Category Archives: Humor

Don’t Tread on Me, Scammers!

Posted in Annoyances, Humor by
Photo Credit: Darwin Bell via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Darwin Bell via Compfight cc

My husband, Jerome, the Great and Good, is mature. When a telemarketer calls, Jerome hangs up, often saying something like, “Sorry, can’t talk now.”

I am not mature. Maybe my toilet training didn’t go right. I have anger, albeit repressed.

Jerome tells me not to engage telemarketers or scammers.

I do not listen to him.

Here’s a recap of the last conversation with someone named Josh (Ha Ha…if you really believe that was his name.)

Part One

Josh (after waiting for me to say Hello three times) speaks: Hello

Me: Your turn.

Josh: Do you have Microsoft Office 365?

Me: Who wants to know?

Josh: There has been a very serious problem with Microsoft Office 365.

Me: Oh no! Oh no!

Josh: Your computer is in terrible danger. You must fix it immediately.

Me: Oh no! Oh my God! What am I going to do? I hope my computer is not going to crash?

Josh: It can crash. I can help you fix it.

Me: Oh Josh, where would I be without you? What do I have to do?

Josh: You need to be at your computer. Are you by your computer now?

Me: Hold on, Josh. I am going upstairs to my computer now. Give me time because I’m old and I’m not really good with the computer.  (climb stairs; breathe loudly) OK, I’m here.

Josh: Is your computer turned on?

Me, (still breathing heavily): Yes. What do I do?

Josh: OK. What does it show on the screen?

Me: Oh, Josh, I really can’t do this now. I have an appointment. Can you give me your number and I will call you back as soon I can.

No: You need to sit in front of your computer now or…

Me: You idiot! Don’t you know that I am recording this and you are going to go to jail! Do you really think I am that stupid? Don’t you think I know this is a scam!

Josh: I…

Me:  You stupid dimwit! You might even be so stupid that you don’t realize that you are breaking the law with this phone call, dumbhead! The man who hired you for this job is using you to break the law, jerk. He’s hurting you, fool! I have recorded every word you said, and you are going to jail, doodyhead.

Josh: Ms….

Me: You stupid scammer. They could take you away for years for this. You, fool, probably don’t even know that you are breaking the law! Idiot! Don’t you know that the man who hired you for this job is using you, moron!

Josh: If…

Me: Shaddup! I’m going to hang up now. I’m surprised you stayed on so long. Usually you scammers hang up on me.

Josh: If…

Me: Enjoy jail. (I hang up.)

Part II: 15 Minutes Later

Jerome, the Great and Good, asks, “Are you happy now?”

I said, “Yes,” but I was lying.

For the remainder of the night, I worried that while I was ranting, Josh and his cohorts were:

  • Tracing my phone to my house and my bank account.
  • Syncing my phone, computer, credit cards and Shoprite  Customer Loyalty Cards.
  • Mapping my comings and goings to Shoprite where I like to buy avocados.
  • Picking and poisoning avocados to put in the gift box they were mailing me.
  • Laughing their pants off at the dumbbell who kept them on the phone.

Addendum: If I live long enough, I do plan to write The Revenge of the Telemarketers…unless some telemarketer with repressed anger or early toilet training issues beats me to it.

How Scared are You Crossing that Bridge? There’s a Scale for That

Posted in High Anxiety, Humor by

If, like me, you’re the type who hates driving over bridges, you can probably relate to the one to ten scale that we, gephyrophobics use to measure our anxiety.

A zero to one self-assessment score means you are calm while driving over the bridge.

How calm are you?

You could be eating a liverwurst sandwich with one hand, holding a nice glass of cabernet sauvignon in the other hand, and a tornado could be swirling around you.

A ten self-assessment score means you are very scared while driving over the bridge.

How scared are you?

You’re in that same tornado, but this time:  your sweaty palms separate from your arms; your head exits your body and catapults straight to Neptune; and you feel like your car’s steering wheel is spinning like that nice little girl’s head in The Exorcist.

And, the liverwurst sandwich you ate last night is break-dancing on your left ventricle!

