Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, gifts, horse racing, humor, Montpelier, shopping, south, southern, sports, Steeplechases, subourbonmom, tailgate, tailgates, Virginia
Last weekend we attended the annual Montpelier Hunt Races in Virginia. For those of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you may recall that the stately Montpelier event has always provided me with literary fodder. One election year, I was interviewed in my inebriated condition by an Irish news channel about my thoughts on what it’s like to live in a swing state (see “Schwing State”). Last year, Hubby had an “accident” in the parking lot that involved road rage and karma sent straight from the animal world (see “Traffic Martyrs & Sliders” and “Chipmunk Popsicles”).
This year, I was given a gift. It wasn’t wrapped in Wal-mart Christmas paper with a stick-on bow, or delivered in a turquoise Tiffany box, but it was a gift that I think is priceless—it was a bend-over-because–you-can’t-breathe-oh-my-God-I’m-crying-belly laugh.
Maybe it happened because it’s been a difficult couple of months; maybe it was the wine; or, maybe it happened because sometimes there are just those moments in life that come together to make the perfect storm of funny at the time. Either way, I’m grateful.
My friends Stacie*, Helen* and I were walking back to the tailgate after shopping among the vendors. Helen is single and younger than Stacie and I, and still cares what other people think about how she looks, and about retaining her dignity. We’d watched Helen try on hats, agonizing over gray or brown, feathers or not, and by the time we left the area, I was long past caring about hats, and more concerned with getting back to place our bets on the next race. Halfway there, we made a pit stop at the port-a-johns.
Helen is also a slow learner—despite knowing me for several years now, she still made the crucial mistake of telling me how much she HATES using port-a-johns.
While we were waiting, a guy came out and said, with his eyes watering like he’d been cutting an onion, “I know they’re not supposed to be great, but that was awful!”
“Why? Did someone take a crap in there?” I asked, trying to find something to say.
He looked at me in pure wonderment and nodded. “Who does that in one of those?” he whispered, and walked away.
Helen’s eyes bugged out and she looked like she might bolt, but somehow she summoned her courage and went in anyway. Must have been all those beers–liquid courage, on so many levels.
As soon as Helen was inside, Stacie and I looked at each other, grinned and took action. Stacie went to the back and I went to the front of Helen’s port-a-john, and we banged on the walls like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse were thundering by.
Helen screamed.
Stacie and I ran, hiding around the corner. Predictably, Helen came storming out of the port-a-john, strutting her angry 5-foot-3-self across the field.
As she yelled at us and pointed her finger, we couldn’t help but double over laughing—
Helen, jaunty new brown hat slightly askew, was trailing a 3-foot ribbon of toilet paper from her shoe.
While it may be a location joke (you had to be there), to us, it was funny.
When you’re an adult, these moments don’t come nearly as often as they do when you’re a kid. Kids know how to belly laugh, and they don’t care who sees them or how loud they are. As adults, we may occasionally have those laughing fits that make you cry, but we usually try to hide them behind our hands or we leave the room. This time, I didn’t do either. I let out my full-throttle laugh, which as you may know, is pretty freakin’ loud. I’m sure people were staring, appalled at our behavior at such a dignified event—and I don’t care. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and it was wonderful.
So thank you Helen, for sacrificing your dignity (albeit unwillingly). And thanks to Stacie, who laughed right along with me. Gifts don’t always arrive with a card and a song—sometimes they arrive on a ribbon of toilet paper.
*Names have been changed to protect my friends’ professional images. Now, if we could just get rid of all those pictures with red cups…
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, Blackjack, cards, casino, gambling, humor, Las Vegas, Middle-Age, office etiquette, southern, subourbonmom
Now that I sit in a cube, (it’s a cool one with open squares as my “walls” that make it look really modern—but it’s not just a bunch of crates from the back of the 7-11), I’ve realized my work environment is a lot like Vegas. This is not necessarily a bad thing–after all, people win big in Vegas. But it was a little disturbing once the thought came into my head. For all my fellow Cubies, see if this sounds familiar—maybe we’ll all win big!
Ten Ways My Office is like Vegas
- There is a certain amount of anticipatory energy humming through the office during prime hours (for us, it’s first thing in the morning)—you never know what’s going to happen. At the end of the business day, much like Vegas in the wee hours before dawn, there is a desperate determination to get that last big win before leaving.
