Welcome to So Then Stories: Hilarious True Tales

Do you enjoy Hilarious True Tales about embarrassing kids, exasperating coworkers, vexing relationships, and the ever-perplexing public?  Then you'll LOVE SoThenStories.com!  Come laugh with us!  #funny #kids #office #husbands #humor

Hey, pull up a bar stool and let’s swap funny stories about our embarrassing kids, exasperating coworkers, vexing relationships, and the ever-perplexing public!  This is where I share my bodacious blunders and hilarious true tales – and invite YOU to share YOUR related experiences – so the laughs just keep rolling!

“Hmm,” you may ask, “Are you really funny?”  Well, not to brag (omg, I’m TOTALLY bragging!), but I won 1st Place in the 2014 Nat. Society of Newspaper Columnists competition (Blog Category under 100,000 monthly visitors) – and I won 2 Humor VOTY Awards at BlogHer in 2013 & 2014.  I was even named Humor Writer of August 2014 by Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop!  Woot! Woot!

So pull up a bar stool and start laughing! 
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TOTALLY Embarrassed in Front of Dr. Fancypants! HILARIOUS True Tale #doctor #medical #embarrassing #funny #teens

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Telling His Teacher a Big Fat Juicy Lie!  #funny #boys #teacher #school #humor

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BOOBIE-trapped -- LITERALLY & Hilariously! True tale when my boob got trapped in...well, you gotta click it to find out! #funny #embarrassing #mammogram #fireman

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Oh, She Did NOT Just Say That! #funny #school #drama #volunteer #pta #pisces #cosmetics #hair #humor

If you enjoy quick hilarious true tales like these, then please pop your email address right HERE so you won’t miss any of my new funny stories!  I LOVE subscribers!

Thanks!  Darcy Perdu

Completely Illogical, Perfectly Hilarious, Coworker Conversation

Completely Illogical, Perfectly Hilarious Coworker Conversation #funny #expenses #office #humor

So then…I open an email from one of the staff, Shelly, asking if she can purchase an item on the company credit card. I click the link and see this:

I email her:
Yes, you can use the company card.
What is the scale for?
We’ll need to note it on the credit card statement.

Shelly emails back:
It will be mainly for mailing purposes.
Thank you.

I reply:
I think it’s funny how you say it’s “mainly” for mailing purposes.
What other purposes are there for a scale of this kind?
Are you starting a meth lab or something?

Shelly does not respond.

This means either:
a) Shelly does not appreciate my sense of humor
or
b) Shelly is starting a meth lab

What do you think?

Speaking of odd expenses – this reminds me that a few months back, one of the salespeople in my department submitted his expense statement for a Dallas trip that included $30 for a hotel gym fee.

Me: Dude, the company doesn’t reimburse gym fees.

Dan: But I skipped dinner. So the company didn’t have to pay for food — just my visit to the gym.

Me: Based on that logic, I could skip dinner on my next trip and buy an alligator. Would the company reimburse me for an alligator?

Dan: (laughing) You can’t buy an alligator for $30 bucks! Besides, if I don’t spend money on dinner, shouldn’t I be able to spend the money on something else I like better?

Me: What if you like strip clubs better?

Dan: I DO like strip clubs better!

Me: (laughing) But the company won’t reimburse you for strip club admission!

Dan: (laughing) But they should – they really should… (walks away with wistful look)

Then of course, there’s the time I really embarrassed myself with my OWN expense statement blunder!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Should companies just pay a per diem for travel so businesspeople can choose to skip meals and spend the money on something else? Any creative accounting stories to share? IS Shelly starting a meth lab?)

Cherry Popsicle

Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff – In Fact, Don’t Sweat

So then…Jennifer Hall of Dancing in the Rain invites me to guest post for her series The View From Here where writers share their “unique perspective on life.”  My immediate thought is, “Holy Cow! Does Jennifer’s website have enough ROOM to print my voluminous LIFE philosophy? I could go on for 47 HOURS on this topic!”

But then I decide to focus on just one of my favorite perspectives that I learned from my parents, so click on over to Dancing in the Rain — and while you’re there, check out some of Jennifer’s awesome posts!

Dancing in the RainShe writes some really funny stuff over there, like:
The Romance is Still Alive
Kids do the Darndest Things
When Procrastination is a Good Thing 

Thanks for inviting me to guest post at your site, Jennifer!  — Darcy

SHOCK, AWE & OUTRAGE! Hilarious Mini-Melodrama on My Subway!

Shock, Awe & Outrage! A Hilarious Mini-Melodrama Enacted on My Local Subway!  #funny #subway #NYC #NewYork #humor

So then…I grab a seat, wedging myself between two other passengers on the subway car, as we barrel toward midtown Manhattan.

It’s not too crowded, so everyone has a seat as we calmly pass the time reading, avoiding eye contact, or staring blankly at the subway ads for plastic surgery and STDs.

Just then, a woman in her 50’s enters from the back of the subway car and quietly hands a pen to each passenger with a little note attached. She looks very sad as she works her way down the row of passengers.

The note says, “I am deaf. Please help me by buying this pen for $1. If you don’t want the pen, I will come back to pick it up. Thank you.”

Some people dig in their pockets and purses for a buck; others simply hold the pen until she comes back around for it.

She’s about halfway through collecting dollars or pens, when a conductor enters the back of the subway car and loudly announces: “Ladies and gentlemen, do NOT give this woman any money.”

Gasp! My head snaps up. Other passengers look startled! How heartless!

Is this subway employee going to tell us solicitations are against regulations? This poor deaf lady’s just trying to raise a little money!

The passengers stare at the conductor.

He continues, in a very cynical, world-weary tone, “This woman is not deaf. She has never been deaf. I have seen her speak and hear just as well as you and I. Do NOT give her any money.”

GASP! Now we all stare at the lady.

She whirls around and shouts at him in a garbled tone, “Howm day-ra you! I AMMN duffh! I AMMN duffh!”

DOUBLE GASP! She IS deaf!

How dare he accuse her of faking it! Just listen to her! She talks just like deaf people talk in movies!! Omigod, this conductor is cruel!

We all glare at the merciless conductor.

The conductor stares straight at her and says:

“If you’re deaf, how did you hear me say that BEHIND you?”

GASP GASP GASP!!!!

OMIGOD! Touché, conductor, touché!

Now our heads all whip toward the woman! Half of us are still clutching pens or dollars – mesmerized as this melodrama unfolds.

It’s like Wimbledon up in here with our heads whipping back and forth between the two players throwin’ down on the court of public opinion!

She scowls at him with an odious expression, turns on her heel, and storms out of the subway car into the next one in a blaze of fury!

He shakes his head wearily, then slowly follows behind her to thwart her next attempt.

As the subway door closes behind them, we all look at each other in awe.

We’re not sure whether we should applaud or not. It was like a mini-drama played out right before our eyes – a live street performance with a roller coaster of emotions encompassing pity, shock, anger, dismay, outrage – and finally the revelation!

Subway Theatre presents:
The Deceitful “Deaf” Lady
and the Crusading Conductor

Shows at 10:30, 2:45 and 4:15 daily
Admission: $1 (or not)

Damn, I love New York: every place, a stage – every person, a character – live theatre at its most authentic!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Heard of any similar cons or scams? Any interesting New York stories? Do tell!)

