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Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category


How to Grow Bittergrass in the Yard of Your Life

In Creative Living, Humor on November 4, 2012 at 10:16 am

Photo by Doug Stutler
Home Garden with Lobster Pots
Monhegan Island, Maine

By Laura Senti

Bittergrass, known often as crab grass, is narrowly seen as undesirable to yard lovers. But a new normal is here: ditch the touchy Kentucky bluegrass we all know only flourishes in English estates with gardeners! Go for something just as green, but ridiculously easy to grow and maintain.

Attractive and ubiquitous as bittergrass is, it’s not readily available in seed form or even at your local nursery. You can, however, attract it to your yard simply by steering clear of any bittergrass prevention measures.  Here we will share five easy tips for allowing it to grow and slowly take over your lawn as a feisty, maintenance-free plant:

  1. Neglect activities that bring you joy. This kills spontaneity effectively, as well as creativity. Remember that it’s selfish to do things you enjoy, if you do occasionally give in and indulge yourself.
  2. Compare yourself with others. Look for ways they have the blessings that are rightfully yours. Look for ways they don’t have it as difficult as you do– or, if you prefer, meditate on the ways they have it pleasanter than you, as it all yields the same desired result. Contentment and gratitude do not do well where bitterness is spreading nicely.
  3. Always leave open those thinking tunnels that lead you back to past decisions. Wonder if you really did do the right thing. Ponder what could have happened had you been born into a different family, one with more money or with a cabin to leave you, for instance.
  4. Pay special attention to how you are different. You have unique needs, unique sins, even unique doubts. Being such a unique person means you can never get all your needs met perfectly. It helps to observe carefully the failure of others to understand and meet these needs.
  5. Above all, resist the weed-killer commonly known as Grace. It’s up to you to own up to the truth: you are far from perfect, though you sure are trying hard, and there’s always tomorrow to get it right if you don’t succeed today. As long as you are doing better than those around you in at least 2 or 3 areas of concern, and you are keeping tabs on your progress, you will most likely be able to keep ground open for bitterness.

Here’s to easy gardening with a satisfyingly uniform result! See you in the garden.

Photo by Doug Stutler
International Peace Garden
Canada – USA (Manitoba – North Dakota)

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The Art of Aging

In Humor, Life in Society on January 24, 2012 at 3:40 pm
Binka and Betty, Hong Kong-RB

Photo by Roger Brown
Binka and Betty
Hong Kong, China

By Heila Rogers

In the 1920s, Tokyo high school student Hideichi Oshiro read a haiku poem he never forgot … it described coming across the subtle beauty of a wildflower during a walk in the mountains.

“I wanted to make this kind of haiku in my life,” he said at age 100.

“Nothing else, just one haiku.”

(Nichi Bei, 12/22/11)

I would like to suggest, how about make one haiku OF our life?

Catch Sun

Photo by Roger Brown
Catch Sun
China

How about the art of living involves humor.

People are dying (!) to know the secret to longevity. Scientists poke and prod centenarians and test their blood, analyze their daily habits, and report on their diet and exercise habits. Conclusions vary. Some drink, some don’t. Some eat meat, some don’t.

I have a file with articles interviewing older people. Usually when they reach a milestone birthday like 90 or 100, they get their picture in the paper. Something I love about them and always notice is their humor.

One 90-something lady was asked if she’d lived her whole life in the town where she was born and raised, and still lived. She answered, “Well yes … so far!”

Robin Le Breton, People's Park - Chengdu-RB

Photo by Roger Brown
Robin Le Breton
People’s Park, Chengdu, China

Jeanne Calment of France released a CD at the age of 121 which included a rap song. That’s not a typo. Her age was 121 years old. No, she didn’t in fact take herself too seriously.

Hear it here.

Read the centenarians’ quotes below and look for the embedded humor. It’s not the cracking jokes kind of humor, it’s more of a deep, abiding perspective on life, that looks for and is aware of “the funny.” An outlook that appreciates human foibles and is interested in laughing.

Christian Mortensen, originally of Denmark:

On his 115th birthday Mr. Mortensen said, ”Friends, a good cigar, drinking lots of good water, no alcohol, staying positive and lots of singing will keep you alive for a long time.”   (NYT)

Tell me there’s not humor in there – “lots of singing” is not a medical prescription.

