Gentle Humor

Suzanne Olsen's Humor Blog – I don't offend some of the people most of the time

Category: Humor

Our Sweet Momma

My momma was sweet – that’s a great gift to have in a mother. She wasn’t perfect, but she was kind. 

Photo of our sweet momma when she was young.

I grew up in East Tennessee, where the summers were hotter than a half f…..ed fox in a forest fire, as my dad used to say. He was in the Navy and literally cussed like a sailor. We didn’t have air conditioning when I was little, and in the middle of a hot summer night, with a wide-open window right next to your head to try to get some cool air in, it would come a thunder storm that shook the whole house. A flash of lighting spotlighted the bedroom, and thunder cracked and boomed like an explosion.

My eyes popped open, my heart hammered in my chest, I went rigid all over. Simultaneously all three of us kids lurched out of our beds, raced through the lightning bright hallway and lunged into the full size (not queen, not king) bed my mom occupied alone because dad worked out of town a lot. Three shaking children huddled as close to her as we could. She put both arms out so our little heads had a place to rest, pulling us even closer. She always let us stay there until the storm was over, usually about twenty minutes or a lifetime, depending on how severe it was, and if we fell asleep that was okay. What a sweet momma!

Other times in the night one of us was positive we heard a burglar. We’d tiptoe into momma’s room and whisper in her ear, “Momma, there’s a burglar in the house.” She always said, “I didn’t hear anything,” hoping to stave us off. Whoever heard the burglar was absolutely one hundred percent sure that Blackbeard the Pirate or one of his kin was in our house. “No, honest, I really did hear a burglar. I think he’s in the kitchen.”

By then all three of us were in the room, awakened by the loud whispers. Momma knew none of us would settle down believing a hooligan was just outside the bedroom door. She threw her warm covers off and grabbed the baseball bat she stashed behind the bedroom door for these emergencies. She walked out in front, in a pale flowered nightgown almost to the floor, both hands clutched on the skinny part of the bat, ready to swing. Momma was strong. We knew no burglar could survive a blow from that bat. 

We lined up behind her, my brother’s hands on her waist, my hands on his waist, and my sister’s hands on my waist – the caboose. Our little train moved slowly from room to room, momma finding the light switch in each room, opening the closets and looking behind doors. “What about under the beds?” we whined. “You look under there,” she said, perhaps growing a little impatient with this ritual. “No, we’re too scared” She got on her hands and knees and looked under each bed. Luckily our house was small, but still, with her thorough survey, it took a few minutes. Then we’d whimper, “We’re too scared to go to bed,” and she’d lead us back to her room and we’d pile in, sandwiched against her – we were the bread, she was the cheese.

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A Pig Stye that Seldom Meets the Eye

When we have people over, I like my house to be cosmetically clean. By that I mean, even though my house may look spotless, I caution you to never open a cabinet or a closet door –cardboard boxes and volleyballs and unopened junk mail will waterfall out and bury you.

Closet stuffed to overflowing

I’m not a clutter person, but I’m both a procrastinator and a sentimental packrat. Some people sort through the junk mail when it comes every day and toss things that are of no interest. The procrastinator in me just grabs everything out of the mailbox and puts it a pile on the kitchen counter. Then I move the pile to the side counter to get it out of eyesight, and there it continues to grow like some horror movie blob. I cleaned out a kitchen drawer to put the mail in, but it’s always stuffed with last month’s junk, so when someone is coming over, I rely on a large paper grocery sack.

My friend can drop in on a Thursday and my house is a pig stye – blanketed in bills, sales flyers, assorted cutlery, clothes, junk mail, water bottles, sewing projects, pet supplies, groceries and the like. When she comes back for a dinner party on Friday night, the house is immaculate (to the undiscerning eye). She says, “Where’d you put the grocery bag?” She knows me. “In the master closet,” I reply. Sometimes she’ll go look for herself because she can’t believe I have corralled all that mess into a measley grocery bag or two. If it’s around Christmas when I’m really busy, there can be three sacks in three different closets, but never under the beds – that real estate is already stuffed to capacity.

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I Miss Old-fashioned Panty Lines

I wish we’d go back to the old-fashioned panty lines, you know, the ones under each cheek. I don’t think they were any worse than these new ones that I see all the time on the rear ends of the women who wear thongs.

Wait, weren’t thongs supposed to eliminate panty lines? No longer just for pole-dancing strippers, they are a way for women to get rid of those hideous, outrageous, horrible indicators that we wear underwear? How come men go around sagging their pants showing their boxers, and we have to wear hiney floss?

A couple of my friends started bought thongs right away and tried to convince me to. “No panty lines!” “You’ll get used to it!” So I got a thong to wear under a slinky dress for a dance. I was miserable. You know that feeling when the elastic in your granny panties starts to wear out and they don’t want to stay at the bottom of your bottom? The thong was worse. It was like stagecoach bandits – they ride up behind you and wipe you out.

Not only do the thong lines show, some women like to reveal their “whale tail” above their pants on purpose. When I see a whale’s tail I have to wonder – are the women doing it to be sexy, to excite guys, because it takes ZERO effort to turn a guy on. Their default state is like a shaken can of Pepsi – they’re always ready to spew.

