Well, I’m currently in the process of preparing to travel to Scotland to see my daughter Kendra, and the man who stole her stole her from me, married her and then took her away to Scotland. Most people call him Zach. I have other names that I call him, but not allowed to say in a public setting. Mrs. T made me sign a document stating that I would remain socially acceptable when speaking of him in public places, e-mails, etc. She reminds me that he DID ask for her hand in marriage and that I agreed. I remind her that I WAS ASLEEP (probably drugged) at the time and I cannot be held responsible for what I do in my sleep. AND, I’m confident, he NEVER mentioned anything about taking her out of the country for years. Technically, he didn’t lie. But he didn’t tell the truth either. It’s now been one year since we’ve seen them and are looking forward to seeing HER again, and touring Scotland and London for three days. I’m sure HE will be around, and Mrs. T has made me sign another document stating that I will tolerate him and do him no physical harm. We’re planning on being over there for two weeks. . . I now wish I hadn’t signed that document. . .she told me that it was a “travel” document that needed my signature. . .I need to start reading her documents more closely in the future. . .
In planning for this trip I have come to grips with the fact that I have far too many gadgets and those gadgets (computer, phone, ipod, ear/eye brow/nose hair clippers, razors) all require power cords and/or car charger (I doubt that I’m the only American who suffers from gadget overload) .Trying to decide which gadgets, power cords to take and how we’re going to get them and enough clothes packed, is quite the ordeal. We currently have four suitcases, two backpacks, and Mrs. T’s purse, which in most airline guidelines will be required to be “checked” and not allowed to be carried on. And I’m sure it weighs more than fifty pounds, which is going to cost me extra. I have no idea what she has in that purse, and I no longer want to know. I wouldn’t try anyway. She had a motion detector and GPS locator installed on the purse. Whatever is in that purse seems to be important to her. . .I’m sure those three packets of Kleenex, four wet wipes, makeup bag, 34 pens and pencils, 82 ATM slips, 16 Wal-Mart receipts...all somehow have sentimental meaning to her. . .and/or she doesn’t want me to know how often she goes to Wal-Mart and the ATM machine. And, quite frankly, I no longer want to know.
And then of course, due to my old age (see ear/eye brow/nose hair clippers above) I have to make sure that I have my Metamucil. And my blood pressure medicine (see Mrs. T purse note above). And my eyeglasses for when I’m NOT wearing my contacts. And my reading glasses for when I AM wearing my contacts. And sunscreen to protect my wimpy chalky white skin resulting from working in an office for twenty-five years. And other miscellaneous items such as sunglasses, hats, motion sickness medicine, neck pillow, blackout eye coverings, and earplugs or the overnight plane trip. I sure hope I haven’t forgotten anything. But, if I take anything else, it means another suitcase. . .I’m thru packing. . .I’m exhausted. I NEED a vacation. . .
Friday Levity (2010.02.26)
Mrs. T and I had some time to kill yesterday between appointments. I was driving and she was telling me where to go. She’s very good at that. We went to the mall. She announced that she was going to “Bath, Body and Beyond” to buy some “stuff” she “needed”. I headed to the clearance racks at JC Penney to buy some stuff that I “need”, but only if it was on clearance. I found a sport coat that was GREAT deal! Seventy percent off! However, I had to wait on Mrs. T’s approval before purchasing. And, she likes to use her JC Penney card because that triggers something in their database which causes them to send her more stuff such as coupons and flyers (essentially, it’s another cult she belongs to). She was gone a VERY long time. I knew in my heart this was not a good thing. She finally showed up. And she readily agreed that I should buy the coat. I should have know her quick approval was not a good thing. We paid and as we were leaving the store, she told me that she had been “looking” at some things and wanted me to go and “look” at them. Her previous “quick approval” was now explained. I was subjected to an hour of “parading” as she tried on what seemed to be every item in the store, each time accompanied by a chorus of “oooo” and “ahhhhh” from the female sales associates. And each time she would ask me “What I thought?”…she would be surrounded by four sales associates, cheerfully smiling and nodding their heads in approval. At least the store had a place for me to sit down. If I ran a women’s clothing store, I would provide couches, big screen and stocked refrigerator for “guys in waiting”. We left the store with two jackets, slacks and more. She had once again successfully applied her Golden Rule of shopping: “One for him, more for me”.
We then moved on to “The Buckle”. And I don’t know why they call it the “buckle. I didn’t see any belts with buckles. I didn’t see any shoes with buckles. However, the goth girl that met us at the door had a buckle in her eyebrow. For those of you who claim I never step outside my comfort zone, you can shuddup now. The goth gal had more hardware in her face than I had ever seen on a girl. I assumed she was a girl. Sometimes it’s hard to really know with the short black goth hair and black goth baggy clothes. I didn’t ask her/him/it for gender verification. We were shopping for a pair of blue jeans for a member of our family. I picked a pair and looked at the price tag. It was $120.00. Suddenly, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I asked the goth gal if the $120.00 price included anything else besides the jeans. She looked at me like I was an alien from outer space. And, quite frankly, I felt like alien from outer space. The jeans had holes in them! And they were faded and paper thin! I quietly tried to tell Mrs. T that we could buy a pair of nice Wrangler jeans at Wal-Mart for about $25.00. I didn’t want to cause the goth girl to go postal, so I tried to be discreet when saying this to Mrs. T. However, Mrs. T dismissed me with a wave of her hand. And to add insult to injury, it was the hand in which she was holding her credit card.
