tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39320870393848440892024-03-05T07:59:18.264-08:00Life in MS PaintUnsolicited Feedback of this Blog:
"There are hits and misses."
"Its hard to say whats going on artistically-he's got a naive graphic style going on."
"The chunky, jagged quality the computer gives his line work does not serve him very well. I'm thinking its either sloth, or self confidence issues ..."
"Most seem like tenth grader stuff. I don't know what else to say."Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-59908113145728360132012-05-29T13:22:00.000-07:002012-05-29T13:30:27.577-07:00Accident ProneAccident prone. It's unfortunate that this term describes me so very well.<br />
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Sometimes it's my own fault (like the time I <a href="http://jordiepaints.blogspot.com/2010/10/boy-on-fire.html" target="_blank">caught on fire</a> at a dinner event).<br />
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Sometimes it's not.<br />
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But nothing quite compares to my experience in Chemistry class.<br />
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I'd like to be clear that I had no business taking Chemistry. Despite having an excellent professor, I
didn't understand a single thing that was going on all semester (except for redox
reactions, which I somehow understood with stunning clarity). In lab, I was the person with whom everyone was afraid
to be paired.<br />
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In one experiment, we were supposed to perform all kinds of tests on a
substance to figure out what it was. Not only were we charged with
coming up with the right answer, but it was also made clear that we were
not to lose a single nanogram of the stuff in the process. For each
unit we lost, the professor subtracted points from our lab grade. Not
only did I fail to figure out what the substance was...<br />
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...I somehow ended up defying the law of conservation of mass.<br />
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The professor didn't quite know what to do with my grade since this was a first.<br />
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Later in the semester, I performed my biggest blunder in the lab. I was
paired with one of my best friends, Peter. Our instructions were to
take each of 5 test tubes containing different chemicals, hold them in
the flame of the Bunsen burner one at a time, observe the reactions that
occurred, and waft the smoke to smell it. These instructions seemed
fairly simple, but there was one really important detail. We were
NOT supposed to put the last substance into the flames. We were supposed
to put it<i> near</i> the flames, but then immediately remove it from the
vicinity of the burner once it began to react. <br />
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We forgot all about this last detail.<br />
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I let the sucker burn until it boiled. Thick white smoke billowed out
from the small tube. Impressed, I wafted and breathed it in.<br />
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I was also impressed with the burning sensation in my lungs. <br />
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I
removed the tube from the flames but the white stingy smoke continued
to erupt from it. About a minute later, it still hadn't shown any signs
of slowing. The room started looking pretty hazy from this toxic fog,
and people were starting to cough a little. Meanwhile, I continued to clutch
the smoking test tube like a total idiot.<br />
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I staggered toward the professor. <br />
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<br />
She went into go mode. She threw open the windows and yelled for
everyone to get up and get out immediately. She also said something about hazardous hydrogen sulfuric acid gas, I don't know.<br />
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On the lawn, I watched as
chemistry students filed out of the building, coughing and grumbling
about interrupted experiments.<br />
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That's when I made a big life decision.<br />
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Right then and there, I became a psychology major. It was actually a pretty productive semester when you think about it.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-27256580853530193402012-05-24T13:24:00.000-07:002012-05-24T13:24:45.471-07:00Someone Was Stupid Enough to Let Me Do a Guest Post on their Blog<br />
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Yeah right.<br />
<br />
Anyway, check it out <a href="http://leemar.wordpress.com/2012/05/24/there-is-such-a-thing-as-a-free-lunch-and-i-ate-it-a-guest-post-by-jordie/">here</a>!<br />
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<br /></div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-51203704326798340682012-05-21T13:48:00.000-07:002012-05-22T06:59:55.626-07:00The Warrior DashLast year, I was listening to Pandora and getting pretty dang frustrated
that my "The Strokes" and "MGMT" inspired station kept insisting on
sneaking a Jonas Brothers song into the mix...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UwNXdy_enUokLbGSv50mC4SvJkErnu0tWd_8ZDGCgojXf38bRliVRQJuJVtBuuZvJ_Q-7MHivJfTpFAiNDHtz6u2DXvznTLLVWoL5GiXbVl-23nuroH5HGRuUCj9b_q5TktqrSCPJVXN/s1600/warrior+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UwNXdy_enUokLbGSv50mC4SvJkErnu0tWd_8ZDGCgojXf38bRliVRQJuJVtBuuZvJ_Q-7MHivJfTpFAiNDHtz6u2DXvznTLLVWoL5GiXbVl-23nuroH5HGRuUCj9b_q5TktqrSCPJVXN/s400/warrior+5.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
...when I started to take notice of an ad that had been playing in the background.<br />
<br />
It promised mud. It promised grime. It promised fire. It promised extremeness. It was for something called the Warrior Dash.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrqt0IgI0_Xxw5B7hZo_zOjE0CEMR9kNCHMMtS2Mx_dlX8iSOmY8xUXnnL0qOEZfi3JR-0VLwUmBZUAaUZszSYumw4jfD4QDZv5scdzgu_UdUQlNdtEYdZt3-OZ15Nid1bhLoWRErGup-/s1600/warrior+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrqt0IgI0_Xxw5B7hZo_zOjE0CEMR9kNCHMMtS2Mx_dlX8iSOmY8xUXnnL0qOEZfi3JR-0VLwUmBZUAaUZszSYumw4jfD4QDZv5scdzgu_UdUQlNdtEYdZt3-OZ15Nid1bhLoWRErGup-/s400/warrior+7.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Basically, it was a 5K filled with obstacles like fire, mud, barbed
wire, tall nets and something called the "Texas Tornado." <br />
<br />
Something inside me changed and my whole purpose in life became completing this race.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEk4yFqPjgmGqvTT9cZypAro_LKGcVFdDE11jqLApUd_ntSyaNuJK7U3QklpKDbhMrnUvfpwxOUSOctBTP3l04Tr1WKO2HqdJjegNInsv7j9SF_PXRhjuzRZLYp3gB3bG1OV9IpU3wF1bH/s1600/warrior+8.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEk4yFqPjgmGqvTT9cZypAro_LKGcVFdDE11jqLApUd_ntSyaNuJK7U3QklpKDbhMrnUvfpwxOUSOctBTP3l04Tr1WKO2HqdJjegNInsv7j9SF_PXRhjuzRZLYp3gB3bG1OV9IpU3wF1bH/s400/warrior+8.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLo8G8zD98T3ocpcvpNDDlsTtrZh6Fh63HGhR3Z72L8gvI_Sgb-9YDIqo1CFmMqyqMMHpLfEYGtFrIAOFND4p_xFPfIkzNQLW5154MgmNuFd24RitbBgVioJwcAmd5FcbXZzynIVoitUQ/s1600/warrior+9.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLo8G8zD98T3ocpcvpNDDlsTtrZh6Fh63HGhR3Z72L8gvI_Sgb-9YDIqo1CFmMqyqMMHpLfEYGtFrIAOFND4p_xFPfIkzNQLW5154MgmNuFd24RitbBgVioJwcAmd5FcbXZzynIVoitUQ/s400/warrior+9.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I'm pretty sure the term "Texas Tornado" had something to do with it.<br />
<br />
I quickly fired off an impassioned email to everyone I knew asking if
they would join me in my knight's quest. Despite most people not bothering to respond, I managed
to assemble a rag tag team who lacked athleticism but who meant well.<br />
<br />
Kinda like the Miami Dolphins.<br />
<br />
Once I paid my $9,000 registration fee...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKxy7zd2OArm2paR82j2YS9Y8RWnK8CNkJXEw-iMIIXfR7iuu-nIPrkFVYJsjHBgFLZac8kjN3X7OYJ9YSi1UqnS-dLFehmdDB_c2Jmuxjbc9qvo9OPhdKZMLjF0ljwjZCrLEqRieXQgz/s1600/warrior+10.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKxy7zd2OArm2paR82j2YS9Y8RWnK8CNkJXEw-iMIIXfR7iuu-nIPrkFVYJsjHBgFLZac8kjN3X7OYJ9YSi1UqnS-dLFehmdDB_c2Jmuxjbc9qvo9OPhdKZMLjF0ljwjZCrLEqRieXQgz/s400/warrior+10.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
...I alerted my friends and family back home how tough and extreme I was in a well crafted email.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDDR-wB9XdS2T4iWUwuVCIKgJBj6wUZhLWhXdus2nIaazGX95hR2EtAEEXC7zkOhHcniNe1yVCLLZYIB5fjPRPvESOd6HjT37NqSQmzofdPWrSFD8JuXoCSQNQy_NPkrG-y6x_N2xntYn/s1600/warrior+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDDR-wB9XdS2T4iWUwuVCIKgJBj6wUZhLWhXdus2nIaazGX95hR2EtAEEXC7zkOhHcniNe1yVCLLZYIB5fjPRPvESOd6HjT37NqSQmzofdPWrSFD8JuXoCSQNQy_NPkrG-y6x_N2xntYn/s640/warrior+1.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I also began training. I ran around several city blocks that I had calculated to total 5K. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXzRJiiAAjt0iobSGt2j7FhugOWjOM2HKC3EqjYGt7Ct0AqRFH17Us0zgqIRWfOXwhbEjrEj_hpSESSiTbm1fdBZ3nxS3E0s6b8KGudEUwrxSzwSnORwq7DaVslRkN1O3_mffhprRvE_s/s1600/warrior+11.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXzRJiiAAjt0iobSGt2j7FhugOWjOM2HKC3EqjYGt7Ct0AqRFH17Us0zgqIRWfOXwhbEjrEj_hpSESSiTbm1fdBZ3nxS3E0s6b8KGudEUwrxSzwSnORwq7DaVslRkN1O3_mffhprRvE_s/s400/warrior+11.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
