Humor | thesmartlyny.com

What I won’t miss when the world comes to an end

April 1, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 13 Comments

I can’t help but think that this little planet earth might not be around for much longer. I don’t stay up at night shaking in my bed sheets, but I believe Mother Nature has grown bored with our inability to get along, to exercise regularly and to share the TV remote. You got to admit that the frisky Mamma has been working overtime lately.

The other day I was getting so overwhelmed by the news of the world that it got me thinking. What would I not miss if the world comes to an end? I have to say it was this first time in weeks that a smile graced my face.

Think about it. When we become tiny little particles floating around the Milky Way, there will be no more:

Taxes
Boxed wine
Glenn Back
Fat free food
Water retention
Knock knock jokes
Charlie Sheen (ahhh…I just want to stay here for a minute)
Scales that lie
Paper cuts
Computer hackers (there is a special place in hell for them).
Songs about women and trucks
Certain shades of pink
A generation who feels they are just entitled to it all (while not doing a damn thing)
Snakes
Vomit of any kind – not that there is good vomit, but my cats like to leave it so I can find it with my bare feet.
Car repairs that you have to sell an organ to finance
Men who say they will call, but never do. Hey Hackers – please make some room.
Public bathrooms
Dressing rooms lighting
Making lists

So I have done my job with making the end sound a little sweeter.

What’s on your list?

Filed Under: Humor, Opinion, Spirituality

Mind Over Matter

March 22, 2011 By Jessica Safran 9 Comments

In January 1990, my friend Nate and I were enthralled by an intriguing New Zealand tourist attraction: bungee jumping off a 160-foot crane perched over Auckland Harbor. We hung around watching people jump off the crane and bounce around over the water, whooping and hollering with resonant joy.

We liked that sound.

We decided to jump the following day. The entire night and morning of the next day we buzzed with a happy restlessness, anticipating our jumps with nervous excitement.

Nate dove off head first and screamed with abandon, his T-shirt gathered around his neck from the force of the bounce, exposing his pale chest. Five minutes later he was standing next to me, beaming.

“How was it?” I asked.

Although it was overcast that day, his eyes were a dazzling and fiery green with brown flecks ringing his dilated pupils. I looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“Go for it, Jess,” said Nate with the voice of someone speaking to me from the other side of a rite of passage. Who was I to turn down a challenge?

I paid seventy-five New Zealand dollars, and was ushered to the staging area below the crane. Sitting on the floor of a white metal cage, I was outfitted with a harness around my feet that would be attached to a thick latex bungee cord. “My lifeline,” I giggled nervously to the blond, tanned JumpMaster who was tending to me. He winked. As a final check, he expertly locked the bungee cord to my harness and tugged, and then unlocked it for the ride up. I stood. It was time. The JumpMaster entered the cage with me, and it rose slowly into the air. The pounding in my ears was so loud I couldn’t hear the JumpMaster speak to me. Uncomprehending, I watched his lips move.

Suddenly, everything stopped. There was only the insistent beating of my heart. Animal survival instinct had alarms going off all over my body and was doing everything it could to make me reconsider, including hosting a hemispheric butterfly migration in my stomach, and giving me a severe case of dry mouth.

“I’m attaching the bungee cord to your feet,” said the JumpMaster.

“Ok.”

“I’m going to count down ‘Three-two-one-Bungee’, and when I say ‘Bungee’, that’s your cue to jump.”

“Do I have to jump a certain way?” I asked, my stomach in my throat.

“No, just lean out and jump forward.”

“Ok,” I lied.

“Ready?”

I nodded and gulped. He slid up the door of the cage.

“Three… two… one… BUNGEEEE!”

I took a deep breath, as if I were going to plunge underwater. Fully intending to jump out of the cage and propel myself forward, I sort of stepped off—in a manner closer to falling off.

I was in free fall as the nature around me burned into my retinas and the air automatically exited my lungs in the form of a loud scream. I felt like I was remembering one of the flying or falling dreams I had every so often—only it wasn’t a memory, and it wasn’t a dream. I watched as the surface of Auckland Harbor rushed up to meet me and passionately hoped I wouldn’t break it.

