Mindy Levy's Blog - Posts Tagged "comedy"
A False Alarm
“Attention, attention. The fire alarm was inadvertently sounded, please return to your offices.” This is what I heard at 2:45pm on an otherwise quiet Wednesday afternoon at work, when the alarm did in fact go off. Okay, fair enough. Someone tripped it in error. Back to prepping for my 3pm call.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. “The emergency on the 24th floor has been contained.” Buzzzzzzzzzzz. “We repeat, the crisis has been contained.”
OK, I know my thought process is not always rational, but my internal alarm began to sound in unison with the unremitting buzz of the building’s alert system.
I calmly walked out of my office to find all of my colleagues going about business as usual. It was as if they didn’t hear the piercing shrill of the still sounding fire alarm. Apparently they were satisfied with the contained crisis pronouncement and disinclined to even question the nature of the emergency.
I, on the other hand, was less than delighted to know there was a crisis requiring suppression in the first place. And the fact that the alarm continued to sound did not bolster confidence that emergency was in fact over.
“Hey guys, do you hear the alarm?”
"Yeah. False alarm."
“Hmmm. Ok. Yeah, but why does it continue to sound?” As calmly as I could muster, “And what do you think the, uh, crisis, was on the 24th floor?”
“No clue.” And back to calls, proposals, meetings they went.
My inside voice was screaming “What the heck is wrong with you people??? Haven’t you see ‘The Towering Inferno?’ There is a crisis on the 24th floor, the alarm is sounding and you act like you are exempt from becoming tomorrow morning’s CNN Headline News.”
My outside persona simply walked to the employee entrance to verify no-one had locked it from the outside, rendering us helpless victims of this horrific terror plot. The door swung wide open. Phew.
I strode coolly back to my office to ensure the phones were working. Nope. Lights blinking like a circuit had been broken. Not good. We WERE hostages. Oh my G-d we need to get out. NOW.
We are on the tenth floor of this midtown structure surrounded by parking decks, businesses and sidewalks. All made of cement. You see where I’m going? It was looking like we might need to crash one of the building’s quadruple reinforced industrial grade glass panes. But then what? Where would we go? It was a modern day tower of terror, 40 years after the original hit the big screen. I was sure. All we were missing was Paul Newman and Steve McQueen. I did not want to die here.
Then a funny thing happened. The alarm stopped. The phones went back on. People were using the elevators. A sure sign we were ok. Everyone knows to use the stairs in time of danger. We made it!
Now 2:59pm. Still time to make my call. What felt like hours actually transpired in a matter of minutes. Hopefully, that’s all this harrowing experience shaved off my life.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. “The emergency on the 24th floor has been contained.” Buzzzzzzzzzzz. “We repeat, the crisis has been contained.”
OK, I know my thought process is not always rational, but my internal alarm began to sound in unison with the unremitting buzz of the building’s alert system.
I calmly walked out of my office to find all of my colleagues going about business as usual. It was as if they didn’t hear the piercing shrill of the still sounding fire alarm. Apparently they were satisfied with the contained crisis pronouncement and disinclined to even question the nature of the emergency.
I, on the other hand, was less than delighted to know there was a crisis requiring suppression in the first place. And the fact that the alarm continued to sound did not bolster confidence that emergency was in fact over.
“Hey guys, do you hear the alarm?”
"Yeah. False alarm."
“Hmmm. Ok. Yeah, but why does it continue to sound?” As calmly as I could muster, “And what do you think the, uh, crisis, was on the 24th floor?”
“No clue.” And back to calls, proposals, meetings they went.
My inside voice was screaming “What the heck is wrong with you people??? Haven’t you see ‘The Towering Inferno?’ There is a crisis on the 24th floor, the alarm is sounding and you act like you are exempt from becoming tomorrow morning’s CNN Headline News.”
My outside persona simply walked to the employee entrance to verify no-one had locked it from the outside, rendering us helpless victims of this horrific terror plot. The door swung wide open. Phew.
I strode coolly back to my office to ensure the phones were working. Nope. Lights blinking like a circuit had been broken. Not good. We WERE hostages. Oh my G-d we need to get out. NOW.
We are on the tenth floor of this midtown structure surrounded by parking decks, businesses and sidewalks. All made of cement. You see where I’m going? It was looking like we might need to crash one of the building’s quadruple reinforced industrial grade glass panes. But then what? Where would we go? It was a modern day tower of terror, 40 years after the original hit the big screen. I was sure. All we were missing was Paul Newman and Steve McQueen. I did not want to die here.
Then a funny thing happened. The alarm stopped. The phones went back on. People were using the elevators. A sure sign we were ok. Everyone knows to use the stairs in time of danger. We made it!
Now 2:59pm. Still time to make my call. What felt like hours actually transpired in a matter of minutes. Hopefully, that’s all this harrowing experience shaved off my life.
Don't Sweat The Small Stuff
Anxiety, (also called angst or worry), as defined by Wikipedia, is a psychological and physiological state characterized by somatic, emotional, cognitive, and behavioral components. It is the displeasing feeling of fear and concern.
First, what the heck does “somatic” mean. I am f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g out right now. Is anxiety worse than I really thought? What symptoms have I missed? Are there yet more elements to anxiety that I am not aware of but am likely suffering from? Yes, I know you don’t end sentences with a preposition, but if I am in a full out panic from my discovery of this rare, deadly somatic malady thing from which I will likely die, I’ll use whatever grammar I please. (Let’s see who was astute enough to catch the irony in that last sentence.)
But I digress. I consider myself an intelligent person and, since I had to look it up, I thought maybe you need to know, too. Somatic simply means “of the body” and in medical terms that means “not mental” as in illness. I stopped reading there in case there was further detail of what “of the body” entailed because I spied the word mutation on the page. I didn’t want to develop (by power of suggestion) any of the disgusting afflictions or ailments that are considered “of the body.”
Second, “It is the displeasing feeling of fear and concern” is to anxiety as dinghy is to the Titanic. The jackass that wrote that description has never, ever had a real, drain the blood from your face and render you paralyzed, panic attack.
So there you have it, the publicly accepted definition of anxiety. Now here’s mine:
The inexplicable, unpredictable, irrational physical and emotional “I am going to die a horrible, never seen before type of death RIGHT NOW and no-one can help me” response to….. nothing in particular. It also entails brooding, obsessing and constant attention to the “what might happen” versus a logical cause and effect approach to the risks of daily activities like taking an aspirin (Could I be allergic? Is anaphylactic shock a possibility or just hives if I am, in fact, allergic? Was the package safety sealed? Is it past the expiration date?)
