A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to IKEA

 So this week, as we continue the theme of everything deciding after a year of only living with us, the machines are all quitting, the furniture followed suit.  Out one bed and a few drawers, we opted to do as the Swedes do...and went to that store known for three things...making Americans follow a maze without having a ride at the end, selling furniture Mjollnir like in temperment, refusing to be assembled by those it deems not worthy, and the unique capacity to make people not presumably under duress, part with money to purchase frozen sweedish meatballs for human consumption.   

We purchased a bed after an hour of walking around, and two desks and yes, even some Sweedish meatballs.  My second oldest started assembly, my desk was easy.  My daughter's bed, not so much.  It seemed we'd neglected to purchase the right slats and the base bar. We also accidentally purchased a full rather than twin...but that, we could deal with so the next day, we drove again to the Ikea (it's an hour there each time).  

Home again, home again, jiggity jig, and we can't open the bar. It's supposed to expand.  We tried WD40, we tried olive oil, and we had three people pulling as hard as they could --with visions of someone being impaled by the process if the damn thing gave.   My son decided to try a hair dryer.  To our surprise, he was able to slide the bar with ease. It did give him bragging rights, especially since everyone else had tried and failed.   I told him to tell his older sister, there was a simpler explanation...we were not worthy.   

The mattress we need arrives tomorrow...and the sheets and comforter that would fit, on Tuesday, so sometime after March 9th, my daughter will have a working bed and maybe, a full night's sleep.   

As for me, four hours of driving and an equal amount of frustration for four adults and satisfaction for one modest but still somehow smug teen and I microwaved the meatballs for dinner, vowing never to darken the doors of the most overrated Sweedish import since the SAAB, Hagar the Horrible and, well I do like ABBA.   

I do however, love my new desk and the breakfast table, having caught wind of the recent wave of revolutions by inanimate objects, feels wobbly.  

Dear Mom, with love, P.S. What's for Snack?

Dear Mom,

It has come to our attention that you are seeking to engage in this unproductive activity known as sleep. Given the nature of our needs and business (24-7), we find this disruption in your on call response time to our wishes to be an unacceptable arrangement. Should you persist in rendering yourself voluntarily unconcious for 1-8 hours on a daily basis, it could jeapordize your position here.

Some helpful suggestions from upper management which arranged an emergency meeting to discuss your recent insistence on time off in between the hours of midnight and five a.m.  The proposed solutions are enclosed within for your consideration and adoption. 

1) caffiene in large quantities on a continual basis
2) electronic implants that ring when your eyes enter into the REM cycle, (A cursory google search indicated such things are possible and probably only slightly painful). 
3) a talk radio stationed at your side at all times to give you 24-7 streaming non stop noise. 

  

Additional suggestions considered were, the creation of a less comfortable bed, or an elimination of the bed in its entirety. However, others on the managment of parental units team vetoed this as the afformentioned bed has proven useful as a place to fold laundry, have a snack, and have a heart to heart about what needs to be done before tomorrow.

It is a useful conference spot. So it stays.

Please however, refrain from abusing this privledge by sleeping. Such luxuries are reserved for those you serve.. Speaking of which, the powers that be wish it to be known that they ought not to be summoned from their restorative cycles of meditation, reflection and destressing before noon during non school days, not for food, not for laundry, not for errands, maybe for food...it depends upon what is being served.

Anyway, as an added bonus, the board all chipped in to get you a yearly suppy of Red Bull. We’re sympathetic to the need for an assist and happy to help in this small way. You’re welcome, but no more sleeping on the job.

Sincerely, with love,

The Children.

P.S. What's for snack?

Why My Blog is Sulky.

You might have noticed, the humor is drier, less common. The cheery regular postings of sparkle and fun and amusement come few and far between.  I've done some research.  I'm coming up on the blogiversary of Chocolate for Your Brain.   My blog is now a tween. 

