YOU KNOW YOU ARE A TRUE Michigander WHEN:

1. "Vacation" means going up north past US75 for the weekend.

2. You measure distance in hours.

3. You know several people who have hit a deer more than once.

4. You often switch from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day and back again.

5. You can drive 65 mph through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard, without flinching.

6. You see people wearing camouflage at social events (including weddings).

7. You install security lights on your house and garage and leave both unlocked.

8. You carry jumper cables in your car and your girlfriend knows how to use them.

9. You design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit.

10. Driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow.

11. You know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter and road construction.

12. You can identify a southern or eastern accent.

13. Your idea of creative landscaping is a statue of a deer next to your blue spruce.

14. (deleted)

15. Down South to you means Indiana

16. A brat is something you eat.

17. Your neighbor throws a party to celebrate his new pole shed.

18. You go out to have fried fish every Friday.

19. Your 4th of July picnic was moved indoors due to frost.

20. You have more miles on your snow blower than your car.

21. You find 0 degrees "a little chilly."

22. You actually understand these jokes!

Jeff Foxworthy on Michigan

If you consider it a sport to gather your food by drilling through 18 inches of ice and sitting there all day hoping that the food will swim by, you might live in Michigan

If you're proud that your region makes the national news 96 nights each year because Pelston is the coldest spot in the nation, you might live in Michigan

If your local Dairy Queen is closed from November through March, you might live in Michigan

If you instinctively walk like a penguin for five months out of the year, you might live in Michigan.

If someone in a store offers you assistance, and they don't work there, you might live in Michigan

If your dad's suntan stops at a line curving around the middle of his forehead, you might live in Michigan

If you have worn shorts and a parka at the same time, you might live in Michigan

If your town has an equal number of bars and churches, you might live in Michigan

If you have had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a wrong number, you might live in Michigan

Don't mean to be rude? (by Dave Barry)

OK, here are the rules:

1. If there's a line, you get at the end of the line, and you wait your turn.

2. You own ONE place in the line. You do NOT have the right to invite friends to join you in the line. This is rude to the people behind you, who got there before your friends, and will now have to wait longer. If you want to be with your friends, you can join them at the back of the line. And, no, it's not enough to ask the person immediately behind you if it's OK for your friends to butt in. This person does not speak for the entire line. Also this person pretty much has to say yes, but only because he or she, being less rude than you, wants to avoid confrontation.

EXCEPTION: You may invite an immediate family member such as your spouse or child to join you in the line. There are no other exceptions.

EXCEPTION: Halle Berry.

3. If you're one of those people who go directly to the front of the line and either pretend you don't see the line, or act as though you somehow KNOW that your situation is more urgent than that of anybody else waiting, and somebody in line objects, and you make some vague apology but remain at the front of the line, you will rot in hell. Also the cashier will hate you, although generally he or she will say nothing, as cashiers don't get paid enough to argue with jerks.

4. If you're in a supermarket checkout line, and you realize that you forgot an item, you're allowed to go get it, provided that (1) you apologize to the people behind you, (2) you know exactly where the item is, and (3) you hurry. If you forgot TWO items, take your cart out of line. You are NOT allowed to leave your cart blocking the line while you wander the aisles trying to recall the ingredients for Beef Tongue Flambeau.

NOTE: Before you serve beef tongue to innocent people, you should think about the kinds of things that cows lick.

5. If you're in the express lane, and the sign says 10 ITEMS OR LESS, then you should have no more than . . . OK, we'll allow 12 items. We're not Nazis here.

EXCEPTION: Halle Berry can have as many items as she wants.

6. At a movie theater, you may save seats for a few people if the theater is not crowded. If the theater is crowded, you may save seats only if the people you're saving them for are on the premises, defined as ''in the building or the parking lot.'' If the previews of coming attractions have started, and the theater is filling up, and you're still defending seats for theoretical people who have not yet arrived, and an actual, physical person attempts to sit down, and you hiss ''That's saved,'' and the person ''accidentally'' trips and spills that stanky movie-theater nacho cheese all over your hair, and you press assault charges, and we get selected to serve on the jury, we're voting for acquittal.

7. Do not talk during the movie unless you have something important to say.

(Example: ''My water just broke.'') You may talk quietly during the previews of coming attractions.

EXCEPTION: Halle Berry.

8. At class plays, music recitals, graduations, etc., you may save a few seats for your IMMEDIATE FAMILY, and then only for a reasonable time. You may not arrive an hour early and squat at the end of a row, or even two rows, and save large blocs of seats for relatives so distant that some of them are not even vertebrates.

