Category Archives: humor

I’m a fish nonna!

I love my little fish pond out back with its waterfall and reeds and lily pads. Frogs hang out on the rocks ringing the water. I can hear their banjo-twanging calls at night in the spring, in particular, just beyond my bedroom window. The pond is one of the reasons why I fell in love with this little house.

AA frogs and fish

This photo is from last year. You can see some of my “original fish” hiding under the lily pads and one of the playful frogs is poking out of the water on the bottom right.

I’ve lived here for two winters and three summers now. In the winter the fish hibernate in the cold water. I run the waterfall all year to avoid the pond icing over, which would kill the fish by depriving them of oxygen. In the spring it’s like magic, seeing them awaken and start swimming around again! I believe the frogs hibernate, too. Pretty soon there’s a little family of them, as well.

The fish had become accustomed to me coming out around noon every day to sprinkle a little fish food on the water for them. It was their afternoon snack and my chance to interact with them a bit – as much as a person can actually exchange greetings with a fish, I suppose.

We were just getting into our summer routine and I noticed one day that two of the fish were chasing around a third, spotted fish I’d named Miss Kitty (calico cat, but a fish, right?). I was beginning to wonder if I’d guessed Miss Kitty’s gender correctly because it appeared that the two fish taking turns swimming right up in her business might have had love on their minds.

A day or two later, I wandered out with the dogs to deliver the afternoon snack and – the pond was empty. No fish, no frogs. Deserted. I was surprised, but thought they might have been spooked by a heron or other critter and were hiding in their fish caves (the people who put in the pond built in caves for exactly that purpose). At that time there were seven fish, but not one in sight.

When I hadn’t seen any fish in more than a week, I became worried. I had heard that a heron or raccoon or even a snake could wipe out a pond in no time at all. Had all my fish become some animal’s dinner? A couple of frogs were back, but after nearly four weeks – no fish. I felt terrible about it. Poor things.

I didn’t want to purchase new fish just to feed a predator, but after about six weeks, I decided to buy three new fish to see if they’d be safe after all that time. I tentatively released them into the pond and hoped for the best.

By this time, I had also begun bugging my son Chris, asking him if he’d please get into the pond and weed out some of the lily pads and reeds. There was so much greenery, it was hard to catch sight of the new kids, let alone try to entice them with fish snacks. It was a busy summer, and finally on Thursday, Chris got into the pond and got to work. We filled a yard waste trash can and a trash bag full of greenery.

Now, full disclosure, I had noticed after introducing the new fish to the pond that there seemed to be more than three in the mix. I realized that for whatever reason, some of the original fish had been hiding out for weeks!

fish 2 2017

And here are the fish who came over for a snack at noon today! You can only see one baby – the little black and silver spotted one near the two lighter fish in the center of the photo.

And by the time Chris finished cleaning the pond and the silt settled back to the bottom on the rocks, the clear water revealed not only five or six adult fish – but also THREE BABIES! It was like CHRISTMAS!

Since there are fewer adults than before, there’s no question that some varmint got some of my original fish family. But – they did not get Miss Kitty, and I think she is the Mama Fish of those three little ones. Is it possible that the fish that survived the incident early this summer stayed in the caves with Miss Kitty during her lying in period, or something? A combination of solidarity with the pregnant mama and fear of their attacker?

fish horizontal crop

There’s the baby orange one, too! The third one is silver, orange and black – hard to spot and wasn’t with the gang today.

We’ll never know. But I am delighted that I am now a Fish Nonna and that the happy little family is now swimming up to say hi and get a snack when they see me coming.

Oh, and the frogs seem content, as well.

Channeling Bob

I’d like to think that if my dad was still alive, and if he could have gotten his friends involved, he would have spent every morning and many afternoons of his retirement years on Facebook.

It would have taken a leap of faith on his part, but knowing Bob, he could have convinced his buddies to join him online. Bob and the guys would have exchanged jokes and funny memes, shared news about those damned politicians and pro golf tournaments and home remedies for achy joints. Time-sucker that Facebook is, he would have been wearing his blue and white-striped cotton pajamas and robe (in summer; same PJ’s with his maroon fleece robe in colder weather) in front of the computer until mid-afternoon. He’d get cleaned up and head out to play golf with the old guys on Wednesdays, but otherwise – after breakfast and reading the paper – Bob would have been surfing the web, immersed in social media. In his pajamas.


Dad and me, summer 2009.

