Village Humor
SORRY, WRONG NUMBER
(I blame you, Alexander Graham Bell).
By Jan Marshall
In simple times I only searched for my other shoe or a lost lover. Complications have now arisen.
Having been a good girl all year, while earnestly trying to reverse that reputation, my generous family bought me an iPhone 4S for Siri or Sadist.
Siri is called a “virtual assistant,” meaning she is purported to be my own personal secretary and living conveniently in my phone thus saving me on employee insurance and their wasteful coffee breaks.
She is driving me… virtually nuts! The instructions state to speak a request as I would to a regular secretary and she would assist me. I am simply to ask her to find something or give her a reminder to remind me. We have now had horrendous arguments with lots of cursing, some of it coming from me, too.
Siri has a tone of superiority and is quite judgmental. When I asked her to please find me a Thai restaurant near Laguna Hills, she yelled, “I have no contact for your thighs and besides, we just met, so I think you are being too forward in asking me such things, as a matter of fact, you disgust me!”
When I reiterate that it is a restaurant that I am actually seeking she asks, “What kind of restaurant.” I reply, “Thai.” She says, “I do not see that in your contact list. Is there anything else I can help you with?” After 20 minutes of this banter I change my plea to a search for the nearest bar. She wants to know if I wish to attend a Bar named Mitzvah. I fib and say, “confirm,” because hopefully they serve drinks there.
We have now started couple’s therapy. A friend thinks she is so great in making, breaking and lying about his appointments, he has asked her to marry him. She replied, “Let’s just be friends.” She also bad-mouthed me.
Another daily challenge is my attempt to locate this smart phone at least twice a day, since another one of Siri’s actual tasks is to play “hide and seek.” When at a public venue or in a meeting, I keep the phone on vibrate, so I am not rude to others. I know, I know. I am a good girl. However, when I return home, I occasionally forget to turn the ringer back on.
Suddenly I hear a buzz which could be a bee or the aftermath of that Bar Mitzvah. I then figure out it is Siri or a caller. The challenge is that, because in my home there are many things that vibrate, I frankly do not know where to look for the phone.
So this is my suggestion for the next Jobs genius: Design a tiny pulsing light or a mini-mini GPS tracking gizmo I can place next to my skate key and wear as a necklace.
When the gadget goes missing, a small voice will tell me to “look under the couch or check the icebox.” Brilliant people have designed incredible devices to make life easier (except for that b... Siri), so why not help out those of us who continually misplace things?
If you have a better solution for searching, please call my cell phone, but do not speak to Siri, as she is a lying dog!
THE END
Jan is seeking sponsors
for her latest humorous survival book,
"DANCIN, SHMANCIN with the SCARS!"
A portion of the profits will be donated
to the Laguna Woods Foundation.
For information, please contact Jan at (949) 458-0660.
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
WORDS, LIES AND HOMESTEADING
By Jan Marshall
Foreclosures are up; my face muscles are down. The streets are filled with “for sale” notices. One desperate seller actually displayed a “cash and carry” sign. While the “ambassadors" at the entrance were busy waxing their legs and discussing The Housewives of Gate 9, it was purchased and whisked away by a weightlifter with a stolen gate pass.
I sympathetically view the crowds milling about who hope to find a gem then quickly leave shaking their head(s) in disbelief. Expectations are daunted since the “most creative writing award” no longer belongs to executives preparing their expense account or me, looking for tax write-offs while humming that old ditty, Nothing from Nothing is Nothing.
The Oscar now goes to…. Real Estate copy writers. They create the most fanciful phrases since Shakespeare. Very few of the classifieds descriptions have a connection to an actual dwelling. Here are the real meanings of ads in our newspaper.
FIXER UPPER: Condemned by the City of Laguna Woods.
SPLIT LEVEL: There is 1 step before the front door.
FABULOUS VIEW: Neighbor is an exhibitionist.
DOLLHOUSE: Ken and Barbie must sell since he is now with Plus-Size Barbie.
TROPICAL LANDSCAPE: Gardeners are absent, busy potting and pruning property for the new Golf Clubhouse.
CHARMING OLD WORLD: Plumbing outdoors, waiting for maintenance’s arrival.
BY OWNER: So ugly, even brokers won’t list it.
SOLAR ENERGY with Central Air: Roof blew off. PCM due anytime.
SECLUDED ESTATE: Try and find it. Who named and numbered these things?
There are many streets with the same or similar sounding names. I reside on a box of Carmels (Avenida) in my area. Several times a year, a stranger knocks and calls out… Mama?? If it weren’t for the lovely Mother’s Day gifts I receive, I definitely would consider reporting these intrusions.
TA DA: The ACTUAL BEST BARGAINS!
INTERNATIONAL DELIGHT: Cordoba, Majorca, Navarro and the VILLAS Nueva, Terraza and Barth-elona*: All good deals selling at Leisure World in …. SPAIN! Perhaps I’ll become a snowbird. Mi Casa will then be Su Casa and vice versa, mi Senoras y Senores! Antonio Banderas, please call to discuss my real estate.
NO DISRESPECT: The housing issue in our community and the country is painful to endure. Like my neighbors, I cannot get a reverse mortgage nor sell my home or entice Warren Buffett to adopt me. The way I cope is to seek a “chuckle” along with Chuck, a friend I met at Trader Joe’s. Won’t you join us?
THE END
*Editors: I purposely spelled Barcelona “Barth-elona,” thinth thath’s the way I thay it.
MY LIFE IS FALLING APART; FILM AT 11
By Jan Marshall
First: I could not find the invisible tape.
Then I stubbed my toe on the refrigerator, and now the fridge is suing for unlawful contact after it warned me repeatedly to “Step Away from the Refrigerator, Chunkette.”
I learned that my old car was being recalled for being the only one in my mutual that was not a Toyota, so I hurried to complete chores.
At the bank, the line was so long I had to re-shave my legs. The teller looked at me suspiciously, then abruptly shut her window. The next clerk was counting on his fingers just like I do so I felt comfortable. He urged me to stop placing threatening photos of Bonnie and Clyde on my checks and I agreed to desist if he would just deposit some currency from his account into mine every once in a while. I did not hear his response but the guard who escorted me out of the building suggested I bank by mail with an offshore financial institute, or he said something about an institute. I forget.
Learning that Post Offices soon may be closing forever, I drove to the main branch. I took a number that either was for the next postal person or bagels. One employee was filing her nails, two others were playing post office and giggling. A man in uniform looked at his watch and me every 2 seconds because it was close to 5 PM. He then suggested I buy my stamps at the machine. That sounded sensible.
I inserted my dollar bills and they were promptly rejected. Being rejected by a beauty contest (as if that is even a remote possibility) is one thing - but a machine? I tried again. No luck. Not even an explanation such as “It’s not you, it’s me.” It is the not knowing why that still haunts me. How will I become a better person or a proper inserter without clarification?
