Gentle Humor – Page 33 – Suzanne Olsen's Humor Blog – I don't offend some of the people most of the time

Sadistic Shoes

On February 20, 2010

Women’s shoes are the most irritating things in the world. For something that is essential, why are they so difficult to buy?

First there’s the question of fit. Have you ever seen women’s feet? They come in a million shapes – narrow at the toes and wide at the heels, narrow at the heels and wide at the toes, and narrow at the – in other words, women’s feet are outrageously various. Some of us have a really long second toe – the one beside the big one. As if this toe is trying to show off because it can’t be the “Big” toe, so it has to prove something by being the “long” toe. Unlike the poor 4^th toe that has no distinction whatsoever. It’s neither the big toe, the long toe, the middle toe, nor the little toe. There is no nickname for this toe. For this reason, it is obstinate. During a pedicure, the cuticle clings to the nail of the fourth toe like super glue to your finger. It’s a spiteful toe that will often develop a corn, stone bruise, callous, bunion, inflammation, or some other misery to attract your attention. On my foot, this toe leans to the side, making it harder to paint.

But this doesn’t have a lot to do with shoes per se, so I will leave it and get back on topic. Which is, let me go back to the top and read…shoes.

I have a duck foot, so buying shoes is torture. No regular department store shoe is going to fit my foot. The shoe can be perfect in every way, but my toes will be scrunched up in the toe box like those dehydrated sponges you give to kids in the shape of crabs or sea horses. Once they hit the water, they get 10 times their size. My toes get in most shoes and shrink down, lapping over top of each other and screaming obscenities at me. Sometimes I have to wear earplugs.

I’ve gone to wide shoe stores but they have been designed for very old crippled women with odd bones and warts covering their feet. Just try to find something fashionable in there. If you do happen to spot a pair you like, they cost a fortune, as if to say, “With such a fat foot to cover, we’re charging you extra, baby.”

What women end up having to do is buy the least uncomfortable pair of shoes we can find, then go home and try to walk around on them just enough to see if the pain in our feet keeps throbbing or subsides to a dull ache that is bearable. But we can’t wear them too much or they’ll look “worn,” in which case we won’t be able to take them back. I’ve had sales clerks bring out magnifying glasses to see if there is any minute speck of gravel on the sole indicating I’ve worn it – gasp – outside. “It’s okay to walk around with them in the house, but don’t you dare go outside,” the sales clerk always snipes.

I used to wear 3” heels and stand up a good part of the day. That’s before I had children and my feet grew two sizes – from B to D. I refuse to wear old women’s shoes, even though no store carries my size anymore, and shoe stretchers break under the pressure of trying to make a regular store shoe suitable for my foot.

But enough complaining about the fit, let me launch into the style. What lunatic decided that those ugly, clunky shoes from the roaring twenties should be the new fashion rage? Good grief they’re ugly. They were ugly back then, but you only saw them on very thin women in movies. These are definitely not attractive styles on the average American woman today.

Plus there are Ugs, aptly named because you look at them and say, “Ug! Those are ugly!” And little flat shoes that are darling but either fall off your heel or reveal too much toe cleavage. And the big giant heels they have now – 6 inches and rising. They offset the height with 3 inches of sole on the front, so women wearing them look like the bride of Frankenstein.

I wish everyone could wear house slippers around all day like me. With my matching robe, I think I make quite the fashion statement.

Odd Jobs

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 19, 2010

In Uncategorized

With this economy, people are out looking for work, and if there aren’t jobs in your area of expertise, you might want to consider some of these non-traditional jobs I found on Google.

Here’s one – a zoo artificial inseminator. Think about that one. No, go ahead, take your time – I’ll wait. Pretty crazy, huh? I’m just wondering how you train for such a position, and how do you apply? What would you list under “Experience?” “I have impregnated my wife four times, and I had extensive practice before I got married, though I haven’t done anything with animals so far.”

Here’s another job – a telephone psychic. What I’d like to know is what the interview would be like:

Interviewer: Let’s test your psychic ability. What is my next question going to be?

Psychic: You’re going to ask if I’ve ever been a phone psychic before?

Interviewer: No, I was going to ask if you’d be available to work on weekends.

Psychic: Oh.

Interviewer: I’m afraid you don’t have the skills needed for this job.

Psychic: Best two out of three?

