Happy Halloween!
I have just come home from traipsing my old neighborhood with my friend, Laurie. We have a tradition of walking the dogs and sneaking up to houses where they’ve left candy on the porch and helping ourselves to treats.
I know, this doesn’t sound very grown up. I never really cottoned to the idea of growing up. Candy tastes so much sweeter when you’ve quietly crept up on someone’s porch and fished through their bowl of treats looking for M&M’s with peanuts or Almond Joys. Knowing that any second they could swing the front door open with a giant swoosh and make you feel like an idiot made it all the better as your ran through the dew-soaked grass out to the anominity of the street.
Tonight we had the added pleasure of stopping by one house in which the two adult men occupants had decorated the yard with giant spider webs, tombstones, skulls, haystacks, about 40 candles in glass jars, a video shining on the side of the house with really spooky things, and a fog machine. They also had adult treats – Jello shooters and lemon drops.
I wonder if the inventor of Jello ever thought that one day someone would add vodka instead of water to the Jello mix?
Anyway these things gave us antifreeze to wander the streets, enjoying people’s carved pumpkins and Halloween decorations. At one place there
was a bowl on the porch, but you had to go down a longish driveway, up several steps, and across the porch. There was a big picture window that the homeowner could look out and see you.
I hesitated – it was a daunting obstacle course just to get a piece of candy. I really did NOT want to be confronted by some grown-up
“I’m going for it,” Laurie said.
I followed her – I couldn’t stay behind. I’m supposed to be the brave one. So I shuffled up behind her. We tiptoed up the stairs and crouched and crept across the porch until we reached the bowl, which was up on a pedestal. I was looking through the candy, deciding what to pick when all of a sudden there is a huge crash at the glass door directly behind me. A ferocious 500 pound dog had flung itself against the door and barked so loud it rattled the boards on the porch. I never saw the dog because I took off running the second I heard that massive THUMP he made on the glass, but in my mind he was as big and vicious as Stephen King’s Cujo.
It was wonderful! What a great time we had. We stopped back by the lemon drop house to take in a little more Halloween ambiance, and then walked back home under the clear sky splashed with sparkling stars and a sliver moon to light our way, pockets full of sneaked candy to show for our labors. I hope all of you found a little adventure tonight – it’s good for the soul. I will leave you with this cool Halloween card. Enjoy!
Greatest Halloween Card Ever ... Click Here
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Bad Wine and Spotted Dick
This blog post is going to be a recap of interesting things that happened today. For one, I went to church and the priest had some wine he was getting ready to bless for communion when he stopped cold and said, “There’s something wrong with the wine.” He turned to the choir director, “Can you give us some music while we get this taken care of?”
The pianist started playing a song and one of the altar guys took the wine and headed back to the room behind the altar. The priest stood there looking over the congregation, and I wondered, “What could be wrong with the wine? Maybe it turned to vinegar and he took that little drink and nearly gagged. Or maybe it had a fly doing the backstroke in there. Or maybe there was green mold floating on top. Or maybe it had a tarantula in it. That last one was far fetched there aren’t any tarantulas around here, but there was quite a bit of time to kill so I had to get creative.
This is the same priest I wrote about last week – the one that I won the raffle for him to come and bless my house. I have not set that up yet because I still haven’t decided on the correct protocol – do I have him for lunch, etc. or just have him do a slam, bam, thank you ma’am type of blessing and send him on his way. After today’s events I’m glad I’ve been indecisive, because now when he comes I can ask him what happened to the wine.
The altar guy eventually brought new wine out and the service continued, but it was quite unusual.
Another odd thing that happened was that I got behind the zebra car on the freeway. What are the chances of that? There’s this white car that parks a few blocks from my house and someone has painted stripes on it to look like a zebra. On the trunk they’ve mounted a tail. My daughter and I have seen it parked, and we always say, “Look at that zebra car. Who would paint their car like a zebra?”
So today I went down the ramp and got on the freeway, and this zebra car was exactly in front of me. I watched that zebra tail – complete with a realistic black tuft at the end – for several miles, twitching in the wind. I got so excited I texted my daughter, “That zebra car is in front of me on the freeway.” She immediately texted back, “Are you texting while you’re driving?” I didn’t answer her.
