Bakery customer observations reveal the diversity of the sexes. Women will furtively choose the smallest sweet, looking remorseful as it is wrapped “to go.” Men will choose two of the largest goodies, wrapping unnecessary. Women will confide they “don’t really need it.” Men’s mouths will be too full to speak. Though men are supposedly better at math, most rarely count things that are invisible, like calories. And sugar-deprived, calorie-counting females rarely give the males a shove and snatch the creamy confection right out of their mouths. But I did apologize. Once I finished daintily blotting the frosting from my lips.

Manufactures have stumbled upon the perfect plan to increase earnings by making cheaper, more unreliable products. It might be one of the most brilliant pieces of con artistry since the goose poop craze. We have been convinced that paying an additional 10% of the purchase price for a manufacturers’ service contract because that product will, more than likely, be defective in some way once the warranty is up, is a great deal. For us. Maybe I should start selling service contracts to my customers. If they pay me an extra 10%, I would offer to fix my type-oh’s. For free.

No matter the make or model, and with few exceptions, most motorcyclists will wave to fellow riders. You don’t see BMW and Jag drivers doing that very often. The best thing about “The Wave,” of course, is the style variety (and the theories they provoke):

Peace sign - Have reached Zen in the ride?
Prom Queen - Replaced crown with helmet?
Hawaiian fist - Surf’s down?
From the hip – Former line dancers?
Finger lift – Carpal tunnel victims?
Underhanded - Used to scooping up small children quickly?
Overhead Fist - Missing the game?
Heaven Reachers – Often asked to retrieve high objects?
“How” - Of Native American descent?

For eighty-eight years he’s shivered in a cold shower 100 seconds everyday because his big brother told him he should. I never had a big brother, but my best friend had five, all happy to treat me like their little sister. They convinced us a ghost lived in the attic, that they could predict our date of death, and that the neighborhood bully could fly. Once they tried to convince us eating Alpo increased brain size. Luckily we were already smart enough, but I hate to think what would have happened if they told us nibbling kibble increased cup size.

I don’t know about you, but I believe Andy Rooney is the funniest man on earth. Of course, I haven’t met every man on earth yet so I could be wrong. But, as my husband will attest, I am very rarely wrong. While there are several things I find charming about Mr. Rooney, including his admission that he “doesn’t want to look like he’s from out of town,” and the fact that he doesn’t appear to pluck his eyebrows, what tickles me most about Mr. Rooney is his use of the truth to provoke not only laughter, but serious thought.

There's a new sleeping pill on the market. Of course, it has side effects - the most troublesome may include drowsiness and fatigue. I admit I'm a little too alert today, but was someone testing their product a tad too enthusiastically? Or has my satisfying daily nap finally caught up with me? Don't get me wrong - you can never be too careful. Sex - side effects may include orgasm. Wedding - side effects may include spouse. Job - side effects may include paycheck. Food - side effects may include nourishment. Warning labels - side effects may eventually include the inability to process simple information without one.

Mary Very Easily Made John Some Unusually Nice Pie. This easily remembered mnemonic will need revision. Making pie isn’t easy, and making easy to remember mnemonics isn’t either. Though some may be disappointed at Pluto’s demotion, I’m willing to bet Mary is happy to have scientific justification for dodging her pie baking obligations. Maybe John will discover a bakery when the occasion calls for perfectly round, flaky crust. I wonder, though, if Plutonians haven’t already revised their own mnemonic to account for their demotion of earth as a planet: Plutonians Nearly Underestimate Satellite’s Journey, Mistaking Venus’s Moon….for a planet

Over the years, it’s entirely possible I’ve made millions of mistakes. I’ve written checks for money I only imagined was there, mailed bills I've forgotten to stamp and stamped envelopes I’ve forgotten to mail. I’ve licked envelopes before including the check, and I routinely insert my invoices backwards. Once, I even mailed a sympathy card to new parents while the congratulations card went to a new widow. But in all those years, I don’t think I’ve ever accidentally written and mailed 230,000 checks. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed my little slip-up before I’d finished licking all those stamps.

I can change my own oil, maneuver power tools, usually without major mishap, and understand how most sports are played, even if I do think they're silly. I like to dig in the dirt, fish, haul wood, and push a lawnmower. I don't like to cook, cry at sappy movies, shop, or gossip, but it's unlikely I would be mistaken for a guy, especially in pantyhose. One thing I don't do is ride my own motorcycle because my brain, currently operating at full capacity, makes me aware of my eye-hand-foot coordination limitations, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Comedians can turn a normal human activity into a funny story. The elderly can take a funny story and repeat it often enough to turn it into an inhumane activity.

