Angie’s Humor Blog

A malfunctioning fuel pump. A rubber mallet. A true story.

It’s Mallet Mechanic, my May Suburban Scene column…

“You can hit it with a mallet,” he said. “Here–I’ll show you.”

The setting: an auto repair shop in Anne Arundel County
The characters: me, a mechanic with many years of car repair experience under his fingernails, and my ailing minivan
The situation: I knew it was time for an auto checkup after my van suddenly died one day while cruising down the road. I mean, one minute I’m doing 45 (or whatever the posted speed limit was on that particular road. Really, officer!), and the next minute, I’m struggling to maneuver a comatose, power-steering-less van to the shoulder.

I had a couple of choices, said the mechanic: one was to spend a bundle on a fuel pump repair. The other option was simply to wait until it died again. Then I could hit a certain spot under the van using a rubber mallet which would, according to Mr. Mechanic, make it start right up again. Eager to save money and even more eager to have an excuse to wallop my misbehaving minivan, I opted for the mallet approach.

Apparently aware that threats of spankings loomed near, the van operated normally for awhile. It wasn’t too long, however, until it decided the time had come to test me. Of course it was a carpool day–I was shuttling several kids home after school in addition to my own–and of course it decided to die as I turned onto a narrow two-lane road with no shoulder.

I wrestled the van as far to the right as possible. Checking for oncoming cars, I grabbed my mallet, told the kids I’d be back in a jiffy, hopped outside. I found the right spot and gave the van a good, sound whack. It was very satisfying. I got back inside, switched on the ignition, and, just as the mechanic had predicted, the engine roared to life. Hey, nothing to this car repair stuff! I’d probably be rebuilding carburetors before long.

We continued on our merry way–for all of three blocks. The engine cut out, I wrenched the steering wheel to the right once again as we glided to a stop and, not so cheerfully this time, retrieved my mallet.

I had just dropped to my knees beside the van in pounding position with my upraised mallet when I noticed a nearby car slow way down. A fellow school mom peered at me from the driver’s seat; the look on her face indicated that she wasn’t sure whether to call a tow truck or the department of mental health. I gave her a friendly “ha, ha…just here in the middle of the road whacking the van–good to see you!” kind of wave and proceeded to let the van feel the full brunt of my frustration and embarrassment.

That fix lasted long enough for me to drop off the carpool kids (I wondered what their version of the story sounded like). Then I had to endure one more steel-driving-Mom maneuver before we finally arrived home. Needless to say, we ended up forking out the dough for the fuel pump repair.

I suppose the van had the last laugh on that one. I would suggest, however, that it not laugh too loudly…I still have that rubber mallet.

Twilight spreads over Central Park to the distant sound of honking horns. A policeman on his evening beat saunters down the path. As the sun sinks behind the trees, the atmosphere grows tense and charged. The policeman stops abruptly, peers into the shadows, then rushes forward. A wild scream pierces the stillness.

For a brief moment, the city seems to hold its breath.

Suddenly, the policeman emerges from the trees, grinning, and resumes his jaunty stroll. The release of tension causes a ripple of surprised laughter from the crowd.

No, the laughter doesn’t come from New Yorkers hurrying to catch the subway after a long day of work. It comes from a group of parents seated in a school auditorium in suburban Houston. The music that evoked this dramatic scene: courtesy of my junior high band playing a song called “Night Beat” that evoked the various regions of New York City. The scream: courtesy of me.

And thus began the abuse of my vocal cords.

It wasn’t the only time I filled the role of designated screamer. A few years later, my high school band performed a piece that called for an onstage scream. Naturally, I got the part. I think I can say without bragging that I had achieved some distinction in that area.

As a teenager, I never had particularly strong feelings about the outcome of our high school football games, but I took great delight, nevertheless, in shouting–no, screaming–encouragement to our team. And sometimes I played “bus clown” by belting out The National Anthem, in a loud, exaggerated operatic soprano voice, on the ride home.

