Today’s Category: Really Stinkin’ Funny Memoirs

I thought that I could share some passages from the books I currently have on my mind, and then hit you guys up for some book recommendations of your own.

1. Mennonite in a little black dress by Rhoda Janzen. I knew this book was for me the minute I picked it up off the New Nonfiction table at Barnes & Noble and read the first page:

“The year I turned forty-three was the year I realized I should have never taken my Mennonite genes for granted. I’d long assumed that I had been genetically scripted to robust physical health, like my mother, who never even catches a head cold. All of my relatives on her side, the Lowenes, enjoy preternaturally good health, unless you count breast cancer and polio. The polio is pretty much a done deal, thanks to Jonas Salk and his talent for globally useful  vaccinations. Yet in the days before Jonas Salk, when my mother was a little girl, polio crippled her younger brother Abe and also withered the arm of her closest sister Gertrude. Trude bravely wnet on to raise two kids one-armed, and to name her withered arm Stinky.

____ Yes, I think “Stinky” is a cute name for a withered arm!

____ No, I’d prefer to name my withered arm something with a little more dignity, such as Reynaldo.”

2. A Million Miles In A Thousand Years by Donald Miller. I just picked this up a couple of days ago after reading passages like this:

“I wrote a memoir several years ago that sold a lot of copies. I got a big head about it for a while and thought I was an amazing writer or something, but I’ve written books since that haven’t sold, so I’m insecure and things are back to normal.”

Then he was contacted by a studio who wanted to turn his book into a movie, and a couple of filmakers, Steve and Ben, fly to Seattle to meet with him about it.

“We didn’t start talking about the movie right away. We stood on the porch and watched snow make magic of the sky.”

Then later, “You have a sled, man?” Ben asked, still reading the snowflakes.

“No. It doesn’t snow much here.” I wondered whether I’d have a sled if it did.

“We could use trash can lids,” Steve said.

“I have two kayaks,” I said. I said this because I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t an outdoorsman just because I didn’t have a sled. But I did have kayaks.

…”Kayaks are nice. Kind of a summer thing,” Steve said. He was crossing his arms to stay warm.

“Let’s have a look at them,” Ben said. “Anything will slide, really. Some things slide better than others. But anything will slide.” We started walking up the driveway toward the garage. I wondered what we were going to do with the kayaks. My driveway sloped down toward the street, but it wasn’t a steep drop. Ben kept looking back at the slope as if it were a river, as though there were rapids flowing over the cement and ice.

“Did you do a lot of drugs when you were younger, Ben?” I hoped he wasn’t offended at the question. He stopped as we walked up the driveway.. I turned toward him, and he stood and thought about it for a second. Then he kind of punched me in the chest. “I did, man, I did,” he said. “Wow, man, it’s like you know me.”

3. It Sucked and then Then I Cried, but Heather B. Armstrong, aka “Dooce“.

It’s pretty much impossible to find a passage in this book that doesn’t make me snort so hard that I must keep checking to make sure I haven’t disgorged one of my eyeballs. For example, here Heather and her husband have just found out that she is pregnant, and this is their response:

“I had hundreds of ideas for names, most of them stolen directly from the cast of The Dukes Of Hazzard as there was no other show on television that has more accurately captured the spirit of my Southern upbringing, where my mama knew everyone’s business and my cousins routinely took each other to prom. If my kid wasn’t going to have my last name, he or she could at least look at their driver’s license and be reminded of their maternal Tennessean heritage, one where wearing shoes to the grocery store is totally optional by law.

…Jon wanted nothing to do with a Bo or a Luke because he knew too many of those who had communicable diseases, and the act of calling our child one of those names would force him to lose four teeth. Which, okay, fine, we both had to agree on this, so I let him list his favorite names: SnigSnak, Qranqor, Styrofoam, KidNation, Frontline (after the television show or the flea medication), One (or First, or Premiere), Palette, Alphamask, Format (for a boy), Formatte (for a girl), Profile, Tweeter, Peavey. Possibly Wrench if the baby came out with an interesting nose.

