Chuckle #461 | July 27th, 2011
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I love America. But after an eye opening visit to our impressive “neighbor to the North”, I’ve been thinking that we could do better. Quite frankly, the “51st” state is kicking our butt. Having been unapologetically raised (like most Americans) to feel superior to Canadians, I find that being jealous of them makes me uncomfortable. I would very much prefer to go back to making fun of how they pronounce “about”.
But that won’t be easy because Canada rocks.
From the mountains, to the oceans, and the glaciers; the place is gorgeous. The entire country is like a supersized national park. And everyone is extremely friendly. They also have that cool B.C. ferry system on which you can travel the entire inside passage for ‘aboot’ the cost of a single trip to Nantucket. Now that’s public transportation.
And if all that weren’t enough to make you jealous, they have “Poutine”. French fries and cheese curds drenched in a surprisingly delicious brown gravy.
The one bad thing about Canada right now is the terrible exchange rate. Americans have become used to being flogged by the Euro, but CANADA!? This is a new experience.
When I was growing up, getting passed a Canadian quarter was the worst thing that could happen to a kid. The creepy candy store manager refused to take Canadian coins because, at the time, they were practically worthless. This meant a serious and unacceptable reduction in my candy buying power. To an American kid hell-bent on sugaring herself up, Canada was a curse.
Just for the record, someone in Canada owes me a case of Sweet Tarts.
Canada was cheap. But thanks to the financial crisis, Canada is back on top. There are a couple reasons for this. Because Canadians are not nearly as rapacious as Americans, they avoided the total financial meltdown that we experienced. They also control VAST amounts of oil and because we have not bothered to devise any national renewables strategy, we are at their mercy. Lucky for us they are just a bunch of funny talking goofballs from up north.
Or are they? Up until a week ago, I had no idea how ‘schooled’ we got by Canada.
Fortunately Americans can blame their gross ignorance about Canada on the publishing industry which insists on listing a Canadian dollar price on books that is 25% higher than the US price without regard to the fact that there is an actual fluctuating exchange rate between our two currencies. Really, there is!
It wasn’t until I walked past a Canadian bank that I realized that I was actually paying 10% MORE for Canadian stuff, not 25% less. I immediately had a flashback to me sobbing at the candy counter. Ironic, eh?
Oil-besotted Americans know that Canadians have us by the balls. All we can hope for now is that they will squeeze real hard. Then congress might agree, in tutti falsetto, to do something about our dependency on oil.
At least we can still make fun ‘aboot’ the way Canadians talk. What can I say? Inbred superiority complexes die hard. And to be honest, I’m still a little testy about the Sweet Tarts they owe me…
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Copyright 2008-2011, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT all rights reserved
If You Float MY Boat, I'll Float Yours
Chuckle #460 | July 13th, 2011
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Boats are beautiful, fun, romantic, and they are everyone’s fantasy. If you agree, then you are probably a boat freak like me and you should NEVER EVER bring your checkbook with you to a boat show. But seriously, if you don’t dream of owning a boat, or at least deeply envy those who do, then you aren’t quite normal.
What can I say? Like Balzac, I am philosophically opposed to envy, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and (after my sweet husband) what my heart wants is a boat.
The boat show salesman won’t claim outright that buying a boat is a sound financial investment, because it’s not. They won’t mention things like maintenance, storage, repairs or slip costs. And unless they aren’t very bright, they won’t even whisper the naughtiest of all boat-buying words, “depreciation”.
To be honest, your college savings account would be much healthier if you chose “boat mooching” over buying. Moochers are shameless suck-ups who bombard boat owners with tedious stories about their fabled high school sailing careers and suggestively serve-up Dark and Stormies.
This technique works especially well if you also always show up with a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.
Boat owners don’t really care about the high cost of owning a boat. They will sacrifice just about anything (sometimes even their marriage) to have that glorious chunk of fiberglass at their beck and call 24/7.
Yes, boating IS a kind of sickness. And don’t go thinking you can change someone who’s got it. You WILL end up living on a boat at some point in your life.
I too want my little slice of floating waterfront heaven, no matter how much it depreciates in the first two years. And I’m no rube, I once owned a boat. A devil boat. A boat that nearly killed my husband and I multiple times. She was twenty-six feet of the beamiest soul sucking, blown sails ever built. We off-loaded her on a crazy Swede who already had three boats and whose wife probably left him immediately after he acquired ours.
I still feel badly about that, just so you know, Sven, if you are out there somewhere, living alone on your boat.
The one thing I learned from our first major boat purchase is that the boat for sale at the Coast Guard auction may not be the bargain it seems. (Shame on you Coast Guard, you now share the blame for Sven’s sad and lonely life.)
We still own a few boats, but they are little trailer-able ones and they have never once tried to kill us. When we need more boats we rent them from the local community sailing center. (This IS a sound financial approach to boating.) We will eventually join the town yacht club which has a fleet of Ideals, all included in a ridiculously low membership fee. (Also a smart approach to boating.)
But we all know where this story ends. We will someday purchase another boat. It’s inevitable.
