Category Archives: humour

There’s a lot of DNA and it’s not a Criminal Minds episode

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I am officially glad I am no longer in my twenties.  Even when I was in my twenties, my regard for a sanitary living space and the respect of my roommates trumped any need to party like it didn’t matter.  I have recently discovered that this is apparently an old-fashioned way of thinking!

A new friend has had the challenging job of being the General Manager at a fast-paced restaurant in the area where I live.  I have frequented there many times and become friends with the staff through our mutual jobs and our shared love of football.  Sure they are a younger crowd and they like to party, but I had no concept of how many of the rules of human nature those parties violated until just recently.

I had a few drinks with the GM last night after he and the head of maintenance had spent the last two days cleaning the remains of those parties once the staff had vacated the houses for the season.  The pictures he took of the damage and the items left behind were shocking to me.  I would have requested a full hazmat suit before I even entered those seasonal dwellings.

dna

(image credit: dnaproject.co.za)

From 10 staff houses, they collected over 90 bags of garbage, repaired holes in drywall that were cleverly disguised by newly purchased plastic vent covers, disposed of a few comforters that would easily have contained so many samples of DNA they would keep a Forensics team busy for months, steam-cleaned carpets and collected an arsenal of bottles and cans from each yard.  The description of some of the parties left me speechless, and that is a tough feat considering I have a writer’s brain and nothing is off-limits when it comes to a story.

There is something extremely soothing about walking into my house and not fearing the unknown.  There will be no naked parties taking place, there will be no food on the counters and tables that have become science projects over an extended period of time and there will be no risk of seeing things that cannot be unseen.

I sure hope the two responsible for the clean up get to reward themselves with the accumulated amount of security deposits and bottle returns.  After those crime scenes, they deserve it!

Are you sure you dialed the right number?

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There is a distinct advantage to having a truly bizarre message on your cell phone or answering machine.  Those few audacious lines can thwart unwanted voice messages and cause callers and telemarketers to rethink the redial.

cell phone

I had blogged here about finding the comedic genius that I have since “borrowed” for my outgoing message and how many times I had to call back to get all of the information but my persistence certainly paid off.  I have had many missed callers who have failed to leave a message for me and, since I do not run a business from my phone, I have no qualms leaving things at status quo.

I can discern which callers took the time to listen to every word.  The messages I do receive from people who have never heard the message before generally begin with light giggles and a true appreciation for the silliness the message represents.  I have been encouraged many times to change my voice message but I cannot imagine any other string of words that would amuse me as much as these words.

This is what callers hear when they dial my number:

You have reached the Port Carling Mental Health Hotline.

  • If you are obsessive or compulsive, press 1 repeatedly.
  • If you are co-dependant, please ask someone to press 2 for you.
  • If you have multiple personalities, please press 3,4,5 and 6
  • If you are paranoid, we already know who you are and what you want, but stay on the line while we trace your call.
  • If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a small voice will tell you which number to press.
  • If you are delusional, press 7 and your call will be transferred to the mother ship.

There are extended versions of this message but, sadly, I am only afforded so much time to record my outgoing greeting.  If you ever need a good laugh, call me!

 

What rhymes with Mousseline?

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Perhaps I have been stuck in this hotel room for too long and am beginning to lose my mind, or maybe this trip down memory lane was just the journey I needed to lighten my mood.

I will preface this post with a small back story.  I used to work at a hotel years ago and the Executive Chef and the General Manager, both from England, were a lot of fun to work with.  After working long hours and busy shifts together we all became friends.  We would spend our down-time after our dinner shifts by sitting the Chef’s office drinking Port and eating Stilton on Rice Crackers.  Ah, the good old days.

It was during one of these evenings that I revealed  how much I liked to write poetry.  They were intrigued and asked many questions about the type of poetry I wrote and the subject of my poems.  I could not really pinpoint a common theme because I wrote about anything that struck me as worthy of writing about.  It was then the gauntlet was thrown.  Between the two of them, they would choose a subject and I would have to come up with a poem worthy of both of their praises.  The challenge was on.

I arrived at work the next morning to a very official looking envelope on my desk.  The content of that envelope was my writing challenge.  Knowing these boys as well as I did, I opened the envelope with a bit of trepidation.  Written on a piece of hotel letterhead was nothing at all what I expected to find.  It was a recipe.  They wanted me to write a poem from a recipe and, judging by the smug looks on their faces, they fully anticipated failure on my end.

