tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8003495838779813442024-03-13T15:13:11.764-04:00LLOL (Literally Laughing out Loud)Every day, stuff happens... and we may as well laugh about it.Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-67854356981812001162011-02-15T07:57:00.003-05:002011-02-15T08:02:57.422-05:00Listen to your heart<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dO6IAvisN9I/TVp4j2mbjfI/AAAAAAAAAwg/3NPNznaTyBU/s1600/3952868620_be15b46366.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573900046171868658" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 294px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dO6IAvisN9I/TVp4j2mbjfI/AAAAAAAAAwg/3NPNznaTyBU/s400/3952868620_be15b46366.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#3333ff;">A couple of days ago the 14-year-old and I were heading out the door in the morning to school. A pencil was lying on the kitchen counter. I hate clutter. </span><br /><p><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span> </p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Is that your pencil, buddy?" I asked.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Yeah," he replied without a shadow of guilt for having left it lying around (just kidding. If I flipped out every time a kid left a pencil lying around, in addition to the hundreds of other random items of crap they magically spread from their domain throughout the house I would be in a mental hospital).</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Do you need it for school today?" I lovingly questioned.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"What does your heart tell you?" he questioned in return.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span> </p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">ya can't make this stuff up.</span></p>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-24553204013367002162011-01-18T18:50:00.001-05:002011-01-18T18:53:21.541-05:00What's wrong with going the wrong way through the car wash?<p><object height="390" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vPFCn3itBFE&rel=0&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vPFCn3itBFE&rel=0&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="390"></embed></object></p><p> </p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">Sometimes other people give us the best laugh!</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span> </p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">Hope you enjoy this lady!</span></p>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-37341479108744799562011-01-11T09:21:00.004-05:002011-01-11T09:26:20.152-05:00The 14-year-old thinks he's funny<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TSxnrMdpxJI/AAAAAAAAAwU/Gk3oRHzFfWo/s1600/choc_cake2.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560933631673353362" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 399px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TSxnrMdpxJI/AAAAAAAAAwU/Gk3oRHzFfWo/s400/choc_cake2.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#000099;">The 14-year-old thinks he's funny and well, I guess he is. For my grandmother's 93rd birthday, I made a chocolate cake with chocolate icing; the three generations of women in my family would consider no other flavors appropriate for birthday cakes.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">As the cake was being sliced, I loudly announced before anyone had taken a bite that I had made the entire thing completely from scratch - no box mixes, no canned pre-prepared icing. I was quite proud of myself.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">The 14-year-old thought this was a good time to quip: "You might have wanted to have waited until we've all tasted it before you gave us that little tidbit of information."</span></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-12626569316701657062010-12-22T21:29:00.002-05:002010-12-22T21:33:54.302-05:00The 12-year-old guest blogs...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TRK0-zw4nMI/AAAAAAAAAwI/fG2pjRk45Fo/s1600/images%255B1%255D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553700281641376962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 113px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TRK0-zw4nMI/AAAAAAAAAwI/fG2pjRk45Fo/s400/images%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Well, not really, but I wanted to publish this cool play he wrote - a spoof on Greek mythology:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br />Sailing in Myths<br />By the 12-year-old</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Scene 1<br />(The curtain opens. Two men are standing on a ship.)<br />Capt. John: Ah, nothing like a nice whaling trip, eh Louis?<br />Louis: Are there even any whales in the Mediterranean Sea?<br />Capt. John: Of course!<br />(A whale appears.)<br />Louis: What is that?<br />Capt. John: That's a Sperm Whale!<br />Louis: Really, Captain?<br />Capt. John: No, it's a woodpecker.<br />Louis: Really?<br />Capt. John: Yes. Now quick, get the harpoon!<br />Louis: Why are we going to shoot a woodpecker with a harpoon?<br />Capt. John: It's not ... why do I even bother?<br />Louis: Too bad. It flew away under water.<br />Capt. John: What's wrong with you?<br />(The curtain closes.)<br />Scene 2<br />(The curtain opens. There is a storm rocking the ship. Capt. John and Louis are hanging on for dear life. The lights are dim.)<br />Louis: What's going on, Captain John?<br />Capt. John: Well, I'm no expert on the weather, but I'd say this might just be a STORM!!!<br />Louis: Wow! You're so smart!<br />Capt. John: I don't need your idiocy right now Louis! We're sort of in a pickle if you haven't noticed.<br />Louis: (Amazed) We're in a pickle? Cool!<br />Capt. John: ... Really Louis ... Really?<br />Louis: Yeah! You just said so Captain.<br />Capt. John: HOLD ON!!!<br />(The lights turn off)<br />All: Waaaaaaa!!!<br />(The curtain closes.)<br />Scene 3<br />(The curtain opens. The storm is over. Louis is on top of Capt. John. Capt. John shakes him off and stands up. Louis stands up to.)<br />Louis: That sure was a mighty strong storm, eh Captain John?<br />Capt. John: Uhhhhhh ...<br />Louis: Still shaken up from the storm, Captain?<br />Capt. John: What? No, I've been through much stronger storms. I can't believe we didn't get the whale.<br />It's entirely your fault! You onerous, incompetent fool!<br />Louis: I'm sorry ... I didn't know-<br />Capt. John: (yelling) See that's just it! You never know, you idiot!<br />Louis: I... I'm sorry. I-<br />Capt. John: Just be quiet! I don't have time to deal with you! (Mocking) We're in a pickle? Don't shoot the woodpecker with a harpoon! You-<br />(A hole opens in the water. A giant figure rises out of it.)<br />Capt. John: Who are you?<br />Poseidon: Poseidon! The Greek God of the Sea!<br />Capt. John: Poseidon?<br />Poseidon: Yeah.<br />Capt. John: Did you create that storm?<br />Poseidon: Yeah.<br />Capt. John: Are you trying to kill me?!<br />Poseidon: Yeah.<br />Capt. John: Why?!<br />Poseidon: Because you tried to kill my Sperm Whale. I'm just lucky that nice boy stopped you.<br />Capt. John: That was your whale?<br />Poseidon: Yeah, his name is Mr. Whale.<br />Capt. John: Mr. Whale?<br />Poseidon: I was never very good with names, okay?<br />Capt. John: Oh, go back to Greece!<br />Poseidon: As much as I hate to burst your bubble, I'm not the only one going to Greece.<br />Louis: Land ho!<br />Offstage Voice (Male): POSEIDON!!!<br />Poseidon: Oh, here. (Poseidon hands a small metal lightning bolt to Captain John) Bye.<br />(Poseidon leaves. The curtain closes.)<br />Scene 4<br />(Capt. John and Louis are on land next to another giant figure holding a lightning bold.)<br />Capt. John: Let's see. A lightning bolt? Oh, let me guess… you're Zeus.<br />Zeus: CORRECT! I AM ZEUS! THE GREEK GOD OF LIGHTNING!!!<br />Louis: (cheerfully) Hello!<br />Zeus: WELL HELLO! NOW, YOU! (Zeus points at Capt. John) YOU HAVE MY STOLEN LIGHTNING BOLT! FOR THAT, I MUST PUNISH YOU!!! YOU WILL FIND YOUR BOAT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF GREECE!!! HA HA HA HA HAHA HA!!!!!<br />(Zeus leaves)<br />Capt. John: Well that's just great! C'mon Louis, let's go get that boat .<br />. (Capt. John and Louis leave.)<br />Scene 5<br />(Capt. John and Louis are walking. Zeus chases after them and blocks their path.)<br />Zeus: (panting) WAIT! I FORGOT TO GIVE YOU THIS! GREEK MYTHOLOGY FOR DUMMIES!<br />Louis: Thank you!<br />Capt. John: It should be called Greek Mythology for Louis'.<br />Zeus: WELL, I SHOULD GET GOING. STORMS TO BREW, PROBLEMS TO TAKE CARE OF OR, POSSIBLY, MAKE WORSE, HERAS TO CHEAT ON-<br />Offstage voice (Female): WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!<br />Zeus: BYE!<br />(Zeus hurries offstage. Capt. John and Louis continue along their wcry.)<br />Scene 6<br />(Capt. John and Louis walk onstage. A giant female figure walks out the center of the curtain.)<br />Athena: Hello, travelers. My name is Athena, the goddess of wisdom.<br />Louis: (a loud whisper) She's much prettier in the book, Captain John.<br />Athena: Hey!<br />Capt. John: (a loud whisper) Never trust illustrations Louis.<br />Athena: You know I'm standing right here! Here! See? Five yards from you guys!<br />Capt. John: Yes! The goddess of wisdom! I was wondering if you knew where my boat is.<br />Athena: Oh, you must be Captain John the lightning bolt thief! It's on the other side of Greece.<br />Capt. John: I'm aware of that. I was wondering if you could tell me where.<br />Athena: Of course I can!<br />Capt. John: Great!<br />Athena: But I won't.<br />Capt. John: Huh?<br />Athena: You called me ugly. Bye. (Athena walks offstage.)<br />Capt. John: Well that's just perfect! (Capt. John storms offstage followed by Louis.)<br />Scene 7<br />(The curtain opens. A giant man is behind it. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)<br />Dionysus: Hey peoples. What's up in yo crib, dogs? I'm Dionysus, the Greek God of Wine.<br />Capt. John: That's nice. Do you know-<br />Dionysus: Say, do you dogs got any wine?<br />Capt. John: (to Louis) Wine is the last thing he needs.<br />(Dionysus snaps. A bottle of wine appears.)<br />Dionysus: AwwwwwYeah!<br />Capt. John: Okay Bye!<br />Louis: Bye. (Capt. John and Louis slowly make their way offstage. Dionysus starts to rap.)<br />Dionysus: Wine! Made from grapes from a grapevine! Oh Yeah! Yummy in my tummy!<br />(The curtain closes.)<br />Scene 8<br />(Capt. John and Louis walk across the stage in front of the curtain. Another giant figure runs up on the other side of the stage. He stops them.)<br />Ares: Halt! I am Ares! The mighty Greek God of War! What is your purpose for traveling?<br />Capt. John: My boat is on the other side of Greece. I'm trying to find it.<br />Louis: (to Capt. John) A boat? Hey! I've seen a boat! We were just riding in one! Do you think it could be the one we were looking for?<br />Ares: Wow He's stupid!<br />Capt. John: Yeah.