Another job I found online was a jelly donut filler. Now that’s a job I could get into. But I’m having a hard time picturing it. Does the person stand on an assembly line, clutch a soft donut, insert a jelly gun, and squirt? I’m thinking that, with a little experience, the person who gets this job could probably move up to a zoo inseminator.

I like the sound of this one – a truffle hunter. Truffles are funguses (fungi) that the French hire people and their pigs to dig out of the dirt because someone decided they’re an exquisite delicacy. I wonder who cooked up the first one of these. “Hey, look, a giant fungus under the dirt! Let’s eat one!” This was no doubt a French person, because they live on the premise that you can make the most disgusting thing on earth tasty with the right seasonings. That’s how they got people to eat snails. If I had a trusty pig, I’d be a truffle hunter in a heartbeat.

I’m going to come full circle with my last job – working at a sperm bank. Say you meet someone at a party and they ask what you do. Do you tell them the truth? If someone told me they worked at a sperm bank, I wouldn’t want to shake their hand. Not that they use their hand for anything in particular that I know of, it’s just one of those things I’d be squeamish about. If I had that job I’d say I was a teller.

Other interesting jobs I came across were Magician’s Assistant, Fortune Cookie Writer, Snake Milker, Dog Food Tester, Golf Ball Diver, and Dice Inspector. I hope if you are unemployed, you’ll consider these off-the-beaten-path careers, if for no other reason, it will make you way more interesting at parties.

Smoke and Ash Wednesday

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 18, 2010

In Religion

A lot of people know all about Mardi Gras – the big party that lasts about 300 days in New Orleans. But apparently some don’t know where the celebration came from, so I’ll try to explain.

Mardi Gras (pronounced gra – like bra) is the time before Lent. Lent is not what collects in the screen of your dryer, though there are some similarities which I don’t have time to get into right now.

No, this Lent is a religious observance in which Catholics and Episcopalians and probably some other Christians get together and have a church service and get black ashes smeared on their foreheads to remind them they need to wash their faces, especially behind the ears.

Actually, that’s only one reason, the other has to do with mortality and the fact that we all came from ashes and we will return to ashes. Plus ashes are a sign of repentance – we are visually saying we haven’t been the best we could be, and we’ll try to do better. In the meantime, giving up our candy, alcohol, and/or iPod for the next six weeks will help remind us to stay on track. Ask any Catholic what they gave up for Lent and they know exactly what you’re talking about.

I love almost everything about Lent. This sounds crazy, but I like having a heavenly hand slapping mine when I reach for the chocolates. That doesn’t really happen (usually), but the threat of it is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow, so I always lose weight during Lent. Saying no to something you crave and lust over for six weeks gives you a certain intestinal fortitude. Which makes me wonder, where does an intestine get fortitude? I’d certainly like to explore this, but I must press on, because there’s one thing about Ash Wednesday I’m not so sure about.

It’s the incense. Why do we have incense? I consulted Google who, unfortunately, wasn’t very clear on the subject. Basically we do it because it’s a pleasing aroma to God, it represents repentance, we’ve been doing it for at least the last 1200 years, probably longer, so why stop now, and/or it was the early worshippers’ form of deodorant. According to one site, the practice may have started among the Jews and early Christians because they lived in a very hot climate without showers and Right Guard. Perhaps the early priests saw them dropping like flies (also attracting them), and decided they’d better burn some incense if they wanted parishioners to stick around until the end of the service.

Yesterday at church someone put a big hefty dose of incense in a wooden pot and walked up the center aisle of the church very slowly. Brides go faster. It was quite solemn, except incense is made from aromatic wood which, when lit, puts off that thick, curly smoke that swirled around all the way up to the ceiling. There was so much incense burning that the poor guy holding the vessel was completely encased in smoke – a virtual abominable smokeman. As he walked, the smoke wafted even more into his face, and I expected him to start gagging any second. It’s probably why he walked so slow. By the time he got to the front, the entire church was filled with smoke. It looked like a seedy bar with statues. I leaned over and whispered to my daughter, “This is some crazy goin’s on.” She gave me the evil eye because it was so quiet everyone heard me, and she gets tired of me embarrassing her. As for me, I just knew the fire alarm was going to go off and the sprinklers would drench us all.

All in all it was a good service, and I came to fully appreciate the incense when a man squeezed in beside me. He might have just come in from the desert, if you catch my drift.

