Set The Wayback Machine to 2007 Sherman

Here's a post from last year that didn't get any comments... so I'm rehashing it for WayBack Wednesday:

QUICKER ISN'T ALWAYS BETTER

I should know better.

I really should.

In between working at two hospitals today, I thought I would save time and grab a quick lunch to eat in the car on the way back to my office. Throwing caution to the wind, I decide to be "bad" and pull into a local A&W. Going inside to order, I puruse the menu and decide on the Teenburger Meal. Mmmmmm. Bacon.

"Fries or onion rings?" asks the elderly woman behind the till.

I'm brave: "Rings, please. Oh, and iced tea instead of root beer."

Thump. A bag INSTANTLY appears on the counter.

In just seconds.

I am unsure whether to be really impressed or really afraid.

Looking around, I realise I am the only one in line. In fact I am the only customer in the restaraunt. This has to be mine. I open it up and yes, a burger and onion rings, ketchup AND napkins are all inside.

Now this is where I made my big mistake: I pay for my meal, pick up the drink and greasy bag and I leave.

At the first red light my grumbling stomach succumbs to the aroma of fried sinfulness. I unwrap the burger, which surprisingly, looks NOTHING like the Teenburgers on TV.

It was a limp, dripping mess.

But hunger overcomes common sense and and I take a big bite. Mouth full of soggy bun and lukewarm patty, I swiftly come to the conclusion that yes, I SHOULD have been afraid.

It was gross.

And the worst part; the bacon was "off". Crap. Grabbing a napkin, I removed it from my mouth before I swallowed.

So much for lunch. Back in the bag it went, along with the onion rings I now have no appetite for.

I sip on the iced tea.

Yes, I should have known better.

And saved myself $ 8.50 to boot.

NOT what a real Teenburger looks like

Two Forms of Garbage

The other night I was blogging / surfing / otherwise wasting spending quality time on my laptop in the living room when I heard a familiar "Crunch" outside the front window.

The kind of "Crunch" I have heard too many times before. Definitely a car running into something.

I peered into the darkness, but couldn't see anything amiss on the front street.

Must have been on the highway. I presumed.

And then I didn't give it another thought.

Until I went out an hour later to put out our trash and recycling, for tomorrow was Garbage Day.

That's when I realized just WHAT the "Crunch" was.



Yup, some idiot going too fast lost control on the icy street, careened over our driveway (luckily hubby had just moved his truck up near the house) and through a snowbank to push our neighbor's trash can and recycling bin across their driveway and out into the middle of the street.

Of course hurling cans, bottles, cardboard AND garbage everywhere.

Of course it was windy, causing newspapers to fly into yards halfway down the block.

Of course it had to be - 48 C that night.

Of course they didn't stop to clean up their mess.

And of course I chased down all the debris in the arctic wind, dodging cars who graciously ran over what I hadn't yet collected propelling it further down the street.

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

I mean, there was no way I would have left it... our neighbors are in their 80's.

Yes, it was disgusting picking up all that trash in the street, but it didn't make me half as sick as the garbage behind the wheel did.

Kidding Myself, Part Deux

So after writing about my trials and tribulations on not having enough brain cells to remember something I thought about 10 minutes previous, I took your suggestions to heart and purchased a digital voice recorder.

No, not the one that comes FREE! with this bag (although it waaaaas tempting; that Buxton Organizer looks amazing! I've always said a purse isn't a purse unless it can hold two water bottles, an umbrella, wallet, phone, makeup, glasses, notebook, calculator and another 50 kilos of miscellaneous crap you never even thought you owned). But I digress, I was looking for a voice recorder, not a knapsack purse.

Ahem.

Instead I bought an RCA model that records for 18 hours… and with my verbal diarrhea, that should be just enough.

But then I asked Myself:

Myself, why the heck am I recording, then TYPING out my posts? Wouldn’t it be easier, faster AND more entertaining to just post my random/weird/trivial thoughts as a podcast?

And Myself answered back:

No, No and definitely NOT.

Why?

1) Easier? Ha! I still haven’t figured out how to do anything but turn the damn thing on, record individual clips and listen. All the other bells and whistles are explained in this Easy To Follow User ... um ... "pamphlet". Unfortunately it didn't come packaged with the magnifying glass required to decipher the .0001 point typeface, so I still have to figure out tricks like how to insert, bookmark, delete, lock and download the files to my laptop.



