tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81914657805938964442024-03-12T23:45:01.086-07:00Laura: She Basically Just Wants AttentionThe Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-3578202731289834272017-06-05T12:52:00.000-07:002017-06-05T12:52:56.471-07:00Some Angels Smoke Cigarettes?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">“God did not bring us out here to abandon
us” I said. This was a rare moment of faith and optimism for me since I’m
usually a worry wart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">I was with a group of college students on a
study trip to Europe and Morocco. There were 20 of us and we were buzzing
around foreign countries in three minivans. When we left Morocco half of our
group had stomach troubles because of some undercooked tea. We had been driving
through Spain for a few hours when several things began to happen at once. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/photo/peace-out-1307876" target="_blank">Photo Credit: Matt Willmann via freeimages.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century, serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">First of all, one of the vans started to
run out of gas. On another van, one student desperately had to go to the bath
room. In the front van, our professor
was driving and his assistant was holding the walkie-talkies. The drivers of
the other vans were complaining about their emergencies, but the professor’s
assistant kept saying that we just needed to go a little further and drive for
a few more minutes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">Well, bathroom emergencies and nearly empty
gas tanks can only wait so long. At last vans two and three had to pull off at
a gas station. Van number one kept going because the professor’s assistant had
finally started to ignore the desperate pleas over the walkie-talkie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">In just a few minutes the bathroom problem
was solved and the van’s gas tank was filled with fuel. But now came a new disaster. One of the students was getting out of the
van to stretch his legs, but when he opened the sliding van door, it hit a
stone pillar and literally fell of the vehicle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">We had lots of strong young guys with us
who could have lifted the van door back up on the track, but all but one of
them was very ill from the undercooked tea from Morocco. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">What were we going to do? The professor,
his van, and one third of our group was who knows how far down the road and a
van door had been dislodged from one of our vehicles. That was when I and
others in our group suggested that we pray. Some people were still panicking so
I said, “No, God has protected us this far. He’s not going to abandon us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">We all stood in a circle and prayed for
help. We had just said “Amen” when we were approached by a stranger. He was a
tall, thin man with long black hair pulled back in a pony tail. He was wearing
a green t-shirt and blue jeans. He was leisurely smoking a cigarette. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">He looked at our van and assessed the
situation and the damage. Then he pointed at the only strong guy in our group
who wasn’t sick from the undercooked tea (he was also the biggest guy in our
group). Lou walked over and took one side of the door and the stranger took the
other side and they replaced it on the van very quickly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">We asked the stranger if he wanted money
for his help and he said, “No, someone helped me once and this is my way of
paying them back.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">The stranger started to walk away from the
gas station toward the highway. Meanwhile we all bowed our heads to say a quick
prayer. Now we were in a part of Spain where the ground was very flat, so you
could see for miles and there were no other buildings in site. We literally had
our heads bowed and our eyes shut for three seconds and when we opened our eyes
the stranger had disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">There was no where for him to go and he
didn’t have time to run back in the gas station. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century",serif;">If that was an angel who had helped us on
that day in Spain, when I get to heaven, I want to ask God why that angel was
smoking a cigarette. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
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The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-57118364455043741672017-06-05T12:30:00.000-07:002017-06-05T12:30:24.289-07:00When a Little Town Became an Island<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">When I was a little girl I lived in a tiny
town on a big hill surrounded by cornfields. In the cornfields around the big
hill with the tiny town are lots of little creeks which sometimes overflow
their banks and make little floods.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VTYAV_kqFlliWQlE6Ox0cstD9XfZUgjnOaD7ZsjwwKdqb2mTiES3-d2K59P6axkeIpb5DW0r2tqHCuZhg9yWga4Cl3lpzaHrWRwFJETASVN7QE96REQsXKWKw2h-UAe1aD4EHWH4pTjh/s1600/water-1459866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VTYAV_kqFlliWQlE6Ox0cstD9XfZUgjnOaD7ZsjwwKdqb2mTiES3-d2K59P6axkeIpb5DW0r2tqHCuZhg9yWga4Cl3lpzaHrWRwFJETASVN7QE96REQsXKWKw2h-UAe1aD4EHWH4pTjh/s320/water-1459866.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flood <a href="http://www.freeimages.com/photo/water-1459866" target="_blank">Image Credit: Anissa Belkheir, via freeimages.co</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">This is a story about when my little town
got a lot of rain and the creeks overflowed their banks and completely covered
the cornfields and turned the little town on the big hill into an island. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">At first it was fun. Dad woke me up early
to go out and look at the flooding because it was the first time that the
creeks had flooded that badly. The water was lapping up on the street heading
out of town like waves on a shore. Wind blew and the sound of water made it
sound like I was standing next to a lake instead of a network of flooded
creeks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">The road (normally) went down the big hill
and intersected with a major highway (which was now completely under water).
Dad and I stood looking out at the flood and Dad said, “This is funny”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">I was wondering if there were more fish
swimming in the water than normal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">A few hours later it seemed like the entire
town was standing out on the “shore” on the little bridge that usually went
over one of the little creeks, but now looked more like a dock. People cracked jokes about how the farmers should
have planted rice or celery instead of corn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">My mother was out there with Dad now and
she was joking that we would have to buy boats to get out of town if the flood
waters didn’t go away. Someone asked if anyone had called the local TV station.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Then all at once the mood changes a big red
truck was driving down the road in the distance. He kept getting close to the
flood waters and he wasn’t slowing down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Everyone got quiet and watched. The truck’s
driver must have thought the flood waters would be shallow enough to drive
through. He was wrong. We watched helplessly as the truck entered the water
over the highway and started to float away. Someone got a row boat out of a
nearby garage and tried to push it toward the truck – but the rough flood waters
were too vast and the boat simply drifted aimlessly with the current. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">The truck started to capsize and my mom
told me to look away. But the driver had climbed out of the truck and was
clinging to it. We all breathed a sigh of relief when a natural resource boat
came and rescued the man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">A few minutes later it happened again. This
time a minivan floated into the water and a man, a woman, and three children,
crawled out and clung to the vehicle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Many people in the crowd began to panic.
The Natural Resource Rescue Boat came back and picked up the little family, but
instead of taking them away like they had the truck driver, they brought them
to the town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">The family had been on vacation and were
far from home and had no where to go and no where to stay. One family in the
town had a guest room where they could stay and another family donated pillows
and blankets. Another family donated food. Everyone in the little town pitched
in and made the hapless family feel more comfortable. They stayed one night and
by the next day the flood waters had subsided and they could leave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">But on the day of the flood the state
closed the highway so no one else could get trapped by the flood waters again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Now, decades later, the cornfields around
the big hill are green and the creeks mostly stay in their banks, but I’ll
never forget when the big hill became an island. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-80580878185344938602012-02-20T15:29:00.001-08:002017-06-05T14:14:16.117-07:00Dark WaterI spent years away from home, away from Iowa. While living far away, the Mississippi river, which is only 15 or 20 minutes from my home in Iowa became a symbol in my mind of where I had come from. When I finished Seminary, I came home and had difficulty finding a job...so I started temping to pay the bills...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBIm0kE7G8BbbCUgAF6yyKjVm0gOn_KdnHKxWS5Y-LQuvFkfe1P1Wey14fg1DfZn5m8y1qac-5Cdx8Z39SlF-udzUWNSLiOTu3WuO2mySjDdiny85EO9y9hQRMA0IiCzU1hQaIIckD08M/s1600/mypictureofohioriver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="453" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBIm0kE7G8BbbCUgAF6yyKjVm0gOn_KdnHKxWS5Y-LQuvFkfe1P1Wey14fg1DfZn5m8y1qac-5Cdx8Z39SlF-udzUWNSLiOTu3WuO2mySjDdiny85EO9y9hQRMA0IiCzU1hQaIIckD08M/s200/mypictureofohioriver.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<br />
For the better part of a year, I worked as a supply courier for a bank. One of the things I really enjoyed about that job was crossing the Mississippi River several times every day as I went through my route. <br />
I loved looking at the river as I drove over the bridges. The water never looked the same twice in one day. Sometimes it would be bright blue, reflecting the color of the sky. Sometimes on the same day, with that same blue sky, the water would be a slick, oily gray or even a flinty black (which is why, I suppose the Mississippi is sometimes referred to as "dark water").<br />
One winter day, snow was on the ground and the river had large pieces of ice floating down stream...I think the technical term is "ice floats". <br />
Against the black water, the large ice floats looked like beef fat floating in the surface of a pot of greasy water. <br />
Another day, early in the morning it was so cold that the water looked like like smoke was rising up out of it...The ethereal effect was magnified by the pink color the river stole from the sunrise.<br />
My time in Iowa has been rocky at best. I want nothing more than to get back into ministry, to be a chaplain again. It's lovely living near my family, to be back near my river -- but life beyond the river beckons again. It is time to find a new symbol for my life, time to find other beautiful things to admire...The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-87559608944811141222012-01-15T14:12:00.000-08:002017-06-05T14:44:47.563-07:00Goo Goo and the Gremlin<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I grew up in a small town...no let me rephrase that...I grew up in a town with eight streets. You could stand in the middle of it and see the surrounding cornfields. My dad liked to joke that the mayor called one time to say that we would have to move out of our house if we didn't get at least one dead car in our yard by the end of the month. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There were no stores in town. The church got closed down because the boiler blew. The post office burned down one fateful night and the building that WAS a dance hall in the 40's is now a car garage. My parents' house was across the street from a grain elevator -- one of the few working businesses in town. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Just to give you an idea of what the culture was like, I'll tell you a little story. My half-sister's husband and I were sitting in my parents' living room one afternoon watching TV when we noticed someone walking outside in the yard. I went out to see who it was and when I came back, Mike asked, "Who was that?" </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"The Mayor," I replied. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"What was the Mayor doing in your yard?"</span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Reading the meter on the house."</span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Why was the <i>Mayor</i> reading the meter on your house?" He asked, wide-eyed. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"What else would he be doing?" </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Yamamoto Ortiz Via freeimages.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">Most of the people in our little city were really nice. Our neighbors (I'll call them the Douglas' for the sake of the story) have always been really good friends of ours. Laurel and Dave Douglas are like another aunt and uncle to me. They love to tease me about stuff I did when I was a kid...Sometimes I wish they'd forget certain things...</span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They have a lot of inside jokes with my parents too...one of our favorites has to do with the story of the neighbor on the other side of my parents' house: "Goo Goo" Summerset. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Goo Goo (as he asked us to call him) and his wife used to stand out in their front yard and yell at each other...while standing two feet apart. He used to put locks on his refrigerator door so his kids couldn't eat between meals and (trust me) he had more than his share of dead cars in the front yard. He was a constant source of both annoyance and entertainment. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">One day my parents and I were working in our back yard when Goo Goo hurried out of his front door and started jumping around in his yard, yelling incomprehensibly. Mom, Dad, and I stopped and stared at him for a few seconds. What in the world was this guy up to now? </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally Goo Goo slowed down his speech enough so that we could understand him a little: "My Car! My Car!!! Somebody stole my car! Thief! Thief!" </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We all looked at each other in disbelief. Who (in their right mind) would have stolen Goo Goo's car? </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dave and Laurel called to us from their yard. "What's got Goo Goo so upset?" Dave asked. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My father cleared his throat. "Apparently somebody stole ... his car."</span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dave made a face. "One of the dead ones?" </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image Credit: Lena Povrzenic via freeimages.com</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It doesn't sound like it," Mom replied. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Laurel snickered. "Fine then...the Yugo or the Gremlin?" </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile Goo Goo was still jumping up and down in his yard. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Do you think we should help him?" Mom asked. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"It would be the neighborly thing to do," Laurel added. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"He really seems upset," Dave said.</span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"And we have known the guy for years..." Dad muttered. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Five minutes later, the five of us were sitting in lawn chairs in my parents' back yard watching the "show" in Goo Goo's yard. By now, Goo Goo and Mrs. Summerset were in their front yard arguing about who had left the keys in the car's ignition. Goo Goo also mentioned that he had called the police. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Oh good," Mom said taking a sip of her pop..."This is going to be a cop show." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ten minutes later, the police had arrived...and they started questioning Mr. and Mrs. Summerset about the last time they had seen the car, etc.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What the five of us found amusing was that although we were sitting in lawn chairs watching the whole thing go on, the police didn't ask us any questions or even speak to us once. We didn't care though...we were too busy munching on our popcorn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"YOU HAVE TO CATCH THESE CRIMINALS!" Goo Goo exclaimed. "We're in the middle of a crime wave! You can't trust anyone anymore!!! No one cares about each other like they used to!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Wonder why he'd think that?" Laurel asked, leaning back in her chair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We all shook our heads and said, "Who knows?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The police questioned Goo Goo for about 5 minutes. They were getting ready to leave when one of them said, "Hey is your car a bright green compact car?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes!" Goo Goo screamed. "Yes! It is!! That's what I've been saying! Why?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Well you know that grain elevator across the street?" The policeman asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah?"</span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Well we found the car behind a silo."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Someone stole my car and hid it behind a silo at the Grain elevator?" He yelled this at the top of his lungs. </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't think so. The car's parking break was off and it looks like it rolled down the hill and ended up behind the silo." </span></div>
<div style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The police left a couple of minutes later and Goo Goo retrieved his car, parked it in his drive way and retreated into his house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The show was over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Its awesome when you can enjoy good entertainment with your neighbors.</span></div>
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</span>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-88265217764480046852011-06-22T16:56:00.000-07:002011-06-23T07:52:05.545-07:00Walking through the Park on a Moonlit Night...On the edge of the little town I live in is this manicured city park with a walking path, perfectly shaped trees, and frogs...I've never actually seen the frogs, you understand, but I can hear them. Sometimes I wonder if people in China can hear them...<br />
Truthfully, I'm not exactly certain if they are really in the park or in the decorative ponds in the back yards of the nearby houses.<br />
What really bothers me about the frogs is the fact that they do not actually say, "Ribbit." Its more of an incessant, "Orc, Orc, Orc"... The sound would be unnerving if I didn't know what it was and where it was coming from.<br />
On the far side of the park, kids are playing baseball under bright spotlights...Not that they would need the lights to play...the moon is full and huge -- like a giant neon light in the shape of a pancake. There are no electric lights illuminating the walking path in the park, but I'm not afraid because the moon lights my way, guiding my footsteps.<br />
Trees look different at night than they do during the day. Something about moonlight -- the shadows it casts on the leaves makes them stand out, as though under a spot light -- they almost don't look real. The individual leaves are defined in a formal way, like in a museum diorama...<br />
The lightning bugs are out...not many of them yet, but enough to make me feel like I'm walking through a fairy land...I remember when I was a kid, how I used to love to catch them, watch them blink in my hand and let them go...I used to get so mad when the neighborhood boys would catch them and tear them apart.<br />
Usually while walking in the park, I hear wind through the trees, cars passing in the distance...I don't hear that tonight...I can't even hear the kids playing baseball...All I can hear are the frogs..."Ork, Ork Ork"... like an amphibious Greek Chorus...Still can't see them...Maybe that's a good thing...The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-27904716881747784092011-01-11T18:05:00.000-08:002012-01-14T09:52:33.421-08:00Bam goes the Mylar!<div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">POP! </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You could hear the sound from the exploding balloons from all parts of the University Bookstore I used to work at...We had a very popular balloon department and as a cashier, it was also my job to help out there. I seemed to have a talent for popping the balloons I meant to fill with Helium and put into pretty bouquets...I used to love the colors in the balloons, how the light went through them...the bright, vivid designs on the foil Mylar balloons...Trouble is, if you put too much air in them, or let them touch the ceiling (metal shards in the tiles), KABOOM, no more pretty rubber balloon! </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">After working at the store for a few years, my boss let me help her pick out balloons she would order to sell in the store...I loved looking through the Mylar picture-balloon catalogs. There were balloons with cute slogans on them: Happy Birthday, Good Luck, Welcome Back... </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Others had cute cartoon characters on them, or animals, or smiley faces...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We also had balloons for anniversaries and baptisms... </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Most of the time, she'd order anything I picked, but occasionally she'd veto my picks... </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For some reason, my boss didn't like the Birthday Balloon featuring a Grim Reaper with the caption: "Don't worry...I'm just here for the Cake..." </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We were pretty fast at blowing those things up, but even when we were really hopping, we could only blow up 20 balloons per hour...Most of the time people didn't care, but sometimes you'd get a customer who'd call up and say, "Can I have 100 balloons in an hour please???" </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">One time I told a customer that was impossible and about how many we could do per hour and she said crisply, "Is that your <i>best</i>?" </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't say so, but I thought, "No, Lady...we're just slowing down our pace because you have an annoying voice..." Just for the record, I did NOT say that out loud...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wasn't always good at blowing those things up...It took practice...there's a science to it...too little air, and the balloons look limp or sick...too much and the thing's libel to burst in someone's face (not good)...It took me two years to perfect the size...I always liked to make the balloons really big so they looked like giant light bulbs...oddly enough, that didn't sit well with my boss...She didn't like it if I let helium out of them either...waste of gas apparently...I suggested letting me use the extra gas to make my voice go high and squeaky, but she reminded me that I could suffocate that way...bummer...there's always a catch...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We also had this clear, goopy stuff we'd put into the balloons before we blew them up...supposedly it made the things last longer...I DON'T know if it was true or not, but it WAS fun to play with -- as long as I didn't get it on my clothes...If you accidentally put too much in the balloon, when you blew it up, it would be heavy, and hover in mid-air instead of floating happily like it was supposed to...this was ALSO a mistake I made a lot at first...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then there's the ribbons...They look SOOO innocent...those things look easy to curl and tie onto the balloons, but the truth is that Balloon Ribbons are evil entities bent on making store clerks insane...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You have to slip knot them just right or the balloons escape...then curling them is an absolute nightmare...The trick is to run the sharp side of a pair of scissors across the flat side of the ribbon, making them curl (I cut myself a lot...do NOT try that at home...). I was never very good at that...when I first started out I had the nasty tendency of shaving off half the ribbon, so it hung limply like a wet tea towel...not exactly festive...Finally my boss showed me the trick of using a letter opener instead of scissors...this kept me out of the insane asylum...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then comes my nemesis...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Arranging balloons in a bouquet...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is another activity that LOOKS easy...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It isn't...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You have to know exactly where to put each balloon or they all end up on the same level...or spaced unevenly...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It took me forever to figure out how to do this...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At one point, I was CONVINCED that the balloons would move on their own...I'd have them just so and they'd be unevenly spaced again...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My boss seemed to be a natural at this...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She was one of those elegant, capable ladies who did everything easily...I think the balloons secretly feared her... </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The only thing that didn't make me crazy were the clips that we used to hold the balloons closed...we just twisted the bottom of the balloon three or four times and snapped the plastic clip into place...VOILA....that helium wasn't going anywhere...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was a kid and would blow up balloons for birthday parties or something, I'd get stuck tying the ends of the balloons into knots...I won't waste TOO much time there...except to say that I spent most of my time chasing the balloons around the room when they shot out of my hands like a jet every time my fingers got tangled up and I lost my grip...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Holding the balloon bouquets down was always a challenge too...for one or two balloons, it was pretty easy: you just needed a light plastic weight and everyone is happy...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For bouquets of 50 or more, things got harry....they tended to try to float away in spite of the weight dangling from their ribbons...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We had these weights that looked like giant Hershey's kisses...without the chocolate though...bummer...They'd work for moderately large bouquets, but sometimes the best thing to use was a stuffed animal...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">For a while I was thoughtlessly tying the ribbons around the Teddy Bear necks, but my boss told me that looked like cruel and unusual punishment for the stuffy (like we were trying hang it or something)...so then I started tying the ribbon around the bear's waste...this was great unless I tied the ribbons too tightly...then it looked like a warped advertisement for a weight loss program...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">If you're waiting for a point to this blog entry, or a punch line, you're going to be sadly disappointed, but I'll end with a quote from Winnie the Pooh that used to grace the back wall of the University Bookstore balloon department: "No One Can Be Uncheered with a Balloon..."</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">That's probably always true unless you're a teddy bear and some moron ties a bouquet of balloons around your neck...</span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-81959854675070749232011-01-06T19:16:00.000-08:002012-01-14T09:53:11.070-08:00Wayward Footwear...And Other Things that Are Totally Beyond My Comprehension...<div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've heard many comedians make the same joke about socks and the dryer... </span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Its an old joke...</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Its a trite joke...</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Its funny every time...</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">WHERE oh WHERE did that other sock go? </span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have countless socks -- that I am afraid to get rid of because (sure shootin) if I throw the lone-socks away, the mates WILL show up...</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If it were just a few of us that experienced this phenomenon, it wouldn't be that weird...</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But we have ALL lost socks in the dryer...and we've ALL found the mates after throwing the other one away...</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where do they go? </span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Is it elves? </span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Gnomes? </span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Does Elvis come back from his home planet and steal them?</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">WHERE ARE THE SOCKS? </span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why is it that there can be NO, repeat NO bird poop anywhere on a driveway or in a parking lot and yet MY car is covered in white deposits??? Why is it that to birds, cars look like toilets? Cars have only been around for the last century. Its not like they've been in bird territory for thousands of years, serving the purpose of a bird's WC...oh no!!! They just decided to use them for target practice...</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wonder who the first bird to do this was...Brilliant bird...Probably had a bit of Tom Sawyer in him...(only instead of white washing a fence, it had to do with a model T...this is an after a while joke...you'll get it later...) </span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: cyan; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">Who decided that Green meant Go and Red meant Stop? No funny joke here...just wondering...</span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">What part of "NO CALL LIST" do telemarketers find so difficult to understand...</span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">Does my dog actually know what I'm saying? Or has she learned to look cute because she knows I'll give her treats??? Or both?</span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">How is anyone going to be able to run for public office in 20 years with things like Facebook and You-Tube around??? </span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">I can picture it now: </span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">Candidate #1: "Sir, did you really say, "LOL LOL...I just laughed so hard at that commercial, I have milk coming out of my nose!" ? How can we take you seriously in this position when you can't control your nostrils?"</span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">Candidate #2: Well I'm sure voters will be interested in something you wrote on Twitter ... "I have just invented dirty dish art in my sink...I don't want to wash them now and ruin it!" </span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">Well, it might make the news more fun...<br />
