Vegetarianism seems to be in vogue. I don’t know about you, but if I can’t come by something honestly, I want no part of it. If others want to go for it, possibly even to the extreme of becoming vegans, that’s fine with me as long as they don’t look down upon me.
Let me tell you why I don’t deserve to be shunned.
Aside from the fact that cows are made of meat and, therefore, are, by definition, food, I can think of a few other reasons not to be a vegetarian. The first one that comes to mind is rather philosophical: to eat animals is to honor them. I’m not going to blow smoke up your ha-ha and claim some Native American-like belief in the spirits of animals. No, my honor system is this — the animal is dead; it’d be a real waste if someone didn’t eat it. Might as well be me. True, many food-bound animals are treated cruelly, and for that I feel bad and will gladly support efforts to lessen their suffering. But shouldn’t we also feel bad for an animal that suffered for nothing? I feel bad, therefore I eat.
What about the fact that animals eat other animals? Have you ever seen a cheetah racing 70 miles an hour toward a head of lettuce or a chunk of tofu? I’ll bet not. That’s because cheetahs eat animals. And not unlike their human counterparts, they inflict a certain level of pain and suffering on their poor prey. But don’t think for a second that the cheetah is having some sort of internal debate with itself on the pros and cons of a meat-based diet. He’s just running his ass off and licking his chops at the prospect of eating literally blood-rare steak! No bourbonnais sauce, no side of potatoes, no nothing. And if you’ve noticed in those documentaries showing the cheetahs in chase, they almost always go after the babies. My God, they’re savages. But that’s nature and nature’s a beautiful thing. It’s the Circle of Life, for crying out loud. No less than Sir Elton John said so.
Now just because I relish meat doesn’t mean I’m insensitive. Look at a cow, really look at one. Those things are butt ugly and misshapen, and the way they chew their food and stand around in ankle- deep mud is just repulsive. They flat out deserve having their meat eaten. Bunnies, kitty cats, lambs, even baby elephants, on the other hand, my goodness they’re cute. How can any sane human, other than one in true dietary need, argue that it’s okay to eat them? I’m just sensitive that way. And besides, there isn’t very much meat on bunnies.
So you see, it’s perfectly okay to be a meatatarian. Just don’t waste the meat, don’t eat baby animals, and above all, enjoy your meal, following it up with a nice dessert if possible. It’s the least you can do to pay homage to Mother Nature’s food chain.
— Kenny B
Kenny B is founder and editor of the comedy site Decasp.com. His features have appeared in the British Comedy Guide and Interrobang.
Once upon a time, I thought it might be a great idea to wake up and take a long, quiet walk by myself. Living in Washington state, I always thought this was the closest to paradise I had ever seen. The endless beauty of the lush green trees, dense foliage and crystal clear water made it too beautiful a sight to enjoy from indoors.
Since it was the weekend I figured my husband wouldn’t mind staying with the kids for about half an hour while I strolled off my myself. I wanted to be as discreet as possible when I snuck away so the children wouldn’t hear me leave, otherwise they’d want to go. I motioned to my husband that I was going and waited until the kids were distracted by their favorite television show. I went to the front door, pushed open the squeaky screen and tip toed softly down the steps. Whew! I was home free.
On the other side of the street was a foot path that led straight into a small forest. I crossed the street and started down the lane that twisted and turned through the tall, thick evergreens. I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the sweet scent of pine. As I walked a little further, I noticed my breathing becoming more labored. I began to breathe faster; then the familiar wheezing began to take over. I knew I’d forgotten something. I had to go back and get my inhaler so I turned around and headed back to the house.
As I stepped up to the front door, I cautiously opened the screen. “Squeaaakk” it announced as I ran to the front closet and grabbed my inhaler from my purse. I could hear the children walking through the kitchen towards me. I threw open the screen and dashed down the steps. I didn’t want to look back but I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder. I could see the baby’s head just starting to appear over the back of the couch. The other kids were already assembled at the window with tears streaming down their faces. My daughter held her arms out to me and bounced up and down on the couch feverishly. My boys were crying “I wanna go with youuuu.” I took a few good puffs from my inhaler and started off again across the street before my guilt could catch up to me.