That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. It’s almost 11:30 am and I am – you guessed it – still in my nightie and robe, screwing around on the computer. I would like to blame it on some genetic gift from Dad that makes me such a procrastinator when it comes to showering and dressing for the day. Bob called it his ablutions. Sometime before lunch he’d put down the crossword puzzle and announce that it was “time to ablute.” A member of a generation that doesn’t see the need for daily showers, his ablutions included what we called a bird bath:  filling the sink with water and using a soapy washcloth to scrub then rinse off the stinky bits. He’d also lather up for a close shave and always exited the bathroom fragrant with the Bay Rum aftershave he used, I believe, for his entire adult life. I wish I’d thought to dab a little on his cheeks before his viewing.

I finally was about to get out of this chair and get in the shower when I thought of Bob. I looked down at my own maroon chenille robe (oh, how I love my cuddly robe and a cool morning!) and felt guilty for not having officially started my day yet. I can’t help feeling that nothing counts until I’m clean and dressed.

Am I obligated to do things that “count” by a certain hour of the day, or for a prescribed number of hours in total? Because I know this for sure – Bob did not feel guilty for one minute about spending most mornings reading and putzing around in his pajamas. He worked hard all of his life to enjoy the luxury of free time. To spend his time as he wished.

It feels odd to realize that Dad was several years younger than I am now when he retired and gradually created his morning routine.

I’ve worked hard. Do I “deserve” it, too? I can’t quite make myself believe it. Maybe that’s because retirement for women is different. I’m not fully retired yet, but what woman ever hangs up her virtual apron and says she’s retiring from the endless chores related to managing her home? Maybe some married people share those chores, but I am alone. Oh – and happy to be, so please don’t think I’m moaning about it! Plus, no one is around to say, “Seriously? It’s almost noon and you’re not dressed yet?”

So on that note, I’ll get in the shower as soon as I hit “publish.” I’ll get dressed and take the dogs for a walk. I’ll choose something lingering on my To Do list – and do it.

Two weeks ago was the eight-year anniversary of my father’s death.

I miss you, Bob. Channeling you this morning has made me smile.




Funerals and Friendly Skies

Now, please bear with me here. I have two stories to tell you. One kind of begat the other. And though Gina came first, the email I received from my friend Sue later the same day is what inspired today’s post. Here’s how it started:

The hilarious author and speaker Gina Barreca’s weekly column in the Hartford Courant really tickled my funny bone this week. Click here to read “No Funeral For Me. Nobody Likes Them.”

Okay. Did you read Gina’s story? Good. Now let’s hear from my buddy, Sue Brooks:

On a recent flight returning to her home near San Francisco from a business meeting in Mississippi, Sue sat behind a woman who placed a backpack in the overhead bin . . .

“It was a typical crowded flight,” Sue said. “The smallest flight attendant I have ever seen, stood on the seats and started tugging and moving luggage to squeeze another bag in. She started to pull at the backpack. The woman seemed alarmed and wanted to hold it.

“The flight attendant continued to tug and pull until the woman burst out, ’Be careful, my mother’s in there!’”

I don’t know how (or if) Sue was able to keep a straight face. “You gotta love travel!” she says.

Referring back to Gina’s essay, I’d like to imagine that the woman on Sue’s plane was bringing her mother’s ashes to sprinkle from the Golden Gate Bridge, or something equally exciting.

That makes me wonder:  What odd objects have you seen people bring on planes, or perhaps that you even carried on yourself?

Panda on plane

Now, bringing a panda on board is unexpected! Thanks to the funny site Pleated-Jeans for this pic.

Do you have a funny story to share about funerals or surprising carry-on “luggage?” I can’t think right now of a crazy carry-on story, but I’ll start you off with one about my dad’s funeral.

My father’s last wishes were precise and very traditional. The family greeted people paying their respects during calling hours in the evening, followed by a full Catholic funeral mass the next morning. It was difficult and sorrowful for all who loved this great man. It’s hard to believe it will be eight years this month.

Anyway, Dad wanted to be cremated, but in accordance with the preference of the Catholic Church, his body (in a casket, of course) was present for the funeral mass and the cremation took place afterward.

At one point in the service, the retired parish priest who had known my parents for years stood near the casket flinging drops of holy water from a heavy, ornate metal scepter onto the casket. In the midst of this blessing ritual, the scepter slipped out of his hands and bonked loudly onto the wood above Dad’s forehead. The elderly priest was no doubt abashed by the slip but quickly regaining his composure, quipped, “Well, if that doesn’t wake Bob up, nothing will!”

I’ll never forget the moment of laughter that ensued and how I thought at the time, how much my father would have loved the joke. Laughter is always beautiful, in my book.

And if you’re wondering, Bob’s ashes are all over the place. He’s at his two favorite golf courses in Ohio and Florida. He’s swimming with the fishes in Lake Erie. He’s enjoying lovely Utah with my sister; and the last precious bit is in a little box waiting to keep Mom company at her final resting place one day.

