Laugh Lines

Barbara Klaus

Description

The information about the book is not available as of this time.

Sujets

• Humor
• Color Lines
• Laughter

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 21 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669867678
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Laugh Lines
Volume 2
Barbara Klaus

 
Copyright © 2023 by Barbara Klaus. 847450
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
 
 
ISBN: 978-1-6698-6768-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6698-6769-2 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6698-6767-8 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023903137
 
 
Rev. date: 02/16/2023

Foreword
The story goes something like this: My mom was building a following as a regular humor columnist at the New York Times when Roseanne (yes, that Roseanne) read her work and asked her to join the writing staff of her hit ABC sitcom in Los Angeles. After Roseanne , Newsday offered my mom a weekly column to be featured every Wednesday on page two of the popular Part 2 section.
 
For the next seven years, Newsday readers were invited in to my mom’s world of family and friends and the lives they lived. Her growing popularity led to several sell-out public speaking engagements which enthralled her readers and gave my mom the joy of hearing, in real time, how her work resonated with them. Everyone went home happy.
 
These columns of my mom’s Newsday years are the pinnacle of an award-winning career that started decades earlier in the basement of our Rockville Centre home. And, she paid her dues. My mom lined the walls of her home office with more than a hundred rejection letters she saved from article proposals over the years. But my mom laughed it off and kept on typing; the clattering of her Smith Corona typewriter was an ever-present soundtrack of her fierce determination.
 
When most of her peers started to slow down, my mom hit her stride. The freelance assignments came more frequently: The NY Times, Newsday’s magazine, and New York Magazine, to name a few. But none matched the impact of her award-winning years at Newsday, which included, towards the end of her run, the introduction of my son, Jacob, and my mom reveling in the opportunity to share her earliest stories of being a grandma.
 
When my mom settled in to a well-deserved retirement and embraced a childhood dream of riding horses, she continued to live life on her own terms, seeing the humor in everyday experiences and reveling in the laughter she heard when she shared her stories. While none of what she told over the last quarter-century appears in print, if you ever had a chance to meet my mom, either in person or on the pages of this collection, you have a pretty good idea how she responded to life and the people she met.
 
No one was more influential to my mom than my dad, who carries the torch for her to this day. His unwavering devotion to her memory and her legacy is what makes this collection possible. It’s an enduring love story and it’s his gift to her and to all of us.
 
For me, I miss my mom dearly. While I’m proud of her talent and achievements, it’s our deeply personal connection that I hold closest. She taught me to laugh and inspired my creativity.
 
And, my mom always had my back.
 
