Oh How Lovely Was the Morning

Early Monday morning I was taking a shower and listening to music before leaving for campus. My wireless speaker was perched on the bathroom windowsill, and while I was blow drying my hair, a song came on with so much bass that the vibration actually gyrated the speaker off the windowsill and into the toilet. Alarmed, I dropped my $150 Baby Bliss blow dryer, whereupon the plastic backing cracked off the filter and flew across the bathroom floor. Nonplussed, I scooped my speaker out of the toilet with the intention to soak it in a container of rice, since I have heard that works well with iPhones. On my way out of the bathroom, the Baby Bliss cord wrapped around my foot, and the force broke off the plug. Not to be deterred, I continued on downstairs and immediately buried the speaker in the rice, whereupon it actually continued to play “Oh How Lovely Was the Morning” by David Tolk. Gratified that I had hopefully made it in time to at least save the speaker, I went upstairs to assess the blow dryer damage, and knew immediately that the Baby Bliss was unsalvageable. Needing to leave for campus in fifteen minutes so as to have time to make copies upon my arrival, I dug in my bathroom closet for my spare travel blow dryer, remembering not so quickly that I had brought it to Tarrytown, New York the weekend before. That travel bag already stored back in the attic, I began the ominous ascent into the attic, wishing my boys were home, and hoping no old witch was buried up there for a coven meeting, like in the movie “Hereditary.” Gripping the bag, it slipped out of my hands and onto the ground below, denting the expensive gray leather. Closing the attic door quickly so the witches would not be able to grab me that night in my sleep, and running incredibly late, I dried my hair, and left for class. I was ostensibly late for class and copy-less, resigned to having to use the projector lamp, but was not surprised to see that it was not projecting anything but defeat. My teaching effectiveness that day was a lukewarm 2/10.

Home later that day, enjoying a visit from my oldest son, I regaled him with the tale of my day, adding that at least I had saved the speaker. Munching salad out of a bowl, he glanced at my speaker.

“Good job, Mom,” he said, as he rinsed the bowl in the sink. “That’s a waterproof speaker.”

Oh, how lovely was the morning.

How to Prove You’re Not an Idiot

Mary needs to get into a secure website.

Computer: Good evening. Prove you’re not a robot.

Me: But YOU’RE a robot.

C: That’s how I’ll know if you’re one of us.

Me: Fine.

C: Choose all pictures of bridges.

Me: Chooses.

C: Nope. Try again to choose all pictures of bridges.

Me: Chooses.

C: No. Just choose the squares that have pictures of bridges.

Me: I did! I mean, is a walkway considered a bridge? (Chooses).

C: Listen, just choose one picture of a bridge.

Me: Chooses.

C: (Sigh) Let’s try something else. Choose pictures of bikes.

Me: Chooses.

C: No, just bikes.

Me: Chooses.

C: If the tire is in the square, it’s a bike.

Me: I know!

C: Try again.

Me: Chooses.

C: Let’s try trees. Choose all squares that have pictures of trees.

Me: Self-esteem at an all-time low, chooses.

C: Do you know what a tree looks like?

Me: Is verbal abuse part of this process?

C: If any part of any kind of tree is in the square, choose it!

Me: I know! Is a bush a tree? Is that a trick?

C: If you are a human, you would know the answer to that question.

Me: Chooses.

C: O.k. Choose any square that has any picture of anything.

Me: Chooses.

C: Success. Congratulations. You just proved you’re not an idiot.

Me: I don’t know about that.

You Had to Be There

My son and I went out for dinner and a horror flick last week. I guess I embarrassed him at the hibachi restaurant because I asked the server if we could order right away, rather than being forced to wait for the badly-dressed family “sitting” at our hibachi table to stop wandering through the restaurant while talking on their phones.

Who came up with these hibachi rules?

We got to the movie theater TOO early, a fact that he was quick to point out with the appropriate amount of dripping contempt for my earlier behavior. We got in line for snacks, and the rest of this post is about my humor breakdown. You know, when something strikes you as so funny, you just lose it, but no one else sees the humor.

Me (to young counter person): Small popcorn, a diet Coke, and Raisinets.

CP (gestures to shelf in back of me, filled with gummy candy): We don’t have Raisinets, just what’s on that shelf.

Me (scanning shelf): No chocolate at all?

CP: Just what’s on that shelf.