But one thing, at least for me, is true. I still drive over bridges, and after my Ten comes back down to a Zero, I get this crazy idea to write about the experience and maybe help someone else.

Building Bridges: Fun for Phobics

Posted in High Anxiety, Humor by

Yesterday I drove on my favorite nightmare, The Tappan Zee Bridge. It occurred to me as I was approaching the bridge that there is no net under it.  That’s when my panic attack started. Things that are up high should have nets under them, don’t you think?

Currently, the building of The New NY Bridge is moving ahead. I see all sorts of exciting elements that are going to be included in this New Tappan Zee Bridge, but meanwhile I’m still riding over the Hudson on the old bridge. Nowhere do I see any kind of net, old used mattress, or, even a shore to shore trampoline.  Something must be done. I hope the master bridge builders will do a study on including a net under the New Tappan Zee Bridge.

Driving across the existing Tap, if you’re brave enough to turn your head, you expect to see nothing but sky and seagulls. Not so. There are these grotesque mechanical monsters with flags on their heads, and they are looking down on you. Yikes. They are bridge cranes and they look diabolical. They make me think of Godzilla, a really bad dude who liked to destroy apartment houses, train trestles and bridges.

One day, I found a solution to the Godzilla problem. As I was driving, I pretended I was Fay Wray and the cranes were King Kongs. King Kong loved Fay, and it was a great love story. Maybe if the cranes, grow some fur, I’ll be less fearful. Now, the part about climbing the Empire State Building? Well, maybe only to the second floor.

Are you nervous driving over bridges?

 

 

Ten Reasons Why I Am A Lousy Parker

Posted in Humor by
Photo Credit: Kevin Baird via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Kevin Baird via Compfight cc

I saw this report on the news about a vandal who calls out poor parkers by writing on their cars.

Well, this makes me very angry…so angry that I must speak out.

I am a woman and proud of it. My sex has NOTHING to do with my parking. I am sure some other blogger is just going to write something with the words “…Because she’s a woman,”  in response to this vandal who thinks it is his duty to shame poor parkers.  Ha Ha —Not!

Here are the REAL reasons why I may have parked badly:

  1. The parking space was on the left side of the street.
  2. Am I supposed to use that right mirror for something?
  3. My neck hurts from too much (never mind) and I can’t turn around.
  4. Just as I found a space, I had to wait to back up for this man to let his dog do his business in the spot. Then I had to wait while the man bagged up the stuff.  Then all the other cars lined up behind me, and they honked, and I got nervous.
  5. The guy parked in front of me parked two feet from the curb and I was trying to match him.
  6. I know I have spatial issues from my cooking. When I have to store leftovers soup from a pot, I always pour the soup into the wrong sized storage container. Then my husband laughs at me.
  7. Parking is like dancing….forward back, cha cha cha, forward back cha cha cha. I knew you were going to do the bump and grind dance if I left enough room for you.  So I didn’t.
  8. There was this little man across the street who stopped gardening in his little plot, and he just stood there with his hands on his hips and watched. No matter where I park, I see that guy.
  9. It was 95 degrees, and I was in a hurry to get my groceries into the fridge, especially the ice cream.
  10. A kind man tried to help me by calling out directions, and then he drank something from his paper bag and started talking to a street sign.

A Wimpy Liberal Mother Talks Life with Her Big-Mouthed Conservative Son

Posted in Humor, Life, Uncategorized by
Photo Credit: Yogendra174 via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Yogendra174 via Compfight cc

“Do not publish this; just draft and send to D.”

That’s how I started to write this blog post because I am a wimp. My son, not only thinks I’m a wimp, he is certain I am a wimpy liberal.

I live in New York, where he says, “The rest of the liberals live.”

He lives in Arizona, where I say, “The rest of the conservatives live.”

He says, “Ma,  you believe that whatever goes on in New York, goes on everywhere.”

I say , “Whatever goes on in Arizona is typical of those  what-do-you-call them states?”

He says, “Flyover.”

I say, “Right.”