NOTE: This rule applies even if you have turned the seating area into an indoor yard sale by marking each ''saved'' seat with a personal item such as a sweater, purse, sock, brassiere, etc.

EXCEPTION: If we see a seat marked by dentures, we're sitting somewhere else.

9. If you're talking on your cell phone in public, and people keep glancing at you, it's not because they're impressed by the fact that you are a busy, productive person. It's because YOU'RE TALKING TOO LOUD.

10. (This rule was suggested by our Research Department, Judi Smith, who one day will open fire with a machine gun in a public restroom:) If you're a woman using a toilet, and, because you are dainty and fastidious, you elect not to sit on the seat, but instead hover over it like a UFO from the Planet Weewee, and as a result you spatter the seat, do NOT just leave your mess, as if no human will ever use this toilet again. CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF.

EXCEPTION: Sorry, Halle. Judi says you, too.

The Old Man and President Clinton

An old man approached the White House from the park across Pennsylvania Avenue where he'd been sitting on a park bench.

He spoke to the US Marine standing guard and said, "I'd like to go in and meet with President Clinton."

The Marine looked at the man and said, "Sir, Mr. Clinton is no longer president and no longer resides here."

The old man said, "Okay" and walked away. The following day, the same man approached the White House and said to the same Marine, "I would like to go in and meet with President Clinton."

The Marine again told the man, "Sir, Mr. Clinton is no longer president and no longer resides here." The man thanked him and again, just walked away.

The third day, the same man approached the White House and spoke to the very same US Marine, saying "I would like to go in and meet with President Clinton."

The Marine, understandably agitated at this point, looked at the man and said, "Sir, this is the third day in a row you've been here asking to speak to President Clinton. I've told you already that Clinton is no longer president and no longer resides here. Don't you understand?"

The old man looked at the Marine and said, "I understand young man. I just love hearing It."

THE MARINE SNAPPED TO ATTENTION, SALUTED AND SAID, "SEE YOU AGAIN TOMORROW, SIR!"

Daddy Daycare

I respect all mothers in the world.

Just one day with my three boys made me feel like I was a Boy Scout leader.

I told myself I would take the kids off my wife's hands for a day just to let her get a break; what I didn't realize was it would almost break me.

I handle computers and people all day long; this would be a breeze for me.

What I didn't understand was, there is a difference in handling "big people" and "little people" all day.

Big people may roll their eyes and mumble at their desk; little people will fall flat on the floor and start kicking and screaming to the top of their lungs, and in public at that.

Big people leave their desks junky; little people have you wondering if there is a desk in the room.

Big people will leave crumbs from eating at their desk; little people leave apple sauce on the desk and leave whole chips and cookies on it.

Anyway, I took my kids to the mall and decided to wear them out. I just figured, I get tired pretty quick if I go with my wife to the mall while she is shopping, maybe the same phenomena will happen to the boys. After all they're just a smaller version of a man, right?

Wrong!

In the mall they are a bigger version of a man, compressed down in such a manner that all of the extra size gets converted into energy. I think I have just finally understood E=mc2.

It should have dawned on me that it wasn't a good idea when I entered the mall with them and the first store employee I saw, who was a mother herself, asked where their mother was.

I told her, "At home, they have their father here, that's all that matters." All she said as she saw the boys revving their engines was, "Let me know how you do it on the way out because I can't do it."

Just to let you know, the boys are ages 5, 3, and 2.

As I turned around to get going in the mall, with the pride of a father handling things, I saw the 3 and 2-year-old, but didn't see the 5-year-old. I asked them where their brother was and they shrugged their shoulders as to say, "You're the daddy, am I my brother's keeper?" After frantically searching for him, I finally found him playing hide and go seek under a mannequin.

The rest of the time in the mall was as your imagination could see it. I wouldn't have time to chronicle the whole experience unless I was writing a complete book. On the way out I saw the same lady and she asked how I did it again; my answer was, "All I can tell you is I won't be doing it again."

On the way home, just glad to have them fastened in the seatbelts, the five-year-old says, "Dad I have to use the bathroom." I told him we would be home in about five minutes and kept driving.

At the next light he informed me, "Dad I just want to let you know, my pee pee is coming out." Needless to say I pulled over in the middle of road into a car wash and not seeing a bathroom in pee peeing distance, I had to let him use the car wash drains. I figured, if he doesn't go right now it will be in the car, and I will have to wash it down the drain anyway.

Even though it may have looked like a good idea in a movie, you don't have to worry about this dad opening up a daycare any time soon.

Generation Gap

My granddaughter came to spend a few weeks with me, and I decided to teach her to sew.

