Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Prescription for Success

Summerfield native Patrick Ball was born to play his hit TV role

By Maria Johnson

This holiday season, if you’re ambling the trails around Greensboro’s Lake Brandt and you think you’ve just passed the dimpled Dr. Frank Langdon from hit TV series The Pitt, you’re probably right.

That is, you’ve likely seen Patrick Ball, the Guilford County native who plays Langdon on the Emmy-winning HBO Max medical drama, soon to be in its second season.

Patrick, 36, plans to spend Christmas with his parents, Lee Ann and Jim Ball of Summerfield.

“Every time I go home, I run these trails,” Patrick says in a telephone interview. “I’ve run them in different chapters of my life. Returning to a familiar place, it becomes kind of my yardstick for growth.”

Since he left home, Patrick has done a heck of a lot of growing as an actor and as a person.

“He has integrity,” says his dad, proudly.

“He has found his way,” says his mom, relief audible in her voice.

As an actor, Patrick has experienced freakish success in the past year.

The one-in-a-million odds of any actor striking it big are very much like those of becoming a professional athlete.

Patrick’s newborn celebrity is astonishing, too, because the role that vaulted Patrick from dramatic obscurity to A-list luster so closely parallels the real-life careers of his parents.

Patrick plays the chief resident in a gritty Pittsburgh emergency room.

Lee Ann, now retired, was a registered nurse for Cone Health for almost 44 years, half of them spent in the emergency room.

“It was my passion,” she says.

Jim, also retired, worked for 40 years as a paramedic for Guilford County Emergency Medical Services. In the early 2000s, he held the record for saves in the field, meaning he basically brought 79 people back to life.

At home, when their kids were young, Jim and Lee Ann never talked about their high-stakes work, and Patrick, the oldest of three, had no interest in following their footsteps.

But he had a taste for high-risk/high-reward situations, a flair for the dramatic and a way of making his presence known.

“He was born with a big voice,” says Lee Ann, laughing. “He was louder than any other child, and he boomed at you if he had something to say.”

Energetic and adept at expressing himself physically, Patrick played recreational sports in Summerfield.

At Northwest Guilford High School, he was a member of the wrestling, basketball, baseball and football teams — briefly.

“We had him grounded the entire four years,” says Lee Ann, adding that she spent many hours praying for her oldest child.

“He was a pill,” says his nurse-mom, intending no pun.

“Patrick liked to test his boundaries,” adds Jim.

Later, on the phone, Patrick is more direct.

“I was a problem child,” he says, recalling how his parents stayed on him about sloughing off homework and smoking weed.

All they wanted for him, he says, was to find a constructive pursuit that he was passionate about and apply himself.

A possibility glimmered in high school.

Patrick and a couple of friends auditioned for an honors drama class because some older guys they admired took the class.

“They listened to Radiohead and Death Cab for Cutie,” Patrick says. “We thought they were the coolest guys in the world.”

The class was something of a dud, covered by a disinterested coach after the usual teacher went on maternity leave.

After a month of watching movies, Patrick and his pals started producing their own shows. They performed scenes from Tennessee Williams plays. They organized a school-wide variety show.

“That was a really cool feeling — to collaborate with a group of friends and make something out of nothing,” Patrick says.

“It was crucial to my formation as an actor because nobody was telling us we had to do it . . . we were able to follow our own curiosity and our own initiative and develop our own hunger.”

Opportunity winked again during Patrick’s freshman year at UNCG, where he enrolled in media studies, hoping to get into broadcast journalism.

A theater friend asked Patrick to help him out by appearing in a 10-minute scene for class. John Gulley, the head of UNCG’s theater studies, caught Patrick’s turn and urged him to join the program.

He did and won the lead role of Jack Tanner in Man and Superman, a dense George Bernard Shaw play.

Patrick, who had kicked off college with a couple of alcohol-related arrests, saw the role as a make-or-break moment.

“I focused for the first time in my life,” says Patrick, who describes himself as having ADHD.

He memorized his lines — a skill that comes easily to him — and showed up for rehearsal ready to go “off book,” without a script.

The late Josh Foldy, a UNCG theater professor who’d studied acting at Yale, thought Patrick could make it as a professional actor.

He wasn’t the only one. When Patrick and his senior classmates traveled to New York City for a showcase in early 2013, industry pros urged Patrick to move to the city immediately. He hesitated because he planned to perform with the N.C. Shakespeare Festival in High Point that spring. The work would land him a union card with the Actors’ Equity Association, a rite of passage for stage actors.

When the ailing festival canceled the spring show, Patrick jetted to New York a few credit hours short of his undergraduate degree.

“The iron is hot. I’m going now,” he says.

More than a decade of journeyman acting followed. Patrick crisscrossed the country to do regional theater. Back home in New York, he worked a slew of odd jobs: tearing tickets for the East River Ferry; driving a moving truck; working on a paint crew; handing out promotional cell phones at New York Fashion Week; serving at restaurants, bars and coffee shops.

His income and career path were all over the place. He considered teaching drama for stability.

At the urging of his childhood friend James Mieczkowski, now an Emmy-winning producer for PBS North Carolina, Patrick detoured to Yale, where he took a Certificate in Drama in 2022.The certificate converted to a Master of Fine Arts degree when Patrick finished his UNCG bachelor’s degree online later that year.

He taught a couple of summer classes at Yale. He landed a bit part on Law & Order.

It wasn’t enough.

He was done with acting, he told his parents.

He came home, ran the trails around Lake Brandt and interviewed for a fundraising position at High Point University.

He waited for an answer.

In the meantime, Moisés Kaufman, an acclaimed director who wrote the movie The Laramie Project, asked Patrick to do a play in Miami.

Dramatic tension mounted when HPU offered Patrick the job.

Patrick asked if he could start in three months, after the play wrapped. HPU said OK.

In a reversal worthy of the big screen, Patrick did the Miami play, met his girlfriend, actress Elysia Roorbach, declined HPU’s offer and moved back to New York.

That spring, in 2024, he did three Zoom auditions for the L.A.-based producers of The Pitt.

Patrick visited his parents in May.

He ran the trails.

The producers called. Could he get to L.A. for a screen test in two days?

Give me three, and I’ll be there, said Patrick.

The producers agreed.

Patrick showed his parents the pilot script.

“They said, ‘This checks out. This is real medicine,’” he remembers.

In L.A., Patrick mentioned to the show’s producer and star Noah Wyle that he’d read Wyle’s mom was a nurse and added that his mom was, too.

“‘Oh, so you get it,’” said Wyle.

Patrick explained how he understood the character of Langdon.

“I said, ‘I’m not here to play Hot Doctor. I know for a fact that working in an ER is blue-collar work. It’s ditch digging, and that’s how I’m gonna play it.’”

He got the part.

Fifteen episodes later, he’s a bona fide star, and, like it or not, fans regard him as a hot doctor — with his vivid blue eyes, hank of dark hair and a punctuated chin reminiscent of Kirk Douglas.

A hot doc who knows his stuff.

Patrick says he has been inundated with emails from medical professionals thanking him and his castmates for accurately portraying life in the emergency room.

The intensity, the procedures, the variety of cases, the physical demands, the emotional whipsaws — all of it rings true to them, including the episode in which Langdon gets caught stealing drugs from the hospital’s pharmacy.

It’s a legitimate issue in the medical community, says Patrick, and it’s a situation that resonates with him personally.