Halfway through the trees I began to cough and cough AND COUGH! My skin began itching and my eyes began to water. I could tell that my allergies were not going to let me enjoy my walk unless I took an antihistamine. As I made my way back to the street, I could see the children still at the front window. I ran across the street and slithered along the side of the house like a ninja. Getting up to the door I could see my husband walking into the room, so I put my finger up to my lips and mouthed the word “shhh!” and motioned for him to get the kids back into the other room. He had this look of bewilderment on his face as I started to open the front door again. I got to my purse and grabbed my antihistamines. I wasn’t going to chance getting a glass of water so I would just have to take them on the go. As I closed the door, I walked across the lawn and peered over my shoulder. There stood all the children, lined up on the couch again like little ducklings, all crying and sobbing for me to take them. My husband stood at the door and I could have sworn he was crying, too!
I began to really feel the tug of guilt, just leaving everyone like that. I thought I might just take a quick jog through the path and would come back early. It was already getting cooler. The sun was starting to disappear behind the mountains and I could feel the brisk air stinging my skin. I would probably need a jacket now. Should I go back? Dare I continue on with the wind kicking up? I decided if I were going enjoy my nature walk, I would want to be comfortable. I opted to go back to the house one more time for my jacket.
As I approached the house, the kids were still standing at the window with tears streaming down their faces. Their cries grew louder the closer I got to the steps. My heart just melted. How could I leave them like that? I walked up to the door and they came bounding off the couch as if shot out of a cannon. “Mommy! Mommy! they all squealed, latching onto my legs. “Okay,” I said, “you can come, but you need to get your jackets and shoes on.” It took me another 15 minutes to find shoes and jackets and get everyone ready.
We all headed down the steps and as I looked back at my husband, there he stood at the window with a sandwich in hand, grinning from ear to ear. I muttered an obscenity as we all approached the forest hand in hand.
“Wait! Dina! Come back here! We’re all gonna stick together. No Danny! Get that out of your mouth, that’s icky! Cory! Put that stick down you’re gonna put your eye out. Stop fighting, Erin! You can BOTH have a pine cone.”
The birds flew off in terror as I screamed and yelled at the baby to stay away from the stream. Deer bounded away in droves and hid amongst the thickets as my voice echoed deep into the forest, barking commands at the older kids. I don’t know why, but at that very moment I wanted to go home, walk up to my husband and punch him right in the nose!
— Mari’ Emeraude
Mari’ Emeraude is columnist and poet from Denver, Colorado. She has written more than 200 pieces ranging from humorous blogs to poignant poetry and draws her inspiration from her four children and five grandchildren.
Little ol’ lonesome me stepped into the busy restaurant and asked for a table for six. At six.
I was there to meet up with five of my college girlfriends and arrived early to get a table. Trouble was it was only 20 minutes until six. So the hostess must have thought there was plenty of time to get a table ready because she motioned to a bench against the front window and advised me to take a seat. That really didn’t make sense as there were at least a dozen empty tables within sight of the presently assigned seating area. This was a maroon, diamond-tucked bench stretching 10 feet long. Seemed more appropriate for the long wait at a dignified steak and potato place rather than at a trendy Mexican joint.
But back to the table situation. I was bettin’ the bulk of the wait staff didn’t go on duty until six, even on a Friday night. Apparently one isn’t allowed to sit at a table if there isn’t a wait person available to cater to your needs.
People comin’ into the place seemed a bit on the grumpy side with sweat runnin’ down their necks after being outside in the heat. Still, it wouldn’t kill ‘em to smile a little. If not at me, at least at each other. Or maybe it would kill ‘em, much like the Mexican food they were about to inhale before going back out in the summer swelter. The thought crossed my mind that maybe this wasn’t the best place for my group to meet. Might and should have gone for something cool. But finding a restaurant with tables, ice cream and, most importantly, margaritas ain’t all that easy.
Or, maybe those grumpy folks were just plain ornery. For example: after the woman walked toward the restroom, the hostess showed up to seat the men. One laughed sarcastically and said, “Don’t tell her where we are!” Now, that is ornery. I’d kick that son of a gun in his hairy shins, which should have been covered up with denim instead of sticking out in front of God and everybody from those wrinkled shorts.
