Happy Birthday to Our Grandtwins!

Happy 16th birthday to our darling granddaughters!

They can now learn to drive. Yea! Oh! Wait....

Don't Get Me Started

I told Sar of Belle of the Brawl not to get me started on public restrooms, but she did anyway. Why the hell do they call them REST rooms? They aren't restful at all!

You know when you have to visit a public women's restroom, you usually find a line of ladies, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, and you actually get inside the darn door to the place, you check for feet under the stall doors. Yep. Every stall is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. WTF? It doesn't matter. You gotta go.

The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mama,no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there were one, but there isn't - so you carefully but quickly drape it around your darn neck, (My Mama would turn over in her grave if I put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance." If you're female, you know the drill.

In this position our aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mama's voice saying, "Well, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more. That Mama. The older I get, the smarter my Mama seems.

You remember the tiny Kleenex that you blew your nose on yesterday -the one that's still in your purse. That will have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. Someone whose Mama didn't teach them to check for feet under the door. Those unfit Mamas. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping that precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down plop onto the dreaded TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course. Those other women!

You shoot straight up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

Mama would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, I'm positive, absolutely certain, that her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, "You can catch all kinds of horrible, ugly, disgusting diseases from a public toilet." (Mama always screwed up her face real good when she said this.)

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At that point, you give up. What's the point of pretending?

You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, or probably they're broken, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel, if there are any towels. Which there probably aren't. Sometimes there's a drinking fountain outside that you can wet your hands on.

As you leave the facility, a kind soul at the end of the line waiting to use the bathroom tells you that you have a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??)

You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it the woman's hand and tell her sweetly, "Here, you just might need this." No one tells you that you purse looks nice hanging around your neck like that but finally you notice it as you're walking around feeling dirty.

See guys? This is why women go to the bathroom in pairs.

It's so you have a friend to hold the damn door that won't lock, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door.

Happy Birthday America

Not perfect, but a work in progress.

Rabbit Rabbit ...It's July

Rabbit rabbit! It's July 1 already! Amazing.

The rabbits in these parts have needed umbrellas, but it has finally stopped raining. Best of all, they have canceled the "boil water" directive.

Happy first of July to you all.

Bad jokes

Radio Question of the Day:
77% of single men go a month or more without doing this. What is it?


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Didcha see the movie A Prairie Home Companion? Do you listen to A Prairie Home Companion on PBS Radio? I love it. If you don’t listen to the radio show, then I’m afraid the movie probably isn’t for you—it might not make any sense to you. But if you like the radio show, you’ll like the movie.

It’s got everybody in it: Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin, Kevin Kline, Woody Harrelson, John C. Reilly, Tommy Lee Jones, Lindsay Lohan, and of course Garrison Keillor. Maya Rudolph and Virginia Madsen are also in it and they are very good. I’d never heard of either of them before.

Harrelson and Reilly steal the show as far as I’m concerned. Normally I’m not a Woody Harrelson fan, but he’s just right in this. John C. Reilly is a favorite of mine.

I especially liked their singing the song, “Bad Jokes.”
They sing: “Bad jokes, lord I love’em,
bad jokes, caint get enough of’em,
oooh ooh woo wee, Bad Jokes for me....”
Then they tell a corny joke and sing some more, puttin’ in corny, mostly off-color jokes as they go.

Jokes like:

“The blind man’s seein’-eye dog pissed on the blind man’s shoe.
The blind man said, ‘Here Rover, here’s a piece of beef for you.’
His wife said, ‘Don’t reward him, you can’t just let that pass,’
The blind man said, ‘I gotta find his mouth
so I can kick him in the ass.’”

Stupid, corny jokes. Bad jokes. Apparently, I can’t get enough of’em.

This one sure fits the bill:

One day, Jimmy Joe was walking down Main Street when he saw his best friend Bubba driving a brand new pickup truck.

Bubba pulled up to him with a wide grin as Jimmy Joe asked, "Bubba, where'd you get that new truck?!?"
Bubba answered, "My gal Bobby Sue gave it to me for a graduation present!"
Jimmy Joe replied, "I knew she was kinda sweet on you, but a new truck for graduation?!"
Bubba answered, "Well, Jimmy Joe, let me tell you what happened. Graduation night we were driving out on County Road 6, in the middle of nowhere. Bobby Sue pulled off the road, put the truck in 4-wheel drive and headed into the woods. She parked the truck, got out, threw off all of her clothes and said,
'Bubba, it's our graduation night! Take whatever you want!' So I took the truck!"
Jimmy Joe said, "Bubba, you're one smart man! Bobby Sue's clothes never would have fit you!" That Jimmy Joe.
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Answer to the Radio Question of the Day:

Cleaning the bathroom.

Oh? And single men differ in this respect from married men, how?

Real Men

Radio Question of the Day:

65% of fathers refuse to allow their children to touch this. What is it?
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This morning on the radio I learned that the metrosexual is OUT. Those guys. OUT. Real men are back "in." Well! Doesn’t that just frost your cookie?