While all of these ideas were teeming with originality and flair, two very important qualities in a baby name, we couldn’t help but think that what our work in progress needed was something more Utahn. You cannot live in Utah and give your baby a boring name that some other baby in Wisconsin might have, and we couldn’t get over the nagging feeling that someone in Wisconsin was naming their first-born child Alphamask as we lay there debating.”

All right. I’ve given you some of my favorites-now it’s your turn. What Really Stinkin’ Funny Memoirs do you recommend?

McGee: “What does she look like?”

DiNozzo: “Who?”

McGee: “Abby. She sounds cute.”

DiNozzo: “She’s not your type.”

McGee: “Well how do you know that?”

DiNozzo: “Have you ever had the slightest urge to tattoo your buttocks, McGee?”

McGee: “I don’t think so.”

DiNozzo: “Then we need never speak of her again.”

from Season One, “Sub Rosa”

These include such stages as Denial, Resistance, YOU CAN SUCK IT!, Anger, Amnesia, Stupidity, Amnesia About Having Amnesia, Depression, If I Finish My To-Do List And Clean My Entire House, Then I Will Be Healed, I Hate Everyone-ESPECIALLY YOU!, Hibernation, Bargaining, TAKE YOUR PAIN MEDICINE ALREADY, DAMMIT!!, You Should Leave Me So You Can Find A New Wife Who Isn’t Defective, Magical Thinking, Mania, The Act Of The Sound Waves Of Your Voice Touching My Nervous System Causes Me Excruciating Pain, Having My Husband Walk A Few Steps In Front Of Me Like My Own Personal Bouncer So That No One Will Touch Me,If I Have To Lie On This Couch For One More Day Then I Will Kill Myself, If I Have To Lie On This Couch For One More Day Then I Will Kill You, In The Closet About Admitting My Illness, and, THE HELL I WILL ACCEPT THIS.

Lately I have been hanging out in a new stage-The Stage Of Bling-and have been shopping online for all kinds of fibromyalgia bracelets, rings, pins, and the like. I was telling my mom about this the other day because I knew she would be happy to wear some kind of supportive paraphernalia on my behalf, when we had the following exchange:

My Mom: “So, does fibromyalgia have its own color?”

Me: “Um, no-OH!  Because other diseases TOOK all the good colors, so now we have to share.”

Apparently, when chronic pain is involved-around here, at least-all stages lead back to Being A Cranky Bitch.

That was around the time when The Secret was making such a big splash, and my little exercise was kind of along those same “woo woo” lines. As I recall, it was called something like, “The Be-Do-Have” exercise, and it was intended to reverse the thought system that proclaimed that if we could just Do Enough, and then figure out how to get all the things we wanted to Have, then we would Be happy. Instead, my happy-go-lucky little exercised proclaimed that if we would figure out how we wanted to feel (”Be”), say, creative, for example,  then we would be inspired to perform all the kinds of actions that a creative person would “Do”, and then aligning with those two things would enable us to attract (”Have”) all the things we’ve been wanting. (I’m assuming here that you are all picking up on my current, chronic-pain induced cynicism. But that is a story for another post.)

Now, I need to stop here and tell you that the group I was asking to perform this little New Thought Dance was composed entirely of 3 engineers and 1 lawyer-not a “woo woo” soul among them. I believe this demonstrates that, despite my obvious ignorance of the concept of finding the Right People for your particular offering, some part of me, somewhere, was fully aware of the potential there for tremendous humor.

So cheerfully, if somewhat naively, I began taking them through the steps of the exercise, deeply convinced in my heart of hearts that I was expanding not only their minds, but their souls as well. Because that was my spiritual calling as an almost-certified Missionary Of Personal Growth.

Things started off pretty well, with the first part of the exercise being to write down all the different things that you would like to have. But then it started to get a little rocky with Step Two, which was to write down everything you could think of that you would like to do.

“Anything you want!” I proclaimed. “Infinite Possibilities!” “No limits!”

This was where the immovable object of left-brained thinkers met the irrisitible force of my right-brained evangelism.

