I Ship That

"It's a narrow mind that assigns only one meaning to a word!" ~ My Family

This is actually a variation on a saying that my family uses whenever it mispels, miss spells, misppells, doesn't write a word correctly.  Then the narrow mind is attributed to spelling only one way.  But this is not the forum, and I am really not the guy, to host a spelling blog.  Making fun of new ways that the English language is massaged (read massacred) by teenagers?  I'm your man!

Even when I was a teenager I thought that people did not do enough to utilize this fine language of ours.  I never liked when people would assign words new meanings, and worse, assign new parts of speech.  The big one when I was in school was "party."  In my narrow-minded brain party was a noun.  It was something you went to...not something you did.  During high school, somehow, the dictionary got jumbled and the "n." next to the word party magically turned into a "v."  People were partying all over the place.  Not me.  I refused to join in the butchering of the English language.  (Being a socially awkward geek didn't have anything to do with it...I was standing up for my principles!)

In my humble opinion there are ways of saying things in the English language that escape translation in other languages.  The nuance afforded the careful speaker is nearly unlimited.  And how do some people choose to speak?

"Sup?"
"Nuttin."
"Whatevs."
"Mm Hmm."
"Peace out."

I believe it was Shakespeare who coined the term, "Chill Yo?"

Don't get me wrong.  I am not above learning a new skill.  I have been able to learn new words and even use them in the proper context.  I explained to the high school group at church that their new clothes, skateboards, skills, were "beast" (beyond great)!  Everything that used to be cool is now epic.  And I definitely know what the Fox says.  (Ki Ki Ki Ki Ki....in case you want to know.)  I can get behind most everything that comes my way.  I admit that I have a little trouble still when the new fad is to simply shorten the word.  One that comes to mind is crazy.  Nothing is crazy anymore...it is "cray cray".  As in, "OH when he jumped off the wall and did a flip!  It was cray cray!"  Allow me a moment to break down my thinking.  Was it crazy?  Certainly.  Did it call for someone pointing it out?  Most definitely.  Did you shorten the amount of syllables that you needed to say for expediency?  Nope.  Crazy = 2 syllables.  Cray Cray = also two.  Then why do it?  That one in particular is like fingernails on a chalkboard...but I choose not to say anything unless everything in the vicinity is "cray cray".

Now, I told you all of that so I could tell you this.  I heard a new one...and it floored me.  It wasn't that it was beyond amazing in a clever and poignant way.  No, I was left slack-jawed and wide-eyed because I had no idea what the connection was.  In the kitchen, as we were talking about kids that we knew, two names came up and we heard, "Yeah!  I ship that!"

Sylvia and I looked at each other like someone had suddenly turned off the teenager to English translator we had installed in the house.  We looked over at Krisi, who was happily calculating the number of times that she had thoroughly confused us.  I said, "You ship that?"
"Yeah, I ship that."
"And what exactly does that mean?"
"It's hard to explain...It means that it is good."
"That person is good?"
"NO!  Dad!  It means that two things are good."  (Like I was supposed to magically figure that out.)
So I, in typical Dad overcompensating, went the extra mile.  "Is it like saying, I am Jeff Garrett and I approve of this couple?"
That is when my name turned into several syllables..."DaAaAad!"  But after closer inspection, I think I nailed it.

Later that night, when we were invaded by teenagers, I was 'shipping' everything.  (You know, to fit in)
"Can I have some apple cider?"
"Yeah, I ship that."
"Where's the bathroom?"
"Second door on the right...and I ship that."
I saw someone with a leather jacket.  "Hey, I ship that jacket.  And you with the water bottle, I ship that water bottle."

Of course I was being obnoxious and silly and using my new-found word in the completely wrong way...but nearly everyone at the party new about this new way to use a relatively benign word.  And they all thought I was funny.  That's good.  They all think that I am rutabaga!  It's a new word.  It means extra awesome in a cool old guy sort of way.  I just made it up.  Think it will catch on?

It's Not Just Me!