Maria Gomes Valentim of Brazil:

“She says she has lived long because she has always taken care of her own life – and not the life of others,” granddaughter Jane Ribeiro Moraes, 63, told a local newspaper.   (The Huffington Post)

You know she has some stories though!

Besse Cooper of Georgia, United States:

Sidney Cooper said his mother was told she is the oldest person in the world …

[S]he said,“I am? I should get a box of chocolates – assorted.”   (Walton Tribune)

What a funny answer!

Ann Nixon Cooper of Georgia:

Until the age of 103 the lively centenarian still danced the electric slide.

Enough said.

Bucky Williams of the U.S. – former member of the Negro Baseball League:

It was an era before Jackie Robinson, when the color line prevented these players – some of the best players in the world – from playing in the National and American leagues. The black players couldn’t play on the same fields, use the same water fountains or eat in the same restaurants. Bucky used to tell the story of the time he and a fellow player were approached by female fans but didn’t speak to the women for fear of being lynched. But Bucky remembers the good times too. “You didn’t make any money. Some of us might have made $10 or $15. But we had what you call fun.”

(www.100yearsproject.org)

We had what you call fun. I wish that quote could be stenciled onto every sports arena and stadium in the country.

I honestly don’t know if scientists have studied this about humor and longevity, but it’s verifiable.

Laughter is good medicine.

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength. Proverbs 17.22

Young Monks @ Play

Photo by Roger Brown
Young Monk’s at Play
China

A quote from Ushi Okushima, a daughter of one of the semi-famous centenarians on Okinawa (not a baby herself, she’s 74):

She says her 100-year-old mother still treats her the way she did nearly seven decades ago.

“She criticizes my hairstyle,” she sighs. “She still talks to me like I’m a small kid.”   (globalaging.org)

Look for it! It’s there in every interview.

Finally, Run Run Shaw, who ran a large entertainment business addresses the joy of making people laugh:

‘In my business, its all a guessing game. You’ve got to go along with it, watch audience reactions and then guess. I like sitting among the audience, especially in Hong Kong where people make comments continuously. Entertainment is a kind of service to the people. In Hong Kong, people work all the time and have nowhere to go. So keeping them amused and entertained is a challenge.’
    (www.shaw.sg)

Again, to be clear, this humor is not sarcasm, it’s not laughter at others’ expense, it’s not crude. Instead it’s joy and gladness. It’s love really. An acknowledgment of beauty and wonder — and pinpointing that in everyday activities.

See it in their eyes.

Photo by Heila Rogers
Eggs by Daniel Rogers

Addition 8/1/12: 100 year-old Idaho woman on Jay Leno show

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Gardening & Beauty

In Humor on October 23, 2011 at 11:48 am

Photo by Kent Bartlett

By Kristine Goodfellow

Let me start by admitting something.  I may be in need of a gardening intervention.  You see, last year we moved from Pennsylvania to Texas at the very end of Spring, so I didn’t get to plant any flowers before I left.

By the time we got to West Texas, settled into our house and had time to think about the landscaping outside, all the plants at the nurseries, Lowes and Wal-Mart were pretty much slim-pickin’s.  Besides, it was so hot I didn’t want to leave the sweet air-conditioning of my new home to tend to any half-dead desert plants.  I bought a couple of hanging flower baskets and called it a summer.

So, that means last year I didn’t get to garden.  And by gardening, I mean watering colorful flowers in decorative pots.  I don’t actually want to get dirty or have to kneel down and weed anything, but I want to see pretty things in my yard so…

This year, I got a $100 gift certificate for a local nursery and couldn’t wait to spend it.  I went a little crazy.  By the time the whole thing was over, said and done, I think I ended up with over $250.00 worth of flowers.  Ooops.

My front and back porches look very festive and delightful.  I’m very excited about that.  Now, if I don’t kill any of them, I’ll be happy.  I’m great with houseplants, but sometimes I have a little difficulty with the outdoor variety.  There are bugs out there!  Every year I say I’m going to conquer my fear and maintain my own garden, but some malevolent spider, slimy worm or wicked beetle scares me back into my house where I then spend the rest of the summer admiring the flowers and waving to Chewy the Yard Guy as he tends them.  This year, I will do the maintenance myself!  I will!  I am an optimist.  Optimism and the fact that Chewy lives in Pennsylvania has me determined to make this work.

