That Lying Little #@%&!

That Lying Little
So then…my husband’s navigational system says: “Turn left here.” David looks at me smugly and smiles, proudly heeding the advice of his new car as he turns left with a flourish.

I admit: I am pretty impressed at this equipment that has talked us from our home all the way over the hills to the new house of our friends, Ted and Sara.

And before the system can say another word, we spot the valet parkers in front of our friends’ lovely new home.

The place is packed, indoors and out. Everyone seems to be having a good time and I can hear a jazz combo on the patio. David and I grab a couple crab puffs from a passing waiter.

I don’t see our hosts right away, but I see the gift table, so I add our offering to the pile of elegantly-wrapped gifts.

We have a couple drinks, chat a bit, and eat a few more appetizers. Then David says, “You know, I don’t recognize anybody here.”

I look around and, although these happy, animated couples could be friends of ours, I have to agree no one looks familiar.

Good grief, are we party crashers?

I ask a passing waiter, “Excuse me, have you seen…uh…the host?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back,” he says oh-so-helpfully and pushes through the crowd. (Argh — Couldn’t he have said the name of the host?)

David rolls his eyes at my failed investigative technique. He heads to the bartender with that “I’ll find out what’s going on here” strut, but I pull him back.

Discretion, David. Wait here.” I head up the stairs.

“OK, ‘Nancy Drew,’” he says in a tone that I could swear borders on sarcastic.

So I conduct a brief surveillance upstairs and report back: “I checked out the family photos and no one even remotely resembles Ted or Sara.”

“Hasty retreat,” David mumbles as we hustle outdoors, trying to escape detection.

As the valet pulls our car around – yes, the deceptive, devious little car that led us so sadly astray — David asks whose house this is.

The valet says, “Ruth and Roger Perlman — 25th Wedding Anniversary. Why? Where are you supposed to be?”

As the other valets giggle (yes, giggle), I realize my housewarming gift is still inside! So while David gets the car, I run back in to get it.

Just as I reach for my gift, I lock eyes with a woman in a stylish silver evening gown who looks more than a little surprised that I’m helping myself to the gift table. I smile tentatively, then dash out the door to the getaway car.

So we make it to Ted and Sara’s, a few blocks down, where we are teased for our tardiness. David begins to tell the charming story of our mix-up until my swift kick to his right shin changes his mind. Discretion, David.

I hug our hosts, give them the gift, and head to the nearest bar. We drink; we eat; we have a great time.

Just as we gather to watch Sara and Ted open the gifts, the doorbell rings.

My heart skips a beat. What if it’s the woman in the silver evening gown? What if I had accidentally taken someone else’s gift that was wrapped like mine? Maybe it’s Ruth Perlman demanding the return of her 25th Wedding Anniversary gift!

Fortunately it’s just another tardy party guest.

I sigh with relief and vow never to take directions from a talking car again.

— Darcy Perdu

(Ever end up at the wrong party? Or led astray by a talking car? Perhaps Mapquest or Google Maps duped you? Share in the Comments Section!)

That Lying Little P

How Would YOU React to this Mom’s Behavior at a Birthday Party?

Y'all Don't Come Back Now

So then…she stomps into the backyard with her son Jeremy and demands, “Is this a drop-off party?” I glance at my 6-year-old birthday boy Tucker cavorting with his friends on the sport court, more pals painting art projects, and yet more kids running around the backyard.

“Uh…no.”

She heaves a frustrated sigh, obviously displeased that she cannot just dump her child and split. I smile cheerfully and introduce myself, since it’s the first time I’m meeting Jeremy’s mom, Tammi. She says, “I thought this was a drop-off party.”

OK, Tammi, let it go.

“Oh, you’ll have fun. You probably know some of the other parents from first grade. Besides, it helps to have adults around with so much going on.”

She gives me a look. A hard look. A look that says, “Hey, your party invitation is an implicit contract for you to babysit my kid for 3 hours while I get a mani-pedi.”

She declines my offer of lemonade and clomps off, whipping out her cell phone.

When the other parents help with the art project, she’s on her cell. When the other parents help clean up, she’s on her cell. I’m pretty sure if a pack of wild Komodo dragons ran rampant through the yard, she’d be on her cell — standing on a lawn chair.

I call everyone in for dinner, a sumptuous homemade Mexican feast of enchiladas, tacos, and quesadillas.

Tammi walks in and says, “I didn’t know you were having dinner. We already have dinner plans tonight.” She frowns. “You really should have put something on your invitation about this.”

I smile cheerfully (through clenched teeth). “But I did! You know, the part that said: ‘Come enjoy our delicious Mexican fiesta. After running and playing, you’ll need a siesta!’”

She gives me a look. A pitying look. A look that says, “Poetry does not belong on a party invitation.”