It explains so much.  No wonder it's sleepy, less chirpy, less given to flights of fancy.  It's much more comfortable sitting here not saying anything, putting in the earbuds and pretending no one is reading. 
I've had a talking with my blog and explained that it doesn't matter how you feel, you still have to be civil, funny, clever, kind and consistent.  The blog has agreed to a regular production of three to four posts a week, with the return of Small Success Thursday but only on this blog.   (It's to make sure we generate some news each week, and keep me on my writing toes). 

I'm headed out for a full new stock of emergency chocolate, advil and diet coke, to weather these adolescent years. 

Musicals and Plays We Hope We Never See

It's been a while since the good folks at Chocolate for Your Brain offered up any satire for your reading pleasure, in part because well, they're lazy, underpaid and understaffed.   However, after withholding the daily chocolate ration from their cells, they got to work on uncovering all the news you'll never hear anywhere else. 

Broadway always skates on the edge of things, but sometimes it falls over in an attempt to be chic and at the same time, get people to pony up a hundred bucks or more for an obstructed view.  We've spent some time sifting through the pile of not quite ready for the Tony's to bring you, shows you'll pray you'll never see. 

The Unoutraged: Story of a person who somehow managed to remain on the internet for two decades without getting into a flame war, be banned by someone, or become known in the combox for starting wars by throwing emotional moltov cocktails. 

The Corporate Sponsored Geico CVS Verizon Musical: Waiting in line for your prescriptions at the pharmacy can take forever. It's even worse if your phone is dead or worse, you're out of data.  Switching to the low data stream makes time come to a stop.   Can the absence of distraction for fifteen minutes help you find love if it can't facilitate you lowering the cost of car insurance?  Includes the smash hits, "It's Not Viagra!" "Flo or the Geeko?" and "Do These Reading Glasses Make me Look Smart?"

Trumpmania: The cast of this hit has to change every day, and all the choreography is improv, except for the chorus of Hail Hail Hail, which is the signature song all voiced and pre-recorded by the lead, so that the entire 365 person choir the audience hears, is actually one voice on autotune. 

Laurel or Yanni, the Devil in the Blue/White/Gold dress: The critics and fans are of two minds on this Spring mystery, and either love or hate it.   Vote for your team. Winner gets to take home Jacob...a.k.a. Sharkboy, the Werewolf from Twilight.   

The Hunt for an Imaginative Mind: Somewhere, someone is inventing something not yet monetized, commercialized and pre-packed for mass consumption.  The government has reports of people actually reading books and listening to information which does not entirely agree with the pretermined, prestated acceptable perspective, and in fact, falls outside the register of the standard deviation for acceptable thought.   G-men are on the move to locate these rebels and put a stop to it. 

Not Trending: Sort of a take on Survivor, milenials are subjected to thirty days sans all electronic and social media, and have to make decisions about outfits, jobs, food, movies and political points of view without the crutch of self validation.  The winner takes home a million dollars, based on the voting of the viewers,  but the contestants won't know who are the favorites or why, until the winner is announced.   Losers spend an additional month coping without electronics. 

Tune in tomorrow when the investigative team interviews the contestants voted off the show and shows them the results of the twitter poll. 

Have a piece at Eat Sleep Write

Today's humor explains why we have clothing everywhere, and nothing that fits.

Eat Sleep Write Friday!

As mentioned yesterday, I currently submit two humor pieces a week to Eat Sleep Write!  

My second son has the spark of Calvin in his heart...

You'll have to click on the link to read as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story. 

Eat Sleep Write Again!

Today, my post is over at Eat Sleep Write, reflecting on the humor and heart that is my second son.

Over at Eat Sleep Write!

Humorous reflections on how to manage when you're in charge of twenty people ranging in age from four to....four.

PIR --a Public Service Announcement

Like Easter and Leap Year, PIR is a floating holiday, though it occurs far more often than anyone would care to admit. Pain in the Rear day embraces the always suspected but seldom voiced truth, the universe is out to get you personally.

