Patsy Porco

Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

What a Boob

In Humor on March 17, 2018 at 3:32 am

The other day, a friend of mine asked me to write a funny post about boobs. I thought I had written it, but my sister told me that I had only transcribed the conversation I had had with my friend about writing the story, so it didn’t count. In fact, she said that my readers were “gypped.” I have an uneasy feeling that “gypped” has something negative to do with gypsies. If any gypsies complain, I intend to print out directions to my sister’s house for the caravan to follow.

My sister went on to say that I still owed her and my ten readers a post about boobs, but she doesn’t use the word “boobs,” so she said “bosoms.” I told her I’d be happy to write about “bosoms,” if she could supply me with a time machine that would transport me to the 1920s, or whenever the heck it was that people said “bosoms.”

I don’t particularly like the word, “boobs,” either, but that might be because of Sister Marian Arlene, the nun I had in first grade. I remember her pulling my long hair and calling me a boob because I didn’t erase my part of the blackboard to her satisfaction. Back in the 1960s, “boob” meant idiot. I was very hurt and offended. But maybe she was prescient.

For example, I fell on my head today. Hard. It happened in my company’s office. Everyone had left for the day and I was alone.

We are moving next week, so some of our things are packed up and some are not. The clock that I depend on has been packed. I feel its absence every time I arrive and every time I leave. I no longer know if I’m late for work when I get there, or whether I’ve allowed enough time to catch my train home.

Since I was the last one to leave today, I had to check that all of the 22 windows were shut, and perform other closing-up chores. When I got to the lounge, I discovered that there was a clock hanging on the wall. Nobody will be using the lounge because the couch was moved out today, so I reached up and removed it from where it was hanging.

Then I took the clock out to the main office to hang it where the missing clock used to be. I couldn’t reach the nail on the wall in this room, however, so I grabbed the nearest chair and climbed up on it while holding the clock. I leaned up, and over the printer, to attach the clock to the nail on the wall. Just as I almost reached the nail, my chair shot out behind me and I fell forward. I tried to break my fall by reaching for the printer but, instead, I crashed into the floor. I’m not sure what hit first, but I have a large bump on the right side of my head and a bruise on my left hip. After I fell, I couldn’t move for a while. I just sat on the floor holding my head and listening to the plastic clock spinning like a top. I kept thinking that I couldn’t function until that clock stopped spinning.

When the clock finally fell over, I lifted my head and saw that I was surrounded by white fragments of something. A lot of white fragments. The printer and the clock were both black and the shards were white, so what did I break, besides myself? With great relief, I discovered that I had knocked over the trash can that contained shredded paper. After cleaning up the paper and righting the trash can, I picked the clock up and put it on top of the printer. Then I dusted my footprints off the black cloth seat of the chair that I had stood on. The chair with wheels.

I finished closing the office and left for Grand Central to catch my train. It didn’t occur to me until I got home that I might have internal bleeding in my head. I feel fine, but you never know.

Many years ago, when we were young, my mother told my siblings and me a story about her maternal great-uncle. I think his name was Otto. Otto was a little boy and one Christmas Day, he went outside and some roughneck kid hit him on the head with a bag of walnuts. Otto returned to his house and told his mother that he was tired. He lay down under the Christmas tree and never woke up. This story made us very sad.

I hope I wake up tomorrow, because nobody is going to be sad if they hear that I stood on a chair that had wheels and fell on my head. They might call me a boob, though. And they’d be justified, unlike Sister Marian Arlene.



You Want Me to Write About What?

In Humor on March 14, 2018 at 3:01 am

“Write a funny post about boobs,” suggested a friend recently. “It would really cheer me up,” she said.

“I can’t even say the word,” I told her. “How am I going to use it in a post?”

“Oh, please write about boobs,” she said. “I’ve been through a really hard time with mine, and I need to laugh about my boobs, rather than cry over them.”

I paused for a moment, overwhelmed by the excessive use of the word “boobs.”

“Maybe I could call them something else,” I said. “‘Boob’ just isn’t a word I grew up saying. My mother always said ‘bosom.’ I don’t think I was even comfortable saying ‘breast’ until recently.”

