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My humorous thoughts about life.
"My Humorous and Helpful Thoughts About Teaching / Educational Resources for Your
Classroom / Music and Random Fun"
I've torn my house apart trying to find that one preschool picture that best fits my humor blog, but it is lost. Judy was proud of her new pair of underwear; so, when the camera flashed, she flashed too. I guess posting that photo would not go with my blog's clean image anyway.
Here are a few goofy school pictures of my kids and me.
Erica is never fully dressed without a hat to show coolness.
They retook Judy's picture but gave us the original
I trimmed Daniel's mullet and put this photo in the paper.
My GBE2 blogging group asked us to post on the topic of "Wish," so here goes.
I want to publish a novel. Not self published or blog published, but set to print by an editor or a respected house. Caroline Kooney's first eight books were never published; plus, the average writer takes ten years to make their dreams come true . . . or nightmares begin. I'm not sure how many years I've been writing, but I guarantee it's under ten, and I'm only working on my sixth manuscript. Here's what I've written in order of completion.
I made a Lulu cover.
1. The Friendship Puzzle (MG) - An experiment in novel writing that's missing a plot. Who needs a plot when I've got the gorgeous John Katou and the bubble headed tween who loves him? Okay, this one will never be published, and I dare confess that I did clog a few slush piles with this piece of trash. Sorry if it ever landed across your desk.
2. Don't Eat Chipmunks (MG+) - A promising camp story about a boy lost in the Rockies with his two worst enemies and an injured counselor. The boys must learn to work together or die as my novel did when the Sydney Taylor people were offended by my portrayal of Jewish camp. Sorry guys, but the "Anaf Boys Choir" really did sneak out at night in their underwear to sing Silent Night and the memory was too good not to write about.
3. Being Bompsy Carleffa (YA) - This masterpiece about Ben, a kidnapped mob teen thrust back into his previous world, is filled with roller coaster suspense, action, and clever characters. However, it's also been rejected more than any novel I've written. One agent reported that my main character was "too funny for the trouble he was in." I can't help it! Every time I write, funny pops out. There's got to be a market for it somewhere. It works for Gordon Korman.
The Godfather
4. The Killer Who Loves Me (YA) - This is the sequel to my unpublished Bompsy where Ben finds himself conflicted by the thought that he may actually "like" his criminal father. At least this one does not have multiple rejections. Furthermore, I started the third book in the series but stopped midstream when I read about not writing sequels to books that aren't published. I guess Ben can rest assured that he won't be shot at or beaten until someone picks up Being Bompsy Carleffa.
5. Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts (MG) - Coddled loser meets Mohawk boy who teaches him to be cool. I wrote this one with the guidance of two published authors telling me what works and what doesn't. I even cracked myself up by getting a kid's head caught in a hand dryer and shooting his spittle across bathroom tiles. There's got to be a market for a kid dealing with a helicopter mom because I've met so many of these overprotected babies.
6. Work in Progress (YA) - I named it Finding Miss Forester only to learn about a movie with a similar title. Dang! I'd never heard of the movie, but I guess my title must change. This is the story of a rambunctious seventh grade boy who spies his first-year teacher crying after another one of his many stunts pulled on her. Overwhelmed with guilt, he decides to behave, but instead, he has a rotten sub to deal with. Did he make Miss Forester quit? No. She's in deep doo doo after whistle blowing on a former boss, and Caleb will get sucked into her problems once I get my act together.
There you go bloggy friends––my wish waiting to be granted. And to think, you knew me when.
Beth gave us a job to write with short words. I could do this but yawn. I like short and long words, not just these. This needs to be worth a read as well as a skill. The joy of a good read is to choose the best words. When all of these have to be short, one can't read great work. This prompt has made me write a drab post.
Just face it, this post is . . .
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
It means "something to say when you have nothing to say." That fits.
I'm sure most of you are familiar with the novel Fiddler on the Roof by Sholom Aleichem or the wonderful movie that brought the story to the silver screen. For most people, it's a delightful tale of Tevya the milkman dealing with his adult daughters straying from family traditions. For me, Fiddler on the Roof is mishpacha or for those Yiddishly challenged, "Family."
My paternal grandfather was a first cousin by marriage to Sholom Aleichem and the story that this author told was based upon the family he had married into, ie. my grandfather's Uncle Tevya, Aunt Golde, and the five daughters who were his first cousins.
If you're familiar with the tale, you may remember Hodel, the second oldest daughter who married a man with radical ideas. That man was Sholom Aleichem, the author himself.