I realize this was just one bummer day in a lifetime of joy. These wounds will heal. I believe there will be other banks and equipment that will find me suitable. In the scheme of things, I do have so much to be grateful for, since wine and chocolate are deemed healthy. I have mentioned this previously without a suitable answer, but I must keep asking why, oh why, can’t they prove that crisp Bacon and Margaritas with salt on the rim truly promote longevity. I do not want to live in a world of exclusion and discrimination. I know only too well how that feels, thanks to bigoted money devices, humorless bankers, and ice boxes, too.
I need unconditional love; something that has never turned me down or vice versa. A Margarita (the drink!) with Rumaki sounds just perfect.
So delicious and comforting; perhaps I’ll have two Margaritas; thereafter, the urgency on finding a magic tape dispenser with a beeper may no longer be the lead wish on my bucket list. This day may turn out swell after all.
THE END
DARTHA STEWART, MARTHA’S TWIN, SPEAKS
By Jan Marshall
The secret is out. I have been hidden and silent till now.
I am Martha’s younger (by 1 minute) twin sister, Dartha. It is our 70th birthday and time for the world to finally know I exist before the TMZ expose'.
FLASHBACKS: During delivery, sis fashioned a duvet from the placenta to cover mummy. Gold-leafing our umbilical cord while nursing, she sprayed a touch of vanilla around mom’s areola. I drank mother’s milk straight from a Schmucker’s® jelly glass.
She smirked when the doctor patted her bottom. I moaned and gave him my adult web site. I did not fit in.
Mother thought adoption would be best. She traded me to a cousin for a year’s supply of Polish Sausages.
Though separated by space, Martha and I led comparable lives. I, too, give advice. My friends call it nagging and hate it.
While I am not rich, I could help her out if she ever needs dough. I have some in the freezer.
We have similarities as well as differences. She is looking for a perfect potted poinsettia. I am looking for a sober one that isn’t rude. You see, while sis talks to plants, revealing nothing, I tell mine everything. My plants hold their ears when they see me. My plastic flowers all have silk worms with puzzled expressions. Many hanging plants (they didn’t even leave a note) were originally table sitters. They whisper, “Here comes Mudder Kevorkian.” I do not think that is funny.
I would love to visit Martha. We could nosh on her homemade Sauteed Tiger Tail. In turn, I would reveal a hint that could save hours of spitting and cursing. I, too, know stuff. This revelation could transform her life to include bathroom breaks.
Sadly, she spends many hours attempting to un-stick Saran® wrap from itself? Does she know if you put it in the fridge next to the panty hose, they both will be easy to peel off?
This tip would also give Marti time to tend to the trees she uses for crafting stationary. Then she could drop me a note with ink made from squid and octopi that are staples in her home. The bell startles me.
Once again, the man in brown, with cute legs, has delivered another plaque.
“Dartha Stewart has been awarded Good Housekeeping’s ’Seal of Disgust’ ”. Aha! This explains why people wipe their feet after they leave my home.
Here is a personal wish for my twinnie: Happy Birthday! Sis, do not envy me for receiving the one honor that is beyond your grasp. Instead, visit me. I will divulge the delights of defrosting. We may need to wear high boots and pith helmets to keep from forming a fungus while walking through my manor. Then again, you can always glue-gun us the more stylish Manolo Blahniks for the walk-through on Cul de Sac 17.
I’ll call the gate for you.”
THE END
© 2010 Jan Marshall. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited.
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
DEAR JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE
By Jan Marshall
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
There are things you should know about granny and other sexy old broads. True, you are used to quick Twitter messages, but since I am Twitter-less, I urge you to keep reading to the end where, I guarantee, before the year is over, I will get to the point.
In the past when I shouted, “Is there a doctor in the house?” in a crowded venue, it was usually to introduce him to my daughter. Since she does incredibly well on her own and in fact, has a restraining order against me for doing so, I choose now to shout that at an actual doctor’s office where they frequently keep me waiting an hour and half beyond my actual scheduled appointment.
Though my days are fully occupied searching for keys and plucking the hairs on my face, to others sitting in a doctor’s office this might seem wasteful. In fact it is most enjoyable and is the only reality show I watch. The waiting areas are usually mobbed. My number (as in take a number and sit down, lady!) is 48 so there is time to observe.
I heard one woman mumble as she reviewed her multitude of medical forms to fill out in order to be seen by a specialist, “Left nostril, heart valve, ear, buttock, pinkie toe on right foot, pinkie toe on left foot;” then frustratingly stood up and burst out in song; “All of me; why can't they take all of me?”
We sympathized and hummed along. Another fellow in the room had been waiting so long that he called the receptionist from his cell phone while in that very room wanting to speak directly to the Urologist.
She asked if he could hold and he shouted “if I could hold I would not be asking for the Urologist, you, &*%&%^”.
He had a point. We applauded then washed his mouth out with a Gray Goose liquid, and ours as well.
Go figure; when doctors were on strike, I stayed healthy. I had so much leisure time once that I went to a palmist for fun. She said I would meet a tall, dark stranger and...he would remove my gall bladder. I went to a palmist for a second opinion and she removed my diamond ring.
Now I visit actual healers. My primary doctor is a Recommendologist. Whenever I see him for any reason he says I have a virus which is Latin for I don't know what the hell you have. Then he recommends a specialist, usually one not covered by my plan.
With apologies to you, Mr. Timberlake, (loved you on Saturday Night Live!) there are differences in movie making. I know what yours is, and I am all for that, though in addition, my film would feature the added bonus which inserts a romantic rendezvous with a man who includes me on his health insurance plan; for me the best definition of "Friends with Benefits." See you at the Oscars!
© 2010 Jan Marshall. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited.
MY COUNTRY
By Jan Marshall
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
When I wrote this on the second day in May, I realized it was an eventful, patriotic month thus far. The other news was that the water shortage seemed to have ebbed a bit. I have been involved with conservation and recycling, even fixing my old beau up with a good friend. I also suggest to my current sweetie on a daily basis that we cut down on electricity.
“I’d better not cook. Let’s go out to dinner.
You understand, honey, bunny, I am doing this for my country, not only for conservation but also to help the economy. Ya know; farmers, waiters, wine stewards and doggie bag providers need the work.
It is the least I can do.”
He is doing his part as well. Whenever I start to speak, on his very own, he removes the batteries from his hearing aids. What a guy!
Saving our planet is a family matter. My granddaughter has found an ingenious way of keeping water from flowing down the drain. She soaks anything that needs washing: pots, pans, sweaters and a poodle (formerly a Great Dane). We both agree that washing items too frequently depletes water, detergent and the precious time that she could be texting on her smart phone while I continue to try to figure how to turn mine on. She said soaking makes the dirt softer. I admit we do have the softest dirt in town.
