June 5, 1972

United States armed forces have invaded Cambodia
as Nixon prattles on about peace with honor.
An eighteen year old boy was killed on the
New York Subway this morning.
Thousands of students are marching to
Washington to protest the draft
as illegal and immoral, and
I had a son today.

Nineteen persent of America's high school students
cannot read.
Footage from the 6 o'clock news shows
boys dead in Viet Nam,
because you don't have to read to be drafted,
just be a red-blooded, all-American boy,
young and scared and
I had a son today.

TIME magazine screams "Is God dead?"
as children's blood is spilled on
our nation's streets.
Big Brother is watching us all
and I think I want to run
far, far away.
I won't stop to pack because
I had a son today.

The Bad Motorcycle Boys and How They Grew

Torrington, Connecticut, circa 1974. The Inferno bar was in its heyday, people coming from all over the state to drink cheap beer and jostle against each other as they danced to "Sympathy For the Devil". We crowded the dance floor - wild, sweaty, frenetic; keeping time to the drum's relentless tatoo. Sex and drugs melded with music and alcohol to make The Inferno a dark question of violence barely suppressed and nirvana just a tequila away.
Outside, leaning against the building, watching the paralell line of their motorcycles parked at the curb, were the toughest of the tough, coolest of the cool, poster boys for alienated and disenfranchised young male adulthood - the bad motorcycle boys. Girls loved them, mothers feared them, and the other guys - well, the other guys just stayed out of their way. This was where you'd find Joey, who'd inherited Mick Jagger's looks but none of his savoir faire. Little Tony would be leaning there, assuring all that "I ain't little where it counts, heh, heh." Next to him stood his pal John who could crush a beer can with one hand (and, I suspect, eat it). Mike usually lounged at the end of the line-up. We called him St Michael of the Motorcycles. Impenetrable dark eyes, auburn hair down to his waist, bearded and booted, he looked as if he may have just stepped out from Dante's Inferno instead of the Torrington location. These were the main players, but various and sundry bikers would come and go throughout the night.
I would go to the bar after my 3 - 11 pm shift at the woolen mill. Those were the days before I had grown into my looks and the infamous line outside the door never gave me a second glance. No one would have been more surprised than I to find that I would, in the future, have a long and not always happy relationship with one of them. But that's another story.
I went there to dance. Afterwards, I would go home and dream of roaring motorcycles and licking flames of fire.
The Inferno attracted its crowds of customers in a way that was as inexplicable as it was successful. In that last, blissfully ignorant era before AIDS, one would have been hard-pressed to find out who was going with whom, who was cheating, who was just looking. I recall overhearing a conversation between two men, one of them insisting, "But it's my week to go out with Lisa!" Dialogues and disagreements would ensue between both the frantically searching and the wearily blase. That's the kind of place it was.
One hot, muggy, Friday night, indistinguishable from any other hot, muggy, Friday night, a stranger entered the bar. Alone, and slightly aloof, he stuck out. Aloofness was only allowed if you were one of the motorcycle boys. He ordered a draft beer and idly watched the couple necking in the corner, several fights being broken up, a woman vomiting into her shoe, and a knife being confiscated from a man who was preparing to hurl it at the band. He nursed his beer. When a woman picked up his elbow, mistaking it for her drink, the young man decided it was time to leave. The band struck up a rousing rendition of "Sympathy For the Devil" as he abandoned his stool.
As he walked down the sidewalk toward his car, through the gauntlet of bad motorcycle boys, one of them stuck out a foot and tripped him. The man turned around, looked at the small knot of us huddled in the doorway, at the scattered patrons who'd drifted out onto the sidewalk, and especially at the motorcycle boys. In a soft, clear voice, he asked, "Why don't you all grow up?"
We were surprisingly stunned, as if the concept had never before occurred to us. The young man walked away from an uneasy silence. We returned to the bar to try to forget what he'd suggested; to drown our fears in the dim lighting, the dance and another beer. Several boys roared off on their bikes, perhaps in a futile attempt to outrun the ageing process.
Most of us, in spite of our aversion to it, did grow up, although not that night. I am a freelance writer and a nurse in an obstetrics unit. Mike had 3 children and 2 divorces, none of them with me. Little Tony is working on his college degree in prison. John took over the family business. Joey had a heart attack, married, and settled down to his factory job, not necessarily in that order.
And the young man who walked away? I married him. After all, who better to marry than a grown-up?We have a happy marriage and a well-ordered life with all the adult responsibilities that jobs, mortgages, and raising children entail.
But sometimes, when my husband is not home, I think of those old days and the bad motorcycle boys. I play "Sympathy For the Devil". I dance.

