Keep on Pluckin’
April 29, 2025 by Lynn Rebuck
Filed under Humor, Stories
I have been molting all winter.
For months now, people have been treating me like a Perdue chicken by plucking feathers off of me wherever I go. It’s the fault of my leaky down-filled coat. I don my down in mid-September, and remove it in early June. This winter, though, the down is trying to make an early escape.
Going Viral
March 21, 2025 by Lynn Rebuck
Filed under Humor, Stories
By Lynn Rebuck
“Going viral” can be positive if your yodeling cat’s video has spread like wildfire over the Internet and Ellen has called to invite you to appear on her show.
Parts of the country have been going viral in a less desirable way as H1N1 and other viruses have wound their way through the states this flu season.
When a virus spreads quickly through a community or population, it is called an epidemic. When it spreads around the world, it’s called a pandemic. When it spreads through a family, I call it a “famidemic.”
Scrapping Scrapbooking
January 30, 2025 by Lynn Rebuck
Filed under Humor, Stories
By Lynn Rebuck
I am, to put it kindly, crafting-impaired.
It’s not that I haven’t tried. I have often attempted a new craft, only to discover that I am not well-suited for it.
For instance, I tried Scherenschnitte, the intricate German art of paper-cutting. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that I am just not cut out for it.
I bought the special scissors, learned the quick cutting strokes, and cut my heart out (well, I almost did, when one day I quickly tucked my scissors in my bra and forgot about them). In fact, I became a little compulsive about my new hobby.
Glue Gun Control
November 27, 2024 by Lynn Rebuck
Filed under Stories
By Lynn Rebuck
I am not good with a glue gun.
I can shoot a pistol with great accuracy at a paper target, but ask me to glue together paper from Target, and it’s a whole different story.
The glue gun is the weapon of choice for crafters worldwide, and quite frankly, I think we need stricter glue gun laws. This suggestion may upset some of you (especially members of the NGGA, the National Glue Gun Association), but hear me out. I think there needs to be a “cooling off” period before one is allowed to buy a glue gun.
Beck the Halls
April 25, 2020 by Lynn Rebuck
Filed under Humor, Stories
By Lynn Rebuck –
I like Christmas music, but starting in early November it’s omnipresent: it’s in every store, in every elevator, and on every station, including talk radio (I fully expected Glenn to release a “Beck the Halls” Christmas CD).
As I searched the mall for an omnipresent (that’s the one gift that I could purchase in bulk for everyone) recently, I heard blaring from the speaker systems of three different stores an unintended medley of clashing carols: “Silent Rudolph the Red-Nosed Manger.” It was more than my fried-by-“Feliz Navidad” brain could handle.
I sought sanctuary in a nearby synagogue to escape the cacophony of carols. I hummed “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel” to soothe and center myself. I don’t mind the holiday music, but it is so pervasive that it is affecting my every thought and intruding into all of my family’s conversations.
The other night I could have sworn that my daughter approached me and told me of her plans to go out with her adolescent friends by saying the phrase “We three teens of orient are….” Maybe I’m just hearing things.
“Do you hear what I hear?” inquired one of my children the night before Christmas.
“Is it the little drummer boy?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“You know,” I said, “I heard the bells on Christmas Day.”
“That’s nice, Mom.”
“Their old familiar carols play,” I continued, making conversation.
“Mom, you’d better lay off the eggnog.”
“Can I have a friend over?” my son continued, standing next to a kid I hadn’t noticed before.
“What child is this?”
“Chris.”
“Which one is he? The Drummer’s little boy?”
“Funny, Mom. He’s the Taylor’s kid.”
“Joy to the world,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“Is that a yes?”
“What’s that smell?” interrupted another child.
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,” I mumbled. “Or it could be dinner.”
“Mom, can I go on a date with Paul?” asked my eldest.
“The little drummer boy?”
“He’s a percussionist in a rock band, Mom. And so what if he’s short, I just won’t wear heels.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” she said.
I nodded and reached for more nog.
As she walked out the door, she called over her shoulder “You can count on me.”
“Did the box from Amazon arrive?” asked my son.
“Yes, it came upon a midnight clear.”
“I didn’t know UPS delivered that late.”
“’Tis the season, you know.”
You know, the three wise men were the first midnight madness shoppers, and they didn’t have any criss-crossing carols to contend with.
I am now in a 12 Steps of Christmas Recovery Program. Fa-la-la-la-la, la- la-la-Joy!
© 2011 Lynn Rebuck