My grandson deserves credit as well. With his infinite wisdom he knows not to take a bath until the health department issues a warning. Leave it to children to be in the know. While I was gently reminding him of the virtue of cleanliness he, instead, was thinking of the bigger picture-remaining sooty for his concern for his country. I am so proud.
Now that the water shortage is less of an issue compared with our many other earthly issues, I revised some of my previous list on Marshall household sacrifices.
OLD RULES
Brushing our upper teeth on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and the lower ones on alternate days: CANCELLED.
Scotch with water was not permitted during our service to our nation. Adults were required to drink straight from the bottle: CANCELLED.
I notice some of us still wish to do our part a bit longer.
There is only one edict still in place. That is the one requiring us to save water by “showering with a stranger.” We have made some very good connections. We call them our “straight from the bottle” buddies, all of us proud to be Americans; all of us smelling pretty good!
FOOLISH APRIL’S NEW RESIDENTS
By Jan Marshall
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
After attending an event where our wonderful volunteer clowns cheered up the evening, I had the following dream as background circus music played and moving vans appeared.
Though many showbiz celebrities live here, the dream revealed our newest neighbors were from the cartoon, comic strip and fairy tale world.
I met Cinderella, recently divorced from her prince, with the foot fetish. They split when she refused to wear glass shoes. Turns out he was CEO of Pyrex© and could get them wholesale.
She now dates Dr. Sholls®. He explained that glass slippers, unless custom fitted with orthopedic inserts, cause bunions, not Brussels sprouts as she first thought. The Prince is now rooming with Betty Crocker© and the Pillsbury Dough Boy(©). Please, don’t ask!
Another truck brought Peter, Peter, that Pumpkin eater. Don’t get me wrong; pumpkin itself is nutritious, but as a manor, even in a dream, I guffaw. He put his wife in pumpkin shell which happened to be in United, thus a co-op- so he could not get a reverse mortgage. He is asking Gail if she can do something about that? While keeping her? I mean really. I am a women’s libber and I truly object to this keeping her business whether he keeps or, well, or not.
While in sleepy land I received an email from Goldilocks saying she wanted to move here but didn’t have the down payment to qualify.
She lives in Hollywood, over a Chinese Restaurant where she grows dill. When we talked about her past she revealed, “he was such an animal,” speaking of her relationship with the papa bear. He asked her to call him “big daddy” at intimate moments, though that is another story for another time, perhaps Never, duh, since she told me that in confidence as we were getting drunk at Musso Franks.
In my slumber I noticed Elmer (ole) Fuddy Duddy at board meetings where he complained constantly while wearing woman’s clothes.
After Brenda Star, Ace Reporter, was fired, she moved to the Towers with her mystery man Basil. It turns out Basil wasn’t such a mystery man after all. His real name is Irving and she was mighty disappointed to learn the distinguished black patch he wore was for pink eye.
Today, a handsome man moved in next door. He was wearing blue tights. The only man I ever loved in tights was Stewart Granger in the film “Scaramouche.” I’m sure he loved me too, though I have not heard from him recently. I wish I could tell him, “the sword wounds have healed nicely.”
MY OPINION: Male Tights: NO. Capri’s: YES, which several men wear at Channel 6-particular executives, on Happy Snappy Tuesday’s.
Meeting Red Riding Hood in culde sac 17, she confided that in the infamous court case she was questioned by a cruel, macho prosecutor.
“Why were you walking in the forest alone? Did you run out of alleys?”
“You do know what the color red indicates, you ignorant slut, you.” OMG!!!! I hate that, especially during the 100th Anniversary of Woman’s International Day. Why do some idiots blame the victim?
Speaking of Red, a belated card from Santa insisted that Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer is not an alcoholic as some have claimed but simply has a bad case of Rosacia! (Gosh, it seems like the fake world has lots of ailments).
I asked the new neighbor his name and he said he was Superman (that’s what they all say) and he sighed that his “S” had been retired. When he told me he was faster than a speeding bullet, I suggested he see an Urologist. Then I slammed the door in his face.
The noise happily but confusingly awakened me. Yes it was a dream but why was I wearing blue tights? (Please send in your answers).
THE END
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© 2010 Jan Marshall. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited
Do Not Put The Blame On Mame, Boys!
By Jan Marshall
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
If I were to spank the person most responsible for my problems, I would not sit down for a month. While I usually accept culpability for what I cause in my life, others may not.
Recently, I went to retrieve my king-size blanket from the cleaners. Though one must allow for a bit of shrinkage, finding material the size of a pot holder seemed excessive. Attached to the little square was a disclaimer: NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR SHRINKING, FADING, BALLING (what about bawling, mister?) OR COLOR CHANGE. PS: EVERY EFFORT HAS BEEN MADE TO REMOVE STAINS. AS FOR THOSE REMAINING, “TOUGH NOOKY, COOKIE!”
When leaving a restaurant, the valet brought back the car and the front seat was missing. Attached to the windshield was a card stating, “NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ITEMS LEFT IN THE CAR.”
Television stations caution, “NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR OPINIONS EXPRESSED BY THE NEWSCASTER.”
In the classified section of the Orange County Register, “NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR DEBTS INCURRED BY SPOUSE OR MISTRESS.”
Defendants claim, “No Mea Culpa.” Even Sinbad the Tailor has a sign that says, “NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ALTERATIONS OR CHILDREN LEFT OVER SEVEN DAYS.“
And what about the children? All this lack of accountability has filtered down to them. Show me a child who has never exclaimed, “He did it!” and I'll show you a child who was not my kid.
Once I noticed my little grandson had wet his diaper. Without being judgmental, I mentioned it to him.
He said, “I didn't do it.”
“Who did it then?” I asked.
“Daddy did it,” he replied.
I wasn’t born yesterday. I know that Daddy did not do it since he was downtown in his office and that is at least 20 miles away.
Countries blame each other. Politicians accuse their opponents of messing things up. An old Spanish proverb says, “To deny all is to confess all.” Wouldn’t it be refreshing to hear one leader own up and say, “Hey guys, I goofed?”
I would stand on my head, whistling while I work, just to hear one Village resident admit at our board meetings that, “The other side could actually be right and perhaps it is only my own dark nature to see evil wherever I look, which I will now stop doing since I am (at long last) in therapy.”
Please, enough with blaming others already. I believe most people try to do the best they can, though we always can review and improve. I vow to take full responsibility for everything in my life, except of course for the slight weight gain. As I have explained repeatedly at “Big Girls Are Us” meetings and in these pages, if you believe in reincarnation, you know these fat cells are from my previous life when I was King George the fat, I mean the fourth.
Disclaimer: THE STAFF OF FRIENDS OF THE VILLAGE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANYTHING JAN MARSHALL SAYS!
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Hey, Mister! You Wanna Buy a Duck?