We've all been there, when the one piece of paper we can't lose, is the only one we can't find. There are homework assignments dating back to 1998 in this house, but the stub from my daughter's student loan for college? The one I need for our tax returns? MIA. Gone. Sucked down into a black hole or the vacuum cleaner because I didn't pick up everything first and was feeling lazy just for a moment when I cleaned the floor. I know, I will never find it until after April 15th.

Pain in the Rear day is also known in some other less polite circles as PIA, but I have a friend with that name so I don't want the association, Most people know PIR, now that it has been identified, but for those ignorant few, some examples: The parking spot doesn't quite fit your car, but you squeeze in anyway like a pair of skinny jeans, and now can't quite open the doors or can but you can't get out yourself? That's PIR right there. FInding the box of Triscuits with three crackers left in the box? PIR. Or teenagers. One could safely claim, having teenagers ensures the holiday shows up more frequently.

This morning is the first day of Spring, and there is snow on the ground, pain in the rear freshly fallen slushy get your shoes good and wet walking your kids to the bus stop snow. One could argue, that's not PIR, that's just weather. Except having your six year old fall in the snow and get soaked such that you have to run him and his younger sister back up to the house, get a complete change of clothing just as the bus is coming into view puts it in the "Pain" category. 

"In" comes from being able to find only one of his other pair of sneakers and having to negotiate getting him to wear snow boots. The "the" is ignored because everyone knows, the "Rear" part is the kicker. You can't just have inconvenience. Bad luck and Murphy's law happen to everyone. We get back outside, we're running down the hill to get him there. We make it. We're thinking, okay...not so bad. Not so bad. Until my daughter says she needs to go potty...so I scoop her up to run back up the hill, she says, "I can't hold it" and...but I keep going and as we near the door, I slip in the snow, and now all of us need a change of outfits.

The proper way to celebrate PIR is to give back, to not keep this holiday to yourself. Shared suffering of the knowledge, the universe does't like you, so don't like it back, is good for the soul. This afternoon, I'm making chocolate chip cookies for the snack. I know what you're thinking, that's pleasant, that's not PIR for anyone. Ah, but it is. There will be hot chocolate chip cookies...but we are out of milk.

Happy PIR everyone.

EAT SLEEP WRITE PUBLISH

I am over at Eat, Sleep,Write today with a humor piece on appliances, labor disputes and being gracious even in defeat.  Go take a look and enjoy!

And Now, For Something Terribly Terribly Terribly Important....

Everyone knows Kanye West spends his days and nights tirelessly fighting to ensure Beyonce is worshiped 24-7 as the goddess she must be. But people only know about his attempt to crash Taylor Swift's award in 2009, and Beck's in 2015.

Other attempts to ensure Beyonce's name is spoken and revered before all others include:

10) The recent ending of the series Where's Waldo came about when famed musician Kanye West spent a few minutes with the author (after all, it is a book one need not read to read) to explain that no one cares about a man with glasses in a striped shirt. Finding Beyonce would be much more exciting and satisfying for everyone.

9) After a conference with a testy Kanye West, NASA closed up it's incredibly difficult space shuttle program not because Congress dried up the funds, but because even if the government sent people to the moon or beyond, they still wouldn't be as big a star in the universe as Beyonce.

8) The future King and Queen of England, Prince William and Princess Kate met with Mr. West to discuss baby names before learning they would be having a prince. No word on whether they reached an agreement about all future princesses being named, Not Beyonce and I may be a Princess but I want to be Beyonce.

7) J K Rowling refused to comment when Kanye West visited her recently. But Kanye West took to the cameras, explaining that even though he considered himself a proud non reader of books, "Any references to the Chosen One in the Harry Potter Series should allude to Beyonce and not Harry. Also He Who Should Not Be Named should be She Who Must Be Worshiped." He subsequently suggested all characters in all books Kanye West won't read should now be named Beyonce. Aparently West offered to buy a few of her books as paperweights if she did.

