© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, dog, Bailey, dog tricks, Letterman, David Letterman, humorous writing, humorous blog, humor blog, funny, smile, laugh, humor)
Every once in a while you run across something that makes you laugh the instant you see it. That's the way it is with this video.
The dog in the clip is named Bailey, and she was featured on the David Letterman Show. Bailey is a beagle who puts a unique twist on an old trick. (Never let it be said that you can't teach a new dog old tricks.)
What's playing in my head: Doggone Right by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.
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She's Turned Fifty ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, North Korean missiles, nuclear weapons, dolls, Barbie, humorous writing, humorous blog, humor blog, funny, smile, laugh, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Today we’re covering the ever-pressing topic of North Korea and its nuclear weapons deployment—but first we need to discuss something even more important. Barbie has turned fifty!
Barbie (the doll) has been on this planet as long as I (the person) have. (Click here to see a photo of me in 1963.) However, when I die, I’ll feed the daisies. Barbie, on the other hand, will continue to fill up attics and basements with her plastic, ultra-skinny body and her perky … um … bust line.
I remember getting my first Barbie and playing dolls with my friend, Jessica.* Since I was more or less a tomboy, the whole doll concept baffled me.
(*Please note names have been changed to protect the innocent, and so that “Jessica” can’t tell you the crazy things I did as a kid.)
******
“What do you want to do?” I asked Jessica, while looking around her yard in boredom.
“Let’s play Barbies!” Jessica loved dolls and her excitement rivaled that of the Real Novato soccer team in a tournament … had there been an adult team in existence in that small California town in the sixties.
Since I’d just received my first Barbie, and was socially aware enough to understand that a plastic doll could neither walk nor talk, I wondered how we were going to play with her. What, maybe use her as a mini baseball bat?
Still, not wanting to be labeled a Barbie-hater, I put on a brave face, ran into my house and found my Barbie case. Those of you who had a Barbie know what I mean by “Barbie case.” However, for the guys among you, who only owned plastic army men that the dog loved to eat and then throw up, I’ll explain. A Barbie case was a rectangular, vinyl suitcase the size of a small warehouse, designed with a slot for the doll, a huge space for her wardrobe, and a small section for her accessories. Yes, accessories—those teeny pieces that made Barbie’s wardrobe complete—gloves, necklaces, and the dinky high heels that would give a real woman leg cramps that shoot up to her neck.
The cases came in several colors: red, yellow ….
Well, those are the only two colors I remember, so I’ll go out on a limb, make things up, and say that’s all that existed at the time. At any rate, mine was mustard yellow. More accurately called, “baby poop” yellow by those among us who were tomboys.
I grabbed my mustard/baby poop case, ran back to Jessica and sat down cross-legged beside her. “Okay, what do you want to do? Take her head off and stuff honeysuckle berries down her neck?” I might have been new to Barbie-dom, but I’d already figured out you could remove her well-coifed, pony-tailed head.
Jessica looked at me as if I’d just grown hedgehogs between my ears. “No, don’t take her head off!” She paused, thinking. “We’ll play like we’re going out on a date.”
Since I was only nine-years old, items at the top of my priority list included playing baseball, climbing trees, and flying kites. Boys were about as fun as burying my dead turtle, Turtie, by stuffing him down a gopher hole while I sobbed a tearful goodbye.
Aghast, I said, “A date? Like with a boy? Yuck!”
I looked at Jessica for a second, then grinned mischievously and decapitated Barbie. I flung her head—Barbie’s, not Jessica’s—into the case, put a tiny strand of fake pearls around her now headless neck, and laid her in the grass.
“Cindy, that’s not how you’re supposed to play Barbies.” Jessica’s tone sounded like a mother who was about to strangle her wayward child.
“Sure it is. She’s dead. We can have a funeral and bury her. Or wait—I know what—she’s a beheaded ghost!” I picked the doll up, and waved her through the air. “Woooooo, she’s coming to get you in your sleep.”
Jessica sighed. A long-suffering sigh. I decided she was just as tired as I was of playing dolls. She placed her Barbie gently in its suitcase, smoothed the doll’s sequined evening gown and closed the case with a click. “Never mind. Let’s do something else.”
“Great!” I threw my grass-stained Barbie into the mustard/baby poop container, squashed the lid down and latched it shut. “Let’s go do something really fun … like roller skate down the hill. Look at this scab I got the other day from skating!”
Jessica looked at it and turned white. I wasn't a mom or anything, but I was pretty certain she looked so pale because she needed to quit playing stupid things like dolls and go out in the sunshine.
****
Unlike North Korea’s missile firings, I have a point here. I’m telling you all of this because it proves you don’t have to love dolls to have fond remembrances of Barbie. For your pleasure, I've included below a photo of her at fifty.
So ... happy fiftieth, Barbie! And thanks for the memories.
BARBIE AT FIFTY
(I'd love to give credit to the creator of this image, but I'm unable to find a name or copyright info.)
What's playing in my head: Nothing, I'm too busy laughing at the picture above.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, North Korean missiles, nuclear weapons, dolls, Barbie, humorous writing, humorous blog, humor blog, funny, smile, laugh, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Today we’re covering the ever-pressing topic of North Korea and its nuclear weapons deployment—but first we need to discuss something even more important. Barbie has turned fifty!
Barbie (the doll) has been on this planet as long as I (the person) have. (Click here to see a photo of me in 1963.) However, when I die, I’ll feed the daisies. Barbie, on the other hand, will continue to fill up attics and basements with her plastic, ultra-skinny body and her perky … um … bust line.
I remember getting my first Barbie and playing dolls with my friend, Jessica.* Since I was more or less a tomboy, the whole doll concept baffled me.
(*Please note names have been changed to protect the innocent, and so that “Jessica” can’t tell you the crazy things I did as a kid.)
******
“What do you want to do?” I asked Jessica, while looking around her yard in boredom.
“Let’s play Barbies!” Jessica loved dolls and her excitement rivaled that of the Real Novato soccer team in a tournament … had there been an adult team in existence in that small California town in the sixties.
Since I’d just received my first Barbie, and was socially aware enough to understand that a plastic doll could neither walk nor talk, I wondered how we were going to play with her. What, maybe use her as a mini baseball bat?
Still, not wanting to be labeled a Barbie-hater, I put on a brave face, ran into my house and found my Barbie case. Those of you who had a Barbie know what I mean by “Barbie case.” However, for the guys among you, who only owned plastic army men that the dog loved to eat and then throw up, I’ll explain. A Barbie case was a rectangular, vinyl suitcase the size of a small warehouse, designed with a slot for the doll, a huge space for her wardrobe, and a small section for her accessories. Yes, accessories—those teeny pieces that made Barbie’s wardrobe complete—gloves, necklaces, and the dinky high heels that would give a real woman leg cramps that shoot up to her neck.
The cases came in several colors: red, yellow ….
Well, those are the only two colors I remember, so I’ll go out on a limb, make things up, and say that’s all that existed at the time. At any rate, mine was mustard yellow. More accurately called, “baby poop” yellow by those among us who were tomboys.
I grabbed my mustard/baby poop case, ran back to Jessica and sat down cross-legged beside her. “Okay, what do you want to do? Take her head off and stuff honeysuckle berries down her neck?” I might have been new to Barbie-dom, but I’d already figured out you could remove her well-coifed, pony-tailed head.
Jessica looked at me as if I’d just grown hedgehogs between my ears. “No, don’t take her head off!” She paused, thinking. “We’ll play like we’re going out on a date.”
Since I was only nine-years old, items at the top of my priority list included playing baseball, climbing trees, and flying kites. Boys were about as fun as burying my dead turtle, Turtie, by stuffing him down a gopher hole while I sobbed a tearful goodbye.
Aghast, I said, “A date? Like with a boy? Yuck!”
I looked at Jessica for a second, then grinned mischievously and decapitated Barbie. I flung her head—Barbie’s, not Jessica’s—into the case, put a tiny strand of fake pearls around her now headless neck, and laid her in the grass.
“Cindy, that’s not how you’re supposed to play Barbies.” Jessica’s tone sounded like a mother who was about to strangle her wayward child.
“Sure it is. She’s dead. We can have a funeral and bury her. Or wait—I know what—she’s a beheaded ghost!” I picked the doll up, and waved her through the air. “Woooooo, she’s coming to get you in your sleep.”
Jessica sighed. A long-suffering sigh. I decided she was just as tired as I was of playing dolls. She placed her Barbie gently in its suitcase, smoothed the doll’s sequined evening gown and closed the case with a click. “Never mind. Let’s do something else.”
“Great!” I threw my grass-stained Barbie into the mustard/baby poop container, squashed the lid down and latched it shut. “Let’s go do something really fun … like roller skate down the hill. Look at this scab I got the other day from skating!”
Jessica looked at it and turned white. I wasn't a mom or anything, but I was pretty certain she looked so pale because she needed to quit playing stupid things like dolls and go out in the sunshine.
****
Unlike North Korea’s missile firings, I have a point here. I’m telling you all of this because it proves you don’t have to love dolls to have fond remembrances of Barbie. For your pleasure, I've included below a photo of her at fifty.
So ... happy fiftieth, Barbie! And thanks for the memories.
BARBIE AT FIFTY
(I'd love to give credit to the creator of this image, but I'm unable to find a name or copyright info.)
What's playing in my head: Nothing, I'm too busy laughing at the picture above.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
The Yowling Bees Amid Life ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, April, holidays, observances, April holidays, humorous writing, humorous blog, humor blog, funny, smile, laugh, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It’s April, the time of year when bees yowl, and tomcats buzz under the windows. Or maybe the reverse. Anyway, just in case the yowling bees and buzzing tomcats aren’t enough cause for celebration, I’ve spent many hours researching and writing down these lesser-known observances for your holiday rioting pleasure.
Okay, maybe not hours, but minutes. Well, maybe not minutes, but microseconds …
All right, I’ll confess. Corky Porky Pie, the dog, wrote this.
APRIL MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
National Donate Life Month (all month): Right off the bat, I have a question. Are we allowed to donate someone else’s life? If so, I can think of several people in Hollywood—or maybe in politics—I’d like to donate to the cause.
Oh, wait. Maybe this holiday is in reference to Life cereal. In that case, put me down for donating all that I own. All 365 cases of Life cereal that masqueraded as food storage in my basement for the past 30 years. In my opinion—and this is just my opinion (you’ll notice I’m being careful about a big, nasty lawsuit here)—the stuff tastes like crunchy polyester pants.
National Poetry Month (all month): You probably thought I’d try my hand at poetry for this … but alas and alack, rhyme and meter is something I lack. Instead, here are two fine renditions:
There was a young maid who said, “Why
Can’t I look in my ear with my eye?
If I give my mind to it,
I’m sure I can do it.
You never can tell till you try.”
~ Anon.
A sleeper from the Amazon
Put nighties of his gra’mazon—
The reason that
He was too fat
To get his own pajamazon.
~ Anon.
And I’ll bet you thought I didn’t know any poetry worth reciting.
APRIL WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
International Pooper-Scooper Week (1st-7th): It’s unclear here whether we should throw a wing-ding celebration that includes pooper-scooper tools or have a fiesta for the pooper-scooper person. In my home, that would mean either a party for a rusty old shovel (pooper-scooper tool), or my husband, Russ (pooper-scooper person who uses the tool).
Come to think of it, there’s not much difference between the two.
At any rate, just be glad this week is already over. If you failed to celebrate, feel free to visit my house, where you can pooper-scooper to your heart’s content. But, not actually in the house.
Sky Awareness Week (19th-25th): All those readers who are airline pilots, please stand. Now, all of you who are aware that you fly a hulking, metal behemoth through that blue stuff called “the sky,” please leave the room. Thank you. Would those left please give me your names—I want to be sure not to board your plane.
APRIL DAILY OBSERVANCES
National Fun at Work Day (1st): Ha—like anyone has fun at work. Oh, look … that should tell us something. It’s on April Fool’s Day.
National Cherish an Antique Day (9th): Ah yes, a holiday worth celebrating. I intend to give Russ a big hug on this day, since he’s pushing sixty (as opposed to my fifty-something, young-as-a-spring-chicken years).
Pushing sixty means he’s well into the designated time frame to be declared an antique.