By Jan Marshall
HOW IT STARTED
“SPECIAL DEAL: Barely used television set formerly owned by a little old lady with weak eyes.” These few words began my descent into the lure of garage sales.
Since then, if a sign reads FIRE SALE or ONLY ONE TO A CUSTOMER, I am hooked. Today I bought five snow tires for the price of six, but they came with a picture of snow. Because of this weakness, my own garage is overflowing with other people’s discards. I am joking. Living in United, I no longer have a garage. I have an overhang; though I am exercising to remedy that. The stuff is actually next to my car, which is on blocks next to the broken refrigerator and the malnourished goat running wild. I myself will have to have a sale to get rid of my terrific finds.
So, actually, I am having a sale this month, and I invite you all.
From my previous experiences, I have some advice if you, too, want to get rid of junk-oops-treasures, other than on channel 6.
- In the beginning…buy a house with a garage. Unpack what you can. Leave the rest for when you have time. This will never happen. Immediately you'll have valuable items to sell at a later date.
- Check newspapers for patio and probate listings. After your partner screams at you for buying another piece of crap, you can put it away for your own big sale. Some other lady will love it. Her partner will be furious; thus, you can attend their divorce sale and buy back your stuff plus theirs.
- Advertising is essential. Place signs on utility poles outdoors, not on your bedroom one, unless you have a lot of traffic.
- Be sure to print in bold letters “TOPLESS SALE.” It will bring an abundance of people with mustaches and some men, too. That headline is not a lie. Surely you have empty jars and pots without covers.
- A description of the object must entice the customer. Example: the backless broken chair with three remaining QUEEN ANN legs can be turned upside down and then offered as a genuine antique “Bagel Server” from a Queen’s Estate, to be used for special events.
- Leave one item unmarked. When asked the price, say. “IT IS NOT FOR SALE.” People will plead. Stand your ground. They'll hound you. “I've just driven from Argentina for the sale.” They will claim their “astrological prediction for this day insists they purchase a leek-green love seat like yours, lest they come to a dire end.” Wait a beat…then relent and sell it to them for a ridiculously high price.
This helpful information is culled from my own experiences. I fell for all of the above, so you are learning from someone knowing the ecstasy of being a customer at every flea sale, where I actually bought fleas, and the agony of not being able to find room for another “find” unless I asked my kids to move. It is not an easy decision since they are only in their forties.
I love yard sales. I'm going to watch the ads tomorrow. When I appeared on the air myself, pitching for the Trading Post, I accidentally sold Rob Merritt’s desk and one of his shoes.
Recently and regrettably, because of my incredibly creative spiel, an unsuspecting board member will be picked up and transferred as a gigolo to another senior village. I have two cases of Old Spice if he needs it.
© 2010 Jan Marshall. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited
No Gifts, I Beg You
By Jan Marshall
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
You bought me a pool table last Christmas Day.
Years ago, seats for the old Rams 49ers.
On Thanksgiving you gave me the bird
To cook for thirty friends, plus the Shriners.
My birthday you took me away from it all.
Our room was on the eighteenth hole.
Three times I got hit with the ball.
Twice, in my camisole.
Thank you kindly, but on the next occasion
Please listen to this sound advice.
Do not always be thinking of me.
For once, buy yourself something nice.
Please!
© 2010 Jan Marshall. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited
HOW I STOPPED SMOKING
By Jan Marshall
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
Many, many years ago (last century when Sir Walter Raleigh and I dated) I was a smoker. I relinquished my habit reluctantly because of a few rotten kids who lived with me. They said it was wrong for me to yell at them when they ate junk food because they’d only get cavities or lose their teeth but I would lost my life. How can you argue with such childish logic?
Even though I was never a heavy smoker –heavy came later, quitting was difficult. I adored smoking those long, slim, sexy brown cigarettes. It was all I could think of. I went to bed praying I’d awake to find it was healthier than jogging. (Hey, it happened to wine and chocolate)! I purposely burnt the food (okay it wasn’t always on purpose) just so I could smell the smoke.
Then I ate everything-without pause. This is more than psychological. A cigarette is like the period at the end of a sentence. Without it, the sentence would ramble. Similarly, a meal without a cigarette to punctuate it continues eternally. So I became a researcher, not for me mind you, but the rest of humanity. I learned that Baskin-Robbins truly did have 32 flavors in all their branches. The next detective work was never conclusive. I never learned whether M&M’s melted in my hands, my mouth or my pocket since they were gone quick as a flash. I just knew I loved them. The only foods that I was partial to were those that were sweet, sour, spicy or bland, though I did learn to enjoy solidly frozen as well.
I started eating tons of mints, chewed gum and chomped on anything not moving. Eventually though, the craving subsided because it was more of a habit than an addiction for me.
So posting grotesque photos of very ill patients on a cigarette pack will not deter people, even the brilliant ones in our own village, who certainly know the consequences but are addicted and unable to stop on their own. They need an intervention, therapy and our compassion.
Take a smoker to lunch; though if they take out a cigarette during the meal, slap them silly. Then give them a hug!
I do not want to judge anyone. Because if they put pictures of M&M’s on a cigarette package who knows what type of person would revert to earlier times?
THE END
© 2010 Jan Marshall.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited.
WHY CAN'T WE ALL GET ALONG
By Jan Marshall
All families have conflict. Villagers have been conflicted. We love, we hate, we eat, and we get heartburn. So it is with my Mac and PC. Have you noticed on the third floor there is also a rivalry that includes swords and tights between the computer clubs?
Like my computers, each thinks the other is superior. My computers in particular, refuse to play nice. I loved them both as I do all my children. Mac was my firstborn so perhaps I did favor him-maybe it’s the Apple Cheeks, but I'll deny this in any court. (Though, between you and me, our little Palm wasn't planned but that is another story I'd rather you keep quiet about since I am not even sure who the baby daddy is).
Nevertheless, as the purported adult here, my job was to keep my computers compatible. We had started family therapy with the Gates/Job,Dell.com/MentalNutCase unit. Since they even refuse to speak with one another what hope was there for my two. The Therapist stuffed a hard drive in her ear and has taken to heavy drinking.
My fear is if they can't get along, what chance for resolution is there for (#1440 dpi printer) or for the Middle East. Okay, I am going to tell you the truth. I did love my Mac more than life itself. It was so easy to use. Yes, it was a favorite child and when I tell you why I even own a PC you'd be astonished.
It started on one dark and stormy night while I watched a shopping channel. All I know is they featured this cute little HP PC. Should have said N.O. To sweeten the pot, it came with kitchen appliances, a built in swimming pool and a closet organizer who would live with me. The best part: it was free! I only had to pay for shipping, for which I took out a bank loan.
It worked for few years. Then, after a while, it bombed as the Mac had, and it was necessary to purchase a new machine.
