Love,
Dear God,
I am writing You to pray for peace in the world and the end of all wars. I never wrote this before because I thought it was an obvious thing to say, but then I realized You might not think I care about that stuff. I didn’t want there to be a misunderstanding on Your end.
Love,
Dear God,
I was watching a science show about the solar system for a few minutes today, and started wondering if Jupiter is Hell. It looks like a very nasty place, filled with poisonous gases and constant storms. And if it is Hell, is Hitler there? Hope these questions aren’t too much of a bummer.
Love,
Dear God,
If I’m doing anything that will increase my chances of going to Hell, please let me know. So far I think I’m a-okay, but maybe there’s something I’m doing wrong that I’m not aware of. Sometimes You put voices in people’s heads—can You put one in mine? Not a crazy one that makes me kill people, but one that gives me useful, common sense advice.
Love,
Dear God,
When I get hired for my next job, can You make sure I don’t get fired? I know I get unemployment benefits from it, but still, it’s kind of a drag.
Love,
Dear God,
Thank you for keeping Hubby Rick safe on the afternoon of the tornado warnings. I know I wasn’t very happy when I found out that during those hours he didn’t call me, he wasn’t missing at all, but riding out the storms at Tacky’s Tavern without bothering to call me, even though I risked my life not going to the basement so my cell phone would still have reception. And not only that, I found out that on that same day he and his boneheaded buddy Craig actually tried to follow a funnel cloud in Rick’s pickup truck. Like something out of the movie Twister. All I can say is thank You so much that You didn’t make that funnel cloud touch down. But despite Rick’s stupidity, I’m glad he was okay. I hope this also shows You that I’m a loving wife for being concerned.
Love,
Dear God,
I’m not a vengeful person, as You know, but would it be asking too much if You maybe punished that snotty girl at the optical department at the Pamida? The one who today made me wait for forty minutes for my new eyeglasses while other customers got served within five minutes, and then sighed loudly when I asked her to loosen the temple pieces a little because they were too tight on my face? And then wouldn’t take my $20-off coupon because it supposedly only extended to optical department purchases of $150.00 or more? What happened to “The customer is always right”? And aren’t employees supposed to have sensitivity training for dealing with customers who are not gorgeous (at least not the conventional definition of gorgeous)?
God, I’m not asking for anything severe or nasty, like death or third-degree burns, but could You push her down some stairs? Or break her nose? In case that’s still too violent for Your peace-loving son Jesus’ taste, how about sending down one of Your overweight angels (I’m sure You have them!) to visit her in a vision, and have it tell her to lay off her bad attitude at work, or when she dies she’ll find herself in the hotter place! That would sure fix her wagon!
Love,
Lovin’ from Jean’s Oven
No. 4: Chocolate Bratwurst!
Imagine, a brat that tastes like chocolate! That’s because it is chocolate! So delectable you’ll wonder why you ate only the meat ones for so long! Hubby Rick actually tried one of my brats once (the only time he’s eaten any of my chocolatey inventions!), and told me the next day that it was the only thing he’s ever eaten that looked the exact same way coming out as it did going in! Hardee-har-har, Rick! (He’s such a support!)
Ingredients:
3 oz. (three squares) unsweetened chocolate
2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa
4 tbsp. butter
2 tbsp. whole milk
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 egg
2¼ cups sugar
½ tsp. salt
1½ cups flour
extra cocoa
Optional extras: Croissants, brioche, waffles, or some other rich, sweet-tasting bread; honey, butter, marshmallow creme, shredded coconut
Preheat your oven to 350º F if you like. Drop the chocolate, cocoa, butter, and milk into a saucepan and cook over low heat until it’s all melted, stirring continuously. Set aside a few minutes to cool, then pour mixture into a bowl, and add the vanilla, egg, sugar, and salt. Mix with a wooden spoon until blended, then add the flour and mix well until dough has a thick consistency that makes it impossible to stir. This is your bratwurst dough!
