No You Can't Have Any! It's MY Personal Watermelon: A Tale of a Woman Who's Gone Fruity

This woman will one day go fruity. iStockPhoto.com

I thought seedless watermelons were genius until I discovered the personal watermelon. 

I quickly became obsessed. 

There are so many things to love about personal watermelons. Maybe it’s because little things are so cute, like little human babies, little animal babies, Mini Coopers, and little feet — like mine before I turned 60. 

Personal watermelons are a lot easier to hoist into my shopping cart and inspire me to yell “Whee!” as they roll down the checkout as smoothly as a duckpin ball in a bowling alley. 

You don’t have to chill them in a cooler because they easily fit in the fridge next to my husband’s beer — which Bob likes because he prefers beer to fruit. 

And, with personal watermelons, there’s no guilt in saying, “Yep, I ate the whole thing.” 

I quickly went from buying one melon at a time to two then three then four. One day my obsession took a strange turn. I named them. 

Two of them anyway, the twins, Joey and Maggie. I dressed Joey in OshKosh B’gosh overalls and a Reds baseball cap. I dressed Maggie in a ruffled pink and green sundress with a bedazzled unicorn headband. Cuteness overload! 

For me anyway — Bob, not so much.

 BOB: “Marianne, is there something you wanna tell me?” 

ME: “Yes! I named the girl, Maggie, after my mom, and the boy Joey, for Joey Votto.” 

BOB: “You named a watermelon after the Reds' first baseman?” 

ME: “Why not? He’s hot!” 

Bob didn’t seem too worried until I bought a stroller. Every day I’d take Joey and Maggie to the park. I’d wave and smile at the other moms with strollers — most with actual babies in them and a few with tiny well-dressed dogs. The moms would smile and wave back until they saw the twins. Then they’d jog frantically toward their cars. 

I didn’t think moms got jealous of other moms. 

Back home I told a disinterested Bob about the mean moms and put the twins in the fridge for their nap. 

When I got home from some errands Bob shouted to me from the den where he was watching baseball. 

BOB: “Sweetie, your boy, Votto, just hit another home run. This guy’s on fire!”

ME: “I told you he was hot.” 

BOB: “Hey, would you grab me a beer while you’re in the kitchen?” 

As I grabbed his beer I noticed Joey was gone. Hoping he was watching the game with Bob I ran to the den. When I handed Bob his beer, I saw a tiny pair of OshKosh B’gosh overalls and a Reds cap on the coffee table next to a bowl of freshly cut watermelon. Bob stabbed a piece with his fork and gulped it down.

 BOB: “Wow. I can see why you like these melons. I’m not a fruit guy but this is delicious!” 

ME: “JOEY!!!!!” 

I don’t remember fainting. 

When I came to, I was on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on my throbbing head. Bob told me I hit the coffee table on the way down. 

BOB: “How’re you feeling? Want some Tylenol?” 

ME: “No. I want Joey. Does Maggie know?” 

BOB: “Maggie? Oh, uh, right. I thought it’d be better if you told her. Wait. What am I saying? Marianne, they’re WATERMELONS!! Not children.” 

ME: “That. Is. So. Cruel.” 

BOB: “Can I please call your therapist?” 

ME: “She died six years ago.” 

BOB: “Shit. I forgot. Okay, how about your sister’s shrink — although we all know how well that’s been going—” 

ME: “Leave my sister out of this. She would have loved Joey.” 

BOB: “Okay, I have an idea. Let me get you a fresh bag of peas. You rest, okay?” 

I nodded as Bob headed out to find me a shrink, or a shaman, or hopefully, Joey Votto. 

Instead, he came back with an older gentleman with years of hard work dug into his soft face.

GUISEPPE: “Ciao, Signora! My name is Giuseppe. It is so nice to meet you.” 

ME: “Who are you?” 

GUISEPPE: “I manage the produce department at Super King. I see you there buying the baby melons. Your husband asked me to come by.” 

ME: “What? Why?” 

BOB: “Marianne, I told him about Joey. He thinks he can help.” 

I wailed in grief for a moment until I could collect myself. 

ME: “Okay, Guiseppe. You’ve got 2 minutes.” 

