30 Hilarious Kid Letters

(stumbleupon.com)

Click the caption to read 30 hilarious letters written by children. These had me laughing so hard I was in tears!

New Humor Story!

Thought I'd post another humor story written for my next book, but that I decided to take out so the book wouldn't be too long.  (Based on a true story...) Hope you enjoy!

(cityofmeriden.org)

Eels on Wheels

I try hard to be an example to others.  And sometimes, despite the fact that my library fines exceed the national debt and I re-gifted my best friend’s Christmas carrot cake last year, I’m even a good one.  This is why I decided to invite my mother to go with me when I signed up to take meals to the elderly.  I thought I might show her the great and marvelous things I do to help and lift people in need, and I also hoped it would erase the memory of the last time I tried to be an example by fixing her expensive venetian blinds so they no longer went up and down.

“Don’t worry,” I told my mother as I loaded all the meals in the car.  “It won’t take more than a half an hour.  I’ve done this hundreds of times.  I’m a pro by now.”

“Yeah.  And she’s not going to send any old ladies into diabetic comas either, by mixing up the desserts like she did last time,” said my teenage daughter, who had been recruited along with the other kids to help out.

My mother’s eyebrows shot up.

“She’s exaggerating,” I said.  “It wasn’t a coma, just a little bit of insulin shock that’s all, nothing that couldn’t be remedied with a piece of hard candy.” 

My mother cleared her throat nervously.

“Relax,” I said, shooting my daughter a warning look.  “Really…things are going to be just fine.  I know what I’m doing.”

My mother nodded, but sat stiffly in her chair.  She didn’t believe a word I said.  She had raised me and knew what kind of trouble I could be to society at large when I decided to be helpful.

I set out to prove her wrong.  

The first four deliveries went smoothly.  The kids fought over who got to carry what as we all stampeded toward the homes of the elderly.

“Just leave it on the porch,” said one lady, who took one look at the pandemonium coming toward her house with bowls of spaghetti and refused to open the door.

“Mind the flowers,” snapped another, fending my son away from her perennial beds with her cane.  

My mother chose to watch from the car.  She said she didn’t want to add to the confusion.

I tried to explain that there was no confusion when suddenly I got confused.  We were ready to deliver to the fifth house when I noticed we were out of wheat bread.  

“Oh no,” I moaned.  “This always happens.  I gave the last lady wheat when I was supposed to give her white.”

“Can white bread trigger diabetic comas?” my daughter asked my mother, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Hush,” I snapped, “I need to think for a minute.”

“Last time you just had the little kids take it to the door, so she would be distracted by their cuteness and not look at the color of the bread,” said my son.

“Oh, I did not,” I said.  “I’m sure I just explained the situation to her.”

“Yeah,” said my eight-year-old, explaining to her grandma.  “That’s because we believe in being honest, true, and chased by an elephant.”

My mother gave me a bewildered stare.

“She means chaste and benevolent, not chased by an elephant," I huffed. Okay, look,” I continued, chewing my nails, “Maybe she won’t care about the bread.  Let’s just take it to the door.”  I loaded everything but the bowl of spaghetti into the hands of my two youngest children.  

“Try to look as sweet and adorable as you can,” I whispered, shoving them down the sidewalk.  

My mother rolled her eyes and put her hand to her forehead.  

“It can’t hurt,” I said, shrugging.  Unfortunately my shrug was a little too enthusiastic, and I shrugged the bowl of spaghetti right into the juniper bushes.

I heard a groan from where my mother was sitting.

“No worries,” I called reaching down to grab it, “It’s still covered.  Oo. Ouch.  These bushes are prickly.” 

I smiled at my mother.   She sank lower into her seat.

“Aha! I’ve got it!” I cried lifting it from the place where it had become wedged.  But as I pulled it free it was knocked from my hand by another prickly branch.  It flew toward the street in what seemed like slow motion, and then landing on its side, it began rolling down the hill.

“Noooooooooo,” I yelled, running after it.

“On top of spaghetti…,” my children sang at the top of their voices, “all covered with cheese.”  They collapsed into giggles.

“A little help, please…” I hollered, scrambling after the wayward bowI.  No one came.  They were too incapacitated by laughter.   I saw someone peering out of the curtains of the front window of the house we were supposed to deliver to as I sprinted past.

“Tell her I’ll be right there with the spaghetti,” I yelled at my youngest children who were still edging toward the door.

I madly chased the bowl, yelling insults at it, as it tumbled down the steep hill until finally, it collided with the tire of a confused motorist who had slammed on his brakes to avoid running over the crazy lady who was hollering and chasing a bowl of spaghetti .

“Doesn’t look much like spaghetti anymore,” said my son, eyeing the remaining contents of the bowl, when I returned to the car.  “Looks like a pile of eels.”

“Eels,” I said, between wheezes, clutching my stomach.  “We could try to pass it off as Japanese cuisine.”

“Oh honestly,” snorted my mother.

“Yeah, except she might break her teeth on the rocks,” yelled my teenager from the back seat.  “And you can’t fix that with hard candy.”