Feeling very guilty about spending sooo much money on my flower obsession, I cancelled my hair appointment today.

“I’ll color my own hair and save $75.00,” I thought.

Yeah…that’ll ease that old spending guilt.

Using my fuzzy math, I figured if I did my own hair…I was halfway to coming out even on my over-expenditure at the nursery.

So, late this morning, I set my box of hair color down on my vanity in my master bathroom feeling oh so grown-up and responsible.

How hard could this be?

Reading the instructions carefully, I began to save money.  HA!

Feeling like a chemist in a lab, I set to mixing and shaking.  The box even came with rubber gloves!  I was feeling pretty damn professional.  After very carefully following the directions, I applied the mixture to my hair.

“This is not so hard,” I thought.

Suddenly, I felt a cold, wet trickle running from my temple, down my ear and continuing down my neck.

Aaah!  Don’t panic!  Not a problem.  I grabbed a towel.  The closest towel.  My strictly-for-decoration gold-fringed hand towel.

Ugh.  Should not have done that.

Well, I figured, it’s ruined, so I may as well continue to use it.  Next drip I felt was down my neck in the back.  Quick as a flash, I grabbed my newly-stained towel to sop up the mess.

Whoops!  Wrong towel.  Towel number two—ruined.

Realizing my mistake, I tossed the towel onto to the counter and knocked the whole bottle of liquid hair dye onto the vanity.  The bottle dropped to the floor, splashed against the wood cabinet and dumped out onto the gold bathmat before I managed to stop the worsening destruction.

Crap!  Who knew tile could stain?  Who knew marble countertops could stain?  Who knew black dye on gold mats could look like someone had been murdered on my bathroom floor?

At this point, I forgot about my hair—I could only contemplate what chemical neutralizes hair dye and removes it from wood and tile.

Not wanting my hubby to see the bathroom devastation I’ve created, I rolled up the towels in the bathmat and hid them in the garage (to throw out later–on Trash Day) feeling like the world’s most inept criminal.

I realized the marble countertop was still stained and I wasn’t sure what might take care of that, but I came up with a genius solution to the floor.

Throw the other bathmat over the floor stain…

Perhaps, no one will ever know—until we move out, that is.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t genius.

After I got everything under control and had adequately hidden my misdeeds, I piled up my hair on my head and set the timer for 40 minutes.

Now keep in mind, I’m still feeling guilty over the tropical jungle I have blooming on my porches. I mean it’s TEXAS–where the previous day’s temperature had reached 97-deegrees…and it’s ONLY APRIL!

What was I thinking?

I suddenly comprehended my costly little paradise would require more care than I probably know how to give.  However, I am now resolved.  I must not let them die!  Think of all that money!

While I’m waiting for the last few minutes of required hair-cooking time, I decided to water the guilt-inducing plants on my back patio since they look a little wilted from yesterday’s heat.

I CANNOT LET THEM DIE!

My backyard backs up to a golf course and walking trail—a fairly busy walking/jogging trail.

I stuck my head out on the porch and looked around.  No one was using the trail and I didn’t see any golfers.

Yes!  I have time to water my flowers and come back in to rinse the black goo off my head.

I very stealthily made it to the water spigot, keeping my eyes out for joggers and listening for golf carts.  I turned on the hose and hurried to the back porch and began watering.  Everything was going as planned until I saw a black drop fall near my feet.  Then another.

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

“Oh, crap!”

I looked at my reflection in the window.  I had black streaks across my cheeks and a black smear across my forehead.  There’s even a black smudge over my lip from where I’d obviously rubbed my nose which made me look like I had half a Hitler mustache!

Behind me a neighbor’s dog barked making me jump.  I looked down the path and noticed someone is walking their dog and coming towards my house.

It’s okay.  I still have time to rush inside.  I dropped the hose, and turned the handle of the French doors.

Bam!  I plow face first into it.

