Category Archives: humor

Maybe Next Time with Peas

People share all kinds of good advice on Facebook lately. Decorating ideas, recipes, security concerns… and some health suggestions.

My cousin posted a rather silly looking picture of a girl sitting crouched over on the edge of her bathroom sink. To cure a headache, the caption said, sit with your hands and feet in warm/hot water and put a bag of frozen peas on the back of your neck. It went on to explain how this worked, but I don’t read all these things any more than I pay attention to all the plot points on cheesy horror movies.

My first thought, which I immediately posted as a comment, was that I could never do this as there are never frozen peas in my house. I hate cooked peas, always have. I like to eat raw peas straight out of the pod, I add for the sake of pea lovers who might be inclined to cut my acquaintance. My sister suggested I purchase one bag of frozen peas for just such a purpose. I thought this not a bad suggestion, as I would be disinclined to cook and eat any vegetable that had spent an appreciable amount of time on the back of my head.

Of course I did no such thing.

However, suffering from yet another headache this afternoon, I thought I would try the technique, as best as I could. I did not sit on the edge of my bathroom sink. For one thing, I’m far too lazy to clear it off for such a purpose. For another, I really do not need to know whether my fat ass will or will not crack marble (I’m hoping not, but why put it to the test?) (oh, I know, back on the South Beach Diet for me). I sat on the edge of my tub. A frozen gel pack substituted for the peas. Nobody took a picture for Facebook and other embarrassing purposes, so if anybody had their hopes up, sorry.

And I am sorry to report: it did not work for me. Maybe I had the wrong kind of headache.

On the brighter side, I thought it would make an acceptable blog post for a Non-Sequitur Thursday. Hmmm… I guess nothing particularly non-sequiturish about it, but it will have to do. I hope to see you (figuratively speaking, of course) on Lame Post Friday.

Something with a Vampire

In my continuing quest to find cheesy horror movies to write about, I turned once again to Steven’s DVD boxes set of 50 Horror Classics, purchased for him by me out of a discount bin.

Spoiler Alert! Although I will try to avoid mentioning the big reveal. It is a big one. In fact, already I’ve said too much.

As I sit here writing this, I suddenly realize I am not 100 percent clear on what the title is. Something with a vampire. The Vampire Bat? Or was that the one I saw with Vincent Price and Agnes Moorehead? So many vampires, so little time. I know I can look up these things before I type this into the computer, but I thought it said a little something about the movie that I could not recall the title. Or about me. In either case, I found it of interest.

The vampire killings start before the first scene of the movie. We open on a meeting of important men of the village discussing the murders. It’s vampires, insists the burgermeister (and any time there is a burgermeister in one of these movies, how many flash onto Santa Claus is Coming to Town and Burgermeister Meisterburger? Raise your hands).

There are no vampires, insists the sheriff or marshal or whatever he is. He is dressed like a plainclothes detective and is apparently the only cop the place has. At least, I don’t remember seeing any other cops. Probably a low budget production.

Our hero states that he will seek out a human murderer and goes to visit his girlfriend, conveniently located in the next room. I wasn’t clear on the geography of this movie, but that’s what it looked like to me. Oh, and he has to go down some steps, which seems appropriate, because it looks like a mad scientist’s laboratory. It belongs to the village doctor. Fay Wray is his assistant.

My girl Fay does not get to crack wise, like she did in Mystery of the Wax Museum nor yet to scream her head off as she did in King Kong. I was naturally disappointed. Also on hand is Fay’s aunt, a hypochondriac who is constantly after the doctor to prescribe for her, using some impressive if malaproppriate medical terms (I just made up that word malapropriate: malapropism + appropriate). She was my favorite character, especially since they let Fay be so boring.

The other character of note is a half-wit who says bats are good, making him an object of suspicion to the villagers. You can tell he is a half-wit, because he speaks of himself in the third person. He likes to catch bats and pet them and put them in his pocket. Is anybody else reminded of Lenny in Of Mice and Men? Our half-wit does not fare a whole lot better.

Things get suspenseful, even given poor Fay’s lamentably underscripted character. I don’t really want to say too much, because I was intrigued and a little surprised by how things unfolded. A little confused, too, because Fay’s part was not the only thing underscripted.

