Category Archives: humor

On the Bougieness of Pets

cats, etc., fashion, humor, pets, , ,

It all started with a post about rescue dogs and how adorable they were and how much they needed homes.

I replied that rescue cats are the same. Dan and I get our cats from shelters, ones that come up to us on the street, or ones that choose us by appearing at our door. They’re adorable and need homes, too.

My friend Donna Waller replied that cats are bougie. That took me aback. I didn’t know whether she meant that cats themselves are bougie or that people who own cats are bougie.

Are Dogs Bougie?

They are if they’re toted around in purses the way Paris Hilton does. They are if they wear diamond-studded collars. They are if their owners dress them up in precious little outfits, especially if the outfits include hats. (Come to think of it, dog owners are bougie if they carry purse-dogs or buy mixed breeds like chi-weenie (chihuahua and dachshund), pom-chi (pomeranian and chihuahua), shnoodle (schnauzer and poodle), mal-poo (maltese and poodle), or shi-poo (you can figure this one out for yourself). In fact, any dog breed that ends with poo is bougie. But I digress at length.)

Non-Bougie Cats

Rescue cats tend not to be bougie. Even when they’re mixed breeds, people don’t invent cutesy names for them. You never hear of a Siam-ersian or a Norweg-anx. (I once knew some cats that had, let’s say, some irregularities in their ancestry. The mother was a Siamese, and the kittens, like all Siamese, were entirely cream-colored at birth. But when they were old enough to develop “points” (the colors on their legs and face, like chocolate-point, or flame-, lilac-, or even blue-point), the kittens had striped points, their father having evidently been a tabby. They were definitely not bougie. But I digress at great length.)

I have also known silly cats, affectionate cats, mischievous cats, and athletic cats. I’ve known tortoiseshell cats, calico cats, tuxedo cats, ginger cats, and many varieties of tabbies. None of them were bougie. (Ginger or orange cats can be stroppy, but not bougie. One orange cat we had would bite Dan on the ankle when he stepped out of the shower. But I digress yet again.)

Truly Bougie Cats

In my opinion (not very humble at all), there are only a few types of cats that are truly bougie. First are all the cat breeds with pushed-in noses that look like they’ve been hit in the face with a nine-inch cast-iron skillet. (Please don’t mistake me. I do not advocate doing that to cats. Some of them just look like someone did. But I digress some more.) And they always look like they disapprove of you.

Flat-faced cats are the most likely to be dressed up by their owners in diamond-studded collars and frilly little outfits. Cat therapist Jackson Galaxy says that no cat should be dressed in any kind of little outfit. (The closest we ever came to doing it was placing a stray whisker on top of a dignified cat’s head and making beep-boop noises like she was an alien. What she was, was deeply offended. But I digress still more.)

So, Donna Waller, there’s your answer: Many bougie dogs, few bougie cats. And because, as I mentioned, Dan and I get strays and rescues, we’re unlikely ever to have a bougie cat. So there.

Things I Never Thought I’d Say

cooking, etc., family, food, humor, ,

When you get married, you’re moving into uncharted territory. Plenty of people have been there before, of course, but this time it’s you. And it can be an education.

For me, marriage brought with it a lot of things I couldn’t even imagine myself saying. Of course, there are things like, “Which side of the bed do you prefer?” and “So how did your mother make her amazing stuffed peppers, anyway?” But there are also things you say that, when you look back, are completely unfathomable.

Here are some of mine.

“Please don’t use power tools after I’ve gone to bed.”

I’m not even sure which power tool it was—let’s say a circular saw. I’m not sure what project he was trying to finish. And I’m not sure where in the house he was. (I was in bed, upstairs, on the edge of sleep. But I digress.) But I am sure that it was loud enough to wake me up and unexpected enough to alarm me. Was some evildoer trying to saw his way through our front door? Was the intruder trying to even out the height of the dining room chairs? I never found out. But at least hubby’s never done it again. (Or anyway, he wakes me up first and tells me he’s going to be using power tools, so it won’t take me by surprise. But I digress again.)

“What do you mean I’ll cater your parents’ surprise 50th anniversary party?”