“Um, that’s impossible,” interjected one of the engineers. “You can’t actually do anything you want. There are limits to what is possible to do in this world.”

“No, I don’t think so.” I replied, unconcerned. I knew that in the end I could get them to see the Universe as I did. “For example, one day I would like to be able to fly.”

This caused everyone to look up from their papers and have a silent, yet urgent, consultation with their eyes.

“Uh, you know you can fly, right?” they asked, starting to worry that all of this goodness and light had somehow caused me to sustain some kind of serious brain injury.

“No, I mean FLY. Like, all by myself, up in the air. Just like Superman!”

Looking back on this now, I’m pretty sure that this was The Beginning Of The End.

Realizing that there was no arguing with me at that point, we all continued on to Step Three: Listing All The Different Ways That You Would Like To Feel.”

Now throughout all of this, one of the engineers had continued to become more and more frustrated. His way of working in the world was to sit down with a set of specific conditions related to a problem or situation, and then continue to  push back against them until he finally figured out the solution. But because of my whole Unlimited Possibilities view of the Universe, I refused to give him any, hoping to gently begin to free him from his silly need for limits and constrictions.

But when we finally go to the “How do you want to be?” phase of the exercise, he just couldn’t take it anymore. As I was the only thing he had to push back against, he kept poking and pushing and prodding, but I refused to give him what he was looking for.

Finally he agreed to just write something down on his piece of paper, which relieved all of to no end.

But, determined not to allow me the final word, he searched his mind desperately for a parting shot.

“Fine!” he exclaimed, the light of victory gleaming in his eyes. “I’ll answer the question. But…I AM USING A GERUND!”

He won.

1. A new online course explaining how to, “Make Your Mania Work For You!”

AND,

2. A blockbuster new website entitled, myhousesmellslikemeat.com

I just wanted to stop by and let you know that things are a lot better than they were the last time I posted. Apparently my last post spurred all the people around me into action, and they are taking the initiative to help me find some better pain management. So now they are in charge of research and question-asking and analysis, and I just get to be in charge of, “Hi-please make me feel better.” I can relax, because I no longer have to be both the patient dealing with all the pain AND the patient advocate. And apparently we now have a “Team Jen”, which is really cool. I think maybe we should all have T-shirts or something.

Also, Praise God, THE INTERNET HAS BEEN HEALED!  And we were lent a TV in time to watch NCIS last week. So balance has once again been restored to the land of the Ryans.

Other good things: I discovered a book last week entitled, “Mennonote In A Little Black Dress”, and it is one of the funniest books I have ever read. Get thee to a bookstore or the library immediately and obtain a copy for yourself.

Also, MISS DOXIE IS BACK! It was a long, sad year without any new posts, but now she is back!!

Some of you long-time readers may remember back a couple of years ago when I did that course in stand-up comedy (Important Side Note: Hi, new readers! Two years ago I took a six-week course learning how to do stand-up comedy, and then our final exam was to perform a four-minute routine onstage at The Punchline. Because I was crazy. And also insane. I used to have the audio portion up, but somehow all my podcasts and this updated version of Word Press are refusing to get along. So hopefully that will be back up in the not-too-distant-future.) and Miss Doxie was there in the audience. And how she was totally gracious when I introduced myself, despite my being a combination of dorky fan-girl and on a serious post-performance adrenaline rush.

Also: homemade, made-from-scratch cornbread produced by my husband for dinner last night. Truly-there are no words.

Um, I can’t think of anything else right at this moment, but I will let you know the moment that I feel the return of The Funny, and a new blog posts begins to download itself into my brain.

I had fun celebrating my birthday with my parents and my husband, with lots of gifts and a great dinner, all of which then culminated in my husband’s made-from-scratch chocolate pie, which truly is a transcendent, spiritual experience, and one that I am sorry I was unable to share with all of you.

Then my husband had to go out of town for a week for training for his new job, and the plan was for me to drive back to Charlotte and spend the week with my parents, since I still can’t stay by myself for very long.

