I recently read an interesting article about self-talk and the things we say to ourselves every day. Apparently, therapists generally agree that if Hubs or a friend spoke to us the way we speak to ourselves, we’d kick them to the curb right freaking now (okay, I paraphrased).
The writer pointed out that since the person we spend the most time with every day is, well, us, that’s where most of our personal feedback comes from. A co-worker who remarks, “Gee, that skirt is a little tight for the office, don’t you think?” doesn’t do near as much damage to our self-esteem as an all-day inner mantra, repeatedly chanting to ourselves, “Yep, you’re still fat.”
The brain believes what it’s told, so it’s critical that we become aware of the constant barrage of judgmental, belittling “truths” that we unconsciously tell ourselves all day long. In short, we should never talk to ourselves in a way we’d never tolerate from someone else. We need to be our own biggest cheerleaders. Our own best friends.
She suggested an experiment where you journal your conversations with yourself over the course of a day, to see what kind of a friend you are to you. Here’s what I found. (Meet my inner voice, “BBF,” or Bad Best Friend):
1. The morning weigh-in:
Me: “Staying down where it should. This isn’t so hard.”
BBF: “Yeah, since you haven’t eaten dinner in a week. You won’t last. If you had that kind of control, you wouldn’t have been a Teletubby in the first place. Same time tomorrow, Porkchop.”
2. Out of the shower, naked inspection:
Me: “Not bad for 57. With the right clothes, a push-em-up bra and Spanx, I could still work it.”
BBF: “You’re kidding, right? Then what’s that on the back of your thighs? See it, right between your legs? That’s it, bend over and look upside down between your thighs, and tell me what you see. Yep, it’s your sagging butt cheeks. They evidently thought your boobs looked lonely, so they joined them on the Gravity Express. Still feel like ‘working it’?”
3. Blow-drying my hair:
Me (holding up blow dryer): “My triceps need a little toning. Maybe I’ll get one of those Shake Weights.”
BBF: “Yeah, that’ll work. If you’re 12. That wobbling skin under your arms is called ‘turkey waddle,’ and it’s only sexy on poultry. Now you’ll be wearing long sleeves in July, just like all the other middle-aged grandmothers in the park.”
Me: “My skin looks pretty good. Must be good genes. A little tinted moisturizer to smooth it out, and I’m ready to go.”
BBF: “Who are you kidding?? You’ve had an eye job and Botox, and you still have a L.A. road map around your eyes. And is that a chin hair I see??”
5. Getting dressed:
Me: “This dress would look better over Spanx, but it’s too hot, so not today. I look fine.”
BBF: “Yeah, if your definition of ‘fine’ is a middle-aged woman with ass-jiggle when she’s standing still. No Spanx, no dress, lady.”
Me: “Got to get to work. But someday I’m going to make a living by writing.”
BBF: “Dream on, baby. So far, you’ve only impressed your mother and an ex-boyfriend from high school, class of 1974. And if you ever do actually write a book, your mother is going to expect a free copy. Don’t quit your day job, you hack.”
Me: “I’m going to lose two pounds this week. I’m committed. Where’s the produce department?”
BBF: “Yeah, how would you know? You haven’t eaten a vegetable in, like, 57 years. And you might want to take the econo-size box of Milk Duds, three frozen pizzas, Brown Cow Diet (seriously??) ice cream sandwiches, Doritos Fire Chips, two cans of bean dip, and the six bottles of wine out of your cart. You on a diet?? Bahahahaha!”
Me: “That bikini in the boutique window is so cute. I remember those days.”
BBF: “Oh, please. You couldn’t wear that in high school. Why do you think your parents always called you the ‘wholesome one’? Get a clue, Blondie. That wasn’t a compliment.”
Me: “Fine, but look at that rockin’ black leather jacket. Ooh, I could definitely do that.”
BBF: “Absolutely, if you’re going for aging, rock band groupie. Why don’t you just buy a leopard print miniskirt and a T-shirt that says ‘I used to be hot’?”
Me: “I wish we lived closer to the kids so I could see them more often.”
BBF: “Yeah, I’ll bet that’s what they’re thinking, too. ‘Gee, we wish Mom was here every day, so she could be all up our business and give us lots of advice on how we spend our money and how to raise our kids. That would be way cool.’”
10. Out and About:
Me: “That delightful young man behind the counter is smiling at me.”