After I had gone through a lengthy explanation of how to thread the machine, she stepped back, put her hands on her hips, and said in disbelief...,

"You mean you can do all that, but you can't operate my Game Boy?"

My Dog has to Take These Pills

My dog has to take these pills. She has something wrong with her gastrointestinal tract.

The gastrointestinal tract of a dog represents all that I find objectionable about the species. From the teeth that chew the toes out of my shoes, the wet tongue that awakens me at 6:00 AM on a Saturday, the throat which produces frantic barking when the neighbors commit the crime of walking in their own driveway, the stomach which made room for an entire leg of lamb on Easter when I left the room for half an hour, to the production center which plops dog stools all over the back yard---I don't want her gastrointestinal tract cured, I want it REMOVED.

Don't get me wrong, I am genuinely fond of my dog, the only creature in the house who treats me with something other than contempt.

Me: "No one is going anywhere until the garage is cleaned up!" Children: "We hate you!" Dog: Wag wag wag.

The dog's current affliction made itself known to me one night with the sound of a balloon being released. I opened my eyes, half expecting to see my dog flying around the room in circles until totally deflated. Instead, I was treated to the olfactory equivalent of a hydrogen bomb--it was as if our bedroom had become the staging area for Saddam Hussein's biological warfare program.

"Oh my goodness! Get out! Get out!" I shouted. "You always blame the dog," my wife mumbled.

I assumed that what the kids soon came to refer to as the dog's "butt blasters" would pass once whatever she had eaten, roadkill or my new suit or the couch in the basement, had found its way down the alimentary canal and out onto my lawn. When, after a few days, this proved not to be the case, I took the dog to the vet and was given some pills to administer twice a day.

The vet's instructions made the process of giving medicine to a dog sound pretty easy: open her mouth, pitch the tablet onto the back of her tongue, and stroke her throat until she swallows.

The reality is that administering a pill to a dog is like trying to give a root canal to a great white shark. The process starts with opening the medicine bottle, which alerts the dog that the games are about to begin. She sits upright, ears cocked, lips slightly drawn back to remind me that she has relatives in Africa who are pulling down water buffalo. I approach my pet with a piece of limp bologna in my hand to disguise the existence of the capsule of anti-butt blaster medication, making friendly "I'm not going to give you a pill" sounds.

She doesn't buy it. Her ears drop back flat against her skull and she slinks to the ground, eyes cold as they dart from me to couch, gauging the gap even as I maneuver to close it. "Want some bologna?" I suggest.

At the sound of my voice she explodes into action, streaking across the floor. The kids lunge from the kitchen, cutting off that avenue. She brakes and swerves and I dive, rolling on the carpet. I grab fruitlessly at the air. With a click of teeth, the bologna vanishes, the pill bouncing away. A lamp crashes over as I come to a stop.

The few times I have managed to grip her by the jaws and force the medicine down her throat, it has come firing back out as if shot from a pellet gun. Worse, the exertion triggers the very symptom the pills are supposed to address, so that I am caught trying to run around the room without BREATHING. The children abandon me at this point, leaving me alone with the butt blaster. When I finally am forced to inhale, my eyes tear so badly I can no longer see my adversary.

Frankly, I don't think the dog WANTS to get better. This is the same animal who delights in rolling in dead squirrel parts, so that her fur is imbued with a stench is so powerful every canine in the neighborhood howls with envy. Whenever she rattles the room with a butt blaster, her eyes take on a radiant gleam, a "hey, that was my best one yet!" expression which is undiminished by the fact that the rest of her family is gagging and falling to the floor.

My son claims to have an idea which will solve our problem. I'm not sure what he has in mind, but when I told him I was ready to try anything he began assembling a pile of tools which included his slingshot and a fifty foot garden hose. Now he is filling water balloons with beef bullion and talking to himself about the "end of butt blaster as we know it."

The dog, watching from the corner, doesn't look very worried to me.

by W. Bruce Cameron Copyright © 1999

Of Dust Bunnies and Deceit

Even in this age of faster, easier and infinitely more thorough methods of keeping our homes all clean and spiffy, let's face it: most of us dread housework. Despite the fact that I don't have to whack my family's clothes against a slimy rock in a glacial stream, I still don't enjoy doing the laundry, nor do I relish dusting, vacuuming, washing the dishes, mopping the floor or cleaning the toilet. Call me lazy, but doing something unpleasant that must be repeated the next day (and every single day after that) doesn't inspire me to greater heights of hygienic happiness. So, after years of conscientious study, I've come up with some sure-fire avoidance techniques.