If you are new to the blog...Sylvia and I have two teenage kids.  They are wonderful, charming, helpful, and several other adjectives that would look great on anyone's resume.  They are also not "allowed" to admit that their old man is funny.  After years of deflecting comments stating that I was funny I have finally gotten to a place where I can say, "OK, in certain instances...with the right people...between a certain longitude and latitude...between the hours of 8:12 A.M. and 6:43 P.M....under the proper barometric conditions (I'm writing this at 7:48 is that clears anything up), I can be humorous."  Unless I'm talking to my kids...then I'm FUN-NY!  The problem arises when their friends say that I am funny.  It is met with a new and emphatic "NO!  He thinks he is!"  I naively thought this was about me.  Turns out I was wrong.

Last Friday the kids participated in a progressive dinner/scavenger hunt.  The teams go from place to place eating a different course of the meal as they searched for objects to gather and pictures to take.  There were about 25 teenagers that gathered into 5 cars.  They all had a list of clues, a list of hidden locations, and a stopwatch.  Each team left the starting point at a staggered time so they wouldn't encounter each other as they raced (drove responsibly in a safe manner...in case any Fremont police are reading this) around town.  Sylvia has been the driver numerous times but this year, to change things up, we elected to be one of the houses.  This meant that we provided one of the courses for the meal.  We opted for hors d'oeurves. (please don't make me spell that again)  The nice thing about being in charge of the hors d'oeurves (D'Oh!) is that we were first.  We didn't have to wait until late in the night, we didn't have too much to prepare food-wise, and we didn't have to worry about having every teen in the house at the same time since there was little possibility of them catching up to each other right away.  I was naive about this too.

Sylvia and I went shopping for our little corner of the feast and we foolishly kept saying things like, "Maybe that's enough." and "We've never needed more than that."  The actual event occurred in somewhat of a blur. Sylvia got an entire crock pot full of nacho cheese cooking.  We organized the kitchen to fit the maximum amount of people.  There were supposed to be five or six at a time.   Then we sat back and waited.  The six o'clock start time came and went.  Then it was six fifteen.  We kept hearing cars slow down...then drive away.  Finally at about six thirty we got the first carload.  Then six thirty one the next.  Then six thirty five, then six forty, then six forty two.  They were all under the instructions that they needed to wait at each house for twenty minutes before opening the next clue and going on their way.  We had all the kids and all the drivers at the same time.

There was commotion.  There was noise.  There was a crowd big enough to make an introvert like myself want to desperately check Facebook statuses in another room!  But I mustered enough intestinal fortitude to go out into my own kitchen and stand there hoping that there wouldn't be a lot of small talk.  I flunked small talk in high school.  I was standing there minding my own business when my phone went off.  It didn't ring.  It signaled that I got a text.  Since I tend to try to stay on the cutting edge of technology (ha!) I had recently found an alert message from the minions in Despicable Me.  It's really kind of cute.  It goes "Ooh Hoo!  Text Message!" in the sing-songy way high-pitched way that they talk.  There were many people here but since I am deaf to all things phone-like I almost always have it turned up to the maximum.  One of the kids heard the message and made an assumption.  It went something like this.

"Mom!  How could you?!"
"What?"
"That ring tone!  Oh My Goodness!"  (obviously embarrassed by her lack of decorum while being surrounded by nacho eating locusts)
"What ring tone?" (She is obviously worse than me in the phone hearing department)

Then my phone got another message and the kid zeroed in on the sound coming from my pocket.  As soon as it wasn't his mom, the conversation changed.

"Oh My God THAT IS THE GREATEST RING TONE EVER!"

Then it struck me...it may just be a proximity thing.  This guy is near his mom most of the time.  Mom's cannot be cool.  Therefore anything close to his mom is not cool.  I barely see him maybe once a year.  I am allowed to be partially cool (for an old guy).  My kids are close to me.  Dad's are also not cool.  So everything I touch, see, say, or am involved in may not be cool in their eyes.  This is strictly a mathematical formula!  Coolness is inversely affected by proximity.  D X 1/P = C cubed.  Phew!  Because my kids weren't laughing at me I was going to dig my rubber chicken and fake vomit out of the garage.  Guess I can save myself the trouble.

Steps?

"There were 22 steps up to our apartment in Iowa."

