Patsy Porco

Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

On Beauty, Slugs, and Homeopathy

In Humor on May 25, 2012 at 10:02 pm

Today, while cutting flowers in my garden, I found a pale green inchworm on a peony and I was thrilled. Later in the day, a rabbit ran across my lawn and again I was delighted. If I had seen a slug on the peony and a rat on my lawn, however, my reactions would have been very different. I wonder if there’s a parallel universe where slugs and rats are preferable to inchworms and rabbits?

I often think about why some animals are preferred to others—why we recoil from some, eat others, and keep certain ones as pets. I have also pondered beauty. We’ve all heard that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” and I’ve witnessed this many times. One person will think a celebrity is beautiful while another will disagree. But neither of those people would call the celebrity ugly; well, they might, to make a point, but they wouldn’t truly mean it. They would actually mean that the celebrity doesn’t meet their criteria for beauty. What one person perceives as human beauty does not always mesh with the opinion of others. It might be due to one preferring blondes to brunettes, or brunettes to redheads. It could be related to what a person was raised to believe was beautiful. So why doesn’t anyone prefer a slug to an inchworm? Or a rat to a rabbit?

Speaking of nature, the other day, or maybe a few weeks ago, when I was driving to who-knows-where, I heard a radio ad for a homeopathic natural supplement that improves one’s short-term memory within 60 minutes. I wish I recalled the name of it, but I hadn’t taken the supplement, so just knowing about it did me no good. The ad got me thinking, though. In the recent past, whenever I heard the word, “homeopathic,” I would think of natural remedies. However, I looked the word up not long ago and learned that homeopathic remedies, if given to a healthy person, would cause symptoms of the disease that sick people are trying to get rid of. My brain shorted out when I read that. If people knew what homeopathic meant, I doubt they’d brag to their friends that they only used homeopathic drugs. I would venture to say that many people think homeopathic remedies are natural remedies. And anything natural is good, right?

Socrates might disagree with you. He was sentenced to commit suicide by drinking hemlock, a poisonous plant. There are plenty of poisonous plants found in nature. I would think that the perfect murder would involve giving someone a freshly brewed cup of hemlock that one grew in one’s garden alongside tea leaves. Persuading a jury that you mixed up the plants would be a cinch. This makes me wonder why our society looks on natural remedies with such a favorable eye. The medical profession is aware that certain herbs and supplements can be detrimental if taken willy-nilly or in tandem with prescribed medicines. Even grapefruit juice can interfere with certain medicines, and what’s more natural than grapefruit?

Today, I was filling pots with soil and my friend called. When I told her I was gardening, she asked me if I had lost my mind since I had already contracted ivy poisoning twice this year and it was only May. The outbreaks were severe and required heavy doses of Prednisone. I reassured her that my gardening endeavors today were pot-related. She thought that it was interesting that I was growing marijuana and asked me to tell her where the plants were located.

While this exchange was in jest—take note FBI— it also made me think about the beneficial plants in nature. Just as with beauty, opinion varies. I love string beans, but my husband doesn’t. My inlaws salivate over broccoli rabe while I would use it as a poison, in place of hemlock. Certain fruits and vegetables are universally appreciated like apples, bananas, oranges, lemons, tomatoes, lettuce, and potatoes. Others, like lychee, prickly pears, plantains, rhubarb, beets, rutabagas, turnips, and spinach are as much disliked as liked. The same goes for marijuana. Some don’t like it and some do—especially when they’re stoned. What’s not to like when one is stoned? Hell, even broccoli rabe is appealing. (Not that I would know this from experience, law-enforcement agents.)

So, we’re back where we started: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, except when it comes to slugs and rats. Although, I’m sure some will disagree with that statement. To them I say, “How’s the weather in your parallel universe?”

Physical Fitness for Free

In Humor on May 22, 2012 at 2:11 pm

I’m getting a physical examination on Thursday. My last one was a long time ago, way before my memory took a permanent vacation. I can’t remember where I’m going when I’m driving, so I’m not surprised that I can’t recall my last real physical. I remember my fake one, though.

It was about six years ago—when I applied for life insurance. The insurance company sent a guy over to our house with a bunch of medical testing equipment. Looking back, I can’t quite believe that I let a complete stranger into my house and then allowed him to extract blood from me. He could have been anyone—a DNA thief, a cat burglar (an unlucky one since we have a dog), or an insurance salesman.