Interior Desperation

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 18, 2010

In Home Life

For years I’ve wanted color and pizzazz in my home, but my husband didn’t want to paint “until the kids are grown.” That was sensible, since they seem to splatter things on walls and leave fingerprints everywhere. Finally, my husband consented that it was time. Halleluia!

But what color? For help, I called my cousin, Nancy Adair, from Memphis. She’s an interior decorator whose work I’d admired for many years. I asked her if she’d come to Portland and help me choose colors and accessories for my home.

Nancy arrived six weeks later, and after exchanging a few memories and laughs, we started right to work. She faced the dining room wall of our great room, the wall I thought was my best decorating accomplishment in the whole house, and said, “Let’s start here. You need a large canvas instead of those little pictures, and something tall on the china cabinet because the ceiling is so high.”

My husband agreed. “I never liked that wall.”

I was speechless. Nancy’s gaze turned toward him and took in the living room half of the great room. “I like the pictures behind the sofa, but you need a higher sofa, a red sofa, and an end table and lamp instead of that floor lamp.”

My heart was broken. The dining room was my favorite spot in the entire house. And sure, the sofa was faded and too low, but I’d sat there reading Bernstein Bears stories to my children, illuminated by my trusty floor lamp.

That night I barely slept, worrying that Nancy would change all the things I loved.

Morning brought a new day; however, and I was gung ho to get started. Nancy was right, by George, I did need a new red sofa with a textured fabric, preferably synthetic instead of cotton so it wouldn’t fade in the sunlight.

We went to the housewares section of Fred Meyer, a mid-range department/grocery store, because I wanted to show her a bookcase I’d seen. She gave me a doubtful “maybe” on the bookcase, and then started loading items into the shopping cart: a trio of vases that were the ugliest things I’d ever seen; wicker baskets and boxes. I’m not a wicker person.

“Wicker will help bring warmth to your house,” she smiled, “and give you some texture and variety.” My chest tightened and my breathing became shallow from the anxiety attack I was having. She piled a cheap nylon area rug on top of the other junk, and we headed to the checkout counter.

“Three hundred fifty dollars worth of trash,” I moaned to myself as I handed over my credit card.

When Nancy placed the purchases around my home, I didn’t like any of them. She tried to console me. “You have to think about the whole picture,” she said. “Clients have a hard time because they only look at one piece, but decorators are thinking about the whole room – paint color, textures, the play of light. You just have to trust me.”

The next day I took her downtown to the Pearl district, home of more contemporary furnishings and accessories – my style, but mostly out of my price range. Nancy began picking out single items that I absolutely loved but cost more than the whole cartload did the day before. I felt another anxiety attack.

“It’s important to have a few things you truly love,” she said. “These are investments.” She nodded toward a $750 lamp that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. “Put these things in perspective. Think about how much you spend at an expensive restaurant for dinner and drinks.” We bought some hand blown glass vases and a torchier lamp. I dreaded seeing my credit card statement.

We took a couple of days break to go to the beach so Nancy could enjoy the September sunshine. Both my nerves and my checkbook welcomed the interlude.

Back home, relaxed and refreshed, I was ready to tackle paint. Our kitchen, living room, dining room, and family room are all open to each other, and in those areas alone, Nancy picked out six different colors -eggplant, sage, lilac, red, gold, and white. I-yi-yi-yi-yi. Every wall had a different color. We painted swatches on the walls in semi-gloss paint. “These rich, dark colors need semi-gloss to reflect the light,” she said. “Trust me.”

My husband was against the paint color, against different colors on different walls, and especially against semi-gloss. “Eggshell white’s the only thing we need,” he grumbled. We compromised on satin paint.

Nancy’s last day was spent frantically trying to tie up loose ends. She painted (did I mention she’s also an artist?) a 3’x 4’ abstract seascape for the dining room wall. I have to admit, the large canvas does look a lot better than the wimpy little group of pictures I had there.

She put sticky notes on the walls so I’d remember what color went where. She made my bedroom look bigger by catty-cornering the bed, re-hung pictures and moved furniture to dramatize space. Finally, she switched some of my accessories around, using them to enlarge small spaces or create focal points. I began to see the whole picture, and I liked it, especially the things we’d bought at Fred Meyer. The nylon area rug was perfect with the pictures she’d moved to my entry way, and the wicker did create warmth. The ugly vases, grouped with other things, were stunning.

After Nancy left, the painters came, and you know what? I now have a warm, inviting home that makes me smile. We’ve received so many compliments, and my husband’s happy with the satin paint.

