My Fruit

comedy, Humor, introvert, social media, women, work

Humblebragging Fidget Spinners

The world is a noisy place.  There is a lot of chatter that clutters up the peaceful silence that we should all be enjoying. I’ve noticed that a lot of this chatter is of the ‘talk about myself’ variety. I was taught it was impolite to talk about yourself. Today, the backdoor brag, humblebrag, and the up-and-coming reverse humblebrag can be seen and heard on a regular basis, especially on social media. What happened that so many people need to brag about themselves to people they barely know, or to a world of total strangers?

I’ve learned to tolerate the talk-about-myselfers for short periods of time, but they cross the line when they start spinning their stories in an attempt to make me think they are doing me a favor. The only favor being done here is me listening to them for short periods of time.  And why do they fidget while telling the story about themselves in an attempt to make me think they’re doing me a favor?  It makes me question why they are fidget spinners, rather than straight shooters, when it comes to chattering that clutters up the peaceful silence that we should all be enjoying.

aging, comedy, Humor, Travel, vacation, women

I Went A Broad

I was on vacation a few weeks ago. For the first time ever, I traveled across the Atlantic.  I don’t like to fly in airplanes so I wasn’t looking forward to the actual ‘travel’ part of the trip. It just doesn’t make sense to me that a thing that big can go that high in the sky and stay up there for hours at a time. I try not to think about it but sometimes, thinking about the mechanics of flight is easier than reaching your destination in time to enjoy your vacation.

I spent months planning my trip abroad.  Abroad-it’s a funny word. In fact, according to Urban Dictionary, I’m spelling it wrong. It’s supposed to be, ‘a broad’. I always thought ‘a broad’ was slang for ‘a woman,’ but I must be wrong.  Urban Dictionary says, and I quote, a broad “…mean [sic] like a foreign country, foreign parts” or “if somebody doesn t [sic] live in your county [sic]. He live in [sic] a broad.” Apparently, I went ‘a broad’.

I checked-in for my flight the evening before my scheduled departure. I picked my seat-because I like that taken care of ahead of time, signed up for text alerts about the flight, and printed my boarding pass.  Everything was in order for my late afternoon flight the next day-until about noon the next day. I started getting text messages from the airline about delays for the first leg of my flight. ‘Leg of a flight’-that’s funny too, but it just means first flight of a trip consisting of multiple flights.  Yeah, I know-that’s enough with the vocabulary lessons-I’ll move on.

The first text message told me my fight would leave 20 minutes later than scheduled. The second said 40 minutes later, and the third nonchalantly let me know that I was not going to make my connecting flight out of the country.  I called the airline and after waiting on hold for 20 minutes I learned that my connecting flight was the last one going a broad that day.  “But I have a double decker hop-on-hop-off bus tour, a visit to a brewery and a distillery, and a bar crawl scheduled for the first leg of my multiple day vacation a broad,” I thought.  “I’ll miss all that without a flight out today.”  The only options were to depart from another airport an hour away and to begin leg two of the trip at a different airport.  I had to re-check-in, re-pick my seat-because I like that taken care of ahead of time, and re-print my boarding pass. Luckily, I was a little butthole re-tentive when packing so all I had to do was close the suitcase, get in the car, and drive to the airport. I made it a broad and in time to tour, visit, and crawl. And at the end of the day, I didn’t have to think about a thing.


aging, comedy, customer service, Health, Humor, women

Well, I Waited

I went to the doctor’s office the other day. I try to avoid them as much as possible because it usually involves a huge chunk of time, money, and a lot of hassle, but I had no choice.  I needed someone to look in my ear and the doctor’s office was the only place with the equipment to do so.

After finally finding a local doctor who accepted my insurance, I arrived 20 minutes ahead of my scheduled appointment.  The waiting room was filled with chairs, but no people.  “Good,” I thought, “I won’t have to wait long.”  I don’t like to wait, especially when I paying big bucks for what I need.

