Category Humor

The Stander On’er Thinger

JT Twissel 34 Comments

I have a confession to make: I am not as old as Joe Biden nor that other guy. But I stuttered as a child and had to endure speech therapy for years. Nevertheless, I still stumble over words … all the friggin’ time. When I’m tired I sound drunk. When I leave messages on people’s answering machines I sound drunk. And, given the fact that my mother was from Massachusetts, I say things like “take out the gobbage” and “woofs” instead of “wolves.” I also have math dyslexia and cannot write down a phone number properly. So I don’t judge people by how they speak or their occasional lapses in memory. Remember, the guy below was only 54 when he was elected president. 

But my biggest problem has always been what they call “word retrieval difficulties.” Thus, my language is peppered with zingers like: “Bring me the whatchamacallit.” And “Dr. What’s His Name told me to use the thingamajig to take my … ah … what’sitcalled?” It’s not age related and it’s not getting any worse (or better) with age. It certainly hasn’t tampered me in anyway. I’ve managed to teach classes and give a speech once or twice without sounding like an idiot (or so I was told).

My husband, who is also not quite Biden’s age, has a mind like a computer.  Or so I thought until …  the other day he asked me to bring him the Stander On’er Thinger. 

The Stander On’er Thinger otherwise known as a Stepper On’er Thingie

Well, I guess he won’t be running for president.

My garden dragon otherwise known as a What the Heck is it?

Happy Year of the Dragon! 

A better than expected day

JT Twissel 38 Comments

I woke up thinking I was going to have to call an airline and demand to know why my credit card wasn’t reimbursed (as promised) for an airline ticket that I’d paid full price for and cancelled at least a week in advance. Last night I compiled all my dates and times, credit card bills, and relevant emails. After my coffee, I was going to battle.

Can you see the roaring elephant? I wonder what’s gotten him riled up?

The previous day my beef had been with the property tax office. I’d convinced my husband to support an increase in taxes for our local schools by pointing out that old farts like us could get an exemption. At the time I had a sneaky feeling the tax people would find a way to wiggle out of that promise and guess what? We got our property taxes on Sept 9. 2023 (due in December) and in itty bitty print above the list of taxes was a note telling people to call the number next to each tax to find out the process for applying and being approved for an exemption. (sounds like a ton of fun, doesn’t it?) Luckily the call back number for each of the applicable taxes was the same. Don’t ask me why they didn’t just list the one number. ; (

We got our call back at supper time.

Sweet Young Lady to Rotten Old Poop: “I’ll put you on the list to receive applications for exemptions for each of the taxes. You should get them by April 2024. They must all be completed and returned by May and then they will be forwarded to the appropriate departments and begin the approval process.”

Ant collecting property taxes from a flower

So basically for this year … forget it. Actually I don’t really mind. Our property taxes are already sooo high that what’s one more blow? And, I did vote for the taxes. But it is rather sneaky to get folks on fixed incomes to vote for a new tax by telling them they’ll be exempt and then make the process so onerous. Besides, I’ve got a sneaky feeling that asking for an exemption has landed me on the list of Rotten Old Poops Who Don’t Care About Kids! Soon to be published in the local paper and on the obnoxious NextDoor site.

Anyway, that was yesterday’s waste of a hour or so. Today, before I called the airlines, I decided to take a second look at the credit card statement, and there, (listed in payments and not charges), was the reimbursement for the unused ticket … in full. Whew! I may be a rotten old poop who doesn’t care about kids but at least I’m not on the list of Stupid Old Farts Who Don’t Examine Their Credit Card Statements! Yet …

So today was better than expected simply because I slowed down and took a second look. I’ll have to try and remember that in the future but no guarantees!

Yesterday I posted a snippet of the first chapter of The List For Herr Azmus, to read the entire thing click here.

