Back to School

By Angie Mansfield

Last month, our head honcho, Stacey, asked us to try something new, and then post about it. Well, I didn't get a chance to post my something new last month, so I'm using my new editorial prerogative to use last month's theme this month. Hey, this job's gotta have SOME perks.

Anyway, last month I decided to get back into music after far too many years away. I played the clarinet in Junior High, and sang in the choir in high school, but haven't really made music in quite some time. Since my singing voice leaves much to be desired, and I no longer have a high school choir in which to hide it, I decided the music would have to come from an instrument. First, I bought a thing called an ocarina. Those of you with kids who've played Zelda (or who are fabulously geeky enough to have played it yourselves) may be familiar with ocarinas. Mine looks like this:

And it sounds like this:



(Or listen here.)

Which is all well and good, and it's kinda cool to have an instrument that's almost indestructible (because I'm a klutz) and that you can stick in a pocket and take everywhere (because I get bored easily). But the higher-key one (as you heard in the recording) is shrill enough to set dogs howling all over town when I play it. The lower-key one is more pleasant to the ears, but neither has much of a range of playable notes, limiting the amount of music one can enjoy with them.

I thought about going back to the clarinet, but they're, like, expensive and stuff. At least, if you want one that is actually playable. So I went for the next-best thing: A recorder.

Yes, the thing you played in grade school. Shut up. There are professional recorder players. I swear. Look 'em up on YouTube.

I got the recorder two weeks ago. Yesterday, friend and newest Erma Steve Barber informed us all that he has a new dog, and that her name is Matilda. So, this post has been my long-winded way of explaining why I recorded the following tune: To welcome his new furry addition to his home. Enjoy.



(Or listen here.)

Nuggets from the Advice Zebra. No, not those nuggets. Gross.

By Angie Mansfield

The Advice Zebra in her natural habitat

All right, all right. I've been buried in emails from people who keep begging me for advice. Clearly, these people haven't been paying attention or they'd never come to me for advice, but who am I to disillusion them?

I am the Advice Zebra, that's who. Buckle in, this could get bumpy.

---

Dear AZ:

Yesterday I happened upon a troubling sight. You see, my sister, who I'll just call "the tramp" for the purposes of this question, got married. Just before the ceremony, I went to the pastor's office where she was waiting, so I could give her a hug and my well-wishes before taking my seat. When I got back there, the groom's brother was in there, standing behind my dear sister with his hands over her...bazingas. Can I say 'bazingas' here? If not, I'm sorry. Twice.


Anyway, when I expressed shock at this situation, the groom's brother said I had a dirty mind, and that he'd thought it might be the groom coming into the room, and he was just trying to keep the groom from seeing my sister's bazingas before the wedding, and thus getting seven years' bad luck. Have you ever heard of such a thing, AZ, or should I defend my sister's honor with a baseball bat and a set of brass knuckles?


Signed,
Brother of the Bride

Dear BoB:

I'm appalled at the complete ignorance of wedding etiquette on display these days. You'd think no one had ever heard of manners, the way they get all uptight about the ceremonial bride-goosing, the ceremonial telling of dirty jokes to the bride's grandmother, and the ceremonial calling of the cops.

Where was I? Oh, yes -- your new brother-in-law is clearly a lecher and needs to be taught some manners. Whoever heard of hiding the bride's bazingas before the ceremony? If his intentions were truly pure, he'd have had his hands on her behind.

Dear Advice Zebra:

There's some dude passed out drunk in the alley behind my barn. What should I do?


Signed,
Intimidated by Inebriates

Dear Intimidated:

I'm shocked. Shocked! How do you know he's drunk? Did you ask him? No! I'm sure you just assumed by his posture and the fact that he's sleeping by a barn. Did you stop to think that the poor man might have been overcome by the odors wafting from your livestock accommodations? Sure, you find those aromas delightful, but not everyone shares your enthusiasm. Get out there right now, young man or woman, and see if that poor man needs smelling salts. Wait -- those probably won't work. Just poke him with a stick until he wakes up, then offer him a refreshing iced beverage. But if he's been sleeping by the barn for any length of time, best not to invite him in.

Dear Advice Zebra:

I am part of a traveling troupe of troubadours, and we are plagued with problems with our posture. Can you--

Dear Annoying:

I apologize; I am averse to aiding anyone who abuses alliteration.