I took the recipe home and vowed that I would emerge the victor.  I wrote, rewrote and when I was satisfied with my final product I took my own piece of letterhead, printed my effort on that letterhead and put it in an envelope, leaving it on the Chef’s desk for his perusal when he returned the next day.

You’ve no doubt heard the term radio-silence.  That is what work was like for the next 24 hours.  The boys said nothing.  I was too proud to ask what they thought and waited patiently until they finally broke the silence and handed me a full bottle of 25-year old Taylor Port.  They had conceded.  I had won.   Here are the methods of the recipe and my poetic adaptation in italics:

maple mousse

(image credit: mapledelights.com)

MOUSSELINE OF MUSKOKA MAPLE SYRUP

Method:

Mix the egg yolks and sugar together and stir vigorously until it becomes white and creamy.  Add the maple syrup and, in a bowl, stir over a pan of hot water, stirring constantly as you go.  When the mixture thickens, take it off the heat and set aside to cool.  Add the gelatine leaves while it is still warm and stir.  Fully whip the cream and fold it into the cool syrup mixture.  Then half whip the egg whites and fold them into the mixture.  Place in the fridge for 1 hour and serve with the Lime Coulis.

Mix the yellow, let it mellow, in a bowl with sweet, Add the syrup, gelatin and water, stir over a pan of heat.

When it thickens, give it a lickin and take it off to cool,  Whip the cream, and fold it in, don’t eat it yet you fool.

Take the whites to make it right and add those in as well, Put this in the fridge to cool and your mousse is done pray tell.

LIME COULIS

Combine lime juice, orange, sugar, cinnamon and water and cook for 20 mins.  Run through fine chinois and add lime zest.  Return to heat for five minutes and then chill.  Pour over the mousseline and top with dark chocolate shavings.

Combine the stuff, although it’s rough, and simmer on the stove, Leave out the zest, as this is best, cook for 20 mins by jove.

When this is done, through fine chinois it will run, and then you add the lime, Return to heat, til 5 minutes is beat, and then you’re out of time.

Chill the sauce, this is boss, then pour over the mousseline, Top with choc, you’re ready to rock, dig in with spoon until clean.

Your butt just called….

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For reasons unbeknownst to me, I have been receiving a number of butt-dials and butt-texts lately.  Morse code messages appear on my phone and I am challenged to decipher the hidden meaning.  I almost wish I had a decoder ring to help figure out what your butt is trying to text to me.

The butt-dials are always more interesting.  Conversations I should not be privy to are carried on by the owner of the butt and one or more people who are completely unaware that an extra set of ears is following their banter.  Usually I feel guilty and hang up fairly quickly, but on some occasions I linger to see if anything ground-breaking is being discussed.

ace-ventura-butt

(image credit: Ace Ventura, Pet Detective)

We are all familiar with the phrase “talking out of your ass”, but your butt is taking this to a whole new level.  I should feel flattered that I am the one your butt chose to call, however your gluteal region is not making any clear statement when it calls.  It merely teases me with a conversation bubble and doesn’t allow me to participate.

If you could have a cheeks-to-cheeks discussion with your butt and find out why your booty is so anxious to talk to me, I would appreciate it.  And if you do find out what your butt is trying to say, please leave it in the comments below.

The Intervention

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Dear Mother Nature,

We have all been asked to write a letter to you so we can tell you how your illness is affecting us individually.  Starting off with “this is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write” would be horrifically untrue.  This is one of the simplest tasks I have been faced with throughout my 44 years on this planet.

I’m going to be blunt in this letter and not mince words. This is an intervention.  From those of us who generally feel at peace with you, we have come to you with these words of utter disgust and contempt.  The state of your mental capacity is worrisome and borderline reckless.  For the past few days, we have endured the wrath of your mood swings and succumbed to your whimsical attitude in regards to everyone around you.  This is not the being we have known you to be and the change in your behavior is more than mildly disconcerting.

Too many times over the past two months we have shamelessly ignored the warning signs, hoping that the initial symptoms would not manifest themselves into a textbook case of narcissism.  But our hopes have been crushed in the face of the evolving disease and you no longer seem to have any concern for those in the eye of your storms.