BBF: (Snort) “Uh, look behind you. See that hot 20-something blonde gazelle in the cropped top? I’m betting it was her, not you. Besides, you could be that boy’s mother and not have been a child bride, if you get my drift. Guys that flirt with you aren’t called ‘guys.’ They’re called ‘seniors’ and they carry AARP cards, not backpacks.”
Me: “No, I’m not going to eat dinner tonight. If I have more than a Fruit Loop and a Diet Coke after 5 p.m., my weight goes up. But I’m disciplined. I’ll pass tonight.”
BBF: “Ha. By the second glass of wine, you’ll be hitting the Pringles hard. Admit defeat now, snarf down that pizza, and kick yourself in the morning, like every morning, Chubs.”
Me: “Time to create a brand-new post. I can do this. I’m funny. Really, I am.”
BBF: “Maybe you were funny at one time, but that ship has sailed. You have no funny stories left. You’ve told them all. Face it. You’re not funny anymore. And you’re 57. Get out now. You need a new craft, and you’re not getting any younger.”
It seems that my inner best friend is kind of a bitch.
That night, I sent her a text. “Dear Bad Best Friend, You know this friendship thing? You suck at it. So get on down the road with your judgmental, mean-girl self, because I’m dumping your ass. When you can say “Good morning, Gorgeous” without rolling your eyes and snorting, we’ll discuss reconciliation possibilities. Until then, I will no longer consult you on any matters pertaining to my worth.”
I feel more confident already. And now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a fabulous black leather jacket that’s calling my name.
— Vikki Claflin
Oregon writer Vikki Claflin writes the popular humor blog, Laugh Lines. Two recent pieces have been published in Life Well Blogged: Parenting Gag Reels — Hilarious Writes and Wrongs: Take 26. In 2014, she received a BlogHer Voice of the Year award for humor.
With my husband’s birthday just weeks away, I found myself wondering what to do for him on his special day. An early Oktoberfest in the backyard? A competitive spot next to Adam Richman on “Man v. Food” at an all-you-can-eat-ribs diner? Probably not a good idea since our toilet is temperamental.
When I was finally able to grab my husband’s attention from the NBA playoffs for a nanosecond, I asked him what it would take to make him happy on his birthday — other than the obvious. I’m talking BEER, people. Get your minds out of the gutter.
After our little chat during the five-minute commercial break, I came to the conclusion that my husband’s needs go far beyond a single day of recognition. He deserves to be happy all year ’round and to feel appreciated on a daily basis.
Actions speak louder than words, so I’ve come up with a wish list of things I think wives should do that would make most husbands happy on their birthday:
• Let him eat all the burgers, pizza and chicken wings he wants. Just remind him you’ve already set up his doctor’s appointment for a new heart stent.
• Give him the badabing manual on “How To Help Your partner Reach The Big O in 2 Minutes Or Less When The Playoffs Are On.”
• Install a mini fridge full of beer next to his La-Z-Boy recliner. Add a portable catheter so he never has to get out of his chair.
• Let him take a nap for an hour every day. Longer if he’s hooked up to the catheter.
• Convince him he needs a night out with his buddies Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble at the Water Buffalo Lodge. This is especially important if your husband is the Grand Poobah of the man cave.
• Tell him not to strain and push so hard at the gym. Working toward a six pack just to be a trophy husband isn’t worth popping out a hemorrhoid.
• Let him sit on the couch, scratch his nether region and channel surf all weekend long.
• Keep the sex life interesting, even if it requires a nightly Viagra cocktail and a wife dressed in an Oscar Mayer Wiener costume.
• Surprise him with VIP tickets to his favorite sporting event that include seats in the sky lounge, unlimited steak, beer and an adult diaper changing station.
• Give him an HD television the size of a movie theatre screen.
• Let him spend a weekend at a testosterone-infused camp where men are men and sheep are nervous. Hopefully he won’t have a b-a-a-a-a-d experience.
• Buy him a large gift certificate to a hardware store. This allows him all the time necessary to roam the aisles for stupid trinkets. Don’t be surprised if he comes home with a paint sprayer that doubles as a margarita dispenser.
• Tell him it’s perfectly acceptable to show off his talent of burping the alphabet for your guests. Farting the alphabet, not so much.
If none of these suggestions works to keep your husband happy, I have a Plan B. Send him off to a one-room cabin in the woods for a year where he can grow a long beard and commune with the tree frogs.
