Category: Humorous

We have been working from home for over a month now and, consequently, I have noticed some subtle changes in our relationship.  Yesterday, I couldn’t take it any longer so I Googled the top signs that you may be headed for a breakup.   I was very concerned with what I found. 

My dog had the top four signs:

Number 1.  He wants more time alone. 

This is one is so obvious.  He used to wait eagerly for me to get home each day.  I could barely make it in the door before he started with his big, wet slobbery kisses.  Now it seems that I can barely get his attention.  He seems distant.  Many days I catch him just staring out the window.  The website recommended that I “give him a little time, don’t follow him and see if he comes back.”  Thanks, Google, this advice never even worked when I was in high school.

Number 2.  He puts his friends first. 

I remember when I would let him out in the yard, and he would race back in to see me again.  Now I have to go to the door and call his name over and over.  When he doesn’t come back in I typically find him at the fence talking to the neighbor dog.  Sometimes I have to go out and drag him back in.  Talk about a blow to your ego!

Number 3.  He has stopped making an effort.  

The website said that relationships require effort.  Yesterday I dropped a morsel of food on the floor and he never even lifted his head in my direction!  I had to pick up the food and walk it over to him before he would eat it.  Need I say more?

Number 4.  He doesn’t appreciate me.

Who needs a website to figure this one out?  I tried to lavish him with expensive gifts.  Special new dog treats and a collapsible water bowl.  I even bought him a new collar and matching leash.  Sure, when I ask if he wants to go for a walk, he acts all excited to go out but I can tell by the fourth or fifth walk that day that clearly, he is “over it”. The thrill is gone.

I do wonder, however, if I am reading too much into these signs.  I am hopeful that when I go back to the office full-time our relationship will return to normal.  But, if that doesn’t work, I’ve already got a pint of “breakup” Haagen Daz in the freezer ready to go.

When my husband and I were first married he offered to take me skiing.  I was rather nervous about going but I agreed to give it a try.  In an effort to calm my nerves I thought maybe a little retail therapy might be in order.  Possibly some nice new ski bibs with a matching coat and gloves would do the trick.  At the sporting goods store, I got everything I thought I might need and even picked up an adorable pair of hand-crafted, hammered-metal earrings.  These would actually prove to be a poor choice for a ski trip but we’ll get into that later.

The day of the trip finally arrived and we loaded our gear into the car.   On the drive to Mad River Mountain, I found myself daydreaming about the adventure ahead.   I envisioned us arriving at a cozy ski lodge as fresh snow fell from the sky.  In my mind, I saw people laughing and holding hands while rosy-cheeked children lightheartedly threw snowballs at one another.  I saw myself gliding effortlessly down the mountainside and then making a spectacular stop that would send a snow shower cascading over the onlookers.  I smiled to myself as I thought about how I would tug off my new toboggan hat and then toss my long blonde hair over my shoulders.

I was shaken out of my daydream by the sound of snow crunching beneath our tires on Snow Valley Road.  The sun was shining brightly off the snow-covered face of the mountain where the slopes were dotted with skiers. Together we made our way over to get our lift tickets and equipment.  Since I had never skied before we headed directly to the “bunny hill” to practice first.

Imagine my surprise when I found out there was no chair lift there.  The only way to the top of the bunny hill was to grab onto a rope tow.  This was basically a rope pulley that would drag you, while standing in your skis, to the top of the hill.  I watched as my husband deftly grabbed the rope and glided effortlessly up the hill.  He made it look so easy.  I grabbed the rope next.  Immediately, the rope jerked me forward and began dragging me up the hill while my left ski went left and my right ski went right.  I did my best to keep my feet together while I clung to the rope for dear life.

Finally, at the top of the hill, I freed myself from the contraption and felt a pit in my stomach as I realized that what goes up must come down.  Once again my dear husband was there to help me and give instructions.  I nodded that I understood the concept of skiing it was just the execution I was having trouble with.  I peered down what I believe was wildly mislabeled as a bunny hill.  The memory of the film footage from ABC’s Wide World of Sports came to mind from my childhood.  I could just hear the announcers deep voice asserting “… the agony of defeat,” and recalled the vision of the Slovenian ski jumper who crashed into a heap on the ground at the beginning of every episode. 

I said none of this, however, to my husband as I gave him a weak smile.  I swallowed hard, pointed my skis downward and immediately knew that I had made a mistake.  I was headed straight down the middle of the hill and going way too fast!  I saw my life flash before my eyes.  I quickly turned and skied sideways to the edge of the hill and literally hugged the first tree I could get to.