I looked up the real, official definition of metrosexual. Here it is.
Metrosexual (met.roh.SEK.shoo.ul) n. An urban male with a strong aesthetic sense who spends a great deal of time and money on his appearance and lifestyle.

That’s as opposed to a real man, who spends his time and money being all stressed out with no one to choke.

Hollywood is full of the metrosexual guys. So now, they’re not going to eat quiche or wear salmon-colored dress shirts? They won’t be getting pedicures and manicures and strut their stuff like peacocks? They’ll stop getting their hair highlighted and going to tanning salons? Do I believe that?

A metro-man is a straight guy who uses at least three different hair products, loves clothes and shopping for them. He’s romantic and sensitive. The kinda guy that makes you wonder, “Is he gay, or is he just British?” He’s got money to spend and he prefers to live in a big city. Duh. That’s where all the best shops are. Plus gyms and good hairdressers. Someone said that a metrosexual is a clotheshorse wrapped around a dandy fused with a narcissist.

I don’t want to be too judgmental ‘cause I don’t actually know a metrosexual. I wouldn’t mind if my husband gave up some of his 23-year-old shirts. Lots of men are in a time warp as far as clothes are concerned. But I’m glad he doesn’t use makeup and do stuff like that.

But now “real men” are back! Is this a good thing? If it means that baseball players will wear fewer necklaces, I’m all for it.

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Answer to the Radio Question of the Day:

The thermostat.
It takes a real man to take control of the thermostat. And the remote control. Oh. Wait. That’s all men. You guys.

Overeating

Radio Question of the Day:

According to a popular men's magazine, the average man will do this only six times this year... What is it?

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At my house we seem to use any and every "holiday" as an excuse to overeat. Take Father's Day for example. We overate. We also overfed everyone else who would let us. That TLP. Food pusher.

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Answer to the Radio Question of the Day:

Go to the movies. My husband Niks is far above average.

Cards

Radio Question of the Day:

83% of women in Oklahoma say they can't live without this... What is it?

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Didcha listen to “All Things Considered” on PBS tonight? They did a good story on Shoebox Greeting cards.

Cards that say things like, "You should call your mom on your birthday and have a nice long conversation about your life. Hurry up now, your birthday's not going to ruin itself."

And, “You'll always be my Dad. That's one thing the casinos can’t take away from me.”

I like this one: “Give a dad a fish and he will eat it. Teach a dad to fish and he will drink beer on the dock.”

Here's some samples of stuff that's funny, but not going to make the cut into a greeting card for sale:


and



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Answer to the Radio Question of the day:

Hair Spray.
Nationwide only 31 percent say they need hair spray. Guess it’s a big-hair thing. Those gals.

Good Times

Radio Question of the Day:

27% of women say they'd rather get their wisdom teeth pulled than do this... What is it?
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Talkin’ about questions, this *guy at my church asked some interesting questions recently. Questions like, “These gay immigrants who come here illegally to get abortions. Will a constitutional amendment prevent them from burning the flag?”

Also, “What is a gay marriage band? Why do you need a special band for a gay marriage? Is it a klezmer band? Is it a salsa band?” I told him I think it’s just a band that plays all happy tunes. You know, no sad love songs for a gay wedding.

But he thinks that maybe the reason that gay marriage is a threat to traditional marriage is the better bands. Well, duh. Sad love songs at a wedding are an omen for sure.

He doesn’t limit himself to immigration and gay marriage. He wonders too, “Now that Republicans run literally everything, when will the government start getting smaller? When will it start minding its own business?” I told him, the answer to that is any day now. It’s been only six or so years that they’ve been totally in charge. ‘Course I don’t really believe that. But I’m a Unitarian like him, so I don’t have to believe.
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Answer to the Radio Question of the Day:

Shop for a bathing suit. Oh, yeah. I saw that comin’.


* His name is Pat Carroll and he writes for a living. Sez he’ll “write for food.” So if you’ve got extra food that you aren’t takin’ to the Food Bank, send it to old Pat and he’ll write you a thank you note. That Pat.

Barking up the wrong meter

Radio Question of the Day:

A recent survey asked: "Besides love and money, what's the one thing you need to make you truly happy?" What was the Number One answer?

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Just about three people are born every second. About 1.333 people die every second. So, there's a 2 and two-thirds increase in the population each and every second. About 10 people have been born while you were reading this little factoid. Stop reading NOW! Get out and run over or otherwise kill a few folks. No wonder it's so hard to find a parking space. Jeez.

Hey, didcha know that the parking meter was invented by C.C. Magee in 1935? That Magee! Musta been a greedy bastard.

Another very interesting fact: The average motorist will spend over two weeks of his or her life waiting for the traffic light to change. I've been behind a couple of those people. Whatcha gotta do is HONK. Loud. Some people. 'Course once I honked at a guy who got out, came to my car window, and thanked me for letting him know that the light changed. We missed a coupla green lights while he was being so polite to me.

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Answer to the Radio Question of the Day:
Sleep.

Duh. Well, with enough money you can get a lot of love, and sleep around all you want.