What I did on my Summer Vacation

I want to talk about motels. The thing about motels is that you have to suspend your analytical nature along with your natural squeamishness about that wonderful, invisible-to-the-naked-eye world of germs and bacteria. You really can't think too hard about who else has used the room, what they've done there, and what bodily fluids they've left behind. But as long as a room looks clean, I'm OK with it. I even managed to cope when I found a black hair in the bathtub (our hair is red or gray, or sometimes, red and gray) of one motel, and another where I had to pick a hunk of unidentifiable food off the front of the microwave. It wasn't easy, but I took deep breaths and got by it.
And this is another thing about motels and hotels that I have always wondered about: Why do they fold the toilet paper into that little point? Sure, it's nice, but wouldn't one feel more reassured about cleanliness if one knew that the maid's hands weren't all over the toilet paper? I'm just saying.....
Anyway, we just got back from Lenox, MA, having gone up there to see the BSO (that's Boston Symphony Orchestra for the culturally deprived), at Tanglewood. As usual, I'd made reservations online at a place we'd stayed at previously and liked. Or so I thought. However, a menopausal mind is a forgetful mind. Sometimes, it is a downright absent mind. Because when we arrived in Lenox, we whizzed right past the motel we'd stayed at before and arrived at The Knight's Inn. I suspected right away that no self-respecting knight had ever stayed there. I realised that I had gotten the motel names mixed up. I had meant to make reservations at the Yankee Inn, and I'm sure it is apparent to all how Yankee and Knights could be mixed up.
Now I love curry (No, this isn't a flight of ideas, I'm going somewhere with this), but I love curry in the context of eating it in a nicely appointed Indian restaurant. To smell curry when one walks into a motel registration office is disconcerting, to say the least. As I waited for the clerk (who also smelled of curry), I noticed the Fruit Loops and corn flakes sitting in partially open bins in the adjacent "Continental Breakfast" nook, and idly wondered how curry-flavor enhanced Fruit Loops might taste. I decided not to find out. I may eat a grape that has fallen briefly onto my kitchen floor. I may eat an unidentified tablet off the windowsill.* But one has to draw the line somewhere.
Things didn't improve when we hit the room.It was a little too small. It was a little too shabby. It was a little too orange. It was a little too not too clean. On the inside of the bathroom door were posted instuctions on how to lock it. However, the bathroom door had no handle on the inside, the management missing the point that if you feel the need to post instructions on how to work the door handle, there should, really, be a door handle. Three lightbulbs were burnt out and there were only four total. We had no view of the pool. Because there was no pool.
I looked longingly down the street at the pool flanking the Yankee Motel. I looked at my curry-scented room. I looked at the Yankee Motel. I looked at my curry-scented room. Throwing monetary caution to the wind, I left Curryland and booked a room at the Yankee. A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do.

* That is another story that will be told, eventually, in The Evil Twins Blog.

Quote of the week

"There is a tragic flaw in our precious constitution, and I don't know what can be done to fix it. This is it: Only nut cases want to be President." -- Kurt Vonnegut

How to be a Charge Nurse

I wrote this while working at a hospital in Florida where the charge nurse had a lot more responsibility. But a lot of it is still pertinent, so here it is.

