OK, Here's One for All You Young Whipper-Snappers Out There

Sure I am a Bombeckian, and I'm darned proud of it, too. Why that
woman made more money with her writing than the editors of the New
York Times and Washington Post combined. She could make a lamp post
look funny to the rest of us, and laugh all the way to Phoenix Savings
and Loan. Why, she was likened to a male rat once. A male rat that
ran all the females for all the other boys in the maze. I'm talking
fists full of little rat dollars here.

And she didn't need any of that Viagra to get her goin' either. Just
her mind and her wit. She could make doing the laundry or mowing the
lawn a happy chore. But watch out if you were one of her kids or her
neighbors. You might read about yourself in her twice weekly.

And, now that the dear old gal is gone, we all wanna replace her. But
none of us will. Ya know why? Because that Giant Editor in the Sky
sees fit not to.

No, gone forever is the trusty Barco-lounger covered in the fake sheep
skin. The frumpy house dress, always worn with pearls. And the bits
of wisdom she dispensed with a smile while we all worried about the
nukes on a tiny island next door.

She lifted our hearts and our minds. She took us places like
Albuquerque. Heck most of us couldn't even spell it, little own find
it on a map. She enlightened us about her world, which opened ours up
just a bit more. Lining up to buy the paper on her publishing days
was an event for the whole community, not something you groused about,
unless the news stand ran out too soon. Then you cornered some guy
and paid him twice as much for the second section as he paid for the
entire paper, just to read her latest.

No, young un's, sorry if you don't understand or relate to her brand,
but that don't mean we can't get along. Contrary to current opinion,
we can learn. And, this old dog still has a few tricks left to learn.

Now, I'll meet you out back by the wood pile. If ya can't teach me
anything new, you better be prepared for a whoppin'.

A Bit About Me

Hi, I'm Gail Lakritz, a starving humorist, who thinks writing is more important than eating.

Have you ever wondered what it is like to be a freelance humor writer? Well, the short answer is life’s a beach, and then you begin to write.

After many years of marriage, I found myself suddenly single. But my off brand way of seeing life and the many experiences it dishes out to each of us, all goes to prove that life begins again when you pick up a pen, or in my case, bash away on a keyboard.

Living in Williamsburg, Virginia, more than just the home of the Colonial Era revisited, has introduced me to life’s just off center experiences and further off center people.

Excerpts from “The Chronicles of Mother Toad’s Life.”

Now the clerks there are nice enough to me. They distrust cops too, so we have something in common. On any given day, I know that I can count on hearing a new stupid cop story from one of them. Like the time one came in without her ID and wanted the clerk to get her mail from her box for her. When he refused, she threatened to do something drastic, to which he told her “Go ahead, you work for the city, I work for the FEDS.” That shut her up.~~ “Going Postal”

Trina and John live next to Kathy and Jack. Jack told me they guard the spies. I have not had much contact with them. Trina came to my door a few times. She is a sucker for picking up strays and then canvassing the neighborhood to either find the owners or a home for her four legged adoptions. On her first visit, a rather large Doberman in tow, she asked if I needed a guard dog. Jack had told her I had been suffering from a string of break-ins. When I informed her that my blind, deaf eleven year old pooch would not welcome another resident in the house, a sly look crossed her face. “Well, maybe you would like to borrow one of my Smith and Wessons then. They’re a little heavy, but nothin’ you can’t handle.”~~”Meet the Neighbors”

I started out drawing the plans. I have had formal training in this aspect of construction, so I know how important it is. I sat at my drafting table, green shaded light, sharpened pencils, scale rule, everything I needed. I even sacrificed the background sound of soft rock. I needed to concentrate, and I was determined to do the project right. This was to be my crowning glory project. The jewel in my hard hat. I plotted and measured the entire project. I checked it twice, then three times. I made a foam board mock up. It all worked beautifully. It went together like a squirrel and a nut tree.~~”The Gingerbread House”

I arrived at the designated meeting place promptly at 7:30. Not knowing what to expect, I was startled by what I encountered. 51 people, all in black suits, were lined up dutifully against a concrete block wall. I made 52. As I stood waiting for my turn at the reception table, I thought to myself “Now this is really normal. Fifty two people standing in line and dressed like pallbearers. And they don’t expect anyone to notice?”~~”Interviewing With the CIA”

As I rounded the corner, Ding was on the floor, pulling on of all things, a wedding dress. Ding is small, no make that tiny. If a five mile an hour wind were to bellow through the streets of Foggy Bottom, she would be airlifted to the other side of the Tidal Basin. Standing over her and attached to the opposite end of the dress, was a woman at least twice her size and half her age. A woman who deserved the name Bertha if I ever saw one.~~”The Ding and I”