Flipping Through The Slightly Creepy Seventies

Welcome,  Dear Readers, to the weekend here at the blog! And because it’s Saturday,  we’re just going to kick back, drink some coffee, and flip (or flick if you’re from the UK) through old magazines from history’s  easiest decade to make fun of — the slightly creepy seventies!

Today we’ll be looking through a Better Homes and Gardens from 1976,

Let’s turn to the page, shall we

Happily here’s a problem I’ve never had.  Wanting to look younger for my children.  Who wants to look young for their children?  I just figure as long as my appearance doesn’t embarrass them, they probably won’t ever notice how  young (or old) I look.

And how did slightly-creepy seventies mom stay looking young for her kids?  Well, by washing dishes by hand that’s how!

Back in the seventies, it didn’t matter if you face looked old as long as your hands looked young

Back in the seventies, having young-looking hands  was really a big deal.  Nobody cared about your face so much, but,  boy oh boy,  if your hands looked old, it was all over sister!   And the best way to keep your hands looking young  was to sell your automatic dishwasher and wash all your dishes by hand using Ivory liquid dish soap.

Well this is an interesting headline:

Slightly Creepy Seventies Cookware that knew more than it was telling

Apparently back in the Slightly-Creepy Seventies,  only ‘most women’ were better cooks than their cookware.  There must have been some women wandering around the slightly creepy seventies whose cookware could cook better than they could.  How embarrassing!  I only hope their kids didn’t think their hands looked old –or they would have been sailing down the Slightly Creepy Seventies Creek without a paddle.

Slightly Creepy Seventies Tool

Okay, I’m not even exactly sure what a tool is, Dear Readers, but I’m pretty sure the guy in this picture represents The Quintessential Slightly Creepy Seventies Tool.

What?!  No!!

Our beloved Ethel Mertz as Maxine the Coffee Lady?  That’s just straight-up I Love Lucy blasphemy!   I think you’ll agree, Dear Readers, it’s this kind of  bizarre strangeness that makes the Slightly Creepy Seventies, slightly creepy.

Well that and stuff like this too:

Apparently it wasn’t enough just to have ugly tile on your floors in the slightly creepy seventies, they had to go and make little sticky linoleum tiles that looked just like  your ugly floor so  you could stick them on your walls and on your cupboards and on your furniture and on your cat.

Which is probably why more people went blind from staring at ugly tile than at any other time in our nation’s history.  And, perhaps not coincidentally,  more people were happy to have gone blind than at any other time in our nation’s history.

Here’s some  slightly creepy seventies towel folding:

There is no way those towels are going to fit in that basket

I’m sorry Slightly-Creepy Seventies  housewife lady but that is a stupid way to fold towels  in any decade!  (But if it’s any consolation your hands do look young — what we can see of them anyway.)

Remember these?

They were called notes.  And it was the way people kept track of their activities and whatnot in the Slightly-Creepy Seventies  before there were smart phones and text messages.

And they didn’t work very well either:

Whoops!   Somebody didn’t read their slightly creepy seventies notes!

And finally, let’s end on this little bit of slightly creepy seventies fashion:

Okay, I can’t actually prove it, but what do you want to bet this couple with their matching Captain ‘N First Mate  t-shirts are the proud parents of The Quintessential Slightly Creepy Seventies Tool.   Oh, and  you’ll notice they’re also  hiding their hands.  Apparently they have an electric dishwasher.

Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to close the magazine now, Dear Readers, as there is only so much of the slightingly creepy seventies we can take in one sitting!

Until next time . . . I love you

Embarrassing Valentine Please Don’t! I Beg of You!

Bobby

Having missed the last train to Dorkville, Bobby decided to hang out with me at the coffee shop where I worked — until the next train arrived.

Well not really hang out officially.  More like send me imagined hugs and kisses and god only knows what else from upon the stool he spent a lot of time occupying at the lunch counter.

Bobby was 35, and I was 19.  He was married to a 15-year-old (which was apparently legal in some states back then) but worst of all, Bobby had fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love with me after having misinterpreted my statement, may I take your order?  to mean  I love you Bobby!

From that point forward Bobby was in dorky-stalker Love with a capital L.

Bobby’s personality consisted entirely of him saying no way shape or form after everything.

He’d say:  Do you know what time it is?

I’d say:  2:30

He’d say:  No way shape or form! (only he’d draw out the word form like this:  fo-ho-ho-horm!)

Or he’d say,  “Can I get a cup of coffee?”

I’d say:  “Do you take cream?”

He’d say:  “No way shape or fo-ho-ho-horm.”

“I want to get you something for Valentines Day.” Bobby said to me one day.

“No please!  BOBBY!! Listen to me!” I pleaded,  “You’re married!  It’s completely inappropriate! Please I beg of you.  DO NOT GET ME ANYTHING FOR VALENTINES DAY!”

“No way shape or fo-ho-ho-horm.” Bobby sing-songed.  “I’m getting you something anywho!”

Well sure enough, on Valentines day, during the busiest part of the lunch hour when the coffee shop was full,  here comes Bobby waltzing through the restaurant making a beeline straight for me, his eyes shining brightly with dorky-stalker love, his thick coke-bottle glasses slightly askew in his excitement, carrying a two-and-a-half pound box of chocolates that had a huge story-book doll glued to the top of it.

Bobby’s secret Valentines Day heart-winning weapon!

