Humor of the Day: Operation Moby Dick

As I was getting ready for work this morning, I heard the DJ on the radio ask listeners to call in and tell their "funniest" story about their Mom. This, of course, was in preparation for Mother's Day on Sunday. Obviously, from my previous post, I could have easily called in with a story about my Mom, but since I was running late, I decided not to. Besides, how could I possibly pick just one funny story about my Mom?

But, as I listened to people call in and tell humorous stories about their Moms, this inspired me to think about what story my kids would tell about me. And then, without a doubt, I knew it would be our "Banana Boating Adventure" in the Dominican Republic. And since, in the past, my kids have actually requested that I blog about this adventure, I wouldn't want to disappoint them as Mother's Day approaches.

I'm not quite sure whose idea it was to go banana boating in the Dominican, but being the ever-adventurous Mom, I quickly agreed. What could be bad about sitting on an inflatable, yellow float as it is being dragged about the crystal clear ocean?

I soon found out.

For reasons that I still cannot comprehend, when we "boarded" the banana boat, Lauren took the seat immediately behind the driver, followed by Philip and then Ed. And I, bringing up the rear, took the last seat on the boat. In retrospect, it's beyond my comprehension why anyone would think that this was a good idea. It wasn't.

As our banana boat started on its voyage, all was well. Although we were bounced, twisted and tossed about, I managed to hold on by tightly clenching my hands on the grips. And then, our "driver" decided to add even more excitement to our ride and took an abrupt, extra-sharp turn. I, along with the rest of my family, lost my grip and landed in the water.

But I, unlike the rest of my family, did not quickly re-mount the banana boat.

By the time I had surfaced from underwater, wiped my eyes and gotten my bearings, I saw the rest of my family back on the banana boat and settling in to complete the ride.

So, I approached the boat, placed my arms up on the boat and pulled with all my strength. And, I went no where. Slipping back into the water, I heard Ed say "put your leg up on the boat as you pull up." Easy enough, I thought. I hiked my right leg up onto the boat, positioned my arms and pulled.

Attempt #2: Failure.

At this point, I realized that getting back on the boat was not going to be an easy feat. So, I started to do what I normally do when confronted with these type of situations: I laughed. And, I saw that my kids were laughing with me; Ed was not.

Hearing Lauren tell the driver that it would just be "one more minute" until I was back on the boat, I made a few unsuccessful attempts to re-mount the boat. But, I soon discovered that any upper body strength I may have had, disappeared when I was laughing. And I was laughing. A lot.

Fearing that his wife would be lost at sea forever, Ed decided that an intervention was necessary. So, he stood up on the boat and grabbed one of my arms and tried pulling me up.

Intervention unsuccessful.

"Sorry, it will just be another minute or two," Lauren patiently told the boat driver.

And then, Ed decided that a double-intervention was needed. "Phil, you grab Mom's right arm; I will take the left arm and on the count of three, PULL." 1...2....3....

Double-intervention unsuccessful.

"Really, it should only be another minute or two and she'll be back on the boat," Lauren assured the driver, who was growing impatient, though probably enjoying the best laugh of his career.

At this point, Lauren, Philip and I were convulsing with laughter; Ed was not. Instead, Ed was pacing back and forth on the banana boat, telling me that this was "not funny" and if I were going to get back on the boat, I had to stop laughing and exert some effort. Yet, Ed's growing concern and serious demeanor only added to my laughing. How could he not find this situation hysterical? Not even just a little bit funny?

And then, it happened.

The next thing I knew, Ed seemingly transformed from Ed Crawford, IBM Engineer to Captain Ahab. You know - the sea captain from Moby Dick. And if Ed is now Captain Ahab, who does that leave me to be?

Yup. The Whale.

"Phil, on the count of 3, we are going to try again to get her outta the water."

As Philip leaned down to grab my right arm, I have a vivid memory of him laughing uncontrollably and telling me that this was "the most hysterical thing that ever happened in his entire life." And while it's touching to know that you have made such a huge impact on your child's life, there was no time for sweet sentiments or Hallmark moments. Captain Ahab had other plans.

Meanwhile, doing her best to keep the boat driver abreast of the situation, Lauren calmly reassured him that this attempt would surely work and we would be back on the high seas momentarily.

"1...2....3..."

And then, through my laughing, I heard Captain Ahab bark his final instruction to his crew mate "HOIST HER."

With all their seafaring might, Ed and Philip each grabbed one of my arms and pulled. "Keeping pulling" Captain Ahab shouted. And, then, ever so slowly, I felt my body emerge from the water.

Operation Moby Dick successful.

Despite being compared to Moby Dick, I, along with Philip and Lauren still convulse with laughter each time this vacation story is told. Nevertheless, I am content knowing that Operation Moby Dick helped me fulfill my role as a mother. My kids will never lack for a "funniest" mother story.

And though I originally swore that this would be my first and last time banana boating, I can somehow see myself trying this adventure again.

Ed does not....lol

Humor of the Day: The Top 5

Although one of my mother's favorite mantras is "life is not fair," I decided that in all fairness to my mom, I would dedicate this blog piece to her. Seeing that I dedicated a piece about her sister Frances, it only seems fitting that I would write about my mom as she turns 80 on April 28th.

Yes Mom, I did just publish your age for all the world to see.

Throughout the years, there have been numerous "Humor of the Day" episodes with my mom. And, as she reaches this milestone, I compiled a list of the past events that have made me smile or laugh. The list was very long and could fill many blog posts, so I thought about it and decided to pick my top 5 favorites. It wasn't an easy decision; there were many finalists. But, in the end, these are your top 5 "Humor of the Day" episodes Mom.

"Redheads Cannot be Redbirds"

When I was in first grade, I had the opportunity to be cast as a "Red Bird" in our school play. Thrilled to be cast as a "Red Bird" (and not the rooster), I rushed home to tell my mother the exciting news.

But, much to my dismay, my mother did not share my enthusiasm. Instead of running out to buy material for my costume, she quickly made an appointment to meet with my first grade teacher, Miss Searfoss.

At this meeting, my mother explained to Miss Searfoss that the one cardinal rule (no pun intended) of raising redheads is "Redheads do not wear red. Ever." Because the costume would clash with my hair, my mother requested (insisted?) that I be a "Blue Bird" instead.

I'm certain Miss Searfoss did not find this as entertaining as I now do, but it's safe to say that my Hollywood career may have been cut short because I wasn't allowed to make my debut performances as a Red Bird.

"Yes, We Have Towels"

This "Humor of the Day" episode occurred one year as we were making our annual summer visit to my Uncle Philip's farm in Canada.

Each year, as we approached the Canadian border, my father would recite the "Border Rules." And each year, he would say the following:

-"When we get to the border and the Customs official comes to the car, I will do all of the talking."

-"Everyone in the car shall remain quiet during the questioning."

-"Does everyone understand the rules?"

And each year, there would be a resounding "Yes" to his final question.

Yet, evidently, in this particular year, 3 of the 4 members of my family understood the rules. But, clearly, one family member did not.

Similar to the Passover question "Why is this night different from all other nights?" -- I asked myself "Why is this year different from all other years?" when I heard my mother blurt "Yes, we have towels" when the Customs official asked if we had anything to "declare."

Had it not been for the fact that my father simultaneously said "No" to the Customs official at precisely the exact moment of my mother's confession, this episode might not have been so amusing to me.

Nevertheless, none of us were amused when the Customs official had us pull our car over to the designated "criminal parking area" so we could be investigated further.

Suffice it to say that this was the last conversation my mother ever had with a Customs official.

" 101 Uses for Duco Cement"

As a kid, I never knew what to expect when I came home from school. It was always an adventure.

There was the time I came home from school and found my mother eyebrow-less and eyelash-less because she singed them lighting the pilot light on our oven. Or, the time I came home to a house smelling of smoke because my mother decided to burn her old checks in the fireplace, but neglected to open the "damper." Who knew you had to open the damper? (What's the damper?) And then, there was the time I came home and the glass piece from our coffee table was standing upright in the living room because my mom tried to lift it (despite my father' warnings of "never try to lift that glass") and discovered it really was too heavy to put back in place.

But, this "Humor of the Day" incident occurred one day when I came home from school and my mother excitedly showed me her artistic achievement of the day. In retrospect, it rivaled anything I've ever seen on Martha Stewart.

Growing impatient because my father had not yet hung a picture on the wall, my mother decided to take matters into her own hands. How difficult could it be to hang a picture on the wall she wondered. Not very difficult at all if you own Duco cement.

For those not familiar with Duco cement, think "Super Glue."

Being the perfectionist that he was, I was never quite sure if my father's anger stemmed from the fact that my mother cemented the picture to the wall --or --that she cemented it to the wall crooked!

"Please Write it Down"

When I was 13 years old, my family moved from the Bronx to North Carolina. While this was no laughing matter, I have a very vivid "Humor of the Day" episode that occurred shortly after we moved.

It was a brutally hot, summer day so my mother, sister and I went to an ice cream shop to get three cones. After handing us the cones, the waitress looked at my mom and said in a slow, Southern drawl "Ma'am that will be ...."

My mother, sister and I all looked at each other and wondered what foreign language she could possibly be speaking.

My mother replied "Excuse me, can you please repeat that?" Again, the waitress spoke a language that seemed foreign to us.

My mother looked at my sister and I and said "Do you understand what she is saying?" As my sister and I nodded our heads "no," we slowly inched toward the exit door. There was nothing good that could come from this potentially embarrassing situation. A quick exit might be in order.

After several more interludes of "she said", "she didn't understand," my mother said "I am sorry. I just moved here from NY and I don't understand your accent. Can you please write the amount down on a piece of paper?"

Emergency exit.

And, if my memory serves me right, the three cones came to a total of 35 cents. Now that's something to laugh about!

"Congested"

The final "Humor of the Day" incident that I chose to write about occurred one summer when my mom came to watch my kids. And my cat, Merlin.

I was at work when my mother called me and said "Merlin sounds congested."

"What does a congested cat sound like," I asked? She replied that he sounded stuffy. She went on to add that Merlin sounded like Philip did when his asthma flared up.

I asked my mom a few more questions and she said "Well, Merlin is sitting next to me, I am petting him and he keeps making a noise."

"That would be called purring, Mom."


Thanks for the laughs Mom and Happy 80th Birthday!!!

Humor of the Day: 1-800-Meat

This Humor of the Day post is dedicated to my Aunt Frances, who turned 95 years old on Saturday.

While trying to decide what to write about Frances, I thought about writing a touching piece about her remarkable life story --overcoming polio at age 2, dropping out of school at age 15 to take care of my mom (after their mother died), returning to night school, continuing on to get her Masters at Columbia, breaking her hip at age 93 and now back on her feet again -- or, I could write about Frances and an incident that occurred 3 years that still makes me laugh whenever I think about it.

I opted for the incident that occurred 3 years ago.

My mother and I went to visit Frances in NYC one Saturday afternoon. Because we arrived around lunch time, we had agreed that we would go to a nearby deli for something to eat. Frances told me that the deli was about 10 blocks away, but because it was Saturday and the deli was kosher, we should call ahead to see if they were open. Reasonable enough.

Frances got the Yellow Pages, looked up the number, told me that she would recite the number and I should dial the phone. As she started to recite the number, she said "1-800..." I immediately stopped her and said "Frances, I don't think you are looking at the right phone number. If the deli is only 10 blocks away, I doubt they have an 800 number."

Frances looked at the Yellow Pages again and said "That is the correct number" and she repeated the 1-800-number. Although it still didn't seem right to me, I dialed the number and in my usual fashion, I quickly handed the phone to my mother who relishes in talking on the phone.

My mother had no sooner said "hello" when her eyes turned HUGE, her mouth literally dropped open, she gasped and then said "uuhhhhhhh." She then ran over to me and put the phone up to my ear.

That's when I heard a woman's voice saying things that no woman should ever hear -- much less say. Although my mother seemingly wanted to keep listening, she hung up the phone and exclaimed "Frances, for god's sake...what number did you give us?"

Unbeknown to Frances, when she looked up the phone number for the deli, she actually gave me the number for a 1-800 "Meat Market." In non-kosher terms, this translates to a sex hot line. Not the kosher deli 10 blocks from Frances' apartment.

And while this was literally an eye-opening experience for us all, we not only learned that the kosher deli was open on Saturday, but evidently, the Meat Market does not observe the Sabbath either....lol

Happy 95th Birthday Frances!!!!

Humor of the Day: Penguin Pacer

I seem to have hit a real dry spell in my Humor of the Day posts. Since the "Night of the Living Dead," there seems to have been little to nothing that has made me noticeably smile or laugh. But, because I have "allowed" myself to rely on past events, I am able to make this post.

A week or two ago, my neighbor Laura offered me a part time job. I, the slowest of the slow of Penguins, have been offered a job as "a pacer." That job offer made me laugh. A lot.

For those unfamiliar to the world of running and/or racing, a pacer is someone who sets the pace of a race for the other runners. Serious runners use pacers in races; not-so-serious runners use pacers to train and "penguins" call upon other penguins as pacers when all else fails.

Because Laura is currently training for a 10k and because I run ever-so-slightly faster than her, she has offered for me to be her pacer. She even went so far as to offer to "pay" me to run a 5k race with her. This, according to Laura, will be the key to her setting a personal record.

Although visions of dollar signs flashed before my eyes, she then proceeded to explain that she would pay my race entry fee; however, I would not be paid on an hourly basis to prod her along as we run.

Despite the salary restrictions, I seem to have accepted the offer and am now proud to be among the elite few who can call themselves "pacers."

As I waddle ever so slowly ahead of Laura on the rail trial, I am continually assessing our pace and pondering if I am running too fast (doubtful), too slow (probably) or just right (hopefully).

My success as a pacer currently remains unknown. However, if Laura does ultimately set a personal record in the next 5k that we run, I foresee myself engaging in some serious salary negotiations with her ....lol

Humor of the Day: Night of the Living Dead

After a too long dry spell of "no humor," I can thank this old, out of shape man at All Sport last night for this Humor of the Day post.

While sitting quietly and rather motionless at the blood pressure machine (as instructed), I saw this large, old man, with a huge "spare tire" heading towards me.

He approached me and said "You don't need to speak to me, but you look like you have died."

Something told me this wasn't a compliment.

There were many thoughts that went through my head about how he looked, but I bit my tongue and simply replied "I am tired."

He then slumped over, contorted his face, closed his eyes and told me again that I looked "dead."

After his dramatic re-enactment of my deadly appearance, he explained that he was looking for a piece of paper and there are usually small slips of paper at the blood pressure machine. After rising from the dead, I handed him a piece of paper, he rambled on about my red hair and how I must be Irish. And then, he waddled off.

It wasn't until after my grueling spin class that I actually laughed about this bizarre encounter. I thought to myself "If he thought I looked dead before, he should only see me now....." lol

Humor of the Day: Conjoined at the Wrist

Though this Humor of the Day incident occurred a week ago, I wanted to be sure to post about it because it not only made me smile, but it made me laugh out loud - a lot.

Lauren and I were planning "Prom Dress Shopping Take 2" and had decided that we would make a quick trip to a local dress shop. As I was getting ready for the shopping excursion, I put on my usual "bronze" color watch. At some point, while I continued to get dressed, I put on a sweater with a silver zipper. In my mind, that meant that my earrings should also be silver. And hence, I should also wear my silver watch. Clearly, I had seen one too many episodes of "What Not to Wear."

So, I placed my silver watch on my wrist.

Because the local dress shop closed at 5 and because I also knew that prom dress shopping is always an ordeal that lasts several hours, I was conscious of how much time we had for actual shopping. As we were driving to the dress shop, I glanced at my wrist to see the time. And that's when the Humor of the Day incident occurred.

Unbeknowst to me, when I put on my silver watch, I never took off the bronze watch. And so there, on my wrist, were my two watches co-habitating.

After laughing and convincing myself that I really wasn't going crazy, I took my "conjoined watches" as a sign that "Prom Dress Shopping Take 2" would take twice as long, be twice as much fun and end up costing me twice as much money...lol

Humor of the Day: The Wicked Witch of the West Goes South

This past Saturday, I didn't have to look too far to find humor. First, Dr. Redneck provided me with a huge laugh as he prepared himself for our upcoming 20 mile bike.

And then, while on our ride, it was the Wicked Witch of the West herself who added to the amusement.

This past Saturday marked the Maiden Voyage of my new bicycle. Armed with "real" padded bicycle pants (as opposed to Dr. Redneck's idea of stuffing a pillow in my regular pants), I took to the Harlem Rail Trial for my first 20 mile ride.

Accompanied by my training partner, Laura; my self-appointed cycling coach, Ed and Laura's good-natured husband Alan, we set out on our adventure. Laura, who is quickly following in her husband's footsteps and developing a fascination for electronic devices, had her Garmin GPS watch, which would track our mileage.

As we unloaded our bikes at the rail trail and were getting ready for our big adventure, I made an interesting observation: I, the shortest person of the group by about a foot, had one of the largest bicycles. As we would say in the Crawford household, "I had the bike that ate Canterberry Court (our street)." In layman's terms, that's another way of saying "my bike was HUGE."

Another interesting tidbit to note was that when the bike was "fitted" to me, it was configured so that my feet do not touch the ground at all if I am sitting on the seat. As it was explained to me, I am supposed to apply the brakes and then gracefully slide off the seat when I come to a stop. My feet will meet the ground at some point. It all sounded good in theory when the "bike guy" explained this to me.

Once at the rail trail, we all geared up --"Should I wear a hat?" "Should I wear gloves? "Are long pants better than the capri length riding pants?" And, when Ed had securely attached his rubber bands to the bottom of his jeans, it was time to start our expedition.

When our bike posse made it one way to the end of the rail trial, we discovered that we ran out of trail. Instead of stopping to eat lunch (which, in retrospect, would have been a much better idea), Ed, Laura and I turned around and started heading back.

At this point in our journey, Laura and I were riding side-by-side and my coach was behind me (analyzing my riding form, no doubt). As Laura and I chatted about god-knows-what, we came upon a patch of ice/snow. Laura went to the left of the patch and I went to the right. Or, as Ed says, "You headed straight for the ice patch - purposely."

At that moment in time, it was a moot point as to which direction I planned to head: left, right or center. It made no difference at all because seemingly, my bike was on autopilot and on a course of its own. A crash course.

As my front tire started to swerve left, right and every which way in between, I fought to maintain control. But, the only real control I had at that point was to cover my eyes and try to protect them from the bushes that would soon be my landing pad. And then, I auto-ejected from my bike. Or, a more accurate description may be that my bike auto-ejected from me.

When I made landfall in the snow bank, I did what I usually do after a fall: I started to laugh. And cry. And then, some combination of the two. But, when I felt the intense pain in my left leg, panic set in and four vivid thoughts went through my head:

1. Your running days are over; you'll never get that medal for the 70+ age group.
2. Your biking days are over before they even began.
3. You will be returning to work on Monday morning in a full body cast - or better yet- you won't have to go to work on Monday.
4. "OH MY GOD - MY NEW BIKE IS RUINED".

Five days post auto-ejection, I have yet to be able to run without pain, have not tried biking and did return to work, though not in a full body cast.

And as for my bike, it survived its Maiden Voyage with a few nics and scratches, but is no worse for wear. My legs, however, are another story.

Clearly, any fantasies I may have had of ever being a "leg model" are gone. They, too, went South with the Wicked Witch of the West....lol