Company picnics and other torture

JT Twissel 23 Comments

I love dreams about company picnics and reunions (not) – they’re almost as bizarre as the events themselves. It’s been many years since I worked a nine-to-five job in a downtown office high rise but I still have nightmares about the experience. Company picnics and holiday parties were expected to improve morale but that rarely happened.

However, I still feel sorry for the organizers of the last company picnic I attended. Times were tough and so they had to find a relatively inexpensive site which is not an easy task in the SF Bay Area, Finally they found a campground no one had heard of on the eastern slopes of Mount Diablo. Even for people who knew that area well, it was a bitch to find. Thus employees arriving from far away with carloads full of antsy children were beyond dismayed to learn that, on a scorching hot day, the campground’s two “olympic size pools with diving boards and slides” were closed. The reason, the ongoing drought had forced rattlesnakes and other critters down from the mountain in search of any source of water… even the chlorinated variety. The swimming pools were full of snake, mice, gophers … you name it. Some dead, some alive.

The organizers tried to make up for this unfortunate event by setting up a dunking tank and convincing the company’s most loathed director to be the “dunkee.” Lines of disgruntled employees lined up to dunk the man who made their working lives a torture only to find out he was having the time of his life. After each dunking he arose from the water, fist pumping the air. “I was in the Massod. Bring on your flimsy attempts to torture me! ” Eventually it wasn’t fun to watch the most despised man in the company enjoying the only container of water not filled with rattlesnakes.

We’d had to forego the traditional barbecuing of hot dogs and hamburgers because of the high fire risk and so, for lunch we had our choice of boxed lunches, each containing a sandwich, chips and a cookie. The organizers hoped to make up for the rather bland lunch with a piñata contest. Only the piñatas they’d bought and filled with candy had been manufactured to withstand a nuclear blast. After blindly whacking the darn things and getting not one treat, the little children soon gave up and moved on to the petting zoo. Some of the older kids gave it a try but most were insulted by even being asked to participate and moved onto their established bitching grounds. The menfolk, having been fortified by their allotted ration of beer, then stepped up to bat. They were determined to whack the shit out of the cute little donkeys and zebras, probably because the dunking tank had provided no satisfaction. After the slaughter was complete, the children were invited back to pick through the debris for whatever candy they could find. Needless to say, they looked a bit bewildered. This is fun mommy?

Last night I dreamt that I took the children of a serial killer to my company picnic. The serial killer was the daughter of someone (who will remain nameless) that I once worked with. The picnic was to be held at lake but it turned out to be a large puddle by a railroad track. The serial killer’s children turned on me and then luckily I woke up.

I wonder if my dreams would be much more pleasant if I hadn’t worked so many years in corporate America. What do you think??

* Images are all from Bing Images

Whatcha gonna do stew

JT Twissel 28 Comments

As I have mentioned, my husband collects cookbooks. In fact, he owns every cookbook ever published by Cook’s Illustrated. If you have the time and patience (and can afford the often hard to find and expensive ingredients), I must admit most of recipes they publish are foolproof.

However this is his favorite cookbook:

With recipes from all the greatest cowboys and gals (at least in film)

By the time we were allowed to get a television, cowboy shows were a thing of the past but Joel grew up on them. This cookbook contains not only recipes but pictures of the old stars and tidbits about the television shows, movies, and songs from that era. So I can understand why he’s so fond of it.

How many stars can you match to their cowboy roles? I got 2 – Paladin and Davy Crockett

Many of the recipes were written with a snide dig at other cookbooks:

Does anyone know where Poohawk Territory is? Sigh, my grocery doesn’t sell bogus feathers!

There are even recipes for genuine cowboy cocktails:

And, if you’re having a dinner party, menu ideas (note the vegetarian option)

Note the vegetarian option

However, tonight Joel tells me he’ll be making this dish:

Pretty fancy hey? I’m so happy we spent a fortune on all those gourmet cookbooks!

