Category Archives: etc.

What’s So Funny?

books, etc., funny things, humor, , , , , , ,

If you ask me (which no one did), the funniest joke there is, is this one:

What did the Zen master say to the hotdog vendor?

“Make me one with everything.”

The second funniest is:

First Old Lady: My, it’s windy today.

Second Old Lady: No, it’s Thursday.

Third Old Lady: So am I. Let’s go have a cup of tea.

(I have a friend whose favorite joke is a filthy one about a guy in a clock shop. But I digress, and refuse to tell it here.)

What makes something funny? There are theories which sound scientific. One is that “a violation of expectations or incongruity between what is expected and what actually occurs” is the source of humor. I’m not sure if that applies to my favorite jokes, but I think it does to the filthy one. Another theory is that “humor can arise from a sense of superiority or relief that comes from perceiving oneself as better than others or from being relieved of a perceived threat.” That sounds like a load of dingo’s kidneys to me and doesn’t explain either of my favorite jokes. (I don’t think that I feel superior to the three old ladies. The older I get, the more sympathy I have for them. But I digress again.)

Anyway, I think that proposing theories of humor detracts from what is funny. What science can tell us is the effects of humor on human beings. Laughter releases endorphins, the body’s “feel good” chemicals, and decreases cortisol, a stress hormone. Rapid breathing while laughing increases oxygen intake and improves cardiovascular function. It “serves as a form of communication, signaling safety, playfulness, and bonding among individuals” and “can help regulate emotions by reducing stress and tension.” Also, laughter is associated with “improved cognitive function, including enhanced creativity and problem-solving skills,” which means that Weird Al must be a genius. (I mean, Weird Al is a genius, but this proves it.)

So, what’s funny?

For some reason, there’s a category of stock photos known as “Women laughing alone with salad.” I have no idea why single women find salad funny or why there are so many of these photos, but it’s a real thing. (I think the fact that it’s a real thing is funny. But I digress yet again.)

One of my favorite types of humor is puns. Many people consider them the lowest form of wit, but they crack me up. I’ve been known to indulge in them, sometimes in pun contests and sometimes in real life.

Once, over breakfast, a friend remarked that her eggs Benedict were slow in coming. I said, “Maybe the kitchen staff had to go out and steal a hubcap to serve them on.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking, but why?” she asked.

“Because there’s no plate like chrome for the hollandaise.” She almost defenestrated me.

I also love improv comedy. I’m sorry that Whose Line Is It Anyway? isn’t around anymore. But at least some friends of mine have kept up the tradition with an improv group they call “Deep Fried Lemurs.” I’ve participated in it too, at least to the extent of providing setups for the “Scenes From a Hat” bit.

I also love literary humor. There are some great humor writers out there and some hysterical stories and books. For short stories and essays, I go for James Thurber and Erma Bombeck (both Ohio writers). And, if I may make recommendations for books (and I don’t see why I shouldn’t), Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, Jenny Lawson’s Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, and Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy are among my favorites.

Two kinds of humor I don’t care much for are slapstick and revenge comedy. I just never got the appeal of the Three Stooges and hated The War of the Roses. I do like some forms of physical comedy, though, such as the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch from Monty Python And pretty much anything else Monty Python except the Mr. Creosote bit.

So, what are your favorite jokes and puns (filthy or not)? Do you have any theories of what makes something funny? Recommendations for sources of humor? I’d love to hear them. (I could use the laughs right now.) Perhaps I’ll include them in a future blog post.

Fighting Spam and Scams

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It’s tempting, but I don’t actually use an air horn to discourage spam callers. And I don’t want to buy a program that claims to help. My phone recognizes what it calls “Potential Spam,” which leaves me with a dilemma. The phone doesn’t officially declare it to identified spam, so I always fear missing a call I want to answer because my phone is mistaken. But I do know a couple of ways to thwart the spammers and scammers.

One not-so-secret I’m willing to share is that saying, “Hello” when you answer the phone is a bad idea. If it is a call from a spam boiler room, this triggers their system to route the call to one of their agents. I have sympathy for people who are forced to make a living this way, but not enough to listen to them begin their spiel.

Instead of “Hello,” I identify myself (“This is Janet”). It’s a polite enough greeting just in case it’s someone I might actually want or need to talk to. My second response is similar—”What is this in regard to?” It’s a good question even if someone does start talking after “This is Janet.” If there’s still no one on the line, I say, “Is anyone there?” After that, I simply say, “Goodbye.”

This system works well for me. It takes only a couple of seconds. And it avoids the “Hello” trap.