And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for—time to get your hands dirty (and chocolatey)! Take a ball of dough that fits in the palm of your hand, and form it into a sausage shape about four inches long. Roll the dough in a dish of loose cocoa so it gets coated all over. Place the dough about one inch apart on a greased baking sheet. Repeat until all the dough is formed into sausages, and bake them for about 15–20 minutes, making sure they don’t harden too much! Once out of the oven, re-roll the “bratwurst” in the cocoa, and cool.
When the bratwurst are cool, divide the croissants, brioche, or other bread in half, and insert each bratwurst between the halves to form individual sandwiches. For extra indulgence, mix ¼ cup honey with 3 tbsp. softened butter and spread the bread with it—that’s your “mustard”! Or for you carb watchers, you can enjoy a chocolate bratwurst alongside some “potato salad” made out of marshmallow creme and toasted shredded coconut!
Excerpts from the Diary of Priscilla Teasdale
(Compiled with assistance from her mommy, Jean Teasdale!)
Dear Diary,
Ah, this is the life! This afternoon, I lay on the living room carpet, soaking up the sun’s rays as they filtered through the sliding glass doors to our balcony! Sheer bliss! Then, natch, my bliss was interrupted by my goofy kitty brother Garfield, who just had to start chasing after the reflected bits of light from the sun-catcher Mommy Jean hung off one of the doors! How typical!
Dear Diary,
How I love living with my Mommy Jean! To her, we’re not just (shudder) house pets! She treats my Garfield and me practically like we’re her very own babies! She’s very sensitive to our needs, too. It’s like she’s psychic! Don’t ask me how she knows this, but she must have figured out that we get sick of our Meow Mix sometimes, because today Garf and me shared a yummy-nummy chicken parm sandwich Mommy brought home from the Italian deli. The Thousand Island dressing was the best! Then, the pièce de résistance: Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream! Our fave!
Dear Diary,
What a dream I just had! I dreamt that a mouse was racing around the house! I chased it and it disappeared under the refrigerator. Then it shot out from under the bed! I chased it some more. Finally, I cornered it in the shower stall! I was just about to get it when I heard the sound of laughter. My eyes snapped open, and I looked up in the direction of the sound. It was Mommy Jean, giggling and filming me with her cell phone! I guess I was twitching in my sleep again. I love my Mommy Jean, but I wish no one had told her about YouTube!!
Dear Diary,
It’s 3 a.m. A few minutes ago, I just coughed up a hairball the size of a snow globe on the bedroom carpet, next to the side of the bed where Mommy Jean is sleeping. Don’t think I woke anyone with my retching. Oh, but look, Mommy Jean is getting up to use the bathroom!
Dear Diary,
I’ve been at it for years, I know, but I’m still trying to make a cat person out of my Daddy Rick! I’m forever trying to win his attention. I guess I like a challenge! Today, he was staring at that movement box again, while clicking on the thing with buttons. His eyes fixed on the screen, sort of like how my eyes fix on a bird when it lands on our balcony. He was so rapt that he was sitting at the very edge of the sofa. When Daddy Rick acts like this, it’s my cue to investigate!
I hopped on the couch next to him, and started rubbing against him. He nudged me with his elbow to get me to leave, but
oh no, I’m too much of a veteran to be intimidated by that! Instead, I put my front paws on his leg, bent down, and started sniffing his fingers. Then I licked them! (Well, they tasted good! Sort of like seasoned popcorn salt!) After I did that, Daddy Rick jerked out of his seat and roared! That startled me. It’s not like I meant to hurt him! Then he whirled around, lifted his forearm, and shoved me off the sofa. That sure wasn’t very fatherly!
As I quickly sprang atop my scratching tree, Daddy Rick yelled to Mommy Jean that I, Stupid Cat (Daddy Rick’s special nickname for me), had caused him to lose his last life, just when he had almost won the level! I don’t get it; he still looked alive to me!
I’m not sure why I rub Daddy Rick the wrong way. I must get to the bottom of it, though. Perhaps I’ll finally solve the mystery tonight, when I sleep on his head!
