Ready or Knot....
I don’t recall who said it, but “...spring is when a young man’s thoughts gradually turn to that which a young woman has been thinking of all winter.”
Yep. Birds do it, bees do it, even girls with Ph.D.’s do it....Spring causes a burst of euphoria in our physical, spiritual and worst of all, emotional worlds. In the course of wanting to revamp the house, clear out the closets, de-clutter our lives, and all the mania that comes with spring, we begin to wonder if, possibly, there’s remote chance, it could happen...., maybe it will occur to him, since he’s been living with you for three years, to pop the question.
Initially that sounds wonderful. But you may have waited so long while auditioning for the role of wife, that you lost track yourself. You may have matured a little and now you need to pause and ask yourself, is he ready for marriage...to ME? Here’s a little check list I’ve developed to help you out:
* If you both come home from work at the same time, or especially if you come in after him, and he asks, “What’s for dinner?” , he ain’t ready.
* If he’s lived with you so long, he can’t remember the recipe for making a sandwich, he ain’t ready.
* If he waits for you to come home to clean and bandage his cut because he can’t stand the sight of blood, but watches intensely and whimpers and ‘ouches’ as you clean and bandage the wound, he ain’t ready.
* If he’d rather go without a Band-Aid than wear one with Care Bears on it ‘cause he’s afraid the boys at work will tease him, he ain’t ready.
* If he has completely lost the ability to find his keys, glasses, insurance cards, and any important papers and has come to believe that you have a uterine homing device for these items, he ain’t ready.
* If he thinks beer is one of the four basic food groups, he ain’t ready.
* If he volunteers to ‘babysit’ his own children.... he ain’t ready.
* If it is now your job to entertain his parents, he ain’t ready.
* If he has lost all comprehension of clothing management; he doesn’t know where new clothes come from, or where dirty clothes go, or how they get clean, or how they reappear in his closet, he ain’t ready.
* If he acts like a petulant child when asked to help clean the house he lives in and ‘deliberately on purpose’ screws up any household chore so that you will takeover in disgust and do it yourself, he ain’t ready.
* If he dares to complain about what you cook and never cooks himself, he ain’t ready.
* If he challenges what you spend but defends every dime he spends, he ain’t ready.
* If he ever stands in the bathroom and hollers, “Honey, come look at this!” He ain’t ready.
* If he thinks his driving skills have improved with time and experience and yours have gotten worse, he ain’t ready.
* If he only lets you take a bubble bath while he watches the kids in exchange for sex later, he ain’t ready.
* If he still doesn’t understand that he doesn’t have to understand why you need flowers on special occasions and also for no apparent reason, he ain’t ready.
* If he is doing something outside and calls to you, “Hey honey, watch me....”, he ain’t ready.
* If he’s willing for you to have natural childbirth, but he’s not willing to have a natural vasectomy, he ain’t ready.
* If you go to all your medical tests and exams alone, but you have to come with him for his, he ain’t ready.
* If you always end up eating at his favorites places because he pouts if you eat at yours, he ain’t ready.
* If he can buy condoms, but he can’t buy tampons, he ain’t ready.
* If he can’t change a poopy diaper, he ain’t ready.
* If he thinks he can watch a toddler and a football game from a lazyboy, he ain’t ready.
* If the words, “I’m sorry,” or “I was wrong,” , burn a hole in the roof of his mouth, he ain’t ready.
* If he hears you slamming cabinets in the kitchen and isn’t smart enough to get out of the house before you kill him, he ain’t ready.
* If he knows he’s not the sharpest bulb in the drawer but realizes he’s fortunate beyond belief that you have pitied him enough to deign to allow him into your life, well, he still ain’t ready...but if the ring is big enough, you could make an exception...
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
The Driveway From Hell...
The Driveway from Hell
I only guarantee a minimum of 10% truth per column. But today's column is all true, none of the characters have been changed despite years of trying.
My mother and step-father live in a house on West Neck Road that has the worst driveway on the eastern seaboard. It was designed by an engineer with a degree from the Helen Keller School of Engineering. He had to be blind or drunk, possibly both. Going down the driveway puts you at a 40 degree incline at least. It only takes a moment to get down, but it can take days to get up.
If you’re driving, you have to race to the top and shoot halfway out onto West Neck Road causing oncoming traffic to slam on their brakes. In the summer, because it’s busy, you send someone up first who stands in the middle of the road to stop traffic and gives you the signal to gun it and get up that hill.
My parents bid farewell to company several times each visit. They wave good-bye on the back porch and watch the company go up the hill. The wave again when they roll back down. Mother shouts her instruction to gun it and waves good-bye again. But they never gun it enough, so soon she waves hello again as they roll back down for the third time. The third time is usually the charm. The driver now knows he must use “the Force” to get up this friggin’ hill. He grips the steering wheels, downshifts all the way, eyes forward and up to the top and halfway into the street. There, that wasn’t so bad now was it?
Backseat passengers are usually advised to walk to the top of the driveway and let the car get out first before they get in, otherwise the rear-end of the car whams against the big hump right at the top. This hump has a documented history of removing oil pans and mufflers. As a matter of fact, in the Midas Muffler disclaimer, it reads, "This warranty is null and void if you ever visit Beaudry's."