Another thing I know about spam calls is never to say “yes” to any question. Unscrupulous callers can record this answer and use it to “prove” that you agreed to make a purchase. One of the most common questions designed to evoke a “yes” is “Can you hear me?” For that, I reply, “I can hear you.” Sometimes, they ask twice, hoping that the next time I’ll say, “Yes, I can hear you.” You have to be alert to make this work. Spam callers can ask a lot of yes/no questions, hoping that you’ll slip up.

Other spam calls, the more dangerous kind, are ones that are designed to get you to whip out your credit card and give them money. They usually try to make their call sound frightening. For example, they say, “This is the IRS.” That’s enough to alarm nearly anyone. However, the IRS never phones. They send threatening letters, sometimes the kind that you have to sign for.

Another scammer scheme is to claim that they are from IBM (or Microsoft or whatever) and claim that you have malware on your computer. They then say that they can take care of the problem and ask for your credit card. Or they say they’ll give you instructions that will let them take control of your computer to remove the malware—an even worse idea. At least one guy I know was suckered into doing it. I also know a 96-year-old woman who didn’t fall for it, bawled them out and threatened to call the cops on them.

Speaking of computers, scammers also try to catch you via email. Once I received a communication that said that I was being charged several hundred dollars and, if I hadn’t actually bought anything, I should get in touch. Alarmed, I did. But then they went too far. They said that to solve the problem, I would need to download a software program. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew that was a bad idea and declined to do it. Then I reported them to the computer crime and fraud hotline. When I got another communication of the same type, I simply ignored it.

Another email scam is to contact you and say that a friend or relative is in trouble somehow and needs money right away to solve the problem. I got one of these claiming that someone I knew was stranded in Germany and needed help. It was remotely possible, as he had a daughter studying in Germany. But before I did anything else, I called his wife. She said that he was indeed out of town, but visiting family in Michigan.

Once I actually was in the position of being in a foreign country and needing funds. When I contacted a friend, though, I provided an obscure piece of information that only a close friend would know. That’s another good strategy. “If you’re really Roger, tell me what was on the corner when you lived near me.” If he doesn’t say “a vet,” he’s probably a Nigerian prince.

There’s Prayer in Schools

Christianity, education, etc., government, religion, social policy, , ,

Despite what you may have heard, there is prayer in public schools. It’s totally legal.

You don’t think so? The government forbids it?

Not true! Students and even teachers pray in school every day. They always have and they always will. Pray all you want.

A student can pray before a test or just because. Groups that meet for that purpose can pray—during a free period, for example. (There was a group in my high school that did this. I attended a few times but left when they started planning a book burning.) There’s absolutely nothing stopping you from praying like this.

The only thing that’s not permitted in schools is requiring anyone else to pray with you or telling them how they have to pray. A principal or teacher can’t start class with a prayer. You can’t insist that students pray over lunch. You can’t base grades on whether or not a student prays. If a student chooses to pray, you can’t tell them which prayer to use. All those things fly in the face of the Establishment Clause of Freedom of Religion in the First Amendment to the US Constitution.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof” is what it actually says. That means that there can’t be a law that makes one religion the official religion of the US. And it means that, if you do have a preferred religion, the government can’t prevent you from practicing it. It’s left up to the individual what religion—if any—they practice.

The problem comes when we’re discussing public institutions, which include public schools. (Obviously, students in religious schools can pray whatever the school says to.) The first part of the clause says that the public institution can’t declare an official religion. That’s why there’s no compulsory prayer in schools. The second part, “prohibiting the free exercise thereof,” says that everyone is free to worship in their own way. That’s why students are able to pray in schools during their free time, by choice, without an official such as a teacher or the principal leading it. The government can’t forbid it.

If prayer were to be required in schools, there would be any number of cans of worms opened. Let’s take a basic Christian prayer—The Lord’s Prayer.

Which version of the prayer would everyone be required to say? There’s a difference between the Catholic version and the Protestant version. But the wording also differs among the Protestant denominations and individual congregations. Debts and debtors? Trespasses? Sins? Many churches specify in the church bulletin which wording to use so that they can pray in unison.

Another can of worms is that not all Americans are Christians. Increasingly, children from other faiths are entering the public schools. Why should they be required to pray a Christian prayer? But what’s the alternative? Couldn’t they just sit quietly while everyone else prays or pray their own prayer silently to themselves? No. That establishes the prayer of one religion as the official classroom prayer to the exclusion of the others. Anyone who doesn’t share that religion gets treated differently. Their prayer is not the one being said for everyone. That’s the establishment clause again.

