Tag Archives: humor

5 Easy Tips for Parenting Your Teen

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

1. Hide food — This will prevent those overgrown children who live upstairs from consuming a week’s worth of groceries in one sitting. Store chips under the bed. Hang cookies or brownies on hangers in the back of a closet, where they will never look. Stash frozen pizza under five-pound bags of broccoli and carrots. Any type of snack items fit well inside heater vents. (Caution: Use only during summer months.) Fresh fruits and vegetables may be left in plain sight. people-in-the-sea-at-the-sunset-1061951-m

2. Never replace toilet paper — While you use your private, hidden stash, it will teach your teens a valuable lesson in self-reliance. If the last square of tissue remains on the cardboard roll for more than 7 days, or your teen is spending a lot of time at the corner convenience store, or rolls of  paper towels and shop rags are disappearing, it’s time to break down and replace the tissue. Albeit, with much pandemonium and cursing.

3. You’re not their buddy — Parents and teens cannot be “buddies.” That skateboard might look like fun and sound exciting when trying to “olly a half pipe,” but a broken hip is forever. Their music may seem interesting, but bleeding from the ears is no laughing matter. And trying to decipher the meaning of T-shirts or tattoos has been known to cause aggressive oozing of inner brain tissue.

4. Set a curfew — Teens who are more than two hours late for their curfew should just report in at the local police station to save time. That’s where they will find their mother — sobbing and filling out missing person reports. If more than three hours past curfew, the belated teen may want to check out the website: onyourown.com.teens-995276-m

5. Don’t limit screen time — Allow unlimited access to television shows, games and the Internet in 75% of the rooms. That way, no one (least of all — and this is important — the parents) can be held responsible for anyone’s personal idea of entertainment. After all, it was in the room and it was turned on; the young adults upstairs just happened to spend seven hours playing, “Violence, Blood & Death Squared VI.”  Not your fault.

Getting Old Sucks Neti Pots

Scribbles by Viv, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , ,

Funny, I don’t feel old.

But my body dares to differ.

That’s the weird thing about aging – you feel the same, but suddenly it’s impossible to laugh too hard after drinking a Dixie cup of water without dribbling down your chin or legs.

My body hates me and betrays me every chance it gets. We used to love and mutually respect one another. We used to have dinner before sex and cuddle after. Those days are over. We’re broke up. Literally.

In the midst of a conversation with a store clerk when I am perfectly healthy, my nose will suddenly drip with no warning whatsoever.

I’ve put my back out twice just bending over to tie my shoes.

The only place my hair is getting thicker is on my chin.

I can’t relax during yoga class because I’m afraid I might fart.

On the plus side, I’m old enough that I don’t care if I say fart instead of “pass gas.”

And, I can’t use a neti pot from two to four hours before leaving the house. The last presidential election was proof of that.

In a hurry to vote and make it to work on time, I used a neti pot –  which I swear by for avoiding sinus problems – then rushed to the polls.

In a looooong line of people, many of whom I knew and recognized, I was having a lively conversation with one of the poll workers when I bent over to look at the district map that was taped to a table.

Saline water gushed out of my nose onto the map, which was — thankfully — laminated.

No $h!#.

People stared in horror. Some backed away.

It was almost as if I had told them who I was voting for — only much worse.

As I dived for a tissue in my purse, I tried to explain, without success, that it was only saline water from a neti pot.

I might as well have said I was suffering from Ebola hemorrhagic viral fever.

I was caught in a bad Van Gogh dream, looking into the terrified eyes of 80 people clutching their heads and screaming soundlessly with open mouths.

I know what I would have been thinking had I seen someone’s nasal passages spew a tsunami — “Hope that poor hapless sap stays away from me …”

The weird thing is that sometimes when I pour that little pot of water in one nostril, NOTHING comes out of the other nostril.

That’s when I should have a clue not to bend over for the rest of the year.

I mean, where does it go? It’s supposed to flow in one nostril and wash out the sinuses and nasal passages and then flow out the other nostril.

But sometimes … NOTHING.

Is my head a vacuous wasteland of saline water parks where cells dance and frolic?

I’m sure it has to do with aging. Everything does these days.

Maybe the saline packs into the recesses of my head that used to be filled with working brain matter, but are now empty chasms of space filled with meaningless phrases like, “Where did I leave my glasses?” and “Damn! Why did I come in this room?” and “Rutabagas scare me and my intestines.”

As they say, it sucks.

Or does it blow?

