Opera is Funny, and I Don't Care Who Knows It

 

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Opera is serious, right?  It’s a fusion of music and drama.  The characters fall in love, sometimes with someone who doesn’t love them back.  Someone usually dies, sometimes more than one person.  Ancient gods go gaga over a magic ring.  Leading ladies die of tuberculosis, poison, murder, and suicide.  All kinds of dramatic things happen.  If the opera is a comedy, the audience is permitted to laugh at the funny parts, but most operas are tragedies, not comedies. 

A great performance is usually greeted with bravos and ovations.  Sometimes the audience stands up to applaud, not just when they are all putting on their coats to try to get out of the theater before everyone else stampedes out the exits.

However, funny things can happen during performances, sometimes unplanned.  There is ample opportunity for things to go wrong, and they sometimes do.

For instance, there was once a performance of Puccini’s Tosca where the entire show was ruined by a gunshot.  In this opera, all three leading characters die in a literal case of overkill.  The tenor dies in the end by firing squad.  In this production, the sound of the shot was provided by a man backstage shooting off a blank bullet from a handgun.  On one memorable night, the gun failed to go off.  The conductor held the orchestra on a chord, waiting for the gunshot.  The tenor stood and waited.

There was no big bang from backstage.  The tenor looked at the conductor.  The conductor looked at the tenor.  Finally, the conductor gave a signal.  The tenor fell down.  The firing squad exited the scene.  The orchestra continued playing the music.

The gun went off.  The audience dissolved in laughter.  A super-dramatic tragedy was instantly turned into a comedy.

In the early twentieth century, the great tenor Leo Slezak was known, among other roles, for his portrayal of Wagner’s Lohengrin in the opera of the same name.  In this opera, the knight Lohengrin makes his entrance and exit in a boat pulled by a swan.  Either this is a magical swan or swans in the Middle Ages were super birds, with the strength of huskies, able to draw a boat with a fully grown man inside.

In one performance, the boat failed to appear for Lohengrin’s exit.  Seeing this, Leo Slezak calmly turned to the audience and asked, “What time is the next swan?”

The man often designated the greatest singer of all, the early twentieth-century tenor Enrico Caruso, made his own onstage amusement by pulling pranks.  During the second act of Puccini’s La Bohème, which takes place in a café, he would take prop paper and prop menus, draw caricatures of male sexual organs, and pass them on to his female colleagues.  He also once handed a hot sausage to a famous soprano during a performance.  She was not amused.

The great Italian bass Cesare Siepi was known for his portrayal of Mozart’s Don Giovanni in the opera of the same name.  At the end of this opera, the protagonist is taken down to Hell, accompanied by a chorus of demons and a lot of smoke onstage.  During one performance, the trap door that was supposed to take Don Giovanni to Hell got stuck on the way down.  Mr. Siepi stepped out of it and back into it, and it stuck again.  The handsome bass was up to the occasion.  He turned to the audience and said, “Oh my goodness, how wonderful!  Hell is full!

Fortunately for the art form and the people who practice it, instances like the ones above are the exception rather than the rule, but when they happen, they become the stuff of legend.

If Donald Trump Were Santa Claus

 

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In the world of “What If,” since it is almost Christmas, I can’t help but come up with a weird idea  -- what if Santa Claus were to retire and Donald Trump take over.

First, The Donald would move his headquarters from the North Pole to Florida.  Only he and his secretary would relocate, however.  He would leave the elves up in the frozen north, under the supervision of overseers, and would lower their pay to just above poverty level.  The elves, of course, would go on strike.  The Donald would respond by bringing in thousands of laborers from India and expecting them to get used to living in subzero temperatures.

Herr Orangenfuehrer would not travel on Christmas Eve via sleigh and reindeer.  He would commission a special flying gold Mercedes, at taxpayer expense.  In the meantime, he would encourage his Indian toymakers up north to slaughter and eat the reindeer, which he would look upon as useless.  Rudolph’s shiny nose would be used as a street lamp.