This is my day to day life folks. I said it early on: I’m a worrier. I worry. My friends make fun of me for it, my kids say the don’t need to worry about anything because I do it for them but no-one actually complains. You know why? Because if any of these people get stuck on a desert island with me they know they’ll have snacks, bottled water and a pretty decent first aid kit- all from my purse. If their pants shrunk or if they lose a button I have the “As Seen On TV… Perfect Fit Button” pants extender that instantly makes your pants fit perfectly. If there is the sniff of a cold (bad pun) I am stocked with a mini pharmacy at all times.
While it is exhausting to worry like this, and I am the brunt of frequent jokes and mockery, I can’t stop. It’s like crack. I’ve tried to take my dad’s advise over and again: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” He was a master of practicing what he preached. He was calm, collected and measured.
Until he got really pissed off. Then it was no holds barred. But until you got there, the small stuff just slid on by.
Anyway, I tried to adhere to my dad’s mantra but I couldn’t. Worry, I repeat, it’s like crack. I can’t get enough. I try to give it up but no amount of rehab can set me free. No twelve step process will save me. No family intervention will unravel the tangled web of worry I’ve wound over the last 46 years.
What will I do next, you ask? How will I cope with this narcotic called worry? Well, my coping mechanism is humor. Like when I got a spider bite on my butt and told my husband I was in anaphylactic shock because I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my pants in the kitchen and flipped completely out.
My husband quickly pointed out that I was, in fact, breathing because I was talking, taking actual breaths, to tell him how I got bitten and sipping on a drink while I did so.
Or the time that the cat wouldn’t eat and I thought he knew he was dying and was trying to tell us so. The truth was my spoiled Jewish cat got a taste of turkey and canned food and refused to eat food that was “below” him. I really thought he was dying and actually lost sleep because he knew and couldn’t tell us.
There’s tons more where this came from. I’m compiling some of the best for a future blog post. This was just the teaser. I hope you’ll come back and read more soon.
Got any anxiety of your own? Come on, you know you do…. Feel free to share it with me!
First, what the heck does “somatic” mean. I am f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g out right now. Is anxiety worse than I really thought? What symptoms have I missed? Are there yet more elements to anxiety that I am not aware of but am likely suffering from? Yes, I know you don’t end sentences with a preposition, but if I am in a full out panic from my discovery of this rare, deadly somatic malady thing from which I will likely die, I’ll use whatever grammar I please. (Let’s see who was astute enough to catch the irony in that last sentence.)
But I digress. I consider myself an intelligent person and, since I had to look it up, I thought maybe you need to know, too. Somatic simply means “of the body” and in medical terms that means “not mental” as in illness. I stopped reading there in case there was further detail of what “of the body” entailed because I spied the word mutation on the page. I didn’t want to develop (by power of suggestion) any of the disgusting afflictions or ailments that are considered “of the body.”
Second, “It is the displeasing feeling of fear and concern” is to anxiety as dinghy is to the Titanic. The jackass that wrote that description has never, ever had a real, drain the blood from your face and render you paralyzed, panic attack.
So there you have it, the publicly accepted definition of anxiety. Now here’s mine:
The inexplicable, unpredictable, irrational physical and emotional “I am going to die a horrible, never seen before type of death RIGHT NOW and no-one can help me” response to….. nothing in particular. It also entails brooding, obsessing and constant attention to the “what might happen” versus a logical cause and effect approach to the risks of daily activities like taking an aspirin (Could I be allergic? Is anaphylactic shock a possibility or just hives if I am, in fact, allergic? Was the package safety sealed? Is it past the expiration date?)
This is my day to day life folks. I said it early on: I’m a worrier. I worry. My friends make fun of me for it, my kids say the don’t need to worry about anything because I do it for them but no-one actually complains. You know why? Because if any of these people get stuck on a desert island with me they know they’ll have snacks, bottled water and a pretty decent first aid kit- all from my purse. If their pants shrunk or if they lose a button I have the “As Seen On TV… Perfect Fit Button” pants extender that instantly makes your pants fit perfectly. If there is the sniff of a cold (bad pun) I am stocked with a mini pharmacy at all times.
While it is exhausting to worry like this, and I am the brunt of frequent jokes and mockery, I can’t stop. It’s like crack. I’ve tried to take my dad’s advise over and again: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” He was a master of practicing what he preached. He was calm, collected and measured.
Until he got really pissed off. Then it was no holds barred. But until you got there, the small stuff just slid on by.
Anyway, I tried to adhere to my dad’s mantra but I couldn’t. Worry, I repeat, it’s like crack. I can’t get enough. I try to give it up but no amount of rehab can set me free. No twelve step process will save me. No family intervention will unravel the tangled web of worry I’ve wound over the last 46 years.
What will I do next, you ask? How will I cope with this narcotic called worry? Well, my coping mechanism is humor. Like when I got a spider bite on my butt and told my husband I was in anaphylactic shock because I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my pants in the kitchen and flipped completely out.
My husband quickly pointed out that I was, in fact, breathing because I was talking, taking actual breaths, to tell him how I got bitten and sipping on a drink while I did so.
Or the time that the cat wouldn’t eat and I thought he knew he was dying and was trying to tell us so. The truth was my spoiled Jewish cat got a taste of turkey and canned food and refused to eat food that was “below” him. I really thought he was dying and actually lost sleep because he knew and couldn’t tell us.
There’s tons more where this came from. I’m compiling some of the best for a future blog post. This was just the teaser. I hope you’ll come back and read more soon.
Got any anxiety of your own? Come on, you know you do…. Feel free to share it with me!
Dogma (No, Not That Kind!) Dog-Ma (As In Dog Mom)
My husband Kevin is amazing. Simply put, he wakes up with a smile every day, has a quick, quirky wit, and loves me for me. Life is good and we’re happy. We are in sync on most of the big issues that plague couples: raising kids, money, discipline, etc.
Arguments are few and far between, so when we do disagree, we are pretty inept in the way we handle them. Neither of us is inherently mean or vindictive, leaving any yelling match a feeble display of stammering insults and failed expletives. It’s embarrassing really. We just can’t fight dirty. We’ve actually been told by friends and family that we’re too nice to each other. Really? How can you be too nice to the people you love?