I met someone for the first time today and in the course of our conversation she said, "there were 22 steps up to our apartment in Iowa."  For some reason this statement struck me as odd.  Not so much that it would come up in a conversation, especially a conversation with me, but rather...Why would someone know how many steps there were leading up to their apartment?  Do most people know this definitively how many steps are in their houses?  It got me thinking...Do I know how many steps lead up to my house?  Of course I do!  Don't I?  It's six.  Definitely six.  Or maybe it's five.  Definitely five. Well I'm sure, without a doubt, that it is most likely five or six.  How is it that some people just KNOW without a shadow of a doubt how many steps lead up to their apartments and I, having lived here most of my life since 1972, have to go out and count to make sure.  I was right...by the way...it is five or six...unless you count the last one that leads into the front door.  Then it's seven.

Being a junior scientist (2nd degree) I decided to try an experiment.  I asked the other people in the house at the time just how many steps they thought were here.  I got a wider range of answers.  One person even guessed four.  I knew it wasn't four...for goodness' sakes!  Then it hit me.  How many people know?  I'm gonna call some people.  OK, I'm gonna call one person...maybe two.

I got on the phone and called my sister and asked about this house.  "Let me see...one, two...five....six...seven? It's either six or seven."  Hah!  You don't know either!  Then in the course of the rest of our conversation it came out that she was talking about six without the step into the house and seven if you count it.  I think I have to give her this one.  I'll let her be right this time.  My mother also got a phone call.  She didn't sign the release form so I cannot quote her here...but let me just say that she was not as accurate as my sister.  Then I remembered that she had a second floor in her house. I had her guess.  She underestimated by two!  Then she exclaimed something to the effect of this is why her hip was hurting so much!  So many darn steps.  (Really mom this would be a lot easier if you would just sign the release form.

Over the summer we went spelunking.  (Beginning to see why a conversation might steer toward steps?...or rubber chickens?...or how the banana got its name?...or anything really.)  As we got ready to go on the tour (That's the only way this guy is crawling around in a cave) they announced that there were going to be 534 steps on the tour.  If you have a heart condition, high blood pressure, or are just a major whiner...please do not go on this tour.  Well that got us to thinking.  Why would they count them?  We also thought, "We gotta check."  So there we are walking around underground going 333, 334, 335, ouch, 336...and so on.  I bumped my head pretty good because I was looking down at a time when I should have been looking straight ahead.  The bottom line, they were wrong!  By a lot!  There were about a hundred extra steps from their fact.  We counted every rise or fall in elevation as a step.  We started at the mouth and ended at the exit.  We didn't cheat and we had three people coordinating their answers so we may have been wrong by a few...but we all certainly didn't over count by a hundred!  I see no reason to lie in this situation.  They could have just said, "There are a boat-load of steps!  Including one that is really close to the ceiling so watch your head."  That would have been fine.  But to underestimate so egregiously...it's not fair.  Just imagine if there was someone who thought they could make 534 and maybe even push it to 550 steps.  What do you think would happen if they got to 579 and their legs just gave out?!  I suppose we could have eaten them and saved ourselves, but that really wouldn't be a pleasant picture for the brochures.

And this all leads me to a challenge.  There is no prize other than my undying esteem:
HOW MANY STEPS ARE IN YOUR HOUSE OR WORK?  (The place you go most days.)
Really, I want to know.  Is this a worldwide phenomenon that people know the correct number of stairs?
Message me your guesses.  Tell everyone how you did.  I am dying of curiosity.

Good Luck!

This Blog Counts For Both My Birthday,,,and Thanksgiving!

It's my birthday soon. I'm not telling you this to elicit mounds of praises and loads of presents...(although, since our truck has been rendered non-operational by a crack in the head gasket, I will take what we can get). No, the real reason I am telling you this is to talk about birthdays. Specifically about birthdays that are on famous dates.

I used to work with a girl who told me her birthday was on December 25th. I was immediately struck with empathy for this poor girl. I said things like, "This present counts for both." and "Honey, nobody can come to your birthday party...they are all away on vacation." She pulled her mouth straight back into sort of a flat smile and nodded. I understood. From then on I would try to contact her on her birthday and make no mention of that other holiday that just so happens to be on that date.

