Ruthi Postow Birch's Blog, page 6

How to Keep Love Alive — Laugh

People ask, “How do you keep love alive?” What they really want to know is if it’s more trouble than it’s worth. If you really want an answer — this afternoon I was in the garden with my two loves, Ron, my husband and a Wheaten terrier named Mr. Magoo. And we were laughing.

SCENE 1 — You Are What You Eat?

If that’s true, Mr. Magoo is a block of wood, a sneaker, five cicadas, four rolls of toilet paper, a bar of soap, asphalt roofing tiles, three sponges, a plastic flower pot, seven dog toys, and the mail — including a check from the IRS. (After the IRS letter, I thought Ron might kill him.)

Mr. Magoo’s rule is this — if he can reach it and can get it in his mouth, he should eat it. Once I remove the danger, what can I do but laugh? He’s funny.

SCENE 2 — A Six-Foot Man in a Five-Foot World – Keep Love Alive

I can trust Ron not to eat the mail or cicadas. But Ron is a six-foot man living in a five-foot world. Keeping him safe from tree limbs, pipes, sharp edges, hot stoves, and other immovable objects ready to whack him is a never-ending job.

Ron was bleeding again — I could tell from the bang in the kitchen — followed by a scream, “Dammit!”

He was standing by the sink holding a wet linen napkin to his head when I got to the kitchen. He took the towel away to show me the gash.

“So the range hood got you again, huh? That thing is relentless.” (We’ve lived in this house with that same hood for nearly ten years. It hasn’t moved.)

“I was bending down to check the spaghetti sauce. The sharp edges…. How bad is it?”

I wiped the blood away and looked. “It’s not as bad as some but it looks like it hurts.”

“That hood is dangerous. I’m replacing it.”

“Fine. Replace it. But for now let’s Ron-proof it.” I had an idea. I bought magnets, glued them to my measuring spoons. When I finished the hood was ringed with dangling spoons.

“Now it can’t sneak up on you. Bend over and you’ll hit a cup or spoon and send it clanging to the floor.”

So far it’s working! A few spoons have gone airborne, but Ron hasn’t hit his head on the hood since.

SCENE 3 — He Forgot to Duck

Our house is two-hundred years old. The basement is a minefield — from low ceiling over the stairs to the low-hanging timbers, ducts, and pipes — Ron rarely comes back from there uninjured. And there is apparently no number of bumps and bruises that will convince him these objects are not at fault.

In our garden are apple blossom trees. Their branches twist and weave together to make a Zen setting. Some interlace five feet off the ground. And…

This morning Ron came in holding the top of his head — again. “Am I bleeding?”

“Let me see. What happened?”

“I went to bring in the paper. That limb!”

“Oh, did it move again?”

He glared at me. “It hurts. Look!”

“You gave yourself a good whack. I told you. Just put your hand on the branch when you go under and you won’t hit it. It works. Try it.”

“I don’t like it. I’ll just bend over.”

“You’ll just bend over?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just bend over today?”

“I was thinking about work. Anyway, it’s too low.”

“I suppose we could cut them all down.”

He gave me a dirty look. “Never mind. I’ll just bend over.”

SCENE 4 —  The World Should Be Logical and on Time – But Keep Love Alive!

Physical threats aren’t the only things that shake Ron’s world. A planner, he keeps a meticulous calendar and expects the world to keep it — ten o’clock means ten, not a minute after. He can’t understand why the world — and his wife — are unscripted, ever-changing, and spur-of-the-moment.

Ron walked in as I was on the phone. I said, “No problem. Bye,” and hung up.

“Who was on the phone?”

“The man who sprays the trees.”

“Is he on his way?”

“No. He’s coming tomorrow.”

He grabbed his calendar. “No. He’s coming today. It’s right here.”

“He changed it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me he was on the phone? I needed to talk to him.”

“There was nothing to talk about. He changed the time.”

“Why did he change it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t ask. It doesn’t matter. He’s coming tomorrow. The trees won’t mind.”

“It matters. What time tomorrow?”

“I don’t know — tomorrow.”

“I can’t stay home all day to wait for him.”

“Don’t stay. He doesn’t need your help.”

“In the future, tell me when he calls.”

“Fine.”

“Did you write the check for him?”

“It’s on the desk.”

“Did you record it?”

“Yes.”

He looked in his checkbook. “You didn’t subtract.”

“No.”

“How will we keep up with how much money is in the account?”

“Call the bank. I’ll bet they have people — like Oompa-Loompas — who do nothing all day but subtract.”

SCENE 5 — Enter Mr. Magoo

Just then, Mr. Magoo came in carrying Ron’s lightly-chewed new shoe. When he saw us, he dropped the shoe and settled down at Ron’s feet, the totally innocent dog.

Ron snapped, “Bad dog.”

Mr. Magoo looked into his eyes with the most love ever given in a look.

Exit laughing.

Laughing is one way we keep love alive and we have a lot to laugh at. Mr. Magoo, the unruly free spirit, is funny — when I’m not trying to keep him alive. Ron is the most brilliant and fascinating man I’ve ever known. He’s funny because with his ironclad grasp of the law, logic, Shakespeare, and prime numbers, there’s no room left in his brain for keeping up with pipes and limbs. And I … I’m the unscripted straight man.

By Ruthi Birch
8/16

The post How to Keep Love Alive — Laugh appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.

Childhood Adventures – An August Day With Nothing To Do

It was a sticky-hot South Alabama afternoon in August, and I was seven years old. I sat on our front steps with my chin in my hands — miserable. There weren’t going to be any childhood adventures that day. I couldn’t go swimming because Mama had to work. My friends weren’t home. There was nothing to do.

I got up and walked up to Smith’s store and watched the butcher cut meat — that’s not as much fun as it sounds.

A Dazzling Childhood Adventure

Looking for something — anything — that wasn’t boring, I wandered up Petain Street. I thought of the lopsided shotgun house that perched unsteadily over the ditch. Nobody lived there. Exploring it might be fun.

When I got to the house, I heard someone calling, “Hello. You there, hello.”

I looked up and down the sidewalk. There wasn’t anybody.

I heard it again. “Hello. I’m up here. Hello.” I looked at the house. There was a lady sitting on the porch. And she was waving — at me.