So, imagine the shock we experienced that fateful day we had it OUT in the living room. Over what, you ask? Something huge, right? Money? Grounding our teenager? Being a closet smoker? Noooo.
The dog.
Yes, our downfall was dog rearing. Dog rearing! Raising Zoey, our sweet, loving rescue dog, proved to be the demise of 10 years of marital bliss devoid of a single disrespectful encounter. Here’s how it went (and how we solved it!)
Some context is important to understand how the ensuing drama unfolded.
We adopted Zoey when she was two years old. She is 75 pounds of love and smooches. She is spoiled rotten, as all dogs should be, and loves everyone. But she kind of loves me most. I am her person. I admit, we have a somewhat unhealthy, enmeshed relationship, but it’s good. I indulge her every whim and she doesn’t abuse the privilege. She is calm, happy and good with kids and other animals, too.
One day, returning from a walk with Zoey, Kevin opened the door and Zoey started to bound inside. He stopped her, jumped in front of her and firmly stated, “My door, Zoey.” Huh? He proceeded to walk through the door in front of her then let her in. Ok, score one for Kevin; you beat the dog through the door. By the way, she doesn’t care who goes in first but whatever. I stayed silent.
This routine went for on for several days and I finally asked what was going on. Kevin said he’d been watching Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, and this was a tactic used let the dog know you were the Alpha, not her. I chuckled because Zoey is submissive, rarely even barks, and is happy to let anyone else be the alpha. But okay, I rolled with it.
As days and weeks went on Kevin incorporated more of Cesar’s tactics. Like making a hissing sound while lightly touching Zoey’s back. That one was to mimic how the dominant animal engages his/her inferiors. Okay, this is a good practice for dogs who are misbehaving. Only Zoey wasn’t misbehaving. She was being hissed at just because. She didn’t even respond to the hissing, just kept smiling at Kevin like she always does.
I started laughing more with each new tactic Kevin employed. Only the laughing went from in my head to out loud. That’s when the problem started.
I had refused to watch Cesar’s show. I was uninterested and, after all, we were the proud parents of a very well behaved dog. We didn’t need Cesar. Then one day, over a picnic dinner in the living room, Kevin turned it on. Ugh. I guess I started making sarcastic comments about the show that escalated into making fun of the Kevin-Zoey show of which I was an unwilling participant. That did NOT go over well.
Kevin blew his stack and screamed, “You are undermining me with the dog!” Rather than eliciting an empathetic response from me, I thought he was kidding and started roaring with laughter. I responded with, “Hahahah, that’s hilarious. I’m undermining you with our very compliant, wonderful dog???”
Not good. He WAS serious and I WAS in the proverbial dog house.
“Thank G-d we are in sync on the kids. I can’t imagine if you did this to me with them!” Wow, Kevin was indeed pissed off. We had a 60 minute discussion and I apologized. I was sincere, I really didn’t mean to be insensitive or hurt him. (I did still find the dog training beyond ridiculous, but that wasn’t the issue here. My husband thought I was disrespecting him and that is not okay at all.)
As always, we found compromise and he agreed to back off on the hissing. I, in turn, agreed to watch his buddy Cesar. The Levy house was back in harmony. It was actually better than before the incident. Know why? I’ll tell you.
The “clients” in the first episode we watched together, back in love and curled up under a blanket on our oversized couch, were a dog and cat who simply couldn’t live together. The family was at its wits end trying to remedy the cat’s bad behavior- swiping at the dog, shredding furniture and incessant meowing when Dad left the house to walk the dog.
Cesar, in stellar dog whisperer fashion, quickly determined that the cat was feeling neglected, not part of “the pack.” The answer was simple: take the cat on the walks with the dog. Let him know he is not being punished or omitted from family outings. Sounded logical to me but the vision of a cat on a leash was not so easy to muster. We have a 22 pound kitty, also a rescue. Cats don’t typically enjoy being confined (in cute sweaters, reindeer antlers at Christmas or on a leash.)
Don’t panic. Cesar had it covered. The answer was one of these- a cat stroller.
Fast forward to said family happily walking down a suburban sidewalk. Mom, Dad, Johnny, Spot and Mr. Bubbles, the cat.
I love happy endings. You’ll be pleased to know that our ending was equally as happy. Following that episode I announced that I was running out to the local pet store to purchase a cat stroller for Samson. I now understood the loneliness and despair he surely feels every time we take Zoey out without him. Kevin balked. I asked him nicely not to undermine me with the cat. Touche. He complied.
Samson does in fact love his stroller. We take frequent walks and sometimes he just likes to be parked in the garden to bask in the sun. Everyone wins. Oh, and while Samson basks in the sun, I bask in the small, but sweet victory, I secured of my husband. Who I love. A lot.
Arguments are few and far between, so when we do disagree, we are pretty inept in the way we handle them. Neither of us is inherently mean or vindictive, leaving any yelling match a feeble display of stammering insults and failed expletives. It’s embarrassing really. We just can’t fight dirty. We’ve actually been told by friends and family that we’re too nice to each other. Really? How can you be too nice to the people you love?
So, imagine the shock we experienced that fateful day we had it OUT in the living room. Over what, you ask? Something huge, right? Money? Grounding our teenager? Being a closet smoker? Noooo.
The dog.
Yes, our downfall was dog rearing. Dog rearing! Raising Zoey, our sweet, loving rescue dog, proved to be the demise of 10 years of marital bliss devoid of a single disrespectful encounter. Here’s how it went (and how we solved it!)
Some context is important to understand how the ensuing drama unfolded.
We adopted Zoey when she was two years old. She is 75 pounds of love and smooches. She is spoiled rotten, as all dogs should be, and loves everyone. But she kind of loves me most. I am her person. I admit, we have a somewhat unhealthy, enmeshed relationship, but it’s good. I indulge her every whim and she doesn’t abuse the privilege. She is calm, happy and good with kids and other animals, too.
One day, returning from a walk with Zoey, Kevin opened the door and Zoey started to bound inside. He stopped her, jumped in front of her and firmly stated, “My door, Zoey.” Huh? He proceeded to walk through the door in front of her then let her in. Ok, score one for Kevin; you beat the dog through the door. By the way, she doesn’t care who goes in first but whatever. I stayed silent.
This routine went for on for several days and I finally asked what was going on. Kevin said he’d been watching Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, and this was a tactic used let the dog know you were the Alpha, not her. I chuckled because Zoey is submissive, rarely even barks, and is happy to let anyone else be the alpha. But okay, I rolled with it.
