Earth Mother just means I'm dusty

An open letter to people who see images of Jesus in their food. From Jesus.

Dear people who see images of me in their food,

This will be a brief letter because I have a 11pm appearance in a piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie at a diner down the Shore.

Psych!

Okay, seriously, folks. Can we talk? Because if I didn't know absolutely everything and couldn't discern every single thought that goes through the mind of every single person ever created at every nanosecond of every day of every year of all eternity, I would be mystified.

Are we not clear that I said the next time I came back would be on the clouds of heaven with thousands and thousands of angels in attendance? Does that sound like the next time I came back, it would be on toast?

Please don't butter your Lord and Savior.

I can only come up with two plausible reasons why people keep thinking they see me in their snacks and, occasionally, in their fine apparel.

1. You think I have an impish sense of humor.

Which I obviously do, since I created you. But I like to think my sense of fun is a bit more evolved than showing up in a Cheeto. That's like the spiritual equivalent of slipping on a banana peel. When Sarah had a baby at age 85 in the book of Genesis, now that's some funny stuff, y'all. Not only funny-ha-ha and funny-strange, but also funny-joyful. That's the way I roll. Not creeping you out by suddenly appearing in your cinnamon bun. Lame.

2. It's a lot easier to have a "vision" than to actually take me seriously.

Okay, let's talk Ebay. Currently, there's a stone sculpture up for bid that's supposedly a miraculous image of me and my mom. For $9,999.99. And you know that someone is going to pony up that cash, so here's a wacky idea: why not give that money to the poor? I don't want to go all BibleBash on you, but hello, Luke 12:33?

You guys know how much I love you. And if you don't, just watch major league baseball for the dude with the big sign. But you're all so easily distracted. You start doing a little soul-searching and it looks like you might be actually thinking about important internal spiritual matters and--SQUIRREL! You see me in a tortilla and it's all gone. No more "what is the meaning of my life?" Now it's "will I be on the 6 o'clock news with my Messiah Taco?"

In closing, I'd just like to remind you of something; nobody actually knows what I looked like when I walked the earth, so how do they know that's me in their pierogi? I see that pierogi and I say Che Guevara. Or Jack Black in Nacho Libre.

I will say, however, that this is kinda freaky:

Who is that? Zero Mostel? Al Pacino in Serpico? Again, mystified.

I love you all even though you look for me in frying pan grease,

Jesus

Dutch, Dane, What's The Diff?

So if you recall, the last time we spoke, I was lambasting all of you for not making me aware of the sweet existence of Daelman's Caramel Wafers, The Original Dutch Coffee Topper.  Particularly my DUTCH friend, Charlotte, who says she loves me, but has yet to demonstrate that love with gifts of DUTCH food.

Mere moments (okay, two days) after my diatribe, I received this in my inbox:

 My dear Dusty,

Sorry to disappoint you, but I am 100%, first-generation, can trace my pure-blooded ancestry almost back to the Vikings, DANISH. Land of Hans Christian Anderson, Victor Borge, and the Little Mermaid. Some day I'll introduce you to the delights of Danish cuisine, such as pickled herring and boiled cow's tongue. I hope in your next blog you will clear my name of these heinous, insidious, baseless charges. (I must admit, though; I do have a picture of a windmill on my mantel, but it's a DANISH windmill...)

In defense of The Truth,
Charlotte

So, apparently, Charlotte is trying to convey to me that the Dutch and the Danish are two different peoples. Who knew?

Well, I DO! (now)!

Dusty Earth Mother's Exhaustive and Well-Researched List Of Similarities and Differences between the Dutch and the Danish!

Differences:

1. The Danish are from Denmark. The Dutch are from the Netherlands.

2. That's it.

Similarities:

1. They both start with the "duh" sound.

2. They are both very smart, as evidenced by both my Danish friend's pithy letter and the Dutch dude who invented Daelman's Caramel Wafer, The Original Dutch Coffee Topper.

3. Viggo Mortensen

 

You're welcome, Charlotte.

I'll never forgive you

Any of you.

Why has no one ever told me about these?!

You all knew such a glorious delicacy existed and you didn't tell me?!

Especially you, Charlotte Detrick. You're Dutch, for heaven's sake. You say you love me, but Praatjes vullen geen gaatjes, babe. Yeah, that's right, actions speak louder than words.

The ultimate indignity was that I had to discover the existence of this wondrous wafer at BJ's. That airplane hangar of foodstuffs . One aisle over from the fake Oriental rugs and the Life Gear Wings of Life Safety Preparedness Backpack.

That is just. so. wrong. people.

