Tag: Humor

Where the buttons are

Published on by NouveauSoileau6 Comments

It’s something of a sport in my family, when things get dull and boring, to introduce a topic guaranteed to send an otherwise-content family member into complete nuclear orbit. What’s even more fun is the fact that, most of the time, the family member in question absolutely knows he or she is being picked on, but is unable … to … resist … the … urge  … to … RANT!

For some strange reason, most of these stories have to do with some mode of transportation. We’ll start with me, because I’m fair like that.

The Nut Rant. I’m sure I am not the first person to have noticed nor will I be the last to be deathly appalled by the existence of truck nuts. Ah yes, the polyurethane depiction of naked man balls, attractively attached beneath the rear bumper of a large, compensating-for-something pickup truck. No, the hilarious reaction I had when these … things first became available and/or widespread was my complete denial that they were, in fact, exactly what they appeared to be.

The scene went something like this:

Me, in the passenger seat of the car, in traffic: “What IS that hanging under that truck up there?”
Husband Tras: “What does it look like?” [suppressed laughter]
Me: “Well, it looks like testicles — good lord, what has someone got on the back of their truck that LOOKS like man parts?”
Tras: [raised eyebrows]
Me: “No.”

“No,” I said, “those are NOT manufactured depictions of human gonads. That is not what they are, because there is no one, anywhere, who would willingly and on purpose purchase and then place such a thing on the back of a vehicle. There exists nowhere in the known universe a person who would make the conscious decision to attach a replica of the most unflattering and graphically detailed piece of the human anatomy which God himself created in His image on the outside of a motor vehicle which anyone driving by could see, even GRANDMOTHERS and small children and … and …”

And. Well. Um. Ahem — yes. I guess I stand corrected, then. There is a form of humor lower than a pun — and it certainly appears that it hangs lower as well.

And so, if there is ever, at any time, something that I protest cannot possibly be, Tras has only to remind me that these things exist and I am forced to admit that indeed, the devil is loose in the world, and he is treated to Installment #487 of The Nut Rant.

Yellow Truck. Although I did not witness the birth of this long-lived peeve, I have been around for its maturation, fruition, and eventual elevation to Beating a Dead Horse heights.

It seems years ago, my brother-in-law David pointed out the idiosyncratic color scheme adopted by Yellow Transportation Inc. for its semi-tractor-trailers. They’re not, as one might reasonably predict, yellow — they are orange. Cue rant.

One day Tras entertained the children and I with the stories of the vehemence, length, and apoplectic nature of the Dave Yellow Truck Rant.™ We were, of course, delighted, and from thence forward, on any car trip, every eye was peeled for a glimpse of the hilariously rant-inducing Orange Yellow Truck.

One bright fall day, on our way South for a family get-together, one such truck was spotted and Tras snapped its photo with his phone and promptly emailed it to David, who would be joining us at our destination. The rest of the trip was merrily consumed with predictions and suggested enactments of just how David would react upon receiving the email. This we of course told him all about when we all reunited in North Carolina.

At first he was all “yeah, yeah, yeah, it bugs me, you’re all so funny, hee-hee-hee,” but, as expected, he eventually started defending his Anti-Orange Stance When It Comes to Yellow Trucks. We all sat back, pleased with ourselves, and thoroughly enjoyed the rant in full flower. (Available in either yellow or orange.)

No Hams on the Gunwale. Tras has a ski boat which I, as wife and life-partner, now own as well. Due to circumstances not particularly favorable for intensive weekends of skiing and boating (which would be, in order, the birth, rearing, and management of a 5-year-old plus the introduction of termites into the aft deck which has rendered it mostly unseaworthy) I have yet to sail upon it. Boating was, however, for many years, quite the Tras passion and I have heard many, many stories from him, his family, and his friends about the varied exploits which have, over the years, occurred on the water.

One of these was a Soileau family outing. As might be expected from an extended family which included a mother prone to making potato salad, they arrived fully laden with enough food to feed a small country for at least a week. In addition to the aforementioned potato salad, the menu apparently also consisted of pork and beans, two-liter containers of various carbonated beverages, plastic cups, silverware, and a large, fully cooked, bone-in ham.