About two months of training later, I had my time shaved down enough to own this race. And then, two nights before the big event...<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCy4i4rzWhMuOsbMky3UVUOhigawKlp_xUEa1nsZ9o94lTmMnRhIaLfjTxNKCyilRFrXWxmNlU-Ja76_HJKtnr-Na7jcl05w-nQXLNzlCA0vizMV2yXRO_uVKWIz7VzgGmVDmJANjy80dN/s1600/warrior+12.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCy4i4rzWhMuOsbMky3UVUOhigawKlp_xUEa1nsZ9o94lTmMnRhIaLfjTxNKCyilRFrXWxmNlU-Ja76_HJKtnr-Na7jcl05w-nQXLNzlCA0vizMV2yXRO_uVKWIz7VzgGmVDmJANjy80dN/s400/warrior+12.bmp" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
...I realized I had miscalculated the distance and had been running much less than a 5K the whole time. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Another real problem was that I had somehow managed to develop a nasty
pain in my left leg every time I put weight on it. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
On the day of the event, my friends wanted to visit a brewery out near
the race site before we ran. Apparently, I had taken this thing a little
more seriously than everyone else had. At the brewery, everyone enjoyed
some beer while I pulled out a lunch box filled with healthy snacks that
would provide excellent sources of fuel for the race. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdp3OH4jFRNtxehPs3xoTZzsPG0AKI3PrBB6LeQXoeZjXmf-ET9zrlwqg1rgJQXp3xpUjaL2Sz51rOX8qjnpWh4w6-65t1od3OEifPRdoxaMP0wYrb11d5qDGaexc-9Et5jG34JEkRpAX/s1600/warrior+14.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdp3OH4jFRNtxehPs3xoTZzsPG0AKI3PrBB6LeQXoeZjXmf-ET9zrlwqg1rgJQXp3xpUjaL2Sz51rOX8qjnpWh4w6-65t1od3OEifPRdoxaMP0wYrb11d5qDGaexc-9Et5jG34JEkRpAX/s400/warrior+14.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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When we arrived at the race, we got pretty nervous. When I get nervous, I make a lot of really good
jokes. When Anna
Marie gets nervous, she needs permission to perform any and all basic functions.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4zFsTUi1KG7cPTOoWlobiLbaALblK3Znf7n80zZkGjHsQ1QKJ7xMEmuDNibHXTrrwsuVoqzQZo9OfOl7EDJP9DPZcLPXtJ5GUeYYikExPRQUDTlGeQBQHwN24VrJC6dxyiuBF55SSny1/s1600/warrior+16.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4zFsTUi1KG7cPTOoWlobiLbaALblK3Znf7n80zZkGjHsQ1QKJ7xMEmuDNibHXTrrwsuVoqzQZo9OfOl7EDJP9DPZcLPXtJ5GUeYYikExPRQUDTlGeQBQHwN24VrJC6dxyiuBF55SSny1/s400/warrior+16.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
She also did something I've never seen any athlete do. She didn't want
her hair to get in her face, so she pulled out a giant can of hairspray
and sprayed her head in the parking lot.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Avp8csolDZvOMVZZzThhOCndEa5tfTm7Ib4IDPC_mMjLhzTLNedHXj_GZeubNh2QoCkWySjfG3XcXqvpxSQ9-qeWzrbwa3yVZ2ipvtvqdnl3rAoN-nOJr8WUVF8ymsM9sNbylDGaMSXQ/s1600/warrior+17.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Avp8csolDZvOMVZZzThhOCndEa5tfTm7Ib4IDPC_mMjLhzTLNedHXj_GZeubNh2QoCkWySjfG3XcXqvpxSQ9-qeWzrbwa3yVZ2ipvtvqdnl3rAoN-nOJr8WUVF8ymsM9sNbylDGaMSXQ/s400/warrior+17.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
We were off to a rocky start. <br />
<br />
Finally it was time for the race. Take a look at our team! I'm going to provide a real picture here because I can't draw this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprW21-Dl_z3g1gyGSRXhLWauoNQzLIIZIj2ippRe93MnQFNoG9vSnhXu-U6ibIR1vn-7a2_69uEL4czMhKBix5BKYg1xD7Dj1kXGZBiAmOR2nHJLcrYPnyhzl-oh7Me80qs4AeNWPwcXo/s1600/warrior+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprW21-Dl_z3g1gyGSRXhLWauoNQzLIIZIj2ippRe93MnQFNoG9vSnhXu-U6ibIR1vn-7a2_69uEL4czMhKBix5BKYg1xD7Dj1kXGZBiAmOR2nHJLcrYPnyhzl-oh7Me80qs4AeNWPwcXo/s400/warrior+6.jpg" title="Where did Anna Marie's left leg go?" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
When the gun went off, I took off like the warrior I had become. As I
flew through the race, I realized what a fool I was for taking it
seriously. Pretty much everyone around me was drunk and stumbling
through the course.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlyPBnrywK1ckW2g8sceEk04o3kbXfwgb9GlRSDdzrEVBUfQvGoZQ6GMczsAPze5S70NduDTc7Sa5hBTUzA6Ks4ueRegKVAOxGv2nUJ1DNQ7Dc9YWzvFJdti76qkC_63mCfDQ0CFfQRtd/s1600/warrior+18.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlyPBnrywK1ckW2g8sceEk04o3kbXfwgb9GlRSDdzrEVBUfQvGoZQ6GMczsAPze5S70NduDTc7Sa5hBTUzA6Ks4ueRegKVAOxGv2nUJ1DNQ7Dc9YWzvFJdti76qkC_63mCfDQ0CFfQRtd/s400/warrior+18.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkzaVEpXFzprdo14AnVzt3QH9CygM2YnzSv-C2ekiaiDkYXN1NU1nJk4AqVhgcTiliP7FX6UDCNvBxAjthQmsH5B-M10KAtNFJV42fUE1nw2L0_LkFmTgtddEFIEyr3zxz9t9N4Ot5dxd/s1600/warrior+19.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkzaVEpXFzprdo14AnVzt3QH9CygM2YnzSv-C2ekiaiDkYXN1NU1nJk4AqVhgcTiliP7FX6UDCNvBxAjthQmsH5B-M10KAtNFJV42fUE1nw2L0_LkFmTgtddEFIEyr3zxz9t9N4Ot5dxd/s400/warrior+19.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0roRXWTHNFAbMxdlU8mlLdaMLK0EAln_bKF5r8uYf74HGrcoERoSiQizyp7tFV5BH0wkB8mlRnuncbPR4Y4GwEnLeLOLXopDopCONdpvhql9XOApA8MhDBrODRCkfYBAEgBcDwNLxk10p/s1600/warrior+20.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0roRXWTHNFAbMxdlU8mlLdaMLK0EAln_bKF5r8uYf74HGrcoERoSiQizyp7tFV5BH0wkB8mlRnuncbPR4Y4GwEnLeLOLXopDopCONdpvhql9XOApA8MhDBrODRCkfYBAEgBcDwNLxk10p/s400/warrior+20.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Nonetheless, I ran. I slogged through the mud. I climbed over logs
submerged in waist deep water. I climbed tall nets (and at one point
nearly fell off one). I crawled through mud under barbed wire
(unlike some of my teammates who just stepped over the wire because they
didn't want to get dirty). There was even a giant fan that blew dirt in
my face as I stumbled past it (turns out, that's the "Texas Tornado"). And then, finally, I jumped over flames. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3y4BSHtabkhCHtxcjUVrEDP_LzbjeGmyx-0_DvLQ2aJO1s8TMsAnMNwvl3GQhFbizLKgKa4uCgLxmtfi2CiKIKfxAPx2cxWdi_QWtbJLvwB7n8sJJEamje9yTUnTheNg6kS-3P9R2otFL/s1600/warrior+21.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3y4BSHtabkhCHtxcjUVrEDP_LzbjeGmyx-0_DvLQ2aJO1s8TMsAnMNwvl3GQhFbizLKgKa4uCgLxmtfi2CiKIKfxAPx2cxWdi_QWtbJLvwB7n8sJJEamje9yTUnTheNg6kS-3P9R2otFL/s400/warrior+21.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Thanks to all that practice running and all the drunk competitors, I finished in the top 10%!<br />
<br />
(For that day) <br />
<br />
My team and I decided to celebrate with a bonfire at a cabin in the
woods nearby. The guy who built the fire set it up way too close to the
house and we were all a nervous wreck the whole time.<br />
<br />
When I got home, I emailed all my friends to share the news. One of my favorite replies came from my friend Camille, who wrote, "Now in that game where you have to say two truths and a lie, you can
say that one of your truths is that you've leaped over a wall of flames."<br />
<br />
What a good result I had never thought about! <br />
<br />
My other favorite response came from my <a href="http://jordiepaints.blogspot.com/2011/12/creative-use-for-hamper.html" target="_blank">sister</a>:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIF6cPEUbqtfPGCJJ1NikU519ugrn-_t6ce4ebWtrWhPhkhdAf9Rz6ZIgbsuCMY5EviaZ3jMi60WDn1TWEpZtyD694_tl82DxU2DlDWu9Co38STrp0xAel9NwRTesdvStqCiJwO-pJuWPi/s1600/warrior+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIF6cPEUbqtfPGCJJ1NikU519ugrn-_t6ce4ebWtrWhPhkhdAf9Rz6ZIgbsuCMY5EviaZ3jMi60WDn1TWEpZtyD694_tl82DxU2DlDWu9Co38STrp0xAel9NwRTesdvStqCiJwO-pJuWPi/s640/warrior+2.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
That's the Warrior Dash for you.<br />
<br />
(To read another take on this event, click <a href="http://leemar.wordpress.com/2011/07/27/we-are-the-warriors-a-post-by-anna/">here!</a>)Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-33137388878886472922012-05-15T14:59:00.000-07:002012-05-15T14:59:07.239-07:00When I was an older baby, people found me a bit unnerving. This was
because I began to talk at an early age and never spoke baby-talk. I
just opened my mouth one day and complete sentences came
out. When new people came around, they were always a bit startled.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBr2FWV_FoUWQhkj9_V-hdVLkwncMxiakeURi36S7kbbbUcd7mvzcOqmIT6O30LmB3rsNV2uqhGfZxu3igGupQM8kw5aQUBlKEQBFeJ90LzWZINCF6r5qb6pJmxAoleyI7Ml3aG3yVj6B/s1600/food+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBr2FWV_FoUWQhkj9_V-hdVLkwncMxiakeURi36S7kbbbUcd7mvzcOqmIT6O30LmB3rsNV2uqhGfZxu3igGupQM8kw5aQUBlKEQBFeJ90LzWZINCF6r5qb6pJmxAoleyI7Ml3aG3yVj6B/s400/food+1.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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In order to remedy not liking my name, I came up with a new one for myself.<br />
