Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
Something Is Amiss
Hello. If you can see this, please help. Something is amiss. The calendar says April 2021. I believe I’m stuck in a strange alternative universe. This world is very much like the real one I remember. You almost wouldn’t notice it—but for one thing: There are fewer hours in the day.
- In the beforetime, there were enough days in a week to do things weekly, like dusting, sweeping, laundry, cutting the grass, washing the car.
- There were more weekends in a month for things like cleaning gutters and weeding the garden.
- I tell you, and I swear it is true, there used to be time to repaint a room simply to make it a different color.
- I used to read books. It was possible, in the real world, to read an entire book in a day. In this strange place, I’m lucky if I can manage a few pages before I succumb to sleep.
- I used to listen to music. As an activity.
- I played video games. All the way to the end of the game.
- I used to scrapbook. I used to make jewelry. I used to do needlepoint!
- There was time before to drive to a place for the sole purpose of taking photographs of that place.
- There was time to follow the Steelers, Penguins, Pirates, and every minute of March Madness.
- I even used to play sports—two or three times a week—and we’d go out for dinner and drinks afterwards. The evenings in this world simply aren’t long enough for that, and there aren’t as many of them. (Does 2 a.m. even exist in this universe?)
- I used to do my nails. I used to put on make-up. I used to have time for using a blow dryer and a curling iron. There absolutely used to be more minutes in-between getting a shower and getting in the car to go someplace.
- I used to work jobs that required 10 hours a day, on average. Now I work from home—where time is not wasted in a commute or the inanities of ego and power—and yet there simply are not enough hours in the day. My novel remains unfinished. I am struggling even to complete this blog post.
Am I alone in this time-short universe? Is anyone else stuck in this realm? Give me a sign.
Please, there is no time to lose! This morning, I noticed that my driver’s license has morphed. It shows that I am nearing 60, when, only yesterday, I was in my 20s.
My Criminal Past
One time, in grade school—Catholic grade school—I forgot to have my Mom sign my homework.
I did the homework, and my Mom was aware I did the homework. I simply forgot to have her sign it. I do not really understand why this was such a big deal—having a signature on a piece of completed homework—but, the next morning, when the nun said, “Place your signed papers on the desk,” I panicked.
I was 6.
Every other kid in the class placed a piece of paper on his/her desk. The nun moved around the classroom, hovering over each set of tiny shoulders to witness The Signature. I’m guessing we were seated alphabetically; I’m not sure about that, but she started at the other end of the room—and that gave me time to think.
All I had in the world was a sheet of Math problems and a #2 pencil. I stared at my supplies. Then I got an idea. An awful idea. I got a wonderful, awful idea. I slid that paper in close and, quickly, furtively, I did the deed: I signed my mother’s name.
In case you’re not sure, 6-year-olds have the penmanship of a first-grader and have not yet learned cursive.
I remember that moment. I remember it clearly. I thought to myself, “It will be more believable if I only use her first name.”
Such brilliance under pressure. Such suavité.
And so I forged my mother’s name, K-a-y, in pencil, in first-grader letters. Then I sat back, and I enjoyed a (very short-lived) respite from the terror that had gripped me since class began.
Then, the nun was there; she was behind me, a bit to the left, looking over my shoulder. I was nervous, but I played it cool, waiting for her to move on.
She did not move on.
Folks. It has been 50 years-plus since that particular moment in my life, and I tell you, I have never been more frightened that I can recall.
The punishment was swift, creative, and horrifying. I had to do an agonizing Show and Tell for my classmates. Then I had to leave the classroom, walk the long, dark, empty hall and visit other classrooms. As instructed, I knocked politely; once given permission to enter, I walked to the front of the room, told the teacher what I had done, and asked if I could please stand there and tell her class about my evil deed.
That bit is kind of a blur, but I recall that my voice wavered and my body shook. By the time I returned to the seat in my own classroom, I was solemn, humiliated, and a little dizzy. I may have had an out-of-body experience.
Whew. {shudder}
It was a tough lesson but a lesson learned well. From that day forward, I have avoided public speaking like the plague.
But, with some practice, I got quite good at forging my mother’s signature.
Feedback
Yesterday, I spent a big chunk of the day at the ER. I am fine; everyone is fine; everything turned out fine, but I hadn’t time to set something down to thaw for dinner. So, last night, after a physically and emotionally draining day, I decided to treat myself to the comfy decadence of eating Chinese food in front of the TV. Since moving, a few years ago, I do not have a go-to Chinese place that delivers, so I googled and found only delivery services.
Note: I know delivery services aren’t ideal for local restaurants. Last night was about what was ideal for me.