I began to complete all of the paperwork that would allow someone to look in my ear for 2-3 seconds and tell me what they saw. I returned all 15 pages, none of which included even one question about why I wanted to see the doctor that day, to the lady behind the window. I took my seat, kept my hands to myself-the less you come in contact with in a doctor’s office, the better-and waited.

Thirty minutes into my wait, another patient arrived.  Thirty-five chairs in the room and he sits in the one right next to me.  Like I said, the less you come in contact with, the better. “How do I get away from him?” I thought. “Do I get up and move or will that seem rude?  Do I pretend I forgot something in the car and when I return from getting it sit in another chair?  What if they call me while I’m out checking and I lose my place in line?” After way too much pondering, I decided to stay put. I sat there, pretending like I was searching for something important in my purse as a way to avoid eye and germ contact with the only other person in the room who just happened to be right next to me.  I did a lot of searching as another 30 minutes went by, and then another.  He got the point.

Finally, the door, the one that gets you closer to the doctor, opened. I got excited because I thought my wait was over.  However, the lady in uniform looked at the man and said, “You can come back now.”  “That’s odd,” I thought, “I was next and usually they call you by your name. She called him, ‘You.’” As the man approached the door, the lady suddenly proclaimed, “Oh, I thought you were somebody else.  I couldn’t see you clearly across the room.”  A blind sphincter says what?  Who did you think he was?  There is one lady and one man sitting next to each other in this waiting room for over an hour and you thought he was somebody else?  Who else is there?” I kept searching my purse only this time it was to keep from laughing.

One hour and 40 minutes after my scheduled appointment, my name was finally called and thankfully, by someone who could see.  She apologized for the long wait and said, “We were behind because we had two new patients this afternoon.  You were one of them.”  “Excuse me,” I wanted to scream, “Did you just say I waited for nearly 2 hours with a man sitting right next to me in a room of empty chairs because I am a new patient? Is waiting part of the welcome package? What were you doing for me during those 2 hours?” But I said nothing. I just needed someone to look in my ear for 2-3 seconds and tell me what they saw.  She wouldn’t look.  She just entered into her computer every piece of information I had written on the 15-page form upon arrival.  And I? Well, I waited.


comedy, customer service, Humor, social media, technology, women

Pain in My Asset

I use a lot of technology in my daily life.  When it works well, it can be a real asset, but when it doesn’t, it’s a real pain in the asset.

It was Saturday evening and I was headed out for a late dinner because I was too lazy to whip something up at home.  As I got myself in order, I decided to charge my phone just in case I wanted to take a few pictures of my dinner to share with myself.  I plugged my phone into the first of four chargers that I’ve used over the last 2 ½ years and a message came up on the screen, ‘cannot charge, charger not compatible, please use charger that came with device.’  The same message came up with chargers 2, 3, and 4. So there I was, with a cell phone holding a 33% charge and no way to charge it.  That’s when I felt it, the first twinge in my asset. Dinner had to wait. I went straight to Verizon.

When the Verizon lady finally came out of the back room where she was doing whatever she was doing for the 15 minutes that I waited, she took one look at the phone and said, “Oh, you have to use the original charger.” Apparently, she thought I couldn’t read, so I let it go. “But why all of the sudden?” I asked, “I’ve not used that charger the entire time I owned this phone and I have no idea where it is. So sell me a replacement one and I’ll be on my way.” “Well, you’ll have to buy a new phone,” she said, “You are due for one.”  Due for one? What exactly does that mean?  If I take care of my phone and extend it’s life beyond 2 years the charger will suddenly stop working, even when the phone works perfectly fine, and I will be forced to buy a new $700 phone simply because ‘I’m due’? And that’s when I felt the second twinge in my asset and it was bigger than the first.

