Funny!!
I got this in an email from one of my stamping groups and I was LMAO...this could also be for scrappers!!
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Stamping, thru the eyes of a husband....
By JOHN GLADDEN
Staff Columnist
I am worried about my wife. More so than usual, I
mean.
Let me tell you, spending a few cold nights on the
couch gives a guy plenty of time to think. It's during
those times I've learned many valuable lessons about
life. For example, never, ever discuss your wife's
hairstyle, cooking, driving or housekeeping in the
newspaper.
Sure, it may seem hilarious at the time, but in the
end, telling several thousand readers about the time
the pizza exploded on the kitchen ceiling can be very
bad for your back.
Just a little hard-earned advice for those of you
considering starting a newspaper column of your own.
But this time, it's a matter so serious I can remain
silent no longer. I think she may be involved in a
cult. The clues are everywhere.
Late at night, when I'm lying half awake in bed and
our children are snuffling softly in their dreams down
the hall, I can hear her downstairs, engaged in some
sort of peculiar ritual.
'THUMP! Tap, tap, tap. THUMP!' Over and over.
I slip out of the covers and creep to the top of the
stairs, expertly avoiding the squeaky floorboards that
comprise our home security system.
I used to do this when I was little, I think to
myself, as I sprawl on my belly on the landing and
peer through the balusters. This is how I used to
watch 'Saturday Night Live' when I was 10.
And I see her, hunched over her desk in the parlor of
our old house. The room is dark, except for the
blazing desk lamp. She takes a little block of wood in
one hand, taps it on some sort of ink pad, and thumps
it down on a piece of paper. 'THUMP! Tap, tap, tap.
THUMP!' Then she holds up the paper, looks at it with
an expression of satisfaction, and pulls out a device
I can only call a 'chooker.' She takes the paper,
which is folded like a greeting card, slides it into
the chooker and squeezes hard.
'Chooka, chooka, chooka.'
When she removes the card from the jaws of the
chooker, it leaves behind strange and intricate
symbols. I told you this was weird. But wait. There's
more. On some evenings and Saturday mornings, she's
been going off to what she eagerly refers to as 'Stamp
Parties.' She marks them on the calendar far in
advance. As near as I can figure, 'stamp' stands for
'Spending Time And Money Prodigiously.' She comes back
all aglow -- and it's not from the anticipation of
arriving home to the waiting arms of her one true
love (that would be me) and her cherubic little
children. No, no, no. She comes waltzing into the
house, flush with excitement, a stack of greeting
cards in her ink-stained hands and a yellow order form
for about $50 in new stamping merchandise.
'These are beautiful, dear,' I say, sincerely, as she
shows me the cards. 'But you are aware we can buy
greeting cards at the store for about $2.95 each,
$5.49 in Canada?' She looks at me sweetly but
amusingly, the way she looks at our 4-year-old when he
dribbles purple Kool-Aid down his chin.
Near as I can tell, the members of the group -- which
seems to be comprised exclusively of women -- keep in
close contact through an ingenious network of
postcards. These are mailed out every couple of
weeks, apprising each stamper of the time, date and
location of the next gathering. They take turns
assembling in one another's homes, where they first
listen to some kind of stamping message. There is a
great deal of praise, testimony and evangelizing.
Excitement builds. A sacred book, dog-eared with study
and hard use, is passed around the room. They are
mesmerized by its glossy pages.
When the fervor has reached its climax, the leader
takes up the collection. Credit cards, cash and
checkbooks are whipped out with a fury that would make
any man tremble in fear. Afterward, they linger a
while, chatting over cookies and coffee --
so they could very well be Methodists. I'm not sure.
Always, they discuss how to reach potential new
members with the message of stamping.
Sure, there have been other groups that have tempted
my wife over the years -- the Scrapbookers, the
Kitchen Gadgeteers, the Basketites and the Candleans
--but nothing like this. We go visit friends under the
pretense of having dinner and spending time together.
As soon as the children run off to play and the men
get engrossed in a conversation about 'The Simpsons'
or the benefits of double-insulated windows, the woman
of the house turns to my wife and says, 'I have your
stamp order for you!' They exchange knowing smiles and
slip quietly out of the room. This 'order' will become
part of the steady array of hardware my wife
keeps hauling home and storing in the laundry room.
She knows I never set foot in there. Though some of it
I've seen on her desk when I'm rifling through it for
coffee money in the morning before work. I've
seen sparkly stuff. Cutters, rollers, punches. For the
love of heaven, a heat gun!
I plan to keep this under investigation, for the good
of my wife and family.
And I'm thinking from my vantage point on the couch
tonight, I should be able to get a really clear view
of the chooker in action. I'll let you know.