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</span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-26870879545547190202011-01-06T18:35:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:43:24.072-08:00The Phone Call<div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Its hard to believe that it has really been 20 years since that dark morning in February, 1991 when my mother had her heart attack. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was just a kid and I woke up early that morning to get ready for my scout meeting. I was trying to tame my frizzy hair when I heard my Dad call my name and say, "Your mother's had a heart attack." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad's got a weird sense of humor, so I thought he was kidding...even though honestly I didn't get the joke. "What?" I replied. I thought Dad was going to follow up with a sarcastic comment about how Mom was upset because I had left food on a plate accidentally when I did the dishes the night before or something like that. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I walked out into the living room where he sat on the couch putting on his steel-toed work boots. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I took your Mom to the hospital last night while you were sleeping," he said calmly. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">He wasn't kidding. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Why didn't you wake me up?" I asked. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"You would have taken too long getting ready," Dad answered matter-of-factly. "Mom could have been dying and I had to hurry her to the ER." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"How is she doing?" I asked awkwardly. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"She was stable when I came home last night. I didn't stay because I had to come home -- even at your age, you shouldn't be home alone all night." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Can we go see her?" </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"No," Dad said. "She's in the ICU and she isn't ready for visitors." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"When will we be able to see her?"</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I don't know." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"You're putting on your work boots." Now I was matter-of-fact. I had not been raised to cry in these situations...I just felt a little spacey...like in a dream. I watched as dad tied a tight Russian knot in the leather laces of one of his boots. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad nodded again. "I have to go to work today. I'll be leaving in just a few minutes. I'm going to take you to stay with your grandparents tonight, so go into your room and pack an over night bag -- just enough stuff for a night or two. If you're still staying with Grandma and Grandpa after that, we'll get you some more clothes. Hurry up, I need to get to the factory." Dad's working hours often went late into the night and he didn't want me home alone. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I hurried into my bedroom and packed an over-night case, including books and other things to keep myself occupied during my stay with my grandparents. I don't remember the car ride to my grandparents' house, but I do remember standing with my father at their front door. "I'm just going to drop you off here and then I have to hurry to work. You be good now and mind Grandma and Grandpa." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad stayed 10 minutes before leaving for work. Grandma gave me some breakfast and then said I could go play in the guest room for a few minutes. I remember staring at my over-night case sitting on the foot of my bed. It was blue and old. The room had clean white walls and it was a bright day outside, even though it was overcast. It was an unusually warm February. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I sat on the bed, reading for a couple of hours. Uncharacteristically, I didn't feel like playing and I escaped into a book. I wanted to call my mother, but I couldn't. She was in the ICU -- whatever that was. I didn't know then. It didn't sound good. I knew what a heart attack was though and it scared me. People died of those. I wanted to hear Mom's voice. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A while later, Grandma came to the door and suggested that I walk over to my cousins' house. "It's warm outside and you can play with them," she said. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Carrie and Katie lived down the street from Grandma and Grandpa. Amy and Tom lived in town too. Grandma said they would be over at Carrie and Katie's house too. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don't remember much about my visit with Carrie and Katie -- just that it was comforting being around my cousins and talking to them about what had just happened with my mother. Carrie, Katie, and Amy and I decided that we would have a slumber party at Grandma's -- I remember thinking it was nice that they didn't want me to be alone...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Playing with them distracted me from my worry. That night we had fun and Grandma let us make popcorn and watch a movie. We went to bed early. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next day was President's Day. No School. Grandma, Aunt Linda, Amy, and I went shopping. I still have two books I bought for myself that day. I read for hours that afternoon, after we got back from shopping. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I still hadn't talked to my mother on the phone, but I had gotten an update from Dad. Mom had endured 3 heart attacks on the night Dad took her to the hospital. She had almost died. I would get to talk to her soon. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I just wanted to hear my mother's voice. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tuesday morning came. I had to go to school. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back then I was attending a Seventh-day Adventist elementary school. It was a tiny brick building with two main classrooms and a medium sized-gymnasium stuck to one side. There were only 17 students and six of them were in my grade. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grandma and Grandpa took me to school that morning. I walked into the front door with my head hung low...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I met my teacher in the hallway and blurted out. "My mom had a heart attack." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Walker gasped. "Really? Lynn? Is she okay?" </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I think so," I replied. I didn't really know though. I would know if I could just hear her voice again. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My friends at school knew Mom really well from Church and were all worried about her. They wanted to know when she was coming home. "I don't know," I told them.</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">That night at my grandparents' while I was doing my homework, the phone rang. I was sitting in the guest room studying for an upcoming spelling test. I still didn't let myself think about my mom. Grandma came to my door and said, "Your mom's on the phone for you." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I jumped off the bed and ran to the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall next to the counter. "Mom?" I said into the receiver, terrified that there would be no answer. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Hi Sweetie," Mom's gentle voice replied. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"How are you?" I asked. "When are you coming home?" </span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-6644644783314944662010-12-14T19:33:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:43:58.047-08:00Scary Santa<div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At the place where I work there is a life-sized Santa Statue...this is the single FREAKIEST thing I have ever seen....You know how Santa is usually portrayed as kind and sweet and adorable? Not this one! This guy has big blue eyes that follow you when you walk by AND his "eye area" (I don't know what else to call it) sticks out -- so its almost bigger than his nose...It kind of looks like an "alien Santa" or a sinister character out of "Lord of the Rings"...or "Star Wars"...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone in the office is scared of this statue...We had him in a back corner, but someone unthinkingly moved him out where people could see him...he was freaking out workers sitting behind desks because of his Big, Unwinking eyes glaring at them, so we moved him next to the front door...trouble is, Ol' Santa started freaking people out as they walked in the building...(How to lose potential customers, lesson 1)...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I suggested turning him towards the wall, but someone pointed out that that might just make Santa <i>mad</i> (and none of us want THAT to happen)...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Every day one of us gets the job of checking to make sure that Santa hasn't moved on his own...I mean <i>seriously</i>, has "Child's Play" ever had a Christmas version? Freaky!</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Over the loudspeaker, we have Christmas music playing..."Santa Claus is Coming to Town" came on once and we heard the lyrics, "<i>You Better Watch Out, You Better Not Cry...Better Not Pout...I'm Telling You Why.</i>..<i><b>Santa Claus is Coming to Town!!!"</b></i></span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I turned to the receptionist and said, "Wow, in this office, that sounds like a <i>threat</i>..."</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">-- Especially the part where the song says, <i>"He knows when you are sleeping...He knows when you're awake..."</i></span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Scary...</span></i></b></u></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I'll keep you posted...</span></span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-70700954624577112152010-12-14T18:22:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:25:13.989-08:00No, Laura, there is NO Santa Claus...<div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">I never believed in Santa Claus...this is probably a good thing...When I was 3 years old, someone took me to see Santa and I got so scared that I cried...Admit it, people, that red suit is SCARY!!!</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">My parents had logical reasons though for not wanting me to believe in Santa. Mom reasoned that if I grew up and found out that she had lied to me about Santa, that I might start thinking Jesus wasn't real either...she wanted to be totally truthful with me...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I grew up (especially with my personality), this turned out to be a good idea...while I was still a kid though, it got me into a lot of trouble...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">My cousins were taught to believe in Santa...they thought the Big Guy brought them all their presents every Christmas Eve...even though they had no Chimney...I never figured that one out...I got in BIG trouble one year when I told them that there was no real Santa Claus...They cried and told my Aunt and Uncle who then went to my parents and told them how mad they were...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">Even though my parents didn't believe in teaching me about Santa, they DID believe in having fun...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">My father worked second shift at a factory and often had to work Christmas Eve...and he loved cookies...So every year, I would ask my Dad what kind of cookies he wanted on Christmas Eve...He always wanted Chocolate Chip! Every Christmas Eve "Santa" would get milk and cookies and they were always gone by morning!!! </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">Incidently, Mom and Dad ALSO did the same thing for me with the Tooth Fairy...I didn't believe in the Tooth Fairy, but I still hid my teeth under my pillow and voila! The next morning I had a nickel...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom always told me that The Tooth Fairy was actually my father in a Tutu and Tights...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes I have been in theropy....</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">Merry Christmas!!!</span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-49945804128752285742010-11-28T12:28:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:45:30.240-08:00Down Stream...<div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was a teenager I went to aquatic summer camp in the Ozarks for a week. In the middle of the week, we took a canoe trip down the current river. There were over fifty of us on the trip -- three or so to a canoe. I didn't know how to steer, so I was remanded to the middle of the boat, not that it bothered me much: that gave me a chance to look at the scenery and chatter with my friends while we rowed... </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The sky was a beautiful sapphire blue and the river was lined with luscious trees and high rocks...The one downer was that the water had a putrid smell to it, so when the bags we had with us in the canoe got wet, they stunk. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We had been floating down river for a few hours when one of our camp counselors told us we could stop and rest. We were all restless teenagers, so few of us were really interested in sitting on the river bank for very long -- a couple of the counselors took a group of campers across the river where there was a cave they were familiar with...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At first I wasn't interested in the cave...I was talking with friends and watching the water rush by -- I soon got bored and wanted to join the others. One of our leaders pointed out that if I crossed the river, the other campers probably weren't too far in and I could join them...