Let us contemplate the scene. Tras deftly maneuvers the boat and trailer into the lake, the family aboard, and he quickly takes truck and trailer to the parking area so that the many other boating parties may also launch in as timely a manner as possible. This is boating etiquette and boating protocol. So when he begins to make his way back to the launch site, Tras is understandably perplexed at the long, long line of cars, boats, and trailers stretching off into infinity. My, there certainly must be a LOT of people on the lake today.

The reason for the line, it soon becomes apparent, is the presence of one boat blocking the launch site. This boat hasn’t courteously been moved out of the way so others could launch — no. It is full of a merry band of picnickers, unconcernedly quaffing Cokes and sawing away at a large ham perilously parked upon the gunwale of the craft, which has drifted not one inch.

Appalled at this breach of boating decorum and stunned at the depth and volume of the feast, Tras quickly maneuvers the family out of launch’s way and on with the day of boating. Yet the ire, it did burn.

“We knew Tras was mad about something, but we didn’t know what,” said Tras’s sister Diana years later, when the event was trotted out for public consumption.

Many apologies from boating-protocol-ignorant family. And from Tras, good humor at the ribbing — which eventually, to everyone’s delight, deteriorated into low-grade, delayed fuming.

Everyone waits for the climax of the rant, for Tras can depended upon to, at least once, recall in vivid detail the horror he felt when he returned from the parking area and saw his boat at the eye of a hurricane of boater irritation — with his oblivious family happily munching around none other than a large ham laid out upon the gunwale.

Need a comedian? Call a Catholic

Published on by NouveauSoileau2 Comments

Growing up, being Catholic was just as big a part of my life as it is today. I went to St. John the Evangelist Catholic School — for only three years, until it closed — but for those three years, baby, I went to Mass every single day.

An early childhood spent dreaming of saints, breathing incense, and contemplating stigmata is a powerful force indeed. Tell me, did YOU have to learn how to spell “excommunication” on any of your third-grade spelling tests?

(Well, I didn’t either; it was “Communion.” But still.)

Couple that with some of the habits of my parents, who were just as Catholic-soaked as their offspring— literally as it turns out — and you’ve got someone like me, who has a glow-in-the-dark Blessed Virgin next to her kitchen sink which I actually treasure dearly.

My mother is a sensible woman if ever there was one, and practical as the day is long. She can also be very funny. One of the fondest memories of my childhood is of Mom putting together the salad for the nightly meal, rinsing the various vegetables at the sink.

A random child wanders by — say, me. Mom picks up the celery.

“I bless you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit!” she cackles, spraying everyone in the vicinity with water from her dripping leafy stalk of celery.

If you’re not Catholic (or perhaps Episcopalian or Lutheran, who retain many of these same customs) you may be unaware that priests frequently bless the congregation with Holy Water, using either a special rod-like thing (called an aspergillum) that he plunges down into a vessel borne by an altar boy, or a palm frond. If you’re in the line of fire (or water, in this case) when he’s just gone back for a fresh load, you can get very wet indeed. It’s sort of the ecclesiastical version of riding the water ride at a theme park.

Exhibit B — my father. Dad didn’t just attend Catholic school; no, he went to an actual Catholic seminary (where priests are educated) for high school and one year of college. It was a boarding school and it was the 1950s. You may not be surprised to learn that all the boys were required to wear cassocks, the long black garments which priests today wear beneath their vestments and, depending on the church, so do the altar servers. His chief recollection of having to flap around in these things was that the slits in the sides, provided so that the boys had access to their pants pockets, frequently got caught up on the end of the staircase rails as the rowdy boys whirled around the banisters, late for class.

He also recalled that they were prohibited from smoking cigarettes, which is why all the boys took up pipe smoking. 1950s, remember.