This evening my cousin Nancy from Memphis called and started telling me a funny story about an older man she was visiting – the husband of an elderly friend of hers who had passed away. Each time she visited him in the nursing home she’d ask him questions. He’d say, “Now why are you doing this?” She’d tell him it was because he’d lived an interesting life and she wanted to record his story. Finally he asked her again and she gave him the same answer. He looked at her for a couple of minutes and said, “You know, I’ve had an operation.”
Nancy and I both burst out laughing when she told me this. “He thought you were hitting on him,” I said, “and he wanted to make sure you knew he couldn’t make any little Nancy babies.”
“And then there was the time I was at the grocery store,” Nancy said. She was on a roll. “There was this attractive older woman walking down the aisle and I was behind her for a good ways. Finally she stopped at the same place I was going to stop. I was right beside her, and I reached for a can of Spotted Dick.”
“Spotted WHAT?” I said.
“Spotted Dick. I picked up the can and said to the woman, just to make conversation because she was right beside me, “Have you ever had any of this?
“The woman looked puzzled and said, ‘Why, I don’t believe I have.’ She turned away quickly and scurried down the aisle.”
“She thought you were hitting on her, too! My gosh, Nancy, do you just stalk old folks so you can hit on them – it doesn’t matter if they’re male or female? Can you imagine that poor old woman, knowing someone is following her down the aisles. She finally stops thinking the stalker will pass, and instead the crazy woman tries to make a pass at her with a can of Spotted Dick?”
We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.
“What the heck is Spotted Dick anyway?” I asked, wiping the tears from my eyes.
“It’s sponge cake in a can,” Nancy said, and we laughed all over again at the absurdity of that.
“Who puts sponge cake in a can? And then names it Spotted Dick? Oh my gosh!”
Anyway, as you can see, this has been a most interesting day. And I was fretting because I didn’t know what to write about….
The pianist started playing a song and one of the altar guys took the wine and headed back to the room behind the altar. The priest stood there looking over the congregation, and I wondered, “What could be wrong with the wine? Maybe it turned to vinegar and he took that little drink and nearly gagged. Or maybe it had a fly doing the backstroke in there. Or maybe there was green mold floating on top. Or maybe it had a tarantula in it. That last one was far fetched there aren’t any tarantulas around here, but there was quite a bit of time to kill so I had to get creative.
This is the same priest I wrote about last week – the one that I won the raffle for him to come and bless my house. I have not set that up yet because I still haven’t decided on the correct protocol – do I have him for lunch, etc. or just have him do a slam, bam, thank you ma’am type of blessing and send him on his way. After today’s events I’m glad I’ve been indecisive, because now when he comes I can ask him what happened to the wine.
The altar guy eventually brought new wine out and the service continued, but it was quite unusual.
Another odd thing that happened was that I got behind the zebra car on the freeway. What are the chances of that? There’s this white car that parks a few blocks from my house and someone has painted stripes on it to look like a zebra. On the trunk they’ve mounted a tail. My daughter and I have seen it parked, and we always say, “Look at that zebra car. Who would paint their car like a zebra?”
So today I went down the ramp and got on the freeway, and this zebra car was exactly in front of me. I watched that zebra tail – complete with a realistic black tuft at the end – for several miles, twitching in the wind. I got so excited I texted my daughter, “That zebra car is in front of me on the freeway.” She immediately texted back, “Are you texting while you’re driving?” I didn’t answer her.
This evening my cousin Nancy from Memphis called and started telling me a funny story about an older man she was visiting – the husband of an elderly friend of hers who had passed away. Each time she visited him in the nursing home she’d ask him questions. He’d say, “Now why are you doing this?” She’d tell him it was because he’d lived an interesting life and she wanted to record his story. Finally he asked her again and she gave him the same answer. He looked at her for a couple of minutes and said, “You know, I’ve had an operation.”
Nancy and I both burst out laughing when she told me this. “He thought you were hitting on him,” I said, “and he wanted to make sure you knew he couldn’t make any little Nancy babies.”