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wanted to do this, but I wasn't acquainted with the science behind swimming across a river. When you swim across a swimming pool, there is no current, so you end up directly across from where you started most of the time. In a river, there is a current and you move downstream with it -- so its usually a good idea to start crossing a little upstream so you down go too far down river -- I didn't know this and no one told me. I was used to swimming in pools and lakes, so I started swimming toward the cave, giving little or no thought to the moving river water. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Half way across, I lifted my head for a breath and noticed that I had moved away from the cave. "Duh," I thought, "now what?" The opposite bank was sheer rock and I wasn't clear on my position. Confused, I panicked and started getting swept down stream. Stupidly, I called out for help and swallowed some water. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Am I going to drown now?" I thought. "<i>Help Lord!</i>" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked down and saw some rocks under me. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Laura, watch out!" I heard one of my friends call from the bank. Ahead of me I saw a huge rock in the middle of the water. I grabbed it and held on tight. Once I regained my breath, I climbed up onto it and sat there for a moment, my legs drawn up in front of me...I felt like a mermaid on a rock in the middle of the sea (albeit an awkward, confused, and stupid one...). The rock was huge...maybe three feet across, so I was sitting pretty comfortably. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I hadn't been swept away as far as I had first thought. I was really only a few yards away from where I had started swimming and I felt like an idiot for having panicked (I was a teenager and I felt like I had acted like a child)...but now I was afraid to jump back into the water to swim to the bank, so I sat there...I figured my friends could retrieve me when they went by in the canoe...it would only be another 20 minutes till we started off again...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It didn't seem to occur to my fellow campers that I had made any mistake, that I was afraid, or that I was stuck on a rock in the middle of the river. They seemed to feel that I had discovered something fun and they wanted to join me. Four or five other teenagers swam out to the rock, climbed up top and then dove back into the water, whooping with delight...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I felt really stupid -- especially when each of them returned to the shore unscathed. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Finally after about ten minutes, a boy about my age noticed that I seemed frozen in place and asked,"Do you need help?" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Blonde moment," I said sheepishly. "I'm scared of getting caught by the current again." </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">He smiled. "Its okay. I'll swim with you. Just move with the current and don't panic...you'll be fine."</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">HOW could I resist that? </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We jumped in together and swam to the shore without mishap. A few minutes later, we were all back in our canoes, heading down river. </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">My friends still wouldn't let me try to steer. </span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-13606022414171738682010-11-24T16:48:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:09:52.132-08:00Turkeys...A Memoir<div style="color: #ea9999; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiP4h2-jBrlYsM-Z5NYxSfC9bXHFoirfUstM4RYSekaPeje6attNLVxC51rDYTkMt4ra1aOAQiwqZJfMesq22i-eSHei1ngrue9AGYRrUUajRqIqcpXxtGOScINbOpE8WNsi8qYUTp2APY/s1600/wild-turkey_765_600x450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiP4h2-jBrlYsM-Z5NYxSfC9bXHFoirfUstM4RYSekaPeje6attNLVxC51rDYTkMt4ra1aOAQiwqZJfMesq22i-eSHei1ngrue9AGYRrUUajRqIqcpXxtGOScINbOpE8WNsi8qYUTp2APY/s200/wild-turkey_765_600x450.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;">My Freshman year in college I was working as a grocery store Clerk...One day while I was working the register, a guy came through my line with this terribly depressed look on his face. "Sir, what's the matter?" I asked.</span></div></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I have just had the worst day of my life," the man told me. "I am a turkey farmer. When it rained this afternoon, I accidentally left the door unlatched to the building where I keep my turkeys and they all got out..."</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I knew where he was going with this...Turkeys are not notoriously brilliant animals...For some reason, when turkeys look up into falling rain, they have no way of keeping raindrops from going into the nasal passages in their beaks...so basically if a turkey gets caught in the rain, he's going to look up at what's hitting him on the head and he's too stupid to not look up or to get out of the rain. Long story short, domestic turkeys always drown in rainstorms...this farmer lost his entire flock that way...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As Garrison Keeler pointed out in one of my favorite of his works, the word "Turkey" means looser or moron...no one wants to be called a "Turkey." </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've also always thought turkeys were very ugly creatures and I've never been able to understand why people sometimes decorate their tables at Thanksgiving with pictures of them...They look okay cooked and on the platter, but in their living form, they're repulsive...it almost makes it so you don't want to eat the juicy meat on your plate...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another thing that has always bothered me about them is, if you are what you eat, what if the intellect of the turkey can somehow rub off on you??? Let me explain what I mean... </span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">While I was working at the grocery store, we had an interesting mishap involving a turkey...This one actually gets a little violent...(don't worry...no body gets seriously injured in my blog...)</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the meat department, one of the butchers was working with the ground beef when a woman came up to the window to tell him that she wanted her 18 pound turkey cut in half...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Butcher smiled kindly and told her that it would be just a moment because he was elbow deep in hamburger...He could either call someone to help her, or he would have to take a minute and wash up...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She got so angry because he could not help her "RIGHT THIS SECOND", that she actually threw the turkey threw the service window in the direction of the poor Butcher...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She missed hitting him...Her husband was so embarrassed that he practically dragged her out of the store...</span></div><div style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've always wondered where her penned-up anger came from...could it be that she had eaten so much turkey that it had somehow affected her reasoning skills??? Probably not...I've known plenty of very gentle and kind people who eat a lot of turkey...it still makes me a little uneasy though...</span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-3453252412025217942010-11-23T11:04:00.000-08:002011-06-23T09:05:56.779-07:00Giggles...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIFzXckmvjpzjhpmqYElq6mHWPUG0a-58LQSPL-HzkAh2nBK7rzBTtG1QF-3lvSUk5jVPAeVVLwYLAyC0br0PQzkAiXlxp_M1tHwPPLIL2saC9y9mjcGmW9SAVhHcEa_-DzrQZE_rP0Jk/s1600/ceiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIFzXckmvjpzjhpmqYElq6mHWPUG0a-58LQSPL-HzkAh2nBK7rzBTtG1QF-3lvSUk5jVPAeVVLwYLAyC0br0PQzkAiXlxp_M1tHwPPLIL2saC9y9mjcGmW9SAVhHcEa_-DzrQZE_rP0Jk/s200/ceiling.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">The giggles...the phenomonen where you just can't stop laughing...this normally happens to me at places like parties (or when I was in taking a test in 11th Grade History Class and my teacher made me leave the room because I was distracting everyone with my laughter). </span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Lately, I was thinking abouthow I hadn't had the giggles in over a year (this was a mistake because it made the event inevitable...)</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Last Saturday morning started out so depressing. I did NOT want to get up. I was late for church and I didn't get any breakfast... Then in Sabbath School (Adventist version of Sunday School), somebody called me "Young Lady"..." Ooh, don't get me started...</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Then, Mom asked me to help her lead song service. I was in a contrary mood, so I "tried" to sing harmony -- I stink at this... Mom kept giving me dirty looks, trying to get me to cut it out, but that just egged me on...</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Finally, in the middle of the first verse of "Lamb of God," Mom actually wapped me in the stomach with the back of her hand...</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Instead of making me behave like I think it was meant to, I started cracking up! I mean a no-holds-barred belly laugh...Trouble is, I was in front of my church and we were singing about Christ's sacrifice on the cross. I kept my laughter silent, but I was bent over laughing. Mom was still singing, but she had this ironic, bemused look on her face. I turned around and attempted to get a straight face again, but every time, I started to sing, I cracked up again. </span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">She motioned for me to get myself pulled together -- didn't happen. Mom even tried pinching me at one stage, but that was no good...it just made me laugh even harder...(Does Mom strike you as a little bit violent in this story??? No pun intended)...</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">So when song service was over, Mom and I went back and sat in the pew next to Dad. There was this guy sitting on the other end of the pew, nervously tapping his foot...trouble is, his leg bouncing was shaking the pew. After 15 minutes of this (during the pastoral prayer and special music), Mom commented, "I am getting sea sick..."</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Then Dad surprised us...He stood up like he was going to go to the Rest Room, but instead, he moved to the pew behind us. One of our fellow Church members was wearing a top with the Chicago bears logo on it. Her son was sitting next to her...</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">My father is a die-hard Packers fan. Dad slid into the pew next to her son and whispered, "I noticed your Mom is a Bears fan...I just wanted to let you know that there is no statute of limitations on child abuse -- so when you grow up and realize how badly miss-treated you were by having the Bears forced on you, you can seek justice."</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">By now the boy and his mom were laughing so hard, I thought they were going to fall out of the pew...</span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">And I had the giggles AGAIN!!! </span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">I hope the pastor didn't think we were laughing at him when he started his sermon!!!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">In Psalm 100, God's people are told to make a joyful noise unto the Lord! To serve the Lord with gladness!!! There are times when levity and giggles might be inappropriate, but it is always a joyful time when we can enjoy being in the presence of God -- It truly makes this world a better place!!! </span>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-44788483021146583882010-11-18T18:02:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:50:26.146-08:00Friday Night Celebration...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH423JqqH_w9Kx0xlveI8UpYWH3OodwehvxZ_DPi6qI5L8Jy86Z7KrIaJb-4xvWSbSlVT9xqrQ-Z1B7ZabCIRBd4R52sB1mhiXzB3neZ5RvF2Se_xvyLfEXOcN0YWPD2x1WYy0U57Rowo/s1600/image0033.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH423JqqH_w9Kx0xlveI8UpYWH3OodwehvxZ_DPi6qI5L8Jy86Z7KrIaJb-4xvWSbSlVT9xqrQ-Z1B7ZabCIRBd4R52sB1mhiXzB3neZ5RvF2Se_xvyLfEXOcN0YWPD2x1WYy0U57Rowo/s1600/image0033.gif" /></a></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I always knew it was fun time when Mom got out her guitar. "What should we sing first?" she asked. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom and I had always loved singing together...All through my childhood, one of the highlights of the week was Friday night worship and singing Christian Music with Mom's guitar. Some of our favorites were, "Just a Closer Walk With Thee", "There Will be Peace in the Valley", "Jesus and Me", and "We are One in the Spirit". </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom had a clear, beautiful alto voice -- and she loved to harmonize while we sang. This often got interesting when I was a child because I had trouble staying on key...Usually mom would eventually give up and go back to singing melody...Sometimes when I'd sing a particularly odd note, Mom would stop playing and say (with a wry grin on her face), "What note was that? An R?" And then we'd both laugh and start singing again. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Also, despite the fact that I am a definite soprano, I wanted to sound like Mom...so I would try to sing in a lower key...Mom never actually said anything about this, but I'm sure it sounded a little funny...She'd always smile though and ask what I wanted to sing next...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom's guitar was an old friend in our family...it was a sweet little classical guitar made of wood the color of my blonde hair. It was the first gift Dad had ever given my mother. Mom wasn't a fancy guitar player -- she was a hippie when she was young and she told me that during those days everybody learned to play the guitar. Occasionally she'd accompany herself with arpeggios, but most of the time she'd strum rhythmically...I was a teenager before I realized anybody played the guitar any other way (despite the fact that I heard musicians play guitar all the time on the radio)...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes we'd sing for over an hour and then it was time for prayer. Mom and I would each pray in turn. It was always a very solemn and peaceful time when we prayed and I always loved it...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Next came Bible Study...We went to Church Saturday morning when I was a kid (and I still do, as Seventh-day Adventists), so Mom and I would go over our lessons for Bible Class the next day...After we were done with the Lessons, it was story time. Sometimes Mom would read right out of the Bible and other times she'd read from a Bible story book...I always loved studying the Bible -- it was so full of incredible stories and I loved learning more about Jesus...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I think my favorite story about Jesus was the one where He calmed the storm by just saying, "Peace, be still." Even thinking about that makes me feel more peaceful... Another one I loved hearing Mom tell was the one where Jesus raised the little girl from the dead...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the Old Testament, my favorite story by far was about the brave Queen Esther who got to save the lives of her people -- I thrilled every time Mom read the line, "I will go to the king, which is against the law; and if I perish, I perish!" </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Come to think of it, most of my favorite stories in the Bible have the same theme: God solving an impossible problem... I've always loved thinking of God as the God of the impossible...nothing is impossible with Him...