Category: Funny Business

If you’ve made as many trips around the sun as I have, your holiday gathering experiences have run the gamut from wonderful to unbearable.

There are times when getting together provides great comfort and joy – the chance to relive childhood memories, regain the closeness with your siblings that perhaps you’ve lost over the years, and reconnect in a Hallmark Channel kind of way.

Other times, however, you wish you had a chainsaw so that you could cut through the drywall, race to the nearest vehicle, hotwire it, and then head to parts unknown.

Once you’re several states away you start a new life, and ultimately join the federal witness protection program.

Thing is, you don’t know from one visit to the next whether you’ll remember it for all the right reasons or all the wrong ones.

It’s a crapshoot, depending largely on your mood, the mood of those around you, and how long the gathering lasts.

So with Thanksgiving over (mine was great, thanks) and Christmas coming soon, I’ve decided to put together a list of four “holiday life hacks” for your next meeting with kith and kin.

I’m not saying I’ve utilized all of them in the past, but I’m not saying I haven’t.

CHOOSE THE TOPIC OF CONVERSATION

You probably already know that it’s never, ever a good idea to discuss politics or religion at get-togethers, especially when you’re confident your feelings do not align with many others in attendance.

That being the case, it’s important to control the narrative. I’ve found that discussing the Paedophryne amanuensis is a good way to steer the conversation in a non-controversial direction.

For example:

“Hey, Scott,” screams Aunt Willadeene, who hasn’t seen me in 43 years. “Lord, I haven’t seen you in 43 years. You’ve grown!”

“Indeed I have, Aunt Willadeene,” I say. “But you know who hasn’t grown? The Paedophryne amanuensis.”

“The who?”

“The Paedophryne amanuensis.”

“Is that your wife?”

“Oh, no, my wife is Paedophryne Mary. Paedophryne amanuensis is a species of frog from Papua, New Guinea. It’s less than half an inch long and generally considered the world’s smallest known vertebrate.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. It was discovered in 2009 by a herpetologist and his assistant … the helpertologist.”

“Well, I’ll be. Changing the subject, but I just bought a 50-day survival food bucket from that TV evangelist, Jim Bakker.”

“You know what doesn’t need much food to survive? The Paedophryne amanuensis.”

At this point Aunt Willadeene will move on to the next relative, and you can be sure she won’t be sharing the story of Paedophryne amanuensis. Thus, you can tell it all over again when Uncle Leonard waddles your way.

PASSING THE TIME

At good family gatherings, you have so much fun you lose track of time.

At bad family gatherings, time stands still.

When you’ve run out of things to say and are bored to tears, you have to seek out other options.

Back in the old days I’d smuggle a book in, which serves a couple of purposes. One, you have something to read and two, if there are children around it gives you a chance to gather them in one spot and have story time.

I still remember the looks on the little ones’ faces a decade or so ago when I read them excerpts from Sylvia Path’s “The Bell Jar.”

Fortunately most of us now have smart phones, so if the evening gets too mind-numbing you can do everything from watch a ballgame on your sports app to argue on Twitter with someone you’ve never met and never will meet to buy a used couch on eBay.

But always make sure your phone is charged before you go to any party because if it runs out of juice, you’ll have to figure out something else to do until it’s time to go.

Once when my phone died, I stared at a painting of a duck for more than an hour.

KNOW WHEN TO GO

How long to stay? This has been cussed and discussed since the first Neanderthal family picnic 40,000 years ago when the Jones side of the clan cut out early because they promised to take the kids skull bowling. You don’t want to be rude and leave too quickly, but you certainly don’t want to hang around for hours and hours.

In some instances, I don’t see anything wrong with walking in with your own go box, making a plate, waving at everyone, and then leaving. Less is more, in my opinion.

For some reason I’ve had trouble convincing others to get on board with this, so I find myself staying much longer at any given party.

Two to three hours is the standard minimum I’m told, but in virtually all cases you’ll find couples who’ll “signal” each other when it’s time to go. Perhaps it’s a wink or a tug of the earlobe, or maybe you’ll just ease your way to the exit and then apologize for having to leave so soon.

My signal is to get in the car and drive away.

It’s abrupt, but efficient.

BRING YOUR OWN TRASH CAN

It’s unconventional, but it can be your best friend.

