When Opportunity Knocks

You know. Some days. You just have to go with it.

I was going to get all serious and post about the tragic theme of The Iceman Cometh (which I saw last night at the Goodman. And is amazing!)  And contemplate how far we have not come as a species in the past 73 years since the play was penned by Eugene O’Neill.

How we still lust after a better life, thinking the one we have is never enough. Not wanting to face reality. We escape in any way we know how. Drugs. Drink. Consuming. Gaming. Sporting. Anything to get away from what our life is.

Even though. It’s all we’ve got. And really. There is no getting away.

And so!

Rather. I’ve decided to post about all the opportunities that I was given to laugh at myself today.

First off.  I stood at the top of the stone steps of the lovely barricaded front doors of Henry’s middle school patiently waiting to be let in. I pushed the buzzer. And pushed the buzzer. No response. I was getting kind of huffy. After 10 minutes of feeling like a total rejected dunce. I gave up. Walked around to the alternate entrance and rang the bell.

And was immediately let in.

And was immediately aware. That while at the front door. I was pushing the wrong button for 10 minutes. Duh! and ha ha ha ha!!

Later in the day.  I’m sitting in the Adirondack chair. Reading for a bit. When. I feel something lightly touch my leg. Bird poop. I look up. A Mourning Dove is perched o the wire above me. And has pooped on me. Silly dove. Kind of funny. I clean it off.  Some time goes by. Still reading. What am I?  A target? Yes. The Dove returns and poops on me again.

Am I the only person who thinks getting pooped on by the same dove twice in 30 minutes is kind of funny?

And finally.

My Two Right Boots.

Every spring. My little pond needs to be stood in and cleaned out. Every spring I laugh at myself. Because somehow. I came home from the Sporting Goods Store with Two Right-Footed Waders.

And I kept them.

Because every spring. When I put them on. And look down. And see my feet pointing in the same direction. They give me the opportunity to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Belly Laughs

Where do real rough and tumble belly laughs come from?

I have laughed more on this vacation than perhaps I have all year.

Max, Tim, Henry. They’re all funny. The lot of them. Surrendering myself to their antics. Has had me rolling on the floor. Tears streaming down my cheeks. Laughing hard enough so both my face and my belly hurt. It feels so good! Almost as if it isn’t allowed. Like when I used to get those bouts of uncontrollable laughter in church. (Of course that wasn’t allowed)

And it’s just silly stuff really. Harmless all of it. We laugh at ourselves. We laugh at each other. A pair of us has inside jokes the others don’t get. And they laugh anyway because the two of us are a contagious spectacle. We can joke and laugh over just about anything.

That makes me curious to think about. I know we’re lucky because we’re such a tight-knit team. We’re very comfortable with each other. We know where not to tread. We know when a “joke” is not a “joke.”

But we also sense when one us may need to lighten up. And so we offer up one of the best gifts we can give – a joke. A “funny.” An observation that is slightly askew. Just enough of a reminder to stop taking life too seriously. Just enough to say, “Look I love you. Now get over yourself.”

I don’t know. The world needs to laugh more. Yes? It’s a stress reliever. It’s bonding. It’s loving. It feels good. Darned good. Do yourself a special favor and find a good belly laugh today. And if you can’t find one. Maybe give one as a gift to someone you love.

Laugh with me. Please.

Daisy with cone. Or is it an amplifier?

What makes you laugh? I was thinking about this reading today’s New York Times. There are no funnies. Why so serious? I think if we all could get one good belly laugh per day, we, as a nation, would take fewer pharmaceuticals.

So what does makes you laugh? Different things on different days for sure.

For instance. When I first affixed Daisy’s “e-collar” around her head and stood back to get a good look, I laughed until I was crying. And then I felt sort of bad, because if she isn’t the sweetest dog in the world, and here she is stuck inside this cone for the better part of two weeks. And then I started laughing again anyway.

And seriously, the laughing continues because she can’t manage to figure out the circumference of the thing. I believe the term is proprioception. Awareness of the position of one’s body. Or ones head with a giant plastic cone wrapped around it. It’s been a full week and she just finally managed to figure out how to lift her head above each incoming riser to get up the stairs. For six full days she would crash into one step and then the next and the next and the next until she reached the top. Happily she’s none the worse for wear.

Just as problematically, most objects and beings about the house are treated in similar fashion. She’s running up my backside constantly with the thing and taking out the cats and the other little dog on her way to the doorbell. She manages to strategically place herself in the kitchen doorway so there is no way around her but over her.

If it weren’t so darned funny, this week might have been a bit of a challenge. Only five more days to go!