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Blog: Door In Face Topics:humor, sarcasm, snarky
Pillow Hog
At three a.m. I stirred. A stiff muscle in my leg wanted me to roll over. I turned to my left but halfway there my face hit something warm and fluffy. My cat, Seti, was hogging my pillow. I sat up and looked at him. He was so cute curled in a ball. He had one tiny, black paw over his eyes to block out the light from the alarm clock. I smiled at him. I didn’t want to disturb his sleep so I moved to the right and left him alone. I drifted back to sleep.
Three thirty and I was awakened by a stiff neck. I groaned. Something furry was wrapped around my head. I sat up again. Seti was stretched over the whole of my pillow taking up the top half. I rubbed my neck. He wasn’t as cute as he had been earlier. I scooped him up and moved him to the foot of the bed. I lay back down.
Seti walked back up the bed and curled up again on my pillow. I pushed him off. He walked over my chest to the other side of the bed and returned to the pillow.
I shoved at him. “Get off of my pillow,” I snapped. He rose in a huff and swished his tail. It hit me in the face. I swear he did it on purpose.
“That’s it!” I picked him up and dumped him in the floor. He huffed then jumped back onto the bed.
“Arrrrggggghhhhhhh!” I grabbed my pillow and swung it at him. “Go away!” He stepped calmly out of range and stared at me, waiting for me to return to a recumbent position so he could steal my pillow space. I narrowed my eyes.
My husband, Brian, grunted but didn’t wake up. “Why don’t you sleep on him,” I asked Seti. “He would never know you were there.” Seti sat placidly watching me.
I lay down anticipating his return. A few moments passed and nothing happened. I relaxed and closed my eyes. I had just drifted sweetly into sleep when I felt cat paws on thigh. Seti walked up my chest and plopped down on my face.
I flew straight up gasping for air and dumping Seti in my lap. “Fine! You win. You can have the pillow!” I moved the pillow to the side and lay on the bare mattress. Seti curled on the pillow and quickly fell back asleep.
Posted in Animals. But Mostly Cats
Tagged cat, cat hogs pillow, humor, humor blog, humor writing
17 Comments
Of Veterinarians and Oven Mitts
I slipped into the laundry room as nonchalantly as possible. The cat wasn’t fooled. Ernie watched me warily with his large golden eyes. As quietly as possible, I slid the cat carrier from the shelf. All three of my cats suddenly vanished. It was as though a cat had never lived in our home. I wasn’t worried. It was all part of a typical trip to the vet.
I considered my strategy. I’d lost the element of surprise but I still had time. Our appointment wasn’t for another hour but long experience had taught me that the worst part of the trip to the vet wasn’t the bill or the cat yowling in the car. The worse part of going to the vet was cramming the cat in the carrier.
The first thing I had to do was find Ernie. He’s old and wily but he’s a sucker for food. I went to the kitchen and opened the pantry. On an average day the sound of the opening pantry door brings him running. Today wasn’t an average day and he didn’t fall for my ruse. No matter. I grabbed a can of tuna and headed for the can opener. The stench of canned fish soon permeated our small cottage. No dice. Only the dog appeared boisterous and enthusiastic at the scent.
I sighed reconciling myself to the conclusion that things were about to get nasty. I armed myself with oven mitts and a flashlight.
“Here kitty,” I called as I prowled under beds and behind the T.V. Then, a slight shifting of his considerable weight tipped me off. How he’d managed it I’d never know since the door was only slightly ajar but Ernie had hefted himself to the top of my closet. I reached up for him and immediately recoiled as he lashed out with claws.
I gritted my teeth and said a silent prayer of thanks for the oven mitts and sailed back in. I snagged Ernie as he tried to hide in my purse collection. The mitts protected my hands from the vicious bite he landed on my right hand but they made gripping the cat tricky. My hold was tenuous at best. I dashed to the laundry room eager to get the squirming animal in the crate before he escaped.
I pushed him into the hole but he planted his back feet on either side of the opening and held on. I pried one foot off and then the other. With a wham, I slammed the little door shut. Ernie growled from inside the carrier. Smug, at my success I looked down at my hands and sighed. We were going to need new oven mitts.
Posted in Animals. But Mostly Cats
Tagged cat, humor, humor blog, humor writing, oven mitt
30 Comments
Take Him Out of the Ballgame
Ah spring! It’s the time of year when flowers bloom, the smell of fresh cut grass permeates the air and women start shaving their legs again. But more importantly it marks the 
return of baseball season. My friend Jennifer and I eagerly attended our local team’s opening game.
“Isn’t this great,” she asked.
“I can’t wait,” I replied scratching the razor burn on my leg.
We cheered as our team, the Hawks, took the field. The team expected a great season, the air was cool and I was cramming a foot-long hot dog into my mouth like it was calorie free. It promised to be a perfect night. But then a man a few rows behind me opened his mouth and ruined the evening for everyone in section D.