When you arrive at the gathering you might be bringing food, gifts or both, so sometimes if you’re seen with a small trash can people won’t even notice.

For those that do, all you have to say is, “Well, there’s gonna be wrapping paper everywhere and so many paper plates, I just figured we’d have another place to put the garbage.”

But that’s not what it’s for – not at all.

No, sometimes family functions are so full of dysfunction that nothing you can say or do will save the day.

So once Aunt Willadeene starts arguing with her daughter about religion and Uncle Leonard begins yelling at his son about politics you simply drop some paper into the trash can and toss a match onto the paper. This starts a small, contained fire which creates a diversion that startles everyone. Those who are arguing will immediately quit so they can tend to the blaze.

Once it’s doused you’ll be long gone because you slipped away during the chaos.

I hope your next holiday gathering is the best ever, and there’ll be no reason for you to utilize any of these hacks. But they’re available if you need them, and I hope you’ll consider them my gift to you.

Yet if you only remember one, make it the trash can.

When dealing with families, sometimes you have to fight ire with fire.

 

 

 

For most of my life, I’ve hoped that one day I’d transform into a werewolf. Now, however, I’m about ready to give up on the dream.

I mean, if it didn’t happen yesterday, it probably ain’t ever gonna happen.

Friday the 13^th … harvest moon … there was absolutely no better time.

Ever heard the expression, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity?” It’s attributed to Seneca. (I actually thought late football coach George Allen came up with it, but that’s beside the point.) The point is, I’m not lucky because I have spent decades preparing myself for a metamorphosis and the perfect opportunity came and went.

Do you know when the next full moon pairs up with a Friday the 13^th?

August 13, 2049.

I’ll be 89.

I guess I could still be alive, but my best werewolf days will be behind me. Oh, I might be able to foam at the mouth – a wolf man cliché – but that’ll probably be more a function of age or acid reflux than lycanthropy.

I already drool a little, anyway.

Now, before you think I’m some sort of nut, I realize that it would be extremely difficult for me to turn into a werewolf. I have not been bitten by a werewolf nor do I carry the gene. And even if I could shift my shape, I have no desire to be the kind of monster you’ve seen in movies like “The Howling” or “An American Werewolf In London.” I don’t want to hurt any animals or other human beings. About the worst thing I’d do is wrestle a nut away from a squirrel, or steal some kale from hippies.

As the world’s first documented vegetarian werewolf, basically I’d just want to get hairy and run around in the woods while wearing tattered clothes. I’ve always thought that would be a good look for me.

My obsession started when I saw Lon Chaney Jr. play “The Wolf Man” in the classic 1941 film.

It’s responsible for the first poem I memorized …

“Even a man who is pure in heart
and says his prayers by night
may become a wolf when the wolf’s bane blooms
and the autumn moon is bright.”

 Dude just sat down on a chair and before I knew it, hair sprouted all over his face, he developed an under bite and – dressed smartly in a long sleeve, button-down shirt and slacks – jumped out a window and wolfed out all night long.

I thought that was just fantastic.

I remember seeing it late at night one weekend and then coming to school on Monday and excitedly asking my teacher what she knew about werewolves.

She didn’t know shit, and that disappointed me.

But being a precocious little fellow, I learned all I could on my own.

One big takeaway from my studies is that “lycanthropy” has two definitions.

The first is, “the supernatural transformation of a person into a wolf, as recounted in folk tales.”

I like that one. It speaks to my soul.

The second is, “a form of madness involving the delusion of being an animal, usually a wolf, with correspondingly altered behavior.”

That’s disturbing, and takes much of the fun out of the fantasy. Plus, you might wind up contracting rabies or have to get a tetanus shot should you happen to rip your legs on barbed wire while trying to capture and eat chickens.

But before I discovered sportsball, I spent many a day on the playground pretending to be a werewolf. As I think I’ve told you before, I even carried a tube of toothpaste with me so I could put a dab in my mouth and create foam.

It was kinda gross, but I had the freshest breath in second grade.

I still miss those carefree days, but realize if I did that now the manager at Publix might think I stole the toothpaste, and it’d make for an uncomfortable situation for all involved.

It might be worth the risk, though.

So here we are, on Saturday the 14^th, and there is no evidence whatsoever that my dream came true the night before.

No tattered clothes.

No mud on the floor.

Nary a wolf’s bane corsage to be found.