It's Saturday morning and from all indications, you should be cleaning your house about now. Let's face it; it could use it. It's had seven days (since the last time you should have cleaned it) to accumulate the assorted grit and grime of kids, husbands, pets, and dust bunnies. It's been trampled in, tromped on and trekked through. Unfortunately, you'd much rather be undergoing a root canal sans anesthesia than tending to the business of putting the house back together. What to do?

First, dress in your grungiest clothes--wrinkled, sweaty, grimy sweatshirts and pants are best. After all, you're pretending to clean the house; no sense faking it in your best clothes. Now do the following. Drag out the vacuum and leave it in the middle of the living room floor. Sprinkle some of that smelly carpet stuff around and give the canister a toss in the general direction of your sweatshirt. It should stick to the front of you like cat hair on Velcro. Grab your dust rag and can of lemon-fresh something-or-other and after squirting some of it into the air, walk through the mist. Place the can and rag on the coffee table and position the bottle of window cleaner atop that three-week accumulation of newspapers.

Plug up one side of your kitchen sink, pour a cupful of pine-scented cleaner into it and if you aren't immediately blinded by the fumes, keep pouring until you are. Put the dishes to soak, grab some paper towels, scrunch them up and toss them on the counter. Put a wet sponge on the stove, position the mop and pail in the middle of the kitchen floor, and pull the garbage bag from the trashcan.

Now on to the bathroom and bedrooms. Place the toilet bowl cleaner and scouring powder on the edge of the sink, stick the toilet brush in the bowl and lay a roll of paper towels nearby. Grab the wet towels and washcloths, then strip the bed and toss them all on the pile of dirty clothes festering in the bedroom.

With a little practice, this can all be accomplished in just under 90 seconds. Practice makes perfect. If you want to become an officially- recognized HCA (house-cleaning avoider), you must hone your craft. Remember that nothing comes easy in this life, not even to those who are dedicated to the notion that avoiding something like the plague is equivalent to having actually done it.

Okay, the stage is set. Now here's the drill. Retire to whatever room of the house in which you prefer to spend your Saturday morning. Place a dirty rag within easy reach. (Warning: This is a prop. This is only a prop. Actually using the rag will invalidate this procedure and render you ineligible for any further training.) In the event your nosy neighbor, gossipy sister-in-law, judgmental mother-in-law or obsessively clean mother drops by (and they will), you'll be prepared. Clad in your scruffiest clothes, smelling like lemon-fresh something-or-other, eyes watering from the pine fumes, dusted in vanilla-scented carpet deodorizer, and with dirty rag in hand, you rush to the door. (Note: Rushing is important. Practice your harried "you caught me right in the middle of things" look.)

They will have come to deliver one of the following messages: "Keep your cat out of my petunias," "Our other sister-in-law's house is even dirtier than yours," "I just stopped by to remind you (again) that you're not good enough for my son," or "I just hope you're not killing my grandchildren with all this dirt." Take heart, though. Sooner or later, they'll have to leave, taking with them the distinct impression that in just an hour or two, your home will be immaculate. Ah, the sweet taste of victory!

But what, you may ask, do you do with the stuff you've dragged out? This is where the second part of your training comes into play. As an officially recognized HCA, you'll be able to encourage (translation: con) your gullible family members into putting it all away for you-- and get the housework done in the process. Listen up.

Your unsuspecting children wander in from playing at June Cleaver's spotless house next door. Feign your harried "where on earth have you been all day/am I the only one who can do any work around here/I'm not your slave" look and either sigh, scowl or cry. But keep in mind that when it comes to Mom, kids hate sighing, scowling and crying. That's their job and they're not happy when someone else does it better than they do. Keep it low-key.

Say something like, "I don't expect you to actually help out, for crying out loud, but the least you can do is put the cleaning stuff away for me. And while you're at it, run that toilet brush around the bowl, swish that rag around the sink, push that vacuum around as long as it's out, and would you mind tossing those clothes into the washer?" Get the idea? Do the same thing next Saturday, alternating "would you mind" duties with those you asked them to do this week.

There. Your secret is safe for another seven days. After all, who's going to tell? Certainly not your recent visitors, nor your bamboozled kids, and the last I knew, dust bunnies weren't squealers. All that's left to do now is shower, get rid of all that pretend dust and grime you've accumulated, sit back, and take it easy until next Saturday--when you can pretend to do it all over again.

If you ask me... you're nobody 'til some dust bunny covers for you.

Differences Between Boys & Girls

You throw a little girl a ball, and it will hit her in the nose. You throw a little boy a ball, and he will try to catch it.

