Tag: Humor

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Humor by Gillian

My parents both had a wonderful sense of humor, though each quite different from the other.

My mother loved words, so much of her humor involved quotations, jokes, and stories. She filled up dozens of little notebooks with such things and, apparently as a reminder to herself, lest she should slacken, an embroidered wall hanging pronounced that the day is wasted in which one has not laughed. Painfully correct grammar for such a relaxed sentiment.

As an elementary school teacher in an old two-room school she reveled in stories told by or about the children she taught, laughing the more with every telling. She would start giggling like a little kid herself. “Oh, you will never believe what little Jimmy Owen said this morning……..” and she was off.

My father’s humor, on the other hand, was, like him, much more quiet. Most frequently it necessitated no word at all, but rather an almost imperceptible eyebrow twitch, or my favorite, the one naughty wink, in my direction. Somehow I always understood what the joke was, what my dad’s gesture was indicating. I think we shared some very special intuitive connection there. Unlike my mum’s happy giggling, which lit up a room, my dad and I sat in silence without even our lips twitching to acknowledge our inner laughter. Oh such delicious secrets we shared in our secret mirth.

Rather unfortunately, I suppose, when my father did use a few words to facilitate some humor, it was usually at my mother’s expense though it was just silliness, never mean. And in a whole lifetime she never stopped setting herself up. “….you will never believe what little Jimmy Owen said this morning….” Dad solemnly winks at me and rises from the chair, heading to the door. “Edward! I was telling a funny story…” “Well, maybe we don’t want to hear something we’ll never believe…” And they’re off.

“Oh, Edward, honestly! You know it’s just an expression!” He sits obediently back down and hears her story, which is wonderfully amusing in it’s own right. We’ve had our little bit of fun.

As I grew older, I sometimes initiated the silent joke with my dad, although it had to be via a wink as I never learned to do the eyebrow-twitch thing in spite of endless hours of teenage practice before the mirror. I also, from quite a young age, spent considerable time and effort making my mother laugh. She loved to laugh and I loved to laugh with her, but one of my main youthful entertainments was making her giggle at inappropriate times and places.

It was the equivalent connection with my mother that the wink was with my father. She pretended to try to make me behave but really she loved it. I made her giggle in church, at school, during concerts and speeches. I especially liked to get her going somewhere like on the bus, where there was no bathroom. Her bladder-control was nothing to brag about and laughter could bring about some challenging results. “Ooooh Gillian, STOPPIT!” She’d whisper, shuffling in the seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

A teenage girl of the Fifties I had heard rumors that when a woman said no she really meant yes, and I have to say that in my mother’s case, with humor, it was true. The more she fought to control her helpless daughter-induced giggles during the graveside service, the more she loved it.

My parents had lost two children to meningitis before I was born, and I truly believe some intuition told me that it was my job to cheer them along. In any case, it served to bring humor to all three of us, and that’s a gift from the gods if ever there was.

My father developed dementia in his eighties, and had no idea who I was. He no longer winked at me, and my wink to him brought no response. My mother, amazingly, still had the embroidered laugh injunction beside her bed in the Nursing Home, though a broken hip had reduced the humor, along with most positive emotional and physical abilities, to a minimum.

If you ask me what is the greatest thing I inherited from my parents, I would say my sense of humor. If you ask me what I miss most I would say their sense of humor. And my father’s wonderful, wicked, wink.

© 2 February 2013

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After
graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered
Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965,
working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got
divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have
now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Cooking by Gillian

I have blamed my lack of enthusiasm for cooking on being a lesbian, and my mother, in varying percentages. However I know many lesbians who love to cook, so decided it came down to my mother. She cooked as necessary for my dad and me, but it was always apparent that it was more of a chore than a pleasure; my attitude exactly to cooking for my family, although I managed to keep four teenage stepchildren from complaining too much. I’m not sure whether that’s a testament to my unexciting but perfectly palatable meals, however, or to their forbearance.