“And then there was the time I was at the grocery store,” Nancy said. She was on a roll. “There was this attractive older woman walking down the aisle and I was behind her for a good ways. Finally she stopped at the same place I was going to stop. I was right beside her, and I reached for a can of Spotted Dick.”
“Spotted WHAT?” I said.
“Spotted Dick. I picked up the can and said to the woman, just to make conversation because she was right beside me, “Have you ever had any of this?
“The woman looked puzzled and said, ‘Why, I don’t believe I have.’ She turned away quickly and scurried down the aisle.”
“She thought you were hitting on her, too! My gosh, Nancy, do you just stalk old folks so you can hit on them – it doesn’t matter if they’re male or female? Can you imagine that poor old woman, knowing someone is following her down the aisles. She finally stops thinking the stalker will pass, and instead the crazy woman tries to make a pass at her with a can of Spotted Dick?”
We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.
“What the heck is Spotted Dick anyway?” I asked, wiping the tears from my eyes.
“It’s sponge cake in a can,” Nancy said, and we laughed all over again at the absurdity of that.
“Who puts sponge cake in a can? And then names it Spotted Dick? Oh my gosh!”
Anyway, as you can see, this has been a most interesting day. And I was fretting because I didn’t know what to write about….
Excavating the Empty Nest
I finished shoveling out my daughter’s room today. It was part two of the cleaning - I got about halfway done a few days after she left for college but after a few hours I just closed the door. It was like that TV show where people hoard things and won’t throw them away. She not only kept every single item she’s ever claimed as hers since she was an infant – such as seashells, pretty rocks, pieces of Barbies (they didn’t seem to survive with all their limbs intact for very long), she also kept ever candy wrapper and potato chip bag she snuck into her room and ate late at night, wadding up the evidence and tossing it under the bed.
I found two portable phones that have been lost for years under there.
Her room hasn’t been really clean in years. Sure, we’d change the sheets and dust and vacuum – but she’d simply take everything that was in the middle of the floor and piled on top of her dresser and toss them under the bed and into the closet. It would appear to be clean for a day or two, and then it looked like Hoarders again.
I used to “help” my kids clean their rooms every few weeks – usually before we had a party. They threw clothes, toys, and school work in the floor and cleared out enough of a path to walk through. It would take hours to get those rooms clean.
First we’d pull out all the dirty clothes, some of which had been used stuffed into the closet still wet and muddy to better cultivate mold and mildew and the odors they cause. Then we’d put away all the books that were piled on the floor beside the bed, away from the door so your couldn’t see them. Then we’d arrange the stuffed animals and large toys back on the shelves. That all went pretty fast.
The worst was those little odds and ends left on the floor – things that didn’t really have a specific place, such as the toys they got for free from McDonalds or those little things they’d win at arcades when they cashed in their tickets.
They hated to throw away anything – it all had some wonderful function or memory tied to it, but by the time I’d gotten through all the garbage and junk up until that point, I was ready to be done. I did not want to sort that little stuff. Somehow they had manage to wander out of the room to get something to eat and hadn’t come back.
I finally created a new bin for the McDonald’s toys and little stuff. Some were never even opened. One of these days they’ll be worth a fortune, I’m sure.
Kindof like those Beanie Babies. My son’s friend, Dylan, was obsessed with them. Every time a new one came out, which was about three times a day, he’d get his dad to drive them to the mall so they could buy it. They bought tag protectors to keep the tags from getting crumpled, because that made their “investment” more valuable.
I used to say, “How can something that they are selling to every kid in the universe and a whole lot of their parents be an investment? Something has to be rare before it’s valuable. They’re selling millions of these.” They wouldn’t listen because they kept hearing on the commercials (made by the company selling the Beanie Babies) that they were collector’s items.
Those Beanie Babies are in two duffle bags in my son’s room. They never really played with them, although they’d dump them on the floor and pick them up one at a time to admire them and talk about how valuable they were, like Midas counting his gold. They also threw a substantial amount of money away on Pokemon cards for the same reason.
Today when I was cleaning my daughter’s room, lots of good memories flooded into my head, so I guess it was worth it – at least I can open the door now. I will be one happy mother if I never make another memory of cleaning their rooms. If I en, and I am so thankful that I won’t have to add any new memories of cleaning her room again. I can’t even imagine what her dorm room looks like, and thank goodness I don’t have to.
