I can see it now. A huge tufted nightclub booth, upholstered in spotless linen, floating on a cloud in the sky. A group of chuckling comedians is seated at the heavenly table, kibitzing over a bowl of perfectly salted cocktail peanuts. The comedians scoot over to make room, because one more has arrived.
It’s Joan Rivers.
Their earthly mission to make other people smile complete, Rivers, Williams, Belushi, Radner, Candy, Farley and other comedic legends, lounge comfortably with each other. Their laughter echoes softly in the stratosphere.
Funny people who have made it their life’s work to make the rest of us laugh deserve a good seat in Heaven. Especially when you consider that, many of them did not have it so easy here on Earth.
Humor is a gift, but like the people who possess a good sense of it, it’s often complicated. With a few exceptions, funny people tend to be complex individuals with insecurities and internal struggles, prone to over analysis and deep thinking about their own significance in the world.
Even though my life’s work has been making sandwiches and cleaning toilets as a Navy housewife and mother of three, I can totally relate.
As a tubby little daydreamer, I discovered at a young age that humor was my ticket out of social mediocrity. Knowing that there was no way I was going to meet my parents’ expectations for a slim, sophisticated, charming daughter, I began to secretly experiment with humor.
I loved to watch comedians like Flip Wilson, Soupy Sales, Carol Burnett, Bill Cosby, and my favorite, Jerry Lewis. I learned quickly that I could make people laugh by crossing my eyes, adopting a fake speech impediment, or using raisins to black out my teeth.
Self-deprecation seemed to be the most direct path to social acceptance, so I began poking fun at myself regularly. Initially, my parents did not find my new image funny at all, and made a last-ditch effort to get me back on the right track, signing me up for English horseback riding lessons and encouraging me to seek a serious career in business one day.
But it was already too late. By the end of my senior year in high school, I was elected 1984 Class Clown, making it official: I was the funny girl.
What I didn’t realize then, aside from the fact that my reputation as a clown would prevent me from getting a decent date to the prom, was that people would expect me to be funny for the rest of my life. Having a sense of humor became my job, and I had to punch the clock through good times and bad.
Thankfully, humor helped me find my husband, also a funny guy, and raise three funny kids. Through 20 years of military moves, it helped us all make new friends. And my own witty observations about military life, marriage and parenting helped me put this column in print over five years ago.
Comedians spend their lives making people laugh despite enormous tragedy and private personal struggles. We praise them when they are funny, and ignore them when they are not. Then, when they die, we finally become curious about who they really were.
Robin Williams, who committed suicide last month at the age of 63, was a thoughtful person who suffered from bouts of devastating depression. Before her untimely death from cancer at age 43, Gilda Radner had a tough childhood, teased for being overweight and suffering the death of her beloved father when she was only a teenager. Chris Farley’s need for attention from his 600-pound alcoholic father motivated his hilarious physical comedy. But despite his kind heart, Farley inherited his father’s self-destructive tendencies, dying of a drug overdose at the age of 33, the same age as John Belushi when he died.
Joan Rivers was a comedic pioneer who could dish out the zingers, and take them, especially when it came to her multiple plastic surgeries. But behind the scenes, Rivers suffered personal tragedy when her beloved husband of 22 years, Edgar Rosenberg, committed suicide in 1987.
And the list goes on.
Clever, sensitive, deep-thinking, warm-hearted and sometimes self-destructive, funny people are complicated. We should not wait for them to die to appreciate that their multiple facets and personal struggles are exactly what make them interesting in the first place.
As Joan herself once said, “I think anyone who’s perfectly happy isn’t particularly funny.”
— Lisa Smith Molinari
Lisa Smith Molinari won second place (under 100,000 monthly visitors) in the online/multimedia category of the 2013 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ competition. She was a finalist in the Robert Benchley Society Annual Humor Writing Contest that same year. Her work has been published in The Washington Post, several anthologies, various magazines, websites and other publications. Her blog, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life,” is an expanded version of a weekly newspaper column that runs in military and civilian newspapers.
The house, it is dusty and riddled with dog hair tumble weeds. The dogs themselves, they scootch on the floor as their anal glands must be expressed and the vet bill…oh…the vet bill — hence the incessant scootching. For alas, there are no spare funds for such frivolities as anal gland expression. Expressment?
Don’t ask me.
So, I drink. I drink of the sweet elixir of the Goddess Caffeina. Sweet, other worldly bitterness tempered by milky splendor.
The laundry, how its numbers grow exponentially. The dishes, how they stack up in an unrepentant sink.
