Size Does Matter

It seems that there is no limit to things that are supersized in our modern world. Movie popcorn comes in tubs large enough to bathe a small child. On the roads, there are cars that resemble tanks with gas mileage so low the driver’s gas bill is also supersized.  There are televisions so large they can be seen from space. Even Oregano’s beloved “big cookie” is a supersized version of the average chocolate chip cookie. Now there are marshmallows the size of a child’s fist.

The weather has finally been perfect to use our fire pit. To celebrate our first fire of the season, Oregano stopped on this way home from work to pick up the fixin’s for s’mores: graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows.

(image via skiptomylou.org

I was stunned by the size of the marshmallows he purchased. These were no ordinary marshmallows. They were marshmallows on steroids touted as “Giant Roasters.” The bag is adorned with a deranged-looking marshmallow man donning a shirt with a flaming marshmallow while holding a stick with a marshmallow on the end. To stay on topic, let’s ignore the disturbing fact that this cannibalistic marshmallow man is roasting the head of one of his own species.

Pay no attention to the disturbing idea that this marshmallow man is roasting the head of one of his own species. Just think about how delicious the marshmallow will be.

A brand name like “Campfire” leads one to believe that these marshmallows were created for the sole purpose of being roasted over a campfire. Many would be destined to become the glue that holds a s’more together. In theory, these marshmallows of unusual size are an enticing concept, but as we discovered later that evening over our roaring fire, they didn’t live up to the hype. The mammoth marshmallows required a longer time in the fire to even begin to melt. This was a sacrifice we were willing to make given the amount of gooey goodness we would soon be enjoying. However, when we began to assemble our s’mores, we discovered that these marshmallows lack meltability. Only a third of it slid gently off the skewer, leaving behind a sticky glob of denuded marshmallow. Even though there was only a thin layer of marshmallow, it did not stay nestled neatly between the graham crackers. When compressed, the hot, white goo oozed out every side and slid down our wrists.

We assumed our inexperience with marshmallows of this girth meant that we had not left them over the fire long enough. Still stuck on the skewers, we placed the innards of the marshmallows back into the fire and made our second attempt only to have the same thing happen. In all, we had to return a single marshmallow to the fire three times to finally melt the entire thing. I was stuffed and sticky from the three s’mores I had just eaten to finish off my marshmallow, but Oregano was determined to master the melting process. Unfortunately, his second attempt didn’t yield better results. He left the marshmallow over the fire longer, but eventually the outer most layer burst into flames. We watched as the charred exterior liquefied, slid off and dropped into the fire exposing the unmelted underbelly of the marshmallow. It was a vicious cycle.

As we sat there by the embers of the fire, we began debating the merits of the various sizes of marshmallows. “Instead of a sadistically smiling marshmallow man, there should be a warning on the bag: not recommended for making s’mores,” I said while licking the sticky remnants of the marshmallow off my wrists and hands.

“Even if they supersized the graham crackers so that the marshmallow didn’t ooze over the edges, we’d still be left with the melting problem. They’re just too big,” Oregano said.

“Mini marshmallows are too small,” I added. “Getting them onto a skewer would be like stringing beads. Not to mention that they would quickly burst into flames then fall into the fire.”

“They’re better suited to floating in a mug of hot chocolate. I guess I should have just gotten traditional marshmallows,” he concluded.

There is a reason that the classic-sized marshmallows have endured since 1948 when they were first extruded into the spongy cylinders we know and love. They melt evenly and when compressed, stay contained within the boundaries of the graham cracker border. Do not be lured by packages of jumbo marshmallows proclaiming to be superior. In our supersized society, tradition is usually pushed aside and bigger is perceived as better. Size does matter. At the risk of sounding like Goldilocks, sometimes smaller is just right.

**And now a word from our sponsor.**

A big thank you to MJ of Memoirs of an Evil Stepmom and Emma from Emma’s Ramblings on Supernatural Fiction for sharing the Sunshine Award with me. Emma is a loyal reader whose cheerful comments always bring sunshine to my day. MJ is a new reader who wasted spent over an hour of her life catching up on some of my previous posts. Visit their blogs to see what they are both up to.

Victory Lap

Traditions are a way to unite generations and cultures by having shared experiences to celebrate life’s milestones. There are formal traditions like Jewish bat mitzvahs which mark a child’s entrance into adulthood and there are informal traditions like blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Some people like traditions and find comfort in having a common way in which to acknowledge the passage of time. Other people shun traditions as boring and predictable. However, when the predictability of formal traditions and the unpredictability of clumsiness are combined, it is anything but boring.

Our niece, Anise, was preparing for her bat mitzvah. When I read an e-mail from Oregano’s sister asking us to participate in the ceremony, I gasped. I knew tradition and clumsiness were about to have a head to head showdown in a temple. During a portion of the ceremony the ark is opened and the Torah is removed. Oregano and I were asked to hold the Torah, a Jewish Bible written in convenient, portable scroll form. The rabbi would place it in my arms and then it would be my job to hold the Torah and lead the rabbi, cantor and Anise in a parade around the sanctuary. Oregano would get the hand-off to hold it as they prepared it to return to the ark.

(image via congregationbethisrael.wordpress.com)

“Your sister is familiar with my long-standing history of clumsiness, isn’t she?” I asked Oregano when I finished reading the e-mail to him.

“I’m sure she’s heard the legendary tales of how you broke your middle finger doing laundry and fell in a manhole in front of your entire graduating class during graduation rehearsal.”

“What exactly is this going to entail? How heavy is the Torah? Can you walk around behind me in case it starts to slip out of my arms?” I fired these questions at him with great trepidation. I didn’t want to disappoint Anise, but a lifetime of unintentional slapstick comedy does tend to undermine my confidence in my ability to carry out seemingly unathletic endeavors.

“The scroll weighs about 50 pounds, but you won’t have to pick it up, the rabbi will hand it to you. It will be my job to hold the Torah after you are done so I can’t be part of your jaunt through the sanctuary. The rabbi will be with you the whole time,” Oregano replied.