I left and went to Anne’s Hallmark store. I read some of their new “Get Well” cards and browsed their latest inventory of “Precious Moments” figurines. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It was very calming and soothing and it lasted until Mrs. T showed up and told me that we were going to “Express”. I thought, perhaps, she was trying to talk really cool to me, and she was implying that we were going to “leave the mall really fast”. I was wrong. And I soon returned to Anne’s. . .
==
Couples who have lived together a long time have their own way of communicating.
A woman overheard her aunt and uncle one day, "What are you looking for in that closet?" she asked.
"Nothing," he answered.
"Well, it's not in there. Look under the bed."
==
A big corporation recently hired several cannibals. "You are all part of our team now” said the HR rep during the welcoming briefing.
"You get all the usual benefits and you can go to the cafeteria for something to eat, but please don't eat any of the other employees." The cannibals promised they would not.
Four weeks later their boss remarked, "You're all working very hard, and I'm satisfied with you. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?" The cannibals all shook their heads no.
After the boss had left, the leader of the cannibals said to the others, "Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?"
A hand rose hesitantly, to which the leader of the cannibals continued, "You fool! For four weeks we've been eating managers and no one noticed anything, but noooooo, you had to go and eat someone important!
We then moved on to “The Buckle”. And I don’t know why they call it the “buckle. I didn’t see any belts with buckles. I didn’t see any shoes with buckles. However, the goth girl that met us at the door had a buckle in her eyebrow. For those of you who claim I never step outside my comfort zone, you can shuddup now. The goth gal had more hardware in her face than I had ever seen on a girl. I assumed she was a girl. Sometimes it’s hard to really know with the short black goth hair and black goth baggy clothes. I didn’t ask her/him/it for gender verification. We were shopping for a pair of blue jeans for a member of our family. I picked a pair and looked at the price tag. It was $120.00. Suddenly, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I asked the goth gal if the $120.00 price included anything else besides the jeans. She looked at me like I was an alien from outer space. And, quite frankly, I felt like alien from outer space. The jeans had holes in them! And they were faded and paper thin! I quietly tried to tell Mrs. T that we could buy a pair of nice Wrangler jeans at Wal-Mart for about $25.00. I didn’t want to cause the goth girl to go postal, so I tried to be discreet when saying this to Mrs. T. However, Mrs. T dismissed me with a wave of her hand. And to add insult to injury, it was the hand in which she was holding her credit card.
I left and went to Anne’s Hallmark store. I read some of their new “Get Well” cards and browsed their latest inventory of “Precious Moments” figurines. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It was very calming and soothing and it lasted until Mrs. T showed up and told me that we were going to “Express”. I thought, perhaps, she was trying to talk really cool to me, and she was implying that we were going to “leave the mall really fast”. I was wrong. And I soon returned to Anne’s. . .
==
Couples who have lived together a long time have their own way of communicating.
A woman overheard her aunt and uncle one day, "What are you looking for in that closet?" she asked.
"Nothing," he answered.
"Well, it's not in there. Look under the bed."
==
A big corporation recently hired several cannibals. "You are all part of our team now” said the HR rep during the welcoming briefing.
"You get all the usual benefits and you can go to the cafeteria for something to eat, but please don't eat any of the other employees." The cannibals promised they would not.
Four weeks later their boss remarked, "You're all working very hard, and I'm satisfied with you. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?" The cannibals all shook their heads no.
After the boss had left, the leader of the cannibals said to the others, "Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?"
A hand rose hesitantly, to which the leader of the cannibals continued, "You fool! For four weeks we've been eating managers and no one noticed anything, but noooooo, you had to go and eat someone important!
Friday Levity (2010.02.12)
The dogs were howling. Mrs. T was howling. And I was crumpled in a fetal position on the bedroom floor, with sharp, stabbing, tingling pains shooting up and down the left side of my body. The alarm clock was dangling in midair, next to my head, blaring obnoxiously. Not a good way to start a day.