He turned out to be legit, I think. I received a letter from the insurance company approving my application and supplying me with the results of my tests. Knowing insurance companies’ wily ways, I’m pretty sure they hired a real medical tester to weed out the high-risk applicants. Now, if a credit card company sent someone to my house for blood, I’d tell them that they had already tapped that stone, or turnip.

So, six years ago, I had my last physical, if you want to call it that. I did call it that, and even had the insurance company forward the results of my tests to my doctor. When my doctor raised his eyebrows at my unorthodox physical, I pretended not to notice. I just asked him to put the results in my permanent file. He said he would. Who knows if he did? He might not even be a real doctor.

My fake physical got me thinking, though. An enormous percentage of the U.S. population is lacking health insurance. I remember the times when I didn’t have health insurance; I lived in fear that I would develop a fatal illness or fungus nails, and that I wouldn’t know until it was too late. Death I could face. Not being able to wear sandals in the summer, however, would be tragic.

I needn’t have worried, though. I could have applied for life insurance. I would have gotten a free physical and peace of mind, to boot. Those insurance physicals are thorough; they even test for AIDS/HIV.

Of course, if I had gotten bad news, then the peace of mind benefit would have been out the window. But, at least I would have known where I stood. That’s not always a good thing (ignorance being bliss when it’s folly to be wise, and all), but at least I would have had the option to find out how I was—instead of imagining the worst.

And then, after my insurance physical, I could have gone over to the Red Cross and donated some more blood. They give you juice and cookies.

Panko Schmanko

In Humor on April 5, 2012 at 8:36 pm

The other day, when I was trying to come up with a way in which to disguise chicken, I happened upon a bag of panko breadcrumbs at a local upscale grocery store. I’m not upscale, but I frequent the store because I like to see how the one-percent lives, and because it’s down the street from my house.

I picked up the bag of über-hip crumbs and detected tiny red and green specks in it. Always one to tackle a mystery, I read the label. The specks turned out to be sun-dried tomatoes and basil. The price was $4.99 for six ounces. At the time, that seemed reasonable, so I tossed the bag into my cart. Fortunately, sanity returned halfway down the aisle. Five dollars for breadcrumbs? I’m a person who refuses to pay $5 for a cup of fancy coffee, and I was going to pay that much for breadcrumbs? As I put the bag back onto its shelf, I remembered that I had sun-dried tomatoes, fresh basil, and bread at home. I could make my own fancy-schmancy breadcrumbs.

One thing I didn’t have at home was panko. I wasn’t even sure what panko was. I had heard Hollywood chefs talk about it, but nobody from Hollywood was going to be eating my chicken. Multi-grain bread was good enough for my audience of two.

Once I got home, I soon learned that the cost of the breadcrumbs was mostly for labor. After toasting a loaf of bread and cutting it into cubes, I put half of the ingredients into my food processor and hit “grind.” No sooner had I pressed the button than the top of the food processor popped off and red-and-green-flecked bread cubes exploded up into the air and landed on my head.

After cleaning the kitchen, washing my hair, and donning a hockey helmet, I reloaded the machine with the remainder of the bread, tomatoes and basil and hit “grind” again. This time, I was rewarded with beautifully flecked, perfectly ground breadcrumbs. Visions of gloriously prepared chicken breasts danced before my eyes.

Inspired by my success, I put the bags of frozen french fries and peas back into the fridge and decided to make fresh side dishes. While the chicken baked, I whipped up fresh garlic mashed potatoes and lightly sautéed asparagus as accompaniments. I had outdone myself. In all honesty, outdoing myself only takes putting down the take-out menu and turning on the stove. But this time, I had prepared a restaurant-quality meal that wouldn’t come with a Supersize option.

I called my family to dinner. At the table. When they saw placemats and flatware set out, they asked if they had forgotten my birthday. I made a silent promise to restrict eating in the family room, and presented the chicken breasts, glistening with golden breadcrumbs speckled with green and red flavor flecks. I stood back to accept my due.

“Ooh, aah,” my husband said without a hint of sincerity. “Can I help you bring the potatoes and vegetables over to the table so that we can eat?” I took a deep cleansing breath. “Sure,” I said.