What's playing in my head: Cherish by the Association
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, April, holidays, observances, April holidays, humorous writing, humorous blog, humor blog, funny, smile, laugh, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It’s April, the time of year when bees yowl, and tomcats buzz under the windows. Or maybe the reverse. Anyway, just in case the yowling bees and buzzing tomcats aren’t enough cause for celebration, I’ve spent many hours researching and writing down these lesser-known observances for your holiday rioting pleasure.
Okay, maybe not hours, but minutes. Well, maybe not minutes, but microseconds …
All right, I’ll confess. Corky Porky Pie, the dog, wrote this.
APRIL MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
National Donate Life Month (all month): Right off the bat, I have a question. Are we allowed to donate someone else’s life? If so, I can think of several people in Hollywood—or maybe in politics—I’d like to donate to the cause.
Oh, wait. Maybe this holiday is in reference to Life cereal. In that case, put me down for donating all that I own. All 365 cases of Life cereal that masqueraded as food storage in my basement for the past 30 years. In my opinion—and this is just my opinion (you’ll notice I’m being careful about a big, nasty lawsuit here)—the stuff tastes like crunchy polyester pants.
National Poetry Month (all month): You probably thought I’d try my hand at poetry for this … but alas and alack, rhyme and meter is something I lack. Instead, here are two fine renditions:
There was a young maid who said, “Why
Can’t I look in my ear with my eye?
If I give my mind to it,
I’m sure I can do it.
You never can tell till you try.”
~ Anon.
A sleeper from the Amazon
Put nighties of his gra’mazon—
The reason that
He was too fat
To get his own pajamazon.
~ Anon.
And I’ll bet you thought I didn’t know any poetry worth reciting.
APRIL WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
International Pooper-Scooper Week (1st-7th): It’s unclear here whether we should throw a wing-ding celebration that includes pooper-scooper tools or have a fiesta for the pooper-scooper person. In my home, that would mean either a party for a rusty old shovel (pooper-scooper tool), or my husband, Russ (pooper-scooper person who uses the tool).
Come to think of it, there’s not much difference between the two.
At any rate, just be glad this week is already over. If you failed to celebrate, feel free to visit my house, where you can pooper-scooper to your heart’s content. But, not actually in the house.
Sky Awareness Week (19th-25th): All those readers who are airline pilots, please stand. Now, all of you who are aware that you fly a hulking, metal behemoth through that blue stuff called “the sky,” please leave the room. Thank you. Would those left please give me your names—I want to be sure not to board your plane.
APRIL DAILY OBSERVANCES
National Fun at Work Day (1st): Ha—like anyone has fun at work. Oh, look … that should tell us something. It’s on April Fool’s Day.
National Cherish an Antique Day (9th): Ah yes, a holiday worth celebrating. I intend to give Russ a big hug on this day, since he’s pushing sixty (as opposed to my fifty-something, young-as-a-spring-chicken years).
Pushing sixty means he’s well into the designated time frame to be declared an antique.
What's playing in my head: Cherish by the Association
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
Platitudes from Cat Attitudes ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, cats, cat, lesson from cats, platitude, cat attitudes, humorous blog, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
see more Lolcats and funny pictures
Being a cat owner for most of my nine lives, I’ve arrived at the conclusion—obtained through the tried and true scientific method of sitting in a lawn chair with a bag of chips in one hand, a soda in the other and watching my cat, Tar Kitty, pounce on grasshoppers—that cats are a highly intelligent life form. Sort of a James Bond crossed with E.T.
No, wait, that’s not really accurate; it’s more like Terminator crossed with Shirley Temple, crossed with a fur coat.
Listed below, for the enjoyment of all pussycat lovers, are the platitudes I’ve learned from my furry, feline friends. They apply to humans as much as they do to cats…sometimes even more so.
To get ahead in the world, walk softly and carry a big hiss.
If you play with your food, you might lose it.
Washing behind your ears makes them less dirty, but it doesn’t make you hear any better.
Your mother might love you, but that won’t stop her from smacking you upside your head when you need it.
You’ll make a lot more friends by purring than by yowling.
Eat slowly. Gulping your food makes you throw up.
If you ignore the dog’s demands, he won’t go away. Instead he’ll curl up next to you on the bed when you’re not looking.
Don’t spit at others unless you have an escape plan.
Don’t believe anyone who says you can’t possibly get hooked on that funny little weed—the one known as catnip.
Prowling the neighborhood at all hours of the night only gets you in trouble.
Cheese might taste good, but if you eat too much, it stops up your plumbing.
If you have to use your claws, it’s wise not to unsheathe them ahead of time.
A lot of people are fooled by fluffy looks and a cute tail.
Those who love you will help you get the burs out.
Recognize your friends from your enemies, so you don’t sleep with the wrong one on a cold night.
No matter how far you fall, if you try hard enough you can always land on your feet.
If something smells fishy, it probably is.
Pay attention to where you spend your leisure time. If you nap in the dryer, you’re bound to find yourself tumbling end over end.
Too much turkey at Thanksgiving makes you waddle.
A brave swagger and a puffed-up chest can sometimes get you out of a jam.
If you love someone you’ll help them look their best, even if it does give you hairballs.
What's playing in my head: What's New Pussycat by the Tom Jones.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, cats, cat, lesson from cats, platitude, cat attitudes, humorous blog, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
see more Lolcats and funny pictures
Being a cat owner for most of my nine lives, I’ve arrived at the conclusion—obtained through the tried and true scientific method of sitting in a lawn chair with a bag of chips in one hand, a soda in the other and watching my cat, Tar Kitty, pounce on grasshoppers—that cats are a highly intelligent life form. Sort of a James Bond crossed with E.T.
No, wait, that’s not really accurate; it’s more like Terminator crossed with Shirley Temple, crossed with a fur coat.
Listed below, for the enjoyment of all pussycat lovers, are the platitudes I’ve learned from my furry, feline friends. They apply to humans as much as they do to cats…sometimes even more so.
To get ahead in the world, walk softly and carry a big hiss.
If you play with your food, you might lose it.
Washing behind your ears makes them less dirty, but it doesn’t make you hear any better.
Your mother might love you, but that won’t stop her from smacking you upside your head when you need it.
You’ll make a lot more friends by purring than by yowling.
Eat slowly. Gulping your food makes you throw up.
If you ignore the dog’s demands, he won’t go away. Instead he’ll curl up next to you on the bed when you’re not looking.
Don’t spit at others unless you have an escape plan.
Don’t believe anyone who says you can’t possibly get hooked on that funny little weed—the one known as catnip.
Prowling the neighborhood at all hours of the night only gets you in trouble.
Cheese might taste good, but if you eat too much, it stops up your plumbing.
If you have to use your claws, it’s wise not to unsheathe them ahead of time.
A lot of people are fooled by fluffy looks and a cute tail.
Those who love you will help you get the burs out.
Recognize your friends from your enemies, so you don’t sleep with the wrong one on a cold night.
No matter how far you fall, if you try hard enough you can always land on your feet.
If something smells fishy, it probably is.
Pay attention to where you spend your leisure time. If you nap in the dryer, you’re bound to find yourself tumbling end over end.
Too much turkey at Thanksgiving makes you waddle.
A brave swagger and a puffed-up chest can sometimes get you out of a jam.
If you love someone you’ll help them look their best, even if it does give you hairballs.
What's playing in my head: What's New Pussycat by the Tom Jones.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
Fifty-something ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Cub Scouts, age, injury, ribs, humorous blog, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
The sun was shining; the grass was growing. On the lawn in front of the 4th ward church house, Cub Scouts ran and hopped like kangaroos on amphetamines. They expended energy without even thinking about it being a precious commodity. Probably because they weren’t fifty-something.
After a few minutes, the boys moved farther away and my brain said, “You’d better think up something for these little guys to do before they scatter to the four corners of the cosmos.”
Normally my body does what my brain says, and this time was no exception. My arms waved in a graceful, fashion model way and my mouth called, “Hey, boys, come over here.”
George* turned and said. “Gee, Sister Beck, the way your arms are moving makes you look just like a train-crossing sign. Cool.”
My body gave up on the graceful wave, put two fingers into my mouth and blasted out a whistle that could be heard in the next county. The boys came running.
“Okay, Cubs,” my mouth said, “let’s do something fun before we go inside and start the meeting. Any suggestions?”
Blond-haired Jeff scratched his cowlick and shouted in my ear, “Let’s do rooster fights!”
That is why God gave all women two ears … so they still have one that can hear after their scouting days are finished.
Little Billy scratched his armpit, made it burp, and then said, “Let’s race each other.”
And that’s where my brain abandoned me. It could have been the spring breeze that caused it to feel like a teenager once more. But then again, the lack of caution could have been created by a sugar high from the sixteen-ounce bag of Marshmallow Goobers that I'd just polished off. At any rate, my mind said, “Sure, races would be a lot of fun.”
My body shouted its objection with a vehement, “No!”
Suddenly, and without prior approval, my mouth said, “Come on, boys—last one to touch the tree is a dead skunk.”
“No, no, NO,” my fifty-something body hollered at my brain, while pumping adrenaline like there was an emergency about to take place. “Russ would not be happy if he knew we were out here running and playing like a kid—especially when we're pushing sixty-years old! He’d tell us that a broken wrist, broken nose, broken ankle … no, wait, two broken ankles … when we were younger should have taught us something. Not to mention that broken elbow last year that laid us up for …”
“We’re not anywhere near sixty. Shut up and run,” my brain said.
“Oh look,” my body said, as my feet tripped over each other while racing across the lawn. “Look at how fast the ground comes toward us when we bite the dust at fifty-something.”
The next day the doctor held up the x-rays. “There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that you didn't break any ribs.”
My brain beamed with a “nah-ner, nah-ner” attitude. “See, I told you we could still run,” it said to my body.
The doctor shifted the x-ray under the lamp. “The bad news is the ribs are cracked. There’s nothing that can be done except to let them heal on their own.”
My body puffed up with pride at being right. Or maybe it was with fluids from the cracked ribs. “See, I told you the ground was a lot harder at fifty-something,” it said to my mind.
“Not fifty-something,” my dirty-traitor brain replied. “More like pushing sixty.”
*Names have been changed to protect the good, the bad, and the one with a two-week-old bologna sandwich in his backpack.
What's playing in my head: When I'm Sixty-four by the Beatles.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Cub Scouts, age, injury, ribs, humorous blog, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
The sun was shining; the grass was growing. On the lawn in front of the 4th ward church house, Cub Scouts ran and hopped like kangaroos on amphetamines. They expended energy without even thinking about it being a precious commodity. Probably because they weren’t fifty-something.
After a few minutes, the boys moved farther away and my brain said, “You’d better think up something for these little guys to do before they scatter to the four corners of the cosmos.”
Normally my body does what my brain says, and this time was no exception. My arms waved in a graceful, fashion model way and my mouth called, “Hey, boys, come over here.”
George* turned and said. “Gee, Sister Beck, the way your arms are moving makes you look just like a train-crossing sign. Cool.”
My body gave up on the graceful wave, put two fingers into my mouth and blasted out a whistle that could be heard in the next county. The boys came running.
“Okay, Cubs,” my mouth said, “let’s do something fun before we go inside and start the meeting. Any suggestions?”
Blond-haired Jeff scratched his cowlick and shouted in my ear, “Let’s do rooster fights!”
That is why God gave all women two ears … so they still have one that can hear after their scouting days are finished.
Little Billy scratched his armpit, made it burp, and then said, “Let’s race each other.”
And that’s where my brain abandoned me. It could have been the spring breeze that caused it to feel like a teenager once more. But then again, the lack of caution could have been created by a sugar high from the sixteen-ounce bag of Marshmallow Goobers that I'd just polished off. At any rate, my mind said, “Sure, races would be a lot of fun.”
My body shouted its objection with a vehement, “No!”
Suddenly, and without prior approval, my mouth said, “Come on, boys—last one to touch the tree is a dead skunk.”
“No, no, NO,” my fifty-something body hollered at my brain, while pumping adrenaline like there was an emergency about to take place. “Russ would not be happy if he knew we were out here running and playing like a kid—especially when we're pushing sixty-years old! He’d tell us that a broken wrist, broken nose, broken ankle … no, wait, two broken ankles … when we were younger should have taught us something. Not to mention that broken elbow last year that laid us up for …”
“We’re not anywhere near sixty. Shut up and run,” my brain said.
