How to be Married

So the husband is writing the story of his life. He tells me he's working on the chapter headed, "And then he married the bitch."

Of course, he's been married more than once.

THE GEOGRAPHY OF GENDER

GEOGRAPHY OF A WOMAN

Between 18 and 22, a woman is like Africa. Half discovered, half wild, fertile and naturally beautiful!

Between 23 and 30, a woman is like Europe.Well developed and open to trade, especially For someone of real value.

Between 31 and 35, a woman is like Spain, very hot, relaxed and convinced of her own beauty.

Between 36 and 40, a woman is like Greece, gently aging but still a warm and desirable place to visit.

Between 41 and 50, a woman is like Great Britain, with a
glorious and all conquering past.

Between 51 and 60, a woman is like Israel, has been through war, doesn't make the same mistakes twice, takes care of business.

Between 61 and 70, a woman is like Canada, Self-preserving, but open to
meeting new people.

After 70, she becomes Tibet. Wildly beautiful, with a mysterious past and the
wisdom of the ages.... An adventurous spirit and a thirst for spiritual knowledge.

THE GEOGRAPHY OF A MAN

Between 1 and 80, a man is like Iran, ruled by nuts.

THE END.

Lost Love

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/02/13/unlucky-in-love-readers-tell-tales-of-valentines-days-gone-wrong/?hp


Readers' short, very funny tales of love gone wrong . Here's one:


Valentine’s Day, I called my boyfriend at college to see if he got my flowers and another woman answered the phone — at 8 am.
— sjl


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ELMS

Long ago, in Michigan.

“What are they doing?” Barbara asked her mother.

“They are taking out the elm trees.”

When she looked at the pretty American elm trees she couldn’t see anything to dislike about them. “Why are they doing that?”

“Because soon they will get sick with Dutch Elm Disease.”

Ah, what we remember sixty years latr. What we miss. My Connecticut elms were also stately and my mother also wept.

The neighbors' Dad had hung a plank-seated swing on ropes from a sturdy elm branch on the noblest elm in Middle Haddam. He pushed us hard out over the downhill slope, thirty feet, forty or more above the wild pasture, it seemed. So high at the apogee the ropes softened and our fannies lifted off the seat. We screamed. Yet our Mothers never objected.

There was never a swing like that again.

Guest appearance: I Quit My Job!

I Quit My Job! by Jim Tirjan.

I love coming up here at the end of the day. The park closes at sunset but the park rangers all know me. Apparently I don’t look like a vandal, vagrant or a threat to Western civilization so when I pass them on the trails we just smile and exchange pleasantries.

“How’s it going tonight?” I say.

“Good evening, Sir.”

“You don’t have to call me Sir. A simple Your Lordship will do,” I joked.

"Hah! I like that one. Just making my rounds one more time to make sure we don’t have to organize a search party to find somebody who got lost. It happens, you know.”

“I’m sure it does. But, say, do you know if there are three packs of coyotes up here now or four?”

“Well that depends on how you define ‘here’. Last year at Fremont Older we counted three packs with pup litters but we weren’t sure all three dens were right here on the property. Coyotes are free to roam wherever they want and they do. Have a good night and, remember, please don’t make us have to come up here and pull you out with a ‘copter.”

“Sure thing. I’ll only be a little while longer. Have a good night,” I reply.

I climb an incline to the small bench atop Hunter’s Point to get a view. The Valley of Heart’s Delight spreads for miles before me. It all seems so peaceful and orderly from up here. The smear of red and white lights reminds me of a giant pizza; I hadn’t realized it but I am probably getting hungry. Looks like the evening commute is well underway. The monotonous buzz of the traffic noise drifting from down there is like a thousand honeybees gathering nectar in a flower-filled meadow. It brings back memories of meadows long ago and far away.

I lean back on the park bench to relax. They tell me I have to get my heart rate and breathing back to the new normal. Slowly I start to close my eyes but before my vision completely fades to black a blast of light lasers my eyes through my slit eyelids. Damn! The setting sun’s reflection glints off a high-altitude plane, descending and heading straight up the peninsula. Heading to SFO for sure - probably an American 757 or 767. Been there, done that way too many times.

