What Makes Me Laugh

Yesterday I got an unexpected call from my massage therapist. “Hey, I’m looking for Doug. He hasn’t shown up for his appointment yet and I can’t reach him on his phone. I’m just wondering if he’s lost.”

Lost? In Livingston? This was theoretically possible since it was his first appointment with her, but I thought I had provided adequate directions the night before when he asked me if I knew how to get to her house.

“Oh, she lives just down the street from Mary,” I said, with a wave of my hand as if that wave would fill in the necessary details.

“She said something about turning down an alley,” he muttered.

I should have known then that I needed to be more explicit.

He called me fifteen minutes after his appointment had passed and I asked, “What happened?”

‘”I’ve just spent a half hour driving around a three block area,” he said. I could tell he was frustrated. “I still don’t know where she lives. I finally flagged a woman down in her yard and asked her, ‘Do you know a woman named Allison? She’s petite? Blonde? She gives massages.’”

The woman denied knowing Allison even though they lived next door to each other. “Don’t you get it?” I laughed. ”She probably thought you were a stalker!”

“Especially since I drove around the block slowly for a half hour.”

Anyway, Doug had to reschedule his appointment because he was so late, and he’s certain to have started a neighborhood watch alert in the process, but this is not something that typically happens to him. It typically happens to me.

My sense of direction is literally nonexistent. When I have to guess, it’s almost always the wrong guess. I once got lost during a run where I only made two right turns, and ended up causing my in-laws to be late for their daughter’s wedding rehearsal dinner. 

 This happens to me all the time. In fact, I now have to deliberate over whether I should go the other way just because my intuition told me the opposite.

My mother has this problem (so it’s inherited), but she is absolutely sure she’s right when she’s telling you which way to turn while driving. “Right, turn right,” she commands, and you do it, and then you spend 15 minutes trying to get turned around so that you can go left again.

Whereas, my brother inherited my father’s directional gifts including a superhuman talent that enables him to find his way anywhere in any city around the world without a map. He’s like a walking GPS unit.What I could do with this power!

I, on the other hand, struggle to grasp the concept of north, south, east, and west. Right now, I am in terror of anyone asking me which way is north in Bozeman. Seriously.

 Combine this lack of direction with the unwillingness to ask for directions (my pride will not suffer such a fall) and you usually have a recipe for disaster. Let’s just say that I have to add in an extra half hour for any appointment at a new place, and I could use a GPS unit in my car. Doug wouldn’t need one if I gave better directions.

My friend Amy posted this on her facebook page and I had to steal it. She says it’s her favorite commercial of all time and I have to agree. This post is dedicated to my father, who is the ultimate cowboy cat herder in our family, especially when my mom is out of town. Truly, I watched it three times and laughed every time. Take a look and have yourself a laugh too.

I’m giving up watching male figure skating for Lent. It’s really not fair to make fun of them. Honestly, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel (not that I even think shooting fish in a barrel would be that easy, let alone fun to do, but you know what I mean).

But before I purge, I need to binge. Here’s a sample of our in-home commentary watching the Olympic male figure skating competition last night.

Doug says, “It’s hard to believe that’s a triple, huh?”

I say, “It’s hard to believe that’s a man.”

The real commentator says, “That was hot.”

I came of age in the era of Elvis Stojko and Kurt Browning, when male figure skaters still had some sex appeal to women. But sadly, things have changed, and I’m finding it more disturbing than sexy.

Last night I discovered that the new trend in male skating costumes are fancy gloves, the kind your grandmother wore to hide liver spots, not to keep her warm. If this wasn’t bad enough, some skaters wore oversized mittens, as if the skater suffered from chicken pox and needed to wear gloves to keep from scratching himself during the event.

Even the “most masculine” of the United States figure skaters, Evan Lysacek, wore gloves with feathers on them. When he put his hand up to his face he looked like he was holding a feathered fan. It wouldn’t surprise me if he wore a feather boa in the long competition tomorrow night.  