6) The President and First Lady saw Kanye West while at a charity gathering at the White House. Kanye took the opportunity to suggest putting a statue of Beyonce on the Mall, but that it should really be taller than the Washington Monument.

5) West crashed the awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize at the UN. After all, Malala only allowed herself to be shot by the Taliban for daring to pursue an education. Beyonce's played in the Superbowl baby. "Can Malala touch this?" West asked, showing a video of Beyonce's 2013 performance. "I don't think so."

4) Everyone's seen the van for the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes on TV, but few know that the most recent winner was asked to step back and recognize that really, Beyonce deserves it even if she didn't enter.

3) Ken Jennings became known as the longest winner of the famous Jeopardy tv game show, but he's nothing because while he's been on a show, Beyonce's been an answer. Kanye West's lawyers recently sent a subpoena to Mr. Jennings asking that he cease mentioning his victories without giving due credit where credit is due by mentioning his thanks to Beyonce before answering any an all questions or answering in the form of a question.

2) At the most recent Superbowl, sure the Patriots won, but Kanye West was there to remind Tom Brady; your deflated balls, wouldn't be like that if you paid better homage to Beyonce.

1) John Stewart recently announced his retirement from the Daily Show. Unverified sources indicate Kanye West may have sent him a collection of Beyonce's work with a gentle reminder, that as great and entertaining as he might be, he remains nothing by comparison to her, and that the realization by John of this universal truth, led him to despair and close up shop.

Kanye West plans to submit a bill to Congress in the near future requiring all currency contain Beyonce's likeness and a special Beyonce Awareness month coupled with a Beyonce Federal Holiday to celebrate all things Beyonce.  No word on whether he plans to boycott 50 Shades of Grey because it doesn't feature Beyonce, but peace out.

Over at Eat Sleep Write!

Today's humor involves Christmas, writing and toddlers. Who could ask for more?
Check it out over at Eat Sleep Write!

Over at Eat Sleep Write

One of my writing projects is to run a humor writing room on Facebook. I critique, provide lessons and occasional exercises.   It's a lot of fun, and recently, we've been discussion writing humor and more specifically, dark humor.  So I have the first fruit of that discussion up over at Eat Sleep Write!

No Matter Who You Are or What You Do, There's a Buzzfeed Quiz for That

I'm posting over at Eat Sleep Write today.  Serving up humor all fresh for you.

Hey! Where'd the Funny Go?

When I started this blog back in 2007, it was an exercise to see if I could generate material at the level to be a columnist.  I'd written several humor pieces, some of which were even published in paying markets and the lure of writing for a living appealed to me greatly.  I was just successful enough to order maid service on occasion or have extra pizza nights once in a while, but the bigger pull came from Catholic markets. 

So spiritual Catholic writing became more common.  I joined Catholicmom.com, got introduced to Danielle Bean of Faith & Family and did several pieces there.  Then, in 2011, things dried up a lot due to the economy.  I kept writing, but the funny story lines that used to just drop in my lap three times a week, stopped.  Maybe I was spending too much time observing and not enough doing to catch the narratives, but I don't think so.  I do think, my children had grown older and while there were still younger children aplenty, I started to hold back on stories in deference to protecting the intimacy/sacred nature of the home.  Stories of teens struggling with teen struggles were not mine to tell, when the teens themselves were still wrestling with them.  I had to guard their hearts and thoughts even if I wanted to share mine. 

I tried writing more political posts and for a time, that was fun but they do encourage in me, a touch of the merciless satirist.  I don't like her.  She leaves me irritated and agitated afterwards, not a state for taking care of any of the hearts entrusted to me.  

