Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, death, family, humor, Middle-Age, news, obituaries, subourbonmom
One of my favorite things to do is read the obituaries. Not because I morbidly enjoy hearing that people have died, but because trying to get a sense of who someone was in 100 words or less is a fascinating exercise. Most of the time, obits are pretty boring, with endless lists of surviving relatives, no cause of death, and lists of clubs or activities trying to convey the dignity of the person who passed.
I want my obit to read like my life really is—a little weird, a lot of fun, and without a lot of dignity. I think all obits should be required to have two things:
- Cause of death. This might be painful in some circumstances, but the fact is, if you leave us to our imaginations, we are pretty much guaranteed to think of something far worse than what really happened. Even suicide can be addressed delicately, such as “took his own life.” I‘ve been told the NY Post does this, and it makes people more sympathetic.
Why is knowing the cause of death important? Because if the person died young I want to know why, and if there is something I could be protecting my children from; or, if the deceased died from something like pancreatic cancer, is there an increase in pancreatic cancer deaths in my area? Should I be concerned? If the person died from old age, were they in an “old peoples’ sanctuary?” (description courtesy of Daughter #1) Which one? I might want to go there–or not.
- At least two interesting facts about the person, and I don’t mean “Johnny served in the military for twenty years.” I mean something personal, like “Johnny could have drunk Gerald Ford under the table, if they’d ever met,” or “Sally was known for her bravery in wearing horizontal stripes.”
I’m so tired of reading a who’s who directory of Rotary Clubs and philanthropic giving. Tell me what would have made me want to get to know the person. Did he play practical jokes on people? Did she like modern art? Did she like to ride ATVs with her hair on fire? People like me want to know.
And that’s probably why obits are what they are–because people like me want to know.
Filed under: Posts | Tags: adulthood, aging. Time Magazine, alternative power, cancer, cosmetics, crop dusting, Farts, flatulance, gas, humor, Middle-Age, news new study, subourbonmom
Time Magazine recently had an article in which some medical researchers from the University of Exeter in England claimed that smelling farts may prevent cancer. (http://time.com/2976464/rotten-eggs-hydrogen-sulfide-mitochondria/?iid=ent-article-recirc)
That’s right, smelling farts may prevent cancer.
According to the article, hydrogen sulfide gas (a.k.a. Air Bagels) in small doses may prevent damage to cells’ mitochondria. If I remember correctly from a dozen flash card studying episodes during the Daughters’ biology classes, mitochondria:
- Look like small blobs inside a bigger blob, and
- Control cell growth and death.
So let’s get this straight–mitochondria control when cells grow and die, two things that feature heavily in the aging process and cancer. Then, what I’m hearing these people say is that smelling a Ghost Turd will make me younger and prevent cancer.
Huh. The fountain of youth and a miracle drug all in one! And even better, we can make it ourselves, without destroying the environment. Who would’ve predicted the world could be so cool?
So how can we harness this incredibly funny gift from nature? The movie Water World, comes to mind–they had a ship full of pigs making methane gas to use as a power source. Couldn’t we do that with hydrogen sulfide? I can see it now—a whole new dystopian world where the class system revolves around those who make a good Bean Burp and those who don’t.
Flatulence would become a commodity to be traded or exploited—much like our athletes are now. Let’s call those excessively gaseous folks “Bombers.” As long as a Bomber is a good producer, he is treated like a hero, nourished and cared for while the “product” is extracted and used for the betterment of humanity. When a Bomber is no longer useful, he is retired.
In a world of kindness, Bombers would also receive the same benefits from the gas as those lucky enough to afford it–living longer and looking younger. However, since the world generally is not good and kind when it comes to producers and consumers, I suspect the very few (i.e. the rich) would benefit from the masses (the Bombers), who would most likely be herded into holding pens and left to their own smelly devices. Beans, broccoli and other fibrous vegetables would become high commodities, leaving the meat industry to fall off….hmmm…would this also help with Global Warming?
So, as with all of our recent scientific breakthroughs, we are once again faced with the dilemma—is it morally right to go down this road? Do we dare start exploring the true benefits of the Backdoor Breeze? Are we ethically developed enough to handle this technology?
And more importantly, what would happen to the annoying yet fun art of “crop dusting?”
(Urban Dictionary Definition for Crop Dusting: “Surreptitiously farting while passing through a cube farm, then enjoying the sounds of dismay and disgust.”)
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, cars, driving, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, road rage, rules of the road, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, traffic, travel, turn signals
Driving around with brand new teenage drivers, or soon-to-be-drivers can be like hanging out with an alcoholic at a party who’s just gotten back on the wagon. There is an enormous amount of self-righteousness packed into one place.
“Mom, you’re going over the speed limit.”
“Mom, the light turned green. Put your phone down.”
“Mom, I think that policeman is trying to wave you over….mom? Mom? Why have your eyes gone black??”
One of my biggest driving pet peeves is people who don’t use turn signals, especially at stoplights. FYI People—they are not optional or just a courtesy! They are required by law!
I can’t tell you how many drivers have seen me yelling and gesturing (with my windows safely up) as they paused in the middle of the intersection, looking bewildered as everyone waits for them to go straight because they forgot to put their turn signal on.