You know what else is wrong? That I fell in love at first sight while I'm on a sugar fast. That's right, the hubs and I are off all sweets until Thanksgiving. The Thanksgiving that's in November. That one. So all I could do was stare, gape, drool and cry out:

"Will you wait for me? Will you, Daelman's Caramel Wafers, the Original Dutch Coffee-Topper? Or will you be like so many other BJ's products, here today because of a surplus and gone tomorrow because of a deficit? Will I return the day after Thanksgiving and suffer my own personal Black Friday? WAIT FOR ME! TOP MY COFFEE WITH YOUR CREAMY CARAMELY CRUNCHY GOODNESS!"

I turned away in despair and got a very dirty look from the woman handing out crab cake samples.

And I blame all of you.

Especially you, Charlotte.

Windmill Wench.

Kids Explain Social Media

 

This is SO worth your two minutes.

Not only is it laugh-out-loud funny, and not only is my dear friend and internet comedy sensation Mark Malkoff doing the interviewing for PR News, but... my kids are in it.

See if you can spot them. (hint: The Pistol is true to form).

 

And come on over and visit me on The Mouthy Housewives today! I'm dispensing wise advice about loyalty and friendship. Oh, and 80's movies.

Two comedy virtuosos in one black box.

Some people salivate when they anticipate a fine meal.

(I do.)

And some people brain-salivate when they anticipate an evening of fiercely intelligent, no holds barred, no one is safe, comedy.

(I do, I do.)

Sunday night I'm going to see the amazing Lizz Winstead, co-creator and former head writer of The Daily Show read from her book of essays, Lizz Free or Die.  

And my girl-date for the evening is the equally amazing Marinka of Motherhood in NYC.  

AND the show is at The Mile Square Theater in Hoboken.

Can you appreciate the beauty of the convergence? The Mile Square is an awesome little black box theater 5 blocks from my house and Lizz and Marinka and I are going to hang out there together. Oh sure, there will be a few other humans beings, and Lizz doesn't actually know me or Marinka, but still. How sweet is this?

Lizz Free or Die is a riotously funny book in the style of a recent favorite, Tina Fey's Bossypants; less a memoir than a patchwork of growing-up/stand(ing)-up stories that seek to show how Winstead developed her comic voice and her discovery of other strong female voices, such as Rachel Maddow. While all the essays in 'Lizz Free or Die' are incredibly funny, the story about how Winstead fell prey to the Sarah McLachlan Animal Cruelty commercials and ended up rescuing a dog that obsessively ate its own feces was so painfully hilarious, I was doubled over laughing.

(Of course, I am a sucker for dogs who engage in coprophagia. But you all know that.)

Lizz Free or Die: Sunday, September 30 at 7pm at the Mile Square Theater in Hoboken, NJ. And if you live in the tri-state area and want to see Lizz Winstead burn up the stage, I'm giving away two tickets to the show!

Just be the first to leave a comment below and answer this mindbender: What year did 'The Daily Show' go on the air and who was the original host?

And then you and a friend can join me and Marinka and Lizz in the 'Boken.

I know. You're brain-salivating, aren't you?

 

Thank you to the fantastic Mile Square Theater for providing me with four free tickets to the show, two for me and my girl-date and two for you and your whatever-date. I was not compensated for this post. At least not monetarily. Emotional compensation is another story. But I digress.

 

"Our Mom Is So Calm!" by Ms. Seuss

The sun did not shine,
It was too wet to play.
So we sat in the house,
All that cold, cold wet day.

"Teacher Training" it was,
And the kids were off school.
The Mom thought she could work,
but the Mom was a fool.

"Play with us!"
Said the spawn.
"Play
    Play
        Play
            Play
                Play
                    Play!"
And the Mom got no work done
That whole freakin' day.

Hide 'n' Seek, Boggle, Yatzhee,
Zingo, Leggos, Lite Brite.
One game lasted two hours,
While her tongue Mom did bite.

And did the kiddos
Appreciate Mom?
Did they even acknowledge
that Mom is da bomb?

"Our Mom is so calm!"
Said no one that day.
"What self-control!"
Said no one, ever, not one, nope, no, nay.

"Play with us!
Said the spawn.
"Play
    Play
        Play
            Play
                Play
                    Play!"
"We'll resist being sent
to watch TV today!"

"Can we help you make lunch?
Macaroni and cheese?
Oops, we dropped in some dog hair,
a Sharpie, and keys!"

"Six boogers, an eggshell,
Some blood from a cut,
Oops, sorry, touched the mac'n'cheese
with my butt!"

The Mom closed her eyes,
took a deep, cleansing breath.
She resisted the thought
Of her own peaceful death.

But did anyone say
"Our Mom is so calm!
She should blow up, but instead
handles stress with aplomb!"