At any rate, in addition to learning an awful lot of Latin, Dad also absorbed fully many of the traditions and practices of the Church. You might even say that he was infused with them. The second most-vivid comedy-gold Catholic memory of my childhood is the sight of my inventive father, swinging a thurible of his own invention and manufacture in order to hasten the heat and subsequent usability of charcoal briquettes prior to a backyard barbecue.

What’s a thurible? See right. It’s used at Mass, or on other occasions when the Church wishes to use fragrant smoke to symbolize our prayers rising to heaven, purifying what it touches. It’s pretty potent, and the chronically allergic wisely avoid those Masses which promise to be heavily clouded in incense.

But back to Dad. You know how it is. You light the charcoal and wait 1.5 geologic ages until it’s burned down to the white-hot coals which will adequately cook your burgers and dogs. So the old altar boy came up with this method to speed the Baker barbecues. Swing-swing went the Bakerified thurible, hastening the burning process of the briquettes. I suppose I was a little embarrassed by it; I mean, no other dads were swinging incense burners during other kids’ cookouts. But hey — we got to eat sooner. Thank you, Catholic Church!

Most Catholic kids, at one time or another, have played Mass. There’s a lot of drama, after all, with ringing bells and ornate platters, chalices and whatnot. (It is, in fact, the earliest form of drama.) The big moment for the kids, though, is the distribution of Communion, though always a bummer for us girls, who were forever relegated to being receivers only since only the boys could play priest.

OK, so most Catholic kids reenact the Mass. My mom, however, would reenact stigmata.

You may know about stigmata; it’s something many saints have exhibited: the bleeding from the hands, feet, and side at the sites of the wounds of Christ. It’s a big deal, saint-wise. But I’ll never forget the occasions on which my mom accidentally stabbed herself in the palm — like the time she thrust her hand right into a stick concealed in the pile of leaves she was raking — and she’d clutch her hand saying, “stigmata! stigmata!” I’d always run into the house for a stalk of celery to help her out.

When my husband, Tras (who was not raised Catholic), entered my life, he one day innocently asked me just where we Catholics procured all the implements of our faith: crucifixes for the wall, statues for the dresser, holy cards for all occasions. When I told him about Catholic bookstores, he immediately dubbed them the “Catholic PX” and never fails to remark on it when I need to run down there and pick up a gift for someone’s Confirmation or First Communion. Do I need further evidence that he’s the one for me? That kind of humor doesn’t generally grow on non-Catholic trees.

Today I was reading Pioneer Woman‘s blog, and see a post from her friend Hyacinth, who details a recent redecoration of a stairwell nook. A Catholic, she used items that were important to her, specifically crucifixes, icons, and other — in her words — “Jesus doodads.” Ah, another kindred spirit.

I might have to run down to the PX and pick me up another couple glow-in-the dark Marys … just to be sure.

A throbbing pain in the blog

Published on by NouveauSoileau1 Comment

It’s pretty amusing to peek behind the scenes at your own blog, where you can see just how and why people read your pearls of wisdom.

For example, today I see:

Top Searches
throbbing pain left foot

When presented with information such as this, I don’t know whether to clap my hands delightedly or weep for humanity. Because, of course, the post that brought whomever here to Chez NouveauSoileau, was my completely non-medically informed post about my ouchie foot.

But I made the mistake of including an official-looking graphic of the bones of the foot and throwing in a term that I thought had had made up but no, it turns out to describe an actual medical condition, metatarsalitis. So persons unknown trying to find out what is up with THEIR ouchie feet might well indeed click upon my blog and, I fear, come away unsatisfied as to the cause of their malady.

However — and this is the hand-clappy part — something drew them away from their medically important task and made them want to read my blog, NouveauSoileau, your purveyor of all that is mundane and pointless. And, let us not forget this, completely worth the money you’ve paid to read the aforementioned frivolity whenever the mood strikes me to add something to it.

Which could be more often, I admit.

But in fact, “metatarsalitis” is the top term that people have used to land on my blog, quickly followed by “Old Gringo,” “bones in the left foot,” “joe doe restaurant nyc,” and “neighbor peeing.”