All eyes and ears were ratcheted our way listening to the conversation that ensued:

Bobby:  I brought you something, Sweetie!  Happy Valentines day!

I said, “No I can’t take this Bobby!  No!   You need to give it to your wife.”

Bobby: “No way shape or fo-ho-ho-horm.”  I already gave her one just like it!”

Embarrassed and defeated,  I took the world’s largest box of chocolates from Bobby’s grubby little hands — but only because I was starting to hear some  “oh how sweet ooh-ing and ahh-ing” coming from  the lunch crowd.   And I stuck it out of sight as quickly as I could before dissolving into a perfect puddle of Valentines Day humiliation.

I don’t remember what finally happened to Bobby.  Maybe somebody shot him.

If so,  we all know what his last words were.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Dear Readers, and may today and all your Valentines Days be Bobby-free!

Until next time  . . . I love you (No . . no!  Not you Bobby!)

A Letter to Father Time From His Boss

Dear Father Time: 

Permit me to say, my dear Father Time

In this letter I write you (that I’m going to rhyme)

It looks like the future’s a big disappointment

Take pimples, for instance, there’s still not an ointment . . .

 

And no flying cars, now what’s up with that?

And where is that pill that you promised for fat?

 

No robots to wait on us twenty-four seven?

No ray guns to use to send someone to heaven?

 

Oh sure, we’ve got lasers, but that point is moot

When you up and forgot: anti-gravity boot

 

And where, may I ask, are time travel machines?

On the junk heap, no doubt (with the synthetic spleens)

 

My dear Father Time, I’m  perplexed and chagrined

That you’ve fallen behind on the future therein

 

After talking it over with Jack Frost and Cupid

I regret to inform you (I really feel stupid)

It’s time to let someone else give it a whirl

You’ve just been replaced by the Calendar Girl

Seven Signs You’re Addicted to Christmas Treats

That bad elbow has been officially diagnosed as Sugar Cookie tendonitis but you don’t care, you’re never giving up your sport.

“Yeah but, Doc, I can’t stop eating Christmas cookies now, the Olympics are coming up!”

If your house caught on fire you would be torn between either rescuing your spouse or his fudge rum balls.

“Sorry Ma’am. The only thing we were able to save of your husband was his fudge rum balls.”
“Yahoooo!  No wait . . . I mean darn the luck.”

While you love the puppy you got for Christmas you’re convinced you’d love him even better if he was covered in chocolate and had a chewy nugget center.

“Oh! Him so potentially dewishious!”

You’re faking a limp just so you can justify carrying around that humongous  candy cane.

“No! I’ll be okay! Just get me my humongous candy cane!”

You’ve started referring to your troubles as your truffles.

“Nobody knows the truffles I’ve seen . . .”

You lied and told your children all their gingerbread men had been abducted by aliens so that they could conduct eating experiments even though it was really you conducting the eating experiments.

“You mean to tell me, Earth Lady, you actually ate all your children’s gingerbread men?”
” Please!  Stop! Can’t you see I hate myself enough already?”

And the final way to tell if you’ve become addicted to Christmas treats?

You resorted to eating some old-fashioned Christmas Candy that you found painted to the  bathroom shelf of your grandmother’s house and were so ashamed you checked yourself into Christmas Treat rehab.

Question: Does Christmas Treat Addiction get any uglier than this?
Answer: No.

And there you have it, Dear Readers, how to tell if you’ve become addicted to Christmas Treats.

Until next time . . . I love you

Let’s Crochet!

Welcome Dear Readers.  I’ve recently taken up crocheting.  I don’t know what I’m making as yet — so far it’s just a big strip of crocheted yarn that’s getting fatter and fatter.  And I’m really enjoying it —but what is one to do with a big, oversized chunk of crocheted yarn?

Well, maybe this 1984 edition of Annie’s Pattern Club Magazine that I found at the thrift store can give us some crocheting ideas:

Don’t you just love it already? Let’s open it up and see what great crocheting and knitting projects Annie has for us, shall we?

Just when you thought your toilet couldn’t get any more beautiful!

What better way to crochet away the blues!

Leave it to Annie to flush out this fabulous crocheting project through the process of elimination!  After crocheting a cozy for every single thing in her bathroom, nothing was left cozy-less but the toilet and a bottle of Pepto Bismal (instructions for a Pepto Bismal bottle cozy  were probably in the next edition).

I think you’ll have to agree there’s nothing quite as uplifting as lifting up the lid of your toilet and finding a fresh-as-daisy Daisy that you lovingly crafted all by yourself!

Hey!  Here’s a little crocheting project sure to get any little boy singing your praises:

Oh yeah?  Who says crocheting isn’t cool?

Of course, we all know there’s nothing little boys of a certain age love to do more than flip up their collars, pick up a crocheted microphone and crone crone crone to their heart’s content — providing they didn’t leave said heart in San Francisco, that is!

Let’s face it, there isn’t a little boy on earth who, upon receiving a crocheted microphone for his birthday wouldn’t tear up!  Just before kicking you in the shins and running away from home, but still!

Crochet your way to total enlightenment!

“Come on! You know you’ve always wanted a crocheted lamp, admit it!

It’s a crying shame that it took someone until the year 1984 to come up with the idea of crocheting a lamp when Thomas Edison invented the electrical light way back in 1879!  And you have to ask yourself why?  Why were the crocheters of the past so out of sync with the creation and evolution of electricity?