#1. Make out patient assignments - Do not spend a lot of time on this.No matter what you do, there will always be a better way to do it and someone will be sure to tell you what that way is.
#2. Keep staff awake - Remember, no TV. No videos. No cards. No games. No magazines. That leaves telling embarrassing stories about your sex lives.
#3. Assess staffing needs and cancel someone if neccessary - Don't spend a lot of time on this either. No matter what you do, you'll have called: A) too early B) too late C) the wrong person.
#4. Delegate unit duties as neccessary and appropriate - Get real - no one listens to the charge nurse.
#5. Be a link between the unit manager and the rest of the staff - Staff members should be able to come to you with work-related problems that you can then pass on to the unit manager at which point she A) won't believe you. B) decide that you are the root cause of the problem.
#6. Keep abreast of all unit activities - The charge nurse is always the last to know.
#7. Grow big shoulders and a thick skin - The charge nurse's main duty is to be there to blame when something goes wrong.
#8. If something should go wrong, assess what caused the problem and
how it can be prevented in the future - ie, blame it on A) the night shift. B) the day shift.
#9. Maintain open communication with other hospital employees - This is a good concept, but in reality, when you, for instance, speak to another unit st 9PM and say, "Call us if you need any help", by 9AM, you will be reported as saying "We'll work in hell before we help you." Go figure.
#10. Report incidents, when neccessary, to the unit manager - Let's see, in what country did they say "Kill the messenger"?
#11. On second thought, do not speak to anyone about anything - If you give your fellow workers advice or directions, you're being mean or bossy. If you look the other way when they, for example, leave their labor patient to go shopping, you're ineffective. If you work faster to help everyone when it's busy, you lose your cool under pressure. If you disagree with someone, you have a personality problem. If you write someone up, you're picking on her. If you meet with the unit manager to discuss your shift, you're brown-nosing. If you don't meet with the unit manager, you're not sticking up for your shift. If everyone loves you, you're too soft. And remember, at the end of the day, it's all your fault.

Manifesto

I don't believe in junk mail
low fat
or talk radio.
I don't believe in democracy.
I don't believe in grudges
but I applaud burning bridges.
I don't believe in busing
or forced integration
but I believe in racial harmony.
I don't believe in affirmative action,
an insult to people of color,
and I think the best way to get a job
is through perseverence and education.
I don't believe in networking
bureaucracy
catholicism
jurisdiction
mass production
stipulations
institutions
corporations
sly and covert operations.
I don't believe in the psychic hot line.
I don't believe in the welfare system.
I don't believe in trial by jury.
In these days of exploding populations,
I don't believe it's anyone's right to have as many children as they can bear.
I don't believe in anti-choice.
I don't believe in public schools.
I don't believe in smoke-free anything.
I don't believe country music
should have been allowed to escape from Nashville.
I don't believe in personal violence
but I believe in violent change and violent art.
I don't believe in television or recreational vehicles
or Oprah Winfrey and I believe
that both military intelligence and rap music
are contradictions in terms.
I don't believe in drugs but I do believe in
drug addicts.
I don't believe in marriage and have my doubts about monogamy.
I don't believe in lying, I don't believe in blaming your childhood,
I don't believe in saying "I can't" because I've found that
I can.
I don't believe in Florida or littering,
although littering in Florida isn't quite so bad.
I don't believe we were all created equal
but that doesn't stop me from wishing we were.
I don't believe in Black rage, White supremacy,
or Indian casinos.
I believe in William Burroughs, Hunter Thompson, Allen Ginsberg
and life imitating art.
I believe in rocking the boat
and upsetting the apple cart.
I believe in truth, kindness, books, and
solitude.
I believe in freedom of the press, freedom of speech
and freedom of movement.
I believe our only salvation lies in rock and roll
and a complete change in the way
we view the world.
I believe
in going home.

