Chuckle #468 | September 28th 2011
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For my next life I want to be reborn as the owner of a School Photo Company. Those guys have it made. Talk about a captive audience. Parents aren’t just their customers, we’re their hostages.
Do I sound hostile? Darn right I do. I’ve just shelled out $150 bucks for three dozen of unattractive photos of my kids that no one wants. Even my mother refuses to put these pictures on the fridge. She claims there is no “room”. But I know better. She’s afraid that a neighbor might stop in for pie and accidently get turned to stone.
Maybe your kids are preternaturally photogenic, but in my family the school photos almost never get framed. In real life my kids are adorable, but school photo day has a way of bringing out their inner Gollum.
Yes, I know we can do “re-takes”. But here’s the catch, re-take day is the domain of maladroit photographers-in-training whose regular job is passing out the combs. Don’t waste your time.
So why must I own 14 copies of the same abominable photo for each of my three kids? Because I can’t get the class photo without buying an entire “photo package”. The class photo is like the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box and the School Photo Company is way too smart to let you buy the “prize” for a mere 5 bucks when they could nail you for $50.
Nor does the photo company make it easy to figure out which photo package to buy. In the old days you had your bronze, silver or gold. Now you’ve got a dizzying array of options and an incomprehensible 12 page order form.
You can choose from 60 background colors and 42 borders. You can also opt for “expert” digital retouching if you feel the need to improve upon your child’s face. Got a teenager with some dermatological issues? Never fear. With enough retouching your crater-faced kid could grace the cover of Seventeen.
Families with an unlimited budget can also invest in add-ons like magnets, coffee mugs, bus wraps and billboards. I wouldn’t know what these are like because my kids’ school photos have never been “mug” worthy. And to be honest, I’m already grumpy enough in the morning.
Once the school photos come home I have a bigger problem – how to dispose of them. I don’t know about you, but for me, it is pure heresy to throw away pictures of my kids, no matter how awful. All of them MUST be saved. As a result, I have an entire shed full of school photos that should have been shredded but end up in storage instead.
The shed alone cost $500 bucks. I can only hope that someday it is struck by lightning and burns to the ground. Trust me, if the kids decided to torch said shed themselves and destroy the evidence, I wouldn’t press charges.
You have to empathize with your kids about school photos, especially when they’re in high school. These photos live on in yearbooks as a permanent and inescapable record of their, at times, unlovely young lives.
My husband, for example, sported a fabulously huge afro in his high school yearbook. Wouldn’t it have been a shame if his ‘fro’ had been retouched out of existence?
I think it’s important to “keep it real” when it comes to school photos. Your kids should look like your kids. Grandparents should be able to recognize their grandchildren. And if the photos don’t do the real thing justice, there’s always the storage shed.
For the photos of course, not the kids.
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Copyright 200-2011 LOLmom.com Greenwich CT
It's Only Stuff
Chuckle #467 | September 21, 2011
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Can you remember the days when you could move all your stuff in a single trip in your Toyota Corolla? If something didn’t fit in the car, you left it behind. All you owned was a suitcase, an inflatable mattress, and a bike. When life beckoned you took off like a clown from a cannon.
However, after a few years in the working world you felt compelled to abandon your slacker ways. It was time, you thought, to grow up. This meant buying a bed, a dining room table and a couch. As if having dinner parties where people didn’t sit on the floor was some kind of inescapable rite of passage. Before you even realized what was happening, you had accumulated a U-Haul worth of “stuff.”
Possessions forced you to say “no” to opportunities and spur of the moment moves. You were no longer the nimble free spirit you once were. Life beckoned, but your hiney was firmly stuck to your new couch.
Then you met a great guy and decided that he was worth the nightmare of double stuff. And I’m not talking Oreos, I’m talking 18 wheeler.
Once you were officially married, you had your parents’ blessing to hook up under their roof and produce fully legitimate grandkids. So you and your newly acquired husband had three. The resulting accursed collection of Little Tykes molded plastic required a room of its own.
So you bought a house.
You thought the ‘stuff’ situation couldn’t get any worse, but then your parents showed up during your housewarming party with a trailer full of stuff you left behind after college, plus a few things they claimed were “grandma’s” which you could not refuse to take (for sentimental reasons).
Your folks gleefully unloaded the trailer into your garage then bolted for Bora Bora. You gazed wistfully after them.
Then you needed two 18 wheelers to move.
One day you woke up and were surprised to find that every nook and cranny in your house was filled with STUFF despite your generous contributions to Goodwill over the years.
Fast forward to today...
Now you realize that you are living in a giant JUNK DRAWER and it freaks you out. You are faced with a tough decision. Buy a bigger house, force HomeGoods into bankruptcy, get a dumpster, or have a yard sale.
Because I have masochistic tendencies, I chose yard sale.