So – do you have a funny or interesting story regarding a funeral or the execution of someone’s last wishes? Crazy things you’ve seen carried onto your flight?

Readers’ choice – would love to hear from you!

Don’t tell me to smile, fool

When did it happen? When was the very last time a man told me to SMILE? And despite really wanting to tell him to shut up and get away from me, I smiled. It always seemed churlish not to comply, right?

Well, it’s been many years since a man demanded a smile from me. Many, MANY years. And here’s why:  I believe a man only tells a woman to smile when he’s attempting to make a personal connection, no matter how tenuous, inappropriate, or annoying, because he finds the woman attractive. He is either hoping she will one day agree to have sex with him, or he’s using it as a power play (and wants to have sex with her). When a woman is not pretty enough (according to his taste) or young enough (again, subjective) to be fuckable, he doesn’t care if she ever smiles. Ever.

I had this epiphany about being too old for anyone to ask me to smile when I saw this funny little video on Facebook yesterday called “Smyle for Women” by Nightpantz. Check it out:


When I shared this video on Facebook,  my two friends named Tina commented on it. Tina #1 said men don’t tell older women to smile because they are afraid of us and know she’ll tell him to fuck off (but Tina said $%&@ off) and mind his own business.

Good answer, Tina! So even if a man were tempted to break the ice with an older woman by telling her to smile, we might guess that he’s finally mature enough to know how stupid that ploy is, or he is afraid he’ll be embarrassed by the woman telling him he’s a jackass and that he can go smile at himself in the mirror if he’s that desperate for a happy face encounter.

On the other hand, Tina #2 expressed some concern about being afflicted with RBF, or Resting Bitch Face. You know the face. Mouth automatically turns down, even though your mood is neutral or even happy. Your face, at rest, looks like you’re frowning. That can happen to men or women and is no indication of whether or not that person is cantankerous or one of the funniest sweetie pies you’ve ever met. It’s just Mouth Gravity.

Are you ever hesitant to approach a stranger with RBF? Have you reluctantly greeted someone who looked cranky and scary, but the minute you said hello and introduced yourself, her face lit up with the most gorgeous smile ever? I love it when that happens.

If she were still with us, I’ll bet Mary Tyler Moore would have RBF by now and hey, that girl could turn the world on with her smile, right? I think Rhoda had RBF at a young age. Phyllis, too, now that I think about it. RBF is not strictly age-related but – wouldn’t you know it? – it’s mostly the females of our species that get called out on it. Yeah. Don’t be put off by RBF, people.

And if you’re one of those men who still struts up to young girls and women and commands them to SMILE, all I can say is – knock it off.  If there was any chance that the lady in question might have considered sleeping with you, the odds dropped dramatically after you demanded to see her teeth. Trust me.  Women of all ages hate to be told to smile. Unless you’re with “Candid Camera,” resist the inclination, guys.

Otherwise, be aware that her smile is just barely hiding a snarl. Every time.



Goldilocks has nothing on Norma

For the past month or so we’ve been on a quest to find a new recliner for my mother. Her old one is, well, old, and to top it off, a spring plunked upon the floor beneath her just the other night. I’d say it’s time.

But here’s the thing. My mother is particular. I have no problem with that because I’m quite picky, myself. Finding the perfect recliner has turned into a needle-in-the-haystack kind of experience. Mom wants . . .

Mom in recliner

Norma, aka Goldilocks, finds one recliner that’s almost right.

  • A wing back chair design
  • A seat that isn’t too deep, since she’s quite short and doesn’t want her legs dangling like a toddler’s
  • A seat that isn’t too high for the same reason
  • A lever or buttons to manage the reclining action since some chairs are hard for her to push back, or worse yet, slam back into submission after reclining
  • The footrest needs to be comfortable and not too short (she doesn’t like her heels suspended in midair)
  • The back should recline a bit; no full-on horizontal as if she’s a frat boy settling in for an afternoon of college bowl games
  • The fabric needs to be pretty and complement the existing living room furniture: since the couch and matching gigantic armchair and ottoman (my dad’s manly choice a number of years ago) are a dark, burgundy leather, it cannot be another leather piece or a solid color. Flowers and/or plaid are the preferred patterns.

I think that about covers it. We started, logically enough, at La-Z-Boy sometime in late May. After sitting in at least a dozen chairs and finally finding one that was suitable, if not exactly Love at First Sight, we adjourned to the design center in the middle of the store to look at 5,492 fabric samples. Again, we finally found something that was okay, but not To Die For. That’s right. All those samples and nothing fabulous that screamed I AM NORMA.