Almost four years sober, he knows very well the subtle ways of addiction.

“I want to tell that story as responsibly as possible,” he says.

Which brings us back to the holidays, a time of gifts and gratitude.

Patrick Ball will come home to celebrate both.

He’ll hold his new baby niece.

He’ll sit on the back porch and talk with his dad.

He’ll thank his mom for her continued prayers and patience.

And he will run the trails, taking measure of his life, which, he says, seems like a miracle.

“I spent 15 years auditioning for film and TV and traveling across the country doing theater, and waiting, and getting close to life-changing opportunities,” he says.

“Then the thing that comes through is telling this story that’s so close to home? It really does feel . . .”

He reaches for the right word.

“Providential.”

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

A Pause with Mrs. Claus

A kitchen-table convo with her local ally, Mebane Ham

By Maria Johnson

It’s 80 degrees in September when Mebane Ham answers the door in full red-velvet regalia.

Her floor-length smock is cinched in back with a bow.

Her cuffs are trimmed in white fur.

Her cap, edged in lace.

Her ears, evergreen, dripping with Christmas tree earrings.

Her face is flushed and radiant.

Or maybe she’s just burning up.

“Here, this is for you,” she says, handing me a candy cane adorned with a ribbon while begging me to take extras back to the office. “You can’t buy just one these things.”

Sometimes, it’s hard to tell where Mebane Ham ends and Mrs. Claus, as in spouse o’ Santa, begins.

Twinkly blue eyes?

That’s 71-year-old Mebane, especially post-cataract surgery.

Same goes for Mrs. Claus, who is also 71, give or take a few centuries.

Rosy face and ready laugh? That’s Mebane, once the extra blush is applied. It’s also Mrs. Claus, considering the windburn that comes from living at the North Pole.

A propensity to hug people? That’s Mrs. Claus. And most definitely Mebane.

A fondness for telling it like it is, sparing no adjectives?

That’s Mebane, for sure, when she’s off the elfin clock.

But no way is that her Mrs. Claus, who’s a safe haven for children, a protector of young ears and hearts.

“That’s how I portray her,” Mebane says with a steel thread in her voice.

She — Mebane, that is — first believed in Santa when she was a kid growing up on St. Andrews Road, which was then a dirt road, in Greensboro’s Irving Park.

Her mother was a stay-at-home mom. Her dad was a salesman. Every December, the family went downtown to take in the department store windows that were dressed for the holidays.

Somewhere in her home in the Dunleath Historic District, Mebane has a picture of her and her siblings with Santa.

“As the youngest of four kids, I learned real quick that the longer you believed, the longer you got stuff,” she says with a hearty heh-heh-heh.

She grew up believing in Santa, without paying much mind to Mrs. Claus, who was a minor character, at best, in the Christmas stories she heard.

It wasn’t until she’d moved away then came back home to help care for a mom with dementia that she got the idea that she could be Mrs. Claus, or at least find the Mrs. C in herself.

It helped that her friend, Eloise Hassell, asked in the early aughts if Mebane would take her place as a seasonal Mrs. Claus at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Friendly Center, where she told stories during a weekly children’s hour.

At first, Mebane winged it, conflating the story of Little Red Riding Hood with the fairy tale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears — and adding a Christmas twist.

“The parents looked at me like, ‘What kind of drugs are you on?!’”

The next time, Mebane read from a new Christmas book for children. It went much better. After the story time, the kids asked questions. Mrs. C was quick on her clogs.

“What’s your first name?” they asked.

Merry, of course.

“Why are you wearing a wig?”

You should see what riding in a sleigh does to your hair.

“What do you do at the North Pole?”

Who do you think teaches the reindeer to fly? Or shows Santa how to use the GPS?

“How long have you and Santa been married?”

Hundreds of years. Or at least it feels like that sometimes.

“Why aren’t you wearing a wedding ring?”

Oh, my gosh! I took it off to bake cookies with the elves last night and forgot to put it back on.

Later, Mebane recounted the ringless story to a friend who then donated her deceased mom’s gold wedding band to the cause.

“She would love knowing that you’re wearing it for this reason,” the friend said.

After a while, word got around about the married lady who dressed in red and could be hired by the hour.

Mebane — who by then ran her own business devoted to helping small businesses and nonprofits do media and community relations — booked more gigs as Mrs. C.

As opposed to Renaissance or a Victorian figure, she fancied herself a 20th-century character, like the ruddy Santa who appeared in Coca-Cola ad campaigns from 1931 to 1964.

She took her jolly self to Christmas parades in Greensboro and Charlotte, where she rode on floats with the Mister.

She popped into office parties.

She strolled the sidewalks, doling out candy canes at the Festival of Lights in Greensboro. If a kid dropped a candy cane and it broke, Mrs. C. asked for it back and replaced it with a new stick. Cracked candy canes, she said, made excellent reindeer chow.

If a child started stomping candy canes in the name of reindeer nutrition, Merry/Mebane made it clear the reindeer had enough food — so cut it out, kiddo.

Mama Christmas don’t play. But she does have a soft heart.

At retirement homes, Merry/Mebane started Christmas carols for the residents, whose memories were in various stages of repair. They took over after a couple of verses. Some had not spoken in months.

She built gingerbread houses at country-club family events. 

In Winston-Salem, she held small audiences with children with auditory issues. Santa, with his booming voice, could overwhelm them.

Mrs. Claus was softer, more approachable. They came to her.

“By the end, we were down on the floor, reading and playing. They were making eye contact with me. To do that, and see the difference you can make . . . ”

Merry/Mebane’s voice trails off.

Like the seasons themselves, Christmas has changed, and Mrs. Claus has changed with them.

Budget cuts prompted a health-care agency to nix her visits to retirement homes.

Ditto the chain bookstore.

But Merry/Mebane, who also volunteers at the front desk of Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, keeps popping up, at an hourly rate much cheaper than that of a typical Santa. Pay equity, it seems, has not reached the North Pole.

“I don’t make thousands of dollars doing this,” says Merry/Mebane. “I do this because I like it. I get my warm jollies out of this.”

She makes 10 to 20 appearances a year.

She still does parades.

And office celebrations.

And the Festival of Lights, where kids literally come running for her.

She still visits the kids with special needs in Winston-Salem.

Last year, she volunteered at a children’s home in Crossnore, which had been hit by flooding from Hurricane Helene.

Benefactors paid a locally owned bookstore, Scuppernong, to supply wrapped, hardcover Christmas books for the kids. Merry/Mebane delivered Where’s Waldo? to the children, read with them, encouraged them to be good people.

Here, at her kitchen table, within view of a quote tile that says “If you’re not a bad influence, I’m afraid we can’t be friends,” she allows that Mrs. Claus is another side of worldly, wise-cracking Mebane.

“Mebane Ham cares, is concerned and worries,” she says, her blue eyes growing dewy under frosty curls.

“This is something I can do about it. It’s kindness.” 

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Volunteers Needed

Identifying de-vine intervention

By Maria Johnson

I stoop in the dew and get to work, left hand sorting, plucking and tossing the intruders from our vegetable garden.

Don’t ask me why someone who strongly favors her right hand for all other pursuits always weeds with her left hand.

All I know is, my south paw is more sensitive to plants. It’s the hand that caresses leaves and blossoms. It’s also the hand that gauges, with a slight tug, if I can uproot a weed with one yank or if I need to wrap the stalk around my fingers for more leverage.