Then, think about what it would be like if Christians weren’t in the majority in a school. (For the moment, let’s suppose that the majority rules, which is many people’s assumption.)

But Christians aren’t always in the majority in a public school. I always think of the example of the followers of the Bhagwan Rashneesh. A religious community in Oregon, they incorporated as a city, Rajneeshpuram, which had around 7,000 people. Nearby Antelope, Oregon, had a population of about 60.

The State School Superintendent visited the district’s high school and found that it was “permeated with religious symbolism” and “did not look, sound, or feel like a public school.” The religious symbolism was Rajneeshee, of course.

Now imagine those people from nearby Antelope. If their kids had to attend the Rajneeshpuram school, which was officially a public school, how would their parents have liked it if the students were required to say the Rajneeshee prayers? Not so fond of required prayer in public schools now? Ready to take the Rajneeshees to court to prevent their prayers as unconstitutional? That would be my guess.

In other words, be careful what you pray for.

Me and the PoemBot

blogs, etc., literature, , , , , , ,

The other day I started fooling around with ChatGPT, the AI program that people are using to write things for them. As a writer myself, I wondered if I would be out of a job any time soon. Realistically, I know I won’t, since the ghostwriting firm I write for does not allow us to use AI-created content.

Still, I was curious about what ChatGPT could do with various writing tasks, so I dove in. Here’s what I found.

The program did well on factual queries (Write a paragraph on bipolar disorder) and even had an answer for a philosophical query (What is the meaning of life?). The more criteria I gave it, the worse it did. (Write a practical but amusing paragraph about bipolar disorder.) It showed a definite tendency to throw in every simile and metaphor it could, which definitely ended up mixed.

For blog posts with not-too-specific topics, it did better. I asked it to write a paragraph for a blog post on a self-help topic, and it almost instantly came up with one about positive affirmations. Asked to write a blog-post paragraph on toxic positivity, it did quite a competent job.

But I really wanted to test its talent when it came to poetry, a much more difficult skill. I stuck mostly to sonnets and haikus (I did have it write one villanelle) on assorted topics. All the sonnets it produced were Shakespearean unless I specified a Petrarchan, Miltonic, or Spenserian one. The sonnets were awfully self-reverential. No matter the topic, they tended to include the words sonnet, stanza, or verse. Here’s a sonnet it wrote on the subject of writing, which I suppose gave it an excuse to refer to sonnets within it. But it also referred to a dance, a symphony, brushstrokes, a tapestry, melodies and song, a journey, and dreams.

Now, I haven’t done Lit Crit in many a year, but the result seemed muddled and mediocre to me.

Upon the page, my quill begins its dance/ In ink, the thoughts from depths of mind take flight./A symphony of words, a sweet romance/Each line a brushstroke in the poet’s light.

In solitude, I craft a world unseen/With verses woven like a tapestry./The writer’s heart, an open book, pristine/Unraveling tales of eternity.

Oh, how the words, like melodies, entwine/In stanzas, whispers of a silent song./The poet’s soul, an endless, vast design,/In every verse, a journey to prolong.

Through pen and paper, dreams find their release/In every sonnet, life finds sweet peace.

Then, I tried it on a different topic—sex. I was curious to see how it addressed this most human of activities. Here’s what it wrote:

In whispered shadows where desire’s flame,/Ignites the senses in a sacred dance./Two souls entwined, no need for words to claim,/The poetry of passion’s sweet romance.

Bodies as verses, intimate and bare,/In tangled sheets, a sonnet takes its form./Each touch and kiss, a stanza to declare,/A love that weaves through passion’s vibrant storm.

Ephemeral, the moments that we share,/As pleasure paints the canvas of the night./In silent echoes, echoes of a dare,/Two hearts entangled in this sweet delight.

Oh, sonnet of the flesh, in whispers spun,/In ecstasy, a tale of love is done.

Again with the references to sonnets, dance, poetry, verses, stanzas, and painting a canvas.

The chatbot, in my opinion, did better with haiku. Here’s a haiku on the subject of haiku:

Three lines, concise art,

nature’s essence captured close,

haiku whispers truth.

Here’s what it did with a haiku on bipolar disorder:

Storm in a fragile mind,

sunshine and shadows collide,

bipolar tides shift.

And on the subject of writing in general:

Ink-stained whispers flow,

Words on paper, tales unfold,

Silent stories grow.

But when it came to sex, the haiku was again (in my opinion, needlessly) self-referential:

Whispers in moonlight,

Bodies weave an intimate

Haiku of passion.

