Tag Archives: humor

Prom

 DSC00034356736Photograph by Haylie Maxine Photography

 

“Nice sunglasses,” Tory said to Oliver. “They’re so you.”
“I can recognize your sarcasm, Tor. We’ve only been dating for seven months now.”
“I’m so proud of you for finally becoming fluent…”
He took the sunglasses off and placed them gently on her mother’s coffee table. The mirror on the wall beckoned him to check that his tie was straight; this was after all prom night. His first prom. It was actually only the second time he wore a tie in his whole life. And while he would never admit it to Tory, his dad tied it for him.
“You look nice,” she said as she hugged him from behind and helped straighten the tie. “The suit is very you.”
“And the sunglasses?” He went to pick up the white framed glasses but she snatched them up from the table before he could.
“Too slow!” She threw them on her face with a giggle. “Look at me! I’m Ollie. I’m so cool!” The goofy grin on her face was bad enough, but then she started making peace symbols with her hands. “Guess who I am!”
“Shut up!” Ollie said as he pulled them off her face. “That’s not what I look like!” She smiled at him, the one he always called her winning smile she used when she could tell she’d gone too far, and then put out his arms. She nestled into them and put her head on his shoulder.
“Okay,” he said with a grin. “Let’s go to prom.”

Photograph by the talented Haylie Maxine Photography. For more information/images check out her Flickr or like her on Facebook.

Search for the Doctor

DSCN0397

They walked and walked and walked; his feet were killing him, but he didn’t dare say a word since this trek across London was his idea. But she loved him and didn’t complain at all. They couldn’t find the store he was hoping to find, a huge comic shop that promised him all the Doctor Who stuff that his home in the U.S. failed to provide. She hadn’t even seen an episode, but joined him with a willingness that had to be love.

The store wasn’t where his map promised. They’d walked the block three times. “I’m not sure it’s here anymore, hun,” she said to him with a genuine look of discouragement. She knew how much he hoped to buy some stuff from the show. A few toys, a graphic novel or two, some DVDs, anything, really. The show had been his favorite for years and he expected London to be plastered with images from the show. His disappointment would completely dissipate if only they could find this store.

“We should have followed that person with the bag from the store,” she said.DSCN0392

“How would that have worked? They obviously were coming from it!” The person’s bag only teased him, taunted him, since it meant they were so close.

“But we could have asked them where it was.” She was right, of course. He hadn’t the nerve to ask the stranger for the location. And the possibility was slipping away from him  the later it got; they had tickets to a show that started in just a few hours, and they needed to get to their hotel all the way on the other side of the city, shower, and then get to the show. Frustration mounted as he looked left, right, even up in the insane hope of finding the store.

A pimply teenager walked by in a Green Lantern shirt.

“I have an idea,” he said to her. He followed the teen, and she wondered what his plan was. It didn’t click at first, but at a red light she realized what he was doing.

“Are we following this guy just because his shirt is a superhero shirt?” she whispered.

“Nooo…” he said as he nodded yes.

She laughed at this idea, but shrugged at the possibility that it just may work. The kid crossed the street, made a left and then turned right and there it was. The store.

“YES!” they both said, him out of excitement and her out of sheer happiness that the quest was over. He entered, followed sign after sign and then saw it loom from floor to ceiling. Everything Doctor Who.

“I’ll be in the graphic novel section for the next hour,” she said as she turned to leave him, both smiling.

Letters

I yanked open the door and there he was, my mailman. We both jumped, startled. His hand was full of letters and literally by my knees, about to stick our mail into the slot in our front door.
“Oh, uh-”DSCN1377
“Sorry-”
“I was just about to-”
“Yeah…”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, sorry I startled-”
“No, no-”
“It must happen all the time.”
“No, not really…”
“Oh.”
“So yeah…”
“Yeah I’ll take that.”
I took the mail from him.
“Have a nice day!” we both said in unison.
I really need to get a mailbox.

That’s right, I’m back folks! After a bit of a sabbatical, I am writing again and hoping to post more often. To keep up, feel free to like my Facebook Page.