Guiseppe told me how he’s been asked for help by dozens of husbands whose childless wives had been buying up personal watermelons. 

GUISEPPE: “They dress them up, read them stories, take them to Mommy & Melons groups, to Tumbling Melons Gym and Build-A-Melon stores. Some even send them off to Farm Camp in the summer. Sadly, many of those melons don’t come home.”

Guiseppe assured me most of these Melon Moms snapped out of it by the end of the melon season and went back to their normal life. 

GUISEPPE: “They are happy, Signora! Happy! Felice!” 

Bob took Guiseppe back to the grocery store and I went to the fridge to get Maggie. I took off her ruffled sundress and her bedazzled unicorn headband and put them in a pile with Joey’s clothes. She was no longer Maggie. She was just another personal watermelon and the season was almost over. 

I still wasn’t convinced I’d be as happy as Guiseppe promised. 

Then I realized pumpkin season was just around the corner.

TSA & The Fig Newton Incident

The Big Fig

My perpetually flabbergasted husband will confirm I’ve had more than my share of run-ins with TSA in airports from Cincinnati to Prague. Yet, I’ve never been arrested or even detained— so far.

The most innocent of these “Security Breaches” occurred in Cincinnati.

We were living in Ohio short term and would head back to Los Angeles as often as we could. But unlike the teeming masses at LAX, Cincinnati’s airport was usually half empty. Security lines were short, the agents were never in vein-popping “Robocop” mode (think Newark) and the gates were a hop skip and a jump away. Plenty of time to drop a mortgage payment at Starbucks and fly away. 

However, on one trip, after Bob sailed through security ahead of me I noticed that Tim and Tina TSA were sharing some Fig Newton cookies.  

No! Not this Newton!!!

“Oh. My. God. I LOVE FIG NEWTONS!” I shrieked loud enough for Tim and Tina to crouch into a wide stance with their hands white-knuckled on their guns. I was so excited I didn’t even notice I was about to get shot.

“Oh, my God! Fig Newtons! I can’t remember the last time I had a Fig Newton.  I LOVE FIG NEWTONS!”

They holstered their weapons realizing my outburst was merely a love fest over their indiscreet snack. (Yes, this airport is that stress free.) 

I see Bob in his sensible loafers racing toward the commotion as I calmly ask Tim and Tina, “Hey, you guys remember the Fig Newton commercial from the 70’s? With the funny, fat guy dressed like a green fig singing about Fig Newtons?”

“Oh, I remember that!” said Tim and Tina in unison.

That’s when I see Bob approaching security in a panic. “Marianne! Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Fine! Hang on, sweetie.” I said holding up a hand to him.  “Okay, here goes!”and I began to sing.

“Chewy, ooey, rich and gooey inside.  Golden, flaky, tender cakey outside. Wrap the inside in the outside - Is it good? Darn Tootin’! Do the Big Fig Newton! One more time! The BIG FIG NEWTONNNNN!”

Tim and Tina clapped and offered me their last cookie. I uttered “thanks”  as Bob grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the gates.

“Ha, Bob! That was so much fun, right?! Wanna sing it while I eat my Newton?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

So with a mouth full of my chewy, ooey, rich and gooey prize I sang it for the whole airport to hear.

Was it good? Darn tootin!

Why Steve Is Six Inches Short of a Full Sub

This is Steve...

My husband and I moved cross country this past spring which required a crew of beefy, tireless guys packing, hoisting and dismantling our house for three days.  I believe guys who bust their asses that hard deserve at least lunch on us.

Sandwich joints seem the same to me so I decided to order from the one with the funny commercials—let’s call them “Freaky Fast Frank’s.” From the minute I picked up the phone to order, let’s say, things got “freaky”…fast.

“Freaky Fast Frank’s, where everything is uh, delicious, and, uh, freaky fast, this is Steve.”

“Hi, Steve. I’d like to place an order to go.”

“This is Steve. May I take your order?"

“Yeah, uh, yes. I’d like three Lola Loves Turkey, two Cousin Vinnie’s, one Eat Your Veggies and two Tasty Tunas plus chips, pickles…

“Okay, three Lola Loves Turkey…what else?”