It was only later in life when, perhaps, you look back on things with at least slightly less distortion, I realized that for most of the years that I lived at home, Britain was under severe food rationing. In a world where many things, including practically anything imported, were simply unavailable, and what was available severely rationed, no wonder she lacked a certain enthusiasm. Doubtless some women reveled in the challenge of creating gourmet wonders from dried egg substitute (though we did get one real egg per week) and substituting ground potato for just about anything and frying sausages that were 90% bread crumbs. My mother was not among them.

I still have one of her cookbooks from that time and some of the recipes are astounding:

Carrot Fudge: well the thought’s enough to gag you. But, hey, the recipe was simple and easy; grate and cook as many carrots as you can spare, flavor with anything available; juice squeezed from fruit in season, artificial vanilla, left-over tea. Add gelatin, cook a few minutes, spoon into a flat dish. Leave to set then cut into cubes.
Yummm

Or there was SpaMghetti, which called for spaghetti, four eggs from reconstituted egg substitute, one half can of SPAM (God Bless America,) ¼ cup grated cheese (or grated potato if not available), onions and parsley, pepper and salt, as available. While spaghetti is boiling cook other ingredients in margarine if available or lard if available or water if nothing else is available.

Now you just try working up a fervor for that!

And, looking back, my poor mother did try so hard.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of a very early birthday. I think I was three or possibly four. Mum produced, with a grand flourish, a birthday cake. Surpri-ise! Well I doubt my brain actually had a grasp of any such concept. Rationing allowed us very little in the way of cake at all, and I’m not sure if I had ever even seen a real pre-war style frosted cake, let alone tasted one. Only many years later did I have the remotest concept of the hording of ingredients and the trading of coupons this production must have cost.

It smelled delicious. I remember that.

And I was not the only one who thought so.

The dog sprang from the fireside mat, gained the table in one quick lunge, knocked the cake on the floor, and inhaled it. Apparently she, being considerably older than I, did recognize such pre-war visions of taste-treat sensation.

My mother was inconsolable. She wept. She roughly shoved the dog outside – about as close to animal cruelty as Mum would ever get. My dad shook his head and clicked his tongue and said, “Never mind,” – about as close to verbosity as he would ever get.

I remember feeling very confused at all this drama and then I sat down on the floor beside the remains of the shattered cake and scooped up finger loads into my mouth. It was delicious. Who could fault the dog?

I started to giggle. My mother, who always had a good sense of humor, soon joined in.

Dad, looking much relieved, winked solemnly at me and sat beside me on the floor, jabbing big hairy fingers into flattened frosting.

As he had anticipated, my mother responded with a disgusted, “Oh Edward! Get up!” but we both knew that secretly she was delighted with our response and our evident delight at her cake, even if it was not served quite as she intended.

She even relented and let the dog back in eventually, to clean up the dregs my dad and I had left on the kitchen linoleum.

There were still years of rationing to follow, but I don’t recall Mum ever going for the Big Cake Event again, and she certainly did not once rationing ended and cakes were readily available in the local bakery. So, whether or not it originated with rationing, who knows? (Though Brits of my generation and up do so love to blame the Germans.)

All I know for sure is, I’m with her. A woman’s place is no longer in the kitchen, and I would rather spend my time writing my silly short stories.

And as it’s almost Thanksgiving I shall close with a relevant quote from Erma Bombeck?

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times takes twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.

Lakewood, 2012

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Halloween Humor by Will Stanton

Thirty-six Halloweens have come and gone since I first came to Denver, yet in those many years, I have attended only a few parties and hosted even fewer. Those parties, however, are, for various reasons, rather memorable.

The first large party that I attended was filled with truly creative people who thought of, and made, their own costumes… no rented or purchased costumes there with people saying, “How to you like my costume?” If you remember the old TV ads for Fruit of the Loom underwear, several people showed up as those advertisement characters, a bunch of grapes, etc. One man made an authentic replica of a Roman legionnaire’s armor.