“We have to leave now. We have plans.”

I smile cheerfully (hallelujah) and say, “OK, be sure to get Jeremy a party favor before you go.”

She does not move. “Jeremy wants to have cake before he goes.”

“Oh. We’re planning to do that at the end of the party.”

My husband David says, “Oh, we can do the cake now if you have to leave.”

I shoot him a look. A hard look. A look that says, “Don’t you dare accommodate this woman!”

But he is already looking for a large knife.

I turn to Tammi and say soothingly, “If we do the cake now, people will think it’s time to leave. I’m sure you understand.”

She folds her arms. “Jeremy really wants cake.”

Now I am looking for a large knife.

David says, “We could just cut off a little piece for him now and bring out the cake to sing Happy Birthday later.” (Since when is he the gracious host?)

“But it’s an ice cream cake and it isn’t thawed. It’s still frozen solid.” I’m determined to stand my ground, but David is oblivious to my frustration. In fact, he accepts this task as though it were a “Survivor TV show” challenge of strength and ingenuity!

After several attempts with a butcher knife, an ice pick, and finally an electric carving knife, he manages to hack away a chunk of ice cream cake for little Jeremy who ultimately declares, “I don’t like chocolate chip.”

— Darcy Perdu

(Before you ask, yep, this is all true. And yep, we learned our lesson.  Instead of inviting Tucker’s whole class to future birthday parties, we became a bit more discerning about inviting the kids he plays with most — and kids whose parents I don’t want to strangle.)

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Click these posts for MORE Moms who drive me CRAZY! —

I Don’t Mean to Be All Judgy on This Chick, But REALLY!

Seriously, Lady — Yer Killin’ Me Here!

(So how about you – any party guests or parents who exhibited comically ungracious behavior at one of your parties? Do tell!)

My Business Outfit is Missing a LITTLE Something…

Funny - Slipping Stockings
So then…I pop open my suitcase to pull out my special outfit for the big client presentation on my four-day whirlwind trip to Hong Kong. I need to look my most professional for our clients and the executives at the Shenzhen manufacturing plant this morning.

I’ve brought a special black silk suit — and yes, even pearls and high heels. But when I open the brand new package of pantyhose, I discover that it actually contains…stockings.

You know, stockings. The kind that are just individual casings for the legs, that are supposed to clip into the special garter belt you wear around your waist. Only I didn’t bring a special garter belt. Because I don’t own one.

I only wear pantyhose. You know, the kind with legs connected into a nifty little casing for your butt and waist that you just pull up — and everything stays in place like it’s supposed to? Only I didn’t buy pantyhose. I bought stockings by mistake!

OK, no need to panic. I’m an intelligent woman. I’m staying in a sophisticated metropolis.

Surely I can solve this problem before meeting the client downstairs at 7:00 a.m.

I call the hotel operator. She says, “So sorry. Hotel gift shop not open until 9:00 a.m.”

I rifle through my suitcase. Two pairs of blue jeans. I had sent the business casual pants to the hotel dry cleaners yesterday.

I call the operator again. “So sorry. Hotel dry cleaner not open until 8:00 a.m.”

Back to the suitcase. Two pairs of black trouser socks that come mid-calf. I try on the black silk skirt, which comes mid-knee.

But maybe…if I can just pull down the skirt a bit…and stretch the socks up as far as they can go…and just sort of hunch through the day, maybe it will work. I look in the mirror. Uh…no.

OK, perhaps I’ll just wear the suit without pantyhose. How bad can that be? Yes, it’s January. Yes, it’s freezing. My legs are just a shade whiter than snow. And I haven’t shaved since Halloween. I look in the mirror. Uh…no.

OK, I know, I know! I can call my co-worker. He’s just down the hall. Perhaps he has some pantyhose. Maybe his wife accidentally packed some for him. Or maybe he just travels with pantyhose for his own personal reasons. Who am I to judge? (I decide it’s better not to know.)

Back to the suitcase. I pull on the stockings. They actually look great. I walk around the room. With each step, they slide down my thighs, closer to my ankles. If only I had something to keep them up. I rummage through the hotel bathroom amenities. Qtips, cotton, shower cap, mini nail file. Where’s MacGyver when you need him?

So that gives me a great idea. I call the front desk and ask if they happen to have pantyhose available for forgetful guests. “Pardon me?” she says.

“You know, like when guests forget toothpaste or hair dryers or whatnot, and you provide it for free? Well, I need pantyhose. Does the hotel provide complimentary pantyhose?”

“So sorry. We do not offer this to guests,” she replies.

“Oh. Um…well, do YOU have any pantyhose I could borrow? Or even a garter belt? Black would be best, but at this point, I’m pretty desper—”

Click.

