Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 74
January 19, 2021
17 17's
With all the turmoil, I’m worried today. So how will I handle it? I will tell jokes…
You know, I think working in a mirror factory is totally something I can see myself doing.
(I love this one!) I tried really, really hard to catch some fog the other day. Mist.
Someone stole my Microsoft Office the other day and they are gonna pay. You have my Word.
A Roman Legionnaire walks into a bar and hold up two fingers and says, “Five beers, please.”
(Something I just read…) According to statistics, someone in London gets stabbed every 52 seconds. Poor beggar.
I had an event last week. I broke my finger. On the other hand, I am okay!
Here’s something: You know, you are not completely useless. You can always serve as a bad example.
How many Germans does it take to screw in lightbulbs? One. They’re efficient and not very funny.
Women call me ugly until they find out how much money I make. Then I’m ugly and poor.
My grandfather has the heart of a lion. He also has a lifetime ban at the zoo.
Some horrible person went and stole my mood ring. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Parallel lines have so much in common. It is a real shame they will never, ever meet.
You don’t need a parachute to go skydiving. You only need a parachute to go skydiving twice.
Yesterday, my wife accused me of being immature. I told her to get out of my fort.
This just in: I threw a boomerang a few years ago. Now I live in constant fear.
Just say NO to drugs! Well, if I’m talking to my drugs, I’ve probably already said yes.
I told my wife that she was drawing her eyebrows too high. You know, she looked surprised.
Word Counters is a fun word challenge. This month's number? 17!
Assigned by me!
Ready for more?
See what my fellow Word Counters have wrought!
Death by Toddler
Oh, she only looks innocent...The soft cascade of warm water and sweet-smelling soap caresses the aged body, following every curve.And/or bulge.Problems and irritations disappear down the drain with the water as total relaxation is, finally, achieved.The warm water continues.A state of near-bliss is achieved.Ahhh . . .Cue: Sharp strings played in a tight Eee! Eee! Eee! Eee!The shower curtain is pulled back abruptly.The shower-er spins about with a startled gasp.A shadowy figure sticks its head into the cubicle.“Hey! Gramma! What’cha doing?!”And ‘Gramma’ collapses and dies of a heart attack.Okay, it doesn’t quite have the punch of the original Psycho. But the death is just as real.And permanent.Death by Toddler!Coming soon to a shower near you.Rated: ‘T’ for Toddler. There is no stronger rating…
P.S. Grandma is looking into locks for her bathroom door. It has suddenly come under the heading: Essential.
January 18, 2021
My Hero
At six, the first that I recall,
Was in a book for children, small,
A bear who loved his friends and life,
Caused no pain or hurt or strife!
At eight, I moved to Nancy Drew,
And Hardy Boys, to name a few,
And Trixie Beldon, Ames girls, wow!
Were certainly the cat’s meow!
From there my heroes came and went,
But mostly had a ‘horsey’ bent,
Alex and Black, and Flicka, Ken,
Sham and Agba, read again.
Then others picked by happenstance
Until I found Gothic romance.
Filled with love and hate. Desire,
They set my teenaged heart on fire!
I read the classics, heroes there
Who managed on a hope. And prayer,
Each time I read with heart agape,
Of daring deeds and tight escapes.
I read a lot and wrote a bit,
Had many heroes I admit,
But none were greater, none more fair,
Than that first, stuffed and ‘small-brained’ bear.
‘Tis sixty years since last I stood,
With Pooh in ‘Hundred Acre Wood’,
I know this day’s for him, the bear
Who gave such gentle, reasoned care,
Two things of many that he said,
They’re part of me, stuck in my head,
If you don’t mind, ‘cause you’re my friend,
Instead of hugs, these words I’ll send:
“If there’s…a day…we can’t be together,
Keep me in your heart and I’ll stay there forever!”
“If you live to…a hundred, I want that, less one day,
So I’m never without you whenever I play!”
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith gentle thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, meHave crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?
Next week, in poems from near and far,We'll talk about our favourite car!
Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks...Spunky Old Broads (February 1)Craziest Vacation Memory (February 8)From Your Pet's Point of View (February 15)Favourite Word that Starts With D (February 22)
January 15, 2021
Come Fly with Me
This story actually happened. During a flight in 1990 between Birmingham, England and Malaga, Spain.