Guilty Thoughts

I was raised Catholic and I learned early on that guilt is not such a bad thing. Guilt is good. Guilt is natural. Guilt builds character. This view of guilt was reinforced when I became a wife and mother. It is a proven fact that all mothers feel guilty about a huge variety of things. In fact, to encounter the sources of most of my guilty feelings, I don't even have to leave the house. I feel guilty about spending time at work and not with my family, I feel guilty about spending time with my family and taking a day off from work, I feel guilty about housework, about dialing 411 and not looking up the number, about sleeping, not sleeping, throwing that water bottle into the trash instead of recycling, about calling a certain pizza chain known to contribute to the anti-choice movement instead of cooking a healthy, politically correct pizza at home. On a good day, I can get a lot of character built before I even have my second cup of coffee. I feel guilty about having that second cup of coffee.
Now, I don't think I've cornered the market on guilt and its accompanying angst by any means. We have Woody Allen for that. However, I've learned that the joy of motherhood is usually and rather quickly tempered by a load of guilt. Sometimes the guilt even arrives before the baby, as in "Could that second strawberry margarita I drank the night he was conceived cause him to crave alcohol later in life"? But most often, guilt arrives and grows along with one's child.
Furthermore, mother-guilt can cover a multitude of sins. If we slap junior's hands for playing with the stove, are we creating a future axe murderer? Are we thwarting the creative desires of a sensitive child who was destined to become a master chef? Yes, rationally we know that we're probably only saving little fingers from being burnt. But one always wonders - did Jeffrey Dahmer's mother deny him access to the kitchen?
And what about buying things for our children? We want our children to grow up to be content individuals. We want them to understand that richness is not what we have but what we are. However, if everyone else in the third grade has a Hannah Montana backpack and your daughter is telling you that her entire future happiness depends upon the purchase of this item, how many of you could say no?
Another interesting characteristic of mother-guilt is its longevity. My son, Scott, is 35 years old. I remember as if it were yesterday, a winter morning when he was two. I was getting ready for work. He was whining, and had been all morning.Toddling to the foot of the stairs, he began to cry and I snapped "Oh, be quiet Scott!" A few minutes later, I picked him up and discovered he had a fever and a slight cough. By the next day, he was in the hospital with croup. The memory of that little red bunny-suited figure at the bottom of the stairs is burned into my psyche. My son swears he doesn't remember it, but I do. Oh, I do.
I'm not alone in this. Most mothers seem to have these moments, even my own mother. My brother Peter was on the Deans List in college, was president of a company, was, and is, the type of son a mother can be proud of, the type of son that should cause a mother to pat herself on the back and say "Well, I did a good job with this one." Our mother looked at it a little differently though. Like a lot of kids, Peter went through a period in the eighth grade of talking back to his teachers, throwing spitballs and generally being an adolescent boy. After receiving another phone call from his teacher, our mother looked at him and declaimed, "Peter, you are the plague of my life!" Our mother could never tell this story without getting tears in her eyes. Peter insists he doesn't remember it, but that didn't matter to our mother. She felt that her son became a successful, happy adult in spite of that flaw in her mothering.
So, it seems, we'll always be carrying that emotional baggage. But I submit to you, that this maybe makes us better parents, and if not, at least we can experience the pleasure of passing guilt on to our children. A mother's legacy, if you will.

I Saw A Deer

I saw a deer in the yard today
at dawn
She took my breath away
so beautiful,
sniffing at some green mystery
at the edge of the lawn, she looked up.
Our eyes met
for a brief interlude
woman to woman
large brown to large blue.
But the gap between us widened
and she slipped silently
like love lost
into the wood.

Hell No, I Won't Go

Growing old hit me like a ton of vanishing cream one day when I was 50 years, 8 months and 2 days old. It was then that I discovered that I was 50 and everyone else was 19. I knew right away I didn't like it.
Yes, society, against my will and certainly against my better judgement, had suddenly solidified into two distinct segments: people my age (old people) and 19 year olds.
Now, I've read plenty about growing old gracefully; about the depth and wisdom of the older woman; about the "sexy sixties".I listened to Gloria when she told us that a woman is in the prime of her life at age 50. I've witnessed O Magazine's "celebration" of the mature* woman. AARP Magazine tells me that 60 is the age to be.*
Well excuse me O and I beg your pardon Mz Steinam, but what's so wonderful about going to bed in the afternoon when the reason you're meeting there is to nap? What's so thrilling about being called "maam"? What's to celebrate about being complimented for your figure when you can sense the unspoken "for your age"? What, I ask you, is so good about all this acquired wisdom when it includes intimate knowledge of cellulite, wrinkle cream, hot flashes, the ingredients in Metamucil and the phone number of your best friend's plastic surgeon?
Granted, there are parts of my teens and twenties that don't bear repeating - or even close examination. I really don't want to relive all that teenaged angst combined with worries about the opposite sex and searches for who I was and what I wanted to be.** There are a few relationships that, in retrospect, I wish I had skipped (Oh, do I ever wish I had skipped them.), and a few drugs that I wish I hadn't done. Rationally, I know that youth was not the bed of roses I now remember. But I still do not want to grow any older.
Maybe I'm depressing and maybe I'm bitter. Maybe I'm not a good sport. So be it. But while the readers of these magazines that write glowingly about "The Mature Woman" are smiling and celebrating their way into old age, I will be dragging my feet. In fact, I'll be kicking and screaming all the way.