Is my left hand the gateway to my loosey-goosey right brain, cross-wired hemispheres being what they are? Is that why I enjoy weeding so much? Because it connects me to another brain space?

For my mom, that activity was ironing, the rote chore that allowed her to enter the zen zone, a place where her hands did necessary work while her mind moseyed.

I did not inherit her need to press fabric from rumpled foothills into starched flatlands.

But I do respect, and have my own version of, making things visibly better and finding oneself by getting lost in the mundane.

When I need to get grounded, and think fresh thoughts, you’ll find me literally down in the weeds.

There’s always a bumper crop around our raised beds where, in summer, we intentionally grow tomatoes, peppers, basil, oregano, green beans, eggplant, parsley and leeks.

Unintentionally, we provide a nursery for crabgrass, mock strawberry, knotweed, wild violets and clover.

I cringe as I type “wild violets and clover.” How could I discard them? They sound so Simon & Garfunkel.

Then I remind myself of the truest definition of a weed: Something that grows where and when you don’t want it.

I’ll see you in the cover-crop days of winter, clover. For now, you’re out of here. You, too, tiny pines and oaks and maples. Go make a grove elsewhere.

Here, I tell myself, in order to bring order, and to practice the “culture” in agriculture, I must be a ruthless editor.

And that, of course, is the moment I see an odd interloper.

It peeks, broad-leafed and hearty, from a clump of daylilies in the flower border around the garden.

Squash? Is that you?

We tried growing yellow squash in one of the raised beds a few summers ago. Soon enough, the squash bugs moved in and we, being averse to pesticides and herbicides, let them sap the sunshine from our stir-fried dreams.

Is this a descendant of those ill-fated plants, or a bird-borne volunteer that found a fertile niche in the shelter of the lilies?

I study the outlier, consider yanking it from its safe harbor, and decide to let it be.

Why? Curiosity maybe. What will you become, oh bold and fuzzy one?

A few days pass. The volunteer grows quickly. Already it has bounded over a patch of struggling dianthus and jumped the low barrier that keeps Bermuda grass out of the garden.

Once again, I come close to pulling it out of the ground, but the truth is, I like a vine with chutzpah.

I hold off.

A week later, the vine has advanced a couple of feet on the diagonal. Its goal: to cut the corner of the garden to the sunniest spot in the yard.

In 2020, when we built the raised beds as a COVID project, both to occupy our stay-at-home time and to feed ourselves should broken supply chains threaten our arugula consumption, we did a sun study.

We took pictures of our yard at various times of day, from the same vantage point, and compared the pictures to see which area stayed sunniest the longest.

We built the beds as close as possible to that spot, avoiding a grassy drainage path that, during thunderstorms, concentrates rain water into an overland river.

But this headstrong vine does not care about drainage; it is racing toward maximum sunlight, as if it has a copy of our sun study.

“Follow me,” the volunteer seems to be saying, “I shall lead you to brighter days.”

Baloop. Over the other corner of the Bermuda grass barrier.

Baloop. Over a clump of phlox in the border, into the open yard,

We let it go. Jeff even mows around it.

I am reminded of children. They might not take the path you thought they would, but, when they are full of vigor and confidence, there is indescribable pleasure in standing back and letting them become whatever they will be.

This is why I garden: for lessons and metaphors writ small, in the dirt.

Overnight, it seems, the vine marches on, popping open more green umbrellas, large five-lobed leaves, as solar energy collectors.

It’s now 15 feet away from its starting point. I joke, with uneasy ha-has, about how it’s coming for the house.

I part the hairy leaves and look for evidence of squash. I see lots of bright yellow blossoms, some with bulbous bases, and lots of woody curlycues.

I cave to artificial intelligence, take a few pics with my phone, and ask Google to identify the plant.

My hopes for yellow squash are squashed. But my hopes for jack-o’-lanterns are lit.

This is field pumpkin.

We leave for a week’s vacation, informing our house sitter that, yes, we know about the runaway vine and, we think it’s harmless, but, you know, call 911 if you hear a window slide open in the middle of the night.

We return to a new development. The vine has decided to divide and conquer. One branch has made a U-turn and is charging for the garden gate.

The other fork is running up the grassy swale.

Both offshoots lead the way with closed, green blossoms that sprout tendrils like catfish whiskers.

We are in the homestretch of summer, the giant leaves are showing their age. They are mottled with mildew. Bugs have chewed some of their edges into brown lace. The main trunk of the vine, woody and pale, has been bored in places. Many of the blossoms, including the ones pregnant with fruit bulbs, have been snipped clean off, probably by the family of rabbits that live under the knockout roses and drive our hound nuts.

She has caught at least four bunnies this summer, and we have scolded her each time. Now, we look the other way.

Ruthless editing.

One tiny, round green fruit survives at this writing.

We make it a straw bed and surround the vine with plastic rabbit fence.

We are won over by the vine’s will to survive, its ruthless pursuit of light and life.

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

A New Lens on Life

The case of the masked bandit and his five-finger discount

By Maria Johnson

Years ago, when our sons were little, they gave me a Mother’s Day gift.

Their eyes gleamed as I peeled away the wrapping paper.

“Oh,” I said, aware of the tender hearts in front of me. “A LEGO set. How . . . cool!”

“Look, Mom!” they bubbled as they grabbed the box from me, flipped it over and pointed to pictures of all of the things that could be made with the multicolored bricks. “Isn’t it great?”

“It is great,” I said.

And I meant it. Because I knew how they meant it. Inside that box were hours — OK, maybe minutes, considering my impatience and their facility with LEGOs — of a shared experience, of making something together.

They knew I would be down, as in down on the floor, with anything they wanted to do. That was a compliment that I treasured. And, honestly, whenever I went with their flow, I experienced the joy of knowing them more deeply, of learning something new and, often, of cracking up at the result of our collaboration.

Fast forward to the moment when I unwrapped a gift from my husband, Jeff, on our recent anniversary.

“Oh,” I said. “A solar-powered . . . Bluetooth-enabled . . . motion-activated . . . bird-cam-feeder . . . equipped with AI identification . . . and a voice alarm. How . . . cool.”

His eyes were gleaming. Once installed, the bird-cam-feeder would be easily the most technologically advanced device in our home. OK, just outside our home.

I realized that the gift represented something we could do together, even though he’s way more into birds than I am. Plus, I had to admit his choice made sense, given the events of the past year. To wit:

I did ask for, he did give me, and I did love reading Amy Tan’s nonfiction work, The Backyard Bird Chronicles, a beautifully illustrated book about how Tan survived COVID by becoming an intense observer, and sketcher, of birds.

I do luvvvvvv watching, and re-watching, the adventures of avid birder and ace Detective Cordelia Cupp in the brilliantly absurd Netflix series, The Residence. (Seriously, Netflix execs, what are you thinking by not renewing that show?)

I did express enthusiasm, in a polite way, when a friend described his bird-cam-feeder equipped with AI identification.

Also tangentially true: I have been known to commit aspirational gifting. Consider the pickleball paddles I gave Jeff a couple of birthdays ago. (“Look, honey! Aren’t they great?!” I said, rising from the table to demonstrate my dinking technique.)

But back to our fine feathered friends: Basically, I like watching birders more than birds, which is why I enjoyed watching Jeff carefully determine the best location for the bird-cam-feeder, in front of our garden Buddha, who understandably wears a slight smile.