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I have no idea where anything but the Jordie part came from.<br />
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My ability to speak clearly so young created a tricky situation for my
mom in terms of her cooking. Whereas most babies at that age can't
exactly verbalize cooking critiques to their parents, I was an exception. One of my favorite childhood home
videos has a scene that plays out as follows: <br />
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Perhaps because she thought it would be cute, or perhaps as a
subconscious way to get back at me for those types of comments, my mom
decided to give me a bowl haircut as soon as I had enough hair. My hair
came in blindingly blond, and the bowl was pretty big, so I hardly
resembled anything human for several years.<br />
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What she hadn't counted on was that I would use this bowl of hair as a
napkin when it came to mealtime. I first discovered this option when my
parents brought my sister and me to my grandmother's apartment for some
spaghetti. To my mother's horror, I forewent the fork and spoon and
began shoveling the noodles and tomato sauce into my mouth. At one
point, I became displeased with the notion that there was red sauce all
over my hands, so I reached up and wiped it all in my hair.<br />
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From that moment on, I wiped everything on my hair. There was no mess
that could not be cleaned up using my hair. After meals, my mom and dad
would have to put me in the sink and run the faucet over my head.<br />
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When I got to be a little older, my food critiques got a little more colorful and nuanced. <br />
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When it came to food, I may have been able to dish it out, but I also
had to take it. Once, I slipped while climbing into my
chair to eat a bowl of chili.<br />
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When I lifted my face from the scalding hot chili, there were bits of meat and beans stuck to it.<br />
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I also had the propensity to throw up everything I'd eaten in my mom's vehicle on long car trips.<br />
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I have to be extra nice to my mom on mothers day.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-42635463903623211902012-05-03T07:58:00.002-07:002012-05-04T09:41:45.836-07:00Trampoline Palace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm pretty sure heaven will be filled with fun stuff like giant
warehouses filled with seemingly endless trampolines that are supervised
by power hungry high schoolers. For the living, one can find a
slice of heaven in a crummy part of Houston.<br />
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I first learned about Sky Zone in a pretty fantastic phone call from a friend of mine.<br />
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You know when a call starts with a line like that you're in for something good.<br />
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This was not your everyday invitation, but my answer was obvious.<br />
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I was practically out-of-my-gourd excited throughout The Day of the Jumping.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PdNErUFtgbQ_8ZWRi5wRdpsJwGE4oq5XNu7BWRSC__Ito1pmZQGXEK1gALi4q0ijCH_P9whpMRSPISujzLbTNQt56c2oDPkm_Pzzmruf0k0CNSAkJguVO4dmN0IBvEyZdffEe_-B7CCw/s1600/tramp+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PdNErUFtgbQ_8ZWRi5wRdpsJwGE4oq5XNu7BWRSC__Ito1pmZQGXEK1gALi4q0ijCH_P9whpMRSPISujzLbTNQt56c2oDPkm_Pzzmruf0k0CNSAkJguVO4dmN0IBvEyZdffEe_-B7CCw/s400/tramp+6.bmp" width="400" /> </a></div>
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Part of why I was so excited was because I had a trampoline growing up and
knew how to do a flip. One time I flipped right off the edge and landed
on my head. I'm pretty sure I had a serious concussion, but I didn't know what that was at the time so I crawled
off, threw up, and fell asleep somewhere.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PIrj5SQ7qhX3IDT0zrBUp5ciiobECYOxbH3uHPTm__ijH4DPrnTbOM_DmKJB-U8oFlEXgdCgEEeLGVxDejmm_0L4G5tfLCid_vgJlcIifoustBOvnz78jd8T3tm-aUbnrVV_E8Tshi74/s1600/tramp+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PIrj5SQ7qhX3IDT0zrBUp5ciiobECYOxbH3uHPTm__ijH4DPrnTbOM_DmKJB-U8oFlEXgdCgEEeLGVxDejmm_0L4G5tfLCid_vgJlcIifoustBOvnz78jd8T3tm-aUbnrVV_E8Tshi74/s400/tramp+7.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm not entirely sure how I made it through that one.<br />
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I figured I was going to impress everyone at the trampoline palace if I did a flip.<br />
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I was kind of in a funny mood when we arrived because, while waiting for my friends in the parking lot,
I finished a sad book about teenagers with terminal cancer just before entering a place where you bounce around with joy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6Zv8gCthwISxkGBnaQE7w45SmiEfCoOnW8fuk4pRPf5zq1cYogZxy7vPYN4O2fCF75dNtqFvboqSR-TqWJmG8PiokjDukZ2V68QxdX7ueyC4o-050hpVPgopXUSNKTsx66wwRtOGyVuu/s1600/tramp+15.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6Zv8gCthwISxkGBnaQE7w45SmiEfCoOnW8fuk4pRPf5zq1cYogZxy7vPYN4O2fCF75dNtqFvboqSR-TqWJmG8PiokjDukZ2V68QxdX7ueyC4o-050hpVPgopXUSNKTsx66wwRtOGyVuu/s400/tramp+15.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SM96al-RHlOFRU_szgCDjt9KoS-vzYazHa_YiKaTDJXn2QE7HQLCQxeua0PUt1zoIw_KkhQsySP5tafR5NupQVCgUtv4uM3WzWUEdB5qxJ1uSfeA75o9FaOuXxUax_Jmx5za1YcZuwa7/s1600/tramp+8.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SM96al-RHlOFRU_szgCDjt9KoS-vzYazHa_YiKaTDJXn2QE7HQLCQxeua0PUt1zoIw_KkhQsySP5tafR5NupQVCgUtv4uM3WzWUEdB5qxJ1uSfeA75o9FaOuXxUax_Jmx5za1YcZuwa7/s400/tramp+8.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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Man, bouncing was great! There were a billion smaller trampolines all
connected to one another so that you could bounce all around. There were
even trampolines on the walls to bounce off. Plus, you had to wear these cool blue space shoes.<br />
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I think my favorite part was the militant high school supervisors
who served as the trampoline versions of lifeguards. If you fell down
during a maneuver and it took you longer than about 2 seconds to get up,
they became pretty agitated.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRfLsXvUmTRBvmHPia8U1auY6hRECC-OT3qBHgNX0N1aL5ufVwlVxKg1oEw2I2xgj2FFYWNbUv2CwAcjymQvnl1Uy-3JjNKEMAExfi2e4V5ogezoUqhkYNP4Ig4xltl0NXRSQsNU7CcDO/s1600/tramp+9.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRfLsXvUmTRBvmHPia8U1auY6hRECC-OT3qBHgNX0N1aL5ufVwlVxKg1oEw2I2xgj2FFYWNbUv2CwAcjymQvnl1Uy-3JjNKEMAExfi2e4V5ogezoUqhkYNP4Ig4xltl0NXRSQsNU7CcDO/s400/tramp+9.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was pretty excited to show off my flip. It's always fun to be an
uncoordinated, nonathletic chump who is actually kinda good at something almost athletic. This excitement was soon mitigated:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKD_StUk5A9anD3z-PWvVz_E5GXSp35pWuIrXU7j4nK8iBiulZglvQlH6Z33YI2yStiDd9DYK0_B3rK9Ne4iCyg0ninw_KCD4FWsRUJUQPYTcw2HywkzX7atJ_CxPfB5j2MgB4diySZXz/s1600/tramp+10.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKD_StUk5A9anD3z-PWvVz_E5GXSp35pWuIrXU7j4nK8iBiulZglvQlH6Z33YI2yStiDd9DYK0_B3rK9Ne4iCyg0ninw_KCD4FWsRUJUQPYTcw2HywkzX7atJ_CxPfB5j2MgB4diySZXz/s400/tramp+10.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyNJgqcb_3gWiaHo0ZsZnyDYdjvgYQ3rDTSArc1yWzyz93Si37mWPZwr0j_67MAaKfp6q1VpmYePB_iwnnRzK6_8dYVTPqpmxC4Rl6uflGoubtZ-g1fE5hF1yWH9rZYQga12ZzmmruDSN/s1600/tramp+11.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyNJgqcb_3gWiaHo0ZsZnyDYdjvgYQ3rDTSArc1yWzyz93Si37mWPZwr0j_67MAaKfp6q1VpmYePB_iwnnRzK6_8dYVTPqpmxC4Rl6uflGoubtZ-g1fE5hF1yWH9rZYQga12ZzmmruDSN/s400/tramp+11.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftYAS5p_rW0AFMPLt0YSEpBaO5WXmv-zF-Qia3sWU7UDfdhrnK_O2jTFp5CQpXhvslJ3Tq3a_3gx4gnpPRmgA9wn0zCQdR6rqcENBGSeGokdRfIFVWu7YkLJmS9WRP6txAix_uVwDrokO/s1600/tramp+12.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftYAS5p_rW0AFMPLt0YSEpBaO5WXmv-zF-Qia3sWU7UDfdhrnK_O2jTFp5CQpXhvslJ3Tq3a_3gx4gnpPRmgA9wn0zCQdR6rqcENBGSeGokdRfIFVWu7YkLJmS9WRP6txAix_uVwDrokO/s400/tramp+12.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4IH_nnTWzJB7U2CoMt9KPr86tG_fkFFydJxmcSfRZGvKRXoP8W-rYgEEHkIVnbJopn5bI8EZS_yLd1eFoeRO5UL52Rv-BYszfqMbXAoXdVuANAaB-EAcvXPymswVso8C_7InPxyR_RM0/s1600/tramp+13.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4IH_nnTWzJB7U2CoMt9KPr86tG_fkFFydJxmcSfRZGvKRXoP8W-rYgEEHkIVnbJopn5bI8EZS_yLd1eFoeRO5UL52Rv-BYszfqMbXAoXdVuANAaB-EAcvXPymswVso8C_7InPxyR_RM0/s400/tramp+13.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmlEOGT8F4CnxTs8hyphenhyphenN7tysF4V4c2ZV-fSL2i9nAxXlphRVQ8hRsRjKYsAeOHQK_JgzgPSLF0PBnWRT7C-4UvDABWPBcrMfKqk8XKRyiwHm_LXn5HBWp7KBRmEyg61ivHBkT8mjHDGMIb/s1600/tramp+14.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmlEOGT8F4CnxTs8hyphenhyphenN7tysF4V4c2ZV-fSL2i9nAxXlphRVQ8hRsRjKYsAeOHQK_JgzgPSLF0PBnWRT7C-4UvDABWPBcrMfKqk8XKRyiwHm_LXn5HBWp7KBRmEyg61ivHBkT8mjHDGMIb/s400/tramp+14.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