My husband and I are not yet on the same page regarding this “future” boat. I’m favoring a classic Duffy Electric Launch, on which I can host sunset cocktail cruises with my friends, and have a place to pee after drinking said cocktails. I do not want to have to pass out adult diapers to my friends before they board. (For sailing, we'll have the club Ideals.)
My husband would rather yank out each and every remaining hair on his head than go electric boat cocktail cruising. (Those Ideals are nice little sailboats though, when you think about it…)
My husband wants a sailboat because he is fascinated by the math/geometry behind sail shape and efficiency. I’m not sure he’s as fascinated by figuring out where the rocks are or with tracking fast moving storm fronts, so that makes ME nervous. I’ve experienced both the fog filled storm crossing and the pleasant “Sunday Sail”.
Guess which one I’d rather be on?
But I’m capable of compromise. If my husband wants me to help “float his boat”, he’s going to have to start his captain training now. A good captain takes years to “cook”. And sailing with his buddies, “the Lost Boys”, does NOT count.
In the meantime, maybe we could “float” my boat first…
-------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2011, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, all rights reserved
scroll down to leave a comment
Boats are beautiful, fun, romantic, and they are everyone’s fantasy. If you agree, then you are probably a boat freak like me and you should NEVER EVER bring your checkbook with you to a boat show. But seriously, if you don’t dream of owning a boat, or at least deeply envy those who do, then you aren’t quite normal.
What can I say? Like Balzac, I am philosophically opposed to envy, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and (after my sweet husband) what my heart wants is a boat.
The boat show salesman won’t claim outright that buying a boat is a sound financial investment, because it’s not. They won’t mention things like maintenance, storage, repairs or slip costs. And unless they aren’t very bright, they won’t even whisper the naughtiest of all boat-buying words, “depreciation”.
To be honest, your college savings account would be much healthier if you chose “boat mooching” over buying. Moochers are shameless suck-ups who bombard boat owners with tedious stories about their fabled high school sailing careers and suggestively serve-up Dark and Stormies.
This technique works especially well if you also always show up with a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.
Boat owners don’t really care about the high cost of owning a boat. They will sacrifice just about anything (sometimes even their marriage) to have that glorious chunk of fiberglass at their beck and call 24/7.
Yes, boating IS a kind of sickness. And don’t go thinking you can change someone who’s got it. You WILL end up living on a boat at some point in your life.
I too want my little slice of floating waterfront heaven, no matter how much it depreciates in the first two years. And I’m no rube, I once owned a boat. A devil boat. A boat that nearly killed my husband and I multiple times. She was twenty-six feet of the beamiest soul sucking, blown sails ever built. We off-loaded her on a crazy Swede who already had three boats and whose wife probably left him immediately after he acquired ours.
I still feel badly about that, just so you know, Sven, if you are out there somewhere, living alone on your boat.
The one thing I learned from our first major boat purchase is that the boat for sale at the Coast Guard auction may not be the bargain it seems. (Shame on you Coast Guard, you now share the blame for Sven’s sad and lonely life.)
We still own a few boats, but they are little trailer-able ones and they have never once tried to kill us. When we need more boats we rent them from the local community sailing center. (This IS a sound financial approach to boating.) We will eventually join the town yacht club which has a fleet of Ideals, all included in a ridiculously low membership fee. (Also a smart approach to boating.)
But we all know where this story ends. We will someday purchase another boat. It’s inevitable.
My husband and I are not yet on the same page regarding this “future” boat. I’m favoring a classic Duffy Electric Launch, on which I can host sunset cocktail cruises with my friends, and have a place to pee after drinking said cocktails. I do not want to have to pass out adult diapers to my friends before they board. (For sailing, we'll have the club Ideals.)
My husband would rather yank out each and every remaining hair on his head than go electric boat cocktail cruising. (Those Ideals are nice little sailboats though, when you think about it…)
My husband wants a sailboat because he is fascinated by the math/geometry behind sail shape and efficiency. I’m not sure he’s as fascinated by figuring out where the rocks are or with tracking fast moving storm fronts, so that makes ME nervous. I’ve experienced both the fog filled storm crossing and the pleasant “Sunday Sail”.
Guess which one I’d rather be on?
But I’m capable of compromise. If my husband wants me to help “float his boat”, he’s going to have to start his captain training now. A good captain takes years to “cook”. And sailing with his buddies, “the Lost Boys”, does NOT count.
In the meantime, maybe we could “float” my boat first…
-------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2011, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, all rights reserved
Out of the Frying Pan & into the Fire
Chuckle # 459 | July 6th, 2011
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Meat rules. Grilled meat rules even more. And grilled meat that’s dominated by giant bones is as good as it gets. Think T-bones, ribs, sides of beef and Fred Flintstone. Forget about fat and calories. If something is going to kill you it might as well be a big juicy slab of carcinogen laden sirloin.
Just a few short decades ago, men were the indisputable masters of the grill. Guys kept the functioning of “the grill” a mystery from us women, like GPS and urinals. We didn’t quite know what to do with the grill, so we stayed away.