He — Jeff, not Buddha — spent many hours figuring out how to mount the bird-cam-feeder (atop a black metal pole); how to make the couplings aesthetically pleasing to me (no radiator clamps allowed); and how to use the app that would notify us whenever the camera spotted a creature.

The first sightings, I must say, were of some truly scary specimens: The Sweaty-Headed Sucker Pluckers.

That’s right. Us. The camera picked us up every time we walked by, headed to the garden to pinch the suckers from our tomato plants.

Jeff tweaked the phone-based app settings to detect only creatures that alighted on the feeder. At first, I was amazed at the different birds that stopped in for a beak full.

There was our friend, the cardinal.

And a purple finch.

And a house sparrow.

And a Carolina wren.

And a thrush.

And a titmouse.

And another titmouse.

And, OK, another titmouse.

And then came the crows.

Oh. Em. Gee.

The crows.

Here, I would like to make a prediction: When the world as we know it comes to an end, it will not become the the planet of the apes. No. It will become the planet of the crows, an obviously superior species that knows how to work together for mutual benefit.

I say “obviously” because once they discovered the bird-cam-feeder, it was a nonstop milo-millet-cracked-corn-and-sunflower-seed hoedown in our side yard.

You know how revelers toss beads from floats in Mardi Gras parades in New Orleans?

Like that. Only instead of throwing beads, the captain of the Crow Krewe would hop up on the perch, bob side to side, and sling seed to all of his crow buds on the ground until, voila, no more beads.

I mean seeds.

This happened over and over again, until Jeff went into the app and figured out how to sound the alarm to scare off unwanted diners.

BZZZZZZ! Gone.

We were satisfied. For a minute. Then we noticed that the feeder would be full of seed at sunset and empty in the morning.

Hmm. Most birds around here, owls notwithstanding, do not feed at night.

Further, the camera recorded no birds overnight.

But something was triggering the camera to record blurs.

We went into Cordelia Cupp mode, zooming in on the fuzzy photos frame by frame until we spotted a hand. But not just any hand. A hand worthy of a 1950s horror flick. A small, gnarly, five-fingered black hand surrounded by a cloud of fur.

“Barnacle goose,” AI declared.

Huh?

A few frames later, we observed a closeup of sharp little teeth.

“Bonin petrel,” said AI, suggesting a seabird that nests on Pacific islands.

A few frames later, we made out a bushy tail.

“Mute swan,” AI ventured.

A few pics hence, we saw a pointy snout with a sliver of a dark mask.

We didn’t care what the AI bird brain said.

It was a raccoon.

We looked at each other. But how?

We dived into the literature and found out that raccoons have thumbs, which means they can grasp things, like aesthetically pleasing black iron poles, and climb said poles, hand-over-hand, past dome-shaped baffles, to arrive at sunflower seed jackpots.

Nom-nom-nom.

Suddenly, we were aware of a pattern, not that it mattered.

About this time last summer, we were engaged in the War of the Chipmunks, a dramedy that pitted us, the innocent homeowners, against the rally-striped varmints who maintain a thriving chip-o-polis around our home.

This year’s instant classic was the Battle of the Birdseed, starring that insidious urban bandit, the raccoon, which, in truth, I would have been tempted to think of as cute, if not for the fact that it was cleaning out my bird-cam-feeder, which I was suddenly very possessive of.

Ask any politician about the unifying emotions of people who feel they are threatened by “others,” even if the others are, you know, raccoons.

The fortification began.

Problem solver that he is, Jeff hopped on the internet to search “raccoon baffles.” He found one model, a wide-mouth, metal pipe that no raccoon could get a grip on, for $60.

His Scottish heritage — best paraphrased as, “By God, I’ll not pay $60 for a two-foot length of stove pipe”— prompted him to drive to a rural hardware store to buy . . . wait for it . . . a two-foot length of stove pipe for $20.

Which meant that very night I hit “Place Your Order” on the $40 skin cream I’d been dithering about for weeks.

It’s yet another way that we balance each other.

But I digress.

The point is, after many more hours at his workbench, Jeff installed the homemade raccoon baffle, and now we are now the proud owners of a maximum-security bird-cam-feeder, which is highly effective.

How do we know?

The morning after installation, there was plenty of seed for the morning feeders.

And, upon closer inspection, we saw that the stove pipe was covered with muddy, five-fingered handprints that appeared to be sliding downward.

(Insert sound of raccoon fingernails scraping black stove pipe, followed by sharp-toothed expletives.)

We looked at each other and cracked up.

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Wiped Out

A plunge into the dark side of gendered toiletries

By Maria Johnson

Some things you cannot unsee.

Consider the day I go shopping for personal care items, and I’m stopped cold by a stack of imposing black packages on a shelf crammed with otherwise brightly colored products.

I move closer to the interloper.

“Dude Wipes,” the soft-sided package proclaims. “48 flushable wipes. Mint Chill, with mint and eucalyptus oils.”

Wet wipes? Specifically for men?

I scan the package for more clues. My eyes fall on a big one: “XL.”

No other size is available.

Yep. This is definitely a product by men, for men. Since when would a man cop to needing anything other than an extra large?

I flip over the package, hoping for some kind of explanation. Sure enough, there is the origin story:

“Back in the day, we founded DUDE out of our apartment in Chicago. We were so tired of dealing with dry toilet paper during the aftermath of a lunchtime burrito. Something needed to be done. So we created DUDE Wipes to put you back on your game whenever nature calls.”

It is signed “DUDE.”

Simply “DUDE.”

Next to the backstory are directions: “Grab one and wipe, Dude.”

Well, I think to myself, this is a good thing. At least some men will understand the concept of mansplaining now.

Right next to the directions lie an American flag and an assurance — for those worried about foreign-born wipes — that the disposable cloths are “Assembled in the U.S.”

At times like this, I have so many questions. Truly, it’s the downside of curiosity, especially when I’m in a hurry.

But it doesn’t stop me from wondering: Are baby wipes not enough for the XYs among us? Are the tyke towelettes too small? Too flimsy? Too childish?

And burritos? Really? Is that a legit story or just marketers blowing mesquite smoke?

And what’s up with mint chill? Is that a flavor? Or a sensation?

“Huh,” I say aloud.

I look up to see a man and a woman pushing a cart toward me. The narrow aisle requires me to move my cart over. They’re eyeing the package I am holding.

“Have you seen these?” I say, holding up the wipes and offering a faint laugh. “They’re for men.”

They hurry by me. I feel vaguely embarrassed. Will they wheel their cart straight to the manager and report a woman fondling the Dude Wipes?

I tuck the package back onto the shelf and round the corner.

I almost run into Duke Cannon.

Do you know Duke?

Duke Cannon Supply Co.?

You might recognize the blocky “D” on their displays.

They make a relatively new line of grooming products including a hand balm called “Bloody Knuckles,” featuring a label with two old-timey boxers wearing handlebar mustaches and long pants; a lip balm that claims to be “Offensively Large” (what else?); and face and body wipes that fly under the banner of “Cold Shower,” a product clearly meant to chill the overheated front-sides of fellows.

By now, I am indelibly aware that Dude Wipes has their backsides covered.

There’s more.

Duke Cannon also make soaps, apparently for Dude users when they decide it’s time for a deep cleaning.

One product, the “Big Ass Brick of Soap,” is available in the dangerously romantic scent of Midnight Swim; the militarily dominant fragrance of Midway (as in the World War II Battle of Midway?); and the aromatic Buffalo Trace edition, which swears it’s made with real Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey.