AWKWARD! Mom Forbids Me to Do This Unless A Nun Approves!

AWKWARD!  Mom FORBIDS It; Makes Me Ask the NUN for Permission!  #humor #school #backtoschool #teacher #student #Bible #earrings #funny

So then… she says “Absolutely not,” with an air of such finality, it would stop Attila the Hun in his tracks.

Because when my Mom says, “no,” she means “NOOOO!”

But I’m a 16-year-old girl desperate to have my ears pierced.

I’ve been lusting after the earrings at the mall for weeks. They have little gold knots – and darling little hoops – and butterflies! Dainty little gold butterflies, people! MUST HAVE.

Attila ain’t got nothin’ on me. I shall not cease my relentless campaign! I shall scourge the earth and annihilate all obstacles until VICTORY IS MINE! – and those precious butterflies adorn my earlobes!

I follow my Mom into the kitchen, where she’s preparing dinner.

I set the table and say, “Mom, WHY can’t I get my ears pierced? I saved up my babysitting money – and I’ll make sure the piercings won’t get infected – and the mall is just—”

“It’s against the Bible.”

“What? The Bible says I can’t get my ears pierced?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

(I’m no theologian, but I don’t remember either of the testaments discussing ear jewelry!)

“Where does it say that?” I ask.

She stirs the spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove and says, “The Bible says it’s a sin to self-mutilate.”

Self-mutilate!? I’m not mutilating myself!”

“Well, you want to cut holes into your ears, don’t you?”

“Mom, that’s not the same thing! The Bible just doesn’t want you to hack off your hand or something!”

She arches her eyebrows in that “you say potato; I say po-tah-to” sort of way and returns to her sauce.

Seriously! It’s not that she’s a religious fanatic – I mean we go to Church every Sunday, but she’s not a zealot. But she was raised in a pretty strict Catholic family, back in the days when the Mass was said in Latin.

Lots of hellfire and brimstone in those days.

Lots of hard and fast rules – with clear cut consequences leading straight to eternal damnation.

Pierced ears = self-mutilation = grievous sin = loose morals = immediate downward spiral into prostitution, pregnancy, tattoos, heroin addiction, and *gasp* — skipping Easter Mass.

So I beg and plead and debate and beg some more.

She is resolute. It’s like trying to move Mt. Rushmore just a couple inches to the left. She will not budge.

It’s a sin. It’s a sin. It’s a sin.

I insist that the self-mutilation in the Bible DOES NOT refer to pierced ears! Did.I.mention.the.butterflies.Mom?The.earring.butterflies.are.ADORABLE!

FINALLY, she agrees to CONSIDER it – IF and ONLY IF I consult with a priest or nun to CONFIRM that ear piercing does NOT qualify for Biblical self-mutilation.

Ahhhh! The clouds part, the angels sing: HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!

Quick! Get thee to a nunnery! Find the youngest, hippest, coolest nun you can find!

All night long, I rack my brain to think who I can ask. My very life depends upon it.

Should I ask our parish priest at Mass on Sunday?

Should I ask one of the nuns who teaches at the Catholic school I attend?

Do I choose the youngest nun – the nicest nun – or the nun who teaches the class with my highest grade?

Finally, I settle on Sr. Rita. She’s not young, but she’s an awesome teacher and I love her class.

All day long, I fidget in my blue plaid skirt and white blouse, my legs shaking a mile a minute.

Finally the last bell rings. The rest of the students file out and I stay behind to timidly say, “Sr. Rita, may I please ask you a question?”

She looks up from her papers and says, “Sure.”

Suddenly I lose my nerve. Maybe my Mom is right! Maybe this IS a sin! I don’t want Sr. Rita to think poorly of me.

“Um…um,” I stammer, looking at my shoes.

“What is it, child?” she asks.

“Well, um, my Mom says that something I want to do is a VERY BAD SIN – and that I had to ask your permission before I could do it,” I say.

Sr. Rita raises her eyebrows, crosses her arms, and stares at me intently. “What’s the sin?” she asks.

“I want to…I want to…get my ears pierced!”

Sr. Rita suppresses a grin, her eyes crinkling, as she sighs with relief.

In retrospect, I now realize she probably thought I was going to ask about having sex — or doing drugs — or committing homicide!

In comparison, piercing ears hardly makes a “ding” on the Sin-o-Meter!

She pats my shoulder and says, “Yes, dear, yes. You may pierce your ears. It’s not sinful at all!”

I beam from ear to ear – (soon to be punctured ear to ear) – and thank her profusely!

I fairly explode with happiness! I share the good news with my Mom, who, trooper that she is, lives up to her promise to take me to the mall now that we have a religious blessing.

And I ensure that Sr. Rita is one of the first to see my darling little earring butterflies!

(Of course, I still end up a coke-addict junkie whore – but that’s completely unrelated to the pierced ears.)

Ha! OK, just kidding! Fear not, Sr. Rita, where ever you are: your decree was sound and just. I’ve not squandered your blessing. My pierced ears and I will see you in Heaven one day. (It may take some pretty heavy-duty negotiating to get me on the admit-list, but I aim to rock & roll up there in the Great Beyond!)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Anything YOU wanted as a kid that was impacted by parental reluctance, outright disapproval, or religious beliefs?  Do you remember back when you got YOUR piercings?)

When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!

When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!  #embarrassing #funny #school #bathroom #popular #humor

So then… I glance nervously at my watch as this bathroom line of high school girls inches its way slowly toward the stalls. Our Marching Squad Captain only gave us 15 minutes for a break before we need to perform our routine at halftime at the football game.

As a lowly freshman, I’m eager to follow the rules – especially since I’ve already received 3 demerits at past games – twice for being late and once for forgetting to wear my gold bloomers under my gold Marching Squad skirt. (Don’t worry — I wore UNDERWEAR, people! They just weren’t gold!)

This Louisiana stadium bathroom is hot and humid, filled with chattering girls, including the super hip and cool SENIORS on the squad. I try not to let my geeky awkwardness radiate beyond my personal space.

It’s so hot and time is so short, I almost abandon the mission, but I “gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” as they say, so I hang in there until – THANK GOD – it’s my turn to enter a stall.

But as soon as I close the door behind me, I see that the toilet paper is not on a roll – it’s little tiny individual square sheets!

Senior Senior

Do you know the kind I mean? They’re almost like miniature tissues. You pull one out, but it’s just a tiny square, then you got to pull the next one out – and it takes FOREVER – especially since I have to encase the ENTIRE toilet seat with paper before I can sit down!

I know the other girls are also anxious to make it back before halftime, so I don’t want to be the annoying freshman that takes FOREVER.

But I can’t possibly let my virgin derriere touch that toilet seat because I’m certain I’ll end up pregnant – or I’ll contract some hideous disease that will necessitate a butt-amputation – and won’t THAT be awkward.

So I frantically start pulling out the little tiny sheets to cover the seat, often losing some in the bowl in my haste. I can just IMAGINE the Seniors are out there, all whispering about why it’s taking me so long – and I have half a mind to yell out, “I’m not pooping! I SWEAR I’m not pooping!”