I found two portable phones that have been lost for years under there.
Her room hasn’t been really clean in years. Sure, we’d change the sheets and dust and vacuum – but she’d simply take everything that was in the middle of the floor and piled on top of her dresser and toss them under the bed and into the closet. It would appear to be clean for a day or two, and then it looked like Hoarders again.
I used to “help” my kids clean their rooms every few weeks – usually before we had a party. They threw clothes, toys, and school work in the floor and cleared out enough of a path to walk through. It would take hours to get those rooms clean.
First we’d pull out all the dirty clothes, some of which had been used stuffed into the closet still wet and muddy to better cultivate mold and mildew and the odors they cause. Then we’d put away all the books that were piled on the floor beside the bed, away from the door so your couldn’t see them. Then we’d arrange the stuffed animals and large toys back on the shelves. That all went pretty fast.
The worst was those little odds and ends left on the floor – things that didn’t really have a specific place, such as the toys they got for free from McDonalds or those little things they’d win at arcades when they cashed in their tickets.
They hated to throw away anything – it all had some wonderful function or memory tied to it, but by the time I’d gotten through all the garbage and junk up until that point, I was ready to be done. I did not want to sort that little stuff. Somehow they had manage to wander out of the room to get something to eat and hadn’t come back.
I finally created a new bin for the McDonald’s toys and little stuff. Some were never even opened. One of these days they’ll be worth a fortune, I’m sure.
Kindof like those Beanie Babies. My son’s friend, Dylan, was obsessed with them. Every time a new one came out, which was about three times a day, he’d get his dad to drive them to the mall so they could buy it. They bought tag protectors to keep the tags from getting crumpled, because that made their “investment” more valuable.
I used to say, “How can something that they are selling to every kid in the universe and a whole lot of their parents be an investment? Something has to be rare before it’s valuable. They’re selling millions of these.” They wouldn’t listen because they kept hearing on the commercials (made by the company selling the Beanie Babies) that they were collector’s items.
Those Beanie Babies are in two duffle bags in my son’s room. They never really played with them, although they’d dump them on the floor and pick them up one at a time to admire them and talk about how valuable they were, like Midas counting his gold. They also threw a substantial amount of money away on Pokemon cards for the same reason.
Today when I was cleaning my daughter’s room, lots of good memories flooded into my head, so I guess it was worth it – at least I can open the door now. I will be one happy mother if I never make another memory of cleaning their rooms. If I en, and I am so thankful that I won’t have to add any new memories of cleaning her room again. I can’t even imagine what her dorm room looks like, and thank goodness I don’t have to.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
My Dog's Frito Feet
My dog’s feet smell like Fritos. She’s lying beside me as I type on my laptop on the sofa, and she just changed positions. The smell of Fritos wafted into the air like some doggish incense.
My family thinks the dog’s feet smell pleasant, whereas our personal human feet are disgusting, especially when they’ve been in sweaty tennis shoes. Perhaps that’s the problem. If we did not wear synthetic footwear for hours on end, would we have pleasant smelling feet too?
This is for future pondering because we want to focus on the dog’s feet right now and ask the question, how on earth did a dog’s feet come to smell like a corn chip?
A corn chip is made of corn and salt all smashed down together, baked until it has that perfect crunch, and sealed in a bag that is impossible for humans to penetrate without a sharp object or very strong teeth. It used to be that you’d get a guy to open a jar for you, mostly so he’d feel like he had some degree of worth in this world, but now you have to find a guy to get into a bag of chips. Sometimes, if there’s no guy handy, I’ve had to tear at these bags with my teeth like some savage jackal-like creature, over and over, getting a small bit of bag each time, spitting it out and tearing some more until I excavate a hole big enough to plunge my fist through.
So the grains and salts and other things that go into a corn chip – the chemical composition as it were – and the baking which alters, or at least dehydrates the chemicals – and the packaging which protects the baked chip until the year 4010 because air doesn’t have teeth to penetrate the seal – how in the universe can THAT smell like my dog’s feet?