My husband skied over to make sure I was alright.  I assured him that I was fine and only needed to catch my breath.  With some effort, I was able to turn around and then ski in a perfect horizontal line back across the hill.  I continued in a zig-zag fashion back and forth, sometimes even defying gravity and actually skiing uphill!  It was a tedious and grueling process and I began to wonder why so many people loved this sport. 

Eventually, some thirty or so minutes later I finally made it to the bottom of the bunny hill where I collapsed into a heap on the ground.   I was sweating profusely so I tugged off my new toboggan hat to allow my hair to flow across my shoulders.  Instead, long strands of matted locks clung to my reddened face.  I also realized at that moment that my new hammered-metal earrings were frozen to my ears!  Literally. Frozen. To. My. Ears.  I guess I hadn’t noticed since I had lost feeling in them and all of my extremities some twenty minutes earlier.   As I sat there helpless, chest heaving, a small rosy-cheeked child skied up to me and asked if I needed any help.  I swiped viciously at the kid with my ski pole but unfortunately missed him.

My supportive husband told me on the ride home that I would do better next time.  The man deserves a medal for putting up with me for sure.  In my mind, the next time, I would remain seated in the comfy, cozy ski lodge.  It is a much better place for tossing my long blonde hair over my shoulders anyway.

I felt a sense of satisfaction after working all day in the yard.  The grass was neatly edged and mowed and all the weeds had been plucked from the flower beds.  I had just turned to go inside the house when I noticed a very large and very wet black lab racing toward me.  It was Duke!  I hadn’t even realized that he had gone missing that morning.  He had a bad habit of sneaking off while we were working. 

“Why are you all wet?” I asked him when he got close enough for me to grab him. “Where have you been?” Duke answered me with a vigorous shake from head to tail that left me as wet as he was.  I pulled him into the house to dry him off.

I walked in and noticed the little red light flashing on the answering machine.  I punched the button on the way by and immediately I heard, “YOUR DOG IS IN MY POND! COME AND GET YOUR DOG!”  That was not the end of the message, however, it was merely the beginning.  I cringed at each word that followed, “He’s all over my pond! He’s jumping in and out!  He’s chasing my fish!  Oh my! Oh my!  He’s going to get my fish!  He’s knocking all the rocks into the pond!  The rocks are falling on the fish!  Now he’s all the way in the pond!   He’s swimming around with his head under the water.  He’s swimming with the fish!   COME GET YOUR DOG!”

The play by play narrative lasted for several long minutes.  Duke and I listened to the entire message, he with his head cocked slightly to the side looking somewhat amused and me with my head in hands trying to decide how I was going to look my neighbor in the eye again.  That’s when the second message started.  I assume that my neighbor ran out of time on the first one. The second message was basically a repeat of the first message except that the words seemed to be spoken quicker and several octaves higher than before.  I don’t think I finished listening to that one.

I decided that it was probably best not to call her back.   She sounded furious.  Besides, the dog was home now, better to wait it out and let things blow over.   The only problem was, I wasn’t exactly sure how long it would take to blow over. 

Just to be safe, I spent the rest of the summer wearing a flimsy disguise.  I decided that a tattered ball cap and cheap sunglasses were essential upon leaving the house.  I even opted for the long way home most days.  

Eventually, we just moved to a new neighborhood.

My sister and I had lots of different kinds of pets when we were growing up.  The shortlist included:  cats, dogs, mice, guinea pigs, snakes, tarantulas, an armadillo, and several assorted ponies and horses.  My favorite, however, were the guinea pigs.  We had quite a few of them over the years.  My mom loved animals so we never had to beg for a pet.

The guinea pigs were great.  They would squeak when you picked them up.  They could eat an entire lettuce leaf in a matter of seconds. They really were a lot of fun.  The only problem with the guinea pigs was that we tended to forget about them.  Meaning, when we were done playing with them, we sometimes forgot to put them back in their cages.

The Great Guinea Pig Ban of 1972 (or GGPB) was born from our constant forgetfulness.  My sister and I were forever leaving guinea pigs about the house.  The ban was instituted specifically after one was left on the third floor of the Barbie townhouse overnight.  This was the final infraction that pushed my mother to institute the ban that stated we could no longer get them out. 

Previous infractions included but were not limited to; leaving a guinea pig in the Barbie van while we were out for dinner, leaving a guinea pig unattended on a shelf, leaving a guinea pig under a pillow on the couch in an attempt to hide him.  Unfortunately, my dad came in and accidentally sat on the guinea pig.  The guinea pig wasn’t the only one who squealed when that happened! 