OK, no problem. I can handle this. My eyes dart around the room frantically, looking for some device to keep the stockings safely mid-thigh. I see the desk, which gives me a brilliant idea.

I zip downstairs to the 24-hour hotel business center. Luckily, it’s deserted. I make a beeline for the complimentary office supplies and rummage through paperclips (too short to hook to my panties), glue (too messy), and staples (too painful).

Aha! Scotch Tape!
This Business Outfit Scotch Tape
I hike up my skirt as discreetly as possible and wrap the tape around the top of the stocking and my right thigh several times. I walk around. It seems to hold pretty well. I strap the other stocking to my left leg with layers of tape and I’m good to go. Excellent!

I sit through most of the journey to the factory in the Chinese countryside, so all is well. I alternate between smiling at my little secret – and worrying that it might be discovered. But I’m determined to be professional regardless.

As we tour the factory, I’m surrounded by the manufacturer’s executives (all men) as well as my client’s team (also all men). As I walk, I hear little crinkly noises as the layers of tape on each thigh rub against each other. I glance around to see if anyone else notices. My key buyer has a furrowed brow – but is that because he’s examining the factory’s material testing process – or because he’s thinking “What the hell’s going on under Darcy’s skirt?”

As we progress through the factory, I can feel the tape losing the adhesive battle. It makes a valiant effort, but it can only withstand gravitational forces for so long.

The stockings start to slide. I start to panic. I can’t even imagine the shock on my colleagues’ faces if my stockings and wads of tape suddenly drop to my ankles. I’d be mortified.

I quickly excuse myself to the ladies room, just as the left stocking stutters to a halt at knee level. I rip off the stockings and limp tape, stashing them in the trash can.

When I rejoin the group, the men practically have to shield their eyes from the bright white of my pale legs. No one mentions the missing stockings. I pretend to be calm and confident as my white bare limbs blind passersby.

To be candid, I’m mightily disappointed in the product quality of Scotch Tape. As I hobble through the rest of the tour, I consider sending them a strongly-worded complaint about their inferior adhesiveness in relation to the human thigh on a typical Chinese winter day.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Ever forget a crucial item on a business trip or vacation? Any wardrobe malfunctions or clever fixes? Share in the Comments Section!)

This Business Outfit P

GOLDEN SIDEBOOB AWARD
Meanwhile, funny Mike Regione from Joe Floggers sent me the Golden Sideboob Award, which was created by awesome Lizzi Rogers at Considerings as a crazy award for people brazen enough to post the award to their blog!

The Golden Sideboob

Of course, when you brag to your friends about receiving this award — instead of applauding, they’ll look befuddled and say, “Who sent you a Golden What?” Winners get to nominate the next winner — someone funny, bold, and brazen enough to post it, so I award the Golden Sideboob to Liesl Testwuide at Hairpin Turns Ahead. Congrats, Liesl! Add THIS beauty to your resume! — Darcy Perdu

GOLDEN SIDEBOOB AWARD
More good news! Funny Fran Fischer from Fishducky, Finally! also bestowed an award that my blog is Fish Ducky approved!  She says it’s almost as good as a Nobel Prize for Literature!  I’ll take it!  Thanks, Fran!
Fishducky

The SURPRISING Moves That Doctors Make

The Surprising Moves That Doctors Make #funny #doctor #medical #medicine #humor

So then…she opens the door ever-so-slightly, revealing a shaft of glowing light that hints at the promise of miraculous cures that lie within. Everyone stares at her expectantly.

She glances at her clipboard, then announces the name as though she were calling the winning lottery numbers.

I’m so elated that it’s finally me — I actually jump up and shout, “It’s me! It’s me!” The other patients glare at me as I skip to the door.

I can feel their critical eyes surveying my body parts with that judgmental “she doesn’t look sick” expression. Oh, please — as though they’re sporting gaping gunshot wounds to the head.

I mutter internally, “Hey, I’ve been waiting an hour and 23 minutes, my friends.”

I zip into the inner sanctum, relieved that I’ll finally have an audience with my new HMO doctor. But then I wait in the examining room another agonizing 38 minutes.

Finally, Dr. Kendall enters. He looks at my chart and my red, swollen eyes, then asks a few quick questions about any new soaps or new foods — contacted or ingested.

(I consider making a pun about ingesting a Dove bar – since it’s both a soap AND a chocolate – but think better of it as he seems to be in a hurry.)

Just as I begin to ask questions about my eye ailment, he scribbles “Benadryl” on a piece of paper and hands it to me.

“But I tried Benadryl,” I stammer. “I think this is more than an allergic rea-”

He gives me that look. You know, the “Pardon me, which one of us went to med school?” look. “Take two Benadryl a day until it clears up. You’ll be fine.” He turns to the door.