Then he says, “That’s your problem, Mom; you and all the rest of your ignorant, narcissistic liberals in New York measure the whole world by your own fogged up lenses. “

We were discussing a political question relative to the day’s news….something that was posted on Facebook that my son was totally shocked and offended by.  Because I am a wimp and afraid to put too much out there, I won’t tell you what the issue was or who posted it. Sorry.

I listened to my son. He said, “How can anyone put such a thing on Facebook? It’s totally narcissistic and indicative of the way people in NY feel.

I said, “Believe it or not, I agree with you.”

My son was not letting me off the hook. “Why don’t you write about the real important things in life instead of fear of driving over bridges, peeling onions,  farmers’ markets, piles of excrement on the sidewalk, etc.,” he said. “Then someone will pay attention to you. “

I said, “Because I am an old lady, and I want to have fun with my blog, and I must write about what I know….as evidenced by the categories listed in this blog.”

There is that part of me that says my real book could be based on these conversations between mother and son…… A Wimpy Liberal Mother Talks Life with Her Big Mouthed Conservative Son, but I’m too chicken to write anything…..for now.

 

 

The True Story of Rip Van Winkle, by a Gephyrophobic

Posted in High Anxiety, Humor by
Photo Credit: edenpictures via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: edenpictures via Compfight cc

I have a different view on Washington Irving’s beloved tale, Rip Van Winkle.

As you probably know  Rip Van Winkle takes place in the glorious Hudson River Valley. Rip, leaves his shrewish wife at home and sets out for the mountains. There he meets some new friends, some of them very short. They all drink too much and go bowling. Then Rip falls asleep for twenty years. He wakes up and discovers he has slept through the entire American Revolution. Bummer.

Now ponder this, “How can anyone sleep for twenty years?

I believe Rip must have drunk a helluva lot of booze to sleep that long. Or, he probably ingested a powerful herbal similar to, let’s say Xanax?

“But why,” you ask, “would Rip need such an herbal?”

The answer is, “He needed the powerful herbal because he was having a panic attack.”

“Why was he having a panic attack,” you may ask.

The answer is “Because he wanted to go with his new friends to the other side of the Hudson River where he learned that there was even better food, partying and outdoor activities.

You wonder, “Why couldn’t Rip go with his buddies to the other side of the Hudson?”

The answer is “Because he was afraid to cross the bridge his buddies had built.”

“Why was he afraid,” you ask.

My answer is, “Because the bridge was swaying and Rip had gephyrophobia, a fear of bridges.”  My theory is Rip ran down to the shore every day to try to get the nerve to cross that damn bridge. He’d start out, take a step and turn back. Then, he’d try again the next day. Then he’d chomp on some of his herbal remedies and probably practice some deep breathing.

One day, he took too many herbs, and his new friends got disgusted with him. They left him on his side of the bridge, for twenty years. Also, they stole his gun and his dog.

Today there really is a bridge across the Hudson River called the Rip Van Winkle Bridge.

There are a few other bridges too…like the George Washington Bridge and The Tappan Zee Bridge. I live close to The Tappan Zee Bridge….note the use of the word ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…I think it’s secret code to remember Rip’s snooze.

Somebody must have been snoozing when they built The Tappan Zee Bridge because now they have to build it all over again.

I really feel for Rip Van Winkle and his problems because I am a gephyrophobic too. I do drive to “the other side,” but, I never know when “It” the panic attack is going to hit. When “It” attacks, unlike Rip, I power my way through it and then say, “never again.” But that’s the thing about living in the Hudson River Valley; whether you are on the west side or the east side of the Hudson River, you will need to cross over to the other side at different times in your life. For some of us, that can be a challenge, but we persevere.

No one has more sympathy, empathy, or whatever you call it, for others out there who are afraid of driving over bridges, particularly high ones. As the New Tappan Zee Bridge and other bridges are being built in this great country,  let’s share our stories.

 

 

 

 

Did You Grow Up in an Apartment House?

Posted in Humor, Life by
Photo Credit: wallyg via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: wallyg via Compfight cc

 

Let’s play a game. I am going to say a word, and you say the first thing that that person would say?