What fun to involve Sally!
Okay, I didn’t believe it, either.
I’ll start at the beginning . . . Or maybe the end . . .
Sally had a movie job in Arkansas.
Mom and I (and definitely Mort) were a tad worried about all this.
I mean, with Covid and all.
But Sally reassured us she would be all right, that they were taking precautions. It was a great opportunity. She needed our support. She would be taking her lucky bamboo. Etc. Etc.
You have to know that Sally can be persuasive.
Anyway, a big car pulled up outside and honked and Sally, mask and face shield donned, hugged Mom and me, kissed Mort and ran out to meet it.
And silence descended.
Well, not totally so, because we do have Scary Gary living just up the street and if anyone can liven up a normal day in a quiet suburb—with Sally gone and Covid raging—my money would be on Gary.
In the three days since Sally left, he managed to let our neighbour’s pigeons out, crash his bike into the Mayor’s garage, and get his foot stuck in the manhole cover in front of his house.
That last was because he had found a crowbar and pried the thing up, intending to . . . I don’t know . . . maybe go exploring? . . . and it slipped.
For the first time in living memory, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles had nothing to do with my family.
It was a wonderful moment.
Okay, well, not so much for Gary’s family, but you can’t please everyone.
Sooo . . . back to Sally.
She arrived back this afternoon. The same car, or something similar, dropped her out front and she sauntered in, Sally fashion.
When we tried to question her about her shoot, "absolutely nothing exciting had happened".
Of course we didn’t believe her.
She patted a hand with chipped and broken fingernails over a wide yawn.
Mom looked at that hand and frowned slightly. But knowing Sally's history (who doesn't) just smiled and said something to the effect of “maybe you should go take a nap” and Sally nodded and disappeared into her room.
A short time later, we could hear the unmistakable sounds of ‘Sally in Slumberland’.
Mom and Mort and I were just sitting down to eat when someone knocked at the door.
Mort did the honours.
The Mayor was standing on our front step. At least I think it was him. Have you noticed that even people you know well are nearly unrecognizable when they have their masks on?
True story.
“Is Sally here?” he asked.
We looked at each other. Mom got to her feet and joined the two at the door. “She is, Bill.” (Mom calls the Mayor ‘Bill’, because he’s her gardening buddy and let’s face it, you can’t call the man digging in the dirt beside you ‘Your Worshipfullness’. Well maybe you can, but it would sound weird.
Moving on . . .
“She’s taking a nap right now. Do you need me to get her?”
He put up a hand. “No. No. That’s all right. I’ll talk to her later.”
“Is there something we can help you with?”
He just raised his eyebrows. “Did she say nothing when she came home? About an incident on the plane?”
Mom shook her head. “Nary a word.”
He snorted softly. “Well, ask her when she wakes up. I’m thinking we need a celebration. As soon as Covid lets us.”
He smiled and left.
Mom frowned and looked from Mort to me. “She didn’t talk to either of you, did she?”
I shook my head.
“Nope,” Mort said.
“Huh. I wonder what that was all about?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said.
Mom shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.” She looked over at the small TV on the cupboard near the table. “Switch on the news, Mort. Let’s see what’s happening in our catastrophic political scene today.”
Mort did so.
“You know, Sally should run for political office,” I said as he pressed buttons. “She can make a disaster out of almost anything!”
The weather forecast was on. It provided a soft background accompaniment to our meal.
Then, just as we were finishing, Mom’s head suddenly spun toward the set. “Did you hear that?”
Mort and I looked at her. ”What?”
“They just said Sally’s name.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m sure!”
Mort turned up the volume.
“. . . At the very least a citizen’s award of some sort? Things like this do not happen every day.”
“Oh, no!” Mom whispered.
“Shh,” Mort and I said together.
He turned up the volume again.
But the report was over.
Whatever it was that may or may not have had to do with Sally had finished.
Maybe we’d never know.
Pffff . . . Who was I kidding?
A short time later, Sally joined us, once more glowing with freshness. Mom warmed her meal and set it in front of her and she happily started to chow down on spaghetti.
“So, Sal, honey,” Mom started out. “Anything happen while you were gone?”
“Nope. Oh, the shoot was fun. A bit awkward because of the restrictions, but we got through. Anything happen here?”
I lost patience. “Come on Sally! The Mayor was here talking about you and everything!”
