Gentle Humor – Page 17 – Suzanne Olsen's Humor Blog – I don't offend some of the people most of the time

GPS Means Go Past Streets

On August 27, 2010

I have a GPS system in my car, which I think stands for Go Past Streets. It’s very complicated. The little arrow isn’t pointing the right way. If I come to an intersection and the blue line indicating the route I should take is off to the right, I turn right. Then I see that the arrow (my car) is heading away from the blue line.

This is pretty confusing, and I spend a lot of time making U-turns. I didn’t understand it until today when I was giving someone a ride and he started showing me the features. “The arrow is the direction you’re going right now. See, it’s pointing north.”

“But it feels like I’m going south.”

“Nope, that’s north. See the airport in that green area?”

“Oooooh, I get it. So if it’s pointing north, and the blue line is turning east, then I have to make a left,” I said.

“Well, no, you’d be going west then.”

“Oh, so which way is east?”

“It’s where the “3” would be on the clock if your GPS was a clock.”

“Oooooo, I can remember that. I’ll call it “threast!” I was excited after all these months that I could finally understand at least that part of the GPS.

When I first got the car, there was a lady in the dashboard who told me where to go all the time. “Turn right in 500 feet.” She jabbered constantly. I felt like I had a 7-year-old girl in there. “Whatcha doin? Do you want to watch me? Watch me do this? You aren’t watching. Watch me now.” She’d interrupt my favorite songs to tell me stuff even when I didn’t program a destination. “Go home now?” and “You’re gas is getting low.” It was annoying but I was okay with it until she started getting personal. “Are you wearing THAT today?” and “You need to pluck that wild chin hair.” She took her job a little too seriously.

I had to go with my brother yesterday to drop off his car at a mechanic in Vancouver, a few miles away and neither of us knew how to get there. I told him I’d lead because I had the GPS. We got on the freeway and I guess I got a little ahead in all the traffic, so I was trying to watch my rearview mirror and watch for the exit, too. My GPS showed I was supposed to exit, but there were two ramps, and just as the one I was supposed to take appeared on the screen, the phone rang. To my dismay, the phone screen came on and the map disappeared. Which one should I take?”

It was my brother. “Where are you?” he said.

“I just exited, but I’m on a ramp and I don’t know whether to go right or left because I can’t see the map while I’m on the phone.”

“Oh,” he said. “Then I’ll hang up and call you back.”

I watched the screen anxiously but it stayed on the phone. I guess it wanted to make sure I knew how long I’d talked, to whom I was speaking, and – absolutely essential information – that I had disconnected the call. This last was so important that the disconnect screen stayed up for many minutes. I’m sure glad that pesky GPS didn’t rush back and interrupt the screen showing that I had disconnected from my brother. This was information I NEEDED to know.

As usual I made the wrong choice because the blue line started twisting around like a pretzel. I had to make another U-turn. I could see that I would have to turn right soon because a little side-screen came up to alert me it was coming, but before I could see what street I was supposed to turn on and how far it would be, the phone rang again.

“Where are you?” my brother asked.

“I was about to find out just when you called.”

When he hung up, I made another u-turn and we both finally made it to the mechanic’s shop, though I don’t know how. I wish whoever made these things would know that I don’t need to have a screen showing the whole time I’m using my Bluetooth phone. Believe it or not, I know who I’m talking to – I don’t need to read it on the screen during the whole conversation. Other than that, I love my GPS – even though it does make me Go Past Streets all the time.

Sweet Smelling Dogs

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 26, 2010

In Pets

I had to give my dog a bath just now. When I say the word, “bath,” she tucks her tail and heads for the farthest place in the house.

Today after I it, I followed her to the laundry room, her tail tucked, head hung low, resigned to her fate, buying time leading our little parade through the house.

Since she’s so small, I can wash her in the deep sink. She stares up at me with her dark brown eyes and it’s like she’s saying, “Why are you doing this to me, momma? What did I do wrong? Didn’t you tell me I was the best dog in the world? Don’t I always greet you with joy, even when you’ve just gone to the bathroom?”

