Tag: humor

My Dog Has Worms

Our dog, Duke, was diagnosed with whipworms. Apparently they’re very common in dogs that live in shelters. Duke had his first vet appointment this week, exactly one week after we obtained him from a shelter.

I purposely didn’t say “after we rescued him,” because I think that term borders on self-aggrandizement. We didn’t pluck him from the midst of a pack of raving wolves, or unhook his leash from a rusted-out chain link fence in a neighborhood of crack houses and gun-toting drug dealers in the middle of the night. Instead, we drove our car to the stately brick Connecticut Humane Society in well-off Westport and walked him out of the building after writing a check and signing a few papers.

Anyway, I got the call from the vet while I was sleeping. I woke right up when I heard the word, “worms.” We picked up the medicine from the vet and treated him. He should be cured by now but I’m not. Parasites freak me out. Despite many articles claiming that it is extremely rare for humans to catch whipworms from dogs, they didn’t say it was impossible. I am now certain that he transmitted them to me. I don’t have any symptoms, but that means nothing since they’re often asymptomatic.

Then, tonight, I read an article, that originated in The Washington Post, that said a guy in Fresno arrived at his doctor’s office with a five-foot tapeworm, wrapped around a toilet paper holder, inside a plastic container. He said it came out of him and that he probably inherited it from the raw salmon he ate daily. Is everyone walking around with worms inside them?

Well, everyone is not my concern. I need to think about my next step. Do I take Duke’s medicine that is supposed to be administered to him again in three weeks? I can always say I misplaced it.

I certainly can’t go to my doctor and ask him to check me for worms. And I definitely can’t schedule my long-overdue colonoscopy. Imagine the doctor’s shock if he saw worms. His job is bad enough.






Confession Might Be Good for the Soul But Not Always for the Listener

via Daily Prompt: Confess

I recently read an article, Skincare for Boobs, and it mentioned ingrown hairs on nipples. So far, I haven’t had this happen, but I must confess that I’m no stranger to having an ingrown hair in an embarrassing place.

Many years ago, I developed an ingrown hair from shaving my bikini line. The offending hair was between the top of my right leg and my groin area. The skin around it swelled to the size of a large orange. It was so big that it impeded my ability to walk.

Naturally, I told all of my friends and work colleagues about my testicle-shaped growth. And, just as naturally, everyone had a solution. Most of the solutions were the same because most people aren’t very original and, in fairness, nobody had ever experienced this phenomenon. The two solutions were to press on it and make it pop, or put hot compresses on it to make it pop.

I tried both options and nothing worked. The next day, I was in TJ Maxx, in a sun dress, and I felt liquid gushing down my leg. I must have exclaimed, because everyone around me started staring at my leg and recoiling. For all the world, it looked like I wet myself.

I dumped my not-yet-paid-for purchases and beat it out of there. By the time I got home, the giant lump was gone and my dress was soaked.

Thank God this happened before iPhones were invented.

You’re As Old As You Are


It’s said that old age is not for the faint of heart. It’s not easy getting old and, especially, being old.

My mother tells me that she hates being old every time I talk to her. She said she envies those who didn’t have to endure old age.

I know other old people, however, and they’re happy and grateful for every day, even though they have health problems and their friends and relatives are dying.

I remember being 21 and having a boyfriend who was 29. When I asked him his age, he said, “I’m as old as time.” Next year, I’ll be double the age he was when he said that. I wonder how he’d categorize being 58. He’d probably say that I was “old as dirt.”

I work in an office where everyone is in their 20s or early 30s. The CEO is the only person who has hit the 40 mark. To everyone there, I am a relic … but a well-shod relic. I do like shoes.

It’s also said that age is just a number and you’re as young as you feel. Age may just be a number, but let’s not fool ourselves. You’re as old as you are. How you act at that age is up to you.

I heard a funny line the other day, “How can I act my age? I’ve never been this age before.”


Don’t Fart in a Puffer Coat

As a public service announcement to all of you out there who are about to start shopping for winter coats, you should know that puffer coats grab onto smells, absorb them, and hold on like a baby to a pacifier.

I went to a Korean-barbecue restaurant the other night and came out smelling like I had never left. My coat drank in the pungent scents and retained them like water. It’s two days later and that coat still reeks.

Which brings me to some other aromas that will stick to your coat like glitter to anything: body odor, bodily gases, perfume, and cooking smells. Basically anything that your nose can sense will move into your coat and start unpacking immediately.

My husband has asked me not to wear my puffer coat until it’s stink-free. He came at me today with a bottle of Febreze but I wouldn’t let him spray my coat for fear of staining it. So, for now, it’s hanging outside in the yard. I hope there’s nothing smelly out there. Wearing a skunk coat would really stink.

Screen Shot 2017-11-29 at 2.45.00 AM
Photo from kohls.com

People With Dementia Shouldn’t Tell Lies

OmaUndOpa-ganzI know an elderly couple who both appear to have the beginnings of dementia, or at least short-term memory loss. Visiting them is interesting, because every time I go to their house, the conversation is the same as last time, but it’s new to them. When they tell me, for the 17th time, that their son and his family are planning to visit them, they’re just as excited as when they told me the first time, because, to them, they just heard the news.

