I’ll have some judgement with that sandwich, please.

Yum…

The hubster and I stopped off at Subway on the way home from our Weight Watcher’s meeting last night and, as usual, we ordered our six inch, whole wheat, chicken/turkey breast sandwiches…without the cheese.

The woman serving us did not approve.  Clearly.  She ignored our first request to leave it off, instead focused on cutting and spreading the bread before her.  Then she looked up brightly and asked, “What kind of cheese would you like?”

“No cheese!” we answered in chorus.

She stared at us for a moment, the answer still failing to register.

“You don’t want any cheese?”  Her tone was dubious, as if she hadn’t heard us correctly.

“No.  No cheese,” we reassured her, smiling.

She just stood there staring for another second as the full weight of realization pierced some thick, cheese-adoring cloud in her mind and then, before our wondering eyes, she took a deep breath…eyes widening and rolling back, lips curling a little in contempt…before finally shrugging off the utter stupidity of such a request.  She slid our sandwiches past the cheese tubs in disgust, leaving them to wait their turn in the vegetable queue, then turned to wait on the people behind us without another word.

Ah…the power of cheese.  I’m pretty sure this woman loves it.  A lot.  I’m equally sure that she had no idea what her body language was saying.  Frankly, it was like watching a small child who hasn’t yet learned the intricacies of polite diplomacy; her response was spontaneous, unconscious, full bodied, and 100% honest.

My apologies, ma’am.  Truly, we meant no offense.  We really love cheese, too, it’s just that we’re tired of being fat.

copyright Dia Osborn 2012

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A New Standard of Absurd

I sent leftover pizza to work with the hubster today, forgetting that he has a company lunch to attend.  He just called and when I mentioned it, he laughed and said, Oh don’t worry about it.  The pizza will keep.  It’ll last for months.  Years.  It has a shelf life of a thousand years…no…ten thousand years.  The stuff is like radioactive waste. And then we laughed because the thought was just so absurd.

The hubster’s sense of humor is always escalating like that.   His jokes climb stairs, scale cliffs, then sprout wings and fly.  He loves stretching farther and higher for the most ridiculous comparison he can find and, I admit, the more ludicrous it gets the harder I laugh.

Then, out of the blue, I remembered all the photographs I’ve seen on the internet recording the daily decomposition (or lack thereof) of a McDonald’s hamburger.

And all of a sudden I wondered:  Will McDonald’s hamburgers eventually take over from radioactive waste as the new comic standard against which all decomp-resistant materials can be measured?  Instead of It has the shelf life of radioactive waste will we say: It has the shelf life of a McDonald’s hamburger?

(Evidently fifteen years and counting on this one.)

copyright Dia Osborn 2012

Break for Laughter: Is There Sex After Death?

image from Wikipedia

And now a small respite from advance directives…which I need.  Here’s a cute joke a friend sent me:

A couple made a deal that whoever died first would come back and inform the other if there is sex after death. 

After a long life together, the husband was the first to die.  True to his word, he made the first contact:

“Marion?  Marion?”

“Is that you, Bob?”

“Yes!  I’ve come back like we agreed.”

“That’s wonderful!  What’s it like?”

“Well, I get up in the morning, have sex, then breakfast and I’m off to the golf course.  While there I have sex again, bathe in the warm sun for a while, then have sex a couple more times.

“After that I have lunch (you’d be proud honey…lots of greens) followed by another romp around the golf course.  Then it’s pretty much sex again for the rest of the afternoon.  I have a little supper followed by more of the golf course.

“Then it’s more sex until late into the night after which I catch some much needed sleep before starting all over again the next day.”

“Oh, Bob…are you in Heaven?”

“No sweetheart.  I’m a rabbit in Saskatchewan.”

I love the play on the wide differences in afterlife beliefs here. There have been quite a few possibilities posited over the ages of course; Hades, ancestral worship, heaven/hell, reincarnation…and nothing at all… to name a tiny handful.

The belief that one can recycle back into other life forms as this joke suggests falls under the general heading of transmigration of the soul, or metempsychosis.  Kind of an interesting idea actually.  One can only imagine that a widespread belief in this idea might inspire a more enlightened stewardship of our natural world.  Self interest is always such a strong motivator.

Enough.  The next post will be about the blizzard of advance directives forms available out there, as promised.

copyright Dia Osborn 2011