Typically, I am wide awake before the alarm ever goes off, but this morning, I was asleep. As I swung my arm up to turn off the alarm, which sits on the headboard above my head, I found out too late the entire left side of my body was still asleep, essentially turning my arm into a heavy battering ram which crashed into the wall above the headboard, then crashed down on top of the alarm clock. I fumbled to find the buttons on the alarm with my useless, numb fingers and knocked it off the headboard. But instead of crashing to the floor, it was caught in midair by the power cord, causing it to swing and crash into the wall several times. I struggled to get out of bed and found out too late that my left leg was also asleep. I stumbled, and crashed into the wall, finally crumpling to the floor. The dogs, I’m sure, thought intruders were breaking through the walls of our house and probably thought Mrs. T was being attacked because she was screaming like a banshee…she was telling me to turn that %^#&# alarm clock off. . .like I didn’t know it needed to be turned off??? I’ve taken steps to ensure this scenario does not happen again. However Mrs. T and I are disagreeing about the duct tape. I personally don’t think it looks bad. I DO know that ^#&# alarm clock isn’t going to fall off again. . .
Recently, I have been encountering a guy that I met several years ago, but hadn’t seen for a long time. He’s a cashier at a local quick stop where I buy gas. He’s a great guy. He always calls me Michael. That’s fine, even though that’s not my name. I’m thinking he might be hanging around the gas pumps too much. I am an authority on petro fumes, having had some extensive childhood experiences, but that’s another story for another day. I have never corrected him. I’m not sure why. I suppose I don’t want to offend him or hurt his feelings. Besides, I’ve been called a lot worse, especially by Mrs. T. and her family. And, I can’t really blame the guy too much, because there is a guy named Michael that shares my last name. He’s my younger brother. Michael has blonde hair, blue eyes. I have dark hair, dark eyes. And I weigh 150 pounds more than Michael. But, hey, I suppose we could be mistaken for each other. I’m pretty sure the guy knows my brother, otherwise, where would he have come up with the name Michael? I often wonder if he also calls my brother Michael too. And I wonder if he’s ever curious why my parents named two of their sons Michael. I bet he’d like to meet my two brothers named Sheldon . .
==
Some funnies forwarded my way this week:
==
I didn't know if my granddaughter had learned her colors yet, so I decided to test her. I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me and was always correct. It was fun for me, so I continued.. At last, she headed for the door, saying, "Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these, yourself!"
==
A second grader came home from school and said to her grandmother, "Grandma, guess what? We learned how to make babies today." The grandmother, more than a little surprised, tried to keep her cool... "That's interesting," she said, "How do you make babies?"
"It's simple," replied the girl. "You just change 'y' to 'i' and add 'es'."
==
"I have to talk to my girlfriend every day on the phone.”
My husband says, 'Why do you have to talk to her again today? You just talked to her yesterday. What could you possibly have to tell her?'
'Well, for one thing, I have to tell her you just said that.'" --Rita Rudner
==
"A list has been published of the foods that are most likely to expose you to infectious disease, and surprisingly all of them are healthy foods like leafy greens and fresh fruits. In other words, America is gonna be just fine." -Conan O'Brien
Typically, I am wide awake before the alarm ever goes off, but this morning, I was asleep. As I swung my arm up to turn off the alarm, which sits on the headboard above my head, I found out too late the entire left side of my body was still asleep, essentially turning my arm into a heavy battering ram which crashed into the wall above the headboard, then crashed down on top of the alarm clock. I fumbled to find the buttons on the alarm with my useless, numb fingers and knocked it off the headboard. But instead of crashing to the floor, it was caught in midair by the power cord, causing it to swing and crash into the wall several times. I struggled to get out of bed and found out too late that my left leg was also asleep. I stumbled, and crashed into the wall, finally crumpling to the floor. The dogs, I’m sure, thought intruders were breaking through the walls of our house and probably thought Mrs. T was being attacked because she was screaming like a banshee…she was telling me to turn that %^#&# alarm clock off. . .like I didn’t know it needed to be turned off??? I’ve taken steps to ensure this scenario does not happen again. However Mrs. T and I are disagreeing about the duct tape. I personally don’t think it looks bad. I DO know that ^#&# alarm clock isn’t going to fall off again. . .
Recently, I have been encountering a guy that I met several years ago, but hadn’t seen for a long time. He’s a cashier at a local quick stop where I buy gas. He’s a great guy. He always calls me Michael. That’s fine, even though that’s not my name. I’m thinking he might be hanging around the gas pumps too much. I am an authority on petro fumes, having had some extensive childhood experiences, but that’s another story for another day. I have never corrected him. I’m not sure why. I suppose I don’t want to offend him or hurt his feelings. Besides, I’ve been called a lot worse, especially by Mrs. T. and her family. And, I can’t really blame the guy too much, because there is a guy named Michael that shares my last name. He’s my younger brother. Michael has blonde hair, blue eyes. I have dark hair, dark eyes. And I weigh 150 pounds more than Michael. But, hey, I suppose we could be mistaken for each other. I’m pretty sure the guy knows my brother, otherwise, where would he have come up with the name Michael? I often wonder if he also calls my brother Michael too. And I wonder if he’s ever curious why my parents named two of their sons Michael. I bet he’d like to meet my two brothers named Sheldon . .