I began to challenge the need for a new phone.  “What about a replacement charger or a wireless charger?” I asked.  “We don’t carry replacement chargers and the wireless charger we have won’t work on that phone,” she said, “You’ll have to buy a new phone.” Thoughts raced through my mind, “Are you kidding me? Did someone on the cell phone mothership flip a switch that turned off all non-original chargers and eliminated the owner’s ability to charge their phone?  How can the only fix be a new phone? Is this some kind of sick marketing scheme?”  It all seemed so sketchy. And that’s when I felt asset twinge #3, which was so strong that I had to leave the store.  Twinge #4 was so bad it ruined my dinner.

When I got home, I took to Twitter to DM the phone manufacturer. They acknowledged my messages and asked a few questions about the phone model, but they didn’t offer any help, which really added to the pain in my asset.  Except that two days later, all four chargers worked again. What happened to the only fix being a new phone? Did the mothership flip the switch again allowing all types of chargers to work or was it only flipped for those who didn’t fall for the ‘you’ll have to buy a new phone’ scheme? Regardless, I was back to having an asset instead of a pain in my asset, at least for the time being.

aging, comedy, Food, Humor, shopping, women

Just Slice It

I can remember going to PT, which was the local grocery store, and buying doughnuts filled with sugar icing that oozed out with each bite.  Ooze and bite probably shouldn’t be used in the same sentence but I’m gonna leave it as is because it’s a good memory.  As a kid, shopping for doughnuts and other food at the grocery store seemed easy.  You rode to the store with your mom, got a shopping cart, put everything you wanted into the cart, moved everything from the cart to the conveyor belt so the checkout girl could punch the price into her register, gave the girl your mom’s money, went home, and ate everything that you had put into your cart.  Easy enough.  But something changed.

I went to the grocery store the other day.  Sure, I had to drive myself but when I got into the store I realized that grocery shopping was no longer easy enough.  First, I had to decide which size shopping cart I needed for all of my groceries. What happened to ‘one size fits all’ in the cart department?  A small load will fit in a big cart but a big load won’t fit in a small cart; just give me a big cart and save me one decision.

The deli was the first stop where I put things into my chosen cart.  “I’ll take a pound of turkey, sliced,” I said to the deli lady-the one who talks deli to me. That’s what I’ve said for over 30 years when I wanted sliced turkey to put on a sandwich and it always worked out well for me-I had a nice turkey sandwich when I got home.  That doesn’t work anymore.  I can have my turkey sandwich when I get home but I can’t just say, “sliced”. “What number slice do you want?” asked the deli-lady.  “Ah, the ‘I want to put it on a turkey sandwich’ slice,” I said.  I didn’t know how to order slicing.  I never had to do it before.  What happened to just plain old ‘sliced’?  Not shaved or chipped or diced, but sliced? My deli lady abruptly motioned toward the 10-point slicing scale that sat on top of the deli counter.  “Pick a number,” she said.  Panicked, like I am when I go to the DMV and there are so many directions to follow that I’m not sure what to do, I picked a ‘2’.  She made a slice and held it up for everyone in the store to see. “Is this good?” she asked, “Do you want to taste it?”  Ah, no, I don’t want to taste it.  I don’t think that will help me to decide if the slice is right.  Just give me the turkey, sliced.

I continued adding things to my cart and then it was time for a few more not-so-easy enough decisions.  I got to the checkout counter and had to decide if I wanted the checkout person to scan the items in my cart, or if I wanted to scan them myself in self-checkout.  I don’t usually check myself out, except when I’m leaving for somewhere special, so I went with the checkout person. But that led to a few more decisions.  “Paper or plastic?”  Ah, I want a bag; one that holds my stuff so I can carry it to the car and into my house.  “Are you are rewards member or not?”  Wouldn’t shop here if I weren’t a member.  That plastic rewards card holds a lot of power when it comes to my shopping bill.  “Cash, credit, or debit card?” Ah, what happened to someone else paying? Where’s my mom? “Do you want any extra?”  Unless you are giving me extra from someone else’s account, just stick with the total on the bill.

