Humor - Best Picks
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After the kids,
Come the granny pants.
You know the ones. Underwear as comfortable as the flannel nighties and Crocs you started to wear when "feeling sexy" finally slipped off your list of Life's Priorities.
Chuck saw "underwear" on my shopping list and humbly requested that I buy some panties that don't look like the ones from his mom's laundry basket. Some that live up to the name - unmentionables.
So, I decided to honor his fantasy and bought a package of the cutest, cheap, plus-sized Hanes ladies' briefs (those high-cut, hip-hugging kind) that Wal-Mart carries.
A couple of days later, I pulled on a pair and, "Darn!"
"What's wrong?"
"I just tore a hole in my new underwear!"
Chuck sighed, "Well, I guess they just don't make 'em like they did in '1956."
Sigh. Nope, I'm sorry, Dear. They don't.
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Chuck often chides me for spending too much time yakking it up on the Writer's Digest Writer's Forum. I've tried to quit, honest, but I'm addicted to that place and the people. If you are a writer or writer wanna-be, you owe it to your career to check it out. Not only do we have a lot of fun, but you will learn A LOT about writing, publishing, grammar, and why you need to kill your adverbs.
Earlier this week one of the authors started a thread about using real-life people in fiction, which inspired me to parody the Miranda Warning for writers. Maria Schneider, WD Editor, posted it here.
And now, I'm going to bask for a while.
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It was bound to happen sooner or later; the fulfillment of my mother's prophesy, uttered words which I, in my reckless youth, dismissed as the stress induced ravings of a woman going through early menopause: "When you grow up I hope you have kids JUST LIKE YOU!"
The boys were in the back seats of the van, begging for snacks. They have become the Pavlov's dogs of road trips after several cross-country drives during the summer of 2002. Every time we stopped for a potty break we'd load up on some sort of treat: ice cream, candy, sodas, burgers n' fries. Now, nearly three years later, we still cannot drive more than a few miles before the salivating begins and the endless whining and whimpering for "snacks" works like the torture music enemy captors might pipe into a POW camp to break the psyche of even the steeliest willed soldier.
This time I succumbed to their begging, reminding them that just this once and only because they've been such good boys today, are we going to stop.
Actually, I had to pee something fierce.
We pulled into the nearest gas and food mart parking lot. As I worked to unstrap my panting puppies, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other muttering, "Straight to the potty, you hear? Straight to the potty!" We entered the store without incident and the boys respectfully waited as I went about my business. I listened as they compared notes on whether the Eskimo Pies are better than the Triple Chocolate Drumsticks or should they just choose Icees.
As we rushed the ice cream cooler, Christopher, with his cherubic cheeks and pixie hair suddenly tugged on my pant leg and hid behind my leg, "Mom," he kind of half whispered and half yelled, "Is that a real man?"
I thought he was talking about one of those life-sized cardboard things, but as I searched the space around us he tugged again, pointing, "No, over there, by the cooler. Is he a grown man or a boy with a man's face?"
The man he was pointing at - I have to admit, I've never seen anyone like him! He was about 4' tall and from the back looked like a young, albeit gray-haired, boy. But as he turned toward us, I saw the face of a 30 something year old man!
"Oh," I answered quickly, "yes, he's a man." Now, let's get our ice cream and forget it! I thought as I turned Chris's shoulders back toward the ice cream freezer.
But Chris was not satisfied with my answer. He turned back toward the man, "But mom, why is he so small? Is he going to grow anymore?" Chris was not even trying to whisper anymore.
"No Chris, God makes us all a little different and he's a grown man." Enough! But no, Chris has been fascinated by little people since he saw the movie Elf this winter and he just wouldn't let it go.
"Mom, could he be an Elf?" He was amazed and awed by the thought that he might be within petting distance of a real live acquaintance of Santa.
"No, Chris, he's a man," who BY THIS TIME KNOWS WE'RE TALKING ABOUT HIM. "Chris, did you decide on the drumstick or the pie?"
Chris had lost all interest in the ice cream.
"Hey, sweetie," I hissed through clenched teeth, "it's not polite to point at people. Look in the ice cream case!"
Suddenly, revelation washed over his face, "Oh," he nodded with understanding, "are you afraid he might be an angry elf?"
I replied with the only words that I could squeak out, "Guys, straight to the potty! Straight to the potty!"
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Occasionally Chuck will ask me to proof some of the work that he and his partners produce. Most recently was a newsletter they’re printing for one of their Clients. The Client had supplied the copy, so I didn’t want to be too picky, but I did find a couple of nits that I couldn’t let hang unpicked. And, since I’ve had my head buried in grammar books lately – my nitpicker is well honed.
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I don’t know if it’s the fact that we’re in the holiday season, or is it that I’ve been distracted by my writing for the past month? This week, Alex has been quite the reluctant student.
I’ve tried everything from restricting privileges to bribing with candy to threatening to load him on the school bus. He’s just not motivated to do his math! Imagine, a child of mine….
Anyway, I was sharing my exasperation with our principal, Chuck, and he suggested that I hand the phone to Alex so they could have a chat.
“Hmmm. Okay. Yes. What? Oh, Okay. I guess so. I love you too. Bye, here’s mom.” Alex handed to phone back to me but the look on his face was very grave.
“What did you say to him?” I whispered as I slid out of earshot of the boys.
“I told him that even when daddy doesn’t feel like going to work, sometimes we just have to do it anyway and do it as well as if we were doing it for Jesus. I told him to pretend Jesus was at the house and Alex was working directly for him.”
“Oh, that explains why he looks so convicted.” I thought their discussion would solve the problem. If there’s one person Alex does not want to let down, it’s Jesus.
I hung up the phone and found Alex, still distraught, and said: “Hey, buddy. Let’s put the math away today and start tomorrow like we’re doing it for Jesus.”
“Jesus?” Alex asks through quivering lips.
“Yes, that’s what daddy told you, right; to work like you’re working for Jesus?”
“No, daddy said to work like I’m working for Cheez-Its. And I don’t like Cheez-Its, mom!”
I hope when Chuck has to explain the birds and the bees to our boys, it’s not over the phone line.