“I get it,” my friend said. “My father could never say ‘breast.’ Whenever we had chicken, he always asked for the ‘white meat.’ But everyone says ‘boobs’ now. It’s an accepted word.”

“But what would I say about them?” I asked.

She started to sing, “Do my boobs hang low? Do they wobble to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow?”

I couldn’t help but join in, “Can you throw them over your shoulder like a Continental soldier? Do your boobs hang low?” We both laughed like bad kids.

“Maybe your story angle could be about how language has changed and how words that used to be offensive aren’t anymore.”

“I don’t know,” I stalled. “To write that post, I’d have to use words that some people still consider to be crass, and I might lose one or two of my ten loyal readers.”

“Well, then, just stick to boobs. You can write about mine. They’re perfect. I have Venus de Milo boobs.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I said, “Excuse me?”

“I do!” she said. “They’re small and perky!”

I wasn’t aware of this. I’ll have to take a closer look the next time we see each other. I’ll need to be discreet, however, or she might whip off her shirt.

“Did you know that the champagne glass was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s boob?” she asked.

I pictured Marie Antoinette squashing her breast into a champagne flute. Then I figured

Screen Shot 2018-03-14 at 2.50.52 AM.png

coupe glass

out that the champagne glass in question was a coupe glass, with a wide, shallow, drinking bowl.

“And did you know that the Grand Teton mountain in Wyoming translates to ‘the big tit?'” she asked. “It’s the largest of three Tetons and together they were called ‘The Three Breasts.'”

“That’s very interesting,” I said, wondering where else this conversation could lead. “I’ll think about writing about … ahem … boobs, but not … uh … tits.”

“Oh, please do,” she urged. “Your blog always makes me laugh, and a post about boobs is just what I need right now.”

After hearing about the Grand Teton, writing about boobs didn’t seem so bad.

Screen Shot 2018-03-14 at 2.41.34 AM

Venus de Milo photo from Wikipedia









No Quilt for Old Jeans

In Humor on March 10, 2018 at 2:46 pm

Five or ten years ago, my friend decided to learn quilting. She is now an expert quilter. Some people are like that: they make a plan, stick to it, and excel at what they’ve learned to do. I admire those people. I will never be one of those people, but I admire them.

My friend is now a member of a traveling quilting group. The members meet weekly at rotating houses. The houses belong to the members. They don’t just show up at random houses, hauling armfuls of material and quilting paraphernalia.

The other day, I decided to thin out my family’s closets. By the end of my culling exercise, I had a pile of clothes to donate to local charities, and a pile of clothes that would be too embarrassing to donate. In fact, the clothes in the latter pile would probably be thrown out by the charities, due to their tattered states.

However, I don’t like to throw out clothes. Except for old socks. I know that I should learn darning eggto darn socks, but I don’t have a darning egg and don’t want one. And everyone who has ever sewn holes in socks with a needle and thread knows how uncomfortable lumpy socks are to wear. So, I draw the line at holey socks and just toss them. Then my dog digs through the trash, hauls them out, and litters the house with them. But that’s another blog post for another day.

Anyway, I had a pile of clothes that I couldn’t donate and couldn’t bring myself to put in the trash. I was at a fork in the road, so I went straight to bed. While I napped, my subconscious sorted out my clothing conundrum and made me realize that old clothes could make great quilts.

I immediately contacted my quilting friend. I started small, however. I didn’t offer her stained, ripped shirts and sheets. I offered her only my very best junk. I told her that I had a collection of jeans in a variety of colors that couldn’t be worn any longer because they were torn in unfashionable places. I asked if she or her quilting group would be interested in cutting the jeans up into squares, or any shapes they liked, for use in their quilts.

It turns out that my knowledge of quilting is antiquated and romanticized. My friend told me that she doesn’t know anyone “who makes quilts out of old jeans.” She said that people use T-shirts or other shirts for memory quilts, but old jeans have no place in quilts.

Screen Shot 2018-03-10 at 1.43.15 PM

I bought this patchwork quilt on eBay.