My bungee cord was at that time-stopping standstill point between being stretched to capacity and snapping back. In that moment I faced the water in silent wonder, praying Hello as one tiny drop of awareness should to an expansive water totem. I rebounded into the air, flying. A few minutes later I was back on land, rubber-kneed and giggling, hugging Nate as my flattened viscera slowly decompressed from the top of my thoracic cavity.

I realized I’d subjected myself to something very dangerous—and pointless. Though maybe not so pointless: I’d imposed my will over my animal instinct. The adrenaline high lasted for days.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia Tagged With: animal instinct, Auckland, bungee jumping, crane, falling, flying, New Zealand, survival instinct

How Can I Get Old If I Refuse To Grow Up?

March 14, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 7 Comments

I have been saying for years that growing up, getting old and slipping into sensible shoes is someone else’s future. Not mine. No levelheaded hair styles for me, and while I am at it, lose the “can I help you ma’am?” attitude. If I needed help, I would call upon any one of my admirers once those silly restraining orders against me have been lifted.

So the other day, I am going about my fantasy life and this little ditty shows up in my email box. I asked if the sender wanted to be identified and she foolishly said, “I don’t care.” So, this is Esme, my oldest friend. We have known each other since we were three when I came flying out of my parent’s house to inform Esme and her mother to stay off my property. The police report noted that I spat at Esme, but I think that was a gross exaggeration. At that age, I was still drooling on myself.

“You know what else I hate? Getting ready for bed. Between the going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, using the water pic, going to the bathroom, removing the makeup- without which I can’t leave the house anymore- cleansing my face, going to the bathroom, applying numerous anti aging moisturizers, layer by layer because I figure if one doesn’t work, there are 10 more on top to cover for it, going to the bathroom, taking all my various medications and constipation remedies, checking the door and going to the bathroom, it takes me an hour and I’m already tired when I started. There is nothing good that I can think of about getting old.

I forgot to mention, I have to wear glasses if I want to see anyone more than 15 feet away from me and even in the last row of the movies, where I have to sit. They’re very stylish- Do you know how freaking old I feel? This is besides the other glasses that I have to wear if I’m interested in reading anything- like the labels on the increasing medications that I take – do you know how freaking old I feel?

Just a thought…….”

My, she does go on, doesn’t she? I have to admit I laughed my butt off and then I had to go the bathroom. The power of suggestion is very strong.

I am not immune when it comes to reaching my next birthday. Several years ago, I had to start to take Synthroid because I have a thyroid that refused to get down and give me 50 sit ups. I asked for how long I would have to take this medication and the doctor said “forever.” I started to cry. So I am not Superwoman. I have to call my doctor out on this one. She told me I would start to lose those stubborn (fill in blank) pounds that were hanging around. Oh, really. Does it say big, fat liar on your diploma?

And I do find it a little insulting when I go to a new doctor and they ask how many meds I am on and say “two.” They look at me as if this poor dear is losing it. How about good genes?

For as long as I have known Esme, and when we are not in a wine induced haze, we are sarcastic, intelligent, humorous, catty and self deprecating. The latter is to keep those aging police from coming to round us up. We kill them all with our charm. Charm doesn’t age. Nor does it get brown spots. And in my world those damn spots are freckles. End of story. Oh, but before I really end it, the two of us can hold our own in a room filled with 30 and 40 year olds. Well, as long as they are men.

I can’t help Esme when it comes to wearing eyeglasses. I just look at them as accessories that keep me from falling down the stairs. Sort of like earrings with radar.

Same goes with constipation remedies. To know my family, is to know that we do not have bodily functions. It was never discussed amongst my people. I see the ads for the whole assortment of things our bodies do or don’t do and wonder who are these people who take such things and why do they not live in my village?

So in closing, I want to say to all…what was I talking about?

Not!

Nature gives you the face you have at twenty; it is up to you to merit the face you have at fifty.
- – - – Coco Chanel

The photo above was taken before everyone started to use Botox. I do miss the waxed lips days. (we do not dress alike -I was living in NY and Esme was living in Italy so there were enough miles between us.)