Actually, I knew what he meant. He didn’t mean calling a catering company and telling them what we wanted, or sampling the wares of various purveyors and choosing among them. What I had heard him promise over the phone was that I would prepare all the food and drink myself. He graciously agreed to book the venue, their longtime family church, which at least had a kitchen. (I got it done, but it was only by channeling Martha Stewart. And I hate Martha Stewart. But I digress some more.) I managed to convince Dan to hold it in the afternoon, so dinner was not a concern. Hors d’oeuvres, cake, and punch seemed doable, at least until I saw how many cherry tomatoes I’d have to core and stuff.

“There’s a Cheerio in my underwear.”

Now, this one takes some explanation. Dan has a favorite snack food. He buys a huge bag of already-popped corn. Then he dumps in a variety of crunchy foods—Cheerios (as you may have guessed), Wheat Flakes, Corn Chex, and sometimes mixed nuts. Then he shakes the whole thing and feasts on it for not as many days as you’d think. Often, he sits in the comfy chair to watch TV as he snacks. And he grabs handfuls of his magic concoction and shoves them in his mouth, never caring where the crumbs fly. (Hint: Into the crevices of the comfy chair.) I use the comfy chair sometimes, too, often wearing a rather short nightdress. And one night, I did indeed find a Cheerio in my nether garment. (I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t one of the Corn Chex. At least Cheerios don’t have corners. But I digress yet again.)

“I do.”

I was never the sort of teenager who wrote her initials and a boy’s in hearts on my notebook cover or wrote my name in combination with various potential last names. (As it happens, when it came down to it, I didn’t change my last name. But I digress even more.) I just assumed that I was too weird to attract a male partner and settle down with him. But here we are, after more than forty years. We do things I never thought I’d do, like live with five cats or travel to Croatia. I guess the power tools, the catering, and the Cheerios are just what go along with it.

Sweet Obsessions

Christmas, etc., food, holidays, humor, , ,

Everyone has their favorite candy, from Ronald Reagan’s Jelly Belly jelly beans to the butterscotch cotton candy that Trump wears on his head. At Halloween, these preferences really come out. We know that children prefer full-size candy bars and hate boxes of raisins, and that everyone hates candy corn. (I don’t know why. As far as I can tell, it’s pure sugar, which should make it popular. But I digress.)

But candy doesn’t just make its appearance on Halloween. There are Valentine’s boxes of candies and Easter candies like Cadbury’s Creme Eggs (though I’ve noticed that these days, Easter baskets come with more toys than treats. It just seems to me inappropriate to celebrate Easter with Spiderman action figures. But I digress again.)

I have fond memories of Christmas candies. Every year, my sister and I could count on finding in our stockings an assortment of Life Savers packaged to resemble a book. We never tired of them. (We also got an orange that filled the toe of the stocking. This was no surprise, as every year our Grandma in Florida sent us a crate of them. But I digress some more.)

Through the years, my taste in candies changed. I fondly remember Reed’s Cinnamon red-hot candies that looked like Life Savers, but with a dip in the middle rather than a hole. I went through a Tic-Tac phase (never mind that they were marketed as breath mints). Now I’m very fond of Sanders’ dark chocolate bourbon-flavored sea salt caramels.

Salt and sweet make a great combination. After all, the four food groups are salty, sticky, sweet, and crunchy, which makes nature’s perfect food the chocolate-covered pretzel stick (sprinkles optional). If you look hard enough, you can even find chocolate-covered potato chips. There’s a local potato chip manufacturer and a local chocolate purveyor who team up every year to make them.

My Aunt Thelma and Uncle Earl had a general store in Campton, Kentucky, which offered a vast supply of penny candies, which actually cost a penny in those days. Sugar Babies were my favorite, along with their larger cousin, Sugar Daddy (no rude remarks, please). I also had least favorites, such as jawbreakers, Butterfingers, and Good’N’Plenty.