When his Indian workers decide to join the elves on strike, the tiny-fingered dictator wannabe would outsource the toymaking to small businesses, which he would refuse to pay for reasons only he would know.

Donald Dishonest would kiss the behinds of his Evangelical followers by shouting all over the place that Christmas is Jesus’ birthday and must only be celebrated as such.  The fact that he doesn’t care a whit about this fact and is only saying it to make himself look good won’t make a difference.  Enough people will believe that he is religious to enable him to fool some of the people some of the time.

The Orange Menace would declare a moratorium on his tariffs, but only for his North Pole-Florida toymaking business.  Everybody else would just have to suffer.

Last but not at all least, Donald Trampler would not distribute toys to anyone on Christmas Eve.  Instead, he would travel the world in his flying gold Mercedes and expect people in every home in the world to give him gifts.  He would return to Florida with an overloaded Mercedes filled with the world’s enforced tribute.

Of course, most of his loot would consist of gag gifts because the majority of the people on the earth hate him and think he’s a stupid clown, but he will be too brain-addled to notice.

The North Pole-Florida toy company would go bankrupt because of neglect and mismanagement.

And that, dear readers, is what would happen.

 

ADVENTURES IN SLOPPY HOUSEKEEPING: DUSTING THE FURNITURE

I don’t know what prehistoric housewives did to keep dust off their furniture if they had any.  If they did anything at all, it must have been frustrating to try to keep dust off things in a cave with dirt floors.  If it were me, I’d give up.  If you have dirt all around you anyway, it’s silly to try to keep it off whatever you are sitting on.

It must have been challenging, also, to keep dust off all that fancy furniture in the Palace of Versailles and other upscale homes of that period.  Since people didn’t bathe very often or wear deodorant in those days, maybe they didn’t mind a little dirt on their elegant chairs and tables because they were so busy dealing with dirty and smelly people.  Let’s hope so.

The modern householder has choices of methods to use when removing dust from furniture.

Method No. 1 is the one used by fussy people who are addicted to extra work.  This method involves using dustcloths, Lemon Pledge, and other instruments of torture.  Lemon Pledge is fine if you don’t mind your house smelling like the citrus section of a greengrocer’s shop.  The poor misguided people who use this method go from piece of furniture to piece of furniture, moving knickknacks, books, and figurines around, climbing up stepladders, and making sure that every darned spot of dust or anything else is thoroughly eradicated with the cloth and the Lemon Pledge.  This is their idea of a fun way to spend an afternoon.

Method No. 2 is similar to Method No. 1, except instead of a dustcloth and Lemon Pledge, the person uses a feather duster or a Swiffer duster, sometimes with a long handle, making the use of a stepladder obsolete except in the case of a high shelf with stuff on it that has to be moved.  Other than that, the procedure is the same, as is the amount of time it takes to finish the job.  These people are to be pitied as much as the users of Method No. 1.

Method No. 3 is the one used by the rest of us.  It uses a Swiffer duster, preferably with a long handle, without moving any objects, especially on high shelves.  This removes most of the visible dust, which is okay with us.  This method is often used after the chief homemaker of the house has not dusted anything in weeks.

One way of ensuring that no dust will settle on a piece of furniture is to load it down with blankets, clothing, books, or whatever other detritus is available.  When you remove the items, the furniture under them will be dust-free.  This works every time.

I hope my readers have found this little reference guide useful.  By the way, the instructions given above are in no way indicative of the practices of the author, and I hope you all understand that because I would hate it if everyone thought I’m a slob.

 

ADVENTURES IN SLOPPY HOUSEKEEPING: FLOORS

 

In olden times human beings had dirt floors in their homes.  At least the poor people had dirt floors; the rich had things like marble floors and servants to do the cleaning.  You didn’t have to wash your floor if you weren’t a servant assigned to do the job.  This was known as the golden age.

