Random attempts at humor writing by a lefty.
5/31/2010
Little Hotot Bunny!
Anything the kids and I think are cute at the moment. Hotots are the smallest domestic rabbit breed I know about. They should get no bigger than 2 1/2 pounds. The big screen door that Sugars is sitting before is actually a fireplace screen. Sugars is full grown and I can easily carry him one-handed. He is sweet and playful.
Hotots should be white with banded eyes. This means he looks like he is wearing black eyeliner and mascara. His big black eyes are enhanced by natural makeup. I envy his lovely jet black eyelashes.
5/25/2010
N Y CEEEE!!! You're thinner without me!
I went to NYC this weekend for a Gotham Writers' Workshop and had a wonderful adventure. I enjoyed the workshop even though I once again felt like an object in that preschool Sesame Street exercise in which "one of these things is not like the others..." I was the blonde Southern girl who was not already in the profession of writing in some capacity. This seemed to lead to the assumption that I had never been to The Big Apple based on politely solicitous questions like "Oh, how long will you be in the City?" and "Well, that's good, are you going to see a show?"
Also as the token Southerner, I felt compelled to advise one classmate that referring to a grown man in the South as a "boy" as in "a typical Southern boy" was insulting; whereas, preceding boy with "good ol'" turned it into an acceptable characterisation.
(Sara Barron taught the workshop.)
During my free time, Big E and I had a great time walking around and seeing the sights. We also rode the subway. We visited the Chelsea area, the Financial District including Ground Zero, ate at Lombardi's in Little Italy, and spent four hours in The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Big E checked off an item on his bucket list by getting his picture taken in front of the Stock Exchange. The city felt vibrant and safe, and I don't know why people insist that New Yorkers are rude. Just because they don't smile and wave at everyone they see, doesn't make them rude. It means they are in NEW YORK CITY and would be exhausted if they went around greeting and waving and saying "excuse me" to anyone that passed within 10 feet - like Southerners do.
It was a perfect Spring weekend and there were huge street festivals on the Upper West Side and in Little Italy. We managed to hinder walking traffic in both areas. I bought beads from a Chinese New Yorker and one-size-fits-most dresses and tops from a Middle Eastern New Yorker. I ate a delicious filafel wrap and an amazing cannoli and not once did I see a corn dog or a cauldron of boiled peanuts! I did see several signs that said, "Curb your dog" and realized I didn't know what that means. Signs regarding dogs in my neck of the woods usually say "Beware of the Dog" and sometimes someone will threaten to "shoot your dog", but "curb..."?
There was one giant negative that spewed mental exhaust fumes over the entire weekend. I was forced to realize that what I've heard is true - Southerners are fatter. I first noticed that there were many women in New York City wearing legging as pants. In the South we wear leggings the same way we wear tights. They are basically just thicker footless tights around here. One wears them under a short skirt or under Daisy Duke denim shorts during the cooler months - like January. Younger ladies may wear them under a long tunic; but women in the Big Apple wear their leggings with waist length tops and use nothing else to cover their lower parts, as if they were wearing more substantial pants or jeans! And the horror of it is - they are skinny enough to do it without creating a padunkadunk sensation!
As the weekend hours went by and I saw more and more city tushies in leggings or extra-skinny jeans, I started to feel increasingly Rubenesque. The sensation of being the curviest, jiggliest person within a 500 foot radius was disheartening and may even explain why I bought the one-size-fits-most clothing. I must mention at this point that I am within the preferred weight range for my height according to life insurance underwriting guidelines. I may be at the very top of the range, but hey, I have children and I'm 40! I usually take comfort in gazing at the Preferred Guidelines chart that I have stapled to the wall over my desk. That was before I immersed myself among the skinny britches of New York City (and I'm tempted to drop the r).
Ironically, New York City dwellers probably get more exercise than rural Georgians. They walk almost everywhere or ride the subway where they must be sufficiently able to trot up and down steps. The New York Subway system does not seem to employ escalators as the underdeveloped MARTA system in Atlanta does with slothful abandon. I think we did more walking in three days than we usually do in a month. I typically drive to work, to home, to any shopping, and even to see a neighbor. I can almost make the excuse to drive to my mailbox when I'm menstrating or otherwise fatigued and grouchy. If I walk outdoors it is referred to as "going for a walk" and is a trek for the express purpose of getting some exercise. It usually involves small hills and an elliptical course that leads me back to my air-conditioned, ground floor living room and a refreshing can of diet Dr. Pepper which I may or may not recycle. (We saw many signs in the City telling us that "New York recycles!")
If we didn't have a two-story house, I could go all week without hazarding a set of steps. Neither do I have to curb my dogs or take them for walks, as do a surprising number of those City dwellers. It didn't arouse my curiosity to see so many chihuahuas and other small breeds trotting obediently down the sidewalks on the ends of their loose leashes; but I did marvel at the percentage of large dogs, including one bull mastiff and several rottweillers, that brave apartment-living people were committed to managing.