I’m just too damn old to know.

Hoosier’s Relaxing Retirement Takes Radical Turn

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , , ,

by Viv Sade

INDIANAPOLIS – So there I was, for the first time in my life, with seven other women who, for the first time in their lives, marched for a cause, surrounded by thousands of others — many who rallied for the first time in their lives — to join in solidarity on our promise to “never go back.”

It was the day after the presidential inauguration, Jan. 21, and we traveled two hours south to join other women (and many men and children) in a protest on the outside terrace and walkways of the State House in Indianapolis. We rallied in support of the main march in Washington, D.C., which drew between 440,000 and half a million people in support of women’s rights and against the new administration. We were joined by hundreds of thousands of supporters from more than 60 countries and at cities throughout the U.S.

Turns out I was not alone in my fears for humanity. viv-sign-rally-1-21-17

It was a very peaceful, inspiring and, at times, emotional afternoon. But here’s the thing: I had numerous other things I would rather have been doing. What I resent the most about the Trump administration is not any of the hot topics that quickly come to the minds of the majority of people who voted against him (nearly 3 million, but who’s counting?)

After a major health crisis, I decided life was too short. I took an early retirement six months ago so I could spend time doing the things I love: hosting and attending get-togethers with family and friends, playing with my grandchildren, writing a novel, gardening, bird-watching, visiting wineries and reading the many books I have not yet had time to read.

At the age where I should be in a hammock somewhere — anywhere — warmer than Indiana, kicking back with a margarita (or two) and reading “Sapiens” and “Homo Deus,” I instead find myself forced into the role of an activist — attending rallies, joining women’s groups and calling state and national representatives every week to speak out on various issues. What the heck?

I got my first job at the age of 14 and, with the exception of a few short maternity leaves, have been working ever since, at times holding down two or three jobs at a time. I’ve been working and paying taxes for 50 years.

And then the Electoral College made Donald Trump President of the United States.

Damn it.

I wanted to take Garrison Keillor’s advice, which he outlined in a column shortly after the election: “…spend four years raising heirloom tomatoes, meditating, reading Jane Austen, traveling around the country, tasting artisan beers, and let the Republicans build the wall and carry on the trade war with China and deport the undocumented and deal with opioids, and we Democrats can go for a long , brisk walk and smell the roses.”jane-pam-rally-1-21-17

I tried, to no avail. For one thing, I don’t drink beer. For another thing, I live in northern Indiana where there’s a very small, climatic window for smelling roses.

Turns out I care about the rights of all people, no matter their race, ethnicity or birthplace. I don’t care what their choice of faith is, or isn’t, unless it harms others. (Think Leah Remini and her crusade against the Church Cult of Scientology, yet another cause which, alas, I feel compelled to join.) I care about the rights of relatives and friends in the LGBT community and often fear for their safety. I care about the quality of the air, water and land and protecting this beautiful world for future generations. I care about the Standing Rock Sioux tribe and other tribes who have been disrespected and disregarded for too long. And, don’t even get me started on the First Amendment.

You get my drift. There just aren’t enough margaritas or artisan beers to dispel my concerns. Sigh.

And, that’s how I found myself in Indianapolis with thousands of others on an unusually warm January day.

Regardless of the balmy, springlike weather, I bundled up like I was joining the entire population of Antarctica — 30 people — at their women’s rally. Because, more terrifying than thinking about the future effects of climate change, was the fact that I could not afford to get pneumonia, since the first thing the new president did was issue an executive death order to deep-six my and my husband’s ACA healthcare coverage.

“Give him a chance,” the pro-Trump people said. I was prepared to, but he effectively ended any chances within two hours of taking office.

That’s when I grabbed my walking stick and started marching.great-group-shot-1-21-17rally

 

 

 

 

 

“S” for Super Seniorman

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , , ,

(Note: Viv wrote this column in 1996. Since then, all hell has broken loose, Clark and Lois have split up and Wonder Woman has caught the wandering eye – behind the glasses – of the Man of Steel.)

By Viv Sade

Clark Kent and Lois Lane debuted in the DC Comics publication Action Comics #1 in June 1938.

They met as 20-somethings while both were beginning careers as reporters at The Daily Planet newspaper. After a long and tumultuous relationship, they tied the knot in December 1996 and, shortly after, Superman: The Wedding Album was released.

Okay, math is not my strong suit, but this happily-forever-and-ever-till-death-do-us-part just doesn’t add up. For one thing, they should already be dead and parted.