However, the night before we were supposed to leave I was completely paralyzed at the thought of having to pack up all my worldly possessions and transport them to a whole nother state (and yes, it really was ALL my possessions, because have I mentioned before that I am a hobo?) So I told my husband that I was going to have to cancel my trip and  instead would be spending the following week whimpering under our bed, and did he think he could possibly arrange to have some food delivered while he was gone?

So my magnificent husband rose to the occasion as he always does, and did all my packing for me, and then it was time for us to leave.

I was excited to be away from home, and from all the projects that subconsciously tempt me all day with their siren song: “Come, do the dishes. And then as long as you are here, you why don’t you just go ahead and reorganize all of the drawers and cabinets? Because that would be really restful.” Fuckin’ sirens. And I was also excited because this is the first vacation I’ve been able to take since I got sick two years ago.

So I spent a wonderful week sleeping, reading a billion murder mysteries, watching Agatha Christie movies, watching all my weekly shows, and sorting through an ENORMOUS tub of quarters, looking for the fifteen we needed in order to complete our collection (because, have I mentioned before that I am severely OCD? I was SO excited to find a situation where this was actually an asset, rather than a liability.)  I was also quite excited to be spending some time in a place where no one chose to express their affection for me by walking across my face immediately after using the bathroom.

Then it was time to come back home, which was really exciting until we discovered that, in our absence, the TV had broken. Oh, and by the way, we didn’t have any internet either.

And lo, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the land of the Ryans, because I WAS CUT OFF FROM THE WHOLE ENTIRE REST OF THE WORLD. And also, how could I watch NCIS?! Because, let’s fact it, without NCIS then really, WHAT IS THE POINT OF EVEN EXISTING?!

Oh, and I forgot to mention that during this time I was also experiencing some of the most excruciating fibromyalgia pain I  had ever felt. On a scale of 0-10, it was a 15. And nothing I did even made a dent in it. And there was nothing around the house that I could use to distract myself from it. So one day I just sat down with a foot file and ground away at my heel for over an hour. I saw it start to bleed, I felt it start to hurt, but I Could. Not. Stop. I just couldn’t. I was completely powerless over this compulsion to hurt myself.

I did the same thing to myself just a few weeks ago, now that I think about it. My ankle was swollen to the point of unbearable pain, so I just found something with a sharp edge and spent over an hour digging that object into my ankle. And again, I was powerless to stop. And just like with my heel, I scraped off an entire layer of skin, to the point of blood, and the only thing that stopped me was the fact that my arm got tired.

There is just no way to describe the kind of physical pain where you literally lose your mind, and the only control you have is to refer the pain somewhere else, but this time the pain is under your control. It’s the only shred of control to cling to when your body is basically collapsing right before your eyes.

However-the problem is, of course, that this doesn’t actually help you feel better. It kind of just makes it worse. So after I finished decimating my heel, not only was I someone without TV or internet, I was a TV-less, internet-less temporarily crippled woman who was unable to put any weight on her left foot. A woman who also injured one of her scraping fingers so badly that she had to tape it up, and so now was a TV-less, internet-less, temporarily crippled, temporarily maimed writer. Because if I am going to have a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad week, then BY GOD, I AM GONNA DO THIS PUPPY RIGHT!

But happily, my husband found a co-worker with a television he was willing to lend us, and as of last night we are once again connected to the magical world of entertainment. A thousand blessings to you, wonderful, magnificent co-worker.

And apparently Mrs. Co-worker was also excited about this plan, as my husband reported that, “she could not wait to see the back of this TV!”,  and she was very disappointed to hear that it was just a temporary arrangement.

And then once we had the TV problem solved, my husband reminded me that I could get on the internet at the grocery store (Dear Kroger: God bless you for your free wireless internet), so that’s where I am right now, trying not to breathe the same air as all the other people due to my trashed immune system. “And so how’s that going?”, I can hear my husband asking me in that tone-you know the one I’m talking about. Not very well. unfortunately.