Although my family no longer follows the strict traditions of the people of Anetevka, the flavor of the culture still runs through my veins. When my grandfather left Tsarist Russia circa 1904 to escape the harsh treatment of Jews, he brought his religion and lifestyle with him. Grandpa Paull was one of the younger siblings of many and spent an entire night listening to his brothers tell him why he was foolish to leave Russia for America. After all, my grandfather didn't speak the language nor did he have money.
The next morning, he chose not to listen to his brothers as he boarded a boat for a new life in America. However, he was not entirely alone because two of his older brothers were already settled in the new land.
Once in America, Grandpa landed in Ellis Island, moved to Chicago, and then eventually traveled further south with his new wife. Grandpa Paull started a successful business in St. Louis that became Fair Mercantile Furniture Company.
While in the states, communication from home was tough, but he did receive a letter from one of his brothers. The letter said, "I wish I would have come with you." That is the last word my grandfather ever received from his family.
Years later, someone from a subsequent generation traveled back to Russia in search for the family roots. The relative found the spouse of one of the brothers who reported how the pogroms had wiped out most of the family. Russian soldiers barred the door to a synagogue and set it on fire while my great grandparents prayed. Not a pretty picture for my family, nor my usual funny post.
As a writer, I love the challenge of taking a short scene from my WIP and changing the POV, but I wonder if there is any harm in posting this scene. My manuscript has not been sold, or even queried yet, but I will be in the process of sending it out this month. Would a future agent or editor object to my 250 or so words being published on my blog? I hope not.
Charlie Brown and my little Knob have a lot in common.
I'm in the habit of writing everything in first person, so it was a fun challenge to convert a scene to third; however, the first paragraph was not too different, so I didn't even bother to repost it.
Here is a first person scene from MRS. ZIMMERMAN'S DONUTS:
Slater’s mom pulled a chisel-shaped knife out of its top drawer and leaned
her head back. With the precision of a surgeon, she gently slid the blade
downward until it disappeared into her throat. Next she thrust it out with one
gigantic swing. Blood covered the blade while red liquid filled her mouth. Her
eyes rounded as her lips curved into a smug smile. She winked at me! Blood gushed out of her mouth, and she
winked! While the room spun in oval circles, I couldn’t decide if she was
crazy or if I needed the loony bin.When a thick, red droplet dribbled down her chin, I squeezed the back of a
chair and stepped backwards. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I worried that I
might hurl at any moment.“You’re b-bleeding.” I gripped the chair with my other hand too until my
knuckles turned as white as Mom’s had when she drove me home after I’d gotten in
trouble the other day. “Hospital. We need to t-take you to the h-hospital!”Slater, Calfie, and Mrs. Slatker laughed so hard tears filled their eyes. “What are you laughing at? I think she’s really hurt!” I plopped into a
chair, put my elbow on the table, and leaned my head into my palm. “I don’t
feel so good.”“It’s fake, Knob,” Slater said in between chuckles. “She squirted fake
blood in her mouth!”
How about a brush with third person?
Mrs. Slatker winked at Knob, whose face had transformed to a mixture of
ashen and green. He squeezed the back of a chair and placed a wobbly foot
behind him. Spastic churning bloated his
belly in an achy, sick sensation. “You’re b-bleeding.” Knob gripped the chair with his other hand until his
knuckles turned white. “Hospital,” he said. “We need to t-take you to the h-hospital!”Slater, Calfie, and Mrs. Slatker laughed so hard tears filled their eyes. “What are you laughing at? I think she’s really hurt!” Knob plopped into a
chair, put his elbow on the table, and leaned his head into his palm. “I don’t
feel so good.”“It’s fake, Knob,” Slater said in between chuckles. “She squirted fake
blood in her mouth!”
Behind, bottom, bum, buttocks, backside, breech and all the other words that Beth had no intention of us using for this topic.
Everyone who visits my blog deserves a visit back, but I'm so behind and only get further so each day.
H iny--that thing we want to be tiny. Kids laugh when one says words that depict this part of the anatomy. If you laughed too, don't admit it... or better yet, you might like the kidlit that I write. :)
I would love to have the time to post stupid stuff everyday, but there is too much to do, and I'm behind!
N ot sure why the red only covered half of the letter. At least the letter is covered on the bottom. Ah, ha, ha, ha!
D errier is the French word for... well, just guess. I am so BEHIND in all I have to do that it's amazing I got a post up tonight!
Every time I post something political on Facebook, my daughter Judy says, "Mom! Don't do that. You're not going to change the minds of those who don't see things your way, but you will make them angry and quit following you."
