วันอาทิตย์ที่ 4 มกราคม พ.ศ. 2552

Not Your Average Sunday Morning

Just recently my ex-husband stopped in to visit during his vacation. In the course of small talk, a few old memories usually crop up in the conversation. One that instantly came to mind was the day our second son was born.

It was early Sunday morning on a crisp day in the middle of May when I was awakened from my sleep by what I knew to be labor pains. Since it was my second pregnancy I was not alarmed. I already had one child so I felt like an old pro. I knew it was early labor and I had plenty of time before heading off to the hospital. I decided to let my husband, Jim, sleep a little longer. After all, there was no need to awaken him yet.

I slipped quietly out of bed and went to the bathroom to relieve the pressure from my heavily burdened bladder. After washing my hands and face, I brushed my teeth then went into the kitchen to make the morning coffee. I poured myself a steaming cup, retrieved the newspaper from the side porch, then sat down at the kitchen table to look over the headlines. After glancing at the morning news, I poured myself a second cup of coffee and slipped quietly back into the bedroom to get dressed. Jim was still sleeping soundly. I took my already packed overnight bag from the closet and carried it to the living room. I placed it beside the door so that we could just grab it when we were ready to leave. Then I returned to the kitchen to make breakfast for Jim.

My sixteen month old son was spending the weekend with my husband's mother and stepfather. My mother-in-law, Eileen, had insisted on keeping him since she just knew I would go into labor during the weekend. She calculated this prediction due to the fact that I was six days past my due date. After placing the scrambled eggs and sausage links on the plate, I went into the bedroom to wake Jim up, who was still snoring peacefully.

"Morning honey," I said as I kissed him on the forehead. "Get up. Breakfast is ready."

"Morning babe," Jim replied. He sat up, ran his hand through his dishwater blonde hair then stumbled to the kitchen table. He didn't bother to get dressed and since it was only the two of us, I figured it was okay for him to eat in his underwear.

The contractions were getting stronger. My husband gobbled down his food then headed for the bathroom. (No. It wasn't the effects of my cooking!) As I cleaned off the table, I felt the grasp of a contraction, then a sudden warmth of fluid. I leaned against the sink. Jim came out of the bathroom looking relieved but that only lasted momentarily. Glancing over at him, I said, "It's time. My water broke."

"Oh God!," he said. "I have to find a ride. I have to get you to the hospital. (Our car was in the shop for repairs at the time.)

"Calm down," I said. "We have time."

"Time!," my husband shouted. "What time is it? Oh God! I have to catch Lisa before she goes to church." And with that said, he took off out the side door and down the steps. I followed him to the porch. "Honey," I called. "Jim," I yelled, but he was already gone. All I could do was laugh and hope that none of the neighbors called the police on the tall, slender man running down the street in his white Fruit of the Loom briefs!

Lisa was my husband's cousin. She and her husband lived down at the end of our street. I've never been quite sure why Jim ran to her house instead of calling her. It must have just been his first reaction. Although the contractions were stronger now I couldn't hold back from laughing when Jim returned. He was wearing a pair of pants that were entirely too short and he had to hold them tightly around his waist to keep them from falling down. He looked hysterical! It reminded me of the episode from the old Dick Van Dyke show when Laura went in labor! I insisted he change pants before we left for the hospital. Lisa had given Jim the keys to her car and told him to drive carefully. We had two stops to make before going to the hospital - to pick up our mothers. They both wanted to be there and I figured my husband could use their support.

We arrived at my mother's house first. She jumped in the car so quickly I wasn't really sure the vehicle had come to a complete stop. It wasn't until we reached my mother-in-law's home that we realized my mother was still in her nightgown! We all exited the car and went into the house in hopes that my mother-in-law could provide my mother with something more appropriate to wear. While I was in the kitchen talking with my husband's stepfather, we heard a car going down the driveway. Looking out the window, we realized that Jim and his passengers had left for the hospital - without me! My mother had grabbed a bathrobe from a hook on the inside of the bathroom door to cover her nightgown. My mother-in-law left with one side of her head still rolled in foam curlers and the other side displaying loose, bouncy curls. And the three of them were off!

