The Expiration Date ~ Sound Bites!

Posted on February 1, 2010 by Robyn Justo

Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I’m sure that there are a lot of folks who might attest to this.
But I am sitting here in my Los Gatos studio listening to my thirty-year-old (or older) refrigerator compressor rattling on and off every five minutes (blowing its ancient dust all over my floor), yet my apartment manager doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. He is one of those people who think it’s me, but I have told him that he needs to think about sleeping ten feet away from this thing every night.
He says I’m “noise-sensitive” and, without my knowledge, he put sticky rubber strips under all of the items on top of my refrigerator because he said that was what was making it rattle, but it still does. He and his wife announced that they just bought a new refrigerator. I’ll take their old one. I bet it’s quieter than my Hotpoint from Hell.
My neighbor is idling his motorcycle right under my unit (which makes me want to idle his unit) and as I write this, another neighbor, not even in my complex, is playing his surround-sound so loud that his place is shaking and there is a metallic plate rocking against his outside wall which is making my place vibrate like a 450-square-foot pocket rocket (not that I own one, but maybe I should). My life is surround-sound and I am beginning to sound like an old person. Hell, I am an old person and I think I’ve earned some peace and quiet.
I wonder why I haven’t strangled my neighbors, put sticky rubber over my apartment manager’s mouth, and stuck him in the refrigerator? It’s also a wonder why I haven’t already gone mad, or perhaps I have. Maybe it’s time to move to the country. I would rather listen to the wind and hear cows moo and roosters crow.
Maybe this is one of those not-so-subtle problems with modern society. We are assaulted by a constant audio attack on our nervous systems with alarm clocks (instead of roosters), garbage trucks, sirens, car alarms, motorcycles, barking dogs (they had better not live on the ranch I’m moving to), and loud music in coffee shops, restaurants, and malls (does this make us digest or spend more?) not to mention cell phones ringing everywhere and the people talking loudly on them in the restaurants and malls over the deafening din and ear-splitting acoustics.
I quit the gym because of the blasting racket of rock music and racket balls blasting against the walls (say that one real fast), and the testosterone grunts and heavy breathing accompanying the heavy metal. A guy I dated would wear headphones when he was on the treadmill at the gym. He played what he called “angry white music” so that he could get a better workout. Huh? He was from New York. That might explain it.
So is it my age? Hearing is supposed to get worse as we get older, isn’t it? Eh? My ears ring now, but I like it. It’s a gentle hum inside my own head as opposed to the onslaught of artificial cacophony (except for the barking dog up the street, which, as you know, I still think is an android, and the humans with their cellular appendages and staccato chatter, not breathing between their endless words).
When I had my place in Monterey, I dated a guy who told me that it was too quiet there and that he couldn’t sleep. Come to think of it, he was from New York too. So after a while, I agreed that he couldn’t sleep…there, with me, and I don’t date New Yorkers anymore.
Well, I’m crotchety and I’m ready for bed. I have my Ambien and my earplugs and where is that elevator music when I need it?
Third floor, lingerie. Is this where they sell the pocket rockets?

***

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

The Purple Suitcase

Posted on February 1, 2010 by Sheila Moss

I’ve been getting ready to go for months—years, actually. I’ve been buying odds and ends as I think of them, little three-ounce bottles, new underwear (as you don’t want customs officials to see your old underwear), a sunhat, travel clock, and all the other weird gear listed in the travel agency’s “must have” list.
I’m going to Egypt to see the pyramids, the trip of a lifetime. I thought I was all set. I put all my junk into plastic zip-lock bags and dragged my suitcase out of the attic so I did not have to look for it when it was time to pack. I was prepared—prepared, I tell you, ready to go.
So, last weekend was the last weekend before the big trip. I was adding a few last-minutes items to my collection when I realized that my suitcase looked rather large. I went to the Delta website to check allowable sizes—22 x 14 x 9 for a carry-on, it said.
I had already been through the “carry-on vs. checked luggage” debate. I favored checking. Honey favored carry-on. I finally relented. It did seem faster and more practical since we had to travel light anyhow.
I measured my red suitcase—25 inches! How could that be? I took it on the plane to California. Did it grow? Then I remembered that we had checked luggage on that trip and ended up scurrying all over the Los Angeles airport trying to find baggage claim.
I had a smaller size, 17 inches. No way could all my plastic bags fit in that. I thought of the old standby suitcase. The outside pocket is torn and it looks like the baggage handlers played volleyball with it. I began to think “new suitcase.” Honey has a shiny black Samsonite spinner. I hated to think of carrying my old torn clunker.
The gift certificate for Macy’s that I got for Christmas would come close to buying a new one if I could find one that didn’t require robbing a bank to pay for it. The last thing I wanted was to spend my mad money on a suitcase instead of miniature pyramid statues and camel rides.
I might as well tell you that I don’t like shopping malls. Malls used to be a fine thing when I was younger and could walk from one place to another. But now, malls are aggravating. They are too big. Bigger is better when it comes to some things, but not malls. Macy’s, of course, is in the mall.
I made the ultimate sacrifice and went to the mall. It was my lucky day; luggage was on sale dirt cheap. But even dirt can cost an arm and leg. I looked at everything and found a cheap black one, but it was naturally available in only king and queen size. We even bribed the salesperson to check the stockroom for something smaller.
This is what happens when you wait until the last minute to buy a suitcase. If I had been a wise owl, I would have looked for luggage months ago, not at the last minute. I had to settle for what was available. Finally, I narrowed it down to two choices that were the right size, the right price, and, most importantly, in stock. I didn’t have time to go chasing around all over the city looking for a suitcase.
The trouble was that the choices available were purple and magenta. I eventually decided to buy the purple one since the magenta one was even more ugly. What does it matter what color it is? At least I could tell my suitcase from all the other suitcases at the airport. Purple should practically glow in the dark.
And that’s the story of how I came to have a purple suitcase.
I’m actually beginning to like it. Purple grows on you after a while. I never thought I’d see the day when I would not only travel with a purple suitcase, but travel with a purple suitcase and like it.