After the bath she runs through the house and rubs her nose and the side of her body against all the furniture like a cat on speed. She’ll bend her head down and plow her face along the carpet, switching sides. She acts wild and throws a ball in the air or snaps at our heels. It’s all quite entertaining, but I still feel sorry for her while the bathing is in progress.

Wait, I have a pitiful story to tell about her. She’s pretty smart so we have to spell things around her. After awhile she understands the spelled words, too. She picks up tricks quickly, too. One thing I’ve been teaching her lately is to “stay.” She sits for a little but will usually get up and follow me if I go around a corner out of sight.

I have started working full-time and I’ve been taking her to the office with me. She loves it. People talk baby talk to her and give her scratches, so she can’t wait to go in the morning.

Yesterday I had a commitment first thing, so I wasn’t going straight to the office. She had been following me through the house, worried I’d forget to take her with me, and I finally said to her in the living room, “I’m sorry, honey, but you’re going to have to stay here this morning.” She immediately sat down, all pitiful like, because that’s the words I use to tell her she’s not going to get to go somewhere and she understands. Brilliant dog, that one.

She quit following at my heels, and I told her I was sorry again and rushed off to dry my hair. When I came back into the living room about five minutes later, the poor thing was still sitting there, as if to say, “See, momma, I did exactly what you told me to do. Please take me with you.” She’d heard that one word in there, “stay” and was being obedient.

Now you’re probably thinking that I need to see a shrink about talking to my dog, and you’re right. But she understands what I’m saying. Furthermore, she doesn’t argue, talk back, put me down, complain, or ask me for money or my car keys. There’s no one else in this house that does that.

Now I have a nice, clean, sweet-smelling dog curled up at my feet, and life is good – as long as she doesn’t start passing gas. Oh my gosh, her SBD’s live up to their name. Ghastly! (get it, “gas” tley).

Not laughing? My dog thinks it’s funny – she just told me so.

Rodents and Shutter Island

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 23, 2010

In Movies

I saw the movie Shutter Island late last night with my daughter and her friend. We didn’t get finished with it until almost midnight, and then I could NOT get to sleep. It was pretty creepy and made me think.

I don’t have anything against thinking. I just don’t want to still be doing it at three a.m.

I know better. If I watch a haunting movie just before bedtime, with dark windows all around and low hanging tree branches scratching against the roof, and the kind of music that makes you feel like someone’s going to jump out from behind the couch with a butcher knife, it is not a recipe for relaxation. I’m getting that tingling feeling up my spine right now just thinking about it.

This morning I went to church and then came home and watched the movie again, in the daylight, with my husband, so that I would have plenty of time to think about it all day. I figured I would exhaust all my thinking and be able to sleep like a baby tonight.

Let me assure you that you are going to want to watch it twice. My husband got done with it and said, “I don’t know what’s going on – is it this or is it that?”

I’m not going to tell you what “this” or “that” is, or it will spoil the movie for you. You’ll know what I mean when you get to the end. And if you watch it a second time, you’ll know whether it’s actually this or that.

Speaking of this or that, I love those KIA commercials with those rodents doing that rap song, “Now you can go with this, or you can go with that.” I think they’re very cool dancing rodents. I wish I could dance like that. I dance the same way I did back in high school. I definitely don’t know how to do those rodent moves or I’d be in the street like they are, singing that song and doin’ those moves.

It might appear that I do nothing but watch TV and movies. I am not going to deny that the perfect down time for me is watching a mindless movie on TV and eating chocolate chips. I like ‘em one at a time so they can melt and extend the enjoyment. That way I don’t have to eat so many.