Recently, however, I’ve developed a new sweet obsession. I saw that there were dark-chocolate-covered dried Montmorency cherries available locally, but made in Michigan. I absolutely despise regular chocolate-covered cherries. I hate the sickly sweet goo between the cherry and the chocolate. But I had hopes that goo would not be a component of the dried kind of chocolate cherries. So I bought a couple of small bags.

It turned out they were amazing! The dried cherries were chewy and tart, with a texture like raisins. The dark chocolate coating was a perfect complement. Before long, I had devoured both bags.

Then I noticed a whole box of the candies for sale. I had to have it. I thought it would contain a number of the small bags of cherries. But no. It contained one large plastic bag filled with three pounds of yum. It’s all I can do to keep myself from diving in headfirst and binging into a potentially dangerous chocolate-and-dried-cherry sugar rush. (The small bags say that eight candies equal 130 calories. I’d have a Willy Wonka blueberry (only cherry) moment if I ate my fill. But I digress even more.)

I hope they sell well. Well enough, anyway, that they aren’t discontinued, but not so well that stores run out of them. While I wait to see, at least I have pounds of them to see me through.

Simpsons-Speak

etc., family, humor, language, television, , ,

Pop culture is responsible for many sayings that people quote: “Inconceivable!” “He’s dead, Jim!” “Make it so!” “You’ve been chopped.”

(Of these, “Inconceivable!” and its follow-up, “I do not think that word means what you think it means,” are perhaps the most useful in everyday conversation. But I digress.)

But if you ask me (no one did), the best source for memorable quotations would have to be The Simpsons, which today airs its 800th episode. Some of these bon mots have even made it into our family vocabulary.

Bart was on his way home from Sunday School when Marge admonished him for saying hell. Bart’s reply? “I sure as hell can’t tell you we learned about hell unless I say ‘hell,’ can I? Hell, hell, hell, hell!” Now, whenever one of us says “hell,” the other jumps right into the quote.

Then there’s Homer. After a lesson on fire safety, He sings, “When a fire starts to burn/There’s a lesson you must learn./Something, something, then you’ll see/You’ll avoid catastrophe. D’oh!” Dan forgets lyrics often, and some older songs I just don’t know. We often end up saying, “Something, something. D’oh.”

(I understand that in the Simpsons’ scripts, “D’oh” is indicated by “annoyed grunt.” But I digress.)

One particularly important exchange for Dan and me starts when the characters are standing around the statue of Jebediah Springfield, the town founder and local hero. The legend on his statue reads, “A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man.” Someone inquires whether “embiggen” is a real word. Mrs. Krabappel, the teacher, replies, “It’s a perfectly cromulent word.”

(I would think the meanings of “embiggen” and “cromulent” should be clear from context, but let’s take a look at Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary, where both are defined. “Embiggen” means “make bigger or more expansive.” And M-W defines “cromulent” as “acceptable; satisfactory.” What’s even more amazing is that autocorrect didn’t balk at either one when I typed them just now. But I digress again.)

(Just as a digression (to a digression), Dan and I use “embiggen” all the time, almost daily. Because of my various injuries and operations, I can’t climb the stairs to where the bedroom is. So we bought a chair that expands into a single bed and collapses back into a chair. I ask Dan to embiggen the bed in the evening and dis-embiggen it in the morning. But I digress some more.)

Then there’s Grampa Simpson. He has a technique for answering intrusive questions. He goes into a totally irrelevant soliloquy. Like this:

“Like the time I caught the ferry to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for m’shoe. So I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days nickels had pictures of bumblebees on ’em. ‘Gimme five bees for a quarter,’ you’d say. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. The important thing was that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time….”

(Sociolinguist Suzette Haden Elgin recommended this tactic as well. She could also shut down awkward conversations by saying, “Well, you can’t tell which way the train is going by looking at the tracks.” But I digress yet again.)

Let’s finish with Marge. In one episode, she went away for a self-care day, indulged in a bubble bath, and called room service:

“I’d like a banana fudge sundae. With whipped cream! And some chocolate chip cheesecake. And a bottle of tequila!”

(We don’t use this one in conversation, but once when I had to write something on self-care, I worked it in as an example of what self-care isn’t. But I digress even more.)