They actually didn't realize they had forgotten me until they arrived at the hospital. Luckily for me, the hospital was only a few minutes away. Yes, they did return, pick me up and deliver me safely to the hospital. Shortly afterward, I delivered a healthy seven pound fourteen ounce son. Mother and child were fine. But I think my husband and our mothers were a little worse for wear!

Darlene Zagata is a freelance writer and columnist for the print publication Moon Shadows Magazine. She is also the author of "Aftertaste: A Collection of Poems" and "The Choosing." Her work has been published extensively both online and in print. For more information visit her website at <a target="_new" href="http://darlenezagata.tripod.com">http://darlenezagata.tripod.com</a> or contact Darlene at <a href="mailto:darzagata@yahoo.com">darzagata@yahoo.com</a>

Eye Spy Potatoes

Lately I've had the problem of falling asleep with my contact lenses still in my eyes. And by "lately," I mean for the past seven years. This, in a lot of ways, is the pinnacle of laziness because the removal of contacts takes no more than a minute or two, or three hours if it's your first time. But I've come to the conclusion this morning that there is a reason I fail to remove the contacts: deep down, I am hoping to find certain people in my dreams. So if I have the contacts on my eyes, then perhaps my eyes will be able to contact them. Isn't logic wonderful? I am pretty sure, in fact, that if I never remove my contacts, a telephone may become a thing of the past...

If we really do follow logic with our eyes, then why don't we use potatoes as optometrists? Any vegetable with that many eyes must have good sight. The only thing we'd have to worry about is their communication skills, because I've yet to hear a potato talk, especially not in full sentences. Plus, we need to get rid of the negative stereotypes of potatoes caused by Mr. Potato Head, who never seems to have his feet or arms in the right place. Quite honestly, I don't think we can trust something -- or someone -- like that with our vision. Truly you'd be able to say that nobody "nose" the trouble if your nose is in an eye socket...

If the trust does accumulate, I think we need to assure the general population that not only will these potatoes test our eye sight, but they will also help to remove pointy objects, such as broken light bulbs from lamps. Imagine the possible diagnosis: "Well, your eyes are good, but your lamp is going to have to stay here for another 24 hours. You can never be careful, you know."

Speaking of columns going nowhere, I think most rabbits have more money than people realize, with all those carrots and whatnot. The thing is, what is a rabbit supposed to do with money? This question leads me to think that rabbits need financial advisers who will take care of money matters and tell them that money does matter, but then tell them the opposite once they invest half of their money and lose it. Bugs and Roger would be proud...

In conclusion, I must stop falling asleep with contacts in my eyes, because eventually such an action will cause me to write very bad columns about rabbits and money. Luckily I don't think that will happen for quite some time...

But I digress.

Greg Gagliardi is a teacher and writer. His stream-of-consciousness weekly humor column, "Progressive Revelations," has been ongoing since 1998. (<a target="_new" href="http://www.ProgressiveRevelations.com">http://www.ProgressiveRevelations.com</a>)

Painful Lessons from the Maternity Ward

Whoever dubbed New York, New York "the city that never sleeps" should visit The Maternity Ward. My recent visit included a drop-in on several screenings of "A Star Is Born" at the late-show theatre, right near Mama's Breast (all night milk bar) and Papa's Gas Station ("We burp you on your way.").

To a chorus of infant cries, I drafted this column at 1:00 a.m. Of course, it was 3:00 p.m. in Tokyo, so I suppose it wasn't so late after all.

The whole experience of birthing seems to be a very traumatic way to build a family. Fortunately, it did lead to two very happy results. It gave me a new daughter, Lauralee, the Little Sister. And it taught me some valuable lessons, which it is my patriotic duty to share with you.

The first lesson ? all men, take note ? is that my wife is my hero.

As the husband, I experienced the whole birthing outburst second-hand. After careful observation, I conclude that this is the best way to experience it. (Apparently I had some first-hand experience over 40 years ago, but I can't remember too many details.)