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“It’s only stuff,” said the lady carrying off the antique chair I bought when I was 25 at an auction, intending to reupholster.
“It’s only stuff,” said the guy as he walked away with my first briefcase.
“It’s only stuff,” said the lady who bought the Japanese tea-boxes I schlepped all the way home from Tokyo.
“It’s only stuff,” said the 20 something guy when he offered me a quarter for a classic Stones CD.
A quarter! I took the CD out of his hand. “It may only be stuff,” I said, “but this CD is still going to cost you a dollar.”
If I sell another 1,000 books, the contents of my attic, Grandma’s rocking chair (purportedly - though I have my doubts), and the mystery boxes under the stairs, I might someday be able to move in ONE eighteen wheeler.
You just watch. The next time life beckons I’ll be VERY close to being ready.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckly via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2011, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
Can you remember the days when you could move all your stuff in a single trip in your Toyota Corolla? If something didn’t fit in the car, you left it behind. All you owned was a suitcase, an inflatable mattress, and a bike. When life beckoned you took off like a clown from a cannon.
However, after a few years in the working world you felt compelled to abandon your slacker ways. It was time, you thought, to grow up. This meant buying a bed, a dining room table and a couch. As if having dinner parties where people didn’t sit on the floor was some kind of inescapable rite of passage. Before you even realized what was happening, you had accumulated a U-Haul worth of “stuff.”
Possessions forced you to say “no” to opportunities and spur of the moment moves. You were no longer the nimble free spirit you once were. Life beckoned, but your hiney was firmly stuck to your new couch.
Then you met a great guy and decided that he was worth the nightmare of double stuff. And I’m not talking Oreos, I’m talking 18 wheeler.
Once you were officially married, you had your parents’ blessing to hook up under their roof and produce fully legitimate grandkids. So you and your newly acquired husband had three. The resulting accursed collection of Little Tykes molded plastic required a room of its own.
So you bought a house.
You thought the ‘stuff’ situation couldn’t get any worse, but then your parents showed up during your housewarming party with a trailer full of stuff you left behind after college, plus a few things they claimed were “grandma’s” which you could not refuse to take (for sentimental reasons).
Your folks gleefully unloaded the trailer into your garage then bolted for Bora Bora. You gazed wistfully after them.
Then you needed two 18 wheelers to move.
One day you woke up and were surprised to find that every nook and cranny in your house was filled with STUFF despite your generous contributions to Goodwill over the years.
Fast forward to today...
Now you realize that you are living in a giant JUNK DRAWER and it freaks you out. You are faced with a tough decision. Buy a bigger house, force HomeGoods into bankruptcy, get a dumpster, or have a yard sale.
Because I have masochistic tendencies, I chose yard sale.
---------
“It’s only stuff,” said the lady carrying off the antique chair I bought when I was 25 at an auction, intending to reupholster.
“It’s only stuff,” said the guy as he walked away with my first briefcase.
“It’s only stuff,” said the lady who bought the Japanese tea-boxes I schlepped all the way home from Tokyo.
“It’s only stuff,” said the 20 something guy when he offered me a quarter for a classic Stones CD.
A quarter! I took the CD out of his hand. “It may only be stuff,” I said, “but this CD is still going to cost you a dollar.”
If I sell another 1,000 books, the contents of my attic, Grandma’s rocking chair (purportedly - though I have my doubts), and the mystery boxes under the stairs, I might someday be able to move in ONE eighteen wheeler.
You just watch. The next time life beckons I’ll be VERY close to being ready.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckly via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2011, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
...and the Holy Ghost
Chuckle #466 | September 14th, 2011
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“Mom, what exactly is the “Holy Ghost?” asked my daughter, throwing me a tough question out of left field. I paused and thought for a minute.
Having spent 10 glorious years under the tutelage of Father O’Malley, you’d think I would know the answer to this one. But for some reason (suppressed childhood memories, perhaps?), I drew a blank.
I definitely have Selective Catholic Recall, but it is also possible that Father O’Malley, lacking confidence in our intellect, chose to not beat his head against the wall by trying to explain the Holy Ghost to my confirmation class.
To be honest, he was probably right about us. My intrepid classmates and I spent most of our time with Father O'Malley trying to hide the fact that we had huge wads of gum secreted in our cheeks, speculating about certain hot altar boys, and trying to avoid blasts of Eucharist breath. Needless to say, we weren't always hanging on his every word.
We could barely remember the 10 commandments from week to week; I doubt we could have handled a nebulous liturgical construct.
Of course I regret those unholy shenanigans now because I don’t like being stumped by my children. So, rather than admit ignorance, I made up something plausible-sounding. (In hindsight I probably should have called my mother, but isn't that always the case?)
“Well, sweetie,” I began, “the Holy Ghost is like the glue that holds the Trinity together, like a thick pea soup, a kind of God Fog.”