Because alcohol cuts grease?

Because everyone wants their employer to catch a whiff of booze on them first thing in the morning?

Should a Duke user not want to risk dropping his soap in the shower, the company also sells a “tactical scrubber,” aka a mesh pouch with a carrying strap.

More effeminate consumers might call this soap on a rope, a fact acknowledged in Duke’s fine print because, seriously, who knows what a tactical scrubber is anyway? Something that goes on a smoke stack in a war zone? Someone who scrubs military intel from classified files?

I think of a potential baby shower gift I saw recently: a “tactical baby carrier” for dad. The product listing showed the midsection of a burly, tattoo-sleeved man. Infant limbs protruded from a heavy-duty sling, which was available in black, camel, olive and camouflage.

The grammarian in me was puzzled. Which word, I wondered, was “tactical” intended to modify?

Was the baby tactical? A little Army Ranger?

Or was the carrier tactical? And if so, in which way? Tactical in the sense that mom finally figured out a way for dad to help carry the load, literally?

As I said, curiosity can stand in the way of efficient shopping. So can nostalgia.

Standing there in front of the Duke display, I’m wistful for the nonbinary days of Jergens and Ivory soap. I turn down the antiperspirant aisle hoping for a whiff of neutrality.

Silly me. Maybe I’ve never noticed we live in a nation so divided by toiletries. Maybe my eyes have been wiped clean by an XL Dude Wipe. Or maybe someone is pranking me.

In any case, I find myself in a heavily-gendered never-never-land, where no one need sweat.

Here, in this fictional world, a teenage boy does not smell like a teenage boy, thanks to a line of deodorants adorned with menacing manga-style cartoon characters with names such as RaptorStrike, Wolfthorn, NightPanther and BearGlove.

Here, women only glow in pastel products that make them smell of rose, nectarine, lavender, vanilla and water lily. Never mind that no one this side of White Lotus season three knows what a water lily smells like; it sounds lovely. And hydrating.

Here, adult men are secure in their black, gray and occasionally fire-engine-red containers filled with products scented to evoke Timber, Deep Sea, Orchard and, because it’s 5 o’clock somewhere, Apple Cider Bourbon, Whiskey Smash and Mint Mojito.

Presumably, one application causes drunkenness, wood-chopping or perhaps winning a marlin fishing tournament.

I briefly consider buying several sticks of the the timber-scented deodorant, smearing my entire body with it, and seeing if that inspires me to hack down the invasive Russian olive shrubs in our backyard.

But I have more pressing plans, underarms and underbrush be damned, so I stoop down to the bottom shelf and grab a stick of boring (and less expensive) Arm & Hammer deodorant.

It feels like an act of rosemary-and-lavender-scented defiance. 

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Here’s the Scoop

Dogs and humans find their joy, one lick at a time.

By Maria Johnson

It’s a homecoming for Cash.

Last year, the spotted pup — he’s probably a mixture of Catahoula leopard dog and pit bull — was adopted from the SPCA of the Triad and taken home to Sanford to live with his new owner, Alicia Ferreira, and her parents.

In a nod to his origin, 16-month-old Cash and his family have returned to Greensboro, appropriately enough on Mother’s Day, to support an SPCA adoption event at State Street’s Bull City Ciderworks.

The scene includes a truck that serves frozen confections made specifically for dogs. Alicia steps up to the window and orders a scoop for Cash, who waits patiently, even though he appears to be hungry. He sniffs then picks up a piece of gravel in the parking lot. Someone fishes it out of his mouth.

“He loves a rock,” Alicia says with a sigh.

A minute later, she offers him something more enticing: a taste of maple-bacon-flavored ice cream. With eyes riveted on the cardboard cup, Cash waits for Alicia to spoon feed him. He licks with gusto. And manners.

“He’s very respectful when it comes to treats,” Alicia says.

She offers him the garnish, a twig of a chicken crisp, and it disappears in one chomp.

“He’s very into it,” says Alicia, who’s wearing laser-cut dog earrings.

She’s smiling.

Her dad is smiling.

Her mom is smiling.

And the truck’s owner, Shelli Craig, is smiling. This is the response that she and her family have been getting ever since last summer, when they rolled out North Carolina’s only franchise of Salty Paws, a Delaware-based business founded on the notion that there are plenty of dog owners who want their charges to know the joys of lapping ice cream until they get brain freeze.

Yip-yip-yip. A little waggish humor, there. No one has reported seeing a pup pause mid-lick, shudder, howl and bury its head in its paws until the throb passes. Although, just for the record, Google AI says it’s possible for dogs to get ice cream headaches.

The point is, when Shelli, a professional photographer and longtime dog lover (“Puppy breath is my drug of choice”) heard about Salty Paws from her friend, Kathie Lukens, the owner of Doggos Dog Park & Pub in Greensboro, she thought a franchise would be the perfect business for her family.

With eight children in her family — some biological, some adopted, several with disabilities — perhaps it seems like a wild notion. But then, when her youngest, who lives with cerebral palsy and migraine headaches, graduated from high school, she had a question: “What am I going to do for a job?”

Shelli’s answer: We’ll create jobs by starting a business that everyone in the family enjoys. Her husband, Daniel, part-owner of another family enterprise, R.H. Barringer Distributing Co., a wholesale beer business, enthusiastically endorsed the plan.

Shelli was unleashed. She bought a slightly used cargo van in Florida and had it transported to Virginia, where it was wrapped in franchise decals featuring a puppy with an ice cream-dappled nose, licking a frosty scoop of Salty Paws’ finest.

She ordered the powders used to make the canine ice cream — basically dried lactose-free milk with a little sugar and some flavorings.

She and the kids mixed the powders with water, poured them into cartons and froze them at home. Because the product is not intended for human consumption, no health department inspections were required. The process was pretty easy.

On fair-weather weekends, the family rolled out in the van, which is technically considered a feed truck, not a food truck.

Usually, Daniel drove.

To dog parks.

And pet adoption fairs.

And fundraisers for animal rescues.

And to dog-friendly events, like some outdoor car shows. Rovers mingling with Land Rovers? Who knew?

Dog-friendly bars such as Doggos were a staple.

The brightly painted truck drew a lot of attention with its drool-inducing flavors, including pumpkin, vanilla, peanut butter, maple bacon, straight-up bacon, birthday cake, carob and prime rib, which appealed to all sorts of meat lovers.

Once, a man came to the window and explained that he wanted to try a scoop of prime rib in the same way one might want to try a Harry Potter earthworm-flavored jelly bean.

Shelli explained that Salty Paws products were not intended for humans, but also, if he bought a scoop and a spoon, she could not control what happened next.

The human verdict after licking? OK.

Another time, a woman and her two children came to the window and bought a scoop of vanilla and a scoop of peanut butter.

As they walked away, Shelli wondered if the woman had mistakenly bought the ice cream for her girls.

A few minutes later, a man came to the window asking if they sold smoothies, too. Shelli explained that they sold ice cream for dogs.

“Dogs?! Oh, crap,” the man said before muttering about whether his kids would start barking soon.

Shelli and Daniel, who was known for his dad jokes, shared more than a few laughs over the stories that spun out of Salty Paws. Underlying their bond, Shelli says, was a shared commitment to beings in need.

“He had a very, very tender heart,” Shelli says of Daniel.

Tears well in her clear, blue eyes.

In April, Daniel died unexpectedly, of a heart attack, at age 59.