OK. Here’s the word…

super

If you said, “Get outta here,” then you are probably a person who grew up in an urban apartment house, like I did. If you are anything like I was, I bet you were always being chased by the super for being in the bike room, laundry room, cellars or just for hanging around in the front of the apartment.

In these days of niche marketing, there’s probably a whole bunch of people, currently living in their own homes in the suburbs, who grew up in urban apartments.  Actually to get the demographics of this group, I started to read a bunch of charts, tables, and graphs. Then I remembered the D I got in college statistics in 1964, (a gift because I was dating a friend of the instructor),   and decided to skip the spreadsheet approach.

Anyway, I don’t need statistics. I am a “grew up in an apartment house” profiler. If you answer “Yes” to these questions, chances are you grew up in an apartment house too.

  1. Do you save quarters in a little jar, just in case you need them for the laundry room?
  2. Now that you live in your own house, do you do laundry in your house at midnight wearing only your underwear?
  3. When you are in a building with an elevator, do you assume a pose of vigilance before the door opens, prepared to kick someone where it hurts?
  4. As a kid, were you able to exit your “building” (an apartment word) by jumping down flights of thirteen steps at a time?
  5. Do you remember your mother or father throwing down money wrapped in a tissue from your third floor apartment when the ice cream man came?
  6. As a kid, were you afraid of some weird guy who used to stay in a little smelly room and be in charge of the garbage? Did you hate to bring the garbage down to the garbage room?
  7. Did you ever steal the wheels off baby carriages in the bike room?
  8. Did you sit on a bench in the laundry room looking at the suds and lint glopping up the drain in the floor?
  9. Did any member of your family get in to a fight with another human over taking the other person’s stuff out of the washer?
  10. Did you ever ring the call bell on the elevator just to make the super crazy?
  11. Did you have a screen door on your third floor apartment door?
  12. Was Halloween trick or treating absolutely the best in an apartment house?

Well, did I out you as a former apartment dweller?

If I did, and you are like me, you will compare every house you have ever lived in with Apartment 33, on the third floor of the B Building.  And, maybe when you have nothing to do, you might just ride over to your old apartment house, and look at it, longingly.

Why You Should Tip Your Hairdresser, Generously.

Posted in Advice, Humor by
Photo Credit: Old Shoe Woman via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Old Shoe Woman via Compfight cc

“I look like my mother,” I said to my hairdresser, Lola, as she was preparing to cut my wet hair.

“All woman say that when their hair is wet,” she said.

“Wow, that’s interesting,” I responded. “You should write a book on women.” The blogger in me kicked in and I asked Lola to share some other things she’s learned from her days of coloring, cutting and blowing.

She thought for a minute, and said, “How about I share what a bunch of us (hairdressers) were talking about when we had a few drinks in us?”

“Great,” I said.

“Well, for starters,” she said, “one time we talked about how we would kill some of our clients. She picked up her scissors.

“Interesting,” I said. Thank God, I didn’t complain when she took me a bit late.

“I thought I might like cutting into someone’s throat,” she said, “just like this! Swish!” I looked in the mirror and saw her pretend swipe across my throat.

“Cute.” I said as I calculated previous tips I had given to Lola. Were they enough?

“Then there’s the flat iron,” she bent my head forward so she could work on the hair on the nape of my neck.”When it’s hot, the flat iron reaches a temperature of 450 degrees.” She put down the scissors and waved the flat iron around. I could see she was definitely warming to her subject.

“Is that the same as a curling iron,” I asked. I remembered the time I forgot to call and cancel my appointment.

“No, the flat iron is definitely the way to go if you want to kill a client.” She really was warming to her subject.

I looked at her array of brushes,scissors and irons on her counter top. I don’t think I ever gave Lola a Christmas present.

Lola finished. I gave her a generous tip, and escaped to my car, happy to be alive.

This Christmas, things would be different.

Why We Need Greeters At The Post Office

Posted in Annoyances, Food: Getting It and Eating It, Humor by
Photo Credit: santheo via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: santheo via Compfight cc

 

Photo Credit: eVo photo via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: eVo photo via Compfight cc

 

 

Some of us get really nervous and confused when we have to choose the right forms to fill out at the post office.  We are post office wimps.