Six more minutes passed toward getting my table for six at six. There I still sat on the diamond-tucked bench. Luckily, the air conditioning was set on about 55 degrees, but I was gettin’ a little thirsty. Maybe, I thought, the night shift will come shuffling in and I can get a glass of water while I wait. But no such luck. No new workers appeared. I considered waltzing over to the bar and demanding loudly, “Gimme some water, easy on the ice.” But that was a laugh because there was no way in heaven and earth I would sashay up to the bar with all those young, beautiful people hanging about with their lemon-raspberry flavored malt beverages.
Then again, what’s stopping me? If I did go dive in amongst those youngsters, I would grin and nod as though we knew each other, and they’d think I was some crazy old lady. Though I am happy to say not much gray shows in my decently brown hair and I have never colored it. In fact, I recently sat in a group of 23 high school girlfriends and was pretty sure only myself and one other gal had not resorted to washing away the gray. She had plenty and was proud to have it. As my daddy used to say, I’d rather it turn gray than turn loose.
Regardless, this old age thing is mostly in the mind, partly in the body. I recently read somewhere that the average person considers “old age” to be at least 10 years over their current age. I find this to be true. Those 22-year-old beautiful people probably would think this 59-year-old to be elderly. But they’d be dead wrong. Not me. No siree. What they don’t know is I drive a fast car, have a motorcycle license, and also own a fine looking convertible. Sure, most of my friends are not only parents, but grandparents, but I skipped that extra contributor that would certainly have forced massive amounts of Loving Care into my hair.
As it got closer to six, the six hadn’t shown up yet. Did I worry they wouldn’t and I’d still be sittin’ by my lonesome self at 6:30 at a table for six — if I ever get one, that is. No, I wasn’t concerned. I knew the other five would come and make us six. But as time passed, I thought more seriously about that glass of water. Or just some ice. Just as I rose to take action on that idea, one of my friends entered the restaurant. It struck me funny or ironic that it is the gal who lives the farthest away. I thought, if she wants some water, too, perhaps we can face the beautiful people together over at that bar and say something like, “Bartender,” slam our fists down on the polished wood, “I need a drink…of water.”
— Elaine Fields Smith
Elaine Fields Smith is an author and publisher in Texas who loves her friends, her animals and her husband of 34 years. Her creative nonfiction books are often categorized as “The Good, The Bad and The Funny” and can be seen on www.blazingstarbooks.com.
Long ago when my husband and I first dated, he had sweet terms of endearment for me. Young love makes you say silly things.
His friends teased him. But he could help himself! He was so in love. And I secretly savored these pet names, too. It was the first time I’d ever garnered this type of affection.
Fast-forward 27 years.
Now, it’s Hon. Or Honey on a good day.
The other night I reminded him of the cute names he used to call me and suggested that he might want to start calling me Rosebud, because I am so sweet, I smell good, and I look like a rose in a metaphorical sort of way.
“Rosebud?” He voice was shrill in disbelief. “How about Thorn?” he suggested. “You know, like a thorn in my side?”
“I like Rosebud better,” I said. “Plus it’s good for the kids to see and hear you talk sweetly to me.”
“No, you’re more like a thorn.” He paused. “But you’re pretty smart. How about Smarth?”
Just mash smart and thorn together and there you go — a lovely title for the mother of his children.
How would you like to be called a Smarth?
I’m a character in a Dr. Suess book.
Are you smart and like art?
Or is your norm being a thorn?
No matter. Now what. You’re not a Darth or a Garth.
Smile. You’re a Smarth!
I just Googled the Top Most Hated Pet Names For Women. Unbelievably, Smarth did not make the list. But it’s showing up in family group texts and being whispered in my ear as I fall asleep.
I guess sweet nothings like Darling, Sweetheart and Honeybunches are just that: sweet nothings (insubstantial or romantic words that are only meant to flatter, woo or seduce, according to www.yourdictionary.com). Now Smarth — there’s some meat behind that pet name.
Although, I’d argue Rosebud is a more accurate description of me.
Well, I can fight fire with fire. I’ve just informed my husband that I am now calling him Haireak (hairy + neat freak = Haireak — accent on the eak). He’s losing his hair and it’s growing in places where it’s not supposed to sprout (nose, ears, back), and he’s infuriatingly neat and expects everybody else to be as well.