Me (points to Raisinets under counter glass): What about those?

CP: Those are just display.

Me: (Staring at them) You mean I can’t have them?

CP: I don’t think so.

Me: Why?

Son: Mom, stop.

Supervisor (walks up, overhears conversation): Oh, ma’am, those are like ten years old.

Me: (the laughter begins, because I’m starting to think of Seinfeld episode embedded below): I don’t care.

Supervisor: (Walking away sounding jaded, but she’s too young to be jaded, and this makes me laugh even harder) They’re probably the consistency of dust.

The humor of the situation really getting to me now, laughing hard, my son and people behind us getting annoyed.

Me: Can I please have them? I’ll take my chances.

CP: (looks down at glass counter) I don’t even know how to open it.

Me: (I’m laughing really hard now) Let’s crack it open, I have a multi-purpose tool in my purse.

Son: Why do you have that?

People behind us: (Making impatient snuffing sounds)

Me laughing harder, tears rolling down my face, my son finally breaking out in laughter, just from my amusement.

People behind us: Lady, you can’t have them. Move on with your life.

CP: (wishing he were dead, or better yet, that I was) Look, I’m sorry. It’s only my second day.

Can’t breathe now. Laughing as he hands us our snacks, laughing as I grab straws and napkins, laughing as I turn the wrong way towards the wrong theater, laughing as we enter the empty theater a half hour early.

Son: Gee, I’m glad you harassed that waitress at hibachi, so we could get here to an ice-cold movie theater a half hour early to do nothing.

Me: (Still laughing, walking towards good seats)

Son: Those aren’t our seats.

Me: Who cares?

Son: These are handicapped seats.

Me: No, they’re not (laughing through every syllable).

Son: Yes, they are. We’re up further.

Me: But I don’t have my glasses.

Son: (Considers) Fine, let’s see what happens, but we might be asked to move.

Me: (Laughing, laughing, laughing)

Son: Mother, calm down.

Me: I’m trying….

People begin filtering in, looking askance at me because I’m still laughing really hard….

At the end of the movie, as we filter out, I notice that our seats WERE handicapped accessible. Feeling shame, I look at my son.

Me: Now might be a good time to pretend to be handicapped.

Son: Is it gonna be me or you?

Me: (Laughter starts all over again)

(People staring at me oddly as they walk down the aisle).

Son: You. Definitely you.

I Don’t Know

Act I.

Boy 1 (Home from D.C. for weekend): What’s that smell?

Me: I made carnitas in the slow cooker.

Boy 1: Awesome! (Helps himself)

Me: (Watching him wolf down meat) Don’t you want to put that into a tortilla?

Boy 1: Nah, I’m good.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 1: Yeah.

Me: There’s all these fixings, though…

Boy 1: Mom, this is fine.

Next day.

Boy 1 (Headed back to D.C.) Can I take the leftover pork?

Mom: Sure. Do you want me to pack all of the tortillas and fixings?

Boy 1: Nah, I’m good.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 1: What is your fixation with these tortillas? Why are you trying to make me eat them?

Me: (Thinking) I don’t know.

Act II.

Boy 2 (Drops in to say hello): Mom, can I borrow the Nutribullet?

Me: Sure (I burrow into a cabinet, pulling out metal pieces). Here’s all of the extra attachments.

Boy 2: Nah, Mom, this is fine.

Me: But you can use these for so many different things.

Boy 2: It’s seriously fine, I don’t need those.

Me: But this one will zest lemon. This one will pulverize Swiss chard. This one grinds espresso beans.

Boy 2: I don’t need all that.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 2: Why are you trying to make me take these attachments?

Me: (Thinking) I don’t know.

Act III.

Boy 3 (Home for his last summer before his senior year in college): Mom, my phone doesn’t charge anymore, can I use the family upgrade to get a new phone for my birthday?

Me: Of course. Do you need a new phone case?

Boy 3: No, my old one is fine.

Me: I hear the yellow iPhone is cool, are you getting yellow?

Boy 3: No, I don’t want yellow.

Me: How about an Apple Watch for your birthday? It would only add 15 dollars a month to the phone bill.

Boy 3: Nah, I don’t want an Apple watch.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 3: Why are you trying to get me to get all of this extra stuff?

Me: (Thinking) I don’t know.

I mean, I honestly don’t. Know, that is.

