There should be an exhibition swimming event at this upcoming Olympics.
In a pool without any lane line buoys, eight random Olympic swimmers should stand on the starting blocks. They dive in.
Soon after they hit the water to swim freestyle, an artificial 20-foot wave ascends exactly like the ones you see at amusement parks such as the Busch Gardens pool park. It breaks from the left side and crosses over the entire pool from lanes one through eight and the water gushes over the edges onto the deck.
The swimmers have to navigate the choppy waters. Five seconds later, another artificial wave breaks, this time from the right side.
While this is happening, the swimmers will go underwater and start grabbing at the legs and ankles of the other swimmers to slow them down and take them out of their rhythm. This will be kind of like that game swimmers play in the diving well called barracuda or sharks and minnows or whatever.
Underwater skirmishes will break out all over. More artificial 20-foot waves will curl up and pound down — every five seconds. Guys will dunk each other’s heads underwater. No one will let anyone get too far ahead. If anyone takes a lead, the pool electronics will be programmed to automatically build up another wave aimed directly at the leader to slow that guy down.
The pool will look like the Atlantic Ocean does during a full-blown hurricane. Swimmers will be struggling to stay afloat. Exhaustion from wrestling each other underwater and fighting to keep their heads above water to breathe will vex them.
The biggest problem they will have to contend with, other than the onslaught of waves, will be the fact that the race is a 500 freestyle. Twenty laps in hydraulic mayhem.
Fans in the stands will become raucous. It will have the feel of a World Wrestling Federation event, all out of control and unpredictable.
They will root for the guys who are behind in the race. They won’t want the first-place guy to get ahead. Leaders will be the bad guys. They will cheer for anyone who gets ahead to have a huge wave come his way to slow him down and make it tough to get anywhere fast. The race will become like a gladiator scene without shields and knives. Some blood will be drawn from skin abrasions. There will some thigh bruises and shoulder separations.
No one will win the race. No will finish the race. No will allow anyone to get through those laps.
The crowd will be beside itself. On the decks water will continue to pour. Some fans will get so excited they will jump in the water and wrestle with the swimmers themselves.
Others who stay in their seats will start doing the “Wave” cheer.
After an hour, the meet official will blow the whistle declaring the event over and that there is no winner.
There will be so much water drenching the deck of the pool that they will have to bring out water vacuums to soak it all up. This will delay the meet for three hours.
NBC will air the event live. Someone on their social media team will post a Tweet about it with a link to the video. The tweet will go viral and be retweeted 786,598 times on the first day.
It will be the story of the 2016 Olympic Games besides Michael Phelps finishing second in the 200 meter individual medley behind Laszlo Cseh of Hungary or Ryan Lochte or both.
— 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.
It’s not every day that you get the oil changed in your car (in fact, it’s every 3,000 miles) and drive away feeling like you’ve just struck oil.
But that’s the way I felt recently when I spoke with Tony Didio, a service adviser at Hyundai 112 in Medford, New York, where my car routinely goes for oil changes, filter replacements and medical procedures such as open-hood surgery.
Tony is a car doctor who has prescriptions not only for a healthy vehicle (“If you can’t stop, those are the brakes”), but for a healthy lifestyle (“Never stand in front of a shooter at an archery range”).
Tony also is an archer who has a point.
“I’m right on target,” he told me.
“That pun made me quiver,” I responded. “Do you know what Custer wore at Little Bighorn?”
“What?” Tony said.
“An Arrow shirt,” I answered.
Since I don’t have a Pierce-Arrow, which stopped manufacturing automobiles a decade and a half before I was born, I asked Tony about my 2014 Hyundai Santa Fe.
“When you change the oil in my car,” I wondered, “do you use extra-virgin olive oil?”
“No,” Tony said. “I’d use that on pizza. But we don’t serve it here.”
Ironically, Tony began his automotive career at his father’s pizzeria in Plainview, New York.
“I was 12 when I started working there,” said Tony, who’s now 65. “But I was always interested in cars. I used to clean off the ones that came over on boats from Germany, so I switched from olive oil to motor oil.”
In 1971, Tony officially entered the car business when he went to work for a guy who was a mechanic for legendary race-car driver and designer Briggs Cunningham.
“Did you ever want to race in the Indy 500?” I asked.
“No,” said Tony. “But I’d have a better chance there than I would here. New York drivers are crazy.”
“You’re a New York driver,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” Tony acknowledged. “But I’m not crazy enough to ruin my car. Then I’d have to fix it.”
He’s had to fix plenty of other people’s cars in his 45 years in the business, during which he has learned that women know just as much about cars as men do. And they’re not as cheap.