==
Some funnies forwarded my way this week:
==
I didn't know if my granddaughter had learned her colors yet, so I decided to test her. I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me and was always correct. It was fun for me, so I continued.. At last, she headed for the door, saying, "Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these, yourself!"
==
A second grader came home from school and said to her grandmother, "Grandma, guess what? We learned how to make babies today." The grandmother, more than a little surprised, tried to keep her cool... "That's interesting," she said, "How do you make babies?"
"It's simple," replied the girl. "You just change 'y' to 'i' and add 'es'."
==
"I have to talk to my girlfriend every day on the phone.”
My husband says, 'Why do you have to talk to her again today? You just talked to her yesterday. What could you possibly have to tell her?'
'Well, for one thing, I have to tell her you just said that.'" --Rita Rudner
==
"A list has been published of the foods that are most likely to expose you to infectious disease, and surprisingly all of them are healthy foods like leafy greens and fresh fruits. In other words, America is gonna be just fine." -Conan O'Brien
Friday Levity (2010.02.05)
People often ask me if what I write has any truth to it. And that question is typically followed with “How does your wife tolerate you?”
I could, and should, be offended by those questions, but I am not. I am taking the high road. This sporadic weekly rambling called “Friday Levity” comes from the heart and is an effort to get my plight known by the world. Ironically, people continue to feel empathy towards Mrs. T, which I struggle to understand. Obviously, I am doing something wrong. Thus far, I have only met one person who said he believed me, but then he quickly followed up with “But of course, I’ve never met your wife, so you’re the only one that has given me any information”. I appreciated that, sort of. I didn’t tell him that most people have not met my wife and it makes no difference to them as they continue to take her side. Especially women. Women are like thieves…they stick together. We men should probably learn from that. But then, that would be like reading the instructions or asking for directions. And that’s just crazy talk! Men communicate directly without all the surrounding fluff about what we’re wearing, where did we buy it and was it on sale. Women could learn from men on this and learn to communicate with only direct questions and answers about the necessities of life like computers, guns, pickups, cars, boats, gas, oil and beef jerky.
In reality, my ramblings always have some truth to them. I then, perhaps, at times, apply a dose of “writer liberties”. Sometimes, perhaps, I apply a very liberal dose. It is the job of the reader to ascertain which parts contain truth. And, as many of you seem to enjoy pointing out, there are some weeks which contain fewer parts of truth than other weeks.
Last week, I attended Mrs. T’s annual conference of music educators. I typically sit and work while I wait on her as she attends her daily sessions. This allows me ample opportunity to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes: people watching. Years ago I came to the conclusion that there is little doubt why these people belong in the Arts. . .most of them are a real work of art. But I’m glad they do what they do, because I really like music and for that, I am willing to not be judgmental and to put up with their many idiosyncrasies. I’m sure they too frown upon me as I sit with my headphones, laptop computer and tri-colored beanie cap with a propeller on top. I wear the cap in an attempt to blend in. It doesn’t work. I am probably not verbose and/or flamboyant enough. But, I do not apologize for that. If I want to know where the nearest bathroom is, I ask where the nearest bathroom is. I don’t start off with comments about what you’re wearing is “to die for” and “we just have to get together and compare notes” and “I’ve just been to the most awful session ever…well, the worst since the session before that”. I’m probably considered a mute by most. If I were a mute, I’m pretty sure most of them would understand sign language because I saw several of them using it when expressing their displeasure at getting water and slush splashed on them by passing cars. And apparently, they thought those drivers were not only mute, but deaf, because some very loud and colorful language was used, along with signals from both hands. Music people are like that. They like to use variety of techniques when attempting to teach a lesson. . .however, I imagine most of their fell on deaf ears. . .I really doubt that any of those drivers own a bassoon, and even if they did, I doubt they’re going to stick anything up it…as was suggested on many occasions by those music educators. . .
I could, and should, be offended by those questions, but I am not. I am taking the high road. This sporadic weekly rambling called “Friday Levity” comes from the heart and is an effort to get my plight known by the world. Ironically, people continue to feel empathy towards Mrs. T, which I struggle to understand. Obviously, I am doing something wrong. Thus far, I have only met one person who said he believed me, but then he quickly followed up with “But of course, I’ve never met your wife, so you’re the only one that has given me any information”. I appreciated that, sort of. I didn’t tell him that most people have not met my wife and it makes no difference to them as they continue to take her side. Especially women. Women are like thieves…they stick together. We men should probably learn from that. But then, that would be like reading the instructions or asking for directions. And that’s just crazy talk! Men communicate directly without all the surrounding fluff about what we’re wearing, where did we buy it and was it on sale. Women could learn from men on this and learn to communicate with only direct questions and answers about the necessities of life like computers, guns, pickups, cars, boats, gas, oil and beef jerky.