---

So Sorry

by Angie Mansfield

I've decided to forgo resolutions this year in favor of something far more useful:

apologies. Some of these are for transgressions already committed, while others are more like advance warnings. You be the judge. Names have been changed to protect the probably-not-innocent:

1. Dear Mr. Parker: I'm sorry I blew up your brand new smoker grill. In my defense, as I'm sure you remember me telling you at the time, it bore a disturbing resemblance to a Dalek -- you know, from Doctor Who? You really should watch more television, so you'll be better prepared to protect yourself against these things. Anyway, your smoker had a very Dalek-y shape, and at three in the morning when you've had a few too many mudslides (you know what I'm talking about, don't you, Mrs. Parker? wink, wink) things tend to take on a life of their own. In this case, I could swear I heard your smoker mutter, "Exterminate," as I crossed your backyard on the way home, and so of course it had to go. But I really do regret that the fire took out your carport. My bad.

2. Dear Mrs. Jones: I'm sorry that I told everyone at the neighborhood picnic about your wig. I'm sure this revelation was very embarrassing for you, especially since you worked so hard to get Mr. Everett from two blocks over to finally come to the party this year. My only excuse is that I had no idea it was a secret; I thought everyone knew that seventy-year-old ladies with thinning blue-grey hair can't grow a luxurious red mane overnight, no matter what sort of "cream" they put on it. My apologies, anyway, and please do tell Mr. Everett that, should he agree to accompany you to next year's block party, I promise not to elbow him in the ribs and say, "I guess gentlemen don't prefer blondes, eh? Eh?"

3. Dear Paperboy's Mother: I'm sorry about the nightmares your son's been having. I'm sure they'll pass eventually; I mean, how long can a ten-year-old be traumatized by a woman in a Frankenstein mask leaping out of the bushes at five in the morning and screaming "Boo!"? Honestly, he seems to be awfully jumpy, and you might consider having him talk to a counselor or something about his nerves. Oh, and do you think we could start getting our paper again? It's getting tiresome, having to steal the neighbor's every morning, and I think Mr. Parker's onto me, anyway.

4. Dear Mr. Rogers: I feel compelled to apologize, though I really don't know why you get so worked up. I mean, with a name like that, you should be used to people humming "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" every time you walk by. Clever of you to choose another route to work, though; it took me two whole days to figure out your new routine. But it was all worth it to see the tears of joy on your face when I sang the first few bars at you from behind that Dumpster. You really should look both ways, though, before jumping into the street; then you might not have been hit by that car and given me nightmares for a week.

It's all right, though. I forgive you


Angie Mansfield lives in an undisclosed location. It used to be disclosed, but she’s now in hiding from her neighbors. You know how it is.

Skatin' Blues

by Angie Mansfield

You know that moment in every horror film where the blonde / brunette / redheaded bimbo walks, in just her Underoos and a t-shirt, down the darkened stairs / into the creepy cellar / outside on the porch of her remote forest cabin, without so much as turning on a My Little Pony night-light? That moment, when everyone in the movie theater shouts at her not to go down there / in there / out there, because the knife-wielding maniac / evil hell-demon / Richard Simmons is out there, ready to dismember and/or eat her?

Well, someone in the peanut gallery should have warned me.

Even a simple, "Hey, pleasingly-plump girl! That activity is not recommended for people of your gravitational force!" would have been nice.

But no, the cackling hyenas let me go out there, with predictable results.

I am speaking, of course, of my first experience ice skating.

It should be an easy thing to master, judging from the number of toddlers who were zipping around the rink, pirouetting, and pointing and laughing on their way past. Even the ones I managed to trip just popped back up again, flashed me a rather age-inappropriate hand gesture, and sped off on their merry way.

Unfortunately, I have about as much grace as a newborn foal, even on dry land. On ice, as it turned out, I was utterly hopeless.

"Bend your knees!" shouted my not-at-all helpful friend. His voice was a bit wheezy, due to his uncontrolled laughter. "Try just pushing yourself with one foot at first."

This might have been helpful advice, were I able to get into a standing position in the first place. Upon touching the ice, my skates had shot neatly out from under me, causing me to land hard on my ample backside, and I couldn't figure out how to get enough traction to get back up again. Instead, I lay there flailing, entertaining an entire rink full of people, until I finally hit on the brilliant idea of dragging myself off the ice with my forearms, performing a sort of commando crawl.

When I finally managed to get to the wall of the rink and pull myself up, I had to dangle there, arms planted on the top of the wall and feet slipping in every direction as I tried to secure them under me. My friend made the unwise decision to step too close, and I grabbed the front of his parka in one desperation-strengthened fist. I yanked him close, and let him get a good look at the crazy in my eyes.

"Get me...off...these damned things," I growled at him.