We are pleading with you to get well.  We face each day with uncertainty and would like to see you return to your balanced and seasonally charming self.  Although the outcome of an intervention is meant to severe ties if an agreement to treatment is not reached, we are not as fortunate to have that ball in our court.  We would hope that you hear our pleas and end the 24 degree swings in temperatures during a 24-hour period.

The prescription awaits and only you have the power to take those happy pills and feel well again.

With very kind regards,

Muskoka, Ontario

Childhood revisited – The memory that won’t go away

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This is not the first memory I have from my childhood, but this is one that stands out in my mind and helped to define the relationship with my brother that would continue for years to come.

I still recall the most minor of details that day and I was all of five years old.  Oakville was a seemingly small city in 1974 and the streets were safe enough that my brother and I could walk ourselves to and from school without parental supervision.  The day was crisp, the sun filtered through the autumn leaves and reflected jagged pieces of warm light onto the lawns and sidewalks.  School had been fun that day and I was anxious to regale my brother with tales of arts and crafts and have him dispel the myth of why some kids eat paste.  He was nine – he would surely be more privy to that information than a mere five year old girl.

The two of us began our journey home, and as I skipped along beside him I expounded about my day.  I had become quite ensconced in my own story and somewhere along the way I realized he was not beside me any longer.  I slowed my pace and heard him behind me, fiddling with a wrapper on what I had assumed was a stashed piece of candy from my beloved Shoreline Variety Store.  The sound of the wrapper immediately piqued my attention and halted the story I had become so engrossed in telling.

oh henry

I turned to find him holding out a piece of candy and remember thinking how generous it was for him to share.  It was surely a treat that would have been frowned on by my parents, but that made it all the more intriguing.  I gladly took the candy, and as I began to bring the treasured morsel to my lips, he stood stoic, waiting for me to take the first bite.

As my teeth sank into the delicacy that my brother had so graciously shared, his laughter pierced my eardrums before the pungent flavor assaulted my taste-buds.  His gales of laughter floated through the autumn winds as I tried frantically to remove every shrapnel of excrement from my mouth.  My brother had fed me a piece of dog shit.

I don’t think even Forrest Gump would have outrun me on the way home that day.  I sprinted past the crossing guard and could barely see the sidewalk for the tears.  I could hear my brother panting behind me, trying to catch up to me before I was able to cross the threshold of our home and explain to my mother how my taste-buds had been violated by a heinous act of terrorism.  I’m sure my words were not nearly as eloquent as I would like to think they were, but she got the point, and he got the spanking.

This simple act of cruelty led to years of pranks and retribution, usually always at my expense.  Not so many years later, because I seemingly still adored him, emulated him and worshipped the ground he walked on, I was easily swayed into helping knock a beehive from the side of our garage with a hockey stick.  Forrest Gump, again, would have been proud of my speed and agility getting to the old station wagon.  Long story short, there was a lot of baking soda required that afternoon to cover all of the puncture wounds those bees left in my body.

Thankfully my days of naiveté are over and I am perpetually careful around my dear brother.  And he may not know this, unless he reads this post, but I am still plotting my revenge!!

Written in response to the Daily Post Challenge.

The Christmas spirit is alive and well……at least in my house

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I generally live every day, 365 days a year, with the Christmas spirit, and being a big believer in Karma, that tends to bode well for me.  I’m always positive and trying to infect others with that same energy.  I’ve been asked by several people why I”m always smiling or laughing.  I will usually quote Will Ferrell from the movie ‘Elf’ and simply say, “I like smiling, it’s my favorite”.

This morning my smile was weakened a little by the blatant display of Grinch-like behavior from two strangers who have obviously not been dusted with the shimmering particles of the Christmas spirit.   A local TV station has been running a contest for the last four weeks.  Each week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, they put a jumbled word on the screen and viewers must unscramble the letters and send both words in for a chance to win the weekly prize of $10,000.00.

