Using a Tape Gun

You would think using a tape gun would be easy. Well it’s not. It’s especially not easy when your dog is barking at you because he doesn’t like the tape gun. Maybe he thinks it’s a real gun. Maybe he just senses my stress and would like to add to it.

I bought a tape gun because everyone seems to think that using one will make it so much easier to pack the millions of boxes I have to ship out everyday. I was excited when I got it because I’m all about simplifying my life.

Anyway, it should be called a make-all-the-tape-crooked-and-bumpy gun because that’s what seems to happen every time I use it. At first I thought I’d just loaded the tape wrong, so I checked. I hadn’t. The tape is loaded as per instructions. I complained to my husband this faulty device because that’s what husbands are for.

Me: This thing doesn’t work right. (Throwing the tape gun on the bed like a tantruming toddler.)
My husband: (Picks it up and tapes a box closed perfectly) Works fine for me. You must not be using it right.

He’s such a smarty pants. He thinks he knows everything about tape and guns. I’m back to using a plane roll of tape to close my boxes. It works best for me.

I was thinking about buying in an actual gun, but if my experience with tape guns is any indication of how that would go I guess I should just buy the bullets and skip the gun part. An intruder would run away if someone started throwing bullets at them, wouldn’t they?

Note: I would never buy an actual gun … unless it was a laser gun … and it was pink … and it was on sale for 99 cents.

Another Note: I’m taping up so many boxes these days because I’ve been selling random items on eBay to make end meet.

One more thing: I don’t think it’s physically possible for my ends to meet. Maybe I should do more yoga.

I Thought It Was Crabgrass

I’m an awesome gardener. My yard is full of beautiful plants and I have a vegetable garden that provides the family with piles of fresh produce. That’s what I’d like to be able to say, at least.

In reality, I’m a gardening failure. Part of the problem is that I don’t really know what types of plants should be in a garden. I’d been pulling up this annoying grass that’s been turning up in our yard. I call it runner grass because when you don’t know the name for something you should just make one up. Anyway, that runner grass has been a real annoyance in my book. It’s everywhere. The dog likes to eat it, but I swear that’s the only thing it’s good for.

One day I complained about it to my husband and he said, “You mean the St. Augustine’s grass. People spend a lot of money to have that stuff thriving in their yards.”

“No, I mean the runner grass. I think it’s crabgrass.” I had him follow me into the yard so I could show him. “See,” I said yanking a patch of grass out of the ground.

“That’s St. Augustine’s. You should stop pulling it up,” he said.

“But I thought it was a weed, like crabgrass.”

“That’s crabgrass.” He pointed to another patch of grass at his feet.

“Really? I quite like that grass.”

He laughed. “You won’t in the winter when it starts going brown.”

I don’t know what he has against brown grass. I think it could add depth to an otherwise green lawn. I can’t wait to get my yard redone with native plants. Then I won’t have to think about any kind of grass at all.

Don’t ask me about when I’m getting my yard done. I don’t have any concrete plans yet, just access to gardening websites and a dream.


Humor Me

I have pronunciation issues. I’ve had them all of my life. There are certain words that I just don’t say correctly. Since my husband speaks that Queen’s English he loves to point out my mispronunciations. As soon as he asks me to repeat myself with a sly grin on his face, I know I’ve just mispronounced something.

For someone who writes a humor blog this can be a bit of a problem. You see, I’ve never pronounced humor correctly. I opt to skip the H. It just gets all stuck in my mouth and feels icky. Instead of humor, I say yumor. Some people don’t seem to notice at all. They don’t make a big deal of it and we all move on, but some people have a problem. They don’t understand what the heck I’m talking about.

The other day I got a pedicure (I know that’s so unlike me, but my mother had a Groupon thing) and the pedicurist asked me what I do. One of the things I mentioned was that I write a humor blog. I’m always trying to find new readers for the Mooch.

Me: I also write a yumor blog.
Pedicurist: Yumor, yumor. I don’t know what that is. What’s yumor?
Me: You know yumor, like if something is funny.
Pedicurist: I don’t know what that is.

“Are you kidding me? You know what that is. You’re just being a pain about the H.” That’s what I was thinking. That, of course, is not what I said.