FINALLY, I create an impressive criss-cross pattern of sheets to covering every inch of the entire seat, so I can safely sit. I pee quickly, flush, and pop out the door.

The line of waiting girls is still long, hot, and impatient.

As I walk to the sink, super popular Senior Claire Markam passes me to enter my stall.

At that precise moment, I realize that I forgot to push all those little toilet paper squares into the bowl before I flushed!

I freeze at the sink. My eyes wide, my heart thumping – OMIGOD, HOW EMBARRASSING! I need to RUN AWAY right now!

Just then, Claire opens her stall door and calls out, “Hey, Darcy!”

Time stands still. In slow motion, my head turns toward her.

Is she going to mock my toilet “shrine” in front of all these Seniors — and burden me with a humiliating nickname that will follow me all 4 years of my high school career?

She grins at me, gives a thumbs up, and says, “Thanks!”

What!?

I suddenly realize she’s GRATEFUL that I’d taken the time to create a paper seat cover that she could use too!

She wasn’t going to ridicule me for my hygiene habits – she was going to do the exact same thing! And I saved her time by doing it for her! I guess she didn’t mind sharing paper with my little bony ass as long as she avoided contact with a public toilet seat!

So now, instead of feeling mortified – I feel PROUD!  

That super cool Senior admired my toilet-seat-wrapping skills!

I beam as I wash my hands.

But then I glance at that line of girls who are all looking at me oddly. They have no idea what’s in that stall.

They only know that Claire walked in my stall, then poked her head out to say, “Hey, Darcy! Thanks!”

Now they’re all wondering what I left in that stall for Claire to see.

A note?

A gift?

An amazing poop sculpture?

As I exit, it takes every ounce of willpower for me not to shout, “I didn’t poop. I SWEAR I didn’t poop!”

(Of course, you guys might know I do have some amazing talent in that field, as evidenced hilariously right HERE.)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are YOU a dedicated seat-coverer? Terrified to poop in public too?  Any funny stories from your high school days?)

Is This a Playdate Fail by Dad — or Perfectly Reasonable Behavior?

Did this Dad Make a Playdate Faux Pas? Is this a funny blunder or WHAT?  #humor #playdate #dad #baby #embarrassing #funny #kids

So then…I plop on the hotel bed, moving my files over so I can chat with my 9-year-old daughter Chloe back home.

Me: I’m so happy I’m almost done with my business trip! How was your day, honey?

Chloe: Great! After school, I went for a playdate at Maggie’s house!

I furrow my brow. That can’t be right.

Me: You mean Layla’s house?

Chloe: No, Maggie’s house.

Me: You mean Ashley’s house?

Chloe: No, MAGGIE’S house!

Me: You don’t mean the Maggie whose mom just had a BABY?

Chloe: Yes! Today was the first day they brought the baby home and I got to meet her!

Me: You had a playdate at Maggie’s house the SAME DAY HER MOM BROUGHT HOME HER BRAND NEW BABY?

Chloe: Yes! It was great! The baby’s so cute! I got to stay for dinner!

She prattles on and on about the baby –

and of course I make all the appropriate responses to share in her glee.

But the whole time I’m thinking: What the HELL?

When we finish, she puts her dad on the phone.

“Um…did you know you accidentally let Chloe have a playdate at Maggie’s house the same day her mom brought home the new baby?I ask, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh, that was no accident,” he says proudly. “Chloe asked if she could go see Maggie’s new sister, so I dropped her right off!”

“Did Maggie’s parents know about it first?” I ask.

“I dunno,” he says. 

“David! Don’t you think the last thing a sleep-deprived, just-endured-childbirth mom wants to see at her house on her first day home is someone else’s kid?”

“Oh come on,” he says. “It’s her 4th baby. She probably didn’t even notice our kid was there.”

Oh my God.

David’s a terrific dad, but sometimes I wonder if he understands basic social graces.

When someone has a new baby, you drop off a casserole.

Or a gift.

NOT your kid.

And CERTAINLY not for dinner!

To be fair, David’s the type who wouldn’t mind at all if the roles were reversed. If HE popped out a baby, he’d probably invite the whole neighborhood over as soon as we pulled in the driveway so he could proudly display his creation: “Tap a keg, grill some burgers, look what I just pushed out of my hoo-ha!” (or he-ha, as the case may be)

He was raised in a free-range neighborhood where kids constantly meandered in and out of each other’s homes, mooching meals whenever they were hungry, and everyone was cool with it.

I was taught that you don’t even call someone’s house before 10 am or after 8 pm – and never during dinner time – MUCH LESS just SHOW UP at their house!

Consequently David’s fine with anyone coming over anytime no matter what’s happening at our house. It’s practically like this:

“We’re having construction done at the house today – but come on over!”
“Sure, the kids all have the flu — but that’s ok — pop on by!”
“Don’t mind the termite fumigation tent – we’ll just barbecue in the backyard!”

OK, maybe not quite that extreme, but you get the picture.

And as moms go, Maggie’s mom is very chill.

When my kids take a tumble and bleed – I rush to console them, disinfect the entire limb, bandage it carefully, and mollycoddle the child endlessly, while surreptitiously checking WebMD on my phone to insure no signs of sepsis.

When her kids report scrapes and cuts, Maggie’s mom just says, “You know where the band-aids are.”

And damn, if her kids aren’t much more resilient and independent than mine!

(I’ll be bandaging my kids’ paper cuts when they’re 45 and still living in my basement.)

Maybe it’s the large quantity of kids that makes these moms so chill?

As soon as I return to town, I drop off a beautiful gift, coo over the darling new baby, and make apologies for the awkward timing of the surprise playdate.

Maggie’s mom just smiles and shrugs – no big deal. The new baby in her arms starts to fuss, so she shoots her a look, like “Hey, you know where the boobies are.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Who’s more observant of social graces – you or your spouse? Any funny examples? Am I crazy to think HE’S crazy for letting her have a playdate on Bring-Home-the-Baby Day?)

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket

So then…I wince and mutter some expletives, as the sirens wail and the lights flash.

I pull over. Busted for speeding.

Dammit, I’m going to be late for work at the airport.

Yes, I work at the airport – as a security guard.

A skinny, curly-haired 19-year-old girl as a security guard?

Yep, that’s me. (I keep telling them I’d appear more menacing if they let me pack heat – but so far, no go.)

It’s a pretty decent job for a college kid home for the summer — but I don’t make enough coin to cover a hefty speeding ticket.

I rustle around in the glove compartment for the registration. The cop car is parked behind me, no doubt running my plates.

I’m squeaky clean, otherwise I wouldn’t have passed the background check at Burke Security, the firm that provides security guards for our little Louisiana airport.

How little? We have two gates. Only one has an xray machine.

So that means those of us at the non-xray gate have to check the passengers’ carry-on bags BY HAND.

While the passengers are standing there.

Watching us.

This can make for some very uncomfortable moments.

We’re rifling through their personal items, unmentionables, and wish-I-hadn’t-seen-its.

And they’re standing there witnessing this invasion of privacy.

Many times I’ve wanted to cock my head, raise a brow, point to the carry-on and say, “Really? Really?”

The Slim Fast Bar surrounded by a dozen Snickers and Butterfingers.

The business reports interspersed with girlie magazines.

The week’s worth of laundry so filthy, it’s practically writhing.