A comedian’s job is to make people laugh. The elderly don’t need jobs and laugh at those of us who do.

When a comedian glues you to your toilet seat, it’s considered normal behavior, although a bit inconvenient. If an elderly person can’t manage a normal toilet seat, some might consider their presence inconvenient.

Comedians make us laugh by being wise.
Our elderly impart wisdom requiring the ability to laugh.

There are, among us, many people who don't understand what's so funny. They're sitting behind you, walking in front of you and often slamming doors in your face. They're stressed out, fed up, down in the dumps and perpetually upset. To these people, I say, existence is ephemeral, but laughter echoes throughout eternity. Absurdities abound. Look around and you're going to notice God has a sense of humor, and He's doing his best to make you laugh. I believe He made me a smartass for a reason. Sometimes, however, I think the reason is that He's anxious to see me.

He's a hunter. She's a photographer. They both love wildlife. She likes to watch it. He likes to shoot it. So their reactions to the raccoons that managed to move a 30 pound weight off the top of the trash can and knock it down were understandable. She was enchanted by their fat little waddles, and fascinated by their childlike audacity. He sputtered angrily and groaned at the mess they already made. She grabbed the camera. He rushed for the gun. They're still not sure how it happened - a brilliant flash, a scream - the poor trash can was a goner....

Remember that Terms of Endearment scene where Nicholson is driving his convertible on the beach, yelling "wind in the hair!" right before Shirley MacLaine hits the brakes and puts him headfirst into the ocean? I can relate to the sentiment of her reaction to the windblown look. Some women look great with hurricane hair. I'm not one of them either. I've finally realized, though, that there aren't many activities you can enjoy while keeping your tresses tidy. As I've gotten older, I've discovered that 1. No one is looking and 2. Bald could be beautiful (and much easier to comb).

I’m not sure men and women should be allowed to cohabitate. After all, experts designed separate prisons, and they probably know things we don’t. For instance, women can spot a speck of dirt on a clean floor in complete darkness. Men can’t see dirt unless there’s a speck of it stuck to their cornea. Women worship Mr. Clean, practicing the magical art of elbow grease and believing cleanliness is closely related to righteousness. Men believe greasiness abuts manliness. Women can perform household tasks that require bending from the waist. Men bend over when their tie gets stuck in their zipper.

She drives too fast, loves too hard, and snorts when she laughs. She’s an executive daughter, perfecting the art of managing dad and awarding mom (at least temporarily) a management position. She slept through the night at two weeks, walked at nine months and never stops talking except when I make her really mad. She’s earned one degree, works two jobs, and thinks three is her lucky number. She’s moody and intuitive and kind even to people who don’t deserve it. Sometimes I wonder where she came from and realize how lucky I am to know her as my daughter.

Are human beings freaks of nature? With almost every other species, the flamboyant male’s job is to attract the dowdy female. He’ll primp, preen and even dance, competing fiercely with all the other suitors, chitting and chatting for hours, in hopes she will choose him. Not so with humans. Women are not only the more colorful of the species, they often, with their high-pitched mating call and finely attuned ear for clock ticking, appear the more desperate. The actual problem for female humans, of course, is that once the mating process is complete, they neither dismiss nor consume their mates.

Both sexes have similar fishing techniques. Men tote tackle boxes full of bait, bobbers, hooks, and maybe bologna sandwiches in case the fish aren’t biting. Women carry tote bags full of bait, hooks, baubles, and possibly a good book in case the men aren’t biting. There are differences too, of course. Men cast with a flick of the wrist; women a flick of the hair. Men brag about the one that got away; women, the ones who won’t go away. Still, when either sex is rewarded with a great catch, they both clean ‘em up and grill ‘em to perfection.

They ask tough questions, build morale, combat injustice, doctor the wounded, encourage the troubled, and fight monsters under the bed, gathering and distributing essential resources, hatching battle plans, infiltrating enemy camps, and joining forces to increase their strength. They keep the faith, lift spirits, make do with less, negotiate with superiority, oppress when necessary, push the idle, quit rarely, struggle against adolescents, triumph over evil, usurp power and vanquish neighborhood bullies. They wage war even when weary, yell occasionally, and read bedtime stories all the way to the end. A parent isn’t awarded a purple heart, but a full one.

I found these "contract" synonyms amusing:
Con tract
Rip-off region
Trick territory
Swindle swathe
Cheat zone
Lure leaflet
I used to believe people (even contractors and salesman) were generally honest and good-hearted - giving a day's work for a day's pay, providing services of value and selling the promised quality products. As I've gotten older, though, experience has taught me this belief is naive and a little bit stupid. Salesmen lie because it's lucrative. Contractors cheat because it's easy. And members of both groups steal because they can. I haven't given up on humanity completely though. I still believe in Santa.

