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Posts Tagged ‘Humor in Life’

This morning, I was working on a humorous post for today, in my continuing effort to bring the word humor above FLDS in my tag clouds, but it is growing into an epic novel and not that funny of one either. And, to top it off, the sky is darkening and I have just heard thunder.

When it rains in Indiana, as it does a lot, we lose our totally unreliable phone service. We actually do not lose it, we join the 19th century by gaining party lines. The other day I heard a whole conversation about someones furniture, while repeating, “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?” Obviously, I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me. Sometimes I can talk to the other party, I met a neighbor on our road through our party line. 

Rarely is this State conducive to being On-line. The Internet does not like wet phone lines. The sky darkens and the Satellite goes out too. This is usually timed perfectly by the sky Gods. Always, it goes out the last ten minutes of the only Law & Order I have never seen before. Since Law & Order, and all of its initials, is on constantly at our home, I imagine the odds of this happening are fairly large.

As I wrote that last sentence, I was kicked off the internet. No Joke! Honest! I immediately hit print screen, because I didn’t know when I saved last. I am in the habit of saving constantly already but this problem has made it even more important.

Indiana probably has more laptops, per capita, than any other state, so that when the electricity goes out, as it does approximately four times a month, we do not lose our work product.  Seriously, I kept track for several months of power outages and it did; four times each month. Anyway, with a laptop and battery back up, you swear a lot less when the electricity surges and dies.

So, I shall go now and light my hurricane lamp as I wait for the power to go out. I shall fill a kettle of water, to boil for when the water main breaks, yet again. And, as I say adieu to you nice Internet folk, I am safe in the knowledge that terrorists will never strike Indiana. Why bother? We’re disintegrating all on our own.

UPDATES:  will be posted because it is hard to believe but true: I was not real diligent in noting these down but here is just a sampling.

March 2008: 6th: electricity out 6:15 am to 9:30 am : June 8th: came home to boil order but that was due to the flood:  31st: Electricity on and off five times till it went out at 6:45 pm (I think this is the time it was out all night and well into the next day. Ice on Brown County trees are not conducive to power. )

April 2008: 6th, electricity on and off numerous times

May 2008: 1st, water main broke,

June 2008: 3rd, Electric out one time: 4th, electric out 7pm to 6 am: 13th electric out 4:45 to 7:45; 30th, Sunny sky, light wind. Electricity out from 12:05 to 2:20 pm. Odd because it just went out. Usually it goes on and off a few times before staying out.

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OhMyGosh!!! Humor is as big as Indiana now, in my Tag Clouds. (see that thing on the right at the bottom of the post, if you are unfamiliar with the term.) Can the takeover of FLDS be far behind?  That was my goal just yesterday, to raise humor to the top level of my Blog.

I have been writing much too seriously, and I need humor in my life. You see, I am still recovering from open heart surgery, performed in November of 2007. Without insurance, my condition was allowed to progress for two years.

I told the P.A. that I was tired. Then, that I had heart attack symptoms. The P.A. told me I was just under stress. Of course, I was under stress. I thought I was having a heart attack. in her wisdom, she never offered to treat stress as that would make too much sense. Then, by the end of two years of this, a new doctor took over that office, in Nashville, Indiana, and called me  to come in to the office one day and told me to not return for three months; “you are just under stress” he told me. Then, he had the nerve to charge me $50 because he called me in so he could tell me not to come in.

I had emergency open heart surgery, seven days later, under the care of the wonderful people at St. Francis Hospital in Greenwood/Indianapolis.

The extremely patient friendly state of Indiana does not seem to feel that my damaged heart, due to the length of time I was not cared for properly, constitutes a lawsuit. So, I sit here, still without insurance, doing my own rehab with a 20% functioning of my lower heart. The doctor says I should be able to get it up to a low normal function, with exercise and I am much better now.

