m happy. 

My daughter took a picture of my 5 big dogs and had it made into a tee shirt for me.  If I get any more dogs I’m gonna need implants. 

Ante Up

Years ago my husband and I had very interesting neighbors.  Interesting in the sense that all kinds of nutty things used to go on in their house and we would laugh at them behind their backs.  That kind of interesting.  Truthfully though, the wife was very, very nice.  Not particularly fastidious, but nice.  The husband on the other hand, was one of those one-upping, know it all types.  The only problem was that he knew very, very little about many, many things.      

As luck would have it, my daughter Kelly was the same age as their daughter and she would sometimes go to their house after school to play.  One particular afternoon Kelly came home and told me that Mr. Z. opened up the front hall coat closet and took out a bag of potato chips, which had been laying on the floor.  But when he stuck his hand in, he found that a mouse was in the bag.  According to my daughter, who was not known to embellish, there was a brief struggle over the chip and the bag went back in the coat closet and the door re-closed.    

In the interests of neighborly harmony, but against my better judgment, my husband and I agreed to ‘Friday Night Game Night’ so the girls could play together.  We would alternate houses and have dinner first, followed by either cards or a board game.  On one of their nights to host the dinner, I was sitting at my neighbor’s dining room table when I spied Mickey Mouse walking across their kitchen counter, which was strewn with pots, pans, dishes and everything else my neighbor had used to make the meal.  What I found most perplexing was Mickey’s cavalier attitude towards people, as he nonchalantly strolled in the twilight.  He gave me a quick nod and my immediate assumption was that he had run out of dip.  My neighbor saw what I was looking at, shrugged and resumed eating her pasta.  I put down my fork and napkin, wiped my mouth on my sleeve and announced that I was full.  From then on we had game night at my house. 

But all’s well that ends well.  Since the girls were too young to play, Mickey would fill in for poker when we needed a fifth.         

Nature vs Nurture

My husband Jack is one third Irish, one third German and half drunk. 

When his mother died I was upset at the wake so I walked outside.  I was heading to my car to take a breather when I ran into one of Jack’s uncles leaning up against his car. 

He was a nice man and could see that I was upset.  He called me over to where he was and as I got closer I could see he had a plastic cup in his hand.  I assumed he had grabbed a glass of water in the funeral home on his way out and was taking a breather himself. 

Before I could say a word he asked me if I wanted a drink.  The next thing I knew he popped open the trunk of his car, and opened up a cooler where he had cups, ice, vodka, stirrers, and assorted juices.  Oh and lemons.  Honest to God the guy made me a cocktail.  I wasn’t sure if I had to tip him. 

After my second drink I felt much better and honestly couldn’t remember what I was so upset about.

More wakes should serve alcohol.  It would cut out all of that pesky weeping. 

Heed the Blog

Let me give you a piece of advice.  If you’re going to have kids, which I don’t advise, you should at least make sure you have one like mine. 

As a baby, she slept through the night one week after being brought home from the hospital; she never cried or was colicky and took two-hour naps twice a day. 

I knew that I was just being sucked in and that if I dared to have another kid I would have the child from hell so I stopped there.

As an adult, my daughter would give you the shirt off her back, even when not working at a strip club.  She’s thoughtful, generous to the point of being excessive and considerate. 

Surely they must be able to test for that now.

Batter Up

I started watching baseball when I was 12 years old.  My earliest baseball memory is the day I frantically raced home from a friend’s house to watch the Mets and the Oakland A’s.  It was the 1973 World Series and I had to see the game.  The Mets lost.

I’ve been a Mets fan all my life.  I will remain a Mets fan until the day I die.  I don’t jump on and off the bandwagon every time my team loses a ball game or two, or three  – or ninety.  It hasn’t been easy being a Mets fan, but hey, ya gotta believe.

Women baseball “fans” in the New York tri-state area root for the Yankees because they either a) think Derek Jeter is cute or b) need to be “in” by rooting for a winner. 

A woman I work with has five Yankee banners in her cubicle and four Yankee magnets on her filing cabinet.  She’s a real fan. 

Knowing I’m a Mets fan, she will attempt to engage me in polite baseball banter; mostly along the lines of ‘Did you see the game last night?  The Yankees won.’  I got so fed up one day that I asked her if she knew what the Infield Fly rule was.  She stared at me kind of blankly and told me it was when the infielders had to catch the fly ball. 

I knew what I was dealing with early on when I heard her on the telephone asking someone if they had seen the game the night before because “the Yankees went into overtime.”

Why wasn’t I born a man?

Youth is For the Young

Years ago when I was around that miracle age of 21 I did some substitute teaching at a local middle school consisting of sixth to eighth graders. 

One day I went to the cafeteria to get lunch and when I got in line the lunch lady charged me what I knew to be the student’s fee.  Confused, I asked her why she was charging me the reduced rate.  When she politely told me she thought I was a student, I indignantly asked her if I looked like an 8^thgrader.  She replied ‘Have you seen some of these 8^th graders?’ 

When you’re 21 years old, the last thing you want is to be confused with a child of 13. 

That’s when you’re 21.  When you’re 51 you’re thrilled if someone doesn’t offer you an AARP discount. 

You've Got to be Kidding

What is it with women who spit out half a dozen kids and then expect everyone else to help take care of them?  Is this something new?  I’m not even talking about these pseudo famous idiots out there with reality TV shows.  I’m talking about common, everyday housewives who either can’t or won’t take care of their own children. 

I have two friends who each had 4 kids in rapid fire succession and then, after finding out that kids are basically crap machines with ears, decided that their families had to help them out.  And when the families didn’t, they complained vehemently to me.  I told them that if they needed a break their little ones could swim in my pool for the afternoon, but when I advised them that I would be in my house sleeping, they declined.  But then I’m only a neighbor who could not care less for children, or teenagers or humans in general.  Imagine their consternation when finding out that their family wasn’t overjoyed either at the prospect of changing dirty diapers and cleaning up projectile vomit for 4 kids all under the age of 5.  Of course by the time the parents realized help wouldn’t be forthcoming, it was too late to push the kids back in. 

My advice to prospective mothers is to figure out ahead of time how YOU will take care of YOUR kids by YOURself on the off chance that your family doesn’t line up to apply for the non-paying, unrewarding, part time job of crap/vomit cleaner and on-call babysitter.  My guess is your family wasn’t in the back seat of the car with you guys when all this spawning was going on, so don’t expect them to come running just because you can’t handle it. 

If you’re going to make the conscious decision to engage in an activity that has been proven in clinical studies to lead to pregnancy, then you need to ask yourselves the following question; am I WILLING to take care of my children by myself, sans lazy husband?  Because if the answer to that is a resounding no, then you need to either stop the aforementioned activity or use many, many forms of protection up to and including sterilization and castration.       

Hit Me with your Best Shot

I don't like nonsense.  I like practical solutions to life's everyday problems.

My cousin married a nuclear physicist and since my brother and I were presumably a lot stupider than he was, he limited his chatting with us to simple things, mundane things if you will, most notably how to get small amounts of ketchup out of the bottom of the bottle.

Here’s what you do.  You hold the ketchup bottle upside down by the neck and swing your arm around in complete 360° revolutions and centrifugal force will push all of the remaining ketchup down to the neck of the bottle so that when you open it, it will all come gushing out. 

In practical terms what he should have told us to do was make sure the cap was securely on the bottle because otherwise when you swing your arm around in complete 360° revolutions, centrifugal force will push the cap off the bottle and shoot ketchup across the dining room onto the wall, living room clock and brand new curtains. 

Nuclear physicists may investigate motion and gravity, but they know diddly about ketchup stains.