Was it because crocheters didn’t have electric lamps or was it be because Thomas Edison didn’t know how to crochet?  Chances are, unless the science channel really gets hard up for programming, we’ll never know the answer to these questions and a lot of other stupid questions.  Either way, please try not to let it ruin your weekend!

And there you have it Dear Readers!  It seems the possibilities are endless when it comes to crocheting. Who knew?  If you need me I’ll be on the couch, crocheting and crocheting and crocheting.  I’m thinking of turning my project into a cozy for the moon.  Too ambitious?  Let me know in the comments.

Until next time . . . I love you

My Brain, Peanuts, Has Four Eyes

I broke my glasses because my brain, Peanuts, placed them directly underneath where my foot was supposed to go.

My Brain, Peanuts

Peanuts and I have been wearing glasses now for 20 years due to adult onset blurriness, and you’d think my brain, Peanuts, would have figured out a way to not step on them.

But no, every once in a while Peanuts has to test me to see if I’m still paying attention (and I never am).

I don’t get it because there’s nothing Peanuts and I hate doing more than having to get new glasses.  What was Peanuts thinking?

So I got my husband, 37, to tape them back together for me, because he’s an engineer so he knows about things like that.

Except that I didn’t trust his taping judgment once he was done and added more tape myself.

So now I’m officially a nerd.

I’d take a picture to show you but I think it might be too early in the morning for that. Oh what the heck, let’s live dangerously shall we?

Me in my new nerdy glasses:

Well, wait a minute . . . let me see if I can take the picture from a better angle:

Oh that’s better.  I like this of me in my nerdy glasses a little better because you can’t really see the tape all that much.

Anyway, what were we talking about?  Oh yeah, the careless behavior of my brain, Peanuts.

So now Peanuts and I will have to stumble down to the glasses store and get those nasty drops put in.  Then once we are legally blind, we will be guided out front to pick out frames from the two or three thousand styles displayed right in front of our eyes somewhere.

The conversation with the professional four-eyes care specialist will go something like this:

Me:  How do these look on me?

Her:  Oh those look good on you.

Me:  Really?  Well how about these?

Her:  Oh!!! Those look good on you!

Me.  Really?  What about these?

Her:  Oh those!!! Look good on you.

Me:  How about these?

Her:  Oh those, look!!!  Good on you!!

Me:  And these?

Her:  Oh those look good!!! On you!!

Me:   Oh but what about these?

Her:  Oh those look good on!!!  You!!!!!

Me:  Oh, yeah, what about these?

Her:  Oh those look good on you.

Of course, we all know how this story ends.  Peanuts and I will finally decide on frames, then go back to pick them up three weeks later because their motto is ready in about an hour give or take three weeks.

Me Picking Up My Glasses:  Are you sure these are my glasses because they look horrible and I can’t see a thing.

Her:  OH!!! THOSE!!! LOOK!!! GOOD!!! ON!!! YOU!!!

Then Peanuts and I will go home and while I’m crying my eyes out, Peanuts will be eating a 1000 grams of sugar.

Until next time . . . I love you

Flipping Through The Slightly-Creepy Seventies

Welcome Dear Readers!  Today, if you’re not feeling a little nauseous already, I thought it might be fun to flip through this House Beautiful Magazine from everyone’s favorite icky decade:  The Slightly Creepy Seventies!

Isn’t this bedroom eye-crossingly wonderful? But it needs something more, don’t you think?  To really give it that Slightly Creepy Seventies flair? Like a focal point of some kind . . . 

But what kind of a focal point?  Hm. . . .

Okay! That’s what the Slightly Creepy Seventies is talking about! Because there’s nothing like the addition of a weird, eerie male bedspread model to give any 70’s decor that much needed splash of slightly creepy!

Now let’s turn to the next page shall we?  Ready?  (I’ll wait if you want to pop a Pepto Bismal.)

Whoa! Obviously, the Slightly Creepy Seventies had the highest tolerance for decorative cheerfulness than all the other decades put together.

Now, this room is a good example of what happened back in the 70’s when your Slightly-Creepy Seventies Interior Decorator scarfed down a big bowl of yellow chrysanthemums and washed it down with a great big pitcher of ice-cold LSD for breakfast and then rushed over and redecorated your family room while in the throws of a cheerfulness overdose.

Actually, Cheerfulness Overdose was a common problem in the Slightly Creepy Seventies.  In fact, more interior decorators were buried with huge grins on their faces in the Slightly Creepy Seventies than any other decade in history!

So I guess you could say there’s an upside to everything.

Hey!  Look what awaits us on the next page . . . 

  Yes, you’re seeing that correctly.  It’s a rocking chair on the beach. And why not?  After all, life in the Slightly Creepy Seventies was stranger than it’s ever been before or since.

And speaking of rocking chairs on the beach, I think I vaguely remember a Brady Bunch Episode involving a rocking chair/beach incident: I’ll try to retell it as best I can from memory:

Mike Brady: MarshaMarshaMarsha!  Peter! Greg! Cindy! and Whatever the rest of your names are!  We’ve driven 87 hours and we are finally at the beach!

MarshaMarshMarsha:  But Dad, we live somewhere in LA.  Why did it take us 87 hours to get here?  The Pacific Ocean is just down the street.

Mike Brady:  What? 

Carol Brady:  Oh Mike, you did it again. Hahahahahaha!  You turned left when you should have turned right!  Hahahahaha! We’re not at the Pacific Ocean, children, we’re at the Atlantic Ocean! Hahahahahaha!