Huh. I had a vision in my head of patchwork quilts being made from any and all scraps of material by women sitting around a large, round, scarred wooden table next to a giant fireplace. I thought that my donation of many different pairs of jeans would be met with glee, especially since, as I told my friend, there would be a lot of material to work with due to my long inseam.

But, my offer was rebuffed. Nowadays, people make pretty quilts, not utilitarian quilts like they did in the olden days.

I personally love patchwork quilts made from scraps. I appreciate their rustic beauty. I don’t like “crazy quilts,” though. I prefer quilts made with at least a little sanity.

So, I still have a pile of ripped jeans that I can’t donate and can’t use. I suppose I could sew vintage patches over the gaping holes and wait for 1970s’ fashion to come back into style. Or, I could look for a quilter who would find a use for my old jeans, and maybe even my holey socks.

There has to be at least one person in the world who has lower standards than my friend has.

Make LovePeace signsflower power

Images from Google Search

A Not-So-Special Present

In Humor on February 19, 2018 at 2:03 am

Yesterday, I wrote about a beautiful vintage quilt that I had found on eBay, which I had bought and sent to my cousin for her birthday. I said that I knew she’d appreciate its uniqueness. I bragged about my ability to spot handmade objects and appreciate the fine workmanship and skills that went into creating them.

Well, it turns out that the quilt isn’t quite one-of-a-kind after all. First, I got a message from a friend that she has the same quilt and she loves it. What?

Then, I went back to eBay and discovered that the same quilt is on sale again by the same seller. It’s a little bigger than the one I bought, but that is the only difference. The seller even used the exact same wording and photographs to describe this quilt as she did for the one I purchased. And, she is still tugging on heartstrings by saying that she is selling off her quilts to buy hay for her beautiful Arabian horses.

I felt like one of her horses had kicked me in the gut. I emailed her about my cousin’s quilt and she said that she “suspected” that the quilt was machine-made, and, regarding the almost-identical quilt that she is currently auctioning, she just happened to find it at a “trade days” in Canton, Texas. What a lucky coincidence! Hmmmm.

I went back and read her original description of the quilt I had bought. My imagination must have supplied the words, “unique,” “handmade,” and “hand-quilted,” because they didn’t appear in the text of her ad. Only “vintage” appeared, and in eBay vernacular, that means “used,” which is not special at all.

In my defense, I had typed in “vintage handmade quilts” in the eBay search bar, so I expected to only see quilts that matched my key words. I had also looked at hundreds of quilts before choosing this one, so my brain was probably patchwork at the time I placed my quilt order.

But the worst part of this is that I was fooled … by myself, no less. I had let myself believe that I could spot quality workmanship. I had given credit, in my head, to some anonymous woman who had labored for years on this quilt, working on it through good times and bad, through laughter and tears. I had imbued this quilt with a history that it never had. The only truth about this quilt was that it was laundered by the seller and hung in the east Texas sunshine to dry.

Please let that, at least, be true.

Screen Shot 2018-02-18 at 7.39.35 PM

Photo credit: Melissa M. Stearn 2/18/2018

A Very Special Present

In Daily Prompt: Present, Humor on February 18, 2018 at 2:25 pm

via Daily Prompt: Present

I am waiting to hear from my cousin. I sent her a birthday present for her significant birthday. The number can’t be named, just like Voldemort in the Harry Potter books.

Anyway, I sent her a vintage, hand-sewn, hand-embroidered quilt, made in the double wedding ring pattern. I know she will appreciate the meticulous handiwork that went into making it.

I bought the quilt on eBay. It was sold by a woman who, for some reason, has a hoard of handmade, vintage quilts and is selling them off to buy hay for her Arabian horses. In the descriptions of her quilts, she assures potential buyers that they are in pristine condition, washed by her, and dried in the eastern Texas sunshine. Eastern Texas sunshine must add value, or magic, or something you can’t get elsewhere.

My cousin will love the vintage aspect of the quilt. Our mothers, who are sisters, taught us to recognize and appreciate the quality work and materials, as well as the finely honed skills, that went into making objects before mass production became the norm. For us, discovering one-of-a-kind items gives us a thrill. So, I’m not worried about my cousin. It’s her husband who worries me.