<br />Ares: So, who do we have to fight to get that boat of your back?<br />Louis: Ewe. Fighting? Fighting is never the answer. Let's see if we can solve this dispute in a more peaceful manner.<br />Capt. John: Fight? There's no fighting.<br />Ares: Well, as the god of war, fighting is my instinct. Well, if there's no fighting, I'll have to pass. Good Luck!<br />Louis: Bye!<br />(All characters continue on their way and offstage.)<br />Scene 9<br />(The curtain opens. A giant figure is standing onstage with a lyre. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)<br />Apollo: Hello! My name is Apollo. Not a speed skater. Not a boxing champion in a movie that sounds like it's about a rock named by Poseidon. o. I am-<br />Capt. John: Let me guess. You're a Greek God.<br />Apollo: Why yes! How'd you know?<br />Capt. John: Wild guess?<br />Louis: We've seen like, a million!<br />Capt. John: We've seen five.<br />Louis: Yeah, well .. I was close!<br />Capt. John: Sure.<br />Apollo: So I'm the God of music and light. My twin sister's name is-<br />(Louis takes out the book)<br />Louis: Wait! Wait! Waitl. .... um a p o here, Apollo. Page 95.32,48,55,64, 78,87, 106, oops!<br />Missed it! Here page 95! Urn ........... Airtymis!<br />Apollo: It's pronounced Artemis.<br />Louis: Okay.<br />Apollo: Oh no! The lyre quintet meeting is in an hour! I have to go! Bye!<br />Capt John: Bye.<br />Capt. John and Louis walk on and Apollo hurries off. The curtain closes as they do so.)<br />Scene 10<br />(Artemis walks onstage. She is holding a bow with an arrow notched in it and is taking aim. She is a giant like the others. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)<br />Artemis: Hello travelers. I am Artemis. The Goddess of the hunt.<br />Capt. John: Hello there.<br />Louis: Hi!<br />Capt. John: We just met your brother, Apollo.<br />Artemis: Oh, him? That's weird. I could have sworn he had a lyre quintet meeting in forty-five minutes.<br />Capt. John: Yes, he did.<br />Artemis: I hope he's not late.<br />Capt. John: Hey! Have you seen a whaling boat?<br />Artemis: I'm an immortal Goddess! Of course I've seen a whaling boat!<br />Capt. John: I mean recently! I'm missing mine.<br />Artemis: You lost a boat? That's embarrassing.<br />Capt. John: Aarrgg! This isn't helping! Let's go Louis!<br />(Artemis goes back to hunting and leaves. Capt. John and Louis leave.)<br />Scene 11<br />(A giant woman walks onstage. Capt. John and Louis enter on the other side.)<br />Louis: Hi there lady!<br />Capt. John: Hello. Please excuse my comrade's stupidity.<br />Demeter: Hello. My name is Demeter. I am the Goddess of the harvest.<br />Louis: The harvest? That so boring.<br />Demeter: Hey punk! You wanna have a winter anti-wonderland the rest of your life?<br />Louis: N ... n .......................... n .. n .. n .. n .. n .. n n n n n .. n .. no!<br />Demeter: I didn't think so! (Mumbles to herself) Aaahhhh! Mortals.<br />(Demeter storms off)<br />Scene 12<br />(The curtain opens. A giant figure is typing at a computer. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)<br />Capt. John: Ummm ... hello.<br />Hermes: (Doesn't look up) Hi. I'm Hermes. The messenger of the Gods. I used to fly around but I just found out about e-mail and it is soooooo much easier!<br />Capt. John: Yeah ... anyway, have you seen a boat? Recently?<br />Hermes: No. Wait. Really? No way! OMG! I've got to tell Cary and Marvin and Kyle and Stacie on Facebook and-<br />Capt. John: Okay you are soooooo not doing your job!<br />Hermes: I'm the messenger God. I'm instant messaging. Messaging! That's my job.<br />Louis: Ohhh snap! You just got burned Captain John.<br />Hermes: It's true. I totally just burned you.<br />Capt. John: You're the messenger God. Not the instant messenger God!<br />Louis: Ohhh snap! You got burned back Mr. Hermes!<br />Hermes: Instant messaging is a type of messaging.<br />Louis/ Hermes: Ohhh snap! Double burned!<br />(Louis and Hermes high-five.)<br />Capt. John: We have to go! C'mon Louis!<br />(Capt. John and Louis leave. Hermes continues typing. The curtain closes.)<br />Scene 13<br />(The curtain opens. A giant man with a giant hammer is onstage. Capt. John and Louis walk onstage.)<br />Capt. John: Hello sir, how are you?<br />Hephaestus: I'm okay. My name is Hephaestus. I am the God of fire. I am also the blacksmith of the Gods.<br />Louis: Why just okay? You have a big hammer. Happiness is just set up for you!<br />Hephaestus: That's what I thought too. But I've learned that there is more to life than just giant hammers.<br />Capt. John: (Sarcastically) Really? Enlighten me.<br />Hephaestus: Well, I think my wife, Aphrodite is running around with Ares again.<br />Louis: Hey! We saw Ares!<br />Hephaestus: Really? Did you teach him a lesson he'll never forget?<br />Capt. John: Okay. Let me explain something to you. Me mortal, he God. We fight, he win. Comprendo?<br />Hephaestus: Si, mucho comprendo.<br />Louis: (confused) What er you taaalking about? I don't speak German.<br />Capt. John: Shut up Louis!<br />Louis: Hey Captain, look at the map!<br />Capt. John: What about the map?<br />Louis: We're almost across Greece!<br />Capt. John: No, Louis. We're almost across the Greece you spilled on the map.<br />Louis: Oh.<br />Hephaestus: Well then you men better get moving.<br />Louis: True that!<br />Capt. John: Bye.<br />Louis: Bye.<br />Hephaestus: Bye.<br />(Capt. John and Louis continue. The curtain closes.)<br />Scene 14<br />(The curtain opens. A giant woman is sitting in front of a mirror. Capt. John and Louis enter.)<br />Capt. John: Well looking at the book, considering we've only seen Olympian Gods, you must be, Aphrodite. Hephaestus's wife.<br />Aphrodite: That, my ... ugly friend is true.<br />Capt. John: Ugly?!<br />Aphrodite: Why yes! Look at those wrinkles! Dreadful! Oh, excuse me. I am the Goddess of love and beauty.<br />Capt. John: Now that makes sense.<br />Louis: Well gosh, you shore are pretty!<br />Aphrodite: Why thank you, I know! And you ... aren't.<br />(Louis starts crying)<br />Capt. John: Well now look what you made him do! He'll be like this all day and I'll have to deal with it!<br />Aphrodite: Well it's not my fault that he's almost as ugly as you.<br />Capt. John: That's it we're leaving! C'mon Louis!<br />(Capt. John and Louis exit. Aphrodite turns back to the mirror. The curtain closes.)<br />Scene 15<br />(Capt. John and Louis cross the stage. Louis is no longer crying, but he is red-faced. A giant woman storms across the other way and stops next to the two men.)<br />Hera: Hello. Have you seen Zeus? Wait! You two? Oh, you're the ones that Zeus took the boat from.<br />Hermes told me the whole story. Here's your boat.<br />(A boat comes out of the middle of the curtain.)<br />Hera: Zeus is with that 10 nymph again! ZEUS!!!<br />(Zeus comes out where the boat did)<br />Zeus: HELLO HERA. HEY! YOU TWO!<br />Hera: I gave them back their boat because you were seeing Io!<br />Zeus: WE'LL TALK ABOUT THAT LATER. YOU TWO SHALL NOW FEEL MY WRATH!!!<br />Hera: Now wait! It wasn't their fault anyway! They didn't steal the lightning bolt!<br />Zeus: FINE. BUT DON'T INTERVENE ALL THE TIME LIKE THAT HERA. IT DOESN'T MAKE ME LOOK GOOD.<br />Hera: Oh, I'm going to intervene! C'mon Zeus!<br />Zeus: OKAY.<br />(Zeus and Hera leave. Poseidon enters.)<br />Poseidon: Well I really fired him up didn't I?<br />Capt. John: What's your problem?<br />Poseidon: Fine. Maybe I went a little too far.<br />Capt. John! Louis: A little!?<br />Poseidon: Fine ... but I'm an Olympian God so I still school you!<br />Capt. John: Fine. C'mon Louis. Let's head home.<br />Louis: Right behind ya Captain.<br />(Capt. John and Louis push the boat through the center of the curtain. Poseidon exits on the side.)<br />Scene 15<br />(Capt. John and Louis are sailing again.)<br />Capt. John: Well that was an utter waste of time!<br />Louis: Not really.<br />Capt. John: Oh? How do you figure?<br />Louis: I took Poseidon's trident.<br />Capt. John: Well Louis, it looks like we won after all!<br />(The curtain closes.)<br />The End </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-49813483399315944752010-12-08T21:04:00.003-05:002010-12-08T21:10:51.467-05:00Laundry liability<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TQA5PD--IUI/AAAAAAAAAv4/0umim5GiYDs/s1600/IMG_2990.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548497671850697026" style="WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TQA5PD--IUI/AAAAAAAAAv4/0umim5GiYDs/s400/IMG_2990.jpg" border="0" /></a> I get tired of pulling <a href="http://literallylaughingoutloud.blogspot.com/2009/07/gummy-bears-anyone.html">random items out of the laundry</a>... so I came up with the idea of putting a sign above the laundry chute reminding the boys to empty their pockets of crap before throwing said clothes down the chute.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TQA5T3-HIPI/AAAAAAAAAwA/57q30hvepA8/s1600/IMG_2989.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548497754525212914" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TQA5T3-HIPI/AAAAAAAAAwA/57q30hvepA8/s400/IMG_2989.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p></p><p>It doesn't work. </p>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-80709287601426736852010-11-22T10:52:00.003-05:002010-11-22T11:52:16.752-05:00Sophie the opera star<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TOqSEWGldgI/AAAAAAAAAvw/5swAja1WZh0/s1600/IMG_2786.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542402894783149570" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TOqSEWGldgI/AAAAAAAAAvw/5swAja1WZh0/s400/IMG_2786.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color:#009900;">I love watching dogs with their heads hanging out the window of a moving car; it's just one of those things in life that makes me smile. I've never seen a dog look sad with its entire head (or more) protruding from a car window, wind in its face, eyes slightly closed, nose to the air, delectable scents wafting readily toward it.</span><br /><p><span style="color:#009900;">I used to be chagrined that Sophie couldn't enjoy this favorite doggie pasttime because she's confined to the very back of the SUV... but then I thought of folding the back seats down so that she, too, could partake of this near nirvana experience.</span></p><p><span style="color:#009900;">Once I figured it out, she needed no encouragement. She's gaga about the wind in her whiskers as we drive down the road, no matter the speed. She's in the doggie zone. Happy as a clam. </span></p><p><span style="color:#009900;">I must admit that, when she sticks her head out the window, I get such a kick out of watching her that I reposition my sideview mirror so that I can see her more readily (yes, I also watch the road and my rearview mirror).</span></p><p><span style="color:#009900;">Now, Sophie-style is to poke her full head out of the car window, close her eyes slightly, and close her mouth completely.... at least it was her style until recently.