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: Botox, Coco Chanel, Esme, getting old, Italy, not growing up, nthroid, sensible shoes, Thyroid

Confession: I watch a soap opera

March 3, 2011 By Katie Barber 4 Comments

Those of you who know me know that I have a favorite soap opera. It might be slightly misleading to refer to it as my “favorite,” implying that I have tried other soap operas and this one has emerged the winner, when that is not the case. This has always been my one and only soap opera. I’m not concerned with the semantics, however; I will proudly declare that it is my favorite, and I DVR it every day.

I was first seduced by this soap opera when I was in high school. The summer storylines centered around younger characters (which, I now understand, is a ploy to entice the younger viewers home on summer vacation, just like me) and even included a guest stint by a popular R&B artist, and, most importantly, the show was only thirty minutes long and on during lunch. It was the easiest thing to watch while eating my sandwich before moving on with my day.

My devotion to the soap waned when school started each fall, but, each summer, I picked back up where I left off. Sometimes there were new characters, or old characters replaced by new actors, but I only needed a few days to get back into the swing of things. I became a regular viewer in college, and, in a happy surprise, the girl who lived across the hall in my sorority house was also a fan. When she and I lived together with a third roommate, we recruited that roommate as well. We taped the show (because we had VCRs back then) and watched it together every day. We crafted a sign with cut-out pictures from Soap Opera Digest that read: STOP! DID YOU REMEMBER TO TAPE THE SOAP? We affixed it near the lightswitch so that the last person out in the morning would check to make sure that the VCR was set.

Our love for this soap opera, while a little silly, has helped keep us tight. We don’t see each other often (I live in New York, one lives in Chicago, and the other lives in downstate Illinois), and our lives are not as parallel as they once were (I dropped off the radar for years during law school, one runs marathons, and the other has a husband and a baby), but we can always connect through the soap. It’s our own special language. We regularly exchange emails, texts, and tweets voicing our disbelief about the leading lady’s latest scandal, our concerns over another character’s increasingly bad wigs, or our opinion on which beau the young blonde should choose.

Some people find it surprising that I have such a dedication to a soap opera. Soap operas are, after all, a dying form of entertainment and still conjure images of the target viewers being housewives eating bon-bons. I’m not embarrassed about it, however. The show provides some escapism and some laughs (because, honestly, sometimes the plot lines are too ridiculous to be taken seriously), and, most importantly, it helps me keep in touch with some of my dearest friends!

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, MISC

Don’t try this at home: Five tips to save your sanity while working at home

March 1, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 18 Comments

When the time comes and you decide to work at home, please follow these fool-proof tips. I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but this fool didn’t and now I wish I had a Fairy God Mama who would have pointed me in the right direction. There is nothing worse than having your clothes hire a SWAT negotiator to get them out of your closet and into a safe house.

Number One with a bullet: For the love of God and everything we hold dear in this world, do not, I repeat, do not buy sweat pants for comfort while working. You can be just as brilliant in your own damn trousers! I fell under the spell of “well, they are kind of cool black sweats and I did not buy them at Wal-Mart and I could even go walking with them on” line of crap. I don’t care if Giorgio Armani designed sweats for his couture line. Do not wear them at home while working. They do have their place – putting laundry in, cleaning out a litter box or 5 but if you sit in front of your computer for 12 to 18 hours a day, you will develop a HUGE butt and don’t get me started on locating the land where small waistlines go. You need to feel the cold, hard metal of a zipper against your flesh each day of your life.

Number Two: Get outside everyday. Regardless of the weather, open the front door, crack open a window and escape. Don’t put it off until later in the day because you know damn well you won’t do it. Don’t wait till the cops show up because the neighbors thought they smelled something funky coming from your house. You don’t need to read your obituary in the paper. They always put a picture of you with in your eyes closed. Take the cat for a walk.

Number Three: Cleanliness is next to impossible if you don’t bathe. I could write a book, but I am in the shower. Finally.

Number Four: If the green mold on the bread starts to bubble, call the Hazardous Materials hotline number. These guys could use a good laugh and who knows maybe you’ll get invited out to lunch. I would just suggest that someone else taste the food.

Number Five: Oprah’s Final Season. And try as you may, you can’t just unplug your computer and move it to the bedroom to watch Ms. O’s 25th Season. Why don’t I have a lap top? Silly, I work at home now and my 401K just had last rites…again.