My dog’s feet always smell like Fritos except just after a bath, at which time she runs outside and tries to roll in anything to cover up the good smell of doggie shampoo with something more friendly to the canine nose such as a dead rodent In advanced stages of decay. Within a day, the Frito feet are back – all four of them. The rest of the dog may be foul, but those feet are pleasant.
It’s a mystery someone needs to solve, because there is something very, very sick about smelling a dog’s feet and craving Fritos with cream cheese.
If you’ve never tried it, take a normal Frito – not the big ones – and scrape it through a container of Philadelphia cream cheese. It’s quite tasty. Don’t go in too deep or the Frito will break off. BEWARE – you will go through a whole container of cream cheese pretty quick and become a big fat lard because you won’t have the willpower to stop eating them, they’re that good.
Back to the subject, which is, why does my dog have Frito feet? If you know the answer, please don’t hesitate to send it to me via a package containing Fritos. I’m running low.
My family thinks the dog’s feet smell pleasant, whereas our personal human feet are disgusting, especially when they’ve been in sweaty tennis shoes. Perhaps that’s the problem. If we did not wear synthetic footwear for hours on end, would we have pleasant smelling feet too?
This is for future pondering because we want to focus on the dog’s feet right now and ask the question, how on earth did a dog’s feet come to smell like a corn chip?
A corn chip is made of corn and salt all smashed down together, baked until it has that perfect crunch, and sealed in a bag that is impossible for humans to penetrate without a sharp object or very strong teeth. It used to be that you’d get a guy to open a jar for you, mostly so he’d feel like he had some degree of worth in this world, but now you have to find a guy to get into a bag of chips. Sometimes, if there’s no guy handy, I’ve had to tear at these bags with my teeth like some savage jackal-like creature, over and over, getting a small bit of bag each time, spitting it out and tearing some more until I excavate a hole big enough to plunge my fist through.
So the grains and salts and other things that go into a corn chip – the chemical composition as it were – and the baking which alters, or at least dehydrates the chemicals – and the packaging which protects the baked chip until the year 4010 because air doesn’t have teeth to penetrate the seal – how in the universe can THAT smell like my dog’s feet?
My dog’s feet always smell like Fritos except just after a bath, at which time she runs outside and tries to roll in anything to cover up the good smell of doggie shampoo with something more friendly to the canine nose such as a dead rodent In advanced stages of decay. Within a day, the Frito feet are back – all four of them. The rest of the dog may be foul, but those feet are pleasant.
It’s a mystery someone needs to solve, because there is something very, very sick about smelling a dog’s feet and craving Fritos with cream cheese.
If you’ve never tried it, take a normal Frito – not the big ones – and scrape it through a container of Philadelphia cream cheese. It’s quite tasty. Don’t go in too deep or the Frito will break off. BEWARE – you will go through a whole container of cream cheese pretty quick and become a big fat lard because you won’t have the willpower to stop eating them, they’re that good.
Back to the subject, which is, why does my dog have Frito feet? If you know the answer, please don’t hesitate to send it to me via a package containing Fritos. I’m running low.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Paradox of Paradoxes, Part 2
This article continues the rambling I started yesterday about paradoxes.
On Sunday I was wishing for two things, that I would get my luck back and win a raffle for the first time in a coon’s age, and that I’d win a pie, preferably a tasty pie like peach or blackberry or strawberry rhubarb.
Lo and behold, the first raffle number called was mine! I broke my long dry spell of no raffle prizes. I could just taste that flaky piecrust. Then they announced my prize.
A visit from the priest to bless my house.
Lord have mercy.
(a) My husband is an atheist. Not an agnostic/on the fence kind of believer who’s just not sure. He is absolutely positive there is no God and people like me are simply deceiving ourselves and not right in the head.
(2) I’m a Catholic who likes to go to church on Sunday because I feel good about it, but I arrive a little late and don’t hang around after Mass glad-handing with the parishioners. I slip in and slip out like a thief. That’s not to say I haven’t given back, because I spent years teaching Sunday school and serving on assorted committees. But I’ve never even met this new priest and I HIGHLY suspect he doesn’t appreciate that he’s ten minutes into the service when the side door creaks open and I slink in and duck into the first empty pew.
