All posts in Humor

Getting Gas is Fun?

When visiting New Jersey a few years ago, I had my picture taken with Louie, the man in charge of pumping my gas. “Hurry up, baby,” he quipped in his abrupt New Jersey accent.

What he didn’t really understand was that the rest of the citizens in the United States pump their own gas. You must know that sweet pic made my Facebook wall.

Usually, I do not relish pumping gas. Especially if it’s cold—or hot. Or I’m tired, or have someplace to go.

Enter, Gas Station TV or GSTV for short. Here is how it works. Pulling up to the pump, you insert your card, type in your zip code and voila! The pump comes to life with car commercials, ESPN interviews, car commercials, Twitter Trending facts, car commercials, and word of the day information. (BTW, today it is bombogenesis.)

Here is my problem…after a particularly generous friend of mine gave me a little go-kart-like car that gets over 30mpg, my tank doesn’t hold much. Therefore, I usually only get a quick interview and three car commercials.

It’s disappointing.

I hardly watch TV and rarely surf the web. I work as a Social Worker, go home, do a few household chores and go to bed. So GSTV is my only TV fix.

Sometimes, I pump the gas real slow as to view an entire loop of the segment.

Pitiful.

This morning, Tom told me to drive his truck which needed gas. Secretly, I was glad. I learned a new word, got caught up on Bill Belichick possibly either retiring or going to another team. I learned that John Gruden signed a contract with the Raiders for a 100 mil over 10 years.

Not every gas pump gives you that kind of useful information.

Maybe I should purchase a gas-guzzler for my next vehicle. Or Tom could loan me his truck every day.

Probably the cheapest thing to do is watch a little more TV.

Who needs Louie, anyway?

 

 

 

Do You Think Siri Will Trust Me?

Image result for picture of siri the phone

 

I lied to Siri.

On several occasions.

I wouldn’t feel so bad if it was the Snarky Siri who would often take me out of my way to a destination. Or who made me feel foolish for asking her a question.

No, I fired her.

Now I have British Bobby, Siri. And he is amazing. Not only is he polite and accommodating, he has the coolest accent ever. I feel smarter just talking with him.

Here is the problem… I have somehow programmed my phone to keep notifications from me while I am driving. This is a public service, I might add. Driving hairpin curves at 60mph is not for sissies and not for someone who is trying to read a text. In that aspect, it is great.

But I can talk to my phone without looking at it and call someone. Sometimes it’s the only time I have time to talk. So, the other day on my way home, when I stopped for gas, I tried calling my daughter. A picture of a car showed up with two tabs. One said, CANCEL. The other said, I’M NOT DRIVING.

I thought about it for a few seconds, and before I knew it, I pushed the I’M NOT DRIVING tab. Technically, I wasn’t driving, but it is the first in several deceptions to British Bobby.

I feel terrible. I mean, he is so nice to me. He looks up words for me, does all my math, and gives me exact driving directions with a classy accent.

Also, I feel weird. I mean, I am lying to my phone.

Sure, I’ve had a lot of problems with my appliances. I hated my dishwasher and loved my refrigerator in Florida. I’m kind of afraid of Roger Rumba who joined us in North Carolina, and when it comes to computers and office equipment, let’s just say I have to disguise myself with my trademark plastic glasses and big nose to get them to work.

Then I have to get someone to help.

But I have never lied to them. Not until this week.

Do you think British Bobby Siri will ever trust me again? I mean, if I say, Please remind me of an appointment with the doctor next Friday at 3PM. Do you think he might say, Are you sure you are going to the doctor? Maybe you’re meeting some other phone, or going to the AT & T store Pauline?

That is the problem with deception. You have to keep it up.

Do me a favor will you? If Siri asks you if I’m honest please tell him or her yes, because they communicate while we are doing other things other than staring at our phone. And I wouldn’t want British Bobby to hear of my deceit. (I just asked him for another word for deception and he aptly suggested deceit.)

Isn’t he great!

The Joy of it All

“Your place looks amazing!” I gawked as I entered my daughter’s Atlanta, Mid-Town apartment. The transformation was almost supernatural. Sarah had explained to me about a book titled, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, but I was skeptical.

To put it in farming terms, let’s just say Sarah wasn’t ever the cleanest hen in the coop. Neither am I.

So when I entered the immaculate apartment, sparsely furnished, with a place for everything, (which wasn’t much) I couldn’t believe it.

Sarah explained. “I read it to David, and together we went through everything in our apartment. I’ve cut my wardrobe in half since I was only wearing half, and our important papers all fit in one bin. I don’t hold on to anything that doesn’t bring me joy.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” I said making my way out to the car. “Let me get my stuff and put it away.” I was to babysit my grandson for a few days while Sarah and David celebrated their anniversary.

“Hey Mom,” she hesitated. “Could you make sure everything is neat and clean when you leave?” She grinned.