I know another long-time friend whose birthday is the day after Groundhog Day. This birthday is considerably less problematic than a birthday which lands on the King Daddy of all birthdays, but I suppose there are still occasionally people who can't come to your parties since they have made a pilgrimage to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania  to see Phil in all of his shadow spotting splendor. (interesting note...if you type the name of this city into this computer it will autocorrect it to say "subcutaneous") The first principal that I worked for was born on February second...I think she made the trip more than a few times. (I think she was secretly hoping to see Bill Murray...but that is just a rumor)

There are other birthdays that may be unique. If you are born on St. Patrick's Day, for instance, you had better like green beer. If you were born on Halloween, all of your birthday parties will be costumed. If you were born on the Fourth Of July, you had better get used to fireworks...and Tom Cruise in long hair and a wheelchair. If your birthday lands on Easter, I suppose your parents could have you search for presents along with your eggs. If you were born on Arbor Day...well I guess nobody really knows what Arbor Day is about. That wouldn't be such a bad day to be born on...especially if you enjoy those white flower covered archway things at weddings.  (just kidding...I know it's really about kissing trees)

These are all well and good...I suppose each birthday has its challenges and/or benefits...but mine is a little weird.  I was born at the end of November.  Since my birthday is always at least near Thanksgiving, I get to tease my students by telling them that the reason they get a week off from school is to celebrate my birthday! As birthdays go, it's OK.  My mom has this thing where she announces every year that she knew I was going to be kind because I was supposed to be born before Thanksgiving...and I "waited" and allowed her to eat with the family before deciding to be born.  Yup, that's me.  Mr. Thoughtful.  I prefer to think that I wasn't about to be fed a turkey leg if I was only three days old.  So I figured out a way to get it...and then I wrung my hands together and laughed sinisterly.  On a side note, in the days before ultrasound, the doctors thought I was going to be twins because I was so big...I think it was all the turkey.

Being born at the end of November means that occasionally your birthday will fall on Thanksgiving.  For me...that means seven times in my life.  Yes, I went back and checked.  The one change that happens when my birthday is on Thanksgiving is that there was no discussion about where I want to go out to eat on my big day.  In 1863 Lincoln declared that the fourth Thursday of November should be a day of Thanks.  He did not say, "In future times, when comes a time that a man celebrate the day of his birth on this day, he shall be allowed to go forth and eat at the restaurant known as "Fridays" and celebrate this grand adventure of thanks on the next day."  So I think I won't go against President Lincoln.

To be fair, this is only the third time it has happened while Sylvia and I have been married.  And she asks, every time, if I would rather go out to eat instead of having turkey.  I don't know, for some reason I think that I am not the guy to thwart a tradition like that.  I've never been much of a thwarter.

My Wife...and a Pot Of Rice

They say that the way to a man's stomach is through his heart.  That's not it...the way to a man's duodenum is through his ear canal?  The way to a man's pituitary gland is through his spleen?  No, no...I'll get it.  The way to a man's esophagus is through his mouth?  Almost there...(But Coach Barry...my junior high science teacher would be proud that I remembered that)  Of course I know, the way to a man's heart is through his wife and her wonderful and giving spirit...while she makes wonderful food!

I love my wife, all the time, and still there are times when love turns into a great big giant incapacitating hug on the inside that warms me from my soles of my feet up to the roots of my hair.  I believe the technical term for this is Goo Goo.  Yes, the other night I went Goo Goo for my wife.  (I'll now pause so that the diabetics in the audience can go increase their insulin due to all this sweetness)

Goo Goo, or Ga Ga in the southern states and portions of Los Angeles, happens to me most of the time when there seems to be no external reason.  She just walks by, BAM!  I gotta hug her, weak in the knees, take my breath away, hug her.  She smiles, WHAM!  She looks at me like I am crazy and doesn't know what she is going to do with me and my weird sense of humor, SMACKO!  (actually that last one is the one that happens most often)  It is usually accompanied with her saying, "What?!  Stop looking at me that way!" But what're you gonna do.  I can't help it!

Now, to shift subjects, I really really like comfort food.  You can see evidence of this hanging in the labels of my clothes and on the display screen of my very sarcastic scale.  For the purposes of this blog, and to explain to my ever growing overseas readers, I describe comfort food as hearty, unhealthy, dense, stick-to-your-ribs delicious.  Some examples might be mashed potatoes, meatloaf, or macaroni and cheese.  While visiting Germany this last summer I reacquainted myself with the European version...Schnitzel!  It is yummy, it is satisfying, it is not terribly good for you.  I'll have that.