Mike Brady:  Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Alice:  Hahahahahaha!  I’ll lug the rocking chair down to the beach while you Bradys wait in the car and laugh.

Carol Brady:  Hahahhahaha—

Alice:  Wait a minute!  Hold the landphone! The rocking chair’s not here!  Somebody forgot it!  I’m not one to point fingers but I think it was MarshaMarshaMarsha.

Mike Brady:  Well, kids, it looks like we’re turning around and driving 87 hours home to get it.  Hahahhahaha.

Carol Brady:  But wait Mike, you left MarshaMarshaMarsha at the Atlantic Ocean.

Mike Brady:  Hahahahhahahaha!

Carol Brady:  Hahahahahahaha!

Say now, this next item looks interesting. 

Her name was Betty Knowles and she lost 4 pounds and 6 inches off her waist in only eight days back in the Slightly Creepy Seventies using this lever and pulley exercise contraption. Unfortunately, once  Betty got it all set up and herself situated inside of it, she could never figure out how to get out.   Eight days later Betty was not only  much, much slimmer, but also, she wasn’t wasting valuable time breathing or having a pulse anymore. Unfortunately she wasn’t found until last week about a quarter to five.

Sure, it was a sad Slightly Creepy Seventies demise for poor Betty Knowles, but the good news is she has been chosen as the main attraction at the Smithsonian Institute’s much anticipated upcoming exhibit:  Mummified Peoples of the Slightly Creepy Seventies.

Proving once again there’s an upside to everything!

Well, Dear Readers, that’s it for today.  If you need me I’ll be down at the Pacific Ocean.  I’ll be the one sitting in the rocking chair eating a big bowl of yellow chrysanthemums.

Until next time . . . I love you

British Empire Atrocities or Happy Fourth of July!

Hello Dear Readers.  It seems the cold, cruel calendar will be ushering in the  Fourth of July tomorrow and before I’ll even have time to get out of bed!  The calendar is such a tyrant.

Which  brings us to another kind of tyranny. One that we Americans had foisted upon us on the Fourth of July  200- odd years ago by the British Empire — resulting in the Declaration of Independence!

I’d look up exactly how many years ago it was,  but I think google’s closed today. . . okay, okay I’ll try . . .

Hmm. . . As it turns out google is open but judging from the answers it’s given me, everybody went home early to light firecrackers.  They must have the temps working because I asked google the following question:

Hi Google, Happy 4th! Which reminds me, what were the atrocities the British Empire inflicted on the American Colonists that resulted in the Declaration of Independence?

And here’s the answers it gave me (as far as you know anyway).

1.  The British Empire kept messing with the price of crumpets causing the colonists all kinds of unpleasant menu-planning issues.

“You no likee potatoes?”
“No we likee them, they’re a wonderful tuber. It’s just that we are going to have to hold off on the potato trading until we can ascertain what the crumpet situation going to be. Sorry.”

2.  The Colonists did not want to be bullied into memorizing a list of all of England’s past kings and queens in American public schools.

3.  If the Colonists hadn’t declared their independence, they would have had to wake up from their siestas early (see Spanish-American War) for tea time (see Atrocities of the British Empire)

4.  The Colonists had a premonition they weren’t going to appreciate the humor of Monty Python.

5.  The Colonists picked up on the fact that the British Empire thought they wore lame clothes and were borderline dirty.

6.  The British Empire imposed a tax on Nursery Rhymes which infuriated the colonists due to the fact that none of them even rhymed very well.

7.  American Colonists were vehemently opposed to using the word “row” instead of the word “fight” like the British Empire kept nagging them to do.

“Who never did him any harm but killed the mice in father’s barn?  I hate to break it to you, Redcoat, but harm and barn do not rhyme!”
“Oh yeah, you want to row about it?”
“You mean do I want to fight about it.”
“Uh . . it’s called row, not fight.”
“Oh yeah? Well I hate you.”
“Well I hate you too.”
‘Let’s row about it.”
“You mean fight about it?”
“Shut up!”
“You shut up!”

 

Well, Dear Readers, that about does it for the Fourth of July post.  I don’t know about you, but I’m already 4th-ed out!

Until next time . . . I love you

Things That Got Flushed That Hadn’t Oughta

I don’t mean to brag, but I have been using “the facilities” on my own now for over fifty years, and I know, firsthand, some crazy things that got flushed that hadn’t oughta.

Once, when I was four, my mother bought a batch of the most beautiful red apples you ever saw and displayed them on the table.  I asked for one, and my mother gave it to me.

I was an apple lover from the get go!

I took one bite and spit it out.

That’s because this apple was a deceitful type of apple, the kind that looks like it’s going to be delicious but, instead, tastes like dry, sandy-mush.

A couple of days later, I must have forgotten how horrible the apple tasted because I asked my mother for another one.  And she agreed, but only if I promised I wouldn’t take just one bite and spit it out. Who me?  Heavens no! Mother! Please! Don’t be ridiculous! She handed me an apple.

I took one bite and spit it out.

Even Eve didn’t have so much trouble with an apple.

Later in the week, I happened to walk by the beautiful red apples that were still sitting on the table (now we know why) and asked for another one. My mother wisely said no because there wasn’t any questions in her mind, by now, what I was going to do.

