friday high five

Five People …

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Once again it is time for Friday High Five courtesy of Angela.

Five People From This Week That I’m Pretty Sure I Won’t Meet In Heaven (or even Limbo)
  • The idiot who persists in calling here showing the (illegal) fake caller id of  1-558-4 so I can’t file a report with the FCC. Never anyone on the other end and they never leave a message either. Another telemarketeer gone bad.
  • The lady with three dogs who wanted to shirk poop patrol in the park today. We (the city) dispense poop cleanup bags for free in several locations in the park and yet this dipstick let her dogs poop and started to walk off. It *was* kind of amusing to watch her face when I asked if she hadn’t forgot something. She started to huff no rather indignantly and then recognized me; suddenly she decided to perform poop patrol. {*grin*} I didn’t have the heart to let on that I meant the glove she had dropped on the ground.
  • The young gentleman who answered his mothers phone and promised to give her the message that yes I would indeed once more read at the elementary school as part of Monday’s Read Across America, the celebration of Dr. Seuss’ birthday. Today, more than a week later, his mom called to see what happened and why I wasn’t reading this year. Fortunately, all will end well and I’ll be there Monday. (Theodore Geisel (Dr. Seuss) is a fellow alumni of Dartmouth College and someone I actually met in the flesh while in college. I love reading Dr. Seuss to a class of kids!)
  • The person walking in front of me at Wally World last night with pants riding so low that all were involuntarily exposed to her nether regions. I really didn’t need to know what style (thong) and color (bright red) of underwear she was wearing. I was deeply afraid that she would turn around and face me and that I would learn that she had piercings in a rather private area. They were *that* low. I just wanted to buy my milk and leave without being scared forever by that sight. This would have been much preferable:
  • The person who decided that early in the morning was a good time to park in the alley behind the house and carry on a loud conversation with himself while the radio blared. I suspect it was my nearly deaf neighbor, so maybe I can forgive this transgression. But it sure sounded and felt a bit like this:

So what’s on your list for today?

first car, meme

My First Car

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Tragic Aside: Today was a sad day in Colorado as the Rocky Mountain News announced its own death effective with the Friday edition. It would have been the Rocky’s 150th birthday in a just a few weeks. The Rocky was the first published newspaper in Denver. Now Denver becomes a one daily paper town; only the Denver Post continues on. R.I.P. Rocky Mountain News.

Today I have decided to do The First Car Meme from kitten at The Bookkitten. It was part of “Make Your Own Meme Monday” sponsored by The Scattered Mind of a Tattooed Minivan Mom.


1. What was your first car?
My first car was a 1961 Chevy Biscayne Station Wagon. It cost $325 in 1970 when I bought it used.
2. How did you acquire said car?
I bought it with money saved from working summers and on weekends during school. It was at the end of my Sophomore year of high school and I had to pay for my own insurance as well (although there were times Mom and Dad kicked in some bucks as well).
There is nothing like having a football game to play in on Friday night located a 3 hour oneway bus ride down the road, getting home at 3am in the morning and then having to be at work at the truck stop at 7am Saturday so you can afford to have a car. It did make me a firm believer in kids paying for their own car and insurance. Responsibility can be a great thing and knowing how hard you are working for it really makes you value it. BTW, the car cost $325 in 1970 when the minimum wage was $1.60 and I made $1.92 because I could do electrical work on vehicle wiring. And for the piece de la resistance: gas was $0.20 a gallon.
3. Were you involved in choosing the car?
All me. Then dragging Mom to see it and convincing my Grandpa P to at least nod OK on the mechanical condition.
4. Did you go on any road trips?
No further than Denver and environs. Once or twice to Casper, Wyoming as well.
5. Did you ever get into an accident in the car?
No accidents. Several periods of foot travel when I couldn’t afford to repair things like the engine.
6. Did you use the car for any–ahem–“romantic activities”?
It was high school, what do you think?
7. How many miles were you able to put on the car before its demise?
I seem to remember that it had 60,000 miles on it when I bought it. I went through a couple of sets of tires and seat covers, etc. It had well over 100,000 miles on it when I sold it.
8. How did the car meet its demise?
Might still be running. I sold it to a summer job collegue at the end of the summer. (We were working as carpenters and it was ideal for tool transport to the job.) It was still running a couple of years later when last I saw it.
9. Do you miss your first car?
Sometimes, but mainly for the memories. As a car it was pretty basic. AM radio, no air, … And like all station wagons, it tended to be a bit noisy with all the panels rattling. I like my current pickup much better since it sits higher and has better seats (and sound system).
10. Fondest memories of the car?
Need you ask? This is the car I had when I first started dating L. So it had our first date, our first kiss, etc. – all those memories. It is also the car that took me places like the Frontiers of Science Institute and the Colorado Wyoming Junior Academy of Science meetings (I was a V.P. – but it wasn’t an elective office – it was based on placement in the state science fair). It also took me to visit friends I had made in places like Denver and Keenesburg and …
prank, writer's challenge