And don’t get me started on the questionable wardrobe choices. “Oh, honey, you cannot pull off this peach pantsuit.”

In our searches, we haven’t encountered much in the way of weaponry.

But I’m not sure if that’s because our 2-gate airport isn’t much of a terrorist hub – or if it’s because we guards lack the enthusiasm to thoroughly search people’s possessions BY HAND.

If the incendiary devices aren’t in plain view on the top layer of the bag, it’s likely they’re going right through to the plane.

If I so much as SEE someone’s tighty-whities, they’ve got a free pass!

I.am.not.touching.your.underwear.

So far this summer, the only things we’ve confiscated from passengers are several bags of weed — and in one case, a harpoon.

Interestingly, there was no other scuba or fishing equipment in the bag. Just normal stuff and a big-ass harpoon. Our seizure of the instrument was met with some objection.

Harpoon Guy: “You don’t understand. (twitchy, with wild eyes) I NEED this harpoon.”

Oh, no, Harpoon Guy – I think we understand perfectly.

The car door slams behind me. The cop is making his way over to my car.

Maybe he’ll let me go when he understands how critical I am to the safety and well-being of America’s aviation industry. I’m saving pilots from surprise harpoon attacks!

I glance in the side view mirror to assess my challenger.

He looks like a good ole boy. A strict no-nonsense Southern cop.

CopStunnedbyMyResponseNoBackground 350

What ploy will work best to weasel out of this ticket?

Shall I feign innocence?

Flirt a bit?

Weep uncontrollably?

Hmmm. I hop out of the car, to best display my navy blue dacron-polyester Burke Security uniform with the light blue piping.

The cop says sternly, “You know you were speeding, right?”

I say, “Yes, but surely you wouldn’t give a ticket to a fellow officer.”

Silence.

He squints at my uniform with the sewn-on “badge” showing the Burke Security logo.

And then he laughs.

A but-gusting, holy-hell-this-is-HILARIOUS laugh.

And he cannot STOP laughing. He is practically CHOKING, he is laughing so hard.

“Fellow officer?” he sputters.

“Yes, I mean – as a professional courtesy between law enforcers – ” I say seriously, spreading my hands.

He busts up laughing again.

The sight of this scrawny little girl in a cheap rent-a-cop security uniform trying to procure professional privilege SLAYS him.

Between guffaws, he says, “OK, OK, you got me. I can’t ticket you. Off you go. And slow it down, Officer.” He shakes his head, still chuckling, on his way back to his car.

Hot damn and hallelujah!

I vow to keep a spare uniform in my car for any future cop encounters.

— Darcy Perdu

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P.S. No passengers were harmed in the making of my summer job. We weren’t the most diligent baggage searchers, but none of our flights encountered any difficulty. It was many years ago, before people got all crazy, trying to hide combustibles in their shoes & lotions & potions. If I were a security guard now, I’d strip search everybody. But I’d only work at private jet airports frequented by Ryan Gosling and Thunder from Down Under Dancers.

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket - Burke Security with Darcy Face

Yeah, boy – rockin’ my bell bottom security pants!

(Any inventive ways YOU’VE escaped a ticket? Or funny cop encounters? How about an odd summer job or interesting job from your youth?)

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket #cop #speeding #police #car #funny #airplane  #pilot

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From following Boogie Wipes on social media to instagramming a picture of your favorite Boogie Wipes products, there are dozens of ways to enter – and a few ways to enter every single day.
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Great back to school ideas for parents. Must read!
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The HILARIOUS Reason My Friend’s Husband is Mad at Her

When my friend tells me why her husband's mad at her, I DIE laughing!  I agree with HIM! Do you? #funny #uh-oh #humor
So then…my friend Lily spears a shrimp from her salad and says ruefully, “My husband’s mad at me.”

My head snaps up from my pasta dish, my brow furrowed. “Why?”

(I can’t imagine anyone being mad at Lily. She’s one of the sweetest, most generous people I know. She’d literally give you the shirt off her back.)

She sighs, twirling the shrimp on her fork. “Well, I was at Target, getting a bunch of stuff for the kids like socks and underwear. And I guess I was distracted and in a hurry, ‘cuz I accidentally threw in a pack of underwear for my daughter that turned out to be colored underwear briefs for teen boys.”

I frown quizzically, wondering why that would upset her husband. I shovel some pasta in and use my other hand to indicate she should continue her tale.

“So I ask my husband if he wants them, but he says they’re too small,” she says.

(Hmm, was he insulted she implied the “small” underwear might fit his “nether regions?”)

“So,” she continues. “I just tossed them in the back of the car trunk and figured I’d return them to Target at some point. But then several months passed and I couldn’t find the receipt, so I knew Target wouldn’t take them back.”

(Been there, done that, sister. MANY times.)

“Surely he’s not upset over the cost?” I ask, sipping my soda.

“No,” she says. “He’s mad because…well…I took the car in to be serviced and when I picked it up, I noticed the pack was still in the car trunk. And since our mechanic is kind of thin, I asked him if he wanted them.”

I almost spit-take my soda all over the table.

“WHAT!?”

She sputters defensively, “Well, there’s no sense wasting perfectly good briefs. And we’ve had this mechanic for years, so why not give them to him? He seemed really happy to receive them.”

I die laughing.

“Let me get this straight – you got your car serviced and you paid your mechanic in UNDERWEAR?!”

“No, no,” she says. “I paid him cash for the work! The briefs were just…extra.

“Oh, so you just TIPPED your mechanic with underwear?” I tease her. “Yeah, that is so much better.”

“Now you’re sounding like my husband,” she says.

“Omigod, so you TOLD this to your husband and that’s why he’s upset? Well, no wonder!”

“But why?” she asks. “What’s the big deal?”

“Well, first of all, Lily, you are beautiful.” (This is true. She’s gorgeous in a natural, no fuss-no muss sort of way. Whenever we go out, men turn to stare at her. Of course, I immediately try to leap into their line of sight, but nope – they’re definitely staring at her.)

She rolls her eyes because she doesn’t like to hear how pretty she is.

I elaborate, “Lily, you’re thinking ‘oh, here’s something I can’t return to Target, maybe you’d like it.’ But your husband’s worried that your mechanic’s thinking, ‘this hot chick just gave me some underwear – is she coming on to me?’”

“No!” she protests.

“Well, I know that. And you know that. But does your mechanic know that? And more importantly, does your mechanic’s wife know that? What’s gonna happen when he’s sporting new undies and she asks where he got ‘em – and he says, ‘Oh, one of my lady customers gave them to me; she’s so niiiiiice.’”

Lily gasps: “Oh no!”

“Oh yes!” I say. “They’re probably fighting about your underwear RIGHT NOW! They might be filing for DIVORCE as we SPEAK! Exhibit A will be YOUR Target underwear briefs!”

She collapses into laughter, equally horrified and amused.

Yep, that’s my friend Lily – so generous, she’d give you the shirt off her back – and apparently, the underwear off her ass!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do you have a friend like Lily?  If the roles were reversed, how would you feel — let’s say your husband gave a pack of Victoria Secret’s panties to his hair stylist?  Any embarrassing stories involving generosity, mechanics, or underwear — or a silly reason your spouse was “mad” at you?)