www.humorcolumnist.com

You’re Wearing THAT?

Posted on February 1, 2010 by Deborah J. Rebolloso

I rotated my shoulders. I twitched my head. I stretched my neck. I yanked my collar.
What inspired these strange contortions? A New Wave exercise class? A dance contest for the upper torso? Nothing so exotic, sorry to say.
These gyrations, performed during a rush-hour freeway frolic, were provoked by a neck-gouging blouse label. Observing this jerk-and-flail marathon, fellow drivers undoubtedly assumed I was transporting a swarm of angry bees.
After forty minutes of woeful writhing, my nuisance saturation point had been reached. Wrenching my hands from the steering wheel at 70 m.p.h. (Not a Closed Course. Do Not Attempt), I yanked the offending scrap of cloth out, leaving four telltale, you-yanked-your-label-out holes. Immediately my day, no, my life, took a turn for the better.
Speaking of scrap, wouldn’t you just love to scrap all feminine frippery that causes pinching, constricting, choking, itching, and the pièce de résistance, pain?
Admit it, Ladies. We’ve been enduring these afflictions since we donned our first bra. Who decreed that decorating the female of the species must involve suffering? And how did we become subjects of this Reign of Pain?
Men wouldn’t put up with such folderol, and they look good, so why do we allow it be foisted upon us?
Irritating embellishments include pinching earrings, choking chokers, binding waistbands, cramping shoes, itchy wool, constricting wigs, scratchy stitchery, and hiking underwear. Wishful thinking aside, it’s naïve to assume that attire will become “broken in.” We’ll be broken long before it will.
This is not a pitch for any form of feminist rebellion, refusal to groom, or license to corner the market on baggy sweats and flip-flops.
Sweats generate sweat (thence the name). Flip-flops are uncomfortable under the best of circumstances, with the toe-thongy thingy rubbing a blister, as thongs do wherever they happen to be placed.
It’s a call to choose ensembles both becoming and soothing, embracing the conviction that clothing ourselves need not be grievous, harrowing, or dangerous.
I’ve compiled a list of Top Ten Adornment Sooper-Dooper Bloopers for your reading pleasure.
1. Push-Over Bras: A little uplift is, well, uplifting, but those up-and-over-the-top derrick devices masquerading as lingerie strain credulity (and the bodice).
2. Corsets: A cut above the Push-Over Bra, a corset not only hoists the bosom up, leaving spillage in its wake, but clamps everything from ribcage to hip in a vise-like grip. Perhaps Katie Scarlett O’Hara’s rancor in “Gone with the Wind” emanated not solely from unrequited love, but also her circulation-strangling corset. “You leave me breathless” should not apply to our skivvies.
3. The Tights That Bind: Leg lingerie is making a long-overdue comeback. Those out of the hosiery habit, however, may recollect the luxury of hose, while forgetting its ofttimes waist-to-toe chokehold. Binding legware runs a close second to a cramping corset for triggering “having a miserable day” potential.
4. Thongs (a.k.a. Derrière Floss): Anyone who’s worn one for more than 2.5 seconds needs no convincing.
5. B&B Wax: Not Bed & Breakfast floor polish, but bikini and Brazilian waxes. Warm (read, HOT) wax is applied (Yee-ouch!) onto terrain that, if we haven’t taken full leave of our senses, is better left demurely concealed. Will the next money-grubbing craze feature hot tar and feathers? And will we, like salmon swimming against the tide, have the strength to resist?
6. Chokers: The very name inspires visions of villainy.
7. Wigs: At first glance, a wig may appear to be a Good Hair Idea on a Bad Hair Day.
However, along with inducing heat stroke (unless, of course, worn during the Midwest’s six-month winters), and scalp itch (witness the telltale pencil-under-the-wig maneuver), what the uninitiated fail to consider is that the superfluous tresses must remain in place all day. Any attempt to remove the thatch before day end results in a fate worse than Hat Hair: Mane Mash.
8. Multitudinous Extraneous Anatomy Apertures: So few can boast that all the holes in their heads (or other regions of their topography) are blessedly God-given. Lip rings, nose bones, and other quirky piercings abound. Each pelt puncture, like surgery, leaves an imprint on the body ranging from uncomfortable to agonizing. And like diamonds, minus the beauty, scars are forever. Choose wisely.
9. Strappy Sandals: At the risk of inciting a loud cry of outrage, let me explain. If given a thumbs-up from one’s hips, back, and equilibrium, stilettos and platforms elongate the leg, requiring as they do a ladylike (now there’s a quaint word) gait. The rub arises when footwear boasts a mere one or two angel-hair straps. Foot slippage and veerage ensues, pitching the unfortunate victim into klutzy footwork that’s anything but ladylike.
10. A tie at #10 are skirts that ride up, tops that creep down, wrap dresses that unwrap, and any item of clothing passing itself off as “One Size Fits All” (all what?).
If an item of clothing doesn’t make you look forward to getting dressed in the morning, or cannot be stretched, loosened, hitched, or fixed, scrap it.