In reality, my ramblings always have some truth to them. I then, perhaps, at times, apply a dose of “writer liberties”. Sometimes, perhaps, I apply a very liberal dose. It is the job of the reader to ascertain which parts contain truth. And, as many of you seem to enjoy pointing out, there are some weeks which contain fewer parts of truth than other weeks.
Last week, I attended Mrs. T’s annual conference of music educators. I typically sit and work while I wait on her as she attends her daily sessions. This allows me ample opportunity to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes: people watching. Years ago I came to the conclusion that there is little doubt why these people belong in the Arts. . .most of them are a real work of art. But I’m glad they do what they do, because I really like music and for that, I am willing to not be judgmental and to put up with their many idiosyncrasies. I’m sure they too frown upon me as I sit with my headphones, laptop computer and tri-colored beanie cap with a propeller on top. I wear the cap in an attempt to blend in. It doesn’t work. I am probably not verbose and/or flamboyant enough. But, I do not apologize for that. If I want to know where the nearest bathroom is, I ask where the nearest bathroom is. I don’t start off with comments about what you’re wearing is “to die for” and “we just have to get together and compare notes” and “I’ve just been to the most awful session ever…well, the worst since the session before that”. I’m probably considered a mute by most. If I were a mute, I’m pretty sure most of them would understand sign language because I saw several of them using it when expressing their displeasure at getting water and slush splashed on them by passing cars. And apparently, they thought those drivers were not only mute, but deaf, because some very loud and colorful language was used, along with signals from both hands. Music people are like that. They like to use variety of techniques when attempting to teach a lesson. . .however, I imagine most of their fell on deaf ears. . .I really doubt that any of those drivers own a bassoon, and even if they did, I doubt they’re going to stick anything up it…as was suggested on many occasions by those music educators. . .
Friday Levity (2010.01.22)
One evening this week, I was sitting in my car at the doctor’s office, waiting on Mrs. T. An older woman, and what appeared to be her daughter and granddaughter, exited the building, crossed the parking lot and piled into the car parked next to me. They didn’t immediately start the car and leave, but I didn’t think too much of it. My car windows were opened a bit, and from what little I heard, they appeared to be sitting and visiting with each other. I was working on my computer, and paid no more attention to what they were doing. After several minutes, their horn honked…long, loud, blaring, very noticeable. I looked over at them to make sure they were okay, only to find that all three of them were sitting there staring back at me. “Very odd people”, I thought to myself, as I went back to work. Thirty seconds later, the horn again. I didn’t even look up this time. I figured if they want to sit and honk their horn, it was their business. Soon after, they started their car and left, leaving me to some peace and quiet as I was one of the last vehicles scattered around the parking lot. Shortly, thereafter, another car horn starts blaring! It was then I finally noticed my computer, being propped on the steering column as I worked, was periodically pressing down on MY horn button. Mystery solved. . .I no longer had to wonder why they had been staring at me when I looked over at them. I bet they’re still wondering why I was honking my horn at them though. They probably even had the nerve to think I was odd. I’ve been told that a human’s sense of hearing is one of the first things to go as people age. I can’t remember what it is supposed to go first, but I think it’s memory. . .I’m not sure though because I can’t remember. . .
I then decided to move to the passenger seat of the car, to make more room for my computer on my lap. When Mrs. T came out of the office, I motioned for her to drive. On the way home, I continued to work, although I tried to make conversation, knowing how females desire male conversation and interaction. I asked her what she was cooking for supper because I was starving. I also noted that I hoped we got home in time for the world news because I’ve discovered that is very relaxing, after a long day’s work, to have her cooking while I watch the news. There’s just something about pots, pan and food cooking that is comforting, as long as it doesn’t get too loud. She had mentioned, the night before, that someone needed to sweep the carpet, so I also mentioned to her that I sure hoped she didn’t try to sweep while I was watching TV this evening, because there was a big game on ESPN. And if possible, and because our dishwasher is a bit loud, I wondered if she could hold off until the game was over and I had gone to bed.
Typically, silence is golden, but never when it’s Mrs. T’s silence. Through years of experience, I have become a quick study on the danger signals associated with female body language and I quickly ascertained that I had touched a nerve, perhaps her last one. I quickly changed the subject to the stock market crash of the day, stating how important timing is, with regard to buying and selling stock. Suddenly, I heard tires screeching and a horn blasting. I jerked my head up from my keyboard in time to see the grill of a HUGE truck looming in the window of my passenger’s side door. Somehow, miraculously, a collision had been avoided. Apparently, while making a left hand turn in front of the truck, Mrs. T had miscalculated its speed, obviously thinking she had ample time to make her turn. It was probably not as close as it seemed, but the whole thing was sure scary, causing me to ponder on how things can change in a split second and what might have happened to me if that truck had actually t-boned my side of the car. I was shaken and silent as we continued on toward home.
After some time, Mrs. T finally broke the silence. “Yes, timing is everything”, she stated.
Looking back on it now, I’m thinking that she wasn’t referring to the stock market. . .