“Oh look,” my body said, as my feet tripped over each other while racing across the lawn. “Look at how fast the ground comes toward us when we bite the dust at fifty-something.”
The next day the doctor held up the x-rays. “There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that you didn't break any ribs.”
My brain beamed with a “nah-ner, nah-ner” attitude. “See, I told you we could still run,” it said to my body.
The doctor shifted the x-ray under the lamp. “The bad news is the ribs are cracked. There’s nothing that can be done except to let them heal on their own.”
My body puffed up with pride at being right. Or maybe it was with fluids from the cracked ribs. “See, I told you the ground was a lot harder at fifty-something,” it said to my mind.
“Not fifty-something,” my dirty-traitor brain replied. “More like pushing sixty.”
*Names have been changed to protect the good, the bad, and the one with a two-week-old bologna sandwich in his backpack.
What's playing in my head: When I'm Sixty-four by the Beatles.
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Shutdown in three ... two ... one ... by Cindy Beck
(Based on a grain of truth ... which means this story kinda, maybe, sorta happened. Or not.)
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, exercise, treadmill, Olympics, Newton's laws of motion, physics, Big Gulp, humorous blog, Ray Stevens, jogging, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Image from Wikimedia Commons.
"Oh look, a treadmill,” I said to my husband, Russ, as we wandered through the home furnishings store.
He lifted one eyebrow. “And you’re telling me this … why?”
“Because I’m thinking about getting one. Between the wind and pollen count, I can’t get much exercise outdoors. A treadmill is the perfect solution.”
Russ snorted. “It’s perfect, all right. Perfect for gathering dust. I bet you’ll never use it.”
I gave him my I’m-a-superior-woman-and-you’re-a-piece-of-lint look. “I will too use it. And I won’t be the only one. I’ll teach the dog how to run on it.”
The sports equipment salesman standing nearby must have been watching TV, because I thought I heard him give a muffled chortle. When I looked over, though, all he did was clear his throat and smile.
“The dog? You're going to put your pet on a piece of exercise equipment?” the sales guy asked.
“Yes, our dog, Corky Porky Pie.”
The man must have been hard of hearing, because he stood and stared at me for a minute. Just as I was about to tell Russ that the guy needed a hearing aid, the sales clerk said, “Would you like to try the treadmill?”
“Sure.” I stepped onto the machine and gazed at the vast array of buttons. The dashboard looked like the console of an airplane. I wondered how Corky Porky was going to figure out which buttons to push.
Using my immense powers of deduction, I decided the big red button meant stop.
But the rest were up for grabs. I reached over and pushed one.
“Power Level 10—Speed Hill,” I explained to Russ as the motor started in a slow grind, and I stepped onto the moving belt. “It shouldn’t be too bad. I can handle—“
“—thiiiiiisssss!” The machine flipped into high gear, and the belt scrolled rapidly under my feet. I stumbled, accidentally flinging my fifty-six ounce Big Gulp at the salesperson. Soda splashed over his suit, and the cup ricocheted off his head, like a tennis ball at Wimbledon. Then it skittered under the elliptical machine nearby (the cup, not his head). The salesman turned and strode toward the partially lit sign that said, “Rest oom.”
I righted myself, hit my stride, and looked at Russ. “This is cool. I probably look like a seasoned sprinter, huh?”
Russ nodded his head. “Yup, just like an Olympic runner with an inner ear infection.”
A small crowd gathered around us—one the size of the population of Boston. I figured they were all marathon fans.
The machine gave a thump, followed by a beep, and I wondered if that meant my jog had ended. Suddenly, a whirring sound echoed off the nearby wall, and the front end of the treadmill rose in altitude, resembling the nose of the space shuttle at blast off. My feet tripped over each other. “No need to worry,” I shouted to the murmuring crowd, as I flapped my arms for balance. “I used to run track in high school.”
I noticed a little boy selling hot dogs among the masses. At the side door, a bearded man hawked tickets to people.
“There must be some big sale and a raffle going on.” I hollered the news to Russ over the whir of the machine and tilted my head toward Mr. Bearded, who appeared to be pointing people in our direction. The head tilt made the room spin and for a minute I almost lost my equilibrium, but years of conditioning—gained by watching NASCAR races on TV with Russ's dad—brought me through it.
Another beep sounded and the belt’s speed increased. I grabbed for the treadmill’s handles. Not that I really needed them, of course, but it seemed like a good time to check my heart rate with the machine’s specialized apparatus.
“Warning! Warning!” A mechanical sounding voice exploded from the front of the machine. “Your heart rate is 562 beats per minute. This machine will shut down in three … two … one—”
Clunk! The belt stopped.
Newton’s first law of motion states that a body in motion tends to stay in motion. As I flew over the top of the console—proving that Newton’s first law still holds true—I thought I heard the crowd cheer. And I gave a victory wave just so they’d understand I was no novice to physics … or to the pole vault.
What's playing in my head: Jogging, by Ray Stevens
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And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, exercise, treadmill, Olympics, Newton's laws of motion, physics, Big Gulp, humorous blog, Ray Stevens, jogging, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Image from Wikimedia Commons.
"Oh look, a treadmill,” I said to my husband, Russ, as we wandered through the home furnishings store.
He lifted one eyebrow. “And you’re telling me this … why?”
“Because I’m thinking about getting one. Between the wind and pollen count, I can’t get much exercise outdoors. A treadmill is the perfect solution.”
Russ snorted. “It’s perfect, all right. Perfect for gathering dust. I bet you’ll never use it.”
I gave him my I’m-a-superior-woman-and-you’re-a-piece-of-lint look. “I will too use it. And I won’t be the only one. I’ll teach the dog how to run on it.”
The sports equipment salesman standing nearby must have been watching TV, because I thought I heard him give a muffled chortle. When I looked over, though, all he did was clear his throat and smile.
“The dog? You're going to put your pet on a piece of exercise equipment?” the sales guy asked.
“Yes, our dog, Corky Porky Pie.”
The man must have been hard of hearing, because he stood and stared at me for a minute. Just as I was about to tell Russ that the guy needed a hearing aid, the sales clerk said, “Would you like to try the treadmill?”
“Sure.” I stepped onto the machine and gazed at the vast array of buttons. The dashboard looked like the console of an airplane. I wondered how Corky Porky was going to figure out which buttons to push.
Using my immense powers of deduction, I decided the big red button meant stop.
But the rest were up for grabs. I reached over and pushed one.
“Power Level 10—Speed Hill,” I explained to Russ as the motor started in a slow grind, and I stepped onto the moving belt. “It shouldn’t be too bad. I can handle—“
“—thiiiiiisssss!” The machine flipped into high gear, and the belt scrolled rapidly under my feet. I stumbled, accidentally flinging my fifty-six ounce Big Gulp at the salesperson. Soda splashed over his suit, and the cup ricocheted off his head, like a tennis ball at Wimbledon. Then it skittered under the elliptical machine nearby (the cup, not his head). The salesman turned and strode toward the partially lit sign that said, “Rest oom.”
I righted myself, hit my stride, and looked at Russ. “This is cool. I probably look like a seasoned sprinter, huh?”
Russ nodded his head. “Yup, just like an Olympic runner with an inner ear infection.”
A small crowd gathered around us—one the size of the population of Boston. I figured they were all marathon fans.
The machine gave a thump, followed by a beep, and I wondered if that meant my jog had ended. Suddenly, a whirring sound echoed off the nearby wall, and the front end of the treadmill rose in altitude, resembling the nose of the space shuttle at blast off. My feet tripped over each other. “No need to worry,” I shouted to the murmuring crowd, as I flapped my arms for balance. “I used to run track in high school.”
I noticed a little boy selling hot dogs among the masses. At the side door, a bearded man hawked tickets to people.
“There must be some big sale and a raffle going on.” I hollered the news to Russ over the whir of the machine and tilted my head toward Mr. Bearded, who appeared to be pointing people in our direction. The head tilt made the room spin and for a minute I almost lost my equilibrium, but years of conditioning—gained by watching NASCAR races on TV with Russ's dad—brought me through it.
Another beep sounded and the belt’s speed increased. I grabbed for the treadmill’s handles. Not that I really needed them, of course, but it seemed like a good time to check my heart rate with the machine’s specialized apparatus.
“Warning! Warning!” A mechanical sounding voice exploded from the front of the machine. “Your heart rate is 562 beats per minute. This machine will shut down in three … two … one—”
Clunk! The belt stopped.
Newton’s first law of motion states that a body in motion tends to stay in motion. As I flew over the top of the console—proving that Newton’s first law still holds true—I thought I heard the crowd cheer. And I gave a victory wave just so they’d understand I was no novice to physics … or to the pole vault.
What's playing in my head: Jogging, by Ray Stevens
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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The Dog, the Cat, and the Three-Year-Old ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, dogs, cats, kids, perspective, bark, meow, skein, yarn, deodorant, hairball, pork chop, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
THE DOG’S PERSPECTIVE ON LIFE:
The family cat is brainless—she swallows her own fur.
If you eat the rotten pork chop that fell in the yard—the one that came from heaven—you’ll feel great for an hour and then you’ll vomit for the rest of the day. But, hey ... it’s worth it.
It’s a bad sign if your humans say sweet things while putting you in the car. It means a body part is going to go missing.
No matter how often you bark in the cat’s face, she’ll never learn how to woof.
If you bark in the cat’s face once too often, she’ll slice your nose in half.
You can gaze longingly at the food on the dinner table for as long as you like, it will never magically fly into your mouth.
Nothing matches the anticipation of sitting in the car, waiting to go on a ride.
Cats are best served up in a tree.
RANDOM THOUGHTS FROM THE CAT:
The family dog is brainless—he willingly jumped in the car to become an “it.”
Never try to clean a skein of yarn with your tongue—it’ll give you an extra long hairball.
If your pitiful meows for food don’t give the expected results, five claws across someone’s ankle might do the trick.
If you see the family’s three-year-old with a can of deodorant in his hand … run!
Your humans want you to catch the mice that live outdoors, but not the bird that lives indoors.
If you try to eat the family's parrot, he will try to eat you back.
There's nothing as warm as a car’s engine on a cold winter’s day.
If you deposit a big mouse's head on your humans’ doorstep, one of them will gag and freak out.
LIFE’S LESSONS FROM THE THREE-YEAR-OLD:
Dogs and cats are a lot more fun than a dead goldfish.
If you throw a rotten pork chop into the yard, the dog will eat it and puke green stuff the rest of the day.
If you spray deodorant on the cat’s armpits, she’ll rip around the house for an hour.
When you lean really hard on the car’s horn, the dog will leap out the back window in panic, and the cat will explode off the engine like someone stuck a hand grenade under a ball of fur.
If the cat leaves a dead mouse's head on the doorstep, don’t touch it. Lots of excitement will follow. When Mommy sees it, she’ll scream. When Mommy screams, the cat will freak out, and hiss and spit. When the cat freaks out, the dog will chase her up a tree. While all that is happening, you can take the mouse's head and put it in your treasure box, under your bed.
What's playing in my head: We Are Family, by Sister Sledge
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And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, dogs, cats, kids, perspective, bark, meow, skein, yarn, deodorant, hairball, pork chop, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
THE DOG’S PERSPECTIVE ON LIFE:
The family cat is brainless—she swallows her own fur.
If you eat the rotten pork chop that fell in the yard—the one that came from heaven—you’ll feel great for an hour and then you’ll vomit for the rest of the day. But, hey ... it’s worth it.
It’s a bad sign if your humans say sweet things while putting you in the car. It means a body part is going to go missing.
No matter how often you bark in the cat’s face, she’ll never learn how to woof.
If you bark in the cat’s face once too often, she’ll slice your nose in half.
You can gaze longingly at the food on the dinner table for as long as you like, it will never magically fly into your mouth.
Nothing matches the anticipation of sitting in the car, waiting to go on a ride.
Cats are best served up in a tree.
RANDOM THOUGHTS FROM THE CAT:
The family dog is brainless—he willingly jumped in the car to become an “it.”
Never try to clean a skein of yarn with your tongue—it’ll give you an extra long hairball.
If your pitiful meows for food don’t give the expected results, five claws across someone’s ankle might do the trick.
If you see the family’s three-year-old with a can of deodorant in his hand … run!
Your humans want you to catch the mice that live outdoors, but not the bird that lives indoors.