Well for some reason, I was set on it.  I began begging dramatically.  “Please Mother! Please!  I won’t spit it out! For the love of God,  I beg of you! I must have an apple if I am ever going to thrive!”

My mother acquiesced, handed me yet another apple along with a stern warning that she better not find this one in the garbage with one bite out of it.

I took one bite and spit it out.

Ok, now I had a big problem on my hands.  Where to dispose of a big, beautiful red, sandy-mushy apple with one bite out of it.  I had to think, think! And quickly before my mother discovered the truth!

I made an emergency executive decision to flush it. So I went into the bathroom, looked both ways, threw the apple with one bite out of it into the toilet and pushed down the handle.

I was amazed when it actually went down!  Fabulous!  I dusted off my four-year-old hands and resumed playing.

Later that day I happened to walk by the bathroom just as my father was lifting the entire toilet off the floor.  I was flabbergasted!  I had no idea it would “do that!”

I still hadn’t put two and two together until I saw him reach his hand down the pipe and pull out a big beautiful red apple with one bite out of it.

Uh oh . . .

Shame quickly set it.  I couldn’t have felt worse if I would have gunned down Santa. But that’s another story for another day.

Suffice it to say, I’ve been privy to lots of things that got flushed that hadn’t outta — but it all started with that beautiful red apple with one bit out of it.

Until next time . . . I love you

The Drawing Lady Teaches Us How to Draw Like Degas

Dear Readers!  Good news.  I have finally managed to talk the Drawing Lady into coming by the blog again to give us another drawing lesson!    Now please remember, Dear Readers, that The Drawing Lady is a tortured artist and, as such, is as explosive as a Nitroglycerin Shirley Temple with a dynamite swizzle stick.  

Oh shh . . . here she comes, now remember what I said.

Dear Readers, today  the Drawing Lady will be teaching us how to draw just like the master artist, Edgar Degas!

Perhaps you are asking why Edgar Degas, Drawing Lady?  What not Vincent Van Gogh, Michael Angelo or Leonardo da Vinci?

Dear Readers.  Please do not pepper The Drawing Lady with questions.  The Drawing Lady has only recently recovered from her jump out the sixth story window of her art school.  The Drawing Lady would simply like you to draw the Edgar Degas’s Masterpiece, Two Sisters, below:

The Drawing Lady says now you try:

Is this right Drawing Lady?  Is this the way you want us to draw the Two Sisters, Drawing Lady? Does this look okay, Drawing Lady?

Dear Readers, The Drawing Lady cannot answer your questions right now because she is busy pulling out her hair.  In the meantime, The Drawing Lady would like you to draw Portrait of Degas and His Friend Valerne.

The Drawing Lady says now you try.

You mean like this, Drawing Lady?  Does this look like Degas painted it, Do you think we got the expression right on Valerne, Drawing Lady?

Dear Readers, The Drawing Lady cannot hear your questions right now because she is too busy screaming noooooo!  In the meantime The Drawing Lady is hoping against hope that you can do better drawing the Degas masterpiece, Uncle and Niece.

The Drawing Lady says now you try.

How’s this look Drawing Lady?  Do the fingers look right, Drawing Lady?  Do you think we captured Uncle’s expressive face, Drawing Lady?  Drawing Lady? . . . Drawing Lady? . . .   Drawing Lady?

Dear Readers I regret to inform you that the Drawing Lady has gone stalk-raving mad and jumped out the window concluding our drawing lesson for today.

Until next time . . . I love you, however, The Drawing Lady doesn’t love you as much as she did at the beginning of this post.

 

Ezekiel’s Weight Problem

Welcome Dear Readers to this Sunday’s edition of Gregory’s Bible Stories. Today in Sunday School, Gregory learned about the day Ezekiel had an unusual experience.  Let’s listen in as he recounts the story for us.

One day the prophet Ezekiel was relaxing down by the Chebar river in Babylonia where he was hanging out with some of his exiled Jewish  buddies enjoying some Chebar cheese when, suddenly, there was a tremendous rumble.

At first he thought it was just his stomach rumbling from eating too much Chebar cheese, but he soon realized the noise was coming from the sky.

He looked up and was amazed to see a UFBO (unidentified flying biblical object).

He fell face down and heard a voice calling him.

God:  Mortal Man stand up I want to talk to you.

Ezekiel:  Do I have to get up?  I’m really comfortable right now.

God:  I am sending you to the people of Israel.

Ezekiel:  May I ask why?

God:  They have rebelled against me and turned against me and are still rebels just as their ancestors were. So I am sending you to tell them what I, the sovereign lord, am saying to them.

Ezekiel:  Wouldn’t it be easier to just fly over there in your UFBO and tell them Yourself?

God: They are stubborn and do not respect me so I am sending you instead.

Ezekiel:  Okay let me get this straight. You, the sovereign lord, who is flying around the holy land in Your UFBO can’t get the Israelites to listen to you or respect you so you’re sending me instead, a guy who is currently unemployed, slightly overweight and living down by the river?  Do you really think I’m up to the job?

God: Just tell the people of Israel whatever I tell you to tell them. But don’t be afraid of them even though they will despise you and even though it will feel like you are living among scorpions.

Ezekiel:  Well okay,  but scorpions are my least favorite insect.

God:  Scorpions really?  That’s refreshing. Most people say spiders.  Anyway, open your mouth and eat this.

Ezekiel:  What is it?

God:    A scroll upon which cries of grief, wails and moans are written on both sides.