You Bowl Me Over

Screen Shot 2012-12-12 at 8.36.51 AM“What’s that?”
He looked at the box of random items he’d yard saled that morning. Sticking out at the top was a rounded white end.
“It’s a bowling pin.”
“What’s it for?”
He put it on the coffee table in front of her.
“It’s a conversation piece.”
She gave him that look. You know, that look.
“What, you don’t like it?”
He flopped onto the couch next to her and pushed up against her side.
“I just don’t see how it could start conversations. It better have cost a quarter.”
“What can I say, you bowl me over.”
She smiled. “You can pin me any day.”
“We could have a ball.”
“You never know, you could strike out.”
“Wrong sport.”
“Shut up…how about…strike…strike…”
“You’re a real strike?”
“Don’t be such a turkey.”
“Hun…a turkey is a good thing in bowling.”
“How about you move on over to my lane?”
“Hun…”
“Nice bowling shoes, wanna fuck?”
“HUN…”
“Come on, don’t SPARE my feelings!”
“Oh my God…”
“Let’s never split!”
“PLEASE STOP!”
“You bowl me over.”
“You stole that one! It was mine! I opened with it.”
She kicked the table and the pin wobbled a bit, but righted itself.
“Darn,” she said.
“See…like I said…conversation starter.”

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Writer’s Group

IMG_0260By Dennis Finocchiaro

The writers gather in the coffee shop to chat and meet and read at the microphone, but what do they do, they each show the type, the stereotype, that is, the one who is gay and has the supportive same-sex-significant, the one who thinks so highly of himself, as does his publisher, but then, he’s self-published, and chooses the seat most like a throne and expects subjects to surround him as they listen to the older generation poet who obviously spouts Ginsberg-like beat poetry as the young college early twenties gal shakes in her boots awaiting her turn at the microphone, the angry black man has his poetry violently scribbled on a pad of yellow paper and he listens on as the others do to the nice old lady reading and snapping her fingers, the overweight nerd looks through his “masterpieces” full of misspellings bad grammar and impossible-to-follow plot lines thinking that this is it, this is his moment when everyone will notice his absolute talent that every single creative writing professor has marked up with massive amounts of suggestions and edits, and the druggie sits in the back and tries to decide if he will even share what he wrote, even though it’s brilliant and if he ever decided to share it he would be scooped up by the best agent, the best publisher, and everyone else from his writing group the ones who call him druggie and pothead behind his back would be as jealous of his success as they already are of his talent but it will only happen if he dusts off the pot-riddled brain in his skull and shares his work but the nice old lady continues snapping and reading and smiling and fixing her thick glasses and next up is the Woody Allen nerd who actually could capture the imagination and attention of millions if he had the right venue or event, the right break to meet that agent, that publisher, that person who would lift him out of the muck that is this writer’s group but right now the most famous one is the self-published king in his throne, seventeen books out, made and created fully by himself and his ex-wife who may or may not expect a cut of the few books he has sold, all to friends, but it doesn’t matter because tonight is the night, it’s the writer’s night and everyone has met and everyone will tell everyone how wonderful everything they’ve ever done is, none will be honest whether it sucks or is a work of art, they won’t tell the truth because this is a writer’s group and they are all a stereotype and the know it as each takes a moment to look in the mirror in the bathroom and know it, they know they’re a stereotype they know they’re a real, a fake, a writer, a dreamer, or both and eventually each and every one of them will face it, some will reach deserved fame, some won’t at all, and of course others will get that fame regardless of the piss and shit they put on paper, on screen, in book and ebook alike until it’s all over but it’s okay, it’s alright, every single one of them will one day look back on this day, this moment, and know, know they are for real or a fraud. They will know because they already know, they just haven’t faced it yet.

Imagine That

Imagine that, one day, some day in the future, some popular kid loses a bet. Everyone loves this kid; the boys emulate him, the girls follow him around and stalk him on Facebook. Or if it’s really far in the future, some new version of Facebook. But getting back to the kid, let’s call him Eugene, because this is the future and in the future Eugene could become a cool name. So Eugene loses a bet, with his other football-playing buddies – or maybe chess-playing..we don’t know what the future holds – and he has to wear a pink bunny suit to school. He is honorable, so he follows through with this bet, and goes to school wearing a giant fluffy pink bunny outfit, large pink ears and all. But instead of kids pointing and laughing, they see him and just think “Wow, that Eugene, he’s so cool, only he could pull off a giant pink bunny suit.” His football-slash-chess-loving-friends see that he’s not the least bit embarrassed, and so they decide it’s now cool and do the same. They go to the store, and next thing you know, there’s a run on pink bunny suits for teenage-sized people, and they can’t be bought anywhere. Totally sold out. No store within a fifty-minute drive has anything even resembling this bunny suit. Sure, they have white, and blue, and some even have indigo, but those aren’t the cool ones. It HAS to be pink. Imagine if the principal somehow missed this trend because he was too busy in his office reprimanding deviants, and one day, he walks to the cafeteria because it’s tots day and everyone loves tots, and he finds a whole giant caf full of teenagers dressed as pink bunnies. Pink bunnies in line. Pink bunnies eating with friends. Pink bunnies doing homework. Reading books. Listening to iPods. Texting. Getting into a fight. What would he say? What in the world would he say?