When my friend tells me why her husband's mad at her, I DIE laughing!

Hungover in WHOSE Heels?

Hungover in WHOSE Heels?  #funny  #travel #flight #Boston #heels

So then…just as I settle in to sip my soda at 20,000 feet — I hear the passenger behind me ask the flight attendant, “What’s the weather like in Boston?”

WHAT THE HELL?

This flight’s going to Washington DC!

She says, “Oh, it’s nice in Boston tonight. A little cool.”

I pop up and tap her on the shoulder. “Um, where did you say this plane was going?”

“Boston,” she replies.

“No, Washington DC,” I say slowly.

“Noooo. Boston,” she says.

We stare at each other.

One of us is wrong.

And it’s possible the one who’s correct about where the airplane is going is the airplane employee.

Ah, dammit!

To be candid, I hadn’t wanted to go on this stupid business trip anyway. I love my New York job but what 24-year-old wants to cut their weekend short to fly to DC for a Monday morning conference?  Not me!

“I thought I was on the plane to DC?” I say hopefully. Maybe the pilot can make a U-turn?

Um no.

“Sorry,” she says. “We’re headed to Boston. But let’s see what we can do.”

Angel that she is, she radios down to the airline supervisor who hooks me up with a free flight to DC first thing tomorrow – and a free hotel room in Boston tonight!

SCORE! I’m thrilled I don’t have to pay for it myself — or miss the conference — or admit my blunder to my boss.

When I unpack my overnight bag in the hotel, I realize I brought my business suit, blouse, stockings – and NO SHOES!

I only have the sneakers I wore on the flight tonight!

I can’t possibly attend a professional business conference in a suit, stockings, and SNEAKERS! And of course they don’t sell high heels in the hotel gift shop! And certainly not in a size 10! (Yes, I have feet the size of surfboards!)

Brainstorm!

“Hello, Kim? Guess which of your favorite cousins just landed in Boston and desperately needs to borrow a pair of your size 10 heels? I’ll buy you massive amounts of cocktails in exchange for borrowing your shoes!”

So my big-hearted (and big-footed) cousin Kim drives over to the hotel and dumps 7 pairs of heels on my hotel bed! We pick a pair, then head to the lobby bar for libations.

We laugh, talk, cackle, eat, drink — and drink some more — and finally stumble back up to the room in the wee hours of the morning.

The next day, my head’s splitting as I slip on her shoes, hug her goodbye, and dash off to the airport for my early morning flight.

An hour later, I land in DC – hungover in borrowed heels.

I suffer through the conference – taking a few notes to share with my boss later.

Then I zip back to NY, so relieved that no one need know about my slight detour.

A week later, I receive a note from the accounting department saying, “Your receipts included an airline ticket stub from NY to Boston – and from DC to NY. Please advise how you got from Boston to DC.”

Ah dammit.

I wonder if I can say, “Hey, dudes, chill. It didn’t cost the company any extra money – and just never you mind how I got from Boston to DC. Just be cool, accountants, be cool.”

Probably not.

I figure I’d better “advise” my boss before I “advise” the accounting department.

I’m mortified, of course. At 24, I want to appear professional, well-prepared, and competent.

I hesitantly confess.

My boss bursts out laughing. “You got on the WRONG plane?”

She hops up and pokes her head out the door to yell: “Did you hear that? Darcy got on the wrong plane! She was supposed to go to DC but she went to BOSTON! Bwahahaha!”

My coworkers pop up from their cubicles to cheer, clap, and laugh.

I hang my head on the Walk of Shame back to my cubicle.

Henceforth, I’m mocked mercilessly whenever I go somewhere:
“Have a great trip to Denver, Darcy – or where ever you end up.”
“Need a map to your apartment?”
“Can I help you find the bathroom?”

And THAT’S how I earned the nickname, “Wrong Way Darcy!”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Ever end up in the wrong place? Take the wrong road – get lost – hop on the wrong plane/train/bus/boat? Any other delicate flowers out there with Sasquatch-size feet?)

Hungover Letter to President

Hungover Letter FROM President

Although I’m mercilessly mocked for my wayward ways, I have the good Southern manners to write a thank you note to the President of Eastern Airlines (as shown here).

I share the story of the free flight and hotel room, then write, “I was delighted with the kindness and concern of your employees. I salute your generosity and understanding. Should I ever wander on to the wrong plane again – I hope it’s one of yours!”

Yep, these are actual excerpts between me and the President of Eastern Airlines over the airplane snafu!

FUNNIEST Hotel Conversation EVER!

Funniest Hotel Conversation Ever

So then…I strain to see outside my car window as I’m zipping home, searching for a nice hotel in the neighborhood to recommend to my friend Natalie when she visits next month. I’ve only lived in LA a few weeks, so I’m not that familiar with the area.

Suddenly I crest a curve and see a big beautiful building way up on a hill with a huge sign saying Plum Tree Inn. Most of the building’s obscured by huge trees but it looks really cool.

Natalie’s tired of the chain hotels she stays at for work, so I know she’ll enjoy the local flavor of a unique boutique hotel. But she’s in her late 20’s, like me, so she’s not rolling in cash — and I know I better check the rates.

At home, I kick off my shoes as I call directory assistance, who connects me with the Plum Tree Inn. Then I have the most bizarre conversation with a woman with a thick accent.  And the end of our call’s a real kicker!

Me: Hello, can you please tell me how much it is to reserve a room?

Her: You want reserve room?

(Um, yeah, why else would I call your hotel? I think to myself.)

Me: Yes, is it expensive?

Her: No, no, not expensive. What room you want?

Me: I don’t know, just a regular room I guess. How much is it?

Her: What night you want room?

Me: July 18 and 19.

Her: Which one?

Me: BOTH nights. July 18 and July 19.

Her: BOTH NIGHTS? You want BOTH NIGHTS?

(omigod, why is she so surprised? Is the hotel so bad, no one ever stays a second night?)

Me: Yes, yes, I need a room for BOTH nights.

Her: How many people?

Me: Just one.

Her: JUST ONE?!

(seriously, what is wrong with this woman? Can she not hear me? She’s surprised by everything! Is this her first day on the job?)

Me: (impatiently) Yes, just one.

Her: You want a room for TWO nights for just ONE person?

Me: YES!!

Her: What they want eat?

Me: What?

Her: What one person want eat?

Me: I don’t know! (frustrated) Can’t she just decide when she gets there?

(seriously, has she EVER taken a hotel reservation before?)

Her: OK.

Me: So how much is the room?

Her: Maybe one thousand dollars.

Me: ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS? Are you kidding me?

Her: You want whole room, right? Probably one thousand dollars.

Me: “Probably?”

(do their hotel rates just change on a whim? Are we GUESSING now?)

Her: Depend what eat.

Me: What? Who cares what she eats? How can you charge one thousand dollars for a hotel room?

Her: What? Not hotel. Restaurant.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

And NOW we realize who’s the crazy one.

And it ain’t her.

Just take a moment to re-read that conversation above – and imagine what SHE must be thinking of ME as I ask these questions to reserve a room at her restaurant to throw a dinner party – for ONE person – for TWO nights in a row.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Pretty funny, right?

OK, but to be fair – IN MY DEFENSE, YOUR HONOR – why is a restaurant called the “Plum Tree INN?”

