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A Blooming Silly Post

This post is in the nature of a public service announcement or maybe self-help or some such.  How to have fun at work.

Most of us have to work and many of us have given up on that illusive dream of finding a fulfilling job we love.  There are not that many of those jobs out there and they are really hard to get.  Moreover, all the other jobs still have to be done.  I have always liked the expression, “Bloom where you are planted.”  I confess to spending a lot of my life actually trying to transplant myself, but we’re not talking about that right now.  We’re blooming.  So let’s get on with the blooming blog post (see what I did there?).

My best way to have fun at work is to be silly.  I always say, go with your strengths.  If a silly joke occurs to me, I share it.  Sometimes I sing a silly song, although then I run the risk of somebody telling me to don’t quit my day job, an overused joke which I have never found particularly amusing.  But anyone might think of telling jokes and singing songs.  What can I tell you that you may not have thought of?

One thing I do is think of reasons why somebody wore a the shirt they happen to be wearing.  For example, sometimes I wear Hump Day Hot Pink or Payday Purple.  If somebody wears a black shirt on payday, I say it is because after they are paid their finances will be in the black.  If they wear red, it is obviously because even after being paid, they will still be in debt.  A blue shirt indicates that person feels blue because of the size of said paycheck, while a green shirt merely denotes money.  One of my favorite shirt days is Where’s a Shirt Wednesday, followed by There’s a Shirt Thursday.

Alas, not everybody can play the shirt game.  Some places of employment require a uniform or at least a certain color shirt.  Those people must think of other work games to play.  Or they can stick with telling jokes and singing songs.  There are other work games we can play.  I will share others in future blog posts.  In the meantime, today is Lame Post Friday.  I have posted lame and now I am going to relax. Happy Friday, folks.

 

 

First You Take the Blog Post…

So there I was, pressed for time, short of brain, and I wanted to make a blog post.  Would I get it done in time?

First, I thought, I will make Steven’s sandwich.  You see, I must meet him at his work at six, to go to our pick-up rehearsal at 6:30 for Roxy, the play I will apparently never stop talking about.  Steven nicely left me a recipe for the sandwich.  I will share it, with explanation and memories, for today’s post.

I had asked Steven to leave me a note, reminding me to make the sandwich. Included in the note was the sentence:  “First you take the sandwich.  Then you make it.”  Now I will explain that.

Many years ago, when Steven and I had recently moved into our first apartment together, we were discussing things we could fix for dinner.  I suggested meatloaf.  Steven did not know how to make meatloaf.

“Oh, it’s easy, ” I said.  “First you take the meat.”  Then I realized I did not feel like going through the whole process, so I just said, “Then you loaf it.”

He was not gratified by the explanation.  However, some time later we had gotten some fish, which Steven also did not know how to cook.  He was to arrive home first that day, so I undertook to leave a note explaining what to do.  My note read:

“It is very easy.  First you take the fish, then you loaf… oh wait, wrong recipe!”

I went on to explain the intricacies of cooking fish (you put it in the oven with butter and garlic, if you want to know), and we both thought it was a very funny joke.

I believe this explains why we are still so happily married after almost 25 years. We laugh at each others’ silly jokes.  Perhaps nobody else will find our jokes so amusing, but I thought for a Wuss-out Wednesday, it would do.

 

Never Drink and Type Be Damned!

I am sitting on my deck with my husband Steven, sipping wine and swapping stories with our dear friends Phyllis and Jim.  We went to a wine tasting at a Valley Wine and Spirits in Herkimer and then dinner at Copper Moose Alehouse in Little Falls.  We had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner.

A blog post must be made.  I always make a blog post.  To be sure, I could have made a blog post earlier today.  I was home. I was even on the computer.  I did not feel like making a blog post.

Full disclosure:  I do not particularly feel like making a blog post now.  I feel like continuing to sit and sip. And listen to silly jokes from my friends.

Oh dear, now they are talking about political posts on Facebook.  I like to stay off politics.  Too much hate.  I don’t have a problem with people disagreeing with me or with each other.  I do have a problem with people making hurtful, hateful, nasty personal attacks on people who do not agree with them.  Do you suppose people will hate on me for expressing such an opinion?  Oh I hate for people to hate on me.

OK, this is what happens when I have the rule of posting every day and I do not make my post early on my day off.  Please be amused by me.  Please continue to read when I manage to post before I have had any wine.  Thank you.