The Best Laid Plans …

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In retrospect, I wouldn’t say it was my best idea. It certainly seemed to be a winner at the time. What else could we do with 400 feet of surgical rubber and a carton of eggs? There are, after all, only so many ways to make those two supplies truly entertaining.

It was a lazy Friday afternoon in the middle of the term. A friend who was off from school for the term and working in a hospital supply warehouse had sent a us a care package. Classes were over for the day and the gathering ennui of what to do for Friday afternoon fun was affecting us all. When we opened the care package and found a reel of surgical rubber – you know, the kind that is real stretchy – we all got ideas and that devilish glow in the eyes that precedes any questionable plan. It took but a moments consideration to see that we had adequate rubber to string between the trees in the front yard of the house. The really fortuitous part was that the aim was perfect for the Beta house across the street.

Now you need a piece of background. The Beta guys were our natural enemies just due to proximity. Our fraternity was co-ed and had gone the independent route long ago, which really rubbed the Beta guys the wrong way. It was not uncommon that pranks and tricks were exchanged on a daily basis. The last had involved some rather aromatic jars placed in our house. So we were primed for revenge.

Nancy and Cyndi came up with the half carton of boiled eggs and we were set. With a little ingenuity, we created a pouch for our modified slingshot. We could get more than 200 feet of pull, requiring two of us to hold the egg pouch back against the eager pull of the rubber strands. Nelson and Andy served as our gunnery officers to ensure good aim. The first shot went astray, missing the university presidents house by mere inches. Andy was immediately replaced by Thomas and adjustments made. The second shot spatted rather dramatically on the brick of the Beta house. With just a little more correction of our aim, we were ready for the fateful third shot. It was a direct hit on the window at one end of the Beta house.

Just so you understand, a boiled egg at that velocity punches an oval hole in the glass without breaking the pane. But, the egg then immediately disintegrates, spraying egg bits in a cloud throughout the room. Leaving few symptoms of what really happened until the egg starts rotting in a few days. It was like watching an anthill explode as the people came streaming out of the house and looked around confusedly to see what had made the bang. They never even thought to wonder what we were doing with the reel of rubber tubing behind our backs across the street. It took them almost a day to finally spot the oval hole in the window. Come spring, both houses would be hoisting water balloons at each other via surgical rubber slingshots. After the painful effort that the Beta guys went through to get rid of the rotting egg odor, a non-aggression pact of sorts had been forged: No More Eggs.

And that is how I attempted to make the world a better place. By egg bombing the Betas in an exploit that joined the lore of both houses and led to the first non-aggression pact.

This is my response to Mama Kat’s Writer’s Challenge. Head on over and read the challenge and visit the linky sites.

google, oddity, sarcasm sex-linked question

Google, Sex, and Me

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Now that I have your attention, …

One of the things I find interesting is that the searches bringing people to this blog seem to be tad different than the ones reported by bloggers of the female persuasion. Blogger after female blogger reports that their blog is being found by numerous sex related searches. That certainly isn’t happening here and I feel really left out and undesirable. This blog is like the shy girl with a crush at the middle school dance as far as Google goes. All that desperate desire for attention, but Google only has eyes for others.

For your amusement, here are the top 10 search terms that have caused Google to deposit people here:

  1. grammar rap
  2. “russian woman” “she bit”
  3. 1936a811f775436384fe7b5e0582814f38e…
  4. blood test mpg
  5. broke my brother out of hospital
  6. dentist allergic to color
  7. dentists for dental avoiders
  8. don’t panic eau de toilette men
  9. favorite winter memories
  10. finger turns black and blue from finger prick

Grammar rap is an obvious fit for my post extolling the joys of sistersalad and their wonderful “Yo Comments Are Whack!” video. Blood test mpg is clearly a hit for my diabetes post. I can even see some relevance in several other of the terms. But where does the string of hexadecimal digits came from and why am I a match? I figure it must be a search from a double-byte language set, maybe Chinese? Whatever it is, it seems to be popular. Maybe that is where all my sex queries went. (That’s it, I have a horde of hot blooded Chinese women performing secret sex acts via my blog. I’m down with that!)