“Hello. If you don’t have anything to do, come on up a sit a spell.”

I had else nothing to do, so I went.

[This was a different time of course — and a different place. Children had the freedom of safety. I never gave a second thought to sitting on the stranger’s rickety front steps and talking.]

As I came closer, I could see there was a real good chance this would not be boring. The lady didn’t look like anybody I’d ever seen. She looked like an adventure!

The Lady Looked Like a Childhood Adventure!

She was old — as old as Grandmama and even more wrinkled. But nothing else about her was like my grandmama. Her hair was so red it was almost purple. It was piled up on her head and held by a glittery butterfly hairpin. And she had on red, red lipstick! And rouge!

She didn’t move like Grandmama either — she sprang up and kind of skipped across the porch to meet me.

“How do you do? I’m Dottie Stone,” she said. She stuck out her hand and shook mine — just like I was grown.

“I’m real pleased to meet you. I just moved here.” She threw her hands in the air. “And you are my very first friend. So you should tell me about yourself.”

“Okay. Uh … my name is Ruthi. I’m seven years old — almost eight. I live with Mama, and Daddy, and Grandmama at 13 East Petain Street — I’ve lived there almost all my life. Uh … and I go to Turnerville Elementary School. I’ll be starting third grade.”

“That’s a fine start. Now I’ll tell you about me. Then we’ll have things to talk about.”

Chicago — The Grandest City!

“First of all, I’m from Chicago, Illinois. Have you been there?”

I shook my head.

“Well, you should go. It’s a grand city. Everything is big!”

As she talked her hands danced. She waved and poked them — then held them in front of her with fingers spread wide like she was making a frame for the picture she was painting.

The woman’s face changed too. Her wrinkles crinkled and stretched. Her mouth was a wide grin one minute and gaping with amazement the next. And her eyes — they sparked. They grew huge with wonder, then squinted like she was pulling up a long-ago memory. It was like watching a color cartoon.

“Chicago sits on a lake so big you’d think it was the ocean — like it goes on forever.”

I’d never seen an ocean but I’d seen Mobile Bay. It looks like it goes on forever. I thought her lake must be like that.

“And you’ve never seen such tall buildings. How do I tell you? You’ve seen the Van Antwerp Building in Mobile?

I nodded.

“Chicago has buildings five times as tall. Maybe that’s why they call it the ‘city with big shoulders.’”

I wasn’t sure about that. Daddy told me the Van Antwerp Building was a skyscraper —with eleven stories!

I said, “Really? They don’t fall over?”

She laughed. “They don’t fall, but they do whistle and wail when the wind blows through. And Chicago’s winds are famous. It’s called the windy city.”

“And the big shoulders city?”

“Yep. Big shoulders, winds, and crowds of people, and cars. But you don’t have to drive. Just take the L — its trains run on tracks above the city.”

A train up in the air? I doubted it. But it sounded exciting even if it wasn’t true.

Dottie Stone looked up to the sky like she was seeing it. She went on talking until I could hear the hundreds of horns blaring and the winds humming and whistling through towering buildings. And I could see people rushing in all directions, holding their hats and struggling with umbrellas turned inside out.

“Enough about that. It’s your turn again. Tell me more about you. What’s your favorite game?”

“Play like. I like to dress up and play like I’m somebody — a cowgirl or a dancer in a show.”

Dancing and Adventures

“Isn’t that a fine twist? We’ve already found something in common. I was a dancer.”

“On a stage?”

“No. I danced in big ballrooms with orchestras. Chicago has lots of them. Young men go there to dance with a pretty girl — that was me. I’d get all dolled up in my prettiest dress and the young men would come and pay to dance with me.”

“They’d pay you to dance?”

“Yes. Of course, it was a few years ago. I’ve always been light on my feet — still am. I had the most dances because I was very popular. I was the prettiest girl there.”

“You were?” I said — too quickly, but she didn’t seem to get it. She had already jumped up and was dancing.

She moved and whirled to a beat only she could hear. Then she dropped into her chair. “Whew! That was fun. But I can’t keep up as I used to. Once I could foxtrot all night long.”

A Lady with a Tattoo?

“It was a grand time — a time of adventures. That’s why I got the tattoo — a remembrance of my adventures.”

“You have a tattoo?” Daddy had a tattoo of an Indian chief on his arm but I never knew a woman to have a tattoo.

“I do. Look here.” She took off her shoe. And she did! She did have a tattoo — a butterfly right on the top of her foot. I thought it would be brighter.

“Butterflies are free spirits — like me.” She touched her hairpin. “They’re my signature.”

“How did they do it?”

“The tattoo artist used needles to put the color under my skin.”

Needles? No way! But I asked, “Does it hurt?”

“Some. But it was another adventure and I think adventures are important. Don’t you?”

“Yes!”

Just then, I saw Mama drive by on her way home. The afternoon had gone too fast. I whined, “I have to go home for supper. I wish I could stay.”

“But isn’t it good you came my way? We’re friends now, so you’ll have to visit again.”

The next day was Sunday. We were going to church and Mama was taking me swimming. But I said, “I’ll come Monday. I promise.”

Time for My Next Adventure

Monday morning finally came. I ran back to the shotgun house. But Dottie Stone was gone. I guessed she’d found a nicer house. But now I had another whole day with nothing to do. I tried roller-skating.

But I’d lost my skate key. I couldn’t tighten the skates around my shoes, so as soon as I lifted my foot, the skates pulled apart, flew around, and banged into my ankle. It hurt.

I went back to the shotgun house and sat on the rickety steps. I thought about Dottie Stone — the funny lady who loved adventures. She’d turned a day when there was nothing to do into a childhood adventure for me.

I whispered a promise to myself. “When I grow up I’ll have lots of adventures — and I’ll go see for myself the city with giant buildings, and trains in the air, and a lake as big as an ocean.”

By Ruthi Birch
8/2

The post Childhood Adventures – An August Day With Nothing To Do appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.

Interviews With The Boss — Stories From The HR Department #3

Ms. Ophelia Rittendon was laughing. People in the HR department turned to stare at their manager. She didn’t usually laugh after hearing from candidates after their interviews with a boss — most any boss. In fact, it was well known that bosses were the thorns in Ms. Rittendon’s side — especially when they interviewed potential employees. She never knew what weird, often awful, things she would hear.