She may have a good point but those darn impulses make me have these conversations. How can one not answer the absurdities that some folks post on Facebook? How do I not share that fine tuned point that may just sway the one undecided voter left in this country? People whine that they don't want to read politics on FB, but as for me, I don't want to read about what you ate for dinner. Is it not important to enter into conversation about the future of the free world? What better time do I have to make an influence on the next thirty years than today? After all, the Supreme Court is at stake as well as our democratic right to vote.
Every morning, the conservative talk show blasts through my radio and I get my blood moving by listening to the idiocy coming through the airwaves. This morning, Andrew Clarke had the nerve to say, "No one is using voter ID laws to keep people from voting."
Really, Andrew? It sure looks that way to me. Why not allow any ID to work? Do you really think a young person will forge a college ID just to vote? Half of them won't even bother voting when given the right. More people are being denied the right to vote than questionable ballots to begin with. There is no doubt in my mind that this is a slick Republican strategy to steal the election... and if we're not paying attention, it just might work!
Let the impulse take you and join the conversation before it's too late.
In the midst of those noisy screaming matches, I always told my kids, "Parents don't want fair, they want peace." Apparently, we weren't the only ones wanting a little quiet now and then. After a visit to the Chinese restaurant, I found someone else out to get some peace.
Now let's give this some thought, why would a cookie need sleep? They don't have eyes to see kids tugging over the same toy, ears to hear the "She looked at me cry," or even a sense of touch to feel the wrestling kids bump into it.
Cookies are never up late at night worrying about the kid who missed curfew or even bothered by dogs barking at the squirrels outside. Even a pesky fly wouldn't bother a fortune cookie. I'd say they're dead, but doesn't one need to live in order to die?
Throughout this stressful life, I have come to the conclusion that I will never truly be at peace until someone throws dirt over my dead body. If a dirt nap is the only way to truly be at peace, I guess I'll pass.
This week's challenge is to write two separate, but related pieces. I have chosen a scene from my unpublished young adult manuscript, BEING BOMPSY CARLETTA. For those who don't know, I started this blog because I am an aspiring author. I've written five novels but haven't published any of them. Time to send out some queries.
My first passage is from Fiso Carleffa’s point of view. Fiso is the mob boss father who had recently been united with his fifteen-year-old son after twelve years of believing the kid and his mother had died in a car wreck. The story was originally written in Ben Smith's, aka Bompsy Carleffa’s, first person point of view.
Bompsy's eyes widened then a bewildered expression covered his face. What had his mom been feeding him all these years? Mac and cheese? He didn’t look malnourished, but he certainly wasn’t used to eating gourmet either. “Do you like the gazpacho?” I asked. He dropped his spoon and looked at me like I was feeding him poison. “Eat it. It’s good for you.” I twirled my spoon in a circular motion until he finally took another sip. That's when I realized my own son was afraid of me. I guess I'd screwed up when I ordered his beating, but what else could I have done after he cursed and punched me? I’m his own father and the kid didn’t even know me, nor at least respect me. Gil brought us our pallet cleansers and once again Bompsy scrunched his brows together while staring at the sherbet. “You look confused.” I pointed to Bompsy's plate. “That’s a palate cleanser.” He clearly didn’t understand. “Your mom sure didn’t show you the finer things in life.” How will I ever make this boy feel at home? Maybe I should apologize for the whipping. “Can I be excused?” he said. “Now? You haven’t had dinner.” “I’m not up to eating.” He stared at his hands. Poor kid had chewed his nails off completely. I wanted to spend more time with him, but he obviously couldn’t wait to get away from me. “Very well, but learn to call this home. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll even love me like I love you.” If that boy’s mom lives, it won’t be for long.
Brent Turner
This is how I picture my character Ben/Bompsy, so this young actor can play him if he doesn't have gray hair by the time my book gets published and becomes a movie. The next bit of text is the original wording from my novel. Please read the same scene told from Ben/Bompsy's point of view and hopefully you'll see the humor in it that Fiso didn't catch.
When I sipped the soup, I was shocked. Cold soup? All this money, and these people couldn’t heat the soup.“Do you like the gazpacho?” Fiso asked. I dropped my spoon on the table. Why would he mention the Gestapo? What was he, a modern day Nazi? Sure, doesn’t everyone like murderers? Sick. This guy’s really sick!“Eat it. It’s good for you.” Fiso twirled his spoon in a circular motion.Not wanting another beating, I forced the soup down my throat. I was a spineless wimp doing whatever that Nazi demanded. The soup left a spicy, hot taste in my mouth so I drank more water. Gil put a small scoop of sherbet in front of me. I stared at the lime mound. Dinner must’ve been over since he’d already brought dessert.“You look confused.” Fiso pointed to my plate. “That’s a palate cleanser.” I didn’t get it.