*I hate this term. Let's face it - we're not growing mature. I, for example am probably more childish now than at any other point in my life. I'm growing old, not mature, and really, I don't want either one of these plants in my garden.
**What I wanted to be was a hobo, a job I still believe I'm uniquely suited for.

quote of the week

It's an old one, but I still like it.
"Living well is the best revenge."

Highway 95 Revisited

Recently, my husband and I took a car trip from Connecticut to Florida. He was the driver and I was the navigator - a job that gave me plenty of time to reflect upon the vagaries of travel with one's spouse and upon the nature of travel in general. Furthermore, I have discovered several basic tenets that may help some other hapless navigator. Read and learn:
1.) Now, I have always considered the belief that men don't ask for directions to be nothing more than a humor writer's device at best, or at worst, an unfair generalization. However, I have learned that, not only do men not ask for directions, they also do not take directions - even those directions offered freely, willingly, lovingly, and with the best intentions from his wife/navigator.
2.) Two people, having partaken of sustenance at the same time, traveling at the same rate of speed, in the same vehicle, will never, I repeat, never need to use the bathroom at the same rest stop. It must be a sex thang.
3.) The concept of comfortable bucket seats takes on a whole new meaning after the first 200 miles. And yes, it is possible for one buttock to fall asleep.
4.) All interstate highways have black holes that suck up belongings that the travelers are sure they packed. They never suck up car trash or the soda spilled on the back seat.
5.) If your spouse has been driving for eight hours straight through heavy traffic and is hunched over the steering wheel with that vein throbbing in his temple and while he is doing this, he tells you that after careful consideration, he's decided that George Bush is really a sane and rational human being who has been harshly misjudged by the American public, it's OK to say you couldn't agree with him more.
6.) The importance of trivial details such as who forgot to pack the toothpaste increases proportionately in relation to the length of the trip.
7.) If, when driving on the interstate (a place fraught with curious tourists and children), you're struck with the sudden urge to get romantic, it's probably better to use the motel and not the transportation vehicle. Just take my word for it.
8.) Even scenic little hamlets lose their charm when they have no gas stations open.
9.) Women, when checking into a motel, first inspect the cleanliness of the bathroom, the amenities and the decor. My husband, immediately upon entering said room, hones in on the clicker and checks out what's on TV. He'll sleep on the floor as long as the motel has cable.*
10.) If you are traveling with a trailer and your husband thinks he can back it up around that little round driveway in front of the motel, quickly disabuse him of this notion.
11.) If, when staying at a motel, you happen to see your next-door neighbors carrying out a television set and it's two in the morning, and they're loading it into the trunk of their car, odds are it's not theirs. However, considering the proliferation of guns and bad temper in the U.S. these days, it most likely would not be a good idea to run out there and say, "Don't take that TV. Stealing is wrong!" No, no my dear. Shooting a nosy hotel neighbor is wrong. Stealing, in this case, is merely none of our business.
12.) Yes, the hotel management really does expect two people to dry themselves after a shower with those two little white dishtowels.
13.) In my opinion, "Continental Breakfast" is stretching the definition of breakfast a little too far. I'm just saying.
14.) Road signs are often deceptive. For example, the sign that portrays what I always thought meant "curves ahead", according to my husband, means "go faster". Ditto the signs for "yield", "merge", and "deer crossing".
15.) "Scenic Routes" often have more route than scenic.
16.) Finally, as you drive along America's highways battling traffic, swearing at other, less skillful drivers, and searching, with legs crossed, for a clean restroom, remember - this is your vacation - relax, have fun, and reconsider the benefits of air travel.

*This makes one wonder - are men genetically predisposed to have the ability to not only find, but keep control of the clicker? A sort of electrical survival of the fittest akin to dogs being able to sniff out other dog's shit to roll in? I predict that this clicker ability will become more dominant and more finely honed with each generation.

