“Wouldn’t it be a hoot, I thought, if everyone within the sound of my voice had dropped what they were doing to listen to me read?”

On Saturday, December 11th, 2004, I gave my very first book reading/signing at the Thunderbird Bookstore in Carmel, California. I tell you, there has never been, nor will there ever be, a literary event like the one that took place that day.
I barely escaped with my life. Mobs of adoring fans crashed through the police barricades and nearly trampled me in their wild, desperate lunge for the mere handful of books I had brought with me. “The people will be satisfied!” they cried in a single voice. They chanted, they prayed, they set fire to trashcans, they slashed tires and smashed windows and looted neighboring stores. My wife and I dove under one of the tables for cover. “I told you we needed more copies!” I said to her.
Fistfights broke out among the clientele and spilled into the rest of the mall. Fans toppled book displays as they wrestled one another for the few remaining copies of my book, “He In Me.” A teenage girl crawled under the table where we were hiding. She ripped off my shirt and tried to get me to autograph it. Fortunately, Jann interceded and popped the broad in the snout, which gave me enough time to duck into the men’s room while the two of them grappled under the table. Finally, the National Guard was called in to restore order.
Okay, so that wasn’t exactly how things went that day. Let me give you the real scoop.
First off, for those of you not from this area, I should explain that the Thunderbird was one of the largest and most beloved bookstores on the Monterey Peninsula, and famous for hosting a number of big deal-ish literary events. I couldn’t think of a more perfect place to stage my literary debut. Sadly, the store went out of business soon after… but I assure you, that was NOT my fault!
Reviews of my book and announcements of the reading had appeared in publications from here to Santa Cruz, including the Thunderbird’s own website and newsletter. I’d posted flyers in the local libraries, sent out invitations to the press, contacted friends… did everything I could do to generate public interest on a budget of nothing. People Jann and I had spoken to promised they’d be there, and said they knew of others who were also interested in attending. By the time the big day rolled around, I was ready to take on the world.
Originally, my reading was scheduled for the Community Room, which contains a modest-sized lecture hall with podium in a building across from the bookstore proper. Several days before the event, the store manager decided I might do better if she placed me inside the store itself, in the reading corner. It was less formal, she said, and probably would attract more people from within the store. How neat! I imagined myself flanked by attentive listeners, shoppers pausing from their chores to drink in my golden prose. Like an old-fashioned coffee house! Made me feel I was part of a great literary tradition. I thought it fair to warn the manager, though, that the selection I’d planned to read might get a little loud and dramatic. I didn’t want to annoy or alarm anybody. “No problem,” she said. I trusted her.
Mind you, I didn’t have any unrealistic expectations about the success of my book, which I myself have described as “a mild thriller, a social satire, a domestic Moby Dick.” I understood all about the uphill battle a first-time author faces, especially when his publisher handles virtually none of the promotion. I wasn’t anticipating a stampede. Still, I’m embarrassed to admit I was nervous I wouldn’t have enough copies to meet the demand. In a literate community like Monterey-Carmel, which takes pride in its local talent, twenty-four copies didn’t seem like an outlandish quantity to have on hand. If I had sold half that number, I’d have been disappointed, yes, though hardly ungrateful. Even six, I’d have considered a respectable, if somewhat lackluster, response. Only three, I’d have figured that was three more converts than I had on December 10th.
Anyway, before I tell you who DIDN’T show, let me tell you who did. First off, my dad, Maestro Ted Sr., came to hear me read. Me! I can’t tell you how important that made me feel. And I have his wife to thank for bringing him, because there’s no way he’d have made it on his own. My brother, Terrence, was also there. Both he and my dad had already read my book and were immensely enthusiastic about it. Seated directly in front were my stepdaughter, Shannon, and her husband, Reggie. And of course, I had my wife, Jann, right by my side. All the important people in my life were there to support me. As it turned out, when one o’clock rolled around, they were the ONLY people present for the reading.
I tried dawdling a few extra minutes to give late arrivals time to find their way. Around 1:10, I began with an informal intro, hoping the sound of my voice would attract a few last-minute stragglers from within the store. I let the preamble drag on longer than I should have. Finally, I had to begin.
I gave the reading my best shot. Like the actor of old, I immersed myself in the drama and tried to forget about who was or wasn’t present. I was marginally aware of customers moseying about the store, voices in the background, the chi-chang of the cash register. None of that bothered me. Those summer nights performing in Brooklyn, “Under the Stars,” had been my boot camp. Barking dogs, planes flying overhead, falling sets, people walking across the stage to find their seats, the unruly kid wailing from the house across the way, a sudden downpour—there was nothing I couldn’t work around.
About ten minutes into the reading, when the drama was really beginning to percolate, I did notice how quiet the world around me had become. It seemed as though all activity had ceased. Wouldn’t it be a hoot, I thought, if everyone within the sound of my voice had dropped what they were doing to listen to me read?
On stage, I never would have acknowledged the audience. This being an informal reading, however, I figured it was okay to look away from the page every so often and glance around the room. So I raised my head, expecting to see a cluster of onlookers gathered around me, gaping, spellbound, breathless with amazement. Instead, I saw… NOBODY! Nobody, that is, but the same handful of people I started out with. Seems I had cleared the entire store.
The air began hissing out of my balloon so fast, I was almost afraid someone would hear it. Still, if the theater taught me anything, it’s that an actor gives his all, even if he’s playing to only one person. In this instance, that one person might as well have been my dad. So I forged ahead, undaunted, and brought the piece to a stirring finale.
Needless to say, there was no shortage of books that day. I did get to sign one, though. Good old Terrence had brought his copy from home. Today was the first time this whiz kid (only half my age) got to see his big bro in action. He was clearly enamored with my reading (which meant a lot, coming from him), and encouraged me to record an audio version of my book to sell on Amazon. Hm!
Imagine how much more impressed my dad, the maestro, must have been. He’d never had the pleasure of watching me perform while I was theatrically active—never got to see me chew the scenery, much less a bookstore. He was blown away. He gave me that serious, thoughtful nod he usually reserved for great composers and musical performers, and pronounced my reading “Good! Very good!” He told me I “still had the stuff” after all those years I was away from the stage… wished he could see me in a play someday. I tell you, that endorsement carried more weight than all the critical accolades I could hope to receive in my lifetime.
Shannon and Reggie also enjoyed themselves, what with Shannon providing the most audible giggles through the funny parts. As for my dad’s wife, it was hard to tell from her demeanor what she was feeling. From what I knew about her tastes, I’d have guessed she wasn’t too thrilled with the material, and cared even less for my over-the-top presentation. Jann later told me the woman had been staring at her the whole time I was reading. (Probably wondering: Are you going to just sit there and allow that insane husband of yours to go on like that? Didn’t you lecture him about bookstore protocol?) I hope the experience wasn’t too painful for her. It just makes me appreciate her all the more for bringing my dad to an event she wouldn’t have attended herself.
Jann and I both agreed, in retrospect, that the selection I had chosen, and the accompanying histrionics, were inappropriate for that particular venue. It would have been different had I written a book about basket weaving, or the history of baby food. But my material was, after all, highly emotional, dramatic. I wanted to razzle-dazzle my listeners and bring the story to life, not scare them away. Maybe I should have stuck with the lecture hall.
Another adverse factor, according to Jann, was the Christmas season. Here’s another example of… what? Impaired judgment? My spectacularly lousy timing? I figured the Barnyard in Carmel would be bustling with holiday shoppers, that the bookstore itself would be overrun with readers buying gifts for fellow readers. By all rights, drawing a crowd on a Saturday afternoon, two weeks prior to the Big C, should have been a breeze. Like catching flies in a stable.
Then again, Jann was correct in pointing out that Christmas was the worst possible time in which to unveil a depressing story of power, madness, and other such twisted, un-yule-ish sentiments. “A Teddy Bear’s Christmas,” or “Winky’s Wah-Wah,” might have made a better selection. I’ll admit the title, “He In Me,” can be confusing to people. It doesn’t mix with their visions of sugar plums. It doesn’t jingle. You can’t dance to it.
Obviously, I didn’t CHOOSE this time of year to debut my book. At this stage in my career(?), I have to accept whatever time or venue is offered. Ironic, isn’t it! It took me 17 years to bring this baby into the literary world, and I couldn’t get 17 people to devote 17 minutes of their time to hear me read it. Figures, my “world premiere” reading had to fall smack in the middle of freakin’ Christmas! Well, excuse me, folks. Maybe I should burrow back into the ground and poke my head up in a different point in time.
I’ll admit, I was disappointed at the poor turnout. But not discouraged. One isolated event (or non-event) is hardly a barometer by which to measure one’s success. There are so many channels to explore, contacts I need to make, books I have yet to publish. But that, my friends, is a whole other story.
The most positive thing I can say about that Saturday in December is that my family was there for me. It was especially important to me that my dad came to see me. I know he came because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated. (He had to climb a number of steps to get to the Thunderbird—not an easy feat for a man of 89.) The man got to see me at my best… finally got to know the person behind the son. I may not have made much of an impact on the world that day. But I did make an impact on my dad. And that’s what I’ll be taking with me, long after the petty disappointments have faded from memory.
* * *
Ted Gargiulo’s stories and essays have appeared in The San Jose Mercury News, The Monterey County Herald, Wilde Times, The Gamut, and The Fringe. Born in New York City, the former stage actor and prize-winning author now lives with his wife in Seaside, California. Ted is currently working on a collection of short stories. He In Me, available from PublishAmerica, is his first published novel. Foolish readers can visit Ted’s website, www.tedsway.com, to find out more about this foolish novel, along with the crazy fool who authored it.