To keep cringeworthiness down, I think at least one judge should be completely dedicated to rating the costumes, and deductions should be given for any costume that inspires you to say things like, “I think he’s wearing a bodice. Is that a bodice?”

Close to the end of the competition, one skater appeared behind the rink to talk with his parents and from what I could see of his top half I thought he might provide some relief. He didn’t have his hair gelled, and his shirt was flannel. What I couldn’t see was the bottom half of his costume, which was meant to look like a carpenter’s overalls, only with one of the suspenders hanging uselessly by his side, making me think he was really going to put on a stripping show on ice.

Despite the temptation, the commentators largely ignored the flamboyant costumes and provided such wise directions to viewers as, “His costume looks overpowering. It almost looks burdensome for him, but look past that.” This was the man who was dressed like a medieval soldier in a ballet. He was wearing skates that looked like leather go-go boots. It’s hard to look past that, let alone at that.

But, one commentator summed up the evening perfectly with this statement,  ”He just rocked the tassle.” Yes, indeed, of that I’m sure.

After we watched the Winter Olympic opening ceremonies last night, I could hear Doug chuckling spontaneously for a couple of hours. He wasn’t laughing about the technical failures of the torch lighting (anyone who has ever had a powerpoint presentation fail on them right before the presentation feels sorry for all involved). He wasn’t laughing about Bob Costas and Matt Lauer’s comments that organizers discovered Canadian talent “at the circus” and “on YouTube” or that so many Canadians seem to be Scottish dancers recently released from prison.

Heck, he wasn’t even laughing about kd Lang, whose body was hidden somewhere in a giant white suit. By the way, just as an aside, if they were going to show someone while they were singing, why couldn’t it have been Joni Mitchell? I’m not sure that Joni was actually there, but I would have put her up on the stage if she was.

Anyway, back to Doug’s chuckles. He was really laughing at the look on Anne Murray and Bobby Orr’s face as a Canadian opera star ruined the Olympic Hymn and scared everyone involved. She looked and sang like a woman on fire. At least her hair looked like it was on fire. And I like Opera!  It was hilarious how uncomfortable all of the special Canadians holding the Olympic flag were. You could see they just wanted to lean over and say to the next person, “Can you believe this shit? I think she’s off her meds!”

I must admit, I cried during “We Are the World,” and the prairie dance to Joni Mitchell, and the moment of silence for the fallen Georgian athlete, but I also cried laughing over that Olympic Hymn. If that was a hymn, it might have scared a few people away from singing at church tomorrow. Wow!

I’m a little road weary from the trip and sore from the run (I silently scream at the sight of stairs) but I couldn’t wait to share the Vegas blow-by-blow since it’s so good.

I’m doling out by day, so check back for the new installments. Sorry there’s no pic for the first day – I missed my photographer (Doug) on this trip.

Friday

1:00 p.m.

What happens in Vegas does not stay in Vegas. Montana is a really big state with a population the size of a Neanderthal cave. What I’m getting at is that we all know each other, or know someone who knows someone we know, and so there are no real secrets. Which is why I shouldn’t have been that surprised when I got on the plane and locked eyes with a familiar face. I know that person. What is his name?  Peter? Tom? God, I don’t remember. All I know is, he’s from my hometown 300 miles north of here (pop. 500 or so) and I’m sure he knows my parents, as does the woman sitting next to him, who recognizes me and shouts, “Hey, what are you doing here?”  I do know her (she went to high school with me). She and the rest of the plane are going to watch the National Finals Rodeo in Vegas, and everyone laughs when she jokes, “We’re going to be doing a marathon all right, but we ain’t gonna be running.”

1:30 p.m.