So now I will keep on working in heels with a fully made up face and 2 pairs of Spanx. As God as my witness.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Opinion

Looking for My Mula Bandha

February 24, 2011 By Deborah Batterman 12 Comments

Full disclosure: I’ve been doing yoga for a long time, long enough to have mastered some advanced poses I still won’t go near. Call me uncertain, call me cautious, call me teetering on an edge, the one between feeling fully grounded and light enough to let go.

Or maybe I just haven’t quite accessed that sweet spot, mysterious in name, mula bandha. Some yoga teachers I’ve experienced make an assumption of visualizing the internal, the ‘root lock’ (two inches below the belly button and one inch in) at the core, one of the three through which prana flows. Contract the perineum, think of Kegel exercises; sometimes it gets even more anatomically specific. Other teachers go from the outside in, focusing on form and structure, the inherent geometry of a perfectly balanced downward-facing dog. I’ve had the great fortune to work with an especially brilliant teacher who peppers her classes with Taoist wisdom, baseball imagery, and the unfailing measure of a right angle, and once said, while maneuvering one of my limbs into a place it did not know it could go, that I was a 70-watt bulb operating at 30 watts. I took it as compliment, a glimmer of possibility. Putting aside the suggestion that hands-on adjustments make for touchy topics these days, it all boils down to trust. When the student is ready, the teacher appears.

Everything evolves, even the way we inhabit the practice of yoga, and in a world connected in ways the ancients could never have imagined (or did they?), there’s cross-breeding of paradigms, niches to be marketed, no need for a one-size-fits-all mentality, East and West melding in some new direction. So call me a little cynical now, even a cliché: a woman on the brink of some enlightened life, my age (sixty-one-ish) in perfect sync with the era I most identify with, who has been doing yoga long enough to laugh at articles suggesting that yoga mats are passé, possibly even unsanitary (I <3 my yoga mat); or that Tara Stiles’s approach to teaching makes her a rebel in yoga clothes; or that laughter yoga (you can’t make this stuff up) is, for some, the best medicine of all.

What you get out of yoga – or any discipline – is what you bring to it. Fear of going upside down? Little by little it dissolves. I used to measure my progress by how close I was to doing a full wheel (don’t ask me the Sanskrit name, just think of a gorgeous backbend) each year. Now I’ve stopped measuring my progress, which may, in yogic terms, be the most progress of all. And if I still have trouble finding my mula bandha in mountain pose, maybe all I need is to shift gears, turn my gaze outside the box, take a Zumba class at the gym.

Visit Deborah’s website here . . .

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Spirituality

Monkey philosophy

February 17, 2011 By Jessica Safran 9 Comments

My six-year-old daughter has a bit of the philosopher in her. She asks a lot of questions. Often it’s the same question multiple times, as if asking it will make her desired outcome happen faster.

On a fifteen-minute walk to a friend’s house for a play date, five minutes into the journey she asked, “Mommy, are we there yet?”

“No … you know where we are.”

A minute of quiet walking, then: “Mommy, are we there yet?”

“Monkey, you just asked me that a minute ago. Do you see where we are?”

“Yes.”

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

Ninety seconds go by.

Monkey, whining: “MOMMEEE, are we there yet? My feet hurt.”

Me, trying a new approach: “Yep. We’re there.”

Silence.

Monkey, smiling: “No, we’re not!”

Me: “We’re not? You’re kidding! Uh oh! Where are we then?”

Sometimes the questions are about bigger topics, like the one I got yesterday after we chatted about her six-week-old cousin: “Mommy, how does the mommy get the baby out?”

“Well, the mommy goes into labor. Labor means ‘work.’ Getting the baby out is hard work. Here, put on your socks, we have to go.”

The questions these days are more about the physical world, but two years ago when she was four, I was already getting the metaphysical questions. One night she asked me what God looked like while I was flossing her teeth. “That’s a very good question, Monkey. It’s hard to say exactly what God looks like because you might say God is everywhere.” She looked uncertain, either because of my vague explanation, or her anticipation of her least favorite part of the nightly flossing routine. I went for those two tricky back teeth in the upper right of her mouth. “Although some people imagine God as a man with a flowing white robe and long white hair and a beard,” I offered, pulling out the floss with a pop, as Monkey winced. She smacked her lips, happy to be done.