</span></p><p><span style="color:#009900;">Last week on the way to pick up the 12-year-old from school, she changed tact in a way that had me giggling uncontrollably. She had her full head out the window; it was raining slightly. For some reason (I forgot to fill her water bowl, perhaps?), she opened her mouth. No big deal, right? Except that opening her mouth gave her a completely different sensation, and she loved it. She loved it so much that she proceeded to maneuver her jaw left and right, back and forth, to feel the difference in the streaming air. That was funny in and of itself. What made me lose it was that when she moved her jaw around, the altered windstream created a whistling noise. The noise delighted her to no end, and before you know it I was driving the country roads with a German Shepherd girl sticking her head out the window, moving her jaw consciously back and forth to enjoy the melody it created. The "aha" moment was hysterical. She would close her mouth, cock her head, then open it and move her jaw: boom - whistle sound.</span></p><p><span style="color:#009900;">Driving with Sophie will never be the same again.</span></p><p><br /></p>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-74475485750492333652010-11-05T13:05:00.003-04:002010-11-05T13:08:45.322-04:00Hell is freezing over...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TNQ5zJi9NqI/AAAAAAAAAvo/fMjkpYyIoPE/s1600/IMG_2967.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536113392843830946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TNQ5zJi9NqI/AAAAAAAAAvo/fMjkpYyIoPE/s400/IMG_2967.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#cc6600;">Hell is freezing over because look! I did something creative! I made a pumpkin cheese ball, complete with a stem fashioned from the icky tasting end of a bunch of broccoli.</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#cc6600;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#cc6600;">I admit that it's from a recipe, but still.... it turned out pretty cool. </span></div><span style="color:#cc6600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#cc6600;"></span><span style="color:#cc6600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#cc6600;"></span><div><span style="color:#cc6600;">It's the little things in life... lol</span><br /></div><div></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-48295836026043203602010-11-02T08:52:00.004-04:002010-11-02T08:55:37.849-04:00Real conversations with the 14-year-old<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TNAJsl_EiAI/AAAAAAAAAvg/AxNkZtRz4X8/s1600/normal_duh-demotivational-poster-12%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534934603753883650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 315px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TNAJsl_EiAI/AAAAAAAAAvg/AxNkZtRz4X8/s400/normal_duh-demotivational-poster-12%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">me:</span> "Son, is your seatbelt on?"</span></div><div></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">14-year-old</span>: "nope."</div><div></div><div><span style="color:#990000;">me:</span> "Put it on, please."</div><div></div><div><span style="color:#990000;">14-year-old</span>: "It <em>IS</em> on, Mom!"</div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-81174990829098959742010-10-29T10:36:00.006-04:002010-10-29T11:01:04.934-04:00Halloween challenged<div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMrcIza2TAI/AAAAAAAAAvI/i7n_kYH3QNI/s1600/IMG_0448.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533477135977958402" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMrcIza2TAI/AAAAAAAAAvI/i7n_kYH3QNI/s400/IMG_0448.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;">I am just taking a moment to be grateful this morning.... grateful that the 14-year-old, as a freshman in high school now, no longer must have a Halloween costume.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;">I know, I know. Some of you are gasping for breath, unable to believe that there exists, right here on earth as your fellow human, a person who despises having to generate an idea for a child's Halloween costume, let alone find the time to create it from scratch. While I have some very good friends whom I admire immensely for their ability to produce an incredible, homemade, imaginative Halloween costume, I, myself, always depended on Target.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;">Therefore I am grateful this morning for my older son's status as a freshman in high school, exempt from all activities which prove his mother Halloween costume-challenged, and a younger son who is old and creative enough to produce his own homemade Halloween costume. </span></div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;">This year the 12-year-old is a "Cereal Killer." He is carrying a cereal box (a cereal which had no high fructose corn syrup, artificial colors or hydrogenated oils, mind you) with a fake knife plunged into it and fake blood spurting out of it. I could never have come up with that idea.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;">Though I am inept at Halloween costume creation, I can carve, as you can see, a mean pumpkin (assuming someone creative has already laid out the pattern for me on paper). I also do some pretty good iced Christmas cookies....</span></div><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><div><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMrcU22HzcI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/KxCACPuY99o/s1600/IMG_0449.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533477343056088514" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMrcU22HzcI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/KxCACPuY99o/s400/IMG_0449.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /> </div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMrccD9KNBI/AAAAAAAAAvY/CNtWts89lic/s1600/IMG_0450.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533477466834351122" style="WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMrccD9KNBI/AAAAAAAAAvY/CNtWts89lic/s400/IMG_0450.jpg" border="0" /></a></div></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-59802568247449676412010-10-28T16:38:00.005-04:002010-10-28T17:31:52.353-04:00Would you, could you with a mouse?<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMngfxhtAcI/AAAAAAAAAvA/2DnYnwZWr9w/s1600/mouse.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533200453676630466" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TMngfxhtAcI/AAAAAAAAAvA/2DnYnwZWr9w/s400/mouse.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><p><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span> </p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">We have stink bugs. Who doesn't? Before I found out that the unfortunate and grotesque result of two stink bugs' mating was 400 more stink bugs and that their only predators are my husband and I, I used to throw them delicately outside where they belong, as I do for other bugs I find within the confines of my house. Yup, I'm a pacificist when it comes to anything living in my house, big, scary spiders and those <em>disgusting</em> centipedes, of course, excepted. They <em>die</em>. I'm not really clear as to why God created those sorts of creepy crawly things that seem to serve no purpose except to give humans the heebie jeebies. Or maybe that IS the purpose. Perhaps it's part of punishment of the human race for Eve's greed in eating the apple? Being subjected to creepy crawly creatures?</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">I've digressed, haven't I?</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">My point is that when, 2 nights ago, the 12-year-old pounced down the stairs and, relatively calmly, informed me: "um, mom. There's kinda sort of a mouse in your bathroom."</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">After clearing up that he wasn't kidding and that there was, indeed, a mouse in the bathroom, trapped into a corner by a candle, ostensibly, I quickly yelled to the husband: "we are NOT going to kill him." See? I had already assigned the little guy a gender.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">Chaos followed.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">I was assigned to procure a pot and its top while the husband raced to the garage to put on his work gloves in case the little guy bit him in our best efforts to free him. The boys sped upstairs to get a glimpse of the action.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">We arrived in the bathroom, closed the door to make escape more difficult, and carefully removed the candle to reveal a quivering, good size mouse in the corner, wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"I'm not touching him," the husband proclaimed.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Oh, fine," I said. "Give me your gloves." When I tried to grab him, though, he moved.... and he moved VERY quickly... into the room with the potty in it. The boys followed, the husband followed, and I followed. We were all chasing this little tiny mouse around the master bathroom.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Cut it out!" the husband demanded, stressed out already by the ordeal. "I don't need you boys in the way!" </span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">I laughed, but the husband wasn't yet seeing the humor in the situation.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">He blockaded himself inside the potty room with the door closed... just him and the mouse.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">A loud and chaotic struggle ensued, audible but not visible, with the husband muttering various things to himself or no one in particular... "F_ING MOUSE!!" Clanging of the pot could be heard clearly. It sounded like world war three in the tiny room behind closed doors. At one point the request for a tall trash can in lieu of the pot was made.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">Then... a silent moment. </span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Did you get him?" I asked. </span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Kind of," answered the husband.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"You didn't hurt him, did you? What do you mean kind of?"</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Well, I've got him under the trash can but don't know how to get him IN."</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">Finally, after a lot more noise and perserverance, the husband triumphed. He emerged from the little room, sweat covered and holding the tall trash can.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">"Athletic little guy, geez," he observed.</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">We unceremoniously replaced him outdoors, as far away from the house as we could (as if that will prevent his visiting again...)</span></p><p><span style="color:#3333ff;">Now it's back to stink bug eradication around here...