Some funnies

Woman's Perfect Breakfast

She's sitting at the table with her gourmet coffee.
Her son is on the cover of the Wheaties box.
Her daughter is on the cover of Business Week.
Her boyfriend is on the cover of Playgirl.
And her husband is on the back of the milk carton.

Cigarettes And Tampons

A man walks into a pharmacy and wanders up & down the aisles.
The sales girl notices him and asks him if she can help him.
He answers that he is looking for a box of tampons for his wife.
She directs him down the correct aisle.

A few minutes later, he deposits a huge bag of cotton balls and a
ball of string on the counter.

She says, confused, "Sir, I thought you were looking for some
tampons for your wife?"

He answers, 'You see, it's like this, yesterday, I sent my wife to the
store to get me a carton of cigarettes, and she came back with a tin
of tobacco and some rolling papers; cause it's sooo-ooo--oo- ooo
much cheaper.

So, I figure if I have to roll my own .......... so does she.

(I figure this guy is the one on the milk carton!)

Wife vs. Husband

A couple drove down a country road for several miles, not saying a word.
An earlier discussion had led to an argument and
neither of them wanted to concede their position.
As they passed a barnyard of mules, goats, and pigs,
the husband asked sarcastically, 'Relatives of yours?'
'Yep,' the wife replied, 'in-laws.'

Lifes Ironies

When I was 8, I decided to ride my bicycle five blocks from the school playground back to my house and back to the school playground. This would have been fine, except for the terror I inflicted on my poor babysitter, Rita. That day, Rita had taken my sister and me to the playground, but gave me strict instructions to stay within her eye sight while on my bike. This, of course, being my purple bike I used to pretend had power buttons that could launch me out of Garrett, Indiana. With a hard press on soldered screws that held the handlebars together, I would close my eyes and evaporate myself to another place. Of course, that evaporation only lasted as long as my eyes were closed - but that's another story.
Rita made me walk my bike home that day and I remember seething on the inside the whole walk home. I've been thinking about Rita a lot lately. With dark hair and dark eyes, Rita looked like more like my sister than a friend of the family - and I pushed her like a sister, too.
I remember that at Rita's house, there were large, different colored carpet squares all over the living room. I thought it was the neatest thing I had ever seen. When Rita got married and stopped watching my sister and me, I was sad. In my mind, I placed her on my "Shelf of Unattainables" - that special spot reserved for things that start with, "I will never be..." and includes things like, a surgeon, joining the peacecorp and a size 0.
When Rita got married, I idolized her for meeting that point that I believed, at the time, to be the end all. She had gotten married and within my eight year old fantasical vision, there was not much beyond that point that I knew of. To me, Rita would get married and have kids. That's it - end of story - she was a princess in my naive castle.
Images of Rita have been coming and going from me quite often lately and it was not until yesterday that I began drawing lines as to why.
A couple of weeks ago, I found a strange bump on my right breast bone. Since these Lupron shots are a mystery to me andtaking chances is not really my personality, I contacted my doctor. At the time, I was also experiencing some uncomfortable itching. While laying on the table, staring at the beautiful ceiling tiles and listening to my doctor give X-ray orders to the nurse while swabing my insides, I wondered where my transporting purple bike was. While sitting up, my doctor told me the bump was strange and he would give me medicine for the itching. Yea - another prescription. Because of the Lupron shots (which may help in getting pregnant), Andy and I ironically have to use condoms. Condoms equal lube and many lubes contain glycerian, which cause yeast infections. Well...infertility medications, like Lupron, cause yeast infections, too. I had already called in a Premarin refill and the Pharmacist at Walgreens recognizes me now. So...I walked over to the hospital and got the x-ray.
A couple of days later, a nurse contacted me and told me that my doctor wanted me to get a CT Scan. My doctor said the bump did not look bad, but did not give any other details. Yesterday, I had the CT Scan. Up until this point, I have been pretty ok with everything that has been going on. It was when the nurse stuck the needle in my arm to start an IV that I began unravling. Tears came to my eyes while I lay - staring into the donut shaped machine. The electronic voice told me to hold my breath while I held my left arm straight up and closed my eyes. All this stuff...all this poking and prodding...all these things I never imagined happening to me. As I took the metal green stickly dot off of my breast and walked out of the radiology room, I thought of Rita and wondered what her life was like now. My nephew stood, smiling at me as the large, brown doors opened into the waiting area. I picked him up and squeezed him, evaporating myself to another spot - hoping this bump on my chest is just a button to a better place.

A Hot Bullet with a Suit of Armor

The silver bullet charging from the dark is coming for me. The angst of its engine burrows purposefully down the dark corridor now…quickly, and the illuminating lights terminate thoughts of shadowy vagueness. Cascading sequences of city dwellers breeze by and I stand imperceptible against their meaningless jostles, waiting. But, I feel strong and my purpose is as relevant as any others ironically trapped beneath a picturesque scene of municipality. The dirty concrete walls are a polluted, forgotten mess resurrected to conceal an occupied prison. I’m not alone in this phase of transport and sense many restless others, as well. This anxiousness for freedom is youthfully reminiscent of years bursting for satiated relief.
My grocery nap sack hangs low, smacking my ankles. Such a long way to go for Baklava made with love and naked literacy. The honesty of unspoken words leaves elusive doubt and obscurity. My lips are chapped and I still taste him – sticky sweet, still slumbering in soft white sheets made of naivety. The tracks pulse violently and I know it won’t be long now. The true hero of this day is just around the bend and I am stoically resolute. The polluted, wretched air lingers and is laced with sewer and stinky rose perfume. My head pulses and longs for clean oxygen. The kind of air that is free from lying toxins and vague infidelity.
There…you...girl with no name across the tracks, I see you waiting again. Yes, it’s me. My familiar face is staring back at you in this vaudeville extravaganza. My eyes penetrate past your attractive façade and don’t worry – I won’t smile. Your pretty periwinkle dress masks a shell from the cracking winds and the slug chugging down the tracks knows my intentions as I know yours. A husband’s concealed devotion to someone else, you in particular, ferociously approaches…same time…different Tuesday. My past is your present and he meets you where I left him – standing on dirty pavement, under the city with a one-way ticket to anywhere else.
“Out of this city and on to Never Never Land,” he told me as he boarded that day. Standing in this very spot with one foot over the edge, my imagination left spinning as he sped quickly from this place. Who knew you were a Disney fairy tale that came to life. The day I saw him with you – standing over there - was the first day I tasted Baklava. The brush strokes of life, I suppose. Perhaps that explains all the graffiti. My life is stifled among the living and death alive in this place. Electrocuted verve passes by for a moment – some jump on and some stay where they are.
The dew of my day evaporates as I breathe the steam huffing down the pulsating tracks. My heart leaps as the bullet shows its face. Number 6 - my lucky number. You’ve come for me again my Knight in Shining Armor. The hot spear of your metal body slices through me and takes me under. My Greek dessert still slumbers and I remain here always, in the Subway.
Written August 8, 2008