“But I have more questions. I’m worried my eyesight may start to –”

Then he does something I’ve only seen blackjack dealers do when their shift is done:

He claps his hands lightly, dusts off the palms, then holds his hands up!

HOLDS HIS HANDS UP! Like he’s saying, “That’s enough. I’m done. Time to move on.”

And with a mumbled “You’ll be fine,” he disappears.

Of all the nerve! So I call my HMO and request another doctor.

Two weeks and a $35 co-pay later, I’m sitting in the virtually empty waiting room of Dr. Simmons. Cool. This should be a much shorter wait.

Only it isn’t. I wait almost an hour, then finally I meet the good doctor — who is also the old doctor. He’s easily in his late 70’s.

I’m a little bit concerned, but he seems very thorough. He asks me for a complete medical history — and being the attention-deprived patient that I am, I gladly comply. Even though this is an eye issue, I’m so attention-deprived, I’d even disrobe if he asked. He doesn’t ask.

The doctor’s advanced age reminds me of the time my friend Jill disrobed and wore that little paper cover-up when she went to a really old doctor in Washington. When he examined her, he placed his stethoscope against her chest and asked how old her children were.

“Oh, I don’t have any children yet,” she said.

He listened to her heart and asked, “Well, when did you have your appendix out?”

Perplexed, she responded, “I still have my appendix.”

So he said, “Oh. Well, then what is this scar from?”

She looked at her abdomen and said, “Doctor, that’s the indentation my pantyhose left when I took them off!”

I’m worried that septuagenarian Dr. Simmons might also confuse pantyhose lines for a surgery scar, but perhaps I’m being ageist.

Dr. Simmons takes my eye ailment very seriously. He takes all the time in the world to answer my questions. He deeply respects me. He’s awesome!

I happily take Dr. Simmons’ prescription to the pharmacist, relieved that I’m close to the cure. I pick up the ointment, pay the pharmacist, and just as I leave, he says, “Now remember, keep that away from your eyes.”

“What? What? This ointment is for my eyes!” I exclaim. “I’m supposed to slather this all over my eyes twice a day for a week!”

The pharmacist looks at the prescription again. He shakes his head and says, “Your doctor prescribed *dio_____________. He probably meant to prescribe *mono______________.”

In disbelief, I ask, “And the difference between the dio and the mono is—“

“Uh, well…blindness,” he says.

I’m in shock. “How could he…I mean…I just…he’s supposed to know…this is insane!”

We’re silent a moment. Then the pharmacist looks at me and says, “HMO?”

We lock eyes. I nod. He pats my shoulder.

— Darcy Perdu

*I can’t recall the names of the two medications, but the difference between “good for eyes” and “causes blindness” was literally the first few letters of the medication names! What the hell’s wrong with you, pharmaceutical drug-namers!?  And THANK YOU, vigilant pharmacists!

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Original Illustration for So Then Stories created by Mary Chowdhury

(Any busy doctors who didn’t have time for your questions — or who exhibited odd behavior? Share your FUNNY Medical Stories in the Comments!)

Your NOISY Work is Bothering Me

Funny - Your Noisy Work is Bothering Me
So then…I complain to my friends, in a completely loving way, of course, that my husband simply sits in the family room watching TV while I clean the kitchen.

“I’m particularly noisy as I load the dishwasher – practically banging pots and pans – in the hopes that the noise will alert him that work is being done here! helllooo! – and that he should get up and come help,” I say.

Kate laughs at my naiveté.

Mindy nods in sympathy and takes a swig of her margarita.

Sherry says, “I do the same thing when I come home with the groceries and my husband is watching TV. I open the cabinets a little too hard, jerk open the drawers, crinkle the bags, and slam down the canned goods – all in the hopes that he’ll notice I’m putting away the groceries and could use some help.”

I ask, “So does he help?”

“No.” she says. “But he can’t hear the TV that well since I’m making so much noise in the kitchen. So every time this happens, he just tilts his head slightly, then slooooowly raises his arm to point the remote at the TV to increase the volume.”

“Oh my God! Seriously?” I ask.

“Yes,” Sherry says and laughs ruefully. “And what’s worse is that it never occurs to him that he’s rude for not helping me with the groceries! He actually thinks I’m being inconsiderate by making so much noise while he’s trying to watch TV! So he’s probably over there congratulating himself for not asking me to be quiet – and patting himself on the back for solving a pesky problem by just increasing the TV volume!”

Oh, dear. On that note, we all take a sip of our margaritas.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do you ever do tasks in a NOISY way – or toss in a couple sighs – to inspire your spouse or kids to come help? Does it work? What are your family’s favorite ways to AVOID helping around the house or yard? Share in the Comments!)
Funny - Your Noisy Work is Bothering Me

Who’s Calling the Shots Here – the Parents or the Kids?