I tried DoorDash some years back. The food never arrived. Turns out that the restaurant (listed on the DoorDash website) did not exist. When I attempted to talk to customer service (fearing a scam), the person hung up on me. So, this time, I tried GrubHub.
Yikes.
GrubHub charges (1) a delivery fee and (2) a service fee and (3) a required tip. The tip, as I was to discover later—much, much later—is how you bribe one of their employees to pick up your order.
A peeve I would not keep as a pet: I prefer to tip as a reward for good service, not as ransom.
I don’t mind tipping. Like anyone who has waited tables (which I believe should be a prerequisite for patronizing any eatery), I’m generally a good tipper. I thought offering nearly 30% of the food bill, on top of a service fee and a delivery fee, was a decent contribution. In GrubHub math, my tip was noted as only 18% because they calculate the percentage as part of the entire charge, including their own delivery fee and service fee. I call shenanigans. And I understand, now, why my order wasn’t popular with drivers (who probably are not the ones making enough money to buy Super Bowl ads).
I could have walked to that restaurant and back (and gone for seconds) before the order arrived. The food sat so long it was as if I had ordered leftovers. And, while leftover Chinese food is quite a good ‘fridge find after a late night out, it is no fun at all when you are tired and hungry and sober.
GrubHub, which, I assume, uses the tagline “spend less, enjoy more” ironically, changed my dinner from one of anticipation and indulgence to an evening of frustration and regret. I am embarrassed to admit that I spent nearly $30 dollars for an egg roll and a serving of General Tso’s, which tasted like Frank’s Red Hot and included a single, scrawny piece of broccoli that looked as sad as I felt when I finally got my order.
To be fair, GrubHub did do one thing well: They were super-quick to ask me for feedback.
The Night of the Bat
Last night, my Dad was tucked up in bed, and I had just turned on the big in-the-ceiling fan, which is the last thing I do before getting into bed. The fan is one of those big metal ones that is built into the ceiling, to draw air in from outside. It is also made, I know now, to offer ingress to creepy critters that might be hanging around in the attic.
Just before getting into bed, I realized I had left my glass of water and my book down in the kitchen. So I plodded down the steps, without turning on any lights . . . because I am a grown woman . . . who sometimes has to prove to herself that she is not afraid of the dark any longer . . . because there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of, right?
I had turned left into the dining room when I flinched from some corner-of-the-eye flash and a feeling of movement near my head. “Trick of the light,” I thought. Then, “Was that a bird?” Then, “Oh please-please-please let it be a bird.”
It was a bat. And it was flapping all over the house. Swooping, circling, acting as if it were auditioning for a Halloween movie.
Full disclosure: In a crisis, I am 90% level headed. But the other 10% is Lucille Ball.
In about 20 seconds, my whispered “Hey Dad” had increased repeatedly to a full blown, full volume “DAAA-AAAAD!!!!!!!!!”
(Is the story funnier if I mention Dad showing up in his “jammies,” which is actually tighty-whities and a T-shirt? Or is the humor of that detail less necessary than protecting him from the embarrassment of knowing I told a bunch of strangers on the internet to picture him in his underwear?)
After a bit of running about uselessly, dumbfounded staring, and me randomly opening and shutting doors, the bat stopped circling the living room and zoomed up the stairs, straight into my Dad’s bedroom. He yelled, “Shut the door!” which was a very good idea. So I ran up and shut his door.
Then I stood there. Outside the door of The Room With A Bat In It. I was really creeped out. I felt a crawly feeling on the back of my neck, and my stomach said, You can’t handle this. Then my head joined in with three thoughts:
- Dad’s a manly man who has handled such things with ease all his life and he would handle this if I let him, but what kind of an asshole would I be if I let a 91-year-old guy with a relatively new heart valve handle this?
- I could almost hear my Mom telling me not to be a sissy.
- And I remembered an evening by the lake when I was teenager. I had stayed out a little too long and was by myself at the water end of the dock at dusk—when the bats came out to feed. There I was, alone, surrounded by flying beasts that (according to brotherly legend) often got stuck in girls’ long hair and probably had rabies. All I could think to do was not run and not panic. And so I sat, very still, like a freak show Snow White, with the bats swooping around me. Dozens of them. When I stopped being scared, it became fascinating. And it was beautiful. (Yes, beautiful.)
I foraged for weaponry, took a deep breath, and entered the room.
The bat was circling, swooping erratically, heading for me, veering away at the last second. I was at various points wielding an umbrella, a tennis racket, a bath towel, and for a short, hopeful while, I stood, like John Cusack, holding the empty clothes hamper aloft.