Progress being what it is, washing the floor eventually became “woman’s work,” and the wife of the family got the job whether she wanted it or not.  Thus the tradition of having your mother yell at you for tracking dirt on the floor began.  Before that time, it didn’t matter if you came into the house with muddy boots because the floors were made of dirt.  The advent of wood floors was the cause of a great deal of childhood trauma.

Many modern inventions are designed to make floor washing easier or more efficient.  Along with the regular brooms, dustpans, mops, sponges, and buckets, we have various types of vacuum cleaners, Swiffer WetJets, Swiffer Sweepers, carpet cleaners, and what have you.  Accompanying this equipment, we have all kinds of cleaning agents that smell like everything from bleach to lemon to pine.  All of these have one thing in common:  they can be put away in a closet, and you don’t have to think about them if you don’t want to.

This technique would work fine if it weren’t for one thing:  dust.  Dust flies around the house and settles down on whatever surface it can find, including the floors.  The animal’s hair adds to the dust if you have a pet.  In the kitchen, you are likely to have a couple of spots from dropped food or spilled coffee.  In other words, the longer you keep the cleaning equipment in the closet, the bigger the mess you will have.

When the mess reaches the height of your ankles, you’re sneezing from the dust, and you can’t stand to look at it anymore, you decide it’s time to take a deep breath, open the broom closet, and get to work.

You are immediately faced with two choices.  You can do things the old-fashioned way, also known as the hard way, or the modern way, also known as the lazy way.  The old-fashioned way involves buckets, mops, sponges, brooms, dustpans, vacuum cleaners, and muscle power.  The modern method involves Swiffer Sweepers, Swiffer Dusters, Swiffer WetJets, and other lightweight items that don’t include using muscles, pushing semi-heavy machinery around, or bending over.

The old-fashioned way has one thing going for it:  your floors get thoroughly clean.  They had better get thoroughly clean because of all the effort you have to put into the job.  The bucket full of water mixed with bleach or Lysol is heavy and has to be schlepped from room to room.  At the same time, you must carry the mop you are using to put the mixture on the floor and spread it around.  If you haven’t cleaned your floors in months, you will have to press hard with the mop and go over the floor more than once to get all the dirt.  If you are really zealous, you will get down on the floor with a sponge and dig at especially stubborn spots.  By the time you are finished, you will look like this:

 

You are advised to use the old-fashioned way if you have an afternoon to waste use up with miserable, backbreaking housework.  You might be able to eat off your floors afterward, but you’ll be too tired to try it.

I won’t even mention waxing floors.  I won’t even think about it.  What you don’t think about won’t hurt you.

The modern way produces a fine floor if you don’t have your mother-in-law or some other fussbudget visiting you.  With this method, there are no heavy buckets, bleach, or Lysol.  There is only a long-handled thingamajig, to which you attach a hopefully absorbent, light piece of electrostatic cloth.  If you are “mopping” the floor instead of only dusting it, you attach a piece of material that has been soaking in cleaning stuff and smells just like it.  If you are using a Swiffer WetJet, the cloth sticks to the bottom.  If you are only dusting the floor, you quickly push the long-handled thingamajig around it, sometimes turning it around so it will pick up all the dust and pet hair, not just some of it.  If you don’t feel like bending over and picking up the stubborn things that won’t attach to the cloth, keep turning it around until you catch it or push it into a dustpan.  If you are using a Swiffer WetJet, ignore the remaining dirt spots.  They are part of the modern housekeeping experience.  After you have been doing this for a while, you might end up looking like this:

 

Today’s apartment or house dweller often chooses the easier way out of the household mess problem.  Of course, there will still be some dust on the floor, a few pet hairs here and there, and maybe a drop on the kitchen floor, but you’ll get most of it, anyway.  The proper modern housekeeper has learned to be content with this.  You can always tell yourself that your home looks like people live in it, which is more accurate than you think.