Funny - Who's Calling the ShotsSo then… my friends start passing their homemade dishes to the dozen of us guests assembled around their Thanksgiving dinner table. When I turn to the 2-and-a-half-year-old seated on my right and offer him the turkey platter, his mom, another guest, abruptly pushes the tray away and announces authoritatively, “Oh, no, no – he’s vegetarian.”

So we all look at this little kid who can barely string a coherent sentence together — and someone asks sincerely, “How does he know?”

The kid’s mom bristles a bit and says dismissively, “Oh, he knows. He’s always been a vegetarian.”

The kid’s dad says a little pompously, “Yeah, he won’t eat any meat. At all.

Now everyone at the table is pretty damn sure that the parents have made this decision FOR the kid, which is perfectly fine, of course — but we all find it odd that they’re using tones of voice and shades of phrasing that seem to imply that the kid came to this conclusion on his own. As a toddler.

I mean, it’s not like this tyke can drive himself to the grocery store and slap his credit card on the deli meat counter on his own, right? So it’s probably safe to say he’s following his parents’ lead, but they’re acting kinda funny about it. They don’t say “we’re vegetarian” or “we’re raising him vegetarian” – they seem intent on letting us know he’s chosen to be vegetarian.

Someone says, “Soooo…was he like at a birthday party or something and just repelled by the hot dogs and pepperoni pizza? Like the look or smell of meat just disgusts him?”

Another guest asks, “Or is it more like his philosophical statement against animal cruelty?”

(The kid is dunking his corn cob in his juice. He doesn’t look like he’s ever had a “philosophical” anything.)

The parents launch into a passionate dissertation on the vagaries of meat-eating – and while I respect their opinion, of course – it was a little disconcerting to hear all the gory details while the rest of us are chomping down on turkey legs and honey-baked ham.

(It’s totally fine to be a vegetarian, of course – I myself was a vegetarian for a few years until my ob/gyn told me I was anemic while pregnant and encouraged me to start.eating.massive.protein.now. So I promptly went out and ate a cow.)

I’ve not met this couple before, but from the look of their little lad, I find it likely that he had as much participation in the vegetarian decision as he did in today’s wardrobe choice of a bright orange cable-knit sweater and matching corduroy pants. He looks adorable, of course, but clearly his parents are calling the shots and simply attributing the decisions to him.

I tune out their carnivore-bashing and I IMAGINE them having conversations like this with future party hosts:

Party Host:         Would your toddler like a hamburger?
Mom:                  No, he’s vegetarian.
Party Host:         Really?
Dad:                   Oh, yeah, totally.
Mom:                  He’s also a Republican.

Party Host leans over to peer at 2-and-a-half-year-old kid, looking for signs of conservatism.

Party Host:         Really?
Dad:                   Oh yes, he believes strongly in the Republican
                           ideals. (smiles proudly)
Mom:                  (pats kid’s head and chuckles) That’s right! Don’t 
                           get this little guy started on the liberal media!

Little guy chews on Hot Wheels car and blows a snot bubble.

Dad:                   He’s Presbyterian, of course.
Mom:                 (smiling) Of course!
Party Host:        Oh, OK.
Dad:                  And he’s a Capricorn.
Mom:                 He was born a Scorpio — but he’s so not a Scorpio!
                          (turns to husband and laughs conspiratorially)
Dad:                  Omigod – so not a Scorpio! (laughs)
Mom:                 Yeah (shaking her head indulgently), so he’s a
                         Capricorn now.
Party Host:        Um, OK. (glancing around, looking for exit strategy)
Dad:                  He’s also a Marxist.
Party Host:        He is?
Mom:                 Oh definitely. You wouldn’t think so, because of the
                          Republican thing, but he’s able to reconcile both
                          philosophies. Our little Marxist.

They gaze at son admiringly.
Son drags saliva-covered Hot Wheels car through the dirt, then combs hair with it.

Party Host:        He seems uh…delightful. I should probably be go—
Mom:                 He’s also African-American.
Party Host:        Huh? (squints at white toddler with blond hair)
Dad:                  Oh, yes. He was born Caucasian but he really
                          identifies with the souls of African tribal leaders.
Mom:                 (nodding) Very much so.
Party Host:        OK, so your son – your toddler son – is a Vegetarian
Republican Presbyterian Capricorn Marxist African Tribal Leader?

Dad:                  Yep. (nods proudly)
Mom:                 (sighs happily) He’s completed an incredible journey
                          of self-discovery.
Party Host:        At two?
Dad:                  (modestly) Well, two and a half. (chiding) I mean,
                          come on, what kid really knows himself at only two?

Mom and Dad exchange a look like “Jeez, what a character this person is!”