Sally wrinkled a smooth brow. “Really? Huh. I didn’t think he was speaking to me after the Halloween party.”
I shuddered. “Apparently, he’s willing to let it slide.”
“Oh, good.”
“Sally! What happened?!”
She shrugged. “Maybe they’re talking about the pilot on the plane?”
“Yes . . .?”
Sally sighed. “Well, we were up in the air and the big front window of the plane popped out and he got sucked out. And I was there having a tour and I managed to grab his legs and hold on till we could land.” She shovelled more spaghetti into her mouth.
We three just stared at her blankly.
“Whaaaat?” Mom said.
“Yeah. The whole thing was just too weird.” She held up her cleaned plate. “Any more spaghetti?”
Use Your Words is a writing challenge.
Karen’s followers supply a few words every month. Then those words are re-distributed among said followers. You don’t know who’s going to get your words or what they will do with them.
We have a blast! Sound fun? Join us!
My words this month were:
blank ~ history ~ support ~ opportunity ~ freshness ~ lucky bamboo
And given to me by my Good friend, Tamara at: https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/
Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:
Baking In A Tornado https://bakinginatornado.com/
Wandering Web Designer https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog
Climaxed https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com
Part-time Working Hockey Mom https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.com/
The Crazy Mama Llama https://crazymamallama.blogspot.com/
P.S. I've had requests for a recap of Sally's Adventures!
If you're interested, here they are, beginning at the...beginning:
Truth, Forgiveness and Chocolate
January 14, 2021
The Rather Scary Story
Story Teller extraordinaire.Storytellers come in all shapes.And sizes . . .I am a storyteller.I come from generations of the same.Mealtimes were especially noted for the ‘visit’ after the actual ‘stuffing-your-face-with-yummy-food’ part.A visit that sometimes went on for many enchanting hours.When we were raising our children, the tradition continued.One evening we finished eating, then sat visiting until midnight.True story. And the very best of nights.Our children are carrying on with their children.Case in point:Our eldest son and his family were camping.Their favourite part of camping is sitting around the campfire and—you guessed it—telling stories.Everyone has a turn.Including their newly-minted, just-turned four-year-old, hereinafter known as LeahSqueeah, or LS for short.LS came out with such notable efforts as: This one night a guy sailed on a ship. Then he flew away. The end.Okay, admit it. That is adorable.But she truly shone when telling ‘scary’ stories.Picture her. Blond hair a nimbus of curls around her little face. Dark eyes shining.A creepy, 4YO voice.And little hands curved into claws.This is her story:This one night?There was a GHOST!And I DIPPED him in hot chocolate.And ATE him!The movie rights are available.
January 12, 2021
Getting It Wrong
Two sweet facesOccasionally, Moms make mistakes.I just want to get that out there.They do.Not often.But occasionally.Moms are busy. Usually keeping at least three balls in the air at any given moment.It's totally understandable . . .My younger brother, Blair was playing in the front room.Quietly.Because he was always quiet.Our baby sister, Anita, was playing nearby.Less quietly.Because she . . . never mind.She had disdained her basket full of colourful toys and was climbing up on the coffee table and sliding off.This had been entertaining her for several minutes.Then, she mis-calculated. Slid off a little too quickly and bumped something important.Tears ensued. Bringing Mom in a hurry from the kitchen.She picked her sobbing daughter up from the floor where she lay in a crumpled, miserable heap.“Blair! What did you do?!”Blair looked up from the book he was reading, his mouth a perfect 'O' of confusion. “Ummm . . .”He, too was picked up. And summarily parked on the piano bench.The 'you've-done-something-terrible' spot.Blair blinked and frowned thoughtfully. Had he done something? He didn't think so.He had been quietly reading.Anita had been playing a few feet away on the coffee table.“But Mom . . .!”“Don't you 'but mom' me! You stay there and think about what you did!”Mom marched back out to the kitchen.Leaving a very confused little boy sitting on the piano bench in the front room.Anita, tears forgotten, was back crawling onto the coffee table.Yep. Moms make mistakes.Fortunately for the future of the world as we know it, it doesn't happen often.
January 11, 2021
Least Favourite
These days, with duty, sure are rife,
It goes along with living life.
The chores that make our happy home
A somewhat clean and safe biome,
Now, mostly, they don’t bother me.