Most husbands suffer great humiliation during childbirth. Wives hurl razor-sharp insults like "I hate you!" and "You fink!" and "You did this to me!" and "I HATE YOU!!!" My wife, truly original even in pure agony, didn't use any of those words. In fact, she didn't say a thing. Instead, she threw up on me.

Of course, I don't hold the throwing up against her. The second lesson I wish to share with you is the importance of forgiving people who act in haste, in anger, or in excruciating pain from pushing a six-inch wide baby through a one-inch wide hole in their bodies.

Did I mention that this was a "natural" childbirth? Natural, as in no painkillers. OK, so there was the epidural, which should have relieved the pain, if even one of the four dosage increases had worked. And I suppose you could call morphine and nubain painkillers if they had actually killed any pain.

So my wife, with a permanent back condition amplifying the stab of every contraction and reverberating it through the spine with no momentary relief between contractions, felt every glorious minute ? 487 in all ? of the unplanned "natural" childbirth. Did I mention that she is my hero? The third lesson is, when the best-laid plans go astray, improvise (which might explain the throwing up ? I have reason to believe it was not planned, either).

My wife's trauma was nothing compared to what Little Sister overcame. Her shoulders got stuck, pinching the umbilical cord and cutting the oxygen supply from her not-quite-yet-born brain. To do the equivalent, you would have to press your shoulder up into your nose, while a bulldozer on steroids pushes you in a river of blood through your mailbox. (Don't try this at home, folks.)

Thanks to Quick Thinking Doctor, the focused team of nurses, and a well-sharpened pair of scissors, Little Sister is enjoying great suction at the all-night milk bar with no more damage than a limp arm. (That's "brachial plexus injury" in medicalese.) The arm will hopefully recover. Even if it doesn't, we know what the alternative would have been ... and we do not look good in black. Lesson number four is to appreciate what you have rather than worry about what you don't.

The Maternity Ward offers far too many lessons to share with you now. My fatigue is overtaking me. I feel like a wad of gum squished on the asphalt, baked in the sun, and stuck on a motorcycle tire burning rubber on a gravel trail. Ha! Bet you never felt like that in New York, New York.

About The Author

The author is David Leonhardt, The Happy Guy. To receive his satirical happiness column weekly in your inbox, sign up at <a href="http://TheHappyGuy.com/positive-thinking-free-ezine.html" target="_new">http://TheHappyGuy.com/positive-thinking-free-ezine.html</a>

<a href="mailto:Info@TheHappyGuy.com">Info@TheHappyGuy.com</a>

วันศุกร์ที่ 2 มกราคม พ.ศ. 2552

Dumb Luck

I've never really thought of myself as being funny. I don't have much of a sense of humor at all. My ex-husband used to tell me dumb jokes all the time and I didn't laugh, not even to be polite like everyone else would do. Yet the strange thing is that people who've read some of my life stories have found them to be hilarious. I'm not sure if that's good or bad considering those stories actually happened.

Let me put it another way: I'm not really funny; I just do dumb things. What kind of things you might ask. Well, the usual like walking down the street with my daughter, running my mouth at full speed until I walk right into the pole that I didn't see. I didn't find that episode the least bit humorous although my daughter and everyone else on the street did. See, I told you I have no sense of humor.

Doing dumb things seems to be part of my nature. For example, I used to love going to bingo. In fact, I was practically addicted. My sister-in-law and I would go to bingo faithfully and I will never forget some of our most embarrassing bingo moments.

One night as we were rushing to get to our favorite bingo, my sister-in-law, Sue took a leap of faith. And I do mean leap. Well, in all honesty it was more of a splat! She was running late as usual so she parked her car in the parking lot of the employment office which was right behind my house. The lodge where the bingo was being held was right across the street from my home. Sue hurriedly parked, grabbed her purse and bingo supplies, locked the car door and ran through the parking lot toward my house not realizing that a chain was blocking the other end of the lot. She ran right into the chain which sent her flying onto the concrete roadway as a rain of bingo chips fell down around her. Although her hands got scraped up a bit as she tried to brace for her fall, the embarrassment was more painful.