If this post is rambling more than usual, it’s because I’m exhausted, and it’s that movie’s fault. I am going to bed and dream of dancing rodents all night long and wake up feeling like I’ve got some moves. I’ll point at the dishes in the sink and say, “Now you can go with this,” and then point at the dishwasher, “or you can go with that.” Then I’ll point to the oven, “Or you can go with this,” and then at the microwave, “or you can go with that.” My daughter will roll her eyes at me and tell me to stop, but I don’t care. I’ll be cool. And rested.

Laundry Mat Memories

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 19, 2010

In Home Life

I’m at the laundry mat right now washing some quilts in those big huge machines. I love those things. They spin around and make cool whirring sounds. If you put a plastic action figure in there, you can see the blur of him spinning around through the glass door and imagine how dizzy he’s getting.

I have some good memories of laundry mats – being there with my brother or friends, running around pushing each other in the rolling carts, doing laps around the washing machines in the middle, little hellions taking the corners on two wheels, listening to the old folks grumble about “out-of-control kids these days.”

My brother and I had the responsibility of doing laundry when we were growing up. Like everyone else in our modest neighborhood, our family only had one car, and my dad worked a couple of states away so he came home about once a month, leaving us without a vehicle most of the time. Which was fine since the grocery store, school, church and everything else was within a couple of blocks.

But the laundry mat was about six blocks away, and we had to carry the laundry basket full of clothes, one of us on each side. I kind of liked going to the laundry mat, but my brother was in middle school and it was NOT cool to be walking down the street carrying a basket piled high with clothes, especially with your little sister.

We’d wait until we had nothing clean to wear, so the laundry basket had clothes mounded about two feet above it, held in place by a sheet draped over and tucked firmly into the sides. It looked like we were carrying a fresh grave.

We made the trip under the cover of darkness. In those days kids got to go anywhere, day or night. It was safe in our little East Tennessee town. People didn’t lock their doors, and crime was unheard of.

We both grabbed a handle and headed down the street. Whoever saw car lights would yell, “CAR!” and we’d drop the basket on the sidewalk and dive into the bushes so they wouldn’t see us. I am laughing as I type this because now I can see that basket from a driver’s perspective. What did people think when they saw the abandoned basket sitting on the sidewalk? Did they see us scramble into the bushes and wonder what we were up to?

My brother was pretty popular in school. Girls called him all the time. His reputation would have been absolutely ruined if those cars held kids he knew who would rat him out the next day at school.

When it came time to cross the busy, four-lane street, we lurked in the shadows until it was clear both ways for a good distance, then we’d run like crazy. Since I was almost four years younger, I didn’t run as fast, so the basket would get askew and sometimes tip over. Laundry gushed into the street in a ragged trail. We scrambled to get it back into the basket. My brother would dart his head back and forth, urging me to hurry up before a car came and saw him in the street with his little sister surrounded by dirty underwear.

Once the clothes were washed, we’d make a game of folding the sheets. He’d grab the corners on one end, and I’d get the other ends, then we’d take a couple of giant steps toward each other like we were dancing at some fancy ball, lifting the corners up and down in a silly fanfare. We’d connect the corners and he’d hold them while I picked up the corners at the fold, and we’d step apart, then move back together with the same flouncing moves. It was just foolishness to entertain ourselves, and we giggled like idiots.

Funny how we were so worried about what people thought on the dark streets, but we didn’t care a bit about the opinions of the crowd in the laundry mat.

We loaded those folded clothes and started the trek back home. Usually there was less traffic, but we’d still have to abandon the basket and take cover several times. I wonder why no one ever stopped to check out the laundry basket full of clothes just sitting there. Maybe they thought that basket must have had a darn good reason for being there, and it was none of their business. Those were innocent times. No thugs or gangs or opportunists were cruising around looking to steal people’s clothes.

Somehow we managed to do this chore week after week completely on the sly. Eventually we got a washing machine and our laundry mat days were over, much to our delight.

If you ever decide to investigate a laundry basket full of clothes abandoned on the sidewalk, I bet you’ll find some kids trying to maintain the facade of being cool by taking cover in the bushes close by.