Dear Diary,
I’d like to know why helping myself to a single piece of pepperoni off a whole pizza pie earns me a hard flick on my sweet little pink nose by Daddy Rick! It was just one teeny pepperoni. I guess Daddy Rick is just a big old meanie. The only time he ever interacts with me is when he plays this dumb tube sock game. He puts a tube sock over my head and laughs as I try to back out of it. It’s not funny! It’s hot and I can’t breathe and I often end up smacking my head against a table leg. Once he did it to me when I was perched on the kitchen counter. I backed off the edge and tumbled several feet to the linoleum! I could’ve been seriously hurt!
It’s funny, though: Even though she’s much, much nicer, and never teases me, I tend to hiss at and scratch Mommy Jean more than Daddy Rick. I’m not sure why I act that way. In fact, Mommy constantly hugs and kisses me and cuddles me like a human baby! Maybe I’m just spoiled. Or maybe I just can’t handle pure, unadulterated bliss.
Wait, what am I doing? I’m a kitty—I don’t have to explain myself! I just have to sit back and let the Meow Mix flow. All in all, things are pretty sweet here at Casa Teasdale!
More Jean Teasdale “Fun” Fiction!
Part 3: I Can Fly!
It was absolutely terrifying—at first. Surely this couldn’t last. Yet, in spite of all the seemingly overwhelming odds, I wasn’t dropping like a stone to the ground. Not even as the roofs and treetops got farther and farther beneath me. Gravity, my lack of feathers, or even my pleasant plumpness weren’t preventing me from soaring into the wild blue yonder.
But it was true. Jean Teasdale, that silly gal everyone always underestimated, had liftoff.
I don’t know what provoked me to climb to the roof of our apartment building. Normally my vertigo would prevent me from such a stunt, but for some reason, heights weren’t frightening me. Maybe it was the tough day at my new job, when my supervisor decided to extend my probationary period another two months because my cash register was negative ten bucks. Or maybe because my Ooey Gooey Choco-Cocoa-Mocha Cupcakes with Raspberry Filling and Coconut-Cream-Cheese-Cola Icing came out of the oven a little too ooey gooey. I just meant to get some air. Then I felt a rather brisk updraft whistling in my ears, and instinctively, I closed my eyes, felt the warmth of the sun on my head, and spread my windbreaker-clad arms outward. It was odd, as I had never really done anything like that before, but something about it felt right and soothing. I stood like that for what seemed like a minute or two, and when I eventually opened my eyes, I noticed my feet were dangling in midair, about a yard off the edge of the roof.
Then I realized that my entire body hovered about a yard off the edge of the roof!
I tried to scramble back onto the roof, but the best I could do was drift towards it without touching it. I was definitely airborne! A miracle! I lifted my arms and gently pumped them once, as if doing a breaststroke, and body responded by propelling forward and higher. Why was I chosen for such a great privilege and honor? I knew not why, but all I knew was, it was euphoric!
It didn’t take long for people to notice. “There’s a pleasantly plump woman flying up in the sky!” a man cried. Soon I was recognized. “It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Jean Teasdale, The Onion’s Humor and Human Interest columnist!” a woman shouted. “Oh, how I envy her, gamboling and banking like a carefree meadowlark!”
I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was too full of joy to acknowledge them. Once in a while, in my dreams, I flew, but I always woke up on my familiar old waterbed, crushed that I had not actually taken wing at all. Now it was truly happening! Soon my fears melted away like a body ache dissolved by acetaminophen!
I continued to soar and spin about. I found that if I tilted to one side, I could roll over on my back and stare up at the blue sky! Putting my outstretched arms before me allowed me to descend. How fun it was to swoop and dive like a car on a roller coaster! The braver I became, the faster and more daring were my maneuvers! I did loop-de-loops and pirouettes and even tried out some moves I saw on figure-skating programs. Underneath me, the thrilled gasps and shrieks of the stunned crowd below could be faintly heard.
Spreading my fingers out caused me to slow down a little, and lowering my legs and lifting my head up let me hover. My body responded to everything I did with great speed and efficiency—who knew all this time I was such a superb flying machine? The only time it didn’t seem right was when I tried bobbing and weaving like a butterfly. I could do it, but the shaky fluttering made me a little nauseous, so I quickly put an end to that!