Grocery lists, teacher’s gifts, cards to send, emails to answer, calls to return…drinking all the while.
Housewifery is not rocket science and sure, I’m not workin’ in a coal mine…
Woop! About to sip down.
The job of a housewife is an oft thankless, tiresome one, though I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Okay, I’m lying. I wouldn’t trade my husband and kids or the dogs, but if you’re offering a record contract, I’ll gladly throw in the tea towel. After all…maids need jobs, too.
So, I have a drinking problem I guess. Well actually…it’s not much of a problem.
But in the absence of Calgon, I choose caffeine to take me away from all this. To whisk me away to the Columbian Elysian Fields that promise my domestic freedom. If only for a moment.
Sweet, sweet serenity and lucidity…one sip at a time.
This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
— Linda Roy
Linda Roy is a humorist/writer/musician living in New Jersey with her husband and two boys. Her blog elleroy was here is a mix of humor and music she likes to refer to as “funny with a soundtrack.” She’s managing partner and editor-in-chief at the political satire and pop culture website Lefty Pop and was named a 2014 BlogHer Voice of the Year. Her work has appeared at The Huffington Post, Humor Outcasts, In the Powder Room, Aiming Low, Mamapedia, BonBon Break, Midlife Boulevard, Funny Not Slutty, Sprocket Ink and The Weeklings. When she’s not writing, she’s fronting the Indie/Americana band Jehova Waitresses. Connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Google+ and Bloglovin’.
I was visiting my daughter and my grandkids when my first selfie fiasco took place. I’d had two glasses of wine before bedtime to relax from all the excitement of the day. I blame the wine for what happened next.
Have you seen the commercial where a husband is going away and his young daughters have colored paintings for Daddy? Mommy has her own special gift and sneaks daddy something to watch later. She winks and smiles. He looks confused, but then he smiles, as his eyebrows raise, understanding the gift. It captured my attention. When my daughter went to bed I sat, sipping my wine, thinking about that commercial. I decided I was going to take a sexy selfie and send it to my husband.
I giggled with excitement as I headed to the bathroom. I lifted up my top to expose my bodacious Ta-tas (that had to be the wine talking) as I smiled at my reflection and SNAP! I took the pic. I decided the first one was much too serious. It wasn’t as fun as I’d planned. So I hiked up my shirt again, gave my best sexy smile, took a sip of wine and SNAP! Once again, not the look I envisioned. I gulped more wine and pondered my choices for a seducing look.
I’d heard from friends that after fifty the camera is much kinder if you look up into the lens. I decided to try that. Again, my bodacious Ta-tas were bared as I cooed for the camera and SNAP! This one passed the test. I sent him the pic. “You are one sexy lady, Anne!” I told myself smiling in the mirror. “Cheers, Baby!”
Next morning my husband called and he didn’t mention my beautiful sexy pic so I asked him if he liked it. “What picture?” he asked seriously.
“My beautiful sexy pic I sent you last night,” I responded quietly so my daughter wouldn’t hear me.
“I didn’t get a pic of you.”
“Come on, check your phone. I sent it at midnight. Go look.”
He got back on the phone….”No pic,” he informed me.
Oh no! Where did I send it? I should have known better because I have not mastered all of the gizmos on my phone. In fact, we are enemies. All sorts of apps open and close, my ringer changes, Bluetooth goes on when it feels like it. I don’t even have a Bluetooth. Now I was in a panic. Mental note to self: DO NOT mix wine and the phone, much less the camera again.
I was hoping I didn’t get the numbers confused (like that ever happens to me!…weekly) and send it to my son. Their phone numbers are very close. “OMG you have to call him! NO! Don’t call him, he’ll look at his phone and he might see the message,” I rambled to my husband. “Go over to his house immediately.” I begged. Beads of sweat were forming all over my body.
Matters got worse. I had to ask my daughter to see if she could tell where the pic got sent. “Ummmm Erika, I kind of had fun last night and “just for fun” I sent Dad a pic of myself…like in that commercial.” I started slowly.
“What commercial?” she asked. I explained
When she got the gist of it she shrieked and screamed, “Mom, what did you do???”
“Well, it’s not so bad, really. I just took a bodacious Ta-ta selfie and sent it to your father, for fun. You know, just for fun.”
“OMG! What did he say when he saw it?”
“Well, there’s a smidge of a problem. It didn’t get to him. Can you look at my phone and see who I sent it to?” I begged. I tried to remain calm and not let my fear show.
