Tag Archives: Funny

Deaf Puppies, Firemen and Squats

Had an exciting day with my trainer – the one that I hate because he’s trying to kill me but also love because he’s trying to make me healthy.

Anyway, today — as I was pumping iron — I noticed the boxing side of the gym getting very busy.  They have a new trainer who works with people with Parkinson’s Disease and they all seemed to arrive at the same time.  And then a guy carrying camera equipment came in and joined them.  Look for a story in the Kansas City Star.

While that was going on, another trainer was trying to get an older woman up on the stair machine (even I could have told her that was a bad idea).  The woman yelled, “I’m going down!”  Someone appeared with a chair before she hit the ground, but there was no getting her up from that point.

About five minutes later, two firemen arrived.

Two minutes after that the EMTs arrived and started weaving a gurney through the weight benches.

The owner’s of the gym have just adopted a deaf puppy who tried to escape each time the door was opened so there was a lot of shouting at her, which obviously did no good.

A guy walked in an wanted a tour of the gym.

The phone rang.

Did any of this dissuade my previously gentle trainer from shouting at me to do 15 more squats?  I think you already know the answer.

 

Startin’ a Far

Right now, I’m sitting in my living room reading over legal documents about my aunt’s will and laughing out loud to Despicable Me 2.

Earlier today I was at the farm using a chainsaw and directing a guy in a bulldozer to clear land.  — By the way, favorite redneck moment:  Bulldozer guy poured gasoline on a pile of dead trees and threw a kitchen match at the pile.  WHOOSH.  ” ‘At right thar,” he paused to spit “is the worse way to start a far.” —

When it came time to pay bulldozer guy, I picked up my delicate lemon yellow purse with the silk scarf tied to the handle and pulled out the checkbook. “Purty bag,” bulldozer guy said.

I’m still trying to figure out who I want to be when I grow up, and I’m not sure days like this help clear up this problem for me.

 

 

Scrubbing Bubbles and Spiders

Today’s another day of asking myself why we bought this house.  Our original intention was to downsize.  Then our house sold on the first day and we found ourselves in an apartment that we hated and we were desperate and…I don’t know.  It must have seemed like a good idea at one point.

This house is what they call a reverse story and half, or something weird like that.  Master bedroom on first floor.  Two bedrooms and two family rooms in the basement garden level. With just Husband and I living here, we’ve tended to stake out our spaces.  I get the upstairs living room for TV watching and a corner of the kitchen for my writing desk.  I keep my areas fairly clean.  Sure, you can write your name in the dust, but there aren’t any cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.

Downstairs, that’s another matter.  For months I’ve known that the spiders were taking over down there, but I guess…I just really didn’t care.  Now, two siblings decided to stay for a weekend and something had to be done.

Of course (well, of course if you’re me) once I started cleaning I decided the layout was all wrong and spent the day moving an ancient iron bed from one room to another, exchanging it with a set of twin beds.  And of course I couldn’t just exchange the beds, I had to decorate the rooms – which required finding nails…and a hammer…and a level…and…well, that’s just how I do things.  I bite off way more than I can chew and then add a few more bits for good measure, a bit like this writing every day idea.

FYI:  In between rearranging the rooms, I DID clean.  Really.  Just ask the spiders now living in my vacuum cleaner bag.

 

SOCKS?? Noooooooo.

“SOCKS?” I shouted at Husband.

“Um…yes…socks.” He shot me a, my-wife-has-finally-gone-over-the-edge look.

“You never said anything about buying socks before I got in the car.”  I pressed my hands against my head, afraid my brain would explode. “Okay.  Okay.” I breathed in to a count of ten and then slowly out to a count of ten.  “Just give me a minute to wrap my head around socks being added.”

This is how much I hate shopping.  The original plan had been to go to the mall and buy Husband a couple of short-sleeved shirts.

I’d walked around the house all morning talking to myself to prepare.

“It’s just two shirts, Teresa.  You can do this.”  I spent ten minutes deep breathing as I visualized the two of us wandering aimlessly around the entire men’s department looking for the perfect shirt at the perfect price.  At 11:00 I told Husband I was ready to go.