The surgeon told me it would take a good year. It was a frustratingly, depressing fifteen or so months actually. I would start exercise, I would rest for a week.  Now, I do the stairs four to five times a day. I do 20 minutes on my treadmill everyday. Then, I slip in crunches and weights. I love the Body for Life program and had done it for nine months before I got sick, so I’m slowly working my way back into it. My biggest problem is to remind myself to do it slowly, or I pay for it with a week of rest.

I’m exercising and eating MUCH MUCH better, so I want humor and I want to focus on humor. I’m excited to have humor overtake the news on the Indiana floods, in my tag clouds.

Aren’t you glad you know that now?????

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Lest, BrainDrain a/k/a Master’s Daughter:

 http://braindebris.wordpress.com/2008/06/27/tampons-and-the-garbage-man/#comment-48 

Before she steals all Grandma’s “good” stories, I thought I should add my two cents. I wrote these lines this morning and then sat here trying to remember Grandma stories. I know there are some; actually more than you would believe. It’s just really hard to remember them. There was the time grandma fell down a couple of the basement stairs and broke her ?foot ?wrist. Daughter of eleven children, was visiting and wanted to call an ambulance. Mom would not allow that.

No self-respecting woman would let an EMT in the house until she had crawled up the stairs, washed everything that got dirty in the fall, put on lipstick and combed her hair. Only then, was an ambulance called. I have not inherited this trait and I have been known to go to the emergency room in ratty sweat pants and shirt. I got very mad at my family, the time they made me get up off the van floor and sit in a chair with seatbelt because I had taken E-myacin and nearly vomited my life away. I refuse to comb my hair when I am in pain or vomiting. Ain’t happen’.

Oh, and then their is the time my soon-to-be husband was visiting and sat a water pitcher on the floor (we were playing cards). The intake of air, from all in presence in the room, sucked the oxygen from a three county area. He looked up at the open mouthed, staring faces, with a look of wonder. “What’d I do?” Teeth clenched, I whispered, “Pick it up, before she sees it.” But, it was already too late as the lack of oxygen had already gotten her attention.

There are certain things you just don’t do at Grandma’s house. Put things in the fridge without washing them off. She is actually trying to deny this at this point in her life but I remember the assembly line every payday when mom, dad, brother and I would unpack, wash, dry and shelf the groceries. Which I really didn’t understand when it came to can goods being stored in the basement. They had to be washed off again when you brought them up. Come to think of it, all canned goods had to be washed off again. You also don’t put things on the floor, not unless they can be decontaminated; nope, not even then. Feet are not allowed on the couch, but then bare feet are frowned upon anyway, and not wanted on the floor either. That may be it for this morning. That’s the extent of my memory.

I would be just as funny as Master Daughter, but she actually has a memory. One day we were talking and she relates a story about something that happened when she was two years old. I vaguely remembered the incident, and I was a lot older obviously, but it is not the “Remember that Christmas when you…” type of thing that is brought up every holiday so that you never forget it. Which is usually the point of those embarressing stories. I’m telling you, the girl’s memory is scary.

I, on the other hand, have been known to have a conversation about where to go on an upcoming holiday, walk into the dining room (from the location of the first conversation-the kitchen), sit down in a chair and look up at those living in the house and say, “When are we going to decide where we are going for the upcoming holiday?”

Only to be greeted by stares of disbelieve. Well, not anymore. They are used to it now. My lack of memory is legendary at this point. I tend to start conversations in the middle of topics. I forget I was just thinking about it and not already discussing it.

I feel like a fraud adding a humor tag to my blogs, after reading the ungrateful rat daughter’s, but hey, she’s got talent. I would like to point out that her Blog name is not BrainDrain but is actually Brain Debris.  I looked it up. I forgot.

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Good morning!

Obviously, it takes very little to entertain me as I have found new enjoyment in the fact that my last night post changed my Tag Clouds so that I now have a line that reads.

Knitting lost boys: Will the fun never end?

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I have discovered the most fun thing. Now granted, it is after 10:00pm, in Indiana, and according to Master Daughter, I am not to be held responsible for any Blog I post after 10:00pm.  Even without any dippers of Jose Cuervo, I can find humor. And, the Tag Cloud thingy I clicked to show on my Blog today is hysterical. 

