The Cuckleburr Times » Kelly Swanson

Staying on The Funny Side of Weight Loss Secrets

Kelly Swanson — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 19:18:01 +0000

I would like to thank TiredOfYourWeight@WhosTheNextIdiot.com for the email you just sent reminding me that I’m overweight. How did you find me? Were you there when I used emergency money to buy girl scout cookies? When I dove between the sofa cushions because I thought I saw a French fry? When I ran past you in my bathing suit at the pool and took out three toddlers? How do you people know that I want to lose weight, need money transferred from Nigerian royalty, and have been looking everywhere for a fake Rolodex? Baffling.

So, Mister TiredOfYourWeight, I appreciate that you took time in the middle of the night to send me this urgent email to share your weight loss secret that is sure to revolutionize the world and to give me the opportunity to buy into it before anyone else. I am flattered that you spend so much time and energy caring about strangers. I wish you would spend the same amount of time learning to spell and removing the strands of gibberish in your heartfelt message which, until I speak in tongues, I am unable to translate. I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t need the revolutionary answer to instant weight loss. You see, I already know the answer, and have known it for years. In fact, it really hasn’t been much of a secret since 4th grade biology. Eat less than you are, exercise more than you are, and you will lose weight. Shocking I know. Knowing what to do isn’t the secret. It’s doing it.

You see, I would rather drink lumpy shakes made out of goat’s urine, strap thirty pounds of spandex to my body, and spend thousands on hairdos, clothes, and accessories guaranteed to make me look a size smaller. I would rather have my colon flushed and take diet pills that cause hair loss, fainting spells, and the unavoidable explosive diarrhea. But don’t make me eat vegetables – that’s just gross. I want those programs where you actually pay more to eat less. I would rather spend hours reading manuals from experts claiming it’s not the quantity but the combinations of foods- just don’t mix the brown Snickers with the tan French fries and you’re fine.

I want to sit around perplexed saying, “But I don’t eat that much” and convince myself that I must have some rare thyroid condition and that everybody’s order contains the word Supersize. I want to buy exercise tapes that I’m too lazy to open and fancy treadmills to hold my plants, rather than park at the back of the parking lot and take the stairs. I am not interested in the kind of exercise where I am involved. I don’t even want to get up to change the TV. I once watched a twenty-four hour Valerie Bertinelli marathon because I couldn’t find the remote. I would rather sit around with a group of other overweight people and have them tell me size doesn’t matter and look at skinny people in disgust and hope they’re miserable.

So I do know the secret to weight loss, Mr. TiredOfYourWeight. Perhaps if you could come up with a revolutionary way to do the things we don’t want to do. Now that I would read. So thanks but no thanks. I would, however, be interested in a way to earn a million in a week without ever having to get dressed or leave my house. Do you have a cousin who does that?

Professional Speaker Kelly Swanson is an award-winning author and comedian who delivers clean side-splitting keynotes and break-out sessions. Her heartwarming messages about staying on the “funny side of life,” will inspire, motivate, and teach you the importance of cultivating healthy personal and professional relationships. Kelly has opened for Loretta Lynn, performed on Holland America Cruise Lines, and was a featured artist at the Best of Our State Festival and the National Storytelling Festival. Our State Magazine calls her “One of North Carolina’s Funniest Women.” Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at http://www.kellyswanson.net or email kelly@kellyswanson.net.

Staying On The Funny Side Of The Boogey Man

Kelly Swanson — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 05:01:28 +0000

I never used to get scared when I was young, single, and living in an apartment complex overlooking the projects where even the sound of gunfire didn’t keep us from opening a ground floor window to catch a breeze. I felt safe surrounded by my family of strangers who made window art out of beer cans, whose cars vibrated to the beat of their own drum, and who were prone to pack up and move in the middle of the night. I slept soundly to the pulse of the blue light blinking through my bedroom window. But somewhere between marriage, motherhood, and moving into a quiet house in a nothing-out-of-the-ordinary neighborhood, I became a chicken. Suddenly I’m convinced that it has become the American burglar’s dream to get his hands on our dusty VCR, hand-me-down televisions, wallet with three dollars and a handful of Chuck-E-Cheese tokens, and a collection of Beanie Babies that I am convinced will get us through retirement – or even worse, to have his way with me, which even I have to admit makes for a pretty desperate burglar.

I considered an alarm system but decided that I would rather be taken by surprise and killed rather than hear an electronic voice whisper from my bedroom wall that an intruder is coming up the stairs. In fact, I would probably take myself out to spare myself the agony of suspense. And with my luck, I would get the electronic alarm voice with the bitter just-left-my-husband attitude. “See, I told you he was breaking in, you fool. Next time maybe you’ll listen to me. I’m thinking you asked for that one. You should never have gotten married; this fool here isn’t going to protect you. That’s a man for you.” No, I don’t need an alarm system. I married an ex-football playing power lifter who is convinced that he can kill someone with his bare hands – despite the fact that our living room bookshelf collapsed in the middle of the night last week and he didn’t even wake up. I’ve pretty much resigned myself to the fact that if the burglar wants to come in, there’s nothing that can stop him. I think the makers of alarm systems need to talk to the makers of toy packaging. If burglars had to work as hard getting into a house as parents have to work to open a new toy – the hard plastic, those twist ties, all those tiny screws – that boogey man will not stay the course. I’m just saying.

It’s when hubby goes out of town that I struggle. I’m not scared at the thought of him going, and certainly not scared enough that I can’t plan an enjoyable evening of scallion chicken, chocolate, scented candles, Gray’s Anatomy, three episodes of Law and Order, and a Lifetime movie about a woman being stalked by her lover’s ex-girlfriend’s crazy roommate, starring Valerie Bertinelli. For some weird reason I’m not scared earlier that afternoon, or at dinner, or at 9pm, or at 10pm, or even at 11pm. But at 11:01 my eyes start to shift and campy horror music tracks start running through my head. In my mind, that’s when the boogey man clocks in and starts creeping slowly down the street in his rusty old Dodge Dart and trunk full of duct tape and hefty bags. I am not scared until I put on my flannel nightgown (just so he won’t be tempted), fuzzy socks, and crawl under the covers. That’s when I hear the noise. Never fails. Every time. I hear a noise. I do a quick run through of all the explainable noises – ice maker, cat, air conditioner, leaky faucet, sound of the whistle inside my own nose. None of these. I am convinced that this is a noise only the boogey man can make.