I’ll let you know how it turns out. One thing I do have an affection for from those days when being a cowboy was every little boy (and some girls) dream. Cowboy songs.

When Mother takes her pills

JT Twissel 40 Comments

Today is my mother’s birthday.  She’s 94.  She lives in an assisted living facility although it’s only because she doesn’t like to take her pills. If she doesn’t take them, she gets all foggy.  If she does take them, Lord help the staff. She takes to trying to run the place. What can you do?

Today she was visited by a fellow “prisoner” who confided an urgent desire to escape and Mother alerted the front desk via her emergency button. Mother:  “They came and took her back home and then I looked out the window and there she was trying to get over the speed bumps again.” (I guess she was using a walker) “And I called the front desk and said, ‘whelp, she’s at it again’ and they all thanked me.”  Mother would generally be the first to try to escape but apparently my brother has managed to beguile the ladies at the front desk with his swaggering charm (the men in my family all age well … fuck that) and so Jimbo’s daring escapades keep her entertained.

The Dashing Jimbo in his favorite hat.

She used to live with my husband and me but we are very boring and we live at least a four hour drive from her beloved son who is always innovating, creating, partying, and exercising.  She lived with him briefly but he doesn’t own a television set and has lately become a vegetarian.  She needed and could afford to live someplace where she could have a television in every room, eat what she wanted, and meet with her friends to plan their little rebellions. Life is meaningless for mother unless there’s something to rebel against.

So, happy birthday Mom and enjoy that coffee ice cream you fought so hard for!

Hemingway prepares for a Small Claims Court Battle

JT Twissel 19 Comments
Have you ever had a cockeyed dream that makes absolutely no sense but you can’t wake up from?  Well, that is me today and it’s only 10 am.  I could ingest coffee beans for hours and still feel like I’m stuck in the toilet with a diving bell on my head.

Happy Hour, Worms Officer’s Club many years ago.

I blame this unholy state on the brilliant idea I had round about the time (guessing 4:30 am) that the cat got zapped by a spaceship surfing into the inland valleys on the fog and skidded across the wood floors mindlessly ripping apart my socks (which were fortunately not on my feet).  Oh yeah, today’s the day to finally start that project I’ve been putting off. I’ll just lie in bed where it’s warm and think the whole thing through.

My last brilliant idea. Take pictures of rotting onions on napkins.

Does anyone really have brilliant ideas before the sun is up?  Word to the wise: If you want to start your day off well, don’t leave your windows open when the weather’s predicted to change. I went to sleep in sunny southern California and woke up on the moors of northern Scotland.  Howling winds, fog, banshees, the whole nine yards, as my mother would say. And my brilliant idea …  organize all of our books.
We have bookcases and bookcases full of books, some I’ve had since childhood.  My books are primarily biographies, novels, short story collections and reference books.  My husband, on the other hand, collects military history books, cook books, books on model trains, travel books, how-to books on every imaginable subject, art books and computer science books.  And all our books (except the cookbooks) are scattered throughout the house.

So where to begin this project, I thought.   First idea: Organize books alphabetically.  But not by title.  By author.  Then all the Hemingways would be together and separate from How To Prepare for Small Claims Court (how the hell did I get that book?)  Dumb Idea.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Second idea: Separate by genre.  First by fiction and non-fiction.  Easy peasy.  Wait a minute.  That would separate Classic Greek Myths from the Iliad and the Odyssey.  Okay … bad idea.  You’ve gotta have a reference book in order to really understand the Classics, know what I mean?
In a dither I asked my bookish friends for advice.  One of them said he organizes books by subject matter.  Hum, The Civil War for Dummies along side Red Badge of Courage and perhaps a How To for applying a tourniquet?  That’s a thought.  My other friend warned against organization.  She claims figuring those things out drives librarians to chew up their sweatpants.  I only have a few pairs of sweatpants and in this lockdown, they’re already pretty thread bare.
***
4:30 pm update:
Here’s how my project has gone so far.  At 10:45 am I picked up a copy of Capote’s  In Cold Blood and thought – hum, haven’t read this book for a while.  Read a few pages.  Ahhhh.  Made a cup of tea and sat down and now I am in Kansas.  After all, tomorrow is another day!  Right?  Got any tips on organizing a book collection, other than eating your underwear?