As days and weeks went on Kevin incorporated more of Cesar’s tactics. Like making a hissing sound while lightly touching Zoey’s back. That one was to mimic how the dominant animal engages his/her inferiors. Okay, this is a good practice for dogs who are misbehaving. Only Zoey wasn’t misbehaving. She was being hissed at just because. She didn’t even respond to the hissing, just kept smiling at Kevin like she always does.
I started laughing more with each new tactic Kevin employed. Only the laughing went from in my head to out loud. That’s when the problem started.
I had refused to watch Cesar’s show. I was uninterested and, after all, we were the proud parents of a very well behaved dog. We didn’t need Cesar. Then one day, over a picnic dinner in the living room, Kevin turned it on. Ugh. I guess I started making sarcastic comments about the show that escalated into making fun of the Kevin-Zoey show of which I was an unwilling participant. That did NOT go over well.
Kevin blew his stack and screamed, “You are undermining me with the dog!” Rather than eliciting an empathetic response from me, I thought he was kidding and started roaring with laughter. I responded with, “Hahahah, that’s hilarious. I’m undermining you with our very compliant, wonderful dog???”
Not good. He WAS serious and I WAS in the proverbial dog house.
“Thank G-d we are in sync on the kids. I can’t imagine if you did this to me with them!” Wow, Kevin was indeed pissed off. We had a 60 minute discussion and I apologized. I was sincere, I really didn’t mean to be insensitive or hurt him. (I did still find the dog training beyond ridiculous, but that wasn’t the issue here. My husband thought I was disrespecting him and that is not okay at all.)
As always, we found compromise and he agreed to back off on the hissing. I, in turn, agreed to watch his buddy Cesar. The Levy house was back in harmony. It was actually better than before the incident. Know why? I’ll tell you.
The “clients” in the first episode we watched together, back in love and curled up under a blanket on our oversized couch, were a dog and cat who simply couldn’t live together. The family was at its wits end trying to remedy the cat’s bad behavior- swiping at the dog, shredding furniture and incessant meowing when Dad left the house to walk the dog.
Cesar, in stellar dog whisperer fashion, quickly determined that the cat was feeling neglected, not part of “the pack.” The answer was simple: take the cat on the walks with the dog. Let him know he is not being punished or omitted from family outings. Sounded logical to me but the vision of a cat on a leash was not so easy to muster. We have a 22 pound kitty, also a rescue. Cats don’t typically enjoy being confined (in cute sweaters, reindeer antlers at Christmas or on a leash.)
Don’t panic. Cesar had it covered. The answer was one of these- a cat stroller.
Fast forward to said family happily walking down a suburban sidewalk. Mom, Dad, Johnny, Spot and Mr. Bubbles, the cat.
I love happy endings. You’ll be pleased to know that our ending was equally as happy. Following that episode I announced that I was running out to the local pet store to purchase a cat stroller for Samson. I now understood the loneliness and despair he surely feels every time we take Zoey out without him. Kevin balked. I asked him nicely not to undermine me with the cat. Touche. He complied.
Samson does in fact love his stroller. We take frequent walks and sometimes he just likes to be parked in the garden to bask in the sun. Everyone wins. Oh, and while Samson basks in the sun, I bask in the small, but sweet victory, I secured of my husband. Who I love. A lot.
Did She Really Say That???
Well yes, she did.
Mommom
My sister decided she wanted to have her nose done. Her nose wasn’t bad but if that’s what will make you happy when you look in the mirror, what the hell. I was 19 and she was 20 when she had the surgery. I was discussing it with Mommom, who just didn’t see the need for the surgery or to spend money on such things.
“Honey I don’t …know why she wants to do this. She has a nice nose. Now, if it were YOU, I’d understand.”
Thanks.
Maybe it’s just a thing with noses for her. My dad was a good looking guy, very handsome. Mommom told me she worried when he was born that he’d never grow into his nose. Huh? Was his nose bigger than his head? Maybe his baby nose and my adult nose were horrific and terrifying sights.
Either way, it’s my nose and I’m keeping it.
Mom
This is my own personal episode of the 1997 television series, “Just Shoot Me.” I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve asked my mom how she is or if she needs anything…. and gotten this response.
Me: “What can I do for you, how can I help?”
Mom: “Give me a gun.”
A gun, really? You want to shoot yourself? Or do you want to shoot me? I seriously doubt it’s for a shopping mall rampage but, just in case, I’ve responded no to the request thus far. Jeez, holy martyr batman.
Sara
Known for her frequent, bold misuse of words, my sister keeps us on our toes! Try some of these on for a smile:
Post Thanksgiving food coma. Levy’s lying around commiserating about our shameless overindulgence.
“I’m exhausted from the kryptonite.”
Huh?
“You know, the stuff in turkey that makes you tired.”
Uh yeah, that would be tryptophan. Phew, Superman skirted disaster with that one!
**************************************
Sara and I stay in close touch regarding our mom’s health. It’s really important for us to be in sync in case of any health emergencies. This phone call was priceless:
Ring, ring. “Hey, it’s me. Mom has sedentary.”
She has what?
“You know, that dangerous intestinal disease, she needs to move around more.”
Hmmmm….. dysentery comes to mind, but Sara did have a good point. Mom needs to exercise.
That is all.
Mommom
My sister decided she wanted to have her nose done. Her nose wasn’t bad but if that’s what will make you happy when you look in the mirror, what the hell. I was 19 and she was 20 when she had the surgery. I was discussing it with Mommom, who just didn’t see the need for the surgery or to spend money on such things.
“Honey I don’t …know why she wants to do this. She has a nice nose. Now, if it were YOU, I’d understand.”
Thanks.
Maybe it’s just a thing with noses for her. My dad was a good looking guy, very handsome. Mommom told me she worried when he was born that he’d never grow into his nose. Huh? Was his nose bigger than his head? Maybe his baby nose and my adult nose were horrific and terrifying sights.
Either way, it’s my nose and I’m keeping it.
Mom
This is my own personal episode of the 1997 television series, “Just Shoot Me.” I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve asked my mom how she is or if she needs anything…. and gotten this response.
Me: “What can I do for you, how can I help?”
Mom: “Give me a gun.”
A gun, really? You want to shoot yourself? Or do you want to shoot me? I seriously doubt it’s for a shopping mall rampage but, just in case, I’ve responded no to the request thus far. Jeez, holy martyr batman.