The Epicurean

I received an email last week, and darn it to heck if I can’t find it. This thing was a gem. I’m so mad, I always save stuff like that. So forgive me for not quoting it exactly.

In short, this individual wanted me to immediately deposit $400 into his crypto-account, or he would release the incriminating video he had, and I quote, “of you pleasuring yourself.” He had control of my laptop camera, apparently.

Dang. I wondered what he had on me. I pondered the potential ways I had immorally pleasured myself in front of my laptop lately, and came up with a few possibilities which, if released, have the power to destroy my reputation.

  1. Eating McDonalds french fries while pointedly ignoring the newly purchased fresh Jersey cantaloupe glaring at me from the counter.
  2. Moaning and drooling over Paradise Valley real estate.
  3. Shouting into the computer after reading a campus-wide email: “I’m not joining your damn textbook committee, it’s summer, leave me alone!”
  4. Turning on Photo Booth, turning this way and that, and deciding for the thousandth time that yes, by God yes, I will get liposuction for my double-chin.
  5. Watching Jordan Peterson eviscerate feminists on YouTube.

I could go on and on. My depravity knows no depths. But ultimately, I decided to NOT deposit $400 into this person’s crypto-account. Odds were good that he was bluffing. And if he releases any of the above-mentioned footage?

I mean, life is full of risks.

Sorry, Mom.

My son, after reading my last blog post:

“You sound like a nun.”

“Well, I mean, I’m NOT. I mean, maybe in some ways, but…”

“But you sound like one.”

I concede that my last two posts were skeined with the literary theological/philosophical. But let’s not get the wrong idea. And if you have never read As a Man Thinketh by James Allen, I mean, that’s your problem.

Just what are you waiting for?

So here’s a humor post for you. My sons have been sending me a lot of “Sorry, Mom”s. You know, alarming texts after lengthy delays. I’m not clingy or overprotective, but I don’t like lengthy texting delays from my sons OR missed phone calls. I envision mangled cars overturned in deep ditches. Sudden heart failure from poison-laced Tylenol. Body parts trapped under cranes downed by heavy winds. That ilk. All moms do. Don’t make us wait too long when we call or text, please.

These have not been altered, and are in no particular order.

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was in court, and the judge didn’t allow cell phones.”

Me: “EXCUSE ME?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, there is a monkey hissing at me outside my cabana.”

Me: “Wait, what monkey?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was looking at motorcycles.”

Me: “No. Just no.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I just finished giving a guy CPR.”

Me: “WHAT?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was driving. Do you believe tolls in DC are $12 twice a day, five days a week? Lucky we have EZ-Pass.”

Me: “Yeah. MINE.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, the cops just left.”

Me: “Does this have to do with court?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, just talking to the tattoo artist.”

Me: “Please don’t.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, the ER was packed.”

Me: “Call me NOW.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was busy in this third world country buying a ridiculously overpriced leather jacket that I will lug home and through customs then never wear again, because I live at the beach, and no one needs a ridiculously overpriced leather jacket at the beach.”

Fine, the last one was mine.

Mother Knows Best

Mother Nature on Labor Day Monday: Sitting on her golden throne in a long, white, gossamer dress and flowered crown, looking down on New Jersey and smiling at beachgoers and family barbeques. Enjoying the cavorting of children as they played and laughed, holding her tummy (of course Mother Nature has a small gut, as she enjoys the finer things in life) in laughter as people drank, laughed and ate in the beautiful late summer weather. Her eyes misted over as she watched families enjoy the older generation, knowing it might be their last summer, and she gazed with rapt attention at the going back to school activities. She breathed a sigh of satisfaction at the joy she brought to New Jersey on the last official day of summer.

Mother Nature on Tuesday morning, turning off her Summer Weather Switch: Fuck these people.

Strip Malls

I had to head out of town for a few hours this past weekend, and I passed by the saddest little strip mall. It struck me as so pathetic that I actually pulled over into it so as to deduce what about it made me so sad.

Well, it was deserted save for a few cars, mostly likely belonging to employees. It was gray, and seedy, and forlorn. I don’t know, it just gave off this jilted kind of vibe.