On the whole, I enjoyed the movie. But now I want to view Mystery of the Wax Museum again. So I can watch Fay Wray crack wise.

Note: It is The Vampire Bat, 1933. The one with Vincent Price and Agnes Moorehead is The Bat, 1959. I wrote a blog post about it.

At Least I Have Clean Socks

I was going to put “Underwear” instead of “Socks,” but felt certain some wise ass would say, “TMI!” my most loathed and abhorred thing to hear (except, possibly for “We have to talk”) (and now I’ve given myself the heebie-jeebies, just thinking of those two things).

My computer is telling me “heebie-jeebies” is misspelled, but the dictionary says it is correct (I was going to put that in the above paragraph in parentheses, but feared having too many parenthetical comments) (oops).

Where was I? Ah yes, another post on Why I Can’t Write a Post. In today’s case it is another Blogger’s Sick Day, though, because I have a dreadful headache. I will take time to share two things that made the end of my day a little bit brighter.

As you may have guessed by the headline, we did laundry. And we didn’t plan ahead enough to have something in the crock pot waiting for us when we got home. And we didn’t have our act together enough to order something for pick up on the way home. And I was hungry enough to get irritated (oh, all right, I’ll admit it doesn’t take much) (there I go with the parentheses again).

Enter my wonderful husband, Steven. I was going to grudgingly accept the idea of sandwiches when he suggested taking some good rye bread we happen to have and some deli ham and cheese and making grilled sandwiches. How good did that sound! Yummy! How does such a little thing as some time on a frying pan transform pedestrian, blah, at-least-its-food into a tasty treat suitable for blog mention? I don’t know, and it’s not the day for half-baked philosophy, so let’s just enjoy. I did.

I went to check my Facebook notifications before making my blog post and discovered… I won a Croghan Bologna contest! I LOVE Croghan Bologna! I’ve been scheming how to talk Steven into a road trip to or through Croghan, NY to get me some. I know it will make a great blog post.

So my headache is still with me, but my day is brighter. And perhaps by tomorrow my blog will be more interesting. As always, I hope you’ll stay tuned.

Me and the Angels

I believe in angels, but I do not believe in Facebook posts. Yes, half-baked philosophy is once again creeping onto days other than Lame Post Friday. What’s a blogger to do?

Earlier today, Steven and I took our schnoodle Tabby for a walk. As we approached home, we discussed our agenda for the rest of the day. I added, “Unless somebody was to call us up and say, ‘Oh, come here and do this!'” We both remarked that really nobody does that to us any more, we reminisced about a couple of times it had happened and was fun, then we were home.

Steven got on Facebook and shared one of those pre-printed things about angels seeing us struggling with something and they were about to make something good happen to us. If we re-posted it. Or something like that.

And then the phone rang. It was my sister asking did Steven and I want to meet her and two of her daughters at Fly Creek Cider Mill. Steven thought it was a great idea. So did I! We made the date.

Steven got back on Facebook and shared a picture of Fly Creek Cider Mill and the story of posting the angel thing and then getting a fun invitation. Could there, in fact, have been a connection? Who cares! We had a fun afternoon! I can probably get two or three blog posts out of it as the week wears on.

But today, I felt like writing about the angels.

Could my sister actually be one of them? Discuss amongst yourselves.

Me vs. the Yard

Anybody who is anxiously awaiting the return of Saturday Running Commentary (I am), keep waiting. It’ll get here. This week, I went to Curves and exercised instead. When I got home, I thought I wouldn’t waste the sweat but do some work in the yard.

Lots of stuff has been growing up around the garage, none of it pretty. Oh, we had some pretty things there earlier this year. Some lovely irises, some pink flowers whose name I never knew, some chives and parsley (maybe not exactly pretty, but yum).

Now it is overgrown with weeds, and some of them are getting quite tall and unsightly. I like to blame the inordinate amount of rain earlier this summer rather than my lack of diligence at weeding, but really, does pointing fingers get us anywhere in this situation? In fact, you don’t even need to point your fingers at the weeds I ought to be pulling up. I can see them perfectly well.