If you try to eat the family's parrot, he will try to eat you back.
There's nothing as warm as a car’s engine on a cold winter’s day.
If you deposit a big mouse's head on your humans’ doorstep, one of them will gag and freak out.
LIFE’S LESSONS FROM THE THREE-YEAR-OLD:
Dogs and cats are a lot more fun than a dead goldfish.
If you throw a rotten pork chop into the yard, the dog will eat it and puke green stuff the rest of the day.
If you spray deodorant on the cat’s armpits, she’ll rip around the house for an hour.
When you lean really hard on the car’s horn, the dog will leap out the back window in panic, and the cat will explode off the engine like someone stuck a hand grenade under a ball of fur.
If the cat leaves a dead mouse's head on the doorstep, don’t touch it. Lots of excitement will follow. When Mommy sees it, she’ll scream. When Mommy screams, the cat will freak out, and hiss and spit. When the cat freaks out, the dog will chase her up a tree. While all that is happening, you can take the mouse's head and put it in your treasure box, under your bed.
What's playing in my head: We Are Family, by Sister Sledge
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
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About the Turkey Vultures and the Living Sign ... by Cindy Beck
Thanks to two alert readers, Steven Branford, of New York, and Tom Wray, of Missouri, I now know what the holiday observance, "The Turkey Vultures Return to the Living Sign" is all about. (For a point of reference, see my blog post of March 5, 2008)
Now don't fall off your chairs in shock, but the living sign is a batch of ... taa-daa ... living trees in Canisteo, NY. Yup, seems like a reasonable place for vultures to roost, doesn't it? Certainly a better place than the town hall.
For those who are interested, I've pasted Steven and Tom's responses below, as well as a picture that Tom sent.
Steven's Response:
I, too was confused about Turkey Vultures Return to the Living Sign week! I have found the answer, and much like many mystifying names, the truth is not as exciting as our minds' creations! I almost feel like forgetting the true significance for your interpretation! Here's what was written about the holiday:
"[Celibrated [sic] by the] Entire Canisteo Valley, Canisteo, NY. Traditionally turkey vultures return on St. Pat's Day to their roosting sites in and around the world famous living sign, as mentioned in "Ripley's Believe It or Not." The sign spells our "Canisteo" using 250 trees in a ridge above Greenwood Street."
Tom's Response:
This is cool. I pull up the daily “holidays” for our department bulletin board, and ran across your funny piece on the above mysterious holiday. I did some more research (which you also may have already done), and discovered there is a “living sign” for the city of Canisteo NY, made up of over 250 Scotch Pines spelling out “CANISTEO,” on a hill behind the elementary school on Greenwood Street. Apparently the turkey vultures return to this area each year between March 11 and 17. Here’s a photo of the “living sign”:
(Photo by the Evening Tribune)
...and now you know...the rest...of the story
RIP, Paul Harvey
---
Thanks so much for your help, Steven and Tom, and for your vast research skills! :)
Now don't fall off your chairs in shock, but the living sign is a batch of ... taa-daa ... living trees in Canisteo, NY. Yup, seems like a reasonable place for vultures to roost, doesn't it? Certainly a better place than the town hall.
For those who are interested, I've pasted Steven and Tom's responses below, as well as a picture that Tom sent.
Steven's Response:
I, too was confused about Turkey Vultures Return to the Living Sign week! I have found the answer, and much like many mystifying names, the truth is not as exciting as our minds' creations! I almost feel like forgetting the true significance for your interpretation! Here's what was written about the holiday:
"[Celibrated [sic] by the] Entire Canisteo Valley, Canisteo, NY. Traditionally turkey vultures return on St. Pat's Day to their roosting sites in and around the world famous living sign, as mentioned in "Ripley's Believe It or Not." The sign spells our "Canisteo" using 250 trees in a ridge above Greenwood Street."
Tom's Response:
This is cool. I pull up the daily “holidays” for our department bulletin board, and ran across your funny piece on the above mysterious holiday. I did some more research (which you also may have already done), and discovered there is a “living sign” for the city of Canisteo NY, made up of over 250 Scotch Pines spelling out “CANISTEO,” on a hill behind the elementary school on Greenwood Street. Apparently the turkey vultures return to this area each year between March 11 and 17. Here’s a photo of the “living sign”:
(Photo by the Evening Tribune)
...and now you know...the rest...of the story
RIP, Paul Harvey
---
Thanks so much for your help, Steven and Tom, and for your vast research skills! :)
Adopt a Hamster ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, holidays, observances, 2009, March, hamster, Guinea pig, vampire, chronic fatigue, eye donor, turkey vulture, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It’s once again time for Weird and Wacky Holidays, the game where real people create holidays and I poke fun at them (the holidays, not the people). Following that, sophisticated individuals laugh at what I wrote and leave pithy comments, while readers with no sense of humor threaten to send me their leftover Christmas fruitcake.
MARCH MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
Adopt a Rescued Guinea Pig (all month): Right now, nine out of ten women/men/vampires reading this are shuddering at the thought of rescuing vermin. And the next question to ask is, where are the Guinea pigs being rescued from? Behind the walls? Under the bed? In the pantry?
All I know is hamsters are cuter, so I vote for an “Adopt a Rescued Hamster Month.” The reasons for this are plentiful. First, you’ll notice the word “pig” is not linked with the word “hamster.” That’s a point in the hamster’s favor every time. Second, hamsters do not make bizarre grunting noises that make you wonder if someone is desperately in need of Ex-Lax. Third, hamsters look fuzzy and cute. I once rescued one from a shoe and Koala was eternally grateful.
Well, okay ... I didn't really rescue her from a shoe. I rescued her from a pet store and the red, plastic boot in the photo was one of her toys. However, after we'd owned her for a couple of months, a conundrum awaited us every morning when we walked out of the bedroom. Namely, the question of what unknown poltergeist had grabbed the end of the bathroom tissue, scrolled it from the bathroom through the hall and wrapped it around the dining room while we slept. We finally solved the mystery one day when we discovered that Koala rested inside her cage on a bed of shredded toilet tissue equivalent to a super-sized roll of Charmin. She’d spent her evenings escaping from her cage, confiscating items and carrying them in her bulging cheeks back to her little home behind bars. She included T.P’ing the house in the process.
National Chronic Fatigue Syndrome Awareness Month (all month): Chronic fatigue exists. It’s a very real problem. I’d tell you more about it, but I’m just too tired to go into it.
National Eye Donor Month (all month): I’m baffled. How can those who’ve donated their eyes read the calendar to learn of this observance? Or, if we assume they’ve passed on and that’s why their eyes were donated, it makes the situation even more baffling. How are they learning about this in the great beyond? Eyes or no eyes, I can only think deceased donors learn this at séances—where the score is even because everyone has their eyes closed, anyway. (If someone reading this blog entry has donated their eyes, please forgive my politically incorrect sense of humor.)
MARCH WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
National Procrastination Week: (Mar. 2-8): I planned to tell you all about this, but decided to wait until next week. Or maybe next year. Whatever.
Turkey Vultures Return to the Living Sign (Mar. 11-17): For once, I’m speechless and have no clue what this holiday title is saying, much less what it means. “Turkey Vultures Return to the Living” (without the word, “sign”), gave me a mental image of zombie vultures, wandering the towns, eating dead cows, and then knocking on the doors of town residents. Something akin to a cross between Alfred Hitchcock’s, “The Birds” and somebody-or-other’s, “Night of the Living Dead.” After exhausting my vast store of resource material (I asked our dog, Corky Porky Pie, what it meant), I went out to the ‘net to see what others thought. The bloggers there seemed just as confused, but amazingly enough, I did find one who imagined a similar scenario. The owner of The Random Yak said, “I’m still a bit stumped by the “living sign” part. Sort of “Night of the Living Dead” meets “National Geographic…
“…Tune in Sunday night at 7 to see the return of the living dead turkey vultures. Watch the massive, undead carrion-eating birds return to their nesting grounds in search of warm climates and newly-dead brains. See the impressive flock feast on roadkill[sic] to gather their strength before hatching a new brood of zombie buzzards to carry on the neverending[sic] search for food…Only on the National Geographic Channel.”
I couldn’t have put it better.
International Brain Awareness Week (Mar. 16-22): All of you who are aware that you have a brain, please raise your hands. Those who are not, please report to the pre-frontal lobotomy clinic.
MARCH DAILY OBSERVANCES
Pig Day (Mar. 1): This, no doubt, has something to do with the Guinea pigs waiting to be rescued from under the bed and behind the walls.
Memory Day (Mar. 21): I had so many things to say about this holiday … but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what they were.
Viagra Day (Mar. 27): Normally I wouldn’t touch this subject with a thirty-nine and a half-foot pole, but I have an interesting story. A sweet, elderly LDS lady (whose memory was significantly fuzzier than even mine) went to a family reunion. While chatting with a cousin in his fifties, she said, “John, I hear you’re taking Viagra. How’s that working for you?” John’s eyes grew wide and then the woman’s daughter, who stood nearby, gently said, “You mean Zyrtec, Mother—for allergies.”
What's playing in my head: She's Got Bette Davis Eyes by Kim Carnes
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, holidays, observances, 2009, March, hamster, Guinea pig, vampire, chronic fatigue, eye donor, turkey vulture, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It’s once again time for Weird and Wacky Holidays, the game where real people create holidays and I poke fun at them (the holidays, not the people). Following that, sophisticated individuals laugh at what I wrote and leave pithy comments, while readers with no sense of humor threaten to send me their leftover Christmas fruitcake.
MARCH MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
Adopt a Rescued Guinea Pig (all month): Right now, nine out of ten women/men/vampires reading this are shuddering at the thought of rescuing vermin. And the next question to ask is, where are the Guinea pigs being rescued from? Behind the walls? Under the bed? In the pantry?
All I know is hamsters are cuter, so I vote for an “Adopt a Rescued Hamster Month.” The reasons for this are plentiful. First, you’ll notice the word “pig” is not linked with the word “hamster.” That’s a point in the hamster’s favor every time. Second, hamsters do not make bizarre grunting noises that make you wonder if someone is desperately in need of Ex-Lax. Third, hamsters look fuzzy and cute. I once rescued one from a shoe and Koala was eternally grateful.
Well, okay ... I didn't really rescue her from a shoe. I rescued her from a pet store and the red, plastic boot in the photo was one of her toys. However, after we'd owned her for a couple of months, a conundrum awaited us every morning when we walked out of the bedroom. Namely, the question of what unknown poltergeist had grabbed the end of the bathroom tissue, scrolled it from the bathroom through the hall and wrapped it around the dining room while we slept. We finally solved the mystery one day when we discovered that Koala rested inside her cage on a bed of shredded toilet tissue equivalent to a super-sized roll of Charmin. She’d spent her evenings escaping from her cage, confiscating items and carrying them in her bulging cheeks back to her little home behind bars. She included T.P’ing the house in the process.
National Chronic Fatigue Syndrome Awareness Month (all month): Chronic fatigue exists. It’s a very real problem. I’d tell you more about it, but I’m just too tired to go into it.
National Eye Donor Month (all month): I’m baffled. How can those who’ve donated their eyes read the calendar to learn of this observance? Or, if we assume they’ve passed on and that’s why their eyes were donated, it makes the situation even more baffling. How are they learning about this in the great beyond? Eyes or no eyes, I can only think deceased donors learn this at séances—where the score is even because everyone has their eyes closed, anyway. (If someone reading this blog entry has donated their eyes, please forgive my politically incorrect sense of humor.)
MARCH WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
National Procrastination Week: (Mar. 2-8): I planned to tell you all about this, but decided to wait until next week. Or maybe next year. Whatever.
Turkey Vultures Return to the Living Sign (Mar. 11-17): For once, I’m speechless and have no clue what this holiday title is saying, much less what it means. “Turkey Vultures Return to the Living” (without the word, “sign”), gave me a mental image of zombie vultures, wandering the towns, eating dead cows, and then knocking on the doors of town residents. Something akin to a cross between Alfred Hitchcock’s, “The Birds” and somebody-or-other’s, “Night of the Living Dead.” After exhausting my vast store of resource material (I asked our dog, Corky Porky Pie, what it meant), I went out to the ‘net to see what others thought. The bloggers there seemed just as confused, but amazingly enough, I did find one who imagined a similar scenario. The owner of The Random Yak said, “I’m still a bit stumped by the “living sign” part. Sort of “Night of the Living Dead” meets “National Geographic…
“…Tune in Sunday night at 7 to see the return of the living dead turkey vultures. Watch the massive, undead carrion-eating birds return to their nesting grounds in search of warm climates and newly-dead brains. See the impressive flock feast on roadkill[sic] to gather their strength before hatching a new brood of zombie buzzards to carry on the neverending[sic] search for food…Only on the National Geographic Channel.”