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Apparently doing a flip on a trampoline is super easy. Go figure.</div>
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Here's a real photo to provide a better sense of all this. I'm the white blur at the top of the shot. I have no clue who that person in the background is. I actually never saw him while we were there, so I'm not entirely sure he isn't a ghost or an angel who showed up in my cell phone camera.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_i-gglVhqkXmvrEtHM-fQJg2u3S7Vc1XIZFanoOJzDdBt-yeVTYv6KqPWMCjM9iiP-SbKzDdFJq0h81tZf0bgyVN-Cz4kWAnMLHNxxua6tTSD5tCyezOXOcr0xGCmMR85r2TD8piUCDeG/s1600/trampoline+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_i-gglVhqkXmvrEtHM-fQJg2u3S7Vc1XIZFanoOJzDdBt-yeVTYv6KqPWMCjM9iiP-SbKzDdFJq0h81tZf0bgyVN-Cz4kWAnMLHNxxua6tTSD5tCyezOXOcr0xGCmMR85r2TD8piUCDeG/s400/trampoline+photo.jpg" title="Flippin flippin" width="300" /></a></div>
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I love the idea that a ghost or an angel would be hanging out at this place on a Thursday evening.</div>
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Maybe that means there aren't trampolines in heaven.</div>
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Dang.</div>
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</div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-37531994402761995212012-04-19T14:37:00.000-07:002012-04-19T14:37:05.574-07:00Calamity at the Coke MuseumI almost went to the ER in Atlanta. <br />
<br />
That kinda sounds like the title of an unsuccessful Country song.<br />
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I was visiting a friend who doesn't like to be referenced on the internet, so we'll call him Cory. Cory was living in Atlanta working in an industrial parts company. <br />
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BORING!<br />
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This is what I imagined him doing each day:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcqI5S8GJF5Lviz2-1GpiN23ylyxSrqCBc9QO0uKv1qWiKEmy6VUeKVjyiNiTYRB7HNvawTJ_nPkyHLTFz9b6aaqocERZRNB2-eUy_GFNBWNwXyNqWF5i8-xDtkB2H3eQ0MiT2TLNdTKw/s1600/coke+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcqI5S8GJF5Lviz2-1GpiN23ylyxSrqCBc9QO0uKv1qWiKEmy6VUeKVjyiNiTYRB7HNvawTJ_nPkyHLTFz9b6aaqocERZRNB2-eUy_GFNBWNwXyNqWF5i8-xDtkB2H3eQ0MiT2TLNdTKw/s400/coke+1.bmp" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For some reason, I pictured everything at his job being in black and white. I actually think it kinda was. Once while he was there, a co-worker threw up on himself and then asked Cory what he should do. Cory said that he should go home and change clothes.<br />
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The main thing I wanted to do in Atlanta (and the main reason I even went) was to go to the Coke Museum. I absolutely love soda. I mean, I'm bonkers about it. (To read about the complications this has caused, click <a href="http://jordiepaints.blogspot.com/2010/07/mexican-lasagna.html">here</a>.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Coke museum was all I could think about beforehand. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFeuXG6iJDOUaAkPJhBM0_ycx6X7DtBWRneJAhsi7b6LGGHubs-oAW4U6BRptHJN7bNCRlVRgXwvNxxrQd52hG78PmlfCf-gHOyDPIBYaTKDqKC3tXxTx0MJ7oGsclvXY5rJ5Bm62Pama/s1600/coke+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFeuXG6iJDOUaAkPJhBM0_ycx6X7DtBWRneJAhsi7b6LGGHubs-oAW4U6BRptHJN7bNCRlVRgXwvNxxrQd52hG78PmlfCf-gHOyDPIBYaTKDqKC3tXxTx0MJ7oGsclvXY5rJ5Bm62Pama/s400/coke+2.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The night before, I found it hard to sleep.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5ohtfd6woqufQIZr4llpLZj1gRfaPSsamyZCPvTx1IDHugZr0qpRnfTJPDMsDiFojQ9H2waSZGoGO5dkq3qfBwqc8e3lVC_IMP6lIZKaUGhnpIKll4tXryh5gL1_LxC4-gOUVO-aAv0e/s1600/coke+3.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5ohtfd6woqufQIZr4llpLZj1gRfaPSsamyZCPvTx1IDHugZr0qpRnfTJPDMsDiFojQ9H2waSZGoGO5dkq3qfBwqc8e3lVC_IMP6lIZKaUGhnpIKll4tXryh5gL1_LxC4-gOUVO-aAv0e/s400/coke+3.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div>When we got there, I was in a state of all out panic about getting unlimited samples. I was sincerely afraid some important machine part would break and they would have to close it down. I lost all sense of decorum.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrNZqFKBeDY7kXaOjsNFhqZu0rJQfVn51HWFw3SD8UuhZSM6v6N2z3MXqqO-GAWZ3TW_71kjVgJ0gW8C0Wiqhcs_qydWkwn75pKnbqnV9LUJNlZHW0VFLyoAsdMQYEaegUeQrbVqa84pE/s1600/coke+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrNZqFKBeDY7kXaOjsNFhqZu0rJQfVn51HWFw3SD8UuhZSM6v6N2z3MXqqO-GAWZ3TW_71kjVgJ0gW8C0Wiqhcs_qydWkwn75pKnbqnV9LUJNlZHW0VFLyoAsdMQYEaegUeQrbVqa84pE/s400/coke+5.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Just before I became completely unhinged, we reached the soda room. It was heaven.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOV3lX8IQPlYdEJmKc4abvmjGsWJpFRWrKPHd0XwF2OGsP1rxtNslG6scrqjosaxxKYr1MASpGr7GCvmfaHZziDLw58Pz3xKcirgkUpp3N8aqxjZn9RSh7Xw9KFv4qF1FY-BgY4v7O1s1/s1600/coke+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOV3lX8IQPlYdEJmKc4abvmjGsWJpFRWrKPHd0XwF2OGsP1rxtNslG6scrqjosaxxKYr1MASpGr7GCvmfaHZziDLw58Pz3xKcirgkUpp3N8aqxjZn9RSh7Xw9KFv4qF1FY-BgY4v7O1s1/s400/coke+6.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I began to furiously drink all the soda.<br />
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Cory and I drank so much soda, we had to sit down and take a breather. Despite the discomfort of millions of bubbles expanding the walls of our stomachs, we went back in for more. It wasn't even enjoyable at a certain point, but that didn't stop us. <br />
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When we couldn't take it anymore, I drank a few more samples and then we waddled off to the car. That's when things went really wrong.<br />
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I literally had to lay down in the back seat as my stomach felt like it was about to burst inside my peritoneal cavity. I was actually pretty scared. <br />
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At one point, Cory and I considered whether or not I needed to go to the ER. We were really close to doing it when I decided I didn't want to deal with insurance and the co-pay.<br />
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Fortunately, the pain subsided about an hour later and I lived. Interestingly, the bubbles had expanded my stomach so much that I became ravenous and ended up eating a full order of Chinese take-out and a half of a baked chicken.<br />
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I didn't learn any lessons from any of this.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-57578714560209888472012-04-08T14:19:00.000-07:002012-04-08T14:19:09.668-07:00Skydiving - The Activity During Which You Really Don't Want Things to Go WrongAnd wrong they went!<br />
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I'll explain.<br />
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My friends decided that they would surprise me for my birthday by taking me skydiving. All they told me was that I should keep Saturday morning open and to wear athletic clothes. Naturally, I respected their wishes to keep it a secret.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCBZWmiOmdqIjr_UtO3xLuNX54DNtADpibEC1fp878IyrJYnZUel7-kagERTCQ4RxSzkWT_WN9r9rqb0nEnXqC_EdGHD-TyvneX5G2gptbXv9gxrz3a2x1-4rCiW27fpWLPw_e8kaZxht/s1600/sky+dive+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCBZWmiOmdqIjr_UtO3xLuNX54DNtADpibEC1fp878IyrJYnZUel7-kagERTCQ4RxSzkWT_WN9r9rqb0nEnXqC_EdGHD-TyvneX5G2gptbXv9gxrz3a2x1-4rCiW27fpWLPw_e8kaZxht/s400/sky+dive+2.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PYc6Lzk2ySZ2f1wkWL_PRAC7Ypi7ftrYJhE9wJYFrP0670eXEaf2BY7rAFx9ZOTbT_TBqWXlFFfelSsRbjUQ1lrbOXBW898FTqZ_eUjLnIQwg3i7_POxWF4FXer2-SZneSYI79Uyb9ri/s1600/sky+dive+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PYc6Lzk2ySZ2f1wkWL_PRAC7Ypi7ftrYJhE9wJYFrP0670eXEaf2BY7rAFx9ZOTbT_TBqWXlFFfelSsRbjUQ1lrbOXBW898FTqZ_eUjLnIQwg3i7_POxWF4FXer2-SZneSYI79Uyb9ri/s400/sky+dive+5.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Persistence and perceptiveness prevailed, as I determined who the weaker of the two was. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjATCJsqHA-WlkNfHDFm3LN0_b5lHJKzZqhSOsZWxrfDpWmcZDJno894cW9Zztigf2wcU6iQ3lrhD2ko-pFoYwIhhyqdIyQO8zvtlySDLYfYFfMrjN8VX0vWnoZ_z-ETK4M46wgv0HChsZH/s1600/sky+dive+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjATCJsqHA-WlkNfHDFm3LN0_b5lHJKzZqhSOsZWxrfDpWmcZDJno894cW9Zztigf2wcU6iQ3lrhD2ko-pFoYwIhhyqdIyQO8zvtlySDLYfYFfMrjN8VX0vWnoZ_z-ETK4M46wgv0HChsZH/s400/sky+dive+6.