Thank you, Susan, for presenting me with this wonderful trophy on behalf of Book and Cranny. You have no idea how thrilled I am to receive the Axegrinder Award for Writers. This recognition is an inconceivable honor.
For many of you, my story could very well be your story. Rising from the slush pile of anonymity to self-publish—dispensing all of 70 copies of Wishes Were, my fictional memoir, currently categorized as creative nonfiction, with minimal duress and only occasional bodily injury to family, friends, and writing cohorts—I broke through beginner’s block to land squarely in the midlist with my gripping novel of raunchy rural life, Days of Whine and Prose, only to catapult to the top of the Sun Pacific Best Ten Books list with my tell-all, Recollections of an Amnesiac. The trajectory has been long, lopsided, and lucky.
You, too, may one day stand before a group of your peers to not only receive, but also give due. So, now, let me—a simple storyteller named Penny Pinzur Proz—acknowledge major contributors to my unlikely ascent to fortuitous fame. With pleasure and tongue in cheek, I present the following awards to those instrumental few who fueled my rise in the written-word world.
To Fanny Down, I present the Janus Prize. An author and teacher who, through example, taught me how to identify true writers and true friends. Clear and succinct as only Fanny can be, she advised that our continued professional and personal relationship was predicated upon my purchase of her latest, but first print-on-demand, novel via Abracadabra. Ever generous with practical advice, Fanny cautioned me to change the names to avoid true embarrassment, a life lesson she learned at her first book signing when her cousin, known as Fat Kathy behind her back and in the book, confronted Fanny by saying, “Go on, dedicate it to Fat Kathy.”
For editing insight, I award the Almighty Pen, along with a lifetime supply of Blood Red and Envy Green ink, to Lottie Gaul. Drawing from her own history of literary rejection, Lottie liberally lined out, wrote in, and duly directed—with delicacy—what needed to change for my work to meet her singular standards. She, too, not only prepared me for future professional editorial services, but also taught a life lesson: Thick skins wind up on the bestsellers list, thin ones land in the remainders heap.
Were it not for an agent, I would still be wallowing in slush. David Zellnik of the famed Zellnik Agency badgered me to send the first 100 manuscript pages, which arrived while he was packing up his office. Subsequently, I badgered him repeatedly for an update on the status of my submission. Silence was his reply. A flash of insight led me to conclude my novel was lost in transport. Were it not for David, my Whine and Prose would still be moldering in a box gone missing. The lesson learned? Do it right, do it yourself. To David Zellnik, literary agent without parallel, I grant the Literal Lethe Award.
To Claudine Incline Dawgett I give the Author as Devil Advocate Award! Because of her, my writing persona bears three rather than the traditional two names. A bellwether of market trend, Claudine not only shared her expertise as midlist maven, but also cued me on the prerogatives of published authors, particularly those of a major house. A life lesson she promulgated was to arbitrarily jack up the cost of fine-tuning a manuscript midway through the project. Another was to email a communal critique to collaborators of a short-story collection rather than provide private and individual assessments, thereby subjecting each writer to peer review as well as expert evaluation in one fell-to-hell swoop.
All that remains is to name the recipient of the most coveted award of all. As you may recall, I was granted this most prestigious prize last year. In consultation with Susan and with the concurrence of the Book and Cranny staff and sundry supporters, I will retain the Vial of Vitriol Award and maintain the right to name a successor once a writer surfaces who surpasses my level of venom.
Thank you, one and all, and remember to keep the fellowship of the word alive.

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

Ask Your Doctor About Stuffacil!
Journal entry: March 16, 2007 (age 37)

Your regular columnist has leased this space to the makers of a revolutionary new prescription drug, so they can tell you why you should take a lot of it.
Stuffacil. It’s TODAY’S medium-sized purple pill. Ask your doctor if Stuffacil is right for you!
Consult your doctor before illegally obtaining Stuffacil and selling it to your friends.
Stuffacil is bad for the arms.
Do not take Stuffacil if you are pregnant, likely to become pregnant, afraid of pregnant people, or chubby.
Do not take Stuffacil before or after meals, as it may make you permanently allergic to most food products, especially those with the word “gummi” in them.
Stuffacil is not recommended for persons who have a history of being a child.
This product may cause your torso to temporarily expand to eight times its normal size.
You may find that visual art such as sculpture or macramé is frighteningly intense while taking this medication.
Stuffacil will make you much more able to operate heavy machinery, but don’t.
Wash Stuffacil down with a refreshing Stuffle fruit drink.
Water will make Stuffacil angry. You wouldn’t like Stuffacil when it’s angry.
Stuffacil is prohibited for children under the age of 18, for the purpose of expanding our market share among children under the age of 18.
The Medicare discount card will make Stuffacil more expensive.
Evil Canadians should not be expected to manufacture anything nearly as cool as Stuffacil.
Don’t be afraid to ask your doctor about our product. Last week, we expensed five nights of heavy drinking for your doctor at Hooters, and he/she seemed to be eager to write a bunch of prescriptions as soon as possible.
Stuffacil is not a suppository, but what the heck.
We sent free samples of Stuffacil to Hillary Duff and football legend Ed “Too Tall” Jones, and although they have not endorsed Stuffacil, we’ll bet you anything they liked it a lot.
Paranoia is not a common side effect, but you may notice an increase in the number of people who look at you as though your fly is open.
A small group of sample subjects found that Stuffacil caused excessive sweating, trenchmouth, the gout, spontaneous combustion, fear of board games, numbness of the face and body, foot cramps, and gravy cravings. Results were completely different and more damaging than placebo, although one guy’s tummy didn’t feel too good after placebo.
Don’t look at Stuffacil like that.
Stuffacil likes your brother/sister better than you.
If you feel better after taking Stuffacil, it is only so that you may live to serve Stuffacil’s Dark Master.
Stuffacil will try again and again to kill you.
The people in our commercials who are shown taking Stuffacil and then frolicking with puppy dogs in fragrant meadows are all dead now.
Consult your doctor if you do not want to be dead.
* * *
Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

“I follow a variation of Teddy Roosevelt’s advice: I walk very softly most of the time, but I carry a big baseball bat-shaped stick. Not that I would ever take anyone out with it.”