Shelli parked the Salty Paws truck for about a month as she grappled with Daniel’s absence.

“We built a big life with a lot of moving parts,” she says. One of the moving parts was Salty Paws.

It took a lot of resolve for Shelli to set aside her grief, load the truck on Mother’s Day, of all days, today, drive it to the cidery with two of her sons and start scooping ice cream.

“I’ve had to compartmentalize somewhat. Children and animals can bring me out of it,” she says. No surprise coming from a woman who wears a T-shirt emblazoned with “Tell Your Dog I Said Hi.”

She looks around. An SPCA volunteer walks by, cradling a weeks-old puppy. Nearby, an older, adoptable dog gnaws happily on a bully stick, a freebie from Shelli and family.

Cash savors his maple-bacon treat, totally absorbed.

His owner, Alicia, captions the moment aloud: “Best. Day. Ever.”

Quick as a lick, Shelli laughs, suspended for a moment in another place.

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Great Googly Moogly

Inquiring minds want to know some weird stuff

By Maria Johnson

If there’s one thing that internet search engines can confirm about human existence, it’s this: You’re not alone in your musings, no matter how offbeat.

Which is comforting. Sorta.

I became aware of this phenomenon a few years ago, when I broke my collarbone. The treatment included wearing a cross-body sling on my right arm, and I was struck by how much of a  load that put on my left shoulder.

“I wonder how much my right arm weighs?” I thought to myself.

Pre-Google I would have had to settle for a guess. Either that, or I could have pulled out a scale and tried to weigh my arm, which would have been too painful and would have brought me back to guessing.

Well, no more.

I started typing my question into the Google machine.

“How much does a woman’s . . . ”

Autofill offered several disturbing ways to complete that search phrase, along with the relatively innocuous words “arm weigh?”

Clearly, others had wanted to know the heft of a lady-wing.

Who are these weirdos? I wondered . . . before proceeding to the answer, which is:

About 5% of her body weight.

I glanced down at my 6-pound appendage.

No wonder it felt like I was lugging around a small dumbbell. I was.

Since then, I’ve noticed that no question is so esoteric, so arcane, so flippin’ odd that other people haven’t wondered the exact same thing.

Here’s a small sampling of the questions I’ve searched in the last several months, along with a little context about why I wanted to know, and the readily available answers.

Question: Why does Amal Clooney hate George Clooney’s dye job?

Why I wanted to know: Because I’m a big fan of Guilford County native and legendary World War II-era newsman Edward R. Murrow (hello, Murrow Boulevard), and because George Clooney darkened his hair for his role in the Broadway show Good Night and Good Luck, which is about how Murrow exposed McCarthyism.

Answer: Amal hates her husband’s dye job because she believes that nothing makes a man look older than using hair coloring, which, in my humble opinion, is a double standard — and also very true.

Question: Are crows attracted to bones?

Why I wanted to know: My younger son was at a friend’s apartment recently when they discovered what appeared to be a fragment of a deer jaw lying on a cushion. Huh? The best explanation: The friend’s dog had dragged in the fragment from the balcony, where . . . a bird had dropped it. (Let’s hope.)

Answer: Yes, crows are attracted to bones and other bright objects. They have been known to leave bones as “gifts” for people they like. Or want to terrorize. That part is unclear, although another Google search confirmed that crows can hold grudges against particular humans. This  led me to wonder about something else that, apparently, other people have pondered, too.

Question: Do crows laugh at people?

Answer: “There’s no evidence to suggest they find human actions humorous.”

Tough audience. Caw-caw-caw.

Question: Why do male tegus have two reproductive organs?

Why I wanted to know: OK, stay with me for a minute. I was talking to a veterinarian-friend about the most unusual pets she has ever seen, and she mentioned tegus, which are a kind of lizard. Then she mentioned in a by-the-by way — you know, how friends do when they’re discussing lizard genitalia — that male tegus have two, um, cold-blooded thingies, which led me to make a crude joke about how I know a few guys who might want to become reptiles.

Answer: Nature loves a Plan B. Sorry, human dudes.

Question: What does Cali-sober mean?

Why I wanted to know: I heard it on a podcast, natch.

Answer: Cali-sober (short for California-sober) means swearing off all intoxicants except weed, which, if you think about it, makes sense only if you’re high.

Question: Where does the phrase “great googly moogly” come from?

Why I wanted to know: Because it’s a phrase I know, but I’m not sure how I know it.

Answer: No less an intellect than author Stephen King has wondered the same thing. He traced the phrase back to 1950s bluesman Willie Dixon. Others point out that rocker Frank Zappa used the phrase in his 1974 song “Nanook Rubs It.” And apparently Grady uttered the words on the 1970s TV show Sanford and Son in clear anticipation of the internet age way before Lamont and the rest of us “big dummies” saw what was coming.

Question: How do dryer balls work?

Why I wanted to know: In case you haven’t noticed, dryer balls — which are balls that you put in a dryer; let’s hear it for the occasional obvious answer that is also correct — are on store shelves everywhere. I’d dismissed them as a gimmick until a veteran appliance repairman recommended them as a way to increase the efficiency of a clothes dryer.

Answer: Dryer balls work by “aerating” the clothes, creating more space between laundry items as they tumble, thereby cutting down drying time. I wouldn’t have believed it, but it seems to be true. The balls also soften clothes by beating the snot out them (my words, not the words of the dryer ball industry). And as an added bonus, your dryer will sound like a collegiate drum line, which should keep the crows from leaving deer bone fragments around your house. It works out. 

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Type Cast

How Greensboro’s Nich Graham rocks his Royal Safari

By Maria Johnson

Tangerine, soul, gossip, smoke.

It’s an odd foursome of words, but Nich Graham has invited me to bring prompts to our coffee-shop interview to spark the free verse that he pounds out on his old-school mechanical keyboard.

It’s his schtick and his bliss. Back for the second year in a row, Nich will bring his Typewriter Poetry, a form of performance art, to the Greensboro Bound book festival this month.

Clack-clack, clack-clack.

He’s a forefinger typist, even though his 1960s manual typewriter — Royal brand, beige Safari model, complete with Williamsburg-blue, hard-shell case — harks to an era when legions of students, mostly women, learned touch-typing to prepare them for futures as secretaries.

At 31, Nich knows nothing about quick brown foxes jumping over lazy dogs. Sporting a smattering of tattoos and a cotton tee repping Osees, a psych-rock band formed in San Francisco, he’s a lank and bright-eyed creature of his time. He recalls a brush with keyboarding instruction in fifth grade.

“We didn’t do it, so the teacher gave up,” he says.

He jabs the chunky keys with his index fingers.

Clack-clack, clack-clack.

He hammers out the four words, which appear at the top of a notecard curled around the typewriter’s heavy roller. He closes his eyes to find the flow. His verse shows up in jagged lines.

Her soul glowed

        a citrus petrichor that

              billowed out

in smoke

         A perfume scented in

                        the same color

*                       tangerine

                                                         *

Just for the record, I’m not wearing perfume; neither one of us is smoking; the asterisks are a part of the poem; and petrichor means the earthy smell that arises when rain hits the ground.

I mean, he never said he was writing about me, but still.

I discreetly sniff my pits while taking notes.

Wait. Is citrus petrichor a candle scent? Do I smell like a candle?

Clack-clack, clack-clack

He uses the word “trouble” to describe himself as a young man growing up in Newark, California, on the lower lip of San Francisco Bay.

