Could Captain Von Trapp & Maria Be Headed For Divorce?

HT_sound_of_music_julie_andrews_sk_150316_4x3_992Therapist: Before we begin I want to stress that anything we discuss remains in the strictest of confidence and will not be spoken outside of this room.

Captain: Or turned into childish lyrics and sung on bicycles. Am I clear?? Tooot, tooooooot–

Maria: Oh spare me your whistle, Captain.

Therapist: Tssk, tssk . . . control issues. So what can I help you folks with today?

Captain: How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Therapist: Hmmm…Anything you want to tell us, Maria?

Maria: Perhaps I had a wicked childhood. Perhaps I had a miserable youth.

Therapist: But somewhere in your youth or childhood, you must’ve done something good?

Maria: Well, nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever could.

Captain: And that’s just about what this session is worth.

Therapist: Now, now Captain. Your wife tells me you aren’t very supportive of her creative household frugality.

Captain: Ya think? Nobody needs to wear window coverings just to military march around the house.

Maria: But the children. They just want love. Please just love them, Captain. The children.

Captain: Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Therapist: I’m sorry but that’s not a line of yours, is it? It’s not anywhere in my notes. Let’s save the Rhett Butler nonsense for later. He’s my next client, actually.

Captain: I said that to make a point. Sometimes I think she’s crossed over from the Gone With the Wind set – – they also have the Drapery/Dress Recycling thing going on. It’s like she’s taken Scarlett O’hara and Maria Von Trapp and blended them together.

Therapist: Could that be true, Maria? Do you think you have Transblender tendencies?

Captain: Haha, it was just a joke. Let’s get down to the serious issue, shall we? Whenever Maria is unhappy, she threatens to run away — go back to Abbey. Now, I don’t know who this Abbey person is, but I suspect it’s short for Abigail and my wife secretly likes girls.

Therapist: And how does that make you feel, Sir?

Captain: Haha, gotcha again. Kidding!

Maria: Honestly Georg, you’re so juvenile. It’s like I have an eighth child. You are 16 going on 17.

Therapist: Have you ever considered hiring a governess? To relieve the stress.

Captain: Ah yes, some pretty sweet young thing with a penchant for playing the violin.

Maria: Georg!

Captain: Fraulein, you will remember yourself!

Therapist: Who says that anymore? Is that even a thing?

Maria: Well, it’s time for prayers. God bless the Captain, Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, Brigitta, Marta, Gretel and . . .

Therapist: Achoooooo!

Maria: Gesundheit and bless you . . . err, I’ve forgotten what you’re called. What’s your name? Well God bless What’s-Your-Name.

Captain: OMG. Look, is there any hope for this relationship? With a woman who has a severe phobia.

Therapist: What are you frightened of, Maria?

Maria: The hills are alive . . .

Therapist: Now we’re getting somewhere. But I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for this week.

Captain: Don’t you have any quick advice for her to conquer this fear? We may need to hike through the Alps one day.

Therapist: Of course — here’s a memorable tip . . . “climb every mountain!”

 

 

 

 

The Phantom of The Cellphone!

-font-b-phantom-b-font-of-the-opera-fashion-original-cell-phone-case-cover-for“You called three times but didn’t leave a message, is everything ok?” my mother asks. Confession: I regularly hang up on my mom’s outgoing phone message because she gives excruciating instructions on waiting for beeps, admonishes you to speak slowly, enunciate clearly, and requires you to give the date and time of your call. A former teacher, she insists on educating people on leaving proper voicemail.

But on this occasion I’m certain I didn’t call at all, let alone three times. I look at my caller ID log and sure enough I have telephoned my mother thrice within a ten-minute period this morning. The Benadryl I took for a cold must’ve made me groggy and blurred my recall.

A couple of hours later, I receive a message from my old Avon Lady announcing light blue shimmery eyeshadows just came in and how shocked she was to hear from me after more than 30 years. I’m also kinda shocked, envisioning her hobbling up to front porches at age 75, ringing doorbells, gleefully shouting, “Ding Dong, Avon calling!”

