Well, Shoot!

Get ready for the best (worst?) auto-correct story you’ve heard.  And of course, it happened last week to St. Bob.

          First, the setting.  At our church’s recent semi-annual General Conference, it was announced that, in every congregation, the two main men’s groups would now be combined, with a new presidency.  That meant releasing both previous presidents, their counselors, and secretaries.  And much of this task fell to men like Bob, who serve on the High Council.

          So he began contacting the various men to let them know he’d like to meet with them to do this. As part of his text, he dictated into his phone, “I’ll release you this week,” before requesting a convenient time.

          I was across the room, not really listening, when I heard him shout, “No! No!”  Yep. Yep.  He had already pressed “send” before checking his message, and it went out as “I’ll really shoot you this week.”

          And we can all see how “release you” can become “release-shoo” to an iphone’s ears, right? Soon “really shoot” becomes its choice and away you go.

          Bob called the guy right away and they both cracked up over his gaff.  But then the guy said, “Do you know what line of work I’m in?”

          Bob did not.

          “I’m in law enforcement,” he said.  But of course.

Have you seen my YouTube Mom videos?  Check ‘em out here.  There’s even one for how to apologize.

A Snowball Fight of One

I’m going to go out on a limb here, and guess that you don’t know many people who have blogged about Hostess Snowballs.  And even fewer who have blogged about them twice.  So I think I’m sort of making history.

Or at least I’m making bunny cakes. A couple of weeks ago, for Easter, I made my usual bunny cakes.  Here’s what they look like, nothing the Food Channel would gasp over, but an endearing bit of family tradition:

And every year it’s an ordeal to find the “bunny butts” or tails.  Hostess Snowballs must be an endangered species, because I typically hunt high and low before I can find some.

This year St. Bob came to my rescue and offered to go out and find them while I was greasing the pans and beating the batter.  (These cakes are simple to make—you just put two halves of a round cake together and you have the bunny’s body.  Each cake recipe makes two bunnies.)

Except the first store where Bob looked didn’t have the snowballs.  Nor did the second store.  Nor did the third.  But St. Bob is a saint, after all, so he would not give up.  Luckily, the fourth store had some green ones.  Unluckily Bob had no green ones as he had left his wallet home.  He asked the clerk if he could buy them with an app on his phone, but she had no idea how to work this.

By now he’d been gone well over an hour and I was wondering what on earth had kept him so long.  I had no idea the tenacity of my husband, hobbling all over town on his replaced knee. Finally a store manager helped him electronically purchase the absolutely essential finishing touch for the bunny cakes and he returned, the victorious warrior.

But he also made me promise to order these a week ahead of time, next year.  Done and done.

Speaking of ordering, have you ordered any of my books, yet?  Waaay more fun than chasing around town for Snowballs.

           

Trash Talk

          When it comes to Spring Cleaning, the Hiltons go big or go home.  Actually, we’re already home.  And we didn’t really plan to go this big.

          St. Bob ordered a trash bin so we could throw out my ancient potting bench, a garden lattice, some old lumber, and who-knows-what from the garage.  But when it arrived it was three times the size we expected.  It barely fit on our driveway.

          I posted it on Facebook, announcing that my new Easter basket had arrived and I hoped the Easter Bunny would fill it with chocolate.

          Naturally, Bob joked that we could use it as a swimming pool, and we immediately imagined all of us floating on inner tubes, waving to horrified neighbors, for a White Trash Christmas card photo.  Maybe some water could even leak out the sides for an added touch.

          But before we could actually implement this brilliant idea, Bob was hurling bags and boxes into the container, and in no time it was about half full. See? That makes me an optimist.

You can read my books while floating in a pool or not.  Check out all 25 of them here.

Shih Tzu Achoo

          You heard it here first: Dogs can be allergic to themselves.

          Yes, I frowned just as you are doing when I heard this.  I was standing at the front desk of my veterinary office last week, attempting to listen with a straight face. I was explaining that the miracle/fabulous/amazing pill which had cured our dog’s itching had suddenly stopped working.

           The kind woman sitting there said it’s possible the allergen count in the air—pollens, molds, etc.—could be up. “Or,” she said, “she could be allergic to herself.”

          Here is where I wasn’t sure if I should just run from this burning building or stay there and hear the explanation. I stayed, because I needed a refill of the old steroid we had used on our dog a year ago.  And that’s when the woman explained that dogs can have dog allergies and be allergic to their own dander.

          Now, riddle me this: How can you get away from yourself?  Seriously, in what universe can you run and hide from your own body? And if dogs can have dog allergies, can humans have people allergies? Could this be the reason you never really liked Mr. Webb in the 9^th grade? And the reason snakes shed their skins?

