Heck No

           I spent most of my formative years in northern Utah, and when I first saw the movie, Napoleon Dynamite, it felt like a documentary of my childhood, right down to the chicken farms and the 4-H.

          Just to clarify, I did watch it again and thought it was hilarious once I got over the trauma of seeing a tetherball again. But most of all, I loved the “Heck no” phrase, which you can still find in abundance in this region.

          In fact, I am surprised there is no college major offered in hecknology, after which you can become a hecknologist. Or a hecknocrat, you can choose.

          Hecknically, it’s a phrase that elevates no to NO, all the while avoiding profanity, so as not to offend.  And it takes a certain savoir faire, a certain cool polish to speak it correctly (if in doubt, you could call a hecknician to speak for you if you can’t get anyone to offer hecknical support).

          Indeed, not to fall back on a hecknicality, but not everyone has the hecknicological talent for it, nor the hecknique. Sure, you can dance to heckno music, but using it in conversation could make you look like a heckojunkie from questionable hecknography.

          No, it seems only those with real roots in southern Idaho or northern Utah can claim membership in this hecknocracy; only we can engage in hecknicolor  hecknobabble. I suppose tutoring could help erase your hecknofear, but would you ever become a hecknomaniac?  Heck no.

          However, you may console yourself by purchasing my books and reading them to your heart’s content.  That’s a heckuva way to spend an afternoon.

The Chick Magnet

           There’s something about St. Bob that uninhibits women, shall we say.  I’ve seen women make passes at him on the freeway, in meetings, after performances we’ve attended, and once, when we brought some Christmas gifts over to an elderly lady in our church, she whispered, “I love you” to him while I was standing approximately four inches away.

          Another elderly woman, again in our church, told him her garter snapped when she met him.  I’m telling you, I could fill a book with these events.

          So the other day we decided to take the nearby walking path around the wetlands. Two women were approaching, one on her cell phone. Just as they got to us, the phone one said, “Hello, Sunshine!”

          Now, of course Bob insists she was saying this to someone on the phone. But c'mon, this is rather amazing timing, don’t you think? And, given his history as a chick magnet, it could be she was still waiting for someone to pick up.

          And you can take that any way you like.

Why not pick up a couple of my books? It’s too hot to go outside (plus you might run into flirty women), so stay inside and read.

What's That, You Say?

           Have you ever met someone who “hears what they want to hear”?  Yes, you have: Me. 

         A few years ago I asked a group of friends what they would do for a living, if they weren't whatever they are now.  One friend, a doctor, said, "Psychopath."

         I was immediately fascinated. What a cool choice!

         Then he elaborated and I realized he had said "soccer player."

          Okay, not nearly as exciting as a psychopath.

          Then the other day a college student from China, who had recently joined our church, came over for dinner. He was delightful—happy and genial, great sense of humor.

          I asked him what he was majoring in. 

          “Pastry,” he said.

          Ding-ding-ding—best news of the day, right? I told him he could come over and do his homework in our kitchen every single day.

          “That’s so cool that you’re studying pastry,” I said.

          “No, no—history,” he explained.

          Oh. My happy expression melted onto the floor, and here’s where the needle scratches the record, for those of you who know that sound.

          All the wind left my sails.  History?  I mean, I have nothing against that field of study, but compared to pastry?      (sigh)

          These kids today.

Hey, are you having a heat wave where you live?  Staying inside? That’s a perfect time to watch my Youtube Mom videos. Enjoy a pastry while you watch!

My Own Personal Bar Code

           I’ve told you how hilarious it is to shop with our daughter, Nicole. She can instantly make up funny titles for every top or pair of pants I pull from the rack.  That looks like Pocahontas meets the Cosby Show. That’s an I-Give-Up top. Why not just say, “I’m a felt board?” Is that a tablecloth or a skirt? That looks like the costume for a little rain cloud in the school play.

          And then, of course, I can’t think of anything else when I look at it, so I put it back.

          But now I know where she got it. It’s a genetic inheritance from St. Bob. He recently asked me if I knew how valuable I am.  What a sweet thing for a hubby to say, right?  I smiled.