But the more I looked at it, the more I liked it. The stores all kind of gelled together, so I took some notes on how it was a one-stop shopping kind of spot for the real down-and-out. Here were the stores’ actual names:

CBD Wellness

Divorce (No explanation, just the word “Divorce”)

Checks Cashed

Granite and Marble

Henna Tattoos

Chinese Food

Tarot Reader

Framer’s Work Room

So you can file for an expensive divorce, get the signed divorce agreement framed in an expensive frame and then cash your alimony check. You can get stoned on pricey CBD oil, and binge on Moo Shoo Pork when the munchies kick in. You can get an expensive divorce tattoo that you will inevitably regret, something like, “Enjoy the silence” or “The Past is Practice,” then get your tarot cards read, upon which the woman will tell you that you recently rid yourself of a burden that’s been holding you down for years. Finally, once you add up how much your day cost you, you can bop into the granite store and bang your head on the marble samples.

Nothing like a productive day.

Immunity

I was in the kitchen cleaning my Hydroflask, dragging a wet washcloth around the ridges of the lid and mouth, when my son walked in.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I looked up. “Cleaning my Hydroflask.” I pointed. “See these ridges around the lid and the mouth? They collect dirt, grime and mildew. You have to be vigilant, especially in the summer.”

His face was blank, an expression I knew very well, so I asked him:

“Don’t you ever clean your Hydroflask?”

Him:

“Ever? You’ve owned it for years, you use it every day. NEVER?”

Him:

“Oh my God, clean it right now. Do you have any idea what could be inside it?”

He shrugged.

“It’ll build my immune system.”

“Huh? How?”

“Dunno, it just will.”

Blown away by his lack of scientific acumen, I watched him walk away looking very pleased with himself. Later that week I commented that the air conditioning unit in their man cave had been pumping out mold spores into their lungs for the past eight years and that perhaps it was time for them to purchase a new one before the onset of Legionnaires’ disease. I got the line again.

“Nah, it’ll be good for our immune systems”

This continued on for several weeks.

Me: “Your bedroom is so messy.”

“It builds my immune system.”

Me: “Did you check the expiration date on that mayonnaise?”

“No. It’ll build my immune system.”

Me: “Honey, don’t stuff yourself, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“Good for the immune system.”

Me: “You guys don’t get enough sleep.”

“It’ll toughen us up. Good for the immune system.”

Recently I have raised the temperature on the upstairs thermostat, which has met with some groans and grumbles.

“Mom, it’s so hot in our rooms. Can you lower the thermostat, just a little? Why is it so high?”

It’s good for the immune system.

Feminine Side

(I wouldn’t normally post on a national holiday, but I feel bad about last week, so here’s a chuckle for you):

Our family bottle of Hair, Skin and Nail vitamin gummies sits front and center on the kitchen island, next to the chewable Vitamin C. They taste like strawberry fruit snacks, so the boys are always ready to stop and grab some chewies on their way out or in the door. They like to say that the gummies are the reason their childhood friend Jack is 6’5”, since he used to eat five or so a day when he would visit as a young boy.

Recently, I have added Women’s Complete vitamin gummies to my repertoire, and while they are not quite as delicious, they are still fruity and palatable. The plastic bottle that holds my vitamins looks exactly like the Hair, Skin and Nail gummies bottle.

One innocuous morning as I sat on the patio, my son rushed out the door, ready for work but looking stricken:

Him: “Mom, I just ate five of your women’s vitamin gummies thinking they were the other gummies! What should I do? Is there estrogen in them? What should I do?”

Me: (Looking at him over my glasses)

Him: “I mean, am I ok? Will I be ok?”

Me:

Him: “Should I make myself throw up? Will I grow unwanted hair in strange places? Will I grow breasts?”

Me:

Him: “Will my voice get higher? Will I get more sensitive? Will I get the urge to go shopping?”

Me:

Him: Will it affect my virility? My sperm count? My ability to please a woman?

Me:

Him: (Calming down): “Yeah, you’re right. This is nothing to panic about. Most guys could use a more feminine side, right? Girls like that.”

Me:

Him: “Of course they do. Yeah. This is nothing to worry about. It’s just a handful of vitamins. Maybe my hair will get softer, and I will finally understand the lure of “Bridgerton.”

Me:

Him: “Maybe I’ll try re-reading Pride and Prejudice tonight. Yeah, this is going to be fine.”

Me:

Him: “Alright. I’m headed to work. Thanks for calming me down, Mom.”

Me: “Don’t mention it.”