She looked horrified. “What? You didn’t put it on Facebook did you?”
I assured her, “Of course not, but I’d taken my glasses off when I was cooing. I was sipping wine and having so much selfie fun, who knows where I sent it.”
“Cooing? You were cooing? In my bathroom at midnight?!?” She rolled her eyes like I was an unfit mother. “It was just for fun,” I repeated.
I jumped in the shower while she searched my phone. When I came out, she was on speaker phone with her sister. I overheard them talking about my selfie.
“She did what???? OMG, they’re too old for this!” Jamie shrieked.
“It gets worse. Did she send it to you?” she inquired. “Oh and mom coos.” She added.
“Why would she send it me? I don’t need to see her boobs! Mom coos?!?!?”
“She calls them her bodacious Ta-tas now, not boobs.” Jamie choked.
My 3-year-old granddaughter liked that word. She pranced around the room singing Ta-tas over and over again.
“Look,” I yelled, “Just make sure your brothers didn’t get it, okay? And you better check Facebook!”
We never did find out where my beautiful sexy pic went. Someone probably got it and buried it in the yard, like a real treasure.
I am a treasure, you know. A bare chested, bodacious, cooing treasure! Yes I am! Anybody want a glass of wine?
— 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.”
As I walked across the room on a cool spring night, I looked at the action in progress. Scores of teenagers flew by me, clad in oversized sparkly glasses, hats and colorful socks. They sprinted from photo booths to the kid’s lounge, depositing their goods procured from hyped up, jacked-up DJ dancers hired to tantalize and titillate the crowd.
Around the room and on the dance floor, a phalanx of well-heeled, well dressed suburbanites gossiped, guffawed and gyrated. It was another Saturday night on the Bar/Bat Mitzvah circuit when the cares of daily life could be easily tossed off like a suit jacket or highly embellished shawl. We were here to celebrate and inebriate.
I chuckled to myself. As a creative sort and closeted writer, I thought there may be a thousand stories in the naked city, but there are just as many here tonight. Couples on the verge of divorce canoodling like honeymooners. Backslapping and back-handed compliments from boozed-up carpoolers. My mind raced with the possibility of a surreal suburban sitcom in the making. Next stop… HBO.
I entered the line waiting at the bar. Bartenders feverishly filled martini orders. Bottle caps flew into trash cans. They shook and mixed to the beat of the music, plying the unwavering throng’s thirst. It was like the Roaring 20’s all over again, only with people pushing 50 fast.
Because the party ended in less than an hour, my wife and I had switched to diet and club sodas. The days of testing the speed limits and the law were long gone. Parents, homeowners, people liable and reliable, we knew when to turn the tap and spigot off. The buzz might be gone but the fuzz was not going to pull us over.
The couple in front of me teetered and tottered in unison. With no intent of slowing down as the night was coming to a close, they were bellying up to the bar for more booze, more banter. Throwing back the shots and one-liners in rapid-fire motion, they were all in until the very last song… or until the bar closed.
I knew them casually from my daughter’s school, having heard about their big-party ways. Friendly, loud, out there, I wondered how they managed to be themselves in the insular community in which we lived. Part of me wanted to join in, partaking in their reverie and irreverence; part of me just wanted to take the drinks, grab my keys and go.
Just as I was about to place my non-alcoholic order, the women spun toward me. Locking her eyes on mine with a searing focus, she pounced, grabbing my lapels in her hot, sweaty hands. With her hair extensions whipping my face, her body firmly pressed against mine, she whispered drunkenly and suggestively into my ear.
“I want to climb you like a mountain.”
And with that, she spun, grabbed her drink and was off.
I was transfixed, unable to move left or right, forward or back. What started as a temperance run was suddenly an invitation to debauchery. This Magic Mike moment was something unfathomable to me. Oy! I had been compromised at a Bat Mitzvah.
My college roommate would have jumped on this without hesitation, leading the woman to a dimly lit stairwell or a nearby utility closet. No remorse, only primal lust. I was not such a guy. I was happily married… plus, I was holding my wife’s Diet Coke in my wedding-band hand. What kind of guy was I?
And then a Cheshire smile erupted from ear to the ear she whispered in. I had been given the gift that keeps on giving. No, not the rekindling of lost youth or a shot of ego-inducing adrenaline. But rather the writer’s gift of a story for the ages.
At every cocktail party, funeral or school function, I could recount that moment. When that lady crossed the proverbial line between good and bad-girl behavior, making me the happy recipient of one of the greatest lines of my life. For years, it could make people laugh, pondering the different outcomes, the various interpretations. It would be relayed to others from cul-de-sac to cul-de-sac… a suburban myth for the ages.