 

Wise Cracks on the Race Track

I felt I had no reason to be nervous for the DARE 5K. It was a matter of some annoyance to me, therefore, when I woke up last Saturday (Aug. 16) with a fluttery feeling in my chest and stomach. No fair, I said. I felt I should be stern with myself: you are running this race because it is fun, I told me. Dammit, have fun!

I started to feel better about things shortly after seven when I put Tabby on the leash and walked down to pick up my number and goody bag. I chatted with the volunteers and checked out the map of the route. It was somewhat different from two years ago when I had last run it, due to flood damages in Brookfield Park.

I had a lot of fun during the Kids’ Fun run, cheering all the runners as they finished. “Finish strong!” I said, and “Good sprint!” The runners seemed to particularly like “Look at her (or him) go!”

The trouble was I wanted to begin running the 5K right away, and I had to wait. I found people to chat with while we waited. I stood towards the rear of the crowd of racers, so fewer people would have to pass me if I started slow, as I did two years ago (when a LOT of people passed me). It is disheartening when a whole bunch of runners breeze by you right away.

At last we began. And I was dead last. How embarrassing! Oh well, these things happen. I could still have fun.

“Somebody’s got to be last!” I called to spectators. They applauded and yelled encouragement. Soon I passed a gentleman and two young girls. I heard the man tell the girls they would walk to the next stop sign.

“I’ll see you when you pass me again,” I called.

One lady was setting a steady pace a little ways in front of me. As we approached the big hill up to Herkimer County Community College (HCCC), I said to her, “Our moment’s coming. We’ll pass all those people when they walk!”

I have been training for this. Regular readers will remember I ran up this very hill several times in recent memory. I felt extremely ill-used that I still found it so hard. I did not pass as many people as I had hoped, either. No matter, I made it to the top.

I approached a group of high school boys in this year’s blue DARE shirt. They were still walking.

“Pardon me, fellows, you’re blocking the road,” I said.

The really fast runners passed us going the other way on the opposite side of the median.

“You could cut through there,” I suggested to one of the guys. “And totally cheat.”

He did it. Teehee! I could hear his buddies behind me jeering at him. I turned around and yelled, “I told him to!”

I don’t think he really cheated that way, but I could see where it would be tempting. I was getting tired.

“Eating pasta the night before is a total myth,” I complained to some runners.

I was relieved that the turn around was not quite as far as I had pictured (I never could read a map properly). Finally I was on Reservoir Road headed downhill. I could still see the first runners I had passed, headed for the turn around.

“You guys still have to pass me,” I encouraged. I don’t know if they heard me. I passed a couple more runners.

As I came back around to the top of the hill I saw two young boys walking. They started to run again before I caught up with them.

“You go, boys!” I shouted. I don’t know if they heard me.

I was offered water at the top of the hill. This was the third or fourth water station, but I rarely take water during a 5K.

“Everything will be delightful,” I assured them. It is a favorite saying of mine.

“It’s all downhill from here,” a lady in a tie-dye shirt encouraged me.

“Just like my life,” I observed. I knew she was quite right, unlike on the Boilermaker when they keep telling you it’s all downhill when you know darn well there are several more uphill sections.

Normally I lean back and take it easy on a steep downhill slope, but this was a race. I let gravity help me speed up. Then I worried that I would start going too fast for my legs to keep up and I would land on my stupid face. When I got to the bottom of the steepest part, I yelled to some spectators, “It’s scary going downhill when you try to hurry!”

“Don’t try to hurry!” Good advice.

“But it’s a race!” I was gone before I could hear their reply, if any. Really, who did I think I was kidding with this hurrying business? In spite of passing some people, I was WAY back in the pack.

I soon caught up to one of the young boys, who was now walking again.

“Good job, you’re doing great,” I said. I only go all drill sergeant for high school age and up. As I was thinking about this one of the high school boys caught up with me. “See, if you never would have walked, you’d be all the way up there now,” I told him. He passed me, then walked, so I started to pass him again.

“Oh, don’t do the thing where I pass you three times,” I said.

I think he said something about having asthma but I didn’t quite catch it. In any case, he passed me and I never saw him again till after the finish line. The young boy started running again and passed me.

“That’s right, show me the way,” I said.

“Just go that way,” he said, taking me literally.