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk4CzjmKTm8CsFZlNFR-fvcBFafRq1YRrqEHHc8RcYR8e_QRBr1xTwS79vT2gIk_zfTHCGUF57odmHiezWqxrP7_-mKZP_7qwoaJYemtQiBmld-WWvLjApEP_1Sgxo-O-RNizayp3h3xNY/s1600/sky+dive+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk4CzjmKTm8CsFZlNFR-fvcBFafRq1YRrqEHHc8RcYR8e_QRBr1xTwS79vT2gIk_zfTHCGUF57odmHiezWqxrP7_-mKZP_7qwoaJYemtQiBmld-WWvLjApEP_1Sgxo-O-RNizayp3h3xNY/s320/sky+dive+7.bmp" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He crumbled like a cookie. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was devastated. I took this news basically as a death sentence.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For the next 48 hours, I walked around like someone on death row. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I kinda stopped breathing. And most surprisingly, I stopped doing homework. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6B333wz1yDX6Endleio5iZ85JCRBUKAFQoMM7-nk3NEGA9-X_yxA7n0n9t3xZGffdoJGMQM_uIB_p2Ydz4pGqlJEFXxs-7MODoosukmQ_ZKLEYJjVNoLKkU-l2FyfYObdAWyeyy9yb6mw/s1600/sky+dive+13.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6B333wz1yDX6Endleio5iZ85JCRBUKAFQoMM7-nk3NEGA9-X_yxA7n0n9t3xZGffdoJGMQM_uIB_p2Ydz4pGqlJEFXxs-7MODoosukmQ_ZKLEYJjVNoLKkU-l2FyfYObdAWyeyy9yb6mw/s400/sky+dive+13.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I got real philosophical.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When we arrived on site, I was feeling pretty loopy, not having eaten or slept in two days. While everyone else was starting to get nervous, I was barely coherent, which was fun.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When the plane got up in the air, I learned that my friends had paid for a lady to jump with us and film us on the way down. Her name was Delfina, which sounded like something straight out of Mario Cart. You can't make this stuff up.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At about 14 million feet, they strapped us to our instructors. One of the them was literally asleep the whole way up in the plane, which didn't inspire confidence. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUJ6FRTr1TeAXJTJ0gyP87FoTty5-X7nUDHEagizuPmvOjQNhSFtiMIdT5ViKrPQTgjQlzIAU-UxLTrJpSmY1buexYmPr6XQsD-vZWh4etRTXcUj-RZnYRB5qXz4V5oGS1zFu-eRLOPCR/s1600/sky+dive+16.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUJ6FRTr1TeAXJTJ0gyP87FoTty5-X7nUDHEagizuPmvOjQNhSFtiMIdT5ViKrPQTgjQlzIAU-UxLTrJpSmY1buexYmPr6XQsD-vZWh4etRTXcUj-RZnYRB5qXz4V5oGS1zFu-eRLOPCR/s400/sky+dive+16.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The other instructor kept talking with the pilot about all the flips, twists, and other maneuvers he was planning for the jump. This was also disconcerting.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When we jumped, I vomited everywhere.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoWhD-p4cAsKsqKuq1RnHWyE5iKBTlN6eA7IskrL0mJoU8wUdieHgMiMvfOlwuNqcGHl3UYZKkZ9qQ1aX0kryWjWyMGE78PoIiSpmMOy1JsRHR-EOxmRhuVAMqzdsIcB64SgYyJzfPpaA/s1600/sky+dive+17.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoWhD-p4cAsKsqKuq1RnHWyE5iKBTlN6eA7IskrL0mJoU8wUdieHgMiMvfOlwuNqcGHl3UYZKkZ9qQ1aX0kryWjWyMGE78PoIiSpmMOy1JsRHR-EOxmRhuVAMqzdsIcB64SgYyJzfPpaA/s400/sky+dive+17.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
Finally, it was time to land. Despite the parachute, skydivers still hurtle towards the earth at a surprising speed. They are supposed to pull tightly on the parachute cords just before the landing, which slows them down and makes the landing, well, survivable. Apparently, something called a crosswind can interfere with this and cause a crash landing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivHuJ7oBImmFDLCHY8KKZQEulB5tJEKQDzDatBqJzTBaODQTOZJzmT18tISx50343VjeP1lqyJzv9qb_rJd000kfKYj1oWsU53aFBQSoctzFIL9NA8_3TkDOYdVQXfUdiKyjrsrZaeoXAR/s1600/sky+dive+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivHuJ7oBImmFDLCHY8KKZQEulB5tJEKQDzDatBqJzTBaODQTOZJzmT18tISx50343VjeP1lqyJzv9qb_rJd000kfKYj1oWsU53aFBQSoctzFIL9NA8_3TkDOYdVQXfUdiKyjrsrZaeoXAR/s400/sky+dive+18.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So can not-paying-attention, but nobody asked me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As my spine squashed into the earth like a plastic cup in a trash compacter, my only thoughts were of how my parents were going to kill me because I had signed away any ability to sue anyone ever again in my life on the skydiving waiver. <br />
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Somehow, I was able to shake off the full body pain long enough to snap a photo with my friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTqWQMnUQuN1TcGdX4jsA2x5TlJ6ZgxaSN8E9G0EYPeVLeP9dvYPy5BCtXOjTq033NZMyEIt8oS4s2dR-I6o5ziNq6usoUzHZK1EEpnfdDi-n2p_PD2Q4wOIBIXLn3Ig463gz_Ar7pZLK/s1600/sky+dive+19.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTqWQMnUQuN1TcGdX4jsA2x5TlJ6ZgxaSN8E9G0EYPeVLeP9dvYPy5BCtXOjTq033NZMyEIt8oS4s2dR-I6o5ziNq6usoUzHZK1EEpnfdDi-n2p_PD2Q4wOIBIXLn3Ig463gz_Ar7pZLK/s400/sky+dive+19.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I think the best part was when Delfina came out from the editing room (still in her skydive outfit) and put the freshly cut dvd of the jump on the t.v. for all to see. It was set to techno music. Talk about a gem of a dvd.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'd definitely recommend skydiving. Just maybe not in Chester, South Carolina.</div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-73109203079895073722012-03-29T10:16:00.003-07:002012-03-29T11:44:49.463-07:00Some Highly Craved AttentionFriends,<br />
<br />
I have exciting<a href="http://jordiepaints.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"> </a>news! I am now a little less unfamous.<br />
<br />
I was recently interviewed about <a href="http://jordiepaints.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Life in MS Paint</a> on a blog that gets a lot more hits than mine does: <a href="http://jenbokoff.com/" target="_blank">jenbokoff.com</a>.<br />
<br />
Ever since the <a href="http://jenbokoff.com/day/2012/03/29" target="_blank">interview</a> was posted (all of about 2 hours ago), I have been acting like a celebrity.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgdlx0Mn-iEX7AaVXcu-_qCV14H76ZH4ruYRrlJ8HM6qIz7hBJeVtR-xZlmkgBuCq1ux-S7Ql_wY-O4pibM0CrZjWq3m-vSsciyzV9t8pxFugIlv42BUImKDI-w01fvfaUUlQKOmp4ri5/s1600/iv+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgdlx0Mn-iEX7AaVXcu-_qCV14H76ZH4ruYRrlJ8HM6qIz7hBJeVtR-xZlmkgBuCq1ux-S7Ql_wY-O4pibM0CrZjWq3m-vSsciyzV9t8pxFugIlv42BUImKDI-w01fvfaUUlQKOmp4ri5/s400/iv+1.bmp" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZYdbSIqJfjuu2gyM1ixXfBcnpwBUOFEyu2NZfNRMEGUIl6eBheAXRlSYD-mdjxggx0QmE4qJWvl1KwwI_XkQ8ckrcVjPjNgQOZPo_Eo7pwADDzdZdQVu2uTKPHhjgVUJMPwfckI3l8xo/s1600/iv+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZYdbSIqJfjuu2gyM1ixXfBcnpwBUOFEyu2NZfNRMEGUIl6eBheAXRlSYD-mdjxggx0QmE4qJWvl1KwwI_XkQ8ckrcVjPjNgQOZPo_Eo7pwADDzdZdQVu2uTKPHhjgVUJMPwfckI3l8xo/s400/iv+2.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2QT12fN33WF-22bBarxPch2N5X8w48jDXkSaQ59Pvm3THC3aBG9zoJ73hr3vdqmKEBOppIOqJkpTIgphxwUjw-ZhG-xV4OPLcL91ZNdJMxpY7Qt40jXHaIU5S9BKuRAjGx_7VbtSs3MJ/s1600/iv+3.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2QT12fN33WF-22bBarxPch2N5X8w48jDXkSaQ59Pvm3THC3aBG9zoJ73hr3vdqmKEBOppIOqJkpTIgphxwUjw-ZhG-xV4OPLcL91ZNdJMxpY7Qt40jXHaIU5S9BKuRAjGx_7VbtSs3MJ/s400/iv+3.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I have also developed a taste for the finer things.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmKVLWX1tXglDiM7bCApeFw5LMmxkVbeX6Ra6CQybZMFTEP8hErTC2vzljrjpIijizbVZv4r0Rxo6doR1n-YqRfXDMWzpNDR9SWLttcOt0-Yzozdyoq1b0ZHKaAnDQ4VHPusil5idy3sQ/s1600/iv+4.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmKVLWX1tXglDiM7bCApeFw5LMmxkVbeX6Ra6CQybZMFTEP8hErTC2vzljrjpIijizbVZv4r0Rxo6doR1n-YqRfXDMWzpNDR9SWLttcOt0-Yzozdyoq1b0ZHKaAnDQ4VHPusil5idy3sQ/s400/iv+4.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojhZ_LUHQY5BNuHfjbVXGglZ30ASKd36yPcWBXFDNf596Ag2sHrBt1yTcHVZ6w_YlVwlbN-qnAkrTLnht2Hok_Jxdz1dCX1r0bvMTwVcWiUNX7hIHAsE04cyEKZ1MllwfTdSkpUbfMoFx/s1600/iv+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojhZ_LUHQY5BNuHfjbVXGglZ30ASKd36yPcWBXFDNf596Ag2sHrBt1yTcHVZ6w_YlVwlbN-qnAkrTLnht2Hok_Jxdz1dCX1r0bvMTwVcWiUNX7hIHAsE04cyEKZ1MllwfTdSkpUbfMoFx/s400/iv+5.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
(Clearly, I've been pretty thirsty today.)<br />
<br />
I called a real estate agent about purchasing a unit in a downtown high rise but I have yet to hear back. Perhaps I shouldn't have told him I wouldn't budge over $800 total (and even that was a bluff).<br />
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I almost blew the interview too. I kept thinking it was funny to answer "No" to everything.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWEe-GCPAUkjndJhEfz-SBIlPI6s6W7VMgXBEV2TonyyZz8n2dKPrBmXbXmYSMDZVmIPiMNcgEEoN7gdEDKnT0E27haEThp0q8E119LBMk-rxKhbYclJ4mA9XNIRRQAotc4gr3MjhaLCd/s1600/iv+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWEe-GCPAUkjndJhEfz-SBIlPI6s6W7VMgXBEV2TonyyZz8n2dKPrBmXbXmYSMDZVmIPiMNcgEEoN7gdEDKnT0E27haEThp0q8E119LBMk-rxKhbYclJ4mA9XNIRRQAotc4gr3MjhaLCd/s400/iv+6.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This wouldn't have made for a very interesting interview, so I really had to show some restraint.<br />
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Special thanks to Jen Bokoff for having great taste in blogs! <br />