Thus has our vocabulary been enriched by a cartoon show. (I also like the episode in which Ned Flanders complains to Principal Skinner that he doesn’t want Darwinian evolution taught at school, and Skinner replies, “You mean Lamarckian evolution?” It doesn’t fit into any conversation I’ve ever had, but it cracks me up every time. And this is my final digression for this week.)

Deconstructing the Woobie

etc., film, humor, language, , , ,

Right now, I am snuggled up in a blue woobie. What’s that, you say? I’ll digress at length on the subject.

There’s a role-reversal comedy movie from 1983 starring Michael Keaton, Teri Garr, Martin Mull, and Ann Jillian. The plot is very ’80s: worker at an auto plant loses his job; his wife gets one at an advertising agency; and he becomes Mr. Mom. So far, so standard.

But the movie is genuinely funny and worth a look. Yes, it covers a lot of the cliches regarding rising business star vs. stay-at-home dad. But the ensemble cast and the comic timing make it a film that really ought to be better appreciated. (This whole section of my post has been a digression.)

In the movie, one of the children has a security blanket, which he refers to as his “woobie.” (Psychologists call it a “comfort object,” but my husband and I like “woobie” better. But I digress again.) Wiktionary defines “woobie” as “any object, typically a blanket, garment, or stuffed animal, that is used simply for its comforting characteristics; a security blanket.”

Elizabeth, the fashion influencer

(Apparently, “woobie” also describes a military “Liner, Wet Weather Poncho.” Soldiers call it a “woobie” because it’s their essential comfort blanket in the field. Maybe so. I would like anyone with expertise in the area of wet-weather poncho liners to verify this. But I digress yet again.)

My sister and I each had a woobie when we were children. Hers was a square of soft but sturdy woven fabric named “Tag.” Mine was a flannel sheet I called “Fluffy.” I think Fluffy was the better security blanket because I could—and did—wrap myself entirely in it and, essentially, hide when I needed to.

Lots of my grown-up friends have comfort objects, although they don’t refer to them as “woobies,” as far as I know. Dan’s only friend John had a small plush rabbit that he took to his sleep study. I did the same because they wouldn’t let me bring a live cat.

Sometimes plushies get names even weirder than “woobie.” I have one that I call “Pandacoon” because I’m not sure whether it’s meant to be a panda or a raccoon. A friend has a plushie that he can’t identify as either a yak or a buffalo. He calls it “Dr. Yakalo, Psychic Travel Agent.” (No, I don’t know how it got that job.) Another indefinable plushie is “Huskie Bear,” which might be either a dog or a teddy bear.

Most of the woobies I’ve had over the years have been bunnies. It was a tradition in our family that Easter baskets came with a plush rabbit as well as candy. Above (right) is a woobie rabbit that I won in an Easter raffle. I named her Elizabeth (she wasn’t psychic). My mother found fabric that exactly matched Elizabeth’s outfit and made me a dress to match.

Antonio (not the surgeon)

I do have one cat woobie (at left). My husband got it for me on the occasion of having my knee replaced, and I named it Antonio, after my surgeon. He (the woobie, not the surgeon) was too large to cuddle with at night in the single bed at the post-acute facility, so he lived on the shelf across the room. Most people never noticed him, big and orange though he was, but I could see him clearly from my bed and was quite pleased to have him watching over me.

I once received a mystery woobie. At Christmas, a friend presented me a box which, when I opened it, contained a few strands of differently colored wool. She gave me no hint of what it would be and told me that I would receive the actual present at a later date. Then (I later learned) she spent the next few months knitting and, sometime in April, presented me with a lovely, multicolored blanket woobie. It wasn’t Linus’s security blanket, but it made me just as happy.

Fun With Smut

books, etc., funny things, humor, literature, NSFW, writing, , ,

I may get in trouble for either the picture (no one I know) or the topic, but it’s an aspect of writing and reading that I have just a wee bit of experience with.

How do I feel about “dirty books”? I’m tempted to quote Tom Lehrer from his song “Smut”: “Dirty books are fun. That’s all there is to it.” He also said, “I do have a cause, though. It’s obscenity. I’m for it.” The song contains not one “dirty word.” ( You can find it online at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSwYID-u71M. But I digress.)