I’m sorta depressed about it now, but as time goes by and 2049 draws closer, I might build up for one last shot.

Either way, I’m bringing my own toothpaste to the assisted living facility.

My playground days aren’t over until I say they are.

Having two dogs and two cats share my world means that my world is often in a state of chaos.

Steve Rogers, the Chihuahua, spends an inordinate amount of time menacing Thor, our jittery ginger tabby.

Bane, our full-figured, fluffy gray tabby, enjoys dining on anything wicker or leather and violating my personal space whenever possible.

And Charlie, our Sheltie, tries to steer clear of it all because he’s a dog of peace.

A lot of times when Mary and I leave the house for lunch or to run errands we’re exiting what appears to be a petting zoo gone wild, and I admit it’s nice to have just a little bit of “us” time.

Invariably, though, when we get back home all the critters are nice and calm, causing me to wonder what they’ve done – and what they talked about – while we were gone.

A typical weekend day sees us head out for the afternoon, and I kiss them all on their heads and tell them I love them. I also leave one in charge because I like to show I trust them with responsibility.

As I get in the car I glance up at the window and Steve – standing on a stool in the den with his front paws on the window sill – is looking out at me.

Then we drive away, and out of sight.

Here’s what I think happens once we’re gone …

“OK, they just rounded the corner,” says Steve, his tail wagging furiously. “Man, I hope that lady comes back with chicken. I love chicken. Chicken is a thing that I can eat any time and every time. You like chicken don’t you, Charlie, huh? Huh? Huh?

Charlie stretches out on the hardwood floor and sighs.

“Yes,” he says. “I like chicken.”

Steve continues looking out the window and wagging.

“Hey, Bane,” Steve says, “Do you remember that time that lady left the chicken in her purse and you knocked the purse over and all that delicious chicken fell on the floor?”

Bane, chewing on the edge of a wicker trunk, looks up briefly.

“Indeed,” he says.

Steve jumps down and heads toward Bane. He bites the cat’s ear but is swatted half-heartedly.

“Me and Charlie made quick work of that chicken, didn’t we?” Steve says. “I think you got some, too, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Bane says. “Now leave me alone for a while. I’m trying to destroy this trunk.”

Thor then creeps out of the bedroom, looks at Steve and switches his tail.

“I hate you, you little bastard,” says Thor, immediately retreating.

Steve laughs.

“C’mon, T,” Steve says. “You’re a cat, I’m a dog … it’s like the circle of life from that movie.”

“What movie?” Thor asks.

“You know, that circle of life movie,” Steve says. “Escape from New York.”

Bane, who has now completely removed a corner from the wicker trunk, shakes his head.

“The Lion King,” he says.

“What?” Steve asks.

“The circle of life reference is from The Lion King,” Bane explains. “It’s a song by Sir Elton John. Escape From New York is a John Carpenter film set in a dystopian America, circa 1999.”

Steve looks confused.

“Yeah, I don’t know nothing about no circus in 1999,” Steve says. “I’m just trying to explain to my orange friend that fightin’ and feudin’ is what we’re designed to do. We’re like those famous families that fought all the time – I think their names were Cagney and Lacey.”

Bane rolls his eyes.

“The Hatfields and McCoys,” Bane says. “That’s who you’re talking about.”

“Were they in Escape from New York?” Steve asks.

Before Bane could swat him, Steve senses movement outside and retakes his spot on the stool. Once in position, he notices a man and woman walking a small dog on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” he barks. “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Get the hell out of here with that vermin. I swear I’ll jump through this window and jack all your asses up. ALL. YOUR. ASSES. UP! “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!”

Charlie chews his butt briefly, looks up at Steve, and says, “You make me nervous with your noise. Please don’t make any more noise.”

Thor mews slightly as he walks away, muttering, “I hate you, you little bastard,” under his breath.

After the danger passes – meaning after the man, woman and dog pass – Steve starts talking about chicken again.

I figure this goes on for roughly another hour, and then they sleep for, oh, a good two hours.

Steve – now on the futon with Bane and Thor while Charlie continues to snooze on the floor – perks up when he hears our car doors close.

We’re home.

“Be cool, guys,” he says. “They’re back. I just hope that lady has some chicken. Me and you like chicken, don’t we Charlie? Huh? Huh? Huh?”