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Check hers out if you get the chance. Many of her posts are informative and thoughtful, which is more than I can say for Life in MS Paint.<br />
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<br />
Make it rain!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvt3Vfpo1dNqPBHl8nUkI9VI9lv9wZq0Cg75jPWWKybH4PYWtXn5l0UUAVJ1-Q5O8yrfyTbW7hETeRFgDvtqfqlkAP0KYYTb6g8rL2HV57yp6zhxuachYANaKhv4B5df7c8DQHmUJEg3xN/s1600/iv+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvt3Vfpo1dNqPBHl8nUkI9VI9lv9wZq0Cg75jPWWKybH4PYWtXn5l0UUAVJ1-Q5O8yrfyTbW7hETeRFgDvtqfqlkAP0KYYTb6g8rL2HV57yp6zhxuachYANaKhv4B5df7c8DQHmUJEg3xN/s400/iv+7.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
(I threw at least 9 or 10 bucks in the air! And then scrambled after them as a gust of wind hit.)Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-53887610352002185482012-03-20T08:17:00.001-07:002012-03-20T08:20:54.560-07:00PB (or Paintball to the Lay Man)I went paintballing recently. Yes, that's right, paintballing. <br />
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One might wonder - What is a guy with no depth perception, speed, agility, or blood thirst doing signing up for paintball?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Cf7_6DAJysBTNPeml04-XjATzexSFLRZaRJmOJx2EM7i7tZfthnR4m_h17fvcuxpMF1sxP62UaETzfJdFWrvyelKdrkTQ3FDKhUsme8zPnBP1Vs15efMcAHFvn30PRMOd1Hv7gNJTVni/s1600/Paintball+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Cf7_6DAJysBTNPeml04-XjATzexSFLRZaRJmOJx2EM7i7tZfthnR4m_h17fvcuxpMF1sxP62UaETzfJdFWrvyelKdrkTQ3FDKhUsme8zPnBP1Vs15efMcAHFvn30PRMOd1Hv7gNJTVni/s400/Paintball+1.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Getting shot, that's what. <br />
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One of my best friends was getting married and he wanted his groomsmen to play paintball before he tied the knot. <br />
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He decreed that I had to wear a bright orange vest and skull cap because he thought it would be fun to watch me get pelted with rock solid paint pellets. Because I'm a complete sap and figured that it was his weekend, I reluctantly complied.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghD2bTm2kK699O65d2H6pvtAYc0qrFk-F4ZlfVZ684ACxEp3cWua6VF-VIjUUQ1GvAjXrYSvZUOQKms53pGpgThJh8gPFnFIar4OPIyW0QShezePHW8xJyboVgdXEYQcn83tehsOGn018s/s1600/paintball+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghD2bTm2kK699O65d2H6pvtAYc0qrFk-F4ZlfVZ684ACxEp3cWua6VF-VIjUUQ1GvAjXrYSvZUOQKms53pGpgThJh8gPFnFIar4OPIyW0QShezePHW8xJyboVgdXEYQcn83tehsOGn018s/s400/paintball+2.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeyjXZM7wsTRVTmIdeVHGPML9jtn0K-8qXHEF2pFZQqbzyozxwfMZKc2XrAYGvB695Rt1vYgUQXTAPLVkd2F5YtDIsWjIioqnGgIbkRiUtEGW4RrimRPU_cT81c6zFFas5-AHASje5wDO/s1600/paintball+2.1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeyjXZM7wsTRVTmIdeVHGPML9jtn0K-8qXHEF2pFZQqbzyozxwfMZKc2XrAYGvB695Rt1vYgUQXTAPLVkd2F5YtDIsWjIioqnGgIbkRiUtEGW4RrimRPU_cT81c6zFFas5-AHASje5wDO/s400/paintball+2.1.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aIKJ3eAtWCBd0ky7cwQe8kaObtRmg_QN6LaV28GzHzerKqXHQtA0bRIpewQBr45ferT7a6lE_p_5t6ZV4pokp_VXs9_wlsnuCFjMe6tQ297j-khiPLYBCJpIXIBuY5RoIy69PgMzfxMe/s1600/paintball+2.3.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aIKJ3eAtWCBd0ky7cwQe8kaObtRmg_QN6LaV28GzHzerKqXHQtA0bRIpewQBr45ferT7a6lE_p_5t6ZV4pokp_VXs9_wlsnuCFjMe6tQ297j-khiPLYBCJpIXIBuY5RoIy69PgMzfxMe/s400/paintball+2.3.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
One of the most interesting things about paintball is that you end up playing with other strangers who, in many cases, devote horrifically significant portions of their lives to the game. When we scoped out the competition, I realized how far out of my league I was.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxidmUEDg-ELxw6fU6QeqGZ6i43gd0r4303_tnimeLtX6VPmCw7-sVTkYcXujPK9F3bSS_7zFwQ2JsYmkGZ6GdlctJohFf22Gztynbf8Vnm2gHp0Mok7bzix6wYDG6ZLh6rUlF-JcxNhD/s1600/paintball+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxidmUEDg-ELxw6fU6QeqGZ6i43gd0r4303_tnimeLtX6VPmCw7-sVTkYcXujPK9F3bSS_7zFwQ2JsYmkGZ6GdlctJohFf22Gztynbf8Vnm2gHp0Mok7bzix6wYDG6ZLh6rUlF-JcxNhD/s400/paintball+5.bmp" width="400" /></a> </div><br />
Perhaps the best part of paintball was the angry teenager who gave us the instructions.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tYdmjK1D6SMUu3rsVAYLl2z_qjVmfmSnutofZatlq7oGMo5jhM-9jSK3NZlsuT-f_EgmRt0Ebo7KAX-mfFFtHQoi38itsS2ay9t2eYHaINGg6fXlel1grwjqsgMEp1AIpPjaWcGto0ee/s1600/paintball+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tYdmjK1D6SMUu3rsVAYLl2z_qjVmfmSnutofZatlq7oGMo5jhM-9jSK3NZlsuT-f_EgmRt0Ebo7KAX-mfFFtHQoi38itsS2ay9t2eYHaINGg6fXlel1grwjqsgMEp1AIpPjaWcGto0ee/s400/paintball+6.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
After this warm welcome, it was time to rumble. I must say getting shot by those paintballs is no picnic. Those suckers hurt! The pain involved in getting shot really raised the stakes as we ran through the woods, dove behind trees, and holed up in bunkers. <br />
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One major problem I had was that I couldn't fit my glasses under the face mask. Also, the mask fogged up instantly whenever I put it on. This is a bit of an issue because vision, surprisingly, is an important component of paintball. Everything looked like this:<br />
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The weird part was, I actually kinda liked paintball. There was a sort of tactical/team element that really appealed to me.<br />
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Actually, if I'm being honest, it was more like this:<br />
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I really did get kinda into it.<br />
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(I had to tell myself to go easy on the Frost, Conrad, and Heller (and Bruce Willis) references.)<br />
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In the end, the teen with the attitude complimented me by saying I was good at crouching. <br />
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I suppose there are worse compliments you can get in paintball. <br />
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But not many.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-71764367073047002062012-03-07T07:43:00.001-08:002012-03-07T14:23:53.286-08:00Emergency Medical TechnicianThe summer after my freshman year of college, I decided to attend Emergency Medical Technician school. I figured staring into the open gaping wounds of strangers seemed like a nice way to spend the summer. I conned my friend into signing up too. It was tough to convince him.<br />
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We were the youngest in the class, which was filled with colorful characters.<br />
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One man drank at least one 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew every morning.<br />
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This one lady was a Hasidic Jew who wasn't allowed to show her hair to anyone so she wore a bright red shiny wig.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15g-dsEEJVS8cSf3qOsnxXZ5-jVonClrpR-rAPUfaC1r7w3H8Wgnzb-GAcYdiX9TIEuzO087AMCCNA-sPgTMTTTaq_wfDHtTbuQeXxog4nzJczW3T2j621Pq8OifrjJVoa4zCVVs55bjr/s1600/EMT+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15g-dsEEJVS8cSf3qOsnxXZ5-jVonClrpR-rAPUfaC1r7w3H8Wgnzb-GAcYdiX9TIEuzO087AMCCNA-sPgTMTTTaq_wfDHtTbuQeXxog4nzJczW3T2j621Pq8OifrjJVoa4zCVVs55bjr/s400/EMT+5.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
We actually became really good friends with her.<br />
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The instructors were characters too. Our head teacher was an EMT named Sergio. He demanded that we refer to him as Serge. The whole summer, I thought he was saying we should call him "Sarge," so that's precisely what I did. <br />
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There was another instructor who liked to tell us all about her colon removal. Everyday she would go into vivid detail. <br />
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She also had a strict policy for dealing with male suitors.<br />
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At some point in the term we got to go on ambulance ride-alongs and hospital shadowings. It was fascinating. One girl in the class had a unique way of dealing with the stress of an emergency situation.<br />