She frowned. “So it’s like the water in a lake, or the agar in a petri dish?”
I looked at her blankly. Was agar that jelly-like stuff from 8th grade science class? Darn it, yet another thing from my youth that I can’t quite remember, or that I’ve suppressed.
“Oh...I get it mom, you’re saying that the Holy Ghost is like a medium for spirituality.”
“YES!” I exclaimed, relieved. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You know, this question of who or what is the Holy Ghost has been hotly debated for thousands of years. Fistfights still break out in the seminary over it. Talk about controversy. I’ve personally always wondered how exactly the Holy Spirit knocked up Mary. They just won’t explain that stuff to you when you are a kid.”
“I don’t know where you are going with this, mom. Are we having ‘the talk’?”
“No, no, definitely not. I’m not prepared to talk about the birds and the bees right now, forget about metaphysical conception.”
Later on that day I did some research. As it turns out, the entire internet offers up only vague conjeccture about the role Holy Ghost/Spirit. Scholars have different interpretations and as a result there’s a lot of contradictory information out there. Even on GotChrist.com.
Right or wrong, ‘God Fog’ has a nice ring to it. But if anyone out there can explain the Holy Ghost better in 10 words or less, bring it on. As a tribute to Father O'Malley, I’ll even spit out my gum and give you my undivided attention.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Get the Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 200-2011, LOLmom.com Greenwich CT, all rights reserved
scroll down to leave a comment
“Mom, what exactly is the “Holy Ghost?” asked my daughter, throwing me a tough question out of left field. I paused and thought for a minute.
Having spent 10 glorious years under the tutelage of Father O’Malley, you’d think I would know the answer to this one. But for some reason (suppressed childhood memories, perhaps?), I drew a blank.
I definitely have Selective Catholic Recall, but it is also possible that Father O’Malley, lacking confidence in our intellect, chose to not beat his head against the wall by trying to explain the Holy Ghost to my confirmation class.
To be honest, he was probably right about us. My intrepid classmates and I spent most of our time with Father O'Malley trying to hide the fact that we had huge wads of gum secreted in our cheeks, speculating about certain hot altar boys, and trying to avoid blasts of Eucharist breath. Needless to say, we weren't always hanging on his every word.
We could barely remember the 10 commandments from week to week; I doubt we could have handled a nebulous liturgical construct.
Of course I regret those unholy shenanigans now because I don’t like being stumped by my children. So, rather than admit ignorance, I made up something plausible-sounding. (In hindsight I probably should have called my mother, but isn't that always the case?)
“Well, sweetie,” I began, “the Holy Ghost is like the glue that holds the Trinity together, like a thick pea soup, a kind of God Fog.”
She frowned. “So it’s like the water in a lake, or the agar in a petri dish?”
I looked at her blankly. Was agar that jelly-like stuff from 8th grade science class? Darn it, yet another thing from my youth that I can’t quite remember, or that I’ve suppressed.
“Oh...I get it mom, you’re saying that the Holy Ghost is like a medium for spirituality.”
“YES!” I exclaimed, relieved. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You know, this question of who or what is the Holy Ghost has been hotly debated for thousands of years. Fistfights still break out in the seminary over it. Talk about controversy. I’ve personally always wondered how exactly the Holy Spirit knocked up Mary. They just won’t explain that stuff to you when you are a kid.”
“I don’t know where you are going with this, mom. Are we having ‘the talk’?”
“No, no, definitely not. I’m not prepared to talk about the birds and the bees right now, forget about metaphysical conception.”
Later on that day I did some research. As it turns out, the entire internet offers up only vague conjeccture about the role Holy Ghost/Spirit. Scholars have different interpretations and as a result there’s a lot of contradictory information out there. Even on GotChrist.com.
Right or wrong, ‘God Fog’ has a nice ring to it. But if anyone out there can explain the Holy Ghost better in 10 words or less, bring it on. As a tribute to Father O'Malley, I’ll even spit out my gum and give you my undivided attention.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Get the Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 200-2011, LOLmom.com Greenwich CT, all rights reserved
My Frenemy the Flatworm
Chuckle #465 | September 7th, 2011
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My kids didn’t want me telling people that tiny free swimming parasitic flatworm larvae had burrowed under my skin, causing a severe auto-immune reaction. The truth about the hideous red pustules covering my legs was “TMI”, according to my mortified teenagers.
My kids would rather let strangers in the grocery store think that I had a rare jungle borne STD than stand next to me while I explained that I did not. Teens, like most sociopaths, don't exhibit much empathy.
What I had was simply a bad case of (non contagious) Swimmer’s Itch, which I will now tell you about in excruciating detail.