“What the…?”  There is now a black smudge on the white paint where my forehead hit the frame.

Panicked, I tried the handle again.

“OMG! No!”

*Bark! Bark!*

The dog walker is now closer!  I tried the handle again.  No doubt about it.  It’s locked.  Someone must’ve locked the doorknob lock last night!

I rushed to the side of the house, out the gate and tried the side entrance to the garage.  Locked!  I ran to the front, horrified that someone might see me in my Tinkerbell pajama bottoms and t-shirt sans bra!

Front door?  Locked!

It’s official.  I am locked out!  And humiliated.  And it’s starting to get hot!  I wiped away the dripping black gunk with my hands and noticed my fingers were black.

Well….there goes the manicure I got a couple of days previous–totally ruined!

As I rounded the corner to hide in my backyard again, I happened to notice my cleaning lady was two doors down at my husband’s boss’s house.  The way I saw it…I had no choice at that point.  Maria has a key!

I thought of sticking my head under the garden hose before walking casually down the street so as not to cause any undue attention.  No, I better not, I thought, it might just make the mess worse and turn my entire face black.  No, better just rush over, explain the situation and rush back.

I scurried down the street—two doors down, but it felt like a mile.  Luckily, no one was out (which is highly unusual for this active neighborhood.)

This could work.

Maria’s car was in the driveway.  I know she’s there!

I rang the doorbell.

No answer.

I knocked— leaving a black knuckle mark on the white painted door of the boss’s pristine, beautiful home.

Crap!  I used my shirt to wipe it off.  Well, there goes that t-shirt anyway.  Sorry, Tinkerbell.

I waited, shifting my weight back and forth and peeking behind me to see if anyone is outside.  It is officially HOT and I have to use the bathroom now.

Still no answer.  What the heck?

Giving up, I decided to see if by some miracle my across-the-street-neighbor is home (even though I know she works Tuesdays and Thursdays).

It’s worth a shot.

Just as I crossed the street, I saw Maria step out of the house to get something from her car.

“Maria!” I yelled running back.

She did a Hollywood-worthy double-take.  “Mrs. Goodfellow?”

“Uh…yeah.  I’m locked out.  Do you have my key with you?”

“Yes,” she says looking at me with wide, confused eyes.  I’m sure she can’t fathom why I’m walking around outside looking like a squid secreted ink on my head, sporting half a mustache and wearing my pajamas near noontime.  (She already thinks I’m a little flighty being that I’m always forgetting what day she’s supposed to come or forgetting to leave a check when she does.  Or accidentally giving her my Pennsylvania phone number or forgetting to sign my check or….)

“I was watering and I….” I stammer.

“Is that water?” she asks.  I’m sure she’s wondering if something has been lost in translation from English to Spanish.

“No, no…I was dying my hair and watering my plants and…”

“At the same time?”

“No, no…um…yes, but…do you have my key?  Can I have my key?”  A car was coming up the street.  I was getting desperate.

“Yes,” she says.  “You want me to open it for you?”

I think she realized the complexities of a lock were probably beyond my capacity at that point.

Eventually, I got into my house.

However, by then my entire skull and part of my face was dyed a nice shade of Midnight Black.

So, I did what any 21-century person would do.  I got online to find out how to remove hair dye from skin.  I love the internet.  Just when you think you are the only person who would have black streaks dyed into your face, you find out there are many, many others out there who have done the same thing.

So, I pulled out my Nail Polish Remover and got to scrubbing.

It sort of worked…except…it turns out I’m allergic to it.  My skin went from black to gray with tinges of bright red!

I decided the red was better than the gray or light black, so I rubbed until it was all (or most of it was) removed.

To top it all off, I looked down and my brand new bling-y flip-flops are decorated with a black splotch across the top—oh!  And there goes the spa pedicure, too.

So,..in saving $75.00 doing my own hair, I managed to ruin a new manicure, a new pair of flip-flops,  a bathmat, two decorative hand towels and a fresh pedicure.  I’ll still wear my Tinkerbell pj’s so that’s a draw.