I called Nancy and told her how much I love my colorful, accessorized home.

“Well, you know, I told you all along to trust me,” she said serenely.

And all I could say was, “When can you come back and help me with the bonus room?”

Too Many Cooks in Ze Kitchen

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 16, 2010

In Food

My husband and I can’t be in the kitchen cooking at the same time. Our styles are totally different. He’s a cooking show watching, recipe experimenting, gourmet chef kind of guy, and I’m an open a can, bring it to a boil, and avoid burning it sort of gal.

My husband’s a cooking snob, plain and simple. He’s never said this out loud, but it’s easy to see that he’d prefer not to share his sacred kitchen with some short order cook who sees food primarily as a means to silence my children’s cries of “hungwee!” This may sound crazy, but I’m convinced he tries to keep me out of the kitchen by sabotage.

Here’s a recent example. Last week I told him I’d cook dinner, and that I was having cod filets, corn on the cob, sliced tomatos, and salad from a bag. Simple, wholesome, and tasty. He sneaked home at lunchtime and prepared a marinade for the cod filets. I found them swimming in olive oil and spices. The tomatoes were bathing in balsamic vinegar, and the de-cobbed corn was tossed with other vegetables to a make a chutney. To use one of his fancy cooking terms, I was fricaseed. I’d been soooo looking forward to the taste of fresh corn on the cob, lightly salted and dredged in butter.

Another thing he does is hide my utensils. I’m looking for the slotted spoon to stir my green beans, the one I’d been using only moments before, but it’s gone. “I don’t know what you did with it,” he says innocently. A few minutes later it’ll be right back by the green bean pot. I’m sure a detective would find his fingerprints all over it.

Since my husband loves combining millions of ingredients to form one new taste, he is always in front of the sink washing and chopping something. If I need to use the sink, I have to wait, because I guess it interferes with his artistry or something. I can almost hear his thoughts, “Should a Michealangelo have to step aside for a mere house painter? Or Frank Lloyd Wright have to wait for someone who merely builds castles in the sand? Certainly not!”

We’ve worked on this cooking situation over the years, and have come up with solutions like him cooking on weekends and me cooking during the week, but even this he sabotages. He knows I grew up being taught never to waste food, so he cooks enough on Sunday to generate leftovers through Thursday, and Friday night we always go out for pizza!

Then we tried having him do the entree’ and I’d do the side dishes, but entrees weren’t enough to challenge his creative genius; he’d wait until my back was turned and then “help” me. For instance, I once experimented with a gourmet salad. It called for purple cabbage finely chopped, with pears and walnuts, and a homemade dressing, garnished with tender strips of grated carrots. While I was mixing the dressing, my husband took one of his culinary gadgets and sliced my carrots into three inch long twigs, tossed everything else together and said, “Don’t you

like how your salad turned out?” It was totally not what I wanted to do with that salad. And he wonders why I get so stirred up.

Last night I was cooking rice and he sneaked in, looked at the gas flame under the pot, and must have said to himself, probably in some cheesy French chef’s accent he saw on a cooking show, “Ah, zee flame eez vay too hot for zee rlice, so I weel turn it not so hot.” I came back a few minutes later, knowing I’d timed that rice to cook to perfection, but when I lifted the lid to fluff it, I found the tiny grains staring up at me through a half inch of murky water. Puzzled, I looked under the pot. It took a magnifying glass to find the teensy little blue flickers. My husband breezed in, smiling, and said, “You had that up way too high, so I turned it down for you.” The rice didn’t boil, but I sure did. It’s sabotage, I tell you.

The only satisfaction I get out of cooking these days is when my children look at the gourmet fare their father has lovingly prepared for them and say, “Oh no, not again. Mom, would you please cook next time?” I just grin and chuckle to myself, “Wee, wee, my leetle buttercups, zee mom-ma will cook up somezing very magnifeek for zee leetle children tomorrow. Perhaps zee Spaghettio’s and zee meat-balls, no?”

Livid and Let Live

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 16, 2010

In Kids

This is an article I wrote a few years ago, and I must say it’s better than some of the ones I’ve been doing for this blog. I know I spent about 4 times more time on this, and it shows.

I’ve just had a startling revelation. I’ve discovered that my children must surely want me to yell at them. Why else would they litter their rooms with wet towels and dirty clothes, or continually bicker like WWF wrestlers? They must want to bring out the drill sergeant in me.