I try to be logical – what are the odds that this guy would choose my house – which doesn’t make me feel any better because it’s the same logic I used when I convinced myself nobody would see me if I ran out to the mailbox in my bathrobe. That story didn’t end well. There are still children in therapy over that one. In fact, odds were good that he was going to pick my house because I had just mopped the floors and wouldn’t that just be a kicker, to go out after having spent hours cleaning your floors – like washing your car and it rains – those are my kind of odds. Okay, so I didn’t actually mop them, I swept them. Okay, okay, so I just used the dust buster in the corners – what are you, the clean police? I considered making the boogey man’s job easier by going ahead and putting all my belongings on the front porch so he wouldn’t have to come in. But my lazy side convinced my fearful side that was a bad idea. Besides, last time I left piles of stuff on the curb, even the bums rejected it. I considered sleeping in a different room to surprise him but that would mean having to wash the sheets in the guest bedroom.

I imagine the boogey man looking through my car trying to remove the expensive electronic equipment that’s not there – it’s a ten-year-old Hyundai for gosh sakes – and I can actually hear him swear as his fingers wrap around a petrified french fry and the chewed-up nugget remains that have grown hair in between the seats. I see his lips curl up in disgust as he flips through my CD collection. If he were a smart burglar, he’d go for the bag of diet bars in the back seat that cost more than my car is now worth. Shoot, if he were smart, he’d pick a different house. Take the CD’s, by golly, but those diet bars cost me a fortune. Only in America does it cost more money to eat less. Great, now he’s mad and he’s coming inside. I know this because I can hear him picking the lock downstairs -so what if I can’t hear my husband when he gets locked out and bangs for thirty minutes on that downstairs door – now I am sure I can hear that boogey man breathing and breaking into the house in slow motion – because that’s what they do you know, move in slow motion while looking both ways like kids about to cross the street. So much for the big dog house that’s supposed to scare him away. I’m convinced that he’s been casing the house long enough to know that the scary big dog went to the vet and didn’t come home whereupon the burglar gossip line went crazy – “Dog gone at the Swanson’s, I repeat, dog gone at the Swanson’s.”

That’s when I realize I don’t have the phone – dummy – any fool knows that you won’t have time to get the phone if it’s across the room. But now I’m worried. Do I have time to get to the phone before he reaches the top of the stairs? Should this time be spent finding a hiding place? And would I still fit on the top shelf of my closet like I imagined when I was smaller? Should this time be spent trying to get out of the bathroom window – oops – the same window that won’t open anymore because I painted over it by mistake? Great. I can hear my husband now leaning over my dead body saying, “Well, you might have gotten away if you had listened to my advice. That’s what you get when you do a rush job.” I decided to make a run for the phone. I’m still here, so obviously it was a good call. Excuse the pun. Even when I’m scared, I’ve still got it.

Then I can hear the sound of his pick ax brushing the wall going up the stairs. It’s weird how your heart can be throbbing through your chest, your life can be flashing before your eyes, you can be picking out thirty-seven escape routes and hiding places, and still wonder if this is the night gown you should be caught dead in, picturing your blue-haired relatives leaning over the casket saying, “What a shame. So young. You think she could have picked a better gown. I didn’t realize she had put on that much weight.”

These are the times when I always wish I had taken a self-defense class. I try to remember everything my husband told me to do when you’re getting attacked. Shove him up the nose. No, too gross. Poke him in the eyes. Eeeewwww, even worse. No way. Knee him in the groin – maybe, but last time I tried to hike my knee up in aerobics I fell down. Beat him until he doesn’t get up, my husband tells me – over and over. He obviously didn’t see me when I cried in kickboxing class because my knuckles got scraped. He obviously hasn’t seen my bruises from trying to get my three-year-old dressed. My husband has this image of me that doesn’t exist, perhaps never did. He didn’t know me the time I ran into the cement pole in front on Big Lots because I was looking down at my shoes to see if they made my feet look big. He didn’t see me wave and smile at the swaying drunk guy who was pee’ing on the dumpster outside the Circle K because I didn’t want him to think I was rude. The idea of me overwhelming my attacker is about realistic as the idea of me passing a Krispy Kreme without stopping.

It is for these reasons that I consider myself a pacifist, but sometimes the mind does crazy things and I decide that in order to protect myself and my sleeping child, it’s time to get the gun. Yes, I said it. We have a gun. Not my idea. My husband brought guns into the marriage. I do not like guns and the idea of giving one to me is like giving a knife to someone with seizures – you don’t know what will happen but you can bet it won’t be good. But drastic times call for drastic measures and the gun is closer than the knives in the kitchen and I can somehow imagine myself shooting someone from a distance easier than trying to knife him the same way I poke a potato. I am sweating just thinking about the gun which is hidden in the top shelf of a closet in the next room. There are no bullets in it, so the best I can hope for is to throw it at him. But sitting there wide-eyed in my granny nightgown at three am – well, I’m not thinking clearly. I go for the gun. I practice pointing and saying, “Make my day. This is going to hurt me worse than it hurts you. I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it. Give me all your aces.” Okay, so at least I was entertained and momentarily forgot my fear. Until I had to pee.