I tend to cling to a misguided belief that I can rescue people. I think that I, being very swift of foot but very slight of common sense, can just swoop down upon people in need and scoop them up in my velvet talons.
In reality, I’m incapable of saving even myself. Talons of steel couldn’t hold my distracted and flighty energy in their grip.
I follow a variation of Teddy Roosevelt’s advice: I walk very softly most of the time, but I carry a big baseball bat-shaped stick. Not that I would ever take anyone out with it. I’m so nonviolent that I probably wouldn’t defend even my own children if someone were to put a gun to their heads. If someone put a gun to mine, I’d rather die knowing I’d stuck to my nonviolence ethic to the very end. (I admit, however, I’d experience great remorse if my children were to succumb to my pacifistic principles.)
When caring for others, walking softly comes naturally. When caring for myself, I tread more heavily, plodding along life’s path with my ball and chain attached. I don’t anger easily, and cower among people who wield big sticks.
My own big stick I keep padlocked inside a shed whose lock combination I can never remember, except when I need it before heading to the ballpark to see the Giants whoop the Dodgers, or for psychological support before trading my car for a dozen baseballs autographed by the likes of Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson, and Lou Gehrig. Then that stick seems to whip out of my shed like a bullet. I’ve never hit anyone with it, but I do wave it around a lot.
I realize I’m a little over-involved in baseball, for someone who can’t catch an infield fly except with her forehead or eye socket, and has a batting average recently estimated at .035. But hey, that’s an improvement over the target practice percentage I achieved in the Army, when I was forced to qualify on a 9-millimeter semi-automatic big stick—the only time I’ve ever held a gun.
I was supposed to hit at least 65 out of 100 shots on the target. I hit only three, and two of them didn’t technically make it within the red zone that demarcates an unsettling silhouette of a human head and torso. The supervising sergeant gave me a passing score, despite the fact that I scored only three percent. He was unnerved by my tremulous and spastic weapon handling, and worried when his lower-ranking enlisted staff scattered when I pulled the trigger.
Even the two-star general who accompanied me to the range after finding out I’d avoided the mandatory annual 9mm qualification throughout my entire twelve-year Army career agreed to pass me anyway. He advised that I ought never, ever hold a gun again. It makes no difference how large a gun may be—it will never be my “Big Stick.”
I may be equally inept with a bat as I am with a gun, but my bat is only one of two Big Sticks I ever want to get my hands around. But it’s extremely doubtful I’ll walk anywhere close to softly when I take it to the ball park and wave it around for my SF Giants.

“I spent most of my life Valentine-deficient, and wasted a good deal of brainpower wondering why.”

Throughout my life, Valentine’s Day has presented me a mixed bag of emotions. Secretly I always hoped for a mixed bag of jewels, but all that ever came my way was emotions.
I loved the notion of it: flowers, chocolates, champagne…tokens of affection from that adoring man. I hated my reality of it: silent telephones, non-existent dates, dinner alone. The closest I ever got to tokens was to pine for them year after year. For a time I wondered if I could make of go of pining as a recognized profession.
My high school “Valentine Carnations” fundraiser set the tone early on; I always hoped to get one from a secret admirer, but was lucky if even one of my girlfriends remembered me. I came to hate that day of the year, as I walked the halls from class to class with one sorry carnation, watching others struggle with their veritable bundles of stems.
Loved the notion; hated the reality. I think the official label for this is conflict.
I spent most of my life Valentine-deficient, and wasted a good deal of brainpower wondering why.
Rarely having a significant other could certainly explain the lack of token exchange; minimal dating makes for an empty mailbox. Over the years, a number of explanations for this were thrown my way. One or two were even solicited.
The High School Answer: “You’re too smart and grown-up for boys your age; they don’t mature emotionally as quickly as girls do.” I’ll take that; a girl has to love an answer that exonerates her completely.
The College Answer: “This is a huge university. It’s hard to meet people.” More exoneration, BUT, isn’t an abundance from which to choose supposed to improve my odds? Curse that logical mind of mine.
As time moved on but my love life stayed behind, I decided to cast aside exoneration and tried internalization: the answer to my query couldn’t lie in the entire male gender; it had to rest in me. The circle of self-doubt was exhaustive: my features, my figure, my personality, my style… some combination thereof just must be off.
The sages among us will recognize this as a complete exercise in futility, but for a good while, the emotional quicksand had the stronghold on me. The source of my epiphany I can’t recall, but at some point, I too became a sage and decided the self-doubt served no purpose, so I cast it aside as well.
Casting aside that self-doubt is undoubtedly one of the best things you can ever do for yourself. (Got that? Say it three times fast.) This is common knowledge after forty—The Coming of Sage—but a revelation prior to that milestone. I was ahead of my time; I caught on in my late twenties.
Hitting my stride career-wise did wonders for me. I believe there’s nothing like a little success for the body and soul. It makes one exude a quiet self-confidence and acceptance, and I don’t know that there’s anything more alluring—except maybe the bulky wallet that ideally goes with it.
Armed with this (the confidence—not the wallet), I suddenly found myself highly attractive to men—almost inexplicably so. If I had a “Babe Period” in my life, this was it.
And life was good, for I was seemingly without flaw to the opposite sex. I walked down the street and heads turned all over the place: cervical fractures, spinal subluxations, mass hysteria. I was even once referred to as “exquisite.”
Yes, exquisite; stifle the snickering. It was in Minneapolis, and I heard the man say it; not the result of brain freeze (for it was early summer) or heavy medication (for he was too young). “Exquisite” is hardly your plain ‘ol vanilla adjective, and when you’re its object of description, it makes for one of life’s lovelier moments. Still, admiration a la distance did not rustle me up any roses come that fateful February day.
It did, however, rustle me up a husband. Yes sir, before The Babe Period abandoned me, I came upon Mr. Right. Apparently finding love is like batting cleanup: you don’t have to hit .400; you just have to hit one out of the park.
Funny that I have no recollection of fine or distinctive Valentines from our courtship, though I do recall a great Godiva Easter basket. Given my fixation, you would think “stellar” in the Valentine department would have been a no-brainer pre-requisite for any suitor. Oh, well; ours was a whirlwind romance, and I must have been too overcome with the skyrockets to care.
Twenty years, a family, and the same man later, can you believe I still find myself wanting on Feb Fourteen?
It’s not that my husband is a non-romantic; point of fact, he’s a hopeless one. Now it would seem cash flow is my enemy. There’s always something better on which to spend the $$ than Valentine fluff. If he had his druthers, my hub would see to it I had that Tiffany’s blue and white with my coffee every morning. Yes, every morning. That would work for me; I can accessorize any limb, and there’s always the rotation factor.
With or without sparkly accompaniment, this is the gent who awakened me with Italian roast and Dove Promises bedside for years until he began the daily commute to NYC; he was going to continue it until I gently suggested that even caffeine and sugar lose their allure when served at 4:00 a.m.… even for me. Sentiment that deep is certainly something to be treasured, and it makes for a pretty nice 365/year Valentine. For the record, though, platinum will always be the perfect choice… and diamonds really are a girl’s best friend.
So back to my query: why did a reasonably intelligent and attractive woman—with pretty good legs, to boot—spend her single life pining for a Valentine?
There’s a mega-enigma, as I’ve now decided it requires an explanation of men. You see, I’ve circled back and found a whole new respect for personal exoneration. I’m not exactly sure I have the savvy for an explanation of men; I’m certain I don’t have the column space.
Actually, I don’t know that an explanation of men exists, and I’m talking throughout the Milky Way or any galaxy of your choice. I know; with a collective guffaw, they’re saying the same about women as I write, for herd mentality is perhaps their best event.
But this is MY story, so-o-o-o, I’m right and they’re wrong. It’s as simple as that. End of story. Defense rests. Verdict decreed. It is simply not possible to explain men.
Scary question for brilliant women everywhere: how can something so simple be impossible to explain??!!
I love the lot ‘o them—even if none of them ever did give me a Valentine.
* * *
Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader who enjoyed ice skating and golf until stricken with Forty-itis. Now she’s working on sainthood as a church choir member and grammar-school volunteer, but her application is still pending. You can contact her at denise.aisling@gmail.com.