Ever since I was a young child and attended local children’s parades and costume contests, I thoroughly subscribed to that tenant that my mother taught me, “create your own costume!” Yet at times, coming up with a fresh ideas may not be the simplest task.

About 4:00 in the afternoon of the day of that party, I still did not have an idea for myself. Then, I read an article in Time Magazine that provided my idea. The magazine article spoke of the scandal in the Olympics with the Eastern-Block countries apparently posing men as women in several events. I went to a T-shirt shop and had them make a red shirt with a big CCCP (for USSR) on the front and back. Then I picked up a wig and bra from ARC. The rest of the costume was easy, simply using gym sox and shoes and small gym shorts. In those days, I did sixteen hours per week of heavy-duty sports, so I was very buff and had big shoulders and chest. You can imagine what I looked like. To my surprise and pleasure, my costume as a “Soviet woman-athlete” was a big hit. A friend who took a photo promised to give me a copy, but he never did. I wish I had it to show people.

Another party with especially creative attendees occurred a few years ago. I have known for many years a remarkably talented man who has been a successful artist, craftsman, writer, and editor. In his line of business over the years, he has made a point of connecting with many other talented people. For his party, he announced a theme: leather. For a moment, I wondered if he was alluding to the gay interpretation; however, then I concluded that his suggestion was more broad, considering that his friends are of mixed persuasion.

I decided that, in keeping with the dark atmosphere of Halloween, I would go as a Russian KGB general. I had a cheap Russian military hat that I easily spruced up to resemble the required Soviet officer’s hat. I borrowed a huge black-leather coat. The rest was easy: black boots, black trousers and belt, black shirt and tie. The effect on the other guests was dramatic, and I shall not exaggerate in my telling of it.

The home was packed with interesting people, and it was not easy to move about. Throughout the evening, however, whenever I walked throughout the house, people instinctively stepped aside to make room for me. This phenomenon never changed; it continued until I left at 2:00 in the morning.

Even more curious was the fact that three people tried to pick me up all throughout the evening. The second woman was even more persistent than the first, and her husband was right there at the party. Someone had stood up to permit me to sit down on the coach, and this determined lady knelt next me for 45 minutes, chatting me up, and making quite clear that she “would really like to get to know me!” The third interested party was a young man half my age.

My being a very self-effacing person with little belief that I possess irresistible charisma, I was quite surprised and puzzled by all this attention. Then the words of Mark Twain came to mind and possibly explained it: “Clothes make the man!”

Regarding Halloween humor, I always have enjoyed a truly good joke. I recall how fun the popular Irish humorist David Allan was. When I could, I would try to catch him on TV and hear his wry humor. One of my favorites has remained with me to this day. The joke is set in an Irish pub on Halloween night:

Shawn O’Leary, having consumed
several pints of Guinness and a few shots of Cutty Sark, comes stumbling out
the door into the stormy night.

“Cor!  What a terrible night, with the wind and rain
a’blowin’!  It’s a night for witches and
banshees

and things that go Bump in the night! 
I better take the shortcut home…through the graveyard.” 

So, Shawn stumbles off through the
grave yard from tree to tree and grave to grave until he comes to a fresh-dug
grave; and Plop!, he falls in.  Shawn
looks up, shakes his head and starts to try to climb out.  The earth, however, is loose from the rain
and crumbles.  He keeps sliding back down
into the grave.

So finally, Shawn hunkers down in
the corner and says,”Oh well, I might as well make a night of it.”
About this time, Bryan O’Casey
stumbles out of the pub and says, “Cor! 
What a terrible night.  It’s a
night for witches and banshees and things that go Bump in the night.  I better take the shortcut home…through the
grave yard.”
So Bryan heads off into the graveyard
and stumbles into the very same grave.  Looking
up, Bryan starts to climb out, but he keeps sliding back down into the grave.
All this while, Shawn O’Leary is
watching him.  Finally Shawn speaks up
and says, “You might as well give up trying to get out of this grave
tonight.  You’ll never make it.” 