At least I’m not calling him Bucky like his high school friends still do.
No, I think Haireak suits him perfectly.
“That’s okay my sweet darling Smarth.”
— Heather Christie
Heather Christie is a wife, mother, writer, real estate broker, knitter, cook, exercise freak and avid reader. When she’s not selling houses, she’s writing books and blogging about food, family and philosophy at www.HeatherChristieBooks.com. She can be found on Facebook at @heatherchristiebooks and on Twitter @heatherc_writes.
The latch on the door to the cabinet where I keep my kitchen garbage needs repair. It won’t stay closed. And though I know it won’t stay closed without me fiddling and finagling the broken latch to keep it shut, I open the darn thing each time I need to throw something away.
With Jim still as broken as the door — hobbling about on crutches and currently unable to help with even the smallest home repair — I’m determined to fix the thing myself.
“Why don’t you just switch the garbage to the other side?” one of my daughters asked… after she’d opened it when I warned her not to as I had just finagled the thing shut… again.
It doesn’t work that way, I told her. I’ve opened that door a billion times to throw something away. Moving the garbage can to the other side won’t change my habit of opening the current side. I have no doubt I would still open the darn broken door out of habit, still have to fiddle and finagle the door to stay shut.
The other night I told Jim I was going to run to Lowe’s to get a new latch. “Don’t!” he said. “I’m pretty sure I have another in the garage, in one of those drawers.”
Unable to go through any “of those drawers” himself, I headed out to the garage yesterday morning to look for the spare cabinet latch.
After an hour or so, I came back with this:
A picture of my sweet Moses (left) and Mickey (right) along with Hunter, Brianna’s dog who lived with us when we first moved to this house. All three dogs were happy as could be that day nearly nine years ago, long before Moses passed away and Hunter moved out.
How did I go from seeking a latch to finding a photo?
If you’re anything like me — and have a garage anything like mine — you likely don’t even question such a result. You get that after picking through drawers of nuts and screws and nails and emery boards (?) and hammers and bolts and bits that fit funky tools I’ve never seen Jim use in search of the extra latch, I got sidetracked by what was on top of those drawers: a counter filled with empty windshield wiper fluid bottles and empty plastic bags and empty packages that once held screws and nails now scattered about those drawers of do-it-yourselfer detritus.
I gathered the gunk from the counter to take out to the big green recycle bin. As I dropped the goods in the bin, I saw on the bin label that empty aerosol cans can be dropped in there, too. What? I had always assumed aerosol cans were unacceptable and dangerous recyclables, according to the recycle rules. Which meant several empty spray paint cans from years of spraying crafty things lined the garage counter top along with other “unacceptable” crud, waiting for us to participate in our county’s annual “we take all your paint cans, electronic parts, unused prescription medications and more” drive in exchange for canned food donations. A drive we inevitably miss every darn year and hear about on the news after the fact.
So I gathered the empty spray paint cans and carried them to the recycle bin.
As I walked back into the garage from the driveway where the recycle and garbage bins sit, I noticed another garage shelf that held miscellaneous muck Jim plopped there a couple years ago after an accident totaled our Explorer. At the time, he had to remove all personal items from the vehicle being towed and hurriedly set them on the shelf. And forgot about them. I’m talking CDs, cassettes (honest), emery boards (?), old keys, old pens, old business cards from now-closed businesses, bank deposit slips, old registrations, and 15 years of automotive repair records previously kept in the glove compartment. Plus the leather-bound manual for that 1998 Ford Explorer I loved and lost without bidding it farewell, as Jim’s unfortunate collision with a tree took place while I was in the desert with my grandsons.
I decided to clean up the pile. I’d take the CDs inside (cassettes, too) and everything else would be pitched as garbage or recyclable, accordingly.
Now, Jim likes to hide dollar bills and printed quotes and pictures and cards and whatever else might spark his fancy in books. Why, I can’t tell ya. But I learned early in our marriage that before I donate books or lend printed materials of any sort to friends or family, I must first rifle through them to rescue long-forgotten treasures I might mistakenly give away.