They satisfy my need, you see,
To have things neat and organized,
And make the house feel harmonized!
But though my house is ‘mostly’ clean,
Before I (in your praises), preen,
I have one chore that I admit,
Perturbs me just a little bit.
And this is it, I will confess:
I clean the floors under duress,
It’s true, you heard it here, from me,
My floors aren’t what they’re s’posed to be,
Okay, they’re ‘clean’, I would suppose,
No clutter, trash, no dirty clothes,
But cleaning as I did in youth?
It’s really hard, and that’s the truth!
Please understand my sad dismay,
I guess it’s not the ‘chore’ each day,
That fills me with so much concern,
And makes me for my freedom yearn . . .
Each day to get to bended knee,
The further the floors are from me.
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith gentle thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, meHave crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?
Next week, to honour "Winnie-the-Pooh Day"We'll all, in our inimitable way,Talk of him. Or take a lookAt a fav'rite' guy from a fav'rite book!
January 8, 2021
'Cloth'ing the Emperor
This is both a very old tale and a new one.
Because sometimes the lessons learned have to be learned again.
And again.
And again.
You get the picture . . .
Many years ago, in the Empire of Odd, there lived a ruler who was—how can I put this judiciously—self-absorbed. The center of his own universe, he was only happy when all eyes were on him.
And, let’s face it, because he was Emperor, most eyes were just naturally drawn to him.
Moving on . . .
As time went by, in an effort to remain in the ‘public eye’, his antics grew larger. More outrageous.
And a section of the population cheered.
The larger the antics, the louder the cheers and adulation.
Now, one day, this Emperor was walking down the street (occasionally, emperors do normal, ‘regular person’ things like that) and noticed a very well-dressed man walking along on the opposite side.
This Emperor thought, “He is very well dressed” or something similar and decided right then and there that, not only must he be the most visible person in his empire, but also the most ‘visible’ person as well, if you catch my meaning.
He sent out a command to all of his people that anyone with a modicum of sewing ability was to come to his court and dress him.
And they came.
Dragging along patterns and materials that could only be worn (or afforded) by the very tip-top of society.
And the Emperor was happy.
Soon, however, he had exhausted his own tailors, so he sent to other countries, demanding their very best as well.
And they came.
They dressed him in silks and satins of every conceivable colour.
And with each new outfit, the Emperor’s vanity grew.
He took to parading along the main streets in each new outfit, fully expecting his populace to stand in awe at his resplendence (Oooh! Good word!).
And they did.
Then one day a couple of ‘tailors’ appeared at the gates of the palace with pleasant smiles. And a lot of moxy.
The two claimed that they could weave the most amazing, most stupendous (their word) cloth ever seen.
Of course they were whisked immediately to the Emperor.
And of course put immediately to work.
For days, they sat up in their rooms, living off the contents of the minibar and the bounty of the empire while they ‘wove’ their stupendous (see above) cloth.
And the word went round the empire (because the two tailors had confided to the major domo) that this amazing new cloth was unlike anything anyone had ever seen. Mainly because one had to be of unusual intelligence to be able to see it.
Finally, they announced that they were ready.
Gathering the Emperor and a room full of his courtiers, they brought out a large chest.
“Now,” they said in their most stentorian tones, “There is something you must remember about this cloth (and by association, this suit of clothes) before we reveal it.”
The room was satisfactorily silent.
“Only those who are of utmost intelligence will be able to see either.”
There were nods of knowing in the audience.
Including one or two from the Emperor, himself.
Certainly that word had reached far and wide.
The lid of the chest was flung back to further oohs and aahs and the two men reached in and pulled out their masterpiece.
Now just to be clear, these two men were charlatans and wouldn’t have known a needle from a pork belly. The chest, which appeared to all the people gathered to be empty, was, well and truly, empty.
But the genius of the scheme was that no one could admit it.
Because doing so would be admitting they were . . . erm . . . less than intelligent.
And, let’s face it—no one’s pride wants that.
Especially a self-absorbed, egotistical, rather narcissistic Emperor.
So the oohs and aahs increased in volume as the ‘cloth’ (and by association) ‘suit of clothes’ were revealed.
The charlatans pointed out various selling . . . points and the Emperor was duly dressed.
Of course he was standing there starkers.
And of course no one could (or would) tell him.
