Yes, I Am 12…and Not in Dog Years

I‘ll admit it. I’m not the most sophisticated when it comes to humor. Frankly, I am 12.

Oh, I can grasp and laugh at Dennis Miller’s obscure metaphors 90% of the time–admittedly with a little help from Wikipedia. I revel in the clever comedy stylings of Christopher Guest, Monty Python and The League of Gentlemen…but it’s the really immature stuff that sucker punches me. Blazing Saddles. Kathy Griffin. Pee Wee Herman.

What does it say about me that I can’t sit in a board meeting and hear the word “titillate” without smirking? When someone lets go of a squeaker in church, I’m a goner. I’ll admit, I even snuck in a quote about farting when the Wall Street Journal interviewed me a few years back. While I haven’t researched this carefully, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume I’m the very first.

Yes, I am 12.

This has made parenting a six-year-old boy an enormous challenge for me. My “pause laughter” button has never materialized. I spontaneously erupt at his every precocious declaration and sound effect. This is doing neither me, my husband nor my son any favors. I might as well be telegraphing, “Want to avoid disciplinary action? Just make that well-timed comment or fart sound!”

I’m so lucky to have a mature partner in this parenting endeavor–my husband Dave. That’s right. The comic book artist is the mature one in this dynamic duo. Who’d have thunk it? Like my BFF, the brilliant prankster Christina Bouvier whom I’ve mentioned in previous posts, Dave has somehow trained his facial muscles to hide his gut reaction. This comes in handy on occasions like last Friday, when our son informed us in his wide-eyed innocence that “cows have gutters.” Dave’s a true poker face.

Here’s just one example: Once upon a time not long ago, Dave and I stood together in a long checkout line at Lowe’s. Deep within the bowels of my hobo bag, I had forgotten about my new key chain…the one with the cursing man sound chip fob. I never meant to actually use it in public. It was one of those impulse buys I intended to use on Bouvier. It seems my wallet shifted inside of there and jammed the key fob’s talk button. “You’re an A-hole! You’re an A-hole! You’re an A-hole! Eff you, Eff you, Eff you!” the key chain chirped incessantly…and loudly. People in other checkout lines were staring me down. My purse was plagued with Tourette’s Syndrome, yet Dave didn’t bat an eye.

One day my son will be 12, and we will be equals.

 

Ass Wipes Update: A Costly Lesson

Dear Gentle Readers,

As you may recall, my husband Dave and I are in a friendly–and occasionally heated–disagreement over using wet wipes v. toilet paper. (Reference one of my previous blog entries, which garnered the greatest amount of comments.) Team Dave errs on the side of toilet paper. Team Denise and my loyal apprentice Jack err on the side of spotless, sparkling assholes. This morning, Pat Hickey, our favorite plumber from Platinum Plumbing in Elburn, IL  struck a single-handed blow to Team Denise. Team Dave is now safely and smugly heading toward his victory lap.

Let me just jump back 24 hours to demonstrate for you how weirdly coincidental my life is. I received a surprise $500 check yesterday for a social media consulting job I did.  That check wasn’t supposed to come until 2011. I was out celebrating the surprise check when the sci-fi ring tone on my iPhone announced a call from Team Dave. It seemed that our ejector pump in the bathroom of Dave’s art studio was D.O.A. This meant raw sewage was puddling up onto the floor in his bathroom. I said a silent prayer of thanks we decided to slate tile that floor. First, Dave had to reassure me that it was only OUR raw sewage. The idea of other people’s raw sewage just made me gag. I mentally calculated how many gallons of bleach we had on hand. When I returned home, I realized no amount of fried bacon could mask the toxic stench. It was like getting a “Dutch Oven” from Sasquatch. And Pat the Plumber couldn’t get here until 7 a.m. the next morning. (We did learn that Jewel has buy one, get one free scented candles, if you’re in the market…)

There are four categories  of people that I love, love, love to chew the fat with – nurses, undertakers, law enforcement and plumbers. I know. I’m weird. You don’t have to tell me. So before proffering my check this morning ($438 of my $500)  I made our poor plumber regale me with his Top 10 Tales of the Grotesque. It was pretty damned satisfying stuff. I’ll just share the highlights. There are two things he wanted you, my Gentle Snowflakes, to know:

#1. Ass wipes clog toilets and septic systems. Those fluffy little clouds of unicorn tears were the culprit of our ejector pump’s early retirement. There were only 4 in there, but that was all it took. (None were Dave’s, he might want me to point out.) Pat explained that using the wipes on the first and second floor of our home would be safer, but was still ill advised. He has seen entire septic systems clogged with these wipes. (Naturally, I raced to Google these terms: “safe, biodegradable wet wipes.” Cottonelle brand came up right away, with snazzy marketing speak about all of the testing proving their biodegradability. Dave and Pat remained unmoved by my closing argument.  Even BFF Christina Bouvier chided me that Jack and I had better “man up.”)

#2. You cannot flush tampons. Never, ever. I wish I could tell you the hilarious story Pat shared with me about this, but it’s probably best I don’t. It may have involved an all girls’ school with a head mistress who insisted they had never flushed tampons there…but that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Yours in safer septic systems,

Denise

 

 

I’m NOT One of the Top 50 Mommy Bloggers…But Who’s Counting?!?

So today they announced the Top 50 Mommy Bloggers. Apparently I haven’t done enough drinking and bribing with the judges.  That’s okay. I appreciate all of you, my gentle snowflakes. Each and every one of you.

A little Facebook exchange today reminded me to share with you one of my favorite practical jokes. I executed this operation when I was first getting to know Dave’s family. I had just moved to Shalimar, Florida and it was right around the holidays. Dave’s brother Jeff, sister-in-law Vicky, niece Stephanie and nephew John came down to celebrate with us and Dave’s father, USAF Lieutenant Colonel Jack Dorman.  Dave’s niece Stephanie and I hit the mall for some Christmas shopping and happened upon one of my favorite practical joke prop stores of all time (cue up the choir of angels): Spencer’s Gifts.

While perusing Spencer’s, I discovered the most delicious x-rated fortune cookies. As luck would have it (no pun intended), the whole family was going to Dave’s favorite Chinese restaurant that very evening. Stephanie and I were just buzzing with anticipation.

We arrived at the Chinese restaurant and ever-so-casually pulled the server aside and asked her to serve our fortune cookies. I don’t know about your family, but our tradition is that everyone reads their fortune aloud at the end of the meal. Like many ugly Americans, when little ears aren’t present, we end the fortune with the words “in bed” or “between the sheets.” This particular night, we all held off on that tradition to be more appropriate in a public place.

I’d give anything to recall the entire fortune-reading-aloud segment, but all that I can really remember is Dave’s brother Jeff reading, “Tight butts drive me nuts…?!?” as he looked up quizzically with a half-smile on his face. Everyone raced to open their fortune cookies and read them. Dave got really pissed and declared to the server, “What kind of fortune cookies are you serving here?!?” and then he saw it: the tears of laughter rolling down mine and Stephanie’s faces. Once again, he was the victim of my horseplay.

If pranks don’t come naturally to you, I recommend that you, too, peruse Spencer’s Gifts. The props there are downright inspirational. And when you pull your prank, please share it with me here or email me at denise@writebrainmedia.com. I can always use a good laugh.