Everybody knows that there are two moments when the traditional boogey man will strike – when you’re in the shower and when you’re squatting – both very vulnerable positions. Not as vulnerable though as if it were the middle of your annual exam. That would never happen though because the boogey man would take one look at the stirrups and syringes and run. Or tell him the stick turned pink and that’ll get rid of him. I should sleep at the doctor’s office when hubby is out of town – kind of like hunkering down in a safe bunker – or whatever the expression is. Anyway, the movies never show you how to handle the whole having to pee situation. But now I really have to go. Surely I can’t put the gun down or he’ll grab it and turn it on me – or rather throw it at me as the case may be. There is only one choice. I have to pee and stay armed at the same time. I once drove three miles, in the rain, with broken wipers, while applying lipstick and changing a diaper. I can do this. And I do. And with great skill and manual dexterity might I add. I complete my business and never once take my finger off the trigger. Annie Oakley, you got nothing on me.

Now I’m back in the bed, eyes wide, brandishing the gun wildly around the room and realize that my child is sleeping across the hall and what if the boogey man goes there first? Although there are days when I am convinced that if my wild-eyed toddler ever got abducted, they would certainly bring him back, I just don’t want to take any chances. And it’s usually at this point that I run into his room and grab him and bring his snoring body back to my bed where I am fully prepared to throw myself over him and yell, “Take me! Take me!” But now I’ve got the sleeping kid and the gun and I don’t want him to wake up and see the gun – bullets or not. And what if my husband comes home early for some reason and can’t reach me on the phone that is lying on my stomach because the battery has suddenly gone dead and so I don’t know he’s coming and he sneaks in and I don’t hear him and I shoot him by mistake – and I know there are no bullets in there, but good grief, how can you be sure? I’m certainly not going to open it to find out.

I decide that I would rather be shot than accidentally shoot my family and I put the gun under the bed. Nope, not a good idea, because undoubtedly Junior will pull it out covered in dust bunnies the size of a small dog – he finds everything – and he’ll start playing with it and put it in his backpack (despite the fact that he still can’t work the zipper) take it to school and he’ll get expelled from preschool and I’ll get arrested and they’ll say this is why the world is in the state it’s in – and makes sense – she was the mom who sent chocolate bars for snack instead of carrots. And I’ll go to jail and end up rooming with a boogey man or boogey lady, as the case may be, and find out that it was her cousin who broke into my house and caught me on the john and still has the mental scars to prove it. Better to put it back on the top shelf of the closet and resort to plan B where I tell the criminal to please hold a minute while I run and grab my unloaded gun.

It is 4:30am and I’m wide awake with one arm on the phone, fingers gripping my new razor in the hopes of nicking him to death, and the other arm on my Bible, having decide my best chance at scaring him off would be to witness to him – he would either run or be saved, either of which would work in my favor – while my son snores loudly beside me. And then somehow – as I’m praying that if this is my night to die, to please make sure that my husband does not find anyone else skinnier, and if there could be chocolate in heaven I would be really happy – by some wonderful miracle, I fall asleep and wake up at that magical hour of 6am where I am no longer afraid because the sun is now coming up and everybody knows that the boogey man gets off work at 6am – just like he gets snow days and Christmas eve off. And I drift back to sleep and all is right with the world and there is peace. I have had my brush with death and lived to write about it. Little do I know that there is another fear just lurking around the corner – when I would mistakenly think that with just a little bit of spandex I could fit my size fourteen body into a size ten pair of jeans. I still have the bruises to show for it.

P.S. Did you know the average burglar only makes 4,000 a year? What if that’s based on just one good hit? That’s not bad if you average it. I think he’s making more than I am.

Professional Speaker Kelly Swanson is an award-winning author and comedian who delivers clean side-splitting keynotes and break-out sessions. Her heartwarming messages about staying on the “funny side of life,” will inspire, motivate, and teach you the importance of cultivating healthy personal and professional relationships. Kelly has opened for Loretta Lynn, performed on Holland America Cruise Lines, and was a featured artist at the Best of Our State Festival and the National Storytelling Festival. Our State Magazine calls her “One of North Carolina’s Funniest Women.” Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at http://www.kellyswanson.net or email kelly@kellyswanson.net.

Staying on the Funny Side of Spontaneity

Kelly Swanson — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 05:02:51 +0000

Today I decided to have a moment of spontaneity with my toddler, which is unusual for me to engage in things I can’t spell. Usually I like my spontaneous moments to occur on weekends – not during those precious work hours when I could be sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring. But when Junior asked me for the 147th time if he could do bubbles, I stopped typing, looked up, and much to his surprise and mine said yes, and we ran outside before I could change my mind.

No coats. No shoes. No sunscreen. We just ran out into the glorious sunshine and, despite that moment where I tripped down the stairs, it was like a scene right out of a movie. Until we started arguing over the bubbles – who was going to hold the jar – who was going to blow – who would get to eat the half-eaten candy bar we found on the ground. And what started as a sweet mommy-and-me project of love and togetherness that belonged on the cover of Good Mommy Magazine, quickly spiraled into a devil-mommy-spanks-kid-in-the-front-yard moment that belonged on the cover of Moms Who Shouldn’t Be Magazine. So much for my sweet-lady-next-door image which, according to my husband, disappeared a long time ago somewhere between the time I threw a pot roast at him as he ran to his car and the time I accidentally posted my labor pictures on MySpace.

And so our bubble blowing fiasco ended as quickly as it had begun when Junior spilled the entire bottle of bubble liquid on the ground which left us with nothing to do but just sit – at least that was my plan – to lounge under the oak tree while he lay his head on my lap and I read him excerpts from articles I had written. His plan was to sprint down the driveway and collide into the car in rapid succession (yeah, I’m thinking trade school), see which bricks on the side of the house were loose, dig for worms, and lick bark – all of which he found great delight in while my rear end lost feeling on the cold cement porch, my eyes itched, the wind kept blowing my hair into my lip gloss, I got a bug in my teeth, I was reminded of everything in the yard that needs to be done, and I swear I could hear the whisper of missed opportunities on the breeze. Then the rabid squirrel jumped out of a bush and sent both of us running into the house in a fit of hysterics. I probably shouldn’t have pushed Junior down on my way to the front porch.