I started in back of the garage. Yikes! I rarely see in back of the garage. I like to sit on my deck, where that part is nicely hidden. Today I was confronted with a huge bush/tree/something. It comprised several different plants, I think, some of them with some nasty stickers. I was armed with gardening gloves and clippers. I strode bravely into the fray.

And was soon saying, “Ow! Ow! Dammit!” Those gardening gloves are not exactly impenetrable. And they only cover up to my wrists. It is not long sleeve weather. I did not get very far on what I now think of as the Monster of the Back Yard. For one thing, the sun had moved around and you know how sensitive I am about direct sunlight (at least, I suppose new readers, if any, don’t know, but I am).

I moved to the side of the garage, the unsightly part we see when we are sitting on the deck. The worst of the weeds were among the irises. Now done blooming, and even the greenery didn’t look too healthy. I figured it would be OK to cut or pull the green stuff as long as I left the bulbs in the ground. After much huffing and puffing, I accomplished it. I left the most of the greenery from the unknown pink flowers. It still looked pretty good, and I managed to get most of the weeds around it.

Moving on up, I came to a place where last fall Steven had planted some flowers from my container garden on the deck. We thought we’d see what happened, not being clear on if they were annuals or perennials. Some stuff had grown. It had not bloomed, so I had begun to suspect that they were not flowers. I began to pull them up as ruthlessly as I could manage (not being a particularly ruthless person).

And noticed a pleasing aroma, even penetrating my screwy sinuses. I sniffed closer. Why, yes, that was mint! I forgot I had put some mint there. The ground had been hard, it hadn’t been such a much when I planted it, well, I’ll be a ding dong daddy, as my grandmother used to say. They say mint will take over your yard. I say, have at it! I plucked some mint and brought it inside. Later I will make some mint tea. Aaaahhhh!

And that is my gardening story for the day.

Wrist to Lame Forehead

Today at work, I had my whole blog post written in my head. Well, most of it. I figured I’d come up with a few other sentences once I started writing. Then I went on break, I opened my notebook, and… nothing.

I bet you knew that was going to happen. I can just hear one of those smug artsy fartsy types saying, “Of COURSE nothing happened! You can’t write something in your head before you sit down to write it. You have to be SPONTANEOUS!” Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sometimes thinking about something before I write it works very well.

But speaking of being spontaneous, I hadn’t planned to write anything like that second paragraph. I had rather hoped I could segue back into what I had written in my head this morning (I think it’s still there). I am dreadfully sorry to be doing yet another post about Why I Can’t Write a Post, but here it is.

Still, on Lame Post Friday, there are worse things to write a post about. I’m going to count that as half-baked philosophy (regular readers will remember that Lame Post Friday is for random observations and half-baked philosophy) (they will also remember that I feel I have to say that almost every time).

What is this, Wrist to Forehead Friday? Say it ain’t so!

I had meant, as a matter of fact, to write a pedestrian post full of random observations made on the walk Tabby and I took last night. Unfortunately I did not observe much. Mostly I observed the sky looking more and more threatening till it finally rained on us. Oh, and I observed the bag I was carrying blow around like a wrinkly, misshapen balloon. I thought it looked a little foolish, but nobody will ever ding you for carrying around a plastic bag when you are walking a dog, however much it fills with air and whips around.

Ooh, look, over 300 words. Now to come up with a dramatic conclusion that brings all this nonsense together, so I can feel like a real writer. Then again, maybe I will just have to feel like something else tonight.

At least I’m not one of those artsy-fartsy types.

What? No Peter Cushing?

Spoiler Alert! I’m actually not going to give a lot away, especially not the ending, because I had stopped paying much attention by that time. In my defense, it was Saturday night and way past my usual bed time.

I DVR’d Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb (1964) with high hopes, thinking it must be the sequel to The Mummy, which I enjoyed recently. As I learned from Ben Mankiewicz’s pre-movie commentary, it is the second of four Mummy movies made by Hammer Studios (I referred to them as Hammer Films in my post on The Mummy, but I specifically noticed Mankiewicz said Hammer Films this time) (in the interests of accuracy). The movie was directed by the son of the guy that owned Hammer at the time. I suppose that would explain it.