“Your mom sure didn’t show you the finer things in life.”How was this a finer thing? What was I supposed to do with the light green lump? I lifted a small sample to my tongue and choked the sweet, icy food down. My full mind didn’t want to feed my empty stomach. “Can I be excused?”“Now? You haven’t had dinner.”“I’m not up to eating.” I lowered my head and stared at my fingers. I wasn’t a nail biter, yet somehow had chewed my nails down to the pink on the way to St. Louis.“Very well, but learn to call this home. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll even love me like I love you.” Love? How could that monster talk about love? He had his brother kidnap me, Mom killed, and my back scarred, but I was supposed to love him?
If any agents or editors are visiting my blog, BEING BOMPSY CARLEFFA is available for publication, and I will send it to legitimate agencies upon request. I have also written a sequel to this novel and three other original works for children and/or teens, as well as a published story in AppleSeeds magazine. Furthermore, I am an active member of SCBWI and have completed course work at the Institute for Children's Literature.
He opened a box of Mott's Fruit roll ups only to find one Market Pantry pack hiding inside. How does one find a competing Target brand hidden in a sealed package? We didn't even buy the product at a Target store.
Here's my theory: Market Pantry, a Target brand, sells for a lot less than name brand items. Perhaps it's a shrewd marketing trick. Someone tiptoed into the Motts' plant and hid their employer's off brand product in the name brand box. If the consumer eats the Market Pantry brand and finds that it tastes the same or better than the name brand, next time, he or she will switch to the generic product.
I have to wonder how this spy got into the factory. Has this been done before? Ie., Dear Readers, How many of you have ever found an off brand addition hidden in a name brand box? Is this legal?
Or... Maybe it's just a kid playing a prank while visiting his parent's factory.
I love the unexpected in film, whether it's a nerd in the shower or finding a golden ticket in a Wonka Bar. These are the little things that make movies worth watching because who wants to see the expected?
As a youngster, my family visited a quaint little park called Dog Patch USA, located in the Missouri Ozarks. This closed theme park was based on the L'il Abner comic strip and had a cute hillbilly charm about it. I don't remember much at my young age, but I'll never forget the unexpected when opening the door to the men's restroom. I would have used the ladies' room, but a sign told me it was out of order. When I opened the door, a deep voiced man sitting on the pot screamed, "Close the dang door! Doesn't anyone have any decency around here?" Turns out the unexpected man was a statue with a taped message sure to scare the pee out of anyone looking for a restroom. So Dogpatch!
Years later, I remember the unexpected in college. I don't know why the full length poster of George Michael hanging in my room was unexpected because I'm the one who taped it to the dang wall to begin with; however, he scared the begeeze out of me when I spied him standing over my bed in the middle of the night. Little did I know back in the eighties, that handsome man star would have been more interested in my husband than me. Double unexpected.
Now-a-days, the unexpected usually means something bad like the handle falling off the microwave, a tick on the dog, or most recently, a 95 year old man smashing my car door while I shopped inside the target. It's not a good sign to hear over the store speaker, "Will the owner of a black, Volkswagon convertible please come to the service desk?"
It's been two weeks and we're still driving the rental car and waiting for the repairs to be complete. Should it be expected to be without my car for so long? I don't think so. Unexpected was fun as a kid. Now, not so much.
Our blogging buddy Beth has chosen to remove herself from our internet world due to unknown business she must attend to. Rumor has it she's run off with Johnny Depp, who denies breaking up with his woman. Those of us who have followed Beth for awhile, know this is not what happened.
Beth says, "Sometimes you have to step away from something in order to see it clearly," but what this really means is her Earth-like eyes must be recharged in order to allow her to continue her clear sight.
Yes, folks. The truth is out. Beth is clearly an alien, and I'm not talking about someone sneaking into the country from Mexico. I mean "alien" as in from another planet.
If you don't believe me, let's take a look at the various posts from Word Nerd Speaks. While swimming with her grand daughter Beth writes, "We peeked up over the edge of the pool, careful to avoid being seen by any humans." Why would she be scared of humans seeing her? Does water cause her to change into her greenish-yellow sixties style skin? There's clue number one about Miss Beth.
You think she's normal and I'm full of it? What about her famous expression, "Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy." She's even written, "Hot-diggity-damn-dog" and "Zippity-Do-Da-DONE" on posts. Who uses these expressions today? Yep. Not only is she an alien, but one who studied old tapes before landing here.
That's Beth with her grandmother. Grandma had a head of gorgeous white hair. Beth hopes hers ultimately comes in that same color. I hope hers comes in looking human-like.