Montana rednecks love to show off their scars. I’m reading Vanity Fair when I hear the man sitting next to my friend Crystal start up a conversation with her. First he asks if she’ll keep his Bud Light while he goes to the bathroom (he later tells a woman he knows not to go in ’cause he peed all over the seat), then he grosses her out with the description of his various scars. Let’s see here, he squeezed a bottle so hard that he shattered the glass and severed the tendons in his fingers. He separated his shoulder and broke his pelvis in two from a motorcross accident. He fell on top of metal post trying to break a horse when he was 9, and had a rope burn on his arm so bad it left a permanent scar from trying to swing from a tree into the lake. And those were just the visible scars. Thank god he didn’t take off his shirt! I said, “So, do you think you’re lucky to be alive?” Nope. He sure didn’t. He just wished for better times, when underage drinking was winked at in Montana, when cops just asked you, “Do your parents know where you’re at?” instead of drawing their guns.  and when an old cowboy was ready to die he just stripped off his clothes in the winter and died of exposure. To top off the conversation he took a big old pinch of chew (or snoose as we call it here) and put it in his lip in front of us.

2:30 p.m.

Planes, trains, and automobiles — My dad called with some terrible news. A big storm had hit Calgary, Alberta and my sister’s flight to Vegas had been cancelled! She had been my original inspiration to sign up and train for this run (see my post, “Oh my god, you didn’t tell him!”), and this was a sister/girls trip. I caught up with her traveling in a blizzard to a hotel next to the airport so that they (she and her friend Terry) could get up early to stand in line for the first flight out on Saturday. It wasn’t looking good.

3:30 p.m.

Bellagio Hotel to Mandalay Bay for Runner’s Expo — What do runners and cowboys have in common? They both like to wear tight pants. Seriously. The city was full of cowboys and runners when we arrived. Lycra is more comfortable than jeans, as are running shoes to cowboy boots, especially when you have to walk two miles to get from your hotel to a runner’s expo. The best Vegas advice given to me was from Blake, who wrote, “I cannot overemphasize the importance of comfortable walking shoes.” It was a 2 mile walk to Mandalay Bay, which from the strip map that I had, looked like it might be two blocks. The city should have a disclaimer that “objects in your vision are not as close as they appear.” By the time we got there we were dehydrated and in need of some cytomax. If you go to Vegas, bring your own water bottles, as they charge I’m-lost-in-the-desert-and-will-pay-any-amount-of-money for water ($3-$5 a bottle).

5:30 p.m.

Cocktail Hour

The bad thing about running a race in Vegas on Sunday is that we arrived on a Friday, which meant I had to from drinking for two whole nights. It didn’t happen. First we had a Geisha cocktail at Yellowtail lounge in the Bellagio, and it was both the best cocktail I’ve ever had and the most expensive ($14). While we were there I got another text from my sister that their trip had been cancelled! Since I’m the world’s slowest texter I called to find out the details and it turned out the morning flight had been cancelled and they wouldn’t arrive until after 6. This was only a problem because they had yet to pick up their packets to run, and there were big signs posted everywhere that “No Packets will be Given to Friends or Family. No Exceptions!” You’d think we were trying to pull off an international incident, not a half marathon run given the security at that place. I promised my sister I’d get her and Terry’s packets tomorrow by hook or crook and they booked the 12:00 flight out of Calgary.

The Geisha numbed my blood and brain cells enough to pay another $14 for a roller coaster ride at New York New York (which is a different experience entirely in your 30’s then it is in your 20’s). I downed a hard cider at the Irish pub, and did a bad imitation of Riverdance on the pub floor. And finally, we sang our lungs out at the dueling piano bar, where a group of Canadians managed to buy the ultimate Canadian medley (the Canadian Hockey Song, Oh Canada, and Barenaked Ladies – If I had a Million Dollars). In a gin-induced moment, I put $20 down for Piano Man, and Crystal had to throw down another $20 to get them to play it instead of country.

So, to sum up, so far I’ve spent more than I normally budget for a week’s worth of groceries on booze, thrill rides, and bribes in 8 hours. Sounds like Vegas to me!

If you are baffled by the title of this post, then you have some learnin’ to do about sports in the frozen land of the north. It’s the 97th Superbowl of Canada this weekend (otherwise known as the Grey Cup), and the Saskatchewan Roughriders and Montreal Alouettes (I know, I know, only Canadian teams would have sports team  names this lame) are ready to rumble!