I woke up late Thursday morning, and mistakenly forgot to set the PVR, so I missed the scrambled letters.  Apparently I was not the only one as the mad flurry of Facebook posts echoed my lament.  There were a few comments about missing the Tuesday letters, so I thought I would harness the Christmas spirit and send the word from Tuesday and ask them for the Thursday letters in return.  I sent that word to both women this morning………and got no response from either of them.  Merry Christmas you selfish women.  I don’t think Karma will be picking either of your names from the hat on Monday!!

karma

Thankfully, the news station replays its morning show online and I was able to find the segment of the show that I missed.  And to ensure that those two women’s names get lost in a bigger pile of entries, I put the link to that portion of the morning show on the Twitter feed so more people could enter.  I even went so far as to up the Karmic ante and tweeted that if my name is drawn, I want them to draw a second name so we can split the prize and share that Christmas gift. (which was my plan, regardless of my spirit being temporarily derailed by these two women)

Wouldn’t it be terribly ironic if I did win and the other name that was pulled was one of those two women to whom I gave those scrambled letters??  Their complete lack of decency should negate their entry into the contest.  Wish me luck, and while I put an extra pin in the voodoo dolls of those Christmas-spiritless women who really don’t deserve to have their names in the pot in the first place, let Lady Luck roll her magical dice!!

Okay, so that is  not how I’m ending this post – if one of their names is pulled from that Karmic hat, it just solidifies the fact that they were meant to win one way or another.  Regardless of the outcome, I know I did a good deed today and perhaps that feeling is worth the $5,000.00 that could have been.

What would you have done if you were in the same Karmic boat?

Stalking….without any harmful intent.

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cat-stalking-prey

(photo courtesy of Google)

Let me preface this post by assuaging any negative connotations about the subject line.  I am not a dangerous person.  I do not hide in bushes and make a mental note of people’s habits and movements.  But when something strikes my fancy or my funny bone, I can be tenacious and become extremely enthusiastic.

I work at a large resort, and often people have difficulty finding time in their busy days to call us during business hours. Many messages are left and returned.  On the odd occasion, a game of phone tag ensues until we finally connect voice to voice.

I had the good fortune of returning messages on a particular day and it was serendipity at its finest.  When the recorded voice message first began, I thought that I had dialed the number in error.  But the further I got into the message, the funnier it became and I began to giggle.  By the end of the comedic rhetoric on the other end of the phone, I was in hysterics.  I phoned back immediately to listen to it again, and the message became even funnier.  My co-workers were concerned that I may be slightly losing my grip on reality, but when I called the number a third time and put the message on speaker phone, they were laughing just as hard as I was.

The crowd continued to swell in the office and in response to the demand to hear what was so funny, I kept calling back.  After the mayhem died down and I collected myself, I called another four or five times to write down, verbatim, what the message was so I could steal it.  I’m sure the poor gentleman that called for rates was marginally alarmed at how many times the resort had tried to return his call.  Although we were apparently desperate for his business, he surprisingly did not call back.

I have since modified the message to fit the time allotted on my cell phone.  I have thought of changing it to something a little more professional since the cell is my only phone, but what would be the fun in that?  Here is the gist of how the original message sounded.   I hope none of these apply to you!

 Hello, and welcome to the Mental Health Hotline.

  • If you are obsessive or compulsive, press 1 repeatedly.
  • If you are co-dependant, please ask someone to press 2 for you.
  • If you have multiple personalities, please press 3,4,5 and 6
  • If you are paranoid, we already know who you are and what you want, but stay on the line while we trace your call.
  • If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a small voice will tell you which number to press.
  • If you are delusional, press 7 and your call will be transferred to the mother ship.
  • If you have short-term memory loss, press 9, if you have short-term memory loss, press 9, if you have short-term memory loss, press 9.
  • If you have a nervous disorder, please fidget with the # key until a representative comes on the line.
  • If you are dyslexic, press 696969696969.
  • If you have amnesia, press 8 and state your name, address, phone, date of birth, social security number and your mother’s maiden name.
  • If you are menopausal, hang up, turn on the fan, lie down & cry. You won’t be crazy forever.
  • If you have a masochistic complex, please press “0” for the operator. There are 200 calls ahead of you.
  • If you have low self-esteem, please hang up. All our operators are too busy to talk to you.

You’re laughing now too, aren’t you??

Do not go gentle into that good ultrasound

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The following story is an excerpt from my life and IS based on a true story.  Some names have been changed to protect the …..oh, you get it.

I never used to regard myself as a “ballsy” person.  The biggest risk I would take would be changing my brand of peanut butter (which was a big mistake, by the way, never deviate from the Kraft Smooth PB).    As I became submerged in the work-a-day world, my perspective on risk began to deviate.  Perhaps slaving through those 16-hour days, 7 days a week made me rethink those subsequent risks and I embarked on a quest that would lead me down a very interesting rabbit hole, only to be faced with the rabbit in a very unexpected way.