Everyone started with the potatoes, which galled me. But I waited patiently. I couldn’t exactly say, “Try the damned chicken, will you?” It would have ruined the experience. Instead, I tasted it. The combination of the tart tomatoes, earthy basil, crunchy breadcrumbs and juicy chicken was perfection. My mouth watered for another bite. My eyes watered from success. 

Finally, my husband took a bite. Then he took another. Then another. The suspense was making me antsy. My son took a bite and said, “This is really good, Mom. Isn’t it, Dad?”

My husband nodded. “The chicken is cooked perfectly and the mashed potatoes are delicious. I’m just not a fan of the coating on the chicken.”  He then proceeded to scrape the breadcrumbs off the chicken into a pile next to the asparagus.

I could have gone on a tirade, and perhaps I did, but I’m not going to admit it here. All that I will say is that from now on, one of us is getting plain breadcrumbs. And tomorrow, when I experiment with flavoring mayonnaise, that person certainly won’t be getting any pesto mayo on his sandwich.

Rash Decisions

In Humor on March 24, 2012 at 12:53 pm

I remember hearing the comedian, Steven Wright, say that he got tired of walking his dog every day, so he walked him all at once. That reminded me of the time when my mother, brother and I were walking on the very busy Ocean City, NJ boardwalk. My brother, who hates crowds, was in a snit. Everytime he got jostled or someone walked too close to us, he’d get angrier and angrier. I stopped into a store and emerged carrying a very large box. I asked my brother to carry it for me. My mother sent a doubtful look my way. I remember telling her, “He’s already angry. He might as well be really angry.”

That’s pretty much my philosophy regarding life: shoot for the saturation point. Until you reach it, you might as well keep going. So, even though I awakened today with poison ivy blisters covering the majority of my arms and legs, I saw a few unmarked areas on my limbs and decided to get back out into my garden today and pull up the rest of the weeds. My BFF-CT suggested that I go to the doctor and get started on Prednisone to dry up the cysts. That was my intention all along. But not just yet. Why start the treatment when I still have more poison ivy blisters in my immediate future? I might as well get them all and then cure them. Otherwise, it’s like walking the dog all at once but forgetting to bring plastic bags with you. You’ll only have to go on the same walk again, but this time prepared.

St. Joseph’s Pastry Day

In Humor, Religion on March 23, 2012 at 12:02 am

The other day, as I was leaving the vacuum repair store and the owner was telling me that he’d call me when my vacuum was ready, I heard another voice wishing me a “Happy St. Joseph’s Day.”  The shop is very small, narrow, and cluttered, so I had to look around before I spotted an older man with wiry gray hair and a long beard working behind a mountain of broken appliances. I wished him the same. He told me not to forget to buy pastries. I asked him if it was a tradition to buy pastries on St. Joseph’s Day and he told me that it was.

Weirdly enough, this was the first year that I had remembered St. Joseph’s Day. Usually it’s forgotten in the blur that succeeds St. Patrick’s Day, which is two days earlier. This year, I remembered Mary’s husband’s feast day. And, being Catholic, I prayed for those who could use his husbandly/fatherly/carpentryly help. But, because St. Joseph is honored after hangover-day, he is often overlooked. However, when you think of how honorable he was, you realize that we need to remember him now more than ever.

Being noble and self-sacrificing is a lost art. In this era of Reality TV, it’s more acceptable to act selfishly and callously. Feel-good stories sometimes end newscasts and appear in the Lifestyles section of Sunday newspapers, but bad behavior gets the ratings. However, anyone who loves Gothic, Edwardian, Victorian, or Romance fiction knows how deeply affecting are the actions of selfless heroes and heroines. I reflected on that for a minute or two … and then concentrated on pastries.

Okay, until then I had had no idea that St. Joseph’s Day was celebrated with pastries. That didn’t mean it was too late to join the party, especially since a bakery was located on the same block as the vacuum repair shop. Being jaded, I wondered if the bakery had paid the repair shop to promote St. Joseph’s Day. After a half-second’s reflection, I decided that I didn’t care. Any reason to buy pastries was a good reason.