Mom still was about ready at this point to settle for “nice” when the salesman started adding up the extra cost for the selected fabric and the motor to work the buttons and Scotchgard and the delivery and . . . the chair was going to cost more than $2,000 after tax!

Now, Mom may have been tempted if this was going to be the most beautiful, comfortable chair she’d ever seen, but wisely, she decided it was not worth the money. We all have our HELL NO point. That was hers.

We put the chair search on hold after that very long and disappointing experience until last weekend. Chris was joining us for Sunday lunch and with no special plans for the rest of the afternoon, he suggested we look at more recliners.

This is when the Goldilocks syndrome really kicked in.

brown chair

This chair, while the style was wrong, had a LIFT feature to kind of tip you up and out of the chair. The salesman said elderly people get indignant when he suggests it. I want one.

After sitting in chairs that were either too big, too deep, reclined too drastically, or were just plain ugly, we decided that Levin Furniture wasn’t going to have the answer.

We hopped back in the car and traveled about a half mile to take a shot at Kronheim’s. Bob, the salesman, was very helpful and success almost seemed within reach. We even examined all the fabrics available for one chair that, while not a wing back, could have been okay. The fabrics were all part of a family of textile designs called “Metro.” Well, my mother is not a “metro” kind of gal. Actually, I find it hard to imagine anyone saying, “Oh, I LOVE that one!” to ANY of the patterns. I am guessing that anyone who chose that chair either stuck with a solid color (the charcoal gray on display in the store was attractive enough) or settled for whichever weird and/or lackluster design would be least offensive when introduced to their other furniture.

Bird recliner

This recliner, but not with birds, and preferably with a wing back. Close, but no cigar.

Discouraged, we returned my very tired mother to her home in Madison, but Chris and I decided (independently) to search for the perfect chair on line. I eventually found this chair with birds that I thought was right up her alley, but she quickly reminded me that she doesn’t like birds.

What? Who doesn’t like birds? Then I thought, well – I don’t like flowers. Who am I to judge? Oh, I love real flowers, but I don’t want to sit on them. Floral upholstery just seems, well, old lady-ish. If I were to win the lottery and decided to buy a second home in the Cotswolds I’d go all chintz with cabbage roses and toile, but that’s the only circumstance where I can see myself sitting on flowers. Here’s a picture of two of my favorite chairs that I’ve had for umpteen years now.


These chairs are my style. Plus they match Micky.

The good news about the bird chair is that we agreed that it is awfully close to the style she’d like, so I started looking for similar chairs to check out the brands. Lo and behold, Sheraton Furniture, which is less than a mile from my home in Willoughby, carries two of the brands that look like good possibilities for Mom. We’re going on Sunday. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Fingers crossed that our Goldilocks finds a chair that is JUST RIGHT.



A catch-up morning. Hold the mustard.

My desk is almost clean. Almost. The left side that was stacked with papers and business cards and bills and bank statements and God-knows-what-else has been attacked. I threw out most of it and organized the rest.

I finally called the businesses whose cards I’d saved: Little Luxury Day Spa to order more moisturizer and Spot-On! Dog Training to make an appointment with a trainer who comes to the house. I have high hopes for finally getting The Boys under control. Or me. Depending on how you look at it.

Rhonda Allison skin care

Rhonda Allison makes some nice skin care products. I’m a fan!

My son bought me a gift certificate for a facial at the day spa for Mother’s Day and I loved it. I’d never had one before and wasn’t apprehensive, exactly, but not really sure what to expect, either. It seems like I could massage my own face if I really am in the mood for such a thing, but it was pleasant and I did feel especially clean afterward. I like the moisturizer so much that I just left a message for Naomi to order more. It’s from the Rhonda Allison line of skin care products, if you’re interested. I think I counted about 25 moisturizing-type products alone. The one I’m using is eZinc Protection Cream to moisturize and protect my face from “the elements.” It’s very light, which I prefer to heavier, creamy concoctions.

Fortunately, I also found in my pile a check from my friend Tina to cover her half of the season tickets we’re buying together for Cleveland’s Playhouse Square Broadway Series. I’ve already forgotten some of the plays we’re seeing, but I know we’re seeing Hamilton on August 3rd, as well as Waitress (loved the movie with Keri Russell as the pie-baking, pregnant waitress) and a musical based on Gloria Estafan’s life. I believe Aladdin is in the mix, which I may or may not actually go to. I’m not into children’s theater, or to going to the theater with children. Maybe if I had grandchildren? Maybe.