Then I recall another time when me and Sue decided to go to a late night bingo where the prizes were pretty high and we felt lucky. Apparently a lot of other people felt lucky too because when we got there the place was so crowded that we were offered two options: either turn around and go home (we drove quite a distance to get there) or sit on the floor. As we looked around at the other people who had opted for the second choice, we decided to join them. Our seating arrangements turned out to be in a most convenient spot - right next to the ladies restroom. At least I didn't have far to go to relieve myself of the vast amount of caffeine I had consumed throughout the day.

But as with most things, it did have its downside. Women kept stepping over us all night long on their way to the potty. My knees went stiff after sitting in semi-lotus position for over three hours and to top off the perfect night my entire winnings totaled a whopping five dollars! But the night wasn't over yet. It was kind of freaky when I glanced up at the window directly across the room from me and saw my husband's face gazing back at me. In the fraction of a second that it took to blink, I glanced back at the window and he was gone. I told my sister-in-law about the strange sighting but she just laughed and said he was on my mind.

As we filed out of the bingo hall with numb rear ends and lighter pockets, I heard my name cut through the night air in a harsh sounding but familiar tone. The bingo had actually lasted longer than we had anticipated and my husband was worried, not to mention, jealous and not as trusting as he should have been. All I heard was, "Get in the car!" I knew it was a waste of time to even argue. I was just glad that he could never stay mad at me for very long, even though I hadn't done anything wrong anyway.

It was certainly not a profitable night for me or my sister-in-law. Lady Luck had left us with sore buns, stiff knees an empty pockets. Talk about dumb luck!

Darlene Zagata is a freelance writer and columnist for the print publication Moon Shadows Magazine. She is also the author of "Aftertaste: A Collection of Poems" and "The Choosing." Her work has been published extensively both online and in print. For more information visit her website at <a target="_new" href="http://darlenezagata.tripod.com">http://darlenezagata.tripod.com</a> or contact Darlene at <a href="mailto:darzagata@yahoo.com">darzagata@yahoo.com</a>

The Army Corp of Engineers Having Issues Fixing Breach

The Army Corp of engineers is having a tough time filling in the breaches in the levees. They have tried to use giant sand bags to drop into the hole. Three-Thousand pound bags have been dropped into the breach but to no avail. Lake Pontchartrain has a lot of weight behind it and fixing the breach and pumping out the water could take months.

I therefore have an idea. Now before you say my idea is crazy, remember the President to think on this and that no idea is too far out, we need to put on our thinking caps. Good, I have an idea. Most of the lawyers in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast have lost their offices in Hurricane Katrina. They can no longer practice law, since no courts are open for them to file lawsuits and lawyers will just hamper rebuilding efforts anyway. I therefore propose that we use Lawyers to fill the New Orleans broken Levees. We help expire as many lawyers as it takes to fill up the breach-gap left by the Hurricane with dead lawyers.

Unfortunately they are so full of shit they do not sink very well. Normally human feces floats and a perfect example of that density proof in physics is the stuff already floating in the New Orleans Soup Bowl. I propose to harden them in a fast heavy plaster mixture with sand bags attached to the abdomen, because it you leave the rope attached which you used to coax them into their civic duty, then eventually the head will depart once submerged for several weeks and we do not want a re-breach if their bodies float away. So we need to leave them secured with straps.

Finally a way for the lawyers to pay back society and do some good in the world; Think on this, as there has to be a way to make this happen.

"Lance Winslow" - If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; <a target="_new" href="http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs">http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs</a>

วันพฤหัสบดีที่ 1 มกราคม พ.ศ. 2552

Do Americans Really Understand Irony?

Let me start by saying that 'I am an American' Ok, there I have admitted it. But let me go on to make myself slightly more unpopular by suggesting that our American society does present us with a range of valuable and positive aspects. (no ? I am not being ironic yet) Before you stop reading, let me counter that by suggesting what I see as the greatest fault of our modern society. A self absorbed US-centric attitude? A destructive ill conceived foreign policy that is destroying our reputation across the globe? No, neither of these. In my opinion the greatest tragedy is the lack of widespread irony in our daily lives and conversations.

