Now in Paperback! Read online

  Now in

  Paperback!

  Other books by Jim Mullen:

  My First Wedding

  Baby’s First Tattoo: A Memory Book for Modern Parents

  It Takes A Village Idiot: Complicating the Simple Life

  and

  Paisley Goes with Nothing

  by Hal Rubenstein with Jim Mullen

  What They Said About It Takes a Village Idiot:

  “Fans of Steve Martin or Dave Barry will love it.” —Rocky Mountain News

  “Funnier than A Year in Provence—like a hip Green Acres. Hilarious.” —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “With the humor he’s known for in his ‘Hot Sheet’ column, Mullen explains how he was seduced by country life.” —New York Daily News

  “Funny . . . As sophisticated as the classic Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House.” —Liz Smith, Newsday

  “There’s a master satirist at work in Village Idiot.” —Virginian Pilot

  Now in

  Paperback!

  Jim Mullen

  news ink inc.

  www.newsinkbooks.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Jim Mullen

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproductionin whole or in part in any form

  This is a work of fiction. Most of the characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, who are not related to me in some way, is purely coincidental.

  Parts of this book first appeared in “The Village Idiot,” a newspaper column syndicated by Newspaper Enterprise Association, a division of United Media.

  Designed by Terry Bradshaw

  www.jimmullenbooks.com

  Contents

  Beach and Moan

  Fear of Phoning

  Living Will Is the Best Revenge

  I’ve Got Mail!

  Let’s Put The “Fun” Back In “Funeral”

  Happy Holidays from the Fergusons

  Bride or Groom’s Side of the Story

  The Hiltons’ Guide to Raising Children

  Is Food Good for You?

  What I Did on My Summer Staycation

  Post More Bills

  Lord of the Earrings

  When You Care Enough to Write Your Very Own

  Dude, Where’s My Horse?

  Not-so-natural Disasters

  Is Our Children Learning?

  Why Isn’t this Man Running the World?

  Merry Christmas, Inc.

  Spare the Taser, Spoil the Child

  American Idol— 1962 Edition

  The Only Possible Explanation

  Let Me Hear Your Body Talk

  Not Even My Best Friends Know

  That Crazy Little Thing Called “That Thing”

  Office Memo Re: Girl Scout Cookies

  Daddy Dearest

  Riding the Mechanic’s Bull

  Waiting for Dr. Godot

  It’s a Fun Job, But Someone’s Got to Do It

  A Learner’s Permit to Kill

  Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

  The First Thanksgiving Family Feud

  Ask Little Miss Know-it-all

  The Storm of the Century

  One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Garbage

  Psssst! Don’t Tell Anyone! It’s the Secret

  Naked Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

  If at First Class You Don’t Succeed . . .

  Flight of the Bumblebee

  When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Go Shopping—for Guns

  It’s My Lucky Day

  Thanks to

  Beach and Moan

  “You’re not wearing that, are you?” Sue was looking at me as if I were wearing a large flounder on my head.

  “What?” I knew what she meant, but I wanted to hear her say it.

  “That shirt.”

  That shirt? This shirt was one of my favorites. It was actually made in Hawaii. How often are you going to find a Hawaiian shirt made in Hawaii? Once in a lifetime? Twice? It is a work of art and my closet is a museum.

  “It makes you look fat.”

  I looked in the mirror. The shirt did not make me look fat. My fat made me look fat.

  Sue has said, “You’re not wearing that, are you?” so often that I don’t really hear it any more. Sometimes I think she would say it if I were wearing a tuxedo to a formal dinner at the White House.

  “You’re not wearing that?” she would say moments before we stepped out of the house, leaving me not enough time to change, but plenty of time to wonder if I was making some horrible fashion faux pas as we made our way through the D.C. traffic—like wearing white after Labor Day or leaving a price tag hanging off my sleeve.

  The Hawaiian shirt had a bright unnatural blue background with large black and ivory colored leaf designs all over it. The word “bold” comes to mind. The words “devil-may-care” come to mind. The word “beachcomber” comes to mind.

  “The words ‘Hawaiian Punch cartoon character’ come to mind,” Sue said. “I think there’s a ukulele in the attic, you want me to wait while you go get it?”

  “Do you think it’s too dressy? I could change into something more casual,” I tossed back. I don’t know if there really is anything more casual. No shirt at all, I suppose. Or maybe one of those hospital gowns that doesn’t close in the back.

  We were going to the neighbors for dinner. If you can’t wear an aloha shirt to dinner with friends, where can you wear one? It’s not as if I was wearing my pajamas to the office or a pair of buckskin trousers to a PETA rally.

  “Didn’t you get the memo?” I thought but did not say. “They’ve got this new thing now. It’s called ‘Casual Saturday.’ Basically, it says I get to wear whatever I like and nobody can say anything about it, not even my wife. I’ll e-mail you a copy. It’s signed by Jimmy Buffet. You can see how casual clothes wrecked his career.”

  I know there are men out there who let their wives pick their clothes for them. I figure it’s the first step towards having the complete sex change operation. Next comes the hormone therapy, then the breast implants, then the . . . well, never mind. Sorry, it’s just not my thing. I didn’t marry a woman so I could become one.