Ezekiel:  No thanks I’m allergic to papyrus.

God:   It’s chocolate covered . . . .

Ezekiel:  Oh in that case, don’t mind if I do!

Ezekiel ate the scroll. (It gave him hives but God pretended not to notice.) Then God’s spirit lifted Ezekiel and carried him to another spot by the Chebar River where Ezekiel resumed eating Chebar cheese and hanging out with different group of his exiled Jewish buddies.

Seven days later God showed up again

God: Okay, here’s the deal.  If I announce that an evil man is going to die, it’s going to be your job to warn him.  If you don’t warn him to change his ways and he dies a sinner, I will hold you responsible for his death but if you do warn him and he doesn’t stop sinning he’ll die a sinner but your life will be spared. Got that?

Ezekiel:  Uh . . .well . . .  uh . . .

God:  Now get up and go into the valley and I will talk to you there.

Ezekiel:  But I just got comfortable.

God:   . . . ahem . . .

Ezekiel :  Okay okay but can I at least bring my Chebar cheese with?

God:  If you must.

Ezekiel:  Say you wouldn’t happen to have anymore of those delicious chocolate-covered scrolls  would you?

God: Yes but you can’t have any.

Ezekiel:  Why?

God:  They’re too fattening.

Ezekiel:  What are you implying?  I’ve been eating too much Chebar Cheese?

God: All I can say is that last statement of yours needs no question mark.

Eziekiel:  Well!  I’ve never been so insulted in my whole life!

God:  That robe of yours is getting awfully tight . . . just sayin’.  So anyway, next I’m going to want you to  go home and shut yourself up in the house and I’ll tie you up with ropes so you won’t be able to go out in public then I’m going to paralyze your tongue.

Eziekiel:   Wait . . . is this some sort of new-fangled diet?

God:  I’ll tell you next week in Part II.

And there you have it, Dear Readers, what Gregory learned in Sunday School.  Please check back next week to find out  what God asks of Ezekiel next and whether or not Ezekiel will lose weight and overcome his papyrus allergy.

Until next time . . . I love you

 

What? You want me to eat that? Well, I’d much prefer some Chebar cheese.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uh. . . no offense, but that chocolate kinda looks like water stains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How to be a Professional Gluey Paste Salesman in Ten (or maybe eleven) Easy Steps!

Hello Dear Readers.  As you may remember earlier this week, we were discussing some ads that appeared in an 81-year-old Saturday Evening Post such as this one for Gluey Paste:

I am happy to report, that I have done some extensive research this week into the exciting, fast-paced Gluey Paste industry and needless to say did not come up empty handed.

Have you often dreamed of living the glamorous life of a Gluey Paste Professional Salesman or woman but cried yourself to sleep each night thinking it would be impossible?

Well, Dear Reader, you can now turn those tears of sorrow into tears of joy in ten (or maybe eleven) easy steps!

How to Be A Successful Gluey Paste Salesman in Ten (or maybe eleven) Easy Steps!

Step One:

As a  Gluey Paste Professional Salesman, you will begin any successful sales call by shaking the hand of the potential Gluey Paste customer and greet him by saying, “How do you do, Mr. Smith.”

Step Two

The salutation should be immediately followed by noticing a smudge on Mr. Smith’s elbow and offering to wipe it off — the act of which will quickly bond Mr. Smith to you, the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman.

Step Three:

Uh oh.  It looks like you, as the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman, might have inadvertently bonded yourself to Mr. Smith literally.

Do not be alarmed as this happens more often than not. However, it is of the utmost importance that you, as the Professional Gluey Paste Salesmen, remain calm and under no circumstances let Mr. Smith know what has just transpired.

Step Four

Assuming a nonchalant air, casually turn around so that you and potential customer, Mr. Smith, are facing in the same direction.

This might be a good time to introduce an interesting topic of conversation, such as: “How ’bout them Yankees?”  A question that will keep Mr. Smith so busy thinking, he’ll undoubtedly fail to notice that he  is glued to you, the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman.

Step Five

Next, you must inch Mr. Smith in the direction of the washroom with the eventual outcome of washing the glue off each of you.

However, in order to get Mr. Smith to cooperate fully without being the wiser,  you simply explain that as the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman, you are very interested in the equipment in the washroom to see if it correlates with the amount of glue a potential customer such as Mr. Smith is likely to purchase.

Step Six

Should you, as the Gluey Paste Professional Salesman, suddenly trip and land in the manner pictured above, calmly explain to Mr. Smith that you are practicing your moves for an audition later in the afternoon with the Flying Wallenda’s.

Mr. Smith will not only understand-; he’s very likely to be impressed with your well-rounded personality.

Step Seven

This is the most precarious time in any successful sales call for both you, the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman, and your potential customer, Mr. Smith.

While you are struggling to get things “back on track”, it is recommended that you  belt out a rousing rendition of Camp Town Racers since it has been scientifically proven that the singing of Camp Town Racer’s puts people in the mood to buy glue.

Step Eight

Once you have managed to unstick your hand from Mr. Smith’s elbow, next stick your hand onto Mr. Smith’s knee.

Step Nine

Now, of course, it is just a matter of “walking” Mr. Smith over to a chair so that he can sit down and sign the purchase agreement for upwards of 14 cases of Gluey Paste!