Now I’m rethinking this whole humor thing. Maybe I should start a new blog about something I can pronounce. I’ve never had difficulty pronouncing the word cheese. There are lots of things you can write about cheese. My husband wrote a whole song about the subject. In case you don’t remember click this link for a little reminder.


blackandwhiteWhen we were walking around downtown the other day we saw an interracial couple walking in front of us–black woman, white man. This is the conversation that ensued.

My husband: Look at that. There’s more of that around here these days. That’s good.
Me: I guess we were forerunners for the area.
My husband: Yeah. It’s not like the old days when people in trucks would yell at us while we walked down Bay Shore.
Me: Or the treatment we would get from people in Save A’Lot.
My husband: Yeah.
Me: But I guess we deserved it for being someplace like Save A’Lot.

Note: My husband would have a problem with the first part of this post because he no longer refers to people as black or white. He’s having some sort of issue.

Our Conversations

This is the conversation we had last night while watching the news. So it makes some sense to you I should let you know that the news stories were about the Boy Scouts discrimination against gays, an asteroid nearly hitting Earth, and the blackout during the Super Bowl.

Me: Don’t you think it’s odd that the Boy Scouts have banned gays yet they have an activity called a jamboree?

My dad: If a gay asteroid wants to join the football team they should let him.

Me: If a gay asteroid wants to be queen of the jamboree I think they should let him do that too.

Okay, maybe knowing what the stories were about didn’t help that make sense. Since when do conversations have to make sense? With me and my dad it’s more like I say something, then he says something totally unrelated, then I say something else, then he says a whole lot of stuff.

If you throw my stepson into the mix then you really have an interesting conversation. My dad says something that is the completion of a thought going on in his head that none of us are aware of. I say something. My dad explains himself. My stepson says something very loosely related that involves mentioning a dictator or political figure’s name. And so it goes in a round of confusion. We do still manage to communicate though.

Note: I have no idea what a jamboree is, but it sounds like a big party where people dance and wear clothing that sparkles. Maybe it’s kind of like a rave with less ecstasy and more neckerchiefs.

Another note: In case you didn’t know, we are still trying to buy a house. That’s why we’re still living with my parents. You can find out about our latest adventures in house buying on my guest post at Aiming Low.

My Pretty Schedule


Me: I haven’t made my schedule for next week yet.

My husband: You’re doing that again?

Me: Yeah. It really helped with my productivity.

My husband: It helped you complain about how you weren’t following your schedule all week.

Me: No, it didn’t.

My husband: Yes, it did. That’s all you talked about. “I’m supposed to be writing from 10 to 12, but I don’t feel like writing so instead I’m checking emails, but this is writing time.” Why not make a list of tasks instead?

Me: … but schedules work for me.

My husband: Schedules don’t work for you. You never follow them. A list of tasks works too and it doesn’t take as long for you to make.

Me: … but schedules are better because I put them on Google Calender, and I can color code tasks, and it’s pretty. I like schedules. You don’t have to like them. I like pretty. You don’t. You’re a man. Now I’m going to go spend an hour of my time making a color coded schedule that I’ll only loosely follow instead of trying to correct the code on my massage site that is making some of the pages shift to the left. Thank you very much for offering your opinion.

Perfect Potato Chip Fantasy

Me: I just want to lay on my back and have a potato chip fountain drop potato chips into my mouth.

My stepson: I’d be afraid of choking.

Me: This is a fantasy. There’s no choking in fantasies.

My stepson: I’d still be afraid of choking.

Me: I don’t understand how you could be afraid of my perfect potato chip fantasy.

The Egg Incident

The other day I was in the kitchen with my mother when she put an intact, whole, raw egg in a strange little plastic container and stuck it in the microwave.

Me: What are you doing?

My mother: I have to boil an egg quickly for you father.

Me: Can you do that in the microwave?

My mother: I’ve done it before. That’s what this container is made for.

(She starts the microwave.)

Me: I don’t know. It just seems to me like it will explode.

(There is a large bang and exploded egg covers the inside of the microwave.)

My mother: That always happens.

More Pie

My father has been struggling with kidney problems for years and is starting dialysis this week. This means he’ll have to make some changes in his diet. The other day I overheard this conversation while my parents where looking over his dietary guideline.

My mom: This says you’ll have to eat more protein.

My father: Protein?

My mother: Yeah, you should try to eat protein with every meal.

My father: Does that mean I can eat more pie?