- I’m not convinced fresh oxygen isn’t being pumped into the cold office air to keep us awake—although I did find the right thermostat to mess with. Good luck, my young Cubies! You have no idea what a temperature rollercoaster we’re about to get on!
Whenever I open my email, I get the same rush as when the dealer first deals out a Blackjack hand—I don’t know whether I’m going to get an ace or a deuce.- Like Vegas, dress is no longer formal. Khakis are the norm.
- When there’s a shriek as someone wins big (i.e. makes a sale, finishes a project, etc.)—We “air” fives all around, and people come wandering from all over the “casino” to see who won.
- The food/drinks (coffee in a Keurig dispenser and animal crackers) are plentiful, often served buffet-style. John Pinette (R.I.P.) would be jealous.
- The other “guests” love to discuss strategy, and every now there’s a card counter who gets removed from the casino.
- The entertainment (webinars, conferences, in-house training) is there for the taking, and I hear it’s easy to comp tickets, if you like that sort of thing.
- There aren’t any windows or clocks—I have no idea what the weather or time is at any given moment.
- The pit bosses are always watching—ok, not really, but they do have a habit of sneaking up on me from behind and watching what I’m doing, mostly because they know it irritates the crap out of me—I’m so getting a rearview mirror.
Offices aren’t always where we would choose to spend our time, all things being equal, but if you’re in the right frame of mind, it can be fun. So double down if you get dealt and ace, and let it ride.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Sports | Tags: adulthood, airports, Breakfast Club, Energy, health, humor, Middle-Age, office etiquette, Running, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom
Going from teaching to sitting in front of a computer all day has caused some weird side effects—one of which it that I sometimes have the almost uncontrollable impulse to run short distances in inappropriate places. I think this has to do more with expending extra energy than any kind of office-induced physical Turetts.
In case you have any of these urges, here are my top fave places to run inappropriately (yes, I’ve done most of them):
- The office: racing your colleagues to the bathroom is just fun—sorry Kelly, had to do it.
- Church: there’s something exhilarating about sprinting down that plush carpeted aisle where most people creep in on Sunday’s, heads bowed—but only during non-service times. I know many people will think it’s disrespectful, but I think Jesus would smile, knowing someone was having so much fun in a place where so much serious thought happens.
- Outside in rain puddles—especially if your friends don’t see you coming and you splash in a puddle as you breeze by, getting them soaked; it’s even better if you don’t like the person you just splashed.
- Through sprinklers in the summer, outside stuffy office buildings—definitely fun and worth the chilly air-condition-induced cold you will have later.
- Down a middle or high school locker-filled hallway a la Judd Nelson in “The Breakfast Club.”
- Down the aisle in a store that has framed posters hanging on one of those carousels, letting your hands graze each frame as you go buy;
- The office again—this time pushing an office chair in a modified office Olympics.
- Hotel hallways—this one is better with two people racing and hip-checking each other as you careen down the hall. If you slam into a hotel room door, even better. Usually this seems to happen late at night, but it also occurs when children are present.
- Hospitals—I’ve been binge-watching too much Grey’s Anatomy. Haven’t done this one yet, but I’m “dying” to do it, yelling “Code Blue! I need a doctor Stat!”
- Airports—on the fast-walker thing. That’s just super-fun, and nobody will look at you too hard, they just assume you’re late for our connection.
Working as an adult is necessary and often rewarding, but when you have that crazy urge to expend some extra energy, run with it!
Disclaimer: Subourbonmom and its author or affiliates (i.e. Hubby and Daughters 1&2) are not responsible for any repercussions that might happen to you if you do any of these activities.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Bermuda, Caribbean, diversity, humor, islands, office etiquette, parties, south, southern, speaking skills, subourbonmom, tourism, travel
Nature has balances: night and day, sunshine and rain, Quiet Talkers…and me.
For whatever reason, I am “blessed” with a loud, scratchy voice, and a Woody Woodpecker laugh that reverberates around a room somewhere near the decibel level of a Who concert. Oh don’t get me wrong, it’s come in handy a few times, like when I was coaching and lifeguarding. Now, however, it’s a little bit of an issue.
We were recently in Bermuda for a work event, and I realized I’d forgotten how quiet Bermudians can be. I understand why Bermudians talk the way they do—softly, leaning in slightly, as if someone might overhear the conversation and report it to the Royal Gazette. Actually, that is exactly what can happen when you have 60,000 alcoholics, er, residents, clinging to a rock in the middle of the Atlantic. That’s a lot of folks on a 20-square-mile island with something to say, which they do with a wit that is funny and brutal at the same time.