“A man with a white robe and long hair and a beard?” she giggled, not sure if I was kidding.

Later that night, I gave Monkey a big, squeezy hug as I tucked her in bed. “No matter how old you are, you’ll always be my baby!”

“Even when I’m old?”  she asked.

“Even when you’re old.”

“Even when I’m fifty?”

“Even then, when I’m eighty-eight.”   I thought of my own mother, whose age remains highly classified and who has always had the ability to reduce me emotionally to a cranky fifteen-year-old no matter how old I am.

“Eighty-eight? That’s SUPER old!” Monkey gazed at me lovingly, stroking my cheek with her hand. Her face then grew somber, and she innocently ambushed me.

“Mommy, what if you die? How am I going to find food by myself? How will I know what to do?”

My heart skipped a beat in my rib cage. “Oh Monkey … you will know how to take care of yourself long before I die. I promise.”

“I hope we die together—I want to be right next to you. Will we be together when we die?”

The nightlight blurred.

Suddenly, I squeezed her again, even tighter. I forced myself to breathe deeply in order to respond with a steady voice. “Monkey, no matter what happens, we will be together, always.”

“That makes me happy, Mommy.”

I released my hold on her and stroked her hair. “Me too, Monkey.”

*
We’re now two blocks from the play date.

“Mommy … are we there yet?

“Almost!” I declare, triumphant.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Parenting, Spirituality

The Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards and Me: Separated at Birth.

February 15, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 2 Comments

I want to come back as The Stones’ Keith Richards in this lifetime. Just in case I am scheduled to back as a frog in my next life.

I mentioned this to The Husband and he threw up a little in his mouth. He is used to me making proclamations that others would not dare to dream, much less utter, but perhaps he needs to hear me out. So sit back and be ready to be dazzled by the likes of Keith Richards – guitarist to the second best rock and roll band that ever existed. I got to give The Beatles their props. I think Keith will understand that.

I have not read Richards’s memoir “Life” (it is sitting in a pile by my bed) but I have seem him being interviewed recently and I want him and his family to come to my house for Easter. Okay, my sister’s house. I don’t cook. I get to make a salad. I am told my salads are legendary. Because I can open a can of black olives? Aim higher, people.

Okay, back to Keith. Each interview I have seen on him leaves me wanting more. My first “ahha” moment with Keith was when he talked about being drug free for 30 years and yet no one will let him move on. Ah, Keith, allow me to introduce you to my family. I did things when I was 16 that they still talk about. I am not going to tell them about the Nobel Peace Prize I won this year. It doesn’t compare to what I did at as a teen. So I get that, Keith, I really do. Ironically, I wrote OD first. Which you are not doing anymore.

So I plan on having a party for all of us poor souls that people determined would die young. Pssst….We are still here.

When asked what his big regret in life was – it wasn’t dancing with heroin or any other self destructive behavior he exhibited. It was not being there when his two month old son, Tara, died. You saw the sadness in his eyes and felt his deep regret. That made me want to put my arms around him. He was a father still mourning a 34 year old loss.

So now at the age of 66, he tends to his garden in CT., grows lemon trees, and comes clean about Mick Jagger being a royal pain in the arse. Based on his findings I withdraw my petition to sleep with Mick. I like it when men remember my name. Yeah, like Mick would forget me.

And finally, what I really like about Keith Richards is this:

He gets to walk around in all his glory. The last time I saw wrinkles like his they were on an elephant.

I think his face is a message to all of us women – show your history – line by line.

Of course, he is not a woman. See you all at the plastic surgeon’s office. I am going for the Keith look.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Opinion

Early resolution success

February 1, 2011 By Katie Barber 3 Comments

I imagine I’m not alone when I say I have a rather dismal track record where New Year’s Resolutions are concerned. Every year I resolve to eat better, exercise more, be more fiscally responsible, and drink less – and every year I end up continuing to eat spoonfuls of peanut butter dotted with chocolate chips, use the elliptical rather apathetically, and spend too much money on overpriced drinks (effectively knocking out two resolutions with one stone – or martini olive).