Beth writes, "My sense of smell is freakishly acute." Smell is very important when visiting other planets. If she didn't have an extremely acute sense of smell, she might accidentally eat something that doesn't agree with her alien body. This is a common trait among visitors from other planets.
Does this person look human?
She even writes about how others see her. "He thinks I’m weird. In fairness to him, he’s not judging harshly. I most certainly am weird." You're not weird Beth, at least I'm sure they don't think that on your planet.
Further proof, look at the searches people use to find her blog: crazy and sexy surgeons(translation - how to look human); pouty breasts (She claims her lips were pouty. It must be hard to get everything right when imitating the human form) ; and finally "my toes" "are" "long" "ashamed" (Ditto. Other alien errors, but it's okay Beth. With your shoe wearing habit, I'm sure your toes didn't give away your alien status).
"What really matters has nothing to do with the exterior," writes Beth in bold. Well, of course. We know that exterior isn't yours anyway. So get your earthy features tuned up and come back to join us soon. What does Beth have to lose? After all, we all know the truth.
All photos were stolen from Beth's blog. Picture swiping is something she despises, so hopefully she won't zap me with her giant ray gun when she returns to our planet.
Strength, if only. How many times have I struggled with those darn pickle jars only to have my husband swoop in and open them with a single twist? I've eaten spinach for years, but I'm starting to wonder if some well meaning adult made up this strength bull just to get kids to eat healthy. The only folks I ever saw get strong from eating spinach are Pop Eye and Gilligan. Remember when he found the crate of radio active vegetable seeds? What a great show!
Since I'm a doubting Moses (Doubting Thomas comes from Christianity, so I can't claim him), I did a little spinach research. Back in the late nineteenth century, some doctor put a decimal point in the wrong spot when writing down the iron content of spinach. Everyone believed his bogus document thinking that spinach had ten times the iron content than what it actually had. Like, no one questioned it?
Wee! Playing with decimals could be fun.
Friend: How fast were you going?
Moi: 750 MPH.
Friend: How much weight have you lost?
Moi: 230 pounds.
Friend: How old are you?
Moi: Five.
The last one might be believable, but the one about spinach? I guess if the right person says it, folks will believe anything. Just look at what people swallow from politicians.
But back to spinach:
I knows it! I knows it!
No one found the mistake until 1937! By then, it was too late. People bought into the myth about spinach making you strong.
It may not make you strong, but there are nutrients in spinach so it's not a bad thing to eat; however, forget that gross canned stuff that Pop Eye dumps down his throat. Give yourself a real treat with fresh (or frozen) spinach leaves, garlic, pepper, Parmesan and Mozzarella cheeses. Top with paprika and nuke in the microwave.
I didn't cook this, but it looks yum!
Hey look! Last week I had a political blog, now I've got a foodie blog! This will drive Reg nuts, if that boy ever comes back. Teehee.
If you cook my spinach, and eat it, you'll be getting iron and magnesium which is helpful for healthy muscle growth. Plus, it's good for your heart and doesn't make you fart.
Sorry about the fart comment, but what did you expect from someone who is five.♡
This week's writer's post is to write about two days ago. Heck! I can't remember two days ago or much of yesterday for that matter. I'm guessing I probably hung out on the couch in my post surgery laziness.
Now ask me about forty-seven years ago and I can give you vivid details. I had my first surgery right before my third birthday. The people in the scary blue outfits gave me something and told me to go to sleep, but I didn't. I lay awake on my stomach and watched blue people wash their hands. Whenever anyone ventured near me, I snapped my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep because I was scared I'd get in trouble for not minding them. Don't worry, I fell asleep before they took my tonsils out and removed my hemangioma.
I'd be in black and white!
I remember age four. I had to go to the bathroom and was so proud of the fact that I did it without telling my mom. I still remember sitting on that toilet seat thinking, I am so grown up. Then I made a conscious decision to remember this moment. And I do.
Sometimes one can actually force a memory on a child. My father died when my kids were five, three, and eight months. The year and a half before his death was an awful time of him lying in bed with pail skin and no legs. Yet at his low moment, he lifted his head and made a funny face at the baby. That was my wonderful Dad.
I wanted my kids to remember Dad, but not the illness part--the fun Dad who was a loving grandfather. My mother was in the hospital (a story for another post) and Dad wanted to show my kids something fun. Art students had made a wonderful, life sized, wooden bus. My kids, then three and one, relished in climbing all over it.
For years after that, I said, "Remember when Grandpa took you to see the bus?" Alas, the twenty-two year old has no memory of the event; however, the twenty-four year old has a beautiful life time memory of fun with his grandfather!
A day late, but I'd like to wish my dad a Happy Father's Day. Oh how I wish I could.