— Marcia Kester Doyle
Marcia Kester Doyle is the author of the humorous blog “Menopausal Mother,” where she muses on the good, the bad and the ugly side of menopausal mayhem. She is a contributor to the Huffington Post, staff writer for In The Powder Room and HumorOutcasts.com and a contributing writer for What the Flicka. Her work recently captured first place in VoiceBoks Top Hilarious Parent Bloggers 2014, and her first book will be released in the spring through Blue Lobster Publishing. Marcia’s work has appeared on Scary Mommy, Mamapedia, Bloggy Moms, Messy Mom’s Radio, The Woven Press, the Life Well Blogged series and was voted Top 25 in the Circle Of Mom’s Contest 2013. In 2014, she was named a Blogher Voice Of The Year.
I recently had the opportunity to chat with some of the funniest women in stand up for my iTunes podcast Whine At 9 and Parade Magazine online column Showbiz Analysis. Wendy Liebman, Heather McDonald, Loni Love and Iliza Shlesinger shared plenty of hilarious stories as well as some valuable advice for anyone pursuing a comedy career — including those in the EBWW community (Let’s face it, EBWW stand up night is one of the most unique and fun features of the workshop!) Below are five stand up strategies that seem to have helped these talented women land on the biggest stages in show business and prove that women can rock the room as well as, or better than, the guys on the block.
1. Find your own unique voice.
In an industry where some might consider mimicking the style of other success stories, these comedians have made their mark and their money by being themselves and emphasizing their differences. Last Comic Standing winner Iliza Shlesinger believes that connecting with audiences requires you to “give them something authentic.” Comic and Chelsea Lately’s Heather McDonald says, “I just never saw anyone that was like me up there.” Focusing on bringing her own personality to the stage, McDonald admits, “That is an exaggerated persona of myself, but it is really me.” Regarding her comedy image as a party-lover, McDonald laughs, “Sure I’ve gotten drunk at company functions — because my company’s Chelsea Lately, so it’s hard not to.”
2. It’s all about teamwork and being a team player.
From the home front to the stage and screen, all of these comedians have found the power in building a strong social support network and being team players. Their careers may appear to be solo acts, but there were plenty of people in the background who helped them make this happen. For most, women comedy mentors helped provide them with opportunities that have opened professional doors. Talk show favorite and author of Love Him or Leave Him, But Don’t Get Stuck With the Tab Loni Love credits women like Wendy Williams, Bethany Frankel, Chelsea Handler and Ellen Degeneres with giving her the opportunity to cut her comedy chops. Says Love, “They allowed me to get the training. And they’ve been very encouraging to me.”
When Heather McDonald’s not doing stand up, she’s busy collaborating with other comedy professionals. Notes E!’s After Lately actress, “When you’re able to collaborate with other people, it helps your ego be put to the side sometimes, because you just want to have fun and you want the funniest show. And so I do feel that it is great that I can do both and that I enjoy doing both.”
Of course behind every great and happy comedian, there’s usually an understanding partner or family member. “I have a great husband who doesn’t mind that I talk a lot about him in my act,” says McDonald about her spouse who has never discouraged her from tackling a gig. Because life on the comedy highway often takes you far from home, McDonald recognizes that her career involves a lot of external support. Says the comic whose first one-hour comedy special I Don’t Mean To Brag… will air on Showtime in August, “I am fortunate enough to have a great support system and that’s why I’m able to do what I do.”
3. Do your homework and put in your hours.
Stand up might look like fun, but success in the business comes to those who’ve honed their craft and clocked endless comedy hours on stage and off. Working different venues, analyzing audience reactions and testing out material are only some of the critical pieces of the puzzle. Creating new content is the other. Using the same joke sets over and over again might help you polish your work, but if you can’t create new material quickly, the game is over before it even begins. Perhaps no situation showcases this as well as NBC’s “Last Comic Standing.” With respect to stand up on TV, “Last Comic Standing” winner and the woman behind the comedy special War Paint, Iliza Shlesinger says the tough part is “the ability to take a scalpel to your set, get your point across and be likable in 90 seconds or 30 seconds or a minute 20, however long your set is. There’s a lot of math that goes into it — a lot of math and a lot of skill. So it’s a lot of lightning in a bottle.”