This time Ms. Rittendon was laughing because the candidate’s description of her interview with Mr. Wade was actually funny. He hadn’t asked inappropriate questions. He hadn’t insulted her. He’d just ironed.

“It was a first for me,” said the candidate. “I was answering a question about my experience. Suddenly he jumped up, said ‘Excuse me,’ and rushed to the closet. He took out an ironing board, opened it, and started ironing a jacket.

“‘Please go on with what you were saying,” he said. I’m listening. I have to iron my jacket. It got crushed on the train and I have a client luncheon right after this.’ So, we went on. After we finished, he said he liked my experience and would call you after the luncheon.”

Ms. Rittendon, smiling and shaking her head, asked, “What must you have thought?”

“Will I get the job if I offer to iron? That was my first thought.”

The Short — But Not Sweet — Interview

In another HR department, another manager was not laughing. Maxine was not laughing because of the behavior of the seventy-something years old CEO and founder of the company. Maxine had arranged for him to interview a conservatively dressed, middle-aged candidate to be his assistant. When she arrived in his office, in her words, “He took one look at me and obviously did not like what he saw. The interview took less than a minute. He said:

‘Leave. I am not hiring you.’

“Oh? May I ask why?”

‘I am looking to hire a decent woman, and you’re clearly not decent!’

“What? I’m sorry? Why would you say that?”

‘Because your knees are not bruised from kneeling on the floor in prayer.’

He Should Know Better!

“This is a law firm, dammit! You’re supposed to know something about the law!” Addilyn ranted, behind the closed door of her office after the job candidate left. She banged her fist on her desk. Good legal secretaries were hard to find. But the senior partner drove them away faster than she could recruit them. She wanted to tell him, “What you did is not only illegal, it’s bad manners.”

It wasn’t the first time this partner had careened across the line. After his last fiasco, she thought he couldn’t do worse, but today he one-upped himself — and blew away yet another qualified candidate for his legal secretarial position.

Addilyn replayed in her head the woman’s blow-by-blow account of the interview. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the job. He asked some unusual questions. I don’t think he liked all of my answers.”

‘How old are you?’

“I … uh … have seven years of office experience.”

‘Yes, fine, fine, but how old are you?’

“(sigh) Twenty-six.”

‘Are you married?’

“No.”

‘Are you planning to get married?’

“I … I don’t have plans right now, but …..”

‘Fine, fine, but if you do get married, how soon will you get pregnant?’

“Sorry. My mother told me to never answer what-if questions.”

[Actually, this interview happened in the 1980s — although it was already illegal to discriminate. Luckily, it couldn’t happen today — or could it?]It Can’t Happen Today?

Mr. Ripley was depressed.

The woman who sat in Mr. Ripley’s office had just finished an interview with one of the c-suite executives. Her first words were, “Mr. Wilson’s approach to interviewing is different.”

Mr. Ripley knew trouble was coming his way. “Oh?” he asked.

“Yes. You probably want to know what I mean by that.”

Mr. Ripley didn’t want to know. “Yes. Please tell me.”

“First question, ‘Are you pregnant?’”

“No!” yelped Mr. Ripley. “I’m sorry. I want you to know this company has a firm policy about discrimination.” His voice rose higher until he sounded a little like Barney Fife. “We have a compliance committee!”

“I’m sure he didn’t like my answer. I told him I didn’t think it was relevant. HR rolled his eyes and went right on to his next question.

‘Okay. Well, are you on antidepressants?’

“I’m afraid I snapped, ‘What century are you living in? Don’t you know you’re not supposed to ask these questions?’ But it didn’t stop him.

“‘I need to know! I’m not hiring you if you’re pregnant or on drugs.’”

Mr. Ripley opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he threw up his hands as in surrender and said, “All I can say is I’m sorry. I sincerely apologize. I ….”

The woman laughed.

“Don’t worry. It was so bad it could have been a comedy act. It gives me a great story to tell!”

Poor Mr. Ripley. Other than, “I’m calling my lawyer,” those are the last words an HR professional wants to hear.

“Bosses are loose cannons, and their shells always land on my desk,” to quote Ms. Ophelia Rittendon. “And the bigger the ego, the better the chance for any interviews with the boss to explode.” 

By Ruthi Birch
7/15

The post Interviews With The Boss — Stories From The HR Department #3 appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.

Tempests in Teapots & More Old Southern Sayings

I loved to listen when the grown-ups talked — especially my sharp-tongued grandmama. She used even ordinary words in unexpected ways so they painted pictures. Plus, her stories were peppered with old Southern sayings — tempests and teapots, strutting banty roosters, mad wet hens, sleeping possums, and senseless geese.

Turnip Greens and Gossip: Old Southern Sayings

One summer afternoon Grandmama and Aunt Vivian came out to sit on the porch and “look” the turnip greens. Looking greens meant just that. Pick up one leaf at a time from the dishpans full of greens on your lap, and look it for every little worm hiding there — worms almost the same color as the greens. I decided when I grew up I’d never eat turnip greens if I had to look them.

I crept up to sit on the steps, quiet as a mouse to listen.

“That no-account Boone boy is back in town,” said Grandmama. “I saw him the other day. He was strutting up the street like a Banty rooster and sporting a pricy new suit of clothes — just like his sorry daddy used to. I reckoned he was going up to catch the bus to Mobile to find some mischief to get into.”

“I recollect him bragging about getting a big job down in Biloxi,” said Aunt Vivian.

“Aw, pshaw. Big job! He was talking through his hat and I never did believe it. But whatever kind of job it was, he must have gotten himself fired from it. He’s back here living off his mama.”

“Poor old Suzy, bless her heart,” said Aunt Vivian. “Since that sorry old man of hers ran off, she’s had to work her fingers to the bone. Then she gives her money to that sorry boy of hers so he can carry on like he’s somebody — while she lives on red beans and hoe bread.”

“He’s spoiled as month-old milk. Too bad his mama can’t smell.”

When she said that, I laughed out loud before I could stop myself. Grandmama’s head snapped around. When she saw me there, listening, she shooed me off to do chores. “You left your play pretties strewn all over the living room. Go in and pick them up.” And that was the end of stories for me that day.

