I know why Excel rhymes with Hell.

We are cataloging all of grandma’s belongings onto a spreadsheet. This was not my idea, but I have been elected (pressed into involuntary servitude) to enter all of the data into this monstrosity of a computer program designed for Microsoft by Satan.

Rows, columns, formulas, sums, math, trig and pitchforks (not sure about that last part, but it feels that way). All designed to mess with my head.

We are trying to decipher the lists that grandma has written in her tiny, cramped writing, but she is off on another task and has long forgotten what the list we are working on says. We pull out the magnifying glass. We ponder, we guess. It is driving me stark, raving mad.

Seems simple…type the information into the little box. Except the little box is too little. Or I have too much information. Whatever it is, I can’t get it right. My cursor jumps to the wrong place. My columns don’t line up. My brain hurts.

But I keep tap, tap, tapping away at the keyboard, because all of the gazillion bits of information have to be entered. So it leaves me in the mood to plagiarize…errr….”write in the manner of” Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Raven.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
It was me, still tapping, tapping, typing on my lone keyboard

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the list whose tiny scrawls, now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head crooked, not reclining
Eyes a-straining, fingers aching, this task causing thoughts of gore
Yet I’m typing, ever typing, this list will last evermore!

So the new Twilight movie is out now.

*Yawn*

But EVERYBODY is talking about it, so we have to possess some basic knowledge so we don’t seem like we’ve been living under a rock (no offense to rock-dwellers – it actually sounds pretty good to me in this heat)

My daughter forced me to read these because she hates them and wanted to discuss her loathing. I hate them too and am appalled at the millions of dollars that a hack (no offense to hacks) like Stephanie Meyer is rolling around in.

If you love the books and or movies, I apologize. I won’t be mean and say for what.

Anyway, here is the quick and not-so-dirty on Twilight.

The main character is Bella. Her only personality traits are that she is clumsy and pretty. Oh and helpless.

So Bella lived with her mom, but mommy has a new boyfriend and she wants to spend a lot of time with him, so Bella decides to leave sunny Phoenix to go live with her dad in the gloomy Pacific Northwest, where against all the Rules of Supernatural Beings, vampires do not fry in the sun, they sparkle.

Really.

She spends a lot of time stumbling around and being helpless until she is rescued multiple times (due to her helplessness) by Edward, who never shows up for school on sunny days and no one asks why.

Ever.

She instantly falls in love with him. I mean instantly and after almost no conversation, and certainly no touching, because Twilight is all abstinence all the time.

When she figures out (way behind the entire audience) that Edward is a vampire, it’s too late. She is IN LOVE (It’s actually capitalized in the book)

But of course it can’t work because that is the nature of all romance novels (using the term v-e-r-y loosely here)

Edward knows that he will bring constant danger to her, since all his friends and family want to eat her, so he splits.

Bella finds comfort (but not in the arms of, ‘cause of that whole no-touchie thing) with Jacob, who just happens to be a werewolf. His Native-American name is No Shirt. Sexual desire is OK in the audience, just not the characters.

Bella, distraught by her total lack of libido and missing Edward, attempts to kill herself. Edward, who is now in Italy (TSA apparently has very lax security standards vis-à-vis vampires with no birth certificates) learns of Bella’s supposed demise so he wants to die (again) too.

He is going to expose himself to humans in front of the Vuvuzelas (no wait, that’s those noisy plastic horns they blow at the soccer games). In front of the Volturi, which is like the Vampire Mafia, who tend to frown on vampires outing themselves. There’s a big fight but of course Edward is victorious, if in your book, rescuing Bella for the 475th time is victory.

Bella and Edward return to Forks, WA. (where there is no forking going on) and Jacob is still hankering for Bella and would want to do her if he had any hormones. Bella says she loves him too except for that whole “I love Edward” thing.

This is how the Team Edward/Team Jacob split came into being with the fan girls and boys. Who will Bella choose? Who cares?

A mature lady gets pulled over for speeding…

Older Woman: Is there a problem, Officer?

Officer: Ma’am, you were speeding.

Older Woman: Oh, I see.

Officer: Can I see your license please?

Older Woman: I’d give it to you but I don’t have one.

Officer: Don’t have one?

Older Woman: Lost it, 4 years ago for drunk driving.

Officer: I see…Can I see your vehicle registration papers please.

Older Woman: I can’t do that.

Officer: Why not?

Older Woman: I stole this car.

Officer: Stole it?

Older Woman: Yes, and I killed and hacked up the owner.

Officer: You what?

Older Woman: His body parts are in plastic bags in the trunk if you want to see.

The officer looks at the woman and slowly backs away to his car and calls for back up. Within minutes 5 police cars circle the car. A senior officer slowly approaches the car, clasping his half drawn gun.

Officer 2: Ma’am, could you step out of your vehicle please! The woman steps out of her vehicle.