I race-walked over to the bakery and, after much mouth-watering deliberation, bought numerous huge cannoli, along with raspberry and chocolate dough-shaped pretzels. I added two mini cannoli to my order. Then I met up with a friend for a mile-long walk at the track behind City Hall. After our walk, I rewarded us with the mini cannoli. I told her that I had just learned that St. Joseph’s Day was traditionallly celebrated with pastries. She said, “Uh huh, if you’re Italian.” I was amazed that I wasn’t aware of this, since absolutely every Italian tradition was acknowledged, if not celebrated, by my husband and in-laws. I figured that somehow I had missed the significance of the day over the last 20 years of our marriage, but I was more than willing to make amends.

After our walk, I went home and announced a surprise dessert to my husband and son. After dinner, I presented the pastries. My husband and son appeared appreciative, but no more than that. I asked my husband if he knew what day it was. He said, “March 19.” I then asked what saint’s day it was. “St. Joseph’s Day,” he replied. Surprised at his lack of understanding, I asked whether or not his family used to celebrate the day with pastries. He had no idea what I was talking about. He said that every special meal ended with pastries when he was growing up. I took that as a “yes” and moved on. The pastries were delicious. I’ve decided that we’re going to celebrate St. Joseph’s Day once a week, at least.

Death and Unemployment

In Death, Humor, Unemployment on February 25, 2012 at 11:47 pm

I get why we’re not allowed to know when we’re going to die. It’s to keep us in line. If we don’t know when the light is going to show up and pull us into the beyond, we have to at least consider our actions and the consequences of such actions. (Unless we’re under some influence or other. Then caution goes out the window. But let’s save that topic for another blog post, or St. Patrick’s Day.) The younger we are, the less we think about our mortality and when we do spare it a thought, it’s fleeting, because, as everyone knows young people are immortal.

Then middle age happens and more of life has been spent than is left. The well-known midlife crisis happens at this point. We start having regrets, changing our bad habits, being more patient, and driving Porsches. So, not knowing our expiration date is probably beneficial to the human race in general, and to luxury car makers in specific.

I can live with not knowing how long I’m going to live. It’s probably why I’ll never get a full-body scan. Sometimes I’d rather be in the dark. But not when it comes to unemployment. Losing your job and looking for one can be devastating. Even if you can afford to not work for awhile, because you don’t know when your next job will come along, you can’t enjoy the time off. Every time I’m unemployed I spend all of my time panicking and sleeping. Then when I get a job, I have to scramble and do everything that I put off during my time off when I had plenty of time to do it. I can see how this happened to me the first time I was between jobs, but now that I know I should be organizing my taxes and making pinatas, I still don’t.

I should at least organize my house. My drawers used to be a metaphor for my life. Five or six years ago, if you walked into my house, you would have been greeted with cleanliness and order, and the soothing smell of bleach and cleansers. You would have said, and probably did, “My, she certainly has it all together.” You would have remained blissfully unaware of the chaos raging in my brain unless you opened a closet or drawers. As mountains of mismatched and discarded debris tumbled toward you, or on you, you would have rethought your initial impression. That wouldn’t have happened, however, because I guarded my closets and drawers with the tenacity of a drug lord’s pit bull.

Now, if you walk into my house, you will harbor no illusions about the state of my mind. After signing my guestbook, which entails writing your name in the dust on our sideboard, you will be greeted by muddy floors, piles of papers, mounds of books that have overtaken several rooms and have been granted squatters’ rights, and frosted window panes that really aren’t frosted at all.

Another indication of my scatteredness is that, a year or so ago, I would have had this blog post all plotted out. I would have known how I would start, what would be said in the middle, and I would have tied it all together at the end. Not anymore. In fact, I’m a little bored. I think I’ll go price Porsches. I’ll write when I get work.

SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION: Check out what self-published indie authors have to offer at www.spbroundup.com.

Résumés Now Need Keywords? I’ll Give You a Keyword.

In Computers, Humor, Résumeé, Technology, Website on January 5, 2012 at 3:34 pm

I started the New Year doing what is becoming a New Year’s ritual: I looked for a job. Freelancing positions often are terminated at the end of the year, at least in my experience. So, I booted up my GPS and headed off to Purchase, NY, to meet with a headhunter. As an aside, wouldn’t you think that “headhunter” would be considered un-PC in this era? Yet the term remains, just like “Indian Summer.” People probably don’t realize that Indian Summer means a fake summer and refers to tricks pulled by Native Americans on the uninvited settlers of their land. Yet some terms, like “Indian Giver,” “Redskin,” “Casino Owner” and, especially “Indian,” are shunned because of their insensitivity. Well, maybe not the second-to-last one. But I digress, which is what adult sufferers of ADD tend to do, but not Native American ones. I’d hate to be accused of insensitivity.