You dress your little girl in her Easter Sunday best, and she'll look just as pretty when you finally make it to church an hour later. You dress a boy in his Easter Sunday best, and he'll somehow find every mud puddle from your home to the church, even if you're driving there.

Boys' rooms are usually messy. Girls' rooms are usually messy, except it's a good smelling mess.

A baby girl will pick up a stick and look in wonderment at what nature has made. A baby boy will pick up a stick and turn it into a tool.

When girls play with Barbie and Ken dolls, they like to dress them up and play house with them. When boys play with Barbie and Ken dolls, they like to tear off their appendages.

Boys couldn't care less if their hair is unruly. If their bangs got cut a quarter-inch too short, girls would rather lock themselves in their room for two weeks than be seen in public.

Baby girls find mommy's makeup and almost instinctively start painting their face. Baby boys find mommy's makeup and almost instinctively start painting the walls.

If a girl accidently burps, she will be embarrassed. If a boy accidently burps, he will follow it with a dozen fake belches.

Boys grow their fingernails long because they're too lazy to cut them. Girls grow their fingernails long - not because they look nice - but because they can dig them into a boy's arm.

Girls are attracted to boys, even at an early age. At an early age, boys are attracted to dirt.

By the age of 6, boys will stop giving their dad kisses. By the age of 6, girls will stop giving their dad kisses unless he bribes them with candy.

Most baby girls talk before boys do. Before boys talk, they learn how to make machine-gun noises.

Girls will cry if someone dies in a movie. Boys will cry if you turn off the VCR after they've watched a "Pokemon" movie three times in a row.

Girls turn into women. Boys turn into bigger boys.

Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder

Hooray! They have finally found a diagnosis for my condition.

I have been diagnosed with A.A.A.D.D. (Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder)!

This is how it goes:

I decide to wash the car; I start toward the garage and notice the mail on the table. Ok, I'm going to wash the car. But first I'm going to go through the mail.

I lay the car keys down on the desk, discard the junk mail and I notice the trash can is full. Ok, I'll just put the bills on my desk and take the trash can out, but since I'm going to be near the mailbox anyway, I'll pay these few bills first.

Now, where is my checkbook? Oops, there's only one check left. My extra checks are in my desk.

Oh, there's the coke I was drinking. I'm going to look for those checks. But first I need to put my coke further away from the computer, oh maybe I'll pop it into the fridge to keep it cold for a while.

I head towards the kitchen and my flowers catch my eye, they need some water. I set the coke on the and uh oh! There are my glasses. I was looking for them all morning! I'd better put them away first. I fill a container with water and head for the flowerpots -- Aaaaaagh!

Someone left the TV remote in the kitchen. We'll never think to look in the kitchen tonight when we want to watch television so I'd better put it back in the family room where it belongs.

I splash some water into the pots and onto the floor, I throw the remote onto a soft cushion on the sofa and I head back down the hall trying to figure out what it was I was going to do?

End of Day: The car isn't washed, the bills are still unpaid, and the coke is sitting on the kitchen counter, the flowers are half watered, the checkbook still only has one check in it and I can't seem to find my car keys!

When I try to figure out how come nothing got done today, I'm baffled because I KNOW I WAS BUSY ALL DAY LONG!!! I realize this is a serious condition and I'll get help, BUT FIRST I think I'll check my e-mail...

8 Simple Rules for Dating my Daughter

When I was in high school I used to be terrified of my girlfriend's father, who I believe suspected me of wanting to place my hands on his daughter's chest. He would open the door and immediately affect a good-naturedly murderous expression, holding out a handshake that, when gripped, felt like it could squeeze carbon into diamonds.

Now, years later, it is my turn to be the dad. Remembering how unfairly persecuted I felt when I would pick up my dates, I do my best to make my daughter's suitors feel even worse. My motto: wilt them in the living room and they'll stay wilted all night.

"So," I'll call out jovially. "I see you have your nose pierced. Is that because you're stupid, or did you merely want to APPEAR stupid?"

As a dad, I have some basic rules, which I have carved into two stone tablets that I have on display in my living room.

RULES:

#1--If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure as heck not picking anything up.

#2--You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

#3--I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to assure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric staple gun and fasten your trousers securely in place around your waist.

#4--I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I WILL kill you.

#5--In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."

#6--I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make YOU cry.

#7--As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process which can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

#8--The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places lacking parents, policemen, or nuns. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her chin. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay.