“I sure hope he’s got good reflexes,” I said, envisioning a disaster of Biblical proportions.

We e-mailed Anise’s mom to tell her we’d be honored to participate in the bat mitzvah ceremony. Her reply was, “Oh, we didn’t think Aunt Paprika would actually say yes. We’re thrilled!”

Apparently, she is familiar with my proclivity to poorly timed physical mishaps. I’ve suffered public humiliation before because of my clumsiness, but never while wearing a dress and carrying a religious object in a house of worship. Preparation would be my key to success this time.  My training began in earnest after that e-mail. I started carrying heavy, unwieldy objects like 25 pound bags of cat food while walking around my house. My strength training regimen consisted of lifting 50 pound boxes of kitty litter. Like professional athletes, I visualized a successful Torah lap, but having never seen the inside of this temple, I had to use my vivid imagination. After 8 weeks of training, the day of the bat mitzvah arrived and I was as ready as I could possibly be.

When we entered the sanctuary I was ecstatic to see that it was even smaller than I had imagined. Phew! What I didn’t expect were the stairs leading to the bimah (altar). I totally forgot that there would be stairs. How could I have made such a miscalculation? I should have practiced carrying the bags of cat food up and down the stairs in my house. Too late now; I’d have to improvise and hope that all of my training had prepared me for this unanticipated obstacle.

The day was supposed to be all about Anise, but if I dropped the Torah and it ripped into two pieces that rolled down the aisle, no one would be focused on her. They would be focused on trying to capture what was sure to become You Tube’s next viral video. When the rabbi called me up to the bimah I felt like an Olympic runner being called to the starting blocks. I climbed the stairs and turned to smile at the congregation. It was show time! No turning back now. The rabbi placed the Torah in my arms like it was a baby; a 3 foot long baby weighing 50 pounds. My knees buckled under the weight, but the transfer went smoothly. I was eager to make my trek and get this over with before my luck ran out and disaster struck.  As I stood there trying not to shift the weight cradled in my arms, the cantor began singing. The Torah was getting heavy and I hadn’t even made it to the stairs yet. No one mentioned I’d be holding it as they sang a few songs. I’m sure the songs they were singing had some spiritual significance, but all I heard was the theme from the movie Rocky playing in my head. As Rocky Balboa ran through the streets of Philadelphia on my mental movie screen, I visualized an uneventful lap: no dropping, no tripping, no ripping.

The music stopped and the rabbi gestured toward the stairs. In reality, there were only 3 stairs, but it may as well have been a Mayan pyramid. As gracefully as I could manage holding a delicate religious scroll more than half the length of my body, I descended the stairs and began my march around the blissfully small sanctuary.  I was focused. When I made the turn at the end of the aisle, I was almost home free. I was a Torah carrying machine as I carefully climbed the steps and made it successfully back onto the bimah. Hooray!! I wanted to spike the Torah, high-five the rabbi and do a dance to celebrate my success, but I restrained myself. The rabbi directed me to a throne-like chair and I was able to take a load off while holding onto the Torah during the next musical interlude.

There weren’t quite this many steps in the temple, but it sure felt like it. (image via webexhibits.org)

When the song concluded, someone lifted the Torah from my arms; it was probably the rabbi, but it could have been the janitor. It didn’t matter to me. I had survived my encounter with the Torah and more importantly, the Torah had survived its encounter with me. Years of ineptitude made me nervous about my ability to fulfill my duties during the bat mitzvah. Maybe all I needed was some divine intervention to finally lift the curse of clumsiness. Could this successful lap around the temple have been my personal victory lap? Perhaps I am no longer the graceless, petite clod I perceive myself to be, but rather, a graceful, petite swan.  Just 6 days later, the euphoric feeling of my victory lap still fresh in my mind, I gouged a huge chunk of skin out of my thumb while cutting cheese for a grilled cheese sandwich. As I sat there applying pressure to stanch the blood coming from my wound, I realized that some victories are short-lived.

** I’d like to give a shout out to Anise’s friend, Louisa, who reads Good Humored every week. She was so excited to meet me at the bat mitzvah that she was unable to speak. I have that effect on people, but have always assumed they just thought I was too boring to talk to.**

42nd Street

Each of us handles our advancing age in our own way. Some people reflect on their lives and make a bucket list of things they have yet to accomplish. Other people can’t tolerate the changes they see in the mirror. They fight the aging process tooth and nail by enlisting every tool available in medical science. Still others acquiesce to the endless march of time as part of life by gracefully acknowledging each passing year with its accompanying wrinkles, declining vision and deteriorating bodily functions. Flab appears on what was once a young, nimble body. Bending over to pick something up often triggers a series of snapping, crackling and popping sounds that rival a fresh bowl of Rice Krispies.

Hearing snap, crackle and pop sounds a lot better when it is coming from a bowl of Rice Krispies and not my feet and knees.

Fighting aging is a losing battle, so I don’t waste my time worrying about it. It’s going to happen to those of us lucky enough to have the opportunity to grow old. Since wrinkles are an inevitable part of the aging process, I choose to believe that any wrinkles I have acquired have come from a lifetime of laughing and smiling. If I’m going to have them anyway, I’d prefer that mine come from laughing rather than frowning. I also choose to believe that any weight I gain helps to pop out some of those wrinkles from the inside like pushing out the dents on a car. Even though I’ve made my peace with getting older, I’d still like to look as young as I can for as long as possible, but a little affirmation goes a long way.

Several mornings a week I walk to work past a school with a crossing guard. Each time I pass the crossing guard, I say good morning to her and we chat about the weather. I have been doing this for 3 years. This morning, as I began to cross the street, I looked both ways, saw a car two blocks away and stepped off the curb. Before my foot could hit the asphalt, the crossing guard yelled at me, “There’s a car. Stay on the sidewalk until I tell you it is safe to cross the street!”