There is yet another option:  hire someone else to clean your place.  If you are paying someone else to do the crummy jobs you don’t want to do, you can specify the old-fashioned method.  After all, it isn’t YOUR back that is being bent!  The only problem with this is the financial outlay.  You get what you pay for, though.  If you want a clean home and don’t want to do it yourself, pay a professional and shut up.  Tips are also welcome in these cases if the person has done an outstanding job and you want to get a reputation as a good customer so they’ll return to continue doing your work for you.

 

 

ADVENTURES IN SLOPPY HOUSEKEEPING: COOKING

 

Primitive man did not know about cooking until someone discovered how to light a fire one day.  The technique went viral, and people everywhere enjoyed having heat in the winter.  Then some prehistoric klutz dropped a piece of meat into a fire, spit out a few curses, fished it out, and ate it, thereby discovering cooking.  The culinary art spread over the world.  Suddenly, fewer people died of food poisoning, food tasted better, and the population flourished.  We, the descendants of these ancient chefs, have inherited the tradition of partially burning almost everything we eat.

Some people love to cook.  To these people, a kitchen is heaven, and the smells and sounds of prepared food are like the singing of a heavenly choir.

I am not one of those people.

It’s not that I don’t know how to cook.  Like all girl children of my generation, I was taught to cook, iron clothes, clean the house, and sew, the idea being that I would probably get married right out of high school or college and spend the rest of my days doing those things.  My mother and grandmother made valiant efforts to domesticate me, with mixed results.  I was determined to be a professional singer, even at a young age, and in my mind, that did not jive with slaving over a hot stove, vacuuming rugs, or ironing clothes.  However, what they taught stuck with me, resulting in me not being a complete slob.

Getting back to the subject, I’m not particularly eager to cook.  I’ll do it if I have to, but I refuse to enjoy it, especially if it involves a lot of preparation and complication.  I’m satisfied if I can sprinkle a little salt and pepper on something, toss it into a nonstick frying pan and leave it there until it’s done enough to eat without the risk of dying.  This is very rarely possible, though, because of things called recipes.  You must know what you’re doing if you want to cook something that won’t make you want to vomit.  This usually means following directions invented by someone else who did know what they were doing and trusting the results will turn out the way they are supposed to turn out.

In addition to a stove, you need the right equipment and supplies to follow a recipe.  This includes measuring cups, measuring spoons, frying pans, baking pans, saucepans, sieves, spatulas, wooden spoons, knives, timers, olive oil, vegetable oil, butter, salt, pepper, garlic … you get the idea.  The list never ends.  You also need a place to prop up your recipe so that you can look at it every thirty seconds to ensure you aren’t messing everything up.  That is important, especially when dealing with such things as garlic and salt.  Please don’t ask me how I know this.

So what does a non-cook like me do when faced with using fire to improve the way food comes naturally?  Well, it goes something like this.

Defrosting the Meat

If you have been doing the right thing and keeping your meat in the freezer, you will need to defrost it.  You can do this in a couple of ways.  The first way is to take it out of the freezer and put it in the fridge.  This is a safe way to do it without a mess.  The only problem is it takes forever.  You can’t suddenly remember in the middle of the day that you forgot to take the meat out of the freezer because when you are ready to cook it, it will still be as frozen as an igloo in winter.  You must be organized enough to take it out of the freezer early in the day.

Another method is the microwave for people who can’t remember to put their keys away, let alone take the meat out of the freezer.  This requires a certain amount of technical ability to figure out how to do this.  Once you figure it out, it’s easy, or it should be, but the problem is it’s messy.  The microwave will ask you to turn the meat over in the middle of the operation, which requires handling.  To know if the meat is defrosted, you must handle it again.  All you can think of is “salmonella,” so you wash your hands every time, which is a pain in the ass.