My first disappointment was that neither Peter Cushing nor Christopher Lee were in the movie. I like Lee better as Dracula than as the Mummy anyways, but I felt Cushing was a real loss. Still, I thought I would try to enjoy it. A Hammer Studios monster movie must be worth a watch, right?

The movie opens with some guy tied by his hands to two stakes in the desert, guarded by an Arab-looking guy (1960s Hollywood version) (but I didn’t need to tell you that). A group of nomad-looking guys ride up on horses. Without a word, one of them kills the guy and chops his hand off. This gives everyone a good laugh (except, of course, the dead guy), and they ride off with the severed hand.

Cut to a luxurious tent, apparently the living quarters of the archaeologists excavating the tomb. A guy is pouring a French lady another drink. She flirtatiously asks is he trying to get her drunk. He says he will try to do so when they return to London (another spoiler: he doesn’t), and she coquettes that she will let him. It must be pretty dry out there, even for a desert, because I didn’t think he was such a much.

It turns out the dead guy of the previous scene is her father. She flees in tears.

“Let her go,” somebody says wisely to the boyfriend. People are always saying that in movies. I don’t know if they do in real life, because I am usually the one fleeing in tears, or at least I was in my dramatic adolescent past (although in my case, I sadly suspect it was more of a collective, “Thank God she’s gone!”) (but I digress). I think in the case of this movie, the movie makers wanted French Lady to be alone when she discovers in her bed (I did include a spoiler alert, didn’t I?) the severed hand (oh, you probably saw that coming; I did).

Another dramatic shock happens when they discover a dead body amongst the artifacts they are taking back to England. I got a good laugh over that, because, well, the body looked a little comical. Meaning no disrespect to the fictional dead.

Speaking of good laughs, Steven and I both cracked up when… I can’t remember who said what, but suddenly everyone froze in a dramatic pause and looked at… the sarcophagus. Which looked a little like Tutankhamen with a pig nose.

Soon they’re on a boat headed back to England. A couple more dramatic things happen, including the introduction of a mysterious, handsome stranger. He beats up a would-be assassin and tosses him overboard. That seemed a little careless to me. Wouldn’t you, for example, like to ask the guy who he works for?

Things get a good deal less exciting in London. French Lady starts playing Old Boyfriend against Handsome Stranger, but that isn’t very compelling, because Old Boyfriend doesn’t get very jealous. We find out, via dialogue, not demonstration, that French Lady is a rather brilliant Egyptologist, having studied hard to earn her father’s love (remember him? She doesn’t seem to). It seems Old Boyfriend wants her for her brain. What an insult! It is so refreshing that Handsome Stranger understands she wants a home and to stay in it. Well, this is before the feminist ’70s (no, I am not going to entertain a discussion on family vs. career; this is not that kind of a blog).

Where was I? Ah yes, losing track of the movie. It’s not what you call fast-paced and action-packed. And I don’t remember the ending. Something happens in a sewer after we find out a BIG secret about Handsome Stranger. So if this movie pops up again on TCM, I may try to watch it till the end. I may even write another blog post about it.

On the Streets of Ilion

Yesterday I mentioned running errands as part of the reason I was too beat to blog (ooh, that would be a good title for my next Wuss-out Wednesday) (I bet I already used it). Today (Wednesday) I thought I would wuss out with a short post about What I Did After Work Yesterday.

First I had to leave work late. Not because I was working, but because of Ilion traffic. You see, there is a factory in the middle of the village whose largest shift lets out at 3:30 p.m. Monday through Friday. I might work there, but this is not a work blog. My point is, there are certain directions it is not easy to drive in Ilion, NY between 3:30 and four p.m.

Actually, things let up somewhat by 3:45, so I was OK. I drove to the Salvation Army Thrift Store (also known as Salvation Armani; I love that expression) with little or no difficulty. I dropped off my donation, also with little or no difficulty. Then I drove back into downtown Ilion.

A little difficulty.

Nothing too bad, but Ilion is kind of weirdly laid out. No offense, Ilion. I grew up in Rome, NY, which I always considered kind of screwy. In Rome none of the streets are quite parallel with the result that many of them do not come out where you expect. In addition, Rome boasts many one way streets, most of them inconveniently located, as far as I’m concerned. So I always thought, growing up in Rome, other towns could hold no terrors for me.