"Our Mom is so calm!"
Said no one that day.
"What self-control!"
Said no one, ever, not one, nope, no, nay.

"We'll bounce on our beds!
We'll fall off and cry!
We'll run with scissors,
'til someone loses an eye!"

"We'll poop and not flush!
We won't wash our hands!
We'll aim for your boobies
and shoot rubber bands!"

"We'll dress up the dogs
in your bras and your undies!
We'll tell you we steal
from the church plate on Sundays!"

"We won't bathe and
brushing our teeth is a saga!
We'll tell you we'll grow up
to be Lady Gaga!"

Mom takes a time-out,
The Mom counts up to ten.
Asks Jesus to take her,
doesn't specify when.

But does anyone say
"That Mom is a rock"?
Does anyone realize
she's an emotional jock?

"Our Mom is so calm!"
Said no one that day.
"What self-control!"
Said no one, ever, not one, nope, no, nay.

Then, just before bedtime,
When Mom's reached her ceiling,
One dirty, un-toothbrushed
brat says with some feeling:

"Mommy, you're nice".
And there it is, just in time,
the whole rotten day
turns around on a dime.

But does Mom let it go?

Let the moment just be?

Are you kidding?!

It's time to appreciate me!

photo credit: shenamt via photo pin cc

When your family and friends suspect that you're addicted to pugs

Look at the expression on my face.

If, perchance, that look of disdain and disgust does not convey my deepest emotions about the presence of this over-tongued beast with the bowling ball-sized head in my home, then let me expound.

I hate him.

I will not call him "Daddy", but "Satan's Daddy".

If this "trial visit" turns into him coming to live with us, he will have a mysterious accident that involves an arsenic-laced Beggin' Strip and a long tumble down the basement steps.

And.

If I live to be fifteen, I will never understand why one pug was not enough for you.

Seriously, lady.

Not only did you add that second creature with a brain the size of a pine nut, but now you're considering a third creature with a brain the size of a nanobe.

I think you have a problem.

So here are some questions I think you need to ask yourself (borrowed and slightly revised from the OxyContin Addiction website):

1. Am I bringing more and more pugs into the home because one pug doesn't do much for me anymore?

2. Have I ever faced a legal problem due to my pug usage?

3. Would I prefer to take in pugs than do other things?

4. Do I ever take in new pugs because I need them to alleviate the withdrawal symptoms I get when I only have one pug?

5. Do I ever promise myself or loved ones that I will stop adding pugs altogether and then fail to follow through?

6. Do I ever realize that I've forgotten something or blacked out because I'm distracted by the roaring sound of multiple pugs breathing?

7. Do I lie to family and friends about my pug usage?

If you've answered yes to more than one of these questions, then you have passed the point of enjoying snuggles from flat-faced dogs that smell like microwaved Cheetos.

You have a pug problem.

Soon I will throw off this mortal coil and rest in the cushy lap of Jesus. And when I do, you will be left with Pine Nut Brain and Satan's Daddy. I hope that will be enough for you. 'Cause the only thing smaller than a nanobe is your common sense.

Yours in poisoned bacon-shaped dog treats,

--Chandy

Who's Your Daddy

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking that this is a story about my new dog. My new dog named (shivers with delight) Daddy.

Not quite. But I would like to begin by saying that all of your suggestions were marvelous, although the winner was definitely Anna from An Inch of Gray with "Just because Daddy eats vomit doesn't means it's okay." We salute your grodiness, Anna.

We're still in flux about Daddy #2 because we haven't completely convinced Daddy #1 of the necessity for a small, shmush-faced, bow-legged, snoring, pooping, vomit-eating alien that shares his name. I can't imagine why not.

So this is another type of Daddy post entirely. My own Daddy. Which means it may or may not involve vomit.

I told this story to my friend Diana on the way to school this morning and she said, "I can't believe that one hasn't made the blog." And you know I can never resist a challenge like that.

I inherited a few things from my father. My nose shape, for instance, and the little divot in my chin that Anne Flournoy of The Louise Log says is the mark of a spiritual seeker. (Although, let's face it, the only spirits my father ever sought were in the bottom of a bottle of Jack.) My sense of humor, most definitely. He raised me on Ernie Kovacs and Fernwood 2 Night and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, for which I am eternally and black comedy-y grateful.

Oh, and my teeth. I get my lousy teeth from my Dad.

In fact, his choppers were so lousy that by age 35, he had to have most of his bottom teeth pulled and replaced with a partial plate. Which he had a little trouble keeping track of, especially when he was out par-tay-ing. (He also once misplaced his car for a few days, but that's another story for another day). His mini-dentures would turn up in unusual places like under the bed, in a highball glass or in the refrigerator.