The episode wasn't a total loss, however. My skates, as it turned out, made a great roof ornament for Christmas. Come to think of it, I'd better go get them down. After the holidays, of course. Ho, ho, ho.

Angie Mansfield, perhaps unsurprisingly, lives alone with her dog and a jade plant named Fred. Yes, her plant has a name. You can visit him at Jaded Fred, though he probably won't like it.

Kid-free Zone

by Angie Mansfield


I'm not exactly mommy material. I find it a challenge to ensure I'm wearing clean clothes every day, let alone drag my butt out of bed at some unholy hour to tend to the needs of a small human. Heck, I can't even keep a goldfish alive for more than a week. My dog is lucky that she's an adaptable, tenacious survivor-type.

I've never had an overpowering urge to have kids. For one thing, I lack the patience. Babysitting as a teenager, I learned that kids are okay before they can walk and talk, and little horrors after. The four hours in which the parents were out was about the limit of how long I could stand to deal with sticky fingers, bickering siblings, and whiny toddlers. I was always more than happy to hand the little heathens back to their mommies at the end of the evening, collect my pay, and head home.

My biological clock is permanently stuck on "snooze". I pride myself on the fact that I learned this about myself early, before inflicting my lack of parenting skills on a new generation.

But my mother continues to hold out hope that, one day, her eldest daughter will find a nice boy and settle down to the task of making grandchildren. Never mind that at this point a "nice boy" in my age group will be perilously close to drawing Social Security by the time any potential children of ours graduated high school. Or, at least, he'd be reminiscing about how, when we were young, there was this thing called Social Security. And then we'd laugh and laugh, until we cried and made the children uncomfortable. It would all be very awkward.

So when I learned that I had a condition, inherited from my mother, that causes fibroids to grow on the uterine walls, which then cause constant, sometimes heavy, bleeding; and that this condition is serious enough in my case to require a full hysterectomy, you'd think I'd be perfectly happy. "Hooray," you're probably imagining me thinking. "No more pregnancy scares for me!"

But here's where human nature comes back to bite me in the butt. See, it's fine for me to decide I don't want to have kids -- it's my choice, and I can change my mind any time I want. But to have that decision taken away from me, when I'm still only in my 30s...it takes away a bit of the happy-fun-times attitude. Add to that my general aversion to hospitals, and you've got the makings of a seriously sobered silly person.

Of course, the silly is such a major part of me that it can't be held down for long. I'm already delighting in telling my mother how I'll be "spayed" soon. She winces every. Single. Time.

Score.

Zombie Road Trip

by Angie Mansfield from The Zebra Rag

MURFREESBORO, TN (ZP) – A car crashed on Interstate 24 just outside of Murfreesboro Sunday evening, closing the southbound lanes for over two hours and causing mass confusion among first responders.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Murfreesboro Police Department spokesman Ken Kinnison. “The crash didn’t cause any injuries, but there were body parts everywhere…one guy’s arm wound up on the hood of the car.”

The body parts came from the car’s occupants, zombies Jan Carlson, 152, from Boston, and Mike Carlson, 17, also from Boston, who was driving at the time of the accident.

When asked to clarify how body parts could be strewn around the crash
site, but no injuries be reported, Kinnison responded by excusing
himself to go vomit behind his cruiser.

“We heal quick,” said Jan Carlson, waving his arm around with his
still-attached hand. “Some super glue, maybe a couple stitches, and
we’ll be back out eating brai—I mean, selling vacuums in no time.”

Mike Carlson, the teenage great-great nephew of the elder zombie,
seemed more concerned about his car than about the fact that he now
had to hop on one leg around the crash site. “I just put a new dual
exhaust on it.”

The crash occurred at around 10:30 pm local time as the Carlsons
headed north on their vacuum sales route. According to Mike Carlson,
he was attempting to pass a semi truck moving “about the speed of a
turtle trying to molest a snail,” when the truck drifted over into the
passing lane and forced the Carlsons’ 1965 Ford Mustang into the
median. Carlson lost control of the vehicle, and it rolled into the
southbound lanes, where it was struck by another truck, passed into
the far south lane, bounced off the guardrail back into traffic, got
struck by a U-Haul trailer, and was pinballed around the southbound
lanes a few more times before coming to rest back in the median.

“It’s a good thing them boys is zombies,” said the driver of the
U-Haul, who pulled over to photograph any injuries that may have
resulted from the crash for later uploading to his subscription
website, bodiesandblood.com. “If they’da not been zombies, we’d be
scrapin’ ‘em off the highway into Tupperware bowls fer sure.”