Doesn’t “inn” imply hotel? Or bed & breakfast? Or quaint boutique hotel?

Remember? “Mary & Joseph, there’s no room at the INN, so you gotta sleep in the barn?”

Inn = Hotel, people! You’re gonna get some calls for room reservations if you put a “hotel” synonym in your name!

You don’t see Hilton calling themselves Hilton RESTAURANT, do you? No, you do not. They call themselves Hilton HOTEL.

Do you see signs for Barnes & Noble Shoe Stores? No.
Or IKEA Medical Centers? Nope.
How about Victoria’s Secret Movie Theatre? Oh, wait. People actually WOULD go to a place called Victoria’s Secret Movie Theatre. (makes note for future business idea – call Shark Tank)

But you get my point – you can see how I might make assumptions about the services the Plum Tree INN offers, right?

Many years later, I see that the Plum Tree Inn has been torn down. And of course I wonder if they’ve gone out of business because of their fatal branding flaw – “hello, business manager, how about – oh, I don’t know – Plum Tree RESTAURANT?!

But every time I pass that spot, I chuckle to myself to think what that woman must’ve been thinking when I called.

She probably thought I was some sort of crazed Howard Hughes-type character who enjoyed a good meal out, but simply couldn’t tolerate eating around other people. Of course, in LA, there probably ARE some eccentric billionaires who’d rent out a whole restaurant for a quiet meal.

And then I think: what if she had quoted a more reasonable price like $150 a night? I might have made the reservation, still not knowing the building’s true identity.

And I can only IMAGINE the look on Natalie’s face when she showed up with her luggage to “check in” to a fancy Chinese restaurant!

— Darcy Perdu

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(OK, people, ‘fess up! Share some of YOUR bodacious blunders and asinine assumptions! Ever been on one side of a funny misunderstanding? How about some odd or confusing business names? Do tell!)

Look, I’m Not SAYING She’s an Airhead…

Look, I'm Not SAYING She's an Airhead

So then…I hear our office manager clip-clopping down the hallway with the newest receptionist to introduce her around to the staff.

I roll my eyes because history has proven that the revolving door of receptionists at this particular company are hired more for beauty than brains. Whoever’s selecting them seems less focused on a 60 WPM typing number and more interested in a 36-24-36 number.

And sure enough, as they round the corner and pop into my office, I see a young lady in her mid-20’s with sky-high heels, push-up bra, tight skirt, and enough cosmetics to paint the Sistine Chapel.

(I admonish myself not to be so judgy! Stop judging this book by its skimpy cover!)

I smile cheerfully as the office manager says, “Darcy Perdu, I’d like you to meet our new receptionist.”

“Nice to meet you. Welcome aboard,” I say.

She smiles and introduces herself.

Since we’ll be adding her to the email network and phone directory, I say, “So how do you spell your name? Is it J-a-c-k-i-e? Or J-a-c-q-u-e?”

She giggles and says, “Oh, whichever.”

Um…what?

I furrow my brow. Maybe she didn’t understand the question, so I repeat it. “No, I mean, how do YOU spell your name? Is it “k-i-e” or “q-u-e” at the end?”

She giggles again and says, “Oh, whatever you want.”

WHAT!? Whatever I want? It’s her name!

What if I want it to be spelled “B-o-o-b-i-e-H-e-a-d-e-d-D-i-n-g-B-a-t?” Is she OK with THAT?

Now look, I totally understand when people are indifferent about what they’re CALLED:

As in, “Do you prefer to be called Kathy or Kathleen?
Dave or David?
Jim or Jimmy?”

And the person says, “Oh, whichever is fine.” That’s cool.

And I’ve certainly seen people behave completely nonchalant when asked questions like:
“Do you prefer butter or cream cheese on your bagel?”
“Do you want to sit near the window or the aisle?”
“Do you strangle or stab your victims?”

“Oh, whichever” is a perfectly fine response to ANY of THOSE questions.

But when someone asks you how you SPELL YOUR NAME, isn’t that something you should have an opinion about?

Isn’t she signing her name fairly frequently – on forms, notes, checks, tax returns? Does she spell it DIFFERENTLY each time, whatever the mood strikes her that day?

Or does she have a system?

Maybe it’s “Jacque” for resumes –
“Jackie” for restraining orders –
“Jakkeee” for love notes –
And “Pjackey” for her computer password (the “p” is silent).

I’m cracking up because it’s just mind-boggling to me that after 20-some-odd years on this planet, she hasn’t yet made a definitive decision about HOW TO SPELL HER NAME.

I can just imagine how decisive she’ll be in her new job here.

Caller: “Hello, can you please connect me to your billing department?”
Jackie/Jacque: “Sure.” (presses “whichever” combination of buttons strike her fancy)

Warehouse Employee: “Does the boss want this shipment to go to our Dallas office or the New York office?”
Jackie/Jacque: (giggling) “Whichever is fine.”

Delivery Person: “Here’s the lunch order for the meeting. Looks delicious. Should I put it in the conference room or (chuckle) just gobble it up myself?”
Jackie/Jacque: (giggling) “Whichever is fine.”

Boss: “Your work performance is very poor. Should I try to re-train you to be more decisive – or just terminate you?”
Jackie/Jacque: (giggling) “Whichever is fine.”

And then she’ll giggle her way to the nearest Hooters (or is it “Huuturz?”)

Now before you think I’m being too hard on the poor girl – she’s 24! Not 2! Giggling and uncertainty might be acceptable at 2 – but at 24? Nope.

And it’s not like I asked her to explain the Quantum Entanglement Theory of Electrons – or the highest-grossing agricultural export of Paraguay! I asked her how she SPELLS HER NAME!

“Um…okay,” I say. “Just let us know whatever you decide and we’ll add your name to the roster.”

She ultimately chooses “Jackie” but I shall forever think of her as “Pjackey” (the “p” is silent, of course).

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any of your coworkers (past or present) who seem a bit challenged in the common sense department? Any examples of odd answers to simple questions? Any funny name stories to share?)

The Funny Secret the Nun Told Me

Funny Secret the Nun Told Me #humor #sing #church #nun  #school #kids

So then…I perk up as soon as I hear the opening notes of my favorite song. I immediately stop fidgeting with my blue plaid Catholic school uniform.

I grin widely. I love this song! I LOOOOVE this song!

I straighten my shoulders and stand proudly amongst the other 5th graders in our pews in Friday morning Mass.

Here it is, here it is! I joyously sing the awesomely odd lyrics to my favorite hymn:

Sons of God, hear His Holy Word
Gather ‘round the table of our Lord

Eat His body, Drink His blood
Now we’ll sing a song of love

Allelu
Allelu
Allelu
Allelu-u-ujah!

Of course it doesn’t even occur to me that the song’s a bit morbid…
and perhaps even a bit cannibalistic…
what with all the talk of “eating His body and drinking His blood.”

But to a 10-year-old, it makes perfect sense that we’d gobble Him up – then “sing a song of love.” Nom nom nom. La lala lala.

And you have to remember that “Twilight,” “True Blood,” and “Vampire Diaries” had not yet burst onto the scene with their lustful carnal blood-suckery

so this was all just common, everyday slurpin’ up some Jesus juice.