Probably something like “What the hell is this, some kind of pink bunny rabbit brouhaha?”

Probably something like that.

This absurd story was inspired by a few words/phrases people asked me to use in a story, “pink bunny rabbit” and “brouhaha” by Jess and Tiffani, respectively. And if, for some reason, this story made you want to dress like a pink bunny rabbit, please click on the pic and you can buy those.

Underwierd

“I don’t like my underweird, daddy,” she said to up him as they stood in line at the market. He had no clue what she was talking about, but noticed she was doing the pee pee dance.

“Your what?”

“Underweird.”

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

“Huh?”

“The bathroom. Potty? Do you have to pee?”

She looked up at him and seemed to think about it. He couldn’t believe she was surrounded by all of that candy and not begging for some.

“No, thank you. I don’t have to go.” He was baffled. Why was she doing the pee pee dance if she didn’t have to pee? You don’t just do that awkward dance, grabbing at yourself and putting your knees together. He’d never seen her act like this before.

“Okay, let’s go to the bathroom,” he said to her, reaching out for her hand. She took it and he carried the basket of food towards the restrooms. The marmalade slipped from side to side due to its weight, which threw him off a bit as he walked. As he stopped in front of the restrooms, she pulled at his hand a bit.

“Can I wait out here?” she pleaded.

“What?”

“While you pee?” she said to him.

“You’re the one who has to pee,” he responded with his eyebrows up. He had no clue what was going on.

“Nuh-uh. I don’t have to pee.” She started pulling at herself again.

“Then what are you doing?” he asked, pointing to her hands. She began to do what he thought was the pee pee dance once more.

“It’s my underweird. I don’t like my underweird.”

“Your WHAT?” He looked up into the flourescent lights of the market as if God or the loudspeakers of the supermarket could help him. Meanwhile, she pulled her skirt up and pointed at her underwear.

“My UNDERWEIRD!” she said, pointing. He finally understood and pushed her skirt back into place.

“Okay hun. We can change them when we get home. And for the record, it’s underWEAR.”

“What’s a record?” she asked.

“Never mind.”

Drawing by the super-talented Larissa Meek.

Colorful Altercation

I plopped on the orange couch, shocked that I had experienced heartbreak in Ikea, of all places. It started with a conversation about possible plates for our apartment and escalated into something much bigger. We couldn’t decide on a sofa, either. Or an ottoman. In the years we’d spent together it was always like this; we couldn’t agree on anything. A movie. A television show. Which park to hike in. I guess I should have seen it coming.

She exploded. She’d had enough. I wanted the white plate with the gray circle. She wanted the white one with the orange line. And now I find myself on an orange couch with no ride home to an apartment that was ours, but will probably just end up hers.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this were the first Ikea breakup over color choices or if this was a common occurrence. It probably happens a lot, considering the strong colors they tend to prefer. Maybe they come onto a loudspeaker and say something like “We have heartbreak over color choices in the Living Room section,” and someone brings the broken person a complimentary plate of Swedish Meatballs.

An Ikea worker in his blue and yellow outfit approaches me, but his hands are meatball-less and he continues right by and into the shortcut to the children’s section.

Photograph by the talented Kate Hiscock. Click the image for her Flickr.

Market East

Matilda stared out the window of the train as the hissing sounds emitted from underneath. Her belongings were scattered on the seat next to her, both because she was unorganized and trying to keep a stranger from sitting with her. As her eyes focused on the Market East Station sign she jumped up. “Is this Market East?” she yelled in a frantic tone. The ticket collector nodded as she attempted to collect her stuff. The line of departing passengers was long gone and the hissing happened again, warning of the train’s imminent departure. She threw objects into her bag as fast as she could: a book, a newspaper, her iPad, an umbrella. She made it off just in time.

Image by Mike Garde. Click on it for his Flickr.

Repost of My Favorite of My Love Stories

Happy Valentine’s Day! I’m reposting one of my favorite love stories for this special occasion.