My daughter claims it embarrasses her to come downstairs and find me attempting to get her date to recite these eight simple rules from memory. I'd be embarrassed too -- there are only eight of them, for crying out loud! And, for the record, I did NOT suggest to one of these cretins that I'd have these rules tattooed on his arm if he couldn't remember them. (I checked into it and the cost is prohibitive.) I merely told him that I thought writing the rules on his arm with a ball point might be inadequate -- ink washes off -- and that my wood burning set was probably a better alternative.

One time, when my wife caught me having one of my daughter's would-be suitors practice pulling into the driveway, get out of the car, and go up to knock on the front door (he had violated rule number one, so I figured he needed to run through the drill a few dozen times) she asked me why I was being so hard on the boy. "Don't you remember being that age?" she challenged.

Of course I remember. Why do you think I came up with the eight simple rules?

by W. Bruce Cameron Copyright © 1998

I will NOT be rejected!

Dear ......,

Thank you for your letter rejecting my application for employment with your firm.

I have received rejections from an unusually large number of exceptionally well qualified organizations. With such a varied and promising spectrum of rejections from which to select, it is impossible for me to consider them all. After careful deliberation, then, and because a number of firms have found me more unsuitable, I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your rejection.

Despite your company’s outstanding qualifications and previous experience in rejecting applicants, I find that your rejection does not meet with my requirements at this time. As a result, I will be starting employment with your firm on the first of the month.

Circumstances change and one can never know when new demands for rejection arise. Accordingly, I will keep your letter on file in case my requirements for rejection change.

Please do not regard this letter as a criticism of your qualifications in attempting to refuse me employment. I wish you the best of luck in rejecting future candidates.

Sincerely,

Housekeeping Tips for Regular People

You're getting company in 30 minutes. Your house is a mess. WHAT WILL YOU DO?

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first session of Housekeeping Tips for Regular People. If you're a Martha Stewart type of housekeeper, this column is NOT for you.

However, for the rest of you, this is your chance to learn 15 Secret Shortcuts to Good Housekeeping that your mother never told you.

SECRET TIP 1: DOOR LOCKS
If a room clearly can't be whipped into shape in 30 days, much less 30 minutes, employ the Locked Door Method of cleaning. Tell anyone who tries to go in the room that you accidentally locked the door and can't find the key.

Of course, the locksmith can't possibly come until tomorrow. CAUTION: It is not advisable to use this tip for the bathroom.

Time: 2 seconds


SECRET TIP 2: DUCT TAPE
No home should be without an ample supply. Not only is it handy for plumbing repairs, but it's a great way to hem drapes, tablecloths, clothes, just about anything. No muss, no fuss.

Time: 2-3 minutes


SECRET TIP 3: OVENS
If you think ovens are just for baking, think again. Ovens represent at least 9 cubic feet of hidden storage space, which means they're a great place to shove dirty dishes, dirty clothes, or just about anything you want to get out of sight when company's coming.

Time: 2 minutes


SECRET TIP 4: CLOTHES DRYERS
Like Secret Tip 3, except bigger. CAUTION: Avoid hiding flammable objects here.

Time: 2.5 minutes


SECRET TIP 5: WASHING MACHINES & FREEZERS
Like Secret Tip 4, except even bigger.

Time: 3 minutes


SECRET TIP 6: DUST RUFFLES
No bed should be without one. Devotees of Martha Stewart believe dust ruffles exist to keep dust out from under a bed or to help coordinate the colorful look of a bedroom. The rest of us know a dust ruffle's highest and best use is to hide whatever you've managed to shove under the bed. (Refer to Secret Tips 3, 4, 5.)

Time: 4 minutes


SECRET TIP 7: DUSTING
The 30-Minutes-To-A-Clean-House method says: Never dust under what you can dust around.

Time: 3 minutes


SECRET TIP 8: DISHES
Don't use them. Use plastic and you won't have to wash 'em.

Time: 1 minute


SECRET TIP 9: CLOTHES WASHING (EEWWW)
This secret tip is brought to you by an inventive teenager. When this teen's mother went on a housekeeping strike for a month, the teen discovered you can extend the life of your underwear by two ... if you turn it wrong side out and, yes, rerun it.

CAUTION: This tip is recommended only for teens and those who don't care if they get in a car wreck.

Time: 3 seconds


SECRET TIP 10: IRONING
If an article of clothing doesn't require a full press and your hair does, a curling iron is the answer. In between curling your hair, use the hot wand to iron minor wrinkles out of your clothes. Yes, it really does work, or so I'm told, by other disciples of the 30-Minutes-To-A-Clean-House philosophy.