Loni Love is proof that a comedy career doesn’t happen overnight. She’d done stand up in college, but her initial career took her in a different direction. Says Love, who, by day worked as an engineer and developed her comedy act at night before taking the leap into full time show business, “It’s been a long haul. It may seem to some people that have never heard of me, ‘Oh she just popped up on the scene,’ but I’ve been working on this for some time.” Adds the host of Fox’s The Real, “It’s taken a while, but you know it’s been that type of ride. I didn’t know anybody in the industry. I’ve learned. I’ve networked. I’ve worked hard. I’ve written material. I’ve traveled all across the United States.”
4. Get over the need to be liked.
Iliza Shlesinger may be the youngest comic to nab the title of “Last Comic Standing,” but she’s got the wisdom part down. What advice would she give those who hope to follow in her funny footsteps? Shlesinger says, “My only advice is to just put on blinders. And you can’t worry about when other comics aren’t nice to you, when other comics don’t like you, when bookers don’t like you. No one’s ever going to like you 100 percent because it’s comedy and it’s subjective.”
5. Be flexible and be ready for your opportunity.
Wendy Liebman has been rolling with her comedy career for nearly three decades and she’s always open to new opportunities. The busy wife, stepmom and star of the TV special Taller on TV notes, “I think personally I have been very safe — like holding onto something. Just figuring it out for 30 years — almost 30 years.” This summer she is a finalist headed for the stage at Radio City Music Hall for NBC’s America’s Got Talent live auditions. “I think I’m ready now to expand, to grow,” says Liebman, who would love to do a sitcom in the future.
Loni Love thinks the key to comedy success is being ready. “You know, eventually you get breaks and you try to be ready. And I just tell everybody, especially women, ‘Just be ready for your break.’”
How flexible should you be when you feel like you’re over 30 and time might not be on your side? Says Liebman, “I think it’s never too late to start anything except maybe being a ballerina.”
— Dr. Nancy Berk
Dr. Nancy Berk is a clinical psychologist who’s been on a creative roll since leaving full-time academia. An online columnist for Parade Magazine‘s “Showbiz Analysis” and host of the celebrity podcast “Whine At 9,” she also blogs for The Huffington Post and USA Today College. Nancy’s humor has landed her on stage at places like TEDx and her book, College Bound and Gagged, in the feature film Admission starring Tina Fey. She’s served on the faculty at the 2012 and 2014 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop.
There are so many quizzes now on Facebook: “What kind of animal are you? What kind of animated character are you? How bitchy are you?”
So many choices! I don’t take those tests. I don’t care if I’m a lion, a tiger or a bear…oh my! I don’t care if I’m Miss Piggy or Doc McStuffins. I can save the time taking the bitchy quiz and tell you right off the bat that I can be bitchy, but that’s usually when I’m provoked. I’m working on that. I find my descriptions of myself elsewhere.
I like to read wine bottles. They intrigue me. I’m not a connoisseur to actually taste what they proclaim the vineyard produces, but I love the descriptions they use. I never taste the licorice, mint or aromatic flowers. The tannin escapes me as well. It seems if it’s wine, I drink it. I think I may find my own personal charming description on these labels, and it will suit me perfectly.
White Zinfandel combines crisp refreshment with bright fruit. It has flavors of fresh strawberry and hints of white peach. Now doesn’t that sound just like me at a garden party? I probably had woken up from a nap so I looked crisp. I must have worn an apple red sundress. And I probably had strawberry shortcake with a slice of white peach along with a goblet of White Zin. Call me Mrs. Zin. (not Sin)
Cabernet from Bordeaux professes the flavor is comparable to well, you decide. Imagine you filled a leather bag with a pound of black cherries and held it close to your chest while you rolled down a hill. Yum! Truthfully, after a few glasses of wine, I might be game to try this, providing it is a small hill. It is also best served with meats and high-fat food. What’s not to love?
The other night I enjoyed a Cabernet which read, “Enjoy while young and sassy.” At first I thought that was a horrible sales technique. What about all of us older people? I drank it anyway. I always feel young and sassy when I drink wine. My friend said they meant the wine was young and sassy, not the drinker. Who knew?
Merlot is full bodied and cheaper than the Cabernet, but it has a smoother finish. It is affordable and underrated, much like myself.
Riesling has a colorful German heritage that’s had a bad reputation in the ‘80s. My mother–in-law would love to discuss my reputation in that time period at length; however, she’s in Heaven now (I hope). We finally get along famously.