The parade that day to show off this amazing new suit of clothes would be remembered for all time, not for what the people saw. But for the fact that they saw too much.
I mean, some things just naturally should be kept under wraps.
Am I right?
So there pranced the Emperor, niggly bits and all.
Finally and completely exposed to the general populace.
And no one dared to mention it.
Until at last, one small, innocent, child pointed and, in his penetratingly shrill child’s voice, said, “Mama? How come the Emperor is naked?”
Of course everyone, including said prancing Emperor, heard.
Of course everyone, including said prancing Emperor, realized that they had been duped.
The Emperor was well and duly exposed. (*snort*)
And the people realized that their Emperor was so self-absorbed that he would fall for anything just to be noticed.
And they had allowed it.
There was immediate and unmistakable twittering and guffawing among the people.
Oh, some kind person covered said niggly bits and helped the crimson-faced Emperor to leave quietly.
But the lesson remained.
Putting on a good show doesn’t make for a good show.
And . . .
Deceit and pride can be overcome by innocence and truth.
January 7, 2021
Join the Army--Get an Education (The Conclusion)
A guest post by Sergeant Erik Tolley
Unfortunately, I've never seen anybody from these trades, so I can't elaborate on what they do.
Not that anyone in the Combat Arms does much, either.
After selecting your preferred trade, you will be given several pounds of forms to fill out, a medical examination (thank goodness the doctor didn't need a rubber glove), and an aptitude test.
This all finds out if you are in good health, or if you need to come back when you look less like an overstuffed sofa.
Now, when that's all over and done with, you will be told whether you qualify for your preferred trade or not.
If you do, you will be given another annoying pamphlet with an attractive picture and a catchy slogan, which will describe in detail what you will learn to do in Basic Training.
Here is a list of some of the things that it will tell you:
Marksmanship
Fieldcraft
Discipline
Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Defence
Rifle Drill
Navigation
First Aid
Rank Structure
Battlecraft
Communications
Everything Else
Strangely, this annoying pamphlet doesn't list any of the other things that you will learn while on your Basic Training course.
These other things are just as important to military life as the things listed above.
To correct this, I have added a few of my own ideas of what should be placed on future annoying pamphlets:
Swearing
Dirty Jokes
More Swearing
Female Anatomy
Male Anatomy
Alcohol Abuse
Vomiting
Washing Vomit Out of Your Clothing
Dragging Drunken Comrades Back to Base
Standing At Attention When Your Blood Alcohol Content is 0.25
Scaring Civilians
Who says the Army isn't educational?
January 6, 2021
Join the Army--Get an Education (Part Two)
A guest Post by Sergeant Erik Tolley. Part Two
Infantry
In the infantry, you will be subject to many different forms of violent death, such as getting shot, stabbed, burned, shredded and eating field rations more than twice a day.
The sad thing is, these will all be inflicted by your own troops.
I won't even mention what the enemy will do to you.
Basically, you will be a moving target, which is a lot more fun than a paper target, but a lot harder to patch up afterwards.
You will also get to freeze, starve, sweat, stink, roast, and stay up long enough that you will begin to hallucinate about giant pink bunnies running circles around you singing songs from 'Lion King'.
Engineers
In the Engineers, you will get to do almost all the same things as in the Infantry, but you will also get to play with explosives.
EXPLOSIVES.
Powerful explosives.
At least your targets are made out of something stronger than paper.
Unfortunately, the pink bunnies now hum the tune to 'Star Wars'.
Armoured
In the Armoured trade, you will be able to drive and service large, cool-looking vehicles, often fitted with big guns that make loud noises and wake up the Infantry and the Engineers, if they happen to be asleep, which seems unlikely.
You will also be able to go places that no other vehicle can go, and get stuck in places that no other vehicle could even reach.
Then you send for the Infantry and the Engineers, who are conveniently awake, to come and dig you out, while you sit and play cards.
Artillery
In the Artillery, you will get to shoot big guns.
If anyone in the Artillery is reading this, please call me and let me know what else you guys do, because there are a lot of people who really want to know.
These are the trades known as the Combat Arms trades. I don't know why they are called this, because practically everyone's arms can be used as weapons.
Oh, well.
I guess that's why I'm in the Army.
If I knew, I'd probably be smart enough to still be a civilian.
To Be Concluded...
On the Border
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