It was in rifling through that Ford Explorer manual that I came across Moses and Mickey and Hunter, happy as can be. Nine years ago. Before Moses passed, before Hunter moved out with Mommy Brianna, before Mickey aged and had days he was unable to go on his daily walk (as was the case yesterday, which is why I had time to kill searching for the cabinet latch).
I smiled at the sweet photo of the three silly dogs and stuck it in my pocket. I pitched the pile of old stuff that no longer mattered into the bins, took the CDs (and cassettes) inside because they still did.
As does the poignant picture Jim had filed away for safekeeping. Or to elicit a grin when searching for answers to why an engine light won’t go off or what bulbs to buy to replace a light that won’t go on.
I didn’t find a latch, but finding that photo deemed my search a success.
Though I also found myself right back where I began: needing to head to Lowe’s for a cabinet latch.
Which I’ll do tomorrow — avoiding nary a glance at any remaining recyclables sitting upon my garage shelves.
— Lisa Carpenter
Lisa Carpenter is a freelance writer and blogger specializing in topics related to grandparenting, the empty nest and the baby boomer lifestyle. She publishes the Grandma’s Briefs website, stressing the vitality and relevance of today’s grandmothers. She also writes regularly for other sites around the web, including the Huffington Postand PurpleClover.com. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest.
It has been said, probably by Andrew Lloyd Webber, that a cat has nine lives. If that’s true, it means the cats in our humble home had 36.
It also means I should win a Tony Award because my version of “Cats” ran even longer than Lloyd Webber’s, 27 years to his 18 and 9,855 daily performances to his measly 7,485.
Unfortunately, the show ended recently when Bernice, the last of our four flaky, friendly and frequently flummoxed felines, went to that big litter box in the sky.
My wife, Sue, and I got our first cat in 1989, when we bowed to the pressure of our daughters, Katie and Lauren, who were then 9 and 7 years old, respectively, and adopted Ramona, a little black and white cutie named for Ramona Quimby, the star of the Beverly Cleary children’s books.
Ramona’s claim to fame was that she made it into “Who’s Who of Animals,” even though, as it said in her entry, “An intelligence test pitting Ramona and a loaf of Wonder Bread proved inconclusive.”
Ramona went from aloof to affectionate in 1995, when we adopted a dog named Lizzie, who was so sweet and lovable that Ramona must have figured, if indeed she was capable of rational thought, that if she didn’t shape up, she would stop getting all the attention and lose her crown as the family princess.
That did not stop her, however, from eating the boiled chicken that was part of Lizzie’s diet. Lizzie, in turn, ate Ramona’s cat food.
In 1998, when we moved from Stamford, Connecticut, to Long Island, New York, I started getting strange calls at work.
“Meow,” purred the voice on the other end of the phone.
“Who is this?” I asked the first time it happened.
It was Lauren, who said she wanted a cat.
“You already have a cat,” I told her.
“I want a real cat,” Lauren insisted. “Ramona’s an idiot.”
Enter Kitty, another black and white cutie whose personality was the polar opposite of Ramona’s. She was Miss Congeniality and, at a year old, proved it by getting pregnant.
One of Kitty’s kitties was Bernice; another was Henry, the only other male in the house besides me, but since he was a mama’s boy who loved Sue and Lizzie exclusively, it didn’t even count.
Ramona, who turned out to be sweet and even smart in her own way, despite not getting along with the other three cats, lived to be almost 20. Henry, who was never the same after Lizzie passed away, was stricken with a sudden illness a year later and died at 12. Kitty died last year at 17.
That left Bernice, who was perhaps the quirkiest of them all.
While her mommy, Kitty, was a little bit of a thing, Bernice was the feline equivalent of the Goodyear Blimp. And she hated to be picked up, which was just as well because anyone who tried would have either gotten a hernia or been scratched to death.
This did not explain how Bernice, who was not appreciably smarter than Ramona, hoisted herself onto the roof of our two-story house. Practically every day, Sue and I would discover that Bernice was stuck up there and was meowing at a bedroom window.
We theorized that she climbed a nearby tree and dropped with a thud onto the roof, though we are still not sure how she did it considering the tree was a fair distance from the house and Bernice weighed about as much as a full-grown male orangutan.