We look at the line of customers waiting to be served. . There are fifteen people ahead of us, and, oh yes, there is one postal worker behind the counter.

We look at the many forms in their neat little stacks on the writing counter adjacent to the people on line.  We ponder, “Golly, which one do I need?”

Then we look up at the signs over the postal worker’s head. These signs are supposed to help us. We study the signs. They do not help us, and we feel stupid.

We look back at the fifteen people on line, and wonder, if they would just let us ask one teeny, tiny question of the nice postal worker behind the counter.

One look at their snarling faces tells us, “Don’t even think of asking a question ahead of us.

So, we wait on the end of the line and start filling out the forms that we think are correct.

Three more people come in to the Post Office and, since we are not finished with our forms, we invite them to get on line ahead of us.

They do. Then they whip out their pens and start filling out their forms on the counter.

Because we are wimps, we say nothing.

We wait on line. Finally, we hear our “Next,” and we advance to the desk.

One form (the green one) is right, but the other one is totally wrong. The post office worker tells us what color to get. Before we leave her window, we whisper, ever so softly, “Can I come right back up to you and not have to stand in line again?”

She didn’t even have to talk. Her look said it all.

We mince right back to the end of the line which now has 17 people on it. We fill out the form and get on the back of the line again.

Overcome with frustration, nerves and the need to eat a half gallon of Haagen Dazs, we walk off the line and out of the post office, get in our car, and drive fifteen minutes to the post office in the next town. We know that there is a 7-11 store in that strip mall, and they sell Rum Raisin.

No one is on line, and the kindly postal worker helps us mail our letter. We go next door and buy a pint of Haagen Dazs Rum Raisin.

So, that’s why we need Greeters at the Post Office. Greeters will help us wimps stay on our diets.

 

Heights and Bridges: Going Over the Edge!

Posted in High Anxiety, Humor by
Photo Credit: churl via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: churl via Compfight cc

Here is a lovely picture of a big, tall, bridge. Now look up at the big blue sky over the bridge.

Do you see a woman’s head floating around in the big blue sky over the bridge?  The head has dyed brown hair, eyeglasses and a mouth, wide open, screaming.

The head belongs to a woman who is having an out-of-body experience.

The rest of her body is driving (sort of) down there, on the highway on the bridge, three lanes north and three south. The woman’s body is driving south and her car is straddling the center and inside lane. Next to her car, in the outside lane, is a huge tanker truck. Way up in the sky, the woman’s head secretly thanks the tanker for blocking her view of the edge of the bridge. Bridges and their edges make her have panic attacks like she’s having now.

The problem with having panic attacks on bridges and going 11 mph while straddling two lanes in a 50 mph zone, is sometimes other drivers get angry. They line up behind the woman’s car and honk or tailgate. Up in the sky, her head sees them banging on their steering wheels in total frustration, and she feels their pain.

Her head tries to will her body to relax. “Breathe.” she commands her faraway body. “Count to ten. Sing! ‘The farmer in the dell. The f–ker in the dell. Hi ho…’” It’s useless. She can’t get enough air to get the words out.

“This will be the day that I die,” she thinks.

Meanwhile down in her body, her sweaty hands clutch the steering wheel. She prays that her hands won’t slip on the steering wheel and send her over the edge of the bridge. “Over the edge! That’s a funny one.” She’s already over the edge! Up in the sky, her floating head enjoys the irony.

At last it’s over. As her car arrives at the end of the bridge and on to solid road, the woman’s head falls from the sky and reconnects with her neck and the rest of her body. She is spent.

“Never again,” she says. “I will never do this again, as long as I live.”

But she lies.  She still drives on bridges, climbs mountain ledges, and rides up the old wooden rickety escalator at Macy’s to the 7th floor Woman’s Department.

So, if you are in some high place, and next to you  is a wacky pear shaped woman, introduce yourself.

You might hear her say, “Hello. My name is Rose, The Nothing Expert, and I am afraid of lots of things that go up.”

“Welcome Rose,” you might say. “You’re among friends.”