“Joe, what is that? Is that a dirty picture?”
“Honey, no, of course not.”
“It looks like it to me. Is that for your blog?”
“Uhm, well, yeah, I was thinking of using it. It’s an ad for a new type of drink.”
“Right, uh-huh, it’s an ad. Suck and Blow, uh-huh right.”
“Really, hon, it’s from one of my restaurant trade magazines.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to put dirty pictures on your blog like those others I saw.”
I recently introduced her to some fellow bloggers, just to see her reaction. At one point I clicked over to ... ATTENTION!!! ... THIS IS PRACTICALLY AN ALERT CONCERNING THE FOLLOWING LINK ... CAUTION!!! ... ADULT HUMOR!!! ... CAUTION!!! ... I REALLY MEAN IT ... CAUTION!!! ... PROCEDE AT YOUR OWN RISK ... CAUTION!!! ... YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED ... CAUTION!!! (I promise that was the last CAUTION!!! ... oops! sorry) ... Infomaniac. Her jaw dropped as we scrolled down to the “Filthy Friday” posts. I never realized her eyes could pop open like they did. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. I explained the blog was different from mine because the blogger, who is from Canada and calls herself “MJ”, uses a lot of pictures to tell her stories. Most of them are a bit ... risque.
“Are these supposed to be funny?”
I couldn’t keep myself from laughing, mostly because of the expression on her face.
“Well, yeah, you don’t see the humor in these pictures? You have to read her words as well, so you can understand the pictures and her stories.”
“I just can’t believe them. Are they real people?”
“Of course they are honey.”
“Are these pictures of her and her friends?”
“ Well, no. Well, I don’t think so. She probably gets these pictures from somewhere on the Internet.”
“So now you’re going to use dirty pictures too? Please don’t. I like the way you’ve been doing it."
“ No, sweetie. Honest. I was going to write about something I read in a work magazine about a bar drinking gadget called Suck and Blow and the picture just shows two girls using the Suck and Blow tube.”
“Well, I don’t think you should change the way you’ve been doing your blog. You don’t need to be using sex to make yourself interesting."
“But, honey, what’s so wrong to once in a while show another part of my personality, you know, not the funny part but the, well, the “bad boy” side of me?”
“Hahahahahahaha … Oh, Joe … Hahahahahahaha … The “bad boy” side … see, that’s where you’re interesting … the funny side. When did you become a “bad boy”? Hahahahahaha.”
“Ooday ouyay owknay utwhay I’m ayingsay?”
“I’ll owshay ouyay adbay oybay!”
“What? I’m not playing this game with you! I’m going back upstairs! You be dirty if you want to!”
“Ootay adbay! I essguay eelshay evernay owknay ootay ickclay on isthay inklay."
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
I cannot hold out any longer.
Up until now I have not mentioned the word “Olympics” in any of my posts. Now, there is finally an Olympic moment I love that's worth sharing with my readers and friends.
Please watch this short video to the very end so that you may truly savor this outstanding feat of skill and endurance.
I give you … The 2008 Beijing Olympics’ Best …
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
“Dad, why do you have the TV so loud?”
“Sorry, that’s you mother. She can’t hear a thing.”
“Uhm? Dad … Ma’s not even here right now.
I blame it on Led Zeppelin.
My hearing is shot! It had to be from all the rock concerts I attended back in the late sixties and early seventies. My wife’s hearing is just as bad. Honest. Sometimes a normal conversation between us sounds very much like a shouting match. When we watch TV the volume is always up. It’s one of the major reasons we do our best to isolate ourselves in single-family dwellings rather than condos or apartments. We would definitely be voted off the island for noise pollution.
“Waitress! I would like to see a manager!”
“Hi, my name is Joe and I’m the manager on duty here tonight. Did you ask to see me?”
“I just want to say it is very noisy in your restaurant. All I can hear is that rock music. We just came back from a funeral.”
“Oh sir, I am very sorry. I’ll try turning up the volume and I will see what I can do about that back urinal right away.”
I often find myself nodding my head or fake giggling at some comment that I clearly did not hear. If they’re smiling … I’m smiling right back. If their not smiling … I’m asking for an audio replay.
If you were to check my DVR remote closely you’d discover that the rewind and play buttons are the most worn. The wife and I continuously go back to hear something over and over again until at least one of us got it. Truthfully, she’s worse.
“Joe! Stop what did she just say?”
“I’m not sure. Who knows? I didn’t catch it either.”
“Then play it back.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t so important. Do I have to?”
“Joe! Are you friggin’ watching this with me, or what? How can you enjoy this if you don’t know what’s going on? Now please play it back. I think she said she’s going to marry Kyle.”
“Fine! Give me the remote.”
Stop. Rewind. Fast Forward. Stop. Play.
“There! She said not to worry that she’ll carry that pile. And who the hell is Kyle anyway?”