</span></p><p> </p>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-79353307609755189662010-09-27T08:15:00.002-04:002010-09-27T08:18:23.864-04:00Why does my car hate me?<span style="color:#3333ff;">A couple of days ago I was innocently driving along in my car...when I look at the radio briefly and see this....</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TKCLK3wK02I/AAAAAAAAAu4/ta4n6p29HEk/s1600/IMG_2924.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521566162037166946" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TKCLK3wK02I/AAAAAAAAAu4/ta4n6p29HEk/s400/IMG_2924.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-44743787321501757162010-08-17T14:06:00.003-04:002010-08-17T22:13:24.531-04:00Ya can't make this stuff up...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TGrPpwx8mHI/AAAAAAAAAuo/rljAljluozs/s1600/free_willy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506441810789832818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 282px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TGrPpwx8mHI/AAAAAAAAAuo/rljAljluozs/s400/free_willy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">I am currently paying for last week's vacation time by plowing through the 151+ emails I have at work awaiting my wise replies.</span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">I just opened the Quarantine Summary email, a spam filter system my company blessedly utilizes, to double check that a message from a customer didn't get thrown mercilessly into the spam pile.</span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Here are my favorite two subject lines in my spam email:</span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">1. "She thinks I have an adorable willy"</span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">and....</span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">2. "She was drunk and I did her"</span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Ya can't make this stuff up, folks.</span></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-20840309142022018812010-07-23T09:32:00.003-04:002010-07-23T09:50:27.184-04:00I'm a good mom...I'm a good mom...I'm a good mom...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TEmaKWejKPI/AAAAAAAAAug/rhkYTA8oGCU/s1600/images%5B2%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497094322805483762" style="WIDTH: 114px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 138px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TEmaKWejKPI/AAAAAAAAAug/rhkYTA8oGCU/s400/images%5B2%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">The 14-yr-old and I have been down at the beach this week while I take some time off of work and the 11-year-old is at camp.</span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">In an effort to spend some quality time with him, we exhausted lots of "together" activities: gin rummy, Rummikub, take-out sushi, running together, sailing a catamaran in the bay (a teeny weeny one), dipping in the ocean... </span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">A couple of nights ago, we were tired of gin and tired of Rummikub, and he loathes backgammon. </span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">"Okay," I said. I'll teach you how to play poker.</span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:78%;color:#33cc00;"><em>I'm a good mom I'm a good mom I'm a good mom</em>.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">It seemed innocent enough. We used plastic chips and I taught him that a full house beats 3 of a kind. We played 5-card draw. He caught on quickly but his luck couldn't match mine - I'm EXTREMELY lucky in cards and parking spots. I got tired of winning. He had no chips left. The most important lesson I tried to impart was the "poker face" concept. When I couldn't stand winning anymore, I quit. I told him I had had enough. The 14-year-old, however, had become obsessed. </span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">With my withdrawal from the game, he desperately considered his options. I picked up a book. He dealt a hand to Sophie (the German Shepherd) and doled out some chips to her. He played with Sophie. </span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">Sophie kept winning. "She's really good," he joked.</span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">The next morning he was still sleeping at 11:45 when I went down to the beach. He finally came down around 1:00 pm. "Whatcha been doin'?" I asked him.</span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">"Playing poker with Sophie," he answered. "She keeps winning."</span></div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#33cc00;">We need to find him another good book...</span></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-49473090902386516612010-07-19T09:12:00.003-04:002010-07-19T09:26:12.956-04:00This is not a pie chart<div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TERPn5dhfFI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/H6QZK-EXQok/s1600/images.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495604992156990546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 116px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 116px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TERPn5dhfFI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/H6QZK-EXQok/s400/images.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">Last week I just <em>had</em> to go to Barcelona for an International Sales Meeting for work. Yeah, my job sucks sometimes.... I did get to explore part of the town for the first jet-lagged afternoon after my flight arrived and before the meeting started. The rest of the time was spent in a conference room doing and watching power point presentations.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">My favorite part of the presentations was watching one done by a French colleague, who put a pie chart up on a slide and explained his "camembert" chart. This got me giggling pretty hard. I guess that makes more sense if you're French... I mean - how much more sophisticated is a "camembert" chart than a "pie" chart. The semantics alone give it an eloquent credibility....</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TERQ5rUbQGI/AAAAAAAAAuY/hVWzAQUWoHw/s1600/images%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495606397110009954" style="WIDTH: 128px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 77px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TERQ5rUbQGI/AAAAAAAAAuY/hVWzAQUWoHw/s400/images%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div> </div><div> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">It also got me craving a nice glass of Cab and a slice of camembert...</span></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">On the way home I had settled into my economy class seat for the 9-hour plane ride home. I had just gotten all of my books and laptop organized where I could reach them easily, had my seat belt on, and was all set to go, when the German flight attendant from Lufthansa walked the aisle toward me, stopped, looked at me, and questioned my identity.</span></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">Um yeah, I nodded, that's my name.</span></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">"We would like to invite you to join us in Business class," she chirped.</span></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">Ahhh. The eye-darts from the people all around me felt stupendous. "<em>Sucks for you all</em>," I thought, actually feeling kind of guilty. The guilt lasted until I sat down in business class and was offered a glass of champagne.</span></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;">This all made up for their having lost my luggage on the way home and delivering it to me 72 hours later....</span></div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span> </div><div> </div><div><br /> </div><div><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-89332460135927256692010-06-30T09:49:00.004-04:002010-06-30T10:15:25.281-04:00The 14-year-old: a text challenged boy<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TCtMN4cPOdI/AAAAAAAAAuI/TM1lTRre1YQ/s1600/images%5B2%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488564372253915602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 115px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 124px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/TCtMN4cPOdI/AAAAAAAAAuI/TM1lTRre1YQ/s400/images%5B2%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#000099;">When the 14-year-old started middle school 3 years ago (and now he's graduated from middle school...sniff sniff), he depicted the husband and me as the meanest, most injudicious parents on the face of the earth. The reason? We wouldn't permit him to have a cell phone. </span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">"But Daaad..." he inefficaciously whined, ALL the other kids in my class have them. Without looking up from the <em>Wall Street Journal</em>, the husband would quip: "well, buddy... that's because their parents love them more than we love you."</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">A year later, in his 7th grade, unceasingly barraged by the cell phone beg, I bargained. "You can have a cell phone," I off-handedly told him, "when you get straigh As." That semester he came home with straight As (and has maintained them ever since). The boy got a cell phone.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">I tell that story in order to illustrate the irony of the boy's subsequent lack of use of the cell phone. Not a girl, he is not constantly on the phone, and very rarely does he engage in the teenager's replacement for telephone conversations: texting.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">So... with all of that background... the husband and I sent him off 2 days ago to a week-long overnight Leadership Conference/Camp held in Washington D.C., his being accompanied by his cell phone and its charger.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">After the first day of the conference, the husband and I both tried his cell phone, both efforts having ended in voice mail abyss. We wanted to hear from the boy with the cell phone we provided to him.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Finally, after a few more hours of waiting for some type of communication, the husband received this cryptic text message from him (my company blocks texts, so I can't get them on my phone); the husband kindly forwarded it to me:</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">"dad im doing well at camp. We have toured the capital visited alot of veteran cemeteries and went through the saudi arabian e"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">This was the first of two. I'm hoping that the "alot" is a typo, although I'm proud that he modified how he's doing with an adverb. Is the "e," which ostensibly stands for embassy, meant to be an abbreviation or is he inept at texting?