So when my raffle number was called, the priest came over and shook my hand. “Call the office and we’ll get this scheduled,” he said.
Get what scheduled? Will he just come over and stand on the doorstep with me holding the door open, hand firmly on the door knob, unsure whether to invite him in and not knowing what to do with him if he says yes. Should I have him over for dinner? Lunch? Dessert? Coffee? Cocktails?
My husband loves to cook and invite people over, but when I told him about my prize he said, “I don’t need to be here for that.” He doesn’t want to get into a religious discussion with anyone under any circumstances. For me, it’s not even that the man is a priest, it’s more that he’s a perfect stranger.
On the other hand, I believe things don’t happen by coincidence. I won that raffle for a reason. My quandary is more, “What kind of hospitality do I extend to this gentleman coming to bless my house?” rather than, “Holy moly, what the heck am I going to talk about?”
The last time I talked to a priest was at a party. I’d just come back from Italy and started blabbering about the Vatican. “It was beautiful but kindof creepy the way they had all those old Popes in coffins all over the place and there was that embalmed Pope in a glass coffin that gave me the eevy jeevies. What’s up with that?”
The priest excused himself immediately and went to talk with a hunchbacked old woman who, apparently, afforded better opportunity for sparkling conversation than the likes of me.
As you can see, talking to priests is not my forte, hence my shyness about how to handle this visit to my home, though Lord knows this place could use a blessing, and a good cleaning, for that matter. Which is another stumbling block – I’d have to clean. Maybe I could have him come just before Thanksgiving, when I’m going to have to buckle down and get the vacuum out anyway.
Oh well, there are many considerations for me to consider, so I’ll close this long dissertation on raffles, paradoxes and priests. I will leave you with one final paradox, apropos to these most recent events: Be careful what you wish for because it may come true.
On Sunday I was wishing for two things, that I would get my luck back and win a raffle for the first time in a coon’s age, and that I’d win a pie, preferably a tasty pie like peach or blackberry or strawberry rhubarb.
Lo and behold, the first raffle number called was mine! I broke my long dry spell of no raffle prizes. I could just taste that flaky piecrust. Then they announced my prize.
A visit from the priest to bless my house.
Lord have mercy.
(a) My husband is an atheist. Not an agnostic/on the fence kind of believer who’s just not sure. He is absolutely positive there is no God and people like me are simply deceiving ourselves and not right in the head.
(2) I’m a Catholic who likes to go to church on Sunday because I feel good about it, but I arrive a little late and don’t hang around after Mass glad-handing with the parishioners. I slip in and slip out like a thief. That’s not to say I haven’t given back, because I spent years teaching Sunday school and serving on assorted committees. But I’ve never even met this new priest and I HIGHLY suspect he doesn’t appreciate that he’s ten minutes into the service when the side door creaks open and I slink in and duck into the first empty pew.
So when my raffle number was called, the priest came over and shook my hand. “Call the office and we’ll get this scheduled,” he said.
Get what scheduled? Will he just come over and stand on the doorstep with me holding the door open, hand firmly on the door knob, unsure whether to invite him in and not knowing what to do with him if he says yes. Should I have him over for dinner? Lunch? Dessert? Coffee? Cocktails?
My husband loves to cook and invite people over, but when I told him about my prize he said, “I don’t need to be here for that.” He doesn’t want to get into a religious discussion with anyone under any circumstances. For me, it’s not even that the man is a priest, it’s more that he’s a perfect stranger.
On the other hand, I believe things don’t happen by coincidence. I won that raffle for a reason. My quandary is more, “What kind of hospitality do I extend to this gentleman coming to bless my house?” rather than, “Holy moly, what the heck am I going to talk about?”
The last time I talked to a priest was at a party. I’d just come back from Italy and started blabbering about the Vatican. “It was beautiful but kindof creepy the way they had all those old Popes in coffins all over the place and there was that embalmed Pope in a glass coffin that gave me the eevy jeevies. What’s up with that?”
The priest excused himself immediately and went to talk with a hunchbacked old woman who, apparently, afforded better opportunity for sparkling conversation than the likes of me.