So I was fortunate to grow up in Boston where many legends made their debuts. I saw Led Zeppelin in 1969 at a small club called The Boston Tea Party during their first US Tour. I also had the opportunity to see them as a “super group” each year they returned to Boston. One time I even had first row tickets on the floor when they played at the Boston Garden. It was a far out groovy scene, man! I left that night wearing Plant and Page sweat.
“Joe! I'll be right back. I'm driving to the store.”
That's my wife. She's upstairs yelling that someone's arriving at the door so I have to go. But first, Check this out.
If you like Led Zeppelin and you like The Beatles and you like the song Stairway to Heaven … then you may like this ...
Friday, August 15, 2008
“Joe, Why so blue? You should be happy today.”
“Sorry, hon. I’m just feeling old.”
Don’t worry. I’m just going through a temporary funk. I recently had a birthday. Okay, it was yesterday. The wife surprised me by taking time off from work and knowing me so well, she suggested a day at the beach. We relaxed enjoying the peaceful quiet offered to anyone willing to walk for twenty-five minutes down the shoreline. We find that puts us a safe enough distance away from anyone toting a kid or a boom box. Just us old fogies here!
“So, Joe, you caught up to me again.”
Each year she just can’t wait to say that to me. She is sixty-two days older than me and I relish those sixty-two days while I can say I’m married to an older woman and tease her about her being older than me. On her birthday I said …
“Wow, honey. You’re fifty-seven years old now. How does it feel being that old?”
“Shut-up, stupid. Answer that yourself in a month.”
“Uhm? Excuse me! That’s two months and two days, sweetie!”
I think the mild gloom I’m experiencing is because I’m so close to being sixty. I didn’t mind turning thirty, forty or even fifty, but for some reason being sixty sounds really old. Even the AARP, who has been bugging me for years to join their club, is advising me to hurry up because time is running out.
“Joe, lighten up, we’re really not that old.”
As soon as I got home I started up the old “Brain Train” to take a trip down memory lane. “Alllllllllllllll Aboard!”
So here we go. Search on “1951”, the year I said my first word … “Bwaaaaahhh!” Translation … “Hello, I’m practically, Joe.” Mom and dad hadn’t named me yet.
(Click.) Oh God! I arrived before hair spray, frozen foods, credit cards, ballpoint pens, radar and digital clocks.
Here's a link to 1950's phrases. (Click.)
When I was a kid we spoke a whole different language from kids today. Here are a couple of examples.
2008: “Wa’sup dawg? Lets chill at your crib with those crazy-ass biaches yo! Aight?”
1951: “Hey daddy-o. Let’s find some hip chicks and go to your pad.”
2008: “I’ll take my 45 and put a cap in your ass!”
1951: It doesn’t even translate. A 45 was a vinyl record. We did, however, play cowboys and Indians with cap guns but with pretend horses not donkeys.
(Click.) Hmmm … here’s a site explaining how the moral values of people living back in the fifties differ from today. It says here that most couples back then didn’t live together until after they got married. Society provided children with a happier childhood, producing happier children who in the process became more responsible adults. And, authority was respected and appreciated; this included the police, presidents, and teachers. Can we state in fact that here, in 2008, we have progressed? It was like another world back then.
Crap! This is bringing me down again. Quick, let's click on that link. (Click.)
Wow! A gallon of gasoline was only twenty-five cents and a Chevy Coupe sold for $600. Yearly salaries averaged less than $3000. Cigarettes were twenty cents a pack. Nobody knew the dangers of smoking. Pantyhose weren’t invented. Women wore silk stockings with garter belts. (Click.) Hmmm … what do we have here?“I see you’re feeling better, Joe.”
”Oops!” *Startled … Brain Train comes to screeching halt! (Click. Click.)
“Hon, really, blogging keeps me feeling young.”
Sunday, August 10, 2008
“Yo.Yo.Yo. Manager Joe. What’s the dillio?”
“Hello there, dude, what’s happenin’?”
Okay, so maybe at my age I’m more likely to break a hip than to be hip. But, I try. As a restaurant manager at a location close to a college, I interact with many customers, as well as employees, who are less than half my age. I really have little problem communicating with these kids (unless they are working in the kitchen, but that’s a story for another time). But sometimes a word comes out in conversation (like badunkadunk) that has me running to the office computer and logging on to my friend and translator The Urban Dictionary.
Thank the Lord for the Internet! I hated carrying that tattered pocket dictionary around and having to continuously sing the alphabet to myself just to get to the right page to locate a word. Not to mention it was very uncomfortable especially when sitting down. Fast forward to the future. Now, I have arsenal at my fingertips, whether I be in front of a computer or having to whip out my high-tech cell phone for the times I’m not.
“Sir, besides that I'm known to be an uxorious husband”
“Stop! What did you say?”
For that word I used one of the big guns, Merriam-Webster Online. With one extra click at this website you can hear the audio pronunciation of the word. Well … Can you pronounce uxorious?