(image via trafficsafetywarehouse.com)

I was startled by the tone she used with me, but stepped back thinking she had seen something I hadn’t seen like the car speeding up or someone barreling around the corner. Clearly, she takes her job seriously. I stood there waiting for a few minutes as the car made its leisurely journey down the two blocks before passing by as I stood safely on the curb. Once the car had turned the corner, the crossing guard signaled for me to cross. As I began to approach her side of the street, she was muttering about how fast people drive and how students don’t follow her instructions. She chastised me for not waiting for her to give me permission to cross the street. It was only when I was within a few feet of her that she realized I am an adult and apologized for scolding me. She is a doddering old woman who probably needs glasses, but I choose to believe that it is my youthful appearance and exuberant walk, not my diminutive stature that caused the crossing guard’s confusion. Being mistaken for a twelve-year-old is not a bad way to start the day when it is your 42^nd birthday.

(image via 123rf.com)

**A big thank you to Chatty Cathie of Chatty Cathie’s Endless Chatter for sending some blog love my way with the Liebster Blog Award! Stop by and have a chat with Cathy. You won’t be disappointed. **

The Dinner Party

** If you are squeamish, you might want to skip this week’s post, but remember to come back next week.**

For the past 15 years I have had a love/hate relationship with the neighborhood herds of white-tailed deer. At first, seeing these animals running through our yard was thrilling. Discovering the leftovers of their overnight feasts on our landscaping was not so thrilling. I researched and then bought deer-resistant plants. They didn’t enjoy my new offerings, but they still ate enough of them to ruin the garden. I tried every possible foul-smelling yet humane way to deter them from eating my flowers. Usually, the only creatures successfully deterred from the garden were the humans. When we installed a fence 5 years ago, the deer buffet closed and the nightly floral binges ceased. Since then, the deer stay on their side of the fence eating the sacrificial landscaping and I happily grow my flowers inside the safe zone.

It is not unusual to see deer sauntering past our fence or resting under the pine trees. We’ve even found one standing on our front porch. However, when I woke up and saw one reclining comfortably against the fence watching the world go by, I was surprised. She wasn’t bothering me or the garden so I didn’t bother her. As long as she stayed on her side of the fence we would all get along just fine. I snapped a photo to show Oregano and by the time I came back downstairs she had wandered off to greener, fenceless pastures. A few days later, I noticed her sitting under an oak tree in a pile of leaves. When Oregano and I went up to bed, she was still sitting there moving her head and flicking her little white tail.

The next morning, Oregano and I prepared to go to work. From downstairs in the kitchen I heard him say, “Uh-oh!”

Immediately, I ran to the top of the stairs and yelled down, “What’s wrong?”

“I think there is a problem with that deer we saw last night,” he answered.

“Please don’t tell me she got inside the fence and caused a bunch of damage,” I replied.

“Nope, she’s definitely not causing any trouble. You might want to look out the window up there.”

I walked to the window and looked down to see a dead deer lying on its side just a few feet from the back of the fence. A cursory forensic assessment revealed no obvious signs of trauma. She was too far from the street to have been involved in a motor vehicle encounter. There weren’t any babies so she didn’t die during childbirth. We concluded that she must have died from natural causes.

Unfortunately, she is not the first deer to die on the premises. Three years ago we experienced our first death. Being naïve about such things, we called the police, animal control and the homeowners’ association management company to find out what to do. Each of them suggested that we drag the dearly departed to the curb for the township to come and collect. The idea of schlepping the carcass of a buck through the yard to the curb was repulsive to us. Since the property on which it was lying was technically not ours, we refused to do this and told the property manager that it was his responsibility. He replied, “I’m new to this job. If this was a squirrel, I would know what to do.”

“Sir, if this was a squirrel, I’d be back there with a shovel and a hefty bag, not talking to you on the phone. This dead animal is considerably larger than a squirrel and I’m not dragging it 50 yards to the curb,” I said getting irritated by his stupidity.

He told me he would do some research and promised to call me back later that same day. He did not. In the ensuing days it took me to actually speak to him again, we woke up to find a herd of live deer gathered in a circle around the recently deceased in a type of deer memorial service. The day after the funeral, nature’s undertakers, the turkey vultures, appeared and we were treated to a gruesome display worthy of an Animal Planet documentary. While it was fascinating to witness the life cycle, I didn’t want my couch to be a front row seat to the process. Closing the curtains to this spectacle didn’t offer much comfort since we have skylights and could see the vultures circling.

The disgust prompted by the sight of internal organs strewn through our yard prompted me to begin my “shock and ewwww” campaign. I made it my business to thoroughly gross out every person I spoke to on the phone at the management company until this poor creature was removed. I wasn’t angry and I didn’t yell. I maintained a polite, concerned tone to my voice and simply used my extensive vocabulary to vividly describe the situation. It was my version of a daily status update. After 6 days, the property manager said he’d be out that afternoon to remove the remains. I told him that the buck would me much easier to lift now that it was no longer intact.

Seeing our most recent deceased deer brought back memories of squawking birds and flying fur. This time the situation was a bit more dire. With temperatures forecasted to rise into the mid 80s over the weekend, decomposition would begin quickly and we were having a dinner party in our dining room which had a close-up, unobstructed view of the dearly departed. As I drove to work, my mind was racing. How could I possibly seat my parents at the dining room table so they wouldn’t see the carcass through the large picture window? I realized that I could face them away from the body, but then I would have to look at it. That wasn’t going to work. What would Martha Stewart do? When I arrived at work I called Oregano with a solution to our problem, “Plan B. We’re taking my parents out to dinner tomorrow night.”

“We don’t need to do that. She’s not there anymore,” he said.

“She moved? She wasn’t dead? She really didn’t look like she was just sleeping,” I said incredulously.

“I didn’t say she moved. I said she’s not there anymore. I dragged her to the curb,” he said triumphantly.

“You what?!” I shouted into the phone.

“I was repulsed by the idea of moving her, but after what happened the last time, I realized that moving her was the least disgusting option available.  At first I was afraid to touch her in case she was only mostly dead, but then I realized she was all the way dead.” he said calmly.