But back to Purchase, NY: in the course of my interview, it was brought to my attention that my résumé was lacking in some areas. That came as a surprise to me. I thought the new addition of boxes around “Professional Experience” and “Education” added a snazzy aspect to my CV. In fact, I was told that removing the distracting boxes would be an improvement. I was also advised to list my skills above my experience. And, because my résumé would be uploaded to cyberspace, I had to use terms, or keywords, that hiring companies would be seeking out. For instance, I needed to use the word “website” instead of “site,” and list “Adobe Acrobat,” “Chicago Manual of Style,” “AP Stylebook,” “Proofreader Marks,” etc.

Keywords are quickly becoming the bane of my existence. I recently started a website for self-published authors (keyword: indie authors): www.spbroundup.com (forgive the plug, please). I thought I was doing these overlooked authors a favor by providing them with a place to promote their works. I also thought I’d eventually attract advertisers who would want to pay me to appear on my website. I have spent hundreds of hours editing authors’ book descriptions and photos of their jacket covers—and just as much time tracking the traffic to my website and figuring out the perfect keywords to use so that SPBRoundup.com would rank high on Google searches.

Now I have to do the same thing for my résumé? You have got to be kidding me. Wasn’t the computer supposed to make life easier? Yes, I don’t have to print out letters and résumés, address envelopes and lick stamps, but I’m spending just as much time doing keyword searches and formatting my résumé.

I have a perfect keyword for this new requirement. And I’m pretty sure it would rank as number one in the search engines.

 

Self-published authors aren’t shackled by rules others make for them. Their only limits are self-imposed. See what they’re up to at www.spbroundup.com.

 

New Year’s Dissolution

In Computer Software, Computers, Humor, Technology on January 2, 2012 at 12:54 am

While everyone else, on this first day of the new year, is thinking about self-improvement, I’ve been contemplating theft. I wouldn’t think twice about going through with it, if it weren’t for my pesky conscience. If I can persuade my conscience that what I’m planning isn’t really stealing, despite indications to the contrary, then I’ll be good to go.

Back around the time the birth control pill was invented, many Catholics started saying that using the pill was not a sin; bringing children into the world that they couldn’t support was the real sin. They claimed that if their consciences were clear, they didn’t sin. I have a friend who calls this kind of Catholic a “cafeteria Catholic,” meaning he or she picks and chooses from the menu of rules. She freely admits that she has an assigned seat in the cafeteria. Many of us see her regularly.

The concept of sinning against your conscience has gained popularity and acceptance in many circles. If you have no conscience, life is a free-for-all, but most of us do, so we have to periodically check in with it before we act. That’s where I am right now.

It all started with my Christmas gift from my husband: a laptop computer. I already have a desktop computer but it’s so riddled with viruses that I have to wear a mask when I use it. A few months ago, I thought it had crashed for good, but I turned it on anyway. I managed to coax it to life long enough to buy and install software that cleaned it up and promised to protect it from attack forever, or until my next payment was due. So, I was back in business, but it was a slow business. It worked, but it took forever to do anything. Then I got a laptop and my internal debate began.

You see, over the years, I had purchased software for my desktop computer and I didn’t want to have to re-purchase it for my laptop. I wanted to transfer everything from my aged desktop onto my laptop and dispose of the desktop. But, I had clicked “I Agree,” when I downloaded or uploaded the various softwares, and one of the things I had agreed to was that I would not transfer it to another device. By clicking “I Agree,” I had agreed, even though what they were asking me to agree to wasn’t fair. But if I didn’t, they wouldn’t have let me buy the software, and where would I be then? I would be without Microsoft Word, Adobe Acrobat, Norton Security, and more. They kind of had me over a barrel.

Now I have to buy it again and I’m not happy about it. If I were going to keep the desktop, then I suppose it would be fair for them to charge me for additional software for my second computer. But I’m not. If I bought a couch when I lived at one house, the furniture company wouldn’t charge me for the couch again if I moved it to another house. I owned it outright. But software doesn’t work that way. I could start a petition, I suppose, but I think I’ll wait for someone more energetic to do it. All I want is my old software transferred to my new computer.