I crowed to Big E, "See! It's not just Rednecks that have too many dogs!"
To which he wisely countered, "Yeah, but it's Rednecks that have dogs that poop all over the place and bark all the time."
I couldn't argue with that as I observed these active and skinny dog-walkers of New York gingerly plucking poops from the sidewalk with plastic-clad hands as their doggies waited patiently without frantic vocalizing at every passerby.
Maybe it's my new commitment to develop my ability to write witty descriptive prose through keen observations that led me to recognize the incongruous habits of New Yorkers and Southerners. Maybe my hormone levels were just making me feel fat, lazy, and stupid; but when we finally arrived back in Atlanta on Sunday night, I derived immense satisfaction from the sight of several padunkadunk butts bouncing along the terminal in front of me and squeezing onto the escalators. And that night I plopped my average ass into my own king-sized bed in my Georgia home where my uncurbed doggies can roam and I don't have to scoop their poop.
Also as the token Southerner, I felt compelled to advise one classmate that referring to a grown man in the South as a "boy" as in "a typical Southern boy" was insulting; whereas, preceding boy with "good ol'" turned it into an acceptable characterisation.
(Sara Barron taught the workshop.)
During my free time, Big E and I had a great time walking around and seeing the sights. We also rode the subway. We visited the Chelsea area, the Financial District including Ground Zero, ate at Lombardi's in Little Italy, and spent four hours in The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Big E checked off an item on his bucket list by getting his picture taken in front of the Stock Exchange. The city felt vibrant and safe, and I don't know why people insist that New Yorkers are rude. Just because they don't smile and wave at everyone they see, doesn't make them rude. It means they are in NEW YORK CITY and would be exhausted if they went around greeting and waving and saying "excuse me" to anyone that passed within 10 feet - like Southerners do.
It was a perfect Spring weekend and there were huge street festivals on the Upper West Side and in Little Italy. We managed to hinder walking traffic in both areas. I bought beads from a Chinese New Yorker and one-size-fits-most dresses and tops from a Middle Eastern New Yorker. I ate a delicious filafel wrap and an amazing cannoli and not once did I see a corn dog or a cauldron of boiled peanuts! I did see several signs that said, "Curb your dog" and realized I didn't know what that means. Signs regarding dogs in my neck of the woods usually say "Beware of the Dog" and sometimes someone will threaten to "shoot your dog", but "curb..."?
There was one giant negative that spewed mental exhaust fumes over the entire weekend. I was forced to realize that what I've heard is true - Southerners are fatter. I first noticed that there were many women in New York City wearing legging as pants. In the South we wear leggings the same way we wear tights. They are basically just thicker footless tights around here. One wears them under a short skirt or under Daisy Duke denim shorts during the cooler months - like January. Younger ladies may wear them under a long tunic; but women in the Big Apple wear their leggings with waist length tops and use nothing else to cover their lower parts, as if they were wearing more substantial pants or jeans! And the horror of it is - they are skinny enough to do it without creating a padunkadunk sensation!
As the weekend hours went by and I saw more and more city tushies in leggings or extra-skinny jeans, I started to feel increasingly Rubenesque. The sensation of being the curviest, jiggliest person within a 500 foot radius was disheartening and may even explain why I bought the one-size-fits-most clothing. I must mention at this point that I am within the preferred weight range for my height according to life insurance underwriting guidelines. I may be at the very top of the range, but hey, I have children and I'm 40! I usually take comfort in gazing at the Preferred Guidelines chart that I have stapled to the wall over my desk. That was before I immersed myself among the skinny britches of New York City (and I'm tempted to drop the r).
Ironically, New York City dwellers probably get more exercise than rural Georgians. They walk almost everywhere or ride the subway where they must be sufficiently able to trot up and down steps. The New York Subway system does not seem to employ escalators as the underdeveloped MARTA system in Atlanta does with slothful abandon. I think we did more walking in three days than we usually do in a month. I typically drive to work, to home, to any shopping, and even to see a neighbor. I can almost make the excuse to drive to my mailbox when I'm menstrating or otherwise fatigued and grouchy. If I walk outdoors it is referred to as "going for a walk" and is a trek for the express purpose of getting some exercise. It usually involves small hills and an elliptical course that leads me back to my air-conditioned, ground floor living room and a refreshing can of diet Dr. Pepper which I may or may not recycle. (We saw many signs in the City telling us that "New York recycles!")
If we didn't have a two-story house, I could go all week without hazarding a set of steps. Neither do I have to curb my dogs or take them for walks, as do a surprising number of those City dwellers. It didn't arouse my curiosity to see so many chihuahuas and other small breeds trotting obediently down the sidewalks on the ends of their loose leashes; but I did marvel at the percentage of large dogs, including one bull mastiff and several rottweillers, that brave apartment-living people were committed to managing.