Unoaked Chardonnay has a brand named “Wine With No Pants.” They describe it as getting saucy without pants. No need for me to explain the comparison to moi.
There is also a Petet-Vidure that drinks well without food. Hello! Is this me or what?
I can finally describe myself to you.
I am a full-bodied, crisp, rolling-down-the-hill with a pound of cherries kind of girl. I’m smooth, colorful and had a bad reputation in the ‘80s (according my mother-in-law only). I’m affordable and underrated. I can get saucy with or without pants on. …and I drink well without food.
Take that, Facebook!
— Anne Bardsley
Anne Bardsley, of St. Petersburg, Fla., is the author of How I Earned My Wrinkles, a collection of humorous and sentimental stories about marriage, motherhood and menopause. She lives in a menopausal world with a husband who gives her wrinkles. When people ask her age, she sometimes tells them her bra size. “36-C,” she says, “was a wonderful age.”
I recently read a blog post about how important it is to teach toddlers about their body parts. Apparently, simply knowing the correct words for male and female genitals deters predators who know that these children will be more able to report being touched inappropriately.
Cut to me sweating profusely. My daughter is almost four, and unless ‘front hiney’ and ‘back hiney’ are the scientific words for the female anatomy, I think I might have failed here.
I took the recommendation from the article about a specific book geared toward small children called Amazing You! (by Dr. Gail Saltz) that teaches basics about private parts and reproduction.
I wanted to be one of those parents who was all “My kids can talk to me about ANYTHING,” but, apparently, the truth is they can talk to me about anything as long as it is not related to…. In my pre-read, I confirmed that this book was LOADED with ALL the parts, leaving nothing out, but hey, that’s what I wanted, right?
I quickly realized that I was not only unprepared, but unable (even with the help of a book), to effectively teach my daughter about private parts. After assessing my lacking skills, I was able to pinpoint several reasons for my ineptitude:
1. Time of Day Hinders Me. I put off reading the book for several days telling myself that it was never the right time of day. I mean, who wants to have that talk first thing in the morning? I at least need to have coffee before I bring up scrotums with a 3-year-old girl, thank you. I usually read to the children before nap and bedtime, so I figured that would work, but then I felt weird about sending my daughter off to bed with visions of labias dancing in her head. It was just never the right time.
2. Boy Parts Make Me Giggle. On my first read aloud with my daughter, I began to rush, knowing that my husband would soon be making his way down the hall to join us after tucking our son in. I was uncomfortable enough reading it to her, but there was no way I could keep it together with him in the room reading sentences like “Inside the sac under your penis are soft balls called testicles.” First of all, since when is the sack just a sac? Where did the “K” go? Was it ever there? Why does the lack of a “K” make me want to laugh even more?
I had just finished with several pages of penis when I came to a page that had a baby, a small boy and a man all drawn anatomically correct and naked.My daughter points to one of the penis trifecta and says “nipple!”
Me: “No, it’s a penis.” (Please note that there was NO nipple talk in this entire book, so I have no idea where this was coming from.)
Girl: “Look at the little nipple!”
Me: “It’s a penis.”
Girl: (Her voice getting more delighted and pointing her finger at it): “He’s got a little nipple!!”
Me: (Flipping back a page to the penis stuff and starting to laugh): “Penis!”
Husband comes down the hall within earshot.
Girl: “Nipple. Nipple. Nipple.”
Me: (laughing now) “Penis. Penis. Penis.”
Husband: (Looks in the room, walks over and sees penis illustration. Quickly exits forever.)
3. Girl Parts Gross Me Out. There are certain words in the English language that gross me out. I don’t like to say them and avoid them whenever possible. They make my throat close a little and I feel queasy. Stool, clot, nugget…you get the picture. A large portion of these gag words are parts of the female anatomy including uterus, womb, falopian, etc. Once my daughter found out that the baby lives in there for nine months, I was forced to repeat uterus 356 times in response to her questions. I thought it might desensitize me. I was wrong.
4. I Am Hostile When It Comes To Childbirth Questions. I didn’t have the worst childbirth experience, but it wasn’t great, either. A 30-hour induced labor, ending in a not quite emergency C-section with some nasty follow-up complications, gave me a bad taste for birthing babies. The book explains it as follows:
“The baby will come out of the mother’s vagina, which is very, very stretchy. It stretches wide enough for the baby to come out and then goes back to the way it was before.”