In winter, my folks don’t even try to escape in the car. They climb to the top clutching the posts that flank the driveway, one post at a time till they make it to the summit, where I pick them up. The hump is steeper than the rest of the hill. On one very cold morning, mother climbed up the driveway and practically hurled herself over the hump and heaved herself into my van, clutching the door and seat so she wouldn't fall back down the driveway.
“(pant)...Thank God there wasn’t (pant)... a hardware store on the way up that (really bad word) driveway, (pant)... or I would’ve bought a knife (pant).. and stabbed myself!”
Sometimes I simply deliver the groceries. I park at the top of Mom’s driveway. I tie the IGA bags closed and slide them down to Ma and Pa Beaudry at the bottom of Kamikaze Hill. You want that chicken to go? No problem! It’s gone!
I try to park at the top of the hill and walk down. It’s easy in the summer, and even easier in the winter. One step and shwoosh... you’re at the back door.
Recently on one of our bitter cold days, the snow had a nice crust of ice on it. I stopped my van at the top of the driveway to pick up my son after work. My mother stood at the bottom of the hill encouraging him, I stood at the top doing the same. My son only weighed 65 lbs at the time and couldn't break through the ice for traction. He would take two steps, fall, and slide all the way back down. He needed ice picks and petons to make the climb. It took the poor kid about thirty minutes to climb up twenty feet. Neither my mother nor I could get him because we knew we couldn’t stay vertical on this icey driveway. The fact that we were laughing hysterically as my son did a Buster Keaton routine, probably didn’t help either.
My Mother rents out a lovely room out in the summer. She always warns people about this driveway but it doesn’t help. I see guests turn that corner and suddenly their vehicle is at that frightening pitch ! They have the same look you get when the roller coaster jerks to the top and pauses on the crest just before it releases you to that big plunge.
Someday the folks will get the driveway paved and pitched lower. It’s really only been like that since they moved here 25 years ago, I guess we all can manage another year...
I only guarantee a minimum of 10% truth per column. But today's column is all true, none of the characters have been changed despite years of trying.
My mother and step-father live in a house on West Neck Road that has the worst driveway on the eastern seaboard. It was designed by an engineer with a degree from the Helen Keller School of Engineering. He had to be blind or drunk, possibly both. Going down the driveway puts you at a 40 degree incline at least. It only takes a moment to get down, but it can take days to get up.
If you’re driving, you have to race to the top and shoot halfway out onto West Neck Road causing oncoming traffic to slam on their brakes. In the summer, because it’s busy, you send someone up first who stands in the middle of the road to stop traffic and gives you the signal to gun it and get up that hill.
My parents bid farewell to company several times each visit. They wave good-bye on the back porch and watch the company go up the hill. The wave again when they roll back down. Mother shouts her instruction to gun it and waves good-bye again. But they never gun it enough, so soon she waves hello again as they roll back down for the third time. The third time is usually the charm. The driver now knows he must use “the Force” to get up this friggin’ hill. He grips the steering wheels, downshifts all the way, eyes forward and up to the top and halfway into the street. There, that wasn’t so bad now was it?
Backseat passengers are usually advised to walk to the top of the driveway and let the car get out first before they get in, otherwise the rear-end of the car whams against the big hump right at the top. This hump has a documented history of removing oil pans and mufflers. As a matter of fact, in the Midas Muffler disclaimer, it reads, "This warranty is null and void if you ever visit Beaudry's."
In winter, my folks don’t even try to escape in the car. They climb to the top clutching the posts that flank the driveway, one post at a time till they make it to the summit, where I pick them up. The hump is steeper than the rest of the hill. On one very cold morning, mother climbed up the driveway and practically hurled herself over the hump and heaved herself into my van, clutching the door and seat so she wouldn't fall back down the driveway.
“(pant)...Thank God there wasn’t (pant)... a hardware store on the way up that (really bad word) driveway, (pant)... or I would’ve bought a knife (pant).. and stabbed myself!”
Sometimes I simply deliver the groceries. I park at the top of Mom’s driveway. I tie the IGA bags closed and slide them down to Ma and Pa Beaudry at the bottom of Kamikaze Hill. You want that chicken to go? No problem! It’s gone!
I try to park at the top of the hill and walk down. It’s easy in the summer, and even easier in the winter. One step and shwoosh... you’re at the back door.
Recently on one of our bitter cold days, the snow had a nice crust of ice on it. I stopped my van at the top of the driveway to pick up my son after work. My mother stood at the bottom of the hill encouraging him, I stood at the top doing the same. My son only weighed 65 lbs at the time and couldn't break through the ice for traction. He would take two steps, fall, and slide all the way back down. He needed ice picks and petons to make the climb. It took the poor kid about thirty minutes to climb up twenty feet. Neither my mother nor I could get him because we knew we couldn’t stay vertical on this icey driveway. The fact that we were laughing hysterically as my son did a Buster Keaton routine, probably didn’t help either.
My Mother rents out a lovely room out in the summer. She always warns people about this driveway but it doesn’t help. I see guests turn that corner and suddenly their vehicle is at that frightening pitch ! They have the same look you get when the roller coaster jerks to the top and pauses on the crest just before it releases you to that big plunge.