Since that fateful day, I continually consider either jumping out the window or throwing out the Window (7).
I have a hate/hate relationship attempting to learn this new Word program. I had MS Word 2003 and that was fine all of these years.
Now I am in a forced relationship. This new computer was already installed with MS Word 2007. It is like a foreign language and the simplest task takes me a week. By the time I figured how to type and edit a simple congratulations note to a pair of newlyweds, they had split and are arguing over custody of their kids and their own computers.
Just as I love most of our village people especially the one in the loin cloth, I love most new technology.
My fickleness has surfaced again. Everyone in my circle has an iPhone, iPad (I am so jealous I have turned green) and of course I covet the newest Mac which is so simple it has an all-infant tech line giving instruction, plus it actually irons shirts, too.
But now my documents and forthcoming book is on the PC and I do not have the dough to buy a pickle, no less an apple.
Perhaps I shall return to my old Royal Typewriter which I had actually made into a lamp myself and is now sitting in my living room!
Does anyone happen to have any old black ribbon in their junk drawer? And candles. I have a publishing deadline.
THE END
Jan Marshall www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
NEW BLOG. Click here: Just Ask Jan and the Dudes
MIND-BODY VERSUS GIRTH CONTROL
By Jan Marshall
After many attempts and failures to look gorgeous, I finally held my own peace accord. Pressuring me to get in shape never worked since my mind and body were never on the same plate.
Both consider the other an enemy and have fought constantly. I was fed up. It was time for a truce.
Communication was all it took. I recorded it for you.
MIND: Well Bod, this is truly an historical event. For the first time we are involved in “peaceful negotiations” toward a just and lasting thinness.
BODY: Yes, we have always had the same objective which was to cut calories. It was the method that caused those belly skirmishes. I am pleased we are finally talking steps in unison towards a fabulous figure.
MIND: I agree, Body and that is why I'd like you to know that I acknowledge your right to exist (although I question the amount of territory you cover).
BODY: Just listen to that! She recognizes my right to exist. The audacity!
MIND: Now you listen. No need to revert to your old hostile manner.
BODY: I would like to remind you that I am not hostile but I definitely do not need your permission to exist. I just do and that’s that. What I would prefer, actually, is to get back to the bargaining table which just happens to be in the kitchen. Would you like some fruit and cookies?
MIND: Of course not! After all, the point we are attempting to agree on is how you are going to drop a few pounds. Now the question is what are you willing to give up in order to gain these results?
BODY: Hey; we are in this together. Let’s take back our good looks together. Also, do not use the word “gain” in my presence. If we agree, in order to live in harmony with you I’d relinquish the nutty peanut butter I smear on my Sara and Tommy Lee Pounds of Cake. Believe me, that is some sacrifice. So! What will you do in exchange?
MIND: How about no more scolding? I won’t remind you a moment on your lips is forever on your hips, thighs and chins, both of them. And I promise not to say you are a bad person when you finish the kid’s leftover dinners each night considering he is not your kid or even sitting at your table.
BODY: Good. Because the more you yelled, the worse I felt and the worse I felt the more I ate. I am convinced you are sincere in your wish to reach a lasting “sveltness.” Let’s celebrate with a brief interruption in our talks and order pizza.
MIND: Pizza! How can you consider pizza at a time like this?
BODY: Okay, forget the pizza. How about spaghetti?
MIND: Spaghetti is out of the question.
BODY: What if I promise to jog, clog and tap-dance every day?
MIND: No!!! There is no way spaghetti is acceptable if we are to arbitrate a reconciliation.
BODY: Then that is just too bad. I will never, ever give up spaghetti. If you accept my pasta position, I will adhere to other conditions. What if I stop lying about my height?
MIND: No! If our goal is to keep you/us from looking like a moose in a bikini, then we must give up spaghetti, and that is that!
BODY: Never!!!!
MIND: Well, I am afraid we can no longer keep up these talks.
BODY: Please. Do not close the door to peace completely. Why don’t we find a Good Humored Man for a couple of scoops of chocolate-pecan with cherries?
MIND: Two scoops! Are you nuts?
BODY: Okay, okay. We’ll just have one scoop.
MIND: You’ve got yourself a deal, Body Buddy.
La Chaim!
TO: FRIENDS OF THE VILLAGE STAFF
I am starting a new Blog. Do you have any questions?
Click here: Just Ask Jan and the Dudes
Jan Marshall www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
DATE NIGHT OR ME AND MY MECHANICAL MAN.
By Jan Marshall
At the Book Faire, while sitting with talented authors pitching and wooing, a raffle was announced.
Since I am a very lucky lady, and was the first Miss America to work the pole having repaired telephone wires in a previous life, this was just another in a list of good fortune I experienced since moving here.
My heart pounded when I won a mechanical man. I recently read that synthetic human cells were being created in laboratories and I was in heaven. At last, no more Internet Dating.
Shocked, I soon learned the raffle was for a gift to the Mechanical Mann, an automotive service. I remembered how supportive to our residents this company was, donating services and being helpful and I was grateful particularly since my recent experience with a car repair shop had been dismal. This is what transpired when I drove into that other shop.
“Well it really hurts me to tell you this miss, but you have diminishing pressure. You appear to have corrosion around your terminals and obviously your condenser is shot to hell.”
I thought he was terribly rude and wondered why he didn't also mention my weight gain while he was insulting me.
“What about the car?” I asked.
“There are no guarantees in life. I’ll do what I can.”
“How much will it cost?” I muttered.
“How much do you have?” I thought I heard him whisper.
“There are no guarantees (again with the no guarantees) but I estimate from who knows what to $1,600.”
I don’t get it. It is one stinkin brake light. I started to object.
“Mama,” you just don’t know anything about electrical systems or about cars. You should bring a guy with you next time. They never question my judgments because they are manly. Guys know stuff that little ladies do not. So go get a facial (another insult) and tell your fellah to come in without you.
I backed out and accidentally ran over his foot. Instinctively, I called him a dipstick not actually knowing what that was but suddenly I felt relieved.
I purchased a car repair instruction manual. The first time I glanced under the hood I fainted. Who knew there were so many parts? Then I learned that cars have a simple and organized system. Previously, I thought if a belt was broken, my pants would fall down. Now I know it could be a belt from the water pump or a vast number of things.
I learned when my engine knocks I don’t just ask “who is there?“
As it turned out, the solution for my car was a new bulb which was quite reasonable.
I also realized while it is good to be informed, I prefer to let honest experts handle their specialty thus me and my old Lexus will be a regular at the Mechanical Mann Company. As a bonus, during repairs they will shuttle me hither and yon which happens to be to the nearest pole and at no charge, either. Talk about lucky..(L’amour) which is actually my stage name), I truly love this village. Still an actual mechanical man would have solved so many other problems.