And how about “don’t panic eau de toilette men”? I can see how it might drop some poor schmuck or schmuckette into my Five Things I Know But My Dog Doesn’t Know I Know post, but I suspect that Google left its followers deeply unsatisfied and in need of the extra kick of eau de toilette when it happened. And I have to ask, why would one panic about men and eau de toilette? Do all men really smell that bad? Have we all joined Molly in drinking at the porcelain goddess’ fount? Inquiring minds want to know.

So I continue on, deeply disappointed that the lowlifes of the world aren’t looking for and finding my blog via Google. I want the unfettered joy of being able to write humorous posts on the spur of the moment about the odd contortions necessary to achieve a chosen search term. Besides, I can use all the readers I can get! {*grin*}

comfort memories

Comfort Memories

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From time to time we all need a dose of “comfort memories” to get us through the day and replenish our mental facilities. “Comfort memories” are memories that are deeply etched in our minds and give us a sense of joy and emotional fullness and calmness when we recall them. They replenish our emotional state and leave us happier for having remembered them. One of my favorite comfort memories comes from the summers I spent on the farm with grandpa and grandma P.

The day is hot and stifling. It has been getting hotter minute by minute all afternoon. There is hardly a bit of breeze and I can see the heat devils rising from the fallow strips in the dryland field down the road. The yard around the house is grassy and shaded by trees and sits on a bit of a rise, giving me a view into the distance where I can see grandpa and my uncle on their tractors working in the fields. More accurately, I can see the rooster tails of dust rising up from behind the tractors as they move round the fields.  I am still young enough that I don’t work the fields, but old enough to be left alone at the house as grandma has gone elsewhere. I can see to the horizon more than 20 miles away. I can close my eyes and dream my big dreams and plan my future and wonder what we will have for supper and …

I see the clouds billowing up in the distance, being fed from the heat rising off the ground, growing higher and higher and turning darker and darker. As they slowly approach, they are changing from the cotton puffs of earlier in the day to the menacing thunderheads that blanket the the entire horizon. The breeze starts to pick up and the heat devils are joined by dust devils as they merrily play a game of tag and spin round crazily. The arrival of the breeze is the signal for me to go inside. The storm is getting close.

Once inside the house, the storm continues to journey closer. The day that was so bright only moments ago is now darkening as the sun falls behind the towering thunderheads. The wind begins to gust with that here and there, uncertain motion that presages the possible coming of rain. The wind in its vigor and uncertainty makes the screens on the open windows whistle and zing bewitchingly. Grandma’s sheer curtains fly up to the ceiling and down again and again, like ghosts hoping to play. It’s almost as if the storm is trying to sing to me through the screens and the curtains are dancing to the melody. The temperature begins to drop, falling from the upper nineties to the seventies in moments. It feels good to have the cooling breeze running through the house and over my skin after the lazy heat of the day. The thunder and lightning continues in the distance, coming ever closer, getting ever louder.

Suddenly the crescendo of thunder and lightning and wind peaks and then just as suddenly begins to begins to fade. The sun once more emerges from behind the clouds as they continue their march into the distance, carrying the thunder and lightning and wind with them. Shortly the only way to know that it really happened is the cooler temperature and the fact that the yard outside is covered in newly fallen leaves and twigs. I can go back outside and continue my contemplations as I watch the dark clouds recede into the distance. The world is once more a place a dreams.

To this day, all I have to do is hear that characteristic zing of the screens in the breeze and I am transported back to those times, times of feeling all is right with the world and that all is working as it should. Times of infinite possibility when the future was mine to craft. When I want to think deeply or just calm myself, I imagine the zing of the wind in the screens and then I am back there, in my wonderful memory.

What are some of your “comfort memories?”

Time to go for a walk and get ready for the council meeting tonight. It could be a long one, so I figured I’d get this out early.

Completely off topic, but I can’t help myself.  I was reading National Geographic the other day and came upon the factoid that that at birth a blue whale is about 25 feet long and weighs 3 tons. I then compare that to the blogs where mothers to be are hoping that the forthcoming little one is not going to be a ten pounder. What does a momma blue whale wish for? Not only that, but the baby blue whale, eating nothing but mother’s milk, gains 9 pounds an hour. So how does a momma blue whale feel at the end of a long day of nursing? Just asking.

Things Done Right