Still Hanging in There: Confessions of a Totaled Woman

By Jan Marshall

A lighthearted manual for getting through each day with humor and giddiness. It is a delightful look at some of our minor, daily irritants that includes marriage, motherhood, football reruns of highlights of last years game and the men we love who watch them again and again.

The book is filled with astounding anti-diet/anti-exercise advice in the chapter How I turned flab into dollars. While Jan was jogging she thought she heard applause. Regretfully it was simply her thighs hitting together. She was paid extremely well to leave the neighborhood. Franchise anyone?

There are time management tips If you do not polish silver for six years it begins to look like pewter. Pewter is nice! This joyful philosopher notices most human absurdities, ponders, reflects and then answers such questions as Can we really leave nagging to strangers? Why is it that for every light on Broadway there is a runny nose? She agrees with Hemingway that though the sun also rises, it also fades the drapes.

This witty book will have you shaking with glee (67 calories expended) as you realize the stuff that really annoys you can be thought about in a more amusing, tolerable and weight losing manner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2001
• ISBN: 9781475923315

Jan Marshall

Bryan McNally is a published author whose subject matter transcends mainstream and edge taking thrills.His first two published books, The Vytautas Pursuit and The Eriksson Bequest have taken Jack Carpenter around the world and back in time to solve mysteries a day-to-day investigator couldn't possibly do.Jack, A combination of Mathhew Reilly's Jack West Junior and Steve Berry's Cotton Malone will have your head spinning from page one. Bryan's third Jack Carpenter novel, is due out in early 2024.Bryan was also a major contributor and co-editor of the Whittlesea U3A's first anthology, Throwing Caution to the Wind. A potpourri of writing that showcased the Creative Writing Group that Bryan has facilitated since 2017.

Book preview

STILL

HANGING IN

THERE…

_______________________

CONFESSIONS

OF A

TOTALED

WOMAN

_______________________

BY JAN

MARSHALL

Authors Choice Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

For

Sid, Matthew, Juliette and David…

with much love

Still Hanging In There

Confessions of a Totaled Woman

All Rights Reserved © 1979, 2001 by Jan Marshall

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the

permission in writing from the publisher.

Authors Choice Press

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

5220 S 16th, Ste. 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

Originally published by Pinnacle Book

Book Block Graphics by Susan Segal

ISBN: 0-595-17425-6

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2331-5 (ebk)

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

"BACKWORD

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

MORE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AND a special thanks to Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Alan Alda, Phil Donahue, Carl Reiner, Martin Mull, Norman Lear and Rosey Grier, Walter Cronkite, Frank and Johnny, both Steves, and Burt and Henny and all the rest (you know who you are!) who had the sensitivity and understanding to refrain from calling me while I was busy completing this book. I am very grateful.

Humor is an affirmation of dignity, a declaration of

man’s superiority to all that befalls him.

RomainGary

Promise at Dawn, 1961

(And a lot has befallen Jan Marshall.)

"BACKWORD

ONCE upon a time (not too long ago) a girl child I was about to be born. She eagerly looked forward to her entry into this wondrous world, and she assisted by doing a little pushing and a few leg kicks to hurry the process.

At the exact moment of her birthing, she was suddenly blinded by the extremely bright lights. Aha, she thought, ‘Tm going to be in show biz."

When her eyes adjusted to the surroundings she took quick note of her new environment and was convinced she was in the wrong place. She noticed several persons moving about wearing green, wrinkled cloaks worn backwards and wrinkled masks to match. Why they felt the need to hide their identity she wasn’t sure. Nor could she make out what they meant when they used words like tax shelters, golf handicaps, or profits from the yearly virus.

This cannot be the place, she muttered. I had better go back to my own womb. But wiggle as she did, she could not advance in any direction whatsoever. She twisted about to see what the problem was of all things napping.

Within seconds, one of the strangely disguised per-sons solved the problem by snipping the cord and set acknowledge the fact when he suddenly grabbed her by the legs, turned her upside down like a chicken and spacnked her—for no apparent reason.

This seemed like such an absurd thing to do (she didn’t even know the guy) that she burst into giggles, which were followed by guffaws—and ended with a sardonic grin.

To this day, she seems to react the same way. The more absurd the situation, the more she laughs.

1

EAT OVER

THE SINK

but Don’t Get It on the Couch

Confessions of a Born-Again Nag,

or, Funny, You Don’t Look Shrewish

HE was sitting on the couch, peacefully watching the reruns of highlights of an instant replay from a previously shown football game. Except for the furtive glance aimed at me, he seemed content.

I waded through the empty beer cans casually strewn on the floor, occasionally slipping on a loose, salted peanut … and then it happened. Slowly at first, I barely noticed its presence. But the crescendo rose and pulsed through my entire being. It released its energy through my small, delicate mouth and I screamed, Damn it all. When the hell are you gonna get off that couch and do something around the house? Hallelujah! I was a born-again nag.

The tears came pouring down my cheeks. He looked at me and I could tell he was relieved. He had known with his infinite wisdom that I could not go on with my evil ways. He rose to embrace me, his legs a little wobbly. (He had not used them in several hours.) I feel rotten and guilty once again, he exclaimed. "Thank you for returning to your usual, pestering self, darling."

How could I have forgotten? The small print on our marriage contract stated that I was to bug him and the kids whenever I deemed it necessary. It was my job to do so.

But I had strayed far from my constructive purpose of sweetly informing my family that their actions needed réévaluation. They thought I didn’t care anymore. Of course I cared, but I had been brainwashed by lectures, articles, and books that told me to let them be. They were free to be who they were without any interference from me.