“Like the guy whose brakes were worn down to the rotors, metal to metal, so I changed them,” Tony recalled. “The guy got all bent out of shape, just like his brakes, and insisted I put the old ones back in because he didn’t want to pay for new ones. Then he drove off. I was waiting for him to come back with a smashed front end because he couldn’t stop. I should have put him up on a lift and examined his head.”
Tony hasn’t repaired cars since he slipped on a patch of ice while carrying an engine and threw his back out.
“I threw it out, but nobody would take it,” Tony said with a deadpan expression, which he admitted is better than an oil-pan expression. “You have to have a sense of humor in this business,” he noted.
Tony, who loves to joke around with his customers, recalled the time a woman heard a ticking sound in her car and thought her husband had planted a bomb in it.
“I guess they weren’t getting along,” Tony said perceptively. “So I told her I was going to call 911. I kept her in suspense for about 10 minutes. Then I said, ‘I’m only kidding. There’s no bomb in the car.’ She was greatly relieved.”
Tony said people are always telling him that he should be a stand-up comic.
“I can’t stand up that long,” he said. “My feet get tired.”
But not too tired for this husband, father and soon-to-be grandfather to stand in the kitchen occasionally and, recalling the pizza days of his youth, make a delicious Italian dinner.
When I told Tony I’m not handy enough to be either a mechanic or a cook, he gave me the secret of his success: “If you just remember that motor oil goes in cars and olive oil goes on pizza, you’ll be OK.”
— 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.
I just got back from attending my wife’s high school reunion.
While I find going to my own high school reunion is interesting, fun and full of stimulating people with interesting lives — going to someone else’s reunion is usually boring. That’s because you don’t know anybody and you don’t have anything in common with these people but your spouse.
But I had a great time at this year’s reunion of my wife Madeline’s class. That’s because I was prepared.
I knew from past experience that within five minutes of arriving at the reunion my wife would disappear for the rest of the night and I’d find myself sitting at a table, chit chatting with complete strangers.
Conversations at these tables usually follow a set pattern like a quiz game. “Who are you with? Where do you live? What do you do? Would you like to see pictures of our grandchildren?”
This time was going to be different. For this reunion, I decided I was going to be a classmate from my wife’s class.
So when the reunion invitation arrived from her high school, I went and pulled out Madeline’s old yearbook and began thumbing through it with her. She would stop and reminisce over each photo and talk about the people until she got to the picture of Tom Washington.
“I wonder what ever happened to him. He left town after high school and has never come back for a reunion.”
Right then, I decided I would be Tom Washington at my wife’s class reunion.
I studied everything I could about him in the yearbook and then created an imaginary life for Tom for the past 35 years.
At the reunion, when my wife disappeared, I took my name tag off and put on one that read “Tom Washington” and began mingling with grads I recognized from the yearbook who didn’t know me.
I’d walk up to someone from the class, throw my arms open and cry: “Babs Johnson! I bet I haven’t seen you since algebra class. You look great.”
Three things would happen when I did this.
First, this look would cross their face that said: “Who is this person? I should know him because he knows me.” Then their eyes would go to my name tag and a look of recognition would cross their face when they saw the name Tom Washington. Then, they would get a confused expression as they looked back at me.
“Tom Washington. How are you? Didn’t you use to be an Albino?” they’d ask.
I had great fun for Tom. He really should have been there. I told different people that I, or rather Tom, had once built a kitchen cabinet for President George W. Bush, helped Bill Gates find his car keys in the Microsoft parking lot and gave NASA shuttle pilots personality tests.
After a while, though, I got tired of that and took a different approach. The next person who asked me what I had been up to, I told them I had spent the last six years in the state sanitarium for the criminally insane. “But I’m much better now,” I would assure them, then add: “Just as long as no one plays the Macarena while I’m around.” Then I would glance over nervously at the band.
After a while, I figured Tom Washington had enough fun for one night, so I took his name tag off and began telling people I was Joseph Ratzinger. “I used to be the Pope, but I got tired of it. Now I’m an extraneous church appendage.”
They’d smile and say, “That’s nice. Would you like to see pictures of our grandchildren?”
After a while doing that, I went to look for my wife.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “I guess we missed it. Pope Benedict XVI was here earlier although I don’t remember him being in our class.”
Before too long, people started coming over to our table asking if we’d seen Tom Washington yet.
It seems word had spread that Tom had been in President George Bush’s “Cabinet,” was “key” to Bill Gates and Microsoft and was a “test” pilot for NASA.
The big payoff of the evening came when one of the men at the table popped in and said, “I don’t care if Tom Washington landed on the moon. From what I’ve heard, if they start playing the Macarena, we’re out of here.”