Nothing bizarre here, folks. Just a friendly invite:

Gather ‘round the table of our Lord
Eat His body, Drink His blood
Now we’ll sing a song of love

It’s really just like saying, “Hey everybody, come on over to my house and pull up a chair. Let’s eat Swanson chicken pot pies and drink some Tang – then break out the guitar and sing Kumbaya!”

I smile happily at all the students and teachers crowded into this chapel at our school.

My brunette curls jingle-jangle as I boisterously belt out the chorus of the song.

I LOVE the “Allelu’s.”

I’m really getting’ into it – hips swayin’, face scrunched, eyes closed, crooning away.

Now granted, I possess much more ENTHUSIASM than TALENT –

and, in fact, it’s widely known in my family that I’m tone-deaf –

but I still roar that tune LOUDLY and PROUDLY.

As we file out of the chapel, one of the nuns sidles up next to me, puts a caring hand on my shoulder, smiles kindly, and whispers gently, “You know, God loves the lip-synchers too.”

Oh.My.God.

Did she just say that to me?

Yes – yes, she did!

Is she an Angel of God? My own personal Celestial Messenger, with a note from above –

“The Lord hears ya, babe, and while He appreciates the effort – please remember He is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent – so no need to actually VOCALIZE your tribute – He can hear you telepathically. So go easy on the eardrums of your fellow humans and just THINK the lyrics, mmmkay?”

At least, that’s how I interpret her remark: “You know, God loves the lip-synchers too.”

Of course at age 10, I don’t realize how hilarious this is – so I just nod piously, with big eyes. I harbor no ill will toward the dear old nun – she is, afterall, the music teacher, quite elderly, with sensitive ears, and seated directly next to my boisterous bellowing at the chapel.

I pledge a secret vow of silence whenever singing is required at Mass – which lasts exactly one week until the next Mass – when I gleefully and loudly rock out to…

Allelu
Allelu
Allelu
Allelu-u-ujah!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are you a wonderful warbler – or musically-challenged like me? Regardless of your skill level, what’s a song that you blissfully belt out with joyful abandon? Any teachers/coaches offer you some “helpful” hints when you were a kid?)

The Topic is TABOO — But They Give Me a Humor Award Anyway!

I Won An Award 430
So then…I win another Humor Award!

What the what what?!

Yep, I entered the BlogHer competition in 2013 and 2014 – and I won a Humor VOTY both times!

So now I think I’m all that.

And I shall be insufferable and insist on a human umbrella holder to accompany me at all times – even indoors. I shall demand that no one look me directly in the eye or breathe in my direction. I shall require Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream to be served at all my meals…BY Ben and Jerry themselves.

So what’s a VOTY? BlogHer communications and media organization invites writers and bloggers to enter a competition for Voices Of The Year in 4 categories: Humor, Heart, OpEd, and Exploration. The winners are celebrated at the annual BlogHer conference.

Out of thousands of entries, they choose 25 VOTY winners in each category – and I’m VERY EXCITED to be a winner in the 2014 Humor category!

And I’m especially thrilled that it’s for one of my favorite posts!

My Secret Accomplishment is about an AMAZING feat that should probably REMAIN secret since the topic is a bit…indelicate for polite company. But hells bells, people, we ain’t polite!

So here’s the winning post in all its inappropriate glory!

My SECRET Accomplishment
(Photograph-Forbidden)

So then…I poop a Q.

An amazing, perfectly-shaped Q.

It is truly a remarkable thing to behold, but I cannot think of even one person that I can show.

It’s not exactly the type of thing that you can point out to a co-worker –

Like “Hey, Brenda, come look at the Q I pooped! Come quick! It’s an UPPER CASE Q!”

And probably not the type of thing to gather the family round for a group viewing –

Like, “Hey, kids, look what Mom just made!”

It’s one of those things I will have to keep to myself.

I consider taking a photo.

But I couldn’t text it to anyone. And I couldn’t post it.

And I certainly wouldn’t want the Costco photo guy to have to print it out –
or for some relative to stumble across it years from now in a faded photo album and say, “What the hell is this?”

Or DO I?

It is a pretty incredible accomplishment.

“That’s the time I pooped a Q!” I’d say proudly.

“No shit?” they’d say admiringly. And we’d have a good laugh at the unintended pun.

I check my exquisite sculpture and marvel again at its uncanny resemblance to the letter Q. I almost wonder if perhaps tomorrow I will produce another letter – and if, in fact, someone is trying to send me a message.

Since today is a Q, the rules of spelling would dictate that tomorrow’s letter would need to be a U, so I’m wondering what letters would come next. Over time, would I be spelling out Queen?

Quail?

or

Quick, Get Me Outta Here – I’m Trapped in Your Lower Intestine!

My God, that would take weeks to spell out. But you can be sure that I’ll be checking to see if such a message is forthcoming.

I’m not entirely sure when I first began examining my output. I know there was a time when I wouldn’t have given a thought to checking the bowl – just take care of business, wash hands, and out the door.

But at some point awhile back, I started the habit of a quick glance.

I’m not sure if it is curiosity – or a health check – or just that my daily life is so devoid of real accomplishment that my confidence needs the occasional boost from creating a successful bowel movement. Sort of a Defecation Celebration, if you will.

But oh today, I am quite proud. I’ve produced a perfect Q — and with no conscious effort!

This was not deliberate, I assure you. Don’t envision me intentionally leaning, rotating, gyrating to create this letter – this was all perfectly natural. And a delightful surprise!

And yet, there is no way to preserve my masterpiece. No bronzing. No shellacking.

A quick flush and it will be gone forever.

I can only write about the existence of it in this post – with no evidence to support my claim.

But I assure you, it is a perfect Q.

– Darcy Perdu

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(Comments: I seriously considered not allowing comments on this post since I usually encourage you to post a RELATED story – and I’m not quite sure I can handle reading lots of comments about YOUR poop, your KID’S poop, and your PET’S poop that resemble other letters, shapes, states, and celebrities. BUT…you were gracious enough to read about my Q – so bring it on – deluge me with stories of your funny feces! Keep it as clean as you can!)

Voty-Announcement-2014 430
FOR SOME GREAT LAUGHS, click 2014 BlogHer Voices Of The Year Winners to read the winning entries of my fellow Humor Winners — and check out the Winners in Heart, OpEd, Exploration, and Photos!

In the Humor category:

Aussa Lorens from Hacker.Ninja.Hooker.Spy receives the People’s Choice Award for Humor for 7 Ways Your Life Is Like High School , and the readers for Humor will be:

When the Entertainer Invites You On-Stage to Reveal Your Naked…

When the Entertainer Invites You
So then…the comedian announces, “For this next bit, I need a young lady to join me on stage – who will volunteer?”

The audience in this dark little New York comedy club looks around jovially for a victim…er…volunteer.

My friends start waving and pointing at me. We’re all in our 20’s, working in midtown Manhattan firms, out for a night of comedy and drinking. I shush them, but the comedian spies the commotion and calls me up on stage.

Now I love watching live comedy – but I’m reluctant to actually participate in the show since comedians typically skewer innocent audience members. I won’t even get up to go to the bathroom during someone’s set, for fear of the scathing mockery that usually accompanies such an action.