Immediately after a leisurely paddle through the marsh grasses of picturesque Greenwich Cove, my legs became inexplicably ‘tingly’. This, I learned later via the internet, was the feeling of flatworm larvae (cercaria) burrowing into my flesh.
I’m really glad I didn’t know this at the time.
These baby flatworms had recently hatched from their interim host, the snail, and were swimming about in the warm shallows, searching for their primary host, a goose or duck. Unfortunately flatworm larvae cannot tell a duck from a human leg dangling in the water, so I became what scientists call an “accidental host”.
You’ve heard the expression, “wrong place wrong time?” That was me.
Schistosomatidae (aka flukes or flatworms) have a “complex” parasitic life cycle, which means that they require two hosts (snail + bird) to complete their cycle. The good news is that the worms die quickly in humans (thank GOD!), but not before the awesome human immune system hits the little buggers with everything it’s got.
This reaction is what causes the itchy rash. And let me tell you, poison ivy, chicken pox and measles have got NOTHING on Swimmer’s Itch.
I bathed in oatmeal and baking soda, I smeared myself with hydrocortisone creme, topical Benadryl, and in a moment of insanity, Vicks Vapor Rub and toothpaste. What can I say, I was desperate.
I popped as much Aleve as my husband would let me and chased it down with vodka (despite explicit warnings against combining Aleve with martinis.) My reasoning was that I would definitely be more comfortable and happier in a semi-comatose state. I have never been so miserable, desperate, or ugly. My oozing, crusty legs cried out for a good scratch with a metal garden rake.
My husband took one look and kept WAY to his side of the bed. I can’t say I blame him.
At least the infection was only on my legs. I’ve seen internet photos of kids with Swimmer’s Itch pustules all over their bodies. Not sure how they survived it. Maybe their parents handcuffed them to their beds and knocked them unconscious.
Looking on the bright side of invasive parasitic infections, I am thankful that it wasn’t botflies. Those things DON’T die after they burrow under your skin. At the end of 6 weeks you end up hatching a giant hairy fly, Alien style. I understand there is a lot of screaming involved.
If I got to choose my poison, I’d take flatworms and Swimmer’s Itch over botflies any day.
------------------------------------------------------------
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
My kids didn’t want me telling people that tiny free swimming parasitic flatworm larvae had burrowed under my skin, causing a severe auto-immune reaction. The truth about the hideous red pustules covering my legs was “TMI”, according to my mortified teenagers.
My kids would rather let strangers in the grocery store think that I had a rare jungle borne STD than stand next to me while I explained that I did not. Teens, like most sociopaths, don't exhibit much empathy.
What I had was simply a bad case of (non contagious) Swimmer’s Itch, which I will now tell you about in excruciating detail.
Immediately after a leisurely paddle through the marsh grasses of picturesque Greenwich Cove, my legs became inexplicably ‘tingly’. This, I learned later via the internet, was the feeling of flatworm larvae (cercaria) burrowing into my flesh.
I’m really glad I didn’t know this at the time.
These baby flatworms had recently hatched from their interim host, the snail, and were swimming about in the warm shallows, searching for their primary host, a goose or duck. Unfortunately flatworm larvae cannot tell a duck from a human leg dangling in the water, so I became what scientists call an “accidental host”.
You’ve heard the expression, “wrong place wrong time?” That was me.
Schistosomatidae (aka flukes or flatworms) have a “complex” parasitic life cycle, which means that they require two hosts (snail + bird) to complete their cycle. The good news is that the worms die quickly in humans (thank GOD!), but not before the awesome human immune system hits the little buggers with everything it’s got.
This reaction is what causes the itchy rash. And let me tell you, poison ivy, chicken pox and measles have got NOTHING on Swimmer’s Itch.
I bathed in oatmeal and baking soda, I smeared myself with hydrocortisone creme, topical Benadryl, and in a moment of insanity, Vicks Vapor Rub and toothpaste. What can I say, I was desperate.
I popped as much Aleve as my husband would let me and chased it down with vodka (despite explicit warnings against combining Aleve with martinis.) My reasoning was that I would definitely be more comfortable and happier in a semi-comatose state. I have never been so miserable, desperate, or ugly. My oozing, crusty legs cried out for a good scratch with a metal garden rake.
My husband took one look and kept WAY to his side of the bed. I can’t say I blame him.
At least the infection was only on my legs. I’ve seen internet photos of kids with Swimmer’s Itch pustules all over their bodies. Not sure how they survived it. Maybe their parents handcuffed them to their beds and knocked them unconscious.
Looking on the bright side of invasive parasitic infections, I am thankful that it wasn’t botflies. Those things DON’T die after they burrow under your skin. At the end of 6 weeks you end up hatching a giant hairy fly, Alien style. I understand there is a lot of screaming involved.
If I got to choose my poison, I’d take flatworms and Swimmer’s Itch over botflies any day.
------------------------------------------------------------
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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