Reading Smut

I must admit that I did read Fifty Shades of Grey when it first came out, just to see what the commotion was all about. (My advice: Don’t bother. It’s miserably written. And unrealistic. Any couple having that much sex that often would be too chafed to carry on carrying on. But I digress again.)

When I was an editor for an early childhood magazine, I was frequently given books to review. One was an illustrated sex education book for young children, written by a doctor. I don’t remember the title, but the book was written in a style meant to emulate Dr. Seuss. I also don’t remember much of the content, except for this metaphor for some body parts, which he supplied the location of:

The towns are both called testicle

And they look like two round eggs.

They’re not located on a map

But between your Daddy’s legs.

(The conception scene was a meeting of Stanley Sperm (who wore a top hat) and Essie Egg (who wore a bow) in front of an ornate gate. I did not write a review of the book. It was my theory that it could be read aloud at a party to great amusement. But I digress some more.)

Reviewing Smut

I’ve recently gotten a gig reviewing books. Most of the books I’ve reviewed were in a category called “steamy romances.” This means that the couple must overcome obstacles to get together, but when they do, they have sex. This means about two realistic sex scenes per novel. (They’re short. The books, that is. The sex scenes go on for a number of pages.)

Personally, I’m grateful that these books (there’s a series) use neither clinical names nor cutesy euphemisms for body parts. (I still remember in the movie The Naked Gun when someone used the term “throbbing purple-headed warrior.” Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) has been known to refer to her “lady garden,” a euphemism she created when not allowed to say “vagina” on TV. But I digress some more.)

Writing Smut

Once during my ghostwriting career, I had to write a piece of smut (erotica, if you prefer). It was the adventures of a woman who was connected (sorry) with various men. The men were all gorgeous and rich, and they bought the main character extravagant gifts. The woman gave me an outline describing her (and their) escapades, which I didn’t believe for a moment. I would call it “wish fulfillment porn.”

This time, I was in the position (sorry) of having to come up (sorry) with words to describe body parts and sex acts without being cutesy or clinical. I guess I succeeded. The customer was satisfied (sorry) with it, and I got paid for it (sorry), so I guess I did okay. (I’ve never been tempted (sorry) to look it up on Amazon and read the reviews. We will not discuss whether or how much I had to conduct research for the book. But I digress even more.)

The only other thing I know about writing sex scenes is that a writer friend of mine once wrote one that went on for multiple pages (and orgasms). My husband read it and was impressed.

PT Can Be Fun. No, Really.

etc., fun and games, funny things, health, humor, ,

If, like me, you’ve had to recover from an operation or injury, you’ve probably been introduced to professional physical therapy. Many people in a rehab facility refuse to participate. I felt it was an unwelcome chore that I had to push myself to do. But I did learn that PT can be entertaining as well as strenuous.

One of the most common exercise machines is the bike or reclining stepper. While working out on this can seem dull and repetitive, there are ways to make it more interesting. I worked out on one that had a small screen in front of it. (Did it provide videos of scenic places you’d like to cycle? It did not. But I digress.)

It was like a video game. On the screen were representations of a road and assorted cars and trucks, which scrolled downward into your path as you pedalled. The idea was to avoid the cars by shifting the pressure you exerted with each leg to steer your own car from lane to lane. Your score was based on the number of cars you managed to avoid.

The first time I tried it, I wasn’t very successful. All along the way, I crashed into cars rather than going around them.

Then I realized that when you crashed, the machine produced an appropriate noise of rending metal (Not the screams of any imaginary drivers or passengers. But I digress again.).

Instead of trying to avoid the cars, I made it my personal quest to hit as many as I could. (The PT staff were amused by all the crashing noises and my chortles of glee when I smashed yet another vehicle. But I digress some more.) The last time I used the machine, my score was 45 crashes, with only one car avoided. I couldn’t have smashed that one. It was two lanes over, and I couldn’t make the machine do a Tokyo Drift.