But my friends are insistent — and the drinks are potent, so I finally agree to hop up on stage.

The comedian points the microphone at me and says, “What’s your name?”

I blanch. I’m not sure I want to reveal my name to the 300 people squeezed into this club, especially if I’m about to be embarrassed! So I keep it on a first-name basis.

“Darcy,” I say.

The comedian says, “OK, Darcy, and what do you do?”

“I’m in public relations and advertising,” I say.

“Oh,” he says. “And who do you work for?”

“Um…I’d rather not say,” I answer.

He frowns comically. “I don’t think you understand how advertising works, Darcy.”

We all laugh.

“In order to help PROMOTE the company, you might need to tell people the NAME of the company…” he continues. “Really, it’s sort of Advertising 101, dontcha think?”

He affects a high-pitched voice to impersonate me and addresses the audience, “Hey, you guys!  Let me tell you about this FABULOUS company with these AMAZING products.  You’re going to LOVE these products!  You can’t live WITHOUT these products!  You MUST buy them right NOW!  Go right NOW!  BUY THESE PRODUCTS!  Oh, you want to know the name of the products?  I can’t tell you.  It’s a secret.  Shhhh!  It’s a SEEEEEEEEE-CRET!

We all laugh but I stay mum.

He says, “OK, I needed a volunteer because I want to show everyone what I learned when I lived in a monastery.”

People laugh.

“No, no, I’m serious,” he says. “I actually thought about becoming a monk, so I lived in a monastery for a year in deep and spiritual contemplation. And I want to share what I learned.”

He says, “Take off your sock and shoe.”

I sit on the stool and obey — albeit warily.

He takes my bare foot in his hand, closes his eyes, assumes a pious expression, takes a deep breath, and hums a meditative note.

Then he takes his other hand, grabs my big toe, and intones in a solemn, holy voice,

“Haec paulo porcellum ad forum.”

Between his religious invocation, the crowd’s perplexed laughter, and my ticklish toes, I’m giggling like a school girl.

Then he grabs each successive toe and sonorously chants:

“Haec paulo porcellum domo manebat,
Haec paulo porcellum manducat bubulae,
Haec paulo porcellum, non
Et hic nobis paulo porcellum nos clamabat nos in omni via per domo-o-o-o-s!”

“And THAT, ladies and gentleman, is the Latin translation of ‘This Little Piggy Went To Market!’”

He raises my foot and takes a bow.

Thunderous applause. For both the chant — AND my naked foot.

So now I can add “Entertainer (Partial Nudity)” to my resume!

Which reminds me of my friend’s husband’s attempt to solicit photos of naked feet for a rather dubious reason…

— Darcy Perdu

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(Have you ever been called on-stage – and if so, what did you need to do? Any partial nudity involved (mandatory – OR voluntary)? Do you know any odd songs, rhymes, or phrases in another language? Do tell!)

Be VERY Careful What You Ask Your Teen Daughter

Be Very Careful What You Ask Your Teen Daughter!  #funny #cook #crockpot #turkey #humor #parenting

So then…I take a bite of Pralines & Cream at our little neighborhood Baskin-Robbins shop and ask my daughter Chloe, age 13, “So what do you think I should cook for dinner when the Donnellys come over Saturday?”

She nearly chokes on her Oreo 31 Below.

I shoot her a sharp glance.

She tries to recover quickly.

She loves me dearly but knows that cooking is not my forte.

“Um…let’s see,” she stalls. “There are lots of things you could make…um…”

“Well, what do you like that I cook?” I ask.

“Oh, I love your cookies and cakes and brownies and—”

“No, not what I bake. What I cook. What do you like that I cook?

She pales.

To be fair, my cooking repertoire IS fairly limited. I’m a woman of many talents, gifts, and skills (FAR too many to detail here) – but cooking’s not one of them. In fact, the main reason I’m asking her opinion is that I’m a bit anxious about cooking for the Donnelly family (or anyone, for that matter.) For potlucks, I always bake dessert. For my own dinner parties, I often order in or even (gasp) cater for the special occasions!

I’ve long envied the women who can whip up a delicious meal on a moment’s notice with the ingredients already in their pantry and fridge. I could try that – but it’d need to be meal that includes the typical staples in my house (Nestles chocolate morsels, mayonnaise, peanut butter, and delicious cheeses.)

My other cooking issue is that I have a fanatical fear of undercooking the meat. It probably stems from the first turkey I ever tried to cook — it simply WOULD.NOT.COOK. It was in that oven for hours and hours and hours – and no matter what, it never fully cooked. Honestly, it was traumatizing! The next year, I even ordered a PRE-COOKED turkey so all I had to do was heat it up — and it STILL didn’t cook through! Ever since then, I ensure we invite cooking relatives to our house for Thanksgiving — or invite ourselves to their homes. We’re working our way across America for each Thanksgiving and will probably be at your home soon.

So this is why I always order steaks/burgers/fish/etc well done at restaurants. And this is why I started crock-potting. Because if you put something in there at 8 am, it’s usually cooked through by 6 pm. In fact, some might say a little TOO cooked through. (And to them I say, “Well, fine, more for me, my friend. Help yo’self to the peanut butter and delicious cheeses.”)

Actually I make a fabulous tuna casserole.

My daughter Chloe abhors tuna.

She ate it maybe ONE time when she was about 5 – and to this day, anytime she can’t readily identify what I serve her, she’ll suspiciously ask me, “Is this tuna?

“No!” I’ll say. She’ll poke it a bit, and ask plaintively, “Are you sure it’s not tuna?” As if I were serving her potentially poisonous pufferfish!

Honestly, I’ve never served that child tuna again since she was 5 – but she asks me at least once a month, with an accusatory tone, “Is this tuna?”

Add to this that Chloe’s a picky eater, so there isn’t much that she likes anyway. (Of course, her being a picky eater MIGHT be related to my culinary malfeasance…)

So you can see that this innocent conversation about what to serve the Donnellys on Saturday is a virtual minefield that Chloe’s trying to tiptoe through, so as not to offend my feelings – or God forbid, trigger a tuna dish.

“Well,” she says, “I like your porkchops.” (crock pot recipe)

“Yes, go on.”

“Um, I like your French Dip beef.” (crock pot recipe)

“And what else?” I ask.

“Um, your green bean casserole?”

“What!? You never eat my green bean casserole!” I say.

“Yeah, but I’ve heard it’s really good!” she says brightly.

“From whom?” I ask skeptically.

“From you!” she says.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Seriously? After all these years, that’s all you can come up with?” I ask.

“Well, I was gonna say, ‘You open a mean can of corn,’ but I didn’t want to offend.”

I bust out laughing. “Chloe!”

“Or ‘you order Honeybaked Ham well,’” she offers.

We both guffaw.

She’s right, of course. And she does love her some corn (as evidenced in the Embarrassing Book Club Incident)

We finish our ice cream and finalize the menu for Saturday:

crockpot chicken,
green bean casserole,
canned corn –
and 3 – count ‘em, 3 – scrumptious homemade baked desserts!
Get ready, Donnellys, you’re in for a treat!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Is your child terrified of tuna? Or some other innocuous food? Are you a culinary master — or more of a baker like me? Can we come to your house for Thanksgiving this year?)