I’ve gone bowling twice in the past week with my boyfriend, Jonathan. Neither of us had been bowling for thirty years, and it was long past time to give our abysmal heavy ball-rolling skills another shot.
When I was a teenager, I bowled frequently and miserably. The highest score I ever achieved was a 76—and that was my fifth game, at eleven years old. I was pretty proud of this, as my usual scores were in the 20-30 range, with much more frequent double gutter balls than strikes or spares.
The time I got that 76 score, I earned a reputation as “queen of the body fault,” meaning that I flung my body down the lane before releasing the ball, sometimes ending up face down in the alley. My ball often bounced haphazardly—and in that particular game it bounced three lanes down from the lane we were playing in, and miraculously slapped down every pin for my first-ever strike. Unfortunately, that strike was recorded on another player’s score card.
I tried to warn Jonathan that I was an absolutely awful bowler, but he insisted he was worse. He claimed his lifetime high score was 49. I found that hard to believe. I thought he was just trying to make me feel more comfortable about my ineptness so I’d fulfill his misguided urge to re-pursue bowling.
The first four frames, we both hit all double gutters. Our final scores were me: 39, him: 27. The second game we improved by nearly 25%: me: 48, him: 39. The teenagers in the next lane were laughing at us. We, however, were ecstatic over our rapid rate of improvement.
Four days later, we couldn’t wait to get back to the lanes. On that second bowling-go-round, we more than doubled our previous scores, and I beat my old record with a winning 90, while Jonathan scored a career-high 91 in our third game.
We were so elated by our accelerating bowling skills that we decided to play catch in our backyard when we got home, to work off some of our excess energy.
We tossed the baseball gently at first, but with each successful catch, we built up speed and distance. We were good, oh yeah, we were so good together! It grew dark, and I was no longer able to see the ball, being quite night blind. But still feeling zealous, I kept playing, using the sound rather than the sight of the ball to judge where to place my glove and get the catch.
That’s when it happened. The ball came at me so fast that it made a whirring sound on its approach. That’s when my eyeball reached out and caught it.
The dictum, “Keep your eye on the ball” took on a whole new meaning as I detached the baseball from my bloody eye socket.
Jonathan rushed toward me when he heard me scream. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said, tears coming to his eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I replied, holding back tears myself. “I’m the one who had my glove in the wrong place. I should’ve had the sense to know not to play catch after dark.”
We hobbled inside, Jonathan guiding my wobbly legs, woozy stomach, and already swollen-shut black eye into the bathroom. He tended to my wounds, gently wiping the blood from my tear duct and eyebrow, and tenderly patting my swollen cheek with rubbing alcohol.
“Wanna play catch again tomorrow?” I asked, mustering a grin and a gleam in my remaining functional eye.
“Only if you promise to keep your eye on the ball, and not the ball on your eye,” he said. “Or maybe we could go bowling and try to break a hundred. But then, the way I bowl, I might end up taking out your other eye. And that’d be really poor form for a boyfriend,” he said. “I’d feel terrible if I blinded you bilaterally.”
“But it’d be great fun if we could both break a hundred some day,” I replied wistfully.
“That can wait for some day when you can see the bowling lane with intact depth perception and not one eye blind.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “Then let’s just make love tonight, quiet and gentle. That I can do blind.”` It was the first time I’d ever made love with an ice pack on my face. Technically, I think I would have qualified for the disabled list, but I felt like I’d scored well over a hundred—far surpassing my batting average.

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

A Child’s View from the Pew
Journal entry: September 21, 1972 (age 3)

It’s Sunday again, and I know what that means. Mom is going to put me in a red plaid suit coat and a red velvet bowtie for church. I’m going to look like the world’s youngest used car salesman.
We go to St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church. The church is nice, and the priests and nuns are nice, but on Sunday mornings I’d rather be home getting my cathechism straight from the source—the animated TV show “Davey and Goliath.”
I find other ways to amuse myself in church. Mom and Dad keep telling me not to look around at the other churchgoers, but it’s hard not to. Everybody from my neighborhood is there, and they’re all wearing goofy clothes. Some of the women wear big, floppy hats. I don’t understand why they get to wear hats, but I can’t wear my Scooby-Doo Halloween mask.
For some reason, it’s OK to look at other people when they are on their way to or from Communion, so that’s when I get my people-watching in. Everyone looks so serious, like they are coming forward to receive a medal or something. Communion must be really good.
Speaking of Communion, last week I got to be in the line with everybody else. I was crying because my brother Dan wouldn’t stop looking at me. Plus, he kept putting his finger about an inch from my face and whispering, “I’m not touching you.”
To separate us, Mom carried me with her to get Communion. I got really excited when I saw that we were in the line that was receiving the sacrament from Father Queen. I had wanted to ask him an important question for a really long time, and when we got to the front of the line, I had my chance.
“Are you the Godfather?” I asked.
My mother gasped, and Father Queen looked blankly at me for a moment. Then he chuckled and said, “No, I’m not.” Back in our pew, I asked Mom why he had laughed at my question. Her face was still red, and she just shushed me. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question to me. I had heard people talking about someone called “the Godfather,” and I figured he was probably one of the “Fathers” who lived at God’s house.
Today, I promised Mom and Dad I wouldn’t talk at all during Mass. I think I can do that. But I might not be able to keep from laughing at the end of Mass. Every week, the priest says, “This Mass has ended,” and the entire congregation says, “Thanks be to God.” It can’t be wrong to laugh at that. It’s meant to be funny, right?
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Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

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.

Across the top of my refrigerator, tiny ski tracks zigzagged down slopes of dust. Whoa, Nellie! As a renowned wildlife expert, I quickly deduced this was not the usual hippo infestation we endure each winter in the Midwest. While migrating around the Great Lakes, these Velveeta-loving giants wiggle through crevices and into our homes. This is quite rough on vinyl siding. Worse, when dinner is repeatedly ruined by hippos cavorting in the attic, many of us fall off the wagon and resume bowling.

To my trained eye, the tracks came from a non-hippoic species, namely, rodents. The kind who dug winter sports. Espousing nonviolence, I rigged up toy mice in the following scenarios to scare the real beasties from the house.

Predator—next to “Reptile Crossing” sign, a Mickey doll hung skewered on the fangs of a stuffed rattlesnake.

Drowning—chipmunks Simon, Theodore, and Alvin lay at the bottom of the fish tank, wearing cement boots and scanty Speedos.

Electrocution—Minnie, dressed in sequined orange jumpsuit from my Prison Barbie collection, strapped in miniature chair. Hershey’s Kiss “helmet” wired to car battery.

Suicide—generic toy mouse hung from the candy jar, leaving a maudlin note written on a Reese’s Cup wrapper.

But my efforts came to naught. The rodential rascals ignored the death scenes and kept skiing. They also built a lodge, two chairlifts, and yodeled through the night. So I caved in and set traps baited with cheap peanut butter. The next morning, I found the traps sprung but empty. My keen eye searched for a trail and…hey, where’d all the chocolate jimmies come from?!?

The trail led straight to my gingerbread house. I know, Christmas is over. But the house was a multi-holiday centerpiece, and added elegance to the mantel of my cardboard fireplace. The house’s front view was decorated for Christmas, with candy cane archways and gumdrop snowmen; on the Easter side, marshmallow chicks lounged on a jelly bean deck. The Halloween view had candy corn coffins filled with gummy worms. And the fourth? Valentine’s Day. Yes, built of cinnamon hearts and condoms.

Well, the mice had trashed the house, and I mourned over beheaded chicks, missing condoms, and snowmen doing unspeakable things with candy corn. Such wanton debauchery shocked me speechless. At last, I found my voice and whimpered, “They partied WITHOUT me?!?”