As you can see, talking to priests is not my forte, hence my shyness about how to handle this visit to my home, though Lord knows this place could use a blessing, and a good cleaning, for that matter. Which is another stumbling block – I’d have to clean. Maybe I could have him come just before Thanksgiving, when I’m going to have to buckle down and get the vacuum out anyway.
Oh well, there are many considerations for me to consider, so I’ll close this long dissertation on raffles, paradoxes and priests. I will leave you with one final paradox, apropos to these most recent events: Be careful what you wish for because it may come true.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
The Paradox of Paradoxes
’ve had an exhausting day of trying to set up meetings. Granted it’s easier with email than making a bunch of phone calls, but still it just takes forever.
Come to think of it, it seems like everything takes forever but then how come nothing lasts forever. Quite the paradox. Here’s some other paradoxes for you, but first, we need to define paradox for our illiterate readers. Only you know if you fit in that category and I’m not here to judge. I’m here to define this in simple terms even you can understand:
A paradox is two things that don’t make sense – that are illogical. To remember it, think of para like a “pair a” things that don’t add up. Here are some samples of para – doxes like I promised in the last paragraph:
You can save money by spending it.
Youth is wasted on the young.
I can resist anything but temptation.
Nobody goes to that restaurant, it's too crowded.
Don't go near the water until you've learned to swim.
If you fall down and break your leg, don’t come running to me.
That’s enough paradoxes.
That last sentence was not a paradox, by the way.
Neither was that one.
So I was talking about things lasting forever. This topic has dragged on for quite some time, and perhaps you might say that it, in fact, has lasted forever.
That might be true except that I am about to bring it to an abrupt halt wiith one story that might illustrate several key points.
I was in church on Sunday and they were having this stewardship fair so they wanted us to go over to coffee and donuts and visit the various tables to learn about volunteer opportunities. Each table you went to and talked with someone, they gave you a raffle ticket. The prize was a pie. I collected as many as I could. I didn’t even care what kind of pie it was. I like all pies except apple, which I will eat with abandon but only if another pie isn’t handy.
About a year ago I quit winning raffles. Prior to that I could not lose. If there were raffle tickets given out, I won, even if I had a torn raffle ticket with shoe prints all over it that I picked up off a greasy floor.
And then, just like someone had turned off the luck faucet, I went into a dry spell where I didn’t win any raffles.
You might think, “How many raffles is this woman exposed to?” And I would say, “Who wants to know?” Then you’d say, “What’s it to you?” and I’d say, “It’s none of your freaking business,” and you’d say, “I’m damn well making it my business,” and I’d say, “Well you can damn well try and see how far that gets you,” and then you would lunge at my throat with your long, yellow fingernails and try to strangle me, and I’d take off running – in a zigzag pattern so you couldn’t shoot me, and you’d jump in your car and try to run me down, and I’d duck around a corner and find myself in a dark alley with a brick wall at the end and no way out, then you’d turn the corner and I’d be spotlighted as you bore down on the accelerator, and then I’d scream and we’d break for commercial..
Yes, I suppose some things do last forever, like this article, which is……..TO BE CONTINUED.
Come to think of it, it seems like everything takes forever but then how come nothing lasts forever. Quite the paradox. Here’s some other paradoxes for you, but first, we need to define paradox for our illiterate readers. Only you know if you fit in that category and I’m not here to judge. I’m here to define this in simple terms even you can understand:
A paradox is two things that don’t make sense – that are illogical. To remember it, think of para like a “pair a” things that don’t add up. Here are some samples of para – doxes like I promised in the last paragraph:
You can save money by spending it.
Youth is wasted on the young.
I can resist anything but temptation.
Nobody goes to that restaurant, it's too crowded.
Don't go near the water until you've learned to swim.
If you fall down and break your leg, don’t come running to me.
That’s enough paradoxes.
That last sentence was not a paradox, by the way.
Neither was that one.
So I was talking about things lasting forever. This topic has dragged on for quite some time, and perhaps you might say that it, in fact, has lasted forever.
That might be true except that I am about to bring it to an abrupt halt wiith one story that might illustrate several key points.