It was unclear at press time what charges, if any, might result from
the crash, but Officer Kinnison seemed certain there would be some. “I
mean…they’re zombies. They eat people, right? That just ain’t natural.
There’s gotta be something we can charge ‘em with.”

He then excused himself to vomit again.

Fisher’s Lament

by Angie Mansfield

As I sat there, soaking sunshine

Quietly enjoying springtime,

Listening to birdies chirping

With my pole upon the shore,

I spied my bobber dipping quickly,

Back up again, then down hardcore.

"Aha!" I said, tensing, ready,

Gripping tightly, hands held steady,

Waiting for the tell-tale pulling,

That would signal dinner sure.

I waited for as long as I could,

Gave a pull -- fish there no more!

Cursing gently, hooked a new worm,

Laughing as I watched him squirm,

Tossed him in the water warm,

Sat back again to wait once more.

Sunshine warming, eyes were drooping,

Soon I was gently snoozing, waiting as I was before.

A gentle tug jerked me alert,

Like a caffeine pill advert,

My eyes no beauty could divert

From my bobber dipping gaily,

Like a housewife churning butter

In those cliche'd days of yore.

This time I would get the big jerk,

Fry him up with a great smirk,

Or I swore I'd go berserk,

And never fish again without an oar

To beat the water in frustration

Now pay attention - don't get cocksure!

I held on, firmly forcing patience,

Picturing my coming vengeance

On the swimming fiend that I abhorred.

A nearby fisher offered guidance,

I turned to decline his unasked-for brilliance,

Felt a jerk, then fish's absence; called the "helper" a meddling...creep.

I stood there for a time, head aching

While my eye was quickly twitching,

As I tried to keep my temper from exploding like before.

Then I slowly brought up my pole,

Snapped it in two with a great pull,

And left to take up video games INDOORS.

Angie Mansfield, perhaps unsurprisingly, lives alone with her dog and a jade plant named Fred. Yes, her plant has a name. You can find more of her failed attempts at journalistic integrity at the Zebra Rag.

Cupid jailed for indecent exposure and attempted homicide.

by Angie Mansfield

Police have finally located the suspect wanted in connection with a series of flashing incidents and assaults with a deadly weapon that occured on February 14th, 2011. The arrest comes after a week of investigation and public outcry.

"We have found the person responsible for these despicable acts," said Detective Fred Dobbin during a brief press conference this morning. "Now, if everyone could stop keying my car and egging my house, that would be great."

Public outcry over police handling of this case began shortly after the first flashing incidents were reported. Police were slow to respond to the reports, mistaking them for a rash of crank calls.

"I mean," Dobbin said, "Who woulda thought all the stories about a hairy, naked little person with wings could be accurate?"

One of the flashing victims, speaking on condition of anonymity (but her initials are Tara Mitchell, 457 Schenectedy Lane) said she is forever scarred by her disturbing ordeal. "He flew right up to my window and pointed his arrow at me. No, I'm not using a euphemism. He had an actual arrow, with a bow and everything."

Her neighbor, Laura Burke, also saw the winged pervert. "He chased me down the street, pointing the arrow at me and screaming, 'Who do you love?' over and over. I still hear it in my sleep."

Police became actively involved when a local man was admitted to the hospital to have a small, pink-feathered arrow removed from his left buttock. After questioning the victim, investigators determined that the M.O. fit a series of similar incidents that occured on the same day last year. The current investigation led them to the main suspect in that case, who was released last summer over a technicality. When the identity of the suspect was released today, public outcry grew.

"How did this freak get tossed back on the streets to terrorize innocent people all over again," asked Ms. Mitchell's husband. "I mean, his mother was Venus, the goddess of love, and his father was Mars, the god of war. What did they think was going to happen?"

Cupid's court-appointed attorney was unavailable for comment.


Angie Mansfield, perhaps unsurprisingly, lives alone with her dog and a jade plant named Fred. Yes, her plant has a name. You can find more of her failed attempts at journalistic integrity at the Zebra Rag.

I Resolve to Not Resolve

by Angie Mansfield

I don't like to brag, but it's only the end of January and I've already fulfilled my resolutions for the year.

See, I don't go for the traditional resolutions; while everyone else is vowing to lay off cigarettes, overeating, and kicking small children, I am making more realistic promises to myself. That way, I can avoid the self-loathing that comes from breaking down and having that first cigarette, eating that first Snickers bar, and chasing that first eight-year-old down the block.

No, no impossible resolutions for me. Instead, I made only three resolutions this year, and knocked them all out in the first three weeks, leaving myself the rest of the year totally guilt-free.