2) Faster? I think not. Until I master the fine art of editing audio files 12,000 times before I hit the "Publish" button like I inevitably do with written stories, it will take me forever to splice something even remotely intelligent together.

and lastly, but most importantly,

3) More entertaining? Nooooooooo. Nonononono. *I* can’t stand the sound of my voice, so I wouldn’t dare subject friends (and/or strangers for that matter) to such excruciating torture either.

So I guess I'll stick to traditional written blogging.

But at least now with my brand spankin' new RCA 64M, I'll never forget a post idea again.

If I remember to bring the recorder with me, that is.

And batteries. I can't forget the batteries...

Oh Crap.

I'm doomed.

Set The Wayback Machine To 1978 Sherman

If you haven't noticed by now, I am quite the athelete.

Not.

I've always been "un-athletic". Actually, I don't think that term even comes close to describing how incredibly awkward I am. From my inability to climb that stupid rope in elementary school gym class (ie. Torture And Ridicule For The Very Young) to my feeble attempts at downhill skiing late in my teens, I manage to discover new and dramatic ways to physically embarass myself on numerous occasions.

I mean, how many people do you know that have given THEMSELVES a black eye?

Yup, I'll admit it. I did.

During a high school outing to Mount Agassiz nearly 30 years ago, I performed an ill-advised maneuver attempting to evade a mogul. Planting my ski pole atop said bump, it simply bounced off and the hilt ricochetted swiftly back into my face. (Around... around the mogul, dummy. Not OVER it....duh)

With a direct hit -- through my ski goggles mind you, into my right eye.

Needless to say, the long bus ride home was spent with a cold can of Coke covering my eye socket. This served two purposes, actually:

1) It helped keep the swelling down
2) It also afforded me cover to hide from the stares and snickering of my fellow classmates.

Not to be undone in the realm of Stupid Ski Tricks, the next year I actually defied gravity and time itself at that same resort. Brashly waving aside offers to join the rest of the class in lessons before tackling the "big hill", I headed up the slope.

Hah! I DATED a Ski Patrol! I could ski!!!

As I descended, I happened to notice that very same class aligned in a neat row about halfway down the slope. Becoming much too cocky for my Severe Awkwardness Syndrome, I lost concentration, crossed my tips and did a PERFECT somersault.

In slow motion.

I even remember seeing the clear blue sky between my skis and thinking Hmmm... that's probably not a good thing...

But the pièce de résistance was my landing.

Smack dab in front of the entire class and instructor.

Who proceeded to applaud. And cheer.

So I gathered up what was left of my skis, poles and various clothing items strewn about a Maureen-shaped imprint in the snow, and gingerly trudged down the remainder of the hill in those Frankenstein-esque ski boots.

Luckily, my only injury this time was a case of Severely Fractured Ego.

An Ice Day At The Mall

Five seconds before this photo was taken outside the mall yesterday, it was the scene of great hilarity.

For me.

Not for the fellow who performed an involuntary flying leap, worthy of a Loony Toons bit, a mere ten feet away.

I had already pulled out my camera, planning to take a photo of the trail my shopping cart had carved into the crusty ice when a young man rushing from his car to the mall entrance swiftly entered my field of vision. Probably not the smartest move during an ice storm, for soon he had totally lost control of both his body and his dignity.

Suffice to say, it was akin to watching an R-rated Goofy spill, arms and legs akimbo, slip sliding away, twisting and turning, trying in vain to regain his balance or at the very least, his composure before landing smack dab on his butt.

All the while yelling at full volume:

*uck. *uck! *UCK!! *UCK!!!!!

I successfully refrained from laughing out loud.

And from the temptation to photograph him whist in full flight.

Because if it weren't for that shopping cart which I was holding onto for dear life, that would have been ME somersaulting through the parking lot too.

A Good Time Always, Always A Good Time

Ahhh... Fast Times At Ridgemont High. A funny movie from 1982 that would have been even better with more Jeff Spicoli.


So what the heck made me think of Mr. Spicoli after all these years?

This radio ad promoting Waterways Houseboats. I do believe that's Mr. Spicoli's offspring as their spokesman...

Awesome!

Doesn't that make you just itch to party-hardy with buzzed-out "Jeff Jr." in the middle of a lake?

