Things this weekend that made me laugh

Earlier this week I called miss-dig to locate the utilities in our front yard. We needed to dig a large hole to plant a tree . So, naturally I wanted to make sure we wouldn't hit the gas line and blow ourselves to kingdom-come while digging. I arrived home Friday to find a small herd of children literally having a parade in our front yard. All 10 of them were marching around in a single file line waving tiny orange and blue flags over their heads feverishly. Coincidentally, these are the very flags miss-dig used to mark our utilities. The child leading the parade was riding a bicycle and tooting a whistle. When I was spotted blocking the parade route across my driveway the child at the front let out a long piercing blast on the whistle and motioned for me to move.

Chris and I took the cat to the vet first thing Saturday morning after we found some blood in his litter box. The vet quickly looked him over, and said she needed do a rectal exam to find out what was wrong. Yikes! She quickly assured us that "actually, you are lucky because I have the smallest hands of all three of the vets working today by far." Serioulsy? Ew! Flanked by a vet technician on either side Chris and I watched as they hauled away our 18.5 lb cat. After a few minutes we heard "MEEEEEEEYOWWWWWWWW!" and then utter silence. Poor, poor kitty.

The next project for Saturday was planting the 10 foot tall tree we purchased for our front yard. First we had to dig a gigantic hole in the front yard. Chris and I thought it would go faster if we both dug at the same time but when we leaned forward to shovel dirt out, we banged our heads together. We sat there on the lawn with stars and little birds flying circles around our heads for a few minutes and after that, we decided to take turns digging. The remainder of the weekend was punctuated by going outside to water the tree, then, coming inside, and immediately forgetting the hose was on. Approximately 15 minutes later, one or both of us would remember the now drowning tree in the front yard at which point we would dash outside, sprint across the lake forming at the base of the tree and make a dive for the hose.

Sunday morning, Chris decided to make an omelet. Everything was going fine until it was time to turn the omelet. He began to shake the pan menacingly to and fro. Once the egg was err, loosened, he gave one final shake while he lurched the omelet into the air. In his mind I'm certain he pictured the omelet flipping in midair and gliding back down smoothly into the pan. Here is what actually happened: the wad of egg cheese and vegetable, now airborne, began its rapid descent in a pattern that was clearly not headed for the frying pan. I sat watching, transfixed, the oatmeal spoon halfway to my mouth. The dog and cat appeared from nowhere, ready to eat the eggs that would soon be falling from the sky. Chris lunged foreword to catch his escaping breakfast. He managed to net about half the eggs out of mid air. The remaining eggs hit the stove top, and the dials on the back of the stove, and the tea kettle, and the wall. It was a big omelet.

It is [almost] vest season

There are a few items in my wardrobe that are of particularly great value to me. They include bell bottom jeans, Chaco sandals, anything kelly green, and topping the list, vests. Specifically, fleece vests.

I. Love. Vests. I can't decide what I love more, the fact that they go with nearly everything (they do so!) or, the fact that my arms never get too hot. On my most recent camping trip, I wore a vest every day. Over a tee shirt. It was the greatest week of my life.

My justification for my love affair with vests can be best explained by a turn of phrase I am particularly fond of: "think like an onion". Onions, like most of my outfits, have layers. Its the best way to dress if you don't know what to expect. Too hot? Remove a layer. Too Chilly? Add a layer. Better yet, add a vest so your arms don't get to hot and your middle doesn't get too chilly. Usually if Chris hears me say "think like an onion!" he rolls his eyes dramatically and says "You are going to put on a vest aren't you?" The answer is *always* yes.

I have at least 5 vests (last time I counted). I wait all summer with unrelenting anticipation for it to get cool enough to wear my vests. Inevitably, each year in a fit of zeal I get one or two false starts. It is rather cool when I leave the house for work so I put on a vest. Then as the day goes on, it gets warmer. And warmer. AND WARMER. Left with no other option I remove the vest, just prior to collapsing from heat stroke.

I had one such false start last week. Around lunch time, in the break room, a coworker looked at me inquisitively in my vest and said "You know it is like 80 degrees out right?"

"Yes" I said, standing in front of the freezer fanning the cold air onto myself. "I guess it is only *almost* vest season."

Obituary

I did on of those online quizzes today. The topic? What would your obituary say?

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Yeah, that sounds about right.

When I was little there was a terrible, mean, old woman who lived on our block. She used to chase Girl Scouts selling cookies off her porch with a broom and 'confiscate' balls that accidentally bounced into her yard. You get the picture. Children in the neighborhood refered to her as Oldie-locks, since by our best approximation she was no less than 158 years old. A few years later the woman died, presumably of old age.

My mom found her obituary in the paper and was discussing it with my dad when I walked into the room. "What is an obituary?" I inquired. My parents exchanged glances.

"Honey," my mom said, "Mrs. X (her name escapes me) from down the street died so they put a obituary in the paper, as a way of letting people know ."

"So the obituary is for Oldie-locks?"

"Yes" my mom answered. "I know Mrs. X was not very nice to you kids but can you please stop calling her Oldie-locks?"

"So this word, obituary" I continued, "it's an abbreviation?"

"An abbreviation? What do you mean?"

"Obituary" I said slowly. "Old bitches who have died."

My mother and father did their best to stifle their laughter. "No, it is not an abbreviation" said my dad.

"And it does not mean old bitches who have died" my mom interjected sternly.

To this day, when ever the topic of obituaries comes up in my family we all burst into snickers. It makes for some great comic relief in an otherwise humorless situation.