I managed to get the windows open, but, despite clear instructions and sincere encouragement, that damn bat would not fly out a window. Around and around we went, for half an hour, at least. Eventually, the bat appeared to be getting tired. And then, in a move that seemed like disaster but was actually good luck, it flew into the closet.
After all that heart-pounding, creepy, funny mayhem, there it was. Just a little bat, hanging on the wall at the end of the hanging rod. It looked tired. It looked tiny. (Maybe even cute.) And it looked terrified.
So. Right. I’m no sissy. I’m an independent woman who was once profoundly changed by witnessing the beauty of bats in flight at dusk. All I had to do was grab this tiny, helpless creature and let it out the window.
I took one step. I held up the towel. And I said, “Dad? Would you do it?”
And he did.
P.S. A friend of mine who deals with bats on a fairly regular basis at work says the best thing to do is shut off all the lights and then open doors and windows. The bat will go toward any light outside, where the bugs are.
Important Ingredients
I have done the grocery store shop, wearing a mask and with a pocketful of Clorox wipes. It wasn’t too bad. Most people were very polite and aware of personal space. Most people would pause at corners and intersections, to allow for six feet. But, of course, the problem is never most people . . . it is Some People. For example:
- The couple who were oblivious to social distance (and kept sniggering at my mask).
- The woman who set her cell phone down on top of fresh, unpackaged produce.
- The people who just walked around, nearly colliding with others, because they were (A) lacking spatial intelligence or (B) lacking any type of intelligence.
- The woman who slowly ran her hand over at least 12 loaves of bread and then wandered off with nary a slice, while a crowd of other people (people who think of bread as food, not an interactive exhibit) stood and stared from six feet back.
Friends, I’m sorry to tell you, there is no prep or protection for idiots and weirdos.
Another problem I had was using self-checkout. First, I’m against it on principle. Second, you have to transfer groceries from one cart (which I had sanitized) to a different cart, a cart that might have been used by a contagious person or the bread fondler.
I survived the adventure, but, the next time I needed groceries, I decided to try delivery.
Let me mention, I enjoy cooking food. I enjoy eating food. I enjoy feeding people. I like to learn new recipes and read cookbooks. I even get a kick out of organizing pantry cupboards. But I have never liked to grocery shop. So our current situation has taken my least favorite chore and turned it into a complex task that, if not handled properly, could put lives at risk.
Note: I’m not saying my meal preparation skills have never raised an eyebrow or rumbled a tum, but, to date, I have never actually killed anyone.
I tried for days, at all hours, to order pickup or delivery from Giant Eagle. I tried for days, at all hours, to order from Whole Foods. Then, I tried Shop N Save via instacart. They have an option of “fast and flexible” delivery, which isn’t exactly fast by anyone’s normal standards but does allow you to sign up for delivery without needing to hit refresh for 5 hours to win the time slot lottery. You simply place your order and they bring your groceries within a time span. It’s a brilliant idea for these strange pandemic days. It’s not perfect, but it’s brilliant.
If an item you select isn’t available, the shopper will either substitute something similar or skip it and refund the price. I have ordered through them twice and likely will again.
I’m usually fairly loosey-goosey about groceries. I sort of, sometimes keep a running list; I go to the store and get stuff; I look around for other stuff we might need. Often, as I think about an upcoming dinner, I run out and buy an additional ingredient or two (or twelve) the day before. It’s true, I did once send my father and uncle to buy pasta after they arrived at my house for a spaghetti dinner I had invited them to, but that’s another story. I guess I’m saying, my project management skills do not translate well to my grocery shopping — even on a regular day. These days, I do try. I make a list; I check the pantry; before I finalize my order, I sit and think real hard. My approach is that I will fully plan a couple of specific meals, and then fill in with other flexible, familiar ingredients that will give me options. That’s a pretty good plan, right?
My groceries were due to arrive between April 27-28. Then they were due to arrive on May 4. Then they were due to arrive April 27-29. Then, yesterday (April 26), they were due to arrive April 26-27. I was excited! Last night, around 8:45, I received a text that my groceries were on their way to my house. There was dancing. And singing. Bags appeared on the front porch. I carried them in, unloaded, sanitized, washed, and scrubbed. I carried everything we didn’t need immediately down to the basement refrigerator. (I did not touch my face. I turned on lights with my elbow. I opened a refrigerator with my foot!) Getting groceries and putting them away has never seemed so magical.