So, what did I learn from my experiments? ChatGPT does a decent job with factual topics, though it has a tendency to rely rather heavily on figures of speech. Here’s a paragraph it wrote when I gave it the subject of bipolar disorder in the style of my other blog, Bipolar Me. It wrote a (flattering) description of the blog instead.

Navigating the rollercoaster of emotions that is bipolar disorder is a journey unique to each individual, a theme explored with raw honesty on the pages of the Bipolar Me blog. In the midst of the highs, where creativity flows like a torrential river, and the lows, where the world appears desaturated and heavy, the author skillfully captures the kaleidoscope of emotions that define life with bipolar disorder. With a poignant blend of vulnerability and resilience, the blog illuminates the challenges faced by those grappling with the disorder, dispelling myths and stigma along the way. Through personal narratives and reflections, the Bipolar Me blog serves as a beacon of understanding and connection, reminding its readers that they are not alone in their journey through the intricate landscapes of mood swings and self-discovery.

And here’s what it said about this very blog:

The “But I Digress” blog, much like a meandering conversation with a wise and witty friend, invites readers into a realm where thoughts flow freely, detouring into unexpected intellectual landscapes. With each post, the blog embarks on a delightful exploration of diverse topics, from profound philosophical musings to lighthearted anecdotes, weaving a narrative that reflects the author’s curious mind. It’s a virtual salon where ideas intermingle, and the unexpected tangents become the heart of the discourse. Whether dissecting the nuances of contemporary culture, diving into the intricacies of literature, or reflecting on the quirks of everyday life, “But I Digress” captivates its audience with a blend of insightful commentary, humor, and a touch of intellectual whimsy, creating a space where readers can both ponder the profound and enjoy the pleasures of intellectual meandering.

I’ll take it. Thanks, ChatGPT.

Writing Sex and Fantasy

books, etc., funny things, humor, , , , ,

A while back, I spent several years working on a mystery novel that went nowhere. Actually, it went to an appalling number of agents and publishers. It just didn’t stay there. And I wrote a short story that was a mashup of The Wizard of Oz and Star Trek.

But when it comes to fiction that I actually got paid for, my experience begins and ends with smut. Erotica. A dirty book. Whatever you want to call it. Now, I’m a big fan of freedom of speech and free expression and erotic literature, but there’s no getting around it—it was filthy. No redeeming social importance whatsoever, which used to be something people who wrote erotica aimed for. But I’m a ghostwriter and I write what the customer wants. So, I performed my writerly duty on the smut patrol and was compensated—not handsomely, but compensated. Then I went back to my steady diet of self-help books. But I lusted for something more…entertaining.

(We will not now discuss the research needed for the smut assignment or how I conducted it. If you want to, you can assume I drew on interviews with some of my less-inhibited friends. Let’s just say that I needed to include corroborative detail to add verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. And think of ways to describe body parts other than “throbbing purple-headed warrior” and “quivering love pudding.” But I digress. (Bonus points for recognizing the sources I used in this paragraph.))

Then recently, I almost wrote another non-smut novel, or at least the outline for one with the likelihood of writing the book if the outline was approved. The project was a piece of fiction, 100,000 words of what I guess you’d call “paranormal romantasy,” which apparently is a Thing now. I’ve been looking for a fiction assignment. There’s nothing wrong with self-help—it’s my proverbial bread and butter. But there’s also nothing wrong with adding a little jelly roll to the mix.

I was on the shortlist for the assignment. I didn’t get the gig. But I learned a lot from it, mostly about myself.

Realistically, I shouldn’t have considered taking the assignment, even if they had selected me for it. I’m already working on a long project that will keep me busy for months. I really couldn’t guarantee that I could do the world-building and plotting that the outline required. (There are other kinds of plotting I have more experience with, involving sinister, gleeful laughter. But I digress again.)

So, if I had moved from the shortlist to the one-list, I could easily have gotten in over my head and done a piss-poor job of it. I might have let my current project slide. I might have been sabotaging myself. It could have ended very badly.

But, oh, I wanted it. The opportunity came up over the long Thanksgiving weekend, so I had plenty of time to wait for the offer to come. I found myself prewriting (aka sitting around staring into space). I named the main character. I toyed with what her paranormal power might be. I speculated about what worlds of the multiverse she would travel to. I contemplated who her love interest might be.