The war was on. I switched to glue pads, baited with pastel mini-marshmallows. Well, the beasties again took the bait and somehow escaped the glue! But, my dear Watson, on each trap they left behind a strip of belly fur and a pile of…are those…PASTEL jimmies!?!?

As humanoids, we have a duty to cull the weak and stupid from any species that annoys us. However, the clever trap evasions indicated intelligent beings—sore bellies and pastel poop notwithstanding. Well, tough bananas, muchachos! The little Einsteins still had to go.

Then, eureka! I discovered the old-fashioned boot trick. How it works: Cats stare at hall closet. Shoo cats away. Pull on boots. Stomp foot for better fit. Remove foot, smooth out sock wrinkles. Jam foot into boot. Repeat. Curse ill-fitting boot. Stomp harder. Pause. Think. Withdraw foot, tip boot, and shake. Scream at soaring, bug-eyed mouse. Run for weapons! Renew oath to nonviolence. Put down chainsaw. Grab plastic yogurt container—almost empty. Chase away dimwitted cats. Slam container over mouse. Miss and curse. Repeat. Again. Once more. When caught, slide hand—No!! Are you crazy?? Slide LID underneath. Fling mouse into driveway. Bargain with God to keep it (a) outside; and (b) celibate. Mop up yogurt throughout house.

Clearly, the issue needs further study, and I’ve received a federal grant to monitor rodent patterns. Experimenting with various tracking methods, I’ve discovered useful data: (1) Leg-banding herds of mice will cause carpal tunnel syndrome; (2) The tiny branding irons get (owie owie) HOT!! and (3) When macraméing the radio collars, use unwaxed dental floss. Mint.

Copyright©2010 by Mary Tompsett

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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

Adam and Eve said, “Lord, when we were in the garden, you walked with us every day. Now we do not see you any more. We are lonesome here, and it is difficult for us to remember how much you love us.”

And God said, “I will create a companion for you that will be with you and who will be a reflection of my love for you, so that you will love me even when you cannot see me. Regardless of how selfish or childish or unlovable you may be, this new companion will accept you as you are and will love you as I do, in spite of yourselves.”

And God created a new animal to be a companion for Adam and Eve. And it was a good animal, and God was pleased.

And the new animal was pleased to be with Adam and Eve and he wagged his tail.

And Adam said, “Lord, I have already named all the animals in the Kingdom and I cannot think of a name for this new animal.”

And God said, “I have created this new animal to be a reflection of my love for you. His name will be a reflection of my own name, and you will call him DOG.”

And Dog lived with Adam and Eve and was a companion to them and loved them.

And they were comforted.

And God was pleased.

And Dog was content and wagged his tail.

After a while, it came to pass that an angel came to the Lord and said, “Lord, Adam and Eve have become filled with pride. They strut and preen like peacocks and they believe they are worthy of adoration. Dog has indeed taught them that they are loved, but perhaps too well.”

And God said, “I will create for them a companion who will be with them and who will see them as they are. The companion will remind them of their limitations, so they will know that they are not always worthy of adoration.”

And God created CAT to be a companion to Adam and Eve.

And Cat would not obey them. And when Adam and Eve gazed into Cat’s eyes, they were reminded that they were not the supreme beings.

And Adam and Eve learned humility.

And they were greatly improved.

And God was pleased . . .

And Dog was happy. . .

And Cat didn’t give a damn one way or the other. . .

It’s January. Once again, time to prepare for that blessed event known as the Super Bowl. I can remember when we watched the Super Bowl in January, not prepped for it. I guess now the powers that be need those extra two weeks to line up the inexpensive commercials and understated halftime shows.

Actually, I can remember the first Super Bowl, along with the Ice Bowl on the Frozen Tundra of Lambeau Field that led up to it. I can still see Bart Starr’s quarterback sneak, and I can remember Dandy Don Meredith uttering that he was going to “eat that dat-gumbed ball.” (Spell check, please.)

Heck, I can remember when there was no Super Bowl, and the AFL was a new institution and a league all its own. I remember the men for whom the Lamar Hunt, George Halas, and Vince Lombardi trophies are named. In my experience, I don’t know that winning is the only thing, but losing is a lousy substitute; Lombardi knew what he was talking about. Gotta love those Fordham Blocks of Granite.

I remember rumor had it that Bud Grant refused to let his Vikings wear long underwear in Minnesota…before the days of the dreaded dome…ah, when men were men. Fran Tarkenton and tighty-whities notwithstanding, they still lost the Super Bowl four times.

And I remember that the Packers didn’t.

OK; it’s established: I’m an old fan of the pigskin and gridiron. True to my womanhood, I shun “old” in favor of “seasoned.”

As a child of the sixties in Wisconsin, it was mandatory to learn your football basics regardless of gender. I have two brothers, but I recall it was my sister who explained the concept of a first down to me when I was six. She’s nine years my senior, and thereby had a head start on the indoctrination.

Perhaps more frightening than her being my dialect coach, I recall Football-ese making perfect sense to me. I mean, I could have asked why one didn’t get four “ups” versus “downs,” but the question just never entered my mind. Clearly I was born to embrace this game.

Aside from learning the rules, one had to learn proper telecast etiquette. My father was a fairly civilized fan; his major outburst usually came after a fumble or an interception, and consisted of, “Aw, Packers; you fell on your head.” I repeat this at least once per game to honor his memory and strengthen my football core.

My mother was the antithesis of civilized; must have been the Irish and French boiling over when confronted with a sea of green or something. She didn’t break furniture, and always ranted with a Betty Boop-esque flair, but she was hardly demure. Time has failed miserably on the mellowing front; her dismay is as demonstrative as ever. She must be my inspiration: I, too, have yet to break a chair over a failed 3rd-and-long, but it’s probably just a matter of time.

My fancy for football was fed by regular Sunday exposure to the Packers, Bears, Vikings, Lions, and Chiefs. Who could forget Hank Stram at Arrowhead, the GQ Cover Boy of the sidelines, sporting jacket, vest, and tie? It sometimes made me wonder if this was a football field or the Four Seasons, but I must admit Coach Belichick might consider taking a page from Hank’s haute couture playbook.

In addition to the conference games, we were always graced with a double header, and I soon learned the major players on the West Coast: John Hadl, Daryl Lamonica, John Brode, and my hurler of all hurlers, Roman Gabriel. Yes, I did own—and even read—that immortal work, “Great Quarterbacks of the NFL.”

That book listed several, but there was no man for me but Gabriel: tall and lean, No. 18. The smile, that hair…forgive me, Dick Enberg, but “OH MY,” what a crush I had on Roman. John Wayne made a lot of movies with a lot of co-stars, but only “The Undefeated” did I watch ad infinitum.

In fifth grade, I brainwashed some girlfriends into co-conspiracy, and we formed our own little Rams club—each with a fave player: Jack Snow, Lance Rentzel, and…the gray cells abandon me on the last one. Maybe it was Rosie Grier or some other member of the Fearsome Foursome. Probably one that didn’t needlepoint. I know it’s sexist, but we were ten—only four years into our training. Needlepoint probably did for face-masking what ballet did for foot speed and cutting; we just hadn’t learned that yet.

Back to the double-header afternoons.

Without any concern for what it would do to my hair, I even begged for a Rams helmet for my 11th Christmas, and thanks to my mother (who always did the shopping), I actually got one. There I sat the whole next season for each double-header: helmet in place, trying to watch the game and see through the face mask to do my math homework. Forget that he graduated Berkeley; it was at this point that I decided Joe Kapp’s true genius was in donning that single bar.