That’s another problem. I bought most of the software online, meaning it was downloaded onto my computer from the mist once I bought it. I should have gone to a store and purchased a disk so I could upload it willy nilly. But I don’t even know if disks are sold anymore. Due to my indolence, I prefer to click and buy. Now I’m paying the price.

So, back to my dilemma: do I download the software onto disks and then upload it onto my laptop (as if I could figure out how to do this!) or do I buy it again?  And while I’m at it, should I print out all of my Kindle books and have them bound at Staples? It annoys me that you can only lend your Kindle book to another Kindle owner if the author has granted permission for lending it. If you own an author’s hardcover or paperback book, you can lend it out to your heart’s content, as long as the lendee returns it (a shout-out to my sister-in-law).

Life was much simpler when you could see and touch things. If I walked into a store and walked out with a disk or a book I didn’t pay for, I wouldn’t have to confer with my conscience; it would be screaming at me (along with the store’s alarm). But when you’re dealing with merchandise that is invisible, sometimes it’s also hard to see the line between right and wrong.

 

Check out what indie authors have to offer at www.spbroundup.com.

 

The Last Clock You’ll Ever Need

In Humor, Mayan Calendar on December 27, 2011 at 12:01 pm

When my sister—let’s call her Victoria—was young, she used to complain that everyone died on her birthday. Not everyone actually did, but the percentage of our relatives and friends who left this world on the anniversary of the day she entered it was astoundingly high. I think she still holds her breath until her birthday is over. If I were in her shoes, I’d move my birthday to another day. Hell, I’d subtract some years while I was at it.

While nobody has died recently on her day, it is unlikely that anyone ever will again. That’s because, according to the Mayan calendar, the end of the world is going to occur on December 21, 2012, the day before her next birthday. I recently saw a cartoon of Mayans carving a calendar. They ran out of room for more days and one of them said, “This is going to freak people out in 2012.”

Now that our purported last year is rapidly approaching, I thought I’d poke around the Web to see if there were any last-day parties or car sales planned. I didn’t find any, but what I did find was the Mayan Last Day site, http://www.mayanlastday.com.* On the site, you can buy a Countdown Clock, available on a keychain or refrigerator magnet. When the end of the world as you know it is coming up, you certainly don’t want to have to dig around in your junk drawer to find your Countdown Clock; you want to know exactly how much time you have left at any given moment.

The Mayan Countdown Clock people considerately manufactured portable and stationary clocks so you’ll never be without one. The best part is that the clocks come with a three-year limited warranty. So, two years after the world is gone, you can still get your money back under certain circumstances. The warranty might be limited by the decimation of our planet; the website didn’t list the exclusions. I guess their legal department is still working on the wording. They’d better hurry up.

*This website has been disabled. The owner probably didn’t want to keep paying for a site that wouldn’t exist as of December 22.

Passive-Agressive

In Humor on December 14, 2011 at 4:58 pm

As I walked through the dining room, I glanced out the window at the house across the street. I groaned inwardly. It had been more than a week since I had visited that house and I was feeling guilty. Two elderly sisters lived there and they craved outside company. The elder sister, Betty, was 92. While she looked every day of her years, her mind was extremely sharp, she still drove herself all over town and beyond, but she was deaf as a hatrack. Her younger sister, Laura, was 87 and her mind was sharp, too, but her body was failing her and she wasn’t often able to walk without assistance. Betty insisted that Laura’s mobility problem was all in her head. She often commented that she, Betty, was in the same shape as Laura was, but that she wasn’t a quitter. She refused to give up her independence so she used a large, black walnut cane to help her get around. Laura just rolled her eyes whenever Betty started on one of her tirades. 

 I knew I should bite the bullet and go over for a visit but just thinking about it exhausted me. While Laura was sweet and soft-spoken, Betty was demanding, loud, abrasive and tyrannical. Laura responded to Betty’s ceaseless commands with passive aggression; when Betty ordered Laura to eat her dinner, Laura would agree that she needed to eat to keep her strength up, and then she would put her plate down on the table next to her recliner and pointedly ignore her food. This would send Betty into hysterics. The more she would order Laura to eat, the more Laura would ignore her. I had been witness to their scenes on many occasions and was always relieved when I managed to escape from their house.