It was mental effort wasted. Or not wasted, exactly. I proved to myself that I have the writerly chops to engage with a major fiction project and come up with ideas. I learned how much I want to branch out into fiction. I discovered that I can still get excited over a potential piece of writing. (Not that I don’t like helping selves, but I could use a little variety. It’s slightly disturbing how much I enjoyed ghostwriting a book on flesh-eating diseases. Yet another digression.)

Would I write smut again? Sure. I don’t have a philosophical objection to it. I might someday even look into a job as a phone sex operator. It’s a work-at-home position (sorry not sorry) with no actual (physical) customer contact. But, no. I don’t think I could keep myself from snorting and giggling.

Romance has a similar effect on me, but combine it with paranormal fantasy and I think I can handle it—as I hope someday to prove.

When You Have the Flu: Some Unsolicited Advice

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I keep revisiting this post — this time because I just tested positive for COVID, which is, after all, uber-flu. Anyway, I feel too crappy to write something new.

Say you’ve got a touch of the flu. Keep far away from me – you feel awful and I don’t want to feel awful too. I know you don’t want visitors, but here I am, and at least I’ve brought a gift: a few suggestions for entertaining things you can do while you suffer in peace and quiet, except for, you know, the coughing and sneezing and assorted other noises you’re making. Relative peace and quiet, if you know what I mean.

Drink tea. It really doesn’t matter what kind, since you can’t smell it anyway. Earl Grey will smell just like jasmine. Peppermint and English Breakfast, the same. And if you want to, you can use any variety as the base for my father’s restorative tonic, which consists of tea, bourbon, and horehound candy (tea optional), or boring old lemon and honey, if you insist, though my father would not approve.

Cuddle large, fuzzy cats. Do this even if you’re allergic to them. You’re already sneezing as much as humanly possible, so you have nothing to fear from dander. Bonus: A large, fluffy cat makes an excellent substitute for a heating pad or hot water bottle.

Read. Or pretend to. Actual reading may distract you from how miserable you are (unless you’re reading Les Miserables). Pretend-reading will encourage people to keep their voices low, plus it doesn’t matter if you fall asleep with the book elegantly displayed on your chest. (Make sure it has a classy dustjacket, even if the book inside is Fifty Shades of Gray, which I don’t recommend, unless it’s for pretend-reading. It can lead to barfing, which may be in your future anyway.)

Eat chicken soup. Tell everyone that you need it for the fluids and the electrolytes, which is true. Egg drop soup is an especially good variety – if you can’t convince someone in your household to make it and bring it to you, you can always convince the Chinese take-out down the street to do it. Nibble saltines daintily, or the little fried things that look like Chinese tortilla strips.

Hit the Nyquil. I don’t mean the non-drowsy kind – sleep through as much of the illness as possible. Warning: Do not mix Nyquil with Southern Comfort or the bourbon-horehound mixture (see above). You’ll barf and you may be doing that already. Also, don’t mix Nyquil with cough syrup, which can cause unintended psychedelic effects and more barfing.

Squash tissues. Let them blossom all around you in a protective ring that no one will want to cross. If you try the tissues with built-in lotion, don’t use them to wipe your glasses before trying to read (see above).

Call the doctor. Don’t go see the doctor. You’ve got a virus and there’s nothing she can give you for it. Just ask how long it is until you can get an appointment and rest assured that your ailment will be over before then. You may want to actually go if you start making a sucky (in both senses), moist kind of wheezing sound when you breathe. The advantage is it will keep people even farther away from you, but the downside is that you may have pneumonia, which is even less fun than flu.

Use Vick’s Vapo-Rub. You won’t be able to detect the scent because your nose is busy with something else (snot), but other people sure will, encouraging them to keep a respectful distance. If you don’t have Vapo-Rub, try Ben-Gay. Bonus: nice warm feeling on your chest. Note: If you use either Vapo-Rub or Ben-Gay, do not cuddle the large, fuzzy cats (see above), unless you want to look like Bigfoot. Just sing “Soft Kitty” instead, or insist that someone else sing it to you.

Whine. Punctuate with coughs and sneezes. Again, the goal is to get people to leave you alone. If this tactic isn’t working, move on to even more disgusting symptoms. Keep a bucket by your bed, just so people get the idea that you could use it at any moment.

P.S. I’ll give you one guess why I wrote this. If you don’t get the answer right, I’ll start whining. And coughing. And sneezing. And barfing. Just bring me some egg drop soup and leave quietly.

You wouldn’t want to catch what I’ve got.

Keep me in Nyquil!

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Buying the Past

arts and crafts, etc., family, travel, , , , , ,

No, you read that right. It’s buying the past, not burying the past. (Unless you read it wrong, of course. But it’s still buying the past, not burying the past. But I digress.)