Daughter #1, our newest licensed driver, is now beginning to understand my frustration, and has come up with some of her own creative descriptions of these drivers, none of which can be printed here.
Daughter #2 however, has more fun pointing out the times when I myself forget to use my signal (as if!), or when, according to her, I wait to long to use it. The other day, we were getting ready to turn onto our street when apparently I didn’t use my signal until too late.
Daughter #1: “You didn’t use your signal, Mom.”
Me: “Yes, I did.”
Daughter #2: “Well, you waited long enough.”
Me: “Don’t mess with me today. It’s too hot.”
Daughter #2: “Why? What are you gonna do?”
Me: “Just–don’t. It’s not worth it.”
Long pause…
Daughter #2: “It’s worth it a little bit.”
Sigh……so please, in the interests of keeping people safe, and because playing chicken in the middle of an intersection isn’t cool, use your turn signals. IN the words of one of my youth group leaders back in the day, WWJD?
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, ATMs, breasts, business, entrepreneurs, health, humor, libraries, mammograms, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, south, southern, subourbonmom, women, women's health
I was reminded the other day that I am way late on getting my mammogram done—y’all, getting older sucks. Seriously, there’s got to be a more comfortable way to look at our mammory masterpieces. Thanks to Obamacare (which I think has done great things for people with pre-existing illness, by the way), I’ve been counting my pennies and choosing carefully which medical events are most important. In my field research, I’ve found more inexpensive ways to get a mammogram done.
The best way is to drive to your local library and use the mechanized drop box that looks like an ATM. Our county’s libraries recently got new ones—here’s how they work. When you drive up, the shelf is exactly at the wrong height, no matter what kind of car you’re in.
If you’re in an SUV, you have to hang your body half way out the window because you have to be so far away to accommodate the return book conveyor belt. Then you smush your chest on your window as you reach for the buttons to operate the damned thing. If you’re in a sedan or God forbid, a hybrid, you have to climb like a monkey up to the right height, squishing your chest on the drop box ledge to get your books up there.
Side note: Someone please tell me—why is it an option to get a receipt at the library? Are there people who don’t want a receipt in case there is secret information that someone might use against them to rack up a bunch of late charges? Just print the thing off without making me hang my torso out of the car like a crash-test dummy to press another button.
Another good place to do this is at your local ATM. Same principal applies, but the reverse is true for cars—ATMs seem to be made for SUVs. I was driving Hubby’s sedan (excuse me, he would emphasize it’s a SPORT sedan, even though it has 4 doors), and realized the car mirrors are at exactly the wrong height–they would smack into the front edge of the ATM if I got any closer. I had to back up and pull in again (much to my mortification) so I wouldn’t hit the machine. Then, I had to stretch up to reach the buttons and grab my stuff, once again smushing my chest exactly like they do in a mammogram.
If mammogram folks were smart, they would partner with library drop offs and ATMs to do a combo-service, taking a picture as you went about your business. A week after you visited the ATM or library drop-off, you would get a notice in the mail informing you if your mammogram was normal or not–receipt optional.
Last summer I wrote a blog about fishing with my family, and my regrets over my sore-loser attitude. (see https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2013/08/19/fishing-frenzy/) This year, we once again had our Annual Lake Trip Family Fishing Tournament. I was determined to have fun, and maybe convince one of our daughters to join us at 6:00am for the camaraderie and smack talking that is our fishing style–“that’s how we troll.” (It should be noted that this year, for the first time ever, my sister-in-law also went—and she is NOT a morning person—she didn’t catch anything, but she was a trooper. Thanks for the effort, SA!)
After two days of Hubby, Big Brother and myself coming back to the dock with buckets of fish, Daughter #1 agreed to go. The first day, she got up at 6:00 and came down to the boat, phone in hand, and promptly began taking sleepy selfies. We didn’t catch much that day, just a catfish and a little white bass, but she said she might do it again because she just had fun hanging out (how about that for fun family time, and only a little bit of phone use?).
The next time, she got up again at 6:00 and shuffled down to the dock, coffee that Hubby made her in one hand, cell phone welded to her other.
Take note:
- Hubby makes coffee for her, and he is the only person who can make it the right way, since they use very little coffee, with lots of creamer and sugar—it’s too sickening for me to even taste to get it right; and
2. Daughter #1 is clearly able to get up that early and be ready for action, just not on school days.
(Hmmmmm….)
As we trolled along the points, the early sun shining above us, Big Brother made note of what he considered a slight personality change that occurs when I fish. Apparently, when I’m not catching anything, I’m somewhat unpleasant to be around, but when I do catch something, all is right with the world.
“The Gray Wiggle” (according to Daughter #2) catches another catfish…
When I argued the point, Daughter #1 said, “Mom, you think you’re not competitive, but you are. You even tell everybody how competitive me and dad are, and that you and Daughter #1 skipped that gene. But you’re just as bad.”
Big Brother laughed and said, “You’re right. She’s even competitive about being competitive.”
Okay, okay, you might be right.
But while you’re busy talking about how competitive I am, I’m going fishing. Nobody catches anything without throwing a line in.
Subourbon Mom 