The tree was old and starting to rot, so we had it taken down before both it and Bernice crashed through the roof. Perhaps not coincidentally, her climbing adventures abruptly ended.
But her quirkiness didn’t. She loved to be petted and would jump onto Sue or me while we were watching TV, purring contentedly during shows that were appropriately mindless.
Now she’s gone, the last of our four family felines, and it’s the end of an era. Like Ramona, Kitty and Henry before her, Bernice was the cat’s meow.
— Jerry Zezima
Jerry Zezima, who served on the faculty at the 2010 EBWW, writes a humor column for the Stamford Advocate that is nationally syndicated through the Tribune News Service and regularly appears in the Huffington Post. He’s written three books, Grandfather Knows Best, Leave it to Boomer and The Empty Nest Chronicles. He has won six humor-writing awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and was named EBWW’s Humor Writer of the Month twice. He is the past president of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.
Step right up. Rummage around. Bring your money.
Make sure you’ve taken your pills that help with your balance. You will need them to keep from falling over in my driveway, which has a steep slant.
Via text, Instagram, Facebook, Fitbit, Amazon, YouTube, Snapchat, The Bernardsville News and snail mail, I have been hyping my first-time-ever, never-will-happen-again, going-out-of-business driveway, disheveled garage and poison ivy sale.
Come check out my eclectic spread of sports collectibles. For $200 you can buy the football cleats my son wore in fifth grade for the Somerset Hills Bulldogs pony league team that lost more games than it won.
The underbelly of these cleats features eight-year-old crusted chunks of mud. Other than that fire sale of miscellaneous stuff pawned at the Peapack-Gladstone/Bedminster each fall, where else are you going to find Bulldog cleats decorated with eight-year-old mud?
Rather than having to wait until the fall to get those dilapidated cleats for $2, you can get mine for $200 right now and throw them in a crevice in the corner of your garage like I did for eight years.
If you’re shopping for your daughters, you can get a set of Toys “R” Us pink rollerblades that were in style 10 years ago. Counterintuitively, buying these will make you feel you’re up with the times. Old things are the new craze. Consider those circular, jet black 33 and 45 records that have become popular in recent years in a direct response to the global overdose of iPads, Pandora, and pirating of songs off the Internet.
Because I never considered rollerblading a sport, you can have them for free. Rollerblading is a fraudulent and sorry attempt at being a sport. It was a marketing stunt that got derailed.
You can have my son’s navy blue baseball helmet that has dirt stains on the top and mildewed sweat on the inside. The helmet may not fit your head, but it may fit your son’s. Why not give it a try? If it doesn’t fit his head, just throw it in the corner of your garage like I did for 10 years.
For those Dads out there thinking you have a son who might be a good baseball pitcher, I can take you to my backyard where, in the poison ivy, you will see a silver pitchback with a rectangular strike zone in the ballpark of regulation size.
Like everything in life, there is a good news and bad news with this item.The bad news is the pitch back is bent — meaning half broken — and it doesn’t bounce the ball back far enough for it to be worthwhile to practice with. The good news is it has never been used and that I assembled it myself, which ensures it will probably fall apart after your son throws against it a few times.
You will have to step through the poison ivy, pick it up and carry it home yourself. It’s yours for free. Because you’re my fellow neighbor, for $20 I’ll help you carry it to your front curb as long as you live within one block of my house.
At a separate table that will look akin to a shrine you can consider buying the Celtic green jersey. Decorated with the number “33” in white letters, you are looking at Larry Bird’s uniform. He is the greatest basketball player who has ever lived. Yes, he was better than Michael Jordan and LeBron James.
For $900,000 you can have it with one caveat. Within one week you will have to bring it back to me dry cleaned.
For you amateur carpenters in my hood, I have some random pieces of wood that used to hang out underneath our bed mattresses. I’ll pay you $20 to take those off my hands. Sweetening the offer, I’ll pay you $200 to take away my five smelly mattresses as long as you go up on a ladder to pull them down from a platform near the garage’s ceiling.
Also for sale is a half-empty, drip-stained can of off-white paint, somewhat rotted, that is all yours for $60. Paint is expensive. If I ever decided to pain something in my house, which would be the first time, I may want to use it. The $60 would reimburse me for the opportunity cost of having to buy more paint when I could have been watching ESPN.