Pre-heating the Oven

If you have an old-fashioned stove, this is easy.  You turn the knob to the desired temperature and wait for the oven to heat up.

If you have one of the newfangled cooking machines with a digital oven, you must figure out how to use it.  If you are a genius, this is easy.  For the rest of us, it takes time and brainpower.  People who can’t even use email without messing up will have a hard time with this.  Once you figure it out, of course, you wonder what all the fuss was about because all you have to do is press buttons.  Of course, the next time you use the stove, you must remember which buttons to press.  This is a whole other problem for the technically challenged.

Stoves with digital ovens let you know when the oven is ready, usually about a half-hour before you need it.

Preparing Vegetables

First, you have to wash them.  Raw veggies come with germs and sometimes anti-bug spray all over them.  So you take a handful of whatever you are dealing with and turn on the faucet, hoping you won’t drop half your handful into the sink and have to wash it all over again.  If you’re smart and don’t mind dirtying up yet another thing you’ll have to wash later, you can use a colander.

Cutting raw veggies is another thing; this requires a knife, which requires coordination.  If you are cutting carrots into ½ inch pieces, ensure you don’t cut your fingers into ½ inch pieces, too.  Oh, and use a cutting board.  Your kitchen counter will thank you.

Cooking Meat and Fish

Don’t ask me why, but you must “brown” meat and fish before putting them in the oven.  Just do it, and don’t complain.

If you are a safety fanatic, buy a meat thermometer and ensure your stuff cooks at the right temperature.  You probably won’t bother doing this if you are average.  Just be sure your animal-based food is cooked all the way through, and you probably won’t die from eating it.  I haven’t died yet, or I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this.

The Easy Way

Buy a pre-prepared meal or some takeout and stick it in the microwave.

What to Do Afterward

Eat the food you have cooked.  If you don’t live by yourself, give some of it to the lucky people who share your domicile.

You will have a sink and a stovetop full of dirty dishes, utensils, and pans.  If you are lucky, you can put them in a dishwasher and press a button.  You’ll have to wash them all by hand if you are not lucky because they will not wash themselves.  Do it and get it over with.

I hope this little instruction sheet has helped whoever needed help before reading this.  If not, I hope I didn’t confuse you too much.

 

Child-Proof Food Containers?

This is hard to open, too.

Okay.  I can understand why medicine bottles are made hard to open.  Children get into everything, and we don’t want them to experiment with medications they have no business taking.  So yes, medicine bottles should be hard to open, at least for kids.

But food?  Why on earth should a jar of food be impossible to open without a chainsaw?

Take, for example, that new jar of peanut butter that you are trying to open because, let’s say, you are making lunch for a couple of kids.  You start with confidence, sure that one good twist of the wrist will loosen up the lid.

The lid refuses to budge.  You heave a sigh and try again.  The thing remains stubbornly tight.

After uttering a couple of mild curses, you bang the lid against the countertop a couple of times.  Then you try again to open the jar, with no luck.

You wrap a kitchen towel around the jar and try again.  Nothing happens.

You take a table knife and tap the entire circumference of the lid with it.  That has no effect, either.

You run the hot water in the sink until it gets really hot, then you put the jar lid under the flow and hold it there for a minute.  You take it out and try to open it again.  Try is the operative word because again nothing happens.

You try the kitchen towel and the banging against the counter tricks again.  By this time, you want to throw the damned jar out the window.

You set the jar on the counter, having decided to make baloney sandwiches instead.

After you make and pack the baloney sandwiches, you try once more to open the jar of peanut butter, just for the hell of it.

This time you manage to open it.

That is the end of this story, as far as I am concerned.

You Know It's Time to Declutter When ...

In every life, there comes a time when one has to get rid of some of those possessions that have, over the years, multiplied like oversexed rabbits.

Oh, but all those things have a use, you say.

Yes, but have you used them at any time in the last two years?

Well, no, but I might.  You never know.

Get rid of them!