Minutes after we disconnect, my long lost Tupperware gal calls, claiming mere moments ago I telephoned her but promptly hung up when she answered. She wants to know if the reason I’m currently reaching out is to schedule a Tupperware party? “Does the word ‘Ziploc’ mean anything to you?” I ask.

What’s the deal with my cellphone and the 1970’s throwbacks? If I’m butt-dialing people, my ass is way behind the times.

Suspicious, I carefully set my mobile device flush on the kitchen table and scrutinize it cautiously as I eat my cottage cheese w/pineapple and lime jello. It behaves itself and doesn’t dial up Dorothy Hamil or Billy Jean King. Just a nondescript, innocent dark screen.

Just as I swallow the last of the curds, suddenly my cellphone emanates an ominous glow and a notification pops up stating, “1 outgoing call.” Seriously??  This was no pocket or purse dial! Paging Rod Serling.

I click on it to see the name Layla Down, a woman I loathe. For one thing, she always asks, “Who died?” just because I wear the color black a lot. And she pointed her finger at my youngest daughter Natalie for the lice infestation in the 6th grade. “Nitty Natty” sticks to this day. I shudder, anticipating what’s next and sure enough, it rings right on cue with the big fat phony Layla on the other end of the line.

Me: Nitty Nat’s mom speaking, how may I help you?

Layla: My, my, what a droll sense of humor you still have. So when’s the funeral? Actually I’m returning your call, Sugar.

Me: Uh, I never called you, Sweet Tart.

Layla: I have proof that you did, Sucralose.

Me: Think again, Sweet‘N Low.

Layla: Better wash your daughter’s hair, Aspartame.

We went on like this until we used up all the sarcastic (saccharin) terms of endearments and began repeating a few. Click. Maybe this was Siri’s revenge for when I let her nearly drown in the washing machine?

During the next week, my cellphone honed its interpersonal skills, not only making random embarrassing calls all on its own accord, (old boyfriends, old dentists, dead people) but it actually started efficiently connecting people together from my online address book via its 3-way conference calling feature!

It introduced my following Contacts to each other:

  • My gynecologist to my Rabbi
  • Dr. Harris, my cocker-spaniel’s vet to Harrison, a cocky Vietnam vet
  • My handyman Richard to Betty, a broken-down divorcee
  • My Weight Watcher leader to my chocoholic friend
  • My divorce attorney to my wedding planner
  • My hairstylist to my friend Nan, the Nun
  • My life coach to my son’s football coach
  • Sherman, a needy guy I dated (and wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy) to Layla
  • My therapist to my Mother (so she could analyze why nobody leaves her voicemail?)

And when I saw the newest popular trend on the market — a clear plastic food storage container (with a burping seal) filled with frosted lipsticks, I knew the Phantom of the Cellphone could take all the credit for striking again. He’d actually gone and hooked up my Tupperware Gal with my Avon Lady. Bravo!

The 6 Stages of Blogging We All Recognize and Relate To!

 

download (4)Yes, we’re familiar with those famous 5 stages of grief and loss (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) from our psych 101 classes, but did you know there are specific phases you pass thru when becoming a blogger too?

DENIAL— Oh c’mon, it’s not like it’s an official blog that I care about. I mean it was never an intentional goal. WordPress was free and I thought to myself, ‘who writes anything down with pen and paper anymore?’ So a pretty little text box happened to pop open and I typed some thoughts into it to reread when I needed help falling asleep. One day, my children got into a wrestling match next to my computer and one of them bumped my hand on the mouse and it clicked “publish.” That’s all it ever was. I’m an Accidental Author. But if you like my posts, then yes, I am a Certified Blogger.

ANGER – Those other bloggers think they’re all so smart. What is this, high school all over again with those same exclusive cliques that think they can exclude me and ignore my very existence?  So what if I don’t fit in with the “Mommy Bloggers” the “Food Writers” or the “Politics Penmanship People?”  I don’t need a special Blogging Tribe anyhow. All those fancy fake Followers and their “maybe I’ll drop-in and check out your blog some time” phoniness, and those other designer name-brand Commenters? I’m just as good as them, they’ll see. Soon they’ll come begging for me to stop moderating their comments and post them immediately because my blog will be the happening hangout for the In-Crowd, baby!  I’ll show them, I’ll show everyone.

