Published August 15, 2009
Okay, that’s one year. Thank you for following this blog and for all the nice emails. I hope you had as much fun reading these as I did writing them.
I am cooking up other projects, so check out my regular blog now and then at andreauptmor.blogspot.com.
Published August 15, 2009
When the doctor says, does it hurt when I do this?
When the specialist says, when did you first notice this?
When the oncologist says, do you want your wife in here?
When the lawyer says, who will get the house and garden?
When the mother-in-law says, who will raise the children?
When the friends say, how much longer does he have?
When the nurse says, are you comfortable?
When the doctor says, on a scale of one to ten, how much is it?
When the family says, can he hear us?
When you say, what happens after this?
Published August 14, 2009
When the fiancée says, lilacs or lilies or roses?
When the realtor says, what’s your bottom line?
When the insurance man says, how many drinks per week?
When the wife says, what do you think of the suburbs?
When the daughter says, when it’s hot out, do chickens lay scrambled eggs?
When the son says, how fast do you think I can eat this corndog?
When the vet says, how long has he been scratching like that?
When the coworker says, how many blondes to screw in a lightbulb?
When the boss says, just how much are we talking here?
Published August 13, 2009
29 Times the Answer Is “I Don’t Know”
When the grandma says, who stuck their finger in the icing?
When the teacher says, what’s the capital of Alabama?
When the dad says, do I smell pot?
When the girlfriend says, who’s that on the phone?
When the ex-girlfriend says, whose voice is that?
When the coach says, who brought the flask on the bus?
When the customer says, which aisle is the ketchup?
When the pal says, which movie looks funnier?
When the mom says, how late were you out?
When the counselor says, what do you want to study?
Published August 12, 2009
Collecting vinyl records was at first a way to get laid, then a reason to spend Saturdays rummaging through flea markets, then the entire essence of your selfhood. You have crates stacked in your study, alphabetized and sheathed in slick polyethylene jackets. They are much too valuable to listen to.
You cannot imagine leaving this collection in your will. Your son cannot take care of anything. He will melt them in the attic or let his fat wife make clocks out of them.
So when you are eighty-nine, you gravely burn them. In the backyard. The smell is omnipotent.
Published August 11, 2009
The Savilian Chair of Astronomy at the University of Oxford in England must at least make an attempt to be a classy kind of guy. He must walk with the swagger of a fellow who spends his evenings with an eye nestled on a telescope, a guy who has seen every corner of the universe and yet manages to remember the minutiae of earthly life. He irons his pants so there’s a careful crease prancing down the front of the legs. He runs his index finger across the crystalline pleat as he watches the moon pirouette across its velvety canvas.
Published August 10, 2009
After unthreading your collarbone from your chest skin in a particularly rough rugby match, you spend some time in intensive care. A doughy nurse named Peggy checks on you frequently; the two of you become acquainted, then smitten, then married. By now your clavicle has healed, though your hands fly up and touch your chest protectively every time Peggy comes sailing into your arms. You have two kids, one of whom grows up to be a rugby player himself, though not as successful as you in your heyday. He never gets hurt, though. It’s a pretty good life—B-plus, you’d say.