Then, we got in the car and he said, “I thought we’d pick up some socks while we were there.”

I mean really, any of you would have had the same reaction right?

 

 

“Have you ever stolen anything?” the officer asked me.

Yesterday I had window washers at the house.  Within minutes the workers asked me to lock up Orlee The Giant Puppy as every time they got a window clean, she stuck her nose on it.  “Every time!” they said.

Without her attorney/my husband here to represent her, she was sent to jail.

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I feel her pain. My first real job was in an office of ten people. One day, someone stole the cash box. Guess who was responsible for the cash box? That’s right. Me.

The boss was very diplomatic and declared that everyone (except him of course) would take a lie detector test. Being the prime suspect, I was first.

I arrived at the police department and was escorted, by two burly officers, to a dark basement room. They attached several wires to me, which because of my profuse sweating, took several tries to get the pads to stay attached to my skin.  The younger officer with the lie detector was set up almost out of eyesight but not quite.

“Is your name Teresa?” the older officer sitting in front of me asked.

“Y-y-yes?” I listened to the needle scratch across the paper.

“Do you drive a 1965 Chevy Impala?”

“I? Yes?  It’s not mine though. I mean I don’t own it. I mean…” The scratching noise intensified.

“Please keep your answers to yes or no.” The young officer made a mark on the paper.

“Have you ever stolen anything?” Older officer asked.

“Have I ever…” Of course I’ve stolen some thing. As a kid I took change off dad’s dresser to buy ice cream from the truck. Did that count? I once stole a candy bar that Mom wouldn’t let me have, but she made me take it back and apologize. Did that count? “Well…I…sorta…”

“Yes or no answer please.”

“Yes.” No violent scratching from the needle.

The electrodes attached to my fingers slipped off from copious amounts of sweat. Old officer reattached them and moved in for the kill.

“Do you live in Topeka, Kansas?”

“Yes.” The needle was silent.

“Do you have a pet?”

“No.”

“Are you wearing a blue shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Are you wearing green shoes?”

“No.”

Old officer leaned in closer. “Did you steal the money?”

I heard the needle jump across the page.

“DID YOU STEAL THE MONEY?” he shouted.

“NO!” I shouted back.

He smiled and removed the sweat soaked electrodes from me. “I knew she didn’t take it before she sat down,” old one said to young one.

Robber #1Seven of us were proven innocent and two were inconclusive.

The boss refilled the cash box but filled it with blacklight powder dusted money.

I asked to be removed from cash box duty.

An Amazing Tale to Tell…If Only…

BIG writing day.  Blog post AND story must be written today.

Every Wednesday my critique group meets and Tuesday is the deadline to submit.  Of course, I could write anytime from Thursday through Tuesday, but I don’t.

That’s what this thirty-day writing experiment is all about though.  Getting in the habit of sitting in front of my keyboard every day.  Every single day.  Sigh.

One part of the experiment that is working, is that I realize I do actually come up with words to put on the paper.  Maybe not profound words, but words none the less.

The second thing that has happened is that my imagination, now being exercised regularly, is beginning to work again.  Last night I awoke from a very odd dream and my first thought was, “That will make a great story.”  I struggled to stay awake long enough to map out a couple of characters and rough plot.  It’s a pretty damn good story.  I just wish I could remember it this morning.

 

Sweating Like a Glass of Iced Tea in August

I’ve been working with a trainer for about a year.  Before I started, I had a long conversation with him about how I’m not motivated by yelling.  So, I really love him because he’s very sweet and gentle with me.

He’s the same one my niece goes to, but we’ve always gone at separate times.  Yesterday I went with her to her session.  What? The? Heck? was I thinking?

We bounced around from leg lifts while lying on a pool noodle to kettle bells to a contest to see which one of us could hold plank position the longest.  While my niece sang along to Madonna, I was huffing and puffing and sweating like a glass of iced tea in August.

At one point, as I balanced on the end of a weight bench doing a billion crunches, I looked up at my sweet, gentle trainer and said, “I hate you.”

Evidently, in trainer world, that’s the biggest compliment you can give.  It also means that the evil exercise gets added to my workout forever.