Someday the folks will get the driveway paved and pitched lower. It’s really only been like that since they moved here 25 years ago, I guess we all can manage another year...
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Comments During Colonoscopies
Colonoscopies are no joke, but these comments during the exam were quite humorous..... A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) while he was performing their colonoscopies:
1. "Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!
2. "Find Amelia Earhart yet?"
3. "Can you hear me NOW?"
4. "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"
5. "You know, in Arkansas, we're now legally married."
6. "Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?"
7. "You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out..."
8. "Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!"
9. "If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!
10. "Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity."
11. "You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?"
12. "God, now I know why I am not gay."
And the best one of all...
13. "Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up here?"
1. "Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!
2. "Find Amelia Earhart yet?"
3. "Can you hear me NOW?"
4. "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"
5. "You know, in Arkansas, we're now legally married."
6. "Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?"
7. "You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out..."
8. "Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!"
9. "If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!
10. "Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity."
11. "You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?"
12. "God, now I know why I am not gay."
And the best one of all...
13. "Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up here?"
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Charles & Camilla, Best in Show
Well, they finally made it. I'm happy for them. Charles was forced into an arranged marriage with Diana and it ended bad for both of them. He always wanted Camilla. Now he has her.
The really good news is that they're too old to reproduce because neither of them is remotely attractive and any offspring would have to be kept in the secret cellar for ugly royal children.
I think of that underrated, but hysterical movie, 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels' starring Michael Caine and Steve Martin. Steve plays a character called Ruprick, a deranged royal child kept chained to a wall. It gave me a great idea for managing my teens. It's not a cruel as it sounds. My teens never complain about the chains. Probably the crushed valium in their gruel helps...
My daughter will be 18 in 114 days, 6 hours and 17 minutes. That means in 114 days, 6 hours, and 18 minutes I will have one teen left to launch on my way to freedom!
I know what you're thinking... if they're that much trouble, why did I have them? There's a perfectly logical explanation. It was a party, I had a little wine, my husband looked good to me....I think it was my husband... oh well, who can remember the details after all this time?
The really good news is that they're too old to reproduce because neither of them is remotely attractive and any offspring would have to be kept in the secret cellar for ugly royal children.
I think of that underrated, but hysterical movie, 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels' starring Michael Caine and Steve Martin. Steve plays a character called Ruprick, a deranged royal child kept chained to a wall. It gave me a great idea for managing my teens. It's not a cruel as it sounds. My teens never complain about the chains. Probably the crushed valium in their gruel helps...
My daughter will be 18 in 114 days, 6 hours and 17 minutes. That means in 114 days, 6 hours, and 18 minutes I will have one teen left to launch on my way to freedom!
I know what you're thinking... if they're that much trouble, why did I have them? There's a perfectly logical explanation. It was a party, I had a little wine, my husband looked good to me....I think it was my husband... oh well, who can remember the details after all this time?
Friday, April 08, 2005
The Loss of the Pope....
This isn't a funny column.
I watched the funeral of Pope John Paul II on EWTN and Fox News this morning. It was very moving....4 million people came to pay their respects. They say it's the largest funeral in history.
I was thinking back to when he became Pope in 1978. How amazed the world was that the Church had elected a Polish Pope. I recall the crowd of millions people he drew in Mexico City just three months later. I think it's still the Guiness record for an audience.
I recall when he went to Communist Poland. I remember how amazed the news organizations were that he drew crowds of hundreds of thousands everywhere he went despite a government news blackout on his visit! The Poles saw that when they gathered in strength, the police couldn't stop them. I remember how John Paul told them to seek their freedom, all the while surrounded by communist officials. I recall feeling afraid for his safety. To speak against any communist government was an offense for which you could be imprisoned for as long as they felt like it...
Who can forget the crowds of Poles chanting "We want God" ? A country whose government had closed all but a few token churches. Despite communism's best efforts to squelch religion as the "opium of the people", the Poles kept the faith.
We didn't know it then, but that was the beginning of the end of communism in Poland and eventually the end of communism in eastern Europe. Because it was after the Pope's visit that the strikes in the Gdansk shipyards occured and Lech Walesa led the Pole to democracy. And once the Poles threw off the yoke of communist oppression, the other USSR countries followed in turn with John Paul II facilitating the fall of communism every chance he got. Until finally, on Christmas Eve 1991, the Berlin Wall fell without any violence, not a single shot fired.
Whether you're a Catholic, a recovering Catholic, maybe coming home Catholic, or a non-Catholic, you have to admire this remarkable man. Just like Mother Theresa, his humanity transcended all borders and boundaries.
God bless and keep you John Paul II. We didn't always agree, but you were part of my life.
I miss you already, Sally
I watched the funeral of Pope John Paul II on EWTN and Fox News this morning. It was very moving....4 million people came to pay their respects. They say it's the largest funeral in history.
I was thinking back to when he became Pope in 1978. How amazed the world was that the Church had elected a Polish Pope. I recall the crowd of millions people he drew in Mexico City just three months later. I think it's still the Guiness record for an audience.
I recall when he went to Communist Poland. I remember how amazed the news organizations were that he drew crowds of hundreds of thousands everywhere he went despite a government news blackout on his visit! The Poles saw that when they gathered in strength, the police couldn't stop them. I remember how John Paul told them to seek their freedom, all the while surrounded by communist officials. I recall feeling afraid for his safety. To speak against any communist government was an offense for which you could be imprisoned for as long as they felt like it...