Party Host backs away slowly. Toddler follows — hopping, while slamming Hot Wheels car on his forehead, making high-pitched “vroom vroom” noises.

Parents beam.

Of course, I only IMAGINE this scenario, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this particular couple mapped out their kid’s whole identity for him.

Imagine if that actually worked! That would be awesome! I’d tell my kids: “You are Carnivorous Catholic Pulitzer-Prize-Winning Gifted Musician Millionaires with a passion for Elder Care of Immediate Family Members.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Have you met any parents who attribute specific likes/dislikes to kids who didn’t seem like they had much say in the matter? We all influence our kids to a certain extent, of course, but have you seen someone go overboard? At the local park, a woman introduced her 11-month old as Sara to us, but she called the child “Piggy” the entire day! Like, “Come here, Piggy. Catch the ball, Piggy.” Both she and the child were on the heavy side. When another parent, thinking she must not be hearing correctly, asked her, “Excuse me, are you calling your daughter ‘Piggy?’” – the mom beamed and said, “Yeah, she loves it!” And I’m thinking: She’s 11 months old! She doesn’t know what you’re saying! You could be calling her “honey” or “poopy-face” and she’s still going to smile at you. But please, dear mother of God, stop using the nickname “Piggy” before this child enters pre-school and gets branded for life!)

Do you know some parents who say their child likes this or that, but you suspect it's the PARENT who's calling those shots and just ATTRIBUTING them to the kid?  #funny #parenting #vegetarian #kids  #humor

I Shall Staple it to his Forehead

How to Get Kids to Remember Their Homework #funny #homework #school #student #homeschool #kids #parenting #classparty #humor

So then…I check the emails from the other school parents to see who’s sending in money for the upcoming 7th grade class party we Room Parents are organizing, and I find this note:

Bridget’s email:
Darcy, can you please ask your daughter Chloe to do me a favor? I gave my son Ryan money in an envelope for the class party to give to Chloe yesterday, but he didn’t see her. So can Chloe please ASK him for the envelope today? He might forget. Thanks! – Bridget

I respond with this email:
Bridget:
It’s so funny because right before I read your note, I had just sent an email to my son’s band teacher to tell him that Tucker has a check in his pocket for the band trip – and that Tucker will likely forget that he has that check in his pocket, so could the band teacher please help remind him!

I think it’s hilarious that you and I have to help our sons along like this. And I wonder when Tucker is 35, will I STILL be sending notes for him? i.e. to his boss: “Please remind Tucker he finished that report and it’s in the top drawer of his desk.” Or to his wife: “Please remind Tucker he bought you an anniversary gift and he hid it in the pantry.”

Oh, who am I kidding? I will probably be WRITING his report and BUYING the anniversary gift!!
— Darcy

Bridget’s response:
That’s what we get for having boys!! But I think society understands. When my husband takes our preschooler son to school, all my post-it reminders are STILL attached to the stuff he gives to the teachers!
– Bridget

***

Yikes! So now I wonder if somewhere out there, her husband is accidentally turning in school forms with post-it notes still attached that say things like:

“Drop off this $20 in the front office for the class party; but don’t trust it to the girl with the pierced nose.”

“Give this to the mean teacher in room 103; don’t ask if she’s pregnant. She’s not.”

Honestly, how can we get our kids to remember their homework and papers?  Sometimes I think I shall staple them to his forehead!

— Darcy Perdu

Original Illustration for So Then Stories by Mary Chowdhury

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(Are any of YOUR kids a little (cough-cough) “organization-challenged?”  I know we should let them “sink or swim” on their own at a certain age, but do you ever write notes/texts to remind your kids to do things – or to their teachers/coaches?  Or are your kids SUPER ORGANIZED? If so, send me the secret!)

YIKES! Just Found a Weed in my LADY GARDEN!

Yikes! Just Found a White Weed in my Lady Garden! #funny #beauty #hair #humor

So then…I come face-to-face with my own mortality.

(Well, face-to-“face” might be a misnomer. It’s more like face-to-  um…hmm…well…here’s the visual):

I’m fresh from the shower, naked in all my glory, drying my hair. I lean all the way over and flip my hair forward, so the hair dryer can reach the back of my head –

which means my face is staring directly at my…um…baby-maker.

So I’m leaning over, minding my own business (literally) — face-to-hooha — when I suddenly notice a white strand.

WHAT?

This cannot possibly be a white hair!  Not there!

It must be a tiny white thread from my bath towel that’s nestled amongst the “genital coiffure.”

(But pulling a loose thread on a sleeve could unravel the whole sweater — so if I pull this thread, will my whole coiffure unravel? Will my vagina fall off?!)

I continue drying the back of my head and lean in for a closer look.

Good God, that IS a hair! A WHITE hair!

In my pelvicular region!