Sara
Known for her frequent, bold misuse of words, my sister keeps us on our toes! Try some of these on for a smile:
Post Thanksgiving food coma. Levy’s lying around commiserating about our shameless overindulgence.
“I’m exhausted from the kryptonite.”
Huh?
“You know, the stuff in turkey that makes you tired.”
Uh yeah, that would be tryptophan. Phew, Superman skirted disaster with that one!
**************************************
Sara and I stay in close touch regarding our mom’s health. It’s really important for us to be in sync in case of any health emergencies. This phone call was priceless:
Ring, ring. “Hey, it’s me. Mom has sedentary.”
She has what?
“You know, that dangerous intestinal disease, she needs to move around more.”
Hmmmm….. dysentery comes to mind, but Sara did have a good point. Mom needs to exercise.
That is all.
The Incredible, Edible Egg. Or Not....
Many of you who have read my book or keep up with my blog know that I have a full time career in technology. It was really fun when my colleagues discovered my website and read my bio, which included, “By day, Mindy pretends to be a technology executive for an enterprise software vendor when she would rather be writing.” Oops.
Truth be told, I love my job. I work with a team of unbelievably talented human beings, rocking good technology and no two days are ever the same. I also travel a fair bit and have seen some pretty cool places.
This week I’m on the west coast. It’s great, you gain 3 hours every day when your body leaps awake at 4am, still on east coast time. Of course, you lose the same 3 hours when you implode at 8pm because your body thinks it 11pm.
In anticipation of a busy, meeting-filled day, I took east coast Mindy to the gym at 5am to get the heart going and stretch the muscles. It was great. The hotel has a fabulous breakfast buffet and coffee to go. After my workout I snagged some oatmeal, eggs, fruit and a giant coffee to consume in my room before my first pre-office conference call.
That’s when everything went horribly, horribly wrong.
West coast Mindy was a little discombobulated. Energized from the workout, but still not quite on California time. Showered, dressed and ready to work with 10 minutes to spare before the call.
Also on Skype, responding to email and drafting a correspondence. Kind of proud of my exceptional multitasking capabilities. I almost forgot that I was ravenous. Almost.
The dilemma facing me was the small seven minute window remaining between my eggs and my call. I despise eating fast, it’s so uncivilized. Hunger pangs won and I decided to take my chances. The oatmeal was good (if, like me, you enjoy bland, tasteless white mush every morning.) The eggs were really yummy, a treat I don’t usually indulge. A bit of fruit then…
Ring. My mobile. Colleague overseas and I knew it was important. T-minus 4 minutes until call time. Being the pleaser that I am, I answered while simultaneously swallowing the eggs. A little uncomfortable, but I got through the brief conversation. 2 minutes remain until the conference call starts.
But I can’t talk. As I was hanging up I took another bite of scrambled eggs. It got stuck. In my throat. No, in my esophagus. Yikes!
Sheer panic set in. Eyes tearing up, coughing and an internal dialog that went something like this:
“Can’t breathe. Holy crap, can’t breathe.”
Wait, I actually said that out LOUD. I was breathing. Coughing, choking, but breathing.
Then, “I am not going to die in this crappy hotel room eating these crappy eggs.” Suddenly my nice hotel and yummy eggs were reduced to rubbish. I began to curse the world of innovation and progress that enable all this ridiculous multitasking. Surely, the only reason I was attempting a self-inflicted Heimlich Maneuver was because I had one eye on Skype and the other on email. One side of the brain focused on the phone call and the other on email. There was simply not enough brain power left to chew my eggs. I had exhausted all reserves.
I began jumping all around the hotel room trying to dislodge the scrambled egg fragment that was sure to end my life. Or at least make me miss my call. One minute left.
After what felt like hours but was actually 60 seconds, 3 cups of water, a full blown panic attack and poorly executed “Heimlich-like” Maneuver, the coughing stopped. The multitasking-induced choking abated. I was okay. I was OKAY.
7:00am on the button. I was better than okay, I was on time for my call.
I dialed in and announced myself. Then I fired Skype back up, finished my email and wrote my correspondence. Man, innovation is great. We can do so much all at once.
Truth be told, I love my job. I work with a team of unbelievably talented human beings, rocking good technology and no two days are ever the same. I also travel a fair bit and have seen some pretty cool places.
This week I’m on the west coast. It’s great, you gain 3 hours every day when your body leaps awake at 4am, still on east coast time. Of course, you lose the same 3 hours when you implode at 8pm because your body thinks it 11pm.
In anticipation of a busy, meeting-filled day, I took east coast Mindy to the gym at 5am to get the heart going and stretch the muscles. It was great. The hotel has a fabulous breakfast buffet and coffee to go. After my workout I snagged some oatmeal, eggs, fruit and a giant coffee to consume in my room before my first pre-office conference call.
That’s when everything went horribly, horribly wrong.
West coast Mindy was a little discombobulated. Energized from the workout, but still not quite on California time. Showered, dressed and ready to work with 10 minutes to spare before the call.
Also on Skype, responding to email and drafting a correspondence. Kind of proud of my exceptional multitasking capabilities. I almost forgot that I was ravenous. Almost.
The dilemma facing me was the small seven minute window remaining between my eggs and my call. I despise eating fast, it’s so uncivilized. Hunger pangs won and I decided to take my chances. The oatmeal was good (if, like me, you enjoy bland, tasteless white mush every morning.) The eggs were really yummy, a treat I don’t usually indulge. A bit of fruit then…
Ring. My mobile. Colleague overseas and I knew it was important. T-minus 4 minutes until call time. Being the pleaser that I am, I answered while simultaneously swallowing the eggs. A little uncomfortable, but I got through the brief conversation. 2 minutes remain until the conference call starts.
But I can’t talk. As I was hanging up I took another bite of scrambled eggs. It got stuck. In my throat. No, in my esophagus. Yikes!
Sheer panic set in. Eyes tearing up, coughing and an internal dialog that went something like this:
“Can’t breathe. Holy crap, can’t breathe.”
Wait, I actually said that out LOUD. I was breathing. Coughing, choking, but breathing.
Then, “I am not going to die in this crappy hotel room eating these crappy eggs.” Suddenly my nice hotel and yummy eggs were reduced to rubbish. I began to curse the world of innovation and progress that enable all this ridiculous multitasking. Surely, the only reason I was attempting a self-inflicted Heimlich Maneuver was because I had one eye on Skype and the other on email. One side of the brain focused on the phone call and the other on email. There was simply not enough brain power left to chew my eggs. I had exhausted all reserves.