I’m so sorry, Mr. Rogers

JT Twissel 33 Comments

In the morning, while waiting for my brain to de-thaw from the long winter of sleep I turn on the television and watch a movie or documentary. Generally not for very long.  Just long enough to dissipate the residue of unsettling dreams.  This morning I watched part of a documentary about Fred Rogers called Won’t you be my Neighbor?  I used to think watching Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood with my toddler was worse than eight hours at a miserable job but you know, he was a decent guy. I sure wish we had him around today to help children cope with the schism in this country.  I wonder what he would say. “Children, the world has seen evil men before and many millions of people have died but that doesn’t mean that you’re not special.”

A cat of entirely different stripes, Captain Kangaroo, was the reason my father finally allowed a boob tube in our house. My little sister’d fallen in love with the show and she always got what she wanted because she was “special,” aka, a champion pouter who could and would hide under the bed and refuse to eat until she got her way.

Would you let your child watch this man every morning?

By that time I was a teenager and so warned my parents that Lizzie’s fixation with Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Green Jeans would warp her forever but, did they listen to me?  No.  And so she’s been married nineteen times. I guess she thinks there’s a man out there somewhere who likes to talk to stuffed animals and is not some kind of pervert. 

Back to my apology, Fred Rogers had amazing will power.  He swam a mile every single day and maintained the exact same weight for most of his adult life.  He could also focus his attention one hundred percent on listening to young children.  Have you ever tried to listen to a toddler for longer than a few minutes?

Apparently he wasn’t fond of Eddie Murphy’s brilliant satire: Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood:

But there are pictures of the two men embracing in later years. Do you think Trump will ever embrace Alec Baldwin?

Image from Bing images

I’ve consolidated a series of posts I wrote back in 2014 into a page called  A Dummies Guide to Innocent Spouse Relief.   If you have any interest in how wacky tax code is here in the US, check it out.  

The Galloping Gerties

JT Twissel 28 Comments

Last week a friend of mine shared this video from Saturday Night Live.

If you don’t have time to watch, it’s about elderly people who like to argue with voice automation. The final solution to the problem is an Uh-huh feature that allows Grandpa to have the last word every, single time.  It’s brilliant.

If only my GPS had been equipped with that feature when I tried to drive my ninety year-old mother to her new lawyer’s … I probably wouldn’t have gotten that three day migraine.

GPS: Turn right on McCarran.
Mother to the GPS: I don’t think so!  I’ve lived here for fifty years and …
GPS: Uh-huh.
Me: I can’t hear the directions Mother. Please…
Mother angrily:  Suit yourself.  But don’t ask me for help when we get lost.   I’ll just sit back and shut up. I’m just warning you and this will be the last time.  Yes sirree. Don’t expect me to say anything because I won’t and then we’ll be lost and we’ll be late and I’ll never go anywhere with you again!  You can depend on that. Yes, sirree.
GPS: Uh-huh

I wish I could say my days of technological bewilderment are far in the future, but alas, that would be a slight exaggeration.  Well, perhaps not slight. A few days ago I found myself at the Apple Store with a problem I hoped could be solved by a new battery. I was too early to be “checked in” for the appointment I’d made with one of their “genius squad” and so decided to take a look at some of the hundreds of new machines on display.

Alas, my inability to adapt to rapidly evolving technology didn’t manifest until I reached the iPads. Thinking they were just like my iPhone I began randomly poking the screen and something called Galloping Gertie’s All Star Girlie Flicks opened.  Yikes!  I thought, where the devil is the home button or the X to close the damn thing?  I tried the back icon, the forward icon and anything in between and yet all I got were page after page of porno flicks for rent.  “Let me out, you damn Gerties!” I shouted, which got the attention of the intern geniuses tasked with protecting iPads from stubborn old farts who think they know what they’re doing.