I could see this was not going to be freaky fast. “Okay, two Cousin Vinnies…one with no tomatoes.”

“Two. Cousin. Vinnies. No tomatoes.”

“Just one with no tomatoes. One Eat Your Veggies.”

“Just one no tomatoes. Anything else?”

“Yes, One Eat Your Veggies with hot peppers, please.”

“But no tomatoes?”

“No, not on the Veggie… I want tomatoes on the Veggie. No tomatoes on one Cousin Vinny.”

I slowed down to Steve’s pace for the rest as I repeated, “Two. Tasty. Tunas. Chips. And. Pickles. Eight large… iced… teas. By the way, I was trying to order online and I didn’t see iced tea on the menu. I assume you have iced tea?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I’ve never ordered online before.”

Of course, he hadn’t. This guy spent a lot of his time in general offline. 

“Okay that’ll be $82.60 and it’ll be ready in 10 minutes.”  

The minute I hung up I realized I was a sandwich short (the same could be said for Steve). So I called back.

“Freaky Fast Frank’s, where everything is uh, delicious, and, uh, freaky. This is Steve. May I take your order?”

“Hi,  I just ordered a minute ago and I need to add another sandwich.”

“What’s the name?”

“Oh, I didn’t give you one…but I just ordered 8 sandwiches.”

“What’s your address?”

“I didn’t give you one. We’re picking it up.”

Dead silence. 

“It was about an $80 order and I just placed it. I need to add another Lola Loves Turkey with chips.”

I just want some sandwiches!!!

“What was the name?”

“I. Didn’t. Give. You. One.”

“Um.”  

After a long pause, I realized I’d been put on hold. A different voice came back on the line.

“Hi, this is Rick. I’m the Manager. Can I help you?”

I told him I just wanted to add a sandwich to my order.

“Okay, what’s the name?” he asked. 

“I didn’t give you a name or, an address. Look the order was a minute ago for about eighty bucks. Just add a Lola Loves Turkey with chips. That’s it. One more sandwich, one more bag of chips and one more iced-tea.”

More silence. 

“Okay, got it. Steve! Did you find the order?” And with that, he hung up.

I went to pick up the order and things got even freaky-funnier.

Sure enough, Steve was at the register and he produced a box with the sandwiches and chips. “That’ll be $10.68.”

“$10.68? Are you sure? For nine sandwiches and nine iced-teas?” I looked around for a prank camera.

The manager overheard this and came careening toward the counter hip bumping Steve out of his way. “I’m sorry, ma'am. There appears to be a mixup with your order. The correct amount is $90.42 with the added sandwich and drink.”

With that Steve was back at the helm. “Uh, anything else?”

“Oh, yeah, where are our iced-tea cups?” I asked.

Steve blinked, “Um, I don’t think we have iced tea.”

I pointed to the two gigantic urns of tea at the beverage station. “Yes, you do.  Oh, and can I have a box for the drinks?”

“We don’t have boxes” Steve replied. 

I cleared my throat and pointed to the one I was holding with all the sandwiches.

Steve managed to find another box and I headed home. 

The movers thanked us for lunch and dove into their sandwiches.  That's when I heard one of them say after a big bite of his "Eat Your Veggies" sandwich, "Wow, that's weird! A veggie sandwich with no tomatoes."

Freaky. 

Why Can't I See My Potato?

I just got my insurance physical to reassure those soulless number-crunching bastards that I don’t have any pesky pre-existing conditions—like a heartbeat or occasional gas…or God forbid, BOTH. 

After every check-up, I hear another rusty nail being hammered into my coffin of denial drowning out my shouts of, “Back off, Reaper Dude! I’m not that old yet!”

During my exam, the 12-year-old Nurse Practitioner (a.k.a. Dr. Quinn, Medicine Child) took my blood pressure and babbled on about prescribing “her new fave BP med” to help with the one I’m already taking.

Great.  Please add another pill to the ones currently bursting out of my daily Pill Minder.  BTW, these are meds I can only recognize by their varied geometric shapes and pastel colors…kind of like a grown-up version of “Garanimals… Garani-Pills!

Okay, now Cindy-Lou-Who-Nurse-Practioner is gazing into my left ear with that ear-thing-a-ma-jig. I breathed a much-needed sigh of relief.  No one has ever found anything wrong using that ear-thing-a-ma-jig.

