Wednesday, October 31, 2018



It’s a thriller themed squirrel Howloween with Norton....
and here’s the text to howl along with him ...  Now it’s your big chance to show Norton some fancy MJ foot work! 

Woof woof woof ha ha ha! 

Woof woof woof ha ha ha! 
It's close to midnight
Something evil’s creeping thru the park
Under the moonlight
I see a sight that almost stops my heart
I try to YAP...
But terror takes the sound before I make it—
I start to CRAP!
Then horror looks me right between my eyes I’m DOGGIE-FIED!

'Cause it’s a squirrel!

And no one’s gonna save me!
From the beast with beady eyes...
You know it’s Squirrel—
Squirrel night!

Scream and howl to fade...

Saturday, October 20, 2018

My Husband Rinses His Ham

"My husband rinses his ham."

My husband rinses his ham.

It all began in our kitchen a few years ago while Bob and I were having a mindless chat about oh, let’s say my obsession with Amazon Prime. 

“Why do you buy fourteen pairs of shoes at a time?” he asked.

“I’m only keeping a couple of them. What’s the big deal?”

“Marianne, the big deal is that you blow up our credit card and even though you ‘only keep a couple of them’ the other dozen sit on our bill until you muster the strength to pack them up and take them to the UPS Store.”

“C’mon, Bob!  Think about how much money I save us when I get a refund for the shoes I’ve returned!” 

Somewhere in the midst of my completely illogical defense that I make money by returning shoes, the doorbell rang. 

“Oooh… Amazon Prime!” I squealed as I ran to the front door.   

When I popped back into the kitchen Bob had obviously started making himself lunch.  I knew because he had all his fave fixings, Sandwich Slims, Pepper Rings, spicy mustard, sunflower seeds, lettuce and toasted bread lined up in an anal retentive protocol usually reserved for the coronation of a king. What was missing was the meat.

That’s when I noticed Bob was at the sink holding several slices of deli ham under the faucet. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Rinsing the ham.” 
"Oh, gonna barf!"

“I see that. But, why? Why are you rinsing your ham?”

“Because it’s slimy.”

“Oh my God, Bob, you can’t eat that. It’s gone bad. Throw it out!”

“No way. I rinsed it. It’s fine. I do this all the time” he said as he popped a slice into his mouth.

He rinsed off a couple more putrid slices and stacked them on his sandwich. As he took a giant bite I stared, waiting for him to convulse, retch, go pale, something. 

Not taking any chances I called 911.

“My husband just poisoned himself with a ham sandwich.”

“Stay calm, ma’am. Can you tell us how old the ham was?”

“I don’t know. 10 days, maybe 2 weeks. Please, you have to hurry.”

“Do you know if it was slimy when he ate it?”

“Yes. Yes, it was slimy…viscous, actually. Is he going to die?”

“He could get sick depending on how much ham he ate and whether or not he rinsed it first.”

“What? Rinsed it? Yes, he did, but wait, is that a thing? Who the hell rinses their ham?”

“I do all the time. Drives my wife crazy. Look, I suggest you calm down and keep an eye on him. He should be fine. If not, call us back.”

Bob survived. This time.

Then one day while chatting with our friends, Craig and Mika, I asked if they had viscous ham issues. 

Mika rolled her eyes, “Craig’s like Bob. Eats anything— just like a frat boy.”

“Hey!” Craig protested.  “There’s nothing wrong with the ham. I just give it a quick rinse. But, hey, if it’s really gone bad, you know, BBG bad as Mika calls it, I’ll chuck it.”  

“BBG bad?” I asked.

“That’s Mika’s term for something so foul even he won’t eat it.  BBG… Beyond Bob Goen!”

That’s when I gave up trying to save Bob’s life and promised myself I would never again prevent a man from rinsing his ham.


Sunday, October 7, 2018

I'm Too Loud for Golf


I’m Too Loud for Golf

Bob and I are thinking of retiring sooner than later in, despite the obvious cliche, Florida.

When I told my gal pals they uttered a collective gasp. “You can’t be serious?"  “You’re not that old yet!” What about your skin?”  "Don’t you have to be a meth head to live in Florida?!”  “Or Jewish?!”  

I laughed off the hysterics until Shari offered her two cents.

“Marianne, you can’t move to Florida. You don’t golf.”

“How about tennis?

“You’re way past the legal limit of cortisone shots,” Shari shot back.


“Face it. Your spine is shrinking. How do you plan to get the ball over the net? Next?”


“Good luck finding a sports bra that’ll hold those puppies up through that crap.” 

“Then what’s left? Chair Yoga? Mah Jong with the Jewish widows at the deli? By the way, why is all Jewish deli food beige or gray?” 

Shari got that Shari-look in her eye. “Bob’s got a birthday coming up, right?”

“What’s that got to do with Florida?”

“You’re buying yourself golf lessons for Bob’s birthday. You’ve got a few months to take them. Then, on his birthday, you take him golfing and show him you’re ready for the Sunshine State.”

The notion seemed faintly romantic until I remembered the day I met Bob’s brother-in-law, David, who asked, “Do you golf?” Bob chimed in before I could answer. "No. No, she doesn’t." 

This was going to be a tough task. 

By the time Bob’s birthday rolled around I was ready for an easy round of nine holes—didn’t want to “over impress” him after all. 

Imagine his surprise when his surprise gift was a round of golf with me. That was a fun moment. But, he was a trooper and off we went to the links.

With each successful whack of the ball, I let out an excited “Whoop! Whoop!” and did a “Dab” or two.  

“Hey, I was only 6 over par on that hole! Whoop! Whoop! Is that still a bogey?”

“No, Marianne,” Bob groaned leaning on his club. “There’s no term for being 6 over par other than being 6 over par. And, can you keep it down with the whoop, whoops? This is golf…not beer pong.” 

“But, I’m having so much fun.  Geez, not like those guys behind us. They look miserable. Hey, guys! Watch me birdie this next shot!” I yelled at them and waved.  They just sat in their carts and stared.

 “What’s their problem?” I asked Bob.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they’d like you to take less than 30 minutes to finish a hole so they can get back to the clubhouse before the next presidential election.”  

Bob didn’t seem to be having as much fun as I was but I wasn’t going to let that ruin how much I was enjoying his birthday present.

Four hours later we finished the ninth hole. I was exhausted but exhilarated. I shouted one more “Whoop, whoop!” and did a final "Dab" to celebrate. I was now a golfer and could officially move to Florida. 

“So, Bob-alu, how’d you like your birthday present?”

“It was a very sweet idea. Torturous…but sweet.”

“Oh, come on. By the time we move to Sarasota, I’ll be much better, I promise.”

“I’m sure you will. But, I won’t be golfing with you.”  He sighed when he saw my disappointment and then said, “Marianne, I love you and you know that. But, I have to tell you the truth.  You’re too LOUD for golf.”

The carts with the foursome who were behind us rolled by overhearing Bob.

They looked right at me with their first smile of the day and together said, “Yes. Yes, she is.” Then they let out a loud “Whoop! Whoop!” One of them even did the "Dab." 

Mah Jong at the deli it is. Pass the pastrami.