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During one of the hospital visits, my friend and I were assigned to clean out a lady's wound.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We got the surgical tape stuck in our gloves and were rendered almost entirely useless. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One of our friends wasn't used to the automatic sphygnomamometers mounted on the wall because he had only used the hand-held kind. When he went to take a patient's blood pressure, this high tech version really tripped him up. He pushed the button on the wall, but forgot the vital step of attaching the cuff to the patient's arm. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3SCebcdAiYOmjjqtEtq1lXfZI8kfqyabeIjS76Y6F70eWD8C1dnxQUHFODgmFcegGGOwGWdHKTbqUnbPxGgSSI7kce8M7UxvmeTzlz_ERk05YzxzkxG_4hMxkDV46Q9vvgns5PDBrJ_o/s1600/EMT+9.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3SCebcdAiYOmjjqtEtq1lXfZI8kfqyabeIjS76Y6F70eWD8C1dnxQUHFODgmFcegGGOwGWdHKTbqUnbPxGgSSI7kce8M7UxvmeTzlz_ERk05YzxzkxG_4hMxkDV46Q9vvgns5PDBrJ_o/s400/EMT+9.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSHP9_W291C0kwm-1GSlxJw1JFXF9-uLAcC7hlm2e3IcOYQ-XXaRQwHN8Nfj_zJzk3z0zSg4sJiQVZyGRK4N73ZKCvNHV1nsTvtS1mA3adrv-YY0fDe3FqEJ3rji-iJFtxsfNdrTNJ-RBg/s1600/EMT+10.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSHP9_W291C0kwm-1GSlxJw1JFXF9-uLAcC7hlm2e3IcOYQ-XXaRQwHN8Nfj_zJzk3z0zSg4sJiQVZyGRK4N73ZKCvNHV1nsTvtS1mA3adrv-YY0fDe3FqEJ3rji-iJFtxsfNdrTNJ-RBg/s400/EMT+10.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He stood there waiting patiently for the machine to do its thing while it blew up like a big noodle on the wall behind him. The patient requested a real doctor immediately.. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After my friend and I passed the class, we were pretty anxious to save lives. And by anxious I mean overzealous. For example, we once saw a woman trip on the sidewalk.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZx5heb56Ncu5-NwXNq4Y24oGbkyHNaEzHNhJ627xtr_iC67oOIGa7fxEtjDOuIGS5sugAtbAZ8mNhH_Ui2PxBrkWzUp8ckukTFrW2oqR2sPjT0aovrOavAZVpyinzrYSlyWy6DXRXI4t/s1600/EMT+14.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZx5heb56Ncu5-NwXNq4Y24oGbkyHNaEzHNhJ627xtr_iC67oOIGa7fxEtjDOuIGS5sugAtbAZ8mNhH_Ui2PxBrkWzUp8ckukTFrW2oqR2sPjT0aovrOavAZVpyinzrYSlyWy6DXRXI4t/s400/EMT+14.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>When we returned to college, we decided to major in the liberal arts.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-89699755261812989892011-12-17T14:59:00.000-08:002011-12-17T14:59:05.612-08:00A Creative Use for a HamperI grew up with an evil genius. My older sister. She was sharp as a tack and her brain was lightning fast. I didn't stand a chance against her powers, especially considering the fact that my family collectively referred to me as "Captain Slow."<br />
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She carried out one of her most evil plots before I learned how to read. She saw my inability to discern words from letter combinations as an exploitable weakness. Therefore, she handed me a pair of scissors <span style="background-color: white;">and directed me</span> to a mattress.<br />
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I obliged. Then she read it aloud.<br />
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And then she gave me some legal advice.<br />
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I reacted to this sudden change in the course of my life about as well as one would expect.<br />
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Mercifully, my sister offered to save my life by stuffing me in a <span class="il">hamper</span> where the cops couldn't find me.<br />
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For added protection, she wedged the door side of the <span class="il">hamper</span> against the back wall of the closet in the guest room (the room that got the least foot traffic in the house), and then wandered off. It was kinda like a Ping the duck type situation. <br />
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Several hours later, my mom miraculously went into the closet to put something away. This next part is hazy for me, but she says she heard muffled sobs coming from the back of the closet. Upon investigating, she found me red in the face, hot and sweaty, pleading that she shut the <span class="il">hamper</span> door so I didn't get sent to the clink.<br />
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It was absolute heaven when she explained I wasn't going to be incarcerated.<br />
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I got my sister back several years later when I threw all her dry clean only clothes in the pool.</div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-25219102792717066802011-12-11T14:39:00.000-08:002011-12-12T19:13:51.045-08:00Say Cheese<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5e2y8K9o63JadQeh0AL1fsVHKAtDPsnVPFeUxZD6LUUbOYFYhbj8rZ_361vf3mye1ME52mxR9eWOXPvqGAG-qjR9D7iGtmJsi-enqUDC2JzmQ-H3-M_-NSmSZK0j_B4NYkt-MG4ah1pe/s1600/cheese+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330px" mda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5e2y8K9o63JadQeh0AL1fsVHKAtDPsnVPFeUxZD6LUUbOYFYhbj8rZ_361vf3mye1ME52mxR9eWOXPvqGAG-qjR9D7iGtmJsi-enqUDC2JzmQ-H3-M_-NSmSZK0j_B4NYkt-MG4ah1pe/s400/cheese+1.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><br />
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I'll admit I don't have the most sophisticated palette. I like pizza, tacos, and Oreo McFlurries. When I studied abroad in France, I went on a wine tasting tour in Bordeaux. It's safe to I say was a little out of my element.<br />
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I've been known to make some strange flavor associations as well.<br />
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When I first started a new job, I went out to dinner with some of my co-workers. We ended up at a restaurant that was a little pricey, so I decided to order from the appetizer menu. An interesting but more reasonable option was to order a cheese plate. They had a variety of cheeses from which to choose. I was lost.<br />
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I made my choices, and soon, the platter arrived. It was great! I began tasting each cheese, determining which was which. Each one was better than the next. Until the last one.<br />
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The cheese was pretty bad, but the odd thing was that it also tasted pretty familiar. I knew I had tasted it before, but I couldn't place it. This drove me nuts, so I kept eating it. It was soft, and creamy, and weird tasting. I ate about half of it, each bite more familiar than the next. <br />
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I still couldn't determine what it was. I decided to ask the server. <br />
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</div><div></div><div>I was eating the butter. What a great first impression.</div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-83689957926375739942011-09-20T11:18:00.000-07:002011-09-20T11:18:39.966-07:00Old Denim<div>After graduating from high school, I traveled to Australia for the summer and spent some time on a cattle ranch. It wasn't some tourist type thing; it was the real deal. It was as if I thought I were actually cool enough to do something of this nature. Turns out, I wasn't. </div><div> </div><div>The flight was about a million hours long and I sat next to a lady who lost her glasses about 15 minutes into the trip. She made me help her look for them the entire time.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWN5eF8xdOSe5yhvdyfvBtOUC2P32MsH4OtVGhs_5HF_nQa4fP17gLNmkr99kOmd8Kus3Zrr1xHzLj_NH_IHTNok_9oMWvOFoUD_r1ncPoi1iHI5vj5zPO_-ZMl9QO9-ekS9Z9Qjc27Pe/s1600/australia+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWN5eF8xdOSe5yhvdyfvBtOUC2P32MsH4OtVGhs_5HF_nQa4fP17gLNmkr99kOmd8Kus3Zrr1xHzLj_NH_IHTNok_9oMWvOFoUD_r1ncPoi1iHI5vj5zPO_-ZMl9QO9-ekS9Z9Qjc27Pe/s400/australia+1.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnqD18yXK644x3cDnoJxPrb-yeRsXXtfnxoytJ6X5VnC_RfBULCTdepnxaiqxzgC-atsBzWYS9s_7nTNmuitrsV4Hgt2Cd6n1WQdeXJmTQrdkKLfr02vqRX69UHV9hYDsbw-Q3ciyiGJn/s1600/australia+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnqD18yXK644x3cDnoJxPrb-yeRsXXtfnxoytJ6X5VnC_RfBULCTdepnxaiqxzgC-atsBzWYS9s_7nTNmuitrsV4Hgt2Cd6n1WQdeXJmTQrdkKLfr02vqRX69UHV9hYDsbw-Q3ciyiGJn/s400/australia+5.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPITl9teqpg11JR0drmEhrEUkOeLA8nCmuPINgab13hH_VYSKbiHSC1cFSGBYwYdi-se5jz01aMjyaTjFA2kJqLW1OsbgXO_-RKsG2TfrW4MWEOtdyky5Idq_1PAHA23YvZ7ALUDUAB7W9/s1600/australia+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPITl9teqpg11JR0drmEhrEUkOeLA8nCmuPINgab13hH_VYSKbiHSC1cFSGBYwYdi-se5jz01aMjyaTjFA2kJqLW1OsbgXO_-RKsG2TfrW4MWEOtdyky5Idq_1PAHA23YvZ7ALUDUAB7W9/s400/australia+6.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div>I was really excited when the plane landed, both to see Australia and to get away from the lady. </div><div> </div><div>Once on the cattle station, I became entranced by the differences in Australia. For one thing, the birds in Australia don't exactly chirp. They kinda sound like a human laughing. </div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIklLyOONa6EKj3Aiff8XnF17TS3xbLEpM2L7nrPdHXhQlJW9yVxHYv30MZ0FG-Hrf-QhHbTMqUtbYuYABebk7GkHOBGTecpn3G_JjvqoZ0CzOuBev0F76aPPKYrknd1Ckf6l_3hkhqAZj/s1600/australia+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIklLyOONa6EKj3Aiff8XnF17TS3xbLEpM2L7nrPdHXhQlJW9yVxHYv30MZ0FG-Hrf-QhHbTMqUtbYuYABebk7GkHOBGTecpn3G_JjvqoZ0CzOuBev0F76aPPKYrknd1Ckf6l_3hkhqAZj/s400/australia+7.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Also, they put beets on their burgers unless you request otherwise.