“I want to climb you like a mountain.”
As I walked back to my table, I faced a dilemma worthy of Solomon. Should I keep this to myself or sing like a canary from the mountaintops? The woman’s reputation… was I putting that on the line? I took a moment to consider it all. The answer was clear.
“What took you so long? Did something happen?”
I looked longingly and lovingly at my wife.
“Honey, do I have a story for you!”
— Brian Rutter
Brian Rutter is a suburban work-at-home dad and husband who provides strategic and creative marketing services to companies around the world. His blog offers a unique perspective on living and surviving in the trenches of the American suburbs. You can find him at www.theburbman.com.
Do you wish you could be as funny on the page as people say you are in person (even if they do say that behind your back)?
EBWW faculty member Leigh Anne Jasheway will offer an online humor-writing course through OnLiten, starting Sept. 11. The cost for the three-class series, which includes feedback, is $75. For details, click here.
Jasheway is the author of 21 funny books and books about funny, including 101 Comedy Games for Children and Grown-Ups, Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause, Confessions of a Semi-Natural Woman and Bedtime Stories for Dogs. She is the 2003 winner of the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition for her true story on how her first mammogram caught on fire.
She teaches comedy writing, improv and grammar at the University of Oregon and Lane Community College, is a humor columnist for the Register Guard’s Weekend section, a blogger for multiple online sites and former host of The Giggle Spot on All Comedy 1450 AM.
EBWW faculty member and novelist Katrina Kittle will offer a series of online fiction-writing classes in September and October. Topics include “Inspiration and Motivation,” “Fiction Writer’s Toolbox Series” and “Make It Exist! Laying Down a First Draft in One Month.” The latter is a prep class for writers interested in participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in November.
Kittle is the author of four books for adults: Traveling Light, Two Truths and a Lie, The Kindness of Strangers and The Blessings of the Animals. And she’s the author of one published novel for tweens, Reasons to Be Happy, with another in the works. The Kindness of Strangers was the winner of the 2006 Great Lakes Book Award for Fiction. She teaches creative writing workshops from the third grade to universities to retirement communities. In the Dayton-Cincinnati area, she teaches regularly for Word’s Worth Writing Connections. She also offers manuscript consultations through Write Sisters Consulting.
To learn more about OnLiten’s workshops, click here.
My firstborn started college this week, and I am cycling through these phases of him being away like a pro.
After sending my son a text as soon as I woke up this morning, I haven’t heard back. Rather than busying myself with daily life until he responds, I’m going to do what I do best. What I gold star in.
I’m assuming he’s in danger.
I don’t play around with this Nervous Parent stuff. It’s my style. As a little girl, I would wring my hands over my baby Chihuahua, Pepe, whenever he’d shove the food around in his dish with his nose. I knew just what his actions meant — that this was the beginning of the end and that he was never going to eat again.
Being on the homefront while the first of your baby birds has left the nest is no simple task for the nervous parent. We’re not like the rest of you, and either you’ll pick up when I’m puttin’ down here, or you’ll just send me links to articles from Psychology Today with titles like 50 Ways That Nervous Parents Destroy Their Children. And then you’ll sign your email, “I say this because I love you, have you sought professional help?”
I’ve heard it all. I’m no stranger to the nonsense that worry is. And yet, I’ve made it into a hobby, a pastime and a mental game of ping pong that bruises my brain into the size of The Great Gazoo.
This is how a day in the life of a nervous parent goes when their son’s first day away from home is today:
6:30 a.m. My eyes popped open. Had to text my son or I couldn’t sleep. He needed to save the receipts from the books he was going to buy today. Sent him text.
6:32 a.m. Lie back down. Await quick response back.
7 a.m. Unable to fall back asleep. Decide instead to imagine son slipped on water that roommate spilled on floor night before and now son has been lying unconscious since 3 a.m. with roommate snoring and unaware only two feet away.
7:39 a.m. Cursing myself for not telling son he needs to respond to texts with “Yes I’m alive.” It’s all I need, just a confirmation of being alive.
8:19 a.m. Try to eat a yogurt. Can’t. Yogurt triggers panic that son didn’t check expiration date on his yogurt so grabbed dairy botulised yogurt while sleepwalking and now lying unconscious from food poisoning, only two feet away from roommate.