By the time I was in college, I was experiencing intermittent problems with my voice.

Most of the time I could speak normally. But occasionally, when enunciating a sound that required the back of my throat to be open, my poor, abused vocal cords slammed shut, causing my voice to strangle to a stop. Short “a” and short “o” sounds were particularly problematic.
I went through a period where I dreaded social events, knowing that I would end up in conversations like this:

Joe: Well, summer is here, that’s for sure. Did you hear it got up to 99 degrees today?
Me: I know. Houston gets so unbelievably h—ah—aughh—(sound of strangling)
Joe: Are you okay?
Me: Yeah. I was just saying that Houston is so h—aughh…Houston is certainly far from cold.
Joe: Right. Hey, I think I’ll go get a refill. See you around.

I don’t think we fully appreciate how ubiquitous short vowel sounds are until we begin trying to avoid them. I’ve found it helpful to come up with some suitable replacements for short-vowel-intensive phrases:

Avoid: An apple makes a fantastic afternoon snack.
Better: I’ll take two scoops of cookies and cream, please.

Avoid: I need to stop at the mall to shop for a good quality wallet.
Better: Would you mind paying for dinner? I don’t carry money.

Avoid: Did you catch that basketball match last Saturday?
Better: Oh, if only teachers were paid like sports heroes!

Avoid: Ah! I think I’ll get a shot of that Amish farmer with my new Nikon.
Better: I don’t want to capture this idyllic Pennsylvania Dutch scene on film.

The louder I speak, the harder I have to work to squeeze out the short vowels. Shouting my order at fast-food drive-thrus is particularly frustrating:

Me: I’ll have a Big Ma—aaa—(sound of strangling)
Employee: Excuse me?
Me: A Big Ma—
Employee: Hello?
Me: Chicken McNuggets, please.

If only I could turn back the clock and tell that twelve-year-old girl sitting in the trumpet section to treat her voice with the same care she treated her instrument. If only I could convince the sixteen-year-old that screaming at the ref wouldn’t have much of an effect on the outcome of the game (not that she cared about the outcome of the game).

Of course, there’s always vocal cord surgery or Botox shots through the throat into the vocal cords…Yikes. I think I’ll stick with the occasional strangled voice. At least until I get really tired of McNuggets.

Greetings, humor lovers!

I’ve just imported my blog from Blogger to WordPress because of problems I’ve had with Blogger. Sorry for the appalling variety of fonts going on down there, but I’m just not sure I have it in me to go through all my old posts and change them to make them nice and matching.

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Thanks for visiting my new blog home!

If you’re like many Americans, you view the month of April with a mixture of anticipation and dread. On one hand, April begins to loosen the icy clutch of winter, ushering in the first tender blooms of springtime. But with the other hand, April reaches for your checkbook, hurls it down in front of you, and pointing at a Form 1040, offers a friendly reminder that Uncle Sam wants YOU (to write him a hefty check).

And yet the focus of this month isn’t only on tulips and taxes. For example, April is also:

FOOT HEALTH AWARENESS MONTH

Sorting through receipts and filling out vaguely-worded forms is no reason to ignore what’s going on inside your shoe. So go ahead and file your returns and your toenails! If you plan to take a deduction for medical expenses, be sure to read IRS Publication 268419, “Pedicure Deductions: Up to and including Bunion Removal and Pumice Treatment.”

WELDING MONTH

Far too few of us take the time to do proper homage to the art of welding. Oh sure, we may exchange greeting cards with ditties such as this:

“Happy, happy welding month! I’m sure you will agree
That joining metals with high heat is great for you and me.
Look around and you will see how welding fills our lives:
From home decor to engine valves, from grills to Ginsu knives.
Welded stuff is all around, so let’s send up a cheer!
Though April may be Welding Month, it ought to last all year.”

Or for the more romantically-inclined:

“Like welded steel we’re fused together,
Never shall we part!
Like torches of acetylene
You’ve melted, dear, my heart.”