Where is your head at, Lois? If it took this guy 57 years to propose, how long will it take him to pick up his dirty underwear and throw it in the hamper?

Of course, we all know why Lois accepted his offer. It was pretty apparent her career was at a standstill. After all those years, she was still a reporter. No V.P. in front of her name and Jimmy Olsen wasn’t referring to her as “Chief.”

She didn’t seem to be upset that she had been bypassed on the corporate ladder, but let’s face it, how bright can the woman be if she still hasn’t figured out why Clark Kent is never around when Superman is.

Oh, I know – her biological clock was ticking. And if she turned Clark down, it could have taken him another 50 years to work up the nerve to propose again.

Hell, by then she’d be having her first baby at the age of 127. A sobering thought for a woman who’s already been buying senior coffee at McDonald’s for almost 30 years.

Secrets destroyed Lois and Clark’s relationship and led Lois down the road to sin and degradation.

My god, she will be 145 when the kid graduates from high school!

The obvious problem here, though, is that Clark has never told Lois that he is Superman. This seems to be a MAJOR secret to keep from your spouse.

I’m the first to admit that some things are better left unsaid to a mate, but they should be little things like, “When you shave, you never wipe the sink out, you pig” or “You smell like butt-crack,” or “Did I tell you paranoid schizophrenia runs in my family?”

But NEVER should a husband withhold information such as he likes to dress up in red, blue and yellow Spandex, has x-ray vision and was born as Kal-El on the planet Krypton.

If Clark doesn’t confide in her, how will she know not to serve Green Kryptonite Jello Surprise at the church potluck?

How will she know why he insists on wearing that suit and tie everywhere, even to the beach?

How will she warn her girlfriends to wear lead underwear when they visit?

The main disguise Clark had for over 50 years was those glasses. As soon as they get ready for bed and he takes off the glasses, Lois will know.

Women seldom make passes at superheroes with glasses. 

And while we are on the subject, won’t that big “S” show through his thin summer pajamas?

But we all know it’s when Lois does laundry that she will find out for sure.

Because when you find a red cape, Pleather boots and blue tights in your husband’s laundry, you know he’s Superman.

Or gay.

Surprise! Not.

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

About a month before my husband Brian’s January birthday, his daughter and I decided to have a surprise party for him at her home.

A month is a long time to keep a secret.

About two weeks before, I sent out an invitation I had created and directed it in a mass email to “My Family,” which automatically includes my immediate and extended family – a lot of people.

I realized soon after I hit the send button that Brian – the one we were trying to surprise – might be on the My Family email list.

Email makes me nervous.

Once you hit that send button, there’s no turning back. It’s out there in virtual purgatory – not in your world, but not out of it either.

In the old days – a.k.a. my youth – a person usually had time to back out of sending a letter before it was postmarked.

And, who among us hasn’t hit “reply all” at work with an adjective-filled dissertation about the co-worker who smells like butt crack?

Anyway, sure enough, I checked my sent mail and there was his email address along with everyone else who had been invited.

Luckily, it was late at night and he had already tucked himself into bed.

I quietly went into the office to his computer. Thank god, his email was already open and I did not need a password.

I felt very guilty.

I donned my black, leather catsuit and Ninja face mask, and dropped from the ceiling, dangling in mid-air, suspended precariously by thin coils of wire just above his computer.

I had only minutes for this impossible mission.

Sure enough, in his unopened mail was the email from me with his invitation to his own party.

I deleted it and then — because I am so smart — I deleted it from his trash.

I was feeling smug.

He would never know.

Knowing my siblings and kids would see that Brian was on the email addresses, I sat down at  my computer and sent a second email.

“Not to worry,” I typed. “I’m sure you saw Brian’s name on the list of addresses, but I snuck into his computer and deleted it and even deleted it from his trash. He will never see the invite to his surprise party. Hope to see all of you on Jan. 12.”

Still feeling pretty proud of my crafty self, I hit send – to My Family group – and went to bed.

Best stick to MickeyDees

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , , , ,

I remember when I used to get the urge to prove to the world that I was a culturally diverse human being and exceptional parent.

That was when my kids were young. And before I gave up.

I remember taking my two youngest children —  when they were 6 and 4  — to an elegant Chinese restaurant.

The first thing the 6-year-old did was unfold the linen napkin and make a parachute for the G.I. Joe he had hidden in his pocket. He climbed under the table to assemble Joe’s apparatus and once done, stood on his seat and threw Joe skyward yelling, “Bombs away!”