Step Ten

Be careful here because this is often the critical moment in which Mr. Smith is likely to get cold feet causing you to have wasted the entire morning without getting any sales commission.  Therefore you must be prepared to put some serious sales pressure on Mr. Smith.

Step Eleven: 

( Please note this step is only to be used should steps one through ten fail to produce a sale.)

If Mr. Smith still refuses to “come around” after utilizing steps one through ten, pull out the stops by pulling out your Gluey Paste Company issued Smith and Wesson revovlver.

Not only will Mr. Smith’s status be instantly upgraded from potential customer to loyal customer, you’ll be well on your way to experiencing the exciting lifestyle of a world-class Gluey Paste Professional Salesman!

Until next time . . . I love you

Holy Rollers! Sarah’s Bad Hair Day!

Welcome Dear Readers to this week’s edition of the Gregory’s Bible Stories.

Today in Sunday School, Gregory learned about how Abraham got a surprise visit from three men with some unbelievable news concerning his wife, Sarah. This week’s story is loosely based on Genesis 18: 1-15 if you would like to loosely follow along.

One hot biblical afternoon in the Sacred Trees of Mamre, Abraham was sitting in the entrance of his tent trying to get cool. The air-conditioning (hand-cranked) was on the blitz due to the fact that all his hand-cranking slaves were out sick with carpal tunnel syndrome.

Abraham was just sitting there relaxing, unraveling some stray threads on his robe when he looked up and saw three men standing nearby.  When Abraham saw them. he ran out to greet them and bowed to the ground.

Abraham could tell just by looking at them that they were pretty special.  (Some biblical scholars believe Abraham could tell the three men were special because they were all wearing robes that had God Squad printed in big Hebrew letters on the backs while other biblical scholars believe some biblical scholars are full of it.)

The conversation that followed might have gone something like this:

Abraham:  Well hello there fellows!  It is me, Abraham, you’re humble servant.  Take a load off under that tree over there, while  I’ll run to fetch some water to wash your feet.  Not that they need it, or anything.

Three men:  Sounds good.

Abraham:  Oh and I’ll also bring you some food so that you may refresh yourselves.

Three men:  We sure could use some lawn chairs while you’re at it.

Abraham: Tell me about it!  Unfortunately my lawn-chair-weaver slaves are out sick with osteoarthritis.

Three men:  Very well,  just get us some food and wash our feet then.

Abraham:  I’m on it!

Abraham ran back to the tent to tell his wife, Sarah, about the three visitors.  The conversation might have gone something like this:

Abraham:  Sarah, quick!  Get out the best flour and bake some bread, get all these tent pillows picked up, this place is a sty! And, you, slaves with the carpal tunnel syndrome! Look alive!

Sarah:  What’s going on?

Abraham: We’ve got important visitors.  Oh, for heavens sakes, Sarah, why are you still wearing  curlers in your hair when it’s eleven o’clock in the morning?

Sarah:  Can I help it if my curler-unfurling-slaves are all out sick with–

Abraham:  Don’t tell me.  Carpal tunnel syndrome?

Sarah:  No I think it’s tendonitis.

Abraham hurried out into his herd of cattle and picked out a calf that was tender and fat and handed it over to his barbecuing slave.

Abraham:  Here you go barbecuing slave.  Take this calf and cook it for the visitors. Make it medium rare and don’t forget to baste it.

Cooking Slave:  I can make it medium rare, but I won’t be able to baste it as I’m having a little trouble with my–

Abraham:  Don’t tell me. Tendonitis?

Cooking Slave:  No I think it’s Repetitive Strain Injury.

When everything was ready Abraham scurried out to the visitors.  He took them some meat, some cream and some milk and set the food before the men. He served them himself and they ate, and then they asked Abraham:

Three men:  Where’s your wife, Sarah?

Abraham:  She’s in the tent, she’s having a having a bad hair day.

One man who later turned out to be the Lord said:   Nine months from now I will come back and your wife Sarah will have a son.

When Sarah overheard this revelation from inside the tent, she laughed to herself because not only  was she too old to have a baby,  Abraham was 99, and Viagra hadn’t even been invented yet.  

The Lord:   Why does Sarah think she can’t have a baby?  I just heard her laughing to herself inside the tent. Is there anything too hard for the Lord?  As I said, nine months from now I will return  and Sarah will have a son.

Sarah:  I didn’t laugh, Lord.

The Lord:  Oh yes you did, Sarah!  I heard you!

Sarah:  What?  No, that’s the sound I always make when I have to yank out my own curlers.  It’s more of yelp than a laugh.

The Lord:  I know laughing when I hear it, and you were laughing.

Sarah:  No I wasn’t!

The Lord:  Yes you were!

Abraham:  Hey you two! What difference does it make?  It’s not like thousands of years from now people will be reading in the bible about whether or not the Lord overheard Sarah laughing . . . .

The Lord:  Well I suppose you’re right.

Abraham:  That’s the spirit! Now, who wants another foot washing — raise your hand!

The Lord:  I’ll take another one.

Abraham:  Great!  Listen would you mind if Sarah washed your feet instead of me.  All this foot washing is giving me–

The Lord:  Repetitive Strain Injury?.

Abraham:  No I think it’s Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

And there you have it, Dear Readers, what Gregory learned in Sunday School today.  Please check back next week when Abraham tries to think of something positive to say to say to the Lord about Sodom.

Until next time  . . . I love you

The Lord, Sarah and Abraham

 

 

Vintage Ads from the Great Depression or “Are You Gonna Eat the Rest of Your Paste?”