And yet each of us should consider whether we’re simply giving in to the commercialism of Welding Month or truly honoring its meaning, which escapes me at the moment.

ANXIETY MONTH

That’s right–Anxiety Month is observed around the same time returns are due. Coincidence? Not a very taxing question.So whether you’re trimming your toenails, taking a class on flux-cored arc welding, or setting aside some extra time to experience a panic attack, enjoy the many moods of April.

Just don’t forget that Uncle Sam is waiting for that check. Happy Anxiety Month, everyone!

Life a la Carte
by Angie Brennan

We live in an age of niche gone nuts. Consider television….the old days of a handful of channels is only a vague memory. With cable TV you can watch practically anything; search long enough and you’ll probably come across such stations as the Dangle-Earrings Home Shopping Network or the X-treme Nine-Ball Billiards Channel.

Then there’s the book store. You want fiction–okay, so what’ll it be? Mystery? Romance? Health? (You know, health fiction–books with titles like “Losing Weight the Quick and Easy Way,” or “The Secret Revealed: Eat Cheesecake Twice a Day and Watch the Pounds Melt Away!”)

Awhile back I discovered a website that features a collection of internet-based radio stations. It offers a mind-boggling variety of music. In the mood for some jazz? You can choose from Blues, Salsa, Bossa Nova, “Smooth, but not too Smooth,” Weimar Rundfunk (Beats me. Sounds intriguing.), and even all-Christmas jazz.

I clicked around and explored the classical stations. Besides the usual “Tortured Love Songs Screeched in Italian” station or the “Mozart, Mozart, and More Mozart” station, there were a number of offerings that defied classification…

How about this one: “Contemporary music of all genres, choir, chamber, orchestra, organ, by Swedish composer—All music you need!” [sic] Yes, I would imagine that after about ten minutes, my contemporary Swedish choir music needs would have been fully met. And then some.

And what about food? Even shopping for popcorn can be overwhelming for the sheer number of choices. Do you want Lightly Buttered, Purposefully Buttered, or Great Glopping Gobs of Butter? Or maybe you’re looking for one that’s sweet and salty…should you get “Sweet ‘n Sorta Salty,” or “Subtly Sweet Swimming in Salt?” Besides buttered and salted, there’s a whole host of flavored popcorn varieties. Some make up for their fairly unadventurous flavor by using alternate spellings: Karoline’s Karmel Pop Korn. The health conscious have their choices, too, such as Light ‘n Fit Packin’ Peanut flavored popcorn. And there are flavors that are downright revolting–Smell o’ Seaweed Brine Shrimp flavored popcorn.

Well, it could happen. I can see it now…one evening the vice president of Orville Redenbacher is dining at his favorite seafood restaurant. Suddenly he pauses, fork in midair, and stares at his plate full of popcorn shrimp. “Why not?” he thinks. “Shrimp-flavored popcorn…somebody out there will buy it.”

And he’s right. It’ll probably be the person at home watching the Simply Shrimp Cooking Channel.

I wasn’t always a coffee snob. When I started drinking coffee in college, I did so for purely utilitarian reasons. It was part of a desperate plan to improve my plummeting biology grades. I figured that staying awake during class would be a key step in this effort. It didn’t help–either with nap-prevention or with my grades.

One important thing I did learn during that semester was that there are few beverages more repulsive than hazelnut-flavored instant coffee. To this day, whenever I get a whiff of hazelnut flavoring I’m hit with a sudden wave of nausea, followed by an odd compulsion to diagram the reproductive cycle of a daffodil.

After my Tasters’ Choice college years, I began my journey toward a full-fledged caffeine habit, taking tentative steps toward the grown-up world of real coffee consumption.

Read the rest HERE.

Look, Chad and Danielle, I know you two thought it was pretty cool that your ol’ Mom finally got up the nerve to ditch that awful china Great Aunt Louise forced on me 30 years ago. And I admit that I was pretty excited when I settled on my new pattern, “Saffron Kuntry Dreams.” It was sweet of you both to help me start building up my new collection.