With plastic bags on his hands and bile in his mouth, Oregano had repositioned the deer and lovingly dragged her carcass 50 yards to the curb then swept away the trail of fur left behind.

“You have never been more masculine to me than you are at this moment,” I said as relief washed over me. “Some women have husbands who take out the garbage or kill spiders. I have a husband who will drag the carcass of a large mammal out to the curb. You’re my hero”

Oregano's reward for his act of bravery; the big cookie he has always fantasized about customized just for him.

That night I called my parents, Falafel and Hummus, to tell them of our unexpected dinner guest and of their son-in-law’s heroics. They said they admired his bravery and strong stomach then e-mailed us recipes for venison.

We had a delicious and uneventful dinner with my parents until it was time for dessert. Falafel looked out the window and said, “Wow! What was that bird?”

“That would be a vulture.” I replied matter-of-factly without even looking up from my pound cake.

The vultures arrived for their dinner party.

“Where did it go? I want to see,” said Hummus as she jumped out of her chair and leaned closer to the picture window. Falafel pointed out the turkey vulture sitting in a tree branch that was obviously straining under its weight.

“Will there be more than one vulture eating the deer?” Hummus asked excitedly.

“They don’t usually dine alone. I guess we’re not the only ones having a dinner party this evening,” I said to the backs of their heads.

“Look! There’s another one,” said Falafel pointing to the trees near the carcass.

“Let’s see if there is a better view from the family room,” said Hummus already en route to the sliding glass doors.

“Oh yeah, Falafel, the view is better in here. Come see! There are even more vultures now.” Falafel high-tailed it into the family room and peered out the doors.

“You know, the doors open and you are welcome to go out into the garden for a better look,” I said sarcastically. “If we had known you would be so enthralled by this experience, we would have left the deer where she died. You would have had a much better view and could have watched from the comfort of the dining room table.”

Before I could say another word, Hummus was out in the garden with Falafel not far behind. Oregano stayed inside and Googled turkey vultures so he could answer some of their questions. They were absolutely mesmerized by the scene unfolding at the curb. When the wind shifted and we got a whiff of the deceased, we went back inside.

Hummus looked at the clock, “Wow! It’s getting late. We should hit the road.”

“If we drive around the back, we can get a closer look,” said Falafel.

The "deerly" departed relaxing against our fence just days before her untimely passing.

What Happens in Vegas?

(image via photoslasvegas.com)

With the nickname Sin City, it’s no surprise that Las Vegas is a city of excess. Of course there are the usual excesses that immediately come to mind when one thinks of Vegas. Many people drink to excess in Las Vegas. The lavish buffets and upscale dining options allow people to eat in excess while visiting the city. There is no shortage of ways to dispose of your excess cash in the casinos or shopping in the ridiculously expensive stores in the resorts. Even entertainment options are excessive. You can be amazed by the acrobatic feats of the Cirque Du Soleil artists, marvel at magicians or enjoy kitschy lounge acts belting out tunes from behind a piano in a hotel lobby bar. If you prefer entertainment of a more personal nature, all you have to do is call the numbers listed on the backs of the baseball-like cards men hand out to passersby on the Strip. You can select your very own personal entertainer from an array of ladies with this specialized skill set. Like a Domino’s Pizza, they will arrive at your door in less than 30 minutes; how long they stay is entirely up to the individual’s credit limit. These excesses should not surprise anyone who has ever been to Vegas, read anything about Vegas or watched an episode of CSI: Crime Scene Investigations, but on our recent trip there, I noticed a few excesses you may not be familiar with.

In our minds, the 6 mile round trip walk to Max Brenner Chocolate Restaurant in Caesars Palace justified our indulgence in this chocolate and caramel fondue.

Excessive Walking –The resorts and casinos are immense, sprawling structures that require hoofing it lengthy distances to get from point A to point B, so I wore a pedometer to keep track of how much we walked. We were fascinated by the distances we had to travel. Going to the valet stand to pick up our rental car was a half mile journey. Oregano pointed out that when he walks a half mile, he isn’t usually still in the same building. A round trip trek to the gelato stand in the hotel was also a half mile which justified the nearly daily trip we made there. A chocolate fondue was our reward for the 6 mile round trip from our hotel to Caesars Palace. According to our calculations, all of that walking offset our decadence; everything in moderation, even gluttony.

Excessive Bathrooms – All of the walking combined with the desert dryness means people need to drink in excess. The excessive drinking leads to excessive – well, you know what that leads to and so do the resorts and casinos because there are almost as many bathrooms and stalls as there are slot machines. As someone with a bladder the size of a walnut,  I appreciate these ever-present bathrooms. While my tiny bladder is often inconvenient, it has given me the opportunity to become quite the public bathroom connoisseur.  I can tell you that the bathrooms in these resorts and casinos are among the cleanest and most lavishly appointed that I have seen anywhere.

Excessive Glitz- I am not referring to the blinking, twinkling lights on the Strip or the over-the-top costumes on the showgirls. The glitz to which I am referring was on the tourists. Never in my life have I witnessed such a vast collection of clothing and accessories festooned with sequins and sparkles. Even more amazing was the range of sizes these snazzy clothes came in. Can someone please explain the trend of wearing pants with glittery words emblazoned on the derrière? When the numerous lights in the lobby and casino hit that word it lures your eye to the source and then that image is indelibly burned in your brain. Maybe I am not trendy, but I prefer to let my personality sparkle, not my clothing.

Excessive Heels – Given the amount of walking required to get anywhere in Vegas, wearing high heels may be fashionable, but it is foolish. The number of women precariously balancing themselves on high heels and huge wedges was staggering. These women were wearing shoes my mom would refer to as “sittin’ shoes;” shoes better suited for sitting still and looking pretty than for actually walking somewhere. These teetering women were usually texting as they walked posing a hazard to those of us in more sensible footwear. If they were texting, teetering and drinking they gave new meaning to the word tipsy.

Joshua trees in Mojave National Preserve, California.