I don’t know if he will allow an old quilt, no matter how beautiful it is, to be put on their bed. He might, rightly, wonder what else is in that quilt besides eastern Texas sunshine. Who knows what could have crawled between the seams as it hung on a clothes line in a field filled with wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze?

Actually, it might not have hung in a field at all. All that was guaranteed was that it was dried in the sun. It could very well have hung on a rusty hook in a dirty, smelly barn that is missing its roof.

I hope their dog enjoys her new quilt.


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A Deadly Candleholder

In Christianity, Humor on February 3, 2018 at 3:29 pm

When I was growing up, my parents had a terrifying candleholder made out of cement. There were seven gnarled, gargoyley faces on it, each one representing a deadly (or cardinal) sin. The horrifying faces didn’t seem to personify anything in particular except evil, which, looking back, was probably the point.

Back then I couldn’t name the seven deadly sins (pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth) and didn’t think about them except when I had to dust that awful thing.

In our house of seven children, our parents stressed the gluttony and sloth sins, probably because they served their purposes when they were telling us to stop eating everything in sight, or to get off the couch and go outside and do something. I think I heard pride, greed, and envy mentioned a time or two, as well. Lust and wrath didn’t come up, as far I remember, probably because of how long it would take to explain those sins, which would delay getting us out of the house.

I was thinking about that candleholder today because I chose to sleep in late instead of getting up and renting a car. Our family car was in an accident on Tuesday, and the rental car place that our insurance company told us to use closes at noon on Saturday and isn’t open at all on Sunday. Getting up early wasn’t something I was willing to consider, it being a Saturday. Now I won’t have a car until Monday at the earliest. My son has a car I can use when he’s home, but, naturally, when I’ll need a car tomorrow to get to church, he’ll be at work.

The family car will be out of the auto body shop in about two weeks, so I’m going to have to rent a car at some point, preferably before my husband returns from the trip he’s on. He will not be able to comprehend why I didn’t rent a car right after the accident. But, that’s him. He does things when they need to be done. I take a nap.

Anyway, when I got up and realized it was 12:30 p.m. and I wasn’t going to have a car all weekend, I thought of that cement monstrosity. By sleeping in, I had probably committed several deadly sins. The sloth face was the most prominent in my mind. Not that I actually know which face was the sloth face.

I called my mother to ask her how she and my father could tell which face went with which sin. She said that the candleholder probably didn’t depict the seven deadly sins. She added that my father and she most likely told us that to scare us.

Now that nothing is as it seems, I’m fine with not having a car until Monday. If anyone asks why I wasn’t at Mass, I’ll blame my absence on lust or wrath. That should stop the questions.


I think this was it. In its online description (link attached to photo), it is called the Seven Deadly Sins (are you still messing with me, Mom?) and it’s made of chalkware (which, as a child, looked like cement to me). It’s called a pipe rack. In other online postings, however, it’s listed as a candleholder and/or pipe rack.


Hold Onto Your Pants

In fashion, Humor on January 27, 2018 at 2:43 am

I understand pack rats. Not hoarders, though. Hoarders, from what I understand, don’t clean and never throw anything out. Their piles of trash reach their ceilings and spill out their windows. Pack rats, however, are people who don’t throw their belongings out for fear they’ll need them someday. Or that’s my definition. I make stuff up to suit my purposes.

Anyway, it’s the fashion nowadays to talk about purging your home of everything that doesn’t “bring you joy.” What a crock. Toilet paper doesn’t bring me joy but I can’t throw it all out. They don’t print Sears catalogs anymore.

Before the woman who wrote about joyful decluttering became popular, though, fashion magazines had always been encouraging people to get rid of clothes that hadn’t been worn for more than a year.

Dumb, dumb, dumb. Let’s say you haven’t worn your favorite (or only) evening gown for over a year because you didn’t have any balls, or Italian weddings, to attend. According to the fashion advisors, you should donate it, pronto. However, you just know that you will have barely closed your car door after dropping off the gown when an invitation will arrive to a black-tie event, or a costume party. What do you do then? Go to the charity shop and buy it back?