I was silently cursing my blood pressure update when I heard her Tinker-Bell-Just-Turned-30 voice, “Hmmm… there seems to be something in your ear.” 

Wait. Didn’t she just read that last paragraph?

“Something in my ear…like what? An earworm?  Please just tell me it’s not “ABBA!”

BTW, in my will I have a Do Not Resuscitate, (DNR) ) in case any ABBA song was to lodge itself in my ears.  I'll pull the plug myself if I hear even the opening notes of “Mamma Mia.”

“Nope. Not an earworm,” said the adorable toddler wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope.

“A growth? No way. What in God’s name ever grows in anyone’s ear except hairballs and wax?  Oh! Oh, wait!  I bet it’s one of my wax earplugs—thank you snoring husband. I could only find one this morning when I made the bed. I looked everywhere.  Sometimes I find them stuck in my hair. Gross, right?”

“Sorry. It’s a growth, I’m totally sure. I’m going to refer you to an ENT doc. And, I totally suggest you get a hearing test while you’re there.”

I totally called the ENT for an appointment on my way to my annual eye exam.

  

I read the eye chart at 20-20—thank you, Lasik.  But, when she peered into my eyes with her eye thing-a-ma-jig she had some concerns.

“The optic nerves can get larger with age.” 

Fuck.

I made an appointment for a glaucoma test and headed off to meet my husband for dinner.

I regaled him with the various enlarged things growing inside me as he flagged the waiter over to order drinks.

“Sweetie, I’m sure you’re overreacting.”

“What?” I said a bit too loudly.  “Speak up. I have a growth in my ear.”

I fished my reading glasses out of my purse and perused the menu.

“To hell with my high cholesterol, I’m ordering a steak medium rare with creamed spinach and a baked potato. You only die once,” I joked trying to recover my aging sense of humor.

I put away my glasses as the waiter arrived with our dinners. 

Bob offered a toast, “May this dinner be just what the doctor ordered! To your health, sweetie.”

Clink. Clink.

I grabbed my knife and fork to dig in.  That’s when I realized something was not quite right.

“Bob! Bob! I can’t see my potato. Why can’t I see my potato?”

“Marianne, it’s pretty hard to miss a baked potato.”

I picked up my plate and held it out in front of me.

“Do you see it?  Is it there?”

“Yes, Marianne.  It’s bigger than your steak.” 

“Are you sure?  Oh, wow. There it is! It’s huge. I’ll never finish it.”

He shook his head, "Are you, done? Can we eat now?” 

I sniffled back tears and retrieved my dinner.

“I’m sorry, Bob. I knew I couldn’t read my menu without my glasses but I… I never thought I’d need them to…to…read. My. Potato.”

With that, I quietly sobbed into my napkin, then dabbed my eyes and put my reading glasses back on.

It really was a lovely potato. 

Comedy Writer Seeks Job As A Funeral Attendant

Photo by Rhodi Alers de Lopez on Unsplash

While looking for work as a comedy writer, I registered with online job sites “Monster” and “Indeed.” 

The algorithms they use spit out jobs based on my keywords, “Comedy” & “Writer,” that are funnier than most anything I’ve written.

Here is a sampling of some jobs I’m considered qualified to do:

Cafeteria Food Service: As tempting as this one is I just can’t rock that hairnet. 

Low Voltage Technician: Perhaps this is a job requiring me to find fun ways to teach kids why they shouldn’t put a fork in the toaster?

Dermatologist:  Why not? I never went to medical school but I could write funny Excema prescriptions. “Apply cream on the affected area twice daily while patting your head & rubbing your stomach. It won’t cure your rash but it will take your mind off of it for a few minutes.” 

US Navy Surface Warfare Officer:  Something tells me these folks found out I dated a Navy Midshipman in the ’70s.  That certainly qualifies me for this job since I was in high school, he was in college, and I wouldn’t let him go below the surface. Guess it was kinda like warfare. 

However, the winner in future job suggestions came from the “Ohio Means Jobs” career assessment questionnaire. According to my answers, I’d make a great “Funeral Attendant.” 