Let the record show that mine was a bona fide blue-and-white Rams helmet—none of this blue-and-gold business of the New NFL. And these Rams were in Los Angeles, not St. Louis—which will always be the home of the Cardinals to any real fan. (OK, OK…the real fans know the Cardinals actually began in Racine, with sandlot roots as the “Normals” on Chicago’s south side, but let’s not quibble. Bottom line: St. Louis would never have adopted the Rams if some loose cannon hadn’t flown the Cards to Arizona in the middle of the night and upset everything.)

Watch yourselves, you reformist zealots; we purists have you in our sights. I don’t care if the actual city of Atlanta is nowhere near the West coast; the Falcons started in the NFC West, and they should have stayed there. Logic is overrated. I need a geographically correct football conference like my pre-teen daughter needs an anatomically correct Ken Doll.

My love of the game went beyond my grammar school years, and came with me to every high-school contest I attended. Thursday nights, under the lights…it was a beautiful sight. I recall commenting that one kickoff had taken a Wilson High bounce, and overhearing a guy behind me saying, “Holy cow…she really knows her…stuff.” Such incredulity offends me; he probably couldn’t even define the strong side.

In college I chose the season football tickets over the hockey ones every year. Funny that I later worked for a hockey franchise after graduation; maybe if I’d have taken the hockey tickets, I’d have ended up in the NFL’s league office and would still be in New York.

I digress.

The Badgers were somewhat in the cellar my undergraduate years, but the opponents always played decent ball. Besides, it was the overall spectacle that mattered when it came to Big 10 college football. There was a purpose to every aspect of the Badger home game experience:

*The Surefire Hangover Remedy: the Bucky Wagon screeching past your dorm room Saturday morning blaring “On Wisconsin”

*The Surefire Cure for Fear of Heights: getting body-passed among the less-than-lucid crowd, hoping they dropped you to the bleachers before you went over the top of the stadium; injury was preferable to death

*The Ultimate Passing Drill: cup fights between sections O and P (full cups, of course…soda, ice, and anything distilled)

*The Ultimate Footwork Drill: staying ON the bleachers while dancing the polka to “Bud” in the 5th quarter, led by the most entertaining college band ever to grace the hash marks

The Rose Bowl was but a distant dream of Badger fans in those years, but later on, our loyalty was rewarded—times 3! Same can be said for tried-and-true of the Gold and Green. What a joy it was to watch The Pack be back and win another Super Bowl. Again, I threw hair caution to the wind and sported my cheese hat for both contests—a plate of curds beside me for good luck.

I won’t elaborate on the next Super Bowl the Pack lost, except to say that one should NEVER abandon one’s running game; all pass and no run makes your QB a blitz magnet. Even John Elway earned the Super Bowl Loss Hat Trick sans a Terrell Davis behind him. The quick draw, the option, the Sacred Packer Sweep…all of these are the stuff of which history is made.

Just ask my friend Claire. This is a woman with whom a Monday morning phone conversation would naturally turn to a critique of Sunday’s games. I recall her going over a Jets/Giants game… “I could have cared less that Brett the Jet didn’t win; Eli (that’s Manning to you neophytes) was working the field so well, I couldn’t help but cheer for him.”

What woman says this but me?? Andrea Kremer? Pam Oliver? My big sister? I had found another kindred football spirit among the females.

It must be in the roots. Though we met in New Jersey, I instantly knew Claire was midwestern when she kept mentioning football and used the word “supper.” Non-midwesterners might recognize “supper” to be a noun, but it doesn’t mean an evening meal; it means “one who sups.” And to the non-football fanatic, “working the field” is something akin to bringing in the sheaves.

This will be my umpteenth Super Bowl, and as I write, I don’t even know who’ll be in it. No matter; I’ll soak it up with all its splendor as I have every year since I was six. Between the football and the ads, it’s a win-win for me: I was a marketing major.

My daughter is likely to be watching it with me, though she’s still learning her basics and honing her love of the game. She is already, though, exhibiting Feminine Football Fanaticism in its purest form: like Claire and her mom who loved the ‘60’s Rams because of their helmets, my daughter is partial to the Jets because their jerseys are just the right shade of green.

That’s my girl.

* * *

Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader who enjoyed ice skating and golf until stricken with Forty-itis. Now she’s working on sainthood as a church choir member and grammar-school volunteer, but her application is still pending. You can contact her at denise.aisling@gmail.com.

There are three things that I’ve long wanted to do in my life, but which seemed unlikely I’d ever achieve: To be a stand-up comedian, to be a radio baseball commentator, and to be able to dance well enough that I could do it in public without embarrassing myself.

I’ve attended many concerts and weddings and various other celebrations where lots of people danced—but I wasn’t among those people.

In high school, I was the consummate wallflower. I’d sit in the bleachers and watch other, cooler students do their adept dance-floor moves. I envied them, these teenagers who had rhythm and self-confidence, who could lose themselves in the music while maintaining an artful and poised comportment. I was “artful” off the dance floor, but I was never poised anywhere, except firmly in the bleachers.

However, I do have a history of dancing during “not-ready-for-prime-time” hours. My mother says she’s observed me dancing in the bathtub in the middle of the night—a behavior she attributed to my propensity for sleepwalking. I’ve always had an active dream life, so I suppose that sleep-dancing in the tub was a subconscious attempt to manifest my dance dreams.

As a wannabe-dancer-but-much-too-inhibited adult, I developed a habit of dancing and singing in the privacy of my bedroom. I do the singing part very loudly and out of tune, and I do the dancing part with wild abandon and arms flailing. This practice has sometimes frightened the chance spectator who happens into my room.

When I’m surprised by an unsuspecting observer, I feel instantly embarrassed. I immediately cease my song-and-dance routine for the sake of its victim—but in my heart I feel a sadness and regret for the loss of a ritual that is self-integrating and oddly spiritual.

I’ve often watched wistfully from the sidelines as people happily join hands to do the Hora or the Hokey Pokey. Put my left arm in, then my left arm out? That’s a terrifying thought! Knowing me, if I even managed to get my left arm “in,” it would fly so far out in its opposing motion that I’d never again reunite it with the rest of my body parts—much less be able to “shake it all about.”

As far as the “turn yourself around” part, I could probably manage that. But I’d likely turn too many times, get dizzy, and wind up falling flat on my rear end.

So as I sat on the sidelines watching my Tongan relatives dance in public with wild abandon during my Tongan cousin’s wedding reception, it seemed judicious that I seek an inconspicuous corner where I could flail my limbs around from a horizontal position, since I’m clearly more coordinated when I’m lying down.

Just as I was contemplating potential inconspicuous corner opportunities, I glanced across the table at my father, who also doesn’t dance in public. I doubt he has ever danced privately in his bedroom. But he seemed a bit wistful as he watched his Tongan kin celebrate. “He’s old,” I thought. “He may never make it to another wedding. Get brave and go for it,” I told myself. “It really could be now or never for him.”

So I grabbed Dad by the hand and tried to pull him onto the dance floor. He wouldn’t budge. “Better late than never, Dad,” I said, like he had said to me many times in my youth.

“Better never than late,” he replied. I let go of his hand in defeat, his bottom still planted firmly on his chair.

As I looked back at our table, I noticed my mother’s eyes welling with tears. I suspected that Ma’s tears were in empathy for the dance proposition my father had just rejected. I knew that during their forty-eight years of marriage, my mother had also had plenty of dance propositions rejected by my father. I suspect that my mom is a middle-of-the-night bathtub dancer like me. She craves a dance fix, but she’s given up hope that her need for a partner will ever be satisfied by Dad. I realized that was why she was getting moist around the eyes. It was clear that we’d both have to get our dance fixes elsewhere.

“Please, Ma, could I have this next dance?” I asked, extending my hand to her.

“Enchantee,” she said as she stood and curtsied.

We joined our much less inhibited, joyful Tongan in-laws, who welcomed us literally with wide-open and non-flailing arms that embraced us as we embraced the dance floor.