Turns out, not so much. Um, I was not filled with terror; that’s just an expression.

I drove around and up Otsego Street to Kinney Drugs. Kind of a screwy parking lot (no offense, Kinney Drugs), but I managed it. Then I had to figure out how to get to Rite Aid (it was a drug store kind of day). There is a whole complex of stores, doctor offices and other businesses that I have yet to fully figure out. I drove around it.

I guess it didn’t make that good of a story after all (I know I don’t need “of” there, but I kind of like the sound of it). Perhaps if I would have found a street map of Ilion and really explained my course. That would hardly have been wussing out, and it is Wuss-out Wednesday. Hope to see you on Non-Sequitur Thursday (when Rocky the Squirrel says, “Again? But that trick never works!”) (and whoever gets that reference, I’m pretty sure they would only have said “Rocky says,” so, sorry, but I wanted to make sure SOMEBODY got it).

200 Words??? (This Post Is Longer)

OK, so instead of writing a blog post at work today, I wrote a letter to the editor of the Utica OD (and worked on my novel; never neglect that). I thought, no problem, I would write something when I got home, possibly about the errands I intended to run on the way home. Well, those errands took a while. Then I had to type the letter into the computer. THEN I had to edit it down to 200 words.

200 words? Yikes! I typed it into my wordpress page, because that’s the only way I know how to count the words (does gmail do that sort of thing?). I just barely managed it, with the help of a couple of contractions, which I do not usually use when I am writing (as you see). All I have energy for now is to type these two measly paragraphs and submit the letter as today’s post (the other difficult thing about the letter was I did not include ANY parenthetical comments).

Loretta LaRoche’s recent opinion piece decries the self-help industry and praises common sense. It’s true, some how-to books are silly, and common sense often seems in short supply. However, common sense will only get you so far.

For example, when I was overweight, common sense told me to change my eating habits and exercise more. However, until I read a book on the South Beach Diet, I couldn’t find a system of healthy eating that I could follow. I didn’t read any books on exercise, but I sought advice when needed.

As LaRoche says, we cannot be happy all the time. However, should we be miserable most of the time? A self-help book can help someone recognize destructive thought patterns and behaviors.

Some say, “We didn’t need all this crap in the old days, because people just sucked it up.” While stoicism and endurance are good qualities, I ask, why should we not try to improve our lives?

Some people do not need or want help. Either their common sense tells them everything they want to know or they find satisfaction in their ability to suck it up. Some of us can benefit from a little help.

Not Easy Being Me

I believe I have observed before, the trouble with these “easy on myself” posts such as Lame Post Friday and Middle-aged Musings Monday (why, yes, that is today) is that I still have to write them.

I enjoy this blogging hobby, I really do. It is not burdensome to sit on my break at work and write a blog post. In fact, I did that today. Only I didn’t finish it. It is about the cheesy movie I may have alluded to yesterday (why, yes, that was Wrist to Forehead Sunday, another “easy on myself” day).

I put “easy on myself” in quotes, because quite often I find that it is not easy. The really annoying thing is, it’s not much good either. I mean, if something is difficult and not much fun, shouldn’t there be some reward? You know, like if I eat carrot sticks instead of french fries, I could lose weight (anybody out there saying in an annoying tone of voice, “I LIKE carrot sticks,” you can have mine). If I go to work, I will get a paycheck (and anybody out there who LOVES their job, I bet you don’t love it ALL the time). If I must make an effort to write, it will be good (given that “good” is a subjective term) (sorry, had to put in another parenthetical comment to be symmetrical).

I find, not so much.

Sometimes the posts I grunt out one word at a time read exactly as if I grunted. Them. Out. One. Word. At. A. Time. (and if you think it’s not annoying to type like that, try it). On the other hand, this is not a hard and fast rule. Sometimes I am glad I took the effort. Sometimes some of the things that roll off my pen in a delightful haze of I-love-to-write are… not so delightful as I thought they were.

It sounds as if I am gearing up to some half-baked philosophy about there are no guarantees. Or maybe I can only do the best I can do. Or better luck next time.

Save the half-baked philosophy for Lame Post Friday. For today, my Middle-aged Musing is: it is not always easy to write. But I sure love to do it.