Comfort food has made its way into Casa Garrett and most times I will be greeted by a delicious aroma when walking up the steps to the front door after work.  Other times I might be greeted by a harried spouse with a "I have had quite a DAY!  Dinner is waiting for you to pick it up as soon as you decide where you are picking it up from." look on her face.

Now allow me to tie this all together.  The other evening I plowed headfirst into a smell that made me wonder why there weren't neighbors with plates lined up to try to get some.  It was Stroganoff night!  If you aren't familiar...it's a creamy meaty concoction whose recipe was handed down from Heaven above.  (or possibly Russia)  The way my family makes it is dangerous.  If some spilled on the floor I would fight the dogs over who would get to lick it up.  Rest assured, nobody is that careless with this ambrosia!  This meal is traditionally served over noodles but there have been people, my mother included, who have served it over rice.  I made it with rice once for our family.  Everyone preferred noodles...rice go bye bye.  No problem.  Majority rules.  Pass the Stroganoff.

So I walked in, commented on the wonderful dinner we were about to have, kissed Sylvia hello, and then I saw it.  There was the rice cooker steaming away.  I was surprised, we were a noodle family after all.  I could tell by the plates on the table, both kids in the kitchen, (and the line of neighbors forming out the front door) that dinner was almost ready.  I said, "Rice?  I thought you all preferred noodles."  Sylvia said, "Yes, we prefer noodles...but you prefer rice. Why didn't you tell me?"  I surveyed the scene. There on the stove was a big pot of noodles to complement my individual portion of rice.  (actually it was a gigantic portion of rice that would have fed three hungry lumberjacks but since I'm the one writing, I get to make up the details to make myself look good.)  I had mentioned something about rice a while back and she picked it up and ran with it.  That was all it took.  Getting pampered by your very thoughtful wife, as soon as you walk in the door, and with comfort food no less!  I was in full blown GOO GOO mode!  I grabbed her and hugged her tight.  I participated in a public display of affection that made the teenagers run from the room (but the puppy jumped up on us because he doesn't like to be left out) and then I sat down to enjoy a wonderful meal with my family...and a bowl of rice.

I Love You Sylvia.  Thank You!

Lumpy

I'm guessing that if you have read a smattering of my writing you would have realized by now that my brain just doesn't work the same way other people's do. For the record, according to Jeffipedia: a smattering is approximately equal to two and a half paragraphs...but they have to be non consecutive paragraphs...and one of them should have been written on a Monday.  Anyway, one of my teachers in elementary school actually said pretty much those exact brain describing words to my parents during a parent teacher conference.  They were so proud.

It is with that abnormal brain, and the totally random and unrelated subjects that go whizzing through, that I will attempt to entertain you today.  I'm not sure I've ever gone through the process on paper with you but I'll see if I can attempt to give you a clearer picture of where my blog ideas come from.  Two weeks ago I was talking to family in Germany about the weather and how the end of our trip was really beautiful weather.  It reminded me of a movie where the weather channel said, "72 degrees and perfect...every day."  Then, a week later in America again, a few of us were talking in the gym after church while the kids were trying to shoot baskets (not doing a stellar job by the way) and I asked, "Did you ever see Pleasantville?  The basketball team is undefeated and every time they throw the ball from wherever they are in the court...it goes in!"  Of course I was the only one to have seen or remember that movie.  (Stay with me...I'm getting there.)  A week after that Sylvia and I were home without kids and decided to look through the movie selection on TV.  Pleasantville!  I decided that this was a must see!  It is a movie about a TV show portraying idealized America from the fifties and how everything is pleasant...go figure.  This movie, like the other I talked about just a short week ago, also had perfect weather all the time.  Then we come to this morning.  (almost done)  As I turned on Facebook to see if there was anything worthwhile seeing, I saw a black-and-white picture of Tony Dow.  Now everyone knows (probably not) that he was Wally on Leave it to Beaver...Sproing!!  All of these past instances came together...perfect weather, Americana, black and white, the fifties, TV show...It reminds me of a story, and now I know what I am supposed to write about today.