Excessive Natural Beauty– When we got weary of the manmade excesses in Las Vegas we headed into the desert to see some of Mother Nature’s finest excesses. Joshua trees in the Mojave National Preserve are surreal.  They look like Dr. Seuss and Salvador Dali joined forces to create a tree. Oregano learned not to touch these trees the hard way because the pointy pom-pom clusters weren’t a big enough warning. In Valley of Fire State Park we played on rock formations that seemed better suited for Mars than Nevada. The splendors of Mother Nature’s excesses were a nice balance to the overindulgence of Vegas.

In Valley of Fire State Park Oregano does a near perfect impression of Winnie the Pooh.

What happens in Vegas is not exactly human nature demonstrating its finest behavior. No matter what your definition of fun is, that is one commodity Las Vegas has in spades.

** And now a word from our sponsor.**

I’d like to thank Custom Trip Planning for “touching” me. This is a kinder, gentler version of the earlier game of blog tag that was circulating around. I’m touched that she recommended Good Humored to her readers.

I’d also like to thank Roshni for brightening my day with the Sunshine Award and recommending me to her readers. It’s a wonderful feeling to wake up on a gloomy morning and find a kind note and some sunshine in your inbox.

Spring Break Search Party

Spring break is here. People are emerging from their cocoons of winter clothing. Once they see themselves in the flimsy fabrics of the warmer seasons, they may be worried about the weight they gained during the comfort food months. Some of those people are questioning their attractiveness and are looking to their good friend, Google, for some answers. I can only imagine their disappointment when the search terms they used lead them to my post, “It’s a Shame I’m So Attractive,” about how irresistible the insect world finds me. Since these individuals were on a quest for guidance and information, but were directed to my blog, I feel a sense of obligation to respond to their inquiries. Listed below are actual search terms that lead people to Good Humored and my helpful advice for these seekers of knowledge.

“i am so happy im attractive”

Congratulations! There are so many people with low self-esteem that it is refreshing to meet someone who is content with his or her appearance. Your search seems more like a statement and less like a question. What exactly are you looking for on Google?

“im so number one that it is a shame”

Before I had a chance to respond to this search it was subsequently followed by the terms, “humility, what’s that?”

“i think everyone is jealous because I wear glasses”

Where were these so-called jealous people when I began wearing my little pink glasses and a patch over my eye in Kindergarten? I can assure you that not one of my classmates was jealous of the fact that I had to wear glasses, unless you count pirate jokes and the endearing term “four eyes” as a cover for their jealousy.

“m i attractive”

Google is a computer search engine, not a mirror. I’m sorry, but it can’t answer this question for you.

"Google, Google, on the wall, who's the fairest one of all?" (image via ovalwallmirrors.net)

“why is my husband turned on by my freckles”

Does it really matter? Who knows what goes on in a man’s mind? Embrace his freckle fixation. Be glad that he is content getting his fill of freckles at home and is not going out into the world in pursuit of other freckled women. If you’re still curious and really want to know the answer to that question, I suggest you ask him instead of Google.

“i am more attractive than my husband”

Didn’t you realize this before you married him?

“is my spouse more attractive than I am”

This is a subjective question and I don’t think there is any good that can come from the answer. If you insist that you want the answer, Google won’t be of much assistance. Write a blog post, upload pictures of you and your spouse then poll readers to find out.

“when one partner is more attractive than the other jealousy”

I’m not sure if you are the same person who asked, “is my spouse more attractive than me?” If you are that person, I warned you that no good would come from that answer. Now Google can help you find the names and addresses for marriage counselors in your area.

I think I’m getting the hang of writing an advice column; it might be time to switch from writing a humor blog.

Birdhouse Hunters

I have a problem. I’ve known about it for quite some time now, but I thought no one else had noticed it. Experts say that the first step to fixing a problem is admitting that you have one, so I will just come out and say it; I’m addicted to HGTV’s House Hunters and House Hunters International. When I hear the telltale theme music and Suzanne Whang’s voice, I’m lured to the television and entranced for the next 30 minutes. If there is a House Hunters marathon, I could be there for hours. People ask me why I find the show so captivating. Is it the house hunters’ stories about why they are moving to these new locales? Yes! Is it seeing what kind of house $200,000 could buy in Bangkok or San Antonio? Yes! Is it the quirkiness of the homes that don’t come with a kitchen or indoor plumbing? Yes, again! I watch House Hunters because I get to go to open houses all over the world without leaving the comfort of my couch.

(image via misterhomes.com)

I didn’t realize how serious my problem had become until this past weekend when Oregano walked into the family room and with great concern in his voice said, “House Hunters is on. Why are you facing away from the television and staring out the window? Are you OK?  Have you seen this episode before?”

Without turning my head to glance in his direction, I pointed out the window and replied, “There’s a bird that keeps flying from the branch of the maple tree to the birdhouse. He hasn’t gone into the birdhouse yet, but he seems to be considering moving into the neighborhood.”

Birdhouse 1: Starter Home

Oregano looked out the window at the bird as I continued, “Birdhouse 1 is a brightly colored, traditional, A-frame in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. There is a small-scale entry, perfect for the security petite birds often need when being harassed by their larger, bird neighbors. It is an ideal starter home for a young couple about to begin a family. The home was renovated last summer and it is in move-in ready condition.”

As soon as I finished speaking, Oregano and I burst out laughing at how ridiculous I sounded. We sat mesmerized by the bird’s actions until it flew away without committing to a property. Did this bird fly off to tour the other bird real estate available in our garden?  If so, would he visit 3 of our 5 currently unoccupied homes before making a decision?

In my best Suzanne Whang imitation, I began describing Birdhouse 2. “This well maintained, older home has a lovely garden view. While the interior of the home may seem cramped, there are many branches in nearby trees that can be used as outdoor living space. Since this home was previously occupied by empty-nesters who are now downsizing and moving south, all of the furnishings are included in the list price. Although a bit farther away from amenities and the popular, local restaurant, The Bird Feeder, this home is still within easy flying distance for a short commute.”