I began jumping all around the hotel room trying to dislodge the scrambled egg fragment that was sure to end my life. Or at least make me miss my call. One minute left.
After what felt like hours but was actually 60 seconds, 3 cups of water, a full blown panic attack and poorly executed “Heimlich-like” Maneuver, the coughing stopped. The multitasking-induced choking abated. I was okay. I was OKAY.
7:00am on the button. I was better than okay, I was on time for my call.
I dialed in and announced myself. Then I fired Skype back up, finished my email and wrote my correspondence. Man, innovation is great. We can do so much all at once.
Tag, You're It!
So I have been tagged, I’m it. This is a fun game for authors because we rock. Being “IT” means that you share information about your “work in progress” also known as “WIP” The Rules 1.) Give credit (including a link) to the Author who tagged you. 2.)Play by the rules, therefore you most post the rules! 3.)You MUST answer all 10 questions (below) some are quite hard but do your best. 4.)List five other Authors with links at the end that you have “tagged” so that the game can continue.
The Link Back
I was tagged by Maggie Thom who has not one, but TWO books coming out this year: Deceitful Truths – Tainted Waters to be published April 30th, 2013 and to be published in the fall of 2013.
Q1.) What is the title or working title of your WIP?
Yes, You Can’t
Q2.) What genres does your novel fall under?
Humor, family, non-fiction and some fiction
Q3.) What actors (Dream Cast) would you choose to play the characters in a film version?
For Mindy I’d choose a Jewish Julie Bowen- “Claire” from Modern Family. I made this selection for obvious reasons but you’ll need to read the book to find out why! Hint: worry, anxiety, control freak….
Kevin needs to be portrayed by someone with a bit of a quirky sense of humor so Jimmy Kimmel fits the bill.
The rest of the Dream Cast consists of actors ranging from The Wizards of Waverly Place to Seinfeld.
Q4.) What is the main outline for your book?
This is a sequel to Mindy’s Musings. Unlike my first book, which was a series of very true, very funny stories about what I call the ‘extraordinarily ordinary’, Yes, You Can’t has nine chapters covering a plethora of perplexing predicaments from anxiety and worry to marriage, pets and dealing with chronic illness.
Double entendres are words or phrases that can be interpreted in two ways. They are ambiguous, can be understood by two people in different ways and, when used by a Jewish mother, are intentionally confounding! Yes, You Can’t offers humorous observations and advice on how to handle real life double entendres such as:
The call:
Mindy: Mom, should I call you back later?
Mom: No, it’s okay.
3 hours later… Ring, ring.
Mom: Mindy, it’s me, Mom. You didn’t call.
Mindy: Huh? You told me not to.
Mom: Yes, but my tone should have told you that meant call.
Translation: Yes, you can’t…. win on this one.
The illness
Big day planned. Just me and Kevin. Yay!
Wait, what? MS wants to tag along. Three’s a crowd.
Long walk? Buzzzz…. Legs don’t want to work today.
Painting pottery? Nah, no feeling in the fingers.
Anger and frustration set in, right? Wrong. We made a plan, we’ll adapt the plan, then we’ll plan to adapt if we need to. We cooked a great meal at home, stayed in and watched our favorite movies and focused on what we COULD do. Together. Not always this graceful, but today it worked.
Translation: Yes, you can’t… always follow the plan. Sh-t happens.
Q5.) Will your book be Indie published/self published, or represented by an agency and sold to a traditional publisher?
My book will be Indie Published (again.)
Q6.) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
I am still writing! It has been about six months so far and I anticipate another three to four before I have a solid draft. By day I have a full time job in technology so I write by with a quill by candlelight between midnight and 2am J
Q7.) What other books in this genre would you compare your book to?
It would be presumptuous for me to liken myself or my writing to these great authors but… People who enjoyed The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg will enjoy the antics in Mindy’s Musings and Yes, You Can’t.
I find that readers often mention they liked Bossy Pants by Tina Fey and Seriously, I’m Kidding by Ellen Degeneres.
Q8.) Who or what inspired you to write this book?
They say laughter is the best medicine and I agree. Plus, it’s free, has no bad side effects and is available to EVERYONE! We laugh A LOT in our house. Whether it’s my family making fun of me for unabashedly spoiling Zoey and Samson (our rescue babies, who I have completely ruined), unending practical jokes or just some inanely amusing happenings- we laugh.
It is with that in mind that I wrote this book. My husband was diagnosed with MS in 2004, at 38 years old. He is nothing short of amazing- staying positive every day with a focus on what he CAN do versus what MS has taken away. He is a brilliant role model for our kids and people with challenges of ANY kind, big or small.
When I realized we had some pretty funny stories, like most families do, that could potentially brighten someone’s day or help them learn not to take themselves so seriously, I wrote them down. I channeled my husband’s attitude and determination and the book was born.
Q9.) What else about the book might pique readers’ attention?
It is refreshingly true to life, candid and just plain funny. The humor is not forced, it just is. It is a combination of fiction and non-fiction humor and no-one is spared, including myself.
I know it will help others do the same, for challenges large or small, so I’m empowered to impart that humor without inhibition.
Q10.) Five other Indie Authors you have tagged
Coming soon. I need to get their permission before I tag them!
The Link Back
I was tagged by Maggie Thom who has not one, but TWO books coming out this year: Deceitful Truths – Tainted Waters to be published April 30th, 2013 and to be published in the fall of 2013.
Q1.) What is the title or working title of your WIP?
Yes, You Can’t
Q2.) What genres does your novel fall under?
Humor, family, non-fiction and some fiction
Q3.) What actors (Dream Cast) would you choose to play the characters in a film version?
For Mindy I’d choose a Jewish Julie Bowen- “Claire” from Modern Family. I made this selection for obvious reasons but you’ll need to read the book to find out why! Hint: worry, anxiety, control freak….
Kevin needs to be portrayed by someone with a bit of a quirky sense of humor so Jimmy Kimmel fits the bill.
The rest of the Dream Cast consists of actors ranging from The Wizards of Waverly Place to Seinfeld.
Q4.) What is the main outline for your book?
This is a sequel to Mindy’s Musings. Unlike my first book, which was a series of very true, very funny stories about what I call the ‘extraordinarily ordinary’, Yes, You Can’t has nine chapters covering a plethora of perplexing predicaments from anxiety and worry to marriage, pets and dealing with chronic illness.