Meanwhile the 4-year-old remarked to the waitress loudly that he didn’t want no dadgum subgum chicken because he had already had the chicken pox. I tried to point out the boy’s healing scabs — proof that he was no longer contagious — but the waitress just kept backing away from our table, while the people at the next table suddenly disappeared.

And don’t think I didn’t notice when we later left the restaurant, that those same people were sitting in another corner of the restaurant.

The 4-year-old liked the egg drop soup and was devouring it until the 6-year-old asked, “What are those gross white things floating around in it?”

They both stared into the bowl for a long time and then pushed it away.

The boys were thrilled that I was letting them order real tea for this special occasion. At the time the tea was delivered to our table, I was in the Outer Limits, daydreaming of being in a bathroom by myself with no one pounding on the door asking what I was doing and why was it taking me so long.

When I snapped out of it, the guy at a table to my left was giving me a look of disgust. The kids had each dumped about 16 packets of sugar into their tea and had used up all of the sugar at our table and the one behind us.

I glared back at the man. What the heck?! Did he think I would purposefully jack these kids up on sugar and caffeine? Did he think I want them even more hyper than they normally are? Was he implying with that look that I was a bad mother? Geesh, a bad mother would have ordered a bottle of Chinese wine with a wine glass and two junior cups with lids and straws.

Hey, buddy, it’s a special night and we’re trying to get some culture here, so bug off you dipshit son of a ——- …

“No hon, that’s enough sugar … no more sugar.”

Steaming bowls of fried rice, sub gum pork and sweet and sour chicken were delivered to our table and the 4-year-old, who never talked in anything but his LOUD VOICE, immediately began complaining.

“Ughhh … What’s those green things? What’s those round things? Are those oniyuns?!  What’s that pink sauce? That’s not chicken! Where’s the leg? I want a leg! I can’t eat this! I will die!”

I ignored his cries of protest and ladled out a small amount of each dish onto our plates.

The 6-year-old wanted to season his own food.

“No mom, I’m not a baby like Ben. I can do it myself. No, let me! Whoa! — that came out fast, didn’t it? Here, just a little of this brown sauce — whoa! — that came out really fast, too, didn’t it? Can I use your napkin, mom? This yellow stuff is too hot! I need the pink sauce. Whoa! That came out fast …”

The 4-year-old was incensed. “I am not a baby!”

He ended up consuming nothing but two large bowls of white rice and two glasses of sugar-laden tea.

He then announced in that deafening preschooler voice that he was full and he needed a hard, folded-up cookie stuffed with paper thingies.

Both kids broke open their cookies and I translated and read their fortunes.

You must keep your eyes open to see the nice surprises in life. (i.e.: Be good and you’ll get a Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtle at Wal Mart.)

He who rides with the wind has too much wind in his sails. (i.e.: Never, ever stay up past your bedtime or your eyes will grow shut.)

The boys loved their fortunes. However, mine was somewhat ominous.

She who tries to impart wisdom and culture on her offspring is left with egg (drop soup) on her face. Best stick to McDonald’s.

by viv sade

Why teachers and parents drink

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

I’m sure many of you have seen this floating around the Internet, but it’s worth sharing for those who have not seen it.

The following questions were set in last year’s GED examination. These are some of the actual answers received from teens who took the test.

These young adults will someday breed and maybe vote … which explains a lot.

1. Q. Name the four seasons.
A. Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar.

2. Q. Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink.
A. Flirtation makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists.

3. Q. How is dew formed?
A. The sun shines down on the leaves and makes them perspire.

4. Q. What causes the tides in the oceans?
A. The tides are a fight between the earth and the moon. All water tends to flow towards the moon, because there is no water on the moon, and nature abhors a vacuum. I forget where the sun joins the fight.

5. Q. What guarantees may a mortgage company insist on?
A. If you are buying a house they will insist that you are well endowed.

6. Q. In a democratic society, how important are elections?
A. Very important. Sex can only happen when a male gets an election.

7. Q. What are steroids?
A. Things for keeping carpets still on the stairs.

8. Q. What happens to your body as you age?
A. When you get old, so do your bowels and you get intercontinental.

9. Q. What happens to a boy when he reaches puberty?
A. He says goodbye to his boyhood and looks forward to his adultery.