To date, my most successful resolution was the year that I resolved to eat tomatoes. Tomatoes had long been my arch-nemesis. They often appeared in my least-favorite meals as a child (spaghetti, chili, and meatloaf), and I didn’t care for them in their raw form either. I didn’t like anything about them: the taste, the texture, the appearance. I found the seeds to particularly offensive. Tomatoes are full of lycopene, though, which I had heard was good for you, and so I resolved to eat tomatoes.

And, by God, I learned to eat tomatoes.

Encouraged, I tried a similar resolution the next year with beets, but my success was only marginal. I can now consume small portions of beets – assuming, of course, that they have been coated in olive oil, salt, and pepper and roasted until almost unrecognizable.

It took the entire year to see any results with both the tomato and beet resolutions. This year, however, I am pleased to report progress on my primary resolution in just the first month!

My primary resolution – the one that I have deemed most important – of 2011 is to stop being so unnecessarily competitive. I’m not a terribly competitive person in other aspects of my life, but, for reasons that I don’t understand, I’m in a constant race against other people on the sidewalks, even if I’m not going anywhere particular, and I get irritated when people step in front of me while I’m waiting for the train, even if the train has plenty of open seats and/or I’m only going one stop. I can’t even fly Southwest because the open seating policy gives me anxiety for days before my flight.

Clearly, this is not the best way to go through life, and so I resolved to change it.

My Wednesday night yoga class is usually a pitfall for me. The small room fills quickly, and some spots are clearly less desirable than others. Another class is scheduled in the studio just before ours, and a loose line forms outside the door. I usually spend the fifteen minutes before class trying to make sure that I have the best possible spot in line and worrying that people will cut in front of me and get a better spot. Now that I’ve made a conscious effort to rein it in, I found myself remaining calm while I waited for the most recent class.

My yoga practice definitely benefited from me not getting worked up before class, and I’m delighted that my resolutions are off to such a great start. Now if only I can find a way to work on those peanut butter spoons …

Filed Under: Humor, MISC

Skiing and cosmetics

January 18, 2011 By Katie Barber 4 Comments

Skiing and cosmetics are forever linked in my mind, so much so that, when some friends proposed a ski trip to Vermont this winter, my instinct was to check my make-up in a mirror. It may seem a bit odd, but the truth of the matter is that I learned to wear make-up because of skiing – and not because I thought that it would protect my face from windburn.

When I was in junior high, I went on a community ski trip to a resort a couple of hours away. At this point, I should probably mention that I didn’t grow up in Vermont or Colorado or any other state notable for skiing. I grew up in Illinois, a state associated much more strongly with flat plains than anything resembling a mountain. The terrain does get a bit hilly in the southern most part of the state, but I am from central Illinois, where the land is as flat as can be.

This was the second year that I had been on the ski trip to a small resort with a smattering of modest slopes and a dusting of man-made snow. I found it wildly exciting, and I was feeling confident in my skiing capabilities. I had made it off the bunny slope the previous year! I imagined myself practically an expert. I eagerly strapped on my rented boots and skis, and I headed out the lodge door.

That was when I fell off the cliff.

It’s something a misnomer to call it a cliff, but that’s certainly what it seemed to be. There was a significant drop-off just mere yards away from the lodge door, something that everyone else had managed to avoid, but that I, an overly excited and slightly clumsy thirteen-year-old tripped right over. Apparently my tumble over the edge was rather spectacular, but I don’t remember any of it. I knocked myself completely out, thankfully unaware of the resulting toboggan rescue by the resort staff. I was relegated to the infirmary for the remainder of the day, where I watched a tiny black and white television while all my friends skied.

I returned home with a face that was half black-and-blue, and the bruise looked angrier the next morning. The discoloration was impossible not to notice, and so my mother bought me my first tube of concealer to mitigate the damage. I doctored my face with it for weeks, and, when the bruise was finally gone, I had grown used to putting on make-up. Although I can put on my cosmetics every day without thinking about skiing, whenever I think about skiing, I inevitably think about make-up.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia