Punky Humor

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=betty+mermelstein

We waited in the Tour in English line, wavering between feeling comfortably smug that we were important enough to be given this special attention and feeling obviously incompetent in our skills to communicate in Italian. Making new best friends quickly gave us newfound confidence. "Where you from?" "Colorado." "Oh! That's just kitty corner to us in Arizona! "You been to the Four Corners?" "Oh, sure. We've got relatives in Flagstaff." We continued our bestie dialog, as I wondered if I would even have smiled at this guy in my local grocery store.   Finally, it was time to begin our descent into the famous grotto. Our guide reminded us in his heavy Italian accent to stay on the path and not to touch the rock formations. "These stalactites grow at a rate of 0.0051 inches a year." Fixing his eyes on my face, he smiled inquisitively, "Is that good for you?" "Uhhhh," was the only thing emanating from my mouth. Not exactly the right time to ask that question. I tried to picture the training session this guide went through. At the head of the class stood either someone taking his or her English cues from Facebook or a sadistic American. "Now we mount the boat," our guide announced, motioning to the wobbly rowboat waiting for us on the underground river. I raised my eyebrows to my bestie, who snickered into his jacket. "Everyone step under the behind," we were newly directed. Though we all should have known what he meant, a woman distracted by her children took him at his word and put her foot out under the stern of the boat. She hit the water like a flipped pancake slapping the floor. I can only assume the tirade of Italian we heard next was either a profuse apology or our guide questioning his decision to lead the masses. Having only lost about ten minutes while an escort was called for the sopping, sobbing woman and her kids, we embarked on the river tour. "All branches inside the boat," we were warned. Meandering through the grotto, we came upon a cavernous room whose ceiling was nearly indiscernible. Our guide became very proud as he stated, "This is the best part of the tour. We call it the Cathedral. You can hear your organ in it." As our eyebrows raised, he pushed a button on his phone, so we could indeed hear the echo of his, uh, an organ. I gained a new appreciation of communicating in a different language, especially when someone is not fluent in it. I can only imagine what I would have sounded like if the situation were reversed. In my hope to wish that my clients would have a good time, I probably would have shouted, "Voglio goderti!": "I want to enjoy you!"

My vacation inspiration.

Enter Seven for Reflection’s name to view it on Smashwords

Nothing says summer like playing in the water! This is from my rhyming ebook, Water Play, on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/Water-Play-Betty-Mermelstein-ebook/dp/B00XB6NARU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1528596820&sr=8-2&keywords=betty+mermelstein

http://www.short-humour.org.uk/8writersshowcase/8writersshowcase.htm#BEM

I’m reading my ebook, Jib and Spinnaker: Sailors of the Low Seas, to my grandson. This can be found on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Jib-Spinnaker-Sailors-Low-Seas-ebook/dp/B006LQ01FQ/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1517242040&sr=8-2&keywords=betty+mermelstein

The beer flowed in college, and Shelley remembered camaraderie with steins lifted to toast whatever event was spurting through the air from uninhibited mouths. She expected the same at the reunion, as much older peers drifted into the local brewery shouting hellos and old nicknames. Bodies sat around King Arthur's round table: knights and maids who sat shoulder to shoulder, arms slapping backs and starting their stories of old. "I remember that night you had too much, Stymie," winked Jack as he looked around the group. "You had disappeared," Jack continued. "We looked for you and found you downtown naked, running around the streets!" Guffaws ran in a circular motion. Shelley's lips pursed and her eyes widened. Looking at Stymie, all she could picture was his naked body in its older version. "And who saved you when you were so drunk you couldn't write your Psych term paper?" Stymie retorted with a smirk. "I believe I delivered you an A on that." Shelley ran her fingers around the outline of her mouth, looking up in the air. She returned briefly to her semester on the work/study program, an aide in the Psych department, a request to grade papers, and Jack's stellar research. The gauntlet was laid down, but it was a jester's act. Steins were lifted once more and Stymie led the table in the college's football fight song. Shelley moved her lips, secretly hoping no one would bring up that foul smelling bag left on the step of the coach's home.