BARGAINING — Hey fellow blogger! I was thinking you could write a guest post on my blog because well, because you’re so utterly fascinating. And just perhaps (because you have an established online presence) maybe some of your fans would stick around and read some other stuff that I’ve written?  How does that sound?  Hello??  “Dear Humor blogger, this post of yours is just hysterical!  I’m reposting your link everywhere, tweeting it, pinning it, stumbling it, tumbling it, mumbling it, fumbling it, jumbling it, bumbling it, and yes even sharing it on Facebook. Plus printing it out on cocktail napkins for my next dinner party. Isn’t that nice of me?  I’m just naturally generous in that way. My blog? Oh, well if you insist. It’s really not necessary but I think having a nice balance of give and take is what makes the blogosphere go round, don’t you?”  Dear God – – If you just let my stats go over 20 views today, I’ll bring my entire family to church this weekend.  Even though we’re Jewish.

FEAR — I just know that last post I put out there was the stupidest thing ever written in the history of blogging-kind. Oh my god, what was I thinking doing a shtick called The Bloscars which was supposed to be a parody of “The Oscars?” Nobody is even entering my contest and I’ll be laughed out of the Blogosphere. Not because I’m so humorous, but because I’m a fool and I never think before I impulsively click “publish.” And there’s no taking it back now, that sucker got forwarded to both my subscriber’s emails. There goes my one chance to turn blogging into a lucrative writing career and now I’m getting old and I’ll have to go back to waitressing and be one of those women with varicose veins and support hose, with a name-tag that says, “Flo” and who shouts, “Put Adam & Eve on a raft and wreck ’em!” to a cranky chef in Mel’s Diner.

HOPE — Someone just commented that I made them laugh so hard, they need a Depends undergarment.  That’s pretty gross but very flattering!  Oh my god. Maybe they are an agent.  Or they have an Uncle who is an agent.  You never know. Just think, they read my post and then exclaimed, “Those words! That grammar and punctuation!  I must have more! Who is this person?  I’m gonna find them and make them THE NEXT ERMA BOMBECK!” Gosh, I really need to put my contact info on my blog.  I could miss being discovered all because I’m paranoid that a telemarketer will call me up and try and sell me a magazine subscription to Good Housekeeping.  Why, I could be the actual author of the article featured on the cover of Good Housekeeping. I love Good Housekeeping. And poor telemarketers are only doing their job. That’s it, I’m putting my phone number on my blog in a prominent place right now.

ACCEPTANCE – – You’re a blogger too?  There suddenly seems to be a lot of us out there now, aren’t there? I guess I’ve resigned myself to realizing that it’s highly competitive and it’ll never be much more than a hobby.  Hmmm, well it’s fun, right?  Of course right! We can form a support group for realistic bloggers who came to terms with their mediocrity. But we still get to go to blogging conferences. Hey, that’s it — we’ll meet in real life! Wouldn’t that be something to tell our children?  Your parents met at a Writer’s Retreat where daddy got the wrong badge and went around all weekend with people calling him, “Little Miss Menopause.” And when he returned it to your mommy, we fell in love instantly. Hey, that’s kind of a unique story. It would make a great novel. And it will get adapted into a screenplay like Gone Girl. A romantic comedy,  I think they call that a rom-com?  We’ll be famous, but don’t worry because I’ll write a humorous acceptance speech for The Oscars so they won’t play us off with music like they did to Leonardo Dicaprio. Eh, The Oscars or The Bloscars, what’s the difference??  The latter is far more clever and unique. (Yep, there’s soon to be a 7th stage of blogging called, “Cockiness”)

REMINDER: TODAY’S THE DEADLINE TO ENTER THE BLOSCARS AND WIN AMAZON GIFT CARDS!