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I’ve Got Mail!

D
ear 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 hear 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”

W
e 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.

People say funerals make you think about your own mortality, but what they really make you think about is other people’s mortality.

“I thought Ed looked good. For being on chemo. You can hardly tell that’s a wig.”

“I didn’t know Shirley was still alive. How old is she now? A hundred and eight?”

We drank like underage college kids on Spring Break in Cancun. Hey, we’re in mourning; what’s
their
excuse? It was so much fun that many of us are hoping someone else dies soon so we can do it again. But next time we’ll do a few things differently.

Next time we’ll get a hotel room. We tried but you know how relatives are—they get all huffy and offended if you don’t stay with them. It’s worse than fighting over the check at a restaurant.

“Stay in a hotel? What’s wrong with you? You’ll stay with us, we won’t hear of anything else.” Big mistake.

You don’t have to leave the bathroom the way you found it in a hotel. You can let the water run. You don’t get scalded when you’re in the shower and someone on the other side of the house flushes a toilet. You don’t have to make the bed in a hotel. You can stay up till all hours and watch any channel on TV you want, and not just the Weather Channel.

Nieces and nephews won’t wake you up at 6
a.m
. in a hotel. Coughing, hacking, runny-nosed, grabby, touchy little nieces and nephews. They’ve just given me every disease that’s going around second grade this week. It’s no longer the common cold. It’s mutated into something that’s a cross between ebola and the plague. “That’s what probably carried their Grandpa off in the first place,” I think (but don’t say).

You can order room service in a hotel. Somehow I can’t see my sister-in-law wheeling a cart down to our room every morning filled with Eggs Benedict and double lattes. Besides, she’s busy making food for the wake.

Let’s see, we’ve had a memorial, a church service, a viewing, a sitting, a luncheon, and a dinner. She’s now making something to take to the wake. All the relatives that haven’t yet moved to Florida are making something that two hundred-plus people can nibble on: ribs, hams, sausages, pastries, pies, and cakes. Not a vegetable in sight.

“It’s comfort food,” says Sue. Yes, a comfort to the pharmaceutical industry. Three days of that and I’m about to die myself. Invest in whoever makes defibrillators.

No matter what they say, rent a car. “What do you need to rent a car for? You’re only going to be in town a few days. We’ll pick you up at the airport. We’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” Big mistake. I’d like to go antiquing. I’d like to go golfing. I’d like to go see the Will Ferrell movie where he prances around in his underwear. Any of them. But you can hardly ask the bereaved to run you over to the multi-plex while they’re in mourning. Yet if we had stayed in a hotel and rented a car, who would be the wiser? Instead we sit at some relatives’ hushed home, stare at each other and say things like, “It’s sad that the only time we get together like this is when someone dies,” when we really want to say “It’d be sadder if they didn’t get together. If no friends and family got together at your funeral; if no one laughed about the silly things you did when you were alive, if they didn’t remember your practical jokes, if they didn’t relish rehashing your most embarrassing moments, that would be sad. Hell, I’d rather go to a funeral.”

Happy Holidays from the Fergusons

D
ear Friends and Family,

Happy Holidays! If you’re saying to yourself, “That doesn’t look like a picture of the Fergusons on the front of the card,” you’re right. There was a bit of a mix-up down at the photo store but it was too late to have the cards done over. As you know, Bob and I only have two kids, not four, and neither of us have ever been skiing but other than that, it’s not a bad picture. And we got them for half-price, which is a good deal because we’ve had to watch our pennies ever since Bob got downsized. But we still wonder: who’s sending out
our
pictures this holiday?

Sorry we haven’t written sooner but neither of us has been in much shape to write this year. I donated a kidney to my brother-in-law Joe but he rejected it. It turns out he needed a liver. I always get those two mixed up. Liver, kidney, kidney, liver, what’s the big difference? We had a good laugh about it and I’m happy to say that Joe died with a smile on his face. Sometimes laughter
is
the best medicine.

Josh and Amber both got into the community college. Josh is majoring in Body Piercing and Amber is waffling between Assistant Nail Technician or Tattoo Artist. As you know, there were times when I thought they’d never get out of high school. I kept telling them and telling them, “If you don’t get good grades you’re not going to amount to anything.” They’re glad I nagged them now.

Bob’s dad only has to wear the ankle restraint for another three months and then he’s off house arrest. He still swears he has no idea what happened to the church’s money and that he’s just the fall guy. He’s already planning a nice long vacation in the Cayman Islands as soon as he gets out.

Bob’s working at the Big Pig BBQ until another “employment opportunity” comes along. The manager is pretty happy with his work because he says a lot of times older people aren’t quick enough to work in the fast-food business. Funny, I never thought forty-six was all that old. Yet even at his advanced age, he thinks they may make him afternoon grill manager.