And none of that even comes close to the amount of mortification I endured and several moments of extreme stress, which probably gave me gray hair…that is…gray hair underneath all that Midnight Black dye.  On top of all that…the Hibiscus I bought…isn’t looking real good today.  I might have to make one more trip to the nursery…but then I swear I’m done.

***

As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more.  Psalm 103:15, 16

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A Higher Calling

In Humor on October 23, 2011 at 1:16 am

Photo of sky above Walmart parking lot by Heila Rogers

By Kristine Goodfellow

My teenage son got his first job a couple of months ago.  He became the newest member of the Burger King team.  After his first day, he came home horrified.

“Mom!  They made me wear a hairnet!”

Yep, welcome to the real world, son.  A place where they make you wear a hairnet.

“It’s so you don’t lose hair in the food,” I explained.

“Mom!  I’m sixteen.  I’m not losing my hair!”

He truly was blown away by this new aspect of his life.

“Everyone loses hair.  Like when you comb it or find it on your pillow.”

“I didn’t plan on combing my hair over the grill.”  He rolled his eyes.  Didn’t I know anything?

“All people in foodservice are required to wear them, son.  Look at the lunch ladies.”

That was the complete wrong thing to say.  He looked mortified.  “I thought they just wore those things because they didn’t know what to do with their hair or because of the steam or something…” he mumbled.

So, Day One of being a working man did not go as planned.  I pinned my hopes on Day Two.  Perhaps, he’d have a better day and it would give his outlook a boost.

My hopes were quickly dashed.  The second day, he came back looking tired and frazzled.  “That sucked.  I hate it,” he said as soon as he walked in the door.

His father and I snickered.  “Yeah, well, you’re sixteen.  It’s what you’re qualified to do,” I said.

“You’re supposed to hate it,” his father said with a smirk.  “Just deal with it and quit complaining.  You can work fast food until you hear a higher calling,” he joked.

“Yeah…but…I have to wear a hairnet!”

Hubby walked to where our son stood leaning on the kitchen counter, arms folded, looking peeved.  He looked into the eyes of his frustrated, youngest son, ready to impart wisdom, to commiserate, to offer words of encouragement.  He leaned in and took a whiff.  “Whoa!  Take a shower.  You smell like a bag of fries and an order of onion rings to go.”

So much for paternal support.

Our young man pushed himself up from the counter, brushed past his dad with a “harrumph” and headed for the shower.

“And get your hairnet off my counter!” I shouted after him.

We soon found out there was another reason for his I-hate-this-job-attitude.  It wasn’t just certain health code hair-covering regulations.  Our poor son spent the entire four hours of his shift standing in front of the grill terrified that the girl he liked would have a craving for a Whopper and find him looking like Doris the Lunch Lady.  It’s a legitimate fear, I guess, if you’re a sixteen-year-old boy.  Having the woman of your dreams see you sweating over a grill, grease settled on your skin in puddles and wearing a hairnet—nope, it couldn’t get worse than that.  Unless, of course, she comes in with another guy while you’re looking like Doris the Lunch Lady.  Wait.  Shhhh…I’m forbidden from saying anything more about that.

“He’ll feel better when he gets his first paycheck,” his father said.

Two weeks later, he loved his money.  But…he still hated his job.

After a while, my teenage son had enough.  He wanted to put in his two-weeks notice.  He swore he’d have another job before his last day at the Kingdom of Burgers and Hairnets.

“Mom!  Will you come here?”  My young man called me into his room—something he rarely does.  I entered with caution and made a mental note to buy some new Glade Plug-Ins—maybe one for each outlet.  Anyway, I saw him sitting at his desk staring at his computer screen with intensity.  “Mom, I hit Send, but it says, ‘responding’.  What does that mean?”

I looked at the computer.  He’d been applying for a job at WalMart.  Apparently, it’s done online now.  I applauded his self-sufficiency.  However, I also felt a little pang through my heart.  I thought, “My little boy is so grown up, he doesn’t need me anymore.”  Until–

I looked at the screen and saw what he wrote under “Tell us why you want the job”.

I currently work at Burger King, but I heard a higher calling to work at WalMart.

I know you aren’t supposed to laugh at your kids, but that just floored me.  “Uh…excuse me…what in the world–?  You’ve ‘been called’ to work at WalMart, son?  Really?”