THE END
Jan Marshall www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
"BENJI"
1776 - UNEARTHED IN AN OLD MANOR IN LAGUNA WOODS
By Jan Marshall
TO: BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
FROM: YO MOMMA
Benji, why haven’t I heard from you? While you were signing all those declarations, and had the quill out couldn’t you drop me a line? I received your thank-you note for the Chinese urn, but I hoped for a real letter. Not that your letters are always cheerful. Why do you still resent being one of fifteen children? So you had to wear hand-me-downs. So? Your sister isn’t that much bigger than you. If you’re so smart, why didn’t you tell your father that an ounce of prevention was worth—well, never mind.
Ben, there are a couple of things I want to talk to you about. I heard you were seen in Congress last week wearing those stupid tiny spectacles called Granny Glasses? Are you a Granny? No! So stop it! Get something more fashionable. Speaking of luck, you are pushing yours. Everyone knows about your little escapades. If you’re not careful, your wife-—what’s-her-name-—is sure to find out. I’ve learned about the new one you’re sneaking around with, Penny Pupnik. Ben, listen to your mother, I’m telling you for your own good. The next time you are with her and you hear your wife approaching, you’d better hide her in the vase. Believe me, a Penny urned is a Penny saved. Oh, stop groaning.
Speaking of smashing, that’s exactly what I wanted to do to your nose after I read your latest remark, “When man and woman die as poets have sung, his heart’s the last that moves; her last the tongue.” That was so typically choov …Chauvin …shavinis—well, you know what I mean. One more slur like that and you’ll have to change the name of your almanac to “Poor Benny’s.” By the way, there is no k in the word almanac, sweetheart.
I’m worried about your instability. You have been a cartoonist, a printer, an editor, an inventor, a scientist, a philosopher, a statesman ... I mean, how do you think that looks on your employment application in these tough times? Frankly, Benji, I think you need counseling which is the actual purpose of this letter.
I’ve learned about a wonderful new therapy group. I’m sure you’ll benefit from it. A couple of the people attending may be in worse shape than you, believe me, so you needn’t be shy. One of them, Marie Curie, insists on being called Madame, of all things. Anyway, her husband persuaded her to attend the meeting because she cannot cook worth a darn. He says every time she goes into the kitchen he hears pots rattling and things bubbling on the fire, but when he asks “What’s for dinner?” she says “Nothing!” It is driving him nuts. Then there’s a man named Morse. What a nervous Nelly he is! Can’t sit still for a minute without tapping his fingers—on tables, chairs, anything he gets his hands on. Just don’t sit next to him unless you need a massage.
I think this twelve-stepper would be good for you. Listen, Benji, I only want you to find yourself—-to be happy. Perhaps, if you listen to your mother, you’ll amount to something. Most of all remember what you yourself told me. “If a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it from him …” Need I say more? Get help!
Love,
Mummy
"CLUTTER VILLAGE"
By Jan Marshall
What do ribbons, yo yo’s and dental floss have in common? They are all knotted together in the same drawer in a dwelling known as Fibber and McGee Manor near Gate 1.
While I have a place for everything, I do not really know where that place is. I long for a day when every item in the universe has its own beeper that I can click on to appear in the room that I am in.
When I do find something that looks familiar I am clueless as to what it is for. On the coldest day of winter, when the heater key is gone, I remember that item but not where I put it. But I am sure it is safe. And I have a blanket I wear backwards so I do keep warm.
I truly love order. I crave it. But while everyone talks about the lighting situation here or the sound system in the auditorium, nobody mentions the alien devils that come through the gates in the dark of night, sneak in and throw newspapers and assorted documents around my place. Where is security then?
A recent magazine survey asked women how they felt about housework. The majority said Bleckkk! The others were too weak from laughter to respond. It is like asking a Turkey how he feels about Thanksgiving.
Straightening up is like putting beads on a string without a knot at the end. It is an endless job. So in order to get through maintaining my mansion, I developed timeless stress-relieving techniques. I suggested these to Martha Stewart as well so she can finally take a bathroom break.
- Dusty tables are great for writing $#%^& words on. When you hear guests approach, simply shake your booty or feather duster to delete the offensive language. Both you and your guests will be relieved and you will be exercising as well as polishing furniture.
- By the way, here is my favorite secret: If you neglect to polish silver for eight years it begins to look like pewter. Pewter is very nice.
- To those judgmental folks, my kindhearted explanation: Papers piled high, documents hither and yon, scattered clothing and topless jars are being sorted to send to the poor people who have lost everything playing Rummycube. What can I do? It is just my nature. Please address thank you notes to Saint Jan.
Oh, may I suggest the next time you visit me, forgot the hostess gift; instead, please bring me a pair of thigh-high boots. It’s a just a silly health department thing. But really…bring them!
"ROMANCE AND SENIORS"
by Jan Marshall
Love is in the air. Have you been looking for love in the wrong places?
Fear not. Help is on the way. For those not in a Huggy relationship, allow me to provide facts as to where love connections connect. The most popular meeting ground: Moulton’s or CVS pharmacy.
I overheard one man saying to a woman while gazing soulfully into her shopping cart: “Gas and Heartburn Pills? Gee Whiz. Me too!" Burping, they waltzed to the checkout counter, together.
Overheard: “Hey babe; how would you like to soak your dentures in my Schmuckers Jelly Glass®?"
Be cautions, though. There is danger lurking in these drug stores. I was almost run down in the parking lot when a throng of stalkers on walkers ran after a fellow with those little blue pills. Through cataract eyes, the running gray hairs looked like dancing Q tips.
I myself have used Internet Dating. Though much more successful than Singing “Love for Sale,” rouged cheeks and all, in my Anna Lucasta off-the-wrinkled shoulder gown at Malls, I have met more interesting but sometimes unsuitable characters online.
My first responder was from “Shlemeils on Wheels”. He arrived on skates. I had to grab on to the back of his jacket as we whizzed down El Toro to Polly’s for the early bird special.
Of all the stupid expressions, why Early Bird? The Early Bird catches the Worm specifically. That would not motivate me to get any place early, particularly a place that serves food. But I digress.
My next computer catch was a Dermatologist. He wrote that famous book, "7 Solutions for Highly Itchy People.” On Valentine’s Day he bought me a dozen long stem bottles of Calamine Lotion. I scratched him off my list.
One nutty lover wanted me to call him Ida Lupino during coitus.
In the past, when I dated Salmon Rushme, we never went anywhere.
Happily, destiny intervened during my last connection, though.
I always urge all seniors to practice safe sex and I myself usually wear a seat belt. But this one time, I did not. At the height of passion I whispered to my partner, “Are you comfortable?” He answered, "I make a living.”
I laughed so hard…
I fell off the bed…
Injured my back…so
I am now… dating my Chiropractor who really is a nice guy but such a manipulator!