Is the path from your living room to your kitchen an obstacle course?  If your answer is yes, you might want to consider dumping that ottoman instead of having to dodge it all the time.

I have things stored in that ottoman, you say.

When was the last time you looked at any of those things you have stuck in there?

Well ...

Get rid of them, then get rid of the ottoman!

Is your closet bulging with clothes, some of which you last wore when Clinton was President?  If so, maybe your wardrobe needs a cleaning-out.

Oh, but I can’t get rid of my old clothes, you say.  Suppose they come back into style, and I lose enough weight to wear them again?

Will you wear them again, or did you get tired of them years ago?  What about the ones that are falling apart?  And then there are the ones that you never wear because you don’t like them or they don’t go with anything else.

Well ...

Get rid of them!

I can see the tears forming on the faces of some of my readers at the thought of getting rid of beloved junk that is taking up valuable space in their homes.  I sympathize because I am one of them.  I, too, share my living space with an assortment of useless items that would probably be happier in the local thrift shop.  There they could be adopted by people who would love them and care for them, or at least use them.

I am determined to rid my space of anything that isn’t contributing to the decor of my apartment, entertaining me, enriching my life, or making life more comfortable.

I’ll start tomorrow.

Observations of an Aging Baby Boomer

Aging Baby Boomer Observing

1.   Archaeologists have discovered an "Elixir of Immortality" in an ancient Chinese family tomb. This is possibly the first example of a scientific experiment gone wrong because everybody in the grave is dead.

2.     The length of time it takes a package to reach your house is in reverse ratio to the importance of the package.

3.     Never trust anyone over 70.  We’re old enough to know all the tricks if we can remember them.

4.     Never judge anyone until you have walked a mile in his shoes.  If the shoes don’t fit, you’re screwed.  Being screwed gives you the right to get mad, which provides you with the right to search out the owner of the shoes and clobber him.

5.     Early to bed and early to rise can make a person really grouchy, especially if everyone else is having fun while you’re in bed.

6.     Yes, your dog or cat loves you, so stop wondering about it.

7.     Scientists are finally figuring out that procrastination can be good for you.  I could have told them that myself, but I kept putting it off.

8.     Historical facial reconstructions are showing us, more and more, how ugly some of the famous people were.

9.     Old age is a lot of fun – for the manufacturers of canes, walkers, orthopedic shoes, and support stockings.

10.  Never sneeze at senior discounts.  Those $2 will buy you half a coffee at Starbucks.

Training Your Human 101, by Harmony the Cat

The Professor

Lesson 1:  Treats

Harmony:  Since the time of the Pharaohs, 4,000 years ago, humans and cats have shared their homes with each other in a mutually satisfying arrangement.

Me (Human):  Actually, cats became domesticated around 12,000 years ago in the Middle East, but not in Egypt.  Egypt came later.

Yes, but mentioning the Pharaohs is a good attention getter.

Okay.  It’s your lecture.  I just thought I’d point out ...

Not while I’m talking!

All right.  Whatever.  Sheeesshh!

So obsessive!  Now, where was I.  Oh yes.  Since the time of the Pharaohs (pause, looks at human)  cats and humans have shared their lives together.  This arrangement has been highly beneficial to the cat, providing him or her with potential servants ...

“Slaves” is more like it.

... ahem ... to cater to the cat’s every whim.  To achieve this end, a certain amount of training is required.  In this first lesson, I will teach you how to obtain treats from your human.  This is a necessary skill, if you don’t want to spend your whole life eating only food that has been scientifically tested and all that rubbish so that it’s good for you, makes your coat shine, etc., etc., etc.  Bo-ring!!

Expensive, too, especially if you turn your whiskered nose up at it, walk away and let it turn into little stinky rocks!

First, you must put Plan A into action.

I can’t wait to hear this.