The Photographer’s Plight

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 18, 2010

In Photography

I get asked to take pictures at events and because people know I have a decent camera and have sold my photo art. I always say yes, but it is not a particularly fun job. Aren’t you dying to know why?

I’ll tell you. Even though people want pictures to remember events, they don’t want their picture taken. When you hold a camera up and aim it at people, half of them try to duck behind someone else like a child hiding behind its’ mother’s skirt. The elderly, obese, and even crippled will take off running like they’re doing the 50-yard dash if they see me raise my camera. They will risk broken hips and worse in an effort to keep me from taking a picture of them.

On the other hand, there are people who know how to strike a perfect pose. They know which side of their face photographs well, where to put their hands, how to angle their feet, and that looking slightly down will make their eyes look bigger. These people can sense a camera from across the room and always manage to look good. The camera “loves” these people. That’s because they don’t treat the cameraperson like s/he’s got the plague.

I try to get everyone in at least one picture, which is hard when they see me coming and show me their backsides, or hide behind pillars and drink carts. So I’m forced to take “candid” shots. These are a CURSE. The general public is UGLY in a candid shot. The general public is stuffing an entire sausage in their mouth just as the camera clicks the shot. They are raising their arm so that the cottage cheesy divots are accentuated. They have a spiteful look aimed at the person beside them, like they intend to stab them after the event. Some of them are even scratching that itch that can’t be scratched in public.

When they catch you taking a candid shot, some scowl at you. Perhaps they don’t take good pictures and they feel they can compensate by contorting their features, as if saying, “I always turn out ugly in a picture, but if I look like I’m being ugly on purpose, no one will notice that I photograph so poorly” This does not help the poor photographer who simply wants to impress people with her talent for making even the hideous among us attractive. We can accomplish this anyway, in many cases, thanks to the magic of Photoshop.

Photoshop is the photographer’s best friend. It allows us to turn everyday images into art. For instance, if you hire an artist to paint your portrait, and he includes your double chins, pimples, the wart on your jawbone that has a six-inch wiry hair growing out of it, the gunk in the corner of your eye, and so forth, if you’re like me, you’d probably smash the canvas over his head before you smacked him with a dining room chair. He is going to downplay your imperfections if he wants to come out of there alive and with a check in his hand.

A skilled photographer can also “paint” people in a more positive light using Photoshop to make our subjects look their best. I had one guy tell me that a headshot I took of him was the first time he had a decent picture in his whole life. Little did he know that I spent about two hours taking him from a Frankenstein into a less-than-a-Frankenstein. Many of his individual teeth were so tobacco-stained they blended right into his skin, making him appear like there were missing teeth and thus giving the mistaken impression that he came from Mississippi. I smoothed his dents and pocks which helped to make his squinty eyes more becoming.

You, the general public, need not be afraid when approached by a photographer if you will PRACTICE IN FRONT OF A MIRROR. RIGHT NOW. No, not later. NOW! See what’s your best side, and when I come at you with my camera, you can say, “Oh, Suzanne, I’m so HAPPY to see you are here taking my picture.” Then hurry up and swallow that sausage.

Jonathan Does Rodney

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 17, 2010

In Comedy

My nephew is here, returning from Alaska where he was working as an entertainer on a cruise ship. He’s learned all kinds of new things, like how to be a ventriloquist.

He started doing Rodney Dangerfield jokes, and he was pretty good. He was grabbing his collar, talking about getting no respect. He was so good, in fact, that I’m going to get some of Rodney’s jokes and post them here. It will serve two purposes. One, it will make you laugh, and two, it will give me extra time to hang out with my nephew, my niece, and my great niece since they are all driving back to California tomorrow at the crack o’ dawn.

Enjoy these.

A girl phoned me the other day and said… Come on over, there’s nobody home. I went over. Nobody was home.

I came from a real tough neighborhood. I put my hand in some cement and felt another hand.

I could tell my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.

I drink too much. The last time I gave a urine sample it had an olive in it.

I found there was only one way to look thin, hang out with fat people.