 

Just take random words and put them together. It’s like poetry.  So, I’m reading the tags and just having all kinds of ideas for new Blogs. It’s a font of inspiration.

So, here is a sample of my Tag Clouds:

 

Chicago Chihuahua: Now, are Chihuahua’s different in Chicago than they are in Denver?  I mean, Chihuahua’s in Wyoming have to be black and wear bandanas around their necks. You can’t even buy a pickup truck in Wyoming without proof of black dog ownership.  The Bandana may be a Colorado thing, now that I think of it. Wyomingites don’t want to admit they might have a dog for fun. (No offense, I love Wyoming)

 

FLDS food foolishness: Do I need to type anything here? Maybe something like, food can’t be red: it’s either the mark of the Devil or of blood, so that means you can’t eat apples (unless you get a heathen to peel them) or tomatoes. What about strawberries and watermelon. Is life worth living without strawberries and watermelon?

 

Hone Schooling humor: Gosh, what I could do with this.  Now, all you homeschoolers, I know people who do a fantastic job homeschooling; unfortunately, I know too many people who have no business homeschooling. So, look at yourself and only be offended if you are in the last group and don’t write me nasty letters if you know darn well you are doing an excellent job. But, most of the home schooling parents I met had NO sense of humor. I think I’ll stop there before I say something I’ll regret in the morning and then it will be raining, in Indiana, and I won’t be able to go on and delete it and pretend I didn’t say it and I’ll get hate mail Blogs. 

 

Indiana knitting: Perhaps we could repair our infrastructure that way. When it rains in Indiana you get a party line phone line.  It doesn’t take rain to lose power. That happens once a month whether you want it to or not. The water main is the best; it only breaks every other month.

 

Polygamy pottery: Is that a coffee pot with eight coffee cups? Could it be a set with one large bowl and eight cereal bowls? Or a tea pot and eight teacups?

 

Wisconsin writing: That would be the hilarious Blog my niece would have. I will try to get her to join the family Blog-a-thon when I’m up there for the next family wedding.

Okay, I’m going to bed now. Hope I don’t hate myself in the morning.

 

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I love movies. I could, honest, even though I complain about living in a small house, I could live in a small house but I want it to have a theatre room. Not something to seat forty, just a very large screen, surround sound and a comfy couch or two, easy chairs, bean bags and cushy carpeting; along with a “no talking” sign I could control from my chair.

 

So, I have decided to add a feature to my Blog, titled: Extremely Biased Film Reviews.

 

Today’s review is for Tortilla Soup. I have the DVD for this and watch it about four times a year. The delicious Hector Elizondo, what I wouldn’t give to dance with him, is in it. It also has one of those songs in it that you just can’t get out of your head. “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.” Obviously, I need to watch the movie again to find out the real title of that song, but I first heard it on Coupling, another hilarious show.

 

Graduate Daughter a/k/a BrainDebri likes Coupling too and owns a season on DVD, so we put it on last Christmas to laugh over. Fortunately, mom fell asleep before it got good. She had already labored through The Big Bang, and I’m afraid Coupling would have caused major brain problems for her. This is the woman we took to the theatre to see Platoon and who sat in the theatre counting, out loud, how many times the “F” word was said. I think there were twenty-eight in the first minute. She’s not ready for Coupling. 

 

Tortilla Soup is perhaps a “chic flick.” I hate that term because I know lots of guys who enjoy the movies that I enjoy; as well as Terminator. But, I like the fact that it is about family and all the dynamics of a family.

 

I think I enjoy this so much because I missed the dinner table conversations, growing up in a quiet family, with only my brother and myself in the house. I think too, that I enjoy the tension between the daughter who is living her life the way she thinks her father wants and the daughters who are doing their own thing. Something we were not encouraged to do in the 50s. My other favorite thing in it, besides Hector, food and dancing, is the cinematography.