What happened to easy enough grocery shopping?  I just want to get in, get my icing oozing doughnut and sliced turkey, go home, and eat it. While choices are good, there’s a tipping point and I think we’ve reached it.

aging, comedy, Humor, music, musician, women, work

It’s Never too Late

My dream job isn’t my real job.  Don’t get me wrong, I like what I do, but it doesn’t make people stand up and cheer, or sing along.

I’ve spent a lot of time in my not-my-dream job helping people to get on board.  While I’ve had some success, it doesn’t come close to what could’ve been had I pursued my dream job.  The problem is, I didn’t know about my dream job until later in life. But hey, it’s never too late.

Kenny Chesney, not my high school guidance counselor, was the first to show me the error of my ways when it came to career choice. At a crucial point in life, I chose to sort of play the flute and piano rather than the guitar. I wasn’t a fan of either instrument but nobody played the guitar in the elementary, high school, or the marching band; all of which my mother made me join. Sure, I learned how to read music but other than a very rough version of Annie’s Song, Ice Castles, and a Bavarian Dance song, I could only pounce across rather than tickle the ivories.  And the flute?  Well, I’d like to say, “This one time, at band camp,” but I wasn’t even that good at it.

Had I chosen the guitar, I could have helped a lot more people get on board, just like Kenny.  My stage name could have been K’eliza G and I would have loved seeing thousands of people at my sold-out stadium concerts standing up, cheering, and most importantly, signing my songs right along with me. And when I stopped signing and held the microphone out to the crowd, they would have kept it going, just like they do for Kenny and many of the other musicians I’ve seen in concert.

I figure that by the time I learn the guitar, write my own songs, and can get people who can remember the words to come to my concerts, sing with me, and fill in the gaps when I hold the microphone out, I’ll be well over 60. My first sold-out concert probably won’t happen until at least 5 years after that. Think of it, gray-haired K’eliza G standing up on the stage, rockin boot cut denim stretch pants, a sweaty white t-shirt over everything that is no longer perky, and a pair of orthopedic cowboy boots.  Get that vision in place and look at it, just look at it.  And then look off to the side of the stage at my fans.  Yes, the ones in the Recreation Room who are trying to sing along. See, it’s never too late to get people on board.


1980s, aging, comedy, Humor, introvert, school, women, work

High Schoolerish

I had a lot of fun in high school.  It was a long time ago but I still remember all the shenanigans just like they happened yesterday.   I was so busy having fun that the guidance counselor declared I would never be what I wanted to be, but I’m a healthy middle-aged woman in spite of his ‘counseling’.  I’d go back to high school in a heartbeat but recently, I realized I don’t have to go back. Some of high school is with me every day, but it’s not the part I liked.

Throughout my life, I’ve been given a lot of advice about how to be better at what I wasn’t supposed to be. Someone was always trying to change me or get me to fit in even though I’m not a fitter-inner, unless shenanigans are involved.  At my age, the chances of any major changes are slim to none because I don’t really aspire to much more greatness than I’ve already achieved.  You might say I’m comfortable with myself and my level of fit-in-ness. While that is good for me, it might be unsettling for others; just like in high school.

I was recently reacquainted with high schoolerish behaviors and it was sad rather than fabulously funny. Sitting in the back row of a room and whispering to your friend-of-the-day while someone else is talking is high schoolerish. Not the shenanigan type of high schoolerish, but the ‘I’m too cool for school’ type of high schoolerish. I bet the ‘too cool for schoolers’ feel that they don’t fit in, yet they desperately want to, so they pretend things are beneath them and not worth their time. Some people feel so unsettled with another’s comfortableness that they forget to extend common courtesies such as saying “hello” or offering a handshake. Perhaps they were just easily distracted by things such as their cell phone; just like a high schooler.

Whatever the story, high school ended over 40 years ago. It’s no longer about fitting in, or being the center of attention, or controlling the territory or the clique.  It’s about respecting other people-something everyone was supposed to learn in 6th grade social studies.  Oh, and I just checked, I listen when others are speaking was a graded activity on my 1968-69 Kindergarten Progress Report. I got a G on the G-S-I scale. What did you get?