I couldn’t have put it better.
International Brain Awareness Week (Mar. 16-22): All of you who are aware that you have a brain, please raise your hands. Those who are not, please report to the pre-frontal lobotomy clinic.
MARCH DAILY OBSERVANCES
Pig Day (Mar. 1): This, no doubt, has something to do with the Guinea pigs waiting to be rescued from under the bed and behind the walls.
Memory Day (Mar. 21): I had so many things to say about this holiday … but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what they were.
Viagra Day (Mar. 27): Normally I wouldn’t touch this subject with a thirty-nine and a half-foot pole, but I have an interesting story. A sweet, elderly LDS lady (whose memory was significantly fuzzier than even mine) went to a family reunion. While chatting with a cousin in his fifties, she said, “John, I hear you’re taking Viagra. How’s that working for you?” John’s eyes grew wide and then the woman’s daughter, who stood nearby, gently said, “You mean Zyrtec, Mother—for allergies.”
What's playing in my head: She's Got Bette Davis Eyes by Kim Carnes
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A Funny Cheezburger or Two … by Cindy Beck
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, dogs, cats, bunnies, bunny, icanhascheezburger.com, photos, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Nothing beats a funny picture—especially when there's a caption. So, today I went to one of my favorite sites, ICanHasCheezburger.com and put in the work and sacrifice to bring you pictures that will make you laugh out loud. Or at least smile.
Oh, okay. Truthfully, I spent an hour or two enjoying the work, therefore, it might be a slight exaggeration to call it a sacrifice. But, I did do it just for you. And it might take a second for you to get “Cheezburger Speak,” but it’s phonetic, and you'll catch on fast.
Here are a few of my favorites:
more animals
more animals
more animals
more funny pictures
more animals
more animals
see more puppies
more animals
more funny pictures
more animals
see more puppies
more animals
What's playing in my head: Nothing. It's occupied by a dust bunneh.
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And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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Nothing beats a funny picture—especially when there's a caption. So, today I went to one of my favorite sites, ICanHasCheezburger.com and put in the work and sacrifice to bring you pictures that will make you laugh out loud. Or at least smile.
Oh, okay. Truthfully, I spent an hour or two enjoying the work, therefore, it might be a slight exaggeration to call it a sacrifice. But, I did do it just for you. And it might take a second for you to get “Cheezburger Speak,” but it’s phonetic, and you'll catch on fast.
Here are a few of my favorites:
more animals
more animals
more animals
more funny pictures
more animals
more animals
see more puppies
more animals
more funny pictures
more animals
see more puppies
more animals
What's playing in my head: Nothing. It's occupied by a dust bunneh.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
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Please Press One ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, telephone, ESPN, HBO, programming, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Do you remember the days when real people answered the phone? Yesterday, my husband Russ, spent hours trying to correct a problem by talking with a fake woman. Yes, one of those electronic females who answers the phone and doesn’t have a brain. Or a body. Or for that matter, anything but wires, circuits, and maybe a little dust.
When Russ placed the call, an artificial woman answered and said, “Please choose from the following options: Press one to hear this message in Tagalog. Press two for Dhimba, three for Palenquero, and four for Beothuk.”
Hoping to get a live person, Russ pushed every number on the phone’s keypad.
The voice said, “I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please tell me your phone number so that I may access your records.”
Russ paused, scratched his bald head for a second and tried to remember the number, which wasn’t easy since it was new. “714-555-1212,” he said.
The line crackled with static and the disembodied woman said, “Let me repeat that back to you.”
And that’s when Russ made his first mistake. “Okay,” he said.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please choose from the following options: Press one to hear this message in Tagalog. Press two for Dhimba, three for—”
Russ punched every number on the pad. Twice.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please tell me your phone number so that I may access your records.”
Russ wiped off the thin bead of sweat that had appeared on his upper lip from the aggravation of it all. “714-555-1212,” he said, and then waited in silence this time.
The fake woman’s voice sounded like someone gargling with peanut butter for a second and then she said, “Let me repeat that number back to you.”
Silence. Russ knew better than to tell her okay.
Silence.
A tickle developed in Russ’s throat but he didn’t dare clear it for fear he’d end up with the voice speaking to him in Dhimba.
“Your phone number is seven …” the woman said.
Silence.
“One …” she intoned in her plastic, other-world voice.
Silence.
“Four …” she repeated, dragging out each syllable—even though “four” is only a one syllable word.
“Aarrrgggg!” Russ shouted in frustration at the voice's snail pace.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please choose from the following options: Press one to hear this message in Tagalog. Press two for Dhimba—“
Russ jabbed every button on the keypad. One button flew off, hitting him in the forehead and ricocheting onto the floor. Corky Porky Pie, the dog, walked over. His black ears twitched with interest, and before Russ could snatch the button away, Corky gulped it down.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you want,” said the voice in the phone. “I’d be happy to help. Please tell me what you need. Would you like to order ESPN-15? Or perhaps HBO? Speak clearly into the telephone and tell me what you would like.”
Russ gritted his teeth and said, “Programming problems.”
“I’m sorry; let me make sure I understand you correctly. Would you like to add additional programming? If so, please speak clearly and say yes.”
“NO,” Russ thundered. Corky leapt in the air, certain that intruders had entered the house, and tore off in a frenzy, barking all the way up the stairs to the front door.
“Corky, it’s all right. Be quiet,” Russ hollered over the dog’s barks and yaps.
“I’m sorry; I don’t understand the word, ‘Corky,’” the voice intoned in his ear. “Is Corky a program you wish to purchase? Please speak clearly and say yes.”
“No! No pro … gramm … ing!" Russ said it emphatically, enunciating each syllable for the hard-headed voice to hear. He continued, “Cust … o … mer ser … vice! TALK … TO … A … REAL … PER … SON!”
“Please wait while I connect you to customer service.” The fake woman disappeared with a click, and the Monkees’theme song—played on an accordion—sounded in Russ’s ear.
“Finally,” Russ said to Corky Porky Pie, who had given up on catching burglars and now sniffed the carpet in hopes of finding another yummy keypad button. “I’m finally going to get a real person.”
“Hello, this is customer service,” said a pleasant male voice with a slight New York accent. At the same time, a scent wafted through the room and Russ sniffed the air. It smelled like a cross between old, crusty snow, and the odor of doom and gloom.
Ignoring it, Russ opened his mouth to speak, and as he did, the male voice continued, “How may I help you? Would you like to add additional programming? Would you like to purchase HBO? Please say yes, then press one to hear this message in Tagalog …”
What's playing in my head: The Monkees' Theme Song.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, telephone, ESPN, HBO, programming, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Do you remember the days when real people answered the phone? Yesterday, my husband Russ, spent hours trying to correct a problem by talking with a fake woman. Yes, one of those electronic females who answers the phone and doesn’t have a brain. Or a body. Or for that matter, anything but wires, circuits, and maybe a little dust.
When Russ placed the call, an artificial woman answered and said, “Please choose from the following options: Press one to hear this message in Tagalog. Press two for Dhimba, three for Palenquero, and four for Beothuk.”
Hoping to get a live person, Russ pushed every number on the phone’s keypad.
The voice said, “I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please tell me your phone number so that I may access your records.”
Russ paused, scratched his bald head for a second and tried to remember the number, which wasn’t easy since it was new. “714-555-1212,” he said.
The line crackled with static and the disembodied woman said, “Let me repeat that back to you.”
And that’s when Russ made his first mistake. “Okay,” he said.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please choose from the following options: Press one to hear this message in Tagalog. Press two for Dhimba, three for—”
Russ punched every number on the pad. Twice.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please tell me your phone number so that I may access your records.”
Russ wiped off the thin bead of sweat that had appeared on his upper lip from the aggravation of it all. “714-555-1212,” he said, and then waited in silence this time.
The fake woman’s voice sounded like someone gargling with peanut butter for a second and then she said, “Let me repeat that number back to you.”
Silence. Russ knew better than to tell her okay.
Silence.
A tickle developed in Russ’s throat but he didn’t dare clear it for fear he’d end up with the voice speaking to him in Dhimba.
“Your phone number is seven …” the woman said.
Silence.
“One …” she intoned in her plastic, other-world voice.
Silence.
“Four …” she repeated, dragging out each syllable—even though “four” is only a one syllable word.
“Aarrrgggg!” Russ shouted in frustration at the voice's snail pace.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you need. Please choose from the following options: Press one to hear this message in Tagalog. Press two for Dhimba—“
Russ jabbed every button on the keypad. One button flew off, hitting him in the forehead and ricocheting onto the floor. Corky Porky Pie, the dog, walked over. His black ears twitched with interest, and before Russ could snatch the button away, Corky gulped it down.
“I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you want,” said the voice in the phone. “I’d be happy to help. Please tell me what you need. Would you like to order ESPN-15? Or perhaps HBO? Speak clearly into the telephone and tell me what you would like.”
Russ gritted his teeth and said, “Programming problems.”
“I’m sorry; let me make sure I understand you correctly. Would you like to add additional programming? If so, please speak clearly and say yes.”
“NO,” Russ thundered. Corky leapt in the air, certain that intruders had entered the house, and tore off in a frenzy, barking all the way up the stairs to the front door.
“Corky, it’s all right. Be quiet,” Russ hollered over the dog’s barks and yaps.
“I’m sorry; I don’t understand the word, ‘Corky,’” the voice intoned in his ear. “Is Corky a program you wish to purchase? Please speak clearly and say yes.”
“No! No pro … gramm … ing!" Russ said it emphatically, enunciating each syllable for the hard-headed voice to hear. He continued, “Cust … o … mer ser … vice! TALK … TO … A … REAL … PER … SON!”
“Please wait while I connect you to customer service.” The fake woman disappeared with a click, and the Monkees’theme song—played on an accordion—sounded in Russ’s ear.
“Finally,” Russ said to Corky Porky Pie, who had given up on catching burglars and now sniffed the carpet in hopes of finding another yummy keypad button. “I’m finally going to get a real person.”
“Hello, this is customer service,” said a pleasant male voice with a slight New York accent. At the same time, a scent wafted through the room and Russ sniffed the air. It smelled like a cross between old, crusty snow, and the odor of doom and gloom.
Ignoring it, Russ opened his mouth to speak, and as he did, the male voice continued, “How may I help you? Would you like to add additional programming? Would you like to purchase HBO? Please say yes, then press one to hear this message in Tagalog …”
What's playing in my head: The Monkees' Theme Song.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
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Anne Bradshaw's Contest
Posted by Cindy Beck
Anne Bradshaw at "Not Entirely British" is running contests through out this year. Some really cool stuff is being offered, so run over there and enter to win! Right now, she's offering an autographed copy of Josi Kilpack's book, Lemon Tart.
Good luck!
Anne Bradshaw at "Not Entirely British" is running contests through out this year. Some really cool stuff is being offered, so run over there and enter to win! Right now, she's offering an autographed copy of Josi Kilpack's book, Lemon Tart.
Good luck!
Taggity-Tag ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, tag, game of tag, weight, height, knock knock jokes, knock-knock, Al Gore, Drew Carey, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Admit it, a lot of you love the game of tag as much as I do. Especially internet tag, where you don’t have to worry about running and you can sit in your chair, munching on a candy bar. Ah, yes ... cyber exercise ... it’s the only way to work out.
Not long ago, Candice Salima tagged me in a game where the person who’s “it” has to write 25 random things about him/herself, and then tag 25 more people. Except Candace only tagged 15. Someone else I know only tagged 10. Maybe I could get away with just tagging my dog, Corky Porky Pie, who would love the concept of running around and barking for no apparent reason—as long as it included treats and a tummy rub afterwards.
Therefore, in keeping with the game and listed below in no particular order (which by coinky-dink is what random means) are 25 thoughts.
1. To semi-quote Garfield, “I am not overweight, I am under-tall.” In a height to weight ratio, I should actually be a seven-foot Amazon. (The female warrior, not the website.)