Hamilton NYT

Hamilton photo from the NY Times. Can’t wait to see it!

But I’m excited to do this – my first time committing to a series. I’ve been interested in doing so for a very long time, but most of the people I know who buy season tickets already go with a group that’s been attending plays together for years. I love spending time with Tina, so it will be great to meet early for dinner downtown to catch up before we see each show.

As for Spot-On! Dog Training, I was walking The Boys a month or so ago and came across the trainer working with a lady and her dog about a block away from my home. His colorful van was in the driveway and as I watched them work for a minute, the trainer said hello and offered me his card.


What someone hears when they ring my doorbell.

I have taken both dogs to training, separately, not long after adopting each. They do well on walks. They know how to heel and walk sedately on my left side. Mind you, this is only when they’re wearing what I call “poky collars” with little spikes. If they’re wearing their adorable harnesses, they basically ignore me and pull and leap at will. You may think I’m a horrible person for using the spike collars, but what an earlier trainer in Madison told me made sense. She said that when a dog pulls on that collar, he gets a little pinch that will deter him from pulling harder. A choke collar, on the other hand, can seriously choke and hurt a dog who may continue pulling much longer and harder before feeling the discomfort. I never jerk on the poky collar, by the way. That gentle prod is enough for them to resist pulling all on their own.

October 2013

What’s really behind Door Number One.

What I really need to work on with The Boys is for them to “come,” “sit,” and “stay.” They know what these words mean, but they will only reliably cooperate if food is involved (and if they’re hungry; not hungry, all bets are off). If someone rings the doorbell, they are like the hounds of hell, barking and leaping at the front door to (I’m guessing) protect me and their territory. No amount of saying, “Hey! It’s only the Domino’s delivery guy! Settle down!” has any effect on their behavior. No magic words will entice them to shut-the-fuck-up and sit quietly. It’s an embarrassment.

And why is it an embarrassment? Because these are perfectly nice dogs who have found themselves in the hands of an incompetent Dog Mom. Do they need training? Oh my, yes. But guess who needs it even more?  Yeah. Me.

Since much of the problem takes place in our home, I’m excited to find a trainer who will come and work with us at the house. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Now morning has broken. Oh, wait. No, it’s really just lunch time and I’m hungry. Let’s see what’s in the fridge, and as always, hold the mustard. Ick.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina, or Cleveland, or anywhere else. I’m fine, boo!

Last night two dear friends said things to me that I found so perplexing, I had to go back and read my last few blog posts this morning. This is just a short note to all and sundry to let you know that life is good and, please, don’t take my self-deprecatory humor to heart.

So, at a class dinner, Brenda said she loves my writing and that I was “so brave.” Wait, what? Brave? I gave her a hug (I was about to head home) and thanked her, but was puzzled about the “brave” part. Brenda is great, by the way. We’re trying to figure out how we missed out on being besties in high school.

Then, I got home and called Ginny to try to meet for lunch today. I told her what Brenda said about me being brave, and Ginny said, well, there was something she’d been wanting to tell me, too. She said she loves my writing, but that she wants me to stop making fun of myself or people will get the wrong idea and think I’m down on myself for being old and fat.

Now, Ginny is my adorable, protective friend of twenty-plus years and I know she would walk on glass for me. She doesn’t want me to think of myself in a negative way, nor does she want anyone else to even consider thinking I am anything less than fabulous. She was annoyed with me for putting myself down!

I hope you have friends like mine (and I have MORE amazing girlfriends, too)! Aren’t they wonderful?

So this is just a little note to my darling Brenda and Ginny and anyone else who cares to tell you – don’t worry! I actually like myself better now than ever before in my life. In my mind, that gives me license to laugh at the challenges of buying clothes for short, chubby gals and to call myself “old” when, in truth, I feel anything but.


Sue and I enjoying cafe au lait and croissants in France two years ago. Can’t wait for our adventure in Italy this fall! Life is GOOD!

The Boys (my dogs) and I just got back from our morning walk. Little Richard, the possible Morkie, is a slim, trim little terrier. Mick Jagger, my long haired dachshund, is a chubby fellow who really needs to reduce to a healthier weight. Consequently, the daily walks are intended to get us both in better shape. We aren’t likely to reach Richie’s doggie equivalent of Magic Mike’s physique, but Mick and I are getting healthier. This will allow him to more effectively terrorize the squirrels who dare venture into our back yard, and I will be better able to keep up with my buddy, Sue, when we explore Tuscany in October. It helps to have a big reward, right? Carrot (or better yet, carrot cake) on a stick?

So, don’t worry, my friends! And if you’re feeling old, remember this:  you will never again be as young as you are today. Enjoy!