“Ooooh Booger!”

Grandmama was making molasses teacakes. I sat on the stool watching her cut circles in the dough with a big water glass — so I could gobble up the dough left between the circles.

The back door swung open with a thud and my Uncle Stanley came bounding in. He looked a mess — with a dirt and grease-streaked face, oil-covered coveralls, and boots caked with thick mud. He said, “Ma, I came to see you,” and came straight at Grandmama with his arms stretched out for a hug.

“Ooooh Booger! Get away. Don’t you touch me!” snapped Grandmama, holding her hands in front of her.

He looked down at his clothes, as though he hadn’t known he was dirty. His face turned red under the grime.

“Aw, Mama, I’ve been down at Chickasabogue Creek helping Jack fix his boat. I was so close by. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Well, I’d be right happy if you didn’t look like who shot Lizzie. Go on home. Next time you even think about hugging me, stop what you’re doing and take a bath.”

“Alright, Mama. I’ll come on Sunday and I’ll be clean and shiny as a new penny.” He turned to go, but his muddy boot slipped on some cookie dough that had fallen on the floor. He banged his shin on the stool and yelled, “Sh%&!”

“Ooh, ooh, ooh. I sure wouldn’t hold in my hand what you just had in your mouth.”

He laughed and started out, faking a limp and laying it on thick. When he got to the door, he looked back over his shoulder to make sure Grandmama was watching.

The Neighbor Who Hated Hopscotch

Grandmama and I were sitting in the porch swing looking at her old photographs when Mrs. Andrews, our across-the-street neighbor, came out of her house carrying a bucket. She was harrumphing and stomping down the steps so hard water sloshed out of the bucket.

“Wonder what she’s lathered up about this time,” whispered Grandmama.

I knew. She was mad at Sandra and me for playing hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of her house. But we had to because there wasn’t a sidewalk on our side of the street. And the chalk would wash off in the rain — and it rained pretty much every other day. Mrs. Andrews was always getting mad and yelling at us for something.

When she saw us, she called out, “Miz Simmons, I wish you’d just look at this mess. I’ve told your girl not to draw her game on my sidewalk. She never minds.”

I whispered, “It’s the city’s sidewalk — not hers.”

How Grandmama Got Her Goat – More Old Southern Sayings

Grandmama smiled at me and got a wicked twinkle in her eye. She whispered, “Never you mind. Watch me get her goat.”

“Beg pardon,” Grandmama called back.

“I said, your granddaughter left my sidewalk a mess.”

“How’s that? You want to give me some squash? That would be mighty nice. I like squash,” called Grandmama, holding her hand to her ear.

“NO! I said I’ve told your granddaughter more times than I can count not to draw on my sidewalk.”

“What say? You sleepwalk? That’s sure enough dangerous. My second cousin sleepwalked right
off the front porch — broke his ankle. He doesn’t walk right to this day.”

“No! I do not sleepwalk!” Mrs. Andrews practically screamed. “Just tell your girl to stop drawing on my walk!”

“Oh, yes. It sure is fine to have neighborly talks. We should do it more often.”

Mrs. Andrews’ face turned red as a radish. She looked like she was about to throw a hissy fit right there. But she dashed her water on the sidewalk, stomped back into her house, and slammed the door.

Grandmama chuckled. “There she goes — brewing up a tempest in a teapot.”

That’s all of Grandmama’s gossip and Southern sayings for today. Someday I’ll have to tell you about Daddy and the man who was, “crookeder than a barrel full of snakes and twice as slippery.”

By Ruthi Birch
7/1

The post Tempests in Teapots & More Old Southern Sayings appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.

The Philandering Husband Was Really Good at Making Excuses

Joe was an associate in a large law firm in Anchorage. He was married. He loved his wife. Joe also loved other women. And he enjoyed the company of those women frequently. Joe’s wife didn’t know because Joe was really good at making excuses. In fact, when it came to making excuses, the kid with the homework-eating dog was not in Joe’s league.

He Was Doing It All for Her – Making Excuses

Joe called his wife to say he’d be coming home late — again. “I’m in night court and I may not be home till eleven.”

His wife wanted to be supportive, but this time tears came to her eyes. “Joe, it’s been every night this week. We’re losing touch with each other.”

“Please don’t make me feel guilty for working hard. I’m doing it for us — building a future for you and the kids. I need you to encourage me. I want to make partner and covering night court will get me noticed. But I think next week will be a lighter load so I’ll be home earlier.”

Joe came home for dinner every night the next week. Then the late nights started piling up again. His wife was getting suspicious. “Barry works at your firm. His wife said he rarely works past seven.”

Joe looked at her with sad puppy dog eyes.

“You asked her? Don’t you trust me? Do you think I enjoy working all these hours? What do you expect me to do — tell the senior partner my wife said I can’t cover night court?”

Joe’s wife backed down. She did trust her husband, and she knew a young attorney had to make sacrifices to get ahead. Still, it didn’t seem fair that Joe had to handle all the night court cases. She liked the partners, but she thought they were taking advantage of her husband. They weren’t considering what night court was doing to his family.

Joe’s Wife Took Her Worries to the Boss

At a firm dinner, she happened to be seated next to the senior partner. She wondered if he even knew how many nights Joe worked and decided to bring it up tactfully. She got her opening when he asked how she was adjusting to the new town.

She smiled sweetly, and said, “Oh, we all love it here. Alaska is such a beautiful place. The kids are making friends. Joe loves his job.”

“Joe’s a fine young lawyer. We’re happy to have him with us.”

She worked up her courage to go on.

“I really appreciate the opportunity you’re giving him — trusting him to handle all the night court cases. Of course, I have to admit I do miss him. The kids too — they’re usually in bed before he’s home. But I realize he’s getting valuable experience.”

“Night court? There’s no night court in Anchorage,” thought the partner, but tried to keep his thoughts off of his face.

She went on, “I was thinking it would be a blessing if some of the other attorneys could take even a few of the cases.”

The partner wasn’t getting into the middle of this. He said, “I understand. I’ll bring it up with my partners to see who’s available.”