Last night, I was browsing through this 81 year-old Saturday Evening Post (I’m trying to catch up on my reading), when I came across this ad:

This ad states that in 1931,  Gluey Paste was used in over half of schools in the United States.  It doesn’t say what the other half used,  I’m guessing Pastey Glue.

And since it was the Great Depression,  it’s also probably safe to assume  that whether it was Gluey Paste or Pastey Glue — it was certainly the favorite breakfast choice for United States school children everywhere.

Underneath that ad was this happy thought:

As the ad so carefully blurts out, if your feet (and toes) are itchy you, could have anything from Athlete’s Foot to Gym Foot — maybe even going so far as to have contracted a case of Golfer’s Itch which is apparently a subsidiary itch of the athlete or the person who frequents a gym.

The ad also mentions ringworm right after mentioning
Golfer’s Itch.  So apparently back in 1931, it was common place to contract ringworm while golfing.

Of course, it was nothing to worry about since Dr. Scholl’s Solvex could be used as a remedy and purchased for a buck.  And if that didn’t work, you could always steal some Gluey Paste or Pastey Glue off some United States School children and give that a go.

And of course, what man could hold his head up in public without:

Apparently in 1931, there were two ways to wear one’s hair.  Brushed or Well Brushed.  The pinnacle to which one could aspire hair-wise in 1931, was to have “well brushed hair all the time,” in addition to a “healthy scalp” (Apparently a healthy scalp wasn’t a given and there were a profusion of unhealthy scalps to be encountered at every turn that one must politely ignore.) 

The ad goes on to imply that in order to get both well brushed hair all the time AND a healthy scalp simultaneously, one must pour liquid hair dressing on one’s head taking great care to smell it first. 

If it was unscented it went on the head-; if  it was scented it went on the head of lettuce.

It goes without saying, of course, that said wearer should thoroughly saturate the hair and scalp in order to get that freshly applied “oily glow” hence the catchy name: Glo-co! 

So there you have it, Dear Reader!  And what did we learn today?  Let’s review in case you suddenly find yourself whisked away to the Great Depression:

1. We learned that in 1931, Pastey Glue and Gluey Paste were an important part of every child’s breakfast.
2. We learned that in 1931, if you didn’t have ringworm, you probably weren’t a very good golfer.
3. We learned that in 1931, men with oil dripping down the back of their necks had healthy scalps.

Until next time . . . I love you

Slightly Creepy Seventies Bad Poetry

Good news Dear Reaers!  I was milling around my favorite thrift store yesterday when I found this poetry book written by slighty-creepy-seventies poet extraordinaire, Rod McKuen — world renowned for his random-carriage-return, arbitrary-space-bar poetry!       

The Sound of Solitude by Rod McKuen. The inside jacket tells us it’s the most moving, private and essential collection he’s been willing to share  with his millions of readers (at only $9.95 per share)

I looked up the price of  The Sound of Solitude on Abe Books.  It’s worth a dollar.  And I got it for 50-cents! Ha ha!  Suckers! 

Okay, let’s get serious now and open to a poem at random from The Sound of Solitude by Rod McKuen: 

 After-Hours Acrobatics

I light one candle

With another’s flame

And getting up to leak

I look across at you

First of all, Rod, it is very dangerous to sleep with candles lit.  You really need to blow them out!  For heaven sakes, you’re going to burn the house down!  

Secondly, I’m a little concerned that you are leaking. I’m assuming you are referring to a shrapnel injury incurred while in the war, but at least you seem to be aware that leaking while lying down only makes things worse.  Okay, keep going Rod.

Still curled and sleeping

Coming back I start to pass

a mirror

I stop. Stand back and see me

naked in the candlelight

See? What did I tell you?  If you would have blown out those candles like you should have, you wouldn’t have that problem now would you?

Was I ever beautiful,

ever young or wise

deserving of your arms or other’s?

Tiny suggestion Rod,  Don’t you think saying: “deserving of your arms or, failing that, other’s“ would be kinder to whomever you are referring to? They might read this poem, you now.

Head-on is even harsh by candleglow

love handles bulge on either side.

 Just a thought . . . could it be that it’s your love handles that are leaking?  (I know a good Love-Handle specialist you might want to consult.)

Of what was once an unfilled frame that I hung hopes on,

never excess flesh

Oh I know what you mean! I always put excess flesh in dryer.

I look at you a second time

hoping I can dive beneath the covers

before you catch my silhouette

against the wall.

My pulse thumps loud enough

to blunt the metronome of cicada

calling to cicada,

OMG Rod!  How did you ever get yourself into such a poetic pickle?  See how complicated life gets when you don’t blow out the candles?

Now you’re going to have to call the exterminators to get rid of the cicada infestion.  I hope you’ve learned your lesson!  

(Oh and be sure to get that pulse thump checked out when you go see the Love-Handle specialist.)

Safe. I hit third base

and slide to home.

You only turn and grumble in your sleep

I do not go back to sleep

Well, maybe all you need is a few hours at the batting cages . . .

All life is spent erecting barricades

that none of us can get through

when love finally comes

And none of this would have even been an issue, Rod, if you would have just taken the time to blow out the candles.  I hate to say I told you so, but . . . well I wont’ say it, I wouldn’t want to upset you.  You might start leaking again.

Until next time . . . I love (handle specialist) you