I also liked the bouncy ball exercise. I parked my walker a few feet in front of what looked like an exercise trampoline tipped up at about 40 degrees, so it was impossible to jump up and down on. (At least I never figured out a way, not being up to parkour, even before my injuries. But I digress even more.)

Instead, I was given a ball about the size of a softball. I threw the ball at the trampoline, and somehow the ball bounced back to me, and I caught it. At least that was the idea. It was meant to improve my balance, as I was standing within my walker and leaning in various directions to snag the ball.

Sometimes, however, I would miss the catch. When that happened, I would exclaim, “Ack!” and the therapist had to chase the ball. (I won’t say I missed on purpose, but it was amusing to see her scramble. But I digress yet again.) I also saw some of my fellow therapees using a balloon-sized ball to play a game like volleyball without a net, with roughly the same results—catch or punch the ball so it returned to the therapist, or didn’t.

There were a number of other devices I used. Handles that hung from the top of a door for me to raise and lower alternately, to build up my arms, though all my injuries were below the waist. Jigsaw puzzles to solve or pegboards to fill. (There was nothing wrong with my hands. These activities were for distraction. The therapist timed me to see how long I could stand without tiring. Again, the balance thing. But I digress even again.)

In the rehab facility, I did PT every weekday. Alas, now I’m home and have outpatient therapy only once a week. They have boring equipment. No car crashes. No bouncy balls. No jigsaw puzzles. Only parallel bars and laps around the gym with my walker. PT may now help me grow stronger, but it’s not exercising my sense of humor.

Christmas Is Over. April Is Coming.

etc., family, holidays, humor, , , ,

It was November, and I was manic. I had just gotten paid for a freelance job, and I went on the internet. I instantly started seeing items for sale that my husband might like. So I started buying.

(The mania was a part of my bipolar disorder and reckless spending is one of the known risks. At least I didn’t get into other risky behaviors like reckless driving. But reckless shopping is fun, and I hadn’t been able to do much recently. But I digress.)

The first thing I bought him was a t-shirt that said: Stay Groovy. I thought it was appropriate because any time a server in a restaurant asks, “How are you today?” he always says, “Groovy.” But then, he’s an old and unrepentant hippie.

Then I found another t-shirt, “Make America Grateful Again,” with the skull and lightning bolt symbol that the band The Grateful Dead used. I was off and shopping.

I found more t-shirts, all in the same vein, such as one with the lyrics to “In My Life” (Dan’s favorite Beatles song) and a shirt with a tie-dye hand missing one finger. (A reference to Jerry Garcia, the leader of the Grateful Dead, who actually had only nine fingers, despite the fact that he was the lead guitar player. Dan is frequently mistaken for Jerry Garcia, as his hair is the same wild, curly mass that Jerry had. Sometimes he tells people he is Jerry Garcia and in the Witness Protection program. And that he had the missing finger surgically replaced as part of his disguise. But I digress again, at length.)

Then I found what would turn out to be his main gift—a piece of the wooden stage from Woodstock mounted in a peace sign pendant—and relegated the shirts to being stocking stuffers. (It came with a certificate of authenticity, but who really knows? It’s the thought that counts. He put it on right away and has been wearing it ever since. But I digress yet again.}

It had become my turn to be Santa. (Dan is often accused of being Santa, especially (but not exclusively) in December. Again, it’s the hair and beard. He often plays along, telling children to mind their parents and play nicely with their siblings. This year, he even wore red sweats and a Santa hat to work on Christmas Eve, then went around the store handing out “Santa Bucks” coupons, “signed by Santa.” He even wore a nametag that said “Santa C.” It was all his idea; no one at the company put him up to it. But I digress even more.)

Was I done shopping? I was not.

While I was perusing t-shirts, I found one that showed layers of rock and said, “My Sediments Exactly.” Well, Dan studied geology in college, and heads to the fossils, petrified wood, and interestingly shaped rocks when we’re in a rock and gem shop. (He even brought home an “interesting rock” that he collected when we were in Ireland. He almost didn’t get it through Customs. But I keep digressing.)