Twenty five years ago I worked in San Leandro selling electrical parts.  If you are now thinking, "I've been on roller coasters that had fewer twists and turns" welcome to my world.  In San Leandro I was in charge of the counter.  This meant that I talked to almost everyone and I was supposed to answer questions for the other counter people when there was a question they couldn't answer.  The typical questions were "Do you have this?"  Others included, "How am I supposed to_________?", and "Is it legal to _____________?"  Every once in a while there was a question that I couldn't answer and I had to go to the big boss but for the most part I did OK.  I enjoyed the people who came in with a puzzle to solve the most, and always felt good when they walked out with parts that would do the job.  Sometimes the three parts that they thought they needed could be done with one, sometimes the one part nobody else had was at my fingertips, and sometimes the part we didn't have could be re-created out of three other parts since they needed to get their factory going NOW!!  It was challenging, it was interesting, it got me interested in doing something besides sales.

Before I left working in sales, though, there was a group of customers that stick out in my mind.  They were different in that they weren't grizzled old electricians who knew exactly what they wanted and could recite part numbers through the haze of smoke from the lit cigarette clenched in their teeth.  They weren't helpless homeowners with shards of household items that needed replacing and were hopeful that the numbers on the pieces would help me identify them.  They weren't even work crews who came to our counter because we had popcorn and sodas (and if they were really good customers...beer).  No, this group of characters looked like they were coming straight from a college classroom.  Dressed too nice to be working on fixing things and not nice enough to be going to a wedding.  It seemed at first like they might be on a scavenger hunt for the frat house and were just asking about random things.

I gave them prices, told them what was legal, available, and expensive.  Eventually I was able to decipher what it was they were trying to do.  I forget exactly what they were trying to create but instead of telling me their idea, they were asking about the way they thought they had to do it.  I knew a better way.  "It sounds like you guys are trying to do this....but you don't need to do it that way.  If you take this, and that, and those...you'll have exactly what you need contained in one device that is cheaper, smaller, and looks way better than the Frankenelectrician's Monster you were trying to build.  Will that work?"  They high fived each other and told me to grab everything.  When I was writing their sales ticket I said my usual, "Is there anything else you need to know?"  The quietest one in the group finally piped up randomly and sarcastically asked, "YEAH!  Who played Lumpy on Leave it to Beaver!?"

Without batting an eye, I kept writing my ticket and said, "Frank Bank."

They paid in stunned silence and as they walked out with the stuff he said, "That guy's brain doesn't work like everyone else's."

So now you know.

UNGAWA!

Today I am going to veer away from the subject of world travel, and back toward what I usually write about, totally random unconnected subjects that I may or may not have personal experience in, or knowledge about. I know that you have come to expect a certain amount of professionalism in your reading material, not necessarily from me but from others, and I do not wish to disappoint anyone, so here we go.  Today I am going to write about something that happened a long time ago...to me.  I don't have any idea what made me remember this particular event, but here it is at the front of my very unusual brain.

I will try to enrich this posting with a spattering of very rich details.  In reading this I may need you to engage your four senses a bit.  Yes I know there are five senses...I am just thinking of you.  Please leave your sense of smell parked securely in the garage of your mind.  You may want to lock the door as well...and park a van in front of that door so it cannot raise...and then you might even want to go around the side to the little window on the side door and cover it with foil...just for the time being, later feel free to stop and smell the roses.  What I am trying to say is that there are no roses in today's blog.

Many years ago we went to the local animal park for the day.  It was back in the days when places like animal parks were gone to once in a while, had no roller coasters, and you weren't pressured into paying one and a half times the normal price of admission to get a season pass.  When we went it was an event.  If I remember correctly, we normally brought some sandwiches along but I think it had to stay in the back of the station wagon so we would get our hands stamped to be able to go back in after lunch.  (Are you all paying attention?  Sandwiches: taste.  Hand stamp: touch.  I will help you out but you'll have to do some of the work here.)