“Ha!” His exclamation jarred me and I nearly choked on an onion. “You call that a pitch,” he screamed at our star pitcher. “My granny throws a better curve ball!”
The pitcher threw the next pitch. I heard the man behind me groan. “Wrong,” he snapped. The umpire called strike.
“Must not have been too wrong,” I whispered to Jennifer. She giggled.
“The problem is the coach,” the man continued. “He keeps putting Erickson in there like he’s a decent player. If he played for me I’d give him a job he could handle: water boy!” He guffawed. Fans around him edged away. A couple in the front row moved to another section.
The game continued. The Hawk’s centerfielder caught a ground ball and threw to second but his throw was weak and the runner easily tagged the base.
The man rose off of his seat with a roar, “That was pathetic! Erickson you throw like a girl!”
“That’s it,” a woman two seats down from me screeched. “If you know so much about baseball why aren’t you on the field?” The man stared at her opened mouthed. A few fans offered her words of encouragement. Play on the field stopped and the players turned to watch the exchange. “Erickson throws like a girl, huh,” the woman continued. “How’s this for throwing like a girl.” She hurled her jumbo soda at the man and hit him squarely in the chest. The soda exploded soaking the man. Laughter erupted and people began clapping.
When security showed up to escort the woman from the stands the fans booed them. They led the man out instead and people cheered.
The home team won, the loud mouth was kicked out for the season and it was a perfect night after all.
Insert Pun Here
I have this friend who writes brilliant puns. By that I mean to say he writes terrible, side splitting, groaning, I-want-to-attack-him-with-a-hammer puns. I really like them. He seems to have an unlimited supply. I thought of a pun the other night and I meant to write it down but I didn’t. When I woke up in the morning I couldn’t remember it and that’s the best pun I’ve thought up in three years. You can see where I’d have buckets of respect for a good punner.
Today is my friend Nonamedufus the punner’s birthday. Some blog friends and I are joining together to wish him a happy one. You see, not only do we like his puns but he’s trapped in Canada where it won’t be summer until 2016. We felt kinda of bad that he has to dig tunnels in the snow just to leave his house so we decided to throw him this virtual party. Virtual works out well since those of us throwing the party live all over the world and I’m allergic to snow and cannot go to Canada to wish him a happy birthd
ay in person.
If you enjoy puns or just a good laugh please visit Noname’s blog, Nonamedufus. And if you want to keep on partying, stroll on over to my buddy Cheryl’s blog, Deckside Thoughts. She’s the hostess of this shindig and you can find links to all the posts honoring Noname’s birthday there.
Happy birthday, John Nonamedufus. Thanks for making me laugh and for sharing excellent taste in music.
Nora
Posted in Super Funny
13 Comments
Tough Choices
Did she on diet or is she sucking in her gut?
My best friend Lexi gripped my arm. “Don’t go out there,” she said. “It will be the end of you for sure.”
I knew she was right but I’m stubborn. “I can do it. I’ve been training for this.” I patted her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be ok.” I shrugged her off and headed for the door.
“Nora, no!” She lunged at me, threw her arms around my waist and dragged me back into the room. “You don’t know what you’re doing. I know you’ve been training but you’re not ready. You have to live with the decision you make.”
I turned to face her, sighing. “Lexi, we’ve been over this. I’ve done Booty Butt Crunch, Ballet Bar Buster, Ab Agony Explosion and I’m running my first half marathon next week. I can do this. I am ready.”
She hugged me, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “Good luck,” she whispered. “I love you.”
I turned, confident with her blessing and headed into the bikini department.
Ah, swimming season, that magical time of year when women over the age of 18 are faced with a choice: one piece or two? At 34 with a nasty carbohydrate addiction, this choice gets tougher and tougher for me to make. Should I aim for modest or punish the people sunbathing around me?
As Shakespeare might have put it, “To see or not to see, that is the question.” Should I suck in my gut the entire day on the beach or surrender to the Tankini? And since the development of my second rear end, that’s the bit of fat at the top of my thighs but under my actual butt, I’ve begun to wonder if I not only need to cover my mid-section but everything down to my knees as well.
Perhaps we’re a nation too concerned with body image. Perhaps I should let myself, all of myself, be free to experience the sun. Then again, I’ve seen some of you and perhaps we’re not concerned enough with our appearance. I recall one notable day on a Florida beach ruined when I witnessed a bathing suit gasp its final breath, burst and succumb to a watery grave. Oh, if only that woman had considered her options more carefully and made an honest assessment of her body, that old man with cardiac disease might still be alive today.
So here’s to bikini season. Whatever you suit you choose to wear, wear it well and should it cause a heart attack just assume it’s because you’re so stunning and not because you should have chosen the one piece.
The Value of a Good Shampoo
A decent duck would guard my shampoo.