One day my mother was walking down the highway about six blocks from our house. She noticed an old man standing, staring down with a concerned expression on his face. When she asked him what was wrong, he pointed down.

And this is what she saw in the street.

"Those are my husband's teeth", said Mama Rose in her inimitable way. And she bent down, picked them up and walked off.

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking "did he put that thing back in his mouth?"

Well, that's another story for another day.

 

Image credit

How does a humor blogger write about 9/11?

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven.

A time to weep and a time to laugh.

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

On September 17, 2001, David Letterman returned to live broadcast after a week of silence. In his opening monologue he was unsure, awkward, emotional. Temporarily robbed of his incredible gift of sarcasm and wit, he seemed like a kid, only able to express his feelings with "It's terribly sad. Terribly, terribly sad."

I feel like that now, unsure, awkward, emotional. And everything I've tried to write so far sounds like it belongs in the reject pile for sympathy card submissions.

But I have to write about it. I have to.

Because it was the only day of my life that I remember thinking I might never laugh again.

On the morning of 9/11, I was at JFK airport about to fly to Los Angeles for an audition. My husband called me to tell me that an airplane had just flown into Building 1 of the World Trade Center. I would have thought he was crazy except for one thing. He was in Building 7 and was watching the whole thing through his window. He said he would call me back as soon as he found out what was going on. And then his phone went dead and I didn't hear from him again for the rest of the day.

For nearly ten hours, I lived with the thought that the one I loved most might be gone. But that was only ten hours. Many, many people have lived with that truth for ten years.

It is nearly midnight on September 10th and I sit here, remembering the time I thought I would never laugh again. At first it was out of sheer grief. Then it was because I was frozen in the collective numbness of my city and my country. Then it was because laughter seemed like the gravest of insults to those who were lost, and to those who were suffering loss.

But "humor, more than anything else in the human make-up can afford an ability to rise above any situation, even if for only a few seconds". This, from Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl. Soon we were in desperate need of rising above--the only other choice being utter hopelessness.

Some may disagree with me, but I believe that humor is one of God's greatest traits and one of his greatest gifts to us. It has rescued me from more dark pits than I care to count. I cherish laughter and the ability to make myself, and (hopefully) others laugh is one of the things I'm most grateful for in this life.

But as Solomon tells us, it has its place and its time. And yes, I have been wanting to tell you that the Pistol cracked me up a few days ago by responding to a request of her father's with "I'm sorry. Please leave a message at the beep. Beeeeeeeep", and yes, I've been wanting to share Mama Rose's unprintable comments about her recent bout with a kidney stone, but it will all wait.

Because it's now September 11, and I need to pray and sleep and ready myself for a day of memorial. I know there will be many tears, but I hope there will also be laughter. Particularly for those who have suffered the most, I pray that God will grant you healing laughter today.

Much love to you all.

 

 

Comedy, offered on a silver platter.

Sometimes, you got nothin'.

And you have to wring comedy out of the mundane, squeezing it out, like you'd squeeze out a mop, or a package of thawed frozen spinach, or maybe the last few precious drops from one of those frozen packaged cocktails, like Lieutenant Blender's Mojito in a Bag.

But sometimes, comedy just gets handed to you on a big silver... dog bowl.

A friend emailed me the other day to tell me that her boss was having trouble with his landlord and needed to find a new home for his 3-year old male pug. Since I am such an obvious sucker for the breed, she immediately thought of me. I hemmed and hawed, not sure if I could even entertain the idea of a third pug, especially since the email said that he was not neutered. But I couldn't help myself, I asked the dog's name anyway.

The email came back with one golden sentence.

"The pug's name is Daddy."

Daddy?

The pug's name is Daddy?

Daddy, as in the name my children call their father, so I do too?

I closed my eyes in bliss. In all my years of improvisational comedy, I'd never gotten an offering so sweet. I shivered with the deliciousness of it, dreaming, imagining my new life where I would have complete license to say things like:

"Kids! Daddy has to poop, will you take him out in the back yard?"

"Bad Daddy! Bad Daddy!"

"Oh, you're hungry, Daddy? Let me finish my blog post and then I'll pour you a bowl of Ol' Roy."

"You were naughty so you have to sleep in your cage tonight, Daddy."

"Daddy! Do not hump my leg in front of company! I'm sorry, Daddy has dominance issues."

"I'm keeping you on a short leash, Daddy."

"Sit, Daddy! Roll over! Beg, Daddy, beg!"

And the five words that every wife in the world has wanted to say at some point:

"Time to get Daddy fixed."

 

 

Disclaimer 1: I'll let you know if I decide to let Daddy live with us.

Disclaimer 2: This post was approved by my husband. Good Daddy! Good Daddy!