He did! 

© 18 June 2012





About the Author




I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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My Favorite Holiday by Gillian

Well, I titled my Halloween story Bah Humbug on a Broomstick, and that just about says it all. Bah Humbug on the Xmas Star and the Fireworks of the Fourth and on the End of Summer Labor Day Picnic.

Bah Humbug on Memorial Day and Veterans Day and Flag Day, not from lack of respect for those who deserve remembrance but for lack of respect for those whose only purpose on these days is to go thousands of dollars into debt to save five hundred dollars on that house-high plasma TV that nobody needs.

Bah Humbug for sure on New Year’s Ridiculous Resolutions, and Bah Humbug on the Cuddly Easter Bloody Bunny and his multicolored eggs. Has no one, incidentally, ever noticed the total disconnect between rabbits and eggs?

And one collective resounding Bah Humbug for all those additional holidays our Government (and Bah Humbug there too, while I’m at on a roll) apparently feels obligated to provide, if only to give themselves another day off.

Presidents’ Day? I don’t know about other parts of the country but in Colorado that is one of the busiest ski weekends of the year. Is one single person shushing down the slopes mulling over the significance of even one President, never mind all of them?

Columbus Day, for God’s sake. What’s that about, other than flipping a government-sanctioned bird at all our Native Peoples?

The memory of Martin Luther King, a man deserving of national reverie, would, in my never humble opinion, be better served simply by an MLK Day, as opposed to a holiday. If you look up the definition of the word holiday all the answers specify a day free from work, which in fact most U.S. holidays for most people are not, or a day set aside for leisure and recreation, even festivity; no mention of contemplation, significance, history, sacrifice, peace and love, which is what we should be involved with in reference to King.

Even if you try to remain true to the original intent of holidays, though I wonder if most of us have a clue what that would be in many cases, they always seem to be the worst example of emotions to order. On this day you will feel this, on that day that, and by the way you are religious on Christmas and Easter quite regardless of the fact that you never set foot in any House of Worship the rest of the year.

I guess I just do better with spontaneous emotions than those ordered up by calendar dates.

However, I doubt the lack of my participation is going to change anything so in the spirit of the thing I recommend our next addition should be a gay holiday for us all to celebrate our queerness.

We’ll call it Bah Hum-bugger Day.

© 21 November 2011

About
the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Three Little Words by Nicholas

Do you wanna?
Not now, dear.
Let’s do it.
Well, I guess.
Take your Viagra?
Who needs Viagra?
That feel good?
That feels good.
Not there, dear.
Oh yeah, baby!
Where’s the cat?
Put him out.
No, he’s in.
Ow, that hurt.
Cat’s right here.
More wine, dear?
Open another bottle.
Are you hungry?
Yeah, I’m starving.
That’s real tasty.
Ketchup on that?
Spice it up.
How about that?
Looks real good.
What’s for dessert?
More ice cream.
I want chocolate.
Do it again?
Let’s do it.
You did it. Stole my heart.
Please keep it.
I love you.
I love you.

© 2
July 2013

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.