— Myron Kukla
Myron Kukla is a Midwest writer based in Holland, Michigan, Tulip capital of the world. He is the author of several books of humor including Guide to Surviving Life: A 3,487-step Guide to Self-Improvement and Confessions of a Baby Boomer available at www.squareup.com/store/myronkuklabooks. Email him at myronkuklabooks.com.
Shut the front door! There must have been a Harmonic Convergence or a return of Halley’s Comet or some astrological cataclysm today because I just found out I’ve been a fashion plate all my life and didn’t even know it.
There I was, sitting at my computer, wearing my work uniform of black knit pants and the heather gray sweatshirt I bought in London’s Camden Town in 1997. Still looks like new.
I opened the latest email newsletter from “Lenny,” created by Lena Dunham, the writer, producer/director of the TV show, “Girls.” I read quickly through the introduction and stumbled across the word “normcore.” I promptly Googled it and found an article on the Vogue-UK Website describing this latest “trend.” Which is really not a trend. The article was accompanied by photos of people wearing my favorite non-designer clothes: jeans, t-shirts, sneakers with no labels and plain black fanny packs.
Leave it to the fashion industry to co-opt my “look” and the “looks” of millions of us, which is to say, those of us who don’t think much about our “look.” The Kardashians have a “look.” I have, according to the article, “high-end pedestrian dressing.” Although in my case it’s more low than high.
The writer of the article goes on to quote the New York trend agency K-Hole’s publication, Youth Mode: “Normcore doesn’t want the freedom to become someone . . . Normcore moves away from a coolness that relies on difference to a post-authenticity that opt into sameness.” I’d like to know in what MFA program that author learned to write such a strangled, tangled seaweed of a sentence. Do you get the feeling the fashion industry is trying a bit too hard? Like they’re running out of fads so now they have to co-opt the way millions of us dress every day? So they can steal the look, raise prices on ordinary garments and gouge us ever more?
Ah, capitalism. No one ever said it was pretty.
The article continues with a quote from designer Richard Nicoll: “I’ve been inspired recently by my idea of The Special Normal and The Perfect Boring. Trusty wardrobe staples that last but have something unique and personal. . . . “Normcore says, ‘I have soul and intelligence. I’m unique and I don’t need to shout about it.’”
Reminds me of Al Franken’s “Saturday Night Live” character, Stuart Smalley, who stands before a mirror and says, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and doggone it, people like me!” If you say it often enough, it might become true.
But wait. Now that I look more carefully at the article, I see that it was published in 2014. Oh, no. For the amount of time it took me to drink a cup of coffee and read the article, I was “in,” I was “hip. I was normcore. Now I’m just another trend, come and gone. Back to being plain old boring. Sigh.
That’s OK. The stress of keeping up with normcore was killing me.
— Rosie Sorenson
Rosie Sorenson is the award-winning author of They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow. Her work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle, San Jose Mercury News, Pittsburgh Tribune-Review and others. In 2007, she won an honorable mention in the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition.
(This piece first appeared in the Huffington Post. Reposted by permission of the author.)
A Reverse Mortgage for Buckingham Palace — Nothing will put a smile on those Buckingham Palace guards more then knowing their paychecks won’t bounce.
List Scotland on EBay — Kilts, bagpipes and, if you “Buy it Now,” Sean Connery will tape your phone machine message. Hurry before the EU beats you to it.
Adele is now available to play weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, Sweet 16s. “Hello, it’s me. I was wondering if after all these years you’d like me to sing at your event.”
Tour Liverpool with Pete Best — Enjoy historic, scenic Liverpool with one-time Beatles’ drummer Pete Best. What fun and, if you think leaving the EU sucked, hey, you’ll be reminded that it’s still not as bad as leaving the Beatles.
Photo op with Keith Richards — Have your pic taken with the Rolling Stones legend. It’ll be worth every pence spent and, face it, everyone looks smashingly well when standing next to the legendary guitarist.
Denny’s Wimbledon — Who better company to sell the Wimbledon naming rights to than the home of the “Grand Slam” breakfast. Not only will it pay for the tourney, but also be a reminder that “breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
Make riding London’s The Eye ferris wheel over and over again mandatory — Not only will it fill the national treasury but ride it enough times and you’ll have that going-around-in-circles, nauseous feeling…much like the UK the morning after the vote.
Royal Shakespeare Theater’s Put Your Name in a Shakespeare Play Sale — Big bucks for changing King Lear to, for example, King Larry from Paterson, New Jersey. Or, lesser bucks, for Hamlet to proclaim, “Alas, poor Gunter from Dusseldorf! I knew him.”