The wind is out of the northwest so at this time of day this one’s probably not from the East Coast or Chicago; plus anything arriving from Denver and points east won’t be arriving today anyway because of the blizzard back there. I’d bet those poor bastards overhead just returned their rental cars in Dallas or LA within the last few hours and were damned glad of it. I’m immediately miffed at myself for even peeking at the plane. The annoying afterimage of the sun’s blast is a reminder that I have to put that other world behind me. It’s over; just let it all go.

“Breathe deeply,” that’s what the yoga instructor told me years ago. I take in as much of the cool, sweet air as I can through my mouth, being careful to not make a whooshing sound.

I exaggerate the process by throwing my shoulders back, thrusting my chest out and turning my face skyward. “Get as much oxygen into those underused alveoli, clamp your lips shut and hold your breath as long as possible,” she said. “Then slowly, ever so slowly, exhale through your nose like you’re a deflating balloon.”

I can imagine the plane first passing over the Sunnyvale Rod and Gun Club on Stevens Canyon Road. Geez, on the weekend that place makes a heck of a racket. “Bang, Whomp, Crack, Kabam, Kapow.” That’s always followed by silence and then some shouting. You can’t make out the actual words way up here; you just hope it’s “Bulls eye” and not, “We’ve got a man down here!” Mercifully the gun crowd doesn’t shoot after dark and the light is fading fast now.

I know the plane follows Stevens Creek Canyon northward, descending past the huge Lehigh Portland Cement operation. What a Hellish place that is! Monster earthmovers, crushers and trucks transform ancient seabed into Portland cement. Jurassic limestone with the assistance of Permian oil runs headlong into Silicon Man at the western end of Stevens Creek Boulevard with an ear-splitting “Cha, cha, cha, wronk. Shwoo!” Hydraulic brakes only in the city, please, fellas. A sign on the downgrade clearly states “Use of Jake Breaks Prohibited in Cupertino. Strictly Enforced!”

As the faint rumble of the plane’s engine noise washes over me I recall thunder over the Sangre de Christo Mountains in New Mexico. I visualize our horses stirring nervously in their stalls, fearful of the lightning and thunder of the approaching storm. Then abruptly I’m jolted out of my reverie. Off to my right and slightly downwind, a familiar voice sings to me a cappella. “Yip, yip, yip, yahoooo.” Then a silence. Next a repeat of that “Yip, yip, yip, yahoo” but with variations on the first theme – off key and slightly out of sync with the first. I’m in the first pew of my chapel now and the choir is just warming up; glad I got here in time. Silence again.

Next, off to my left but closer than the first group, the contraltos come in. They are upwind of me but, thanks to their pals on my right, they know I’m here. This time I can clearly hear the higher-pitched, staccato yips of the pups underneath the melody of the baritone. Obviously feeling secure in the presence of their elders, the little cherubs don’t hold back. Unbridled cacophony ensues for 30 seconds or more.

In fact, it’s the elders who give up first. I can just imagine the papa saying, “OK, OK, kids, put a lid on it!” In my mind’s eye I can see a choir director bringing both paws down in a horizontal position, claws down/fuzzy side up, to close the stanza. Abruptly and right on cue the chorale stops. These guys are good! They’ve been practicing a bit.

But a screech of tires and some jackass laying on his horn down on Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road breaks the spell again. Amazingly, the choir is unfazed. These dedicated professionals attack the third stanza with even more vigor than the first two (to the delight of the audience). Now, way up in the hills beyond Saratoga, a third pack chimes in for the final chorus. Celebrants at St. Patrick’s on Christmas Eve have never heard the likes of this.

Feeling that I’m intruding on the coyotes’ sacred space, I decide to work my way down the mountain. I’m also starting to feel guilty because I had promised the nice, young park ranger that I’d only stay a short while. Even though visibility is pretty much gone I’m sure I won’t have trouble on these trails. I’ve hiked them a hundred times.

When I get to the parking lot the only car there is my ’94 Olds. Best darned car GM ever made; boy, the company deserves to go out of business for killing the Oldsmobile Division.

I silently slip behind the wheel and coast down Prospect Road with the windows open so I can hear the soft evening air whoosh past the car. I know that all too soon I’ll be at Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road where my ears and nerves will be assaulted by the motorcycle roars, hip-hop music and traffic noise of the maelstrom we call the Twenty-First Century.