So I've on occasion thought about stopping the blog.  I've even stopped it once.  I've taken breaks.  The writing impulse never leaves.  It is always there.  If I stop, 16 story ideas will drop out of the sky demanding I find some way to write them, even if it's a stinking yellow green crayon and back of an envelope.  

It's a form of insanity, being a writer.  Because you are never not writing in your head, even if you've told yourself, I will focus on the task at hand.  Reading a story aloud, my brain is noting the structure, the plot devices, the scaffolding of the book itself.  Watching the news, I'm tracing the story arc and word choice, a movie or tv, the narrative and character development.  Everywhere are 1000 stories and I can't help but see them.  Not all of them go somewhere, but it's a form of permanent memory to draw everything in story form in one's head.   You note patterns and breaks from those patterns, moods and trends, pushes that indicate change, even demand it. 

This blog has been changing for some time from a humor blog and mommy blog into something else.  I think it is supposed to be a Catholic blog, discussing (hopefully if the com boxes cooperate), what it means to be Catholic in the modern world.  I think it is supposed to articulate the How and the Why we must risk more of ourselves in the age to come, and hopefully, it will be a vehicle of growth for all.  

Who am I to write a Catholic blog?  I am a lay person.  I have no degree in theology.  I am a mom, a wife, daughter and sister, I am a practicing Catholic, a writer and fitful reader of fiction and to my surprise and my Dad's delight in his soul I suspect, lover of writings about theology.   We are all called to walk out our faith life and this is an invitation to walk with me on this journey deeper into what we profess to believe and what it means for how we live. 

P.S. Don't worry, if something outrageous happens that I need to memorialize in Internet amber, it will still get written and shared. 

Blog Lessons

This blog has been in circulation since 2007.  While there are certainly silly pieces aplenty and rants, there are also memories logged into cyberspace that shall remain as long as this blog exists.

So what have I learned blogging for the past 5 years?

1. Pay attention.  There are stories everywhere if you're not napping and even more when you actually do sleep, but those are usually messy.

2.  Much more happens than I remember. (See #1).

3. Time flies so we must be having fun.

4.  Do it now!  What you don't get to today will either be forgotten tomorrow or be much much worse. (That napping thing). 

5. Spell check and proof reading are nothing compared to my mom. 

6.  Remember what you wrote because someone will say something and I will think, "Huh?" 

7. Nothing cures looking for a compliment like a spambot response.  "Hello, I think you raise a really good point in a very interesting way.  Maybe you'ld like to see my thoughts on the matter."

8.  It's all in the eyes of the beholder.  I sweat over a piece, crickets.  I slap something up and there are skads of comments.  Be detatached or stop already, if you're in it for the ego...stop now or recognize the quiet you will experience is a necesary humbling for your soul.

9.  There is no prologue.  No one backreads a blog. (not even the author)  It's now and forward or nothing.  Also, everyday is someone's first date with your writing, so make it look spiffy. 

10.  There is a difference between fearless and foolhardy.  Write with courage, but guard the hearts and hearth of the home because while humor always contains a grain of truth, it should also be laced with forgiveness/mercy.  

That being said,  I now present a touch of our home life.   Monday was my son's 4th birthday and we have this little slice of his life from opening presents. 

Lastly, I'm very grateful to have a means of documenting my family's life because I stink at scrapbooks.  Happy Birthday Paul!

Don't Put Headphones on the Cat (and other Life Lessons)

It had been a hard week. I was irritated. 

I was irritated because some of my children adjust to summer more easily than others about how this is a slow time and don't get up until after 10.  I was irritated because some of my children get up asking to paint, go to a park, play the computer, invite friends over and have a cook out, making me tired before I've served breakfast.  Further, I was irritated by one child in particular who is struggling with the hardness of being an adolescent, being out of school, and with having a large family that is often disorganized and cluttered and seems unable to do anything swiftly.  He and I had sparred a few times ultimately culminating in a chilly peace being carved out by him riding his bike for an hour and me calling my mom.