With the invention of modern safety devices, such as paraffin-based fire starters, women have begun to grill more. Before that we were wary of approaching a lighter fluid soaked pile of charcoal with a lit match. Letting the guys have first dibs on scorching off their eyebrows seemed prudent. The longer life expectancies were just a bonus.
Having a talented ‘grilling’ wife can leave a man feeling a bit emasculated. Lucky for him, fireworks remain a masculine domain, mostly because women lack the ‘maybe I’ll blow myself up today’ gene. Mothers also like to set a good example for their kids to follow, which precludes us from engaging in wanton acts of self-destruction. (Other than marrying our husbands.)
But while mom is busy acting like a responsible adult, “Dad” is usually off buying up the entire supply of bottle rockets from the roadside explosives stand. If it were legal to fire Katyusha rocket launchers from your backyard on July 4th, Dad would do that too. (Yet somehow Dad seems to get by just fine with no thumbs…)
But I digress. The best part about being “the griller” in the family is that you are freed from the mundane chore of side-dish preparation AND you get waited on hand and foot. When you’ve just slapped $80 worth of prime aged sirloin over an open fire, YOU are the most important person in the backyard. The guy who brought the three bean salad? Not so much.
‘King of the Grill’ beats ‘Corn Boiler’ any day.
And we ladies aren’t horning in on the grill just to prove a point, like gender equality (or superiority), we have skills. Women bring a certain “je ne sais quoi” to the grill. Actually, I’m lying. I know exactly what women bring: moistness, sauces that do not come from a jar, and attention to detail, like not torching 20 pork chops because I forgot where I left the tongs and Derek Jeter was at bat.
You think that didn’t happen?!
Once a guy has gorged upon his wife’s perfectly succulent grilled meats, he is usually quite willing to yield the tongs and become her Chardonnay slave. At least in the privacy of his own home. (FYI, some men object to the black bowtie as being overly derivative, but you could come up with a more original uniform.)
Things change, though, when there are other guys around. Don’t embarrass your husband. If you love him, swallow your pride and hand over the spatula so he can save face. Of course that’s assuming that you’ve planned ahead and bought the fattiest, cheapest burger you could find and a bunch of Italian sausage. You just can’t kill that stuff and you don’t want guests to starve.
As long as you avoid the grass fed, free range beef, no one will ever know that he hasn’t touched his grill in years…
----------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2011, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, all rights reserved
scroll down to leave a comment
Meat rules. Grilled meat rules even more. And grilled meat that’s dominated by giant bones is as good as it gets. Think T-bones, ribs, sides of beef and Fred Flintstone. Forget about fat and calories. If something is going to kill you it might as well be a big juicy slab of carcinogen laden sirloin.
Just a few short decades ago, men were the indisputable masters of the grill. Guys kept the functioning of “the grill” a mystery from us women, like GPS and urinals. We didn’t quite know what to do with the grill, so we stayed away.
With the invention of modern safety devices, such as paraffin-based fire starters, women have begun to grill more. Before that we were wary of approaching a lighter fluid soaked pile of charcoal with a lit match. Letting the guys have first dibs on scorching off their eyebrows seemed prudent. The longer life expectancies were just a bonus.
Having a talented ‘grilling’ wife can leave a man feeling a bit emasculated. Lucky for him, fireworks remain a masculine domain, mostly because women lack the ‘maybe I’ll blow myself up today’ gene. Mothers also like to set a good example for their kids to follow, which precludes us from engaging in wanton acts of self-destruction. (Other than marrying our husbands.)
But while mom is busy acting like a responsible adult, “Dad” is usually off buying up the entire supply of bottle rockets from the roadside explosives stand. If it were legal to fire Katyusha rocket launchers from your backyard on July 4th, Dad would do that too. (Yet somehow Dad seems to get by just fine with no thumbs…)
But I digress. The best part about being “the griller” in the family is that you are freed from the mundane chore of side-dish preparation AND you get waited on hand and foot. When you’ve just slapped $80 worth of prime aged sirloin over an open fire, YOU are the most important person in the backyard. The guy who brought the three bean salad? Not so much.
‘King of the Grill’ beats ‘Corn Boiler’ any day.
And we ladies aren’t horning in on the grill just to prove a point, like gender equality (or superiority), we have skills. Women bring a certain “je ne sais quoi” to the grill. Actually, I’m lying. I know exactly what women bring: moistness, sauces that do not come from a jar, and attention to detail, like not torching 20 pork chops because I forgot where I left the tongs and Derek Jeter was at bat.
You think that didn’t happen?!
Once a guy has gorged upon his wife’s perfectly succulent grilled meats, he is usually quite willing to yield the tongs and become her Chardonnay slave. At least in the privacy of his own home. (FYI, some men object to the black bowtie as being overly derivative, but you could come up with a more original uniform.)
Things change, though, when there are other guys around. Don’t embarrass your husband. If you love him, swallow your pride and hand over the spatula so he can save face. Of course that’s assuming that you’ve planned ahead and bought the fattiest, cheapest burger you could find and a bunch of Italian sausage. You just can’t kill that stuff and you don’t want guests to starve.
As long as you avoid the grass fed, free range beef, no one will ever know that he hasn’t touched his grill in years…
----------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2011, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, all rights reserved
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