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Filing through the Files by Terry

In
the effort to avoid a depressing subject, I am sharing my little adventure in
going through my files to find the title of my car. It took me twice through to
locate the title. I traveled a territory spanning at least three decades. I
searched through three different files.
The
largest, looming at a full page, officially stamped, was my marriage
certificate. Could not for the life of me remember what I’d needed that for.
Ahh
the receipts.  For someone who doesn’t
itemize, I have a lot of receipts!  Everything from ice cream shops to body shops,
not to mention movie tickets (remember Back to the Future?)
For
some reason, I had tucked a bunch of poetry and letters written many years ago,
under, for some reason, letter H.  I read
through several letters written to someone named Nancy. Unmailed, Passionate,
that professed undying love, please don’t leave me, that kind of thing, for
pages and pages!
I
was stunned. I had no idea who this Nancy was.  Had I been in an imaginary relationship?  Or, had I actually been writing letters, at
age thirty or so, to an imaginary lover?  Was this a half-finished narrative from a
short story that I forgot I wrote?  Who
in the Hell was Nancy?  I don’t know any Nancy,
or any Nancys.  The handwriting looked
like mine.  It took a good twenty minutes
of staring into space before it dawned on me; the woman I thought I would
never get over, over whom I had been devastated and bereft; I must have been
chuckling to myself the rest of the day and into sleep over that one.
The
other find was the roster for The Denver Golden Girls, my wonderful Lesbian
rugby team.  I had started out just to
take part in practices to get into shape. But that game just sucked me right in.
 I remembered practice, breaking through
tackles, when Harpo (her real name) tied to catch me by the waist band of my
shorts which were of a stretchy material, and more than my athletic talent was
revealed, however briefly.  Though we
beat the women of The Air Force Academy I remembered only Harpo from that
roster.
Ultimately,
of course, there were receipts from doctor bills and shrinks and surgeons, but
I said I wasn’t going to get into that.  Suffice
it to say that some things just are bound to be forgotten.  After all, isn’t that why we have files?
  
© 23 June 2013 

About the Author 
I
am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career
serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental
health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for
elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have
returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.
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The Essence of GLBTSQAHZICAEUC? by Will Stanton