So what is irony? Let me start by explaining the concept, so that at least my fellow Americans can understand the idea even if they do not get it. Merriam Webster Dictionary (http://www.m-w.com) provides several definitions, with the following providing a succinct and accurate explanation: &quot;the use of words to express something other than (and especially) the opposite of the literal meaning. So if I trip over and say 'Gee ? I'm co-ordinated today', that would be an example of irony. The act of falling over is opposite to the literal words. I have used this example, because some of you may be thinking 'Hang on, but isn't that the same as sarcasm?' I could of course answer by saying 'Gee- aren't you clever today', but I will stick to the shorter answer of 'no'.

Although I have provided a single definition of irony above, there are in fact several forms of irony. Sadly, for those people who mix and match these concepts ? sarcasm is not one of these forms. The difficulty is that sarcasm is 'usually' said in an ironic way, but this is not always the case. In short, it is possible to have either sarcasm or irony without having the other. Going back to my original example where I fell over, if you had mocked me and said 'Gee ? you're co-ordinated today', that would be sarcastic because of the scornful snigger. But as you will remember from above it is also defined as irony. However, if you had mocked my poor mishap by saying 'Gee ? aren't you unco-ordinated', then you will have lost the touch of irony and simply descended to the lowest form of wit ? sarcasm. (For a further explanation of the difference between these two concepts see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Irony#Irony_vs_Sarcasm)

So in essence irony can be misunderstood as sarcasm because the two concepts do overlap. Sarcasm must have the mocking or sneering tone, and the confusion therefore arises because so often sarcasm occurs when making ironic statements which are positive when clearly something negative is intended. Just to be confusing, I note the potential for both parody and satire to incorporate both irony and sarcasm for even greater effect. (http://www.modern-masterpieces.com)

So, do Americans really not understand irony? It would seem unlikely given its close connection with sarcasm, but still possible. It is true that many English comedians find the American circuit more difficult for this very reason. The fact that irony is used to different effect in the US does not mean that it is not used to significant and striking purpose.

The world wide success of shows like The Simpsons and Seinfeld is partially attributed to their fantastic use of irony. These shows both allow ironic humor to seep out, in stark contrast to the more traditional comedy setups of so many American sitcoms, which are far more gag focussed.

To conclude this section of self congratulatory praise for how us Americans DO actually understand and use irony, I note the two (American) Golden Globes awarded to the very ironic English sitcom The Office (http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice).

What is that you say? The Globes are voted for by Hollywood's foreign press too, and this is likely to have been a big influence, especially given the relatively small scale success of the show in America. Ok, a fair comment I guess. But secondly, and far more distressingly, The Office has been remade for the US market. So, firstly we heap accolades on this fine piece of television and then we deconstruct it, de-irony it, Americanise it and repackage it. Perfect! I think the whole argument could be lost on this sad point alone.

Do not distress however, the surge of irony is coming, and will not be stopped. It has been said that Americans take themselves too seriously to drop irony into everyday conversations. Well, there is little doubt in my mind that this is changing. Lines from shows such as The Simpsons are being copied and used by millions of children across this great land, and slowly but surely the old gags that amused former generations will give way to this higher form of humor ? 'irony'.

Well, I think that cleared up issue - not!

Biography:

Michael Watson studied English Literature at University, where he gained an interest in literary criticism particularly relating to drama and prose fiction. Michael has more recently focussed on genres of literature and literary techniques. As a side interest Michael manages <a target="_new" href="http://www.thedreaminterpreter.com">http://www.thedreaminterpreter.com</a>

Bibliography:

<a target="_new" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Irony#Irony_vs_Sarcasm</a>

<a target="_new" href="http://www.modern-masterpieces.com">http://www.modern-masterpieces.com</a>

The Restaurant Chronicles, Part 1

Have you ever heard that saying, &quot;The show must go on"? When you hear it, you think of what is commonly referred to as &quot;Show-biz,&quot; don't you? But where can you go to see the best acting money can buy, any day of the week? No, I'm not talking about the theatre or TV. I'm talking about the &quot;Restaurant-biz.&quot; Servers, bartenders, hostesses, and restaurateurs act on a daily business. Their performance is crucial! Every movement, every word, every bite is an integral part of the restaurant-goers experience, and any one of these parts, if it isn't just right, could lead to the restaurant-goer, well, going.