We were both sticky with bubble juice and had to break routine and take a bath in the afternoon (no, not together, they won’t let me do that anymore) and I was so worn out that I crawled into bed with him at naptime – the rest of my work day ruined. No emails answered, no phone calls returned. And as he was curled up against me, his hair still wet from his bath, his arm thrown around my neck, he whispers, “That was fun Mommy” and fell asleep. And my heart grew three sizes that day. And somehow I knew that even in my wrong way, I had done the right thing – that years down the road I wouldn’t remember the lost hours of work. I would remember him laughing and running in his bare feet. Before he stubbed his toe on that rock.

You probably don’t have a toddler. You probably don’t work from home. But I’d bet you, like me, miss some of the precious spontaneous opportunities to jump up and go blow some bubbles. Let’s don’t do that anymore. Okay?

(PS Who decided a thirty-seven piece, multi-faceted, battery-operated, monogrammed bubble set with retractable pieces and a matching keychain should be fifty-nine cents at Target – but toilet paper costs me four dollars? I guess the same people who decided to charge us for air at the gas station.)

Professional Speaker Kelly Swanson is an award-winning author and comedian who delivers clean side-splitting keynotes and break-out sessions. Her heartwarming messages about staying on the “funny side of life,” will inspire, motivate, and teach you the importance of cultivating healthy personal and professional relationships. Kelly has opened for Loretta Lynn, performed on Holland America Cruise Lines, and was a featured artist at the Best of Our State Festival and the National Storytelling Festival. Our State Magazine calls her “One of North Carolina’s Funniest Women.” Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at http://www.kellyswanson.net or email kelly@kellyswanson.net.

Staying On The Funny Side – Of Commercials

Kelly Swanson — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 04:49:38 +0000

Have you seen the commercial for the kid’s allergy medication? Two women are sitting in a park on a play date when one child runs up, sneezes, and both women, like gun slingers, pull out their emergency mommy medication. One mother has an oozing bag of mangled medications. The other mother pulls out her handy dandy pre-filled dose of medication and administers it to Junior and never misses a beat. Messy bag woman cowers in shame. Quick-dose mom flashes a condescending smile of victory.

Freeze the frame right here because I have a problem with this whole scenario. First of all, find me a park where children are frolicking and skipping to the tune of laughing mothers. Last park I went to, one kid pee’d on the slide, another bit his sister in the face, somebody found a hypodermic needle in the sand box, and my car got spray painted with gang graffiti before I even turned off the engine. And it’s not just moms anymore. I saw two dads, a grandparent, a babysitter, a kid who was thrown out the door of a station wagon as the parents ‘roll through’, another who I’m pretty sure lives there, and one man in slippers shuffling through the parking lot talking to himself. And who even has time for play dates anymore? I’m busy. My kid gets play dates in line at the DMV.

The TV moms are immaculately dressed. No wrinkles, no stains. Right now I’m wearing a t-shirt with crusted peanut butter and matching sweats that I’ve been wearing since Tuesday. I once went a whole day with a sucker stuck to the side of my head before anybody told me. The TV moms are chatting happily. Wrong. Sara’s telling Sue about how lazy her husband is; while Bertha (who just slipped vodka into her water bottle) is complaining about how far her butt has dropped to Erma who can’t hear her because she’s too busy spanking her kid in the parking lot.

The commercial mothers are always deep in conversation while their kids are playing out on the horizon. Hello! Do you watch Law and Order? My child once disappeared behind a bush for a second and I started screaming, clawing at my sweater, and profiling the other moms. And what’s up with the kid who comes up to his mother to sneeze? Please. My son can be bleeding out his eyes and he won’t stop digging to come get help. Commercial mom whips out her bag of medications. We went on vacation and I forgot Junior’s inhaler. She reaches into her purse and locates the bag of medicine immediately. I once went into my purse for a band aid and dug up four half-eaten candy bars, a pair of underwear, and a dead gerbil. No band aid.

Commercial kid takes his medication with a smile. I have to wrestle my kid to the ground, hold his nose, and threaten to take away Christmas if he doesn’t take it. Commercial kid smiles and gives a cute toothless thank-you while my kid seeks vengeance with a magic marker on the living room wall. Then Patty Perfect gives Susie Slack a condescending smile of victory. Well, I must admit, that one is pretty much on target. I’ve met Patty Perfect before. She’s the one who frowns when I bring chocolate when it’s my turn for preschool snack. When I put diet coke in his sippy cup. When I breastfeed at the salad bar.

Yeah – all that from a commercial. I’ll probably still buy it anyway. It does look cool. I’m sure it will cost three times as much, I’ll leave it at home, and my kid still won’t take it. So maybe the commercial wins after all. But I won’t let them tell me what normal mothers look like. Or what beautiful looks like either. Or success. Or happiness. What do they know?

Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at kellyswanson.net .

kelly@kellyswanson.net

Staying on The Funny Side of Thanksgiving

Kelly Swanson — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 22:21:11 +0000

I just read an ad that said you can get your entire Thanksgiving dinner in a bag, complete with turkey, mashed potatoes, and an overly critical mother-in-law. Get out the paddles for Great Aunt Ethel that such a day would come when holiday food would be poured out of a bag in a house filled with the smells of hot plastic and the sounds of a crackling microwave. I can just see my Granny Jean staring down from that great all-you-can-eat buffet in the sky, curling up her lip and saying, “That is not how Thanksgiving is supposed to be. Now, Peter, you know sweet potatoes go in the gold dish.”

When I was growing up Thanksgiving was about one thing and one thing only – food. Not thankfulness, not pride in how far we’ve come, but food. Had a run-in with the law? We’ll forgive you. Spent last summer naked on a commune chanting Kumbaya? We’ll pray for you. But bring instant mashed potatoes to a family reunion and you will be shunned for three generations.