The next day he told Joe he’d better cool it if he wanted to keep his marriage. So Joe cut back on his night-court nights for a while. But he couldn’t leave the other women for long. He started staying out one night a week, then two, then three. Then, one night he didn’t come home until the sun was peeking over the mountain. And he was drunk. And disheveled. And he had suspicious-looking red stains on his face, neck, and shirt collar.

His worried wife met him at the door. The minute she saw him her worry soured to anger. But Joe was ready for her with a lollapalooza of an excuse.

A Doozy, a Whopper, a Lollapalooza of an Excuse

“Sweetheart, I know you’re upset, but you won’t be when I explain what happened.”

She crossed her arms and waited.

“I finished court early and was headed home to surprise you. But I came upon a terrible car wreck. I felt I had to stop and help. It was awful. One poor man had lost an ear. The paramedic told me it could be saved if we could find it, so I joined the search, pawing through blackberry bushes.”

He looked to see if she was believing him before his final flourish.

“Look at me. I’m a mess! I got the berry juice all over me. I got my back scratched up too — you’ll see. Luckily, we found the ear. I’m not making excuses. When it was over I was sick. I needed a drink so I went to a bar and got drunk.”

As Joe told his story, his wife’s expression softened a little. “Whew, she bought it,” he almost said out loud.

For the next few days, Joe came home for dinner, until of course, night court started again. Then things got back to the old normal. And Joe and his wife lived… happily? Well, at least Joe’s wife lived happily ever after.

Epilogue — Joe’s Comeuppance, No More Making Excuses, & A Happy Ending

On a warm July night, Joe came home after a particularly late night court, but this time there was no need for making excuses. His house was empty — no wife, no kids, no furniture. She had cleaned out the safe and the bank account, taken the kids and the furniture, and moved to Seattle with the man she’d met while her husband was in night court.

By Ruthi Birch
6/2021

The post The Philandering Husband Was Really Good at Making Excuses appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.

No Nonsense Advice From an Old Man on a Plane

The old man twisted around in the airplane seat, trying to get comfortable. He gave up on reading the newspaper. The way he was jammed in, he couldn’t turn the pages anyway. He felt he should speak to the young woman seated uncomfortably close to him and here is No Nonsense Advice From an Old Man on a Plane.

He nodded hello and said, “These damn airlines keep shrinking the seats. Pretty soon they’ll be stacking folks like lumber.”

The woman smiled. It was a nice smile. She was a pretty girl, he thought, a redhead like his granddaughter, but a bit younger. She asked, “Are you going to Pensacola on vacation?”

“Nope. Been living thereabouts most of my life. My son wanted me to move to Charlotte, but I can’t do that. If I die when I’m off up there, God won’t know where to find me.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “My aunt lives in Pensacola. She loves it.”

“Yep. It’s a right nice place — clean and not too big. What’s bringing you down here?”

“To get a job, I hope.” She held up crossed fingers.

“I have an interview with Regions Bank tomorrow.”

“What kind of job?”

“It’s the manager of human resources. I really want it.”

“Then you go in there and you get it.”

“I want to. I’ve been studying their description.” She turned her laptop to show him.

“Okay. I’ll let you get back to it then.”

“No. Please. I’m actually happy to talk. I’ve been driving myself crazy worrying about the interview.”

“Can you do what they need doing?”

“I think so. I’m doing almost the same job now. But the recruiter told me I have a lot of competition from people with more experience. I only have four years in HR and I’ve been a supervisor for not even a year.”

“You say you’re doing that same job now?”

“Yes. But only for a few months.”

“Are you any good at it?”

“I think I am.”

“There’s no think about it. Can you do the job or not?”

“I can if I get the chance. But I’m afraid I won’t beat the competition.”

No Nonsense Advice

“If that’s the case, I tell you what you should do. When this plane lands, turn yourself around and get right back on it, and go home.”

Her head bobbed up. “What?”

“Go on home. There’s no point you taking up those folks’ time if you’re not there to get the job.”

“I’m here to try to get it.”

“Well, the way you’re carrying on about what you don’t have, they’d be damn fools to hire you. And I wouldn’t trust them with my money if they did.”

She smiled and shrugged. “I sound pretty negative, huh? I’m just anticipating them deciding I’m not strong enough.”

The old man pointed a calloused finger at her. “Tomorrow, you are going to be the only person in that room who knows what you can do. So if you don’t tell them they won’t know. And tell it without all the buts and onlys. Get them out of your mouth. You don’t have only four years of experience. You have four years.”

Her face clouded again. “I have another problem. I’m divorced and I have a little boy. I’m also afraid they won’t want me when I tell them. They’ll think I’ll take a lot of time off.”

“What? What are you gonna tell them? That you have a boy? Does your boy keep you from doing your job?”

“No. Not at all. I’ve never even used up all my sick leave. And my aunt will help me with him. But I’m afraid they won’t want to take the chance on me.”

“You’re gonna let those folks mind your business for you? Hear me and hear me good. If you don’t want folks minding your business for you, keep your damn mouth shut about it!”

She laughed. “You sound like my granddaddy.”

“Maybe I am.” His grinned. “What’s your grandmama’s name?”

“I’d better not tell you. I don’t want to find out.”

The plane landed and they walked to the baggage area together. She was going for her suitcase, but he put up a hand to stop her and snatched it off the belt. “Here you go,” he said as he set it beside her. “Now, you remember what I said. Go in there and tell those folks why they should hire you. You get that job!”

“Thank you. I obviously needed some no-nonsense advice. I’m gonna tell them what I can do.” She hugged him and almost skipped away.

The old man watched her go, then headed out. He felt a little younger than he had when he boarded the plane. He felt needed and it lifted him up. He felt a surge of strength that reminded him of the muscled and tanned young man he’d once been.

As he headed home he was thinking, remembering — seeing himself as he was when he stood in the wheelhouse of the tugboat, Norvelle, navigating around the sandbars on the Chattahoochee or making the run to Key West or New York City. He rolled down the window to feel the wind in his face.

When he came to the road home he didn’t turn. He headed his pickup toward the Port of Pensacola. There was a café there where boat captains and men from the port ate, and he had a hankering for fried fish and grits.

The old man in this story is based on my daddy and his no-nonsense advice — a quick-witted, cussing, tobacco-chewing tugboat captain and a tough, independent man even into his nineties. He took what education he had from a set of Compton’s Encyclopedias, but he was life-educated and common-sense smart — smart about people. I didn’t always want his no nonsense advice. But looking back, he never told me the wrong thing to do.