</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Here's the 2nd text:</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">"e going to gettysburg. Love you. See u later."</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">I suppose the "e" is "We" and can excuse the absence of the helping verb (isn't that what it's called? I forget...) "are" as well as the small g ... it IS a text message after all. With all this cryptic abbreviation, though, he spelled out See rather than the usual "c," which I find a little humorous.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">It seems to me there may be some portions of the text missing from the beginning of the 2nd and the end of the 1st... </span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#000099;">In short, I think our son sucks at texting and he'd better keep up his grades as a fall back.</span></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-74531603388776997762010-05-18T08:28:00.003-04:002010-05-18T08:40:58.524-04:00The secret to a good run<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S_KIUcrgXNI/AAAAAAAAAuA/v6xhS10tzMY/s1600/images%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472586382086003922" style="WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 100px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S_KIUcrgXNI/AAAAAAAAAuA/v6xhS10tzMY/s400/images%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#993300;"> I finally had a kick-butt run yesterday, and, as one does when one has a good workout, I tried to figure out why I was feeling so much more energetic. I just kept running faster and faster. 5 miles: first mile: 9:03. 2nd: 8:37. 3rd: 8:05. 4th: 7:47. 5th: 7:36. or something like that. <em>chah. </em></span><br /><em><span style="color:#993300;"></span></em><br />Here are the components to my awesome run:<br /><span style="color:#993300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#993300;">- evening. I always seem to run well in the evening. mornings suck (on so many levels).</span><br /><span style="color:#993300;">- perfect weather. drizzle and 60 degrees. Doesn't get better than that!</span><br /><span style="color:#993300;">- my running buddy Sophie along with me.... <span style="color:#ff0000;">NOT</span>. Sophie had to be coaxed along with me running away from the house. At times I felt like I was dragging her... "<em>pretend you're chasing a squirrel, Soph</em>," I kept telling her. On the way home she practically sprinted ahead of me. sandbagging German Shepherd.</span><br /><span style="color:#993300;">- rest day yesterday. Rest is good.</span><br /><span style="color:#993300;">- Finally.. my world famous chocolate chip cookies, which the 11-year-old and I made that afternoon, both provided incentive (I had, um... enough dough to equal about 4 cookies, I'd estimate, plus 2 cooked cookies) and sugar energy!</span><br /><span style="color:#993300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#993300;">I'd just like to mention, for the record, that my cookies are superior to <a href="http://blogignoramus.blogspot.com/">mama-face's </a>cookies. ;)</span>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-42931119664445979302010-05-14T14:14:00.007-04:002010-05-14T17:23:44.746-04:00Strange encounters of the animal kind<div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">I went for a lunchtime run today. It seemed like a good idea at the time.</span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">When I arrived at the trail, I could barely pull into the parking space straight because of the sight which confronted me when I turned into the parking lot. A bull. with horns. In the grass. On the side of the parking lot at the public running/biking/walking trail. big horns. I said bull, right?</span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">I quickly went to take a picture of it, but of course didn't have my camera with me. Murphy's law very clearly states, in section 102a, "if one were to see a huge bull with prodigious horns standing on the side of a public parking lot, happily grazing on the tall grass without concern, one will not have one's camera with one."</span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">Here's kind of what he looked like (thanks, google images):</span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-2T_P0nirI/AAAAAAAAAtg/zyAxeHjuv2w/s1600/LasLlajasBull1030406b%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471191837113289394" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-2T_P0nirI/AAAAAAAAAtg/zyAxeHjuv2w/s400/LasLlajasBull1030406b%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"><em>WTF</em>, I thought.... and proceeded to begin my workout without having taken a picture, my fellow trail users all around me, more prepared and immune to Murphy's Law, snapping photos of the big fella left and right.</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">Just not something one sees in the trail parking lot every day. At least not in suburban Baltimore.</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">I then began my workout, pumped up by something I had just read from an article about a world class triathlete who was quoted as saying: "Always reach beyond what you think you can achieve." I had been in the mood to run all morning. Nothing was going to get in my way of hitting my paces for my 1K repeats....</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">I did my warm up and was in my first 1K interval, running faster than normal, when all of a sudden I see, up ahead, a LOOOONNNNGG slithery black snake just starting to make his way across the path. Well, so... nothing was going to get in my way of hitting my paces... except maybe a ridiculously long and thick and scary black snake about to cross my path.</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">You all know how I suck at drawing, especially with a computer mouse, but here goes my rendition:</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-2VInjC45I/AAAAAAAAAto/oY8qpviLUfQ/s1600/snake1.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471193097612485522" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-2VInjC45I/AAAAAAAAAto/oY8qpviLUfQ/s400/snake1.bmp" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">I promptly jammed on the breaks.... (screech...)</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-29TVuiPuI/AAAAAAAAAtw/t7ncF0pqcj4/s1600/snake2.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471237262272511714" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-29TVuiPuI/AAAAAAAAAtw/t7ncF0pqcj4/s400/snake2.bmp" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">And the big fella kept coming.... but my time was really good so far. I told myself if I stopped for the length of time it took for the scary black snake to sun himself slowly all the way across the trail, I may as well not be out here doing speedwork. I muscled up the courage to slide by him, thinking that if my sons were here they would chastise me for my wimpiness.</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-298FjcBfI/AAAAAAAAAt4/hgV5YqcC8_k/s1600/snake3.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471237962305635826" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-298FjcBfI/AAAAAAAAAt4/hgV5YqcC8_k/s400/snake3.bmp" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">As I ran by him, he bit my ankle... </span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;color:#006600;">just kidding!!</span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">He was probably more afraid of me than I was of him (nope. uh uh.)</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Anyway, perhaps all of my energy was sapped by my encounters with my fellow earth creatures, because I hit the pace for my next 1K but conked after that.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">My run sucked. It was hot (the effing temperature went up 15 degrees during my run, for crying out loud) and I'm getting old. And my back hurts, dammit.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#006600;">I think instead of reaching beyond what I think I can achieve, I'm going to reach for a margarita.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span> </div><div> </div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">The end.</span></div></div></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-81118958696283532282010-05-13T09:11:00.004-04:002010-05-13T09:18:55.814-04:00I just had a horrifying thought...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-v6rgfAvnI/AAAAAAAAAtY/M54t5T4g-Uw/s1600/swimming+in+pee.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470741797732925042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S-v6rgfAvnI/AAAAAAAAAtY/M54t5T4g-Uw/s400/swimming+in+pee.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">A couple of days ago I had a horrifying thought, most disconcerting.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">In a little over 2 weeks I'll be swimming, cycling and running in my first triathlon.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">I've run enough races - 5Ks, half marathons, marathons, 10-milers - to know that the one thing a participant needs to do before the start of the race is PEE. A combination of nerves and caffeine-providing coffee makes every runner have to pee multiple times before the start of the race.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">The paucity of portapots combined with an overabundance of runners needing to pee before the race lends itself to a situation in which many runners pee wherever any cover whatsoever may be found, and folks get creative.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">So here's my horrifying thought. In a triathlon, I assume everyone will have to pee before the start of the race as well.... but.... the first leg of a triathlon is the SWIM. </span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">Are you with me? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">It SUCKS to be a slow swimmer...</span></div><div> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">oh, well. I suppose it will warm up the water.</span></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-90836307234467553082010-04-30T08:28:00.004-04:002010-04-30T08:35:57.763-04:00Birthday um... wishes<div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#336666;">One of my best friends, knowing me quite well, gave me the following birthday card. Don't bother wishing me a happy birthday; it was last month. :)</span></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9rOMDiG0bI/AAAAAAAAAtI/gOrhtH4F6x8/s1600/birthday+card0001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465907804269629874" style="WIDTH: 294px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9rOMDiG0bI/AAAAAAAAAtI/gOrhtH4F6x8/s400/birthday+card0001.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="color:#336666;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#336666;">Open it up...