I can smile smugly while the smoking-quitter starts snorting the contents of every ash tray he comes across and goes dumpster-diving for butts. I can roll my eyes in a superior manner while the newly-minted fitness buff drags herself out of bed to "work out" exactly three times before giving up in shame. I can tsk-tsk in disapproval as the cranky old man next door sits scowling at the neighborhood children on their way to school, his feet twitching every time one of them strays an inch onto his lawn, until finally he can take no more and chases them down the street with his cane raised overhead.

All of their resolutions are the result of good intentions, and we all know where those lead. So while making my resolutions this year, I cut out good intentions altogether and went instead for "easy and vaguely evil."

I'm sure you're dying of curiosity, wondering what my resolutions were this year. I'd love to tell you, but you see, that would be violating the "vaguely evil" part of my plot--er, resolutions. But be assured that I have accomplished them all.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the neighbors aren't going to silently judge themselves. Happy New Year, indeed.

Angie Mansfield swears she is only slightly deranged, but her friends and family say differently. She lives wherever her trusty Chevy Malibu takes her, with only her dog and a cranky jade plant named Fred for company. You can visit her at the Wandering Zebra or the Zebra Rag, both of which she updates when she darn well feels like it.

One little spark...

Photo credit: Giantbomb.com

 by Angie Mansfield

“We’re out of gasoline for the mower. Can you run to town and get some?”

It seemed like a simple request, and I needed to borrow Mom’s mower, so I cheerfully agreed. Especially, and this was the important point, since she was paying. I trotted out to the garage, grabbed the first gas can I saw, stuck it in the trunk of the car, and headed to town. The trip was uneventful, and not the point of this story, so I hope you just skimmed it really quick to get to the good part.

I pulled up to the gas pump, grabbed the can out of the trunk, and filled it up. Then I went to put the cap back on and noticed something disturbing: it was missing a crucial little plastic doohickey. You see, when you fill a gas can and want to transport it without dumping flammable liquid all over the trunk of your car, you put the nozzle upside-down, put the included little plastic doohickey over the resulting hole, and cover it with the cap to keep it tightly closed.

My gas can was missing that all-important little plastic doohickey.

I considered the problem for approximately three seconds, which is about how long my patience for any problem runs on a normal day, and decided that since I hadn’t filled the gas can all the way to the top, it would probably be fine. I hefted it into the trunk and shoved it over against the left wall, wedged in between the front wall of the trunk and a pile of lawn chairs. I figured this arrangement would ensure that the can remained upright, and as long as I didn’t take any left-hand turns on two wheels or anything, I should be fine. I slammed the trunk, hopped in the car, and took off, going around the corner oh-so-slow-and-careful.

I was singing, loudly and off-key, along with “Keep Your Hands To Yourself” by the Georgia Satellites when I reached the left-hand turn that marked the halfway point between the gas station and home. I remembered to slow down carefully, and flipped the turn signal on.

This was when the treacherous, treacherous subconscious part of my brain decided, “Hey! She’s having way too much fun out there, and leaving me to run the damn show again. I swear, she wouldn’t even remember to breathe if I didn’t do it for her. Hmph. I’ll show her.” And it projected an image into the conscious part of my brain: An open can full of gas, belching gasoline fumes into a small, enclosed space. An open can that was wedged right up against the area where the left turn signal would be. Where all the little wires go. Where an ELECTRIC SPARK might be generated each time the light flashed because of my conscientious act of telling people I was turning.

Now, despite all online evidence to the contrary, I am a fairly rational person as a rule. The intellectual part of my brain said, “Haha, good one, Subconscious. How silly of me to think I could turn the car into a gigantic, cinema-worthy fireball just by the simple act of turning on a turn signal. You got me! Hahaha.”

The primitive, irrational, self-preserving part of my brain said, “Shut up, you twit! It’s GASOLINE. It’s flammable. We’re gonna die! Assume disaster positions!”

This part of my brain would not let go of the image of all those gas fumes (strangely, imaginary gas fumes turn green in the trunk of a car) and the shower of sparks I was unleashing every time that blasted signal flashed. 

All of this went through my mind before I’d even finished the turn, and I breathed a little sigh of relief as the signal switched off without lighting off a bomb in the trunk. “Haha,” I even managed to say, though it was a weak “haha” at best.

“Oh, think you’re gonna get off that easy, eh?” said my subconscious. “Have you forgotten that the brake lights come on every time you step on the pedal, Genius, and you can’t just not use the brakes? Hm? Take that!”