All photographs by the amazing Sandra Markovic.  See her website or her blog.

It was her birthday, and it had been a long time since she’d moved in with him from Ohio, and without her mom around he knew she’d likely be a little down. He had to come up with the plan of all plans. How could he make her feel as special as she made him feel? She reminded him on a regular basis, with her fake French accent that he adored, how she sometimes wore her hair in two perfect ponytails because he once told her it was so cute, how she always bought him kalamata olive hummus even though she was more of a fan of roasted red pepper…this list could go on and on. This had to be perfect.

He could go on a quest for the perfect gift. But she was better than that. A perfect night of romance? No, too simple.

This was going to be tough, and he knew it. He easily and nonchalantly reminded her he loved her on a daily basis, which now made a perfect birthday near impossible. He’d outdone himself on so many occasions so naturally, without even trying, that now when it really counted he was drawing a blank. Coming up empty. <insert another cheesy cliché here>.

✩✩✩✩✩

When she came home from the studio she had a feeling something big would happen. She opened the door slowly, expecting any number of possibilities but found nothing. She looked in the living room, dining room, he didn’t even seem to be home. Where was he?

She went to the kitchen, and there was a pot on the stove. She opened it, an automatic response since he often left her meals, and in it was a simple yellow post-it.

“Our first kiss.”

She put the post-it down and started to go upstairs, then suddenly stopped halfway up, ran back down, quickly grabbed her coat and rushed out the front door.

✩✩✩✩✩

She practically ran to the nearby park, past the children playing on the merry-go-round, past the slide, the sandbox, the see saws, to the swing set, to the second swing, and sat down. What next?

A little girl walked up to her. She was in the cutest little dress, pigtails, huge, innocent eyes, and asked, “Are you Alexandra?” She looked at the little girl and nodded, smiling, as the little girl search her pockets and pulled out a post-it. “He says this is for you.” At this the little girl ran back to her mother, embarrassed, and her mother gave her a hug, then looked at Alexandra and smiled.

Shaking, Alexandra unfolded the post-it and read. “The place where you wrote that song I love.”

And off Alexandra went.

✩✩✩✩✩

And so Alexandra found herself jumping into her car, the Volkswagon bus she’d bought right before they drove cross-country. She turned the ignition and it chugged, chugged, started, stalled. She tried again. And again. That’s when she noticed the post-it on the seat next to her.

“Put on your best.”

For once she appreciated the stalling car and ran inside. She quickly found an old fifties dress, her favorite, practically tore off her clothing, threw it on and ran out the door, hoping the old bus would be friendlier to her.

It was.

She tore out of the parking spot and headed in the direction of the diner where she wrote the song 1900 Miles and pulled into the parking lot. She took quick notice that his car wasn’t there so knew there would be another post-it.

Upon entering the diner, she looked towards their favorite booth, saw it was marked RESERVED and sat there, panting a bit. Their usual waitress walked up.

“Hey there. How’s it going so far?” she said with a knowing smirk.

“Fine.” She couldn’t contain her smile. “Do you have something for me?”

“Yup. Wait here.”

As Alexandra sat, impatiently, curious and overwhelmed with feelings, she was having the time of her life.

That’s when the waitress returned with a cup of hot Earl Grey tea with a little milk.

“He said you’d figure it out. He said there was no note this time.”

Alexandra looked at the tea she’d just set before her and really had to think. No note. That meant the clue had to be…

…THE TEA!

✩✩✩✩✩

Alexandra had the tea switched to a to go cup, tried to pay, found out he’d paid in advance, and ran out the door on yet another adventure.

She knew he loved a certain store, one of those barrel places that has bins and bins of food purchased by the pound, and there was a whole tea room. They’d spent hours of time together in there, searching for different teas they’d yet to try. That had to be it.

She raced into the parking lot, and as she ran in pulled the door too hard and let it slam against the wall.

“Hey!”

“Oops sorry Mister Hansel. But I’m in a hurry.”

He looked upset but when he realized it was Alexandra a warm smile came over his face.

“So you figured it out. I wasn’t sure you would, but he assured me you’d get it.”

She smiled. “Yup!” and she ran off to the tea room.

She ran in, startling the new girl who was in there, and frantically started searching the giant jars and containers of tea looking for the right one.

“Can I help you with something?”

“No. Yes! I am looking for the Earl Grey Crème. It’s our favorite.”

They both started looking, and the girl became as frantic as Alexandra, without really knowing why.