Picture the scene this morning. While my teenage son was making faces at his little sister, and as she fiercely retaliated by calling him deplorable names like, “you cuckoo dung bird,” I calmly asked them to please stop, which they did. However, the second I turned my back to refill my coffee mug, my daughter whined, “Mo-om (a two-syllable word), he’s making faces at me.” I’ve been keeping track, and this is the ninety-zillionth time I’ve asked my son not to pick on his sister. Before I could think of anything better to do, I screeched, “How many times do I have to tell you to leave your sister alone?” Bedlam ensued, apologies flew and peace was finally restored. For the moment.

Later I strolled down the hallway toward my bedroom. You’d think by now I’d have better sense than to glance into my daughter’s room. It’s always a mess even when it’s clean. She hoards everything, from favorite rocks (I only know of two she’s come across that weren’t special), to candy wrappers that remind her of Disneyland, to pictures yanked out of magazines and Scotch-taped randomly to the walls like paintball splatters.

But this morning. O, mercy. This morning my daughter’s room looked like thieves had ransacked it. Every drawer was open, with pants, underwear, pajamas, and tank tops trying to escape over the sides. Mismatched shoes lay like stepping stones through the rubble. I counted slowly to ten and then calmly called, “How many times do I have to tell you to put your things away?”

I’m a peaceful person. I was a hippie back when tie-dye was an art form rather than a fashion statement. And I’ve read all the books like, “How to Talk to Your Children So They Don’t Cower.” I know what I’m supposed to do, but it’s just so hard when the two of them keep repeating the same behavior that turns me from a “live and let live” kind of gal into a livid and let rip mood.

Every Sunday I go to church and pray that God will help me see the best and overlook the rest. Unfortunately, in the same prayer I usually have to ask forgiveness for bellowing such things as: “How many times have I told you not to wear your church shoes in the mud?” or “If you’d hang your coat up where it’s supposed to go, you’d be able to find it!”

I love these children dearly, but let’s face it. They do things they know they’re not supposed to do – when I’m having a pleasant dinner with my family, and my knee gets stuck to the underside of the kitchen table with Silly Putty, or when I’m scraping melted chocolate chips off the sofa cushion (“How many times have I told you not to take cookies out of the kitchen?”) – do they not realize these are yellable offenses? Don’t they have any respect for me? They say they love me, but can it really be true when there’s purple toothpaste spit all over their bathroom sink?

One of my parenting books said that when they’ve left the nest, and their rooms are perpetually clean, I’ll yearn for just one little mole hill of dirty clothes to remind me of the way things were. The books aren’t right about everything. I definitely won’t pine for the endless “Mo-om!’s” when they tattle on each other.

I sometimes worry what my children will say about me when they get together as adults. Will they laugh or cringe? I think I know what they’ll say: “Remember how the windows used to rattle when mom hollered at us?”

“Yeah, that was so FUNNY!”

My Most Romantic Experience

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 14, 2010

In Holidays

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d disclose my most romantic experience. This happened with a guy I was getting ready to break up with. He was a lawyer, a bright, fun loving guy on rare occasions, but mostly what he enjoyed doing most while we were together was filling me in on every mundane detail of his legal day. He talked about writing briefs and his boss and numerous phone calls he’d gotten through the day. I concluded that a dog groomer has a more exciting job than his.

He was also living in a place that literally had a path running through the mess to get from room to room. Dishes covered every surface in the kitchen. Note pads, mail, books, and newspapers covered every other surface in the house, and clothes and paraphernalia covered the floors. I knew one other person who lived like this – in her hippie parents’ house. She was embarrassed to have anyone over, but not this guy. He didn’t see anything wrong with his housekeeping.

There were a couple of other reasons I was ready to end our three-month courtship, although I liked his personality when he wasn’t busy reciting lawyerly dribble. Perhaps he picked up on my vibe, because I loved to hike, so he suggested we start at McLeay Park and walk to the Pittock mansion.

It was a sunny, warm summer day, and I was thrilled at the prospect. When we got to Pittock Mansion, we could see the whole city and several mountain peaks in the distance. I had that feeling of happiness that makes every hair follicle, every pore, every sensation crisp and vibrant so that I just wanted to dash around like Julie Andrews on the mountaintop in, “The Sound of Music.”