Of course, once the thought was in my head, it would not go away. Not until I pulled up in front of my mother’s house, threw the door open as dramatically as I could, and leapt out of the car to land three feet away. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I may have even done a little “Get it off me!” dance, my primitive brain having got its wires temporarily crossed with the distaste-for-bugs part of my brain.

My mother, blissfully oblivious once again to the depths of her eldest daughter’s dementia, strolled out of the house. “You took the bad gas can. You didn’t spill any, did you?”

Did you catch that? Yes. My mother knew I had the “bad” gas can, and said nothing until I had already risked my life bringing the gas home.

Just wait until it’s time to choose her nursing home.

--------

Angie Mansfield, confirmed insane by friends and family, is on a mission to live in a tent for six months, hitting all of the lower 48 states. She is undertaking this journey with her dog, her jade plant named Fred, and her twelve-pack soda box collection, which she hopes to someday fashion into a hang glider. Because hang gliding is, like, totally cool. Follow her insane adventures (heavily embellished, of course) at her blog, The Wandering Zebra: http://wanderingzebra.blogspot.com

Why do the bank ladies make me lie to them?

by Angie Mansfield


You see, my checks from one of my clients are drawn on a bank that happens to have a branch nearby. I go there to cash my checks from this client because a) I can cash checks drawn on that bank without incurring a fee, and b) I don't really need a bank account except to cash checks because my trusty prepaid Visa debit card handles all of my banking-related activities.

But every time I go to cash my check at this bank, the bank ladies try to get me to join their bank. They start out with a soft sell, easing me into the idea. "Have you thought about opening an account with us?" When I say that yes, I've thought about it but decided to pass, their smiles begin to freeze on their faces. Their eyes get a little shifty, and they try to sweeten the pot: "We have a range of account options to suit anyone's needs." I start to feel a little sorry for the bank ladies at this point -- I mean, it's obvious their bank is struggling, since it's resorting to turn its tellers into sales representatives, so I smile as gently as I can while telling them my first lie: "Uh...I'm in the process of moving and don't want to set up an account until I get settled."

That's when their desperation really sets in. Their smiles get wider and more demented, showing all their teeth, and they develop minor facial tics and eye twitches. This is generally when they bring out the big guns: "We have a promotion going on -- we'll give you 30 dollars if you open both a checking and savings account with us. 30 whole dollars! Free!" They end with sunny, manic grins, rolling their eyes to direct my attention to the bank manager, who is standing a few feet away with a baseball bat and brass knuckles, glaring at them.

I smile sympathetically and lean in for a conspiratorial whisper. The bank ladies lean in too, a spark of hope shining in their eyes as they hold their breaths for my answer.

I lie to them again. "I'm not sure where I'll be living just yet, so it would be silly to set up an account here. I don't know if I'll even be in this town. I just need to cash my check. Thanks all the same."

They all let out their anticipatory breath, and their shoulders sag in defeated dejection. The one who is still holding my check hostage gives up the game and counts out my cash. She rallies enough to bid me a nice day.

I smile back at her, but in my mind I'm already choosing the lie I will tell her next time.

Drive This.

When it comes to traveling, I like being a lone wolf. I have spent many hours in my car with no company except the radio blasting at full volume. No one chatting over my favorite songs; no one insisting on pointing out landmarks after we've already passed them; no one commenting on my driving skills or life choices. Bliss.

Unfortunately, this also means that I have to be my own navigator, snack bag opener, and nap preventer. No problem when I'm well rested, but deprive me of a couple hours of beauty sleep and you'll soon find me swerving across four lanes of traffic because I either dozed off or smacked myself in the eye while trying to open a stubborn bag of Cheetos. Add night driving to the mix, and you've got the recipe for fun -- if your idea of "fun" involves emergency lights, sirens, and a frantic call to the insurance company's 24-hour hotline.

"Hello, thank you for calling XYZ Insurance. My name is Candy. How may I assist you?"

"Candy?"

"Yes?"

Pause. "Your name is Candy?"

I hear a sigh on the other end of the line. "Yes. My name is Candy. Yes, that's my real name. No, I've never been a cocktail waitress or an exotic dancer. I wanted to be an airline pilot, but here I am, in this stuffy call center, taking insurance claim calls. Now, how can I help you?"

My brilliantly witty questions effectively stifled, I decide to move on. "Right. This is Angie Mansfield, and I--"

Candy's entire demeanor changes. At least, the part of it I can hear in her voice. Sounding excited and a little breathless, she interrupts me. "I'm sorry. Did you say your name is Angie Mansfield?"