Barry Klaus
January 2023

OCTOBER 6, 1993
 
Paradise in a Biosphere for Mothers
 
 
Barba Klaus
 
L AST WEEK, eight people returned from two years in Biosphere 2 (a sealed 3.1-acre hideaway / laboratory, funded by a Texas millionaire), where they studied ecology — and lost an average of 29 pounds each.
What caused this phenomenal weight loss: their high fiber diet? Strenuous activity? Pu- leeease! Of course they lost weight: They were away from their families.
Some scientists scoffed at the biosphere: The participants, they said, opened it to bring in food. Or, they didn’t open it for food, it was oxygen. Maybe it was oxygen, but too many people left. Maybe they didn’t exactly leave, but the project wasn’t scientific. Maybe it was scientific, but it was too commercial.
I say, who cares? It has the makings of a fantastic idea. If I ever win the lottery, I’ll give them a biosphere: a biosphere for mothers . You know: the “Mom should be seen but God forbid heard from” generation that is on the cutting edge of Gelusil, psychotherapy and dental implants — because they’ve ground down their teeth from aggravation!
My biosphere will be different. Food? I’ll bring in food: Dom Perignon, Beluga caviar and gallons of Haagen-Dazs chocolate-chocolate chip!
Everybody knew where Biosphere 2 was. They sold T-shirts in the souvenir shop, for goodness’ sake! My biosphere would be as accessible as any nuclear test site. You think I’d want anyone to find us?
Women would drive past rolling hills and manicured lawns, stop at a camouflaged tree and whisper the password into a branch. The password? “MA!”
Then those who look on a torn Achilles tendon as a positive thing would sign up for Plan A: 24-hour tennis, jogging, racquetball and golf. (But not Stairmasters: I mean, there ought to be a limit.)
Such people would live in Building A, complete with fax machines, computers, cellular phones and laptops, the umbilical cord connecting them to their offices. (How do I know that people who exercise also need umbilical cords to their offices? Trust me: I know.)
The kitchens would serve sun-dried this, free-range that — all washed down with the thin person’s egg cream: balsam vinegar.
No one I know would sign up for that plan.
Normal people will use Building B for such strenuous activities as canasta, bridge, Scrabble, crossword puzzles and Trivial Pursuit. Won’t we exercise at all? Of course: We’ll have pedicures.
We’ll sit at lounges next to a pool — with special built-in boxes of Godiva chocolates on each arm for intense rounds of dirty, low-down, rotten gossip. (As Piña coladas are served hourly by waiters and waitresses selected for their uncanny resemblance to our children.)
There are no telephones or faxes in Building B. Instead, an answering machine plays the same message to all incoming callers: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you’d like to make a call, please . . .”
But, you’re saying, what about emergencies? You mean in case your daughter calls to tell you she’s made the Guinness Book of World Records for most purchases on an American Express card in a single day?
Or your son calls to say he really is marrying Her, after all? Or your husband calls to remind you that you forgot to rotate the tires and it’s the second of the month — and they wouldn’t be able to reach you? I certainly hope so.
I also hope you’ll eat. Biosphere 2’s participants described cravings for sweets. Scientists felt that the participants’ severe weight loss contributed to frayed tempers — which shows what happens when you lock people up for two years with tofu for dessert. Something my grandmother without the degree in ecology could have told them 40 years ago.
My biosphere, which will feature a high-carbohydrate, high-protein, high-fat diet (which does things you wouldn’t believe for frayed tempers) won’t be modeled after a spa. Spas feature such fun-filled things as bikini waxings and 300-degree saunas with herbal tea brought around every hour.
To deal with excessive hair growth, I’d hand out long leotards. For body tension, I’d bring around hot fudge sundaes. And I’d have lectures.
Subjects: Dealing with Her: What Every Mother-in-Law Should Know. The Male Menopause: A Spectator’s Guide. How to Repair the Bottom Lip That’s Bitten Through From Not Saying Anything. And — for reentry into the real world — one final lecture: It’s Not Their Inheritance; It’s Still Your Money.
 
N OT SO FAST, you’re saying: The press described tensions and incompatibilities in Biosphere 2 as “interpersonal ups and downs,” meaning the participants fought a lot.
Incompatibilities, my cellulite: They were crabby because they communicated with their loved ones through computers, video telephones or a window in the biosphere. I say, no visitors, period. Guaranteed: The people inside will get along just fine.
But won’t the loved ones left behind miss us? OK, OK, I admit it: I wouldn’t sign up for a second two years in my biosphere. I wouldn’t have to. After two years of watching sports on TV, of not eating any food on the appropriate plates or of hearing no nagging whatsoever — my husband would sign me up himself.

OCTOBER 13, 1993
 
Dietary Milestones on the Road to Size . . .
 
I T’S OCTOBER 13: Do you know where your cellulite is? I do.
Last week, I tried on a pair of pants. Pulling, tugging, heaving, pushing, I yanked the fabric past my hips, toward my abdomen. It wouldn’t budge. “No wonder,” I thought, gasping, “I must have forgotten to open the button.” And then I remembered: these pants had an elastic waistband .
I looked in the mirror — at a waistline that had extended past my natural shoulders, past my shoulder pads (and, in fact, past Montana). Then I got on the scale. There’s a name for people who gain that much weight in a matter of months: mothers-to-be.
Now, to most of my friends, this would be a signal to diet. But then, to most of my friends, a high pressure front moving through Nebraska is a signal to diet. To me, it was a signal to check out the pantry.
There, behind the cereal, tuna and lemonade mixes were cookies that taste like dog food, Norwegian bread and a liquid that could pass for something you drink just before a GI series: the remnants of Diets Past.
I began dieting as a teenager. “I’ve got to lose twenty pounds for the prom,” I told my doctor. And, using the prevailing sophisticated dietary knowledge of the time, he said, “Don’t eat