Time: 5 minutes (including curling your hair)


SECRET TIP 11: VACUUMING
Stick to the middle of the room, which is the only place people look. Don't bother vacuuming under furniture. It takes way too long and no one looks there anyway.

Time: 5 minutes, entire house; 2 minutes, living room only


SECRET TIP 12: LIGHTING
The key here is low, low, and lower. It's not only romantic, but bad lighting can hide a multitude of dirt.

Time: 10 seconds


SECRET TIP 13: BED MAKING
Get an old-fashioned waterbed. No one can tell if those things are made up or not, saving you, oh, hundreds of seconds over the course of a lifetime.

Time: 0


SECRET TIP 14: SHOWERS, TOILETS, AND SINKS
Forget one and two. Concentrate on number three.

Time: 1 minute


SECRET TIP 15: OTHER
If you already knew at least 10 of these tips, don't even think about inviting a Martha Stewart type to your home.

A Woman's Random Thoughts

Reason to smile: Every 7 minutes of every day, someone in an aerobics class pulls a hamstring.

Women over 50 don't have babies because they would put them down and forget where they left them.

One of life's mysteries is how a 2 pound box of candy can make a woman gain 5 LBS.

My mind not only wanders, it sometimes leaves completely.

The best way to forget all your troubles is to wear tight shoes.

The nice part about living in a small town is that when you don't know what you're doing, someone else does.

The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight because by then, your body and your fat are really good friends.

Just when I was getting used to yesterday, along came today.

Sometimes I think I understand everything, then I regain consciousness.

I gave up jogging for my health when my thighs kept rubbing together and setting my pantyhose on fire.

Amazing! You hang something in your closet for a while and it shrinks two sizes!

Skinny people irritate me! Especially when they say things like, "You know sometimes I just forget to eat." Now I've forgotten my address, my mother's maiden name, and my keys. But I've never forgotten to eat. You have to be a special kind of stupid to forget to eat.

A friend of mine confused her Valium with her birth control pills. She had 14 kids, but she doesn't really care.

They keep telling us to get in touch with our bodies. Mine isn't all that communicative but I heard from it the other day after I said, "Body, how'd you like to go to the six o'clock class in vigorous toning?" Clear as a bell my body said, "Listen witch ... do it and die."

The trouble with some women is that they get all excited about nothing (and then they marry him.)

I read this article that said the typical symptoms of stress are eating too much, impulse buying, and driving too fast. Are they kidding? That is my idea of a perfect day.

I know what Victoria's Secret is. The secret is that nobody older than 30 can fit into their stuff.

If men can run the world, why can't they stop wearing neckties? How intelligent is it to start the day by tying a noose around your neck?

You know you're drinking too much coffee when ...

You ski uphill.

You get a speeding ticket even when you're parked.

You speed walk in your sleep.

You answer the door before people knock.

You haven't blinked since the last lunar eclipse.

You just completed another sweater and you don't know how to knit.

You grind your coffee beans in your mouth.

You sleep with your eyes open.

You have to watch videos in fast-forward.

The only time you're standing still is during an earthquake.

You can take a picture of yourself from ten feet away without using the timer.

You lick your coffeepot clean.

You spend every vacation visiting "Maxwell House."

You're the employee of the month at the local coffeehouse and you don't even work there.

You've worn out your third pair of tennis shoes this week.

Your eyes stay open when you sneeze.

You chew on other people's fingernails.

The nurse needs a scientific calculator to take your pulse.

Your T-shirt says, "Decaffeinated coffee is the devil's coffee."

You can type sixty words per minute with your feet.

You can jump-start your car without cables.

All your kids are named "Joe."

You don't need a hammer to pound in nails.

Your only source of nutrition comes from "Sweet & Low."

You don't sweat, you percolate.

You buy milk by the barrel.

You've worn out the handle on your favorite mug.

You go to AA meetings just for the free coffee.

You walk twenty miles on your treadmill before you realize it's not plugged in.

You forget to unwrap candy bars before eating them.

Charles Manson thinks you need to calm down.

You've built a miniature city out of little plastic stirrers.

People get dizzy just watching you.

When you find a penny, you say, "Find a penny, pick it up. Sixty- three more, I'll have a cup."

You've worn the finish off your coffee table.

The Taster's Choice couple wants to adopt you.

Starbucks owns the mortgage on your house.

Your taste buds are so numb you could drink your lava lamp.

You're so wired, you pick up AM radio.

People can test their batteries in your ears.

Your life's goal is to amount to a hill of beans.

Instant coffee takes too long.

You channel surf faster without a remote.

When someone says. "How are you?", you say, "Good to the last drop."

