A few months back I proposed creating a Rorschach test to screen potential co-workers for a sense of humor. Today I present another quiz, to see which of my friends think like a twelve-year old.
First, my friend Shannon recently posted this photo to Facebook. What do you see?
"Careful, Dale. It's looking a bit swollen."
Apparently it was a painting on the wall in a Mexican restaurant. Shannon’s comment was, “Hmmmm is all I have to say.”
For once, I agree. I think it speaks for itself.
(Now, for fun, try to think of a caption for it. I guarantee you’ll crack yourself up. Please share suggestions in the comments.)
If you’re scratching your head, saying, “What? What is so funny about a horse getting shoed?” then don’t even bother watching this video:
I can’t decide what the lesson is here. That assumptions are bad? Or hilarious?
Yesterday morning at work, before anyone else got in, Margaret asked for my help selecting a bouquet of flowers to send to a funeral. We chose an arrangement online, but when it came to order, we were a bit stumped.
“Name of the deceased?” the form asked.
Margaret’s cursor hovered in the space noncommittally.
“What’s the hold-up?” I asked her.
“I don’t know her name.”
“You’re sending flowers to someone and you don’t know her name?” I couldn’t compute.
“No, you dumb-ass,” she corrected me. “The funeral is for my friend’s mother-in-law. How would I know her name? I never met HER. In fact, this form is lame. Why does it want me to send the flowers to the attention of the deceased?”
Strange bedfellows? Not if you can read the dialogue.
The Dalai Lama visited DC last week. I know because my yoga studio sent out an email encouraging me to attend his peace rally on the Mall.
And because the Whole Foods was teeming with people wearing saffron robes and sporting shaved heads Thursday night. Apparently — and don’t spread this around — Buddhists like to… Eat. Normal. Food.
Stop looking at me like that! I hadn’t given it much thought, but when I saw a couple of monks debating between bean burritos and a five layer dip, it struck me as odd. And then I forced myself to articulate what I thought their diet consisted of, and I could only come up with “grains.”
Woof. I am showing you my underbelly of ignorance here, people! This is me, trusting YOU.
This winter, as temperatures danced around below freezing, I kept proclaiming it was “colder than a witch’s titty!”
(Well, actually, I said “witch’s tit” and Alan corrected me, but you get the gist. In fact, I think this shows I can take feedback constructively, because I’ve used his wording. I’d like some gold stars for that. Alan, I’m looking at you. Gold stars. Pronto.)
Anyway, the mercury is now on the other end of the thermometer, pushing past 100 and trailing humidity to boot. You can’t even cross your legs in the shade without sweat pooling around your ankles in DC. Everyone I pass on the sidewalk looks like they’d hand over their first-born child if you could provide them with an air-conditioned gerbil ball to transport them to their destination.
(Note to self: patent air conditioned, human-sized gerbil ball tomorrow.)
I try to save energy by turning off my AC when I’m not home. As a result, there’s an uncomfortable lag when I arrive home every day, hot from my 1.5 mile walk, and my thermostat is registering 80.
(Side note: I would like to feel all cocky and Environmentally Correct about keeping my thermostat at 77, but I read that in Japan, businesses are keeping their office buildings cooled only to 82 to save energy this summer. Now go look at your thermostat — can you spare a degree?)
Anyway… last night, while waiting for the temperature to drop, I came up with a phrase that I believe perfectly captures how hot it is.
Out of curiosity, I did a few google searches to see if anyone else had coined it yet, and it seems to be an original. But I did find this article, which offers up some suggestions for capturing exactly how hot it is. Before I reveal my (soon to be catching) phrase, I’d like to highlight some of the more interesting suggestions from their list.
Do you remember in Peanuts how sometimes Snoopy would get super enthusiastic and end up looking like a show-off? No? Well, here’s a refresher:
Why is this on my mind? Because this weekend at the pool my friend Margaret pulled a Snoopy.
It was incredibly hot, so we spent a fair amount of time in the water. Near the end of the day there was a group of four women standing around in the shallow end talking. Margaret and I jumped in and she challenged me to race a lap.
As we clung to the wall post-race, catching our breath, one of the girls from the group attempted a few strokes of butterfly. She clearly wasn’t strong enough to pull it off, so it petered out pretty quickly. But not quickly enough that Margaret didn’t see it.
Next thing I knew, Margaret was on her way toward the deep-end, swimming a powerful butterfly past the girls, clearly showing up the chick who had just sunk. (In her defense, Margaret was just curious to know if she could manage a whole lap, not overtly trying to be competitive.) In any case, it struck my funny bone, and by the time she reached the other end, I was snorting with laughter.
“What?” she called from the deep end. I shook my head.
About this time one of the girls tells her friends, “My stroke was always backstroke…”
And lo and behold, here comes Margaret, heading past them via backstroke, arms cranking like a windmill.
I’m clutching my stomach by the time she pulls up next to me. Fortunately, instead of completing the triple-play by starting a lap of breaststroke, Margaret proposes a handstand contest.
And that’s how I found myself upside-down, holding my breath and acting like I was twelve again. I think I have a new nickname for Margaret: The Red Baron.