I remember how relatives came from miles around, descending on Granny Jean’s house like ants running towards that last morsel of egg salad left on a deserted picnic table – bringing their newest additions, latest attachments, lingering grudges, philosophies on life, and whatever dish they were known for making – like Aunt Vyrnetta’s mashed potato surprise which taught me that surprise isn’t always a good thing. Or Aunt Bitsy’s congealed salad wreath filled with fruit cocktail, that kept moving a good ten minutes after you set it down, much like Aunt Bitsy herself.

Our stuffing had sage in it, our cornbread had corn in it, our biscuits (yes, biscuits and cornbread) were so light and buttery they were known to turn heathens into saints on the spot. And our green beans were so greased up that our lips had a permanent sheen of lard gloss for three days. And no matter how many people were there or how long we stayed, there was always plenty of food.

It was a time when women gathered in the kitchen to whisk and whisper. When children explored nooks and crannies of a house whose dark rooms whispered untold secrets. When men checked out each other’s engines and argued over baseball and politics while young couples found quiet corners to steal a kiss. There was no television going. There were no faces glued to video games. Just the sound of laughter.

I remember the year we were traveling and the station wagon broke down and we had to trade Granny’s holiday buffet for a sticky stool at the Waffle House, sharing dinner with three guitar players from Utah and a waitress named Star. We were kids, so it qualified as a new adventure. Who needs a warm fire and soft music when you can have pancakes with whipped topping?

That was the year I learned that things don’t always stay the same. And every year as I grow older I watch tiny pieces being chipped away from that warm Thanksgiving painting. No more sage in the stuffing. Some too busy to come this year. Biscuits from a can. Another empty chair. A fat-free salad and oyster stew. And sometimes the change is as subtle as the shift in my perspective.

Sometimes it makes me sad and I long for just one of those moments back – just a scent – just to hear that laughter one more time – to feel Granny’s warm biscuit-scented hands wrapped around my face. But, if I’m lucky, I remember that even as I speak I am creating new memories. And just because the memories aren’t the same as they once were, they will one day be treasured just as much, whether it’s a warm spot by the fireplace or sitting on the seat of a sticky stool in the Waffle House eating pancakes and whipped topping with three guitar players from Utah and a waitress named Star.

Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at kellyswanson.net .

Staying on the Funny Side – Of Sparky the Cat

Kelly Swanson — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 03:25:13 +0000

The vet said Sparky died of natural causes. Aunt Fern said it was probably something he ate. Mildred said that cat had been electrocuted, caught on fire, painted pink, and dressed up as a camel for the Buncam Baptist Christmas pageant- that if that didn’t add up to nine lives, nothing did. Personally, I think Sparky had finally had enough of this crazy family, got a hold of some pills, and took his own life. He just picked the wrong week to do it.

It was Great Uncle Edsel’s 90th birthday and a great cause for celebration since he wasn’t supposed to live this long, having been diagnosed with some rare disease that none of us could pronounce. The doctors had given him a month, two at the most. We had accepted it, and so had Edsel, who had chosen to spend the remainder of his time intoxicated. That was ten years ago and the man had soaked up so much alcohol we couldn’t let him blow out the candles on his cake for fear he’d blow us all up. So nobody noticed Sparky’s suicide note or discovered his contorted body until the party was in full swing and the kids decided to play hide ‘n seek.

It was Sammy Junior who crawled under the bed to hide, and came eye to eye and cheek to cheek with the dearly departed Sparky whose face had frozen in a wide-eyed snarl. It’s safe to say that both of them were equally petrified. Sammy’s scream circled the block as relatives ran in to face a situation far more interesting than hearing Uncle Bert’s new country song which had fourteen verses and ended up sounding like Hank Williams with a speech impediment. They all took turns peering under the bed and saying, “Yep, it’s a dead cat all right.” It was obvious that the next step was to remove Sparky from under the bed, and equally obvious that nobody wanted that job.

“You get it,” someone whispered.

“I ain’t touching it. You touch it!”

“I’m not touching it! You touch it!”

And the phrase was passed from one to another until they finally elected Big Ed, who was a cop. How different could this be from the time Old Man Foster passed out in the congealed salad at the little league picnic? Big Ed, with an image to protect, yelled for a broom, hitched up his pants, and bent down to survey the situation. Minutes later, with sweat-laced brow, he swept Sparky and a family of dust bunnies out from under the bed while we hovered behind him with held breath, staring at the cat who lay frozen on his back with all four paws up in the air, just like Aunt Ethel when she fainted during her solo at church.

Somebody sneezed and Big Ed’s arm jerked the broom and Sparky skidded across the floor, landing with a thud against Mildred’s walker creating instant hysteria as people literally climbed over each other to get out. It was a tragic moment that secured the job of every therapist within a thirty-mile radius. Mildred hyperventilated. Skeeter swallowed his snuff. And Aunt Bitsy says that was the trauma that caused her to start eating carbs again. Once they got Uncle Edsel’s heart started back up, they decided that they had no choice but to either bury Sparky or prop him up in a wing chair until the party was over. Loretta set off to find a box, because everybody knows the wing chair’s reserved for Granny Jean once her medication kicks in.

We tried getting Sparky into several boxes, but his tail kept popping out, causing shrieks of horror every time Ed tried to stuff it back in. Finally we settled on little Emily’s Barbie Camper with the side awning that made a great place for his tail. It was appropriate, as Sparky had always loved riding shotgun in Skeeter’s mobile party camper with the flashing Budweiser light. The only place we could find dirt soft enough to dig was in the front yard. So you can imagine the dismal scene we presented to the latecomers who were now driving up to the party carting cases of beer – only to find us standing around a hole with Big Ed digging knee-deep in dirt.

We all paused, looked up, and Ed announced solemnly, “You’re too late. He’s already gone.” The tardy relatives dropped to their knees, faces washed in grief (except for Vyrnetta who showed no emotion at all, not from womanly grit, but the botox injections she had received earlier that day.) We found their reaction to be somewhat overdramatic until we realized they thought the hole was for Great Uncle Edsel.