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">After Bible story time was over, it was game time...and for my Mom and I, that meant "Bible 20 Questions..." </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">That sounds more complicated than it really is...I'm sure you've played the game 20 questions -- you know, someone thinks of something and then you have to guess it in...20 questions...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Well with "Bible 20 Questions" all of the things guessed about have to be from the Bible...We had this down to a science...and both of us were VERY competitive about it...We would both pick the smallest, most obscure things we could think of from the Bible and make the other one guess what they were...A couple of the ones I managed to stump Mom on were, the dry bones in Ezekiel and King Xerxes' scepter (there were others, but its been so long I can't remember them). Mom stumped me on a few too...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Dad was home for worship, he didn't take "Bible 20 Questions" as seriously as Mom and I did...Dad liked to make things up that weren't really in the Bible (Dad: "You mean Rudolph the Reindeer isn't in there?" Me: "Dad! Get real!")...Or he would purposely NOT guess an obvious one because he knew it would get my goat...(Me: "Dad! How could you NOT guess <i>Noah's Ark</i>???")...Dad liked to tease me...I secretly enjoyed it too, but I'd never let it on...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">While we played "Bible 20 Questions", Mom and I would roast marshmallows in the gas fireplace...We each had long iron forks, and we'd stick the marshmallows on the ends of them and roast them just like we would at a campfire...We'd usually go through half a bag on a Friday night...I liked setting my marshmallow on fire, pulling it out of the fireplace, and blowing it out before sticking the whole thing in my mouth...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Every so often, some of the gooey stuff would melt onto the bottom of the fireplace...for years there was petrified marshmallow in there that Mom just couldn't scrape off...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">By now it was late at night and time for Bed...Mom and I would pray before I hurried off to my room to go to sleep...The next day we'd rise early and go to church and even though Church was important, nothing could replace the Friday night Worship at home...</span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-28856718102491676322010-11-16T18:22:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:49:41.481-08:00Root Beer Rudeness...<div style="color: #ea9999;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxd0PFEPeRvck0mt7oxjzGAeAHaCKjNgUYdouE5ri3hcIm6ooA-BHiXxctC69HQ1FaUHPG7THNsV7iuqg3Tg44jMMgWUw6j9b3Cz-AjKgRHj3iNHyKetkX3Yue5fVJrk8P-AvUhj8LOxI/s1600/A%252520speech%252520bubble%252520of%252520grumbling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxd0PFEPeRvck0mt7oxjzGAeAHaCKjNgUYdouE5ri3hcIm6ooA-BHiXxctC69HQ1FaUHPG7THNsV7iuqg3Tg44jMMgWUw6j9b3Cz-AjKgRHj3iNHyKetkX3Yue5fVJrk8P-AvUhj8LOxI/s200/A%252520speech%252520bubble%252520of%252520grumbling.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">Have you ever gone to a store and been waited on by a rude clerk? Have you ever wondered how in the world they keep their job? I've worked as a clerk in the past and I am positive that if I had been as rude as some clerks have been to me, I would have been fired or at least reprimanded by the manager...</span></div></div><div style="color: purple;"><br />
</div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">For my blog today, I thought I'd share some instances of exceptional rudeness...<i><b>Warning:</b> Some of these instances of Rude Customer Service were actually fun and I wish I could get away with them, but as I said earlier, I know that I WOULD get into trouble... </i></span></div><div style="color: purple;"><br />
</div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dialog between myself and a clerk at a snack bar at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris...I had been abroad for 5 weeks, I was VERY homesick, and I wanted a Root Beer...Little known fact: It is next to impossible to find Root Beer in Europe...I thought they might have some in the airport (silly me)...I knew the French could get rude, but this was a beautifully artistic form of rudeness that I thoroughly enjoyed (both at the time and in retrospect)... This Dialog was originally in French, but (because I'm feeling generous and I want you to keep reading), I'll translate it into English: </span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Do you have any Root Beer please? </span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">Clerk: (Said loudly and in a tone of vehement disgust) <b><i><u>No</u></i></b>, we do not have Root Beer here. Root Beer is <b><i>terrible</i></b>...It is a horrible American Drink like Doctor Pepper. It is <i><b>disgusting</b></i>! You are in <u><i><b>France</b></i></u> now and you should learn how to enjoy <b><i>good</i></b> drinks. I will give you a <b><i>Coke</i></b> instead and you will drink it and <b><i>enjoy</i></b> it and you will <b><i>stop</i></b> asking for <b><i>terrible</i></b> drinks like <u><i><b>Root Beer</b></i></u>! </span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Thanks? </span></div><div style="color: purple;"><br />
</div><div style="color: purple;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Recently, I went to the mall to buy a cover for my cell phone. My service provider's store didn't have the cover I needed, so they directed me (unofficially, of course) to a kiosk that sold what I was searching for. There was a clerk sitting behind the counter looking at a magazine. I saw some covers that looked like they'd fit my cell phone...that's when the games began...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: How much are these covers? </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Clerk: (without looking up) Ten dollars. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Okay... (I looked for a moment or so and said)...Um, sir? I think I've found one I want...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">(This part wasn't rude...He got up, walked over to where I was and pointed out that I was looking at the covers for the wrong phone...When he showed me the right ones, he went back to his magazine, sat down, and began to read... It took me two seconds to find the one I wanted...Normally I might leave and buy somewhere else, but by now I think I was intrigued...)</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Uh, sir...I've found the one I wanted...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Clerk: Just a second ... (He continued to read his magazine for a few more seconds before standing up and walking over to me)...Are you sure you found the one you wanted? </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">(I was almost tempted to say no to see if he would go back to his magazine, but I had to get back to work because my lunch hour was almost over...) </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, this really happened...A clerk was standing behind the Register, glared at a customer walking past the register...ten feet away...no where near the clerk...I think the clerk needed a nap...</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">Clerk: THIS REGISTER IS CLOSED! </span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">Customer: (Startled) FINE! </span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was traumatized after I saw this happen...really...</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, I've talked about rudeness, but now I'd like to spotlight one instance of unbelievable politeness and kindness that I experienced once in London...I was at Heath Row and I was at a booth trying to exchange Dollars for British Pounds... The phone rang and the clerk asked, <i><b>"Would you mind if I answered the phone?"</b></i></span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
I had never been asked that by a clerk before. In the US, clerks answer the phone and if you have a problem with that, its just too bad...I didn't even know how to respond at first, but I stammered, "Yeah, sure...Please...go ahead..." </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was a little thing, but it made a big impression...</span></div><div style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-33764112688216496012010-11-14T16:21:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:51:51.274-08:00MOUSE!!! EEEEEK!!!<div style="color: yellow; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFEyOQiDM4SYMFs7TtUQvmcmDNR2i9Q5pXBGYK_QhEphmg3TgGfEV-uEazRAeiiqZS9NM8Gi1QgWtQQtsLV7T3-cr7z1DT4Y5mZ2h0mCgRgH6QWTyW4e18_gH9wDRPdCODIaVPqieNlEv7/s1600/A%252520smiling%252520mouse%252520relaxing%252520on%252520some%252520cheese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFEyOQiDM4SYMFs7TtUQvmcmDNR2i9Q5pXBGYK_QhEphmg3TgGfEV-uEazRAeiiqZS9NM8Gi1QgWtQQtsLV7T3-cr7z1DT4Y5mZ2h0mCgRgH6QWTyW4e18_gH9wDRPdCODIaVPqieNlEv7/s1600/A%252520smiling%252520mouse%252520relaxing%252520on%252520some%252520cheese.jpg" /></a></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have never liked mice. I think they're cute in the pet store or if I see them outside...but not if I'm close enough for them to touch me. In the house, they're absolutely insufferable and I scream whenever I see one. Really. I am aware of the fact that a mouse is a small fraction of my own size and that I am in no danger when one is around, but for some reason the mere sight of a beady-eyed fur ball makes me go into fits of shrieking...</span></div></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My first memorable encounter with a mouse was when I was 3 or 4 years old. I was out to dinner with my grandma, my Mom and my Mom's Step-dad. We had a cat at home then named Tiger who liked to hide the mice she killed in our shoes (I think you can tell what is coming up)...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was snowy outside and I was wearing boots. Half way through dinner I leaned over to my mother and said quietly, "There's something furry in my boot." </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom ignored me. She told me later that it was because she didn't want to discuss the "something furry" at the dinner table -- especially in a restaurant. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I kept poking her on the arm. "Mom, Mom...there's something furry in my boot." My voice got louder. Still no response. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"MOM!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This time Mom told me to "Shhh". </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've never "Shhhed" well and I am someone who is very difficult to ignore. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I decided to take the problem into my own hands. I did not want a furry friend in my footwear, so I took off my boot and dumped its fluffy contents into my mother's purse. When Mom saw what I had done she was mortified. "SEE?" I said, pointing. "There was something furry in my boot!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">That is something that makes an impression on a little kid... </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was that age, my family and I lived in a farmhouse in rural Iowa and there were tons of mice in the house -- despite the fact that we had 9 cats at one point. At night you could hear them running on the kitchen floor...it sounded like a coffee maker bubbling. You could hear the coffee maker going off all through the night...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I got a little older, we moved into a small town, but it was across from a grain elevator, so there were still plenty of mice around...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For years we had a Siamese Cat who was a super-hunter, so I saw very few mice, but then Sidney passed on (RIP) and the mice began to descend upon the house...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">One night, while I was a Freshman in College and still living at home, I was working late in my bedroom when I encountered one of the furry intruders. My computer desk was right next to the doorway. It was 2 o'clock in the morning and I was half-asleep, but typing anyway. Then I saw something in the corner of my eye...it was a fat mouse the size of a guinea pig...I screamed at the top of my lungs...The poor little rodent jumped back a few inches before retreating down the hall...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The funny thing was that my father slept through the scream. Part of what's funny about that now is my father is the single lightest sleeper in the entire world. If I'm visiting my parents' house while my dad is asleep and breathe too loudly the man wakes up...That night I screamed like a prom queen in a horror movie and the man didn't budge...I did wake up my mom though...she came out of her room groggily muttering, "Laura? Are you okay?" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Somehow the story of seeing a big bad ugly mouse doesn't seem very funny to someone who was jolted out of a sound sleep...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was around that time when we got a new addition to our family: Bowzer the Cat. Bowzer was my cat. My best buddy. My friend... My protector from the big bad mice... My parents hated him, but that's a story for another blog... </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Bowzer was young, he was a super-mouse killer. One morning I woke up to the sound of Bowzer racing around my bedroom in a mad frenzy. I didn't open my eyes because I desperately wanted to sleep in. A few minutes later, everything got quiet. I opened my eyes. In the middle of my bedroom rug, I saw two little gray lumps...I couldn't make out what they were 'cause I wasn't wearing my glasses. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I slipped on my spectacles, I saw two mouse corpses in the middle of my floor. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">No shock to anyone, I screamed...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom yelled up the stairs, "What's going on?" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Bowzer put two dead mice near my bed."</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"That means he loves you," she told me. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked that up. Its true. It is a sign of affection when your pet gives you something its killed because technically it is giving up food for you...oddly enough I didn't "feel the love" at that moment.</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Clean um up and come down to breakfast," she added. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> "No!" I replied. "I'm not getting out of bed with the rodents there and I'm DEFINITELY not picking them up."</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Wimp!" Mom said. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Fine, you do it..."</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"No!" Mom retorted. "John!" Mom called to my dad who was watching TV. "Go up and help your daughter!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"With what?" He asked. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Bowzer killed two mice and put them in the middle of her bedroom and she won't get up until they're moved."</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Laura, pick um up!" He said. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"No!" I said. "That's gross!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"<i>That's gross</i>," Dad repeated, mimicking my voice. "Wimp!