Birdhouse 2: Fully Furnished

Oregano followed me to the living room windows and I continued my sales pitch, “Birdhouse 3 is an intriguing option in a completely different neighborhood than the other two homes. It’s located in a new development with plenty of nearby trees and restaurants of its own. This non-traditional, modern home boasts high ceilings and a spacious interior with an open floor plan. Being made from a hollowed out gourd makes this home ideal for the eco-conscious bird family that wants to lessen its impact on the environment.”

Birdhouse 3: High Ceiling

“It’s a buyer’s market for the many birds that are returning to our garden from their winter abroad. Which houses will they choose?” I said concluding my birdhouse real estate presentation. Oregano shook his head with laughter and disbelief, “It might be time for me to remove HGTV from our channel line-up and stage an intervention for you.”

He might be right this time.

**And now a word from our sponsor**

Thanks to Clip Snark, Laughing at Everyday Life, Elyse at FiftyFourandAHalf and Curly Carly at That’s Just Ridiculous for inviting me to play blog tag with them and for sending some of their readers my way. I look forward to reading each of their blogs, so pop on over and tell ‘em Paprika sent you.

Many thanks to Tracey from Cupcakingly Delicious Cake Diaries for honoring me with a Versatile Blogger Award. If you’d like a calorie free way to enjoy some dessert, head on over to her blog.

Lock and Load

Spring has come early to the Northeast and along with the warm temperatures and the early blooming trees comes the inundation of pollen and the subsequent sniffling, sneezing and sinus headaches. Many allergy sufferers rely on antihistamines and decongestants to get them through the worst of their symptoms and I’m no exception. As the pollen count rises, so too does the number of pills I pop to get some relief. In the good old days, I could count on buying pseudoephedrine (Sudafed) in warehouse-sized packages that would tide me over for the entire spring allergy season. Now, thanks to drug dealers skilled in concocting homemade methamphetamine, I can only buy my allergy medication in small quantities if I’m willing to sign my life away.

In an effort to curb the flow of methamphetamine into the world of illegal drugs, the government has made it difficult to obtain pseudoephedrine, the active ingredient in the decongestant Sudafed and a key component in the creation of meth. Because of these restrictions, innocent, sniffling, stuffy-headed allergy sufferers like me can only get their pseudoephedrine from behind the pharmacy counter. We must present photo identification, provide our addresses and sign our names to this information which will then be kept in a database for two years. Apparently, the technology for retinal scanning was cost prohibitive. In addition, there are strict limits placed on the amount of pseudoephedrine we can purchase over the course of a single month. The days of buying jumbo sized packages of Sudafed are over.

(image via upnorthhealth.com)

Several times a month during allergy season, I return to the pharmacy counter to begin hoarding my monthly allotment. With a head full of mucus and a shopping cart full of extra soft tissues with lotion, I ask for my drugs and submit to the grand inquisition.  Between sneezes, I ask if there is any way I can purchase a few extra doses to prevent me from having to return each week. To prove that I couldn’t possibly make meth, I’ve offered to provide the pharmacist a copy of my high school transcript showing the “D” that I received in my chemistry class. No amount of sneezing, wheezing or lack of understanding of chemistry could play on his sympathies and convince him to sell me just a bit more of my drug of choice.

As if all this hassle to get medication during the height of allergy season isn’t bad enough, criminal entrepreneurs are now interfering with my dirty laundry. They have discovered that the pricey laundry detergent Tide has great street value and is a hot item on the black-market. These masterminds steal bottles of Tide then resell the ill-gotten suds in less than reputable stores, flea markets or out of the trunks of their cars at laundromats. Bargain hunters with laundry to do purchase this easily recognized, expensive, brand-name detergent at a substantially reduced price. Thanks to the five-finger discount, the purveyors of this detergent have no pesky overhead charges eating into the profits. Newly flush with cash, these peddlers hightail it to their “pharmacists” to get their drugs of choice, and you can bet they won’t be filling out any forms. It’s a win-win for everyone, except the stores that are being ripped off.

(image via coupondad.net)

I would never make it in the criminal underworld; I’m just not clever enough. It would never occur to me to steal a bright orange, heavy, bulky bottle of laundry detergent and resell it. It’s really a brilliant plan though, illegal, but brilliant. You’ve got to admire the ingenuity behind this trend. Everyone does laundry so it is easy to get rid of the stolen merchandise. Laundry detergent doesn’t have serial numbers so it is untraceable. I’m not a lawyer, but I’d be willing to bet that the punishment for shoplifting laundry detergent is less severe than those for stealing high ticket items like jewelry, electronics and cars. Someone trying to sell multiple pieces of jewelry or a luxury car might arouse suspicion, but if someone gets pulled over with a trunk full of Tide, they probably can’t be arrested for possession with intent to sell, especially if the car is filled with dirty clothes.

Thanks to this cleaning supply crime spree, stores are considering security systems for Tide. I don’t know if that means there will be those little sensors that department stores put on clothing to trigger an alarm or if the Tide will be kept under lock and key requiring a store employee to retrieve it. Whatever method stores choose to use to protect themselves, it is certain to make my grocery shopping experience even more irritating. Instead of just waiting in the line at the pharmacy, I’ll also get to wait in line in the household cleaner aisle waiting for someone to unlock the detergent.

Criminals have made allergy season even more miserable for law-abiding allergy sufferers and now they are working their way into our dirty clothes hampers. I’ve given this some thought and realize that there are fewer restrictions for buying alcohol. As long as I can prove that I am 21 years old, I can buy as much liquor as I would like, as often as I would like, without the state batting an eye in my direction. Perhaps what I really need to do is bypass the pharmacy and household cleaner aisle and head to the liquor store. I can get drunk and forget about my allergies and the dirty laundry.

When Worlds Collide

From the time we are toddlers we are told not to talk to people we don’t know. The internet has opened up a whole new world of virtual strangers to us. Chatting on-line is just the technological equivalent of talking to a stranger who is waving a lollipop at you from inside a van with dark windows. The essence of blogging is communicating with people that you don’t know and may never meet, yet somehow you feel as if you know them from their writing or comments. Of course, there are frequent news reports about people who had these same thoughts right before their real life encounters with internet strangers came to a tragic end.