I looked at the sweet elderly lady, giving me puzzled looks as she tried to keep my youngest son from playing with the rocks in her Zen garden with her cane.  

“You like turkey and swiss?” I called to the woman, showing my mother that if honesty doesn’t work, at least I could be benevolent.   “I know a great sandwich shop just down the street.”

“That’d be fine, dear” she said, “As long as it’s on wheat bread.” 

“Wheat bread,” I muttered to myself as I stumbled back into the car, “I’ll give you wheat bread.”   I looked over toward my mother who was chuckling to herself. 

“What?” I said.  “She says she likes turkey.”

My mother continued laughing as she maneuvered the rear view mirror in my direction.  “It’s not that.”  Then she pointed to my head.  “It’s just…you might want to comb your hair before you come back,” she said.  “You look like you’ve been chased by an elephant.”

My most Embarrassing Moment

(photo from sophie-world.com)

I just read about being more free with your blogging and so I thought I'd try it.  Let me just tell you about yesterday.  Yesterday I decided to clean up my room a little while the piano teacher was teaching one of my kids in the living room.  I cleaned for awhile, but suddenly I had a funny feeling I should check on my youngest son, coinciding with some evil laughter I heard coming from the living room.

Yeah.  Good thing.  I came out to find him hiding behind the couch shooting the piano teacher in the back of the head with this plastic gun which shoots little bits of potato.  The piano teacher was trying to teach patiently while wiping bits of potato off of his shoulders and neck.  I thought I would die.   The piano teacher glared at me while I confiscated the gun and made my son apologize.

Well, that was my day yesterday.   I thought I'd write about it to show, that no matter how badly you think your children behave, it could be worse.  Hope you're having a great day today!  I bet you are now!

Dog Humor

Okay, okay, I could NOT resist posting this for any of you who have dogs in your family.

(source: dumpaday.com)

In one of my humor books, I definitely plan to write about my loving versus adversarial relationship with a dog who is smarter than me.  :-)

Kid Humor

Don't you just love kid's expressions sometimes?

(source: funny-quotes.vidzshare.net)

The Secret Life of Wives (May Humor Story)

Note: I had to post this early because I am going to BYU Women's Conference! Hooray! Come and visit me from 1:30-3:30 at the BYU bookstore for a signing! This story is a sample from one of the thirty stories in "Confessions of a Completely Insane Mother" Enjoy!

Danger lies hidden in every seemingly solid marital relationship. Watch out! Disaster may be lurking just around the corner. You never know when it's about to strike!

The relationship trouble usually hits when the husband leaves town for more than a week at a time. The wife looks around at the unpainted stairwell, sighs over the cracked cement, and lingers longingly over pictures in magazines: pictures of what could have been. The pictures inspire a seed of desire which grows, secretly in her heart until the husband comes home, utterly unaware, and totally shocked to find out that while he was gone, his wife has found a new persona...one he has never seen before. She has become......handy.

My own husband found this out when he came home from work one day to find me drilling holes in all of the window frames of our house.

"What in heaven's name is going on around here?" he asked, dropping his newspaper when he saw the maniacal gleam in my eye.

"Honey!" I said with excitement, my cheeks flushed. "I never knew how fun this "thingy" could be. You can make a hole in just about anything, except bricks...I tried it and broke one of your bits, sorry."

"Thingy?" he replied, his face turning white. "That is a very expensive automatic drill. What are you doing drilling holes in all of our wood?"

"I'm fixing up the house!" I replied, laughing. "I saw a picture of some shelves in a magazine, and suddenly I realized, 'I can do that!"

I paused, waiting for a reaction. Seeing nothing but closed eyelids and deep breathing, I continued, "In other words, great news! You don't have to do "fix-it" jobs EVER again! I can do them myself. In fact, I am going to remodel our whole kitchen!"

"Remodel our kitchen?" my husband screeched. He stopped and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Then he put a gentle hand on my arm.

"Darling," he said, "Do you know what is involved in remodeling a kitchen? The cost alone...!"

"Cost, schmost!" said I, waving the drill in the air. My husband jumped away when I accidentally pushed the trigger in his face. "We are going to do all of the work ourselves, so it won't cost much at all!"

His eyes narrowed, "What do you mean "we?"

I sighed. "Don't get all testy...I'll do most of the work, but you can carry the heavy stuff. You'll be the grunt labor."

He grunted. "Gee thanks. But hon! Honestly people train for years, they have to become apprentices to learn how to do all that stuff..."

"Not me!" I say, sticking the drill proudly in the holster of my tool belt. "Check out our bedroom window."

Again, the color drained from his face. He walked slowly to our room, like a man assigned to the gallows. Then he stopped and stared silently at the huge lumps behind the closed curtains, his jaw dropping, when I opened them up with a flourish.

He coughed. "Our window? You put shelves in our window?"

"Yep! I did all eight of them while the baby was sleeping."

He gulped. "But why? Eight shelves in one window? Why would you do such a thing?"

"Tomatoes."

My husband gave me a blank stare.