“Got it!” the girl yelled triumphantly, as Mister Hansel sauntered in, smiling. Alexandra grabbed it, turned it around, and sure enough there it was, a post-it.

She started to run out the door when Mister Hansel stopped her.

“Alexandra,” he said. “Take this.” He handed her an old thermos, red plaid, and she felt it was still warm. “Tell him this one’s on me.”

She sat in the car and looked at the post-it.

It was a drawing of a record.

✩✩✩✩✩

And so now she was headed to their record store. Alexandra pulled into the lot and was already heading to the record store, a place where they’d spent hours upon hours looking, listening, and experiencing all kinds of music.

Now the question Alexandra had to ask was, where, in the millions of records and cds did he hide the post-it? She had to think.

Bridgette Bardot. Nope. Belle and Sebastian. No. Maurice Chevalier, Shins, Decemberists, Frank Sinatra, still nothing. She really had to think. But while she was there, she should check for that one that she ALWAYS checked for, in every store, since she’d started collecting records. Claudine Longet. You never know, maybe it would be there.

And it was. With a post-it. She ran up to the counter, and the clerk gave a smile.

“I wasn’t sure you’d find it. He said you would. But I’ve never even seen that record in print before. He must have spent a pretty penny on it.”

“So wait, this isn’t yours?”

“No honey, it’s yours.” The elderly clerk smiled, and Alexandra walked towards the door, checking the post-it as she walked, wondering where else her birthday would take her.

She opened the next post-it.

“Our favorite meal.”

And so she was off again.

✩✩✩✩✩

Kenny was working, and she was glad because the last thing she needed was to ask a stranger for her note.

She ran up to the counter.

“Now I know you’re not here for food, are you.”

She was out of breath and panting. He laughed.

“It’s over there.”

She ran in the direction he was pointing but didn’t see a note. She kept looking around and lifted a blanket that was sitting on a chair. The post-it fell out.

She grabbed it and started walking when Kenny stopped her.

“Hey, don’t forget that. It’s yours.”

She looked back at the blanket, and realized that it was one she’d been wanting for a while from her favorite store, the one he called the hippie store because it always smelled like incense. Alexandra couldn’t help but love that place, it reminded her of her mom, and she missed her mom.

She ran back and grabbed it, took a big whiff, and ran off.

“Have fun!” Kenny yelled.

She waved and ran out, reading the next note.

“I love you.”

This one was easy. And it was one of her favorite places.

✩✩✩✩✩

She pulled into the state park, the place where they went anytime it was nice out. They’d played Frisbee, hiked, flown kites, taken nice strolls along the river, it was a beautiful place. She went right to their favorite path. The next note had to be there.

She grabbed her backpack in case it was a long walk, the thermos Mr. Hensley had given her, and the blanket because she loved the smell and was really missing her mom. She started walking along the river, thinking it was a beautiful day and the next note was probably near this tree where he’d started babbling incoherently, eventually leading up to the best “I love you” she’d ever heard.

She strolled down the path now, relaxed, taking in the beauty of the park, the woods, the trees, the sound of the nearby river so relaxing, and she found the tree with the note stuck to it. She opened it. It said, “I love you,” and she jumped a little, as if the note had spoken, and then realized he was behind her.

She spun around and he grabbed her, she grabbed him, and they held each other as if they’d been apart for years. She backed away and he pushed her hair behind her ear, looked at her, and covered her with small, romantic kisses.

Her knees gave out a little and he was forced to hold on a little tighter, and they both laughed. He took the blanket and started walking. She followed.

He walked up to the huge rock where they’d talked after he admitted his love, requited of course, and he laid out the blanket next to the rock and pulled a picnic basket from the cracks in the boulders. She smiled.

Then he cranked an antique record player they’d found at a yard sale and put out his hand. She reached into her bag and grabbed the record, handing it to him. He started the music and then reached his hand out again for her hand, knowing full well she didn’t need help, but hell, he was a gentleman.

And so they picnicked, sitting on a giant boulder alongside a picturesque river, warm tea from the thermos, and talked until sunset, when they just cuddled on the blanket, stargazed, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell he was going to do to top this next year.

Special thanks to Sandra, who took the essence of this story and depicted it with perfection and a professionalism that I find both impressive and admirable.  Please check out her blog and website which I posted links to at the beginning of the story.  Sandra will also be posting many related photographs that I was unable to work into the post, but are beautiful and should be viewed by all.