Humor

I’m all for trying new things, but when I first heard about the latest “innovation in feminine hygiene protection,” also known as The Diva Cup, a little voice inside me (the prissy one with the British accent) flat out told me, “there is no bloody chance.”

Billed as the “revolutionary alternative to tampons and pads,” the Diva Cup is a reusable menstrual receptacle you insert by hand and leave in place for up to 12 hours of collection.

TWELVE HOURS OF COLLECTION? Yikes.

I’ve always had a very loose affiliation with Inner Peace. It’s like we know each other well enough to say “hi” in the halls, but beyond that we have absolutely nothing in common.

Where Inner Peace is all ahh and ohm, I am more GAAAHHH! And ACK! And CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME? PLEASE.

Hrmph.

Private Dancer

“So you can’t dance,” said my husband. “What’s the big deal?”

“Spoken like a dancer,” I huffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

My grandfather died on my mother’s birthday. Moments after receiving the sad news about her dad, her doorbell rang, and there was a giant bouquet of flowers with a big birthday card from me that read, “EVERYTHING’S COMING UP ROSES!”

Because awkward is what I do best.

When my sister-in-law found out her mother was dying of brain cancer, I called to express my sympathies. We talked for awhile, and our conversation circled back around to life and kids and careers. And speaking of careers, I told her, my job is KILLING ME.

It would not be an exaggeration to say I like a clean and orderly house.

It would also not be an exaggeration to say that I find Dyson vacuum cleaners enormously sexy and would stop at next to nothing to lure one of those smoking hot, bagless bastards into my bed.

In other words, I am a mature and rational woman.

Have you ever noticed the way some people seem to attract money?

My cousin, Katie, is this way. I’d been working in advertising for seven years, and in less than six months she eclipsed my annual salary working part-time as a carhop at Sonic. She achieved this on roller skates.

For a humor writer I sure cry an awful lot. Ever since I gave birth to my first son, my eyes have been little brown geysers just waiting to blow.

I don’t even have to know you to be moved to tears by you. Just show me some neighborhood children walking to school with their parents, and I’m all, look at them going off to school. They’re still babies.

Soldiers in uniform: My God, they’re just babies!

Babies: Maaaahh babies!

Ladies, I have seen the light! And it’s coming from the 1,200 tiny, white, “worry-free” bulbs attached to our “100% Genuine Synthetic Pre-Lit American Fir Tree.”
 
A true Christmas miracle, our eight-foot artificial tree can be assembled in six minutes. Five if someone gets Daddy a nice, cold Guinness. There’s nothing to water. No needles to sweep. And no wonky branches or bald spots to hide behind oversized ornaments. It is completely and utterly devoid of character. And I love every artificial inch of it.
 

Hi, my name is Amanda, and I can’t say the word niblet with a straight face.

It’s sad, really. Some poor woman named Nan Niblet keeps leaving me voicemails at work, and I refuse to call her back because I can’t say her name out loud without laughing. Over and over again, I imagine returning her call:

“Can I speak to Nan, please?”

“Which Nan?”

“Nan N.?”

“They’re both Nan N.”

“In that case, I dialed the wrong number.” (CLICK)

My coworker asked me to smell her finger.

“Um, no thank you?” I said.

She rolled her eyes. Where was my sense of adventure?

“It’s a good smell,” she said. “Perfume. You like?” 

Reluctantly I sniffed, and I had to admit, “Your finger smells very nice. Fresh. With a hint of botanicals.”