I get no respect. The way my luck is running, if I was a politician I would be honest.

I had plenty of pimples as a kid. One day I fell asleep in the library. When I woke up, a blind man was reading my face.

I have good-looking kids. Thank goodness my wife cheats on me.

I haven’t spoken to my wife in years. I didn’t want to interrupt her.

I looked up my family tree and found out I was the sap.

I met the surgeon general – he offered me a cigarette.

I remember the time I was kidnapped and they sent a piece of my finger to my father. He said he wanted more proof.

I saved a girl from being attacked last night. I controlled myself.

I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous – everyone hasn’t met me yet.

I was so ugly my mother used to feed me with a sling shot.

I went to a fight the other night, and a hockey game broke out.

It’s tough to stay married. My wife kisses the dog on the lips, yet she won’t drink from my glass.

Life is just a bowl of pits.

I have to agree with him on this last one, but when you can laugh at the bowl, then life can come up roses in spite of the thorns.

Or something like that. My nephew would come up with a much better joke, I’m sure, but you’d have to pay to see him. For free – you get me!

Surf Wars

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 16, 2010

In Pets

My daughter brought two goldfish home from a school giveaway (BTW, thanks a ton, whoever’s brilliant idea that was to give away “free” goldfish).

The sad part is, I had a goldfish that was several years old and looking like he might not make it much longer when these two new ones arrived. I was SO looking forward to no more tank cleaning, fish feeding, filter buying and dirty fish water siphoning.

Sure enough, Golder died just a few weeks later and I could have been FISH FREE! But no. Some nitwit decides to give away goldfish as a prize, and now I got two brand new ones, both babies so they will live many, many long years.

Some of you are probably saying, “What’s the big deal? Make the kids take care of the fish.” That would be fine if I wanted a fish tank where you couldn’t even see the fish. Around this house, the new wears off real quick. The kids “forget” to feed, water, or clean up after their pets. I do it because I feel sorry for the poor innocent things that are at our complete mercy and will die a pitiful death of neglect without me.

So guess who’s been caring for these two additions for the last five years?

Lately I’ve noticed that one fish is a total bully. He’s twice as big as the other one, but I just thought it was because he had a hearty appetite. I usually sprinkle the food in and walk away, but I decided to observe them for a few minutes. The big goldfish opened his mouth enough to suck in a big flake. While he was “chewing” it, he swam around tormenting the other fish. Then he stopped and sucked in another flake, and then chased the second fish some more.

“You’re a jerk,” I said to the bully. He looked me right in the eye and spit the big flake straight at me. If we had been in the old west, we would have squared off in the middle of the road with our fingers twitching over our pistols.

We stared at each other until I finally looked away. He grabbed a new flake and chewed it like a plug of tobacco while he chased the smaller fish around. These two have names but I can’t remember them. Let’s call the big one A-hole and the little one Sweetie Pie. A-hole came over and started snapping at me. That’s what he does when he wants more food. He goes up to the surface and smacks at the water. It makes enough noise to get you to look. When you do, he starts swimming frantically around and doing these aggressive wiggles back and forth. It’s very intimidating. You can practically hear him shouting, “Get me some food, bitch, or this water won’t be the only thing I’m smackin’!”

But something inside of me snapped when I saw him tormenting poor little Sweetie Pie again. I was madder than a wet hornet, but what was I gonna do about it? How could I bully a bully fish?

I decided I needed to show him what it was like to be pushed around. I put my hand in the water and chased HIM. He didn’t like it, not one single bit. Bullies are always such sissies. He darted here and there trying to execute evasive fish maneuvers. I chased him around a little more until I thought he’d learned his lesson. He seemed pretty humbled, but a few minutes later he was nosing into Sweetie Pie. So I chased him again. The third time was the charm. After that he kept his distance.

I wish I could say this story has a happy ending, but alas it didn’t take A-hole long to revert to his old tricks. I put my hand back in the tank and chased him once more, and he behaved for a little while, but then he went back to being a bully.