The World is Full of Bad, Bad Men

Women all over the world waste thousands upon thousands of hours with the wrong men - useless men, irritating men, humorless men - bad, bad men. However, this can change. After painstakingly careful and extensive research, my esteemed colleague and I have devised a method of distinguishing the really bad, bad men from the merely mediocre ones. This behavioral litmus test is quite simple and easy to follow. All one has to do is observe the man in question on an evening when he indulges to the point where he is falling down drunk. Almost any man can be categorized by the way he behaves after falling down. Read and learn:
The Teetotaler - Too bad, this test is only for the drinking man. In order to categorize the teetotaler, you will have to use the out-dated, inherently dangerous method of actually getting to know him.
Every Mother's Son - When this man gets drunk enough to fall down, he often loses a contact lens, or breaks his glasses, and frequently also breaks his wine glass or your wine glass. He will, however, offer to pay for the glasswear just as soon as he can see again.
The Bad Bumbler - When he falls down, he also breaks the wine glasses but does not offer to pay for them.
The Slob - When this charmer gets drunk and falls down, which occurs rather often, he also throws up.
The Bad Slob - When he falls down, he throws up on your shoe.
The Homewrecker - When this man gets drunk and falls down, he breaks his leg or your leg or both legs and your mothers crystal and the dozen Dresden china plates in the next room.
The Suds Dud - This man only drinks beer because he swears it doesn't get him drunk. When he falls down, he doesn't get up. He may snore.
Mr Paranoid - After falling down, he accuses you of pushing him.
The Bad Man - When he gets wasted and falls down, he vehemently denies that he has fallen and insists that he's just playing with the dog. Do not remind him that he does not have a dog, and do not try to get him to admit that he's fallen down as he will get angry and sulk.
The Bad Bad Man - Bad bad men don't fall down.

Hospital survival skills

It's not easy being in the hospital. I'm a nurse, and at various times, I've found it sad, frustrating, comical, boring and even exciting, but never easy. The moment one walks through those doors, one gets that, well, "hospital feeling". And that's just if you're visiting. Now if you're entering by wheelchair or stretcher, it's another story entirely. As a veteran of hospitals, I'm here to give you a few tips on surviving the experience.
1) Be a male. Actually, a young, heterosexual male is best. I once spent 3 weeks in the hospital without discovering that they had juice on the floor. My male friend was there for 2 days and by the end of his first afternoon, he had, at his bedside, 6 juices, 2 ginger ales, 2 puddings, a jello, a newspaper and 2 young nurses.
2) Do not expose yourself. There's nothing we nurses haven't seen before and you don't want to scare the pink ladies. Or make them point and laugh.
3) Do not use the call bell to ask the nurse to "Make me comfortable." She doesn't know what will make you comfortable (at least not anything legal), and if she did, she'd be a psychic, not a nurse.
4) If you've called and called again, and no one has answered your call bell, then, and only then, for pure attention-getting value, it is acceptable to walk out to the nurses station naked (or half-naked if it's cold or you're, um... fat).
5) Do not pull a tube out. Nothing makes a nurse testier than pulled-out tubes. However, if you have a nurse who is especially unpleasant and you don't mind getting the tube put back in, go ahead - pull out the fucking tube.
6) Do not tell the staff that you don't need a bath. They'll send in Heavy Hilda or Hefty Hank, and you'll get a bed bath you'll never forget.
7) Do not say "My mother's a nurse" or "My father's a lawyer". Many medical professionals feel very uncomfortable when hearing either of these two phrases, and although they may shower you with attention, they may also avoid your room like the plague.
8) If you need to throw up, aim for the small, kidney-shaped thing, or at least the round, wastebasket-shaped thing and not the large, floor-shaped thing.
9) Do not smoke pot in your room and try to say it's incense. Remember, your nurse went to school on a college campus and probably has a pretty intimate knowledge of what it smells like.
10) Do use "Nurse Bait". A jar of candy, a box of chocolates, pizza, or anything else classified as food will almost instantly create a flow of nurses into your room. Hungry, grateful nurses.
11) If a nurse tells you that she just does not understand why people keep critisizing that nice President Bush, and that really, those kind of people should be immediately deported, and while she's saying this, she's holding a rectal thermometer or a huge syringe, it's OK to say you couldn't agree with her more.
12) Get well.

Quote of the week

"To err is human. To really foul things up requires a computer."