We village people, while we all may not have great circulation, we still manage to circulate. So my advice is this; if you are single, gather at a pharmacy and match your prescriptions and find someone to love in sickness and in health.
THE END
Jan Marshall
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
"Shine Your Head in My Direction"
By Jan Marshall
Toupee or Not Toupee
That is the question.
Whether it is nobler to
Suffer the eagle’s droppings,
Yet pray for the Slings and Arrows of one tiny sparrow
Or be transplanted and screw
One’s courage to the sticking place.
Ah! Men at some time
Are Masters of their fate
But nay, not when misfortune
Strikes their balding pate.
Men are going bald at an earlier age because balding men are advanced human beings.
Years ago, cave men and others needed hair all over their bodies because they were Neanderthals (generally a lost species except for my last date) but now they don't need the hirsute look because our earth is warmer, we have central heating and many of our guys mostly do stand upright when sober.
Still, there are few men in our Village who insist on covering their heads with discarded carpet patches or actual bird’s nests. PLEASE STOP IT! We know. WE KNOW! This artificial turf looks nothing like what Mama Nature originally provided. Have mercy on the little homeless bluebird who cannot find his manor since you stole it.
I understand it is usually a male thing, though it can affect woman too.
So I implore you; if you must cover yourself, please go to a trained wig maker or hair stylist who can assist you. You go to a specialist for your big toe and every other body part so why plop a mop on top when you have a need for cover. Let an expert help you look like the original handsome hunk you were.
But, before you do go to a professional, I urge you to first consider this: BALDING MEN ARE BETTER LOVERS! It has something to do with the energy that was formerly generated by the electricity found in hair follicles. When the hair is gone, the energy has to find a place to park, so it goes to the libido and hangs around there.
There is a practical matter as well, in being a beautifully bodacious bald man. Consider the money saved on shampoo and conditioner. So your lady can't run her fingers through your hair but she could skateboard. In the evening your head can be used as a nightlight and, perhaps with a little buffing, a makeup mirror. “Honey, please shine your head in my direction; I want to check my lipstick.”
The best idea is to accept your condition and to understand that your shiny heads look terrific. If your hair is just beginning to thin out, do not worry. Trust me. It will all come out all right.
© 2010 Jan Marshall. All rights reserved.
Unauthoried use is strictly prohibited.
www.authorhumoristjanmarshall.com
THE FELON AND THE FUZZ
By Jan Marshall
This is Jan, felon # 949. Here is my version of the notorious incident.
THE CRIME: Gorgeous Officer Krupke claimed, according to his toy ray gun, that I was zooming more than 30 mph in the 25 mile zone. It only appeared that I was racing. There is a tricky unexpected hill heading down to the Laguna Woods post office; an obvious speed trap. My pedometer showed a tad less than 30 mph. Perhaps the icy, snowy roads accounted for the excess? (Hey, it could happen!).
Being innocent, I decided to fight this injustice. I pleaded my case at our Traffic Dispute Court headed by two friends. They claimed they had no power to sentence me but felt free to utter Tsk, Tsk repeatedly.
ASSISTING CALIFORNIA’S ECONOMY: To save the state money for my possible incarceration, I arrived at my hearing with tattoos (Barney Bakes Brownies) in place and in stripes; (jumpsuit from Armani). Though I hadn’t received a traffic ticket outside of this cell block in over 45 years it mattered not to this tough jury.
I warned my grand kids that I could be sent to the big house. Initially they thought it was swell imagining it would be larger than my own manor thus better for playing hide and seek. They agreed finally that I was only guilty…of loving them too much.
My attorney was absent. He is in jail for money and underwear laundering, both not belonging to him. I brought a ladder instead, in case I needed to take this matter to a higher court, since there is an obvious scam here. Handsome Officer Krupke issues tickets, and then pitches his very own traffic class. I smell corruption. What is GRF’s policy on this?
THE VERDICT: I was found guilty of wonton eating and not offering the cop any and wanton speeding.
My sentence: either pay an enormous fine (possibly leading to a real crime of robbing banks) or attend his class for delinquents. I chose the traffic school; a sleep inducing two hours. To keep awake one guy bounced on a pogo stick while another shaved his legs and his wife’s back. After the longest morning of my life I vowed to go straight.
Though, who can actually predict the future? Since getting my newest tattoo “Born to Be sorta Wild,” it is possible some day I may go crazy and drive 32 miles MPH. NASCAR, call me!
THE END
Yes, I Shot my Scale, But I Shot it in Self Defense, Sheriff.
By Jan Marshall
It is that time of year when I say fat, fat go way; appear instead on Doris Day. I do not want to sue for libel, but my lying scale which continually hides when it sees me- yes it has bullet holes but they were blanks- has conspired with my mirror to distort my adorable body and smooth skinned face.
Another year another ton more or less and I start my usual fitness starving activities. Last year I was encouraged while jogging between Gates 1 and 3. I thought I heard applause. It turned out to be my thighs hitting together. Neighbors paid me to scram because the sound registered 9 on their Richter scale. It was just a few dollars (and the threat of bodily harm from residents) but it was the first time I turned flab into dollars. Now, when I am low on cash and living beyond my seams, I may run in more expensive neighborhoods. Gate 11; watch out.
Fitness experts advise us to set a goal in our mind. I visualize a couch or a hammock or anything I can fit my butt on. Past exercises consisted of jumping to conclusions and wrestling with my conscious. Yet I stayed the same weight. Adding the applause angle has me looking like a gazelle…on steroids but an improvement.
Here are diet tips that turned me into a tall thin blonde. Wait, that’s someone else. Oh, I really must go to the optometrist.
A) Eat as much spaghetti as you want within two minutes with 1 chopstick-standing on your head, of course.
B) Enjoy unlimited Double Fudge Chocolate Triple Decker Pecan Pie any week a politician or athlete does not cheat on his wife or mistresses.
CAUTION: Do not get too thin.
REMEMBER: Mirrors (who are in cahoots with scales) notoriously lie. You are beautiful and incredibly huggable.
MOST IMPORTANTLY: Consider your country; help improve the economy. Do not diet. If you do, you will put waiters, food suppliers, farmers and poor little chickens out of business. Eating is good. So, let’s meet at my favorite hangout. If only they hadn't named it the ELEPHANT Bar®.
Copyright © 2010 Jan Marshall. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited.
Holiday Humbug
by Jan Marshall
I am simply pooped from partying in and out of my home. I have attended or hosted so many events and was force-fed so much food that I am fatter than a bloated blimp.
True, some of the bashes were bombastic.
At the B party, there were the Baklavas who were sweet, Bill Blasé who came alone but didn't care and Boobs Burkewitz who arrived with a couple.