You’re probably thinking, “Why not just flush him?” Oh, I couldn’t do that! But I don’t let him intimidate ME anymore. He may push that other fish around, but he’s not going to get away with doing that to me. No sir. When he smacks that water, I don’t come running anymore. Not as fast, anyway.

Hippie vs. Hipster

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 15, 2010

In Kids

My husband and I and some friends went to the Hawthorne Street fair today. To those of you unfamiliar with Portland, this is an area on the east side where hippies went to raise their children, and now the children are sporting tats, piercings, and pink pony tails.

The thing we noticed the most were the tattoos, and I still don’t get it. Today I saw people whose skin was nearly covered – both arms, legs, necks – everywhere that was showing and Lord only knows what was underneath.

As I was looking at the parade of tattooed youth, I thought, “Doesn’t that hurt?” When I got home, I asked Google to find out how it’s done: “Artists create tattoos by injecting ink into a person’s skin. To do this, they use an electrically powered tattoo machine that resembles (and sounds like) a dental drill. The machine moves a solid needle up and down to puncture the skin between 50 and 3,000 times per minute. The needle penetrates the skin by about a millimeter and deposits a drop of insoluble ink into the skin with each puncture.” (health.howstuffworks.com/skin-care/beauty/skin-and-lifestyle/tattoo.htm)

That sounds more painful than I imagined. Just the thought of a drill sounding like a dentist’s made me flinch, much else the pulsating needle.

I can understand the traditional “drunken sailor” doing this. Alcohol kills the pain, and they only got one or two tattoos. I imagine it sobered them up pretty quick. I can also understand gangsters, thugs, and gang members. They have something to prove to their peers.

What I can’t understand is people using tattoes as a fashion statement – girls especially.

My friend said, “I must be getting old because I have absolutely no desire to get a tat.”

“You’re not old if you call them “tats,” I said.

“I feel pretty old. I remember when we first invented tie-dye, and look – it’s everywhere again.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” I said. “You know you’re getting older when the stuff you used to wear comes back in style.”

Of course this generation looks nothing like we looked in our tie-dye shirts. We were thin, with long, straight, shiny, healthy, natural-colored hair. Today I saw tie-dyed hair that looked like someone had taken a dull knife to it and then dried it with a blast furnace. There were whole chunks shaved (or yanked) off of people’s heads, surrounded by ragged, lifeless, crisp hair.

We were tanned, healthy, and acne-free because we were into nature, hiking, eating healthy fruits and vegetables, treating our bodies like they were our best friends. Many of the people I saw today looked like they only came out at night, and their bodies were their mortal enemies. Pierce it! Stab it with needles! Yank the hair out! Douse it with harsh chemicals! Remove the color and replace it with pinks, purples, black! Whack at it with dull razors! Put a big round orb in your earlobe and stretch it three inches! Cover everything with fat! Pierce your tongue, your breasts, even your…

Well, I guess I’ve made my point. These guys may be young, but I’m not so sure about bright – except their hair and skin, that is. I’d pick being a hippie over a hipster any day.

Dreaming of You

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 14, 2010

In Uncategorized

Every day people talk about the sleep they either got or didn’t get. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night.” “I tossed and turned.” “I had such bad dreams.” “I slept like a baby.“ “I had this great dream about …”

I remember having dreams about actors and they seemed so real. I’d meet Brad Pitt at a party and he’d find me fascinating. We’d end up going on a walk, holding hands, talking about our future together, maybe even kissing an electrifying kiss, and then I’d wake up to the dog licking my face. Such a rude awakening.

People who don’t get enough sleep are cranky, but so are the ones who get too much. Waking up before you’re supposed to is the worst. You have to decide if you’re going to go back to sleep or get up and start your day. In my experience, going back to sleep means I’ll have really weird dreams. They’re always bad – being chased by cannibals while my legs turn to rubber. Or trapped in an elevator and it starts free-falling. Those dreams seem so real. When I wake up, I look around to see if a cannibal is gnawing my foot, but it’s just the dog again. Get’s it’s her breakfast time.