“I’ve heard those words before.” I unpacked my toiletries. I always left a few of them at her apartment for my convenience.

“Where’s my toothbrush.”

“Um, I think I threw it out.”

“Okay, do you have an extra?”

She scampered away and came back with a clean one. “And where are my slippers?” I asked while looking under the cabinet where I always kept them.

“They didn’t bring me joy,” she said sheepishly.

I stopped. “You threw them away?” I paused for effect. “It’s a good thing I didn’t read this book while you were a teenager.”

We both smiled, because we are mother and daughter, yes. But now, we’re also friends.

Even though she did throw my slippers away.

A New Kind of Soup

“So Brian, what does your grandfather do again?”

Brian is a young man who helps around the farm who actually knows something about farming. “He takes the chicken poop, puts it in a feed bag in a 55-gallon drum, and adds water. Then, he takes a stick and stirs it around. He’s been doing that for years and it really makes the plants grow!” (Imagine this conversation with absolutely no expression on his 20-year-old face and a real southern drawl.)

“Okay, I want some chicken poop soup. Will you help me make it?”

I thought I’d stepped out of my comfort zone when I processed one of our hens who’d been played with to death by our livestock guardian dogs and made chicken pie. (It was NOT good, by the way–never eat a chicken after it’s been played with by big white dogs for an hour. Lesson learned.) But chicken poop soup…who knew?

I am famous for taking almost anything from my refrigerator and making something palatable for dinner. My kids often said I should host a TV show called, “Clean Out the Refrigerator Cooking.” (I am willing dear television producer.) But chicken poop soup is way off their radar, too.

We decided on a gray garbage can. “Where do you want me to put it?” Brian asked.

“Good question.” Where does one keep such a concoction. “Put it near the driveway but not too near the house.”

Brian mixed it up. I gawked as he filled the white feed sack with North Carolina Gold. Then he added water. Next he swished it up and down in the can and poked a stick in the bag several times. Brown liquid seeped out of the sack.

What can I say, but I was impressed. Impressed Brian knew about the soup. Amazed at his resourcefulness. Touched by the knowledge handed down from one generation to the next.

I’ve learned a lot from the people around me. I’ve learned that a bush hog is not a pig in the woods, I’ve learned not to lift your hand at a poultry auction to scratch your face, and that it’s okay to hold up the line in the store a bit to find out how a person really is doing.

I’d like to think I could teach them a few things. Like ordering at Starbucks. Or wearing your sandals all the way to the sand at the beach in August if you want to avoid 3rd degree burns, or cutting across 8 lanes of traffic to pull into your favorite restaurant.

Those things are good to know, too.

But for now, my soup is stewing. I just don’t know how to get it out of the can.

 

 

The Appliances in My Life

The relationship I’ve experienced over the years with my appliances has been tenuous, to say the least. (I just looked that word up.)

I’ve loved very few, been indifferent to most, and hated some.

For instance, I hated my old dishwasher. Really, a more apt name would have been, Frustrate Pauline to Death and Make Her Work More machine. But that is in the past. Hakuna Matata.

Now I hate my side-by-side refrigerator. Who thought of such a thing? Obviously someone who didn’t ever ever care about freezing anything since nothing fits except frozen pot pies. (Not that I eat them.) AND they never have eaten a frozen pizza in their entire lives. Obviously, the inventor must have eaten out all the time.

But I loved my old dryer. In fact, when it finally died after 20+ years, I hugged it and when Tom took it away to dryer heaven he discovered about $25 in coins and cash. Like the side-by-side refrigerator inventor, we went out to eat that day. (No socks by the way.)

In all the years of appliance owning, I’ve never been fearful of an appliance. Until now.

It’s my vacuum cleaner. Really, it’s a the iRobot Roomba. Since building an outside kitchen for cooking my products, I’ve been able to let my standard poodle, Sam back in. He’s no problem, because he doesn’t shed. It’s the mutt dog, Barnabas and my ferocious kitty, Bree that are the problem.

They shed. Big time.

So, as a gift to myself, I purchased Roger Roomba.

About every other day, I turn my kitchen chairs upside down on the table, load the counter stools on the couch, and push Roger’s navel twice. He sings a robotic war-like charge song and begins to scoot gingerly around my wood floors. I can’t watch although I’ve been mesmerized on several occasions at his antics. In fact, after he is throughly convinced he has every single strand of pet hair in his belly, he returns to his home on the black stand plugged into the wall.

However, the other day, he chased me. Wherever I went, he went. Finally, I locked myself in my office while I listened to his faraway war chant. Retrieving my coffee put me at risk, but you coffee drinkers know I had no choice.

He headed right at me, I zigged and zagged like a running back.

And then I fell.

And when you’re past 50, falling is a bad thing.

But Roger does his job.

Now I’m taking two cups of coffee in my office with me.

And when Roger goes home, I come out.

In all relationships there are compromises. And I’m okay with that.