8:42 a.m. Visualize son walking to breakfast this morning when man in white windowless van pulled up and asked him for directions. When polite son leaned in to answer, man grabbed son’s head by the neck and pulled him into said van and sped away. Enhance scene with details of van without license plates, making said perp unable to be identified. Like ever.
9:23 a.m. Sit on hands, thereby dis-enabling myself from calling campus police to check on son.
10:09 a.m. Thinking perhaps son played early morning game of basketball. When basket made, he disturbed a hornet’s nest with over 200 wasps inside. While running away to escape hornets, son tripped on untied shoe lace and is now in student health center, unable to give nurse in attendance my phone number so I can be alerted to son’s status.
10:56 a.m. Thinking how it’s almost 11 a.m. There is no text back. Reason must be that phone charger burst into flames like that story on FB this morning from China about the smoking phone charger.
11:16 a.m. Thinking son went to find a church, as I had suggested. Church was charming, but a charismatic cult. Now my son is being held until he speaks in tongues. Hoping son speaks in language that says “Call my mother!”
12:04 p.m. Thinking son was followed by a disoriented older woman who mistakenly believes my son is her son. He’s my son. I need to drive there and tell woman this important bit of information but first I need to find birth certificate for proof.
12:47 p.m. Thinking son accepted a FB friend request from someone’s hijacked account and now he’s on his way to meet who he thinks is someone from grade school but is actually this crazed woman who still believes my son is her son.
1:17 p.m. Thinking someone on son’s dorm floor brought in leftover fireworks from the Fourth of July. And they set them off in my son’s dorm room.
2:10 p.m. Positive son’s phone exploded in his pocket like that post about that kid in California that someone posted on FB this morning.
3:12 p.m. Son must be sleeping. He’s been sleeping all day because he has sleeping sickness from a tsetse fly. No matter that this hasn’t happened in America since 1966.
4:09 p.m. I call husband at work. Husband doesn’t have a chance to talk because I do all the talking. I talk-convince myself that if anything had happened, son’s school would have called me. Before hanging up the phone, I thank husband for wise advice.
5:05 p.m. No other explanation other than son must be lost. Due to amnesia from being hysterically blinded from homesickness. Chastise myself for encouraging and enabling strong mother/son bond that he misses me to this degree.
5:48 p.m. Try to eat dinner. Only able to take liquid nourishment. Sigh and accept loss of appetite. Wanted to lose 8-12 pounds anyway.
6:10 p.m. Decide to go for walk to relieve agitation. Halfway into walk, visual image assaults my brain of son falling out of loft bed due to nighttime confusion over new surroundings. Race home, heart pounding.
7:15 p.m. Hear husband’s phone ding. It’s text from son. Son says “busy day. bought books. went for 4 mile run. met with friends and on way to bonfire. having a great time. ”
7:17 p.m. I ask husband to text son back, tell him sorry I haven’t had a chance to call all day. Glad he’s having fun, if I have time, I’ll try to squeeze a call in tomorrow.
7:26 p.m. Doing dinner dishes, heart begins to race. Wishing I had discussed importance of bonfire safety before son left for college.
— Alexandra Rosas
Alexandra Rosas is a storyteller for the nationally acclaimed The Moth, as well as a contributor to several anthologies and weekly columns. You can follow her on twitter @gdrpempress and on her blog.
Back in my day, if a girl was wearing a sleeveless blouse and her bra strap happened to peek out, she would dash to the restroom in tears. A slipped slip strap was just as bad, but a half slip that slithered off in the hallway was the worst. It happened.
Today’s young women wear tops that ensure that their straps do show, while at the same time, I’m told, they wear thongs instead of panties so so there are no panty lines to show. At least the brassieres of today are prettier than those of my long ago — we had a choice of white, black or flesh.
I’m not a prude, but I am a bit prudish.
A catalog I get regularly sells several things that make me giggle, while other things make me blush! I’ll only list those that relate to the part of the anatomy that teenagers in my era called “first base.” That was when “hook up” meant to attach your stockings to your garter belt or one side of your bra to the other. For example:
• You can buy a flimsy triangle-shaped cover-up that attaches to your bra — assuming you wear one — to make a plunging neckline discreet or to create a layered look without adding actual layers. In the photos they look like thongs, and I don’t mean flip-flops!
• There’s a “boob tube” that is nothing like your father’s 1956 RCA console TV. These knit or lace bandeaus hide cleavage, too. Frankly, my cleavage has gone so far south that the waistband of my panties works for me.