</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#336666;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#336666;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#336666;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#336666;"></span></div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9rOZ5ARaqI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/n8795IzA-64/s1600/birthday+card0002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465908041961532066" style="WIDTH: 383px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9rOZ5ARaqI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/n8795IzA-64/s400/birthday+card0002.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div> </div><div> </div><div><span style="color:#336666;">Ha! </span></div><div><span style="color:#336666;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#336666;">Being the model mother I am, I immediately shared it with the 11-year old and the 14-year-old.</span></div></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-45289581329376791682010-04-28T08:08:00.004-04:002010-04-28T08:38:04.340-04:00You... I wanna talk to you...<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9glT-JsLcI/AAAAAAAAAs4/TBsrPGdKN3c/s1600/swimming.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465159172845481410" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9glT-JsLcI/AAAAAAAAAs4/TBsrPGdKN3c/s400/swimming.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br />above: my own rendering of me sucking at swimming<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I told myself that I'd be happy after I qualified for Boston; it had been my prodigious goal for a little over a year or two. I told myself that, after I qualified, I could do more fun, hilly marathons and not worry about being so competitive.</span><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ff0000;">ha</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ff0000;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">At some point after I qualifed, not being sure of any exact moment, I decided that I wanted to do an Ironman triathlon the year I turn 40. That would be next year. </span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">So hmmm. I'd better get some triathlon experience in before I start training for that next year.</span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">Next up is a local Olympic Distance triathlon at the end of May. Sure, it would've been more ideal to have begun with a short sprint tri to get my feet wet (literality intended). I didn't know anything about triathlons (and still don't know much) so I had to google the distances. An Olympic tri is about a mile swim (1.2, maybe?), a 40-something-mile bike ride, and a 10K run (6.2 miles). A sprint is about a 1/2 mile swim, 20-something-mile bike ride, and a 5K run. The Ironman that I want to do next year is a 2 mile swim (or perhaps a little more?), a 112-mile bike ride, and a full marathon (26.2 miles). <span style="font-size:78%;">hee hee.</span></span></p><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I already swim and cycle to cross train for marathons, so I'm not starting from scratch. Like many beginner triathletes, however, I'm not a strong swimmer. I've practiced (I did a "long swim" instead of a long run for my last long run for the Boston marathon because of a strained back) and improved so that I can go longer and breathe on both sides now, but I still suck at swimming. </span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">A swimmer friend of mine, an ex college roommate, recommended my taking a masters swimming class, which is a class with an instructor who critiques your stroke and kicks your butt with a prescribed workout.</span><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">Long, boring intro almost over.</span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">I went to my first masters swim class last night. I was so proud of myself for having taught myself to breathe on both sides (after many trials of sucking in water and coughing for minutes on end like an idiot)... </span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">The first thing I learned is that I've been swimming farther than I thought, because I thought it was a 25-meter pool and it's a 25-YARD pool!!! </span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9goj3B9ifI/AAAAAAAAAtA/AKF33xuBcf8/s1600/smiley-face%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465162744346806770" style="WIDTH: 313px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 317px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9goj3B9ifI/AAAAAAAAAtA/AKF33xuBcf8/s400/smiley-face%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">Thanks for sharing in my joy.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">We did our warm-ups, 200 YARDS of freestyle, and the other two ladies went on to the workout, while the instructor called me over.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">"I want to talk to <em>you</em>," she told me, finger waggling me her way.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">"You're swimming box-like," she told me. "You need to imagine you're turning a big wheel and round out and stretch out your stroke."</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I looked at her, not quite understanding.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">"Here; I'll show you." And she did.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">And I practiced another two laps stretching out my stroke turning a wheel.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">"Better," she praised me.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I need praise.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I continued with the laps.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">"Come 'ere," she waggled her finger once more.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I did as I was told.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">"Swim toward me while I watch under water."</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">Again, I did as I was told.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">"You're scooping your arms too far down in the water; you need to push back instead of down."</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">She demonstrated again.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">Now I was practicing trying to push the water back closer to the surface rather than scooping down and around as I'd been taught as a kid.</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I'll spare you the details, but by the end of the hour I had been corrected again and again so that I couldn't focus on all of the new forms simultaneously: push back closer to the surface, keep your elbows low, keep your butt up, skim your fingers closer to the water when you take a stroke, rotate your hand so that it's facing forward when you dig back into the water, stretch out your stroke longer and more round so that you're turning a metaphorical wheel... it was all a lot to remember....</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">I was grateful, though, for the advice; it's actually why I took the class. I knew my stroke sucked and that I needed some coaching. I think it's going to take awhile, though, for the changes to make it to my muscle memory...</span>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-50105775156643112202010-04-22T21:05:00.002-04:002010-04-22T21:19:14.624-04:00And the cat continues to hurl....<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9DyjMVBp6I/AAAAAAAAAsw/MGnCuNnOIOU/s1600/cat+hurl.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463133034419169186" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S9DyjMVBp6I/AAAAAAAAAsw/MGnCuNnOIOU/s400/cat+hurl.bmp" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#006600;">So... we just moved, which means I needed to find a new vet. I approached this challenge the same way I always approach a challenge to find the best of something. I google it. What in the world did we do before the internet?</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I have to add that I REALLY liked my old vet; all of them were really laid back and down to earth, but I can't drive 45 minutes to the vet, especially since the cat hurls after approximately 3 minutes in the car. I'm not kidding. It's ridiculous.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">So... I googled. I found a vet. I made my decision based on the pictures on the website... well, partly.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I had to take her for an updated vaccination, nothing more. A quick shot.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">"Okay... so it's been awhile since she's had a complete exam," the receptionist tells me. "He'll do an exam before administering the vaccination."</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I'm thinking... <em>great. That's $50 bucks so he can look in her mouth and ears and tell me she's fine. </em> But I don't say anything. I surmise that maybe they have to cover their asses since I'm - I mean she's - a new patient.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">So I go in and meet the vet. He asks me how she's doing. I tell him she's fine and that she has a nasty habit of upchucking pretty often.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">He embarks on a long-winded explanation of how evolution hasn't yet caught up with cats' diets. They're biologically still used to feasting on wild mice and other natural wild victims and manmade cat food just doesn't agree with them.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"><em>I can understand that</em>, I think, although we humans don't wretch left and right and we have the same evolutionary issue...</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">He then looks into her mouth, which she despises.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">"Ah.." he says with a disappointed look on his face. "Have you looked at her teeth?"</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"><em>Now why the hell would I open my cat's mouth and look at her teeth</em>?</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">"Nope," I answer.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">"They really need brushing," he admonishes.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"><em>For crying out loud</em>, I'm thinking. So how is it that cats haven't yet evolved quickly enough to master man-made food but they sure have evolved at lightning speed to need their teeth brushed by humans. That is <em>ridiculous. </em> At this point I'm thinking these people just see dollar signs when folks walk through the door.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I'm not so sure about this new vet... and my cat's teeth need brushing, apparently. Sucks for her.</span>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-35907258739895977912010-04-21T10:13:00.009-04:002010-04-21T11:13:26.134-04:00Boston bound! (oh, wait... I hafta pee...)