Their short-term memory loss goes in and out, though. Sometimes one or the other will remember something that happened recently, but then he or she will immediately forget the memory.

The other day, the wife called me. “Did you send us something?” she asked. “A box arrived here today.” I had sent them a down comforter for Christmas, but I had only ordered it online the day before, so I did not expect it to arrive in one day. It’s interesting how, when you need something to arrive during Amazon’s two-day delivery window, it doesn’t, but when you’re not in a rush, the thing almost materializes at its destination.

Anyway, I told her that she should open the box on Christmas. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t open it until then.” Then we talked about other things and, as I was about to hang up, she said, “We got the prettiest down comforter today and it looks so nice on our bed. I wonder who sent it.”

“I told you that the present was from me,” I said. “And you said you hadn’t opened it.”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t open it. We’re saving it for Christmas.”

“Great!” I said.

I mean, really, what else could I have said?





A Fly in the Cafeteria

I saw a rumpled, paunchy, balding, middle-aged man in the company cafeteria. His fly’s zipper was down, and part of his shirttail was sticking out through the opening. He had probably just come from the restroom. At least I hoped he had just come from there and hadn’t been walking around in this state all morning.

Being a person who tends to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak, I sidled up to him in the line for the register and whispered, “Your zipper is down.”

He looked at me and then down at his fly. He promptly zipped himself up. Then he looked me up and down and said, rather snidely, “Thank you for noticing.”

You know, some people just don’t want to be helped.


via Daily Prompt: Zip

Reading About Writing

Back in the day — I like this expression because it’s so vague — my sister used to buy and read every cookbook she could get her hands on. She never followed one recipe from any of them, but she had lots of information to share at parties. I thought this was a riot.

Until I realized that I was currently doing the same thing, but with a book about writing.

I like to write, and the occasional person has occasionally suggested that I should write a book because I’m a gluttonous reader of them. By their calculations, I should inherently know how to compose a novel, by osmosis.

However, I have no idea how to plot a book, or how to make the characters come to life. I also remember a college professor saying that it is damn near impossible to find someone to publish a first novel. Some writers do, of course, but if you look at the New York Times Best Sellers’ list, the same writers’ names appear there week after week and year after year. That fact alone suggests that publishers (and readers) like to stick with already-successful authors.

So, I bought a book on writing, written by an author I admire, Lawrence Block. The book is Writing the Novel from Plot to Print to Pixel. Block broke down every step of how to write a book, and how to get it published. I read the first 13 chapters with a student’s attention (a good student’s), but stopped reading a few pages into Chapter 14, “Getting Published.” That chapter is followed by chapters on “The Case for Self-Publishing,” “The Case Against Self-Publishing,” “How to be Your Own Publisher,” “Doing It Again,” and finally, “Now It’s Up to You.”

What I learned from the first 13 chapters is that writing a novel is extremely hard work that must be done consistently. What I learned from the beginning of Chapter 14 is that, while I might produce a publishable book, getting someone to actually publish it is an even harder job. I didn’t even bother reading the self-publishing chapters, because I know many people who have self-published and, once their friends and family bought their books, sales dried up. The authors had no idea how to market their books and no giant publisher to help them, so along with sales, interest in their books disintegrated as well.

Unlike my sister, I’m not going to buy more books on writing. I’ll either write a book, using what I learned from chapters 1 – 13, or I won’t. I probably won’t be able to find a publisher without having an agent represent my book, or find an agent without having published before, so I’ll have to leave it up to serendipity, or luck.

It’s worked for others. Those others were probably predestined to become published authors, and there’s no way to check if I’m on that list, so I’ll have to leave it to chance. I’ll cross that bridge, as they say, when (and if) I come to it.

Right now, I think I’ll go read a cookbook.

Where Is Pope Bobblehead?

If you need another indication that the world has gone mad, here is an opportunity to purchase a bobblehead of Pope Francis from The Catholic Company, and to track your adventures on social media using the hashtag #WhereIsPopeBobblehead.

Who said religion can’t be fun? Apparently, not crazy bobblehead makers, or The Catholic Company.

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Always nodding and bobbling, this Pope Francis bobblehead is an exclusive design available only at The Catholic Company. Liven up your workspace with this Papa Francisco bobble and share your faith with friends, family and co-workers. Let him ride with style on your dashboard or bobble near your prayer nook- the possibilities are endless. Either way, he is sure to be a big hit. Also, it is a great reminder to continue to pray for the Holy Father!

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A Crazy Story

I have a male friend who is married to a man and they adopted two sons together. Last week, they all went on vacation to Los Angeles. Because they had taken their sons to the Ronald Reagan library during their last visit, they decided to take the boys to the Richard Nixon library this time.

My friend said that while he and his husband were walking through a garden at the library, he commented to his husband, “There sure are a lot of white, conservative men here.”

Immediately, a man behind him responded loudly, “There’s nothing wrong with white, conservative men.”

My friend turned around and flamboyantly agreed with the white, conservative man who had made the comment, “You’re right, there’s not!”

He then turned back to his husband and said in a voice that was meant to be overheard, “We’re all here for the same reason. We like Dick.” And then he laughed hysterically.