Don’t believe me? Ray Romano, the comedian, has a whole routine about one of his fantasies while he’s taking a shower. One morning he saw a woman in a grocery store parking lot, and she bent down to pick up something. That’s all it took. A woman in the distance bends over and that evening he’s in the shower popping the top off his Pepsi! If you think you need a whale’s tail to attract a guy, you don’t understand men. It’s more of a challenge to keep them at arms length. Ask any married woman.

For those of you who have gotten used to thongs, don’t fool yourself – you still have panty lines, just in a different place. As for me, I’d rather go commando and not be in pain.

My apologies for planting THAT image in your head.  

Facebook Scares Me

Facebook scares me. I don’t log on very often because there is too much junk to wade through, but Facebook lets me know when someone posts a picture with me in it. I dare not log in when I have things to do because I get sucked in to the black hole of all those millions of posts.

As I scroll through the darling pictures of people’s kids and grandkids, dinners they just had, people having fun in the tropics, there are several posts that will say something like: THANK GOODNESS WE HAVE TRUMP IN THE WHITE HOUSE TO CLEEN UP THE SCUM FROM THE PREVIUS ADMINISTATION. All caps, misspelled words and giant type to make sure they get the message through.

It’s always the same people, and they’ll all against similar things. And their friends are the same ones who comment on each other’s posts, egging them on. They seem like they’re poking hard at their keyboards, like it’s the eyes of the politician they hate at the moment – I picture them like the Three Stooges poking at each other’s eyes when they were mad, with the receiving Stooge trying to block by putting his hand up sideways. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I just went to YouTube to find a clip. There’s a block about 45 seconds in. 

There’s a picture of this scary-looking structure with a caption: “First completed section of President Trump’s wall. It’s beautiful.” And another, “Seems clear to me – Mueller quit digging when all his tunnels led to Obama and Hilary.” These aren’t really that mean, but I can’t bring myself to put those other quotes on here. They’re way beyond politically incorrect – down right hateful.

Tried to find some mean quotes from the left but gave up. Here’s something else scary I found, though: A picture of a muscled, tattooed man with the caption: ‘Love hot #romance? Get your hands on Bear Whiskey for only $1.99 in ebook format for limited time!” I’m not familiar with these books but the guy probably appeals to some – if you like those mountainous, glossy muscles covered in tattoos. Not really my favorite look on a guy. You know what my fantasy man looks like? He’s average size, no six-pack but no gut either, no defined muscles but looks healthy, like he could fight off a mugger if he needed to, absolutely no ink on his skin anywhere, he’s shirtless, wearing only faded cutoffs that are just on his hips, not way low so he has to shave his hairy parts down there, and not way high like a Speedo. Hmmmmmm.

Oops, lost my train of thought. While I was looking for spite from the left, I got a smile out of some of the videos of really cute animals.

I also found this video that I really liked – you may have seen it already because it’s probably made the rounds, but it’s worth watching again.

Now I think I’ve done enough work for this day, I’m going back to YouTube to watch crazy dog and cat videos. My favorite! Enjoy!!

So Many Lists, So Little Time

Do you ever feel completely overwhelmed by all the things you have to do? Do you ever make a list to get the things on a piece of paper and out of your head, and then lose the list? Do you spend half the day looking for the paper instead of doing the things on the list that really ought to get done?

I do. Right now I’ve finally found my nice long list but instead of doing any of it I’m writing this blog post – which is also on the list but way down. The first item is to go outside, look for ants to see where their coming into my house so I can seal their tiny gateway with caulk. Then I’m supposed to clean toilets (oh boy!) rake debris out of my beds (we are very messy sleepers). Not to mention rake debris out of flower beds, give the dog a bath (stinks to high heaven), clean the fish tank, mop the kitchen floor, design a website for my brother, write a blog post….

There are not enough hours, and I get nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Yet, when I find an old list (while I’m looking for my current, lost list) in the pile of papers I need to sort through in my office, I see that most of the things on the old list did actually get done. Sometimes I’ll go ahead and draw a line though each item, even though the list is two years old, because it gives me inordinate satisfaction knowing that I got all those things accomplished.  

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The Fine Art of Mole Herding

It’s that time of year when, overnight, your lawn sprouts a million dirt tee-pees caused by mole infestation. You want to get rid of the pesky varmints, and you’ve tried poison pellets, lethal gas, impaling them on a pitchfork, but they keep coming back.

Quite by accident, I’ve found a way you probably haven’t tried: mole herding.

Let me explain. I was walking my dog in the park the other day, and a crow flew out of the woods right in front of me. It had a mole in its clutches. The crow landed about twenty feet away and dropped the mole, ready to feast on a nice fuzzy warm breakfast.

On impulse, I shooed the crow becauseI felt pity for the mole. The crow flew a few feet away and stood there squawking at me, and I’m pretty sure it was saying, “You lousy (insert trashy word of your choice), how DARE you steal my mole.”

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Copyright © 2019 by Suzanne Olsen