I finished and collapsed onto the couch in a happy, clean-smelling heap, content in knowing that, for a few days at least, we would be spared the random results of internet recipe searches, mismatched leftovers, and weird ingredient roulette. It was a moment of unique joy. How could tedious, irksome grocery shopping make me feel so good?
And then it hit me. My preparations had included two specific meals: (1) a big salad and (2) a turkey dinner. My order had been missing two items: lettuce and turkey.
Oh well. At least I still have these ingredients.
Thank you, Terry Jones
One night, in the early 1970s, our family (Mom, Dad, my brother, my sister, and I) had turned in for the night. We were in our rooms, the lights were out, and the house was settling into deep quiet as we closed our eyes.
Then. From the darkness, I heard a dastardly rasp. “Dinsdale?”
As the laughter subsided, someone yelled “Albatross!” and, like deranged Waltons, we continued to bid each other an extended goodnight, with other Monty Python quotes and a lot of giggling.
I thought of that night when I heard the news that comedian Terry Jones had died. I can claim no familiarity with the man; I’m neither family nor friend; I never met him. But I can legitimately sympathize with the tragedy of dementia, and his absence from the world makes me sad.
I have heard people complain about an excess of attention when a celebrity dies. I think they are looking at it wrong. There is no weird Tier of Importance. Fame does not make a loss a greater loss. We mourn the passing of a celebrity because that person was known to so many. The sound of grief is louder because more people are aware that this particular person existed.
The things we share, as a herd of humans moving through the same group of decades, have an impact. Historical moments. Scientific breakthroughs. And, yes, entertainment. I would say especially entertainment because human brains have a far easier time with a Python punchline than with a Pythagorean theorem.
Humor connects us in a way other things don’t. Comedic movies and TV shows can affect our point of view, teach us lessons, and leave a nugget of familiarity for even the most diverse strangers to connect over. (Nothing against those of you who prefer Math, but nothing sparks new camaraderie or long-time loyalty like a laugh shared.)
When someone famous dies, a little piece of our collective past breaks away. It is the sort of landmark at which a bunch of persons of a certain age have to stop for a moment and take the long look back.
It makes me yearn for a time machine.
I remember, so clearly, sitting in my jammies with my brother and sister, laughing really hard over Monty Python’s Flying Circus, a TV program that we had discovered on UHF, which was quite unlike The Brady Bunch.
I’m sure there are a gazillion things you could read that explain why that show was creative and ground-breaking, but that’s not what I’m on about. Suffice to say Monty Python was uniquely, outrageously, intelligently hilarious. (P.S. I am not trying to imply that 11-year-old me understood every reference or even every word. But it was all wonderfully silly.)
Credit the Pythons for putting a significant dent in my sense of humor or blame them for contributing to my weirdness. Either way I wouldn’t change that part of my upbringing for anything.
Thank you, Terry Jones, et al.
Let’s Be Friends
Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump never helped me toilet paper a house.
Dare To Be Happy
A month or so ago, I completed a new book, Dare To Be Happy (more on that below). Just before I sent off the final file, I thought it would be fun to include a note sending people to see more at my very own, Big Girl (not just for free blogging) website. And I added a reference to an at-the-time non-existent, domain-name-only website while thinking, It will take a couple of days to create the website. It will be fun.
Other than this blog (which was very simple to set up) I have never created a website on my own, without the aid of people like designers, developers, or IT experts.
Now, this is not me bragging about being brave or smart or talented. This is me trying to explain my absence from blogging. This is me trying to explain a lapse—no, no, not a lapse. This is me trying to explain a full-on, tequila shots, Evil Knievel blindfolded, toddler on the stairs, Cannonball! leap into insanity.
I have not worked so intensely since my 20s or learned so much since grade school. For the past month or so, I’ve been working 72-day weeks, 159 hours a day. Old dog stumbling through new tricks. Dashing down blind allies in search of a pinata. Long walks on short piers. Bit by bit by bit building a website.
It was a labor of love. (As in, that big big love when you fall first-site, head-over-heels with that guy who is so wonderful at first and then starts to mess with your head and treat you like complete crap until you say you’re leaving and then he’s so dang sweet about begging you to stay that, like a fool, you stay and you’re so happy because you think it was a breakthrough moment and things seem great and you realize that you were right about thinking he’s a good guy underneath all the jackassery, and then 5 minutes later you’re miserable again and all your friends tell you he’s not worthy but you keep hoping and you spend a lot of time crying or banging your head off the wall but you survive on the little moments until you finally, finally, say, “This is bullshit!” and walk away.)
Yeah. It was a labor of love. But the process was fun at times. Well, maybe fun isn’t the word. It was cool. (No.) It’s all pretty amazing really. (Nope.) It was satisfying. (Uh, not really.) It was an educational experience. (Zzzzzzzzzz.)