I generally don’t find funerals funny. But I was morbidly curious why I qualify to be a Funeral Attendant. I assumed this job wasn’t for someone who merely attended funerals—like a seat filler at the Emmys. 

I found out that Funeral Attendants are responsible for placing the casket in its proper place; arranging floral offerings or lights around the casket; directing or escorting mourners; closing the casket, and storing funeral equipment.

Nothing about this job involves comedy... or, does it?

Perhaps I could tell jokes about a wailing Italian Grandma trying to climb into Grandpa's casket. Although this might sound like a macabre scene from "The Godfather,"  I actually witnessed this at age nine at my own Grandpa's funeral.   Hmm, "tragedy plus time equals comedy?"  Would have worked in "Moonstruck."

Okay, here's a making funerals funny option! How about me playing "Truth or Dare" with the pallbearers?  TRUTH:  Did you ever get a cramp and drop a casket?"  DARE:  Did you ever think about... (Okay, let's skip this one.)

Finally, how about me as Funeral Attendant who pulls my master "Martha Stewart" impression and loudly berates the Funeral Director for serving stale cookies and lukewarm coffee to the bereaved?  Can't you just hear her screaming, "If this person weren't dead they would be after choking on these expired Chips Ahoy! Or they would have died from the shits after drinking this Folgers crap coffee you're serving. NOT a GOOD THING!"

I'm pretty sure none of the above is going to happen--but you never know.  

Apparently, the only real criteria to be a Funeral Attendant is, ironically, being a warm body.  

Maybe it’s time to reconsider that hair net.  

ID 51445354 © Cory Thoman | Dreamstime.com

NORTON’S CHRISTMAS POEM

Click to hear Norton read!

 ‘Tis the night before Christmas and now that I’m three

The ornaments don’t look as tasty to me.

The ones at the bottom are safe from my jaws

But, oops, my big Lab tail some damage might cause!

The gifts are all tagged for humans ...I see.

So, if I get bupkiss— on this tree, I’ll pee.

My Mom might not like it— her carpets so clean.

 So, I’ll blame it on Stanley! (Don’t care if it’s mean.)

Hey, Santa, I swear I’m man’s best-ever Bub...

Always upside-down for my belly-up rubs.

I’ll try not spend Christmas begging for treats...

Like cookies & chew toys and meat! Lots of meat!

May Santa’s love bring you the stuff you desire...

And, hopefully boozed up eggnog by a fire.

May reindeer drop presents that are tied with a bow

 (and not drop the “other” kind you see in the snow.)

May your Christmas be Merry! May your heart be light!

(And, may your drunk uncle not cause a fist fight!)

May you be surrounded by those you hold dear...

And, may this new Christmas Day bring you good cheer.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a Woof Night!

Marianne, Bob, Norton and Stanley

The Macy's Day Charade

The Macy’s Day Parade has jumped the shark… or I should say, jumped the duck. The AFLAC duck that is.

From the moment the over-caffeinated “Today Show” team burst on to my TV screen for this must-see Thanksgiving ritual so began a three-hour parade of promotions for all things NBC, shows, sponsors, Tina Fey.  

This has always been part of the parade but now it has become the parade.

Savannah Guthrie, Hoda Kotb and Al Roker wore their best beauty queen smiles as they shilled in the chilled weather for their 30 Rock bosses and their bosses’ bosses—advertisers.

I actually feel a bit sorry for the “Today” crew.  After getting up 5 days a week hours before the ass crack of dawn you know they’d rather be home snug in bed waiting for their private chefs to arrive.  But, the show must go on.

Here are some of the ridiculous highlights of the Macy’s Day Charade :

1. Acapella stars, “Pentatonix,” perched on the Entenmann’s float surrounded by badly dancing donuts, cupcakes and pastries while they sing the melancholy “Where Are You Christmas?” Sugar and misery, anyone?

2. NBC TV stars’ sharing Thanksgiving memories. Most sounded like auditions for a Nicholas Sparks movie. “I remember Mom (insert sniffle), —when she was with us (insert lip bite, wince) …dropping the turkey when I walked in the door. “Bless the Lord,  you’re home! You’re really home!”  (insert turkey baster wherever needed, wince.)