By Ruthi Birch
6/2021

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BAD BOSS STORIES FROM THE HR DEPARTMENT #2

“You won’t believe what he’s [or she’s] done now!” When you hear this line coming from the HR department, you’re guaranteed an interesting story is coming — and almost always a bad boss story. Out-of-control bosses make the HR manager the most interesting person in the room — with stories that have comedy, absurdity, drama, and too often behaviors that shock even the most war-hardened HR manager.  

MANAGING THE BOSS 

Some bosses need bosses. The professionals in the human resources department have the job. They manage bosses to keep them from hurting feelings, insulting people, breaking the law, bumbling themselves into trouble — or getting sued. It doesn’t always work. 

NOT A BAD BOSS STORY — A TOO-NICE BOSS STORY 

Allison said, “Mr. Gilbert ran into trouble with his new secretary. It wasn’t his fault. He’s the nicest man in the firm — too nice. Too open and friendly. I’ve tried to make him understand the world has changed. It’s not a good idea to make personal comments, even compliments, to the staff. He didn’t get it. His response was, ‘It never hurts to be kind.’ 

“He learned I was right the hard way. Before the new secretary started, I reminded him to keep his distance till he got to know her. And he tried. 

“The trouble came because we made a mistake in hiring her. It started her first week. The way she looked at Mr. Gilbert, jumped up when he came in, or ran to bring him coffee was — I don’t know — doting … syrupy. He was oblivious to it.  

Then, one day he paid her an innocent compliment. ” That’s a pretty dress.” The woman went from syrupy to stalker. She posed and giggled and touched his hand. He drew it away and tried to backpedal out the awkward situation. “I only noticed because it’s yellow. I’m colorblind and yellow is one of the few colors I see clearly.”  

“It didn’t help. For the next week, she wore that same dress every day. It was weird. Then she started referring to him as Big Daddy. One of the other assistants jokingly asked, “Is that your favorite dress?” 

“’I wear it because Big Daddy likes it. Whatever Big Daddy wants!’  

“She pushed ahead of the other assistants in the copy room, saying, ‘Big Daddy needs these printed out right away.’ That’s when I heard about it and told Mr. Gilbert. And that was her last day as Big Daddy’s secretary.”

 “I don’t think Mr. Gilbert will compliment anybody again, not ever, not on anything.”

 

 

 

 

 

BAD BOSSES ARE IMPORTANT. JUST ASK ONE.  

When Mr. Jackson left the meeting, Janet stood in her office doorway, staring after him and shaking her head. “That man lives at the center of the universe and everybody else is in orbit around him,” she ranted to Carl, the HR assistant.  

Carl laughed. “That was quick. I take it that it didn’t go well.”  

“No. I asked, “Frank, have you noticed that your assistant is limping and has bandages on her leg and her ankle?’ 

“Yes. But it’s okay. She’s getting the work done. So it’s not a problem. Thanks for asking. Now, I have to get to a meeting.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Then, he stood up and left.” 

“What happened to Shirley? Don’t tell me he beat her up.” 

“Almost that bad. Yesterday he called her to come into his office to go over the list of things he needed her to do. She went in with her note pad, but tripped over his basketball sneakers dropped by the door, smacked into the coffee table, twisted her ankle, and fell to the floor.” 

“He didn’t offer to help her up?”  

“Of course not! He started running his list. ‘Take these down. I need the reports on the Jackson case. Then call Jack Simmons’ assistant and set up lunch for Thursday. Order my new business cards ….’ and on and on. Still sprawled on the floor in pain, she took down his list. 

 

“Then he got up and left with her still on the floor. Luckily for Shirley — and the firm — she wasn’t badly hurt and she has a sense of humor. She told me he’s a jerk but he pays well.” 

Carl laughed. “I imagine a comment in Shirley’s annual review, ‘I was inconvenienced by having to step over Shirley to get to my meeting.’” 

WHY MS. HR HAS LAWYERS ON SPEED DIAL  

Sharon was Mr. Smith’s assistant. One morning she appeared at the human resources door. And Marcia, the HR manager suddenly felt a hot flash of dread. 

 

Sharon, a single mother who hardly ever showed emotions, was crying. She wiped her eyes and said, “I’m sorry to lose control this way.” 

“Don’t be sorry, Sharon. Tell me what happened?” 

“You know my daughter graduated last week. This morning I put her graduation picture on my desk. Mr. Smith came by and saw the picture and said, ‘Your daughter?’ 

“I said yes. I told him I was proud of her for graduating from college with honors and she was starting graduate school in the fall. Mr. Smith just kind of clicked his tongue and said, ‘She’s a pretty girl. Let’s hope she doesn’t make the same mistake you did — get pregnant and end up stuck in a dead-end job.’” 

“He what?” Marcia gasped. “I’m … I’m sorry.” 

“I felt humiliated. I wanted to leave but I knew I should tell you.”

“Sharon, I’m …. I’m so sorry. I’ll deal with him. Go home. Take a few days off if you need to.” 

Sharon went home. Marcia sat there, stunned.  

 

Then, she picked up the phone — the CEO and lawyers were on speed dial. And Marcia went to work making sure Mr. Smith would have a really, really bad day.  

  

Bad bosses don’t make up the majority. But stories about good bosses rarely land on the HR desk. The blundering, oblivious, insensitive, or arrogant and self-important bosses keep the HR department busy with bad boss stories. 

 

 

The post BAD BOSS STORIES FROM THE HR DEPARTMENT #2   appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.

Spring Break Monkey Business

This story happened in a simpler, freer time. Before AIDS. Before COVID. And before Ron and his crew of fraternity brothers left all the monkey business behind and grew up to grown-up concerns.  

It was spring break. Where the Boys Are was the hot beach movie. It inspired the five two hundred pound guys to cram into Ron’s Ford and leave behind the deepfreeze that was Colgate University to make the twenty-hour trek to Fort Lauderdale’s sand, sunshine, monkey business, and girls — with no reservations and no fixed plans.  

Naturally, there wasn’t a room to be had. No worry. They could sleep on the beach. But they were taken in by some sympathetic girls who had made reservations.  