And are they also suggesting that men should get rid of their tuxedos if they haven’t been worn in 366 days? That’s crazy talk, as my sister would say. Fashion experts need to be held accountable for their clever advice. If they make me throw out an expensive item that I will need in two years, then they should replace it.

“Dear [insert fashion magazine name] , I took your advice and threw out my husband’s wetsuit. Now he needs it. Please send me one in size XL, and include the flipper-thingies in size 11. Many thanks.”

Also, other items that have been shoved to the back of the closet might be unfashionable now, but fashion cycles are speeding up and they could be back in style in two years, or a year and a half. Then you’ll curse yourself, and that idiot fashion writer, for getting rid of them.

Here’s a perfect example: I wore men’s Levi’s for decades. Even after I succumbed to pressure from those-more-fashionable-than-I to buy women’s jeans, I kept the old Levi’s to wear when I worked in the garden or painted. Just last year, I decided to get rid of them since I had discovered that my husband’s old sweatpants were more comfortable to work in and, thus, I would have no need for these jeans since I couldn’t wear them out in public.

Naturally, I just found these Helmut Lang jeans being sold online for $275. These are Screen Shot 2018-01-27 at 1.38.09 AMexpensive because of the name, but it’s only a matter of time before Levi’s knocks them off and sells them for $100. Summinabeech*, as my husband says.

The moral here is that we should stop taking advice from inexperienced people who are younger than our clothes, hold onto everything, and let our heirs decide how joyful our stuff is.


* Translation: SOB


The Mystery of Mothers Who Home-School

In home-schooling, Humor on January 15, 2018 at 7:56 pm

I don’t understand why any woman would voluntarily home-school her children. Please don’t say that men home-school their children, too. They don’t.

Why would a mother decide to forgo six or more hours of having her kids out of the house? That still leaves about 18 hours to have them in the house, so it’s not as though they’ll forget what she looks like.

I was watching Love It or List It on HGTV and there was a couple who needed to either enlarge their home or find a new one for them and their seven children, who were home-schooled by the wife. Their seven children. What is wrong with that mother that she doesn’t want them to go away for at least part of the day? I was the eldest of seven children and my mother was happy to see us go to school. She was also mostly happy to see us come home, but I suspect that was because we had left for a worthwhile stretch of time.

Putting aside a mother’s suspicious need to be surrounded by her children at all times, what qualifies any mother to teach seven children all at once? At some point, their lessons are going to be difficult, if not impossible, for her to teach. What then? Does she say, “I never saw the need for geometry, anyway. You only really need to know the basic shapes”?

I’m a smart person, according to all of the Facebook quizzes I’ve taken. Not only can I read a sentence backwards but, according to the quiz I took last night, I have many of the indicators of high intelligence: I’m tall, I’m the eldest child, I’m a night owl, and I enjoy alcohol. But I would never attempt to home-school one child, let alone a passel of them.

I also think kids need to socialize with people their own age so they learn how to interact in society. And, if the older kids don’t get opportunities to make their younger siblings jealous, by doing things the young ones can’t do, then what is the point of being an older kid? And what is the point of being a middle child if you aren’t ignored, or the baby if you aren’t indulged? Instead, they all share the same space, day after day, lumped together as one student entity and treated identically by their no-doubt harried mother/teacher.

Speaking of the mother: How does she work, either in the house or out of the house, if she’s always monitoring her kids’ lessons? She mustn’t get anything else done. And how does she maintain her sanity with everyone around all of the time?

There’s only one answer: These home-schooling mothers are all tall firstborns who stay up all night and drink.

teacher in class



Don’t Eat That, Eat This!

In dogs, Humor on January 14, 2018 at 8:05 pm

IMG_3567We adopted a dog, Duke, from the Connecticut Humane Society last week. We were told that he’s about four years old and a German shepherd mix. He was surrendered by a family who was moving and couldn’t take him with them. That’s all we learned from the shelter.

What we learned directly from him this week is that he is a very happy, sweet, loving dog. He doesn’t know many commands, but he’s housebroken and he comes in from our fenced-in yard when called. We were unable to train our last dog, Rudy, to do this, so we were very glad that he obeyed that command.