We cleared up the confusion, showed them that Great Uncle Edsel was still alive, and let them get one last peek at Sparky. And except for that moment when Sparky’s burial robe (a silver sequined super hero cape with an “S” on the back) got caught on Erma’s oxygen tank, the rest of the funeral went without a hitch. And that was the day dear old Sparky left this world. Great Uncle Edsel lived another ten years before deciding he’d had enough of this family too. We found him under the dining room table. At least he was dressed this time.

Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at kellyswanson.net .

kelly@kellyswanson.net

Staying on the Funny Side – Of Kitchen Gadgets

Kelly Swanson — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 02:20:08 +0000

I’m a sucker for those “As Seen On TV” kitchen gadgets. Show me a woman in a dated hairdo and a pantsuit, waving her hand over a seventy-five-piece plastic monogrammed food packaging and storage system, and my pulse starts to race.

Show me the whole family frolicking (is that still a word?) through the meadow with the dog and the handy dandy monogrammed food packaging carrying case on wheels with the drink holder and solar radio, and I’m diving for my credit card.

Tell me that for just an additional dollar, I can get a complete set of stainless steel knives guaranteed to cut steel and to outlive three generations, and it is no longer a want – no longer a need – it has become an I must have this or I will die – forget braces for Junior, Mamma needs a food storage system.

My husband tried to block the channel after I ordered him thirty-seven button-me-easy kits that promise to replace your button in thirty seconds without the need for needles or thread. He said it would have been a good idea, if most of his shirts had buttons.

It happens again yesterday. Just when I’ve barely recovered from the ramifications of ordering a lifetime supply of under-the-bed sweater organizers that emit a lilac scent – I see her white teeth and that familiar pantsuit, and I’m under her spell again. This time is different. This gadget is the king daddy of all gadgets – the Air Sucker 2000 – breaking all records in high tech kitchen gadgetry. Put your food in the bag, slide the bag through the sealer and it sucks all the air out of the bag and keeps it fresh for the rest of your life – just as fresh as the day you put it in. We’re thinking of using it on Great Uncle Fred. You can seal pork chops, chicken, steak, salad, soup, and even a pint of your dog’s blood should he ever need a transfusion. This would have been a handy thing to have when Uncle Skeeter cut off his toe with the weed whacker and we needed something to carry it in.

This is revolutionary. This will save us millions of dollars in wasted food. This, I have to have. I decide to order three – just in case they stop making them. “What are you doing?” my husband asks in an accusing tone as I’m reciting my credit card number to Susie who swears the Air Sucker 2000 changed her life. How does he do that? I have to yell for help four times when I super glue my foot into my new shoe (long story). It takes ten minutes for him to come to my aid when I get my hair caught in the drain (even longer story). We have a dead squirrel on the front porch for three days and he doesn’t even notice. Pick up the phone to try and place a tiny little credit card order and it’s like I blew a dog whistle.

I tell Susie to please hold, roll my eyes, and explain to my husband, while trying to be patient, that this is one of those necessary purchases. “You do NOT need that,” he says, gritting his teeth. He should really learn to handle stress more effectively. “Yes. I do.” “Like you needed the battery operated Bug-Be-Gone for the pool?” He can be quite sarcastic when he wants to be. “Hey, you said yourself that was good idea,” I point out. “We don’t have a pool!” he growls. I hang up the phone before Susie can call 911 to report domestic violence and follow my husband to the kitchen where he’s standing with his arms crossed, wearing that look he gets when he’s about to win an argument. Uh-oh.

“Open that cabinet,” he barks. “Come on. Open it. And tell me what you see.” I don’t appreciate his tone. “Let’s see,” I murmur. “There’s the green pepper spiraler….the vegetable blender with the pasta attachment…the six-speed juicer with the sleeve to hold the morning paper…oh, here’s that cute serving tray with the ceramic pigs in bikinis on pool floats…and the pasta colander that turns into a centerpiece…and I’m not really sure exactly what this thing is…” My voice trails off as I crawl deeper into the cabinet. “What’s that behind the silver-plated cake stand that sings happy birthday?” he asks while I drag out a dust-covered contraption and read the words on the side: Air Sucker 2000.

Suddenly it comes rushing back – November, two years ago. I still remember the day it came in the mail. I was so excited. I was convinced that this revolutionary item would change my life. I never could figure out how it worked. It was missing three pieces, wouldn’t work on any speed but high, made an awful screeching noise, blew a fuse, and was wider than my counter top. I wrapped one piece of chicken (which is still in my freezer, thank you very much) and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Okay, okay, so maybe my husband has a point. He’s still a little mad. It’s probably better that I don’t tell him there are three more Air Suckers in the basement.

Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at kellyswanson.net .

kelly@kellyswanson.net

Staying On The Funny Side Of Imperfections

Kelly Swanson — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 01:37:58 +0000

“That’s it. I’ve had it,” I dramatically announced to my husband as we sat in bed reading. He rolled his eyes, no doubt wondering if this was going to be a repeat of last night’s tirade when I’d had enough of telemarketers. Or the night before when I’d had enough of toys that required tools to get them opened. “These glasses have been crooked for three years,” I said with the same shocked look I had when I realized not everybody stuffs their pet and puts it by the front door.

“I told you to get them adjusted. Takes five minutes,” he murmured without looking up from his magazine. That was one my weaknesses – those little five minute tasks – like rotating the tires, checking the fire alarm batteries, and finding out why I can’t hear out of my left ear on Saturdays. So I actually did it. I pulled into the vision place across the street, marched up to the counter and said, “These glasses are really crooked. I need them adjusted.” The clerk stared at the mangled glasses that looked like they’d just spent a Friday night wedged in the back seat of Lindsey Lohan’s limo while she whispers, “I’m not drunk. I’m just stressed.” The clerk left with my glasses and returned two seconds later and I was on my way. They felt great. Until I got home to a mirror and saw that they were still crooked. “OH……MY…… GOSH!” I yelled, as my husband came running into the bedroom still dripping from his unfinished shower.

