Tag Archives: humor

I love bacon, but PETA might recruit me.

12 Sep

More my speed.

Alan has decided he will never fish with me again.

It seems extreme, but I can’t really say I blame him. Not after how I behaved last week.

We were in Michigan, visiting my family. My parents have a cottage on a small lake, and – in accordance with some unwritten Michigan Lake law – a pontoon boat. One night at sunset we decided to grab some fishing poles, some bait, and putter out into the lake to see if we could catch anything.

As a kid, I loved fishing and was generally pretty lucky with what I’d catch. Before our annual trek to visit my grandparents in Alabama, I’d be out in our back garden, digging up worms so I could take down some Real Michigan Nightcrawlers for Papa. He always swore they were bigger than Alabama worms, and I believed him.

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I’ve got your Swiss Cake Rolls right HERE.

9 Sep

With an almost six year age difference between us, my sister and I didn’t have much use for each other when we were growing up. We were kind of like Beezus and Ramona. Fortunately, as adults, through the wonder of modern technology, we’ve discovered that we share the same demented sense of humor.

We often chat each other on Facebook in the evening, discussing scenes or dialogue to include in our screenplay. [Note: we don’t actually have a screenplay, but we’re convinced that if we could just focus, we’d be able to give the Cohen Bros. a run for their money.]

Recently Alicia switched her profile photo to this image of Little Debbie:

So wholesome.

I think the impetus for this was that she had served a box of Swiss Cake Rolls for dinner the night before. (Dinner, not dessert.)

On Facebook chat, the person’s profile photo shows up next to every comment they make, and it was cracking me up to chat with this little farm girl wearing a hat. To enhance the visual exchange, I switched my profile photo to this:

Wholly awesome.

Now whenever we chat, it looks like I’m on brink of punching Little Debbie. Which brings me no end of amusement.

See what I mean:

 <–New profile photo = “Welcome to the gun show. Prepare for some kidney thumping.”

 Little Debbie says, “Eat my Swiss Cake Roll.”

  RR says, “F*ck your Swiss Cake Roll.”

  Now that’s just potty talk there, Miss Rosie.

  Rosie don’t have time for pleasantries.

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Jim Vance is my public speaking secret weapon.

8 Sep

I recently switched jobs at my company so I’m now developing and delivering training for our staff. As the daughter of two teachers and a microphone addict, it’s the perfect job for me.

Today was my first opportunity to deliver new training that I designed, in the form of an hour-long interactive call that was part lecture, part Q&A, part interview and part crazy. I had an audience of about 50 people and ample question prompts, so I was expecting it to be ROCKIN’.

Unfortunately, I’d forgotten about the odd dynamic that happens on group calls. Normally talkative people go quiet. Everyone chooses to mute their line. It’s like pulling teeth to get a simple, “No,” when you ask if anyone has a question.

More than once, I found myself calling, “Beuller? Beuller?”

I could understand the silence if I were a robot-like presenter. But I’d like to think I have contagious energy  a pulse and am hilarious a WEE BIT silly. And yet: crickets.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve facilitated large group calls for more than ten years and it’s always been the same.

When I was younger, I had an awful go-to joke. For whatever reason, whenever I would “share my screen” and allow people to view my computer, I’d feel compelled to make this crack:

Sure hope I remembered to close the porn!

Let’s just agree, while that can be funny, it’s probably not appropriate for work. Ever. And it only sounds creepier when it’s met with silence. As if people think I might surf porn. At work.

Maybe this is why mustaches are gross.

The only thing worse than that I can think of is the word porno. It’s about ten times worse than the word porn, for the same reason that mustaches are somehow inexplicably worse than goatees.

The good thing to come from today’s call was a reminder of why I haven’t yet worked up the nerve to hit Open Mike Night at the local comedy club. While some of my best dreams involve bringing down the house at the Improv, in reality, I think it might go a bit more like a conference call.

This made me realize: it’s always good to have some kind of secret weapon in your pocket. Something that people won’t be able to turn away from, that will weaken them and bring them to tears (preferably from laughter). Even if it has absolutely nothing to do with your presentation.

Once I had this revelation, I knew what my weapon would be: This clip of Jim Vance.

Please take a minute and watch it.

Just be sure you hit *6 first to mute your line.

Once you’ve closed out of any pornos you’re viewing, that is.
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Lesson: Sometimes multitasking makes you look crazy.

7 Sep

Having seen a number of photos of myself lately in which I look like Trudi from Facts of Life, I’ve decided it’s time to get back in some semblance of shape.

Oh, I’m generally pretty active (I walk between 20-25 miles and hit yoga 3-4 times per week), but I eat like crap. There’s just too much food that I enjoy, so rather than diet, my solution has always been to compensate with activity.

Except recently, I haven’t. I’ve been on the road for work (with more of the same in the near future), and I’ve been content skipping the hotel gyms and leaving my sneakers at home. Hence why you might call me Trudi.

So yesterday I went to the lap pool for the first time since the beginning of summer. In addition to burning calories, I find swimming therapeutic. It’s a good way to clear my brain when I’m feeling like I’ve lost the battle for work/life balance.

The problem with being an awesome multitasker, however, is that even as I swam my therapeutic laps, I was planning my to-do list and mentally preparing for conference calls. Not exactly “clearing my brain.”

Recognizing that my default setting is ACTIVE, I decided to channel my multitasking urge toward meditation, since I’ve been meaning to try that anyway. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not good at sitting still and meditating. But there are moving meditations where you meditate on a specific mantra while you’re doing something. That struck me as more my speed.