I’ve noticed when I sleep about six hours I don’t really seem to dream that much, or else I’m forgetting them. I have always forgotten things. I forget the list where I wrote everything down I needed to remember. I’ve always forgotten where I put my keys, purse, the book I’m reading, the electric bill that’s overdue, my cell phone. How many times have I had to call my cell phone to locate it?

As people get older the world blames memory loss on age, but I think that’s unfair, and it doesn’t explain why my kids run around bellowing, “Mo-om, where are my shoes?” The answer I always give them is, “When I wear your shoes I always put them in the shoe closet.” They look there, as if I’d actually been wearing their shoes. Of course that’s the last place they’d put their own shoes… “Mo-om, they’re not in there – where else did you put them?”

Kids lose backpacks and homework, they leave their lunches at home, and forget the permission slips you place right beside their backpacks. But no one whispers, “Alzheimer’s” when they do it.

They also change the subject every second of the day, which is exactly what I have done here. Hey! Stop whispering, “ADD.”

Back to my dreams. I’ve had some really good ones and tried my best to stay asleep until the happy ending (wink wink). If I wake up, I can’t go back to sleep or even remember the dream. It’s very frustrating.

All this talk about dreaming makes me want to take a little siesta. Hey Brad, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Wait for me!

Fear of Being Afraid

By Suzanne Olsen

On August 13, 2010

In Fears

It took a lot of guts for me to get up on stage last night at the open mike. I am the bravest coward I know. Once in high school a friend wrote a report and described a person who was afraid of everything. Someone else in the class said, “Hey, that’s your friend, Suzy!” Her report was about me, I found out later. I wasn’t afraid to bitch slap the friend who used me for her report, I’ll tell you that.

But seriously, do I use the words “bitch slap” too often? I actually look for places I can insert those words. Like above – I did not bitch slap my friend. I just never spoke to her again. Same thing, but, in my mind, it doesn’t sound as funny as bitch slap.

I am afraid of everything. I’m especially afraid I’ve written about this topic before, because every time I do something I can’t believe I had the nerve to do, I always want to tell everyone about it. Maybe I like to show that even though I’m timid and shy and a scaredy-cat, I’m not afraid to act, so you better not mess with me.

I have been in scary situations that people think I’m making up, but usually it’s because I have no other choice. When I’m doing something brave, my hands are shaking, my voice is shaking (if it shows up at all), and I’ve got “Sissy Girl” written all over me in my body language – fidgeting, crossed arms, shaking leg, slouching – I’ve got ‘em all. If I don’t, it’s because I remembered reading that these were signs of fear and I try to counteract them. Here’s a site that has some of them if you are nodding your head right now and thinking, “hmmm, I do that stuff all the time…” www.ehow.com/how_2383301_read-fear-body-language.html

My biggest fear, however, is that fear itself will keep me from doing something. Like going onstage. I sat there trying to talk myself out of it, but in the end I knew I had nothing to lose except pride, reputation, a few years of my life from a heart attack, and my mind. Down at the heart of it, though, fear alone was the only reason for me not to go onstage.

I battle that day and night – whether new people will like me at a party (they seem to, but I’m ALWAYS afraid they won’t), whether people will read this blog (I have a bunch of site members, but there’s a constant fear that I may lose my sense of humor), whether I will trip and fall on my face, say something stupid, hurt someone’s feelings, forget an appointment, do something embarrassing – you name it, I’m afraid of it.

But I keep saying to myself, “Just keep on doing it. Just show up. Just try. Just do damage control if you have to.” And sometimes I say, “Just shut the F up,” when my fears are on the verge of completely derailing me.

Right now, for instance, I’m afraid it’s not okay for me to reveal my fears in public. But you know what I say to that? Screw it. I’ve got to frickin’ post something and this is already written, so screw it. I’m doin’ it!