A new house! Tons to replace and set up. The big one was to arrive today: TV and Wi-Fi setup. So what if it took three visits to install the faucets for the kitchen sink? Big deal if eighty percent of the new dining room furniture was so rustic in style it had to be returned. This would be the one worth waiting for. The serviceman showed up at the door with the good news that the only cable company available in my community was ready to help me communicate with the world. He set to work in the office, huddled over wires by the desk like a raccoon sorting through old spaghetti. Within ten minutes, he was ready to give me instructions. "Get on your computer," he commanded. I was only too willing to comply. "I need at least eight characters for your password for the Wi-Fi," he said. What to choose? My mother's maiden name? The name of the boy in first grade who gave me my first kiss? That guy who pretended to be a real estate agent and cleaned us out of our jewelry at the first house showing? "I'll give you a password," the serviceman stated, taking my computer from me. "Ihaveanewhouse17, there!" he typed. "Well, I guess that will work." Another ten minutes went by while he checked the outside box. "Ok," he said, returning to begin rapid firing the remote that pointed at the TV. "This is your power button, this is the guide where you select your station, here's your record button, and you can choose one episode like this or the whole series like this, then you go back to live TV." My mind was a blender of instructions, wondering when I should throw in the almond milk to smooth it all out. "Ok, that's it for me," he announced heading for the door. Well, at least it was all done. I went to my computer, eager to send my first email from my new house. No Connection greeted me instead. I ran to the remote and turned on a news channel. This HDMI Not Supported was my second greeting. I wasn't in this much disbelief since the neighbor two doors down from my old house came around on Halloween in a nude leotard. My phone still worked. I dialed the number for the cable company that now seemed to be holding me hostage. What a surprise that the next available agent was only thirty minutes away.

I couldn't wait to take a dip in the pool of nostalgia that was exhibited at the local museum's summer exhibit. The title was Lovin' the Late 60s, causing shiny plastic knee boots, pale lipstick, and hip huggers to skate through my mind like my date groovin' to "Stone Soul Picnic" at the prom. My friend, Eileen, and I rode the escalator up while the Beatles' "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" wafted through our ears.  I stared at the giant wall mural at the head of the stairway: Peter Max's "A Different Drummer". So colorful, so dreamlike, so…. Missing the get-off point of the escalator, I outstretched my arms in whooping crane fashion and fell on my face.  Eileen, behind me, shoved me with her toe to make room for her and the sequentially lofty passengers. "Are you all right?" she asked, staring down at me. "I'm fine," I lied, as I picked myself up and rubbed my nose. In the first room was a mock-up of a record store where people were flipping through albums placed in a wooden bin.   "Oh, I have that album!" I yelled out a little too enthusiastically. People turned their heads to stare at the oldest person in the room and then resumed their serious flipping.   "This band really spoke to freeing one's mind from the establishment," said one guy no older than twenty. I turned to Eileen. "They were just really on drugs, you know." She nodded. The adjoining room exhibited appliances and accessories typical of the era. I peered into a case of jewelry containing a paper maché bracelet, a Turkish puzzle ring, and a leather choker necklace, all of which still resided in my jewelry box. "Wow! Look at all this really old stuff!" exclaimed a teenaged girl examining the contents. I restrained myself from telling her that if she were lucky, some day she would be that old, too.   Hearing music, I pulled Eileen into a darkened room with lights flashing like lightning bugs on acid. A video played on one wall of Sly and the Family Stone singing "Every Day People".  Eileen decided to pull me out when I started bouncing in place mouthing "boom shack a lack a lack a, boom shack a lack a lack a". I felt torn as we headed for the exit. I was a remnant of nostalgia, connecting with a bygone culture very familiar to me, yet an oddity to others. A sense of satisfaction came over me: I belonged to that era. I knew it when most of these other visitors never would, and I wondered where I could find my lava lamp.

http://buff.ly/2sXVHIX

Thump, thump, thump.  I turned slightly on the elevated boardwalk winding above the Floridian preserve filled with turtles, birds, and alligators.  My lips spread across my face in anticipation of a friendly hello from the person approaching me from behind. The walker wasn't one of the amblers.  I should have known from the rhythm of the thumps on the wood.  Grabbing the railing beside me, I made way for the determined marcher accelerating past me, head bent as if intent on finding stray breakfast worms dropped by the egrets.  His stomps shook the boards, but I was committed to sharing the camaraderie of the early morning movers. "Good morning!" I yelled, my words floating away over the marshy water.  A stork's raucous call was my only reply. Undaunted, I whipped my head around to see two approaching women deep in conversation. "So I told her if you don't want her to hang around the house all week while you've got things to do, then don't invite her!" "She's too afraid to say anything.  You know her!" "Hello, ladies," I chirped, waving my hand like a nervous Queen of England. "I have tried to suggest the hot spots in our area when she visits, and all she wants to do is watch TV." "And she expects her to watch it all with her!" My hand continued its rotations as it waved them by. The women were deeper in conversation than a gold ring in a drainpipe. A little red-winged blackbird flew over to the railing just ahead of me. It opened its mouth and trilled in a seemingly spirited desire to commune with me. I approached it on sneakered heels and toes. Its song called me.  Here was my friend on our wooden path. The approaching alligator below scared it away. I began my stride on the planks below my feet, concentrating on my paces: thump, thump, thump.