Her calloused fingers slip and slide along the strand, as each of the pedals yield to a crimson tipped foot, creating a soundless rhythm but for the whir of air flowing through the wheel's spokes. Hold and release converts tufts of greasy animal fur into long, tight fiber. Her voice rises and falls, concealing as much as she reveals, the story seamless as her threads. Inventing or remembering twists and turns, it is sometimes tangled in the telling, but still believable and, to her, still true. Each moment muffles its past, growing thicker as the yarn spins into the wheel.

Kyle was lost. She heard the wet whispers of her parents when she came home early from ballet. Did they mean he couldn't find them or that they couldn't find him? She was sure he knew the way home. He was 12 years older and knew everything. His picture was tucked into her best purse - the one he called Pepto-Bismol pink. He was wearing the uniform with all the pretty ribbons. The pink one she had given him was hidden in his pocket. She placed her sandals by their tree. He said that glow could light the way home.

Behold the former non-believer. As friends and strangers pledged their commitment and were rewarded, he was inspired. Envy and awe shone from his face. He prayed for guidance in hopes of being found worthy. Longing to be surrounded and enveloped, to feel protected with a sense of well being that would assure him he wasn’t alone, without hope. He imagined giving himself up to this higher power, sustained by a bottomless well of strength and power. Searching for the meaning of life, and a reason for living, he devoted himself to worshipping faithfully at the altar of the state lottery.

I wonder where the urge to travel to the moon comes from. Being up close and personal with the power over tides, moods, and werewolf schedules is appealing. The need to lug your own air around in order to keep breathing could provide a sense of accomplishment. Feeling those pounds melt away without all the bother of dieting is certainly tempting, though the necessary accessorizing would be time consuming and cumbersome. Is it the whiff of danger, or a desire for that utter silence lately available nowhere on earth? I bet it's the silence. Now I want to go too.

As far as we've progressed, are men and women equal yet? Most people still won't stop to help a man change a flat tire no matter how short his skirt is. When a man's housekeeping abilities are less than perfect, other men do not yet snidely remark upon it to each other. Men still don't have any reliable, convenient excuse for their monthly bloating and general grumpiness. Wives do not accuse husbands of acting "just like your father" in the same tone of voice they use for "you're just like your mother." Men still think sex is a headache cure.

Lightweight or heavyweight, it's no contest. The battle between evil clothing manufacturers and physical imperfections rages. The fighters are in their corners, and the match is about to begin. Round one: The thong is hostile and pushing for a split decision. Round two: The bra plays an endless game of peek-a-boo, hooking and jabbing. Round three: The pantyhose slide below the belt, throwing their opponent off balance. But the majority decision will undoubtedly make the stiletto heels undisputed champions when that final bell rings. At the end of the fight, I'm not a knockout, but I coulda' been a contenda'.

I always wanted to be a Partridge.
I didn't particularly want to live on a bus with five siblings, but I did want the ability to sing and dance.
I was the only kid at parties to lip synch happy birthday.
I was constantly on the look-out for the boy with two left feet.
I had both of the right ones.
When a friend told me she had always wished she could sing and make people laugh, complimenting my ability to make her laugh, I had an "aha" moment.
I can sing and dance.
People will laugh.
Life is good.

At what age do mothers stop warning their kids to "look both ways" before they cross the street? My grandmother was well into her eighties and still advising my 50-something mother to "be careful," whenever she hung up the phone. When my mother found out I was planning a pontoon boat ride, she admonished me to "wear a lifejacket." When my daughter leaves my house to drive to her own two miles away, I always remind her to "buckle up." For some mothers, it's much easier to give orders than it is to say I love you. The answer? Never.

Too tired, too hungry, too broke, too crowded too many other thing to do - the excuses I've used to avoid grocery shopping. They're getting as floppy as his old underwear, and he probably feels just as much breeze up his butt when I use them. The basis of the problem is that he loves to shop for food and he fantasizes I should too. I've raced the cart complete with sound effects, conducted hemorrhoid cream opinion polls with fellow shoppers, and arranged the vegetables into arousing artwork. I have finally realized that's why he keeps dragging me along - comic relief.

I saw my friend, but she didn't look like my friend. Something was different. Actually, everything was different. She was now taller than me, had more lip, less eyebrow, two more cup sizes and one less chin. The little scar on her forehead from riding her bike into a tree when we were six was missing, and her waist had returned. She raised a hand to wave, and I was startled. She was trying to smile, but her laugh lines had vanished. Her plastic surgeon thinks with a bit more work she'll be perfect. Perfection must be different for friends.