So I pretended that the internet was a fossil and rock shop and fired up PayPal again. I bought basalt, various kinds of quartz, and several minerals that fluoresce under UV light. I also bought a UV light so he could appreciate them fully.

About that time (late November), it occurred to me that I couldn’t give him all these gifts for Christmas. It would be un peu de trop (a bit much). So I sorted the gifts into two piles: one for Christmas and the other to be saved for his birthday in April. I decided that the “hippie freak” gifts seemed more Christmasy, and the “rockhound” gifts more birthday-y. (Don’t ask me how I decided which was which. It seemed logical at the time.)

Anyway, on Christmas, I told Dan to get the pile of presents on the right-hand side of the closet. They proved to be a hit. In April, he gets the other stack.

Fortunately, there are no other present-giving holidays or occasions that occur until next Christmas. One never knows when mania and PayPal will take over. Or at least I don’t.

P.S. Dan never reads my blogs. Let’s keep this just between us.

Where Are the Fat Geese?

Christianity, Christmas, etc., food, funny things, holidays, humor, music, religion, ,

A little-remembered Christmas carol starts out: “Christmas is coming/The geese are getting fat.” In “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” there are six geese the first time around, with more to come, based on their a-laying and the repetition of all the presents ad nauseam.

But you hardly ever see a goose baked and broiled sunny-side-up on people’s Christmas tables, or as part of turgooducken. Turkey and ham are the popular choices. (Me, I go for something nontraditional, such as sushi, lasagna, ratatouille, or Chinese take-out. The Chinese food, I guess, is more traditional for Jewish people, pagans, Pastafarians (who might prefer the lasagna), and others with unconventional tastes. But I digress.)

Why does no one sing the carol about the fat geese anymore? Probably because the rest of the song is about charity to the poor—”Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat./If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do./If you haven’t got a ha’penny, God bless you.” Carolers these days hardly ever accept a penny for their services, and ha’pennies went out with farthings. Carolers might get a cup of cocoa or a cookie with red and green sprinkles, but that’s about it. Maybe they need a union.

Modernizing the carol wouldn’t come easily either. “Please to put a penny in the Salvation Army Kettle” doesn’t fit the meter, and nobody carries around ha’pennies these days. (Indeed, soon, they won’t carry pennies, either, what with the mint doing away with them, and possibly the nickel, too. You’d be left with putting a quarter in the kettle and settling for a dime. But I digress again.)

But back to geese. I don’t think I’ve even seen them on the menu at a restaurant. Perhaps it’s because they’re fatty (hence “The geese are getting fat”). Maybe it’s because they’re big. No one would order a whole goose. A smaller party might order slices of goose, but that would leave the kitchen with a lot of extra goose. What to do with it? Serve goose hash the next morning? I somehow doubt that would be a big seller.

Live geese aren’t any prize, either. They’re mean. Big ones can weigh up to 20 pounds. Just imagine an easily enraged, 20-pound bird with a loud cry, a hard knob on the top of its head, a large beak, and much given to pecking, chasing you around the yard. (It’s my theory that the fad of concrete dress-up geese on the front step (which I hope has passed) was thought up by someone from an ad agency who had been hired to improve geese’s image. But I digress some more.)

(For that matter, swans are also not candidates for the Beast Congeniality crown. Yes, they’re stunning—at a distance—and (it’s said) monogamous. But they are geese with an even better ad agency. They’re really savage. The Stratford Canada Shakespeare Festival warns visitors to avoid the killer swans that roam the grounds. (Despite the swans, the Stratford Shakespeare Festival is well worth a visit. They present theater-in-the-round and frequently stage works not written by The Bard of Avon. The 2026 season includes Death of a Salesman, Waiting for Godot, and Guys and Dolls. But I digress yet again.))

Anyway, we started this ramble with geese and Christmas carols. Every year, I ask friends what their favorite and least favorite Christmas songs are in both religious and secular categories. My favorite religious one is “Mary, Did You Know?” Least favorite: “The Little Drummer Boy.” My favorite secular song is “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Least favorite: “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” (Though there are some interesting parodies like “The Twelve Days of Star Wars” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHSEUAXDucw, if you want a change of pace. But I digress musically.)