Dan and I went on a brief vacay to Gatlinburg this week, and commerce was committed. A wonderful time was had by all, particularly the local merchants. We only had a few days in town, so we had to really focus on where we wanted to shop and what we wanted to get.

Dan is something of a history buff and loves antiques. He collects old bottles and clocks in particular. Once he even brought a large clock (I’d say about two feet by 1 1/2 feet) home from England, packing it in his luggage with clothes wadded up around it. It made it home safely. (What was ironic about it, when we got home, he looked more closely and found that the clock was made in Massachusetts. Somehow, this poor wandering clock had made it from the States to England and back again. But I digress again.)

So, when we got to Gatlinburg, he was all fired up to visit the same antiques shop we went to the last time we were there. Alas, we weren’t staying in the same place, but a number of miles away. Even with GPS, I couldn’t reconstruct how to get back there. I couldn’t even remember the name, except that it had “antiques” in it. We did find another shop, though, and Dan happily puttered around it, coming away with a beautiful cobalt blue decanter set and an old, framed print of an iris. He was satisfied, and I was satisfied that he was satisfied.

Another shop we visited was one of my favorite kinds, a rock and gem shop. Dan likes them, too, but he mostly buys tumbled rocks and carved statues, while I go for semi-precious gemstone jewelry. Dan found a vase carved from diaspore and black onyx, and I got a set of earrings and a necklace made of tanzanite, a very pretty blue mineral, set in silver.

Anyway, Dan’s interest in the past is primarily in the last 100 years or so, while mine is in the millions of years. My tanzanite was formed 585 million years ago, at an estimate, and has been waiting ever since for me to dangle it from my neck and ears. I have plenty of jewelry of similar vintage.

Now that I think about it, so has the diaspore that Dan’s newest vase was carved from. (Been around millions of years, that is. A carved diaspore vase is heavy and would both give me kyphosis and rip my earlobes off. But I digress yet again.) (Kyphosis = widow’s hump. I was showing off.)

There’s nothing wrong with new things. I have an e-reader and buy digital books all the time. I have a collection of plushies. I have souvenir mugs and shot glasses from wherever we visit. I have a Lego orchid that I’m still putting together. Dan has power tools and hand tools. He has kitchen gadgets like an egg cooker. He has modern glass and ceramics. We both have t-shirts that commemorate various people and events. (Our latest is a Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefers t-shirt.)

And we don’t forget about the future, either. The time we’ve spent at science fiction conventions has resulted in the acquisition of glass sculptures blown as we watched, prints such as the one of a cactus taking off into space, and posters of the covers of sf novels. NASA juice glasses (past and future for that).

But, in many ways, our hearts belong in the past. Not the rest of us, of course. Dan and I would both be functionally blind without glasses, and I would likely have been burned as a witch. Maybe Dan, too. Plus, there would be smallpox and bubonic plague to contend with. No, I think we’ll stay in the present and buy our pieces of the past. Safer that way.

It’s a Bargain!

Christmas, etc., family, funny things, holidays, humor, , , ,

It was the gorilla mask that did it. Sure, it was after Halloween and, sure, I’m sure he got it for a very good price. But I ask myself, as my husband obviously didn’t, Why do we need a gorilla mask?

The easy answer is, we don’t. We don’t go to Halloween parties and don’t even dress up to hand out Halloween candy. Dan has breathing problems and can’t wear a full face mask for more than a minute. I have no desire to wear a gorilla mask at all (or to hand out candy either, a chore I leave to Dan every year).

The thing is, Dan works at a big box store and is in proximity to lots of things that are on sale. And he can almost never resist. (He also has a problem resisting free things, like stuff that neighbors set out at the end of their driveways. I’ve trained him to pass them by. But he expects praise for doing so. But I digress.)

There are pet supplies (in addition to the absolutely necessary gushy food for Toby). We have three cat trees, one of which sees use as a side table facing the TV. Toby only uses one level of the big one and ignores the third. He also ignores the catnip mice (though not the catnip treats). And who wouldn’t ignore the dog toy shaped like a giant t-bone steak that Dan thought Toby might use as a pillow? (Toby. Toby did. Dan did buy a nice cat bed that Toby uses a lot, so he gets points for that.)

Some of his finds are more like presents. When a sweater or tunic in my size goes on sale, he’ll snap it up and bring it home like it’s some kind of hunting trophy. (I don’t think he ties it to the hood of his car, though.) They don’t always fit, of course, and he says he’ll take them back if they don’t, but he never does. I need a separate section in my closet for them.