Neighbor peeing. This I don’t want to think about. Yes, I’ve used the term peeing and apparently at some point a referenced a neighbor, but the two words didn’t skip hand-in-hand down my sentence structure, so why anyone would take the momentous step to click here, I have no idea. Perhaps someone is advancing our knowledge as a species by doing earnest research into the neighbor urination situation, yes, a burning issue of our time.

Another goody I found amongst the search terms was how much are goopy apex seals, but, disappointingly, this had nothing to do with with a complex and important debate raging worldwide regarding plump and firm apex seals vs. the goopy kind. And what about poor nadir seals. Was anyone Googling them?

Turns out that over the course of two or three posts I had indeed used those six words, but again, not in a sentence. So why on earth would someone trying to purchase car parts wander away from this important mission and start reading about why I think boots are the absolute apex of shoe-ownership, goopy delicious Bryer’s ice cream, and some sort of half-baked theory on having a disability seal of approval in order to ride in a scooter around the grocery store?

Another — and perhaps more important — burning issue of our time.

A watched pot never explodes

Published on by NouveauSoileau2 Comments

Frequently, as you know, I make my coffee the night before. That way, there is very little room for error in the uncaffeinated morning. But because I’m human, and therefore essentially lazy, most weekends I just leave it til morning and enjoy the evening with one less chore to do before bed.

This week I’ve been on weekend mode since Wednesday, since we’re off work for New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. Without having to get up and go to the office I lose track of days fast. Right now it could be Monday afternoon for all I know.

So whatever morning it is right now, I got up and staggered to the kitchen to make a hot delicious pot of coffee. The coffeemaker of choice was manufactured by Gevalia, one of approximately 23,471 of these things I’ve had over the last 10 years or so. If you’re unfamiliar with the company, you are apparently impervious to advertising. Sign up for their coffee-by-mail service and they’ll send you a free coffeemaker. Or thermos. Or coffee cups. Or some other enticing coffee-related thing.

The coffee is of course delicious, but about $95 a pound, and after a few months you come to your senses and cancel the whole thing. Only to repeat it six months later when they offer another coffeepot, somewhat more interesting than the other 19 you’ve got stacked around the house, so you sign up again.

Tras and I, separately, before marrying, were equally like moths drawn to the free coffeepot flame, so there are years and years of Gevalia-related experiences between us.

So anyway back to this morning. Rather than use the Krups coffemaker I’ve got on the bathroom sink for normal, barely sentient workday mornings, I staggered to the kitchen to make the coffee there. So as not to disturb the sleeping beauties still cuddled abed, you understand.

There I was met by the Current Gevalia Model. I greeted it with a mixture of deep longing and pure irritation. Last week, ya see, Tras made a pot of coffee in it, and the thing exploded all over the countertop, causing me to issue one of my rare Edicts, which was Tras You Are No Longer Allowed to Use this Coffeepot.

I don’t know what this thing does, but somehow in the brewing process, either the paper filter fails or some other mysterious basket-related trauma occurs, but the end result is you’ve got coffee, wet grounds and water all over your countertop — and no coffee.

Somewhat sooner rather than later, my edict came back and bit me in the ass, and whatever mysterious thing I either did or failed to do occurred and yesterday morning I was greeted with the same disaster all over the counter.

Not this morning, I vowed, sounding rather like a movie announcer.

In a world where the procurement of excellent morning coffee is just a dream — ONE WOMAN dares to achieve the Perfect Pot.

And so I stood, shivering violently in the predawn light (OK, it had been light for two hours) watching the damn thing to ensure it didn’t explode all over the place. Waiting for one misstep, one Juan Valdesian error that I alone could correct and cause happiness and caffeine to freely flow through my body this lovely Thursday morning, or whatever it is.

Of course, nothing. No explosion. No insurrections. No 1980s style action movie disaster to combat. I remain clueless as to what, exactly, causes these Gevalia pots to revolt — but only when no one is looking.

Perhaps one day — In a world where humanity has freed itself from the lure of free coffeemakers — One Woman will know.