I had this in mind as I opened an e-mail from Ronnie of Morristown Memos. She seemed friendly in an e-mail that started off with “You should never meet anyone you’ve met on the internet, but would you like to meet me and Lisa from Main Street Musings for lunch?” To sweeten the deal, she offered to let me pick the restaurant and bring Oregano or Bruschetta with me as back-up. Since the fall, I’ve enjoyed reading their blogs and sharing comments with them. When I realized that they didn’t live far from me, I secretly hoped that I would someday meet them. I was glad that Ronnie was adventurous enough to reach out to me and I happily accepted her invitation.

When I told my friends and family about our upcoming lunch date there was unanimous disapproval and concern.

“There’s two of them and one of you. They could overpower you,” said some friends.

“I’m 4’11”. A fourth grader could overpower me. Besides what would they do with me once they’ve overpowered me?” I asked.

“They could put chloroform on a napkin and hold it over your face. When you’re unconscious, they could dump you in the trunk of their car,” added another friend.

“How exactly does one procure chloroform?” I countered.

“They don’t need chloroform. They could spike your iced tea at lunch and then drag your lifeless body out to the parking lot and stuff it in the trunk of the car.”

“Don’t you think someone in the restaurant would notice two women dragging a lifeless body out the door?” I reasoned.

I was fairly certain that these things wouldn’t happen. It seemed like a very involved scheme to kidnap a 40-something woman whose husband and parents may or may not be willing to pay a ransom for her return. If they were in this for the money, I was definitely not a financial sure-thing. When Oregano finally realized that I had my mind set on meeting these ladies his parting words to me were, “Make sure your cell phone is fully charged and keep it on so that we can track your body if you don’t come home later.”

I’m a worrier, but I’d like to think of myself as an optimistic worrier. I think about all the things that can go wrong, but hope that they won’t.  As the day of our blind date approached I felt excitement tinged with trepidation. Aside from the ridiculous kidnap scenarios my friends and family had laid out for me, I had more practical concerns. Would they like me? Would we get along as well in reality as we do in the virtual world? Or, would this be so awkward that I’d have to fake a trip to the ladies’ room and make a break for it?

On the morning of our lunch date, I checked my e-mail and saw that Ronnie had written a post called “FORBIDDEN RENDEZVOUS.” After reading her post I realized that we shared the same concerns, although she had one distinct disadvantage; she didn’t know my real identity. She asked her readers to leave comments about what they thought of her meeting with the mystery woman. It was laughable to read their comments and concerns and know it was me they were talking about.

When I arrived at the restaurant there was only one other car in a parking lot with so many potholes it looked like it had recently been used as a missile testing site. As I walked up to the building to wait for them, I realized that this might look like I lured them to an abandoned restaurant to throw them into the trunk of my car. I knew I wasn’t a crazy killer, but they didn’t know that yet.

I pulled this tin from my purse as my identification.

I waited anxiously in the lobby for them to arrive. Every time I heard a car pull into the lot I would stand up and look out the window to catch a glimpse of them. I was sure I would recognize Lisa from the photo on her blog, but I had no idea what Ronnie would look like. The moment I saw Lisa’s curls bouncing through the door I knew it was them and they recognized me. We greeted each other with warm hugs and smiles as if we were friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time instead of strangers who had never met before. To prove it was me, I reached into my purse and pulled out the vintage paprika spice tin I use as my gravatar then I revealed my true identity.

The time we spent chatting flew by. We shared our experiences about blogging, discussed ideas for writing and talked about our lives. Many people complain that spending too much time in the virtual world and not enough face to face time in the real world is causing people to lose their social skills. I’m happy that two virtual strangers stepped into reality to materialize into new friends.

High Anxiety

In my previous post I wrote about “meet and seat” programs that some airlines are implementing to allow passengers to select their seatmates based on their FaceBook or LinkedIn profiles. Some travelers think it is a great idea while others enjoy the serendipity of arriving on a flight and seeing who the Fates have chosen for them to sit next to. I enjoy the surprise of the seatmate lottery during the few times a year I fly for vacations. Since I’m traveling with Oregano, I’m guaranteed to have at least one person next to me with whom I have something in common. Over the years, on my non-Oregano side, I’ve had a wide array of seatmates: quiet ones, chatty ones, way too chatty ones and smelly ones. There was even a woman who quietly wept for an entire cross-country flight, but all of these seatmates pale in comparison to a man named Filbert.

Oregano and I were flying home from Florida and arrived at the airport earlier than we anticipated. For a nominal fee, we were given the option to take an earlier flight. The only catch was that the seats were not next to each other; they were the middle seats on each side of the same row. No problem. Once we boarded the plane, we could ask someone if they would mind swapping seats so that we could sit together. If not, oh well, we’d just spent 8 days alone together; three hours separated by two people and an aisle might be a refreshing change.

When we arrived at our designated row, I asked the large, older gentleman who had the aisle seat next to me to move so that I could get into my seat. The loud groan he made upon standing coupled with incessant muttering about how uncomfortable he was made me realize that he would not be a good candidate for the switch. I climbed into my middle seat between him and a young woman. As I reached to buckle my seatbelt, I realized that my big and tall seatmate was taking up more than his fair share of our already cramped personal space. His long legs were spread widely apart instead of directly in front of him. I looked to see what was under the seat in front of him that was preventing his feet from being where they should be. Two black eyes and a mop of white fur stared back at me through the mesh panel of a duffle bag style dog carrier.

Filbert saw me glancing down at his dog and, without solicitation, loudly said, “The bastard flight attendant made me zip the bag all the way up for take-off.”  My crotchety seatmate continued, “The dog flies with me all the time. Once, I flew all the way to California with her on my lap. I know for a fact that there is absolutely no need for my dog to be zipped into the bag. Bastards!”

Just as he was finishing the tale of his dog’s airline experience, a different “bastard flight attendant” walked to our row and asked, “Who has the service dog?”