I am mortified! I must remove it immediately!

But how?
Pluck it? Too painful!
And if there’s one, there will surely be more to follow.
I can’t keep plucking each one that arrives!

Waxing would be more efficient.
But as more white tufts appear, if I wax random strips all over the place — it’ll look like my neighbor’s lawn when he’s drunk on his rider mower.

Could I dye them?
I can’t POSSIBLY imagine that conversation with my hair stylist!
“Yes, a little off the top please — and a little dye down below.”

What would Pinterest advise?
Probably DIY with a black Sharpie.

I’m totally freaking out that my body is betraying me this way!
I’m horrified at the prospect of more and more white hairs appearing there.
What will people think?
(Not that people are lined up around the block for a viewing, mind you – but still.)

What the hell am I going to do?

Are there wigs for this area? Little vagina wigs?
I should Google that.

(Oh. Or should I? Be careful what you Google.)

Some men hide their bald or greying heads under a baseball cap.
Are there little vagina hats?
I should Google that.
No wait. Maybe not.
Not sure I’m ready to see all the types of vagina accessories sold on-line.

Then I straighten up, look in the mirror and think :
Wait a minute – I’m going about this all wrong!
Instead of hiding this new arrival – I should CELEBRATE it!

Maybe I should ADD some more white!
Why wait for Mother Nature to creep up on me?
I’ll just make a streak of white – it seems to work for Mrs. Munster!

Funny - Vagina Awards Mrs. Munster

Or maybe I could incorporate SEVERAL colors and some jewels!
My VAJAZZLING will be so DAZZLING, viewers won’t even notice I’m going grey!

I scoot over to the full length mirror to conduct a full investigation.
I need to check the fore and the aft.
I lean forward. I turn around.  I bend over.
I try to angle my naked body so I can see myself in the mirror in front – AND the mirrored closet door behind me.
I tilt — I swerve — I lean – I even twerk a little.

“MOM!” yells a kid from the stairs.

Ack! Ack! Ack! Do NOT walk in on this!
I rush to shut the door.

“I’ll be down in a minute!” I shout.

So far, my examination reveals just one lone soldier on the field.

But I know more will appear.
I am officially a little old lady.
My vajayjay says so.

And what do little old ladies do when their hair goes white?
They get that blue rinse.
That is my destiny.
I shall have a blue rinse “pubical” area.

Yep, that’s a real turn-on.

Funny Vagina Awards Blue Rinse

I sigh and put on my bra and undies, resigned to my fate.

It has begun. My once lustrous black mane is being infiltrated by white hair.

Of course, on a man, a salt and pepper hairstyle can actually look quite distinguished.

But a salt and pepper cooter coiff?
Will people see that and say, “Oh, she’s so distinguished!  ?
I think not.

(Then again, after birthin’ two babies out of there — and enduring some adventurous sexual gymnastics all these years, my vajayjay certainly qualifies for a Distinguished Service Award!)

In fact, for those times my partner was a tad more enthusiastic than me, it could even win an award for Best Supporting Actress!

What award would YOUR vagina win?

Name the award – and the reason why!

A few ideas to spark your creativity – does your vagina qualify for…

Yikes!  Just Found a "Weed" in My Lady Garden!  Hilarious reaction to finding a white hair down "there!" - which inspires the Vajayjay Awards!  #funny #hair #wig

Yikes!  Just Found a "Weed" in My Lady Garden!  Hilarious reaction to finding a white hair down "there!" - which inspires the Vajayjay Awards!  #funny #hair #wig #ladybusinessYikes!  Just Found a "Weed" in My Lady Garden!  Hilarious reaction to finding a white hair down "there!" - which inspires the Vajayjay Awards!  #funny #hair #wig #humorOr maybe your vagina would win…

Best Sound Effects
Nickelodeon Award (for producing tons of kids)
Kentucky Derby (for shagging like stallions!)
or perhaps…
Grand Prix (for fastest finish!)
— Darcy Perdu

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(Get creative! What award does YOUR vagina deserve to win – and WHY? And if you dare confess — are any of YOUR “leaves” changing color downstairs?)

Wild Abandon at the Mahjong/Book Club Mash-Up

‎Wild Abandon at the Book Club Mahjong Mash-Up
So then…my neighbor Denise emails me to check on available space for her mahjong (maj) game at the community center in our neighborhood.

Our center has lovely, decorated rooms with gorgeous furniture and stunning artwork — and little signs saying No Food or Drink Please.

Wild Abandon No Food or Drink

Denise’s email: Hi, hope all is good with you. I’m thinking of having our mahjong game at the community center tomorrow night in the main room. I see that the Book Club will be there too. Will you guys be in the library room?

My email: Yes, we meet in the library so you can have the big room! Enjoy!

Denise: Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.