2. I’m a dog lover. Over my lifespan, I’ve owned dogs named Mickey, Flopsy-Mentis, Ragsie, Deed-O, MacDoogie, Bearly Bubba Wubba, Bud Spud … and of course, Corky Porky Pie.
3. I just made up my very first knock-knock joke. Are you ready?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Oyster.
Oyster who?
Oy ster the soup so it doesn’t burn.
I didn’t say I made up a good one. I said I made up my first one.
4. My brain is melting from all this thinking, and so far I’ve only come up with four things for this list.
5. I’ve had a plethora of broken bones—wrist, two ankles, back, nose, little toe, and elbow. I’d mention that I’ve never broken a leg but I’m afraid the Broken Bone Elf will run me down in the street and make it happen. Shhh. Please pretend you did not hear me say I’ve never broken a leg.
6. The broken nose was Russ’s fault. No, he did not hit me. It happened at the ocean, when a big wave threw me nose first into the back of Russ's head. Really, I think he should have moved.
7. The broken ankles were Russ’s fault. No, he did not mow me over with the car.
The first one happened on the basketball court. We both jumped for the ball. Russ jumped three feet into the air and I, being under-tall, jumped three inches. When we reached Mother Earth again Russ landed on top of my foot, I lost my balance, and …viola voile vole voilaw … oh heck, ta-da … another trip to the emergency room.
The second one happened at the office, in January, on a very large patch of ice. Well, okay, the ice wasn’t in the office, it was out in the parking lot. And it wasn’t really Russ’s fault, but blaming it on him makes for a more interesting story.
8. In high school, I was very shy, and never, ever funny. Looking this list over, apparently I’m never, ever funny now, either.
9. Drew Carey, the comedian, learned comedy from reading a book. I thought that might help me, too, so I went out to the internet and typed, “How to write jokes,” into the Yahoo search engine. The first three returns all said, “Forget it. People who are under-tall can not write good jokes.” I finally found a site that let me in. The site was created in 1932, by Al Gore. I learned how to write my first knock-knock joke from there. (See entry #3, above.)
10. My brain is now oozing onto the floor in a puddle. It may never recover, and for that reason, I cannot tag 25 people. I’ll be lucky to tag 10. Okay, wait, maybe not even 10, so I’m going for five. OzGirl, Randy McNeely, Hazel Jensen, Shirley Bahlmann, Cathy Witbeck, Mary Greathouse, and Monkey’s Blog, come on down! You’ve been tagged!
What? I tagged seven people? Oh well, that’s me … the under-tall over-achiever.
What's playing in my head: Absolutely nothing. My brain has left the building.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, tag, game of tag, weight, height, knock knock jokes, knock-knock, Al Gore, Drew Carey, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Admit it, a lot of you love the game of tag as much as I do. Especially internet tag, where you don’t have to worry about running and you can sit in your chair, munching on a candy bar. Ah, yes ... cyber exercise ... it’s the only way to work out.
Not long ago, Candice Salima tagged me in a game where the person who’s “it” has to write 25 random things about him/herself, and then tag 25 more people. Except Candace only tagged 15. Someone else I know only tagged 10. Maybe I could get away with just tagging my dog, Corky Porky Pie, who would love the concept of running around and barking for no apparent reason—as long as it included treats and a tummy rub afterwards.
Therefore, in keeping with the game and listed below in no particular order (which by coinky-dink is what random means) are 25 thoughts.
1. To semi-quote Garfield, “I am not overweight, I am under-tall.” In a height to weight ratio, I should actually be a seven-foot Amazon. (The female warrior, not the website.)
2. I’m a dog lover. Over my lifespan, I’ve owned dogs named Mickey, Flopsy-Mentis, Ragsie, Deed-O, MacDoogie, Bearly Bubba Wubba, Bud Spud … and of course, Corky Porky Pie.
3. I just made up my very first knock-knock joke. Are you ready?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Oyster.
Oyster who?
Oy ster the soup so it doesn’t burn.
I didn’t say I made up a good one. I said I made up my first one.
4. My brain is melting from all this thinking, and so far I’ve only come up with four things for this list.
5. I’ve had a plethora of broken bones—wrist, two ankles, back, nose, little toe, and elbow. I’d mention that I’ve never broken a leg but I’m afraid the Broken Bone Elf will run me down in the street and make it happen. Shhh. Please pretend you did not hear me say I’ve never broken a leg.
6. The broken nose was Russ’s fault. No, he did not hit me. It happened at the ocean, when a big wave threw me nose first into the back of Russ's head. Really, I think he should have moved.
7. The broken ankles were Russ’s fault. No, he did not mow me over with the car.
The first one happened on the basketball court. We both jumped for the ball. Russ jumped three feet into the air and I, being under-tall, jumped three inches. When we reached Mother Earth again Russ landed on top of my foot, I lost my balance, and …
The second one happened at the office, in January, on a very large patch of ice. Well, okay, the ice wasn’t in the office, it was out in the parking lot. And it wasn’t really Russ’s fault, but blaming it on him makes for a more interesting story.
8. In high school, I was very shy, and never, ever funny. Looking this list over, apparently I’m never, ever funny now, either.
9. Drew Carey, the comedian, learned comedy from reading a book. I thought that might help me, too, so I went out to the internet and typed, “How to write jokes,” into the Yahoo search engine. The first three returns all said, “Forget it. People who are under-tall can not write good jokes.” I finally found a site that let me in. The site was created in 1932, by Al Gore. I learned how to write my first knock-knock joke from there. (See entry #3, above.)
10. My brain is now oozing onto the floor in a puddle. It may never recover, and for that reason, I cannot tag 25 people. I’ll be lucky to tag 10. Okay, wait, maybe not even 10, so I’m going for five. OzGirl, Randy McNeely, Hazel Jensen, Shirley Bahlmann, Cathy Witbeck, Mary Greathouse, and Monkey’s Blog, come on down! You’ve been tagged!
What? I tagged seven people? Oh well, that’s me … the under-tall over-achiever.
What's playing in my head: Absolutely nothing. My brain has left the building.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
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Hula in the Coola ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, holidays, observances, 2009, February, Valentine’s, schmaltzy, marijuana, Jell-O, coola, hula, BYU, University of Wyoming, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Are you tired of the schmaltzy Valentine’s stuff and wish you could find something else to celebrate in February? Or, has your mother-in-law blacklisted you, and you want to make amends by throwing a holiday party in her honor?
Look no farther. It’s your lucky day! For the paltry fee of $299.99—plus your house, car, and first-born in the wilderness—you can read my list of lesser-known February holidays. In addition, for a mere $100.00* more, you can print out your very own copy.
* Subject to sales tax, shipping, and handling.
FEBRUARY MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
Marijuana Awareness Month (Ooo, far out man! It lasts all month): The second month of the year conjures visions of love, hearts, and flowers … and marijuana. Honest, I’m not making this up. Someone, somewhere—probably a hippie from the sixties—designated February as the month to be aware of marijuana.
Go figure.
However, everyone needs a reason to party, right? And what better reason than the fact that we should all be aware of marijuana? Being converts to the church and knowing a number of interesting people before we joined, I can tell you that my husband, Russ, and I had a few friends in college that were aware of marijuana long before there was a holiday dedicated to it. And the irony of life—some of them are now politicians.
Celebrate this holiday observance regally. Bring out the chips and salsa, and invite all your college friends from the sixties and seventies—the two or three that are still left after smoking so much of that Mary Jane. Just remember that no party would be complete without a batch of brownies. No, not the kind with that funny little weed—the mint-chocolate-chip kind.
Spunky Old Broads Month (all month): Finally, a weird holiday worth celebrating. At my age, I know lots of spunky old women. Hey, for that matter, I’m one of them. And I find that I keep wondering when I went from Sweet Young Thang to Spunky Ol’ Lady.
At any rate, we Spunky Ol’ Ladies have one thing going for us—we can bake a mean batch of brownies. The mint-chocolate-chip kind.
Note: You might find this holiday particularly appropriate for that mother-in-law problem I mentioned earlier.
Return Shopping Carts to the Supermarket Month (all month): This holiday was instituted for sinners who accidentally, and without malice aforethought, stole shopping carts. It provides the penitent shoplifter with the opportunity to return—without reprisal—the metal contraption that they dragged home for half a mile, with one wheel going bump, bump, bump.
Note: In a personal interview with you, the bishop doesn't usually ask, “Have you ever stolen a shopping cart?” However, now's your chance to vote on the issue. If you think that should be one of the interview questions, leave a comment. Better yet, email your bishop.
FEBRUARY WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
International Hoof Care Week (Feb. 3-6): The last time I counted, Feb. 3-6, was not a full week. It’s more like four days, which gives us a glimpse into the mentality of the person who came up with a holiday to celebrate digging “stuff” out of an animal’s hoof.
Have no fear, however, because by the time you read this, the week-long-holiday-that-only-lasts-four-days will practically be over.
Jell-O Week (Feb. 8-14): For those who always wanted to wrestle another person in a vat of Jell-O, now’s your chance!
Texas Cowboy Poetry Week (Feb. 27- Mar. 1): Apparently, nobody but Texas cowboys can write poetry during this week. It seems unfair to the rest of the cowpokes in the country. It’s my suggestion that the non-Texan cowboys band together and form their own poetry guild. For their membership fee, they could charge a dogie or two. (For the benefit of the non-cowboys reading this, a dogie is an orphaned calf—which eventually becomes steaks and hamburgers. It should not be confused with a doggy, which is a dog—who steals the steaks and hamburgers off your plate.) The non-Texan galoots could also hold their annual poetry conventions in a two-seater outhouse, thereby outdoing the Texans by one whole seat.
FEBRUARY DAILY OBSERVANCES
Hula in the Coola Day (Feb. 1): I have no clue what it means to hula in the coola, but I’m thinking that someone who’s been smoking a little too much Maui Wowie came up with it.
Wear Red Day (Feb. 6): In fairness to BYU graduates around the world, I must protest and insist that the day after this holiday should be called “Wear Blue Day.” Moreover, the day after that should be, “Wear Brown and Gold Day” … for University of Wyoming fans around the country.
All one of them. (That would be me.)
Be Electric Day (Feb. 11): Do you suppose I misread the name of this holiday? I’m thinking it actually said “Be Electrocuted Day,” in honor of those who unthinkingly stuck a fork in the toaster to pull out a crumpled piece of raisin bread … and lived to tell about it.
That would be Russ.
What's playing in my head: Get Along Little Dogies by Gene Autry. (Be sure to check out the fun link on Gene Autry!)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, holidays, observances, 2009, February, Valentine’s, schmaltzy, marijuana, Jell-O, coola, hula, BYU, University of Wyoming, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Are you tired of the schmaltzy Valentine’s stuff and wish you could find something else to celebrate in February? Or, has your mother-in-law blacklisted you, and you want to make amends by throwing a holiday party in her honor?
Look no farther. It’s your lucky day! For the paltry fee of $299.99—plus your house, car, and first-born in the wilderness—you can read my list of lesser-known February holidays. In addition, for a mere $100.00* more, you can print out your very own copy.
* Subject to sales tax, shipping, and handling.
FEBRUARY MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
Marijuana Awareness Month (Ooo, far out man! It lasts all month): The second month of the year conjures visions of love, hearts, and flowers … and marijuana. Honest, I’m not making this up. Someone, somewhere—probably a hippie from the sixties—designated February as the month to be aware of marijuana.
Go figure.
However, everyone needs a reason to party, right? And what better reason than the fact that we should all be aware of marijuana? Being converts to the church and knowing a number of interesting people before we joined, I can tell you that my husband, Russ, and I had a few friends in college that were aware of marijuana long before there was a holiday dedicated to it. And the irony of life—some of them are now politicians.
Celebrate this holiday observance regally. Bring out the chips and salsa, and invite all your college friends from the sixties and seventies—the two or three that are still left after smoking so much of that Mary Jane. Just remember that no party would be complete without a batch of brownies. No, not the kind with that funny little weed—the mint-chocolate-chip kind.
Spunky Old Broads Month (all month): Finally, a weird holiday worth celebrating. At my age, I know lots of spunky old women. Hey, for that matter, I’m one of them. And I find that I keep wondering when I went from Sweet Young Thang to Spunky Ol’ Lady.