I’m baffled.
“Essence: the quality of a thing that gives it its
identity.”  “The Essence” sounds
singular to me, one essence; but “GLBTSQAHZICAEUC?” sounds like a lot of
different kinds of people.  So, how can
there be one essence?  I imagine  that we can argue logically that there is an
essence supposedly common to all human beings, but I doubt that the person who
suggested this “GLBTQ”-topic meant all of humanity.  Somehow, he meant to speak to a singularity
applied to people of various orientations or persuasions.
Over the years, I have had time for rational evaluation of
human sexual orientation, and long ago I came to the well supported conclusion
that there are no true categories. 
Sexuality is fluid and covers a wide spectrum.  Orientals such as East Indians have known
that for centuries.  I’m not sure that
all members of Western psychological professions have managed to come to that
realization.  For the longest time in the
West, professionals were convinced that human sexuality is binary, male and
female; and any deviation from those two categories was supposedly
abnormal.  Awareness to the contrary and
consequential studies in this area have been belated, although there has been
an increase in research that has revealed much information, assuming that
people are truly interested in learning about it.
Contrary to my undergraduate studies during the Dark Ages of
psychological debate, when, for example, one of my professors denied the slightest
influence of genetics upon how one thinks, feels, and behaves, we now are
obtaining through modern research-methods an astonishing quantity of
information confirming and, to some extent, explaining genetic influences upon
human development.
Despite these scientific revelations, some people still
engage in a false debate of “nature vs. nurture,” that is, is a person
the result solely from how he was born or what he learns?  The premise of the argument is false. Instead,
humans are the result of nature with nurture.   The myriad of factors forming an
individual’s personality and sexuality seem too complex to speak of one essence.
Considering physical development alone, researches have
discovered that there are at least one hundred genetic influences in the womb
that contribute to more than thirty physical intersex states.  We now know also that genetic influences upon
brain and  endocrine system development
have a discernable impact upon how one feels and thinks.
So, how to approach this topic?  I suggest that “GLBTQ” is too limiting, just
too few choices to place all gay-ish people into one of those categories.  And with this topic, what was meant by
“essence?”  I can image that, in the
1970s and 80s, “The essence” could refer to patchouli.  I sure smelled allot of that essence when I
was around gay people during  that time.
Let’s start by looking at some of these lettered designations.  I suppose to be an “L” one must be female, or
at least some semblance of female.  Then
there is “B” for  “bisexual.”  That sounds biological to me.  Do people mean instead that a person is an
“A,” ambisexual, like a baseball switch-hitter? 
 If that person claims to
be straight but has gay encounters on the side, is that person “heteroflexible?”
Then there is T for “transgender.”  That term is imprecise and does not clarify
which way the person was reassigned.  Also,
it certainly does not refer to that minority of “Ts” who changed and then
attempted to change back again.  I know
of some cases like that and also have talked with one such person.  Would that person be a “TT?” 
How about an “S?”  I’m
particularly baffled by those thousands of young guys and  teenage boys who inexplicably have a
compulsion to take massive doses of female hormones yet have no intention of
ever surgically completing a full transition. 
They develop large breasts, wide hips, and round butts, but they still
possess their original equipment.  Some
even prefer to be the dominate partners in sex. 
A whole new term has been created to refer to this group, “shemales.”  So, I guess we need an “S” for them.  Robin Williams refers to this hybrid of many
sexual parts as “The Swiss army-knife of sex.” 
If you like Robin’s term, “S”  would
work for that, too.
Now for “Q.” I hope that no activist who has become habituated
to using the term ”queer,” chooses to be offended by my questioning its
use.  What in the world qualifies someone
to be “queer?”  Could that term be
referring to Dennis Rodman?  Does an
overabundance of tattoos and piercings make a person look queer?  Is Dennis’ palling around with North Korea’s
Kim Jong Un queer behavior?  Or, what
about the reclusive, elderly woman who has seventy-five cats inside her smelly
house?  Could she be queer?  I can not imagine encountering a person in
the figure of a president, a general, or an astronaut, and calling him or her “queer”
simply for having a same-sex partner.
Do we require an “H” for hermaphrodites?   True hermaphrodites are extremely rare.  More frequently, some varying level of
physiologically intersex state is found. 
I think we need a letter “I,” too. 
Some such individuals choose, or have been persuaded to choose, “apparent-male”
or “apparent-female” and have surgery to approximate the
appearance.  Contrary to that choice, I took
notice of a young Harvard student who was intersex.  People demanded to know whether the surgical
choice would be “male” or “female,”  The
reply was, “Neither.  I am who I am.”  That impressed me.
What factors contribute to a person being asexual?  Is it personality?  Something physical?  Lack of opportunity?  Old age? 
Do we have to come up with another “A” for this person?  Or maybe we need a “Z” for “Zero” to prevent
confusion with the other “A.”
For several hundred years throughout Europe and beyond,
there was a pervasive custom of emasculating thousands of prepubescent boys so
that they could preserve their soprano voices yet benefit from the
extraordinary physical development unique to those individuals as adults.  Many of them continued to have sex with
females, many with males, and some with both. 
There even is a small minority of males right here in the U.S. who
choose the procedure simply for psycho-sexual reasons.  Creepy, but true.  Upon what personality traits would we base
categorization?  How should we call  them? 
“Gay?”  “Straight?”  “C” for “castrato?”
What if everything is lopped off a male as has been done for
centuries with East-Indian hijras?   It is estimated that there are approximately
two-and-a-half million hijras in
India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Singapore, and elsewhere even today.  They dress like women, but they are neither
women nor men.  Should we come up with an
“E” for “eunuch?”
There probably are several more letters that we could come
up with, but let me suggest just two more. 
How about “U” for “uninterested,” someone who is not truly asexual but,
for various other reasons, just does not give a damn about sex anymore?  Maybe some guy was just divorced for the
fifth time and has given up on women (or men), especially now that he has moved
out of the house and is living in a tent.
And last but not least, how about “C?” for “confused?”  In other words, “Just what in the heck am
I?”  I bet there are allot of people out
there who simply are confused.
Well, I may not be a confused “C?”, but I am
baffled.   I just don’t know what to make
of  GLBTSQAHZICAEUC?.  Are we now obliged to come up with separate
restrooms?