Double entendres are words or phrases that can be interpreted in two ways. They are ambiguous, can be understood by two people in different ways and, when used by a Jewish mother, are intentionally confounding! Yes, You Can’t offers humorous observations and advice on how to handle real life double entendres such as:
The call:
Mindy: Mom, should I call you back later?
Mom: No, it’s okay.
3 hours later… Ring, ring.
Mom: Mindy, it’s me, Mom. You didn’t call.
Mindy: Huh? You told me not to.
Mom: Yes, but my tone should have told you that meant call.
Translation: Yes, you can’t…. win on this one.
The illness
Big day planned. Just me and Kevin. Yay!
Wait, what? MS wants to tag along. Three’s a crowd.
Long walk? Buzzzz…. Legs don’t want to work today.
Painting pottery? Nah, no feeling in the fingers.
Anger and frustration set in, right? Wrong. We made a plan, we’ll adapt the plan, then we’ll plan to adapt if we need to. We cooked a great meal at home, stayed in and watched our favorite movies and focused on what we COULD do. Together. Not always this graceful, but today it worked.
Translation: Yes, you can’t… always follow the plan. Sh-t happens.
Q5.) Will your book be Indie published/self published, or represented by an agency and sold to a traditional publisher?
My book will be Indie Published (again.)
Q6.) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
I am still writing! It has been about six months so far and I anticipate another three to four before I have a solid draft. By day I have a full time job in technology so I write by with a quill by candlelight between midnight and 2am J
Q7.) What other books in this genre would you compare your book to?
It would be presumptuous for me to liken myself or my writing to these great authors but… People who enjoyed The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg will enjoy the antics in Mindy’s Musings and Yes, You Can’t.
I find that readers often mention they liked Bossy Pants by Tina Fey and Seriously, I’m Kidding by Ellen Degeneres.
Q8.) Who or what inspired you to write this book?
They say laughter is the best medicine and I agree. Plus, it’s free, has no bad side effects and is available to EVERYONE! We laugh A LOT in our house. Whether it’s my family making fun of me for unabashedly spoiling Zoey and Samson (our rescue babies, who I have completely ruined), unending practical jokes or just some inanely amusing happenings- we laugh.
It is with that in mind that I wrote this book. My husband was diagnosed with MS in 2004, at 38 years old. He is nothing short of amazing- staying positive every day with a focus on what he CAN do versus what MS has taken away. He is a brilliant role model for our kids and people with challenges of ANY kind, big or small.
When I realized we had some pretty funny stories, like most families do, that could potentially brighten someone’s day or help them learn not to take themselves so seriously, I wrote them down. I channeled my husband’s attitude and determination and the book was born.
Q9.) What else about the book might pique readers’ attention?
It is refreshingly true to life, candid and just plain funny. The humor is not forced, it just is. It is a combination of fiction and non-fiction humor and no-one is spared, including myself.
I know it will help others do the same, for challenges large or small, so I’m empowered to impart that humor without inhibition.
Q10.) Five other Indie Authors you have tagged
Coming soon. I need to get their permission before I tag them!
Mindy’s Musings Wins Honorable Mention in LuckyCinda Publishing 2013 Book Contest!
This great contest was held to help Indie authors (like me!) who are finding it a challenge to compete in today’s publishing world where thousands of new books are produced daily.
I am honored that Mindy’s Musings was selected among the more than 150 contest entrants!!
http://www.mindylevy.com/2013/06/19/m...
Book readers, reviewers, journalist and bloggers were used to determine book contest winners.
From the press release:
“Our judges were surprised and pleased by what they were reading, Dobbins said. “It is our hope that through marketing efforts, these authors can share their talents with a new audience.”
You can learn more about all of the FAB authors and their work here:
http://bookcontest2013.luckycinda.com...
I am honored that Mindy’s Musings was selected among the more than 150 contest entrants!!
http://www.mindylevy.com/2013/06/19/m...
Book readers, reviewers, journalist and bloggers were used to determine book contest winners.
From the press release:
“Our judges were surprised and pleased by what they were reading, Dobbins said. “It is our hope that through marketing efforts, these authors can share their talents with a new audience.”
You can learn more about all of the FAB authors and their work here:
http://bookcontest2013.luckycinda.com...
Superzoey- Dog of Steel
Faster than a speeding tennis ball across the lawn, more powerful than the hardest chew toy, able to leap tall hedges in a single bound.
Meet Superzoey- Dog of Steel. To best be in a position to use her amazing powers in a never-ending battle for milk bones, car rides and belly rubs, Superzoey has assumed the disguise of simply, “Zoey”, a mild mannered rescue pup living in suburban Atlanta.
Check her out here: http://youtu.be/GkcZH9OJbv4
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the bathroom lately. Wait, no, I am NOT oversharing, it’s not what you think. Read on.
Summer brings lots of wonderful things. Flowers in bloom. Kids out of school. Smores by campfires.
And thunderstorms. Lots of thunderstorms.
Many of you met Samson and Zoey when I introduced them on my website: http://www.mindylevy.com/2013/01/26/d... If you haven’t, you should. Samson is the sexy cat (literally) in the stroller. If that doesn’t entice you to read, I don’t know what will.
Back to summer storms… and dogs in capes.
Zoey is our 8 and a half year old husky-greyhound mix. She is incredibly loveable and quite spry for a middle aged pup. She loves to run, play ball (though she’s not keen on returning it) and, until recently, she loved camping.
We take Zoey to the mountains with us where she romps with other dogs, runs freely on trails and relaxes by the fire at night with the rest of us campers. Until one fateful night a few years back, she was a (bad pun alert) happy camper.
Then, following a bad thunderstorm while camping, she developed a paralyzing fear, for which we have found no remedy. It’s awful and we feel helpless. We’ve tried everything- Benadryl, melatonin, thunder shirts, thunder capes, and more.
The only thing that makes a dent is music therapy. Seriously, blasting some classic Eric Clapton and keeping her close (which is not difficult as the electric current from the storm induces a magical force that transforms Zoey into a canine magnet) have been our only solace when the skies go gray.
Along with music, she seems to prefer a small, enclosed space in which to pant, drool, shake and otherwise panic. This brings us to the bathroom.
So… “I’ve been spending a lot of time in the bathroom lately. Wait, no, I am NOT oversharing, it’s not what you think.” Get the idea now?