I sighed. "You know. I want to grow tomatoes from seed. We didn't have enough space in our window for the pots."

"But," he sputtered, "We can't even sit up in our bed without hitting our heads...how are we going to..."

"No worries!" I said, lifting the drill out of its holster and revving it a few times. "I noticed you had a "saw thingamajig" in your tool box! The legs to the bed are my next project."

I squinted at him, "Honey are you okay? Your face looks a little--purple."

"I'm fine," he said, holding a fist to his chest. His voice sounded strangled.

"Good. Because I want to show you how I fixed the broken crib. You know what they always say..."

"No...I don't," said my husband, rubbing a wrinkle in his forehead.

"With a little know-how and a lot of duct tape..." I grinned, "Nothing's impossible!”

That's when my husband fainted. And so...husbands beware. Don't let this happen to you. Get all those "honey-do" lists done before you leave town. And NEVER leave a home repair manual lying around where just anybody can read it....Especially if it's sitting next to a roll of duct tape.

The Church Bag (April Humor Story)

Note: This is a sample chapter from "Confessions of a Completely Insane Mother"

It’s 9:00am on Sunday morning. We’ve just screeched into the church parking lot. My husband shouts out orders: “Son, you run and get us a seat. You, carry in all the scriptures, and you…” he points at my teenage daughter, “grab the baby.”

He hands the toddler to me and tries to pick up the church bag. “Ugh. What is in this thing? I can’t even lift it out of the car.”

I look at the bag. It’s big and lumpy with pencils and papers sticking out of several holes in the bottom corners.

“Just stuff that we need in church,” I reply, “Do you want me to carry it?”

“No,” he grunts, “I can get it.” He hoists it onto his back and begins to trudge toward the church.

“Don’t forget to grab the blankee and the pacifier,” I call out over my shoulder. “Oh yeah, and I brought some coloring books for the kids.”

My husband grumbles under his breath as he drags the bag back to the car and grabs the necessary paraphernalia.

“Don’t forget to grab the diapers and wipes under the front seat,” I say, turning around to see if he’s all right.

He looks like a pack llama, and he is dropping things left and right. Muttering, he finally catches up to me by the door.

“Did you get the sippy cup?” I ask sweetly.

He glares at me. Shrugging, I walk through the glass doors of the church. As I walk and he waddles down the hall, people stop us.

“Are you okay?”

“Can I give you hand with that?”

My husband shakes his head, his face red. He is out of breath and unable to speak.

Finally we reach our seats. With a loud thump and an enormous clatter he drops the church bag and everything else he is carrying next to our pew. Sitting down next to me, he leans over and whispers, “I know this is a dumb question. But may I ask what the purpose of a church bag is, if you can’t fit the church stuff inside of it? ”

I sigh. “You’ll be glad I brought everything when the kids start whining.”

“Humph,” he grumbles, digging through the bag. “What is this? You have every church bulletin in here since 1993!”

Grinning, I respond, “Hey, there are phone numbers on those papers that we might need someday.”

The baby starts to fuss. “Find him a toy, will you?” I ask.

My husband digs through the mounds of church bulletins and pulls out, a half-eaten bagel.

“When is the last time you cleaned this thing out?” he whispers.

Digging deeper he finds: an old lesson manual, twenty-six “Smarties” wrappers, a dirty diaper, and five broken pencils.

Finally, he strikes gold. He holds up a headless Barbie.

“You can’t give him that to play with in church,” I hiss.

My husband looks confused as I shove the doll back into the bag. “She’s not dressed modestly. What will the Banks’ think when they see our son playing in the pew with a half-dressed Barbie doll?”

“Fine,” he grumps, heaving the church bag in my direction and taking the baby. “You find something for him to play with.”

“Fine,” I reply. I bite my lip, trying to remember what is lurking beneath all of those church bulletins. Aha! I know one way to find out. Lifting up the corner of the bag, I stick my finger into one of the holes and yank out a pen. Then I uncrumple a church bulletin and give it to the baby to draw on. The baby squeals contentedly as he chews on the pen and rips up the bulletin.
I smile at my husband. “It’s a good thing I keep this old bag. Those holes at the bottom are pretty handy.”

“Yeah. Pure genius,” my husband replies.

After sacrament meeting, my visiting teacher stops by our pew. Her eyebrows rise as she takes in the mayhem that has spilled out of our lumpy old bag. Hiding her dismay, she offers to take my church bag home and organize it for me.

“Organize?” I laugh. “This is organized!” I say, meaning it. I’m the most organized person I know. “Go ahead,” I tell her. “Ask me for the phone number of the missionaries who lived here in 1997. I bet there is no one else in this ward who has that information.”

She smiles and nods politely before edging away. I stand up and heave the bag onto my shoulder. I just hope I can coax some old Smarties to fall out of the holes in the bottom for my primary class. There’s nothing like a bribe to help those sunbeams sit in their chairs.

See? Good old church bag. If you leave it long enough, there’ll be stuff in there to solve all of your problems. Don’t ever clean it, and don’t ever leave home without it.