Also unlike Rudy, Duke likes his Kong, which is an indestructible plastic toy with a hole in it. You put treats in the hole and the dog spends hours—or minutes, depending on the dog—trying to get the treats out of the Kong.

Being a thrifty person, I decided to make treats to put in Duke’s Kong. So, last night, I put globs of Jif peanut butter on a pizza pan and baked them. The globs spread out into round cookie shapes. They didn’t come off the pan like cookies, however. They broke up and became gravel. I formed the gravelly bits into cylinders that would fit in the Kong’s hole, put them back on the pan, and took them outside to freeze.

Peanut butter doesn’t freeze. I think the oil in it might be the reason. Nevertheless, I gave Duke one of the cylindrical-shaped peanut butter globs and he ate it. I gave him another with the same result. Success! Now I have a container of peanut butter things to use in his Kong.

There’s only one problem. They resemble something else and I don’t want to train him to eat that other thing. I think the solution is to not let him see them again. I’ll fill his toy when he’s not looking.

We’re teaching him to be good, not disgusting.


100% baked Jif Peanut Butter



Rhapsody in Email

In Humor on January 13, 2018 at 3:35 pm

Yahoo Mail is down and I need to open an email from my bank. I got locked out of my bank’s online site for entering the wrong password three times, and I was told that I would have to reset my password, using the authorization code that was sent to my Yahoo Mail address. However, I can’t open my Yahoo Mail.

I should get rid of Yahoo Mail because, apparently, if you have Yahoo or AOL for your email, everyone knows that you are OLD. Having a Gmail account tells the world that you are normal — not cool, just normal, as opposed to being a stuck-in-your-ways old person.

I have a Gmail account. In fact, I think I have several. I even saved the logins and passwords, so I can access them. I just don’t use a Gmail account because everyone emails me at my Yahoo address. It’s such a hassle to change email addresses, because you have to check your new and old email accounts for a long time because, even if you let everyone in your address book know that you’ve changed your email address, not all of them will stop using the old one. Some of them will and some of them won’t. That’s because it’s a nuisance to change someone’s email address in your address book. The only people who will use your new email address are those to whom you’ve sent an email, because they can just hit, “Reply.” They won’t even notice what address they replied to.

But, back to my Yahoo Mail problem: I googled, “What is wrong with Yahoo Mail?” and was taken to a page with a “real-time” chart of Yahoo Mail’s activity. According to the chart, while Yahoo Mail did have problems this week, they’ve been resolved. Maybe they have been resolved in Yahoo world, but I still can’t open my email. Neither can a lot of people, and they left comments. The comments section on any web page is always entertaining to read. Here’s my favorite from this page:

My child just died a week ago and I needed a bunch of emails and information. This YAHOO problem made my personal loss even more difficult and from here on out I hope to phase out this crappy yahoo service. I have no access to many pictures of my dead child and as soon as I get those back I will delete my account forever.


If “nonshopper” really lost his or her child, I am sorry. But I have to wonder if he or she is telling the truth, because who keeps pictures in Yahoo Mail? Accessing photos from your email is very time-consuming because you have to remember who sent you the photo you’re looking for, then do a search for that person’s emails, and then look for the paperclip icon to see which email contains an attachment. Sometimes people will email photos by copying/pasting them right into the email, so a paperclip icon wouldn’t appear at all. I’m having a hard time believing this person. Some people enjoy jerking the chains of others.

Take my husband. The other day, he got a telephone call from a telemarketer. He listened for a second and then said, “Hold on a minute, Sarah. I’m busy now. How about you give me your phone number and I’ll call you when you’re busy?” (He borrowed this line from a Seinfeld episode.) Then he hung up.

“I can’t believe you were so rude,” I said. “That person is just doing her job.”

“We’re on the no-call list,” my husband replied.

“Then report the company,” I said. “Don’t yell at the poor woman who is just trying to make a living. She’s probably working on commission. If she’s lucky, she’s making minimum wage.”

“I don’t think so,” my husband said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“It was a robo-call,” he replied.

It turns out that my husband likes jerking my chain.

chain jerk


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