Air2nb 10 Downing Street — What better way to spend time in London than at the Prime Minister’s flat. And, with no other actual employment opportunities, there’s a good chance you’ll get a “cheerio” with your morning Times of London or Daily Mirror from former Prime Minister David Cameron and his wife Sharon who will be there to serve you tea and leftover humble pie.
Replace the double decker buses with Le Cars — Not only will the savings on petro be enormous, but every time a bus goes on its route, it’s a potential world record for stuffing people in a mass transit vehicle. Win-win.
— Paul Lander
Paul Lander is not sure which he is proudest of — winning the Nobel Peace Prize or sending Sudanese peace activist, Fatima Ahmed Ibrahim, to accept it on his behalf, bringing to light the plight of central Africa’s indigenous people. In his non-daydreaming hours, Paul has worked as a writer and/or producer for shows on ABC, NBC, Showtime, The Disney Channel, ABC Family, VH1, LOGO and Lifetime. In addition, he’s written stand-up material that’s been performed on “Leno,” “Letterman,” “Conan” and “Last Comic Standing.” His humor pieces have appeared in Huff Post Comedy, McSweeney’s, The New Yorker, Santa Fe Writers Project Journal, Humor Times, The Higgs Weldon and Hobo Pancake. In 2015, he placed second in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ annual column contest in the online/blog/multimedia category for his pieces in Humor Times and was named the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop’s “Humor Writer of the Month.”
My husband was at work for the day and I was home alone with the baby. She was asleep and I took the opportunity to take a shower and attempt to shave both legs and at least one armpit.
I had two thoughts going through my head while the water was running over me: 1, I hope she is still asleep and didn’t manage to sit up in her crib for the first time while I am in this shower and 2, I am absolutely putting on my enormously oversized, white, cotton panties when I get out of this shower and I am going to thoroughly enjoy it.
And I did. I checked on the baby; she was sleeping sweetly, so I skipped into our bedroom and opened the drawer that contained my three pair of brief-cut underwear that I purchased specifically to wear after my planned C-section. When my cousin advised me to get some before the surgery, I told her, “Okay, but I am going to have to Google ‘brief-cut’ because I have no idea what you’re talking about.” After my Google images search of this world of underwear that had previously been unbeknownst to me, I found myself walking sheepishly down the aisle in the store where these frighteningly large pieces of undergarments were apparently sold to the general public.
I bought them, I wore them, and I fell in love with them. After my beautiful baby was born, I healed well, but it is more than safe to say that I milked wearing these wonderpanties for quite some time post-partum. Let’s be real, no one was trying to sneak a peak at what I had going on under my also-oversized sweats that I wore every day for about seven weeks. (Okay, in full disclosure, I rotated between at least 2 pair of sweats).
Some time passed and I started to feel a bit more like myself. I wanted to wear my regular yoga pants and my pre-baby jeans, and well, the briefs were just not fitting under those the way underwear should. The waists were too high, the lines were embarrassing, and they were bunching up in the wrong places. So, down they went…all the way to the bottom of my undies drawer, and out came my oldies that were nearly a fraction of the size.
They stayed there for a few months until that day when I was in the shower lathering some more coconut oil on my six-month, post-partum, tender, keloid scar and all I wanted to do was indulge in some serious underwear comfort.
That morning, I adorned a pair of these gems and an oversized tee-shirt and proceeded to take care of the baby, wash the bottles, change the diapers, clean the toys, clean the dishes, put away the laundry…and then of course clean more dishes.
I didn’t pick one wedgie. I didn’t viciously scratch my scar through any irritating lace. I didn’t worry about ruining another pair of lightly colored underwear because, well, there was enough room for a pad. Imagine that?
I was torn. On one hand, my old lace thongs represented a piece of me that felt like my body and my life might be “going back to the way it was” pre-baby. On the other hand, the briefs represented the side of me that both knew and accepted that things would never really quite go back to the way they were.
I decided to find a new, happy medium. I went out and I bought brand-new, black, cotton underwear of all different sizes, some with more coverage than others. These undies represent this new chapter of my life: thirty, mommy, comfy, and, yes, even sexy.
So, to all the mommas out there, I urge you all to wear whatever underwear helps to make you feel like the very best version of yourself, whether that’s a hot pink thong white grannie-panties, or something in between.
And the next time you find yourself in just a shirt and underwear (because you didn’t have the time or energy to put pants on, of course), and you’re standing in the kitchen washing what feels like the 837,275th dish of the day, I hope you think of me.
— Amanda Motisi
Amanda Motisi is a new mommy, wellness blogger, health coach and teacher.
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.