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Whatever, Dad! Are you going to force your beloved, cute, adorable daughter to handle rodent corpses?" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Since when are YOU cute and adorable?" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"You said I was yesterday, Dad!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"That was before you made me stop watching the History Channel to dispose of your cat's leavings...He's <i>your</i> cat you know!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah," I agreed diplomatically..."But you're the man of the house and you're supposed to protect your family." </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"<i>You're supposed to protect your family</i>," Dad repeated in a high voice again. "Fine, I'll do it...I'll get rid of the mouse bodies...The things I do for you...You'd think I loved you or something..." </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I love you too, Dad," I said. "Please get rid of the mice???"</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, for Pete's sake! I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad came up the stairs with a bunch of paper towels and bent down to pick up the furry corpses. "If he leaves any more of them, young lady, they're yours..." He said, glaring at me over the rims of his glasses...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"And deprive you the joy of helping your daughter? Never!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad muttered something under his breath again and walked out of the room and started down the stairs...then Dad let out a yelp and his pace quickened into a run before I heard the back door open and close with a slam. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"What happened?" I called down the stairs.</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"One of the mice was still alive," he said. "It started wriggling around in my hands so I threw it outside..." </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">(I swear to you this next part is true) A few years later, Bowzer the cat gained a few pounds -- he ended up weighing 35 pounds...he was HUGE! By then I had moved away to Grad School, but I was home on a Christmas visit. Mom and I were watching TV one evening, when Bowzer strode into the living room with a tiny little mouse walking next to him...Mom and I stared in disbelief. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It got even more unbelievable when the two of them sat down in front of the fireplace ...next to each other. I was too shocked to scream...this did not look real. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom and I could not believe our eyes. We looked at each other and then looked down at the happy pair who were apparently enjoying the warmth of the hearth. </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Bowzer," I whispered to my kitty. "Bowie...MOUSE! There is a mouse next to you. Chase it...Kill it!" </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bowzer looked up at me and purred in response...I know in Heaven the Lion will lay down with the lamb, but I didn't want that to start on this earth with my pet cat and a rodent...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom stared at the scene for a few long seconds and said, "Laura, maybe the mouse is dead. I'll get the broom and dust pan." </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom retrieved the items from the kitchen and approached the mouse and started to sweep the furry beast into the pan, but the moment she touched it with the broom's bristles, the mouse jumped up and scurried across the floor, finding refuge under the corner cupboard...Bowzer just stared up at us, blankly...</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Its been years since then, and I'm happy to report that my parents no longer have mice. They no longer use cats as mouse-killers though...Now they call the e</span><span style="color: blue;">xterminator. </span></span></span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-49266620387246955852010-11-14T11:18:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:52:38.563-08:00Henry XIII, Hardware Stores, and Gravel Roads...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9ExPqhMRio7UB6npkL9nLLGa8sv8RXDXMr68Q1lddpODtV9L37WHPHVifMCkQ4SvFEMcKsywosoCo-ih4DIEkn6SFpyKAlWetAaptsePTJXkAE3_puU37ST2UpHTiOLAcc6RsJ0-fztk/s1600/n1058981711_176792_6451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9ExPqhMRio7UB6npkL9nLLGa8sv8RXDXMr68Q1lddpODtV9L37WHPHVifMCkQ4SvFEMcKsywosoCo-ih4DIEkn6SFpyKAlWetAaptsePTJXkAE3_puU37ST2UpHTiOLAcc6RsJ0-fztk/s320/n1058981711_176792_6451.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My mom and dad never really argued when I was a kid...their disagreements usually took the form of a competition. Here are a few examples: </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We'd be driving home in the car and they'd be talking like this: </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad: I'm telling you, Henry the eighth was a Plantagenet...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom: He was a Tudor...Different dynasty altogether...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad: No...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom: His last name was Tudor...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad: No, Honey, I realize he may have had a different last name, but it was all the same family.</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom: No.</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad: I'm right...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom: No you're not. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As soon as the car would pull up in the driveway, Mom opened the door, hopped out of the car and started running toward the house. "Confound it, Lynn!" Dad would mutter, pull the key out of the ignition and hurry towards the house himself. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I usually followed behind laughing. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When we got inside the house, Mom had already pulled the "H" Encyclopedia off the living room bookshelf and opened it to the appropriate page, "HA! John, I WIN!!! Henry the Seventh and his descendants are all listed under the House of Tudor. So there!" </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Encyclopedia's wrong," Dad would mutter walking towards the kitchen. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Heh heh heh," Mom laughed under her breath. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of my favorite disagreements happened after I left home to go to grad school...I've gotten the gist of the conversation though. They were at Lowe's buying supplies to fix the bathroom. Dad did not want to do home maintenance that day and he was grumbling as they walked out of the store towards the parking lot. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom: I don't understand why you're so unhappy, John. I thought guys liked going to the hardware store. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad: Common misconception, Lynn. Women always <i>say</i> that hardware stores are for men, but that's not true...They're for <i>women</i> and their honey-do lists. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">(Dad was standing in the middle of the parking lot now while he was talking, two or three guys had stopped to listen to him) </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad: Hardware stores and home-improvement stores exist so that women can send their husbands to them on their days off when they would much rather be working with their hobbies or watching TV. Trust me, hardware stores, like most of the rest of the shopping industry, are the invention of women for women. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">(By now a few more people had gathered around now and they started applauding loudly. Mom just shook her head and walked away toward the car.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Another one of my favorite contests was the video games...When I was a kid we had a ColecoVision video game set. We had a bunch of the fun games: Venture, Dig Dug, etc. My parents really liked playing Q-Bert. Q-Bert was <i>serious </i>business. Mom and Dad would spend Sunday afternoons playing that stupid game so much I actually got tired of the "quip quip quip" noise those characters would make when they bounced on the cubes and even started rooting for the snakes that chased Q-Bert. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My parents, on the other hand, would each practice while the other one was sleeping or at work and leave notes attached to the TV announcing the new high scores. I don't remember who finally won the Q-Bert battle...I think it was a tie...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My parents also liked to race in their cars...I'm not talking about drag racing. When I was about 12 years old, Mom and Dad both left for work around 1:30 pm in separate cars. I would often go to work with Mom at the video store. On their way to work, they would stop at the same gas station to fill up their car or buy something else. It was always a race to see who got there first. Dad would take the main high way, Mom would take a parallel gravel road a few miles south of the main highway...few police patrolled the road, so she tended to go a little faster than the speed limit...we always got to the gas station before Dad did and he could never figure out how...(Never try this at home...you're about to find out why...)</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">One day we were going very fast down the gravel road...by fast I mean at least 80 miles per hour. "Your father can never figure out how we always get there so fast," Mom said laughing. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly two ground squirrels ran out into the road and Mom swerved. The car started to spin and we slid down into the ditch, still moving quickly. I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Mom was silent wondering what we were going to hit first: A culvert or a telephone pole. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then all at once, we found ourselves up on the gravel road, moving in the right direction, going the speed limit. Both of us had prayed a silent "Lord, help us" and God must have answered -- there was no other plausible explanation. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">That day, Dad beat us to the Gas station and Mom learned a lesson...beating your husband to the gas station isn't worth risking death...After that, Mom always went the speed limit...God had saved us once, she pointed out, but the Bible says not to tempt him...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Mom and Dad still compete and argue that way...Right now Mom wants a swimming pool and Dad's dead set against it...Who will win? Only time will tell...</span></span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-90409941034682433502010-11-11T20:21:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:53:48.011-08:00A Match Made in the Dairy Queen...Or...How my Parents Met...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgek2x0EkmE6OnOGuReizDt7lRoVGIqy_bLiliJMp8niozpzrWBPQ-ZacCoQoByQmSN0FeEIYOEW_uq4lSiSSEMB9Uh-ryL_g1EnHFMdU0wV1qM75B2lDAi5Zxhv0xLzMDueIxN0Sx8_9zZ/s1600/lrg-24-love_in_a_mist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgek2x0EkmE6OnOGuReizDt7lRoVGIqy_bLiliJMp8niozpzrWBPQ-ZacCoQoByQmSN0FeEIYOEW_uq4lSiSSEMB9Uh-ryL_g1EnHFMdU0wV1qM75B2lDAi5Zxhv0xLzMDueIxN0Sx8_9zZ/s200/lrg-24-love_in_a_mist.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Date and Apx. Time: November 11, 1977. 9pm Central Time. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Location: A Dairy Queen off of I-80 in Iowa. </span><br />
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<div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>My teenage Aunt was working at the Dairy Queen and her shift ended at 9pm. Normally my Grandma picked her up from work, but it was my grandparents' wedding anniversary and they were going out to dinner, so she asked my mother to give Aunt Lori a ride home. My father was working two jobs then: one at a factory and at night he worked at his father's gas station (which was next door to the Dairy Queen). He was taking a dinner break when my mother walked into the restaurant that night. </i></span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is my own dramatized version of the scene of my parents' first meeting...I've taken some poetic license/liberties, so this won't be </i><i>exactly the way it happened...But, Mom and Dad (John and Lynn), I dedicate this Blog entry to you!!! Love, Laura! </i></span></div><div style="color: black;"><br />
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</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lynn did <i>not</i> feel like going out that night. With everything she had been through lately, all she wanted was to go home, hide in her room, and curl up with a good book. "Why didn't I say, 'no' to Mom when she asked me to pick Lori up?" Lynn mumbled to herself as she locked her car and started to walk toward the Dairy Queen. "Lori could have gotten a ride from one of her friends...Oh well, I'll be home soon enough." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The library had been closed to the public for Veterans Day, but she had gone to her office and worked anyway...Now at 9pm, she was still in her work clothes -- a flattering blue and red dress and snaky high-healed shoes that made her <i>feel</i> tall. She glanced at her reflection in the glass door as she entered the Restaurant...her long strawberry-blonde hair was tousled perfectly as it cascaded down her back. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At first Lynn didn't see any customers in the Restaurant. The place wasn't officially closed yet, but the waitresses were already wiping off tables and mopping the floor. Lori was standing behind the front counter counting the money in one of the registers. "Hello, Gorgeous!" Lynn said. "You about ready to go?" </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lori looked up and smiled, her long blonde hair was braided and wrapped around her head like a crown. "Hi Sis..." Lori said sheepishly..."I think closing is going to take longer than I thought. After I get done counting down this register, my boss said I have to go into the kitchen and help mop up some spilled ice cream. We had an...<i>accident</i> with the machine a few minutes ago." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lynn's heart sank and suddenly she wanted to yawn. "How long are we talkin here?" </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lori grimaced. "Half hour?" </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lynn sighed. "Okay, Kid. I'll wait." She turned around and leaned on the counter for a few seconds examining the room. She thought about sitting in one of the booths and waiting quietly, but the thought of sitting there alone with nothing to do and no book to read (and bad memories flooding through her mind) wasn't very appealing. She walked over to the window opposite the front counter to look out at the passing cars when suddenly she felt like she was being watched. Slowly she turned around and noticed the booths and tables in a narrow isle to the left of the front counter. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sitting in one of the booths was a handsome young man with brown hair. He was wearing a pair of overalls and a gray hooded sweat shirt. When he saw Lynn turn and look at him, he looked down and pretended to be interested in his food. She thought he looked sweet and not relishing the idea of sitting alone, she decided to walk over and talk to him. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Anybody sitting here?" Lynn asked smiling. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">John looked up at the beautiful woman standing next to his booth. <i>She couldn't be talking to me</i>, he thought to himself and glanced around to see if there was anyone else she could possibly be talking to. She looked like a model and dressed like some girl in a magazine. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Finally John managed to speak. "Um, no. No one is sitting here," he stammered. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Mind if I join you?" she asked. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Uh, no, sure...Go ahead," John heard himself say. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Lynn slid into the seat and smiled. "I'm Lynn," she said. "I didn't feel like sitting alone. Hope you don't mind." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm John," he said. "You from around here?" He asked awkwardly. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As Lynn answered his question, she watched as John ate some of his French Fries. She had never seen anyone eat like that before. He took a small hand full of them and shoved them all into his mouth at once. She wondered if watching him eat his two hot dogs or drink his large Coke was going to be as entertaining. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I grew up in Davenport," Lynn said. "I lived in California for 16 years and now I'm back." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When John had finished chewing he replied, "I lived out there for a while when I was in the Navy...I lived in Hawaii for a while too."</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I spent 6 months in Hawaii," Lynn told him. "It was beautiful out there...It wasn't home though..." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">John nodded and took a sip of his Coke. "While I was out west and at sea all I could think about was coming home." </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I felt the same way," Lynn replied. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm not sure what my parents talked about that night. Mom said that Lori took her time cleaning in the kitchen and she and my father talked for a long time and became friends. A short while later they started dating and a few months afterward they were married. Its funny how you can find your best friend and soul mate in a chance meeting at the Dairy Queen...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And just in case you're wondering, Dad still eats French Fries that way...</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-27274748993552864542010-11-09T19:23:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:54:44.690-08:00Inside Khafre's Pyramid.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7756wU6YSKV7mn0L7lNBl9do8dmdjs7y2J8t8NkLFswBV3av_Uo0zElbVZk48SRN5Y-7tguJRRji1w3nvwUH_f8gbMQGh7stn_y9hBue8yAYdSoey6y6PrOpie1_Bfo9ZgNg-QZigxs/s1600/893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7756wU6YSKV7mn0L7lNBl9do8dmdjs7y2J8t8NkLFswBV3av_Uo0zElbVZk48SRN5Y-7tguJRRji1w3nvwUH_f8gbMQGh7stn_y9hBue8yAYdSoey6y6PrOpie1_Bfo9ZgNg-QZigxs/s200/893.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the two I WASN'T in...</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div style="color: cyan;"><br />
<div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was in Egypt a couple years ago, I got to go inside the Pyramid of Khafre...one of the three big Pyramids right outside of Cairo...You can tell Khafre's Pyramid apart from the others because its the one with the big cap stone at the top. </span></div></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had always loved Egypt...when I was a little girl, my parents used to take me to the Putnam Museum in Davenport, IA which has a very nice little Ancient Egyptian Exhibit complete with two mummies and lots of interesting artifacts -- My favorite part of the Exhibit was about Egyptian scribes and writing. Every time we visited, my parents used to practically have to drag me out of there when it was time to leave because I was so fascinated. Then PBS used to broadcast all sorts of wonderful documentaries on the subject...basically I was hooked. </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">So when my Seminary's Archaeology Department was planning a study tour through Egypt, I HAD to find a way to go. This was probably a once in a lifetime chance to go to one of my favorite places in the world and I am SO happy that I got the opportunity to participate. I learned so much on that tour. It was an honor to sit at the feet of my professors and learn from them...</span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is a very good reason that the Pyramids of Giza were considered one of the wonders of the ancient world...they are incredible. The length of Khafre's Pyramid alone is roughly the size of two city blocks and the great pyramid is nearly 50 stories high...until the Eiffel Tower was built in the late 1800's no building in the world came close to being that tall. </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the Pictures of the Pyramids of Giza that you usually see in magazines or on TV, it looks like they're set in the middle of no where in the middle of a vast desert...that is not exactly true. They are right on the Edge of Cairo which is an absolutely enormous city. Its a little bit surreal driving around Cairo and seeing the tops of the Pyramids outside the tour bus windows... </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">The reason my tour group and I decided to enter the Pyramid of Khafre instead of the Great Pyramid (or the Pyramid of Kufu) is simple: the line was shorter. It was very hot there that day (this is in a desert we're talking about here) and I don't think any of us wanted to stay in line for very long. </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">When you enter the Pyramid of Khafre, you go through a tunnel that is a little over 4 feet high...I am five and a half feet tall, so I had to stoop quite a bit to make my way through the shaft (I can't imagine what that must be like for a taller person). The tunnel slopes down slightly for several yards at first, then levels out for a few steps and then and then angels upward again for several yards. And as if the shaft weren't cramped enough, all the tourists enter the shaft in single file...that means there are many tourists in a line in front of you and several right behind you...so basically, if someone slips and falls, everyone else would too.</span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember when I was walking through the tunnel I was thinking about several things at once: (1) It was incredible going into a Pyramid, (2) My back hurt from hunching over while I walked, (3) I was happy that it was the off season when there aren't as many tourists in Egypt as there often are, so although there were many people in the tunnel with me, it wasn't terribly crowded, and (4) I was extremely over-heated (it can be 90 degrees F. in the Egyptian desert heat, but after going into the oven-heat of an underground tomb or Pyramid, desert heat feels like air conditioning in comparison). </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">When you reach the end of the tunnel, you end up in the tomb itself which is actually up inside the Pyramid. The tomb is a medium sized rectangular room with an open-topped rectangular box at one end. People often ask me what the room looked like and I think my best descriptor is a very clean concrete basement with reddish-walls. </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was an Egyptian man sitting on the side of the box where the Pharaoh's Sarcophagus had once rested waiting to let you look inside for a small tip (the word for "tip" in Egypt is "Baksheesh"...you hear this word a LOT when you visit Egypt...If someone carries luggage for you or something, they hold out their hand and say insistently, "Baksheesh! Baksheesh!" and you'd better tip them because you're not going to get anything back until you do!). The box in the tomb, by the way is completely empty...I didn't feel ripped off though, oddly enough, because it was really cool looking in there... </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">High up on one of the walls, there was graffiti. I'm not kidding. A colorful and eccentric 19th Century Explorer (Giovanni Belzoni) entered the tomb and wrote his name on the wall and its still there for us to see today. </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">The acoustics in that big stone room were incredible. Everything echoed from footsteps to people's voices. At one point one of my professors said, "Hey guys, the acoustics in here are wonderful...we have to sing something." </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of us said, "Let's sing 'Amazing Grace'" </span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">So there we were, in the middle of Khafre's Pyramid singing 'Amazing Grace'...It was so much fun...</span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Egyptian man who had been tending the stone box really seemed to enjoy our mini-concert. He stood up and danced over to us with this big grin on his face. He started laughing and applauded when we were finished. "Baksheesh, Baksheesh!" He exclaimed...but instead of wanting money from us, he tried to give money to our professor for our 'wonderful' performance...he didn't take it though...</span></div><div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before leaving the Pyramid, I took my right hand and laid it against the pyramid wall -- touching with my finger tips wasn't enough. I could not believe that I actually had gotten the chance to visit Egypt and explore the inside of a Pyramid....I still can't totally believe it. I enjoyed that experience so much -- I think a little part of me is still inside that Pyramid and will never really want to leave. </span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-36640804344385329392010-11-07T07:24:00.000-08:002012-01-15T14:55:40.739-08:00The Pet and the Pendulum<div style="color: #ffd966;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8BeOo8nhP1BjcmEON6dsEaYrFnm3dSXrSvCNsL46HbfotVCVbXsUT30rX2M1fDxoHBdQIh7zYiE7Zs-zJcXKW7nHY7SSOu0tQpKNdDvtqMYKxpWTu9g6uDzhb8589JZ38BAixrvOs6nu/s1600/n1058981711_282525_1138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8BeOo8nhP1BjcmEON6dsEaYrFnm3dSXrSvCNsL46HbfotVCVbXsUT30rX2M1fDxoHBdQIh7zYiE7Zs-zJcXKW7nHY7SSOu0tQpKNdDvtqMYKxpWTu9g6uDzhb8589JZ38BAixrvOs6nu/s200/n1058981711_282525_1138.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother loves clocks. When I was 8 years old or so, she had a beautiful coo coo clock with ornate wood carving, decorative weights, a bronze pendulum, and lovely little yellow bird that popped out every 30 minutes and said, "COO COOOOOO"! </span></div></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the hour, it would make its obnoxious cry according to the time of day...So at noon or midnight, the bird would "COO COOOO" 12 times...On the half our it would simply pop out and "COO COO" once...I'm sure you get the point...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Most people who owned a Coo Coo clock would put the thing in a place like the living room where it could entertain you during the day and would be far enough away at night to let you sleep...<i>Not my mother</i>...She had the thing hanging in her bedroom...She said its sound cheered her up and relaxed her...I'm not sure what my father thought of this and I'm afraid to ask... </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sidney was my mother's Siamese cat and he was completely fascinated by the Coo Coo Clock and its not really difficult to figure out why...Sidney wanted to kill the bird.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"> He would sit for hours under that clock, staring up at it, his tail swinging back and forth in time with the Pendulum...Whenever the bird would leap forth from its little door and sing, Sidney would lunge up towards the clock, front legs outstretched, and claws out...Inevitably, though, he could never even reach the base of the clock and would fall back onto the floor -- always on his feet of course...Sometimes he'd look frustrated, but undaunted he'd return to his post, waiting for his enemy to reappear...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">One night my parents and I went out to dinner. Sidney was sitting in his usual place under the clock while we were getting ready to leave. "Lynn," My dad said, shaking his head, "I think that cat's going to be ready for Valium by the end of the month. Are you sure you don't want to take that thing down for a while."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Naw," Mom replied dismissively. "Its good for him. Besides, it keeps him away from my geraniums and my spider plant."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later that night when we came home, I was sent up to my room to get ready for bed and my parents spent an hour or so relaxing in the living room. I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard a loud and dramatic yelp coming from the direction of my parents' bedroom...I ran to investigate...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother was standing in her bedroom doorway and had apparently just switched on the overhead lamp. The beautiful Coo Coo clock was lying on the floor in pieces. Apparently, Sidney had finally succeeded in his mission of destruction...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Coo Coo Bird itself was not to be found. Sidney the cat was no where in sight...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">We never did find that wooden bird and mother never bought another coo coo clock. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The End</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-34988973233123082922010-11-04T18:15:00.000-07:002012-01-15T14:58:32.241-08:00Funny -- But True -- Moments....<div style="color: red; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGWAkl5YoY5uE7Y57qjEEwL-Z2QWVSRcS53VAaLVmZTgEtPGzIpbSS2BcShPrKPvKjkzWFb7TifHo8xLzW_bZxLFrY6C3t-6QL7atsmJaq2iq6tpl62iubvEiYySX6fv98b1vne_YzFYD/s1600/image0011a.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGWAkl5YoY5uE7Y57qjEEwL-Z2QWVSRcS53VAaLVmZTgEtPGzIpbSS2BcShPrKPvKjkzWFb7TifHo8xLzW_bZxLFrY6C3t-6QL7atsmJaq2iq6tpl62iubvEiYySX6fv98b1vne_YzFYD/s1600/image0011a.gif" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">The scenes are real...so's the dialogue...I'm just using fake names so I don't get sued...not that anyone could get anything...</span></div><br />
<div style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">In College I worked at a Grocery Store for a while...Discussion in the break room between two goofball co-workers...</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe: You have the wimpiest car, Dude. Just makes me wanna cry.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: Whatever...I totally won a race with it last week...they ate my dust...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe: Wasn't that race against Staci?</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: Yeah.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe: Chicks don't count, Pete.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: Man, she drives a sports car.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe: Chicks don't count Pete. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: My car totally beat her's...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe: My friend you are ignoring the basic fact that...Chicks don't count, Pete...</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span><br />