The GGPB of ’72 was lifted for a short time as I recall.  It didn’t last long, however, after my mother heard “scratching” inside our closet one day.  When she asked how the guinea pig had gotten into the closet, I offered a very plausible explanation, “I’m guessing he ditched the Barbie van somewhere along the way and started walking.”   

And that was the end of that.  

Recently my husband has been talking to another lady.  Don’t misunderstand, it’s all very innocent.  They chat about benign things like the weather and traffic.   When I ask him why he likes her so much he just laughs and says that she answers all his questions and doesn’t talk back.

I’ll even admit that she’s amusing and smart and has a personality all her own.

 Have you met her?  She’s the assistant on Google.

She moved in about a year ago and has been great with helping around the house.  She turns on various lights for us and sets timers that sound with a soft melodious ring.

When we get home from work and say “Hey Google, play Jimmy Buffet.”  We are immediately transported to Margaritaville while Jimmy croons about stepping on pop tops and losing his flip flops.  If my husband isn’t home to roll his eyes she’ll even play what he calls “my tribal Indian music.”

She will answer questions about when the local stores are closing, who won the Braves game and even tell us amusing jokes if we ask her.  And she’s always so gosh darn pleasant.  Sounds great, right?

Then why don’t I like her?  I think it’s because she’s always in a good mood. And she’s always sweet-talking my husband who doesn’t understand my disdain for her.  He thanks her for this and that and she replies with “it’s what I’m here for” or “it’s my pleasure.”  Who can compete with that?  She’s starting to make me look bad.  I’ve actually considered throwing her off the back deck when no one is home.

So far my husband hasn’t mentioned the difference in our attitudes but I know it’s coming.  He asked me the other day if I had picked up his shirts at the cleaners.  “It’s what I live for,” I responded.  He just rolled his eyes. 

Maybe it’s a Midwest thing.  Maybe it’s just a weird thing.  Honestly, I didn’t even know it was a “thing” until my daughter brought it up.

So, here’s the thing.  I don’t typically cook meals that I consider to be overly hot in the months of June, July and August, give or take a few weeks. Things like spaghetti, chili, lasagna or any casseroles that need to be baked in the oven.  It has always been this way at our house.

There is a loophole, however, in this set of rules.  And that is this, if it rains, anything goes.  All bets are off.  Meaning that we could have a piping hot meatloaf in July.  If it rains.  Or, a big bowl of steaming chili in August.  If it rains.  My logic, like my mother’s and her mother’s before her, is really quite simple.  If it’s hot outside we don’t want to make a meal that heats up the house or just seems too heavy for the summer months.  When it rains, though, it seems cooler and hot meals become more appealing.

My family never thought this was out of the ordinary and no one ever questioned my authority on the subject.  That is until my daughter started dating a young man whose family practiced otherwise.  I’ll never forget the hot July evening she came home and announced “Mom, I just had meatloaf for dinner! And it’s not even raining!”  

I could tell that she was shaken to the core.  That the very foundation she had been raised upon was in question.  Her beliefs about what to serve and when to serve it had been tested.  She was left not knowing what to think.  She continued incredulous “They eat all kinds of things when it’s hot.  Spaghetti.  Meatloaf. You name it!”  And then without hesitation, she said “Mom, I don’t think this is really a thing.”

So is it a thing or not?  I’m not sure.  I polled some of my coworkers the other day.  A handful of them supported me.  Others picked up their lunches and moved a couple of seats farther away at the lunch table.  It seems that the lines aren’t clearly defined.  I’ll leave it up to you to decide for yourself.

I assume that we are like most married couples who, over the years, have accumulated more than a few kitchen gadgets along the way.  I’m not sure why I am attracted to these devices but I think it has something to do with being raised in the ’70s.

That’s when a little company called Ronco was king.  Their “As Seen On TV” products were insanely ridiculous and oddly appealing such as The In-Egg Scrambler (why waste all your time scrambling eggs in a bowl?), Mr. Microphone (early karaoke) and The Pocket Fisherman (a fishing rod that fits neatly in your pocket!).

They also produced a little plastic gun that would put a button on a shirt.  They called it the Buttoneer. I bought one.  It was the best $19.95 I ever spent.  For the first three years of marriage, my husband actually believed I could sew!    