 

I have lost most of what I ever knew about cooking but the scenes of food preparation are just plain erotic. I have watched just that opening sequence for the sheer joy of the colors, and the senses it stimulates. You can hear the bubbling pots and smell the steam. If you haven’t seen it, rush to the library or your rental store and give yourself a treat tonight.

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There is an Obsessive Compulsive gene in our family. My mother’s brother once refused to visit her house for three years because the minute he flicked an ash in the ashtray, she would jump up from the card table and wash it; the ash tray not the ash. Since she had given him the ashtray at his place at the table, he mistakenly presumed she meant for him to use it.

 

Mom is good natured about her foible and we have all learned to live with it. If I ever write about my life, I have threatened to title it: My Life in a Ziploc, for I am certain I was born in one. She could not have dealt with the mess otherwise and has worked hard to ensure that everything she owns is wrapped and bagged, preferably in ZipLocs. She alone may be responsible for the success of the company.

 

What happens with children of Obsessive’s? They turn out to be, well, Not-Obsessive. I would rather paint a picture or be outside taking photographs than cleaning stoves and corners. Somehow, I have decided that, since I could not afford a self-cleaning oven, I will just give it away when the dirt creeps under the aluminum foil. Presuming I have sold a book by then. Ah, another thing to spur my novel on.

 

I do have an excuse; my husband has been disabled with COPD for nearly twenty-five years now. We live in a pollution free (note, I did not say dirt free) atmosphere. No smoke, no perfumes (I use Vanilla upon occasion-sounds weird, but what greater scent to evoke love than Mom’s home cooking?), no scented cleaners or shampoos, etc, and certainly no oven cleaner. It’s my legitimate excuse. I am also quite sure this was a big reason why my mother moved into her own apartment. She was in withdrawal for the scent of Lemon Pledge and hairspray.

 

My husband smoked for about a month, until cigarettes hit 25 cents  pack, but his family has “weak” lungs. He was under thirty when we were hiking out east and contracted a virus. It never left him, and damaged his lungs. He is 56 now and he looks 90. Children think he is Santa with his white hair and white beard, and often point at him through their car seat window when we drive past.

 

Once, during a high school concert, a family of six children was sitting in front of us. One little girl kept turning around and looking at my husband, until the end of the concert, when she stage whispered to her dad. “Daddy, did you know Santa was sitting behind us?” Then, there was the little boy who came up to him in a store and thanked him for the presents he (the child)had received last year.

 

My husband’s chubby cheeks have taken on a sunken look in the past year and, when we go to a restaurant, they give him a seat next to mom and a senior discount. There are perks.

 

What happens to the grandchild of an Obsessive? Since the gene skipped my generation, they may be obsessive too. I have a granddaughter who is “my girl.” Other children cling to their brothers or their grandfather, but this girl took one look at me, when she was three months old and decided I belonged to her. The look was pure adoration. It is so nice to be adored by someone. However, this poor thing has inherited the Obsessive gene.

 

At two, with a baby sister ensconced in her room, Rachel would wait until sister, Leah, finished her bottle, then she would get up and bring the bottle down to someone to, either: 1. Get it out of her room and/or 2. Have it cleaned. Her brothers used to torment her by rearranging the Christmas presents under the tree as she took her nap.

 

Occasionally, I have caught myself doing things that frighten me; counting steps, color coding clothing and coat hangers. I stop, mix them up and don’t look back. I do not want to even go there. Perhaps that is why I don’t want to spend time cleaning, because I love a clean house. I really do. But, what would happen to me if I started cleaning. I might not know when to stop? Do you buy that??? If so, see me about some property.

 

I do like my studio straightened up before every new project and I loved having a clean house when I had a house large enough to do that. I seem unable to keep this small one, with six adults, clean. There just isn’t enough closet/storage area and things spill out and about. When the table gets too piled, I make the boys put there things away. It looks nice for a day. I do NOT pile things on the table myself, I have a dresser for that, which has a printer on it and two years worth of filing and paperwork.

 

Told you I did not inherit the obsessive gene and one day the boys will move out and there will be room to keep things clean. Darn! I will miss them.

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