Finding something funny to write about can be frustrating, especially when no one is cooperating with me. Generally, I rely on my pets, my husband, and sometimes myself to supply me with humorous antics, frivolous quotes, and amusing situations. But right now, they’re not putting out. (So to speak. At least I know I’m not. But I digress.)

Anyway, since the universe isn’t conveniently providing me with comedy, I’ve decided to resurrect some of the hilarious things they’ve done in the past.

Here’s a cat story I filed under Stupid Cat Tricks. Shaker was a tuxedo cat of vast and lofty dignity. But once we found a shed whisker, put it on her head and went “boop, boop, boop.” She was mortally offended. We could actually see her disapproving of us. (It only works for dignified cats, and we haven’t had many of those. But I digress again.)

One day Dan and I were sitting on the sofa, doing something with toothpicks. (What were we doing with the toothpicks? Making canapės? Probably not. Building a model of the Eiffel Tower? Definitely not. Picking our teeth? The explanation is lost in the mists of time. But I digress yet again.) I had a small bundle of toothpicks in my hand. Shaker jumped on the couch and delicately plucked a single toothpick from the cluster with her teeth, then whipped her head around and flung it across the room. Then she did it again. And again. We never did figure out why, but sometimes we held toothpicks out to her just to see her do it.

Dan is also good for a lot of laughs. My favorite memory of something he said was when we were watching TV and the movie Gunga Din, one of his favorites, came on. He innocently asked, “Honey, do you like Kipling?” That’s right—he opened the door and walked right in. For the first, and most likely last, time in my life, I was able to say it. “I don’t know,” I choked, barely able to speak through my snorts of laughter. “I’ve never kipled.” That was the moment I knew he was a keeper.

I even admit to doing some humorous if embarrassing things from time to time.

At my age, gravity takes my least little misstep and turns it into a trauma. Just the other week, I wiped out on a short flight of concrete steps, despite using a cane at the time, and bruised my leg, skinned my scalp (which bled like an SOB), and produced a massive goose egg on my forearm. The goose egg ebbed eventually, but it left a hideous bruise that had still not resolved to a proper skin tone. I glanced down and thought, “Wait! I don’t have a huge birthmark there!” And even if I did, it likely would not be turning entertaining but appalling shades of dried ketchup, soot, teen hair color, and pea soup as I wait for it to dissipate. It resembles either a tornado sky or a very overripe, much-abused eggplant.

Another time, I was breakfasting with some friends and one of them remarked that it was taking a long time for her eggs Benedict to arrive. Innocently, I replied, “Maybe they had to go out and steal some hubcaps.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking,” she said, “But why?”

“Because there’s no plate like chrome for the hollandaise,” I said. She almost defenestrated me. (It would have been worth it if only to shatter one of the large panes of plate glass that made up the hotel solarium we were dining in. But I digress some more.)

Coming next week—new funny stories. Get busy, Toby, Dan, and me!