“… He’s been hospitalized due to the scratchident.”
"Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Was he a winner?"
Sometimes you come across a really, really rare word. Let’s take for example the word “scratchident”. There was no dictionary on line giving meaning to this word. Even my spell-checker is saying “WTF?”
All that was left for me to do was hope for results as I pulled all the stops and Googled it.
Showing only one link in the results … Google saved the day! … Check it out!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
“Joe, we need to do the food shopping.”
“Okay, I’m off Tuesday, I’ll do it then.”
“We should do it today. We’re out of a lot of stuff and the kids are coming for dinner tomorrow.”
“All right, all right! I’ll do it then! I’ll get ready and go.”
“Joseph Anthony! Don’t get snippy with me!”
“Mom??? Mom??? Is that you??? Is my mom here???”
“Look, Joe. I’m going to the supermarket. I didn’t say for you to go. I can do it myself.”
“Fine! I’ll come with you. Let’s just not take all friggin’ day.”
Uhm … What just happened? Well, I’ll tell you.
pull my hair out hate get frustrated shopping with my wife. She drives me insane. She also, sometimes, drives other shoppers insane. Apparently.
I try my best to plan a time to shop when I’m off and she’s working.
I’m a good food shopper. Market Basket is one of my favorite places to visit. I go in. I get what we need. I go home. And I have lots of fun while I’m there.
I get to people watch.
Miss Oblivious mamm, I think one of your little ones is whip creaming aisle seven.”
I have fun placing odd items in other people’s carts when they’re not looking.
Big Burly Muscular Guy: “Hey, what the hell are these panty liners doing in my cart!”
Me: “Tee-hee” (As I deviously blend into the background helping the woman, who I think lives in the shoe, pull down one of her caboodle of
I like taking a dozen consecutive numbers at the deli counter and watch everyone look at each other as each number is called.
Anyway, I have fun when I go to the supermarket alone.
Over the years, my wife has witnessed my shenanigans and has become, let’s say, no longer amused.
It used to be fun with her along.
Like when I purposely grabbed someone else’s half-full shopping cart and nonchalantly stopped next to her, stepped away and then watched her push it along down two or three aisles placing new items into it.
“Joe, very funny! Now where’s our cart?”
Then there was the time I played cat and mouse with her for about ten minutes, laughing so hard my side hurt, as I kept guiding her to find me over our cell phones. “Joe, Are you freakin’ kidding me!! Where the hell are you?” Too funny!
So why don’t I like to shop with the woman I love?
We get out of the car … she has to always grab the first cart she sees in the parking lot.
“Uhm, honey ... there’s a thousand more inside.”
She picks up ten of everything before she puts one in the cart.
“Oh, good sweetie ... you found one you like.”
She reads labels.
“Hon! There’s the Healthy-Heart logo … what else do you need to know?”
She checks dates.
“Uhm, Domenica … stop moving around all the sushi containers. You’ve already reached the bottom of the pile and the Japanese guy is staring at you … and he’s not smiling.”
She never picks an item sitting on the front of a shelf.
“Geez sweetheart ... be careful, there may be spiders back there!”
And then there’s this …
Remember I said she drives other shoppers crazy too?
Well, she recently told us (our daughters and I) a story about some “crazy” woman at the supermarket. She was shopping alone for a few items, one of which was a loaf of Italian bread.
She explains how this “mad-crazy” woman came over to her as she was choosing the right loaf to take home.
Crazy woman: “What are you doing?”
My wife: (innocently) “I’m picking a loaf of bread.”
Crazy woman: “Oh, I can help you with that.”
My wife: (cautiously) “No thanks, I can do it myself.”
Crazy woman: (now right in my wife's face) “No, I insist! I’ll find you a good one!” The woman begins to pick up every loaf of bread, gingerly squeezing each one a few times repeating over and over again … “Is this a good one? … Is this a good one? … Is this a good one?”
My wife: (confused) “Look, lady! Thanks, but I don’t need your help. I’m taking this one.”
So she tells us this story, amazed at the audacity some people exhibit to total strangers. She was convinced the woman belonged in the funny-farm.
I’m thinking … the poor lady. She was “mad” all right. She was most likely watching my wife for ten minutes picking up every loaf trying to select the one she wanted, while she (the poor woman) was waiting her turn hoping my wife would leave at least one loaf untouched.
After discussing the story we were all convinced my wife drove the “crazy” woman over the edge.
All these things add up to this … she adds an extra hour to every shopping trip and aggravates me (and others) … and when I go food shopping with her I can’t wait to get to the check-out line.
Beatrice: “Sir, would you like paper or plastic?”
Me: “Oh Beatrice, would you let your manager know I looked up and down the stationary goods aisle and couldn’t find any invisible ink?”
My wife: “Joe, go stand over by the door!”
“Yes, dear.” … See … no fun.