          We could be onto the biggest scientific breakthrough known to mankind—the cause of wars, famines, pestilence, even jealousy and a distaste for the way your Uncle Dreemus breathes through that hairy nose. Maybe we’re all allergic to one another.

          I’m telling you, pharmaceutical companies are sitting on a gold mine.  They should be packaging allergy control medications that counteract other drivers, difficult relatives, noisy neighbors—why, the list is endless.  And let’s not forget oneself.

Meanwhile, until the right medication comes along, distract yourself from the itching by reading one of my riveting books, available here.

Bumber? Shoot!

          I don’t think husbands should be allowed to read minds.  St. Bob probably knows I am thinking this, but it’s still my position.

          Here is the latest example of an infraction.  For Christmas he gave me a FABULOUS McKenzie Childs umbrella. 

You know how crazy I am about this design line, because you read here about my painting my grandfather clock in that style.

This umbrella folds up neatly into a travel sized sleeve,

so I’ve been keeping it in my car for a rainy day.

The problem is that in March we get a lot of rainy days where I live.  So St. Bob decided to ask if I’ve tried out my gift, yet.

I paused.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re afraid to get it wet.”

And here is where I clamp my hands over my forehead and say, “Get out of there!  That's private property.” 

And yes, that is exactly the situation. I love my umbrella too much to use it.  Like those women (and you know who you are) who never use the good china or the expensive perfume.  I am now in your club.  So we have to agree to stop meeting and overcome our craziness.

This week I’m going to Seattle.  And I am USING my umbrella.

And while I’m gone you can surprise me by ordering one of my books! 

Run, Run, as Fast as You Can!

          Apparently I’m running in a marathon.  Last week I got three emails thanking me for registering, giving me the details, and notifying me that I’ve been charged $44.00.  Okay, maybe this is a 10K, not an actual marathon, but I have as much chance of running in one as in the other.

          Obviously the other Joni Hilton, who actually signed up, gave them the wrong email address (mine), but thankfully her credit card does not match mine. I spent at least an hour trying to find a phone number or even an email address on their website, and finally resorted to telling them about the problem in a trouble-shooting comment line. After all, I do not want my poor double to wonder if they got her payment. (And if she wins, I'm framing the headline.)

          One of our sons is married to a girl whose parents actually do run in marathons, including the Boston Marathon.  They are major, serious runners. I, on the other hand, have toyed with the idea of wearing a T-shirt that says, “I RAN A MARATHON” and then below that, in tiny letters: “sign-up booth.” 

          I could sit in a chair, take their money, and hand them a T-shirt all day long.  And, if someone would bring in lunch, I could sit there from sun-up to sun-down. I’d even throw in water bottles.

          I do like the idea of raising money for good causes, which many of these races do.  But until they have a 1/32 K, which would be about 100 feet long, I shall work on increasing my typing speed.  And why aren’t there races for that?

          Race to my website here, and see how fast you can buy my books. Maybe you’ll set a world record! 

Can You Pass on Your Crazy Luck?

          I’m looking at the headline I wrote for this blog and realize you can take it two ways.  1) You can ask, “Can you pass your crazy luck on to your children, genetically?”  or 2) could you be offered crazy luck in life, and then just pass on it, and go for better luck instead?

          But I’m not sure we get to choose.  I mean, who would choose bad luck, right?  It just follows some folks around (and those of us with bent brains use it to write humor novels and comedy blogs).

          But now… ta-da!  I found an article in My Business Future Magazine that says, “Researchers Prove That Luck is Inherited.”  They studied 300,000 people and have proclaimed that luck is demonstrably genetic.

This not only absolves me from responsibility, which I love, but it explains the unbelievable things that happen to my children, as well.

          JUST LAST WEEK our grown daughter decided to take the train to visit a friend.  But first you have to catch a bus.  No problem, right?  No problem if you are unrelated to Joni. On the other hand, if you are my offspring, here is what your bus will do:

          Buses high center and get stuck on curbs 87% more of the time if one of the passengers is related to me.  Okay, I made that up, but seriously, has this ever happened to you, even once?  Remember, I’m the one who got hit by a semi here, and had my luggage lost by Air France for three days here.  You could scroll through this blog and find, quite literally, hundreds of examples of bad luck.

          Thank goodness our daughter’s train connection wasn’t for several hours.  It took 45 minutes for a tow-truck to get the bus off the curb.

          So I apologize to my daughter, the innocent victim of DNA.  But at least she took pictures for the cause of science. And comedy.

          Mishaps are how I have honed a sense of humor that has formed the basis of my entire writing career.  Check out the resulting 25 books here.