You want to be cremated just so you can spend the rest of eternity in a coffee can.

You want to come back as a coffee mug in your next life.

Your birthday is a national holiday in Brazil.

You'd be willing to spend time in a Turkish prison.

You go to sleep just so you can wake up and smell the coffee.

You name your cats "Cream" and "Sugar."

Your Thermos is on wheels.

Your lips are permanently stuck in the sipping position.

You have a picture of your coffee mug on your coffee mug.

You can outlast the Energizer bunny.

You short out motion detectors.

You don't even wait for the water to boil any more.

Your nervous twitch registers on the Richter scale.

You think being called a "drip" is a compliment.

You don't tan, you roast.

You don't get mad, you get steamed.

Your three favorite things in life are ... coffee before and coffee after.

Your lover uses soft lights, romantic music, and a glass of iced coffee to get you in the mood.

You can't even remember your second cup.

You help your dog chase its tail.

You soak your dentures in coffee overnight.

Your coffee mug is insured by Lloyds of London.

You introduce your spouse as your coffeemate.

You think CPR stands for "Coffee Provides Resuscitation."

Your first-aid kit contains two pints of coffee with an I.V. hookup.

Why Dogs Shouldn't Use Computers

He's distracted by cats chasing his mouse.

SIT and STAY were hard enough; CUT and PASTE are out of the question.

Saliva-coated floppy disks refuse to work.

Three words: carpal paw syndrome.

Involuntary tail wagging is a dead give-away that he's browsing www.purina.com instead of working.

The fire hydrant icon is simply too frustrating.

He can't help attacking the screen when he hears, "You've Got Mail."

It's too messy to "mark" every Web site he visits.

The FETCH command isn't available on all platforms.

He can't stick his head out of Windows XP.

Trading Places

A man was sick and tired of going to work every day while his wife stayed home. He wanted her to see what he went through so he prayed -- Dear Lord: I go to work every day and put in 8 hours while my wife merely stays at home. I want her to know what I go through, so please allow her body to switch with mine for a day. Amen

God, in his infinite wisdom, granted the man's wish.

The next morning, sure enough, the man awoke as a woman. He arose, cooked breakfast for his mate, awakened the kids, set out their school clothes, fed them breakfast, packed their lunches, drove them to school, came home and picked up the dry cleaning, took it to the cleaners and stopped at the bank to make a deposit, went grocery shopping, then drove home to put away the groceries, paid the bills and balanced the check book. He cleaned the cat's litter box and bathed the dog. Then it was already 1 P.M. and he hurried to make the beds, do the laundry, vacuum, dust, sweep and mop the kitchen floor. Ran to the school to pick up the kids and got into an argument with them on the way home. Set out cookies and milk and got the kids organized to do their homework, then set up the ironing board and watched TV while he did the ironing. At 4:30 he began peeling potatoes and washing vegetables for salad, breaded the lamb chops and snapped fresh beans for supper. After supper he cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, folded laundry, bathed the kids, and put them to bed. At 9 P.M. he was exhausted and, though his daily chores weren't finished, he went to bed where he was expected to make love which he managed to get through without complaint.

The next morning he awoke and immediately knelt by the bed and said, "Lord, I don't know what I was thinking. I was so wrong to envy my wife's being able to stay home all day. Please, oh please, let us trade back."

The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, replied, "My son, I feel you have learned your lesson and I will be happy to change things back to the way they were. You'll just have to wait nine months, though. You got pregnant last night."

A Hamster Funny

A mangy looking guy who goes into a restaurant and orders food. The waiter says, "No way. I don't think you can pay for it."

The guy says, "You're right. I don't have any money, but if I show you something you haven't seen before, will you give me the food?"

"Deal!" replies the waiter.

The guy reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a hamster. He puts the hamster on the counter and it runs to the end, across the room, up the piano, jumps on the keyboard, and starts playing Gershwin songs. And the hamster is really good.

The waiter says, "You're right. I've never seen anything like that before. That hamster is truly good on the piano."

The guy downs the hamburger he ordered and asks the waiter for another. "Money or another miracle," says the waiter.

The guy reaches into his coat again and pulls out a frog. He puts the frog on the counter, and the frog starts to sing. He has a marvelous voice and great pitch. A fine singer. A stranger from the other end of the counter runs over to the guy and offers him $300 for the frog. The guy says, "It's a deal." He takes the three hundred and gives the stranger the frog. The stranger runs out of the restaurant.

The waiter says to the guy, "Are you crazy? You sold a singing frog for $300? It must have been worth millions."

"Not so", says the guy, "the hamster is also a ventriloquist."