 One time was particularly memorable. Betty was sitting in her chair with the ottoman in front of her. On top of the ottoman was a square of wood. Betty had a solitaire game set up on it when I arrived. The phone was to her right. Laura sat across the room in her dark blue recliner. I tried to include both of them in the conversation, but Betty kept interrupting and monopolizing the conversation. She was on a rant about how Laura was starving herself to death. The conversation in that house was as stagnant as the air; we had been discussing the same subject for the last month. The ringing phone interrupted Betty’s diatribe and she jumped on it. The caller asked for her sister, so Betty barked an order to her sister to pick up the extension by her recliner.

While Betty talked at me loudly, Laura talked to her friend. Betty and Laura were no more than 15 feet apart, but Betty couldn’t hear Laura. So she concentrated on me, complaining about neighbors, the weather and, of course, how uncooperative Laura was being. I nodded when it seemed appropriate since there was no opportunity to interject a comment into Betty’s monologue. Meanwhile, Laura spoke softly into the phone. She knew her sister couldn’t hear her, and it was a good thing. She began by telling her friend that Betty was the nastiest, bossiest, most infuriating person to ever live. She continued in this vein for a good five minutes. By the end of her conversation, she had vowed to do away with her.

The entire time she was speaking, she was calm and smiling. Betty looked over at her sister numerous times to see if she could hear what Laura was saying, but she couldn’t. You couldn’t tell by Laura’s face that she was planning her sister’s death; she looked like a sweet old woman discussing the price of tomatoes. It was really hard to pay attention to Betty when Laura’s conversation was so enthralling. I had to force myself to look away from Laura so that Betty wouldn’t suspect that Laura was talking about her. Eventually Laura hung up and smiled sweetly at us. “What did I miss?” she asked. “Nothing … yet,” I responded, fixing her with a pointed look. Laura smiled beatifically at me in response.

Recalling that episode, I decided I could survive another day of guilt over not visiting them.

 

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Alison Williams Writing

MAKE YOUR BOOK THE BEST IT CAN BE

Writing Slices

Reading the Books that Teach You to Write

Gabriele Romano

Personal Blog

Chuck Smith: Author, Blogger, Rambler

Truths, Half-Truths, and Lies

Little Fears

Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes

Pauls Pages Too

Extra Content from PaulsPages.com

Crazartt

Good things are going to happen@Mehakkhorana

Gareth Roberts

Unorthodox Marketing & Strategy

meganelizabethmorales

MANNERS MAKETH MAN, LOST BOYS FAN & PERPETAUL CREATIVITY.

Beautiful Life with Cancer

Discovering the Gift

A Wifes Reality

The things women don't and won't say about their past and present, true story.

Jamaica Homes

Jamaica Homes: Find Your Dream Property in Jamaica. Search Homes for Sale & Rent.

A Voice for Them

Love | Empathize | Care

My Blog

A fine WordPress.com site

Wonderful Cinema

Short reviews on high quality films. No spoilers.

this is... The Neighborhood

the Story within the Story

Playing Your Hand Right

Showing America how to Live

100 Shoes Blog

Style | Travel | Genuine Living

Chicks With Ticks

Our mission at Chicks with Ticks is to enlighten and empower those who work or play in the great outdoors by providing a source for information, inspiration, and practical help on how to enjoy, enhance, and survive any outdoor adventure.

mbove

Nice Golf Corpse Mysteries

So Far From Heaven

Too many reincarnations in a single lifetime to trust this one.

The Collected Wisdom OF Godfrey

He Was An Odd Young Man WHo DIsliked Beets

Harmony Books & Films, LLC

Tired of being ordinary, then here are some tips for becoming extraordinary.

Sally and David's amazing adventures

Tales of two (almost) virgin travellers

JANNAT007

Watch Your Thoughts; They Become Words

Aunt Beulah

living well to age well

The Bloggess

Like Mother Teresa, only better.

psychologistmimi

Food, Road Trips & Notes from the Non-Profit Underground

Dispatches from the Asylum

“The story so far: In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.” ― Douglas Adams

ChompChomp

Food and Travel

I.A.

Cooking and More

Tripambitions

It contains the world best places and things.

Conundrum.

Dabbles in writing, loves music and nature. Sierra Leonean

Amber & Corde

A journey of expanding my dog's world

Frank Solanki

If you want to be a hero well just follow me