Mom is very sympathetic and she listened as I cried and complained and groused, "There isn't a manual for raising ten children!"  I later growled at God during my Rosary, why isn't there one?

That day the book Don't Put Headphones on the Cat arrived.

Rose and I are Erma Bombeck writing group buddies.  She'd signed it and sent it for me to read and review. I'd dutifully put it by my nightstand for "later." 

This weekend, half my family made a trek up to Connecticut for a family picnic while I worked here to prepare us for a trip we're making to be at my brother's wedding.  So far, the weekend had not been especially productive.  While I'd folded a bazillion clothes, the washer had decided, it would not spin. I'd sensed on Friday that something was wrong but stubbornly kept using it Saturday in hopes it would change its mind and start working again.

Late Saturday, I'd gone to the basement to get a hole puncher from the second study and remembered why I'd considered purchasing a new hole puncher rather than go down those stairs.  I never go to the basement, as the cumulative mess threatens to put me into either a wrathful cleaning frenzy or a self pitying despair.   I told myself it could wait because it had waited this long and wilfully marched myself upstairs. 

To keep myself from fuming about it, I threw myself into Rose Godfrey's book. There wasn't a book on how to raise 10, but there was one by a mother raising 11.  God had heard my prayers and said, "I'll do you one better."  God is like that.  

I hadn't planned on reading until 1 a.m. but I was waiting for my oldest son to return from being at a friend's.  I fell asleep with the book.  When I woke up, I realized I hadn't seen my son.  Neurotic me wanted to panic but the Sensible me said, "There will be a tell that he is home, even before you walk up the stairs." 

I got up and opened the door of my room and there it was;  a empty can of root beer placed on the table in the dining room.  He made it home. No worries.  

Free from that stress and feeling the singular quiet of a home in the morning with all guns out, I decided to take a bath and bring Rose's book with me.  I finished it, towled off and opened the door of my bathroom to find my bedroom had been unlocked and two of my daughters were sitting on my bed talking to my baby girl in her crib. 

Normally, I would be annoyed if someone has picked the lock to my room.  But they immediately started moving for the door. 

"I made your bed for you." my six year old offered as she ducked out, heading straight for the unclaimed computer.  My five year old looked at me in my towel.

"What?" I asked. 

"You look nice that way Mom." she said with a smile and shut the door. 

It's that kind of slice of life story that Rose excels in, and that kind of slice of life story that I loved.  Those sorts of stories had been happening but I had been sort of missing them, being caught up in the struggles of trying to do the impossible, to maintain Homeostasis in a family that was growing and changing and needing me to be a leader rather than a triage parent. 

Sunday morning still loomed as the washing machine remained staunchly still.  We were mostly caught up so I filed the stress of the machine under a "To be done Monday" list and set about making breakfast.  I still feel woefully inadequate to the task of raising these kiddos, like I do with respect to cleaning the basement and getting the laundry under control and preparing for the looming trip and a hard group to take to mass.  But then I realized how the Holy Spirit understood and even wanted me to know this reality. I was woefully inadequate.

This past week, the Holy Spirit's has been thrown at me multiple times.  The past week, the phrase "You cannot do this alone." has quietly screamed at me from unexpected sources; a friend on the phone, in the film Brave as the firey heroine brings about peace by appealing to the reality that the four clans worked together,  and Rose's book when she and her daughters work to help a goat give birth.  The message over and over again, "All of this was possible if it wasn't all me."  It could have been a smaller hammer hitting me on the head than the mess of the basement perhaps, but then if it had been, I might have just ignored the pain and simply resolved never to go down there.

Rose's book came into play. She ended each chapter with a question.  At first, this annoyed me.  But as I allowed myself to go deeper into her chapters, the stories became more poignant, touched deeper to the bone, and revealed the prayerful component of a Martha life that is sacred.  I undertand this element, it's just I often forget to give it its great due, that this life, this pouring out of one's life, if done out of love, does bring us closer to God's vision of us.  But only if we cooperate.  We cannot do it alone.