"Uh...yes?"

"The Angie Mansfield?"

I start to get a bad feeling. "Well...I'm an Angie Mansfield..."

"What did you run into this time, a curb? No, wait -- someone's garden gnome. No! I've got it -- a stone statue of a unicorn named Trixie."

Crap. They knew me. Time for a little defensive indignation. "None of those things, Candy, and I don't think I like your tone."

I hear a giggle, and Candy's muffled voice saying, "Hey! Everyone! I've got Angie Mansfield on the line!" followed by more giggling. Finally Candy comes back. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Do you have me on speaker phone?"

"Absolutely not," she says, but I can clearly hear the giggling and high-fives in the background.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, what can we help you with this evening?"

"Well, 'we' can file a claim. I got run off the road."

"You got run off the road, or you drove off the road?" More snickering in the background.

"Well, Candy, the end result is the same, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but the form is different."

I roll my eyes and dream of throttling Candy. "All right, fine. If you must know, I got run off the road by an ice cream truck."

A pause, punctuated by a couple snorts as someone tries to hold back laughter. "You...got run off the road...by an ice cream truck?"

"Yes. He swerved over into my lane in order to pass the horse and buggy."

No one even tries to hide their laughing now. They're positively howling on the other end of the line. I wait for a couple of seconds, wondering if they'll remember I'm here, and then I gently press 'end' on my cell phone.

The car's in one piece, I was able to drive it out of the ditch, and no one's hurt. I think the CSR's have had enough entertainment for one night.

---

Angie Mansfield is a humor writer, zebra lover, and very good driver. Really. Very good driver. Read more of her humor (rated PG-13) on her spoof news site, the Zebra Rag.

Match Made in Heaven

There are some couples who make even the die-hard, destined for spinsterhood loner in me think longingly of finding a nice guy and settling down. Couples whose good humor and kindness toward one another keep them floating through the rough times; couples who do nice things for each other just for the heck of it; couples who make the whole "relationship" thing look easy.

And then there's...we'll call him "Jack" and his wife, "Jill." Names changed to protect the innocent.

Jack and Jill are a bit...let's say, "loopy." Odd situations just seem drawn to these two, and they delight in telling the stories, even when the stories make them look rather silly. Jack is generally the one looking silly, but he joins in the telling anyway, laughing along at the absurdity.

For instance: Jack, retired now, used to work as a guidance counselor at the local high school. For a school function, members of the faculty were asked to bring a dish, potluck-style. Jill would be busy all day and would have to meet Jack at the school. So she made a nice salad that morning, covered the top with foil, and instructed Jack to bring the foil-topped bowl to the school with him as their offering.

That evening, Jack and Jill met at the school, had a nice time visiting with other faculty and families, and finally made their way to the buffet line. Halfway along, Jill noticed a bowl with some sort of old-looking meat in it, covered with that lovely coating of white fat that a roast grows after being cooked and placed in the refrigerator. She wondered who on Earth could have brought such a thing, and others were whispering about it too.

Later that evening, as everyone packed up to leave, Jill looked for her salad bowl but couldn't find it. She realized she hadn't seen her salad on the way through the buffet either. Sure enough, when questioned, Jack had to admit that he must have grabbed the wrong bowl. Instead of Jill's lovely salad, he'd grabbed a week-old leftover roast from the fridge. The next day, when teachers in the lounge were discussing the previous night's potluck and wondering who brought that awful leftover roast, Jack piped up and cheerfully admitted that he & Jill had brought it.

The silliness didn't end after Jack retired, either. Retirement for Jack is filled with part-time work driving charter buses and working at a local community college. One of his tasks, early in his career at the college, was to find an activity for students for an upcoming event. His research led him to the website for a virtual car racing game - the player would sit in a simulated car, complete with steering wheel and pedals, and "race" in a realistic, 3-D environment. The site provided a demo of the game on the website, though the makers pointed out that it wasn't nearly as good as the real thing. Jack tried the demo, and became increasingly impressed and excited about the game. Finally, he ran out of his office and gathered several coworkers. "You've got to see this website! It's amazing!"

Having gathered his coworkers into his cramped little office (thankfully, there was a breeze from an open window), Jack proceeded to play the demo again. His coworkers watched for a few minutes, getting more and more confused. Finally, someone asked, "It's cool, Jack, but what's so exciting about it?"

"Can't you smell that?"

His coworkers glanced at each other in confusion.

"Smell what?"

"The cars! This is the coolest computer game I've ever seen - you can even smell the cars!"