It was the hottest day of the year (probably not, but I always came home from these excursions with horrible sunburns so I am projecting) and we walked and walked and walked.  We saw the seal lion show, they played music by squeezing bike horns.  We saw walruses waddle around the stage and grunt and growl on cue.  I'm pretty sure it burped for some reason.  We saw dolphins wave at the audience, swim very fast, and jump up in the air to come down and splash everyone who was silly enough to sit close to the edge of the tank. We even saw acrobatic waterskiers who jumped, spun, and made huge pyramids all while being pulled behind a trio of speed boats.  All the while we had fun, we clapped and cheered, and the tops of my ears felt like tiny pieces of curved bacon in the hot sun.  If you didn't notice, all of these things have to do with water.  If you did notice, please put a gold star in the upper right hand side of your computer monitor.  Yes, we were at Marine World for the day.  The big attraction of the day was the killer whale show.  It was a toss up between sitting in the sun listening to my ears sizzle and sitting down in the Splash Zone to get a few minutes of relief when that huge whale belly flopped into the pool and splashed everyone within fifty feet.

When that was all done Dad looked at the guide to see what other things we might want to see.  Like I said, this was a once in a blue moon occurrence.  There was no mention of "next time we will..." because there probably wouldn't be a next time.  We needed to see everything marine related today! As I look back I think it was excitement with a touch of ignorance that suspended my questioning of the next place we went. Deep down I hope that I at least wondered "But what does this have to do with water?" when Dad announced, "There's an elephant show.  Let's go see that."

This is where I need you to really pay attention.  While the marine animal shows had very large arenas with different colored bleachers labeled "Splash Zone" the elephant show had four rows of curved cement benches that almost made three fourths of a circle.  The last section was where the elephants walked in from.  The front row benches were on the same level as the performing area with a cement rim around the edge that was maybe a foot tall and six inches wide and it was close enough to the first row that most people used it as a footrest.  The only thing keeping people from running out onto the "stage" with the elephants was common sense.  The only thing keeping the elephants in was conditioning and the trainer with what looked like a riding crop.  My family, born with an abundance of common sense, did not run out to play with the elephants...we also did not sit in the front row.

When the show started they brought out one elephant to show the small crowd, "This is an elephant."  They had it walk in a circle, turn around, back up, and put its front legs on a giant stool.  Then they brought out another elephant and had it do tricks with the first one.  They both walked, turned around, and stood on stools but this time they picked up a huge log in their trunks.  Impressive!  The only thing I can do with my nose is frighten children when I sneeze.  They did what was expected of them. These elephants weren't shy.  I know that they weren't shy because they 'ahem' did their business 'ahem' right in front of everybody on stage.  These two workers, who quite possibly had the worst job in the whole place, came out with shovels, sawdust, and brooms, and took care of the elephants' business.  (aren't you glad I had you leave your sense of smell locked away?)

We sat the whole time on the third row seats, roughly a foot higher than stage level, eating our stale sticky bricks of pink candy corn.  Then they brought out two more elephants.  Now we have a show!  They had the elephants stand in a row together "Uchoo".  Lift onto their back legs together "Mbat!".  They even bowed together "Undutu".  I am fairly certain that I couldn't even get one elephant to do any of this by simply calling out African sounding words...to get four to do it was impressive.  Then they had the elephants walk together around the circle.  Hmmm...not so impressive.  Then they had the elephants speed up a bit.  OK, now that looks better.  They were actually going pretty fast, and they were really near the people in the front row.  Then the trainer announced that this would be the grand finale.  He would make the elephants spin around while they kept running around the inside of the arena.  He yelled out "UNGAWA" and I'll be darned if those elephants didn't start spinning as they were circling the arena.  What we in the audience didn't know was that these not-shy elephants were not only able to take care of business in front of crowds of people...they were also able to do it while running and spinning in a circle.  One of the elephants decided to display his distaste with the whole idea of show business by doing his business.  Right in front of the crowd that was about two feet away he let loose.  The momentum of his running and spinning flung poop out into the crowd.  It was like watching a demented pachyderm teacup ride at Disneyland.  People screamed and jumped out of the way and the elephant just kept on spinning and pooping.  I'm glad to say that three rows away was the "No Splash Zone" and my family was safe...but those poor kids with the shovels and brooms really earned their money that day.

So there you have it.  My typical type of post.  If you started reading because of the European vacation, be warned, this is pretty much normal for me.  The only difference would be that I would typically try to end with a joke.  I do know one joke about an elephant with diarrhea but you've probably already heard it...it's all over town.