Repenting At Leisure: Excuses, Excuses

When caught doing what you shouldn't be doing, being where you shouldn't be or doing it with someone you shouldn't be doing it with, there's nothing like a good, big excuse. Making excuses is an art and as such, should be cultivated.If a person practices, and excels at making excuses, he or she may possibly qualify for a position in government - maybe even president. In that spirit, I hereby present some tried and true excuses.
The All-purpose Excuse
"You didn't tell me not to."
This excuse, as one can imagine, can cover a multitude of sins. For example: Husband - "Why, when we were at the circus, did you have sex with my best friend and two acrobats while you sent me for peanuts?" Wife - "you didn't tell me not to." You see, it's simple, concise and easy to remember.
The Bob P. Excuse
"I'm sorry, but I was doing drugs and I just didn't care about you."
The excuse-maker may then sit back and wait to be praised for his honesty. One may have to wait for quite some time. This excuse has a drawback in that one must actually a drug user in order to be believable. However, if you are a drug user, this can work.
The Late Excuse
"There were small bats hanging over the street signs and I couldn't find your house."
This excuse was first used by my sister Pam and is notable, not for its effectiveness, but for its inventiveness and visual imagery. She is a true artist.
The I Did Something Awful and Didn't Tell You About It Excuse
"I wanted to spare you."
This has the advantage of getting you out of a tight spot and making you look like a caring person. For example: Wife - "What do you mean blew all our rent money at the track last week? Why didn't you tell me?" Husband - "I wanted to spare you." What a thoughtful man!
The Under The Influence Excuse
Either, "I was just playing with the dog" or "I'm looking for my contact lens" (This is a man's excuse and is included here merely to let them know we can see right through them).
Make sure a dog or contact lens is actually present or this may not work. Friend - "Boy, did you ever have too much to drink. You can't even stand up!" You - "I'm just playing with the dog." Try not to pass out after saying this. It spoils the effect.
The It's your fault excuse
The best offense is a good defense. Said with force and conviction, "You drove me to it" can stop a person in their tracks.
The Dumping Excuse
Let's face it. Everyone knows when they're getting the brush-off and "I have to wash my hair" or "I'm busy" just don't cut it. They always know, and since they always know and you're not going to get away with anything anyway, you may as well make it interesting. To wit: He - "How about going out Friday night?" She - "Oh, didn't I tell you I race Huskies for a living? I have to stay home and wax my sled blades. Otherwise, I'd love to go. ... Next Friday? No, I won't be back until after the Iditarod." Or, one could say, "Friday? I feed the homeless on Friday. You're homeless? Well, go to the corner of 5th and 87th and wait for me."
Use your imagination. This excuse has no limits.
The Speeding Ticket Excuse
"Sorry officer, but I'm late for my monthly support group for people with infectious leprosy."
This doesn't always work, but it's better than "My wife's having a baby" or "Up yours, officer."
The Non-payment of Bills Excuse
"What do you mean I still owe (fill in amount)? I came in two days ago and gave my cash to that nice young man/woman. His/her name was (make up a common name). I hope you don't have a thief in your office."
This should buy you at least a few more days.
The Rapid Acting Generic Excuse
"He did it!" or "She said it!"
It's a known fact that if all else fails, shift the blame and do it quickly. Examp;e: Boss - "I heard that you called me an unfair, scumsucking battle ax with big feet!" You - (pointing wildly), "She said it!" Try to point at someone who already doesn't like you, or failing that, someone who is smaller than you.
The I Can't Come to Work excuse
Diarrhea.
There are many good reasons for using this, the main one being that your boss won't ask you to prove it.
The Why I Didn't Attend Your Wedding/Party Excuse
"I was on my way when I was kidnapped by terrorists and I only just now escaped!"
Ironclad! Also, this is more timely than the old kidnapped-by-a-band-of-gypsies excuse. If you doubt the veracity of this last statement, just ask yourself, "How many gypsies have I seen lately? How many terrorists?" It's obvious - go with the terrorists.
The Serial Killer Excuse
It is fashionable these days to blame bad behavior, including rapes and multiple murders, on childhood trauma. So if you have some bad behavior of your own, try "It wasn't my fault. My mother toilet trained me with one of those musical potty chairs and ever since, every time I hear "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", I get an overwhelming compulsion to find (Pick one) A) a man B) a woman C) a dog, and A) tweak his nose B) get down on all fours and bark or C) eat his liver with fava beans.
Well, these are just a few of your most basic excuses. Really, the possibilities are endless, but with these standard excuses, you should be able to get through most of life's difficult situations. And if these excuses don't work, don't call me. I've been kidnapped by a band of gypsies and they told me not to answer my phone.