Doug and I saw the Roughriders play the Calgary Stampeders in Calgary a couple of years ago while visiting my sister and so thoroughly enjoyed our discovery of Roughrider fans (the Watermelon Heads) and the Canadian Football League (the CFL) that Doug had to snap these photos.

That’s right folks. In Saskatchewan, fans right now are digging out the fruit from their watermelons, cutting the rind to fit their heads, and then lining it with aluminum foil. In fact, I found this priceless description from a fan on what to do if you want to be a Melon Head:

“What I usually do is get a larger melon and cut the bottom quarter or so off (generally I take the part that isn’t as green and throw it away). With the large piece I hollow out the melon, usually I start with a big metal spoon, and then use a table spoon to scrape all the red out of the melon, if you have red in there still your melon will not dry very well, and will attract bugs.

Bugs? Yuck. Not so cool.

Once hollowed cut out the face hole and ear holes, and Voila you have a melon head, there is a picture of one of mine on the header of this page (fat guy in the ridgway jersey). If you are making these for kids one large melon should do, just cut it in half instead of three quarters and hollow and cut to fit. If you have a lucky melon that you want to save for another game, get a can of varathane spray and get about 20 coats all around the meon and it will last untill you get mad at a football game and smash your melon on your knee. Hopefully this will help you.”

It’s tempting to have something to smash on your knee if the game isn’t going well.

Why do they do this? It’s not because watermelons are the biggest cash crop of Saskatchewan. It’s because their team wears green helmets.

You’ve heard of Cheese Heads? They have nothing on the Watermelon Heads. In fact, female Roughrider fans frequently cut  the rinds to make watermelon bikinis, which we spotted at the game, but weren’t quick enough to snap a photo so that you’ll believe us (this is the elusive Saskatchewan watermelon bikini woman we’re talking about, like bigfoot).

The game will be played in Calgary at McMahon Stadium on Sunday, and Blue Rodeo will do the halftime show. Never heard of them? Well, you, my friend, are missing out on a classic Canadian band. The Canadian Tenors will be singing the National Anthem, “Oh, Canada.” Classy, eh? Not like our stars who turn the “Star Spangled Banner” into a pop song.

At McMahon Stadium

What, you might ask, is the difference between the CFL and the NFL? Well, the field is longer (110 yards and 65 yards wide), and they only play 3 downs, which makes for a lot more passing. They also have a way to score off of a missed field goal attempt or kickoff, called a rouge. It’s like a touchback or safety. If the Roughriders and the Alouettes end up in a tie, overtime will be settled with both teams getting a possession (unlike the NFL where they flip for it). It’s a very fun game to watch, especially if the Roughriders are in town, because the fans provide entertainment all of their own. Go Roughriders!

So, thanks to Kara and Travis, who mimicked the comments of spammers on my post about blogging spam (those wisecrackers), I had a very funny conversation with a spammer/hacker this week.

On Tuesday, I received this e-mail that said it was from my nephew Blake:

Hello,

How are you doing today? I’m written you in tears in my eye I’m sorry i didn’t inform you about my traveling to London,United Kingdom on a short vacation It has been a very sad and bad moment for me, the present condition that i found myself is very hard for me to explain.

we’re stranded in London right now, got mugged at gun point last night all cash,credit card and phone was stolen,It was a Brutal Experience but Thank God we still have our life and passport saved…our return flight leaves in few hours but having troubles sorting out the hotel bills…wondering if you could loan me some few $$ to sort out the hotel bills and also take a cab to the airport..promise to pay back as soon as we get back home…

you can have the $$ wired to my name and present location which is London,United Kingdom via western union. kindly get back to me with the full transfer details.

hope to read positively from you.

Regards..

I knew it couldn’t possibly be real, because a.) Blake can spell; b.) he’s currently in law school in Canada c.) I would know if he had gone to London (we have one of those families where that would be a big deal and someone would have mentioned it), and d.) I’m not the first person he would ask for money.

I thought, wow, he must have read my post about spam and decided to have a little fun with it. In fact, I was really impressed with his spamming skills, so I mockingly replied back:

Thanks God you still have your life and passport! Those hotel bills are hard to sort out. How much $ will you need? I will send right away.