I also will be selling my one snow shovel. Don’t need it. I have managed to persuade my neighbor to use his snow machine to clear my driveway every winter from now on.
The last thing I’m selling at my yard sale is an online subscription to my new e-book, Wipe That Smile Off Sammy Sportface. In my driveway on your smartphone, I will show you how go to Amazon.com, click on the book title and hit “purchase.” Go home immediately and read the masterpiece on your tablet PC. You will learn more about Caitlyn Bruce Jenner, the SWAC Conference, Donald Trumpty Dumpty, Tater Icabod Cuddles The Third, Crooked Hillary Clinton, Lyin’ Ted Cruz, flying on Xanax, and how Sammy Sportface became Sammy Sportface.
— Sammy Sportface
Sammy Sportface is possibly America’s best blogger. He is only mildly interested in the truth. To read his new book, Wipe That Smile Off Sammy Sportface, go to Amazon.com.
Well, yet another dream has come true. Not only did I fulfill my lifelong ambition of being a lunch lady, now I’ve landed a part-time job at a library. I waited a full two weeks before telling you in case I woke up and it was gone.
And, as libraries go, this one is the Ritz. It’s got pretty much every cookbook ever written and a huge DVD and blu ray collection. It’s brand-spanking new and might as well be a community center-library-coffee shop. I’ve had an uncanny stroke of luck, I know.
As with most of my fantastic experiences, I pause to posit a few drawbacks. Like I’m pretty sure all the women I work with double as yoga instructors in what little free time they could possibly have. I also put forward that they keep the air conditioning in the library at around 87 degrees, judging by my constant sweating. Then there’s the whole question of whether or not I use the composting toilets or do I take the stairs yet another time to use the conventional staff toilet downstairs? I’m sure you can guess my choice.
And there’s the fact that this means I sit down maybe a grand total of 23 minutes out of an eight-hour shift. This for a woman who spent 30 years sitting at least 12 hours a day. The other 12 hours I was either eating, sleeping or drinking. I don’t even want to think about what I look like when I have to put a book on a bottom shelf. It can’t be pretty. Never mind how I look when I have to reach waaaaaay up to the top shelf, causing my shirt to rise up above my waistband revealing a sizable spare tire — likely shiny with sweat.
Despite all its pitfalls, a library job is pretty dang sweet. All those books. All those readers. All those interesting choices. I hate to say it, but already I’m noticing what books people check out. You might see some guy with a pocket protector and black socks with shorts checking out Joyce or Milton or Stephen King or James Patterson. I love that. I note this only because I’ve always wondered if the librarian stamping the due date in my book ever noticed what I was checking out. I do. Maybe I won’t in a few years. But I doubt it; I’m way too nosey.
One reason why I coveted a library job is my deep admiration for my friend Mary Bridget Swartz of Parish, New York. She worked as librarian at the town library for what seems like 60 years. And it very well might be. Bridget recently retired but I’m sure, also being the town detective, that she’s got her hand on the pulse of that old brick library. She even made it through the computerization of the Dewey Decimal System. Those folksy little wooden drawers are long gone my friends.
Anyway, me and Debbie Patterson used to walk every morning when I lived in Parish. We’d go past what I think was the only duplex/condo-looking residence in the village and boy, would we make up some sweet daydreams about retiring to that modern-looking place.
“Okay, so this is the deal,” I’d say, “when we’re old, we get jobs at the Parish Public Library and you live in one side of the condo and I live in the other.”
“Hell yeah,” Deb would say. “Chuck could help us fix it all up and we could live there in our dotage.”
I agreed to the plan even though she was the only one with a husband at the time who, by the way, I liked to call Chucker F*****. “I could drink coffee out on the deck in the morning and throw back a few beers at night. Perfect.”
I’m just telling you now, these wheels are in motion.
— Connie Berry
Connie Berry grew up reading and loving Erma Bombeck. She is former editor of The Catholic Sun newspaper in Syracuse, N.Y., and a new resident of Martha’s Vineyard where she was copy editor for the Vineyard Gazette. She lives on the island with her husband and youngest son. Her two older children read her blog, thejoblessgoddess.blogspot.com, from Syracuse.