And a few funnies from my Inbox this week:
===================================
Classified Ad from local newspaper:
09' Suzuki GSXR 1000, $9,000
This bike is perfect! It has only 1,000 miles and has had its 500 mile dealer service.
It's been adult ridden, all wheels have always been on the ground. I use it as a cruiser/commuter. I'm selling it because it was purchased without proper consent of a loving wife. Apparently "Do whatever you want." doesn't mean what I thought. Call Steve. 5555-1212.
==
An elderly parish priest was tending his garden near a convent when a passerby stopped to inquire after the priest's much-loved roses.
"Not bad," said the priest, "but they suffer from a disease peculiar to this area known as the black death."
"What on earth is that?" asked the passerby, anxious to increase his garden knowledge.
"Nuns with scissors”, he replied.
==
True story:
When my two boys were aged 3 and 5, we moved to a country town. Next door was a vacant block and beyond that a house where an old man lived with his very old sister.
One day my sons wandered over and talked to the man over his fence. Soon they came running into the house very excited.
“Mum, guess what the man next door is doing?”
“What?”, I asked.
“He's minding his own business!!!”, was their animated reply.
==
"The next great civilization to arise was Ancient Greece, which came up with an exciting new governing concept called "democracy," from the Greek words dem, meaning "everybody gets to vote," and ocracy, meaning "except, of course women, slaves and poor people." -Dave Barry
I then decided to move to the passenger seat of the car, to make more room for my computer on my lap. When Mrs. T came out of the office, I motioned for her to drive. On the way home, I continued to work, although I tried to make conversation, knowing how females desire male conversation and interaction. I asked her what she was cooking for supper because I was starving. I also noted that I hoped we got home in time for the world news because I’ve discovered that is very relaxing, after a long day’s work, to have her cooking while I watch the news. There’s just something about pots, pan and food cooking that is comforting, as long as it doesn’t get too loud. She had mentioned, the night before, that someone needed to sweep the carpet, so I also mentioned to her that I sure hoped she didn’t try to sweep while I was watching TV this evening, because there was a big game on ESPN. And if possible, and because our dishwasher is a bit loud, I wondered if she could hold off until the game was over and I had gone to bed.
Typically, silence is golden, but never when it’s Mrs. T’s silence. Through years of experience, I have become a quick study on the danger signals associated with female body language and I quickly ascertained that I had touched a nerve, perhaps her last one. I quickly changed the subject to the stock market crash of the day, stating how important timing is, with regard to buying and selling stock. Suddenly, I heard tires screeching and a horn blasting. I jerked my head up from my keyboard in time to see the grill of a HUGE truck looming in the window of my passenger’s side door. Somehow, miraculously, a collision had been avoided. Apparently, while making a left hand turn in front of the truck, Mrs. T had miscalculated its speed, obviously thinking she had ample time to make her turn. It was probably not as close as it seemed, but the whole thing was sure scary, causing me to ponder on how things can change in a split second and what might have happened to me if that truck had actually t-boned my side of the car. I was shaken and silent as we continued on toward home.
After some time, Mrs. T finally broke the silence. “Yes, timing is everything”, she stated.
Looking back on it now, I’m thinking that she wasn’t referring to the stock market. . .
And a few funnies from my Inbox this week:
===================================
Classified Ad from local newspaper:
09' Suzuki GSXR 1000, $9,000
This bike is perfect! It has only 1,000 miles and has had its 500 mile dealer service.
It's been adult ridden, all wheels have always been on the ground. I use it as a cruiser/commuter. I'm selling it because it was purchased without proper consent of a loving wife. Apparently "Do whatever you want." doesn't mean what I thought. Call Steve. 5555-1212.
==
An elderly parish priest was tending his garden near a convent when a passerby stopped to inquire after the priest's much-loved roses.
"Not bad," said the priest, "but they suffer from a disease peculiar to this area known as the black death."
"What on earth is that?" asked the passerby, anxious to increase his garden knowledge.
"Nuns with scissors”, he replied.
==
True story:
When my two boys were aged 3 and 5, we moved to a country town. Next door was a vacant block and beyond that a house where an old man lived with his very old sister.
One day my sons wandered over and talked to the man over his fence. Soon they came running into the house very excited.
“Mum, guess what the man next door is doing?”
“What?”, I asked.
“He's minding his own business!!!”, was their animated reply.
==
"The next great civilization to arise was Ancient Greece, which came up with an exciting new governing concept called "democracy," from the Greek words dem, meaning "everybody gets to vote," and ocracy, meaning "except, of course women, slaves and poor people." -Dave Barry
Friday Levity (01.15.2010)
We keep our artificial Christmas tree in the attic, above the garage. It has now been put up again for another year. That’s one of my two jobs with regard to Christmas trees. I drag it out each year (i.e. I climb the ladder up into the attic, drag the box containing the tree, across the rafters, positioning the box above the hole in the ceiling and letting gravity take over as it slides down the ladder until it falls to one side or the other and crashes into garage floor. I then drag it to the family room). My other job I to put it up each year. Essentially, I position it on the attic ladder and start pushing/cramming/cussing it up through the hole in the ceiling until teeters on the first rafter it finds and gravity does the rest, allowing the box to fall into the attic wherever it may. I close the ladder/door to the attic and I’m finished for another year.