Plan A is known as “The Buttering Up Phase.”  This should begin as soon as your stomach tells you it's time for some treats, preferably every time the human gives any sign of getting up from a chair or a couch.  Your tactics consist of nose nudges, head butts, and leg rubs.  If the human ignores these, a love bite or two gets the message across.  Pester the human until he or she starts to yell.  If the big ox still won’t move, go on to Plan B.  Scratch the furniture and/or chew on a piece of trash.  THAT is guaranteed to get the big jerk up and heading for the kitchen.  By the way, those same tactics work when it’s mealtime, and the human is late with it.

Hmmph!

Oh, and if you're an indoor cat, there is one more way to get treats.  Wait until you know the human will be heading out the front door, sometimes with a load of garbage and stuff for recycling, other times just with those jingling things that they stick into the door to make it open.  Get right under the human's feet, ready to spring out the door.  I guarantee you the human will immediately divert you by going into the kitchen and putting treats in your dish.

You always do this when I’m in a hurry to get out the door and go somewhere or when I have my hands full.

I don't care.  I'm a cat.  Caring about human stuff is against the Great Cat Code of Behavior.

Is there such a thing?

Oops!  I think I just let out a secret.  Class dismissed.  If anyone from the Cat Behavioral Squad comes along, you don’t know where I’m hiding!

The Adventures of Hubert the Fly

“Good evening.  This is your roving reporter Roberta Ribbits with today’s News of the Eccentric.  I am on the corner of 239^th Street and Bailey Avenue in The Bronx.  As you all know, many people eschew the idea of adopting a dog or a cat and choose instead to acquire exotic pets.  Standing next to me here is Ms. Florence Fadibber, who owns the most exotic pet of all, a common housefly."

“He’s not common.  He’s very uncommon.  If he were common, everyone would have one.”

“I’m sorry.  Yes.  An uncommon house fly.  I guess he’s in that mason jar you’re holding.  What’s his name?”

“Hubert.  I named him after my ex-husband.  There, there, Hubert.  It’s all right. Sweetie.  She’s a nice lady.  She just wants to get to know you.  N-i-i-ce flykins.”

 “Uh.  Yes.  Hello, Hubert.  Tell me, Ms. Fadibber, how long have you had your pet fly?  And what on earth made you adopt him?”

“Well, I was thinking about getting a pet, but I didn’t want to go through all the rigamarole they make you go through in shelters to make sure you’re suitable.  I just wanted to find an animal and take it home, you know?  So one day Hubert flew into my kitchen while I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the rest is history.  I caught him in the mason jar, and he's been mine ever since.  I’ve had him for a year.  Right, Hubert?  Look at him.  Isn’t he just SO CUTE with those huge red eyes?  I love the way he looks at me.”

"Don't houseflies only live about 3 to 5 weeks?  How did he get to be a year old?"

“It’s what I feed him.  He gets Wheaties and spinach, blended together.  I am careful to give him only the healthiest food.  No garbage for him, and certainly no feces!”

“I won’t ask how you feed him.”

“Well ... “

“I don’t want to know, really.  Anyway, our time is almost up.”

“Well, I do it this way.  I just open the jar a little, like this. ... Oh no!  He got out!  HELP!  He’s flying away!  Hubert!  Come back, Hubert!  HUBERT!!”

“Well, there she goes.  Florence Fadibber the Fly Lady.  ...  Ooh, what just landed on my arm?  (*swat*) ...  Uh oh!  What have I done?  Hubert, is that you?  Hubert? ... Uh, back to the newsroom. ... Hubert?”

Eve's Memoir

I take a Bible class every Wednesday evening.  Occasionally, we are asked, as part of the homework, to write a little story.  Last week we were asked to write an account of the Fall from the viewpoint of Eve.

In a fit of dutiful reverence, I wrote a sad, tragic account to hand to our instructor.  I can't resist, however, writing a funny version as well.  Our instructor has a sense of humor, so perhaps I will submit this to the class for some extra credit!