3.  Diana Ross’ singing wig. Diva Diana’s hair was as big as a float and it kept floating in front of her face. NBC isn’t even sure it was actually Diana Ross. They are suing her wig for fraud.

4.  The “Jolly Green Giant” float which was surrounded by grown adults dressed as corn on the cob. Does anyone over the age of four believe these idiots are actually corn?

5.  Marching bands SUCK.  One band gets the gig. ONE BAND. It would shave a good two hours off of this horror show.

6.  Rockettes. It was 19 degrees outside. For the love of God, get those gals’ gams some goddamned leg warmers & play some “Flashdance.” I don’t care what the crazy “leg guys” want.

1. 

7.  Rita Ora missing her lip sync cue. She was obviously distracted by having to sing “wanting to have slept with you” on the whimsically colorful “Crazy Glue” float.

8.  The Today Show’s resident clown, Al Roker, on a motorcycle being chased by real clowns. At this point I took a break to baste the turkey.

9.  Back to the fAFLAC duck float. Are you kidding me, NBC? Even the former AFLAC duck, Gilbert Gottfried, would agree this is too much. (Google “Gottfried Tsunami joke” if you need a reference.)

10.  The ubiquitous Dwayne Johnson plugging The Titan Games and referring to Thanksgiving as the “ultimate cheat day.”  Yes, we love you, Rock, but don’t pass the gluttony guilt. Just pass the goddamned gravy.

The Macy’s Charade 2018.  NBC’s most successful comedy.  

I can’t wait to watch it again next year.

I Never Met A Shirt I Couldn’t Stain

I have a real problem. Or, maybe it’s an actual skill that I’ve been training for all of my life.

Whichever it is, it’s something my husband refers to as “remarkable.” 

Friends, family and occasional strangers are forever pointing out random, and sometimes inexplicable,  stains on most of my shirts.  I’m not a sloppy person, per se, but I have an uncanny ability to propel food from its container, my plate, my fork, my fingers onto my clothing. Hell, I’ve even had other people’s food go airborne finding a safe landing dead center on me. Sometimes I think I should just wear a tasteful tarp. They’re cheap, disposable and can be quite fashionable when cinched at the waist. 

The forensic evidence of my one-woman food fight is clear when I pick up the dry cleaning. Without fail several of my shirts come back with that little, “WE ARE SORRY BUT…” tags around the hanger. 

The tag is pretty humiliating.  After the “WE ARE SORRY BUT…” it goes on to say, “We’ve tried and tried but we find that the stains on this garment cannot be removed without possible injury to the color or fabric.” 

But what that tiny tag really implies is “We’re sorry, but quite frankly, you are the biggest slob of all of our customers. However, we do appreciate your stain business. Good luck at your next meal.”  

One time when at least a half a dozen of these tags came back with the cleaning my husband posted it on Facebook with the caption, “One week of Marianne’s dry cleaning and six of these tags. Remarkable.”

I know why food constantly finds its way on to my clothing. It’s hereditary. I got this from my Dad.

Growing up we constantly teased him about the food stains, usually Italian red sauce, which constantly adorned his shirts. One night after a linguini marinara dinner my brothers and I gave him a round of applause because not one drop landed on his shirt. He was so proud he grabbed his tie and held it up with a flourish exclaiming, “Ta Da!!” And there it was. A fresh greasy dab of marinara sauce under his tie.  Now, that takes some spill skill.

I rarely even know when stains are on me. I remember chatting with Bob while making him a late morning breakfast. I’d had mine hours ago. He stopped in mid-conversation to ask, “What is that?” as he pointed to my chest.

I looked down to see a blob of dried egg yolk dead center in the v-neck of my fresh white tee shirt. “Well, at least I won’t be getting one of those tags from the dry cleaners!” I said as I washed it off. 

Needless to say, that same shirt did not make it through lunch.

Remarkable.

SQUIRRELS AND SQUIRRELS AND BATS, OH MY!

SQUIRRELS AND SQUIRRELS AND BATS, OH MY!

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!
Squirrel-night
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...

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.

###

I'm Too Loud for Golf

10/07/18

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.

“Volleyball?” 

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

“Zumba?”

“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.