<div><div><div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88IK7KsHjI/AAAAAAAAAsI/14W0EbNZ4pU/s1600/33fd0dda-aa91-4467-bb47-57dfb58b6f26%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462593856797941298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88IK7KsHjI/AAAAAAAAAsI/14W0EbNZ4pU/s400/33fd0dda-aa91-4467-bb47-57dfb58b6f26%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#3333ff;">Being the overachiever I am, as soon as I realized that there was this marathon out there... the Boston marathon... for which one needed to <em>qualify</em>... well, that did it. No one was going to shut me out of a race because I couldn't run 26.2 miles fast enough.</span><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">So (never start a sentence with so), those of you who know me (and love me notwithstanding knowing me) or follow my long-lost blog are fully aware that I qualified for Boston last October.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Well, I done it. I done ran Boston. Not well, mind you, not as fast as I could, but part of that was on purpose so I could soak in all the excitement and part of that was due to my strained back, which began sending shooting pains down my legs starting at mile 17 and continuing past the finish. If it weren't for the throngs of yelling spectators I doubt I could have kept running... but on the Boston course... you just can't <em>help</em> it.</span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Guess who won the Boston? A Kenyan! Shocking! Americans Ryan Hall and Meb K. (an African turned American) were in the hunt but couldn't pull it out, coming in 4th and 5th respectively (although give Hall a break; he ran Boston faster than any other American ever has and the winner blew away the old course record). I think I know why Ryan didn't pull it out, though. Take a look at the photo. Here it is. Look. I'll wait. These are all AP photos, by the way. Just to give credit...</span></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88URODDHdI/AAAAAAAAAsg/HM3CPoILs2k/s1600/58caaeb8-d3d0-49cb-bd3c-c97b9168057e%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462607159084916178" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 313px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88URODDHdI/AAAAAAAAAsg/HM3CPoILs2k/s400/58caaeb8-d3d0-49cb-bd3c-c97b9168057e%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Did you look? What do you notice? Besides the fact that Ryan Hall is white and the others aren't. What else? Look again.</span></div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88UqmRyC3I/AAAAAAAAAso/yxpooMospjY/s1600/51714a75-11bd-43e2-bc4f-9f79625019d1%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462607595085892466" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 323px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88UqmRyC3I/AAAAAAAAAso/yxpooMospjY/s400/51714a75-11bd-43e2-bc4f-9f79625019d1%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div> </div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Still don't know? It's the <em>hair</em>. The Africans all have this smooth, aerodynamic doo, but not Hall. His HAIR is what's holding him back, I'm sure of it. He led the race for just about the entire first half, and I'm sure the Africans saved all kinds of energy just streaming behind his wall of hair blocking the wind. The hair just provides too much wind resistance. I'm sure if he had shaved his head he would've had it; I just know it. I'll suggest it to him next time I see him.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">All kidding aside, what an <em>awesome</em> course and what <em>awesome</em> fans. Boston is <em>so proud</em> of this marathon, the sporting event 2nd only to the Superbowl in terms of media coverage. The entire race route is lined with people, but not just any people. People all ages, shapes and sizes who are busting their butts as hard as the runners are to encourage the runners... handing out water, beer, jelly beans, wet sponges, orange slices, m&ms, kisses, hugs, and most of all high fives. I think I high-fived every little kid in Boston, and I don't know whom it made happier: me or them.</span></div><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88MwrYrn2I/AAAAAAAAAsQ/otQfNRvwUUI/s1600/8f1e3c36-6c66-48f8-9636-209929aa2b5d%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462598903443201890" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 290px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88MwrYrn2I/AAAAAAAAAsQ/otQfNRvwUUI/s400/8f1e3c36-6c66-48f8-9636-209929aa2b5d%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">I experimented with my motivation. Parts of the race I ran in the middle because (as my sister in law knows from having run a marathon with me) I like to stick the center of the road to avoid the slope; I found, however, that I was a lot more juiced running right next to the crowd and high fiving as many as I could.</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">The highlight of the day for me was the bus ride from the Boston commons out to the suburb of Hopkinton, MA where the race starts. A plethora of buses transport all of the runners from downtown Boston out to Hopkinton, and I found myself on one of them at 6:45 am headed west on a crowded school bus out to Hopkinton on interstate 90. After about an hour on the bus, still on the interstate, the guy in front of me, sporting a Brazil hat and a Brazil shirt and presumably from Brazil (although that's not really important), got up from his seat and crouched mysteriously next to the bus driver. A few minutes later the bus pulled to the side of the road and the Brazilian got out, walked to the edge of the interstate by the woods, and peed. He peed and he peed and he peed and he peed. Then he peed some more. The man had to pee and had to pee badly. Everyone on the bus shared the same conundrum. Do we stare or try to give him privacy? As the poor man jumped back on the bus, he thrust his hands into the air, looked up, and yelled "<em>YES</em>" in triumph. This was a very relieved man (pun intended). The busload of people applauded and whooped and hollered. We were very happy for this man and his empty bladder. </span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Subject change without transition: On my long runs weekend mornings I sometimes see people wearing the Boston marathon jacket; there's an official Boston marathon running jacket every year (whose design changes). I always stared at the jacket wearer with jealousy. "Ooh. Mr. fast runner. Aren't you cool? Got the boston jacket, huh? Think you're fast, huh?" Now I have mine.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88NKK98aFI/AAAAAAAAAsY/2B3USe_qolQ/s1600/pADIDAS1-6486259_pattern_t132%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462599341417719890" style="WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S88NKK98aFI/AAAAAAAAAsY/2B3USe_qolQ/s400/pADIDAS1-6486259_pattern_t132%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#3333ff;">Yeah, the color is kinda icky, but at least the drivers will see me as they look up from texting.</span></div></div><div></div></div></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-21871183841751556702010-03-11T20:07:00.004-05:002010-03-11T20:25:29.081-05:00A mailing about a mailing<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S5mT4eS4ttI/AAAAAAAAAr4/pOs_SpDhPro/s1600-h/Census_Bureau%5B1%5D.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447547822695560914" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 302px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S5mT4eS4ttI/AAAAAAAAAr4/pOs_SpDhPro/s400/Census_Bureau%5B1%5D.png" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">The U.S. is in debt up to its ears. Everyone knows that, right? China downright <em>own</em>s us. They've gobbled up every one of the bonds we've sold to make money - like a national yard sale - and they <em>own</em> us. Kathleen Madigan, one of my favorite comediennes, jokes that one day, we Americans will come downstairs on a Saturday morning, all hung over from the previous night, pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, and there will be a family of Chinese properly sitting on our family room couches telling us:</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"You <em>go</em> now. We own house."</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">The point is - we're in debt. There is a rather large <em>deficit</em>.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">You'd think the United States government would be scrambling to save money, right? You'd think their marketing budget would be slashed, just like in the corporate world.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Hey, uh, boss? We need to send out these postcards as direct mail to get people to buy this book..."</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Nope. No money in the budget for a mailing. Figure out another way to sell or we'll cut your position."</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">The U.S. should be looking for ways to save, right?</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Yesterday, we received in the U.S. mail an envelope whose return sender was the U.S. Census Bureau.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Cool," I thought. We received our census. I'll be a good American and fill it out and return it. I have an affinity for filling out forms (I'm not being facetious; it's one of my flaws. I really like filling out forms. I should work for the government!).</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">I opened said envelope from the U.S. government. Contrary to my expectations, it wasn't a census.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Know what it said?</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">It said that, any day now, yessiree Bob, the U.S. government would be <em>mailing</em> us our Census and to look for it.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Did y'all get the same mailing?</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">We got a <em>mailing</em> informing us about a <em>mailing</em>.</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Um. Is there anyone else out there who thinks that could've been one place they could've cut costs?</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Frank, do you have that mailing prepared to inform U.S. citizens about the mailing?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Yessir."</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Great. And it will tell U.S. citizens that they'll be receiving mail?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Yessir."</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Terrific. And you've got the mailing prepared to go out <em>after </em>the Census? The one that tells people they've just received a mailing?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Yessir."