          Then he said, “That’s the biggest bar code I’ve ever seen. You could buy an aircraft carrier with that.”

          I looked down at my pants. Here they are—I’m sitting with my legs crossed. He’s right—they DO look like a giant bar code!

          And now my eyes are also crossed, my arms are crossed, and I am personally cross. Now I can never wear these pants again without worrying that someone will chase me down with a hand-held bar code reader!

          At least he didn’t say I look like an aircraft carrier.

          Some of my humor novels have a character who bears a striking resemblance to St. Bob.  Check ‘em out here.

Brain Pills

           So I tell my doctor I’m having hot flashes and brain fog. She says it’s from the Arimistat I take, now that I’ve recovered from breast cancer. It blocks estrogen and has both those side affects.

          But there are remedies. She gives me several ideas for hot flashes, including acupuncture.  Also, since I've gained a bit during this pandemic, she reminds me that thin people are cooler than fat people. "Yeah, but fat people are harder to kidnap," I say. "So, you know, mox nix."

         Then she recommends one for brain function.

          Yay, I say, and I head to the market. I’m looking up and down the vitamin and herb aisle. A clerk sends the manager over to help. I tell him I need Lion’s Mane for my hot flashes.

          “Here it is,” he says, reaching for a bottle on the shelf.

          And there, in bold lettering, we see that no, it is not for hot flashes, it is for MEMORY.

          “Oh my gosh,” I say. “I guess that one’s for memory.”  And I cringe because I’ve forgotten the memory one!

          I get home, go upstairs, and tell St. Bob what happened. Then we go downstairs, and I notice I’m still holding the bottle that belongs upstairs.

          “Better take one quick,” Bob says. “Before you can’t remember why you bought it.”  Very helpful, that guy, Whats-his-name.

          You can test your own memory. See if you can remember to order my books and subscribe to this blog!

Hey, You Skinny Thing!

         Have you gained your Covid 19 yet? If not, there’s still time to gobble up all the ice cream, pizza, and pastries you can find. But even if you ate all day long (whaddaya mean if?) you will never catch up to the earth.

          Yes, good news for all of us who are sure the scale is lying. Turns out our own planet gets 100 tons heavier every day, due to falling space dust. And logic tells me that same dust is landing on every one of us and could account for a huge portion of our weight gain!  Is this fabulous news or what?

          First, a moment of silence for our precious planet. 100 tons is

                                              200, 000 pounds! 

 (My apologies to everyone who grew up learning metrics.  But probably you can figure the equivalent in stones and kilograms.)  Think of it:  200,000 pounds!  How many elephants and skyscrapers would you have to pile up to reach that total?  I can’t even imagine.

          Now, based on your time outside, determine how much space dust is falling on you. Or do like me, and just assume it’s all of the extra weight you are now carrying.

See? Don’t you feel better already? Subscribe to this uplifting blog! It will also keep you inside a bit more as you read it, thus, you will not gain as much space dust weight.  Win-win.

And check out my website here. More indoor time!

Worst Game in the Universe

          What were you doing at 2:30 in the morning last night? Sleeping? Gee, that must be nice.

          I WAS UP TRYING TO CATCH THE STUPID LIVE MOUSE OUR CAT BROUGHT IN.

          Yes, Simon still thinks he’s training us to catch mice, thus he brings in LIVE ones and LETS THEM GO.  In our bedroom. In the middle of the night. Look at this hunter's focus:

         Naturally the mouse ran under our bed. Then Simon ran under our bed. Then we heard Simon ricocheting off the bed frame for ten minutes. Then the mouse zoomed over to our love seat and Simon chose to lie down and forget all about the mouse. Probably giving us an “F” in mouse-catching, and putting it on our permanent record.

          I picture this mouse outside, waiting on the curb with a little suitcase, saying, “Oh, here’s my Uber,” and jumping into Simon’s mouth. Then he gets a free ride into a free house with free food.  Sure, there’s a workout program involving a cat, but really that’s just a fitness perk.

So if you’re planning to visit the Hiltons anytime soon, we’ll be happy to let you stay in our bedroom.

But I’d stay home and read my books until the coast is clear.