“What? What is it?” he yells in alarm.

“They’re STILL crooked!” I shout.

So I had to go back the next day. Now I’m mad. One time was fine – but two trips – this was insane. I held an ongoing conversation in my head with the incompetent clerk who was obviously out to get me and probably made it her life’s mission to send people into the world with crooked vision. “They’re still crooked,” I said through gritted teeth, with a smile and an expression that said “I’m on to you little missy. Bringing me out here twice. You must not know who I am and what my time is worth. I’m a storyteller. I speak for a living. All it’ll take is one word and I can bring you down.” Yes, I have a look that says all that. Just ask the dry cleaner.

She sighed, smiled back, and gave me a look that said, “If I didn’t need this job I’d smack you – whoever you think you are – and it can’t be “all that” considering I saw your jacket on the clearance table at Big Lots.” She sauntered off to adjust my glasses.

“Let’s make sure they fit okay?” she said. “Before you leave. She placed the glasses on and they felt great. We looked in the mirror. Still crooked.

“See? I’m not crazy!” I squealed.

“Yep. They’re crooked,” she answered.

“Well, can you fix it?” I asked drawing each word out like she’d been struck deaf.

“The glasses are straight,” she said pointedly. “I’m afraid it’s you that’s crooked.” I swear she smirked.

“What?” I thought I had already conjured up every disorder that could possibly exist, and come to find that I might have a crooked face? Wait till I tell Mom. Did I get it from her? Do I come from a long line of crooked-headed women and I’m just the first to find out about it? Get me to the internet. I’ve got to see if there are others who’ve been struck by this phenomenon. Perhaps there is a support group. “Well, can’t you just make the glasses crooked?” I asked giving her the same look I gave the cashier who thought Obama was a terrorist.

“Can’t bend ‘em anymore or they’ll break.” She actually looked happy to be telling me this.

“This is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen! Do you get other people in here like this?” I am oddly comforted by the misfortune of others.

“Oh, yeah, all the time. Sometimes people have one ear higher than the other – or maybe it’s the eyebrows. Yeah, sometimes they have one eyebrow higher than the other. Maybe that’s your problem.” She stared intently at my face. “Yeah, that’s it. Look! You’ve got one eyebrow higher than the other.” And that’s when the problem slowly shifted into focus. My cheeks reddened and I rushed from the store with my glasses before she could figure out that my uneven eyebrows were not blamed on nature, but on my unsteady hand as I groggily drew them on every morning. I sat in the car and stared at what was now so obvious. I had been drawing my eyebrows on crooked.

Sure enough, one eyebrow was a good quarter inch higher than the other. I had been walking around for years looking like a circus freak. I had been walking around with a mixed expression of confusion and surprise on my face. No wonder they stared at me in Target. No wonder the other mothers shielded their kids when I came around. No wonder those door-to-door church people kept coming back. How could this have happened to me? Even more – how could my husband not have noticed? This was all his fault. I was waiting for him when he got home from work – sitting in the dark holding an empty glass. “How could you?” I asked.

“What?” he answered without stopping as he marched into the kitchen for a drink, totally ruining my dramatic effect.

“How could you not tell me?”

“Good grief. Not this autism thing again. I told you, you’re not autistic. Just because you get stressed when your routine is broken doesn’t mean anything. A little nuts. A little OCD, but not autistic.”

“Not that,” I answered. “My eyebrows. How could you not tell me my eyebrows were crooked? After all these years.”

“Who told you that?” He asked coming in for a closer look.

“The girl at the vision place told me. They’re crooked.”

“Weird.” He opened the paper and began to read.

“That’s all you can say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I wanted you to notice me every once in a while. To notice that one eyebrow was higher than the other. All it took was one look – one tiny look. And you couldn’t even do that. All you had to say was that my eyebrow was crooked and I could have erased it and started over and we wouldn’t be having this conversation and the neighbors wouldn’t think I’m a freak.”

“The neighbors already thought you were a freak long before that. You were the one who got locked out of the house in your stilettos and curlers. You were the one who drank too much at the Jenkins’ birthday party and crawled into the dog’s bed and fell asleep. And what do you mean you’ll erase it and start over?” I had finally gotten his attention.

“My eyebrow. If I’d known it was crooked I would have erased it and drawn it lower.” I showed him what I meant by rubbing one eyebrow furiously until there was nothing left but a couple of invisible hairs. He actually backed away from me.

“Are you telling me you draw your eyebrows on? With one of those pencil things? Like my great aunt Ethel who uses a cigarette holder and talks to her purse?”

“Yes,” I answered, suddenly wondering if this fell into the category of things a man wouldn’t understand – kind of like how I can actually see better once I have my eyeliner on- or how it is worth it to wear those suck-me-in panties and look a size smaller even if it does squash my ovaries. “Yes, I draw my eyebrows on.” I said it like every woman did it. As if he was the one who was nuts. It didn’t work.

I could hear him laughing all the way from the garage where I had marched in anger after grabbing my keys and saying only that I was going out – as if to insinuate that he should be worried – when really I was going out to drown my sorrows in a double fudge waffle cone which always makes me feel better. I needed to get out. I just wish I had remembered that I was now missing one eyebrow.

It’s all fun and games ’til the hair gets messed up - http://www.kellyswanson.net
kelly@kellyswanson.net

(Handpainted Eye Photo Credit : ronnibobs)

Staying On The Funny Side – Of Mail Order Catalogs

Kelly Swanson — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 01:20:07 +0000

I ordered these new stilettos in the mail because the model looked great wearing them and I was convinced they were the very thing I needed to complete me. Well, that and sheer shawl with the beaded butterflies. The stilettos, just like the model, were everything I wasn’t. They even sounded cool – stilettos. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I figured with a name like that they must come with a dark exotic man holding a platter of margaritas.