“How do I close Galloping Gerties?”
“You swish.”
“I swish?  Sort of like a magic wand?”  I attempted swishing and a bright flash went off, temporarily blinding me. When vision returned, there on the screen was an ungodly close up of my shriveled visage. “Get that horrid thing off the screen!” I screamed.   

“You have swished too much.  You must practice your swishing.” 

Finally my swishing skills are adequate (although I can’t imagine using an iPad after  a couple of glasses of wine!) and the geniuses inform me it’s time for my appointment with my special genius. They then text my description to the genius and tell me to sit on a box.  A few minutes later I hear my name called.  (I don’t think they sent my physical description, do you?  Otherwise why would my special genius also call my name?  I bet they sent a warning.  Your next appointment is with a neurotic old bat named Jan. Good luck.) 

Unfortunately the news is not good.  Apple isn’t allowed by state law (??) to fix seven year old machines.  They don’t tell you this when you make the appointment and I think the answer is obvious. Buy, buy, buy. 

I hate to tell them but access to Galloping Gertie’s isn’t going to convince me to buy another Apple!  

 

Dinner with Edgar Allen Poe

JT Twissel 21 Comments

A friend of mine posted this snippet regarding the question: “If you could invite a famous writer or artist (dead or alive) to dinner who would it be?”

From New York Times Book Review’s Chuck Klosterman:

“The only problem is that dead people might not understand what was going on, why they were suddenly alive, or why they were being forced to make conversation with some bozo at a weird dinner party. They might just sit there and scream for two hours. And even if they kept it together, I’m sure they’d be highly distracted. If I invite Edgar Allan Poe to dinner, it seems possible he’d spend the whole time expressing amazement over the restaurant’s air conditioning.”

I’m far from an expert on Poe but I imagine, if you took him to dinner at a modern restaurant he’d be far more alarmed by the menu items than the air-conditioning.

Dinner with Poe

“Dandelion salad?  Thirty-four dollars and fifty cents? Highway robbery! Call forth the proprietor! He deserves a tongue lashing. I was assured that my return to this vile and wretched planet merited a meal at Manhattan’s finest establishment.”

“But Mr. Poe.  This is the finest ⏤”

“My morning repast, delivered ‘complimentary” to my chamber without my even having made a request, consisted of a plateful of delightfully crispy bacon, sweet rolls the likes of which I’ve not beheld since brief childhood, a full pot of coffee with pitchers of cream and sugar and even, fruit. Not one damned and cursed dandelion. And I was encouraged to dine in bed ⏤ to rest from my ordeal ⏤ in bedding as soft as the satin in my beloved Virginia’s coffin,” he paused “Where is my love? If I must be dragged from endless rest, why couldn’t she also be reconstituted by foul alchemy? Once again to cuddle, if just for a day.  It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea.”

“Ah, um …” The man in charge of Harvard’s annual Dinner With Your Favorite Author event didn’t know how to respond. The year before they had brought back both Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning at the insistence of an exceedingly wealthy donor.   But at least they were both adults. At the height of his creative output (which was when the bidders demanded their interviews) Poe was married to a thirteen year old. 

Luckily they were rescued from having to explain the Me-Too movement by the arrival of the high bidder and introductions were made.

Much to the organizer’s distress, Poe scowled at the high bidder. “You have made a donation to a university to converse with me?” I, who scarcely eked out a living ⏤ oft reduced to consuming only dandelion soup ⏤”

You’re a legend now, Mr. Poe.”