We did dances we’d never heard of, Ma and me. We danced the hiki-tiki, the maka-laka, the mumbo-jumbo, the hula and the Little Black Sambo. We did line dances and the Macarena and yes, the Hokey Pokey. I got my left arm in without incident, though it hit my mom in the face on its way out—but I didn’t worry over it, as the large Tongan man to my right had the same mishap, and gave me a bloody nose. He just laughed, handed me a Kleenex, and told me to hold it to my nose for five minutes. He never stopped dancing. I followed his example, and there was something exhilarating to me about dancing with a tissue tucked up my nostrils.

Ma and I wrapped up the wedding celebration by leading the crowd in the Hora, which, being newly liberated Jews, made us feel very giddy and proud. Dad stood up and clapped to the music with some semblance of rhythm, and applauded wildly with the Tongan in-laws afterward, as Ma and I took a bow.

For Dad, that’s as much of a dance as he’s ever likely to do. As for Ma and me, we’re not going to be wallflowers anymore. I won’t be seeking inconspicuous corners for horizontal solos. We won’t be passing up another opportunity to move our bodies akimbo with the rest of the happily dancing, more coordinated people.

But if you should happen to encounter Ma and me at an event involving dancing, it might be prudent to keep an eye out for flailing arms.

And guard your nose.

And bring Kleenex.

Usually I’m a very nonviolent, peace-loving person, yet I have this habit of fighting with my car.

It’s an older-model Jeep Grand Cherokee that was previously owned. “Previously owned” being the term car salesmen use meaning worn out, used-up, and with more miles on it than the Apollo spacecraft. Actually, I bought a bumper sticker that reads: “Honk If Something Falls Off.”

I’m not exactly sure what kind of engine the car has, but I think it’s called a “Check.” That’s what it says on the dashboard’s instrument panel, anyway—“Check Engine.” I’m not familiar with that type of engine, but it gets better gas mileage than a Sherman tank, so I’m assuming Check is a fairly decent brand of engine.

There is a huge gaping hole in the dashboard that a radio once occupied. Somebody stole the radio before I bought the car. This empty space is useful, though. I can put my purse in there and it keeps it from sliding off the seat and possibly falling through one of the huge holes in the floorboard.

One thing I like about the car is the bucket seats. I do wish there was a way of welding a back onto a bucket, though. It would make the seat a little less likely to turn over when I go around a curve too fast. I always use my seatbelts, though. They help hold me up until I can grab the bucket and turn it upright once more. And the seatbelts are genuine leather. We bought them at the flea market from a leather crafter. We decided on the brown ones to match the rust spots on the outside of the car.

And with the absence of a back seat I can take my dogs with me and they have a huge area in which to romp and play while I’m driving. Although they sometimes fight over which one gets to sit in the passenger-side bucket.

About a month ago the car stopped starting. Something was draining the battery. I figured it must be the headlights that kept running the battery down so I disconnected them. Now like Cinderella I must always go home before dark. Otherwise the car might turn into a pedestrian, or into another car, or a utility pole.

I know it’s getting close to the time to buy a new car, but somehow I have become attached to this one. I have been looking at new cars lately. I noticed something odd, too. It seems that the more a car costs, the uglier it is. Actually, it’s the same way with just about everything, even shoes and purses. If an item is preceded by the word “designer” and is so hideous it looks like something from a Steven King novel, then you can bet your next paycheck it probably cost more than the state of Hawaii.

Which brings up another point. It used to be an insult when someone told a woman she looked cheap. Now we should consider it a compliment.

I hate to part with my old car. We’ve been together for a long time and we’ve developed a warm and friendly relationship. We understand each other. We respect each other, even though we do argue sometimes. I usually take the car’s insults in stride but today it did something that made me really angry. I started the engine and when the instrument panel lit up, there in big red-lighted letters was the word “Air Bag.”

Now that was simply uncalled for. Who does this car think it is, calling me an air bag! I’m really thinking seriously about trading the car for a newer one now, and I told it as much. Right after I slapped both of its headlights into one and called it a “worthless pile of scrap metal.”

The rusted piece of junk. Fatso! Four doors!

Clash of the Gym Class Titans

Journal entry: April 21, 1986 (age 16)

Great leaders of men are created in the horrific chaos of battlefields, the cutting edge of industry, and the noble arena of public service. Comedians are created in gym class.

One brisk morning in the spring of 1986 brought together two opposing forces on a muddy field at Seton Catholic Central High School. These forces were not the two teams of disinterested high schoolers assembled for a game of softball. They were two men. Well, one man, actually—the gym teacher. For the purposes of anonymity, and the continued sanctity of my “permanent record” at the school, we will refer to the teacher here as “Mr. Jockman.”

The second man was actually a boy, who only weeks before had hit puberty with the tragic force of a train hitting a wall. We will refer to him as me.

Softball was a staple activity in gym class. But this day’s game was different. The mysterious, wonderful creatures known as “junior class girls” were joining us for a rare co-ed class. With prom coming up, and the recent release of Lionel Richie’s romantic anthem “Say You, Say Me,” the stakes were high.

The gym teacher made the unprecedented and rather hotdoggish decision to serve as the pitcher for both teams. Meanwhile, I made the precedented and rather cowardly decision to play right field. Deep right field. In fact, I was so deep that I was able to simultaneously work for tips as a valet in the adjoining parking lot.

As the game progressed, Mr. Jockman laughed and mocked his way through a series of strikeouts by a parade of awkward and embarrassed youths. His relentless offensive was repeatedly interrupted, however, by the sound of laughter coming from the outfield. In the absence of any actual balls to the field, I had taken it upon myself to entertain my fellow outfielders (including the hot girl from my biology class) with a commentary on the game that was both deeply satirical and radically incendiary. It centered on the way Mr. Jockman looked when he threw the ball.

After the umpteenth burst of laughter from the outfield, Mr. Jockman stopped the game. He dropped the ball, threw down his glove, and turned a vengeful eye toward a tiny, pale figure in the far distance. The entire class tensed up, anticipating the monstrous clash that was about to unfold. Mr. Jockman’s face opened like a great cavern of vitriol, his voice swelling with rage. “MOLLEN! Quit laughing out there!!”

Everyone turned with a mixture of hope and dread to see what would be the response from the freckled and gangly cipher in right field. Sensing that the drama was peaking, I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled back, “But Mr. Jockman, it’s SPRINGTIME!!!”

Then I began to skip and frolic around the outfield. As I did so, I hummed the theme from The Smurfs, interspersed with snatches of Vivaldi. As my fellow nonathletes erupted in laughter, and the hot girl from my biology lab looked at her Hello Kitty watch and wondered how long it was till lunch, Mr. Jockman was heard to say, “I hate that kid.”

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Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

Have you ever been mugged? Have you ever had your purse snatched?

And that was just this morning. The rest of the day doesn’t look all that good either.

(Actually, I’m only kidding around. Fortunately, this didn’t really happen to me…thus far, anyway.)

While this didn’t actually happen to me, it could have. And chances are it may have happened to several people across the country during the time it took me to type that first paragraph. This kind of thing happens every day in crowded parking lots in broad, open daylight. And that’s the gospel truth, according to the news media.

Criminals are everywhere. They’re part of earth’s renewable natural resources like water, oxygen, dirt, morons, and politicians. The world will never suffer a shortage of morons and criminals. Mainly because they are constantly being recycled through Congress. And while there’s no way we can prevent the government from snatching our purses and robbing us, there are several ways we can protect ourselves from the petty, purse-snatching criminals that roam our neighborhood shopping centers and supermarket parking lots.

According to the experts who teach self-defense, the first lesson we should learn is how to prevent a would-be attacker from marking us as a target.

Remember the TV show “Miami Vice”? Remember how Crockett and Tubbs would crouch down with guns drawn, how they craned their necks around corners, slid along the sides of buildings, and turned around in circles aiming at everything that moved?

Well, that’s not the way to do it. For one thing we would look totally stupid, and for another…well, we’re probably not vice cops. And fortunately for most of us, we’re not in Miami.