The five days flew by as carefree as one of Beach Blanket movies of the 60s — but with less dancing on the beach. 

THE REAL MONKEY BUSINESS BEGINS 

It was on their way back to Colgate that Ron and his crew got into the real monkey business. They stopped to use the facilities at one of Florida’s roadside monkey farms. The place sold shells, flowered shirts, kitschy gifts — and live monkeys.  

Ron watched the cute little squirrel monkeys chattering away in their cages and lightbulb!  

“What the fraternity needs is a mascot! A monkey!” he proclaimed. “We can teach it tricks and dress it up for party weekends.”  

The crew didn’t need to be convinced. They were on board.  

“Yeah! We can teach it to doff its hat and bow to people as they come in.” 

“Maybe it could even take people’s coats at the door,” What were the odds of an eight-pound monkey lifting a winter coat that weighed as much as she did? No one asked.  

So, with the monkey, a leash, and a little straw hat, they started back to Colgate.  

It was great fun. They stopped at a bar-diner for food, put the leash and straw hat on their little mascot, went in, and lined up on six barstools.  

“We’ll have five beers, ten cheeseburgers, fries – and a banana.”  

They all agreed it was an excellent joke and they made more jokes as they drove along. 

THE TROUBLE WITH MONKEY BUSINESS  

But by the time they got back to the fraternity house, the novelty of their mascot was already wearing off. And the monkey was clearly tiring of them. As soon as they went into the house she got loose, climbed the bookcase, knocking books asunder, jumped to the curtains, ripping them, then to the chandelier.  

And there the mean, nasty little monkey stayed, screeching and baring her teeth. No coaxing brought her down till she finally got hungry.  

The only trick she ever performed was throwing feces at anyone passing by the cage. The crew washed their hands of her and put her cage on the third floor where she roomed with the sophomores.  

MONKEY BUSINESS EXPOSED 

Ron was treasurer of the fraternity house and had check-writing authority. The monkey was for the benefit of the fraternity so, of course, he bought her with forty dollars of fraternity funds. 

Checks were supposed to be cosigned by the faculty advisor assigned to the house. But their advisor had been sick for several weeks and unavailable to cosign checks. So Ron had taken the pragmatic step of forging his name so they could buy groceries and other necessities. He did the same to pay for the monkey that hadn’t turned out to be such a good investment. 

Right after spring break, the faculty advisor came back to work. The next day Ron got a message from him. “Please come to my office to discuss the monkey business that has been going on in my absence.”  

The jig was up. Ron went to the advisor’s office ready to bite the bullet and confess about the monkey. All the way there he went over in his head what he would say. 

But before he could speak, the advisor held up a check with his forged signature. But it was not the check he’d written to the monkey farm. It was a two-hundred and fifty-dollar check for cash. 

Ron stifled the confession, and explained, “You were away. We ran out of milk and food. We needed the money. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

The advisor accepted that explanation, and Ron was off the hook for the spring break monkey business.  

But what about the little monkey? As it can happen, while she was living on the third floor with the sophomores, she actually took a liking to one of her roommates, and he to her. When the semester ended he adopted her and took her to live on his family’s farm. And that put a happy end to Ron’s monkey business — for that time anyway.  

By Ruthi Birch 
5/3/2021 

By the way, grownup Ron can still stir things up too.

  

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Grown-Ups are Weird: Especially When I was a Kid

Grown-ups are weird, especially when I was a kid When kinfolks came to visit, they always brought stacks of pictures to show — mostly of things that didn’t matter. But with them came funny stories. 

GROWN-UPS ARE WEIRD – ALWAYS TAKING PICTURES OF THINGS THAT DIDN’T MATTER  

Aunt Mattie was Mama’s aunt. I liked her. She was more than eighty years old, and she was independent and feisty and funny. Her sister, Aunt Minkie, was almost ninety and even feistier.  

When Aunt Mattie came for a visit she always brought pictures — along with stories about Aunt Minkie’s exploits. After supper, we sat on the couch looking at each picture as she explained it.  

The first one had “Louise’s girls” written on the top, but it wasn’t a picture of people. It was just a plain old road with two houses.  

Suddenly Aunt Mattie laughed. 

“Oh, I have to tell you what Minkie’s done now!” she said. And I knew a good story was coming. 

“This picture made me think of it. Louise’s girls, Inez and Beatrice married two brothers — isn’t that something? Well, they did and they built these real nice homes right across from each other on the Gretna road. That one is Bernice’s and that’s Inez’s. 

“Anyway, WB [Mama’s daddy] had been over to see the new houses, and he told Minkie about them. She stood up, picked up her pocketbook, and said, ‘Nevermind. I’ll just drive over to see for myself.’ You know Minkie’s pushing ninety, and Lord love her, but she ought not to be driving. We’ve all told her that. But you know her. She’ll do whatever she takes a mind to do, or bust. She’s more stubborn every day.  

“WB tried to stop her.

Said he’d take her. But Minkie set her jaw, the way she does, and told him she was perfectly able to drive herself. She got in that big old Hudson of hers and drove off.” 

“When she got there, she didn’t bother with pulling in the driveway. She stopped her car in the road in front of Beatrice’s house and sat there, blocking the lane — the road only has two lanes. After she got a through looking at Beatrice’s house, what did she do but pull across and park on the other side — never mind any cars that might be coming  – grown-ups are weird!

“Inez saw Minkie’s car out front and came out just as a car came up over the rise —straight at Minkie. Inez said she nearly had a heart attack, but the man in the other car saw her and pulled over to go around. Just as he did, Minkie jerked her car over and crashed into him. 

“His car was mashed up pretty bad, but thankfully they weren’t hurt.” 

Mama shook her head. “Minkie! What will you do with her?” 

“Nothing! Nobody can do anything with her. The wreck was her fault, but she wouldn’t accept it. He got out, holding his head, and looked at his smashed car and she charged at him, mad as a hornet. ‘You had no business in my lane,’ she snapped. ‘You came all-around killing me! You can thank the Lord I’m alive!’ 

 

“Inez said the man looked more stunned than mad. ‘But Ma’am, you were parked in my lane. Maybe you shouldn’t be driving.’ 

Minkie got right up in the man’s face, shaking her finger.  