Part of why Rose sent me the book was to give it a review and encourage others to buy it and read it.  This I heartily do. It is funny and wise and an easy read.

But God always uses all of our experiences to beguile us into following Him.  So I remain humbled and as always, startled by the alarmingly immediate way the Holy Spirit responds to prayers.  Here was a book sent the day I lamented, tailored for refreshing me for the ongoing struggle, a bit of lambas bread for the journey if you will.  I'd needed a mentor and was even asking for it.  Here was someone going through this same experience, and I thought of the immediacy of God's answer of my prayers.

Finally, a bit of resolution for you on all my irritation.  There were two chapters in Rose's book where she talked about  how sons show their love. Sometimes, it was through digging holes, and other times, an odd sort of protection of their family.   My son was protecting his family from himself by taking long bike rides to Giant to buy chocolate milk.   He was also trying to protect me in a odd way by talking about my need to lose some weight and the need to reduce the clutter in our home.  He wanted his family to thrive too, he just saw them not thriving and me not doing enough about it. 

Starting that Tuesday when the book arrived before I'd read it, he and I have taken to taking walks in the cool of the evening and praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet. It is his concession to me, and mine to him.  His to pray, mine to exercise.  We are both works in progress, protecting each other. I hadn't realized that was what we were doing for each other until I read her stories.

So I am grateful to Rose and her book.  It was a fun read and a good for summer at the beach or in your room at 1 in the morning waiting up for a teen. While it isn't a manual for How to Raise 10 children, it is rather excellent at showing the why of all this regardless of how many one might be trying to love into adulthood.

To buy her book you can go here. It is also available on Kindle.

Hey, Where's the Milk?

A friend of mine noted that the blog has been pretty serious and dark as of late and it is true.  Much more bittersweet cocoa than sugar or milk. More than once as a child, I tried to will myself to like those unsweetened baker's squares as I gnawed on it ferociously, hoping to make it taste better, wanting it to be what I loved. 

The blog has moved away from its original design to be humor, and delved into more about religion (specifically Catholicism), and the role of a lively faith in society, and the perceived threats I see to our existing way of life that protects the liberty of all to live out their faith fully.  I cannot play the clown or laugh at these serious things, they are too close, to near to the bone and they are frankly, constant. I'd love the world to taste sweeter, much as I gnaw on it.

So Sherry, why not add the sugar yourself? Why not be the light to the dark?

That is what humorists are called to do, to bring about a merciful break in the pain. I admittedly have always had this theory about humor, that it must at its core, contain an element of mercy, because humor almost always has to address at its core, pain. 

Slapstick is the counter to actual physical injury.  A clever comeback can disarm a bully.  The right bit of self depreciating asides in a speech can counter the perception that a leader is arrogant or out of touch.  It is a universal component that connects across cultures. A smile is a smile, in utero, in old age, at any time and anywhere and laughter can create friends in an instant.  Humor is a salve on the human soul when properly employed.

This isn't to say humor can't be abused --for recent examples, one need only see the sorry saga of Rush Limbaugh's comments on Ms. Fluke or any comments on people from the Conservative side of politics from Bill Maher. When the desire to inflict pain to the other side trumps judgement, we wind up with this sort of unsavory commentary served as humor.  As the cliche goes, dying is easy, comedy is hard. 

Humor also must contain an element of truth.  We live in an age that prefers that truths be "tacitly understood" or rather like children of old, seen and not heard.  When people speak truths, they get blasted for saying something that someone else finds disagreeable or told that what they say is truth, isn't, it's only opinion.  Few want to point out the irony of "There are no universal truths." is that the sentence itself is an assertion of an absolute, because the squishy world of relativism seems more comfortable than the possibility of hard real moral consequences to our choices that we are either ignoring or defying.