***

Deborah J. Rebolloso writes monthly humor columns for http://healyourselftalk.com/magazine (Humour) and http://alongstoryshort.homestead.com (Humor Me!). Her website is www.DebRebollosohumorme.com.

Foolish Laughs

Posted on February 1, 2010 by Susan Hart

Turning chucklers to guffawers month by month.

The Pirate
A seaman meets a pirate in a bar. The pirate has a peg-leg, a hook, and an eye patch. “How’d you end up with a peg-leg?” asks the sailor.
“I was swept overboard in a storm,” says the pirate. “A shark bit off me whole leg.”
“Wow!” said the seaman. “What about the hook?”
“We were boarding an enemy ship, battling the other sailors with swords. One of them cut me.”
“Incredible!” remarked the seaman. “And the eye patch?”
“A seagull dropping fell in me eye,” replied the pirate.
“You lost your eye to a seagull dropping?” the sailor asked incredulously.
Said the pirate, “It was the first day with the hook.”

Duck Hunting in Texas
A big-city California lawyer went duck hunting in rural Texas. He shot and dropped a duck, but it fell into a farmer’s field on the other side of a fence from where the lawyer was.
As the lawyer started to climb over the fence, an elderly farmer drove up on his tractor and asked him just what the heck he thought he was doing.
The lawyer responded, “I shot a duck and it fell into this field, and now I’m going to retrieve it.”
The old farmer replied, “You just hold on a dadburn minute. This is my property, and thar’s no way yur comin’ over that thar fence.”
The indignant lawyer said, “I am one of the best trial attorneys in the U.S., and if you don’t let me get that duck, I’ll sue you and take everything you own!
The old farmer smiled and said, “Apparently, you don’t know how we do things down here in Texas. We settle small disagreements like this with the ‘Texas Three-Kick’ rule.”
The lawyer asked, “What’s the ‘Texas Three-Kick Rule’?”
The farmer replied, “Well, first I kick you three times, and then you kick me three times, and so on, back and forth, ‘till someone gives.”
The attorney thought about the proposed contest and decided that he could easily take the old codger. He agreed to abide by the local custom.
The old farmer slowly climbed down from the tractor, climbed the fence, and ambled up to the city feller. His first kick planted the toe of his heavy work boot into the lawyer’s shins, causing him to hop on one foot. His second kick knocked the man right off his feet. With the lawyer flat on his back, the farmer’s third kick caused him to see stars.
The lawyer summoned every bit of his will, managed to get to his feet, and said, “Okay, you old coot! Now it’s my turn!”
The old farmer smiled and said, “No way, mister, I give up. You can have the duck!”
English Lesson
“An abstract noun,” the teacher said, “is something you can think of, but can’t touch. Can you give me an example of one?”
“Sure,” a teenage boy replied. “My father’s new car.”
The Physical
The man looked a little worried when the doctor came in to administer his annual physical, so the first thing the doctor did was to ask whether anything was troubling him.
“Well, to tell the truth, Doc, yes,” answered the patient. “You see, I seem to be getting forgetful. I can never remember where I park my car, where I’m going, or what it is I’m going to do once I get there—if I do get there. So I really need your help. What can I do?”
The doctor mused for a moment, then answered, “Pay me in advance.”