We walked around, bathing in the sun’s rays and delighting in life. Then he sat down on a bench, and I sat beside him, looking at the view. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He opened it deliberately and started reading out loud to me – in German. The sounds had a rhythmic cadence that was lyrical and soft, like a verbal caress.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“German poetry,” he said. He looked down and read some more, and I listened more intently than I would have anything in English. Not knowing the meaning, I had to focus on his voice, his lips moving, the slight variances in his tone as he came to the end of lines, the miniscule rise in energy which meant something in the words was more lively. I was sucked into a vacuum of lazy sun’s warmth, musical words, and his lips moving softly.

After a period of time that could have been seconds or hours, he stopped reading, closed the book slowly, and tucked it back into his shirt. I had little hearts floating out of my chest, and twinkles in my eyes. I felt I had been caressed by words, and that I was the most special woman in the world.

That romantic experience carried me through an extra few days, but alas, reality bitch-slapped me and I knew this relationship was doomed to destruct, despite the poetic dalliance.

I have been wined and dined, I’ve gotten long stem red roses in a box delivered with a large red ribbon, I’ve had a few other tokens of romance that I’ve enjoyed, but none of them held a candle to listening to words I didn’t comprehend on a warm Sunday afternoon. Knowing that he stowed the book secretly with the intention of reading to me made it even more special.

It’s too bad that romance alone isn’t enough to make a good partner, because if that were enough, we’d still be together, and I’d be bored witless and continually digging out of his quagmire of daily debris. Ah, but the memory lingers like dark chocolate covering a creamy caramel center that flows when bitten in half.

Happy Valentines Day!

Mardi Grab

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 14, 2010

In Holidays

We went to a Mardi Gras party tonight. My husband prepared by going to the party store and buying a bunch of beads and masks and noisemakers. We took them to the party to find that our host had mountains of beads, masks and noisemakers scattered everywhere.

My husband says that the guys are supposed to wear lots of beads, and if the girls ask for a string, the guy gives her one but then she has to lift up her shirt. “It’s a tradition,” he said.

“The women at this party won’t have to lift their shirts very high,” I said.

I’m sure he didn’t care, because men seem to love the sight of a women’s private areas no matter how awful they are. Me, I’ve been in locker rooms with all ages, and I’d rather keep my eyes aimed at the floor. The imagination can’t even conceive what time and food will do to a woman’s body.

My husband likes to cook, so he wanted to make something even though we’d been requested not to bring anything. He was going to make crawdads but couldn’t find any, thank goodness. They give me the creeps and I won’t eat them. I’ve swam with them before and they shoot through the water backwards. To me, this is unappetizing.

He brought fixins for mint juleps instead, which I didn’t think was a Mardi Gras drink but Google said it was. Mint juleps seem like a Kentucky thing. We had quite a lot of fun at the party, but he didn’t get any flashers.

Then we went to a nightclub because one of our friends was playing horns in the band. They were great – they had a lead singer that had such a clear, powerful voice that glasses where shattering all around. I’m making that up, but it would have been fun to watch. My husband thought all the members of the band needed beads, even the ones playing guitar using both hands. The band was right on the dance floor on a foot high platform, and he stood in front of each band member, and there were eight of them, with the beads held out until they stopped playing and took them.

Then a bunch of girls wanted some beads, and he became the darling of the dance floor, handing out beads and explaining the tradition while I rolled my eyes. He’s decided he’ll carry beads around with him all the time since they are a babe magnet. I should be jealous, I guess, but I know him – he just wants to be silly and the life of the party. Who would have though a few strings of beads could attract new friends from all directions?

I, on the other hand, seemed to be attracting male attention like a Hummer driving up your street. I forgot to mention at the first soirée an older man offered to give me a neck message. I said, “Cool,” because my neck has been achy lately. He came over to where I was sitting and started rubbing my neck, except he’s just letting his hands kind of glide over the surface. He says, “I’m letting my energy pass to you to help loosen your muscles.” I don’t know if it was doing that much good, but it was pleasant enough. Then he started moving down my neck to my back, and around my shoulders. My husband was talking to the host but glancing over from time to time. I was talking to the guy’s wife, who assured me he does these massages everywhere he goes. As his hands wandered down my arms, I got the suspicion that those hands were going to start seeking out areas that didn’t need to be explored by a strange man. My husband walked by me about that time and leaned down to whisper, “It didn’t take you long to attract the party perv.”