Years ago, we bought real trees. But the concern for a potential fire hazard and dry pine needles clogging up the sweeper put an end to it. I gave Mrs. T suggestions on how to best clean out the sweeper but apparently that was not enough to save the real tree tradition. I don’t know, but I suspect that she also got tired of going out in the woods, finding a good tree, chopping it down and dragging it back to the house. I always supported her efforts while I sat in my recliner watching her do it, but apparently my support was not enough in this case.
Next, we moved to an artificial tree. They look great the first year. But like anything else, when you try to get something back in the original box, it can’t be done. Well, it can be done, but typically the box suffers and so do the contents of the box. I do know that duct tape helps keep a box from flying open at its bulging seams. Thus, artificial trees typically don’t look so good the next time you pull them out of the box, and ours was no exception. Of course, with all the lights, tinsel and ornaments, the tree is mostly hidden from view. I don’t think people notice. Or perhaps they’re just being kind. I’ve never had anyone speak to me about our cheap, plastic, deformed Christmas trees. Well, my brother-in-law Steve did say that he didn’t realize a tree could be in such sad shape and still be standing. I educated him about leaning it against the wall, in a corner. It cannot be freestanding. It’s all about the corner, the walls, and how you lean it into the corner. The angel on top of the tree is typically hard to see unless you’re standing off to one side. I don’t hold it against him. He’s an opinionated person and we’ve grown accustomed to it. He’s the same guy that once finished one of his many stories by saying, “That gal ain’t nothin’ but a fat old sow”. I thought I got off pretty lucky with his opinion of my tree. And, I couldn’t disagree with his summation of the lady. However, I probably wouldn’t have called her old. Ladies don’t like it when you mention their age.
Next, we moved to the ultimate: an artificial, lighted Christmas tree. It took me three years to pay it off, but it was worth it. I got it paid off this year. Unfortunately, the lights stopped working this year. So we had to buy lights for our lighted artificial Christmas tree. In my opinion, that’s just not right. But in the spirit of the season, and unlike my brother-in-law Steve, I kept my opinions to myself. My only suggestion to Mrs. T was that she could complete a nostalgic circle of tree life, back to the point where it all started with a real tree, by putting her lit lighted Christmas tree in a bucket of water. Like the old times.
My suggestion was not well received. Maybe it was because I had to yell my suggestion to her. I couldn’t turn down the volume on football game that I was watching from my recliner because I didn’t have the remote. And I didn’t want to ask her to hand me the remote, because I knew how busy she was with the tree. Maybe she just hadn’t gotten into the Christmas spirit like I had. I don’t think I’ll ever understand women. I tried to help her. . .and how did she show her appreciation? She had a suggestion of her own with regard to where I could stick the Christmas tree this year. . .ouch.
Years ago, we bought real trees. But the concern for a potential fire hazard and dry pine needles clogging up the sweeper put an end to it. I gave Mrs. T suggestions on how to best clean out the sweeper but apparently that was not enough to save the real tree tradition. I don’t know, but I suspect that she also got tired of going out in the woods, finding a good tree, chopping it down and dragging it back to the house. I always supported her efforts while I sat in my recliner watching her do it, but apparently my support was not enough in this case.
Next, we moved to an artificial tree. They look great the first year. But like anything else, when you try to get something back in the original box, it can’t be done. Well, it can be done, but typically the box suffers and so do the contents of the box. I do know that duct tape helps keep a box from flying open at its bulging seams. Thus, artificial trees typically don’t look so good the next time you pull them out of the box, and ours was no exception. Of course, with all the lights, tinsel and ornaments, the tree is mostly hidden from view. I don’t think people notice. Or perhaps they’re just being kind. I’ve never had anyone speak to me about our cheap, plastic, deformed Christmas trees. Well, my brother-in-law Steve did say that he didn’t realize a tree could be in such sad shape and still be standing. I educated him about leaning it against the wall, in a corner. It cannot be freestanding. It’s all about the corner, the walls, and how you lean it into the corner. The angel on top of the tree is typically hard to see unless you’re standing off to one side. I don’t hold it against him. He’s an opinionated person and we’ve grown accustomed to it. He’s the same guy that once finished one of his many stories by saying, “That gal ain’t nothin’ but a fat old sow”. I thought I got off pretty lucky with his opinion of my tree. And, I couldn’t disagree with his summation of the lady. However, I probably wouldn’t have called her old. Ladies don’t like it when you mention their age.