Many of us today are walking around without a clue as to where we are or what we’re doing. Our minds are on other things like our jobs or the lack of one, our finances, did we leave the water running in the bathroom when we left home this morning, and where did Little Timmy learn that ugly word?!

We breeze through our routine like an automaton, unaware of any pending danger other than the possibility of fainting from hunger because we didn’t have time to eat all day and it’s after four o’clock. We’re distracted, we’re unaware of someone watching us, and this makes us a perfect candidate for the criminal to attack, rob, kidnap, assault, murder, or even worse…force us to listen to Bluegrass music for several hours.

The experts tell us the number one rule of self-defense is to always be alert and aware of our surroundings. We should walk with our heads held high, observing the actions of other people, looking at faces, and checking out the parked cars.

An attacker is looking for a target that can be caught off guard. The element of surprise is their favorite weapon. Not allowing ourselves to be surprised can be our best defense. Unless, of course, it’s a surprise party, but muggers don’t usually care enough to throw us a party.

How many times do we leave a store and walk to our cars with our heads down, rummaging in our purse for our keys or stuffing a receipt into our pockets? We get into the car without looking around and sit there for several minutes doing everything except locking our doors and starting the engine. Occasionally we may discover that it isn’t even our car we’re sitting in.

Here’s a thought. Maybe we should develop a habit of locking our car doors and starting the engine the moment we get into our cars. Then we can always answer that text message or put on our lipstick while we’re driving.

By staying alert and practicing these few safety measures, we can be assured that we will get out of the parking lot safely and without incident every time. That is, unless we’re shot by some rival gang in a drive-by. But that will be covered in another chapter, titled “Random Acts of Stupidity And How to Avoid Them.”

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

Field Trip to the Sewage Treatment Plant

Journal entry: March 11, 1982 (age 12)

As a typical seventh-grader, I have been instructed on many occasions to “get my mind out of the gutter.” The confusing onset of hormones and my growing understanding of human biology have made this difficult. But it had never been as difficult as it was today.

Today, our well-meaning science teacher made the grave error of taking me and 30 of my seventh-grade classmates on a field trip to the Binghamton-Johnson City Joint Sewage Treatment Plant.

Our teacher apparently thought our burgeoning interest in the natural sciences would win out over our innate desire to make jokes about anything having to do with the bathroom. She was wrong. I would wager that none of us had ever ridden a bike down Riverside Drive on a hot summer day, sniffed the foul stench in the air, and thought to ourselves, “Gee, I’d like to go to the source of that smell, and see how it’s made.”

But that was the lesson we were given today. We toured several buildings, each of which had its own olfactory horrors to visit upon us. Each building had its own purpose in the treatment of sewage. We guessed that a promotion at the plant would mean a transfer to a building with a slightly less offensive odor. I observed that none of the buildings appeared to have break rooms. Presumably, employee breaks and meals took place in sealed bunkers deep within the Earth’s crust.

The highlight of the field trip was the question-and-answer session at the close of the tour. This unleashed the creativity of our 12-year-old minds, as we struggled to craft questions that would amuse our classmates while avoiding the scorn of our teacher and chaperones.

“What would happen if everyone in Binghamton flushed at the same time?” one girl asked.

“Does Binghamton produce more solid waste per capita than Johnson City, and if so, why?” asked another.

Then the boys started to chime in. One wanted to know, “Why is Building Number One used for number two?”

Another asked, “Have you seen my goldfish?”

The questions and answers being muttered among ourselves were, to use the industry parlance, somewhat less refined. One of the comments I heard broke at least three of the existing Commandments, and seemed to require the codification of several new ones.

Our guide was a nice man who is an engineer at the plant. He answered the questions as best he could, and he didn’t hide his laughter at several points. But even he had had enough when, for the third time, a student raised his hand to ask, “What’s that smell?”

Our tour concluded, we returned by bus to St. Patrick’s Middle School with enough material for several weeks of lunchroom jokes, classroom notes, and detention writing topics. Our teacher rode the bus in silence, with a resigned expression that seemed to say, “I hope they got it out of their system.” And isn’t that what today was all about?

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Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

“…and on every street coroner you’ll hear…Silver bells, sil?” Coroner?? What the…? Sure, we’ve all seen coroners at crime scenes wearing antler hats and whistling “Santa Baby.” But, bells?? That’s absurd.

Anyway, are you still shopping for a special someone in your life? You know who I mean, that “alpha dog” in-law or the self-absorbed friend whom you claim to “love dearly, but…”

O gentle reader, this is your ducky lay!! I mean, yucky…er, lucky…never mind. A recent consumer poll voted my unique gift assortment as the most…classy? No. Breathtaking? Get real. What was that word everyone used…?

Weird.

My popular S&M line of gift baskets will?hey! Clean up your dirty mind, buster! By S&M I mean the “normal” everyday self-sabotage my shrink won’t let me do. Take the Dieters S&M basket?we stuff it with sweat bands, calorie counter, and a double batch of fudge! And to boost motivation, we’ll toss in a pair of size “0” jeans! Not to worry if your honeybunch never squeezes into them. They’re so damn tight, even Barbie can’t zip ’em.

Or, for the perfectionist in your life, give a so-called 5,000-piece puzzle. For a dash of passive-aggressive holiday sparkle I guarantee a maximum of (heh-heh) 4,999 pieces! Truly, the gift of frustration is timeless.

Perfectionists are often clean freaks, so consider the “Oops!” gift basket, packed with homemade beet soup and spaghetti sauce in antique porcelain containers…that leak! Add a set of pristine placemats made from the hides of endangered albino silkworms and watch the fun!

Many family trees grow a dysfunctional branch—mine is chock full of fruits and nuts. We love the “Take Just One” basket, designed to tickle all the addicts with a complete array of booze, sweets, smokes, lottery tickets, and calling cards for 1-800-OOHBABE.

Another perennial favorite is the Resentment Preservation Pack. At last, a way to prolong the life and vibrancy of your anger! Protect those bitter, hateful relationships you’ve nurtured through the years. Pack includes jeweled boxes to store precious grudges, and a workbook for rewriting past fights as YOU see them! Has time faded the luster from your initial outrage? Try our “Scab Off” organic solution to restore old emotional hurts to searing clarity. Order now, and we’ll include a box of “Kick Me” transdermal patches for a steady, controlled dose of martyrdom that can’t be beat.

NEW ITEM! The Inspirational Daytimer for Busy Sociopaths. Your boss or co-worker can track appointments while mapping a stellar career in politics or investment banking. Weekly quotes of convicted felons and successful CEOs speak to the joy of a conscience-free life!

Stressed by out-of-town visitors who refuse to leave your spouse or parent? The Demonic Possession Hospitality Basket can help you both survive the antics of unwelcome guests. Possession often makes for cramped quarters, so we thoughtfully provide cheesecake and chocolate to help enlarge the host’s body. Basket includes an extra toothbrush and jammies, plus a discount coupon for an exorcism and pedicure.

If you’re shopping for bookworms, I suggest a membership in my Inspirational Book of the Month Club. Readers will enjoy such works as: (1) “Procrastination Today” and its companion “Sloth for Working Parents”; (2) “Sustainable Self-Condemnation: A Practical Handbook for Increased Self-Loathing”; and (3) “The Myth of Self-Improvement.” Alternate selections include “Keeping Envy Sacred,” “The Bondage of Sanity,” and “Healthy Boundaries: Why I Wear a Shock Collar.”

Finally, treat yourself to the “Lo! I exist!” lifesize mannequin, custom designed to recreate how you THINK you looked at age 25! The first hundred orders will also receive the popular CD: “It’s All About Me!” filled with mantras to overcome pesky bouts of altruism and soothe the inner child who still whines that Santa never delivered on that pony.

Remember, in this season of giving, the truth will set us free! Ergo, I’m not buying you diddly-squat. The freedom, oh, what freedom!!

Copyright © 2009 by Mary Tompsett

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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.