Here, There and Everywhere

Posts tagged ‘laugh’

Who’s Who?

An excerpt from Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire, whoever that is.

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Mistress Toshiba and her adherents were walking back from town when a long-time student of Zen, who had studied with another teacher for fifteen years, passed by.

“Good day Mistress,” the student bowed.

Mistress Toshiba laughed loudly. The student stopped and looked confused.

“Why do you laugh Abbott Toshiba? Was it something I said?” The Mistress laughed again. “Are you laughing at me?” That question made Mistress Toshiba laugh even harder. She fell to her hands and knees with laughter. She was laughing so hard that she began to roll around on the ground.

“I don’t see what’s so funny!” the student exclaimed.

The Abbott was finally able to constrain herself and propped herself up with her hand.

“If you could see yourself, you would be laughing too,” Mistress Toshiba grinned.

The students looked at themselves up and down and didn’t see anything out of place or a cause for ridicule.

“What are you talking about? There’s nothing funny about me.”

“Like I said,” the Abbott replied, brushing the dust off her robe as she stood. “If you could see your SELF, you’d be laughing too.”

At that moment, the passing student realized that she did not know what her SELF was, let alone if there was such a thing. She immediately fell too her knees.

“Dear Master Toshiba, I beg that you take me as your student and allow me to attain wisdom in your community.”

“You are welcome to join us, whoever you are,” the Abbott replied, “but you do not need my permission. Who do you think ‘I’ am anyway?”

More who’s laughing at: Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire.

Touch Your Good Self

Excerpt from The Suburban Jungle by Jenny Isenman.

Feel Your Boobies – or Else I Will!

After a lump scare in my mid-20′s, I learned that all lumps are not the C-word and it’s totally okay to get to 2nd base with yourself, but getting to second with a woman donning a lab coat and a sick sense of humor is even better!

So, it turned out to be a cyst? A cyst, why didn‘t I think of that? Where is there even room for a cyst in these double A’s? Maybe it’ll grow enough to pump me up a cup or two.

OMG, did I actually think that? Was my internal dialogue not warped enough without daydreaming about a baseball sized growth that could make me look better in a bikini? And whether I could somehow use mind control to ensure one of equal size would grow in the other breast… you know, for symmetry?

I snapped out of my twisted speculation in time to hear the Doctor explain that, like the several million other young women with fibrous breast tissue, I would be required to get a yearly mammogram and ultrasound.

I had heard horrible tales of this test and it’s crushing pain from older generations, like the passing of folklore. I feared the impending torture and dreaded that, what little my child bearing and breastfeeding had left unscathed, would be permanently altered.

By the time my appointment had rolled around the fear of having something less benign started to set in. If I can produce one kind of growth with no knowledge of it, why can’t I produce another kind? The closer I came to the appointment the more the anxiety weighed me down. Pressing me to skip it, to stay home and play sick.

Somehow, my legs and car were on autopilot, and I arrived at the office with time to spare. In the waiting room, I saw a woman, not a day under 100. If she can do this, so can I. But then again she’s old, she’s lived her life, she has less to fear. She’s seen her grandchildren, great-grandchildren, maybe even great-great… As my mind started to spiral into faulty reasoning, they called my name. Phew.

My tech was a brash woman who was incredibly verbose, and clearly missing the filter most of us are born with. Maybe there is some kind of de-inhibiting process that occurs when looking at tatas all day. I’ll have my husband test my theory at the next bachelor party he attends.

“Okay, let’s see what you got in the bra,” was the tech’s icebreaker.

“The last time someone used that line on me he didn’t even get to first base, let alone second.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not lookin’ to make-out.”

Clearly she skipped Socialization 101, also known as Kindergarten, but I can banter with the best of them, and I concentrated more on my retorts than the fear of what was coming.

When I reluctantly disrobed, she cooed, “They’re so cute and perky.” Then she giggled to herself, and mumbled something about getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine. Though it’s been years since someone actually laughed at the size of my chest, it felt oddly familiar and I patiently waited for the requisite pointing to ensue.

Luckily, I’m not easily embarrassed. Being a card carrying member of the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Comitteee) prepared me for nothing, if not this.

Not that the IBTC was a club I longed to join. I desperately tried to make them bigger. If shear will power wasn’t enough, surely pairing it with chest pumps would do the trick. I must have done a million chest squeezes while chanting:

We must, we must, we must increase our bust.
The bigger the better, the tighter the sweater.
The boys are counting on us.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
What’s a bra without a bust?

Who would have thought such a brilliant plan would fall so, ahem flat, especially when the 7th grade girls pinky swore it was totally fool proof. Yeah well, I’m still an A, so who’s the fool now, 7th grade girls?

After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.

“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.

“Don’t worry, I have some at home,” I responded, doing the same.

As it turned out, she was right to laugh. The first time on the shelf they slipped right out.

The intense squeezing actually slung-shot them back towards my body.

“What? Did you butter those puppies?“ She asked, with a snort.

I ignored her and rubbed by chest to stop the vibration that the ricochet had caused.

The second time she was more thorough and managed to get a couple ribs onboard, as anchors, I assume.

“Um, excuse me, is it okay that you have bones in there too?”

“Don’t worry. They won’t break.”

Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing harder. Shelf lifting. I raised myself onto my tippy-toes to avoid my bosoms being ripped clean off. More squeezing. CRUNCH.

“What was that, bone?”

“Alright, just one more squeeze.”

“Fine, but I think milk might come out.”

“Oh, are you breast feeding?”

“No.”

After flattening my boobs into pancakes, I felt like a cartoon victim of a falling anvil. I patiently waited for them to snap back, or for an animated squirrel to come along, stick in a tube and pump them up.
There was no one, no squirrels or skunks or other well meaning rodents came to my rescue, so I shoved them back into my sports bra.

This is what all the hype is about, what my friends are dreading? The relief of being done was quickly cancelled out by the anxiety of knowing I had to and wait for my results.

Read Conclusion and Results at: THE SUBURBAN JUNGLE.

Laughing At Death

A famous comedian once said that, “Life is a sexually transmitted terminal disease.” And as far as I know, it still happens to ten out of ten of us. So, is it OK to laugh about this solemn reality? Is it OK to poke a little fun at the Grim Reaper and not offend or upset anybody? I think so. In fact, I believe it is our ability to step back and take a lighter look at death, dying and grief that can, on occasion, help us get through some of the most painful moments in our lives.

I recall an incident many years ago when a family and I were all keeping a bedside vigil with a woman in her seventies, who we’ll call Martha. Martha was going in and out of consciousness and talking out loud to and about people we couldn’t see. One evening she kept looking up by the ceiling in one corner of the room and saying, “The light. The light.”

Her daughter replied, “Yes, Mama. Go towards the light.”

Martha became more agitated and repeated, “The light. The light.”

We all smiled, believing she was speaking about the light at the end of the tunnel that some people describe in near-death experiences. I said, “Yes, Martha. It’s OK. Go towards the light.”

Finally, out of total exasperation, Martha forced herself to sit up. She opened her eyes, pointed at the corner of the room and said, “The light bulb. It needs a new light bulb.” Then she lay back down and continued her dialogue with family members who had already died.

Embarrassingly, we all realized that she had been talking about the lamp in the corner all along. I went to check it and discovered that it did indeed need a new light bulb.

A woman whose husband of thirty years had died just six months previous to our meeting had been talking for quite some time about the deep pain and sadness that had enveloped her since his death, when she suddenly burst out laughing. She laughed uncontrollably for a few minutes and after blowing her noise and wiping her face said, “He could be the biggest pain in the butt when it came to doing the dishes. If he ever did them at all, I had to do them again. His idea of clean wouldn’t have passed mustard at the city dump,” she grinned. “He’d die laughing if he saw the sink now. I haven’t done the plates or silverware in a week. The food’s so caked on it will probably take a chisel to get it off.” She paused, then said, “I never thought I’d miss his dirty dishes.”

Then there was Cliff, a retired schoolteacher. Cliff told me this story about his deceased friend Barney with a very somber, straight face.

“You know,” he said. “Barney and I were best friends for over thirty years. I remember a couple of times before he died when we talked about reincarnation and all that stuff. Neither of us have ever been very religious and didn’t think much about it, but
we agreed that if it was real, that whoever died first would come back and let the other know what it was like.”

Cliff paused, to make sure he had my attention.

“Well,” he continued. “After Barney passed on I went to the same little bench on West Cliff Drive where he and I used to sit and shoot the breeze for hours. You know, that one by the lighthouse?” I nodded. “I went there every day and waited, just in case, by some fluke, this reincarnation thing was legit. Well, wouldn’t you know it, last Saturday I was sitting on our bench when I hear someone whisper, ‘Cliff. Cliff.’”

I sat back a little and raised my eyebrows at Cliff, with some suspicion, but he continued with so much sincerity that I couldn’t dismiss it altogether.

“I’m not making this up,” he said adamantly. “So, I look around and don’t see anybody. Then I here it again.”

‘Cliff. It’s me, Barney.’

“Barney?” I say. “Is that really you?”

‘Yep.’

“Well I’ll be,” I exclaimed. “Where are you? I can’t see you.”

‘Naw,’ Barney replied. ‘They let me come like this for a little bit to let you know what’s up with this reincarnation thing.’

“What do you mean?” I said.

‘Well, it’s the funniest thing,’ Barney explained. ‘All I do nowadays is sleep, make love and eat.’

“What?” I said.

‘Yeah. That’s all we do,’ Barney reiterated. ‘Sleep, eat, make love, go back to sleep, then wake up and do it all over again.’

“Well, I finally had enough of this nonsense,” Cliff explained, “so I asked him straight out, “So, old friend. Who are you now and where are you?”

“And you know what he says?” I shook my head no. “He says, ‘I’m a rabbit on a breeding ranch in Idaho.’”

I’d been had by one of the best. Cliff and I both chuckled over his story. He said it felt good to be able to laugh. “Barney and I used to say, if you can’t laugh at yourself now and then, then you’re taking life much to seriously.”

Cliff was on to something. It shows no disrespect towards those who have died to have a good laugh, even if it relates to them. In fact, most deceased friends and family would want nothing more than our happiness if they were still here to tell us so. As the centurion George Burns used to say, “If I look in the morning paper at the obits and see that my name isn’t there, I know it’s a good day.”

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