Who can forget the crowds of Poles chanting "We want God" ? A country whose government had closed all but a few token churches. Despite communism's best efforts to squelch religion as the "opium of the people", the Poles kept the faith.
We didn't know it then, but that was the beginning of the end of communism in Poland and eventually the end of communism in eastern Europe. Because it was after the Pope's visit that the strikes in the Gdansk shipyards occured and Lech Walesa led the Pole to democracy. And once the Poles threw off the yoke of communist oppression, the other USSR countries followed in turn with John Paul II facilitating the fall of communism every chance he got. Until finally, on Christmas Eve 1991, the Berlin Wall fell without any violence, not a single shot fired.
Whether you're a Catholic, a recovering Catholic, maybe coming home Catholic, or a non-Catholic, you have to admire this remarkable man. Just like Mother Theresa, his humanity transcended all borders and boundaries.
God bless and keep you John Paul II. We didn't always agree, but you were part of my life.
I miss you already, Sally
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Honesty with him... Whaddaya Nuts?
Honesty in Relationships... Whaddaya Nuts?
There is a disturbing belief in this country that honesty is critical in relationships, like marriage for instance. This is a doomed concept. Honesty belongs in business transactions, not in relationships. Honesty may be aesthetically pleasing but it will eventually fail.
All questions have honest responses and correct responses. Men have to learn that the honest response will not get them sex, but the correct response could get them sex. Women need to learn that the honest response could get them sex, but the correct response could get them shopping money.
For instance, when a woman makes a new dish for dinner and it tastes like buffalo chips, his honest response is, "Dear, this tastes like buffalo poop." This response will hurt the woman and the man will not get sex.
The correct response is, "Well, I can tell you put alot of effort into this Sweetie. But, I hate to see you work so hard in the kitchen. Next time you get the urge to try something new tell me and I take us to a restaurant that we haven't been to before." This response will get an affectionate response and may even get the man sex.
See the difference ? Okay, let's try another one. A man notices that his wifes' dress is too tight and reveals extra poundage. The honest response is, " Whoa, baby, you got more rolls than a bakery! Did you use WD-40 to help you slide that big butt into that dress ?" This response, although honest, will not get the man sex. It may even prevent it for up to four weeks.
The correct response is, " Honey, I love the way your body moves under that dress. Matter of fact, I love it too much, if you wear that with me to the party I'll be too worked up to talk to my friends. Darling, here's the credit card, go to Macy's and find something less distracting." This response will definately put the wife in a receptive mood. A prime example of how well the correct response can work.
Now, lets try one for the women.
A man comes home way too late from work. He didn't call and he's obviously been drinking.
The honest response is, " You son of a mongrel dog! Where in the hell have you been ? Do you know I've called every emergency room in the county !!!! Why didn't you call ? " This honest response is very common for this type of situation, but not wise. Anger excites men, especially one's that are half in the bag already. A woman in this situation could end up having endless sex with a man who has had what I call the 'Cain Cocktail'. That's that turning point drink when he still thinks he Cain, but he's just not Abel....
The correct response is, "Darling, I hope you were having a good time. Let me help you undress. Let me pour you another drink so you can get to sleep quickly, you must be exhausted. Honey, I don't want to wake you in the morning so let me have your wallet now. I need the credit card to find you something to give your mother for her birthday." A perfect example of how the correct response can get a woman some shopping money.
Remember that honesty is only for people who are walking out on their jobs. Other than that, it has no place in the real world and certainly not in something as fragile as marriage.
There is a disturbing belief in this country that honesty is critical in relationships, like marriage for instance. This is a doomed concept. Honesty belongs in business transactions, not in relationships. Honesty may be aesthetically pleasing but it will eventually fail.
All questions have honest responses and correct responses. Men have to learn that the honest response will not get them sex, but the correct response could get them sex. Women need to learn that the honest response could get them sex, but the correct response could get them shopping money.
For instance, when a woman makes a new dish for dinner and it tastes like buffalo chips, his honest response is, "Dear, this tastes like buffalo poop." This response will hurt the woman and the man will not get sex.
The correct response is, "Well, I can tell you put alot of effort into this Sweetie. But, I hate to see you work so hard in the kitchen. Next time you get the urge to try something new tell me and I take us to a restaurant that we haven't been to before." This response will get an affectionate response and may even get the man sex.
See the difference ? Okay, let's try another one. A man notices that his wifes' dress is too tight and reveals extra poundage. The honest response is, " Whoa, baby, you got more rolls than a bakery! Did you use WD-40 to help you slide that big butt into that dress ?" This response, although honest, will not get the man sex. It may even prevent it for up to four weeks.
The correct response is, " Honey, I love the way your body moves under that dress. Matter of fact, I love it too much, if you wear that with me to the party I'll be too worked up to talk to my friends. Darling, here's the credit card, go to Macy's and find something less distracting." This response will definately put the wife in a receptive mood. A prime example of how well the correct response can work.
Now, lets try one for the women.
A man comes home way too late from work. He didn't call and he's obviously been drinking.