I used to live in Bermuda, so I know how loud we Americans can sound to the untrained ear. Eventually, after three years or so of being there, I got pretty good at lowering my voice, but that skill has clearly been neglected since we moved.
When it comes to social events, my friend Bruce has a favorite saying: “If you’re at a party and you can’t find the asshole, it’s probably you.”
Um, I’m pretty sure the people at the event last week in Bermuda thought it was me. There were about 40 Bermudians in the room, and I’m fairly certain everyone turned at one point or another in the evening and tried to figure out one of three things:
1) how they could rescue the poor Quiet Talker stuck with me;
2) who that woman was with the man-voice was and why wasn’t she wearing her hearing aide? OR
3) who let the Southern version of Fran Drescher into the party?
At first I was annoyed, and toyed with the idea of talking in my fake Long Island accent that makes my Southern skin crawl. (“Oh my Gaawud, Vinny…would you look at this gaawbage? I could get this at home for ‘tree daawllahs.”) But I was at work and had a professional image to maintain, so I decided to study the Bermudian Quiet Talker technique instead.
I have to say you Quiet Talkers have a way of drawing people in to listen to you that I envy. I never did figure out just what it was, except possibly my natural American inferiority complex, or maybe my American penchant for British accents, but either way I remained captivated.
Unfortunately, your verbal sparring is wasted on Loud Talkers. When you zing that witty insult at us, we often aren’t sure if we heard you correctly…so most of the time, we’ll just keep on plowing ahead, oblivious to your skills.
Yes, we are clearly two very different social species, but if nature didn’t provide some balance, and there were only Loud Talkers like me, the world would sound like a forest full of crows (or a tree full of Kiskadees, for you Bermudians), cawing and squawking at each other all day long. If there were only Quiet Talkers, the world would be filled with misunderstandings, because someone misheard someone else, rednecks would have to find some other way to communicate after a beer or six, and sports stadiums would sound like churches.
So in the interest of peace, diversity, and keeping sports teams employed, let’s keep the conversation going–we Loud Talkers will keep leaning in to hear what you have to say, and you Quiet Talkers keep leaning back and listening.
If the conversation stops, the silence will be deafening.
Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, humor, Internal Revenue Service, IRS, marketing, news, phones, scams, south, southern, subourbonmom, telemarketers
Hi there, y’all—my apologies for the recent hiatus, but we had a death in the family, and it has been a grueling time for all of us. Now that things are settling down a bit, I can come up for air and share with y’all some of the other craziness that’s been going on outside of all of that.
The other day, my friend Gail received a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize. Against her better judgment, she answered it. A heavily-accented, female voice said, “Hello, my name is Julie Smith and I am from the Internal Revenue Service.”
Gail: “No you’re not. Take me off your call list and don’t call me again,” and hung up.
Ten minutes later the phone rang again. Annoyed, Gail answered, ready to put a stop to it.
Caller: “Hello, this is Julie Smith from the Internal Revenue Service.”
Gail: “No it’s not. Do you know that calling with a scam is illegal in the United States? Now take me off your call list. ” She hung up again.
Another ten minutes goes by and the same number calls her again. Gail picks up the phone.
Caller (male this time): “Hello, this is (something unintelligible) from the Internal Revenue Service.”
Gail: “No, you’re not! Do you know that making scam calls is a terrorist activity? And that terrorist activity in the United States is punishable by death?”
Caller: “No, this is not a scam. This is the Internal—“
Gail: “No, you’re not!” She hung up.
Gail waited about twenty minutes, then called the number back. A new voice answered. “You have reached the Internal Revenue Service—“
Gail (in a very stern voice): “This is Homeland Security. Identify yourself.”
Caller: “I-I-uh-…this is not a scam!”
Gail: “This is Homeland Security. Identify yourself.”
Caller: “This not a scam! It’s not a scam!”
Gail: “This is Homeland Security. We have identified your location. I suggest you identify yourself.”
Caller: “I’m so sorry! It is a scam! It is a scam!…I LOVE YOU!”
The caller hung up.
I wonder if that would work for the political calls we will be getting from now until November…
20 more ways to get rid of a telemarketer….
http://www.blippitt.com/20-lol-ways-to-get-rid-of-telemarketers/
Subourbon Mom 