I was in church on Sunday and they were having this stewardship fair so they wanted us to go over to coffee and donuts and visit the various tables to learn about volunteer opportunities. Each table you went to and talked with someone, they gave you a raffle ticket. The prize was a pie. I collected as many as I could. I didn’t even care what kind of pie it was. I like all pies except apple, which I will eat with abandon but only if another pie isn’t handy.
About a year ago I quit winning raffles. Prior to that I could not lose. If there were raffle tickets given out, I won, even if I had a torn raffle ticket with shoe prints all over it that I picked up off a greasy floor.
And then, just like someone had turned off the luck faucet, I went into a dry spell where I didn’t win any raffles.
You might think, “How many raffles is this woman exposed to?” And I would say, “Who wants to know?” Then you’d say, “What’s it to you?” and I’d say, “It’s none of your freaking business,” and you’d say, “I’m damn well making it my business,” and I’d say, “Well you can damn well try and see how far that gets you,” and then you would lunge at my throat with your long, yellow fingernails and try to strangle me, and I’d take off running – in a zigzag pattern so you couldn’t shoot me, and you’d jump in your car and try to run me down, and I’d duck around a corner and find myself in a dark alley with a brick wall at the end and no way out, then you’d turn the corner and I’d be spotlighted as you bore down on the accelerator, and then I’d scream and we’d break for commercial..
Yes, I suppose some things do last forever, like this article, which is……..TO BE CONTINUED.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Aging Gracelessly
As we age, our bodies go through changes. Some are good – like when I was pregnant and my hair got thick – and some are bad – like aches and pains and wrinkles.
But there’s one change I’ve recently encountered that is working out just fine. For some crazy, inexplicable reason, I no longer fart – I burp instead.
Please do not think I’m trying to be crude. I’m just relating the simple facts. I used to pass gas on a fairly consistent basis, i.e. whenever I was awake. I could pass gas on demand, something I used to punctuate social interactions such as:
My brother: “How do you like my haircut?”
Me: “Pffffffft.”
Or:
My brother: “What did you think of my speech?”
Me: “Pfffffff ffffff ffffff fffff ffffft.”
As welcome as this communication tool was, it sometimes became a problem. Being gassy by nature was bad enough, but when I ate legumes, which was every chance I got, it became nearly unbearable for my loved ones to be on the same street with me. I have emptied cars full of people when legume-propelled emissions accidently erupted without warning, completely out of my control.
I’ll admit I enjoyed, to some extent, the leverage these incidents afforded me. Such as:
My brother: “I’m not moving.”
Me: “You better or I’ll fart.”
Recently, however, I have been burping, rather loudly, from the very depths of my internal areas. These things are audible from three rooms away, but they lack the persuasive qualities of gas. On the other hand, they don’t cause me nearly as much misery, especially after eating legumes, so I am not complaining. This is one thing Mother Nature got right.
But there’s one change I’ve recently encountered that is working out just fine. For some crazy, inexplicable reason, I no longer fart – I burp instead.
Please do not think I’m trying to be crude. I’m just relating the simple facts. I used to pass gas on a fairly consistent basis, i.e. whenever I was awake. I could pass gas on demand, something I used to punctuate social interactions such as:
My brother: “How do you like my haircut?”
Me: “Pffffffft.”
Or:
My brother: “What did you think of my speech?”
Me: “Pfffffff ffffff ffffff fffff ffffft.”
As welcome as this communication tool was, it sometimes became a problem. Being gassy by nature was bad enough, but when I ate legumes, which was every chance I got, it became nearly unbearable for my loved ones to be on the same street with me. I have emptied cars full of people when legume-propelled emissions accidently erupted without warning, completely out of my control.
I’ll admit I enjoyed, to some extent, the leverage these incidents afforded me. Such as:
My brother: “I’m not moving.”
Me: “You better or I’ll fart.”
Recently, however, I have been burping, rather loudly, from the very depths of my internal areas. These things are audible from three rooms away, but they lack the persuasive qualities of gas. On the other hand, they don’t cause me nearly as much misery, especially after eating legumes, so I am not complaining. This is one thing Mother Nature got right.
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