The honest response is, " You son of a mongrel dog! Where in the hell have you been ? Do you know I've called every emergency room in the county !!!! Why didn't you call ? " This honest response is very common for this type of situation, but not wise. Anger excites men, especially one's that are half in the bag already. A woman in this situation could end up having endless sex with a man who has had what I call the 'Cain Cocktail'. That's that turning point drink when he still thinks he Cain, but he's just not Abel....
The correct response is, "Darling, I hope you were having a good time. Let me help you undress. Let me pour you another drink so you can get to sleep quickly, you must be exhausted. Honey, I don't want to wake you in the morning so let me have your wallet now. I need the credit card to find you something to give your mother for her birthday." A perfect example of how the correct response can get a woman some shopping money.
Remember that honesty is only for people who are walking out on their jobs. Other than that, it has no place in the real world and certainly not in something as fragile as marriage.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Men In Trucks... they MUST go fast!!!
M.I.T.s
MIT's are Men In Trucks, they must go fast! They must be there ahead of you! There's no where to rush to, but by G-d, they have to get where you're not going ahead of you! MIT's must go fast or their private parts will fall off.
There is a highly defined pecker order for MITs eight years and older. New truck MITs are in a different catagory. New trucks are driven by rich men and wannabes. They can't measure up to the classic MITs. The different levels of classic MITs as follows:
First, you have your lowest level MITs. Level #1. These men drive an ordinary old pick-up truck. It must be at least eight years old and have no dogs, no trailer hitch and an uncracked windshield.
Level #2 MITs have a eight year or older truck with a tool box, trailer hitch and one dog in the back of an undetermined breed. They're used duct tape to repair the drivers seat.
Level #3 MITs have a ten year old truck, the tool box has a broken lock, two dings in windshield, a trailer hitch and one Labrador in the back. Level #3 MITs know how to make dashboard pizza. This is when you bring last nights cold pizza to work with you and leave it on the dashboard to warm in the sun and be ready by lunch. They hate MIMs (Moms In Minivans). They hunt them and get behind they just so they can see if they can make them drive faster.
Level #4 MITs have all of the above qualifying features plus have now used up an entire roll of duct tape on car seat repair. Level #4's are towing a small trailer containing a lawn mover and several large green trash barrels. They can identify every man in town by the vehicle he drives.
Level #5 MITs have all of the above plus two black Labs and fishing poles in the back. The driver must wear sunglasses repaired with black electrical tape. Level #5 MITs know exactly where to park at the jobsite to get the maximum amount of sun needed to cook dashboard lasagna, manicotti, warm blueberry muffins and keep coffee hot. The truck is dented but the dents have not rusted.
Level #6 MITs have all of the above features and two full Gatoraide bottles that contain a yellow liquid that is not Gatoraide.... rolling around the floor on the passenger side. The driver's side door can only be opened by reaching through the window and lifting the handle from the outside. The dents on the side of the truck have rusted into a mottled textured look. Level #6 MITs can be identified as they pass by the rust patterns the dents have now created, like spots on a leopard. From Level #6 and up, only the driver knows all the tricks required to drive this truck.
Level #7 MITs. Much like the Level #6's except that the driver hasn't even bothered to take the keys out of the ignition in over two years. There is now a small ragged back support cushion in the concave depression that was formerly known as the seatback. Level #7 MITs can not only cook on the dashboard, they can cook on the manifold. This is the Clint Eastwood level of cool MIT. When Level #7 MITs pull over and raise their hoods...they're just turning over the burritos...
Level #8 MITs are Level #7's that either have a salvaged door of a different color, or a plywood tailgate, or any other type of repair that involves permantly affixing plywood to the vehicle. It is the Steven Seagal level of MIT cool, they shape the plywood with their bare hands. At this age and level there is an everpresent bottle of Advil in the glove compartment.
Level #9 MIT's can be identified by the sound of their engines ten minutes before you see them. These trucks can only be driven by men with faded tatoos. They have a cooler and rod holders affixed to the front bumper. They know the cooking times of anything on a manifold. Their carseats are now an exact mold of their backs and behind, absolutely no one else can physically sit in the drivers seat without falling over. They are mature and more refined MITs now. They don't worry about their enemies, the MIMs (Moms in Minivans). They have now learned to love their enemies....whenever possible.
Level 10 MITs. Very rare, but there are a few. In addition to all of the above, they have bumper stickers that say, "Horn Broke, Watch for Finger". This is the Arnold Schwartzenegger level of MIT. He knows all the other MITs in town. And yea, though he drives though the valley in the shadow of debt, he fears no evil... for he knows where you live...
MIT's are Men In Trucks, they must go fast! They must be there ahead of you! There's no where to rush to, but by G-d, they have to get where you're not going ahead of you! MIT's must go fast or their private parts will fall off.
There is a highly defined pecker order for MITs eight years and older. New truck MITs are in a different catagory. New trucks are driven by rich men and wannabes. They can't measure up to the classic MITs. The different levels of classic MITs as follows:
First, you have your lowest level MITs. Level #1. These men drive an ordinary old pick-up truck. It must be at least eight years old and have no dogs, no trailer hitch and an uncracked windshield.