After nearly choking themselves with laughter, his kind coworkers finally pointed out that someone was burning something at a construction site not far away, and the smoke smell was coming from the cracked window.

Lest you think I'm unfairly picking on the male half of this duo, Jill has had her own "little adventures" as they like to call them. Perhaps the most memorable one involved a mall near the state capital that had received rave reviews from several of Jill's friends. Jack was driving a charter bus to the area, so Jill and her daughter (both die-hard shoppers) decided to ride along one day and check out this heralded mall.

They got into the city early, and Jack dropped them off in front of a little strip mall. None of the stores were open just yet, so Jill and her daughter sat in the food court and ate breakfast. The food court wasn't very big, but they figured all space had been reserved for the many stores they'd heard were in the mall.

After breakfast, they walked around the mall...and around it again. They visited every store, then visited many of them again. By the time Jack finally showed back up at five o'clock that evening, the pair had been in nearly every store several times and were on a first-name basis with half the mall's staff. Climbing back into the bus, Jill complained, "I don't see what the fuss is about. That is the smallest, most boring mall I've ever seen."

Jack gently turned her back toward the building and pointed out a much taller, longer building behind it. "This is just a strip mall. The big mall is right behind it."

The silliness of their escapades of course appeals to the comic soul in me, but it's the gentle good humor with which they meet these adventures that leaves me longing for my own silly adventures with a partner who can take them with equal humor.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get the leftover roast out of the fridge. I have a potluck to go to.

Stress Relief

It occurred to me during a yoga pose called something like Backward Pretzel Dog or Upward Facing Masochist that there had to be a way to relieve stress that didn't involve listening to the ominous sound of my joints popping like cap guns.

I got the brilliant idea to take up yoga after my mother casually commented during our weekly grocery shopping trip that I seemed a little tense.

"What do you mean?" I asked, stopping my cart so I could turn and look at her.

She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at the aisle behind us and the people in various stages of picking themselves up after I'd mowed them down, bumper-cart style. "You just seem a little...wound up," she said.

Hm.

In the checkout line, I suggested to the woman behind us, in the kindest possible terms, that if she continued to allow her child to attempt to ram her cart up my backside I would be forced to shove said child inside one of the game machines in front of the store, and she could collect him when she left. If she had the two quarters necessary to activate the claw, of course.

Maybe my mother had a point.

When I got home, I checked out stress relief techniques online, and decided that I needed to simplify and reorganize my life, beginning with my house. Now, as anyone who knows me will be all too delighted to tell you, I'm not much of a homemaker. My house has a lived-in yard-sale motif that I've grown fond of, but which reminds visitors that schizophrenia is a real and devastating illness. I have also inherited the Pack Rat Gene from my father, which prevents me from getting rid of anything, including junk mail and the boxes that 12-packs of soda come in. Don't judge me - those boxes and heaps of credit card and auto warranty offers might come in handy someday, should we decide to host a bonfire big enough to be seen from the international space station.

I discovered two things when I tried to simplify my living space: first, that simplifying is not as simple as it looks, and second, that I'm no good at interior decorating. I was loath to spend money on new furniture when that money could be so much better spent on important things like movies and new toys for my dog. My "decorating" involved pushing the couch into a different position and laying out wallpapering tools in the foolish hope that I'd ever actually feel like wallpapering. So instead of simplifying, I'd added to the general chaos. So much for stress relief method number one.

Next came meditation, which on paper sounded promising. It involved sitting quietly in one place, which appealed to my lazy nature, and it also sounded like an excellent way of putting off cleaning up the mess caused by the Great Decorating Debacle. Unfortunately, it turned out that while sitting still I was supposed to focus on my innermost thoughts. I lasted roughly thirty seconds before focusing on a chocolate craving that would not be placated by any number of mantras. Ten pounds later, I gave up on meditation.

Yoga came next, but my chiropractor politely suggested that I stop after he had to straighten my spine out of its epic Twister position for the third time.

These stress-relief practices were more effective at causing stress than reducing it, and by the next week's shopping trip I was wound tighter than a fiddle string. My knuckles turned white on the cart handle as I started playing chicken with the stockboys' moving dollies.

My mother didn't comment until we reached the checkout aisle. By this time my knuckles were no longer white, and I felt better than I had all week. As we stacked our items on the conveyor, Mom looked up at me and smiled.

"You seem calm now. Almost serene."

I paused with a package of lunchmeat in one hand and glanced back the way we'd come, but most of the carnage was hidden by a greeting card display. I smiled anyway and turned back to her.

"Maybe we should start shopping twice a week."