Older woman: Is there a problem sir?

Officer 2: One of my officers told me that you have stolen this car and murdered the owner.

Older Woman: Murdered the owner?

Officer 2: Yes, could you please open the trunk of your car, please.

The woman opens the trunk, revealing nothing but an empty trunk.

Officer 2: Is this your car, ma’am?

Older Woman: Yes, here are the registration papers.

The officer is quite stunned.

Officer 2: One of my officers claims that you do not have a driving license.

The woman digs into her handbag and pulls out a clutch purse and hands it to the officer.

The officer examines the license. He looks quite puzzled.

Officer 2: Thank you ma’am, one of my officers told me you didn’t have a license, that you stole this car, and that you murdered and hacked up the owner.

Older Woman: Bet the liar told you I was speeding, too.

Certain men want us to believe they’re like an SUV. They’re rugged, and can travel any terrain. They’re impervious to mud, sleet, snow, and broiling summers.

These are the men who, in hundred degree temperatures, walk calmly through an asphalt parking lot amid shimmering heat waves in their three-piece suits. No sweat forms on their brows, no complaints issue from their lips. They’re much too macho to notice such mundane things.

In the dead of winter, when people are skating to work, these same men are out in cutoff jeans, worn tee shirts, and thong sandals. Oh, and white socks, because after all, it is winter. They move blithely past women buried in enough layers to outfit a family of Eskimos, and behave as though they’re surrounded by a personal climate control field.

This strong, silent guy changes once he enters his domain. Upon checking the thermostat, complaints issue from those previously closed lips.

“When the heck did you put this on forty degrees?” he demands. “This place is like a blast furnace.”

His wife grimaces. “Last summer it was on eighty degrees and you said it was freezing.”

“That was different. I’m setting it on thirty-five. If you’re cold, wear more clothes.”

“If I put on any more layers I may as well go into hibernation, since I won’t be able to move.”

“Okay, okay. Look, let’s watch TV. It’ll take your mind off the cold.” He grabs the remote and stretches onto the couch, propping his bare legs on the coffee table.

The first channel is showing a special about the Donner Party. The next one has a show about ice mummies. The wife begins to worry about those lumps in the back of the freezer.

“Want some ice cream?” the husband asks.

The Man for All Seasons is counterbalanced by the Woman of All Fashions. While this woman is aware of the changing seasons, to her it means a new reason to shop. Whatever the new fashions for spring, summer, fall, or winter, she’s ready to buy. Her greatest attributes, according to the stores, are expensive taste and no sales resistance.

If the newest autumn trend is two hundred dollar mongoose crew socks, she’ll be the first to own them. The Woman of All Fashions will never be caught dead near the clearance rack, where the mongoose socks hang a month after their debut. (My friend bought some for five dollars. Her cat has become quite intimate with one of them.)

The Woman of All Fashions will dress for the climate, but only at the dictate of current trends. You will see her in the sleet-covered parking lot, tottering in stiletto-heeled cowboy boots. Her full length sable coat covers the traffic-cone orange cashmere pantsuit, all of which she “just threw on” to get some bread.

As she heads for her car, she passes a man in faded cutoffs and a tee shirt worn nearly transparent. Both shake their heads as they move on. Some people just don’t know how to dress.

This is a guest blog post from humorist Katherine Turski, a friend from the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Group. She has a new short story coming up in the Yard Dog Press anthology, “A Bubba In Time Saves None” (should be out by June) and Yard Dog is also publishing her chapbook, “It’s the Great Bumpkin, Cletus Brown”, in September. Please show her some love for her great writing!

I beat my husband the other night. I couldn’t help it, he asked for it.

“I’m tired of playing games,” I said. “How much more do you think you can take?”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Just one more round of Battleship.”

He shouldn’t have pushed me like that. After the third beating he reeled slightly, blinking in bewilderment.

“How can you do that?” Staring at the ships on the computer screen, he added, “I can’t even find your aircraft carrier. What kind of goofy strategy are you using?”

“It’s called ‘hide the ships where you can’t find them’.”

“That’s ridiculous. I should be able to find them all.” This is from a man who demands daily where I’ve hidden his reading glasses. “You must be cheating.”

He shouldn’t have accused me of cheating. I demolished his fleet three more times. Even his PT boat wasn’t safe.

“Just a few more rounds,” he mumbled.

“Haven’t you had enough punishment?”

He shook his head. “Are you kidding? I’m just getting warmed up. What, are you scared of losing?”

“I’ve been petrified the whole time.”

“Very funny. Come on, set up for the next round.”

I put a hand on his shoulder and said softly, “It’s late, honey, we need to get to sleep.” Once the lights were out, I pretended not to hear him whimper, “Just one more round”. I felt like a sadist.

For the rest of the week he begged me for more. I only replied, “Not tonight, I have a headache.”