Many a restaurant owner has held their breath as they flipped to the local restaurant critic's (probably some pompous, pretentious old windbag), page to see what he or she has to say about their establishment. This write-up has the power to make or break a restaurant, especially a privately owned one. Unfortunately the only critiques a server gets to give are given behind a kitchen door, in a server station, or over a beer (or several) at the end of a shift. Well, the restaurant critic has held the pen too long! The time has come for the server to speak up and critique the customer for a change!

I, as a former member of the exclusive club known as the Restaurant Industry, am about to attempt a categorization of several different types of patrons. This will be the first installment of a series I like to call, &quot;The Restaurant Chronicles.&quot; In this, Part 1, I will begin a labeling process which will hopefully serve as both comic relief for others in our distinguished field, and also to illuminate those who may unknowingly belong to one (or more) of the following groups. Let's see, where should we begin?

The Chatty-Cathy: This breed of customer is more interested in gabbing and/or gossiping with friends or colleagues than ordering or eating food. She or he is content to have the server stand and wait while finishing the conversation. This customer will ignore the server every time they come back and ask whether a refill or some other service is needed. If the server has to repeatedly ask the question, this customer will often flash a dirty look or make a snide comment.

The Cell Phone Addict: This lonely soul cannot seem to put their cell phone down long enough to even order. They insist on pointing to items on the menu and requiring their server to guess at their order instead of simply putting their phone down and speaking.

The Sally: If you've seen the movie When Harry met Sally, you have seen a frighteningly realistic example of the high-maintenance guest. This person says thing like, &quot;I'll have this roast turkey sandwich, except can I get it with mustard instead of mayonnaise? Actually can I have a little bit of both on the side, and, uh, no tomatoes? Do you have rye bread? Could you have them toast it? And could I have a mixed green salad instead of the pasta salad, but with ranch?I don't like that vinaigrette you guys use. Do you think I could get a coke instead of this tea? It tastes funny.&quot; Although they speak in sentences that sound like questions, an experienced server recognizes them for what they truly are, demands.

The Dummy: This simple creature somehow manages to find their way to the restaurant, although it's hard to imagine how. They come in through a door directly below a giant neon sign, flashing the word &quot;OPEN,&quot; and ask, with a blank look on their face, &quot;Are you guys open?&quot; The menu may have the word, in huge letters, BREAKFAST on the cover, and they will ask, &quot;Are you guys serving breakfast?&quot; This client teaches their server the art of patience, because it is nearly impossible not to reply sarcastically to such moronic questions.

The Merry Mommy Club: This group of lovely ladies and their lovely children is always a treat, if your idea of a treat is hurdling small children, while at the same time, maneuvering large heavy trays of hot food and liquids without losing your balance, as they run under your feet. This species of diner loves to sit for hours and hours chatting, as they consume only small side dishes of food and sip away gallons of decaffeinated coffee, or every server's favorite, hot tea! They squeak in babynese, and compete in the &quot;My baby can do this?&quot; game. They also are notorious for their lack of observational skills, as their older children compete in creating a virtual &quot;Obstacle Course&quot; for servers and other guests by climbing on top of tables, running behind the counter, and other various activities.

Well, that concludes Part 1 of the Restaurant Chronicles, but fear not, my wonderful readers! I plan to continue my exploration of this fascinating creature, known as the diner, in Part 2. So please come back and learn more about this interesting, exciting, and often times, just plain weird business, we Restaurant folk affectionately refer to as, well?our job.

Toni Kiser is a recently married, college graduate from North Carolina. She worked as a server, manager and bartender in the Restaurant Industry for over 12 years. She now lives in California with her husband, a musician and computer-programmer. She has been writing all her life, and hopes to one day write a collumn in a magazine or newspaper.