He looked confused.  “What?”

“Called to work at WalMart?  A Higher calling?”

“Yes.  A calling for higher pay, right?”  He looked at me with his big brown eyes.  He really had no idea what I found so shocking…and funny.

Just then, I saw his father walk by.  If you know either of us, you know we don’t give up an opportunity to tease our children.  They’ll go out into the world confident, knowing how to laugh at themselves and with great senses of humor…or in great need of therapy.  Only time will tell.  We’ve always been willing to take the risk, though.

“Honey!  Come here.  Your son’s heard a calling.”

Our son looked at me with wariness.

“He has?  What’s that?”  My hubby entered the room and stood next to me.  “Calling, huh?”  Because he’d been talking to this son about getting into ROTC in college, my hubby had his hopes up.  “For what?  The military?”

“No,” I said.  “WalMart.”

“What?”  He scoffed.  A smile spread across his face.

“Yep.  Look here.  He’s put it in writing.”  I pointed to the screen.

My husband leaned over my son who looked at the two of us with circumspection.

Both of us laughed for a moment.

The boy-man fidgeted in his chair and finally swiveled around to face us.  “What is so funny?  Isn’t that what you said, dad?  I only had to work at Burger King until I got a higher calling?  Like for higher pay.  Isn’t that what it means?  That you want a better job?”

“What it means is…” I said catching my breath.  “…Well, it’s an expression meaning that God has ‘called you’ to do something special.  Like when the Lord calls you to be a priest.  Or, maybe a teacher.”

“Or a military officer.”  (Hubby is really pushing that ROTC thing.)

“But not WalMart,” we said in unison.

“Oh.”  He turned around and looked at the screen.  A message now appeared.  YOUR APPLICATION HAS BEEN SENT.  “Oops.”

Well, Walmart hasn’t called him for an interview and I’m wondering if they just don’t understand how badly my son wants a new job. I mean, c’mon.  He had a calling!  What’s wrong with those people?

Now, if he doesn’t get a job at WalMart, I’m going to wonder what went wrong since it’s been my experience that our local store doesn’t hire any certified geniuses.

In fact, EVERY time I go, I bring my own reusable bags and the cashier tries to scan them–EVERY time.  I keep all of the reusable cloth bags inside a big, plastic, silver frozen-food bag with a handle.  Inevitably, I say, “These are mine.”  Sometimes they get it.  We understand each other.  Communication has been achieved.  Yet, sometimes I get a look of total confusion from the person on the other side of the counter.  Other times, they ignore me, look for a barcode on the side and slide it over the scanner, charging me for it.

For example, this last time, I put the silver bag (full of other bags) on the conveyer belt.

“Hi.” I smiled at the cashier.

“Hi.  How are you?” she asked and picked up the frozen food bag.  She immediately began looking for the scan code.

“That’s mine,” I said with a smile.

She continued to look for the correct place to scan.

“Ummm…yeah, that’s mine.”  She smiled at me and continued to look for the barcode.

“The bag is mine.”

She looked up at me.  “I know.”  She looked back down and after finding the barcode, scanned it and charged me $1.50.

“No…” I tried to stop her, but it was too late.  “That’s my bag.”

“Yes, I know.”

She looked at me like I was a complete idiot.

“But…you charged me for it.”

“OH!”  A look of total enlightenment passed over her face.  I mean you could almost hear the Hallelujah Chorus and see a shaft of light from above shine down upon her.  THAT’s how elucidated she became in that moment.  “You mean you’ve already paid for it?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s what I said.”  I am truly amused by this—every single time.  Hey, I love to interact with people.  Human nature fascinates me.

“I thought you meant it was yours…like part of your order.  You know…yours.”  She gestured to the rest of the items on the conveyer belt.

Yep, folks…it’s like that almost every time.

Another time I got the pierced teen—you know the one I’m talking about if you live here.  Bless her heart; she tried to scan the separator that was placed between my order and the one behind mine.  “What is this?” she said, turning it around—I believe looking for the price.

***

“I think most of us are looking for a calling, not a job.  Most of us, like the assembly line worker, have jobs that are too small for our spirit.  Jobs are not big enough for people.”  Studs Terkel