Several nights later we visited another couple. After dinner they invited us to play games. My husband’s face paled and he excused himself to the restroom, claiming a possible case of distemper. The wife gave me a look eloquent with sympathy.

“You beat you husband, don’t you?”

“Only at Battleship. He asks for it, though.”

“They always do.” She stared at the husband, who fiddled nervously with a card deck. “Try beating this one at Scrabble. He’ll keep you up all night until he finally wins. The tiles are so stained with sweat you can’t read the letters any more.”

“And the dictionary?”

She shuddered. “Don’t ask.”

Ads for popular games claim their products bring people closer together. So does hand to hand combat.

Yet, after much thought and research, I’ve finally found the perfect game for my husband and me to enjoy. There will be no more complaining, no suspicion of cheating, no criticizing strategy. I call it “Strip Twister”. The way I figure it, my husband will never know if he’s winning or losing, and even if he does, he probably won’t care.

This is a guest blog post from humorist Katherine Turski, a friend from the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Group. She has a new short story coming up in the Yard Dog Press anthology “A Bubba In Time Saves None”, (should be out by June), and Yard Dog is also publishing her chapbook, “It’s the Great Bumpkin, Cletus Brown”, in September. Please show her some love for her great writing!

By Jody Worsham, 2010 All Rights Reserved for bathroom supplies!

For those of you who have a long way to go before Medicare Part Z, you may not fully appreciate toilet paper, a.k.a., toilet tissue. For those of us who have ever winced at the bucket of corn cobs in the corner of the outhouse, or noted that only the slick shiny pages of the Sears Catalog are left, toilet paper is the greatest invention, ever.

It is also the perfect Christmas gift. I will purchase only American made products for Christmas and the one thing that I have found to be solely made in America is toilet paper. Who wouldn’t appreciate knowing that there was an ample supply of the round little white “tires” stashed in the hall gift closet, especially when you are staring at an empty cardboard tube in your time of need? After all, it’s practical, non-seasonal, and one size fits all, well most.

Toilet tissue is also the most underused advertisement medium. It is located in every private and public building in this country. Why not put your message on the paper roll that keeps on turning?

I am surprised that politicians haven’t caught on to this mass means of advertisement. The novelty companies certainly have. Imagine printing your opponents name on every rectangular sheet of toilet paper. Those who support your opponent will buy it by the car loads. Those who support you will buy it to symbolically “wipe” out your opponent. In either scenario, your war chest will be full.

Besides being an excellent advertising medium, toilet paper is an excellent means of protection against natural and man made disasters. Closets stacked floor to ceiling with the soft rounds have been approved by The Weather Channel as a secure place to be during a tornado, hurricane, earthquake, or missile attack. The rolls absorb the impact of the blast; plus, they are close at hand when you are having the…stuffing….scared out of you at the time. Serving double duty, so to speak.

The only downside to this product is that it has yet to go totally green. There is something about seeing “Toilet tissue, made from recycled paper” that causes me to reach for a different package, one made from virgin forests.

There have been improvements to this product over the years. For one thing commercial toilet tissue now comes in giant rolls the size of a car tire inside locked metal wheels and securely bolted to the walls. To compensate for the additional weight, the roll width has been narrowed to mere ribbons and definitely not suitable for wide bodies.

A walk down the paper goods aisle at your local grocery store will give you a sense of the wide variety of tissue available these days. You can purchase regular, double, or even triple mega rolls. There’s quilted, super strong, extra soft, embossed, scented, single layer, double layer, and some with a touch of aloe.

The penny wise shopper is hard pressed to find the best bargain. Super strong may cost less, but it may be only one layer requiring twice as much for a single event. Extra soft may be doubled layered but with sheets that are narrower than others, it may not be a bargain. Embossed looks pretty and the sheets may be wider, but there are fewer squares per roll. Scented may be single layered, wide enough, the same size as embossed but upon closer examination the hole in the cardboard roll is twice the size of any other roll.

What is needed is a standardization of toilet tissue. Maybe there should be a new cabinet post in our government. Czar of Toilet Paper Standardization. Having a Czar could generate a government standard of one-half inch cardboard tube for the toilet paper. All holes need to be the same and our government can sure see to that.

With standardization, technology could extend into the paper holder itself. We may be unrolling to songs such as “Stop, in the Name of Love”, “We are Family,” or “Wipe Out” from tiny speakers concealed in the paper holder as we attempt to save paper.

So the next time you are stuck with coming up with a gift for that special person who seems to have everything, or you are in a hotly contested political race for town mayor, consider made in America, non-standardized , mostly non-recycled toilet paper. It’s the paper you use every day.

This is a guest post by humorist Jody Worsham. She is a friend from the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Group. We are trying to get her to start her own blog so everyone can enjoy her humor. Please give her lots of encouragement!

UPDATE: Jody now has her own blog!
Please visit her at The Medicare Mom