Level #2 MITs have a eight year or older truck with a tool box, trailer hitch and one dog in the back of an undetermined breed. They're used duct tape to repair the drivers seat.
Level #3 MITs have a ten year old truck, the tool box has a broken lock, two dings in windshield, a trailer hitch and one Labrador in the back. Level #3 MITs know how to make dashboard pizza. This is when you bring last nights cold pizza to work with you and leave it on the dashboard to warm in the sun and be ready by lunch. They hate MIMs (Moms In Minivans). They hunt them and get behind they just so they can see if they can make them drive faster.
Level #4 MITs have all of the above qualifying features plus have now used up an entire roll of duct tape on car seat repair. Level #4's are towing a small trailer containing a lawn mover and several large green trash barrels. They can identify every man in town by the vehicle he drives.
Level #5 MITs have all of the above plus two black Labs and fishing poles in the back. The driver must wear sunglasses repaired with black electrical tape. Level #5 MITs know exactly where to park at the jobsite to get the maximum amount of sun needed to cook dashboard lasagna, manicotti, warm blueberry muffins and keep coffee hot. The truck is dented but the dents have not rusted.
Level #6 MITs have all of the above features and two full Gatoraide bottles that contain a yellow liquid that is not Gatoraide.... rolling around the floor on the passenger side. The driver's side door can only be opened by reaching through the window and lifting the handle from the outside. The dents on the side of the truck have rusted into a mottled textured look. Level #6 MITs can be identified as they pass by the rust patterns the dents have now created, like spots on a leopard. From Level #6 and up, only the driver knows all the tricks required to drive this truck.
Level #7 MITs. Much like the Level #6's except that the driver hasn't even bothered to take the keys out of the ignition in over two years. There is now a small ragged back support cushion in the concave depression that was formerly known as the seatback. Level #7 MITs can not only cook on the dashboard, they can cook on the manifold. This is the Clint Eastwood level of cool MIT. When Level #7 MITs pull over and raise their hoods...they're just turning over the burritos...
Level #8 MITs are Level #7's that either have a salvaged door of a different color, or a plywood tailgate, or any other type of repair that involves permantly affixing plywood to the vehicle. It is the Steven Seagal level of MIT cool, they shape the plywood with their bare hands. At this age and level there is an everpresent bottle of Advil in the glove compartment.
Level #9 MIT's can be identified by the sound of their engines ten minutes before you see them. These trucks can only be driven by men with faded tatoos. They have a cooler and rod holders affixed to the front bumper. They know the cooking times of anything on a manifold. Their carseats are now an exact mold of their backs and behind, absolutely no one else can physically sit in the drivers seat without falling over. They are mature and more refined MITs now. They don't worry about their enemies, the MIMs (Moms in Minivans). They have now learned to love their enemies....whenever possible.
Level 10 MITs. Very rare, but there are a few. In addition to all of the above, they have bumper stickers that say, "Horn Broke, Watch for Finger". This is the Arnold Schwartzenegger level of MIT. He knows all the other MITs in town. And yea, though he drives though the valley in the shadow of debt, he fears no evil... for he knows where you live...
Vodka in the Birdbath.....
I love birds. Having lived in Texas, Colorado, California, Washington and Hawaii, I can say without prejudice that the birds on the east end of Long Island have the prettiest songs. Probably the prettiest in the world, but I haven't gone farther than Italy yet.
Growing up in Sayville, I was a severe asthmatic child who often watched the world from her window. I recall watching birds for hours. I remember my Uncle Neil and Uncle Bill putting vodka in the birdbath. Birds came from Blue Point to Patchogue to drink. A few sips and they were falling off the edge of the birdbath, flopping around on the ground, and flying directly into trees.
I throw three handfuls of birdseed on my back patio every morning. I support five Cardinal couples, at least twelve Blue Jays, about fifty Chickadees, four Robins and a Woodpecker. If I fail to toss out the seed by 7:30 a.m., they come right up to the sliding glass door and look in at me as if to say, "Hey Lady, ya wanna get outta that chair and get the @!*&! seed, we're starvin' out heah."
I've always wanted to know which songs go with which birds, but I could only identify the Chickadees and the Bobwhites because they have the courtesy to say their names. The Cardinals are too shy to stay and sing, they just eat and fly. The Blue Jays have an attitude problem. The Woodpecker, oy, what a bird brain, he should sing because he hasn't got a mate, but he doesn't because he's too worried about taxes. He told me one of the Blue Jays stole his receipts. He said they'd steal his pecker if it wasn't attached to his face. Poor guy.
A nice woman gave me a CD called "Birdsongs with Tom Damiani". Tom Damiani is an Avian expert and tells you about twenty birds on Eastern Long Island. He describes them, which is educational, and imitates their calls, which is a riot (sorry Tom).
I love this CD. I now know my Northern Flicker from my Titmouse...and you thought a Titmouse was a computer accessory for lonely men... I also know my Brown Thrasher from my Scarlet Tanager. The White Breasted Nuthatch is not my alter ego, it's a bird in my backyard! My brother says he is in search of the Double Breasted Mattress Thrasher.
The CD includes about a twenty minute segment that just has birds singing, no talking or interruption. Its great for meditation or comtemplating a Bible passage.