I looked down our row to see if there were any other dogs sitting among us. I expected to see a German shepherd, Labrador retriever or some other dog of that size, but when I didn’t, my eyes darted to the dog that was so small it fit into a bag that fit neatly under an airline seat. Service dog? This thing was a shih tzu. What kind of service does a tiny shih tzu provide for this not so tiny man who clearly has the use of all of his senses? The “bastard flight attendant’s” inquiry prompted the man to groan dramatically, stand up slowly and announce that he had recently been released from the hospital. As he shuffled through the papers in his vintage, hard-sided suitcase he complained, “It’s ridiculous that I need to show you these papers!”

Now, one would think that a man with a dog with such vast flight experience would know to keep the necessary papers in the seat back pocket in front of him, but I digress from the real issue which is…. what kind of service does a shih tzu provide? Apparently this same question was on the minds of those of us privileged to be seated in Row 6 with Filbert. We all looked quizzically at each other. Our outgoing friend must have sensed our curiosity because he broadcasted, “My psychiatrist writes me a note stating that I have anxiety issues when flying. The dog provides emotional support and calms me down during flights.” He went on to further clarify his point, “Don’t worry. I don’t really have anxiety and I am not a nut case or anything. The doctor just writes the note so that I don’t have to pay this damn airline the $75 fee for carrying a pet on board.”

A medically certified nervous flyer and a dog, I had hit the airline seatmate jackpot! There was no way I would be switching seats now and I’m betting there was no way anyone within earshot would be willing to switch with me at this point anyway.

When Filbert finally settled himself into his seat, I quickly pulled out my book hoping to project the image that I wasn’t interested in chatting with him for the duration of the flight. Sometimes this simple action is enough of a non-verbal clue to deter someone from conversing with me. It must have worked because Filbert promptly turned to the middle-aged man seated across the aisle and engaged him in conversation.

It was impossible to focus on my book because Filbert’s booming voice was echoing in my ears, but I wasn’t about to close my book lest he turn his attention to me. If avoiding conversation with him meant I had to stare blankly at that book and turn a page every few minutes for the entire flight, I was going to do it. Alas, he wore out the conversation with the man across the aisle and despite my best efforts to avoid eye contact, Filbert began talking to me.

“Why aren’t you sitting with your husband? Don’t you two like each other?” was his conversation starter.

The woman in the seat on the other side of me began to convulse with laughter and buried her face in her hands.

Without looking up, I disinterestedly replied, “We weren’t able to get seats together.”

“Why don’t you ask someone to switch with you so you can sit together?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter. We can sit apart for a few hours. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I said, all while not lifting my eyes from my book.

In an effort to spare me from more conversation with Filbert, the woman to my right began asking me about the book I was reading. She winked at me, lifted her arm rest and scooched over in her seat to give me a bit more wiggle room away from Filbert. We sat, sharing some quality ass space, and chatted about books.

Filbert got a bit jealous and leaned across the aisle to get Oregano’s attention. “Hey, your wife’s making a new best friend over here. You better watch out.” Oregano just nodded his head and smiled that kind of smile reserved for small children and crazy people.

Filbert was quiet for a bit, much to everyone’s surprise and auditory pleasure. Then the “bastard flight attendants” began the beverage and snack service. Filbert requested a drink for himself and water with ice for his “service dog.”  When the drinks arrived, he unzipped the bag and the dog’s head and upper body popped out. Filbert introduced her to us and began giving the dog ice cubes while babbling on about how much she enjoys them. It wasn’t long before Filbert’s beverage worked its way through his urinary tract and he needed to use the lavatory. Guess who he asked to watch the dog while he was away from his seat?  It’s not like I could refuse. I couldn’t exactly say I was busy or that I had somewhere else to go. As he lumbered down the aisle, I wondered how long a man with his health problems could be in the bathroom.

The minute the dog realized her owner was gone, she began wriggling to get out of the bag. I tried to zip her back in as best I could, but there was already quite a bit of dog sticking out of the bag and I didn’t want to shove her back in. So, my only choice was to lean down between the seats, pet her and speak reassuringly about her owner’s return. When that didn’t stop her squirming, I scooped ice cubes out of my drink and held them in my hand as she licked at them. I used my dry, dog saliva-free hand to hold her in place lest she break free of her duffle bag and begin running around the cabin. The sight of me bent over and squashed between the seats holding Filbert’s dog while simultaneously attempting to feed her ice cubes made everyone in Row 6 snicker uncontrollably. Oregano looked at me and said, “Only you could get yourself into a predicament like this.”

Thankfully, Filbert returned after 10 minutes then proclaimed to the whole plane, or maybe it just felt that way with his booming voice, that the dog loved me and had made a new friend. I was just making friends all over the place on this flight. Lively and perked up from his caffeinated beverage and jaunt to the potty, Filbert renewed his vigor for conversation much to the chagrin of everyone trapped within listening range. No one in Row 6 was immune to Filbert’s invasive and somewhat inappropriate questions. The only thing that stopped him was that eventually he needed to tinkle again. I was back on dog sitting duty since I had done such a stellar job earlier. The shih tzu was no less anxious this time around. Despite Filbert’s assurances that the dog and I had become fast friends, she was eagerly trying to break out of the bag. I spent another tense few minutes holding down the dog with one hand while the ice cubes I offered her melted in my other hand as she lapped up the water running through my fingers. Luckily, I managed to keep my charge in her carrier and was spared any additional dog sitting duties for the remainder of the flight. Later, as I reflected on the dog’s behavior, perhaps she was thinking that this was her only chance to escape from Filbert.

Who would have willingly chosen to sit next to Filbert after reading a profile describing him as a large, loud, older gentleman with a fear of flying, service dog and a tiny bladder?  I’m certain I would not have, but look at the opportunity I would have missed out on. Sometimes it is more interesting to see what the universe has in store for you. It gives you a chance to exercise the ability to make the best of a situation and find the humor in it. After all, Filbert was the best in-flight entertainment I have ever experienced.

From the Far Side by Gary Larson