I felt I was on the home stretch when I got to German Street, but there was still further to go than my body felt like doing.

“I’m counting the streets,” I told a guy who looked about my age. “You know, my street’s coming up. I could just go home and say to hell with it.”

That did seem a little silly this close to the end.

When I passed a family group, I asked if I could borrow the kid’s bicycle and ride the rest of the way. Another spectator recognized the guy running near me and called a greeting.

“It’s the comic relief,” he said.

“I thought that was me,” I said, thinking he must have missed my bicycle line (oh, I know it wasn’t that funny. It amused me at the time).

The last joke I made was to two girls who looked to be in their 20s.

“I can taste that beer now! Oh, wait, that’s the Boilermaker.”

“It’s within reach!” one of them encouraged. She probably guessed that I have beer in my refrigerator at home.

I did not end up getting as good a time as I had gotten two years ago, but I had a lot of fun. One might argue that if I made fewer silly jokes I might have shaved a few seconds off my time. Maybe I could have finished 79th instead of 80th out of 121. It would have been a shorter blog post, too (I’m sure a selling point with some readers). But I think I like my way better.

Lame at the Laundromat

My real Mohawk Valley adventure on July 4 involved going to the Laundromat. I wrote the following while there, largely because I had neglected to bring a book to read. This being Lame Post Friday, I make bold to use it.

I have not been to the laundromat in years. Steven and I used to make quite an event out of it. We’d wait till we were wearing our bathing suits instead of underwear, load everything into the car (one more reason we drove a station wagon) and head out, usually on a weeknight. This was a good time to go in the North Country, where we used to live.

The most we ever filled was, I think, ten washers. It gives me a little giggle even now, thinking about it. Being me and Steve, we made silly jokes the whole time. I even started to write a song about it: The Dirty Clothes Blues.

With all this in mind, losing our washer and drier in the flood (um, they didn’t float away, they just got flooded) was the least of our worries.

“We’ll just go to the laundromat till we’re more beforehand with the world,” I declared.

“We used to have fun doing that,” Steven remembered.

So I had envisioned a fun if silly couple’s activity. However, what with mud and sweat, our clean clothes ran out faster than anticipated (and I don’t have a bathing suit any more). I put on my last pair of clean shorts and a sports bra and said, “I need to do laundry.”

Steven felt bad about not accompanying (he was working a double shift), but I made light of it.

“It’s the Fourth of July,” I said. “How many people are going to be doing laundry?”

Famous last words.

Steven helped me bring the baskets put to my vehicle. I had decided on a modest three loads. That is, all the dirty clothes that were NOT in the basement. Those are out on the back deck, awaiting a HOT washing or else a decent burial, as we will decide. The only sad thing was that our schnoodle, Tabby, saw us loading stuff into the car and immediately concluded that we were all going on a fun road trip. Imagine her disappointment. And mine.

A quick stop to pick up detergent (another casualty) and I was off to Ilion, NY, to the new laundromat there. At least, I can’t remember how new, but recent at least. I drive by it on my way to work and know it has a large number of machines.

The first thing I noticed was the number of cars in the parking lot. Well, that falls squarely under the heading Should Have Known. Weren’t basements flooded all over the Mohawk Valley? Didn’t many of those basements contain washers and driers? I found a parking space and hoped for the best.

And everything was fine. Like I said, large number of machines. I had a moment of sticker shock when I saw the washer said $5.50 as the price. I felt better when I realized that sucker could hold two of my baskets. Then I saw smaller washers that were only $2.50. Perfect for my small load of whites.

This was cool.

The truly lame moment happened after I was done writing and doing laundry. I got all the way home (a modest distance, but still) and realized I had forgotten my detergent at the laundromat. You know how people handle big problems with aplomb but fall apart at the dumbest things? All week people have been telling me I was reacting very well to this being flooded thing. I have tried to keep my spirits up and not lose my sense of humor.

Well, doing something as stupid as forgetting my brand new detergent at the laundromat made me dang near burst into tears. I made the drive back to Ilion, cursing my (lack of) brain and telling myself it was no big deal. Either the detergent would be there or somebody else would be happy to not have to buy some. Perhaps even another flood victim.

My not so random observation on this Lame Post Friday is that half-baked philosophy will only get you so far. I recovered my detergent. I still felt really, really dumb.