  But it’s not just that. Can you imagine a man saying to a woman, “You’re not wearing that, are you?” Not twice, he wouldn’t.

  Sue knew I was not backing down on this. I had drawn a line in the laundry basket. I was wearing this Hawaiian shirt and that was the end of the discussion.

  “Wait a minute,” she said and went back upstairs. In two minutes she was back, wearing a Hawaiian shirt of her own. Bolder and sillier.

  “Oh no,” I said, “I don’t want to be one of those couples that dresses like twins. People will make fun of us behind our backs.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, “I’m sure they already do.”

  Fear of Phoning

  The first of this month’s many phone bills just arrived. It was for $192.18. It used to be that I only got one phone bill a month. From a place called the phone company. Now I get five bills a month—one for the landline, one for the cell phone, one from the long distance provider on the landline, one for my internet service provider and one for the DSL service—from companies with made-up, ultramodern names like Vermaxtel, Instacomm, Qualtext and Spurt. They’re all run by the same guys who used to run the phone company. And they’re always merging. Next month Instacomm and Qualtext will merge and become “Commquat, a voice-data resource service.” Or, as we say in English, a phone company. You and I won’t be able to tell the difference, but two former Instacomm and Qualtext executives will be buying themselves $12 million ski chateaus in Banff.

  My cell phone bill is supposed to be $85 a month. As I recall, my cell phone provider and I had a big ceremony
in the middle of the shopping mall when we signed the contract binding me to this deal for two years. We swore solemn oaths to each other; we signed reams of official looking documents; we took a blood test. It was touching; all it lacked was candles and flowers and a cell phone agreement photographer. We had everything but a minister and close relatives. We hugged, and I took my new cell phone away with a tear in my eye.

  I have yet to get a bill for $85. The smallest one was for $141.44. Mind you, I didn’t use the cell phone at all that month. It gets no reception in my house. I only use it for emergencies. In addition to the $85 monthly fee was tax on the phone, a gross receipt surcharge, a 911 fee, Federal Tax, state sales tax and county sales tax, and of course, the Federal Universal Service and Regulatory Fee which is not to be confused with the aforementioned Federal Tax. Was any of this mentioned at in our cell phone pre-nup? Certainly not. I felt like a new bride who doesn’t find out until after she says, “I do” that the three small children from his previous marriage will be living with them.

  What I enjoy most is that Commquat doesn’t want you to call them if there is a question about the bill. They want you to use their Internet site. It’s worrisome when the last thing your phone company wants you to do is phone them. It cannot be a good omen.

  Sure enough, I tried calling and couldn’t get through. My call, a tape said over and over, was very important to them. Just not important enough to answer. I wanted to ask about some things on my bill. Like what was the fourteen-cent charge for printing the bill all about? Is the fifty-two-cent charge for complaining about the bill on there every month, or just the months when I complain? Are they kidding about the three-dollar-and-twelve-cent charge to pay for the merger of Instacomm and Qualtext or what?

  I finally went to their website. I had to fill out all kinds of personal information and get a password. Why? Do they think that someone pretending to be me is going to go online and pay my bill for me? Maybe they want to make sure that it’s me complaining, not an impostor. Finally I logged in and up popped a message.

  “Would you like more information on how the proposed merger between Commquat and Spurt will affect your cell phone service?” No. I went to the next screen.

  “Would you like more information on how the class action suit filed by Qualtext stockholders will affect your service?” No, on to the next.

  “Would you take a few minutes to fill out a customer satisfaction survey? If not, we will fill out the form for you.” On to the next.

  “If you did not find the answer to your question here, please call us during our business hours, 9:30 to 9:45 a.m., Mondays, Thursdays, and the first Wednesday of the month.” I can’t call them then; those are the same hours my cell phone divorce lawyer keeps.

  Living Will Is the Best Revenge

  The nurse asked me if I had a Living Will.

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “Did you bring it with you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I’m only here to have my teeth cleaned. I didn’t really think I’d need it.”

  I could see if I was having a filling, or a wisdom tooth pulled, but a cleaning? Was it really that life-threatening?

  There was much consternation behind the counter. Could they possibly proceed at all without the Living Will? Do I really look that old? Is it like that annoying teenager who always gives me the Senior Discount down at the Shop and Spend on Tuesdays? I want to tell her she’s just given me a fifteen-percent discount for being prematurely gray but I just take it and shut up.

  I can’t even remember what the provisions of my Living Will are. Did I tell Sue to pull the plug the day I couldn’t remember what was in my Living Will, or did I tell her to keep me alive until I was smaller than any of the tubes coming out of me? I can’t even remember where it is. Where do you put something like that? On the refrigerator door? In my home office? I can’t find the phone bill in my home office. Or the phone. I don’t need a Living Will, I need a Living Filing Clerk.

  I do remember meeting with my lawyer and drawing up the papers. He said, “You should have a Living Will so that if you’re incapacitated your wishes will be carried out.”

  “My main wish is that I shouldn’t be incapacitated.”

  “You should have thought about that before you decided to eat right and exercise. If you had listened to me, you would have been dead by now and not have to worry about all this. Half my business is estate planning. The other half is divorces.”