© 20 April 2013   

About the Author 

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Cleaning as Metaphor by Nicholas

The winter was long and dark with many days overcast with clouds that looked like they’d been beaten up and bruised. Little snow came to cover the frozen dust. Some days the only good news was that there was no bad news.

But then fresh green sprouts began pushing their way through the winter muck. Small yellow and purple blossoms appeared. Spring happens no matter what. And with spring comes cleaning—cleaning house, cleaning the yard, cleaning up my life. 

I like to clean. There’s something about cleaning and being clean that says to me “fresh start,” “things are under control,” “I actually can do something about something.” Dust bunnies be gone, I am in charge. House cleaning is a metaphor for getting life in order and I like order. I can’t say when the next dash to the Emergency Room will be but, damn it, I can keep the bathroom clean. House cleaning is really about power.

I also like cleaning house because I have a fondness for stupid little busy work, i.e., chores. Chores take up time, distract one from whatever you need distracting from, and give one the illusion of meaningful activity, of doing something that, really, after all does have to be done. Chores are an existential act, a sign of being, or, if you’re a philosopher, being-ness. Cleanliness may or may not be next to godliness, but it is right up there with human-ness. It’s like your mother used to say about your room: “Does some animal live here?”

Cleaning house is important. It is so important that I am willing to pay someone to do it for me. After all, the exchange of money is the highest form of activity in American society, so it is fitting that this noble endeavor should be further honored by the payment of cash to another to do the actual cleaning. 

I keep a pretty clean house and since we don’t have kids or dogs, our house does not collect inordinate amounts of dirt. But still, dirt does accumulate and there are some things that I just won’t do. I will vacuum the carpets but I hate dusting things. I almost would rather throw them away than dust stuff. So, I pay someone else to dust my trinkets and souvenirs. 

House cleaners come into my house and make my little house cleaning busyness look like actual work, like a science. I know I can trust these professionals. They know how to tackle a project like dusting wooden slat venetian blinds. I would just slap the things around and get fed up, say it looked good enough and quit. But cleaners take to it like a surgeon doing an operation on a vital organ. They have a plan of attack and follow it. I figure, it’s knowledge and skill I am paying for, not just relief from drudgery. I admire the professionals who actually do take house cleaning far more seriously than I ever do.

I used to be one of those professionals making my living for a time cleaning up other people’s messes while I struggled to make a living as a freelance writer and journalist. It is work cleaning a house and that’s another reason I don’t begrudge someone what I pay them to clean up my dirt.

But sometimes I just let the cleaning go. Today, for example, I did not get around to cleaning the bathroom which does need it. Instead I spent the morning finishing this story. Some things trump even house cleaning. 

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Posted on

Weather by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,

And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,

And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!
When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,

And, my friends, we’re still good-byeing,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! Wait! 
 I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. 

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while his parents obtained a divorce; unknown to him.

When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Posted on

Remembering by Jon Krey

The past is the past and therefore is forgotten since it IS the past. Forgetting it well may be assisted with electro-shock therapy. I once plugged myself into an outlet thinking it was a key hole. Now I’m so very glad about forgetting… something, I can’t remember what.

Besides, when meditating, I’m supposed to “go” someplace in my mind where I was happy and life was fine. Some place by a babbling brook, in the grass, holding some stupid rock, onto which I would place all my bad memories. Trouble is I don’t remember any such place. I don’t remember anything. Maybe ’cause I plugged myself in too much thinking it was a car thingy where you stick something to make it move… uhhh. I’m not sure it was a key hole and not some other kind of hole. Then there was… uhh… uhh…. I forgot.