At any rate, we Spunky Ol’ Ladies have one thing going for us—we can bake a mean batch of brownies. The mint-chocolate-chip kind.
Note: You might find this holiday particularly appropriate for that mother-in-law problem I mentioned earlier.
Return Shopping Carts to the Supermarket Month (all month): This holiday was instituted for sinners who accidentally, and without malice aforethought, stole shopping carts. It provides the penitent shoplifter with the opportunity to return—without reprisal—the metal contraption that they dragged home for half a mile, with one wheel going bump, bump, bump.
Note: In a personal interview with you, the bishop doesn't usually ask, “Have you ever stolen a shopping cart?” However, now's your chance to vote on the issue. If you think that should be one of the interview questions, leave a comment. Better yet, email your bishop.
FEBRUARY WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
International Hoof Care Week (Feb. 3-6): The last time I counted, Feb. 3-6, was not a full week. It’s more like four days, which gives us a glimpse into the mentality of the person who came up with a holiday to celebrate digging “stuff” out of an animal’s hoof.
Have no fear, however, because by the time you read this, the week-long-holiday-that-only-lasts-four-days will practically be over.
Jell-O Week (Feb. 8-14): For those who always wanted to wrestle another person in a vat of Jell-O, now’s your chance!
Texas Cowboy Poetry Week (Feb. 27- Mar. 1): Apparently, nobody but Texas cowboys can write poetry during this week. It seems unfair to the rest of the cowpokes in the country. It’s my suggestion that the non-Texan cowboys band together and form their own poetry guild. For their membership fee, they could charge a dogie or two. (For the benefit of the non-cowboys reading this, a dogie is an orphaned calf—which eventually becomes steaks and hamburgers. It should not be confused with a doggy, which is a dog—who steals the steaks and hamburgers off your plate.) The non-Texan galoots could also hold their annual poetry conventions in a two-seater outhouse, thereby outdoing the Texans by one whole seat.
FEBRUARY DAILY OBSERVANCES
Hula in the Coola Day (Feb. 1): I have no clue what it means to hula in the coola, but I’m thinking that someone who’s been smoking a little too much Maui Wowie came up with it.
Wear Red Day (Feb. 6): In fairness to BYU graduates around the world, I must protest and insist that the day after this holiday should be called “Wear Blue Day.” Moreover, the day after that should be, “Wear Brown and Gold Day” … for University of Wyoming fans around the country.
All one of them. (That would be me.)
Be Electric Day (Feb. 11): Do you suppose I misread the name of this holiday? I’m thinking it actually said “Be Electrocuted Day,” in honor of those who unthinkingly stuck a fork in the toaster to pull out a crumpled piece of raisin bread … and lived to tell about it.
That would be Russ.
What's playing in my head: Get Along Little Dogies by Gene Autry. (Be sure to check out the fun link on Gene Autry!)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
Never Mix Perfume and Listerine ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Urban Botanic, parfum, perfume, fragrance, bath, body, lotion, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Image from Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic website.
Even though I had a cold last Saturday (January 24), I went to Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic Make and Take, anyway. It was a blast! I don't usually do the party thing—you know, Tupperware parties, Pampered Chef parties, Learn to Knit Underwear for Your Significant Other parties—and I want you to know I'm not just saying the Make and Take was fun in order to be polite.
For those of you who don’t know what an Urban Botanic Make and Take is, it’s a workshop that allows you to create your own fragrance for bath and body. With Urban Botanic’s patented method, you learn how to combine your favorite U.B. perfume oils until the fragrance is just right. Then, you add it to a base to make perfume, lotion, shower gel, and bubble bath.*
You don’t have to be a chemist or a rocket scientist to create a fragrance, nor do you need a college degree … you just need a nose.
Now that I’m a seasoned parfum maker, I have a few words of advice to offer for anyone who might be interested. No, not interested in hearing my sage advice, interested in going to one of Karlene’s parties.
1. Don't miss Karlene's next one.
2. Try not to have a cold, as a nose that feels like someone has packed two caribou and a grizzly bear up it is not helpful to your sniffing experience.
3. Do not take along Listerine Breath Strips to give you whiter teeth and fresher breath. After popping one of those in your mouth, it takes several swigs of water before the scents of lavendar, lemon, white musk, and juniper no longer smell like Listerine, Listerine, Listerine, and Listerine. (I know this because I innocently popped in a breath strip shortly after arriving at Karlene’s house.)
4. Ponder what you'd like to name your personal fragrance ahead of time.
The first fragrance I created consisted of an almond-strawberry infusion. It smelled lovely. I sat there inhaling it, dreaming of fairies riding through the woods in a strawberry coach pulled by tiny, cream-colored bunnies. In the middle of my fantasy, a woodland sprite appeared. Her hair shone in the sun like spun gold, and in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Karlene Browning, she said, "What will you name your creation?”
I shot out of the daydream like a stone from a slingshot. What? I had to name my fragrance? Why wasn’t I warned of this? Surely something as vital as naming a perfume required advance planning—something along the order of what’s required to run for President of the United States. There are tag lines … and sound bites … and photo ops … and … oh, wait. Maybe all I had to do was simply pick a name.
Then the pressure mounted. I’m a writer, and allegedly have an imagination. My special fragrance needed a name that sang, that had originality, rhythm, daring-do. I looked blankly at Karlene. “Umm, so, I have to call it something, huh?”
Karlene nodded.
I stared at my bottle of newly created parfum. I shook it, smelled it again and stalled for time. The clock ticked and the minutes crept by. Arrgg! Everyone is going to know I’m a fraud of a writer—I can’t think of a name!
Finally, out of desperation, I wrote down the only two words that came to mind for my custom-scented fragrance. I showed it to Karlene and said, “Will that work?”
Karlene smiled and said, “Yes, I think Almond-Strawberry does a good job of describing it.”
Five minutes too late, it came to me. “Wait, I know what it should be called—Woodland Sprite!”
Everyone grinned, nodded, and I felt vindicated as a writer. And as a fragrance creator.
Today, as I sit writing this blog entry, my new bottle of Urban Botanic parfum sits next to my keyboard. I’ve sprayed some on my wrists and would love to spend more time telling you about its mysterious, elusive scent … but my strawberry coach pulled by cream-colored bunnies awaits me and I must be off to the woods … to dance with the fairies and sprites.
*From Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic website.
What's playing in my head: Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Urban Botanic, parfum, perfume, fragrance, bath, body, lotion, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Image from Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic website.
Even though I had a cold last Saturday (January 24), I went to Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic Make and Take, anyway. It was a blast! I don't usually do the party thing—you know, Tupperware parties, Pampered Chef parties, Learn to Knit Underwear for Your Significant Other parties—and I want you to know I'm not just saying the Make and Take was fun in order to be polite.
For those of you who don’t know what an Urban Botanic Make and Take is, it’s a workshop that allows you to create your own fragrance for bath and body. With Urban Botanic’s patented method, you learn how to combine your favorite U.B. perfume oils until the fragrance is just right. Then, you add it to a base to make perfume, lotion, shower gel, and bubble bath.*
You don’t have to be a chemist or a rocket scientist to create a fragrance, nor do you need a college degree … you just need a nose.
Now that I’m a seasoned parfum maker, I have a few words of advice to offer for anyone who might be interested. No, not interested in hearing my sage advice, interested in going to one of Karlene’s parties.
1. Don't miss Karlene's next one.
2. Try not to have a cold, as a nose that feels like someone has packed two caribou and a grizzly bear up it is not helpful to your sniffing experience.
3. Do not take along Listerine Breath Strips to give you whiter teeth and fresher breath. After popping one of those in your mouth, it takes several swigs of water before the scents of lavendar, lemon, white musk, and juniper no longer smell like Listerine, Listerine, Listerine, and Listerine. (I know this because I innocently popped in a breath strip shortly after arriving at Karlene’s house.)
4. Ponder what you'd like to name your personal fragrance ahead of time.
The first fragrance I created consisted of an almond-strawberry infusion. It smelled lovely. I sat there inhaling it, dreaming of fairies riding through the woods in a strawberry coach pulled by tiny, cream-colored bunnies. In the middle of my fantasy, a woodland sprite appeared. Her hair shone in the sun like spun gold, and in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Karlene Browning, she said, "What will you name your creation?”
I shot out of the daydream like a stone from a slingshot. What? I had to name my fragrance? Why wasn’t I warned of this? Surely something as vital as naming a perfume required advance planning—something along the order of what’s required to run for President of the United States. There are tag lines … and sound bites … and photo ops … and … oh, wait. Maybe all I had to do was simply pick a name.
Then the pressure mounted. I’m a writer, and allegedly have an imagination. My special fragrance needed a name that sang, that had originality, rhythm, daring-do. I looked blankly at Karlene. “Umm, so, I have to call it something, huh?”
Karlene nodded.
I stared at my bottle of newly created parfum. I shook it, smelled it again and stalled for time. The clock ticked and the minutes crept by. Arrgg! Everyone is going to know I’m a fraud of a writer—I can’t think of a name!
Finally, out of desperation, I wrote down the only two words that came to mind for my custom-scented fragrance. I showed it to Karlene and said, “Will that work?”
Karlene smiled and said, “Yes, I think Almond-Strawberry does a good job of describing it.”
Five minutes too late, it came to me. “Wait, I know what it should be called—Woodland Sprite!”
Everyone grinned, nodded, and I felt vindicated as a writer. And as a fragrance creator.
Today, as I sit writing this blog entry, my new bottle of Urban Botanic parfum sits next to my keyboard. I’ve sprayed some on my wrists and would love to spend more time telling you about its mysterious, elusive scent … but my strawberry coach pulled by cream-colored bunnies awaits me and I must be off to the woods … to dance with the fairies and sprites.
*From Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic website.
What's playing in my head: Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
NyQuil, Wonderful NyQuil
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, illness, accident, cold, sore throat, black plague, medical theory, NyQuil, Band-Aid, Scope, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It’s that time of year when illnesses and accidents abound, and when we rely on doctors and medicine to get us through colds, sore throats, and the black plague. However, I have noticed, on occasion, that the theoretical world of medicine and the real world of … well, the real world … clash.
Medical Theory: A cold will dissipate in seven days and an over-the-counter cold remedy helps alleviate symptoms.
Real Life: My cold improves in six days, but only to lull me into complacency. It leaps out in full force on the seventh day, causing my nose to drip—in church—when I have no tissues. I rush home and hunt for an over-the-counter remedy. I throw fluffy cotton balls and sturdy Q-tips onto the floor in my haste to find something that will help. Then a thought occurs to me. Pulling two Q-tips from the container, I stuff them halfway up my nose to temporarily stop the drip, and then go back to the hunt. Finally, in a dark corner of the linen closet, I find it. Aaahhh, NyQuil (sigh of relief), wonderful NyQuil, blessed NyQuil ... with an expiration date of January 2, 1964. I mumble, “Who cares? It will only work that much better,” and chug the whole bottle. Yes, now I feel less drippy. I explain to my husband, Russ, that he’ll need to fix supper because I’ll be too busy watching the pretty lights that circle my head like a halo. Sighing contentedly, I realize it’s better living through chemistry. I reach to scratch an itch on my upper lip …and accidentally poke myself in the eye.
Medical Theory: A minor cut, such as an accidental, shallow slice with a kitchen knife will heal with ointment and a Band-Aid.
Real Life: My shallow, minor cut drips a blood trail as I rush to the bathroom. I elevate the finger to avoid a significant loss of life-giving fluids and as the blood runs to my elbow, I try to open—one-handed and with my non-dominant hand—a box of Band-Aids. The box won’t open. Forgetting that I have a shallow, minor cut, I pound the box with my dominant hand. A pattern of blood spatter, worthy of a CSI Miami episode, flings across the wall. Electing to leave it there until my minor cut heals, I look for the first aid ointment. It’s a new tube … in a box. Giving up, I suck the blood from my finger until it quits bleeding.
Medical Theory: A facial blemish will heal quickly with an application of a topical anti-acne ointment.
Real Life: I wake up to a blemish the size of the Staten Island Ferry. Remembering the medical profession’s advice, I apply an anti-acne cream. My face turns red and develops blotches from the stuff. The blemish pulsates and burns. I wash off the cream, hoping that will help. The blotches on my face spread to my neck, and my lips swell. I look like an African Ubangi warrior.