Well, anyway, it’s done. I have the beginning of website that I like. And it functions all right as far as I know.
It is bethaschmidt.com. (I may merge this blog with that site sometime in the future, but, right now, I don’t have a clue how to do that, and I’m taking a little break from the joys of learning.)
Take a peek if you’d like.
The main reason for launching it was as a companion to the new book. So I should probably share some info on that, too:
Dare To Be Happy (Inspiration for Girls Growing Up. And Women Who Don’t Want To.) is now on sale via amazon.
This paperback gift book (8×6, 56 pages, $10) is a collection of quotes, notes, warnings, and wisdom, some from famous people and some from me, including a few excerpts that came from Life Preservers posts.
Cheers, and thanks for reading.
Happy Leap Day! Love, Francesca
Rarer than a birthday wish, more enchanting than a New Year kiss, less varmint-y than the beginning of this month: Leap Day.
It’s an extra day. A rare day. An abnormal day. A not-quite-real day. It’s the un-cola of days. It’s the Brigadoon of days.
It’s a disorderly day. An odds-and-ends day. A day to acknowledge the imperfect way in which the world goes ’round.
And that’s worth celebrating.
I highly recommend taking the day off. But, if that’s not (are you absolutely certain it’s not?) possible, try to work some disorder and silliness into your day. Legend has it that how you spend Leap Day portends your frivolity levels for the next four years. Ignore it at your peril.
Mark this day with hijinks, shenanigans, treats, and a touch of chaos. Fly your freak flag. Wear the Sponge Bob tie. Put a slice of baloney in each of your shoes.
Car, bus, or train, commute in Groucho glasses.
Order the whipped cream. Get the giant-size mocha. Tell the barista your name is something it isn’t.
Host a paper airplane contest in Cubeville. Sneak out of a seminar to go bowling.
Go out for lunch. Go out for a long lunch. Try a crazy food. Drink champagne. Buy lottery tickets. Visit the toy store. If you must go to the gym, do cannonballs.
Goof off as much as possible and, when the workday is done, run for the door. One absolutely mustn’t work late on Leap Day. Spend these extraordinary hours with people you like.
Have something random and yummy for dinner, like peanut butter and jelly or French fries or a pint of ice cream. Recite poetry. Tell jokes. Talk with your mouth full.
Dance in the living room, watch a classic comedy, round up your neighbors for some Kick the Can.
Laugh a lot. Stay up too late. Enjoy every minute.
Because, when that clock strikes twelve, we’ll be back on course, behaving ourselves, masquerading as normal.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Big Lies
This one time? In marketing? I worked at a company that had a client who lied, a lot. But she had a lot of money to spend, so the powers-that-be never stood up to her.
My experience has been that, with most clients, you don’t have to fake respect, but we all understand the occasional necessity to tolerate bad behavior from a difficult customer. Still, this particular person pushed things out beyond the farthest reaches of professionalism and into a bat-shit alternative universe.
The tales I could tell about that particular workplace would scorch your hair and pulverize your humerus. To share the antics of this one client would take pages and pages, but this post isn’t about reliving a nightmare or venting about tough times. To make a long, hilarious, excruciating story short, one day, this client called up the owner of the company and said, “So-and-so did something bad.”
Now, I was in the room during the event in question, and, I promise you, this was a lie. It was not a misunderstanding or a point of view. This was a blatant and preposterous lie fabricated to manipulate other people.
There are times when even the best of leaders must blow some smoke into some pretty awful spots, but, if you are a decent human, you don’t inhale while you’re down there. You don’t applaud the lie. You don’t punish so-and-so. You don’t say, “Well, what actually occurred is irrelevant; if the big important client said it happened, it is now the truth.” (Which is what was said to me when I tried to defend so-and-so.)
On another occasion, the same client told my immediate supervisor that I was a poor writer because I used prepositional phrases. He summoned me to his office and presented the feedback. I started to laugh, expecting him to commiserate and help me figure out how we were going to work around such an idiotic complaint. But, he didn’t commiserate; he told me with furrowed brow that he was disappointed to learn that I was such an amateur copywriter and ordered me to stop using prepositional phrases or else.
These are ancient anecdotes, long-ago, dusty things. They bubbled up today, not as grudge or complaint but in a small aah! of revelation related to current events.
I will tell you something true. There are two reasons why people support a blatant lie: (1) They are beholden to the liar or (2) They are too stupid to know better.
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July 18, 2021 at 12:27 pm Leave a comment