“A legend? What damsel in distress have I saved or battle charge have I led?  Sir, I daresay you have been swindled.  Did I not see beggars on the streets?  Did I not see mere children selling their bodies and men, even some women,  drinking spirits directly from a bottle in the middle of the day.  I say onto you – entirely too many dandelions are consumed in this time and place and you’re all quite mad!

 

Buried in Section C

JT Twissel 22 Comments

Many people believe that newspapers are obsolete.  You can, after all, get your news on the internet for free so why pay? Aside from the fact that online you have to put up with numerous pop-up ads just to read the headlines, sometimes it’s nice just to unplug.  To sit with a cup of coffee and read articles researched and written by local reporters who have a vested interest in what is going on in your neck of the woods, who write with wit and passion and deserve to be read and not buried five clicks down and behind an ad for Depends.

Here are some of the local stories that caught my eye in the San Francisco Chronicle last Saturday, March 9th.

Osprey watchers can see clearly now
 by Steve Rubenstein, staff writer

First, this article has a catchy headline that infers osprey watchers have been having vision problems.  Oh dear,  Was there some kind of eye infection that affected only people who liked to watch ospreys?  Why? And last, what was the cure that has them seeing clearly now?

It was a … drumroll please … a three thousand dollar remote control windshield washer.

According the SF Audubon Society, over 70,000 people are addicted to watching the mating habits of an osprey couple via a webcam installed downwind of their nest. But when a bird’s gotta take a crap, he doesn’t much care where the wind takes his treasure, no matter how many followers he has. And so Richmond Osprey has made quit a mess and osprey viewers are suffering. There hasn’t been too large a public outcry because Rosie Osprey has been off clubbing in Mexico, as is her habit every winter. But soon she’s returning and no doubt expecting Richmond to give up his bachelor ways to service her at least eight times a day “live and in color” for all to see. Some poor member of the Audubon Society will probably be on call twenty-four seven to activate the windshield wiper when necessary but I’m sure it will be a sacrifice made happily.  If you also like to watch ospreys mate, here’s the link.  I can’t guarantee you an x-rated experience but you may get lucky:

http://sfbayospreys.org

There is, however, a darkly ironic side to this story. 

Point Molate, Richmond California

For at least a decade a friend of mine has waged a frustrating battle to save the shoreline that provides eelgrass for the osprey and other wildlife  from developers hellbent on building subdivisions and casinos. She and others in the Pt. Molate Alliance have provided plans to the city for an eco-friendly nature center, picnic areas and hiking and bike trails which would provide Richmond residents with a million dollar view of the San Francisco Bay.  They’ve also documented the perils of overdeveloping that area from increased traffic congestion to the environmental impact.  But they’re up against big money in a community famous for poverty and high crime.

While she is happy that people enjoy watching these incredible birds, she wishes that money had been spent fighting the greed that will put them at risk once again.  I agree.

Another headline concerning wildlife also caught my eye:

When monkeying around was a job creator and kid favorite
by Gary Kamiya, the author “Cool Gray City of Love: 49 Views of San Francisco”

Now I think of monkeying around as cheating on one’s partner. That’s just where my mind goes, folks.  So how could that be a job creator and kid favorite?

Rats! I was fooled again by a clever title.  Building monkey houses for local zoos was one of the projects that got people back to work after the Depression. The one at the San Francisco Zoo was particularly popular however it was not rebuilt after 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake damaged it beyond repair.  The reason why?  The residents, spider monkeys, expressed their displeasure at being held captive by dangling their butts over the mesh tunnel leading to their island and defecating on the zookeepers.  These monkeys also ran in gangs and followed leaders who were often described as “gang bosses.” It was a regular West Side Story on Monkey Island.  I’m sure the zookeepers probably said “It’s either them or us!”

It’s a sad commentary on the times, but I bet Life and Death on Monkey Island would get more views on a streaming webcam than Rosie and Richmond’s last tango mid-air.

Alas, t’is the season for sweeping away spend camellia blossoms.  Perhaps spring will eventually arrive!