Humor is also fundamentally about relationships, juxtapositions, ups and downs, ironies, inverses and reverses.   The comedian offers the jokes to the audience, but can't make them laugh, can't force it, and when they don't reciprocate the gift of laughter in response to the offered jokes, it is like a desperate fight in public.  It is painful.  Humor has to be given and received to be effective.

 So I apologize for the lack of milk or sugar. I've been trying, but the muse seems awol at the moment. You can't fake comedy. You can recycle it some if it's good enough, you can descend into satire and snark and bite, but humor, genuine humor for me has to have an element of mercy in it. 

So if I'm not going to make you the best chocolate cookies I know, I'll at least explain, at the moment, I don't have all the ingredients and have to make a run to the store.

Thanks for reading. Will keep trying.   Maybe if I just bite down hard enough on this unsweetened square.

You Know it's Writer's Block When...

10) None of your imaginary friends will play with you.

9) Trolling the Internet in desperate hopes of inspiration seems reasonable.

8) so does deliberately giving children markers without paper.

7) Everyone in your house seems way to calm, collected and normal for comfort.

6) No matter what you do, the page does not love you.

5) Start reading your old posts to see if anything merits a rerun.

4) You begin asking family members if they want to "guest blog." They are all backing away slowly, making no sudden moves.

3) Reading tips for ending writer's block don't bring hope.

2) Exercise and laundry start to seem oddly compelling.

1) You're reduced to using a cheap writing device, making a list and writing a meta-blog about writing, complaining about the problem that is causing the problem.

Viva La France!

Most of the time, when I get into bed at night immediately before crashing I think “uh-oh!” I’ve made a mistake. Why? Because I lay down which means things aren’t going to happen. All domestic tasks seem to require my presence to be done. The kids will do the dishes, but I have to stay in the room doing something else. They’ll help with laundry if I’m folding too. However, if the phone rings or nature calls or a child in another room needs assistance, the children conscripted into working rabbit out of my line of sight the instant they think I won’t notice in real time.

I’ve taken to preemptive warning shots. “I expect to find you here when I get back in two minutes…still working.” When they complain that I am a tyrant, I put my arm in my coat and say, “I AM Napoleon.” I've explained that everywhere the general went, there was victory. The problem, was everywhere the general wasn’t.

But today I looked at the paperwork, the work work and the housework that I’ve put off and off and off and off, and I know what time it is. It’s later. Like looking at the scale and knowing that TODAY, one must start a diet, it’s that later time when I should get to it. There’s one problem.

I don’t wanna.

Currently, at least 12 loads sit atop that eight foot long battlefield. It has begun to sag slightly in the middle like a worn out horse. There are six loads in the cue, one in the wash, one atop the dryer and one in, and 11 laundry baskets half full of folded stuff. And yet I wonder, how is it then that their drawers are full of clothing and yet everyone needs help getting dressed? Supply lines are always a problem for large armies. Napoleon faced such obstacles too, I wonder if his laundry tables were concave.

Doing the things on the later list rots. I don’t like diets, budgets, time managers, daily planners, to-do lists or even that much planning ahead. I don't shop for Christmas before Thanksgiving, I'm just that way.

So staring at the table hobbled with laundry, I came to the realization, I’m tired of doing all the jobs that no one else wants, of being the dutiful eater of leftovers and complicit flusher of toilets, sponger of messes, payer of bills and doer of the pots and pans and not the easy parts of any chore. I don’t mind creaming the butter but I'd like to pour in the chocolate chips occasionally. I don't want to be Napoleon anymore.

The Laundry is my Waterloo, and the basement, the whole Russian frontier. The blizzard of paperwork in the fall of 2009 doesn’t help either.

Looking at all the things to do, I have just one question.

How soon can I get exiled to Elba?

Tune in tomorrow when I rant about why there aren't 12 labors of HERcules. Answer: She's not finished yet.