I was at a loss for words. Since I had a C-section, I couldn’t speak to vajayjay elasticity, but I can assure you that nothing on your body is “like it was before” after childbirth, including a vagina that has been stretched around the back of your head to allow for the child to exit.
Luckily, while I can’t talk vagina very well with my preschooler, I can lie. I backed up this load of crap convincingly. She looked in the direction and then cast me a shifty look as if to say “there’s no way,” but we seemed to silently agree that it was just better to drop it for now.
5. I Live In Fear of Kitchen Table Testicle Talk (or KTTT). I think my final failure centers around my inability to really embrace this topic and make it acceptable discussion anywhere other than during the book reading. I am haunted by the possibility of sperm, urethras and penises rearing their ugly heads (pun totally intended) at the dinner table. More specifically I am horrified that my daughter will speak of them anywhere in public, or where my parents (specifically Dad) might be present. Although a wonderful man and in very good health, one ill-timed “scrotum” might be enough to end him.
Let’s reflect on how I can improve. Going forward, I will stifle my laughter and gag reflex. I will cover the appropriate places to talk about birds’ and bees’ equipment. I’ll get into the truth about childbirth when she gets older. As far as time of day, I think I will try to stick with the bedtime schedule for reading the book. Right before we hit the sac.
— Susan Maccarelli
PeckedToDeathByChickens.com, is Susan Maccarelli’s humor blog, though occasionally she’ll author a poignant post revealing her soft underbelly (euphemism AND literal description). Susan also helps other bloggers get featured on the websites they aspire to, via her blog resource site, BeyondYourBlog.com. Features on BlogHer, Blunt Moms, Bonbon Break and In The Powder Room help feed her attention-seeking behavior.
Madam rang this morning to report that she needed my advice. Truthfully, she probably just wanted to vent. It seemed that her First Born had embarked on an Alaskan tour a few days ago and left Madam in charge of two cats.
This might not sound like a tricky matter. However, Madam called to report that three days into the assignment, she had already locked herself out of the First Born’s house. No spare key stashed under the hostas. No friendly neighbor offering coffee and a box of burglary tools. It was just Madam and two domestic shorthairs staring at one another through the glass door. She paced up and down the front walk, while the cats batted at unsuspecting squirrels from behind a secured window.
Did I mention that the domestic shorthairs don’t particularly like one another? Actually, that’s an understatement. These two would rather share a litter box with a pit bull than nap together in the same house.
“So, do they have enough food and water?” I queried once Madam had shared the lockout details.
“Yes, yes, but they need their medicine,” she wailed. “I have strict orders to swipe their ears with a calming potion once daily. And that’s not all. The two need to be separated. The diminutive female hangs out in the bedroom with the door closed. The plump fellow lives under the dining room table, where he spends most of his time trying to figure out how to bust into the bedroom.”
“Why?” I inquired. If memory serves, these felines met two years ago. After a year of tearful veterinary calls, three animal behaviorist consultations, calming kitty cooking classes, and a Bose radio tuned to soothing music, one would think they could find their way to a truce.
“And, another thing,” fumed Madam, “pheromones. I can’t find the pheromone plug-in that goes in the wall outlet – that thingy that’s supposed to make Miss kitty feel more comfortable around the obese rabble-rouser.”
Oh dear, cat counseling is not exactly my forte. Then, just as Madam was about to dispatch her next kitty diatribe, a deafening shriek pierced the airways.
“ADT,” she reported evenly. “The cats have set off the house alarm. With any luck it will get somebody’s attention.”
No question, the alarm eliminated any need to call 911. My guess was it could be heard at the Wisconsin border.
“Now what,” I squeaked, holding the phone away from my ear. “Should I ask the Landlord to come help?”
“Naw, countered Madam. “Somebody will show up, and I’ll just let them break in.” It beats calling the First Born in Alaska, and State Farm will be happy to pay for the door just to avoid meeting these two cats. How about if you and I forget to mention this little caper to the rest of the family?”
“Good idea” I agreed. “Glad to have been of service.”
— Noah Vail
Noah Vail and Mary Farr have collaborated on a book, Never Say Neigh: An Adventure in Fun, Funny and the Power of You. Noah, author, philosopher, humorist, gin rummy ace and all-around “good news sort of guy,” blogs here. Never Say Neigh won an honorable mention in the 2013 Paris Book Festival.