So as I swam freestyle down the length of the pool, I thought, “I’m balanced. I’m balanced. I’m balanced.” And on my return length of breaststroke, I thought, “I’m grateful. I’m grateful. I’m grateful.” (There is no correlation between the stroke and the mantra, for the record.)

The first challenge with this plan was finding a way to continue counting my laps. I usually do a mile, which is 70 laps. I keep track by repeating the number of the lap I’m on the entire time I’m swimming it.

So this turned my thought pattern into, “Four. Four. I’m balanced. Four. I’m balanced. Four. Four. I’m balanced…”

And then I decided that swimming laps and chanting “I’m balanced!” with numbers spliced into the mix sounded less like meditation and more like a crazy person trying to convince herself that she’s sane.

Which is probably somewhat accurate, since I’m pretty sure the point of meditation is to have a sole focus, NOT accomplish it while doing something else. Which probably means I’m not cut out for meditation. Which then led me to think about what a crazy swimmer would actually look like. And I decided it would look like THIS.

Which is exactly how I plan to swim all my laps in the future. Multi-tasking at its finest.

[LATER: Alan just pointed out that the fat character in Facts of Life was actually Natalie. And that there isn’t even a character named Trudi. It was Tootie. Because she had gas? Apparently the real moral of this post is this: Kids who are only allowed 30 minutes of television — PBS at that — each day, grow up lacking cultural reference points. No wonder I can’t focus. Television didn’t numb my brain. THANK YOU, Mom and Dad. Even if I don’t know Tootie from Natalie from Fruit Loops. Whatever.] 

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What’s not to like about a road trip? Other than me.

6 Sep

It’s 10pm on Labor Day, and after 10.5 hours in the car (for what should’ve been an 8 hour trip), I’m simultaneously exhausted and and too charged up to turn my light off. So in an attempt to tire myself, I’ll subject you to random snippets and observations inspired by today’s roadtrip.

First, Ohio. Can anyone give me a reason to not despise northern Ohio other than Cedar Point? That stretch of the toll road from Youngstown to Toledo is about as flat and boring as the Olson twins’ chests. To add injury to insult, the police in Ohio set up speed traps the entire length of the toll road. I think they should COMMEND you for speeding, because it means you’re somehow managing to stay awake.

Second, damn you, restaurants that decided to close for Labor Day. It’s a holiday celebrating WORK, people. Keep those establishments open!

And as for those restaurants that were open (I’m talking to YOU, Arby’s in Somerset)… if your menu advertises loaded baked potatoes, I urge you to keep potatoes in stock. Or was there an unexpected holiday run on potatoes before we got there?

Actually, I’ll answer that question. I think the answer is NO. I think you don’t ever stock potatoes, or the teen cashier would’ve been able to answer my question (Do you use cheese SAUCE or shredded cheddar on your potatoes?) if he had ever seen one actually cross the counter.

Yes, it does matter if it’s sauce or shredded cheddar. I refused to eat cheese sauce. (Yes, that means I won’t eat movie theatre nachos either.) Or cheese whiz. Vomit. Moving on…

Hey Ohio! I’m not done picking on you yet. Is your unemployment rate miraculously low? I ask because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen DC homeless people with more hustle and mental acuity than the woman working the register at the service plaza just before the PA border.

Not only was she slow, but after waiting an eternity behind someone buying lotto tickets to get one soda rung up, just as we got to the register, she held up her finger and told us to “Hold, please.” She then proceeded to make a phone call. A long phone call.

Actually, for all I know, she’s still on that call. And our soda is still sitting on the counter, right where we left it when we walked away and completed the transaction at a vending machine, while watching her. And you wonder why you’re being replaced by machines?

Enough about her. Back to me. I am convinced that I have it in me to write an awesome musical. Not only can I create a song for any occasion (Greatest hits include, “There better be a bathroom in the next five miles!” and “I can’t see jack because of this rain.”), but I’m really skilled at rewriting pop songs with improved lyrics. Alan claims I just got lucky with some of my rhyme schemes, but I recognize jealousy when I see it. Sorry Alan, not everyone has The Gift.

Another gift I have? Word games. And I don’t even need a partner. I can play Solitaire with words, as Alan realized today when he refused to humor my version of a game I call, “Can You Smell What the Rock Is Cooking?” It starts when I’m looking for agreement on something, and this is a sample:

Me: How about we stop here? Can you smell what the Rock is cooking?
Alan: Nods.
Me: Huh? Are you buying what I’m selling?
Alan: Uh huh. 
Me: Are you composting what I’m discarding?
Alan starts to ignore me. 
Me: Are you fertilizing what I’m planting?
Me: Are you smelling what I’m wafting? 
Alan: That’s gross.
Me: Huh?
Alan: I don’t like it when you say wafting. 
Me: Fine. Are you snorting what I’m milking? 
Alan: OK! I will stop here. Will you please stop this game? 
Me: Only if you admit that you’re smelling what I’m wafting. 
Alan: No.
Me: OK. Then I hope that you’re at least shucking what I’m picking? 
 

Speaking of entertainment, I love NPR, but would like to know how they manage to coordinate it so that the only show airing at any given time is Fresh Air with Terry Gross. The first time we heard the interview with the retired Hollywood stunt man, it was amusing. The sixth time? Not so much.

And finally, after about eight hours in a car, I noticed that I smelled like peanuts. That was especially odd, because we didn’t have any nuts in the car. [Insert immature joke here. And cue up the song “Roxanne,” but substitute, “NOOOO Nuts! We don’t got no nuts in here…” for the lyrics.]

Are you shelling what I’m smelling?

And now we’ve got ourselves a roadtrip! 

Get it? This IS a rock cooking. And I bet you CAN smell it. I mean, it's fish.

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