If a child didn’t want to do his homework, I was not to reprimand him. It was his total responsibility. So if he ended up in jail like a bum I was not to say a word but just accept him, and of course visit him every third Thursday. If he did not care to clean his room that was his choice. But if it was necessary for him to wear fisherman’s boots in order to wade through the debris, he was to pay for it from his own allowance.

I had become so serene that, once when we had gone on a trip, I had refrained from telling my husband to slow down, turn right, or keep his eyes off the blonde in the tight sweater. He thought he’d left me at home and promptly drove back 7 miles before he realized I was sitting quietly beside him.

My conversion inspired me to return to my old (and real) wonderful self. I informed one son that if he

missing image file

Best Performance by a Person in the Field of Nagging.

did not get his hair cut, I would legally change his name to Mary Ellen Theresa, and we’d see how the guys on his football team would receive him. I told my daughter that if the clothes she had borrowed from me were not returned she would have to repay me for all of them … and at retail prices, too.

I yelled and harassed and heckled like the old days and you never saw a happier family. Joyfully, they shouted, "You care, you care. Oh thank you, Mommy. We were so worried that you were too liberated and well adjusted. We thought it didn’t matter to you what we did."

I had been saved and I felt clean and pure.

The final recognition of my salvation came when the children presented me with a piece of paper and said, We know you can do it. You’re the best. You’re sure to win, Mom.

I knew I had been born again. It was an entry blank for PILLSBURY’S INTERNATIONAL NAG-OFF!

Even Benjamin Franklin

Had a Mother …

As a matter of fact, I’m not alone. As far back as 200years ago, mothers were concerned about their offsprings’ well being.

The following historical document was recently uncovered in a remote tract house in Canoga Park, California, and was brought to my attention by my good friend, Tom Jefferson, with whom I communicate. Hopefully, it will alleviate the guilt modern parents feel in rearing their youngsters.

Ben Franklin

Philadelphia, Pa. July 4, 1776

Dear Benji,

WHY haven’t I heard from you? You know I worry. If you had time to sign all those declarations, while you had the quill out couldn’t you drop me a line?

Sure I received your thank-you note for the Chinese urn I sent, but I was hoping for a real letter. Not that your letters are always cheerful, believe me. Why do you still resent being one of 15 children? So you had to wear hand-me-downs. So? So your sister isn’t much bigger than you. If you’re so smart, why didn’t you tell your father that an ounce of prevention was worth—well never mind.

Benji, there are a couple of things I want to talk to you about and as your mother I have a right. My friend said you were seen in Congress last week wearing those stupid little spectacles. Are you aware that all the young girls are wearing them now, and they call them Granny Glasses? Are you a girl, Benji? Are you a granny? No! So stop it!

This same friend mentioned she saw you flying something in the sky that looked like underwear! Honestly, Benji, can’t you at least do that in the privacy of your own backyard? You’re lucky they don’t put you away.

Speaking of luck, you are pushing yours. Everyone here has heard about your little escapades, and if you’re not careful, your wife—what’s-her-name—is sure to find out. I’ve learned about the new one you’ve been sneaking around with, Penny Worthington. Benji, listen to your mother, I’m telling you for your own good. The next time you are with her and you hear your wife approaching, you’d better hide her in the urn. Believe me, a Penny urned is a Penny saved.

About the stove you shipped me. You know Fm proud that you made it yourself, but to tell you the truth, I find I get much more use out of the little Hibachi I got at Sears. It was a nice thought though and, in return, Fm going to do something nice for you. Fm sending you a hair-dryer, Ben-ji, and a picture of an artichoke head. It will help you disguise that bald spot you’re troubled about. It’s easy. After you wash your hair, you blow it dry and brush it all toward the front. All the men are doing it now. At first, you’ll feel like an artichoke, but once you grow used to it, you’ll look smashing.

Speaking of smashing, that’s exactly what I wanted to do to your nose after I read your latest remark, "When man and woman die, as poets have sung, his heart’s the last that moves; her last the tongue. That was so typically choov… chauvin … shavinis—well, you know what I mean. One more slur like that and you’ll have to change the name of your almanac to Poor Bennie’s." By the way, there is no k in the word almanac, sweetheart.

I guess Fm sounding a little angry, but you know I don’t mean it. You’re my son and I am getting a little concerned. You’re always coming out with those silly little expressions for no apparent reason. What in the world does snug as a bug in a rug mean? You pull those statements out of the air when no one’s even talking to you. And if you say Time is money, time is money one more time, you’ll get punched in your printing press!

Mostly, I suppose, Fm worried about your instability. Look, you’ve been a candlemaker, a printer, an editor, an inventor, a scientist, a philosopher, a statesman … I mean, how do you think that looks on your employment application?

Frankly, Benji, I think you need help … which is why Fm writing. I just heard about a wonderful new therapy group. Fm sure you’ll benefit from it. In fact, a couple of the people I met there are in even worse shape than you,

believe me, so you needn’t be shy. One of them is a woman called Marie Curie. She insists on being called Madame, of all things. Anyway, her husband persuaded her to go to group because she can’t cook worth a darn. He says every time she goes into the kitchen he hears pots rattling and things bubbling on the fire, but when he asks What’s for dinner?she says Nothing. It’s driving him nuts.

Then there’s also a man named Morse there. What a nervous character! He can’t sit still for a minute without tapping his fingers—on tables, chairs, anything he gets his hands on. Just don’t sit next to him.

All in all, I think the group would be good for you. Listen, Benji, I only