His mom, a single parent whom Nich describes as loving and tough, laid down the law when he dropped out of high school.

“You gotta figure something else out, kid, because this isn’t working,” she said.

With her blessing, Nich, who pronounces his name “Nick,” moved to the High Sierra mountains where he lived with his maternal grandmother, a “mestiza” of mixed Native American and Spanish heritage.

Together, they tended her flowers, vegetables, trees and cacti. Pulling a red wagon loaded with his grandmother’s gardening supplies, Nich absorbed lessons about time, patience and setting the right conditions for growth. He also discovered that he learned best when he was outdoors and when he worked with his hands.

A seed rooted in his teenage brain. He still hung with trouble, but, after a near-death experience, the seed sprouted.

He enrolled in a community college, where he excelled at horticulture and art. An associate’s degree later, he headed to Humboldt State College. Outside of class, he worked odd jobs and busked spoken-word poetry for donations.

A descendant of storytellers on his mother’s Southwestern side and his father’s Iranian side, Nich was a veteran of open mic competitions and poetry slams.

Spitting words came easily. The sidewalk crowds did not.

“I couldn’t compete by yelling poetry,” he says.

A friend suggested that Nich get an old typewriter as a prop and start channeling his verse via keys.

He did and added a sign: “Free-Range, Organic, Non-GMO Poetry.”

Onlookers, many of whom were too young to remember the days before computer keyboards, stepped closer, curious about the chattering machine.

If they wanted to try it, Nich let them take the beast for a spin so they could feel the bouncing action of keys under their fingertips, see the thin metal arms embossed with backwards letters striking the ribbon before dropping back into line, and hear magical rat-a-tat-tat of letters turning into words turning into thoughts.

The general reaction?

“Stoked,” Nich says. “Just stoked.”

Clack-clack, clack-clack.

Nich’s poem takes shape. Citrus petrichor wafts into another idea.

Where chisma was brought around

professional gossip

too

obtuse a term

 

I have to look it up. “Chisma” means rumor in Spanish.

Is “professional gossip” an obtuse term? I think not. But let me tell you who in this business is obtuse. Later.

Did Nich and I dish on work? Not really, unless you count a conversation about how writers absorb, digest and express their experiences differently.

Hmm. Maybe I don’t smell like a candle.

Clack-clack, clack-clack

Nich came to Greensboro in early 2019, intending to do a residency at Elsewhere, Greensboro’s museum of offbeat collections.

Then came a virus. And cancellations.

With no money and no way to get home, Nich repaired to the mountains of Southwest Virginia to help a woman start a goat farm. Word of mouth brought more agri-gigs, eventually leading to Greensboro’s private Canterbury School, where he still works as a garden educator, tilling, planting, weeding, watering, mulching, harvesting and composting with K-8 students.

Recently, he guided two eighth-grade girls in fixing a broken tiller.

“We sat down without YouTube and figured out how to get that thing running again,” says  Nich. “It was literally the proudest moment of my teaching career. Anytime I see them I’m like, ‘Yeah!’ ”

The younger students call him Mr. Diggy.

“I’m like, ‘Whatever you want to call me is OK, little humans,’” he says. “I like seeing them grow and develop, too.”

Now working toward a master’s degree in experiential and outdoor education at Western Carolina University, Nich also does permaculture projects for private clients. In June and July, he will be working for the Creative Aging Network of Greensboro, leading gardening sessions for grandparents and their grandchildren, as well as caregivers and their charges.

He’s stuck on growth.

Swiss chard.

Lettuce.

Watermelon.

Understanding.

Connections.

He hopes to move his mother and grandmother here from California.

“I said, ‘Just come out here. I’ll take care of you,’” he says.

He sees a home, a few acres, a family-run orchard, maybe a cider press.

Clack-clack, clack-clack.

A dozen times a year, he gets paid for doing Typewriter Poetry at literary events, parties and fundraisers. On May 17, the day of the book festival, he will pop up his word shop from 1–5 p.m in the Greensboro Cultural Center.

People will feed him a few words at a time. He will type them at the top of a note card printed with his artwork, close his eyes, sway like a musician until he catches a melody of meaning, then start typing.

He can tell a lot about people, he says, by the words they toss him.

About a half give him greeting-card words: love, hope, promise — what they think they should say.

Another quarter supply words borne of turmoil. One woman started crying when she read Nich’s  interpretation. “I get the privilege of helping them process whatever they’re going through,” he says.

Another quarter hand him playthings.

Nich slaps the carriage return, a chrome lever, with confidence. His poem is coming in for a soft landing.

 

aspiring to

    share stories that

captured more than

essence

seeping down

  in a river formation

a journey around

ink

&

noise

&

heart

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Well, Shhhhhhhucks

A potty-mouth clean-up is short-bleep-lived

By Maria Johnson

Algorithms are scary things, the way they learn our habits, which is pretty bleep well.

Why else would my newsfeed recommend that I read a piece in The New York Times titled “Curses! A Swearing Expert Mulls the State of Profanity.”

The story promises tips on how to cut back “if you want to.”

What the bleep does that mean?

I’m talking to you, algorithm, you little son of a software bleep.

Are you saying I have a cursing problem?

Well, you’d be partly right.

And partly wrong.

See, most of me is O-bleep-K with cursing. In fact, I love laying down a good oath. There’s a certain catharsis and clarity and energy that comes with damning a bleepity-bleeper to everliving bleep.

Bleep. I feel better just typing that.

But another part of me knows I curse out loud too bleep much, though there’s a camaraderie in hanging with other potty mouths. More on that later.

I also curse a lot to myself when I’m fired up about something, which is pretty bleep often. My awareness of this salty leaning has me thinking that maybe I’ll give up cursing for Lent.

How long is Lent?

What?!

Forty days?

Oh, bleep no.

I could maybe do 40 hours.

Like, one work week, from 9 to 5, with nights and weekends off. Sort of a Lent Soft challenge? Is that a sacrilegious question?

Yes?

All right, all right. Forty bleep days. Without spoken-word profanity.

Or swearing in writing.

But I get to write using bleeps, and I get to keep the sewer in my head.

It’s a start. I gotta do something because this habit is getting worse.

Maybe it’s because I’m an empty-nester. I watch my language around children.

As my grandmother used to say: Little pitchers have big bleep ears.

She didn’t use those exact words, but that’s what she bleep meant.

Because kiddos imitate what they see and hear, my husband and I minded our p’s and q’s — and f’s and s’s — because we didn’t want our sons to blurt out something disrespectful or insulting at the wrong time.

It takes time and maturity to learn how to curse responsibly.

Also, we didn’t want our boys to sound like they were raised in a bleep barn.

Now that our guys don’t live in our bleep barn, I mean house, anymore, I’m not as careful as I used to be. I’ve reverted to my pre-mom setting.

Actually, scratch that.

I’m worse than bleep ever.

Maybe it’s the times we live in.

Have you watched a movie or streamed a TV series lately?

The language is bleep atrocious.

Have you listened to a podcast?

Holy bleep.

Honestly, I don’t like it. But what the bleep am I gonna do? Cancel Max so I can’t watch Hacks any more?

Fat bleep chance. When Season 4 drops, I’m all over that bleep.

Yes, its profane and edgy. It’s also funny as bleep.

So let’s forget about me cutting back on consumption.

I do think there’s room, though, to cut back on my triggers. Namely the news.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m a newshound from the word “go.”