Me: For sure — come check out our snacks and we’ll check out yours! :o)

Denise: We aren’t ALLOWED to eat in there, so we won’t have any.

Me: Are you kidding? We eat, drink, shoot up, and have wild sex on the furniture!!!

Denise: Wow. The heck with the mahjong game; we’ll come and join you!

***

For photos of the Rowdy Mahjong-Book Club Mash-up, click here.

(NOTE: If link does not work, it’s possible that your computer’s Debauchery Filter is set too high.)

— Darcy Perdu

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(How wild do you get at YOUR Book Club/Mahjong Game/Bingo Parlor? Any places you’re not supposed to eat or drink that you secretly munch and slurp away?  Share in the Comments Section!)

Wild Abandon at the Book Club Mahjong Mash-Up P

When Your OUTRAGE Fizzles into a Puddle of Embarrassment

Funny - When Your Outrage Dissolves
So then…I dial again — gritting my teeth; furrowing my brow; panting in short, sharp breaths. No, not preparing for an obscene phone call. Just trying to reach my bank.

My bank, which has somehow managed to lose my money – or its mind – for I’ve just been informed by a very indignant store clerk that my check has bounced, causing no small amount of concern on my part, since I’ve written about 5 more checks since then.

My bank, which apparently has fired all human employees, and replaced them with machines.

My bank, which insists I locate the source of the discrepancy myself on their handy-dandy website, which is currently inaccessible to me since I have lost/forgotten/or-perhaps-never-even-possessed-in-the-first-place the dadgum password.

Ring ring ring. Metallic voice offering 4 options. Press button. Metallic voice requests input of my account number. Input number. Metallic voice offering 6 options. Press button.

Disconnected. Again. My blood is boiling.

Cursing, I dial again. I will not be deterred. I will not deviate from this mission.

I will pursue this quest until I hear a human voice.

Ring ring ring. Repeat steps above. Bob head in time with musac version of “She’s A Brick…House”.

Finally a voice! A HUMAN VOICE!

“This is Brad. May I help you?”

“Yes, Brad, Brad, you may! Thank God you answered! I’ve been trying to reach a human there for over 25 minutes! I keep getting disconnected or transferred to other extensions. The recorded voices keep asking for my account number and I punch it in, but then they ask for it again. And several times, I swear I could hear laughter, which made me think that maybe they weren’t machines – they were just humans pretending to be machines and –“

“May I have your account number, please?”

“OK, Brad, that’s what the machines said. Are you…are you a machine, Brad?”

“No, I’m human. But I do need your account number.”

So I give him the account number, my name, address, mother’s maiden name, my bra size, my mother’s bra size and whatever else he can think of to ask and finally…he agrees it’s me.

“Now, what can I help you with?”

“OK, I need to figure out why you guys bounced my check when I should have more than enough money in my account to cover it!” I say.

“Well, we prefer that our customers examine their accounts themselves on the website, so you can detect the discrep—“

“Yes, yes, I know. But I need my password! I can’t log on to the website until I have the password,” I explain.

“You can obtain the password by calling 888-462—“

“No, no! I’ve called that number!” My voice hits high-pitched hysteria. “And I’ve pressed all the right options and I just keep getting passed from one voice recording to another! I mean, this is the worst customer service ever! Customers should not have to endure this just to get the answer to a simple question! Listen, Brad, I have spent 25 – no, wait, now 28 — minutes of my time futzin’ around on your phone system and I think the least you can do is tell me my password! SO IF YOU DON’T WANT ME TO CLOSE MY ACCOUNT RIGHT NOW, I INSIST YOU GIVE ME MY PASSWORD IMMEDIATELY!”

“Money honey bunny.”

“What?”

“Your password. It’s ‘money honey bunny.’”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma’m. That’s what you chose when you signed up 8 months ago.”

“Oh.” Pause.  (Seriously?  That’s my password?  I couldn’t have chosen something impressive like “bank-secura-lock” or something impersonal like “45bw7&#krt?”  I had to choose an adorable password like “money honey bunny?”  How embarrassing!) 

“Do you need me to spell it for you?” Brad asks, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Uh…no. Well…um. Is everything spelled like ‘money’ or like ‘bunny’?”

“Everything is spelled like it normally is,” he says snidely.

“Oh.” I say, a little defensively.

“But if that still escapes you, I’d be happy to spell the words for –”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. I can handle it from here. Thank you.”

“Certainly, ma’m. And is there anything else I can do for you?”

(Yes, Brad. You can take a flying—)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do those automated phone systems and recorded voices make YOU lose YOUR cool? Any embarrassing passwords? (Be sure to mention the account numbers and secret pin codes too, please.) Share your customer service or bank stories in the Comments!)

Funny - When Your Outrage Dissolves P