Our grocery store has a complete selection of seed. There's the cheap $1 a bag seed. The $1.50 bag with sunflower seeds. The selection graduates up to the $5 a bag gourmet seed for your birds with discriminating taste.
I feed my birds the $1 a bag seed, so I get the rough characters. The Jays bully all the others away when they come. They wear little leather jackets with "Hell's Birds" on the back. They also smoke tiny cigarettes and talk dirty to the Wrens. Most of the Wrens fly away except for one named Lilah. She's an easy bird who doesn't know wren to say wren. But to her, these Jays are just another feather in her nest. Then there's a Chickadee named Mae. She's fat and sassy. I heard her say to the biggest Cardinal, "Ooo, hunny, migration or yours ? Why don't you fly up and see me some time Big Bird..."
Growing up in Sayville, I was a severe asthmatic child who often watched the world from her window. I recall watching birds for hours. I remember my Uncle Neil and Uncle Bill putting vodka in the birdbath. Birds came from Blue Point to Patchogue to drink. A few sips and they were falling off the edge of the birdbath, flopping around on the ground, and flying directly into trees.
I throw three handfuls of birdseed on my back patio every morning. I support five Cardinal couples, at least twelve Blue Jays, about fifty Chickadees, four Robins and a Woodpecker. If I fail to toss out the seed by 7:30 a.m., they come right up to the sliding glass door and look in at me as if to say, "Hey Lady, ya wanna get outta that chair and get the @!*&! seed, we're starvin' out heah."
I've always wanted to know which songs go with which birds, but I could only identify the Chickadees and the Bobwhites because they have the courtesy to say their names. The Cardinals are too shy to stay and sing, they just eat and fly. The Blue Jays have an attitude problem. The Woodpecker, oy, what a bird brain, he should sing because he hasn't got a mate, but he doesn't because he's too worried about taxes. He told me one of the Blue Jays stole his receipts. He said they'd steal his pecker if it wasn't attached to his face. Poor guy.
A nice woman gave me a CD called "Birdsongs with Tom Damiani". Tom Damiani is an Avian expert and tells you about twenty birds on Eastern Long Island. He describes them, which is educational, and imitates their calls, which is a riot (sorry Tom).
I love this CD. I now know my Northern Flicker from my Titmouse...and you thought a Titmouse was a computer accessory for lonely men... I also know my Brown Thrasher from my Scarlet Tanager. The White Breasted Nuthatch is not my alter ego, it's a bird in my backyard! My brother says he is in search of the Double Breasted Mattress Thrasher.
The CD includes about a twenty minute segment that just has birds singing, no talking or interruption. Its great for meditation or comtemplating a Bible passage.
Our grocery store has a complete selection of seed. There's the cheap $1 a bag seed. The $1.50 bag with sunflower seeds. The selection graduates up to the $5 a bag gourmet seed for your birds with discriminating taste.
I feed my birds the $1 a bag seed, so I get the rough characters. The Jays bully all the others away when they come. They wear little leather jackets with "Hell's Birds" on the back. They also smoke tiny cigarettes and talk dirty to the Wrens. Most of the Wrens fly away except for one named Lilah. She's an easy bird who doesn't know wren to say wren. But to her, these Jays are just another feather in her nest. Then there's a Chickadee named Mae. She's fat and sassy. I heard her say to the biggest Cardinal, "Ooo, hunny, migration or yours ? Why don't you fly up and see me some time Big Bird..."
Spring for a Change
Gentlemen, Start Your Engines...
For some people, the sounds of the first robins herald spring. For some it starts the first time they mow the lawn. For some it starts the first time you look at the paint on the kitchen wall, thinking how tired you are of that color and then you look at the husband in the lazyboy, thinking how tired you are of that man and decide one of them has to change. Of the two it’s easier to change the man because a new man will want to impress you and will paint the kitchen without complaining about the color so you can get that gorgeous soft orange sherbert color you really want. Yes, Spring is a time for change.
Soon, clothes that didn’t fit last summer will come out of the closet to be re-packed in the hopes that they will fit next summer. Kids who have driven you nuts being underfoot all winter will drive you nuts because you won’t know where they are all summer.
Sears is running lots of commercials about lawn mowers and your man is surreptitiously paying close attention to those ads. Soon he’ll say things like, “Make sure you get the giant bottle of advil at the store, honey. I know my back will kill me this year...that old mower..I hope the wheels will move better so I don’t have to shove it across the lawn like last year. I’ll probably need back surgery by September from that old mower. But, what can you do?”
Ignore him. He saw that Sears ad for the riding mower with the back massage unit, mini bar and DVD player. It’s a $5000 mower and he doesn’t need it as much as you need whatever it is you want.
Next, he’ll up his game. “Ron got one of those riding mowers last year. Energy efficient, used less gas than his old push mower. It saved his back too he said. But I don’t want one of those things though, no room in the garage and you get no exercise. No,no... we’ll just stay with the Ol’ Dinosaur.”
Ignore him. You need a new mattress, start angling for that. “We could really use a new mattress Pete. That would make your back feel better.”
“Yes, we could get a new mattress but we wouldn’t need one if my back didn’t get thrown out every time I mowed. Ron mows every third day now. He lives to mow. Mowing is his life. His wife never has to nag him. Yup... he says that new riding mower has saved his marriage. Now that he’s not in constant agony, he has more energy to take Sheila out.”