Once upon a time — a velvety soft May night in 1974 — I met an Englishman named Peter at a party atop a mountain on the Blue Ridge Parkway of Virginia. “How do you do?” he said politely while shaking hands with we three ladies who arrived together. He spent the rest of the evening with me. We danced, me barefoot, on the stone terrace that overlooked the twinkling valley below.
It was a fairy tale beginning.
At evening’s end he asked when he could see me again. We planned a hike for Memorial Day, two days hence. He arrived carrying an armload of yellow roses for me, a bagful of candy for my daughters who were in school that day. (Later I learned the roses grew carelessly over his carport and the candy came from a stash in his refrigerator, but never mind.)
“Oh! You’re not who I thought you were!” he said when I opened my door.
What a fine way to start a romance! Though we’d danced cheek-to-cheek all Saturday evening, he remembered the woman who’d come to the party with me! (That’s OK, I remembered him as a redhead and much taller.)
Seven years later — 1981 — I worked a magic spell and we married, not in May, but December.
The fairy tale continued. Three years ago this week, our family — Carolynn and husband Bill, Leslie and husband Martin, and their offspring, Samantha and Miah, Peter and me — began a week’s vacation together on North Carolina’s Outer Banks. It was the only week that year when all of us could be in the same place, same time.
Seven glorious, bright sunny family days at the beach, though that early in May the Atlantic was bloody freezing. But we made sand castles, fished, basked, shopped, played games, braved the wild north beach to look for ponies, took to the air and ate…a lot and often!
At the end of our stay I asked everyone to write down three favorite things, plus one least favorite, about the week. “Family time” was tops, with “fish and fishing” and “pool playing, frisbee and flying kites” tied for second. Parasailing was third, but hang gliding didn’t get a single vote, pro or con. Least liked was the three miles from our house to the shore.
The fisherman among us, Bill, liked catching his big striper. Carolynn liked watching him smile as he reeled it in. Samantha liked seeing it, but she didn’t like that she hadn’t caught a big one. Bill, though he did all the gory, gloppy gutting, didn’t like eating that or any fish.
Most of us were poetic about our likes and dislikes. Two of Leslie’s faves were napping on the beach and cuddling Sam, while Miah, then 16, liked “having tea with the ‘fam.’” But Peter, typically, answered tersely: “House. Meals. Weather.” He didn’t like that there wasn’t anyplace to walk.
My parasailing adventure wasn’t planned. What I really wanted to do was hang glide at Jockey Ridge, as did Martin, Sam and Miah. Leslie called to make arrangements, and I reminded her to make sure someone my age would even be allowed to do it, much less with a bad knee. She was assured that women 20 years older than my 72-year-old self went hang gliding, but my bad knee would make it a no-go.
Parasailing was an option. The pilot did the work, and the landing would be on wheels instead of on my legs. “Sign me up!” I said.
Carolynn immediately objected. “At your age, Mom? No-o-o!”
“If not now, when?” I asked.
Early the next morning all of us headed to the local airport. Carolynn was beside herself with anxiety, and Peter, who never loses sleep, tossed and turned all night. I was giddy.
The flight was all I’d imagined, except long enough. Martin enjoyed watching me buckle in, probably because I’m a klutz and needed extra help to stuff my knee into the harness, and Carolynn liked seeing my smile when we landed. Hang gliding got no votes, pro or con, because the afternoon was extremely windy. Flyers had to be tethered to their instructors who ran down the dunes as if they had winged puppies on long leashes.
We left on Mother’s Day. It was the first time in years both of my daughters and I were together, if only for a short time, on the second Sunday in May.
The next year, the Roanoke Times had a contest asking readers to submit a photo with a few words representing “freedom or escape.” I sent this photo from my flight, and won two tickets to Cirque du Soleil.
When Peter saw the newspaper feature he said, “Isn’t that the same guy?”
“What same guy?”
“The one you ‘flew’ with?”
“Yes, that’s Jim.”
“Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me, you goof,” I laughed. “I won the tickets with that.”
“How did the picture get in the paper?”
“I emailed it to them as my contest entry.”
Nearly 38 years after our first date — remember, he thought he was going hiking with a different woman — Peter recognized Jim in a picture, but he still wasn’t sure about me!
My husband’s dementia isn’t funny, but it’s better to laugh than to cry.