Next, we moved to the ultimate: an artificial, lighted Christmas tree. It took me three years to pay it off, but it was worth it. I got it paid off this year. Unfortunately, the lights stopped working this year. So we had to buy lights for our lighted artificial Christmas tree. In my opinion, that’s just not right. But in the spirit of the season, and unlike my brother-in-law Steve, I kept my opinions to myself. My only suggestion to Mrs. T was that she could complete a nostalgic circle of tree life, back to the point where it all started with a real tree, by putting her lit lighted Christmas tree in a bucket of water. Like the old times.
My suggestion was not well received. Maybe it was because I had to yell my suggestion to her. I couldn’t turn down the volume on football game that I was watching from my recliner because I didn’t have the remote. And I didn’t want to ask her to hand me the remote, because I knew how busy she was with the tree. Maybe she just hadn’t gotten into the Christmas spirit like I had. I don’t think I’ll ever understand women. I tried to help her. . .and how did she show her appreciation? She had a suggestion of her own with regard to where I could stick the Christmas tree this year. . .ouch.
Friday Levity (01.08.2010)
I cleaned out my sock drawer this week. And don't EVEN act like you don't have a sock drawer! I can envision some of you having more than one sock drawer! Mine wasn't a pretty sight/site.
First, I began by throwing away any socks which were totally, or partially green. . .I have educated Mrs. T on the dangers of mold and have asked her to STOP putting dirty socks back in my drawer. . .
Next, I had to figure out if the 25+ single socks were actually orphans, or did they have a mate somewhere in the mess? I hate matching up socks, as I suspected you all do.
Next, after matching up what I could, I then attempted to match up socks that were "close" to a match. I figured I could wear them when I work in the yard because my grandchildren dogs, Maggie and Rosco, couldn't care less, and my neighbors have learned to not even look when I'm out in the yard, because my wardrobe is often "less than coordinated". . .sometimes just "less". . .one of the many benefits of living out in the woods is wearing a much or little as you want. . .doesn't matter if it's missing, matched and/or mismatched. . .
Next, I threw away all remaining orphans. Also, I threw away socks that I hadn't worn in years. . . and for good reason! I wouldn't have ever imagined socks going out of style, but my argyle olive green and burnt orange fuzzy socks should have been outlawed when I was buying them years ago, and I know that I'd now get shot if tried to wear them now. . .at the very least I'd show up on the "People of Wal-Mart" website.
After it was all said and done, my sock drawer would actually close. I have made myself a promise that if I ever buy a pair of socks again, I'll throw away an existing pair of socks, thus maintaining "sock drawer karma".
Those orphans continue to perplex me with regard to whatever happened to their mates. Is it a ploy, by Mrs. T, to get rid of my favorite holy socks? She knows I would be mad if she threw away my favorite holy socks. I wonder if she throws away one and then puts its mate in the drawer, blaming the clothes dryer demons for the missing socks. I have good reason to believe she would do such a thing. . .I have a VERY favorite t-shirt and you know what I'm talking about! It was SO comfortable. . .thread bare, rips, one sleeve hanging on by a thread, frayed. This week, I found HALF of it in my t-shirt drawer after she had done the laundry. . .
First, I began by throwing away any socks which were totally, or partially green. . .I have educated Mrs. T on the dangers of mold and have asked her to STOP putting dirty socks back in my drawer. . .
Next, I had to figure out if the 25+ single socks were actually orphans, or did they have a mate somewhere in the mess? I hate matching up socks, as I suspected you all do.
Next, after matching up what I could, I then attempted to match up socks that were "close" to a match. I figured I could wear them when I work in the yard because my grandchildren dogs, Maggie and Rosco, couldn't care less, and my neighbors have learned to not even look when I'm out in the yard, because my wardrobe is often "less than coordinated". . .sometimes just "less". . .one of the many benefits of living out in the woods is wearing a much or little as you want. . .doesn't matter if it's missing, matched and/or mismatched. . .
Next, I threw away all remaining orphans. Also, I threw away socks that I hadn't worn in years. . . and for good reason! I wouldn't have ever imagined socks going out of style, but my argyle olive green and burnt orange fuzzy socks should have been outlawed when I was buying them years ago, and I know that I'd now get shot if tried to wear them now. . .at the very least I'd show up on the "People of Wal-Mart" website.
After it was all said and done, my sock drawer would actually close. I have made myself a promise that if I ever buy a pair of socks again, I'll throw away an existing pair of socks, thus maintaining "sock drawer karma".
Those orphans continue to perplex me with regard to whatever happened to their mates. Is it a ploy, by Mrs. T, to get rid of my favorite holy socks? She knows I would be mad if she threw away my favorite holy socks. I wonder if she throws away one and then puts its mate in the drawer, blaming the clothes dryer demons for the missing socks. I have good reason to believe she would do such a thing. . .I have a VERY favorite t-shirt and you know what I'm talking about! It was SO comfortable. . .thread bare, rips, one sleeve hanging on by a thread, frayed. This week, I found HALF of it in my t-shirt drawer after she had done the laundry. . .
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