But I’ve gotta wrap this thing up anyway, because it is time for me to buy some cat food. Because 3 cats + 0 cat food=time to get the hell out of the house

So I hope this week is going well for you, and I really, REALLY hope that the Comcast guy can heal our internet tomorrow, and I can go back to my everyday life of not having to wear pants. Send good thoughts please.

Yay me!

I guess that every relationship has their own twist ties. For my parents, it’s toothpaste. My dad is a “roller”, starting at the very bottom and then methodically making his way up the tube. But my mom-she just squeezes it right out the middle, wherever the spirit happens to move her, which of course drives my dad absolutely nuts.

Now sometimes people are lucky, and they are able to find a way to resolve these kinds of conflicts. In the case of my grandparents, they got together and banned all twist ties from their house, declaring that from now on the only acceptable means of sealing up food products was to be the clothespin. And for my parents, they just started buying two tubes of toothpaste when they went to the store.

So of course that got me to thinking about my own marriage, and what our particular twist ties might be.

For a while it was the toilet seats, as it often is.  But we solved that problem by issuing a declaration stating that, “EVERYONE!-it’s just the two of us here-EVERYONE MUST PUT ALL THE SEATS DOWN ALL THE TIME.”

So we resolved that issue pretty quickly, but believe you me-that is not always the case around here.

Specifically, I’m remembering one particular Christmas when my husband and I were still in graduate school. He drove over from Atlanta to Athens to meet me, and then we were going to drive back to North Carolina together in my car. Now, don’t ask me why, but for some reason we decided that it would be a good idea to take my desktop computer-tower and monitor-home with us. Despite the fact that I only had a tiny little Mustang at the time.

Of course, that left Very Little Room for anything else to go home with us, so we were reduced to stuffing little bits in here and there, wherever we could find a little space. Eventually we were down to the last spot and, in the Spirit Of Christmas, we proceeded to get into one of the biggest fights we’ve ever had in our twenty years together over whose dirty laundry got to go home with us. Because, by God, DIRTY LAUNDRY IS A SERIOUS BUSINESS! As if we were completely deprived of laundry cleansing facilities here in Georgia, and the only hope for clean clothes lay back there in North Carolina.

You know. Because we were 20. And stupid. And so very, very firstborn. And I mean FIRST! BORN!

This really started to show up in our relationship once we got engaged and kept moving closer and closer to our wedding day. In that, whenever we had some sort of household task to perform, we actually had to sit down and break the task down into its tiniest components, and then divide up every single step between the two of us to make sure that everyone had exactly the same amount of work to do. Because, baby, if I’m still working, then YOU ARE TOO.

We might have been in graduate school but, as I mentioned before, we were so very stupid about so many things.

I mean, not once in my marriage has it helped for me to sit my husband down and say to him, “You know, if I could just explain to you how to use the subjunctive mood in Spanish, then I don’t think we’d even be having this whole toilet seat issue.” Nor has it ever helped for my husband to come to me in the middle of a disagreement and say, “OK, now if this were a math problem, and we could just graph this equation in multiple dimensions, then this laundry crisis would easily be resolved.” (Important Side Note: Not that that actually stops him from doing this, but after all this time together I’ve figured out that he really just does that for his own amusement, so whenever he starts busting out the math problems, I just stop paying attention to him, smile, and look pretty.)

And truthfully, it did take a while for us to get past that point, the point where simple, everyday statements such as, “I’M buying Miracle Whip,” or, “Well, I’M going to freeze this ground beef IN THE SHAPE OF A CIRCLE,” stopped being ways that we used To Take A Stand, the point requiring that both parties be flown to Camp David to meet with a team of skilled negotiators in order to hammer out a compromise over which laundry detergent your household will be using from now on.

However, on the flip side, one area in which being firstborn has helped both of us is in the area of Not Killing Each Other. I’d like to think that the fact that we are both still alive and have remained out of prison for all these years is a testament to the strength and perseverance of the firstborn spirit.

And if that’s not cause for a little celebration on this crisp, Thursday afternoon, well then, I really don’t know what is.