The blemish, however, still shines like a lighthouse in the fog, so I try an old pioneer remedy—mouthwash. I pour Cool Mint Scope onto a cotton ball, and dab it on the blemish. Holy cow—it stings like fire! In a knee jerk reaction, I fling the bottle of Scope and the cotton ball. The mouthwash splashes all over the floor and the cotton ball sticks to the mirror. Stepping forward to remove it, my foot slips on the mouthwash. In a manner resembling Wile E. Coyote when he’s been bested by the Roadrunner, I flip in the air and tumble to the floor. A bump the size of Manhattan raises on my forehead, but at least now, no one will notice the blemish on my nose. I stagger out of the bathroom and down the hall, where I encounter Russ. He says, “Did you know you have a blemish? And how come you smell like mouthwash?”
Whereupon, I realize that Dr. Gregory House of the TV show, House, is actually just an actor named Hugh Laurie, and the medical profession's suggestions aren't really any more effective than a bottle of Scope.
(Disclaimer: This blog post is all in fun. Please do not chug NyQuil or stick Q-tips up your nose ... unless advised to by a member of the medical profession.)
What's playing in my head: Lime in the Coconut by Kermit the Frog.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, illness, accident, cold, sore throat, black plague, medical theory, NyQuil, Band-Aid, Scope, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It’s that time of year when illnesses and accidents abound, and when we rely on doctors and medicine to get us through colds, sore throats, and the black plague. However, I have noticed, on occasion, that the theoretical world of medicine and the real world of … well, the real world … clash.
Medical Theory: A cold will dissipate in seven days and an over-the-counter cold remedy helps alleviate symptoms.
Real Life: My cold improves in six days, but only to lull me into complacency. It leaps out in full force on the seventh day, causing my nose to drip—in church—when I have no tissues. I rush home and hunt for an over-the-counter remedy. I throw fluffy cotton balls and sturdy Q-tips onto the floor in my haste to find something that will help. Then a thought occurs to me. Pulling two Q-tips from the container, I stuff them halfway up my nose to temporarily stop the drip, and then go back to the hunt. Finally, in a dark corner of the linen closet, I find it. Aaahhh, NyQuil (sigh of relief), wonderful NyQuil, blessed NyQuil ... with an expiration date of January 2, 1964. I mumble, “Who cares? It will only work that much better,” and chug the whole bottle. Yes, now I feel less drippy. I explain to my husband, Russ, that he’ll need to fix supper because I’ll be too busy watching the pretty lights that circle my head like a halo. Sighing contentedly, I realize it’s better living through chemistry. I reach to scratch an itch on my upper lip …and accidentally poke myself in the eye.
Medical Theory: A minor cut, such as an accidental, shallow slice with a kitchen knife will heal with ointment and a Band-Aid.
Real Life: My shallow, minor cut drips a blood trail as I rush to the bathroom. I elevate the finger to avoid a significant loss of life-giving fluids and as the blood runs to my elbow, I try to open—one-handed and with my non-dominant hand—a box of Band-Aids. The box won’t open. Forgetting that I have a shallow, minor cut, I pound the box with my dominant hand. A pattern of blood spatter, worthy of a CSI Miami episode, flings across the wall. Electing to leave it there until my minor cut heals, I look for the first aid ointment. It’s a new tube … in a box. Giving up, I suck the blood from my finger until it quits bleeding.
Medical Theory: A facial blemish will heal quickly with an application of a topical anti-acne ointment.
Real Life: I wake up to a blemish the size of the Staten Island Ferry. Remembering the medical profession’s advice, I apply an anti-acne cream. My face turns red and develops blotches from the stuff. The blemish pulsates and burns. I wash off the cream, hoping that will help. The blotches on my face spread to my neck, and my lips swell. I look like an African Ubangi warrior.
The blemish, however, still shines like a lighthouse in the fog, so I try an old pioneer remedy—mouthwash. I pour Cool Mint Scope onto a cotton ball, and dab it on the blemish. Holy cow—it stings like fire! In a knee jerk reaction, I fling the bottle of Scope and the cotton ball. The mouthwash splashes all over the floor and the cotton ball sticks to the mirror. Stepping forward to remove it, my foot slips on the mouthwash. In a manner resembling Wile E. Coyote when he’s been bested by the Roadrunner, I flip in the air and tumble to the floor. A bump the size of Manhattan raises on my forehead, but at least now, no one will notice the blemish on my nose. I stagger out of the bathroom and down the hall, where I encounter Russ. He says, “Did you know you have a blemish? And how come you smell like mouthwash?”
Whereupon, I realize that Dr. Gregory House of the TV show, House, is actually just an actor named Hugh Laurie, and the medical profession's suggestions aren't really any more effective than a bottle of Scope.
(Disclaimer: This blog post is all in fun. Please do not chug NyQuil or stick Q-tips up your nose ... unless advised to by a member of the medical profession.)
What's playing in my head: Lime in the Coconut by Kermit the Frog.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
---
A Contest You Might Find Interesting
Just wanted to take a quick minute of serious thought (a minute is about the longest I can stay serious)to let you know about a contest taking place on a fellow LDS author's blog: Not Entirely British by Anne Bradshaw.
From now until Feb. 28th, the contest is open to all mystery and suspense enthusiasts, and author, G. G. Vandagriff, is offering a set of her fascinating Arthurian Omen CDs as the prize.
To enter, click on this link, Not Entirely British and follow Anne's instructions. Good luck! (But not too much luck because I'm entering the contest, too! :)
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From now until Feb. 28th, the contest is open to all mystery and suspense enthusiasts, and author, G. G. Vandagriff, is offering a set of her fascinating Arthurian Omen CDs as the prize.
To enter, click on this link, Not Entirely British and follow Anne's instructions. Good luck! (But not too much luck because I'm entering the contest, too! :)
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Dried Plum Digestive Month ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, holidays, observances, 2009, Presidential inauguration, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
In the dreary days of January, when ice storms wipe out the power in half the country, and the credit card bills from Christmas wipe out the savings accounts in the other, it’s vitally important to have something to look forward to. Yes, I know I ended that sentence with a preposition, and no, I was not in reference to looking forward to the Presidential Inauguration. With all the media hype taking place, that’s more like looking forward to a root canal.
So, here it is—fresh from someone’s demented mind—a list of monthly, weekly, or daily reasons to party. And if it turns out you missed the celebration already, there’s always next year.
JANUARY MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
California Dried Plum Digestive Month (all month): First, let me point out that the California Dried Plum Board obviously is too ashamed to call a spade a spade. Or in this case, a prune a prune. I vote for renaming them the Old Dried Prune Board. And because of the effect that dried “plums” have on most of us—as well as to provide balance and harmony in the universe—I propose a National Kaopectate Month in February.
International Change Your Stars Month (all month): Okay, I’m game for this. I’d like to exchange the North Star for Betelgeuse. No, not BeetleJuice the movie, but the red, supergiant star whose name sounds a lot like BettleJuice.
Oh wait, maybe they didn’t mean that kind of star. In that case, I’d like to change my husband, Russ, into Cary Grant.
Hmm, that might be a problem since Cary Grant is dead. Guess I’ll take Pierce Brosnan instead.
Oatmeal Month (all month): I’m thinking they meant Oatmeal Cookie Month, because no one in their right mind would eat oatmeal for an entire month. Okay, I take that back, Russ would … but I did say, “no one in their right mind.”
JANUARY WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
Silent Record Week (Jan. 1-7): What kind of records? Computer records? Criminal records? Vinyl records? Your guess is as good as mine … but ssshh, guess quietly.
Cuckoo Dancing Week (Jan. 11-17): I’m not sure if the National Cuckoo Board means dancing with the cuckoos in the clock, or the cuckoos in the mental hospitals. At any rate, I’m sure I’d prefer performing the foxtrot with a little wooden bird, over attempting the tango with a guy wielding a chain saw.
Oh, maybe I should send that idea in to Tom Bergeron and Dancing with the Stars. Freddie Krueger could be one of their celebrity dancers.
National No Tillage Week (Jan. 14-17): With the possible exceptions of the residents of Texas (home of Tommy Lee Jones, Gila monsters, and rattlesnakes), Florida (home of the hanging chad and alligators big enough to eat a man), and California (home of the “Governator”), I doubt anyone in the U.S will have a problem not tilling during these short four days.
Yah, sure, you betcha … especially in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 frozen lakes … and in Salt Lake City, the land of the frozen inversion.
JANUARY DAILY OBSERVANCES
Judgment Day (Jan. 17): You can all breathe a sigh of relief. Judgment Day was last Saturday and since you’re here, reading this, you were not banished to outer darkness.
Answer Your Cats’ Questions Day (Jan 22): Honest, I am not making this up, because if I were, it would be called, Ask Your Cat a Question Day. I always wanted to know what mouse tastes like … but not enough to try one.
Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day (Jan. 26): Let me just say, for the record, that I am eternally grateful for bubble wrap. But not as grateful as I am that Judgment Day is over and I’m still here.
What's playing in my head: Day-O by Harry Belafonte.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, holidays, observances, 2009, Presidential inauguration, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
In the dreary days of January, when ice storms wipe out the power in half the country, and the credit card bills from Christmas wipe out the savings accounts in the other, it’s vitally important to have something to look forward to. Yes, I know I ended that sentence with a preposition, and no, I was not in reference to looking forward to the Presidential Inauguration. With all the media hype taking place, that’s more like looking forward to a root canal.
So, here it is—fresh from someone’s demented mind—a list of monthly, weekly, or daily reasons to party. And if it turns out you missed the celebration already, there’s always next year.
JANUARY MONTHLY OBSERVANCES
California Dried Plum Digestive Month (all month): First, let me point out that the California Dried Plum Board obviously is too ashamed to call a spade a spade. Or in this case, a prune a prune. I vote for renaming them the Old Dried Prune Board. And because of the effect that dried “plums” have on most of us—as well as to provide balance and harmony in the universe—I propose a National Kaopectate Month in February.
International Change Your Stars Month (all month): Okay, I’m game for this. I’d like to exchange the North Star for Betelgeuse. No, not BeetleJuice the movie, but the red, supergiant star whose name sounds a lot like BettleJuice.
Oh wait, maybe they didn’t mean that kind of star. In that case, I’d like to change my husband, Russ, into Cary Grant.
Hmm, that might be a problem since Cary Grant is dead. Guess I’ll take Pierce Brosnan instead.
Oatmeal Month (all month): I’m thinking they meant Oatmeal Cookie Month, because no one in their right mind would eat oatmeal for an entire month. Okay, I take that back, Russ would … but I did say, “no one in their right mind.”
JANUARY WEEKLY OBSERVANCES
Silent Record Week (Jan. 1-7): What kind of records? Computer records? Criminal records? Vinyl records? Your guess is as good as mine … but ssshh, guess quietly.
Cuckoo Dancing Week (Jan. 11-17): I’m not sure if the National Cuckoo Board means dancing with the cuckoos in the clock, or the cuckoos in the mental hospitals. At any rate, I’m sure I’d prefer performing the foxtrot with a little wooden bird, over attempting the tango with a guy wielding a chain saw.
Oh, maybe I should send that idea in to Tom Bergeron and Dancing with the Stars. Freddie Krueger could be one of their celebrity dancers.
National No Tillage Week (Jan. 14-17): With the possible exceptions of the residents of Texas (home of Tommy Lee Jones, Gila monsters, and rattlesnakes), Florida (home of the hanging chad and alligators big enough to eat a man), and California (home of the “Governator”), I doubt anyone in the U.S will have a problem not tilling during these short four days.
Yah, sure, you betcha … especially in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 frozen lakes … and in Salt Lake City, the land of the frozen inversion.
JANUARY DAILY OBSERVANCES
Judgment Day (Jan. 17): You can all breathe a sigh of relief. Judgment Day was last Saturday and since you’re here, reading this, you were not banished to outer darkness.
Answer Your Cats’ Questions Day (Jan 22): Honest, I am not making this up, because if I were, it would be called, Ask Your Cat a Question Day. I always wanted to know what mouse tastes like … but not enough to try one.
Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day (Jan. 26): Let me just say, for the record, that I am eternally grateful for bubble wrap. But not as grateful as I am that Judgment Day is over and I’m still here.
What's playing in my head: Day-O by Harry Belafonte.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Neighborhood Newsletter Subscriptions are FREE, and joining is easy.
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