The A party had the Aesops (she wore Sable), Al and Alice Alonzo from Albany and they sold Apples, and Absent-Minded Albert who forgot his pants. All in all the A’s were amiable. Others were hell. Now I owe so many reciprocal invites, which will then lead to more invitations till infinity, that I had to find a way to end the cycle. I have created sure-to-discourage themes guaranteeing nobody will return a second time. From my recent experiences, you too can learn how to make sure to be left alone, if that is your wish.
THE SURPRISE PARTY
Hide 10 people in a closet when the evening is warm and sticky. Have everyone whisper for an hour, drinks in hand. When the honoree arrives, everyone will be so zonked they will ignore him. He’ll leave thinking he is in the wrong house. Who cares?
THE BUFFET
Place small throw pillows on the floor for guests to sit on so they must balance their plates on their laps or someone else’s. Serve cracked crab with drippy hollandaise sauce, corn on the cob and huge Margaritas. Make an obscene remark which will embarrass the most sophisticated guest who will then spit and splatter everyone. Do not worry about being asked to their home.
DO IT BY PHONE; KEEP THE DESSERT FOR YOURSELF
”Hi Mona, can you believe it is already a year since we celebrated my mother-in-law's root canal surgery? Oh, you can't make it. So sorry sweetie.” (Ha!)
Unless it is a small dinner party (count on me for the whine), or we can meet in a restaurant. Leave me alone and I sure won't bother you. My guarantee - if the phone don't ring, you'll know it’s me.
Happy Holidays or Whatever!
Jan Marshall: www.authorjanmarshall.com
ODE TO A SNEEZE
by Jan Marshall
The dangerous flu is here. Bathe in Purell®. Do not kiss anyone except if it is Tonto wearing a mask. Wear fashionable gloves day and night. Unless you are on your honeymoon and staying in your room 24-7, postpone hugging.
While every possible precaution must be taken to avoid this dangerous virus, I do however; encourage you to catch a cold. Yes, my friends; the common cold is the very best thing that can happen to you. It’s simply benefits your body which is crying out for love.
Rarely do villagers cry. Sure when they lose at golf or Jolanda runs out of cake, tears do flow but not generally. That's too bad. The truth is that a cold gives one an opportunity to revert to a childish state; to be pampered and cared for. It permits the strongest people to let go without losing face so to speak though there was a rumor a nose was found in Club House One but that may just be hearsay.
Here are just a couple of documented medical examples I found in my drawers.
• One board member literally strikes fear wherever he journeys. He is a tyrant and a huge trouble maker. Yet when he is at home with a bad cold he sucks his thumb and calls his wife “mommy.”
• An actress neighbor, who played the warden in prison films, permits her mate 24 hours to be sick; prepares Chicken Soup, allows him to moan “I'm dying. I'm dying” every hour on the hour, while rocking him in her mattress size arms. The next day she makes the bed and pushes him out the door. This keeps him functioning for the rest of the year. He is often seen without a jacket on wintry days, stepping in puddles and sleeping with a wet head stuck out an open window praying for a relapse.
HISTORICAL FACT: The reason some battles are called “Cold Wars” is because the need for love was not met. If opposing sides could stay home and get a little cuddling... really, who feels like fighting with a runny nose?
MY ADVICE: If someone sneezes don't just say “Gesundheit”. Understand that this person craves compassion. Be gentle but no kissing. Unless you yourself feel needy then yes, place a lip-lock.
RX: When you do catch a cold get into a cuddly bed and collapse. Drink liquids or not. It doesn't matter whether you stand on your head singing the Hungarian National Anthem; your cold will last two to seven days or as long as you need it. That’s it.
Call me in the morning.
Leave your insurance information.
PS: Do you happen to have any extra Kleenex© coupons?
THE END
KNOCK ON WOOD; AS LONG AS YOU ARE HEALTHY!
By Jan Marshall
It was said that the safest place to be is in bed since the only accident there would result in a soft cuddly being that would take care of us in our senior years. It seems to be less of a threat here so try not to worry.
Out of the bedroom there are so many hazards with sports and exercising that one must keep a doctor on speed dial or attached to your iPod.
In our community white is a prominent color; the favored shade for wrapped elbows, knees and eyes because of sports injuries. When our tennis and lawn clubs require proper attire it means bandages.
Bowling was never considered dangerous unless your fingers became stuck and you were flung down the lane with the ball. If you made a strike it was worth the concussion. The new affliction: bowler’s toe caused by stress from trying to avoid stepping over the foul line or your whinny partner’s face.
The ocean's exquisite stillness and ever present surf teaches us much about life’s ongoing process. Still those beach boys in our village better watch out. The danger: surfer’s ear brought on by waves bouncing off their bifocals into the eardrum.
Since more people are sitting at computers all day; they and writers like me get a “barrel bottom”. (A polka song was written for me that keep me rolling along). The medical term for the condition, though, is “secretary spread”.
If you are an executive, it is known as the high price spread.
I just learned of a new pain which comes from twits who tweet. It is known as twitter thumbs. If you see someone with thumbs in an upright position, it is not because they are happy to see you. And they are not hitchhiking as our residents often do (Please! Stop lifting your skirts!) These modern electronic communicators simply are suffering from the frozen fingers of fools.
I am forming a new club. It will be a smash, excuse the expression. Please join me. It is called; “Dancing with the Scars”.
This Girl’s Best Friend
by Jan Marshall
Shoeless, I gracefully frolic as residents lovingly walk their pups, baggies in hand. I appreciate you. No animals do more for people than dogs. (I do not want to hear from monkey lovers, puleez!) Dogs have existed for centuries protecting and pooping on property. Indeed, the ancient Ethiopians respected dogs so much they once chose a dog as king. They obeyed his every command, or what they believed to be his will whenever he barked.
They must have been busy, those Ethiopians, if their king was anything like our dog. He barked at cat commercials and vacuum cleaners. Ants drove him nuts. He adored burglars. He allowed us to sleep throughout the night while two bikes and a weed whacker were snatched.
This month’s Dog Intelligence Test wants me to think our dog was not too bright. Tests, like elections, are open to interpretation. Some say my dog had a bird brain but I see him as having different priorities from us. Insects bug him; burglars do not. Fortunately, he never learned he was too good for us. We already felt inferior since he was a purebred. We were mutts from Brooklyn. His name was Charlton Farthington Worthington IV. I
teasingly called him Chuck.
Environment is said to influence canine behavior. Not true. He was brought up to believe that sex is beautiful, a natural function between consenting adults. Still the few times a year he’d slink out the doggy door and hook up with the poodle/slut next door wearing her off-the-shoulder flea collar, Chuck returned filled with guilt.
He’d sneak across the floor close to the wall and hide under the bed. Where did he learn that? We hadn’t behaved that way in years, since long before his arrival.
If Chuck flunked an IQ test, I’d still adore him. He was loyal, forgiving and licked us all over when we returned home. Can you make that statement about any other friend of the village? Do you have his number?