He’s also fond of clearance china. He brings home large soup mugs with appropriate sayings on them, like “Official Cat Mom” or “Looney Tunes” or less appropriate ones like “Merry Christmoose.” He also likes platters and sandwich plates that don’t always go well with our china pattern. Sometimes they’re at least in the ballpark, or completely neutral white. (Yes, surprisingly, we do actually have a pattern—Pfaltzgraff Yorktowne. I chose the paint for our newly rebuilt kitchen—blue—to harmonize with it. This is something I never thought I’d ever do (have a pattern), though I never thought I’d ever get married either. Life is surprising. But I digress again.)

The bargain food tables are also irresistible. Not that he always knows what he’s getting. We’ve ended up with spices like togarashi and galangal (which I always thought were martial arts), plus pickled banana leaves. Our cooking repertoire runs to things like grilled chicken breasts and ground beef, seasoned with Mrs. Dash, garlic, and oregano. He also buys bargains that really aren’t. Olive tapenade in EVOO isn’t cheap, even at half price. We still have lots of odd culinary experiments just a-waiting for us to be brave or tipsy enough to try.

I can’t really complain, though. Last night he brought me Graeter’s black raspberry and chocolate chip ice cream, which was on sale for some unknown reason. It’s good to have someone watching out for me. I don’t even have to share (much) with him, since it’s not sugar-free. (My theory is he’s trying to keep me fat so other men don’t hit on me. My last digression for this week. I swear.)

Lest you think this all goes one way, I buy weird stuff for Dan, too, though I’m pretty much limited to shopping on the internet. One of my recent finds was a Mr. Natural Keep on Truckin’ t-shirt. I’ve also gotten him a Funko Pop Jerry Garcia. (Can you tell what era he grew up in?) We hardly ever save these surprises for Christmas. Instead, we give ourselves a treat. This year, we’re getting matching tattoos—one gift that I hope isn’t a slight irregular!

Cat Songs

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My husband and I have some silly traditions, some of which I’ve mentioned in the blog. There was naked cooking with Julia Child impressions, for instance. And we make up little nonsense songs. Well, Dan makes up most of them, mostly about me. (My nickname, which no one else may use, is Bunny, so they often have titles like “When Bunny Comes Driving Home Again.” They’re silly, as mentioned, but infinitely better than the NSFW song an ex-boyfriend once wrote describing my physical charms. But I digress.)

But this post is about cat songs. Not songs the cats sing, of course — their repertoire is pretty limited. Not songs about cats either (“Year of the Cat,” “Cat Scratch Fever,” “Stray Cat Strut,” “Honky Cat,” “Nashville Cats”). No, these are songs that we’ve made up about cats we’ve owned over the years.

Shaker’s song was really more of a poem or a chant than a song. It went:

Shaker in the park

Shaker in the pool

Shaker for dessert

Shaker after school.

Shake, shake, Shaker puddin’

Puddin’, puddin’, Shaker puddin’.

(Shaker was a very dignified tuxedo cat. She didn’t approve.)

The song will make no sense unless you remember a product from the 60s and its jingle (indeed, it doesn’t really make any sense at all, whether you remember it or not). The product was called Shake-a-Pudding. It was a brown plastic cup with a lighter brown plastic lid. If you put milk in the cup and added powder, then shook vigorously, hoping the top didn’t come off, what you got was something that at least resembled pudding. An interactive dessert. At the time, we thought it was neat-o.

Toby also has a song based somewhat on a commercial. It goes like this:

His name was Toby.

He used a Flowbee.

Obviously, this requires some explanation. First of all, it’s sung to the tune of Bary Manilow’s “Copacabana.” So far, so good. The Flowbee mentioned in the second line was one of those products you used to see on after-midnight infomercials from companies like Popeil or Ronco. Exercise equipment. Beauty products. That sort of thing.

Technically, I suppose you could call the Flowbee a beauty product. It was an attachment that you put on the end of your vacuum cleaner hose. It would make your hair stand on end so you could lop an inch or two off the end. I think it was mostly used on children who were too young to know any better and was responsible for the infamous bowl cut. It’s described by the company (yes, you can still buy them) as a “Vacuum Haircut System.” Need I tell you that we’ve never used one on ourselves, much less on Toby?

Louise had a song of a sort, or at least one line of one:

Every little breeze seems to whisper: LOUISE!

Naturally, the name was shouted.

Julia, the most beautiful cat in the world (she told me so) had a whole verse. Obviously, it was ttto “Julia” by John Lennon, which was written about his mother. Our Julia’s version went:

Julia, pinky nose

Pretty fur, naughty lips.