I reached for my shampoo bottle. It felt lighter than it should have been. I frowned. No one else should be using my shampoo. It’s special shampoo that makes my otherwise limp and lifeless hair perky, a feat at which all other shampoos have failed. I consider it to be a miracle of science.
The only other inhabitant of my house, my husband Brian, was blessed with thick, wavy hair. It looks like he just flounced out of a salon whether he invests a fortune in product or uses the shampoo provided by a cheap motel. It’s hair wasted on a man.
I stuck my head out of the shower. Brian was at the bathroom counter.
“Have you been using my shampoo,” I asked him.
“Yeah.” He ran a cheap plastic comb through his hair and it grew shinier and fuller. The static that plagued me never paid him a visit. Jerk.
“Don’t use my shampoo. It’s special for my pathetic hair. You can use anything. You don’t need mine. You don’t need my special shampoo,” I knew I sounded hysterical but I couldn’t stop myself.
He grinned at me in the mirror. “Psycho,” he muttered.
I chucked the soap at him. “Never use my shampoo,” I screamed.
“Jeez! What’s wrong with you? Alright, alright. I’ll buy more shampoo.” He ducked out the bathroom tossing the soap over the shower bar as he went.
Later that day we stood in the hair care aisle of a local store.
Brian examined the selections. He could buy the store brand with confidence but he wanted to be picky. “Holy cow that shampoo is expensive,” he said.
“It’s twenty bucks,” I said. I didn’t see what the big deal was.
He gaped like a trout. “That’s a lot of money.”
I glared at him. “That’s how much I spend on my special shampoo that you’ve been poaching,” my tone dared him to complain about the price.
“You spend twenty bucks on shampoo?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “That’s why I keep telling you not to use it! My shampoo is too expensive for your hair!”A man at the end of the aisle stared at me in shock. Then, wisely, he ducked around the corner.
Brian snatched a bottle of three dollar shampoo from the shelf and tossed it in the cart.
The next day his hair was as lively and as vibrant as ever and the threat to my shampoo supply was mercifully eliminated.
Career Paths for the Creative Person
Here, take your crappy house.
If you could travel back in time and ask my five-year-old self what I wanted to be when I grew up I would not have said, “I want to be an aspiring writing who has to work a ‘real job’ to pay my bills while composing my novel, blog and column when I should be sleeping.” I would have said I wanted to be a vet, proof that I’ve gotten dumber as I age.
The road from vet to writer was paved with thousands of career ideas, most of which were suggested by my father. When I’d completed high school, decided against college and was working a part time job, Dad decided it was time to intervene. He suggested that I get a job at the new tire manufacturing plant. When tire production failed to inspire me, he began a program that I would later call “Job of the Week” and he no doubt called “Get Nora out of My House.” Every few days, my father would suggest a practical and wise career path to me. Every suggestion proved two things about my father: he has very good ideas for someone looking for a career but he doesn’t have a clue about what makes me tick.
“Be a real estate agent,” he said. Do they have an award for World’s Crappiest Real Estate agent? If so, I’m a shoe in. “No, no. You don’t want to buy that dumpy place. There isn’t enough room in the closet for your shoes. Are they calling that a back yard? Puh-lease! A hamster couldn’t run a lap back there! And the bathroom doesn’t have a walk-in shower. How are you supposed to get clean? What are you, a barbarian? School system? Screw the kids! You can’t store Prada just anywhere! Fine, but don’t come crying to me when the lack of a dishwasher gives you dish pan hands. I will not be responsible!”
“Accountants make a good living,” Dad mentioned casually over dinner. High school taught me one important thing about math: I do not understand it. “Um, yeah, Mr. Johnson? That paper-thingy you gave me, the one with all the numbers. I was supposed to shred that right? Ha, ha! Just kidding! I totally added up all the columns. From everyone in accounting I want to thank you for the $10,000 raise! Everyone’s worked really hard, I know, but I can’t believe how generous—Mr. Johnson? Mr. Johnson? What are you doing on the floor behind your desk? Um…..crap. Someone dial 911!”
“Nurses are high in demand,” Dad tried again. “Is that guy in room 3 buzzing me a-freaking-gain? Get your own damn popsicle! You’ve got to learn to walk again sometime!”
Dad got desperate. “ Welder?” “And ruin my hair with that mask?” “Mechanic?” “I can’t change my oil. I barely even check my oil.” “Job at Jiffy Lube? At least you’d get your oil changed,” he snapped. Dad was worried he’d not only be stuck living with me and feeding me for the rest of my life but that’d he have to change the oil in my Civic as well.
Eventually, I found a day job I could live with and an outlet for all my creative energies. Dad still doesn’t get the creative part but he does read my column and occasionally my blog. In a way, it’s a sacrifice for him as reading isn’t something he enjoys. Still, his daughter wrote it and it’s made all the sweeter by the fact that she wrote it in her own house while eating her own food.