Oh.... he’s good... real good.
“Yea, but Pete, I love the way you sleep all twisted up, I fit so perfectly into the niche by your shoulder.”
“Yea, I guess you’re used to it. Be different for you sleeping with a man not all twisted up in agony from spending hours of his precious life dragging a three wheeled, one blade left lawn mover back and forth across an acre of land in the hot sun on a rainy day.”
“Uh huh, that would be different, but I like things the way they are and I know how much you hate change.”
“I do hate change baby, that’s a fact. But change is good now and then.”
“Ah Pete, I’m so glad to hear you say that. I’ve been thinking of changing the living room.”
“Oh, not again... I just painted that room and moved all that furniture five years ago. You can’t be tired of it already. How can women get tired of things so fast? Why does every paint color have a time limit in your brain? Why can’t we keep furniture until we actually wear it out?”
“It is worn out.”
“So’s the mower.”
“Is not..”
“Is to..”
“You can have the new mower if I can spend the same amount on a new living room.”
“Do I have to paint?”
“You have to paint.”
“Don’t you love me anymore?”
“No. I just keep you around for sex which you don’t want to do now because the last time we did it I noticed this ceiling needs painting too.”
“But I can have the mower right? If I agree to everything?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Phil would say you’re making me agree under duress and that’s not fair.”
“Dr Phil’s mother in law isn’t coming to visit here for two weeks in July.”
“What?!? No way! She hates me!”
“Okay so give me my new furniture, paint the room and I’ll go see her instead.”
“And I get the mower? The NASCAR edition?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, sounds fair enough to me!”
Now that’s how you spring for a change!
For some people, the sounds of the first robins herald spring. For some it starts the first time they mow the lawn. For some it starts the first time you look at the paint on the kitchen wall, thinking how tired you are of that color and then you look at the husband in the lazyboy, thinking how tired you are of that man and decide one of them has to change. Of the two it’s easier to change the man because a new man will want to impress you and will paint the kitchen without complaining about the color so you can get that gorgeous soft orange sherbert color you really want. Yes, Spring is a time for change.
Soon, clothes that didn’t fit last summer will come out of the closet to be re-packed in the hopes that they will fit next summer. Kids who have driven you nuts being underfoot all winter will drive you nuts because you won’t know where they are all summer.
Sears is running lots of commercials about lawn mowers and your man is surreptitiously paying close attention to those ads. Soon he’ll say things like, “Make sure you get the giant bottle of advil at the store, honey. I know my back will kill me this year...that old mower..I hope the wheels will move better so I don’t have to shove it across the lawn like last year. I’ll probably need back surgery by September from that old mower. But, what can you do?”
Ignore him. He saw that Sears ad for the riding mower with the back massage unit, mini bar and DVD player. It’s a $5000 mower and he doesn’t need it as much as you need whatever it is you want.
Next, he’ll up his game. “Ron got one of those riding mowers last year. Energy efficient, used less gas than his old push mower. It saved his back too he said. But I don’t want one of those things though, no room in the garage and you get no exercise. No,no... we’ll just stay with the Ol’ Dinosaur.”
Ignore him. You need a new mattress, start angling for that. “We could really use a new mattress Pete. That would make your back feel better.”
“Yes, we could get a new mattress but we wouldn’t need one if my back didn’t get thrown out every time I mowed. Ron mows every third day now. He lives to mow. Mowing is his life. His wife never has to nag him. Yup... he says that new riding mower has saved his marriage. Now that he’s not in constant agony, he has more energy to take Sheila out.”
Oh.... he’s good... real good.
“Yea, but Pete, I love the way you sleep all twisted up, I fit so perfectly into the niche by your shoulder.”
“Yea, I guess you’re used to it. Be different for you sleeping with a man not all twisted up in agony from spending hours of his precious life dragging a three wheeled, one blade left lawn mover back and forth across an acre of land in the hot sun on a rainy day.”
“Uh huh, that would be different, but I like things the way they are and I know how much you hate change.”
“I do hate change baby, that’s a fact. But change is good now and then.”
“Ah Pete, I’m so glad to hear you say that. I’ve been thinking of changing the living room.”
“Oh, not again... I just painted that room and moved all that furniture five years ago. You can’t be tired of it already. How can women get tired of things so fast? Why does every paint color have a time limit in your brain? Why can’t we keep furniture until we actually wear it out?”
“It is worn out.”
“So’s the mower.”
“Is not..”
“Is to..”
“You can have the new mower if I can spend the same amount on a new living room.”
“Do I have to paint?”
“You have to paint.”
“Don’t you love me anymore?”
“No. I just keep you around for sex which you don’t want to do now because the last time we did it I noticed this ceiling needs painting too.”
“But I can have the mower right? If I agree to everything?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Phil would say you’re making me agree under duress and that’s not fair.”
“Dr Phil’s mother in law isn’t coming to visit here for two weeks in July.”
“What?!? No way! She hates me!”
“Okay so give me my new furniture, paint the room and I’ll go see her instead.”
“And I get the mower? The NASCAR edition?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, sounds fair enough to me!”
Now that’s how you spring for a change!
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