All in all it was an evening of adventures, and I feel I’m ready now for the long forty days of Lent, which is what Mardi Gras is supposed to be about – doing everything you’re not supposed to do and then spending a couple of months repenting. My husband didn’t get any girls to raise their shirts, but he had fun trying. I got a pleasant massage from a geezer who, after he was done with me, set out to lavish his energetic hands on other fresh meat at the party. I don’t know if you could call any of this being naughty, but it was fun pretending.

Dashing Off to the Olympics on TV

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 12, 2010

In Uncategorized

I am enjoying watching the pageantry of the Olympics opening ceremony so this is going to be swift and sweet.

I love the creativity of the show – I love that it’s so unique. I also love the players are real looking people and not the most beautiful, the most polished, the most picture perfect. Canada has done an excellent job and I’m so proud to be her closest neighbor.

I cried when Georgia’s contingent walked into the arena.

I found some skiing terms submitted by Brian Lundberg I copied off the internet in 2003 that I’m going to use for my blog in the interest of time. The torch is coming in 7 minutes!

Alp: One of a number of ski mountains in Europe. Also a shouted request for assistance made by a European.

Bones: There are 206 in the human body. No need for dismay, however, the two bones of the middle ear have never been broken while skiing.

Gloves: Designed to be tight around the wrist to restrict circulation, but no so close fitting as to allow any manual dexterity; they should also admit moisture from the outside without permitting any dampness within to escape.

Nuts: Male area, prone to painful damage when skiing over small trees.

SKI: A shout to alert people ahead that a loose ski is coming down the hill. Another warning skiers should be familiar with is “Avalanche!” (which tells everyone that a hill is coming down the hill).

Skier: One who pays an arm and a leg for the opportunity to break them.

Thor: The Scandinavian god of acheth and painth.

I’ll close with this last pun, which has nothing to do with athletes or the Olympics, but I neglected to add last night:

In theory, housebreaking your dog is a good idea, but I warn you, it won’t look good on paper.

The torch is coming!!!!

Fun with Puns

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 11, 2010

In Writing

I started a comedy workbook a few years ago and thought I’d lost my homework when my PC crashed, but I just came across a few of the exercises (because I only did a few) that I printed out. Yippee!

This one was called, “Fun with Puns,” and came from Gene Perret’s Comedy Workbook. I’m going to give you a few of them because it’s better than some of the stuff I write late at night, but there are some groaners in there – I like to put the bad ones in to make the good ones look better.

What do Eskimos get from sitting on ice too long? Polaroids.

What happened to the survivors when a red ship collided with a blue ship? They were marooned.

If you are American when you go into a toilet and you are American when you come out of the toilet, what are you while you’re in the toilet? European, of course.

Wait a minute – this is me talking and I’m not sure I wrote these. They’re actually pretty good, which makes me think I just copied them from the book. However, I’m not going to look because that would mean I’d have to get up AND maybe have to start from scratch. It’s late and I’m tired, so I’m going to forge ahead, no offense to Mr. Perret. If these are mine, you’re a darned good teacher, or I’m so exhausted everything seems funny. I did go skiing yesterday after all, and every muscle in my body aches, including a new one on the back of my knees I didn’t know was there.

The human cannonball decided to quit the circus. The owner was furious. “You can’t quit!” he raged. “Where will I find another man of your caliber?”

Old college deans never die, they just lose their faculties.

Old accountants never die, they just lose their balance.

Old policemen never die, they cop out.

Old tanners never die, they just go into hiding.

Me again. I really don’t think these are mine. Tanners? Where would I come up with that? But I do vaguely recall writing some funny stuff, so it’s possible. I once took a photograph of a snowboarder flying through the air – beautiful shot – and a newspaper wanted it. People on the snowboard team were always forwarding pictures to me to put up on the team’s website, so I was surrounded with photos all the time. I asked everyone if they took that picture, and finally the snowboarder in the picture told me it was me. That was my first published photograph! So maybe these are mine…

Here’s a couple more:

I tried to get my bicycle to stand up, but it was too tired.

When a clock is hungry, can it go back four seconds?

Did you hear about the raisin who cheated on his wife? It was in the newspaper under the current affairs section.

What’s a drunk baseball player? A pitcher full of beer.

I wanted to learn how to make frozen desserts, so I went to Sunday School.

Okay, I’m giving away my best material, or I’m plagiarizing and risking getting sued. But boy this was sure fun. Maybe we’ll do it again tomorrow. I’ve got lots of material here.