I never wanted to come down, even if it meant skipping dinner! As the sun began its descent, a chill appeared in the springtime breeze, but my shivers couldn’t compete with the nearness of the gold-flecked clouds! I began to go higher…and higher…
A horn blasted through the noise below. It was the air horn from Hubby Rick’s pickup truck. I’d know it anywhere. It startled me from my airborne reverie.
“How stupid!” I heard Rick shout. “Get down from there, Jean. You can’t fly.”
Couldn’t fly? Well, that’s precisely what I was doing, right? So how could he say that? I pretended to ignore him.
“What are you doing?” Rick yelled in that familiar growl of his. “Stop embarrassing yourself and come down. People are laughing at you.”
I tried to hum to myself. “Theme from Greatest American Hero” was what came out. “Believe it or not, I’m walking on air…”.
“Jean, you weigh far too much to be flying. Now come down here!” Rick bellowed.
Instinctively, I put my hands to my ears, but that caused me to jolt violently downward! My heart leaped. I tried my best to steady myself. I stopped my fall, but I was much lower to the ground. I looked down. The setting sun threw the horrified looks on people’s faces into sharp, grotesque contrast. Rick wore his all-too-familiar expression of disgust.
Maybe Rick was right, I thought. I probably looked pretty silly and ungainly. Clearly I was disturbing the peace. What if I gave an old person a heart attack? What if I got arrested? I couldn’t afford the bail. Seriously, who did I think I was?
At first I thought God had chosen me to fly so I could experience the heavenly rapture of flight. But maybe He was testing me on my limits. And I’d have to be pretty egotistical to deny them. After all, Rick and I were simple folk. We weren’t ambitious, we didn’t have a lot of money, and let’s face it, in the good-looking couples department, we were no John Tesh and Connie Sellecca. No, Jean Teasdale wasn’t meant to fly. Certainly no more than anyone else, and possibly even less.
I plummeted. I turned somersaults and the wind rushed in my ears as I desperately clawed at the air. I tried to scream, but something vast and incredibly hard met me. Then all went black.
Sorry to end on such a down note (pun intended!). Also, sorry to use a tough word like “gamboling.” I know this is meant to be a humor book. But I wanted to protest against closed-minded people (e.g. a certain chubby hubby) thinking that those who are in touch with their needs and dream of the impossible (e.g. yours truly) will never get anywhere in life. It’s a metaphor. Or a simile. Some term like that.
Recognizing Your Limitations = Healthy
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As I write this, I am in the middle of day two of one of my patented self-pity parties. (See the chapter called “Say It Loud and Proud—‘I Feel Sorry for Myself!’” if you’ve been skipping around the book, which you are totally allowed to do, and don’t get what I mean.) It began innocently enough as a mini-vacation from writing this book. I thought I’d take a nice short little break, get some housework done, pay some bills, clean out the litter box. Maybe even resume work on that frog hook rug with the staring eyes that I put aside last Easter.
I did wash some dishes. But as I was drying them and putting them away, I noticed that in the kitchen broom closet Hubby Rick had stuffed an enormous stash of potato chips, cheese curls, caramel popcorn, beef jerky, Twizzlers, and two-liter bottles of Pepsi. Obviously he had stocked up for the upcoming football weekend. Normally these treats are off-limits to the football widow (a.k.a. me!), but there was so much more than usual that I figured he wouldn’t care if I snagged one or two bags of everything. After all, writing gives me a big appetite (right up there with breathing and hearing!), and it would save me a trip to the grocery store. So I took them into the bedroom, changed into a fresh, clean sleep-shirt and socks, sacked out on the waterbed, and grabbed the remote control. Within minutes I was feeling sorry for myself, and lo, here I still am, thirty-six hours later and counting!
I never intended to close A Book of Jean’s Own! with a self-pity party. But I never not intended to, either! Think about it—here I am, writing my first-ever book, under a back-breaking deadline, and I’m completely and utterly tapped out. I figured being a first-time author would be both a walk in the park and a piece of cake, but turns out I’m not very good at walking and eating at the same time! (Okay, almost tapped out. I admit that was pretty funny.)
The Onion Presents a Book of Jean's Own! Page 11