Apparently you'll:

"Have a good time always"

"Play a lot MORE other things besides cards, right?"

Where "nothin' EVER could go wrong"

So for kick ass fun times, make sure to check them out.

Or, as "Jeff Jr." suggests, with well, "any houseboat company pretty much".

I just can't wait till Spring. But if you're going to join me, remember, it's BYOB.

Bring Your Own Bong.

It Doesn't Add Up

There comes a time in every parent's life that they dread.

But it comes.

Whether you want it to or not, it arrives. And usually sooner than you'd ever imagine.

For years you are able to perform your parental duties and sit down with your kids at the dining room table, helping them complete their math homework. You answer their questions on addition and subtraction... even problems involving those confusing "fractions" are solved. You delve deep into distant memories of your own lessons from decades past, with a slight twinge that those same basic functions brought you, but you can teach, you can help.

Then it happens.

Oh, you can fake it for awhile, but soon it becomes painfully clear.

They have surpassed you. Way past.

They pull out their thick Grade 11 texts and point to problems that resemble some alien language... you are completely lost.

And you have to swallow your pride and admit it.

Pre-cal Polynomal Graphing?

Quadratic Functions?

Linear Trigonometric Equations????

You have no idea what they are talking about.

Back in the 70's when I was in high school, I was no math wizard (not by a long shot), but I passed the highest levels. Not without a LOT of work and a LOT of whining, though.

Exactly the same whining my own child expouses now when she gets stuck and frustrated:

"Why do we even have to learn this? We'll NEVER use it in real life!"

And I have to keep my mouth shut, or I'd let The Secret out.

The Secret every adult comes to learn, only too late.

No, hon.

No you won't.

Twist And Shout

Ye-ouch!

The sudden stab was like a hot blade plunging deep into my lower back... so intense, I couldn't stand up straight or bear any weight on my right leg at all. Unable to move, I was hunched over Old Granny-style, one hand on my aching back and the other grasping the frame of my waterbed.

Stuck there doing a grand "Scowling Flamingo" (that IS a Yoga position, isn't it?), I pondered what to do.

Hmmm... Okay. It's the middle of the night. Everyone else in the house is fast asleep.

Dammit!

Only the dog and three cats were witness to my predicament; four pairs of eyes staring up at me in the semi-darkness with heads tilted in what I swear were expressions of amusement.

Well, you're no help. I grumble at them.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I simply leaned over and fell into bed.

And wondered if I would even be able to get out again in the morning, as images of being indignantly hauled away on a wooden plank swam in my head. Eventually I drifted off to a fitfull sleep, flat on my back and wincing in pain each time hubby thrashed around in his slumber.

Thankfully when dawn arrived I was able to carefully roll out of bed and slowly walk again, albeit at an angle and still in agony.

So what caused this tortuous injury you ask?

(Um. You DID ask, didn't you?)

A horrific fall down the stairs?

A devastating slip on the ice?

In a heroic attempt to save another person's life?

Heck no.

I was taking off my socks.


Yep. I was pulling off my sock ... obviously THE WRONG WAY. I didn't know there was a RIGHT WAY, but nevertheless, my back quickly informed me I was woefully ignorant of The Proper Technique Of Safe Sock Removal.

But when people ask why I am stiffly lumbering around Frankenstein-style, I am going to regale them with a dramatic tale.

Of how I selflessly dove to save a blind orphaned puppy from the path of that out-of-control speeding SUV...

... or a cause a little less idiotic than simply getting undressed.

Kidding Myself

Why do my best blog ideas come to me when I can't write them down?

Sometimes I will be in the middle of rush-hour traffic - unable to grab my journal and pen when inspiration hits. In minutes I have composed a whole post in my head with images and everything. I have even been known to chuckle to myself (ignoring the weird looks fellow motorists are flashing my way), POSITIVE I have a winner... until I get home and can't remember a single line.

Nothing.

Nada.

Then sometimes it will happen just as I am nodding off to sleep. I tell myself to get that pen and paper in my drawer, but myself doesn't listen.

Write it down! Creative Me says.

I'm too comfy. Stubborn Me responds.

You'll never remember this in the morning. Creative Me insists.

Oh yes I will... I am even clever enough to create an acronym to remind myself. Retorts Stubborn Me.

But Creative Me was right.

Both of Us forgot.

And I am left with a lame post about how I can't remember that great story I had last night.