“Of course I was your lane. I had to be there to get a look at my niece’s new house! You should have known I’d move back over!’”  

Mama laughed. “I can picture her.” 

“We can laugh now. But she’s lucky the police don’t hall her off to jail. They probably would if WB didn’t have influence.” 

They laughed, and Aunt Mattie took up another picture. “Look here,” she said and handed it to Mama. “This is WB’s new cattle gap. He finally got it built after Popeye [his cow] kept wandering off and leading the goats out to the road. Popeye always came back but WB would have to chase down the goats.” 

It just looked like a bunch of logs laid over a gully in the road to me. I didn’t understand why she would take a picture of that. A picture of Popeye leading the goats — that would have been an interesting picture!  

She picked up another picture. On it she’d written, “Mr. Bray’s new fence.” It was just a plain old chain-link fence. Mama said she didn’t know Mr. Bray, but she still stared at it just as though it was interesting.  

Then Aunt Mattie said, “Here’s Gert’s new settee. Really it’s the old one she got when Aunt Joe died. But look. Didn’t she do a good job recovering it? You can’t tell in the picture, but she picked the prettiest colors — blues and greens.” 

Mama said, “It looks just like it came from the store new.”  

They were back to looking at pictures of boring things and I didn’t see any more good stories coming, so I went to my room to play. 

Aunt Minkie with her car and Aunt Mattie with her stack of odd pictures — I was certain my family was weird. Now I know most families are weird. But today, with social media, they don’t have to come visit you in order to show you pictures of things nobody cares about — and share stories about crazy aunts. 

By Ruthi Birch  

As I said, grown-ups are weird. Look for more of my crazy family stories coming soon. 

 

 

 

 

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When I Was a Kid the Grown-Ups in My Family Were Weird

When I was a kid, I was sure my family was weird. When kinfolks came to visit, they always brought stacks of pictures to show — mostly of things that didn’t matter. But with them came funny stories. 

GROWN-UPS ARE WEIRD – ALWAYS TAKING PICTURES OF THINGS THAT DIDN’T MATTER  

Aunt Mattie was Mama’s aunt. I liked her. She was more than eighty years old, and she was independent and feisty and funny. Her sister, Aunt Minkie, was almost ninety and even feistier.  

When Aunt Mattie came for a visit she always brought pictures — along with stories about Aunt Minkie’s exploits. After supper, we sat on the couch looking at each picture as she explained it.  

The first one had “Louise’s girls” written on the top, but it wasn’t a picture of people. It was just a plain old road with two houses.  

Suddenly Aunt Mattie laughed. 

“Oh, I have to tell you what Minkie’s done now!” she said. And I knew a good story was coming. 

“This picture made me think of it. Louise’s girls, Inez and Beatrice married two brothers — isn’t that something? Well, they did and they built these real nice homes right across from each other on the Gretna road. That one is Bernice’s and that’s Inez’s. 

“Anyway, WB [Mama’s daddy] had been over to see the new houses, and he told Minkie about them. She stood up, picked up her pocketbook, and said, ‘Nevermind. I’ll just drive over to see for myself.’ You know Minkie’s pushing ninety, and Lord love her, but she ought not to be driving. We’ve all told her that. But you know her. She’ll do whatever she takes a mind to do, or bust. She’s more stubborn every day.  

“WB tried to stop her. Said he’d take her. But Minkie set her jaw, the way she does, and told him she was perfectly able to drive herself. She got in that big old Hudson of hers and drove off.” 

“When she got there, she didn’t bother with pulling in the driveway. She stopped her car in the road in front of Beatrice’s house and sat there, blocking the lane — the road only has two lanes. After she got a through looking at Beatrice’s house, what did she do but pull across and park on the other side — never mind any cars that might be coming. 

“Inez saw Minkie’s car out front and came out just as a car came up over the rise —straight at Minkie. Inez said she nearly had a heart attack, but the man in the other car saw her and pulled over to go around. Just as he did, Minkie jerked her car over and crashed into him. 

“His car was mashed up pretty bad, but thankfully they weren’t hurt.” 

Mama shook her head. “Minkie! What will you do with her?” 

“Nothing! Nobody can do anything with her. The wreck was her fault, but she wouldn’t accept it. He got out, holding his head, and looked at his smashed car and she charged at him, mad as a hornet. ‘You had no business in my lane,’ she snapped. ‘You came all-around killing me! You can thank the Lord I’m alive!’ 

 

“Inez said the man looked more stunned than mad. ‘But Ma’am, you were parked in my lane. Maybe you shouldn’t be driving.’ 

Minkie got right up in the man’s face, shaking her finger.  

“Of course I was your lane. I had to be there to get a look at my niece’s new house! You should have known I’d move back over!’”  

Mama laughed. “I can picture her.” 

“We can laugh now. But she’s lucky the police don’t hall her off to jail. They probably would if WB didn’t have influence.” 

They laughed, and Aunt Mattie took up another picture. “Look here,” she said and handed it to Mama. “This is WB’s new cattle gap. He finally got it built after Popeye [his cow] kept wandering off and leading the goats out to the road. Popeye always came back but WB would have to chase down the goats.” 

It just looked like a bunch of logs laid over a gully in the road to me. I didn’t understand why she would take a picture of that. A picture of Popeye leading the goats — that would have been an interesting picture!  

She picked up another picture. On it she’d written, “Mr. Bray’s new fence.” It was just a plain old chain-link fence. Mama said she didn’t know Mr. Bray, but she still stared at it just as though it was interesting.  

Then Aunt Mattie said, “Here’s Gert’s new settee. Really it’s the old one she got when Aunt Joe died. But look. Didn’t she do a good job recovering it? You can’t tell in the picture, but she picked the prettiest colors — blues and greens.” 

Mama said, “It looks just like it came from the store new.”  

They were back to looking at pictures of boring things and I didn’t see any more good stories coming, so I went to my room to play. 

Aunt Minkie with her car and Aunt Mattie with her stack of odd pictures — I was certain my family was weird. Now I know most families are weird. But today, with social media, they don’t have to come visit you in order to show you pictures of things nobody cares about — and share stories about crazy aunts. 

By Ruthi Birch  

Look for more of my crazy family stories coming soon. 

 

 

 

 

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