We need to pay attention to what’s going on.

But for the last several years, I’ve hardly been able to watch, read or listen to the news without hollering, “I CANNOT BLEEP BELIEVE THIS!”

I realize my venting doesn’t change diddly-bleep.

But I gotta tell ya: It feels pretty bleep good.

I’d like to clear up one misconception right here: that people who curse a lot don’t have a very good vocabulary.

That’s a load of bleep. I’m not saying that stupid bleeps don’t cuss. But not everyone who cusses is a stupid bleep.

To wit, I do the Spelling Bee every day.

And Wordle.

And a crossword puzzle.

That’s a lot of bleep five-dollar words.

Plus, I’ve been around writers most of my life, and writers are some of the finest cussers I know. We have the verbal palette; many of us just favor the blue hues.

What the bleep?

Maybe this Times story can explain.

Where are my bleep glasses?

Oh, here they are.

Let’s see. Looks like they interviewed a guy named Timothy

Jay, who’s a retired professor of linguistics at the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts.

Get this bleep: His specialty was studying profanity.

What a bleep fun job that would be.

Ol‘ Timothy says that cursing is indeed more prevalent because society has gotten way more casual.

He blames social media because you can just about write anything on TikTok or X, the platform formerly bleep known as Twitter.

(Aside: When someone comes up with a better verb than “tweet” for the act of reacting with one’s thumbs, please let meknow. I refuse to say: “Gimme a minute to X this.”).

Anyway, Tim says culture is always evolving and just as soon as a taboo becomes acceptable, people will come up with something even taboo-ier.

Translation: Don’t hold your bleep breath for cursing to go away.

He goes on to say that cursing is mostly about conveying intensity of emotion, and not always negative emotion. In some cases, swearing around others indicates belonging and intimacy.

It’s like saying to someone, “You talk like a bleep sailor, but I love you anyway. Also, I trust you not to record this and play it back for my mom.”

The good professor notes that humans get a measurable physical jolt out of swearing.

Roger that bleep

Finally, he says that the only way to curse less is to practice mindfulness about when you curse and why.

Sigh. That’s what AI said, too, when I asked it.

It said to try practicing meditation and yoga instead of cursing.

That’s a lot of bleep Oms.

And box breathing doesn’t charge my battery like swearing does.

I’m thinking my best course of action is to use more curse word substitutes.

Like dang. Or dog. Or freakin. Or fiddlesticks. That’s an oldie and a goodie.

Yeah.

Fiddle-bleep-sticks.

I like the sound of that.

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Contact Sport

Con-text-ualizing a comedy of errors

By Maria Johnson

Fourteen neighbors? A couple of dozen cupcakes? A Friday afternoon?

Sure, I tell my mom, I’ll help her throw a small celebration of her 92nd birthday, a custom in her neighborhood, where the residents let each other off the hook by proactively reminding each other of the occasion and hosting their own to-dos.

It’s yet another example of something that’s gauche at a young age morphing into something that’s graceful, for all concerned, at a later age.

We draw up a guest list.

In her day, my mom would’ve inked the invitations in her distinctive hand using a fountain pen. She also would have served the cupcakes on her best gold-banded china.

Well, here she is, in her 10th decade, stuck with a daughter whose favorite pattern is “Compostable” by Chinet and who conveys her deepest emotions by text, usually with GIFs from TV comedies.

Finally, my mom agrees to text invitations — sadly without a video snippet of Tina Fey gorging on tres leches cake on “Weekend Update.”

My mom loves it when thumbs up and hearts blossom on the electronic string.

A week later, only a couple of people haven’t responded.

That’s when I learn from one of my mom’s neighbor’s, Amy, that two other neighbors, Ginny and Kathy, whom she was pretty sure would have been invited, have not received my text.

Amy guesses I might have sent the invite to Ginny’s home number instead of her cell number, which she rarely gives out. So Amy supplies the elusive number, and I zap a fresh invite to Ginny’s cell.

I should say “a Ginny’s cell.” And yes, in literature class, this would be called foreshadowing.

Next, I retrace my steps with Kathy.

Voila. I’ve sent the invite to another Kathy, so I tap out a new message to Neighbor Kathy, who responds with a heart.

I think about texting Another Kathy to say, “Never mind,” but she hasn’t responded so I let it go. (Insert suspenseful music.)

Meanwhile, Ginny replies with a conditional “yes” because she is recovering from chemo.

Wow. I am not aware that Ginny has cancer. I text her back, suggesting that she walk over to the party if she feels like it that day. No advanced notice required.

She pins a heart to my message.

To close the loop, I let Amy and Kathy know that Ginny plans to come if she recovers from chemo in time.

Amy and Kathy’s eyebrows shoot up. Ginny does not have cancer.

We all sleep on the unfortunate news of . . . someone’s cancer.

The next morning, feeling that something is off, I review my text to Ginny.

Oooooo.

Turns out I’ve texted a tennis friend named Ginny, who indeed is waging a successful battle against cancer.

She lives in Thomasville.

She doesn’t know my mom.

Yet she has pinned a heart to the invitation to walk down to my mom’s house.

What the . . . ? I admit my blunder to Tennis Ginny, who cops her own confession.

“I admit I didn’t know where I was going to walk to find a cupcake soiree,” she says.

Incidentally, this is why I love Tennis Ginny. She’s always game for fun, even if she’s not sure where to find it.

Resolving to wear glasses while texting, I call Neighbor Ginny, hoping for a voice on the other end.

These days, I know, calling someone in real time indicates either a dire emergency or an extremely juicy nonemergency with more details than two thumbs can handle.

This isn’t either, but Neighbor Ginny picks up without a hint of wariness. God Bless the Greatest Phone-Answering Generation.

She laughs her hearty New Englander laugh when I explain the situation.

I’m relieved at her forgiveness, which I find that older people grant easily, maybe because they need it themselves — as if the rest of us don’t.

Cupcake Day arrives.

The weather is perfect.

My mom’s neighbors stream through her door. I greet them and thank them for coming. A car pulls up.

“Who’s that?” someone asks.

I crane my neck.

“I don’t know,” I say, watching an elegantly dressed lady emerge with a potted flower.

She smiles as she steps through the door.

For the life of me, I cannot retrieve a name.

“I’m so glad . . . you could come!” I say, taking the amaryllis from her.

My mom lights up at the sight of her, hugs her and introduces her to her neighbors.

“This is my friend, Kathy, from church.”

Of course. Another Kathy is Church Kathy, who sometimes shuttles my mom to a prayer retreat. We communicate by text from time to time.

As it turns out, Church Kathy also used to live in my mom’s neighborhood and knows a couple of party guests. She wades in and charms the throng.

I find Neighbor Kathy in the kitchen.

“This just keeps getting better,” I whisper.

She snickers and shrugs: “It seems to be working out.”

Indeed. If Church Kathy thinks it’s odd that she was invited to “walk over” for a cupcake — from wherever she lives now — she never lets on.

If anyone else thinks it’s odd that a non-neighbor — albeit a former neighbor — is stirred into the mix, they never let on.

If my mom thinks she’d better lobby for handwritten invitations next time, she never lets on.

If I think that my husband, who makes fun of me for having more than 1,000 contacts in my phone, might be onto something, I never let on.

Surrounded by friends who are happy to be together, no matter how they got there, my mom is in heaven.

Surrounded by grace — some of it self-administered — I am, too.