No one has ever mentioned the one with the geese.

What’s So Funny?

blogs, etc., funny things, humor, writing

Recently, I fell in with a comedy site that has weekly online meetings where members are encouraged to submit their humor for feedback. My interactions with them have proved perplexing. I submitted for analysis a piece I was working on. The response was tepid at best, so I revised and submitted it again. Here’s the first draft:

I Use Satellites to Hunt for Tupperware in the Woods

That’s what a contestant on Jeopardy told Alex Trebek when asked about his hobbies and interests between rounds. Alex was taken aback and, for once, clueless.

I have done the same. (The satellite/Tupperware thing, not flummoxing Alex Trebek. I wish. But I digress.)

What both I and the Jeopardy contestant had in common is “geocaching.”

It goes like this. One person hides a piece of Tupperware or other waterproof container (an ammo case is also popular), usually in a natural environment but sometimes within a city or suburb. The container holds a piece of paper, a small pencil, and assorted trinkets, such as a postcard or a small toy. This is called the geocache.

***

Here’s a revision of the first section, rewritten according to what they suggested, or so I supposed.

I Use Satellites to Hunt for Tupperware in the Woods

That’s what a contestant on Jeopardy told Alex Trebek when asked about his hobbies and interests between rounds. Alex should have replied, “So you’re some kind of kitchenware spy,” but missed the opportunity.

I have aspired to kitchenware spying myself.

It’s called “geocaching” to those in on the process. A piece of Tupperware or other waterproof container (an ammo case is popular) is hidden, usually in a natural setting. The secrets within are a piece of paper, a small pencil, and assorted objects of unknown value. This is known in the trade as the geocache or “drop site.”

***

That second version was close to the one that you saw when I posted it. I think it was improved somewhat, but at the next meeting, they suggested even more changes.

I had trouble implementing their suggestions. The first one was “Lose the digressions,” which I was reluctant to do because of the name of my blog and a reasonably consistent shtick when I’m writing what I intend to be humorous pieces. They act like footnotes or record the meanderings of my mind while I write. But I ditched them for the second version, just to see. I also bumped up the spy references, using words like “agent,” “secret identity,” “tradecraft,” “the drop,” and “Ilya Kuryakin.”

On seeing the second version, they suggested that instead of describing how geocaching works, I should use “I” more: “I bait the drop,” “I decipher the clues,” etc. I agree that, in general, unless you’re writing an academic paper, “I” is preferable to “you.” So that was probably good advice.

They also told me I needed more hyperbole and more jokes. I already had some jokes in there: one clue being “Look under the big W” (a reference to It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World) and my secret identity as “DjangOH” (in honor of my cat Django, who was named after Django Reinhardt, the jazz musician). They thought that one was pretty good, but assumed I was referring to the movie Django Unchained, which has nothing to do with cats or jazz musicians. They were apparently too young to get the other references as well. I’m beginning to doubt they got the one about Ilya Kuryakin.

Anyway, based on their comments and critiques of other people’s work, I gathered that what they were looking for was zingers, punchlines, and an over-the-top tone, like a stand-up comedian’s.

But that’s not the kind of writing I prefer. I grew up on observational, story-telling humorists like Erma Bombeck, James Thurber, and Jean Kerr. And if I could write one-tenth as well as David Sedaris or The Bloggess, I would count myself a happy writer. Hyperbole, yes, but no punchlines.

So I ask you these questions:

• Should I keep doing what I’ve been doing, with digressions?

• Should I lose the digressions and rename my blog?

• Do you prefer a stand-up comedy-style writing or an observational one (but not like Steven Wright)?

• Do you want to see listicles? Shorter pieces of writing?

• Would you prefer no serious posts like the one last week about my father? Should I have a separate blog for them? (It would be occasional, as I don’t think I could write three blog posts a week.)

I sincerely want your opinions. Please feel free to sound off in the comments.

Apparently obligatory joke:

Ist old lady: My, it’s windy today.

2nd old lady: No, it’s Thursday.

3rd old lady: So am I. Let’s all go get a cup of tea.