A small storm just passed through, no more than 15 minutes, a couple of thunder boomers and done. But in this case, size doesn’t matter. You only need a tiny tempest and the droolfest starts. So we retreated to the bathroom, Superzoey and I. I held her close and played some Clapton. Together we sat, Zoey panting, me comforting, waiting out the storm.
The incident inspired me to share what I am branding the Seven Stages of Thunderstorm Grief. Any animal lover will experience these stages with their anxiety-ridden furrbabies and I just want to shed a ray of hope that things WILL get better.
THE SEVEN STAGES OF THUNDERSTORM GRIEF© (by me, Mindy Levy)
1. Denial (dear G-d, not again!)
2. Pain (so worried about our pup that it hurts.)
3. Anger and Bargaining (I’ll do whatever you want if she would just f’ing stop panting.)
4. Reflection (I can see myself in her drool pile, and I look pretty good.)
5. Upward Turn (thunder has a-l-m-o-s-t stopped!)
6. Reconstruction (yesss, safe to mop up the drool pile!)
7. Acceptance and Hope (that our poor pup is stuck with this phobia but we know better days are coming.)
If you have similar issues with your best buddies, I’d love to hear what you do to help them. As for Zoey, she is a superhero to us every day.
http://www.mindylevy.com/2013/06/28/s...Mindy LevyMindy's Musings
Meet Superzoey- Dog of Steel. To best be in a position to use her amazing powers in a never-ending battle for milk bones, car rides and belly rubs, Superzoey has assumed the disguise of simply, “Zoey”, a mild mannered rescue pup living in suburban Atlanta.
Check her out here: http://youtu.be/GkcZH9OJbv4
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the bathroom lately. Wait, no, I am NOT oversharing, it’s not what you think. Read on.
Summer brings lots of wonderful things. Flowers in bloom. Kids out of school. Smores by campfires.
And thunderstorms. Lots of thunderstorms.
Many of you met Samson and Zoey when I introduced them on my website: http://www.mindylevy.com/2013/01/26/d... If you haven’t, you should. Samson is the sexy cat (literally) in the stroller. If that doesn’t entice you to read, I don’t know what will.
Back to summer storms… and dogs in capes.
Zoey is our 8 and a half year old husky-greyhound mix. She is incredibly loveable and quite spry for a middle aged pup. She loves to run, play ball (though she’s not keen on returning it) and, until recently, she loved camping.
We take Zoey to the mountains with us where she romps with other dogs, runs freely on trails and relaxes by the fire at night with the rest of us campers. Until one fateful night a few years back, she was a (bad pun alert) happy camper.
Then, following a bad thunderstorm while camping, she developed a paralyzing fear, for which we have found no remedy. It’s awful and we feel helpless. We’ve tried everything- Benadryl, melatonin, thunder shirts, thunder capes, and more.
The only thing that makes a dent is music therapy. Seriously, blasting some classic Eric Clapton and keeping her close (which is not difficult as the electric current from the storm induces a magical force that transforms Zoey into a canine magnet) have been our only solace when the skies go gray.
Along with music, she seems to prefer a small, enclosed space in which to pant, drool, shake and otherwise panic. This brings us to the bathroom.
So… “I’ve been spending a lot of time in the bathroom lately. Wait, no, I am NOT oversharing, it’s not what you think.” Get the idea now?
A small storm just passed through, no more than 15 minutes, a couple of thunder boomers and done. But in this case, size doesn’t matter. You only need a tiny tempest and the droolfest starts. So we retreated to the bathroom, Superzoey and I. I held her close and played some Clapton. Together we sat, Zoey panting, me comforting, waiting out the storm.
The incident inspired me to share what I am branding the Seven Stages of Thunderstorm Grief. Any animal lover will experience these stages with their anxiety-ridden furrbabies and I just want to shed a ray of hope that things WILL get better.
THE SEVEN STAGES OF THUNDERSTORM GRIEF© (by me, Mindy Levy)
1. Denial (dear G-d, not again!)
2. Pain (so worried about our pup that it hurts.)
3. Anger and Bargaining (I’ll do whatever you want if she would just f’ing stop panting.)
4. Reflection (I can see myself in her drool pile, and I look pretty good.)
5. Upward Turn (thunder has a-l-m-o-s-t stopped!)
6. Reconstruction (yesss, safe to mop up the drool pile!)
7. Acceptance and Hope (that our poor pup is stuck with this phobia but we know better days are coming.)
If you have similar issues with your best buddies, I’d love to hear what you do to help them. As for Zoey, she is a superhero to us every day.
http://www.mindylevy.com/2013/06/28/s...Mindy LevyMindy's Musings
The Little Bar of Soap
Kevin was using a little bar of soap on Sunday to “make the windows work”, a project for which he offered no detail. I had provided the bar of soap from one of my travel stashes I collected from the hotel in California where I stay regularly.
A few days later it magically appeared on our bathroom sink. After a couple of days I asked him if it was there for a reason. He responded with: “It depends on what you want to do with it.”
Seriously? I didn’t put the grubby, sawdust-laden bar of soap on the sink, he did. I told him he is a master of deflection who can verbally wrap anyone around a tree. A lesser person would have accepted the transfer of responsibility for a bizarre hoarding of dirty soap to herself.
Fortunately, I have extensive experience with the Kevin school of “it’s you, not me” humor. I put it right back on him saying I simply provided the tool for his project and had relinquished ownership of the soap upon the hand off. Any subsequent activity with said soap was under his watch and ownership. I was very proud of myself!
Until he did an end run on me closing the debate with: “Well, the soap came from your travel pack. It’s yours.”
Game over.
A few days later it magically appeared on our bathroom sink. After a couple of days I asked him if it was there for a reason. He responded with: “It depends on what you want to do with it.”
Seriously? I didn’t put the grubby, sawdust-laden bar of soap on the sink, he did. I told him he is a master of deflection who can verbally wrap anyone around a tree. A lesser person would have accepted the transfer of responsibility for a bizarre hoarding of dirty soap to herself.
Fortunately, I have extensive experience with the Kevin school of “it’s you, not me” humor. I put it right back on him saying I simply provided the tool for his project and had relinquished ownership of the soap upon the hand off. Any subsequent activity with said soap was under his watch and ownership. I was very proud of myself!
Until he did an end run on me closing the debate with: “Well, the soap came from your travel pack. It’s yours.”
Game over.