10. Q. Name a major disease associated with cigarettes.
A. Premature death.

11. Q. What is artificial insemination?
A. When the farmer does it to the bull instead of the cow.

12. Q. How can you delay milk turning sour?
A. Keep it in the cow.

13. Q. How are the main 20 parts of the body categorized (e.g. The abdomen)?
A. The body is consisted into 3 parts – the brainium, the borax and the abdominal cavity. The brainium contains the brain, the borax contains the heart and lungs and the abdominal cavity contains the five bowels: A, E, I,O,U.

(This kid must have been up all night smoking weed … but it does deserve kudos for creativity.)

14. Q. What is the fibula?
A. A small lie

15. Q. What does ‘varicose’ mean?
A. Nearby

16. Q. What is the most common form of birth control?
A. Most people prevent contraception by wearing a condominium.

17. Q. Give the meaning of the term “Caesarean section.”
A. The caesarean section is a district in Rome.

18. Q. What is a seizure?
A. A Roman Emperor.

(Julius Seizure? I came, I saw, I had a fit)

19. Q. What is a terminal illness?
A. When you are sick at the airport.

(Irrefutable)

20. Q. Give an example of a fungus. What is a characteristic feature?
A. Mushrooms. They always grow in damp places and they look like umbrellas.

21. Q. Use the word “judicious” in a sentence to show you understand its meaning.
A. Hands that judicious can be soft as your face.

22. Q. What does the word “benign” mean?
A. Benign is what you will be after you be eight.

23. Q. What is a turbine?
A. Something an Arab or Shreik wears on his head.

College kids require tact … at your expense, of course

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , , ,

There has been a lot written on the subject of academia and how to successfully get your child off to college (at your expense, of course), but there seems to be a shortage of material telling a parent how to deal with a child who is busy furthering his/her education (at your expense, of course). So, I have come up with a handy pocket guide to use while visiting your college-based young adult/child in college (at your expense, of course).

RULES FOR VISITING YOUR CHILD’S DORM OR APARTMENT:

1. Never, ever make surprise visits.

2. If you must make a surprise visit, remember you will be much more surprised than your child.

3. Never look under the bed or in the closet. I mean it.

4. If you do look under the bed, do not comment on the three sets of eyes staring back at you.

5. Never open the fridge.

6. If you do open the fridge, do not comment on the fact that the only contents are a Ding-Dong, a 6-pack of beer, a bong shaped like Rush Limbaugh and half a bottle of Dark Eyes vodka.

THINGS NOT TO NOTICE:

1. The state and federal highway signage.

2. The large, neon flashing Miller Light beer sign above the bed or the life-size poster of a naked woman wearing nothing but a jock strap and baseball hat that says “I (heart) I-69.”

3. The absence of any fruits or vegetables.

4. The multiple packages of condoms on every table in the apartment. (thank god …)

5. The used condoms in the corner behind the bed … eeeiiiiooowww!

6. The mold in the bathroom.

7. The pubic hair carpet in the bathroom … eeeiiiiooowww!

8. The stack of pornographic DVDs next to the TV stand … eeeiiiiooowww!

THINGS NOT TO SAY TO YOUR KID:

1. When was the  last time you washed those sheets?

2. Is that a cockroach?

3. Are those college textbooks you’re using as a prop to hold up the kitchen table?

4. Have you found a good barber yet?

5. Do you have any idea what all this costs?!

6. Did you know that STDs are the fastest growing disease among college students?

7. What exactly is your GPA?

8. I too, used to listen to Led Zepplin.

THINGS NOT TO SAY TO YOUR CHILD’S COLLEGE ROOMMATE:

1. Do you smoke?

2. Do you drink?

3. Do you smoke marijuana from a Rush Limbaugh bong?

4. What exactly does that tattoo mean?

5. Have you ever bought alcohol for my child?

6. What is your parents’ name and phone number?

7. Does your religion prohibit premarital sex?

8. What is your GPA?

9. Did you know that STDs are the fastest growing disease among college students?

10. This is a very friendly town. I’ve noticed all the police call you by your first name.

11. Do you think my kid has any idea what all of this is costing his father and me?

12. Hey, I understand, I was your age once.

by viv sade

Happy birthday to my firstborn!

Random, , , , ,

Happy Birthday  – June 6 – to my gorgeous and talented and intelligent daughter, Stacy! She gets none of that from me.

Check out the uncanny resemblance between Stacy and her oldest daughter, Eva. Talk about Déjà vu!

The youngest – Amelia – looks like her too, but more like her father, RT.

But unfortunately, Amelia acts like her Grandma Viv …

I see a bad moon a rising …