It seems my job as a grief counselor isn’t recession-proof either. After their first consultation with me, more and more people find they have the courage to face this most difficult time alone. When they leave my office almost all of them thank me and say, “You’ve made me realize that it could be worse. Much, much worse.” I guess you can say I’m doing God’s work.

Bob’s mother is living with us now and it’s like having an extra pair of helping hands every day. She’s too frail to actually do anything, but she does what she can to motivate people. “Who taught you how to do dishes?” she might say, or “You call that a pie crust?” The kids just love her. If she forgets to say, “Are you going out looking like that?” when they leave the house they feel neglected. Everyone loves her, she’s such a people person.

We don’t hang stockings over the Yule Log anymore since the accident last year. Who knew a sock could burn like that? Not Fluffy, that’s for sure. Most of her fur has grown back but she still won’t sleep on the mantel like she used to. That’s about it for us, but here’s wishing you’ll have as happy a holiday as we will this year.

—The Fergusons

Bride or Groom’s Side of the Story

S
ue and I have stopped going to wedding receptions. We got tired of sitting in front of the speakers. The bride and groom seem to think we’ve made some special request to be deafened by the band. It’s always so loud we can’t speak to each other, much less the other guests. We sit and smile and nod while the bride’s father is talking to us. “Ain’t that the truth,” “I know what you mean,” and “You can say that again,” we say over and over because we cannot hear a word he’s saying. The only thing we have to go on is the expression on his face. For all we know, he is complaining about the loud music, too. The music is not just loud, it’s bad. It has been picked especially to annoy me. I wouldn’t like this crap at a normal volume. Now that it’s making my hair blow in the breeze from the speakers I
really
hate it. I don’t know what message the happy couple thinks they are sending us, but the message I’m receiving is “Give us an expensive present and get the hell out. My parents made me invite you. They said you might be good for a cappuccino machine.”

Which brings up another sore point. We may stop giving presents, too. When we were still going to weddings there was always the slim chance that the happy couple might still be married by the next time we saw them, say a few weeks later at the baby shower. No more. More than once we have gotten an invitation to the second wedding before we have gotten a “Thank You” note for the first. We will run into the bride’s parents at the grocery store and find out that the first husband’s gone, she’s got two kids under two and they are in an expensive custody battle over his frozen sperm. He never spent any time with the kids when they were married, which is why they’re getting divorced (that, and his new girlfriend). Now he’s suing for full and complete custody; he can’t bear to be away from the little dears for a single moment. “And by the way, she really likes the cappuccino machine you gave them. She’s just a little late with the ‘thank you’ notes. She’s been so busy going to all her girlfriends’ second weddings, don’t you know. She can’t wait to see you at her next wedding, though. This time she’s registered at Jacoby and Meyers. And she wants you to know they’ve hired a really good local band, Thunder and Lightning. It’s the only group in the tri-state region with two drummers.”

It also annoys us that getting a wedding invitation is like getting a bill for something you didn’t buy and don’t want.

“We got an invitation to Jyoti and Chad’s wedding. It says, ‘Please save the date—December 24th.’”

“Gee, what could that conflict with?”

“It will be on Anguilla with the reception to follow.”

“Why don’t they just send us a card that says, ‘We don’t want you at our wedding, but we would like you to send an expensive gift. Getting married in Anguilla isn’t cheap.’”

Not that we would have gone if Jyoti and Chad’s wedding was being held next door. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that Sue and I have decided never to go to another wedding as long as we both shall live. Maybe the banns of marriage should ban marriage.

Newspapers are partly to blame. Every week they print wedding announcements that tell what the bride wore, where it took place, the name of the officiant, what the bridegroom does, who their parents are and what they do. It all sounds so wonderful—who wouldn’t want to get married? But what if the newspaper made all newlyweds agree to publish a “Marriage Update” every five years or so? Something like this would surely be more effective:

MILFORD — TROUT

Jenny Milford, daughter of Sally and John Milford of Middletown, and Everly Trout, son of Elma and Vernon Trout of Littleville were married in June 2006.

“Why she wanted a big church wedding I’ll never know,” said her soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law. “As far as we know that was the first and last time she’s been in a church. I told Everly he was too young, but who ever listens to me?”

Jenny Trout says she was never so happy in her life—for about the first year and a half.

“Then, while I’m pregnant with the second baby Everly started staying out every night drinking with his old high school buddies. If he wants to be single, fine. Go be single. Go marry one of your floozies and make her life miserable.”

The Trouts have two children, Verna and Mava, and are still paying for their honeymoon cruise to the Bahamas.