Of course, this was the hacker’s dream response! But he didn’t know what to do with all the other stuff I put in after I mocked him, like, “I’ve been meaning to write to you about the Road.”

So, I got this reply:

“thanks for the mail i’m freaked out here and i will be glad if you help me out of here please i need you to wire me 430 bucks..promise to pay back as soon as i get back home.

below is the western union info:

Name: Blake Hafso

Location: London SE12 9T.United Kingdom

as soon as you wire the money kindly get back to me with the transfer details….

hope to read from you Asap

At this point, I still think it’s a joke (albeit a little tired one). I was really looking forward to discussing the release of the movie, “The Road” with Blake.

So, I perked up a little when I was on facebook, and Blake started to chat with me.

“Hey” he typed.

“Hey,” I typed back. “How are you doing?”

“not so good.”

“Really? Those hotel bills still getting you down? I hear they are hard to sort out.”

“Yes need you to send money right away to London.”

Brother, I thought, still, will he give this up already?

“What do you think about ‘The Road’ coming out?”

This is when I stumped the hacker. If he had known anything about Cormac McCarthy’s book, “The Road,” he might have convinced me to check whether Blake had gone to London. Might. I repeat. Might. He stopped typing, and I signed off.

A little later I noticed this note from the real Blake on his facebook page:

someone hacked my hotmail!!! I am NOT in London. Don’t send them money

I was shocked, shocked, to find out that it wasn’t Blake. And then I laughed really hard.

apparently they hacked my facebook as well. I have changed my password but if anyone asks you for money pretending to be me don’t give it to them!

A further explanation from Blake:

“ya the bastard was chatting with someone on my list while I was logged on to facebook. I looked at the bottom of the screen and became concerned that I was currently involved in a somewhat lengthy conversation but not aware of it.”

When I told him about my fake conversation he wrote to say, “The number one way to know that it isn’t me is the complete lack of a reference to “The Road”, I can’t wait for it!”

Yeah, good ‘ol Cormac McCarthy, he’ll stop a spammer in his tracks every time.

I hate paying the bills.

I’d much rather hide in the sock drawer.

Or climb up to high places.

Hunt in the snow…

Or snuggle with my sister.

It’s hard work paying the bills.

It makes me sleepy.

And a little grouchy. How ’bout you?

I’m multitasking, which means that I’m writing this blog at the same time that I’m trying to cook at the same time that I’m chuckling about Doug’s crossword clues so I hope it comes out right.

Last night Doug was doing the crossword puzzle from the Valierian, my hometown newspaper. I asked my parents for a subscription because it just might be (unintentionally) the world’s funniest newspaper. A few weeks ago they featured a long article on the new crosswalk in town. You get the picture.

So, Doug’s doing the crossword and he says, “These are the worst crossword clues I’ve ever seen.”

“Really? What are they?”

He looks over at me with the glasses slightly tilted down his nose.

“Do you know a four letter word for a dwarf buffalo?”

“No. Can’t say I know of any dwarf buffalos.”

“How ’bout a seven letter word for reused mouthwash?”

“Reused mouthwash? Seriously?”

I couldn’t stop laughing thinking about it. The correct answer was “gurgled” in case it ever comes your way. We still don’t know the answer for the dwarf buffalo.

On our refrigerator is a New Yorker cartoon with a woman sitting on a couch, talking to a man standing in the corner of a living room. The caption says, “After your tomato plants, you have nothing left over for me.”

We laugh about this cartoon but there is a grain of truth there. Doug spent hours this summer growing the perfect tomatoes. Obsessed with soil acidity, organic material, drip watering systems, growing seasons, planting depth, systems for tying the tomato up above the ground, he’s now completed the final harvest. Tonight he gathered the last of them because it’s supposed to snow in the mountains two to five inches, and that means a frost too deep for any plastic-covered tomatoes to bear. So, in honor of Doug’s hard work, and his beautiful harvest, I’m showcasing his photography. Wish you all could taste our luscious, home grown tomatoes too.