— Judy Clarke
Judy Clarke is a wife, mother of two daughters, grandmother to two grown grandchildren, reader, writer and blogger in southwest Virginia. Her two non-fiction books, Mother Tough Wrote the Book and That’s all she wrote, can be found on her friends’ and family’s shelves, and she’s working on a novel, But why? (That’s the title of the novel, not a question to self).
It’s bad when the first day you arrive in balmy Hawaii you wish you were home — back in sizzling 107 degrees Phoenix, Ariz.
You might think it’s because we’re land-lubbin’ desert dwellers that we soured on beautiful Oahu so quickly, but it had more to do with real estate. Apparently, when civilization is built near water on an island, real estate is so valuable that there’s no room to waste on such petty things as parking spaces, restrooms and straight roads.
After driving the winding, perilous streets of Waikiki to our high-rise, overpriced accommodations, we parked in the cramped seven-space parking lot beneath our hotel before checking in. The parking arrangement being rather odd, we asked about it.
“I’m sorry,” said the desk clerk in an unapologetic tone of voice. “But I can’t allow you to park there. Those spaces are reserved. Can I put you on our waiting list?”
Then he told us about a nice sister property where we could park our car for 25 bucks a day. Our other option was to cruise the main drags of Waikiki for 20 minutes every hour hoping to parallel park for free. Since parallel-parking basics have evaporated from Phoenicians’ brains in the scorching heat, it was the parking garage for us.
After this comeuppance we walked into our hotel room at which point I started clicking my heels together and chanting desperately, “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!”
We reserved a place with a kitchenette. To hoteliers this means broken-down rooms for families with at least three little monsters in tow. The kitchenettes are symbolic of our station in vacation life. We parents honestly intend to do some cost-effective home cookin,’ but the rusty 50-year-old range is for show. The hotel staff knows all we really need is the mini fridge to cool our fast-food leftovers.
My husband’s friend asked how the food was in Hawaii. Ah, the food! One morning, frustrated in our effort to find a local place to eat and park the minivan, we pulled into a gas station to get our bearings. “Okay, everybody out!” I commanded. “This is where we’re eating breakfast.” It had parking spaces, after all.
And nothing says vacation like eating at that ubiquitous, All-American burger joint that lures children with cheap toys and parents with cheap tabs. If only we had something by which to remember all the exotic places in which we ate fast food for the sake of convenience and frugality! If we could but hold up a wilted bit of lettuce and say to our envious friends, “See how it’s shaped like a sea turtle? Got that near North Shore — beautiful view there! This lovely French-fry sculpture of a lighthouse? Came from the one by Makapu’u Point. And just look at this hamburger bun artfully shaped like a pineapple! That was on the way to the Dole Plantation — we ate there twice!”
Due to the sodium content of those countless French fries, our 4-year-old became insatiably thirsty, crying for water as if the strange drizzle from the sky was not enough, and then needed to use the bathroom constantly. This posed a challenge in Waikiki. They have plenty of water, but bathrooms are elusive luxuries. You can’t even walk into a Starbucks — one of the most civilized establishments in the world — and expect to find a potty. No, you must carefully chart the few bathrooms in the city and then visit them obsessively for the hour or two in which you are in their radius. Fancy hotels and restaurants — meant for people who don’t need kitchenettes — are your best bet.
Despite all this mainlander angst, in the end this is what we’ll remember: the fabulous family reunion, beautiful beaches and a majestic ocean. Though we understood we were on an island, any glimpse of water as we drove around Oahu both charmed and astounded us.
“Look, I see the ocean!” I cried one afternoon for the fifth time, pointing giddily out my window.
At which exclamation my intelligent 11-year-old craned his neck and cried, completely without sarcasm, “Whoa! No way!”
The hotel was just a place to sleep. We adapted and walked to most of our destinations where, thank God, relatives were waiting to greet us. And we finally ate quality Hawaiian food at the rehearsal dinner and the wedding of my husband’s brother and sister-in-law. Free parking and restrooms were available.
— Hillary Ibarra
Hillary Ibarra has had several humor pieces published on Aiming Low and humorwriters.org. She has dreams of playing the banjo, living in Jane Austen’s childhood home and writing for more than spam artists and 50 loyal readers, but can’t seem to find them in the laundry. She is the mysterious blogger at No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. In her spare time she likes to threaten to sell her children to the zoo, and their little dog, too.