How I Ended Up East of Eden[1] by Eve

What was I thinking?  It isn’t as though we didn’t have enough to eat.  We had a whole smorgasbord there in Eden, made up of all kinds of food except meat.  We didn’t mind not having meat, though, because we didn’t know any better back then.  All of the animals in Eden were supposed to be friends for my husband Adam, not food.  That was before Adam got his operation where God took out a rib and made me from it.  At any rate, Adam and I more or less divided up the animal friends.  I took the cute ones and let him have the others, including the slimy ones, like the snake.  I should have paid more attention to the snake.  More about that later.

Anyway, we had a lot of trees in Eden, including a slew of fruit trees, so there was no need for me to want to try the one fruit we weren't allowed to eat.  According to what God told us, it was poison, and we would die from it.  It looked so good, though, that I never really believed it could be so dangerous to eat it.  I mean, what could one little bite do?  But God told us not to eat it, so we left it alone.  Better safe than sorry.

One day the snake came sidling up to me on his four little legs and began to talk to me.  I was shocked because I never knew we had a talking snake in Eden.

“I’m sorry.  Did I scare you?”  he said.

“Yes!”  I answered.  “What do you want?”

“I’m just being friendly.  Say, isn’t that the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil?”

“Yeah.  Why?”

"Oh, nothing.  How come you never eat any of its fruit?"

“God told us not to,” I said.  If we eat it, we’ll die.”

“Get outta here!”  he said.

“Really.  It’s true.”

“You know what I think?”  he said.  “I think you won’t die at all if you eat the fruit of that tree.  I think it will give you knowledge and you’ll be like God.  That’s what I think.”

“You really think so?”  I asked.

“Come on.  Try some.  One little bite can’t hurt.”

The thought of turning into a goddess was extremely tempting.  I had a feeling Adam wouldn’t mind turning into a god, too.

“Okay,” I said.  “But if this turns out bad, I’m blaming you.”

 To make a long story short, I took a bite of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.  I didn’t notice any change, but it tasted good, so I brought some of it to Adam.  Being the idiot he is, he took what I gave him and ate it.

Then the effects happened, the strongest of which was that we both suddenly noticed we weren’t wearing any clothes.  Until then, it hadn’t mattered, but now it did.  We rushed around, gathered fig leaves together and made loincloths for ourselves.  They didn’t cover us very well, but it was the best we could do with what we had.

After that, Adam and I had a big fight.  He blamed me for getting him in trouble, and I blamed him for being such a moron.  He stomped off and hid somewhere.  So did I.  The snake, who was laughing like a hyena through all this, stayed where he was to try to catch some sun.

I stayed hidden until evening, which was when God always came to visit us.  I could hear him coming as usual.  Boy, was I scared!  I didn't know how God was going to react.  After all, He was the Supreme Being, and we were just a couple of jerks that He put together from some dust and a rib.  And He did warn us not to eat from that tree.

Of course, we had to come out from hiding and Adam had to admit what had gone down.  You can't hide from God, and you can't lie to Him, so you might as well give up and take your lumps.  Adam blamed me.  I blamed the snake, as I had said I would.  God took away the snake's legs and told him he'd have to crawl on his belly from then on.  It served that sneaky little reptile right.

God warned both Adam and me about all the hardships we would be living from that point on, then He made us each some decent clothes and shooed us out of Eden.  Ordinarily, I love to get a new dress, but this was my first one, and the circumstances didn't warrant any kind of celebrating.

After God closed the garden gate on us, I suddenly remembered that I had left my purse behind.  I turned around to go back in to get it, but the entrance was being guarded by a scary-looking angel.  He didn't look like the type who liked to fetch things for people, so I left it alone and walked away with Adam.

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[1] East of Eden is a novel by John Steinbeck, for those of you who don’t remember this.  I thought it would be funny to include a reference to it here.  ... Well, it seemed like a good idea.