I should probably tell you that I am not a delicate woman. I bought a bikini this summer and never could get my entire stomach tucked into it – kept popping out on all sides like canned biscuits. Looked like I was wearing an inner tube and the bottom half of the bikini disappeared from view completely. Now that I think about it, putting stilettos on me made as much sense as putting an alarm system in a Dodge Dart. Yeah, now that I think about it, they weren’t me. But that had never stopped me before and it didn’t stop me now. Plus, they were only 25.99. And it is a rare day that I can turn down something that’s only 25.99 whether I need it or not.

When they arrived, they turned out to be slightly higher than I had pictured - kind of like Great Aunt Ethel gets slightly off balance when she’s had seven gin and tonics in the course of an hour. Four inches high. So high, that when I wore them they pitched me forward with every step and I could actually feel the formation of hairline fractures (not sure that’s what they’re called, but it sounded good when House said it) along with the whispered cries of my ankles begging for mercy.

Oh, but my calves looked good. And I pictured that model in the catalog and remembered that dream where I saw myself sitting in my future wearing cardigans and orthopedic tennis shoes and yelling at my afternoon soaps. And I entered into another one of those moments where I break from reality – like when I lost three pounds and thought I could pull off that tube top – and said what I often say when my purchases don’t make sense. I can make these work.

So every morning I practiced walking in them. And being the practical stay-at-home working mom that I am, I made smart use of my time by breaking in my new shoes while I answered my emails (ah, the joys of working from home) and allowed for my spray self-tanner to set in. This was in the midst of another lapse from reality where I was convinced I wasn’t really bright orange but rather one application away from looking like the model on the bottle. And everybody knows you have to let the stuff dry before you get dressed, so I had on this really little skimpy nightie that was what my husband referred to as my rape-prevention outfit – light blue and covered with tacky orange sunflowers that had been a gift from my great granny who had one just like it. My two-year old was napping.

Blame it on the delivery guy, but that’s how it started when he rang the bell to deliver my new CD box set: Six Steps to Uncover the New You which he apparently thought was a good purchase after taking in my nightie, orange skin, stilettos, and head full of pink sponge rollers. In fact, I think he was a little afraid because he sort of threw the package on the steps and left without even asking for a signature, making me have to walk outside to get it, pitching forward in my new stilletos with every step, like a chicken, while he gunned the engine and peeled off down the street.

That’s how I got locked out of the house and found myself standing on the front porch in that one moment of slow-motion sanity, thinking to myself this can’t be good before I hit full-fledged panic. The kind of panic that comes with knowing you’ve just locked yourself outside while your kid is napping inside – intensified by the knowledge that you are standing in front of God and all your neighbors wearing stilettos and a nightie that barely covers the crucial the parts and leaves the rest open to the elements, especially the neighbor’s dog who was already drooling at the sight of my plump thigh. Apparently, he didn’t care how orange it was.

I ran like a deranged colt to the neighbor’s house. No answer. To the other neighbor’s house. No answer. Until I had tried almost every house on the street except for the lady who borrowed my heating pad and never returned it. That wound still had not healed. My only recourse was the gas station on the corner. And so there I was clucking my way down Sherwood Street looking like a defective dollar-store mannequin in the middle of morning commute traffic, getting a lot of stares, one open-mouthed gape from a freckled kid on a bike, and an occasional honk from a well-meaning trucker taking pity on me- all the while trying my best to look normal.

I pretended like it was nothing out of the ordinary when I half-ran, half-limped past Little Mouse Daycare and waved to the forty-seven faces plastered to the chain link fence with expressions that said this was way better than when Jimmy threw up in the fish tank. I shuffled past Diamond City where the line of Vietnamese nail technicians waved cheerily and asked did I need my eyebrows waxed. At least that’s what I think they were asking – that, or it was some ritual chant to ward off evil, orange, spray-tanned spirits with stilettos. I passed the little Baptist church on the corner where a group of ladies chatting outside huddled up and started praying for me right there on the spot.

I passed all these places, never once considering that one of them might have a phone I could use – including the corner bakery where I smiled and for the first time in my life, kept on going. Okay, okay. So I stopped and got two bear claws and a crème puff. Sue me! I was stressed and I needed the extra energy for the last fifteen feet to the gas station. Only I never made it to the gas station thanks to the Barney Fife wannabe who pulled me over on the side of Sherwood – just an arm’s length away from the pay phone.

Long story short, I was picked up for something that had to do with indecent exposure. They wanted to get me for prostitution but decided that even street walkers know better than to put those colors together. And they are trying to get me in the police car and I’m hysterically screaming, My baby, my baby, and they think I’m talking in code, perhaps signaling my more dangerous street boss – an obvious conclusion for two hometown cops who’d seen one episode of Law and Order too many, and they reach for their tasers, or maybe it was just a breath mint but I tend to get worked up over things. And just as I’m screaming, Don’t tase me bro, don’t tase me, I see my husband driving up the street.

I swear I saw him hesitate before stopping. He denies it, but I saw the look – the look that said he was trying to decide which was worse – my wrath, or admitting to the cops that we were bound together in matrimony. And like the good man that he is, he talked me out of a ticket and threw me in the front seat of his car with a look that dared me to say one word. He didn’t want my side of the story. Never did let me tell it.

Now I use the stilettos to hammer stuff, which irritates my husband who says it’s an awfully expensive hammer and one that brings back stinging memories whenever I pull it out. Apparently, a couple of his golfing buddies happened to see the picture on the front page of the paper with the headline that said: Local Woman Gives Street Walkers a Bad Name.

But I’m all about finding the good in things. And I think there’s something to be found in that story. A message. Because don’t we all find ourselves at some time in our lives trying to shove our foot into a shoe that doesn’t fit? Trying to be something we’re not? So learn from me when I say that life was meant to be lived just the way we are. Embrace what makes you unique. Or you might find yourself clucking down the street like a chicken.

It’s all fun and games ’til the hair gets messed up - http://www.kellyswanson.net
kelly@kellyswanson.net