</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">While they're kindly reminding us about stuff, maybe they'll do a mailing reminding us that tax time is coming up...</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Dear U.S. citizens, ahem. As you know, China owns us. We really need your hard-earned cash. Please send it to us as soon as possible, but not after April 15th, or we'll take more of it! HA!"</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">And how about a letter reminding us about holidays?</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">"Dear U.S citizens, every year of your life, you have enjoyed Memorial Day - it's around the last Monday in May, we think. So, um. We wanted to remind you about it. We just wanted to say - hey - go out and enjoy yourselves. Have a nice barbeque, play croquet in the yard... just don't forget it's coming up!"</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Love,</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Uncle Sam</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"></span></div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-34014513069655977912010-03-03T08:34:00.002-05:002010-03-03T08:40:10.145-05:00Silly me....<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S45lmEYMhSI/AAAAAAAAArw/inaVb3Ld-tU/s1600-h/pity-the-fool1%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444400704222168354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 330px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S45lmEYMhSI/AAAAAAAAArw/inaVb3Ld-tU/s400/pity-the-fool1%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p> <span style="color:#993300;">One of the results of having moved in between monumental record snowstorms is not having TV, telephone, or internet until Verizon can get to us.</span></p><p><span style="color:#993300;">There has been a delightful upside to not having television; I've come home recently from errands to find both boys curled up on the couch <em>reading books</em>.</span></p><p><span style="color:#993300;">I sat down next to the 13-year-old as he read, pride surging within me, and commented: "golly it's nice to see you two reading books rather than watching tv. Maybe you can keep reading after our tv gets hooked up, huh?"</span></p><p><span style="color:#993300;">My 13-year-old gazed at me with an incredulous look. He paused. He then put his hand gently on my shoulder and looked at me with pity.</span></p><p><span style="color:#993300;">"Mom," he broke it to me, "I think we both know that's not going to happen."</span></p>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800349583877981344.post-76640407972595685382010-03-01T21:34:00.002-05:002010-03-01T22:17:05.145-05:00How to fly to Brazil with style and panache... or... wanna talk? I've got time...<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S4x5ji9WiNI/AAAAAAAAAro/xzp7QBoNCtc/s1600-h/tam-a330%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443859701170604242" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mcLDq5XUXdE/S4x5ji9WiNI/AAAAAAAAAro/xzp7QBoNCtc/s400/tam-a330%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Sunday night I said adios to the family and set out for the airport for my business trip to Brazil.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">It started auspiciously enough, a mere 1 and a half-hour delay on United airlines, nothing I couldn't handle. What the heck? I thought... one more glass of the red wine which was so lacking and yet so needed right after the move from hell.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Indeed, the 10-hour flight from Washington, D.C. to Sao Paolo, Brazil, where my connection was, was going quite well. It had all of the positives going for it: I was pleasantly plied with red wine, I had my Sonata sleeping pills with me, and I had a nice quiet lady who didn't want to talk to me next to me. We briefly figured out, through our common reading materials, that we had sons the same ages, but, both being weary and wise travelers, had that silent telepathic agreement between us to leave each other in peace and quiet without children.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">It was perfect....</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">until we landed in Sao Paolo.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Having landed at 10:30 am, I figured I had plenty of cushion for my layover until my connecting flight at 1:05 pm. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"><em>HA</em>!, some little demigod was chuckling.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Like the bright airline passenger I am, I dutifully followed signs to "connecting flights;" I had my baggage ostensibly checked through to my final destination and had my boarding pass for my connecting flight.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">The "connecting flights" sign led me and my fellow bright passengers to a maze of lines in immigration. So as not to upset the laws of Murphy, the "Brazil citizens only" line was empty, while the "foreigners" line seemed not to have an end, literally, as people continuously took their places at the end of the ever growing queue.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">The line moved relatively quickly, and my passport was stamped without much fanfare. With that line behind me, I moved ahead to discover a new line, this one not moving so quickly. The customs line. A queue of folks lined up to declare nothing. The line painstakingly snaked its way back and forth as bleary-eyed passengers from 2 overnight flights converged in line and struggled against the gravity which dragged their eyelids earthward.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">After an hour, I was through customs and immigration and searched for departure signs which would lead me to my connection's gate.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Alas, this was very foolish and silly of me.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Though our luggage was checked through to their final destinations and though we all had boarding passes for our connecting flights, we had to collect our luggage there and re-check it. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"><em>Okay</em>, I thought. This isn't uncommon. They make the foreigners do this in Philly when they arrive from international cities. I saw my suitcase right away, recognizable from its bright red color and further distinguishable by the big-ass brightly colored baby rattle-themed ribbon tied to it, grabbed it and figured I was ahead of the game since most folks were still waiting for their luggage.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Instead of quickly being able to re-check it and proceed to the gate as in Philadelphia, though, I was met with unexpected horror as I turned the corner and gazed upon yet another prodigious line at the TAM Airlines check-in. The chaotic line zig-zagged back and forth for what seemed like a mile and protruded from its opening by about 15 people and was still growing. I looked around in desperation, trying to make sure I was supposed to be here. My fellow travelers and I exchanged glances, thinking... "<em>really</em>?" We really have to wait in this line to re-check our luggage? Worse, the line didn't move. At all. No movement.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">2 very confused and stressed out female TAM airlines employees in charge through the crowd.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">After a few minutes, the crowd began its friendship making. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">"Where are you going?" "What time's <em>your</em> flight?" It took us awhile to figure out that we were ALL running late at this point, but desperation hadn't yet kicked in. Every once in awhile one of the desperate looking female TAM airlines employees would stand up on the luggage conveyor belt to be seen over the crowd, pause, and then yell something in Portuguese, unintelligible to most of the travelers who had originated in the ethnocentric United States where no one speaks any other languages but English.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Trying their best to be good diplomats, the few Brazilian teenagers who were stuck in line with us gave us updates every now and then. "Yeah, your flight has been canceled. That sucks." </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Further, my <em>international world</em> blackberry wasn't functioning, not allowing me to make phone calls or send or receive emails. I had no way of communicating my delay to my kind customer who was scheduled to pick me up at my destination airport.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Three hours later. Yes. <em>Three</em> <em>hours</em> <em>later</em>, after I had completely read and digested an entire issue of Runners World magazine and my back hurt from standing, I was called to the front. It was my turn! I was elated.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">I said to the haggard-looking TAM employee, who couldn't understand a word I said: "Wow. <em>That</em> was the longest I've ever waited in a check-in line." I smiled. I didn't want to be an ugly American. I'm sure she was having a tough day, too. But c'mon, folks, Isn't this routine? We just needed to give them our bags and proceed to the gate, eh? Are there not procedures in place for this sort of event? Doesn't this happen every day? Doesn't anyone in charge sit back, take a look, and think... "hmmm. This is really an asinine process. We should figure out a different way to do this, Bob."</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">She smiled back and nodded. Handed me a boarding pass for a flight 2 hours later than the flight I had missed.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Oh well, at least I could go find a potty at this point. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Only nope I couldn't. Turns out that the domestic flight on which I was booked 2 hours later than my earlier flight was going to be boarding soon and I was supposed to be at the gate within 5 minutes before they closed the entrance to the gate area (an hour before the flight left). </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">No food and no potty. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">I looked on the bright side, though... I was on a flight out the same day (I got the 2nd to last seat), I had successfully found my gate, and ...</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">there was one chair left in the waiting area! I pictured myself racing a little old lady to get first dibs on the last remaining seat... but happily no there was no competition.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">sometimes one has to be grateful for the little things. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span> </div>Funnyrunnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06871547075275345029noreply@blogger.com7