What a surprise, Chad, when you presented me with that Saffron Kuntry Dreams Poultry Platter for Christmas! It was a surprise not only because that platter wasn’t cheap, but also because, as you know, your father and I are both vegetarians. But never fear, son–I’m using that platter as a handy holder for the many other pieces I’ve received so far.

For example, the Savory Saffron Soup Bowls Danielle gave me last Mother’s Day. Not to mention the EZ-Open Kuntry Kanisters, the Sassy Saffron Sake Saucers, the Kwik-View Kuntry Kookin’ Recipe Box, and even the Swirlin’ Saffron Ceiling Fan Blades–each item featuring my new pattern! Every last one.

You two have certainly latched on to this thing. Makes for pretty easy shopping for ‘ol Mom, doesn’t it? Just go to the website, find some random stuff in my pattern, add to cart, and you’re done.

The truth is, kids, my Saffron Kuntry Dreams are turning into nightmares. About my birthday coming up…how about a nice card and a little bouquet of flowers? And no need to put them in a Saffron Kuntry Dreams 12-inch Decorative Daisy Decanter. I’ve already got one.

Below is my February humor column for Suburban Scene magazine. If you’ve been reading my humor blog for awhile, you may begin to experience some déjà vu while reading this…that’s because I gleaned a little from a previous blog post or two. Keep reading, though–it isn’t all gleanings! And now…

MADLY IN LOVE (with Emphasis on Mad)
by Angie Brennan

Have you ever done a Google search on “fear of cotton balls in vitamin jars”? If so, you aren’t alone. According to my website’s log data, that’s just one of the many bizarre search strings that have landed people on my humor website. I wish I could help the googler with this situation. All I can suggest is to transfer your cotton balls into a less intimidating container–a Folgers coffee can, perhaps.

Here’s another search phrase I came across in my log stats: “Baltimore Gas and Electric Co. ringtone.” I must admit, if I were looking for a creative and unusual ring tone–one that would really set me apart from the crowd–I guess this is the one I would pick. But what, exactly, would it sound like? Barking dogs, perhaps, such as you might hear when the BGE guy comes to check your meter? Or maybe the ring tone could double as a friendly reminder that your bill is due–or overdue, as the case may be–and play this song:

BGE: your source for power, lighting up your life!
Your coffee pot, the VCR, and your electric knife.
We cool your house in summer’s sun, bring heat in winter’s chill–
But you can kiss these things goodbye if you don’t pay your bill!

But this is February. We should be discussing love, not overdue electric bills. Which leads me to one more interesting search string I found: “humor poem for mad spouse.”

If the person who googled that phrase happens to be reading this, let me first of all say this: I would not go there if I were you, my friend. If your spouse is mad, he or she may need an encouraging word, a little gift, or perhaps some time alone to let off steam. This is not the time for being a smart-aleck in verse.

But if you’re really sure “humor poem for mad spouse” is what you want, I’ll do my best to help you out. How about this one:

I know you’re really mad, my dear,
But try your best to grin–
And maybe while you’re at it you
Could grow some thicker skin.

I didn’t say, my love, that you
Should not have cut your hair;
I simply asked you if that style
Was called “The Grizzly Bear.”

No need to get upset, my sweet,
Try not to be a grouch!
What’s that, you say? Tonight my bed
Will be the downstairs couch?

I’ve learned my lesson, darling one.
Next time I’ll nod and smile
When I am asked, “What do you think
About my new hairstyle?”

Hope that helps! If that doesn’t do the trick, try a gift instead. Perhaps a coffee can full of cotton balls.

My humor column from the January Suburban Scene magazine…

The presents have been opened, the visitors gone, and the last bits of wrapping paper and ribbon picked off the carpet. You and your credit card can finally sit back and take a well-earned rest. Now is the time to pause and be thankful for those special gifts you received from family and loved ones - right before you shove them back into the box to go exchange them.

Read more here.