I am a woman and women get ultrasounds.  It is an undeniable truth that we will not be able to avoid the photon beams and  gelatinous goo that is liberally applied to our nether regions.  We lie exposed and are contorted into precarious positions so those smiling radiation technicians can see us from the inside out.  It’s not a completely unpleasant experience.  There is really no pain involved, unless you include the potential of an exploding bladder, then it can be unpleasant.

The radiation tech on this particular day was a charming and attractive man, and as I lay cloaked in the fading, and somewhat see-through blue hospital garb his mouth opened to speak.  I was sure it was going to be the usual inane description of the process, but this guy bypassed all decorum and dove right into a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with photon beams.  I was so taken by the twinkle in his eyes that I hadn’t even noticed the cold viscous fluid making contact with my skin.  After what seemed like only a millisecond, it was over.  I’m sure I saw that glint of light on his teeth when he smiled, like you see on TV shows, and then he was gone.  I was alone, barely covered in the hospital’s excuse for a gown, and I really had to pee.

The ultrasound was completely normal, for those concerned for my well-being, and my life went back to what I perceived as conventional.  But I couldn’t get this guy out of my head.  I was transfixed on the memory of “Ronnie’s” smile and was determined to see him again.  Short of swallowing a foreign object large enough to warrant another ultrasound, I decided on an alternate, yet just as devious, route.  I sent an anonymous card to the hospital with an extremely well-written poem inviting him on a blind date.  Yes, you read correctly – I did that!!  I gave it to one of his co-workers who stealthily placed it in his locker and I was left to see if he would respond.

A few days later, the phone rang at the front desk of the hotel I was managing and the curiosity had gotten the better of Ronnie’s cat, and thankfully didn’t kill it!!  After interrogating his co-workers to find out a) if I was actually a woman, b) if I was incarcerated and c) if this wasn’t an unseasonable April Fool’s joke, he accepted my offer and called to announce his apprehensive, but confirmed appearance.

True to a gentleman’s form, Ronnie arrived on time with a lovely display of fresh flowers.  Extra points were awarded as they were not haphazardly picked from the garden in front of the hotel in a panic to present a gift.  After the initial awkwardness, we settled into a nice dinner, some fine wine and the conversation floated along with the warm summer breeze.  At another time and in another place, things may have been picture-perfect, but Ronnie was in the middle of a nasty divorce and custody battle.  After dinner, I stood outside the hotel to say goodbye to Ronnie.  I clutched the flowers that he so graciously brought to dinner and watched him drive off into the sunset.  (Okay, it was pitch black, but the sun setting seemed far more romantic.)  What would have been the beginning of a great love story to potentially tell our overtly attractive grandchildren, turned out to be a pleasant evening that ended with a hug.

I am a woman and women have mammograms.  Thankfully, it is other women who give women mammograms.  When I entered the Radiology department, I had no misconception about what was going to transpire.  I would disrobe, don the ever-flattering hospital gown and place objects that were once an orb shape into a machine and they would be made to look like a pancake.  I would re-dress in my pseudo savvy wardrobe and life would go on.  But the technician said “hmmmmm”.    When a university trained technician says “hmmmmm”, it makes you second guess the success of your mammogram.

The delightful technician, who now saw that I had drained of all color, suggested that I have an ultrasound to potentially see what the mammogram could not, but she was sure it was nothing.  She and I crossed the hall together and she told me to lie on the table and leave the robe of cheesecloth around my waist.  I obeyed the orders and nervously awaited her return.  The knock on the door came and I said I was ready.  The door swung open and in walked Ronnie….the ethereal God of photo-refractive beams.

To say the moment was awkward would be doing those precious seconds a grave injustice.  If I had been pale before, I was now transparent, or at least I had hoped I was.  Ronnie was standing over me, preparing the beams and the unset jello as I lay on the table, both breasts completely exposed.  Had the initial dinner gone well, Ronnie would have, more than likely, gotten to first base in a far more civilized and non-clinical manner.  However, his intrinsic work began and during the procedure Ronnie made small talk about his kids and his divorce.  The torture finally ended, and after what seemed like an eternity, Ronnie gently pulled the up the robe to allow me a small bit of modesty and left the room.

As an eternal optimist, I always think that it could have been much worse.  Ronnie has since moved on to a larger hospital in a more urban area.  At least my ultrasound on Friday will no longer be marred with uncertainty and I can feel more comfortable exposing myself to a complete stranger!