  “You mean people still have estates after they divorce? That’s a comfort. It must be nice, getting all that money for filling out a few forms of lawyer mumbo-jumbo.”

  “I plan the estates for the half that didn’t get divorced. And it’s not just a little form; there’s a lot involved,” said Mumbo Jumbo, Esq. “For example, do you have a Health Care Proxy?”

  “Of course not. I’m married. Besides, at my age . . .”

  “Proxy. Not Doxy, you pathetic old goat. Turn up the hearing aid, would you? Do you have a will?”

  “I don’t think I need one. Everything’s held jointly.”

  “Yeah, but what if you both die in a plane crash? Where’s your money go then?”

  “You’re just trying to cheer me up, aren’t you?”

  “Say you both die in a flaming car crash? Who gets your estate then? I get this stuff all the time. If some of my clients only knew what happened to their estates after they died, they would be turning over in their graves.”

  “Have you ever thought of becoming a motivational speaker?”

  “So let’s talk about your Living Will. For example, you’re completely conscious, but you can’t move. Would you want them to take extraordinary measures to keep you alive?”

  “No, I’d want them to take extraordinary measures to make me move.”

  “Sorry, that’s not on the form. Let’s say someone has to cook all your food, constantly clean up behind you, run all the errands and do all the chores while you sit in bed all day and watch television because you can’t do the simplest things for yourself. Would you want them to use extraordinary means to keep you alive?”

  “That’s pretty much the way I live right now. I’d want them to take extraordinary means to keep whoever’s doing all that for me alive.”

  “That would be your wife. She, however, wants to pull the plug.”

  “When I’m incapacitated?”

  “No. Right now.”

  I’ve Got Mail!

  Dear Mrs. Abacha,

  Wow! It’s not everyday I get an e-mail all the way from Nigeria. I can’t tell you what a surprise that was. Let me say that normally I’d jump on your offer to take 30% of the $25 million your late husband left in a Swiss bank, but unfortunately, an Oliver Kabila, of the Congo, has offered me 30% of $168 million which his late father left in a bank in Geneva. His father, like your husband, also died under suspicious circumstances, and like you, he can’t trust anyone in his country to handle the $168 million. For wealthy people, I have to say, you guys sure don’t seem to have many friends.

  Oliver’s story is amazingly similar to your story, wouldn’t you say? And that you both need my help on the same day! What a coincidence. It’s feast or famine, isn’t it? Here I am wondering where I am going to get the money to buy a new set of snow tires and you guys come along. This morning a Dr. Kayode Adeyemi of the Union Bank of Liberia offered me thirty percent of $17 million and a Dr. Isa Mustapha of Togo wanted me to help him with $22 million that was left in his bank by a man who has no heirs to claim it. I’m not even going to answer their e-mails for that kind of chump change.

  The way they write English, it sounds as though you may all have been taught by the same guy. Not that your English isn’t excellent; you speak English much better than I can speak, well, whatever it is you speak over there. If you do know each other, please call Dr. Adeyemi and Dr. Mustapha and tell them my answer is a firm “no.”

  Let me say right here how sorry I was to h
ear about your husband General Abacha’s untimely death. He sounds like he was a swell guy. It couldn’t have been easy to amass a $25 million fortune in a poverty-stricken place like Nigeria, but it shows what you can do with a little elbow grease and moxie.

  I have to say, politics seems to pay much better in Nigeria and the Congo than it does over here. The President of the Congo has $168 million in the bank? That’s amazing because we’re a much bigger country than the Congo and I don’t think any of our politicians make that kind of money. That’s why we must keep this deal secret. If our politicians ever find out what your politicians are getting paid in Nigeria and the Congo, they’re sure to ask for a raise.

  I still don’t understand how you got my name but when it comes to high finance, you got the right guy. I know almost all the tellers at our bank. There’s Erna, Betty, Tanya and Fred. Fred could give them all beauty tips but that’s another story. Boy, won’t they be surprised when I walk in with $168 million. I’ll have to tell them I sold something on eBay so they won’t get suspicious.

  I have already told Oliver that 30% of $168 million can in no way cover my costs and I am suggesting a 60/40 split (me getting 60, of course). I just wanted you to know, Mrs. Abacha, that as much as I would like to help you, I don’t think it would be fair to Mr. Kabila to take on another client at this time.

  Just because I can’t help you doesn’t mean you should give up hope. You should keep trying. With any luck you may be able to find one or two more e-mail addresses of people who might be able to help you. I’d be very careful about sending your letter out to people you don’t know, though. You never know what kind of nuts are out there. Some of them may even try to scam you out of your money. Be careful.

  Your friend,

  Jim

  Let’s Put The “Fun” Back In “Funeral”

  We just got back from a huge family reunion. Or as some people like to call it, a funeral. We haven’t had this much fun in ages. We saw people we hadn’t seen in years: aunts, uncles, first cousins, second cousins, cousins forcibly removed. Bob’s first wife’s brother and Bill’s high school buddy Jack, the doctor who delivered Sue, and in-laws from the out-of-town side of the family.