• If your wraparound top doesn’t make it all the way around, Swarovski crystal and pearl cabochons serve as dainty buttons. No more safety pins and tape. I have to wonder, would buying the next size larger shirt alleviate the need for these things? Just askin’.
• Wrinkly decollete? There is a gen-u-ine, 100 percent, medical grade silicone pad that sticks to the cleavage area to smooth chest wrinkles caused by sun damage, aging or side-sleeping. And, get this, you can actually wear the thing under your clothes, perhaps with one of the above items to hide it.
• For side-sleepers, there’s a lightweight, slip-resistant plastic cylinder that, if I were so inclined, I could snuggle between my bosoms so they’re in a more natural resting position. Sorry, but for my money, “natural resting position” is wherever “the girls” want to rest, under my arm or over my shoulder!
• There’s a form-fitting band that’s really on the border between “first” and “second base.” Lace-edged, it fits over the waistband of your jeans, for example, and under your top. It gives the illusion of a cami without the bulk, and it helps smooth out a “muffin top,” too, all the while hiding butt cleavage!
Makes me think, there’s a new market to be tapped here: get rid of the lace, manufacture the band in denim or camo, and market it to plumbers! You get the picture!
— 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).
The week after Labor Day is traditionally considered “America Gets Back to Work Week!” by office managers and other spoilsports. Efficiency experts say the best way to “streamline” your work is to cut down on distractions, but many people return from vacation to find their email inboxes “jam-packed” with hundreds of distracting messages! Here’s how you can “cut through the clutter” of accumulated e-mails and annoying “random” quotation marks:
Set a cut-off date, then delete earlier messages: Some people use very recent cut-off dates (“Hi, Jen, I see you’re back from vacation!”) while others take the safe course and choose a date old enough to recapture all important messages (“We will be installing something called ‘E-mail’ over the weekend. How you are getting this message is beyond me.”) Once you’ve picked your date, stick to it and don’t listen to whining chain-letter sponsors who claim you will lose a finger in a lawn-mower accident if you don’t pass on their emails! Nobody cuts grass after Labor Day!
Delete all messages from people named “Steve” and “Michelle”: This may seem harsh, but you have to draw the line somewhere. If you respond to a message from one “Michelle,” pretty soon your whole first day back is shot listening to people complain about their shoes, their frost jobs and their pedicures. Let’s face it – Stevieness and Michellability are two of the greatest drags on productivity in the American workplace. The U.S. economy didn’t emerge from the recession of 2002 until unemployment among Steves and Michelles hit double digits.
HR never has anything important to say: Let’s face it – people in Human Resources who send around mass emails are basically frustrated TV weather, people, always yammering on about fire drills, HMO “open enrollment” periods and other worthless trivia.Who died and left them boss? Delete all emails from H.R. Director Sue Ellen and her assistant Janie – if you need to know how many personal days you have left this year, ask Michelle in the copy center.
If it’s from “Corporate HQ,” it’s not important to you: What’s the point of working at a faceless corporation if you can’t be faceless? Do these people think just because they pay you money and give you health insurance they can run your life? Don’t let them! Search for “corporate policy,” “accounting” and “finance” in the subject line, then hit that “Delete” button ’til your finger screams.
Charity begins at home and ends at the office: Who knew that little Tiffany Marie’s U-12 softball team was going to Disney World? Who cares? And how about those chocolate raisin bars Devin is selling so his junior high drum and bugle corps can go to the national finals? If your software doesn’t have a “block sender” function for these parents, send a “Reply to All” response to fund-raising emails that says you’ve adopted a sub-Saharan goatherd who helps you keep the affluent lifestyle of over-scheduled suburban brats in perspective.
Messages from “The Something-or-Other” don’t mean jack. Scroll down to the “t’s” in your in-box to find messages from phony-baloney organizations such as The Institute for Professional and Career Advancement and The Chamber’s List of Outstanding Assistant Compliance Officers, hold down the “shift” key and delete those suckers. Oh, wait – save any messages from “The Sugar Shack” with “Half-price Bucket o’ Chicken Wings Night!” in the subject line.
– Con Chapman
Con Chapman is a Boston-area writer whose works includeThe Year of the Gerbil, a history of the 1978 Yankees-Red Sox pennant race, and two novels, Making Partner and CannaCorn (Joshua Tree Publishing). He is the author of 30 plays, 10 of which are published. His articles and humor have appeared in national magazines and newspapers including The Atlantic Monthly, The Boston Globe, The Boston Globe Magazine and Salon.com, and he’s a frequent contributor to The Boston Herald.