<div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">This next one is a dialogue I had with a customer when I worked at a University Bookstore... We had this big, giant pen at the counter that people could use to sign their credit card slips...The pen was literally a foot long and about an inch and a half in diameter...Half of the customers would say the same thing whenever they saw the pen: "That's a really big pen. Does it work? Why do you have such a big pen?" I got sick of this. Really sick of the same conversation and always answering..."Somebody that works here bought it at a museum gift shop and it is just for fun...but it does work." </span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Can there be a more boring answer???? </span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's what I started telling customers...until my kill-joy boss made me stop...For the sake of this discussion, the customer will be named Pete...</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: That's a really big pen. Does it work? Why do you have such a big pen?</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: (saying this with a totally straight face) Well, we have a student here on campus who is a giant...really...he actually has giantism. </span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: (totally buying it) Really? </span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: He is a really nice guy and when he comes in here, he complains that our ink pens are too small, so we found this one and we have it here for him to use -- its much more comfortable and he wants to get one for himself because apparently standard-sized pens give him writer's cramp. It totally works...you can use it if you want to...</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: Oh wow! That is COOL! </span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Honestly, I can understand why my boss made me stop...I mean I was technically lying...but I did have fun...</span></div><div style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's another one I had when I worked at McDonald's in High School...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">The movie "Twister" had just been released in theaters. The McDonald's was at an interstate truck stop and there were TV's situated all over the dining area. On the TV, there was a Tornado Watch which means conditions are right for a possible tornado, but there hasn't been one spotted YET... A Warning means that one has been spotted. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">A bus came to the restaurant packed with customers from California who had all seen the movie "Twister"... They saw the tornado watch and panicked...I must have waited on 20 people from that bus and they all asked the same thing..."Does a 'watch' mean that there is going to be a tornado?" </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I took the time to explain the difference between Watch and Warning and assured them that everything was fine...the first 18 times...then it got old...Here's what happened...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: Does a Watch mean that there is a tornado out there? </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Yes...and tornadoes are famous for following buses.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pete: WHAT?</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Sorry, I was kidding...A warning just means...(blah blah blah...) </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">The guy behind him heard the whole conversation and when he got up to my register...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe: Ma'am how can you live out here in the Mid-West with all these tornadoes??? It is SO dangerous?</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Sir, how can you live in California with all those EARTHQUAKES???</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe: Oh, yeah....</span></div><br />
<div style="color: red; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="color: red; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-large;">Hope you enjoyed my stories...</span>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-12198745873708083252010-11-02T20:02:00.000-07:002012-01-15T14:56:45.291-08:00Orange Carpet<div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was 12. I was with my mother at the video store she worked at, helping her straighten shelves when the kid walked in...he was tall (or he seemed tall to me...I was a short 12-year-old), and he had on his soccer uniform and he looked tired...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Hi!" My mom greeted him in her usual friendly way. "Can I help you find anything?"</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">The kid frowned for a second and shook his head. "I'm just going to look at video games," he replied quietly.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom and I went back to arranging movie jackets on the white plywood shelves. Why was it that I always got stuck straightening the 'Horror' section? I could barely stand to look at the pictures on the covers. Maybe it was because Mom knew I was easily distracted and I would do anything to finish the job quickly and move on so I wouldn't have to be near those movie jackets...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Mom can we watch 'Clue'?" I asked. That was my favorite movie at the time -- I always wanted to watch it when I worked with her...One of the perks of working at a video store was that you got to watch movies...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Maybe when we're done here...Don't you have that movie <i>memorized</i>?" Mom smiled at me as she continued to straighten the movie jackets in the "Action" section.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"So?" I said. "Dad and I have 'The Princess Bride' down cold. And He can practically recite that Monty Python movie 'Yellowbeard'. And how many times have you seen 'Some Like it Hot?'" </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"That's different," Mom countered. "That has Tony Curtis in it..." </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">In my home we were constantly quoting movies and books at each other...it was kind of like our own little language...Mom was actually the best at this in our family, but she pretended she didn't like to play along...Dad and I would start quoting some movie back and forth and she'd look bored until she'd jump in with a one-liner that would crack the rest of us up...On other days though, Dad and Mom would get really silly (usually in public where it would inevitably embarrass me) and I'd pretend I didn't know them...If they saw me blushing, they'd ham up their act until I was ready to try to blend in with the paint on the walls...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I went back to straightening the shelves...my attempt at a diversion hadn't worked...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh Well," I thought, "After I finish 'Horror' I'll do something fun like 'Cartoons' or 'Comedy'...Maybe that won't be so..."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">My reverie was interrupted by a thud coming from the other end of the store. Mom and I turned around to see the kid who had just walked in sprawled on the floor next to the video game section...We hurried over to him and discovered that when he fell, he had hit his head on one of the shelves. He was bleeding on the orange carpet...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I froze in place, not knowing what to do...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom knelt down next to the boy and said calmly, "Young man, are okay?"</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was a short pause before he muttered, "Yeah...I fell..."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I know, Honey," she said quietly. "I'm going to call the doctor for you, all right?"</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Call my mom," the kid told her. "Her name is Alice Quinn."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom nodded. "Okay, I know her. I'll get a hold of her right away." Alice was a regular customer at the video store. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom turned to me. "Laura, stay here and hold his hand while I call his mom and get the ambulance for him."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Why did he fall?" I asked.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom shook her head. "I don't know...I've gotta go make some calls." Mom got up and quickly made her way to the front desk where she made a quick call to the boy's mother and then called the ambulance.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I sat next to the kid...I still didn't know his name. He laid there with his eyes shut. I was too shy to hold his hand. I think I managed to say something feeble like, "It'll be okay, don't worry."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">A few minutes later, his mother ran through the front door, rushed to his side, and took his hand. "Joe, Joe, are you okay? Joe?"</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe opened his eyes and looked at his mother blankly. She managed a weak smile. "Joey, it'll be okay. It looks like you've had another seizure. The lady called the ambulance. They'll be here soon."</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">She didn't look at me. She sat there holding her son's hand, whispering to him softly. I felt helpless, but I was glad his mother had come. </span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don't really remember much after that. The EMT's came a few minutes later and Mom made me stand behind the front counter while they worked with him, put him on a stretcher and carried him out, his mother following close behind.</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">The last thing I remember is Mom scrubbing the blood out of the orange carpet.</span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-2482367409146693482010-10-30T08:18:00.000-07:002012-01-15T14:59:25.232-08:00Ghosts<div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A few weeks ago, I drove from Davenport, Iowa to the nearby town of Muscatine...The trip has haunted me ever since...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
I didn't meet any spooky ghosts, but memories from my past plagued me...shades of a past that just won't let me go...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Autumn's paint brush turned the once verdant Iowa landscape into a spectrum of browns, reds, oranges, and yellows ... flowering ditch weed lined the roads...stubble from harvested cornfields stretched out as far as I could see...White-gray clouds covered the sky, like brushed cotton...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">The unmanicured Muscatine County landscape seemed distorted through the tears in my eyes...memory was thick and heavy like fog...I felt small, alone, and frightened...Yet my car kept moving forward...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">I grew up in Iowa...as a child, I never thought I wanted to live anywhere else...yet I didn't fit in...anywhere...I was shy and unsure of myself...in public, I'd hide behind characters I played and in my head, lived out fantasy...Often I'd ride in the back seat of my parents' car as we'd ride on these same roads, watching the world go by...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">As a young adult, I drove on this highway to work and school. Here I gained independence, tested my life-wings...learned that it really doesn't get easier when ya get older...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Then I moved away from home and wanted nothing more than to come back to Iowa...to find the security I imagined I had...This landscape became idealized in my head as an emerald sea of corn and beans with little red barns and smiling cows...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Now I come back home and its fall, the trees are turning, the fields are harvested, and brown weeds line the road...</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Ghosts are everywhere around me...</span></div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-22250369698734350362010-08-07T15:20:00.000-07:002012-01-15T15:00:15.988-08:00No I haven't posted in a long time and I'm not sorry<div style="color: lime; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoghOAw42vPvAtPJRL30yBuSw8IQ_HzYFMga8BglZHccwgvozLJYzACBCNov-Lj8lbvKAzC-7gAuqpeL16OqXe3oxMFxQbCC9R9uyoA60u-XDHPDsIl-j-hFfyvq6S5FLTd-slKqZ86CL/s1600/n1058981711_282531_2290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoghOAw42vPvAtPJRL30yBuSw8IQ_HzYFMga8BglZHccwgvozLJYzACBCNov-Lj8lbvKAzC-7gAuqpeL16OqXe3oxMFxQbCC9R9uyoA60u-XDHPDsIl-j-hFfyvq6S5FLTd-slKqZ86CL/s200/n1058981711_282531_2290.jpg" width="180" /></a><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">I no longer have wireless internet in my home...which basically means that when I want to post on my blog, I have to go on a <i>Wifi hunt</i>...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">People who have internet at home might no appreciate how difficult it can be to find wireless...particularly when you live in the country and there is NO repeat <b><i>NO</i></b> Wifi anywhere... <br />
The nearest Wifi habitat is 20 miles away...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">First of all, before you hunt Wifi, you have to get a Wifi hunting license. The only way to procure one of these, by the way, is to go on line to the website, so you're kinda stuck between a rock and a hard place if you need to go hunting. </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wifi can be very illusive, particularly because they are invisible. Basically what you have to do is carry your laptop around with you (turned on at all times of course) and wait until it tells you that YES it has found a Wifi...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Once you find a Wifi, you can begin to surf the net...I can go on Facebook, check my e-mail, watch You-Tube, and Blog...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That is until my battery runs out...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know what some of you are thinking: "Why don't you just plug your computer in?" </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh what a simple world you live in! </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Here's the beef: </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In a lot of places where Wifi's live, there are so many people on the hunt, that all the outlets are taken -- and my battery only likes to work for an hour or so before croaking on me! I think it does it on purpose. Last week when the battery died, I swear I heard a little chuckling sound as the screen turned off...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So here's the thing: </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will blog...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will blog a lot...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But only if I have enough battery after I'm done typing on Facebook...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Thank you very much </span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And Remember...</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Never run with Scissors...</span></div><div style="color: black;"> </div><div style="color: lime;"><br />
</div>The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191465780593896444.post-66081512283559214752010-06-15T18:15:00.000-07:002010-06-15T18:15:16.350-07:00Short Blog...New job...new schedule...Short blog...Just wanted to check in!!!The Musehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03770545454249287230noreply@blogger.com0