So I sing my song of love for Julia.

(No, I don’t know how the “naughty lips” part got in there. Cats barely have lips at all, and I don’t know how they could be naughty. That’s just the way the song went. So sue me. But I digress again.)

Dushenka had a tune that should be familiar to TV cartoon aficionados:

Shenka-Shenka-Doo

Where are you?

On your little kitty adventure.

Laurel’s song was melancholy.

Pooska-wooska-pooska

Pooska-wooska-pie

Pooska-wooska-pooska

It’s Laurel’s lullaby.

I even sang it at her funeral.

Of course, all the songs are doggerel (catterel?) and make us seem like idiots. But the cats don’t care. They’re used to us talking like idiots. (Does Toby want his noms? Pet, pet, pet, the incredible pettable pet. Mama loves kitty. Does kitty love mama? Ribbit.)

The Mystic Rules of Life

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I don’t have a corner on wisdom. Indeed, I barely have a corner on learning, around the corner and down the dusty path from wisdom.

I have, however, lived mumble-murfle years, and in that time, I have learned a thing or two. Maybe three, tops. Nonetheless, I have formulated what I like to call The Mystic Rules of Life. (Actually, I didn’t so much formulate them as accumulate them. I can’t claim that any of them had their origin with me. I sort of found them under the bed, communing with the dust bunnies, and claimed them for my own. But I digress.)

Anyway, for what it’s worth, here they are.

Everything should come with too much cheese. The corollary to this is that there is no such thing as too much cheese. My husband and I are the sort who, when we’re in an Italian restaurant and a server with a Parmesan cheese grater shows up and says, “Tell me when” reply, “Just crank that thing until your arm falls off.”

This rule applies to our own cooking. I’ve known us to use Parmesan, Asiago, and five cheese Italian blend in the same recipe. (Yes, I know cheese is binding. We have prunes for dessert. Or prunes and Metamucil. But I digress again.) Speaking of five cheese blend, that’s my favorite kind of pizza, although I also like pepperoni and mushrooms. I never get it, though, as Dan insists on all the meats and veggies the crust will hold. Five cheeses would probably cause catastrophic structural failure.

(By the way, this mystic rule applies to gravy, too. With mashed potatoes, not pizza. Pizza with gravy would be messy as well as unappealing. Until someone invents a mashed potato pizza, that is. I suppose this is another digression.)

It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. You may not get permission if you ask first. Of course, there’s no guarantee that you’ll get forgiveness after you do whatever-it-is, and that means the whatever-it-is will be an even bigger deal. But, as Kris Kristofferson noted, “I’d rather be sorry for something I’ve done than for something that I didn’t do.” (It’s amazing how often Kris is right about things. “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” “The going up was worth the coming down.” “Jesus was a Capricorn.” “Everybody’s got to have somebody to look down on.” “If you don’t like Hank Williams, you can kiss my ass.” (A musical digression.))

Pee first. No matter what the next thing is, pee first. Going to bed? Pee first. Running an errand? Pee first. Seeing a movie? Pee first. Taking a shower? Pee first. Walking the dog? Pee first. It’s always best to pee before you commit yourself to any other action. You may end up in a place where peeing is difficult or, worse, impossible. Or one where you simply don’t want to pee. I have those dreams all the time where I’m looking for a bathroom but can’t find one, or at least not one I can use. It’s disgustingly filthy, has no doors, or is just a pipe in the floor without even an outhouse around it. (I usually wake up having to pee, but (so far) I haven’t woken up to find that I’ve wet the bed. I suppose that’s one circumstance when it isn’t better to pee first. Get out of bed? Pee after. But I digress some more.)

Gravity is not our friend. Sure, gravity keeps us firmly attached to the Earth. But when you consider the many ways gravity makes us fall down, it becomes more of a hindrance than a help. And I’ve experienced most of them. This Mystic Rule only applies on Earth, however. If you can make it to the moon, the gravity is only one-sixth that of Earth. That’s a lot more friendly. (Speaking of friendly, author Mary Roach once said, “Gravitation is the lust of the cosmos.” I have nothing against lust, but really, gravitation is the vacuum cleaner of the cosmos. Last digression for this week.)

You’d think that as I get older and (supposedly) wiser, I’d encounter more Mystic Rules of Life, but I haven’t found any lately. Guess I should look under the bed again, but I suspect that the dust bunnies (or, more likely by now, dust gorillas) have rules of their own that don’t apply to people.