I crowed to Big E, "See! It's not just Rednecks that have too many dogs!"
To which he wisely countered, "Yeah, but it's Rednecks that have dogs that poop all over the place and bark all the time."
I couldn't argue with that as I observed these active and skinny dog-walkers of New York gingerly plucking poops from the sidewalk with plastic-clad hands as their doggies waited patiently without frantic vocalizing at every passerby.
Maybe it's my new commitment to develop my ability to write witty descriptive prose through keen observations that led me to recognize the incongruous habits of New Yorkers and Southerners. Maybe my hormone levels were just making me feel fat, lazy, and stupid; but when we finally arrived back in Atlanta on Sunday night, I derived immense satisfaction from the sight of several padunkadunk butts bouncing along the terminal in front of me and squeezing onto the escalators. And that night I plopped my average ass into my own king-sized bed in my Georgia home where my uncurbed doggies can roam and I don't have to scoop their poop.
5/03/2010
Top 10 list: To a "stand up" guy
Top ten reasons you can only come up with "dirty" jokes:
10. You spend a lot of your time talking to sex addicts and heavy masturbators.
9. You try to come up with your material while playing "guitar" for def chics.
8. You still think you are a participant in trials for Cialis.
7. You haven't figured out that you should schedule your late night gigs telling jokes to winos during your wife's "special time of the month" and GO HOME with wine on the other nights!
6. Dirty jokes suit the quality of audience in the clubs that will give you mic time.
5. When you said you really wanted to come up with a set you could do in front of your kids - you were LYING!
4. Your mother was an empathic and "generous" woman. (That's right, yo' mama!)
3. Your braille underwear is too tight.
2. You think: "If it was funny in middle school, it's funnier now."
Number 1 reason you can only come up with "dirty" jokes:
..................................................................................................
YOU ARE BASICALLY JUST A RAGIN' PERVERT!
: O : O : D ; )
10. You spend a lot of your time talking to sex addicts and heavy masturbators.
9. You try to come up with your material while playing "guitar" for def chics.
8. You still think you are a participant in trials for Cialis.
7. You haven't figured out that you should schedule your late night gigs telling jokes to winos during your wife's "special time of the month" and GO HOME with wine on the other nights!
6. Dirty jokes suit the quality of audience in the clubs that will give you mic time.
5. When you said you really wanted to come up with a set you could do in front of your kids - you were LYING!
4. Your mother was an empathic and "generous" woman. (That's right, yo' mama!)
3. Your braille underwear is too tight.
2. You think: "If it was funny in middle school, it's funnier now."
Number 1 reason you can only come up with "dirty" jokes:
..................................................................................................
YOU ARE BASICALLY JUST A RAGIN' PERVERT!
: O : O : D ; )
5/02/2010
Interpreting Dreams
Some people are really into the interpretation of dreams. Dreams may be glimpses into one's future or messages from God. Some people believe dreams are psychic phenomena that reveal clues to unsolved mysteries or the mysteries of our true inner selves. I have to wonder what those who ascribe such weight to dreams would think of my dreams. And in case I haven't made it clear, I'm talking about those images and experiences that happen in my brain while I'm sleeping. I'm not referring to dreamy daytime thoughts or my goals for the future.
My nighttime dreams are usually extremely mundane. Mundane as in ordinary, daily life boring. Like when I dreamed that I locked my keys in my car and just as I was about to get upset, I realized, "Oh, I have a keypad on the door and I KNOW THE CODE!" So I got in my car and went on. I might dream about cleaning a spot on the carpet or going for a walk in my neighborhood. Really boring stuff. I wonder if this has any meaning for me. Maybe it means I'm boring or my life is boring. It could be my unconscious brain telling me that I need to get out more. Or maybe just the opposite - I should be happy with what I have and where I am right now and not seek more. I don't know.
However, I am pretty sure that the absence of other people in most of my dreams means I don't have many friends. And I'm also pretty sure that I don't know where the killer hid the body.
Well, I'm off to bed. Hopefully I'll dream that I got all the laundry done and not have that nightmare about preparing my tax return again.
My nighttime dreams are usually extremely mundane. Mundane as in ordinary, daily life boring. Like when I dreamed that I locked my keys in my car and just as I was about to get upset, I realized, "Oh, I have a keypad on the door and I KNOW THE CODE!" So I got in my car and went on. I might dream about cleaning a spot on the carpet or going for a walk in my neighborhood. Really boring stuff. I wonder if this has any meaning for me. Maybe it means I'm boring or my life is boring. It could be my unconscious brain telling me that I need to get out more. Or maybe just the opposite - I should be happy with what I have and where I am right now and not seek more. I don't know.
However, I am pretty sure that the absence of other people in most of my dreams means I don't have many friends. And I'm also pretty sure that I don't know where the killer hid the body.
Well, I'm off to bed. Hopefully I'll dream that I got all the laundry done and not have that nightmare about preparing my tax return again.
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