Tag Archives: humor

List: 2 things that are more terrifying than expected.

23 Jul

Surprisingly Terrifying Thing #1

I would like to know why this even exists.

A few weeks ago I must’ve accidentally switched the ring tone for one of the alarms on my iPhone. I use it as my alarm clock in the mornings, and it generally wakes me with a few gently strummed guitar chords.

This morning, however, it was a harp. That might sound soothing, but when you’ve been up since 4:30 on a Saturday because you couldn’t sleep and you’re all sweaty and overheated from trying to squeeze in a three mile walk in record setting temperatures, trust me: hearing a loud harp coming from the general direction of your bedroom makes you think that either you’re on the brink of nervous collapse, or there’s a cat burglar with an angel obsession entering your condo.

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There’s a moral to this story: Better a crab than an ass.

22 Jul

It’s been hotter than a warlock’s balls this week, and the forecast tells us Saturday will be even worse: 103 without the heat index (120 with it!). Know what that means? I’ll spend a fair portion of the weekend standing in Alan’s pool, reading a book.

Yes, you heard me right. I’ll be standing in the water reading a book. Kind of like how hippos stay in the water with only their eyes and nostrils out when it’s really hot.

The thing is, I’m not the only person that does this. MULTIPLE people who live in Alan’s community do the same thing — in fact, I learned this trick from them. Somehow, it has become “normal” to me in the past year, and I didn’t think anything of it, until Margaret came out the other weekend. (Remember Margaret? The Red Baron?)

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But Percy was so cute — until he started haunting me.

21 Jul

I’m a candyholic. Until about two years ago, I thought it was completely normal for adults to eat at least one package of candy per day. I still think that the pocket-life of a container of TicTacs is approximately 10 minutes, a sleeve of LifeSavers should last 20 minutes, and a bag of Skittles is lucky to see 30 minutes — and that’s only if I’m consciously TRYING to make them last.

I’ve always marveled at people who offer me an Altoid or pull a tube of Certs from their glove box. WHAT?! You walk around with candy reserves on your person? Or in your glove box? How is this even possible? Does not compute!

At least I seem to come by this trait honestly: my dad has a sweet tooth like no other. He finishes dinner (and often lunch) with a cookie or donut — or both. In a car, he will offer you a hard candy from his bulk-sized Ziploc baggie every time he fishes one himself — which is approximately every seven minutes. And at night, while reading, he mindlessly consumes Halls “Vitamin C” drops — which really have nothing to do with vitamins and everything to do with sugar — by the handful.

And the good news is that — with 30+ years on me, Dad has yet to show any signs of diabetes. SWEET. I’m keeping fingers crossed that this is one more lucky draw from the gene pool.

I tell you this merely to explain why, after visiting Alan in London this spring, a suitcase full of British candy came home with me. I could not stop myself in the checkout line at the Marks & Spencer. Fruit Pastilles, Wine Gums, Fruit Sherbets, Jelly Babies, Very Berry Smoothies, Milk Bottles, Midget Gems, Miracle Comfits…

SERIOUSLY?? Does Willy Wonka run this grocery store? And do the British not have the same sensitivity to the word “midget” that we Americans have?

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I think the word for you, ma’am, is “cornhole.”

19 Jul

Actually, ma'am, you might want to rethink how you're handling the corn.

Sunday morning I had just approached the corn table at the farmer’s market when an older woman muscled in next to me with her basket.

I sized up the corn and selected an ear, peeling a small bit of the husk down about half an inch so I could look at the kernels.

“You know, doing that dries it out,” the woman told me.

I had headphones in so I pretended I couldn’t hear her, bagged the ear and did the same thing with another ear.

She started speaking again, only more loudly. “You can get the same result by doing this –” she started working her hands around the ear in a gesture that I’m pretty sure could start a fist fight in New York. Or end your career as a sign language interpreter.

I’m generally polite, and would normally accept someone’s tip with a bashful smile or light apology.  But I grew up in rural Michigan, helping my dad with his sizable garden, making my first $20 selling vegetables (including corn) door-to-door from a Radio Flyer wagon, which I pulled while wearing overalls with a patch that said, “I’m proud to be a farmer.”

So I don’t think I’m going out on a limb when I suggest it unlikely that her corn-handling qualifications match or exceed mine.

Which — along with her rich city person’s Williams Sonoma farmer’s market basket  —  is why her advice immediately rubbed me the wrong way.

So you know what I said?

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I wonder if I’ll ever be this friendly.

18 Jul

"Excuse me. Can I bother you while we wait?"

Standing in line at Trader Joe’s this weekend, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “I don’t have my glasses,” the short older woman behind me said in a Long Island accent. “Can you tell me how much fat and sugar these have in them?” She gestured to a pack of muffins.

I obliged, and she looked horrified when I told her there were 26 grams of sugar in the muffins.

“I guess I’ll have to give them to my husband,” she recovered. I looked at her her plump figure: doubtful.

I would’ve returned to minding my business, but she felt compelled to give me a nutritional lesson. “Anything more than 9 grams of fat or 9 grams of sugar is just off limits. I mean, I think trans fats are bullshit, but otherwise, you just have to stay below nine.”

I nodded, as if I read nutritional labels for kicks, trying to conceal my stack of frozen mini tacos and eggrolls.

She took it in, then looked at me, changing the topic. “Are you going to the pool today?”

As it turns out, I was planning to go to the pool — to Alan’s pool, but still the question threw me. How random? I mean, how many people in DC have a pool to go to?

I said I was, and she responded, “It is pretty tough around 2pm. Just too intense. And the sun damage? Forget about it!”

I told her I wear SPF 70, a hat and sunglasses. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. The damage has already been done. I lived on a beach my whole life and if it weren’t for Botox – Thank God – I’d look like a crow.”

A leather satchel or a dried apple would’ve been a more apt comparison, since I don’t think of crows as looking particularly weathered. I’m guessing she meant some sort of “crow’s feet” reference.

Fortunately, before I could respond (presumably  she was fishing for a compliment or commiseration), one of the cashiers gave me a wave. “Next customer!”

Relieved, I turned to the woman and nodded, pleased at my restraint for resisting the urge to whisper, “caw, caw…” in farewell.

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