But what sweet remembrances; remembering all those things not remembered. All those wonderful times back when I was remembering. I remembered so many things… I think. Not sure since I don’t remember remembrances. But then I’m not sure these days. Did I put toast or something else in the toaster? Why is the water running? Why is water boiling in the oven. I found my pants in the frig after I’d already put my shirt on over my underwear which I finally found on my cat. She should know how to dress herself! But I only found my socks in the microwave. Where are my shoes? That’s silly. They belong in the bathtub. Not sure though the fire bell is ringing. Klang klang klang goes the trolley. It’s hurting my ears and they’re already ringing. Why has the fire department shown up? What pretty lights they have…. Oh I know. It’s Christmas time! I wish they’d do something about the smoke in the hall. It smells like something’s burning… besides there’s smoke in the hall… uhh… something… like when… where was that now… and… I think so clearly these days! Did you know there’s smoke in the hall? Was that today or last week? I do remember plugging something into something or someone… uhh… where there was…. Is that smoke in the hall.? Once… in nineteen ninety… or 2000 something. Oh that damned water on the floor is so messy and running somewhere and the floor is all wet and making my feet cold. Why is that? Why is the bathtub running water over on the floor? The cat litter is all in the toilet too. How can I sit on it if she’s using it? I finally found my jeans in the frig but it’s too late. I already have my shirt buckled around my waist and on my legs. I didn’t mention that. I’ll call someone… on… the… uhh…. Maybe I should get dressed now. The door is being knocked on my door. Knock, knock, knocking. Nevermore. What’s there? Oh God he is cute whoever they are and I don’t know but I’m not going out there where it’s foggy… outside. Besides he’s all yellow and there’s smoke in the hall. Liver problems. I ‘member that.

No I don’t think I’ll put on shoes. What was it again I was supposed to do? I ‘member a lot. I ‘MEMBER MOMMA. Some dismembered Mommas. Others dist… well they…. Oh what difference does it make? I dismember my socks in the microwave.

I ‘member tying my hateful cousin to railroad tracks when I was… ummmm… back when gas… was… cheaper. That’s why I can’t remember dismember.

Dismembered chicken heads! Dad was good and the dog gave him head or a head? Don’t remember that too… much Then we ate my favorite….

Now, I should remind myself to remember, but I forgot what to write I… wrote was… to… find that thing I wrote on? Where is… what I can’t remember?

All this seems so distant now whatever that… was. These yellow men are taking me away. “Ho, Ho, He, He, Ha, Ha,” to some kind of a “funny farm where life is fine.” What I don’t remember was that I should think about winding the electric clock! That’s it!
Who are you? Who are these people? I feel like I’m really tied down. Feels good. Not since…. Whoa. Whoopti-du! Off to see some wizard! There’s smoke in the hall too. Did I tell you that? Fire’s warm and bright. I like fire, do you like fire too?

Oh well it’s just a well but not too far down. Remembering things is some…. Times are good but more frequently or are just downright. I’m a frustrated romantic. Lot of good that’s done. Roman, Roaming, Romer, Romance is a word I remember like words from a thing I had sex with, I think. I kissed the wrong correct end which was good since I’d just brushed my hair….

I like clocks, do you like clocks too?
Here I sit thinking about what I was supposed to think about. Thinking is hard on me. My meds are somewhere… but where is… them. Oh, on my table. Who put them there?

Next time… I think I heard… drilling holes in my head, sticking a computer… chip in something… somewhere. It’s all perfectly clear to me now! Yes clearly perfect.

That’s it.! Whatever it was anyway. I can care less what they want.

I don’t do prose… or… cons. I don’t… forget it, I already have.

Alzheimers is a bitch and then you forget it… all. ‘Specially if you have to think really fast’n hard like… me or someone I knew once. Take vitamin C…. A little dab’ll do ya. Yeah Viagra! Someone said that… next…???????

Bye.

© 26 April 2013

About the Author


“I’m just a guy from
Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they’re an illusion.”