Stamping, thru the eyes of a husband....
By JOHN GLADDEN
Staff Columnist
I am worried about my wife. More so than usual, I
mean.
Let me tell you, spending a few cold nights on the
couch gives a guy plenty of time to think. It's during
those times I've learned many valuable lessons about
life. For example, never, ever discuss your wife's
hairstyle, cooking, driving or housekeeping in the
newspaper.
Sure, it may seem hilarious at the time, but in the
end, telling several thousand readers about the time
the pizza exploded on the kitchen ceiling can be very
bad for your back.
Just a little hard-earned advice for those of you
considering starting a newspaper column of your own.
But this time, it's a matter so serious I can remain
silent no longer. I think she may be involved in a
cult. The clues are everywhere.
Late at night, when I'm lying half awake in bed and
our children are snuffling softly in their dreams down
the hall, I can hear her downstairs, engaged in some
sort of peculiar ritual.
'THUMP! Tap, tap, tap. THUMP!' Over and over.
I slip out of the covers and creep to the top of the
stairs, expertly avoiding the squeaky floorboards that
comprise our home security system.
I used to do this when I was little, I think to
myself, as I sprawl on my belly on the landing and
peer through the balusters. This is how I used to
watch 'Saturday Night Live' when I was 10.
And I see her, hunched over her desk in the parlor of
our old house. The room is dark, except for the
blazing desk lamp. She takes a little block of wood in
one hand, taps it on some sort of ink pad, and thumps
it down on a piece of paper. 'THUMP! Tap, tap, tap.
THUMP!' Then she holds up the paper, looks at it with
an expression of satisfaction, and pulls out a device
I can only call a 'chooker.' She takes the paper,
which is folded like a greeting card, slides it into
the chooker and squeezes hard.
'Chooka, chooka, chooka.'
When she removes the card from the jaws of the
chooker, it leaves behind strange and intricate
symbols. I told you this was weird. But wait. There's
more. On some evenings and Saturday mornings, she's
been going off to what she eagerly refers to as 'Stamp
Parties.' She marks them on the calendar far in
advance. As near as I can figure, 'stamp' stands for
'Spending Time And Money Prodigiously.' She comes back
all aglow -- and it's not from the anticipation of
arriving home to the waiting arms of her one true
love (that would be me) and her cherubic little
children. No, no, no. She comes waltzing into the
house, flush with excitement, a stack of greeting
cards in her ink-stained hands and a yellow order form
for about $50 in new stamping merchandise.
'These are beautiful, dear,' I say, sincerely, as she
shows me the cards. 'But you are aware we can buy
greeting cards at the store for about $2.95 each,
$5.49 in Canada?' She looks at me sweetly but
amusingly, the way she looks at our 4-year-old when he
dribbles purple Kool-Aid down his chin.
Near as I can tell, the members of the group -- which
seems to be comprised exclusively of women -- keep in
close contact through an ingenious network of
postcards. These are mailed out every couple of
weeks, apprising each stamper of the time, date and
location of the next gathering. They take turns
assembling in one another's homes, where they first
listen to some kind of stamping message. There is a
great deal of praise, testimony and evangelizing.
Excitement builds. A sacred book, dog-eared with study
and hard use, is passed around the room. They are
mesmerized by its glossy pages.
When the fervor has reached its climax, the leader
takes up the collection. Credit cards, cash and
checkbooks are whipped out with a fury that would make
any man tremble in fear. Afterward, they linger a
while, chatting over cookies and coffee --
so they could very well be Methodists. I'm not sure.
Always, they discuss how to reach potential new
members with the message of stamping.
Sure, there have been other groups that have tempted
my wife over the years -- the Scrapbookers, the
Kitchen Gadgeteers, the Basketites and the Candleans
--but nothing like this. We go visit friends under the
pretense of having dinner and spending time together.
As soon as the children run off to play and the men
get engrossed in a conversation about 'The Simpsons'
or the benefits of double-insulated windows, the woman
of the house turns to my wife and says, 'I have your
stamp order for you!' They exchange knowing smiles and
slip quietly out of the room. This 'order' will become
part of the steady array of hardware my wife
keeps hauling home and storing in the laundry room.
She knows I never set foot in there. Though some of it
I've seen on her desk when I'm rifling through it for
coffee money in the morning before work. I've
seen sparkly stuff. Cutters, rollers, punches. For the
love of heaven, a heat gun!
I plan to keep this under investigation, for the good
of my wife and family.
And I'm thinking from my vantage point on the couch
tonight, I should be able to get a really clear view
of the chooker in action. I'll let you know.