However, it wasn’t until a commercial came on one day for the Salad Shooter that I realized he was an even bigger gadget junkie than I.  I watched his eyes grow wide in amazement as the man on the television crammed veggies in one end of the contraption, turned the crank and then shot salad out the other side.  Men love anything that shoots.  Even salad.  From then on, he was hooked.  He considered these items “power tools” for the kitchen.

From that day forward we purchased these time and money-saving appliances as fast as we could. Fryers, quesadilla makers, sandwich presses and French fry dicers lined our countertops.   “But wait, that’s not all!” We could slice, dice, brew, steam, boil, press, dehydrate, shred, puree, frost, chill, chop and seal-in-the-flavor of just about anything.  We could “prepare gourmet meals in half the time”, “set it and forget it” and “never peel an egg again”.   

Eventually, our counters were overflowing with time-saving devices.  We had finally reached our limit.  One evening, when my husband asked what was for dinner, I broke down.  In a weak moment, overwhelmed by my choices and exhausted by the possibilities, I called and ordered a pizza for delivery.

Feeling defeated, I was able to redeem myself ever so slightly as I put all the leftovers in the Food-Saver-Seal-A-Meal.

Each spring, brilliant pink blossoms explode from the branches of the peach tree that graces our front yard.  Afterward, much to our dismay, the small tree is laden with a multitude of small, hard, inedible peaches that cause the branches to droop significantly.   When we bought the tree, the nursery assured us that it was strictly ornamental and it would not bear fruit.  So much for that theory.

A little while ago we began noticing a lot of peach pits on our front sidewalk.  Each morning I would puzzle over this strange peach-pit-phenomenon while I picked up at least twenty or so pits.  The next morning it would look as if I hadn’t picked up any!  Peach pits littered my sidewalk and overflowed onto the lawn.  

Not sure what to do with my peach pit bounty, I did what everyone else does and Googled it.  Much to my surprise, Pinterest popped up with “190 Best Craft – Fruit Pit Creations” depicting intricately carved people, whimsical animal figurines and ornaments purported to grace the White House Christmas tree!  Carved sailing ships and a peach pit wedding ring rounded out the offerings!  I started to think that maybe my peach-pit-ship had come in! 

Later that evening, our front door camera caught the peach-pit-phantom fleeing the scene!  It seems that the deer have been stopping by for an early breakfast each day.  Apparently, they chomp on the peaches and then carelessly spit the pits all over my yard.  At least we finally have an answer to the peach pit paradox.  The only question left now is which carving tools I need to buy to start my peach pit figurine business. 

I have been a picky eater all of my life.  I never thought it was unusual or troublesome to make special requests at the restaurants I would visit.  Actually, I thought that my menu suggestions were typically an improvement upon the original dish and that being selective made me original.  I have learned, however, that it just makes me annoying.  Mostly to my husband.  After 27 years of marriage, you would think he would be used to watching me scrape the ketchup and mustard off my hamburger, cut the crust off my bread and order just about everything “on the side”.  Every one of these actions, however, will elicit an eye roll from him. 

He has tried his best to drag me out of my culinary coma that consists mostly of plain scrambled eggs, sandwiches without condiments and peanut buster parfaits without the peanuts.  Last weekend at breakfast I thought maybe I should just warn him that I would be ordering a goat cheese omelet without the goat cheese.  This only caused him to roll his eyes before I placed my order rather than after.

In a recent attempt to diversify my cuisine he decided to prepare dinner for me.  The menu?  Stuffed jalapenos followed by the hottest chicken wings on the planet. Knowing how much I exasperate him with my unusual eating habits I tried my best to eat everything that he prepared. 

I took my chances and bravely bit into what I consider the Russian roulette of food, the jalapeno.  Immediately, my eyes began to water profusely.   I tried to play it cool and dabbed my napkin gingerly to my face as if I had just recalled a sentimental moment from long ago. “It’s too hot for you isn’t it?” he inquired.   “No, no, not at all,” I said as I waved my hand in the air.

I decided to abandon the appetizer and focus on the entre instead.  The second bite of my chicken wing sent a rapid flush from the base of my neck to my scalp.  I smiled weakly and continued chewing.  Next, my ears started to tingle but I barely noticed this as I was beginning to lose feeling in my lips.  “You really don’t have to eat this, honey,” he offered sympathetically.  “I’m fine,” I managed to croak between my parched lips.  A fine sweat started to form at my temples.  “Let me get you a glass of water,” he said jumping up.

 “That would be great,” I managed.  “But, no ice please.”

And that was it.  Any sympathy I had just gained was replaced with the eye roll.