</div><div> </div><div>There really were kangaroos just like, living there. All over the place. That didn't stop the zoo from having them as an exhibit. </div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBLBCGNnsdMsY5_95D3Sxl1Zpc3XIIukJh15YI59FPKUBw94PRaLPYeXw5qm7_gPmJHClcMPgBZVipT2qVKCuxCjtCwKWZMGwVvafsaucIe4-OsXCVQDdDHQL3ZuikECr8cfDd9dbAT27/s1600/australia+8.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBLBCGNnsdMsY5_95D3Sxl1Zpc3XIIukJh15YI59FPKUBw94PRaLPYeXw5qm7_gPmJHClcMPgBZVipT2qVKCuxCjtCwKWZMGwVvafsaucIe4-OsXCVQDdDHQL3ZuikECr8cfDd9dbAT27/s400/australia+8.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08Tu6Gd5F3sYRuCgl1NhVM1AGCRjU2PR-5v3WzrlkI9QwnAkAUY-HtkHWgSXVm3Quest3FOcJHc3a4BFO0GmgsR_DzLrDvyzKlz7WVMZNINXi6V0E7UKW7JHOLdBDuDgmQyJSz8X8rZHX/s1600/australia+9.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08Tu6Gd5F3sYRuCgl1NhVM1AGCRjU2PR-5v3WzrlkI9QwnAkAUY-HtkHWgSXVm3Quest3FOcJHc3a4BFO0GmgsR_DzLrDvyzKlz7WVMZNINXi6V0E7UKW7JHOLdBDuDgmQyJSz8X8rZHX/s400/australia+9.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_NJI-lrLDZxBufq81umsl3aLJ7OhJi_MVMHlr6ym55xfhymDJtaceSQnZjsfsNX5RxQh8PKOtrr0qDF6WDTVGBagNoZBjdAuq1zqN2X-rmd1sEvru_GK7UwcQMQhteI1Bd_n_vOBwSuj/s1600/australia+10.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_NJI-lrLDZxBufq81umsl3aLJ7OhJi_MVMHlr6ym55xfhymDJtaceSQnZjsfsNX5RxQh8PKOtrr0qDF6WDTVGBagNoZBjdAuq1zqN2X-rmd1sEvru_GK7UwcQMQhteI1Bd_n_vOBwSuj/s400/australia+10.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div>Startling.</div><div> </div><div>I learned from the zookeeper that a kangaroo's pouch is not just an exterior fanny pack type deal. It actually connects to their insides at the bottom.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtf5nR7gcOn2BFUrp3ov2VHKwOl5y_edyIRjQU9Hyg_JCGJFUKNCbRCLvr19kkMgd2kQZ0VFpcsP3JdYVyqKhv93E3GXn741jxo-bx-35Am3j2TP_x2Xu7qAXuOnLmTqfy4Z9lZua0YaIx/s1600/australia+11.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtf5nR7gcOn2BFUrp3ov2VHKwOl5y_edyIRjQU9Hyg_JCGJFUKNCbRCLvr19kkMgd2kQZ0VFpcsP3JdYVyqKhv93E3GXn741jxo-bx-35Am3j2TP_x2Xu7qAXuOnLmTqfy4Z9lZua0YaIx/s400/australia+11.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Thus began my complete aversion to kangaroos and marsupials in general.</div><div> </div><div>On that cattle station, I helped with a number of ranching activities that were foreign to me. One of these tasks was to help drive the cattle along the many acres of the farm. There I was, in the outback, driving a horse and corralling steer. I would have felt really tough and rugged were it not for my horse. Because I was new to the whole equestrian thing, the ranchers decided to put me on Old Denim, a horse that was about a zillion years old, partially deaf, a bit slow and a lot unsteady. He was loyal at best and at least alive.</div><div> </div><div>Old Denim actually did a fairly good job of keeping up with the herd, but the experience of riding him wasn't without incident. At one point, Denim charged up a hill to make sure he could make it to the top. He didn't care that there was a low hanging branch in our path.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEill1BUYic1uoD8pBm7fwjtYlO_q7gmOHRRXJIQhAGo28VGNOMemPDIhQ9YCxpxKQVSTGWNpLgT5BJ8_OuL9BOuVMIjduXqd5tkVg0HbFHk5RxqrTLDuUx-FnkmuhDdANGSM7h5eq5SB0Me/s1600/australia+12.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEill1BUYic1uoD8pBm7fwjtYlO_q7gmOHRRXJIQhAGo28VGNOMemPDIhQ9YCxpxKQVSTGWNpLgT5BJ8_OuL9BOuVMIjduXqd5tkVg0HbFHk5RxqrTLDuUx-FnkmuhDdANGSM7h5eq5SB0Me/s400/australia+12.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left">He was also prone to dozing off at unpredictable times.</div><div align="left"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrXJnekBReU1jOQ8cEFqVVneoILOtVCDoVk0w5nwW7OTq6qX0lOyRhNsm0fGD1YAeJJqybq6CESApoxE1A1y4kQVBQnomDG_3BJ4L60bp-A14oP2fGflpjj1SLJ2J7uHCidhoqgXQKuIR/s1600/australia+13.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrXJnekBReU1jOQ8cEFqVVneoILOtVCDoVk0w5nwW7OTq6qX0lOyRhNsm0fGD1YAeJJqybq6CESApoxE1A1y4kQVBQnomDG_3BJ4L60bp-A14oP2fGflpjj1SLJ2J7uHCidhoqgXQKuIR/s400/australia+13.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">The biggest challenge for Old Denim and me came after a long day of riding. The ranchers had dropped the cattle where they needed to be and we were riding together back to the station. I started to feel Old Denim's legs buckle and tremble a bit, but he kept going. I figured I was just imagining things. Just as I was starting to feel a little guilty for doubting the old horse, he reached his breaking point. Old Denim very quietly fell forward onto his own head.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCz4VS_53wyBcviZeTnl2HrbLP12qc2iH-PY1Z4qAOEKGp_OICIz-2sRo5qfpGv8_reC9FwA1e50X1GRwHATs9UHy9-8iblbtjMOvjrsgb9z5rpCHq0cX5xQz1F4egvrTTActfP3yUJ4M4/s1600/australia+14.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCz4VS_53wyBcviZeTnl2HrbLP12qc2iH-PY1Z4qAOEKGp_OICIz-2sRo5qfpGv8_reC9FwA1e50X1GRwHATs9UHy9-8iblbtjMOvjrsgb9z5rpCHq0cX5xQz1F4egvrTTActfP3yUJ4M4/s400/australia+14.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhic8czOElQobtV1Ol2aIHU59UA5ecMZBRDTBLdsZ6F4FH7Nxjb5G0YS2zKfXOLkyt81f9uuAkmWcpfFoOM7R8fwWlVuz81F2knGIk0YT7rsL_ZASoEMkg4GpvxAExKz7iknZgVSW7oKdLK/s1600/australia+15.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhic8czOElQobtV1Ol2aIHU59UA5ecMZBRDTBLdsZ6F4FH7Nxjb5G0YS2zKfXOLkyt81f9uuAkmWcpfFoOM7R8fwWlVuz81F2knGIk0YT7rsL_ZASoEMkg4GpvxAExKz7iknZgVSW7oKdLK/s400/australia+15.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">I didn't know what to do, so I leaned back as and squeezed my legs tight to stay on his back. It actually kinda worked.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9HueR1ZskMNH_fWycB0hkEuEO6htKWsHmaQgrtz6GDytQ8y6SrZSIowEdnBecSUEeVmfb3JMhvS_FyrrOlbgSzrFkOnsFjC4UdxGbLQkK3jqYqGLJxMf5CyYpxjbBFXLcagMNBSxwtVY/s1600/australia+16.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9HueR1ZskMNH_fWycB0hkEuEO6htKWsHmaQgrtz6GDytQ8y6SrZSIowEdnBecSUEeVmfb3JMhvS_FyrrOlbgSzrFkOnsFjC4UdxGbLQkK3jqYqGLJxMf5CyYpxjbBFXLcagMNBSxwtVY/s400/australia+16.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Silently, Old Denim got back to his feet and ambled on like nothing had ever happened. No one seemed to notice.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiab9OXsWLZ-S4RlRozH_vrvMwjRgeYa-FuUKuQGxekXw4WuXkbsW6Z0VL-dpSsSL9KvqFx933vMNlOHM8qADUfoofscIdtQwtjj-Q97p9M0YWn_V1x8pzahoIlv_lxEU57lLnz66acACly/s1600/australia+17.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiab9OXsWLZ-S4RlRozH_vrvMwjRgeYa-FuUKuQGxekXw4WuXkbsW6Z0VL-dpSsSL9KvqFx933vMNlOHM8qADUfoofscIdtQwtjj-Q97p9M0YWn_V1x8pzahoIlv_lxEU57lLnz66acACly/s400/australia+17.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Also, being on a cattle station, the meat was always super fresh.</div><div align="left"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PaM_HX_8drtfKd-gquv5hsJ7QZJzM7ztbHq4VHcHpdqwgW41U_tbWyJ3utgUw-jHB5bqtpUHmgpiZn2fnRyVsxkVExIcHwBdOy96PxJKVlHewhC2uVx7vBmZ9T5vAPWaRKXD0bwtxLeJ/s1600/australia+18.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PaM_HX_8drtfKd-gquv5hsJ7QZJzM7ztbHq4VHcHpdqwgW41U_tbWyJ3utgUw-jHB5bqtpUHmgpiZn2fnRyVsxkVExIcHwBdOy96PxJKVlHewhC2uVx7vBmZ9T5vAPWaRKXD0bwtxLeJ/s400/australia+18.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PaM_HX_8drtfKd-gquv5hsJ7QZJzM7ztbHq4VHcHpdqwgW41U_tbWyJ3utgUw-jHB5bqtpUHmgpiZn2fnRyVsxkVExIcHwBdOy96PxJKVlHewhC2uVx7vBmZ9T5vAPWaRKXD0bwtxLeJ/s1600/australia+18.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ep-3N6LagmpvaWapvWylpillCmRgsJSeSAi_CJJ4Ta_Llwfj8uT1egdO1zwwQxK7Zqs959q87DjZdWlc94FuMN4J2zW7BL627hO35WdGE19ZMgll38MZKwubrHxBlaXFEyXCOB0rJuAc/s1600/australia+20.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ep-3N6LagmpvaWapvWylpillCmRgsJSeSAi_CJJ4Ta_Llwfj8uT1egdO1zwwQxK7Zqs959q87DjZdWlc94FuMN4J2zW7BL627hO35WdGE19ZMgll38MZKwubrHxBlaXFEyXCOB0rJuAc/s400/australia+20.bmp" width="400px" /></a> <br />
<div align="left" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Toward the end of my trip in Australia, a gentleman offered to take my picture as I held a koala for five bucks. I figured, "When in Rome," and agreed. Turns out, koalas aren't the docile, bleary eyed, eucalyptus-drugged, cuddly animals you might think they are. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMnP7CjWzL4BrGjyBxQFrbseZJsTLs1PolLYZ4dprRzTSvFLt1gd5LFg8kI9WNg3GnQW5HxPgpjC1Qrryy3bi-_hkk1q_zSL8f0ZKQrIzufZsTMp879SH5UJz6zb5yudAPmtNaEloxgip/s1600/australia+21.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMnP7CjWzL4BrGjyBxQFrbseZJsTLs1PolLYZ4dprRzTSvFLt1gd5LFg8kI9WNg3GnQW5HxPgpjC1Qrryy3bi-_hkk1q_zSL8f0ZKQrIzufZsTMp879SH5UJz6zb5yudAPmtNaEloxgip/s400/australia+21.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wouldn't recommend holding the koalas.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-54891883226221368562011-07-28T08:42:00.000-07:002011-07-28T08:42:33.885-07:00Food Runner (Like Blade Runner, Only Less Cool)<div>One summer when I was a teenager, I gained part-time employment in a restaurant. Though this may seem like a typical adolescent experience, it was anything but normal, as I became completely incapable of doing anything right once I set foot in the establishment. </div><div> </div><div>During my first week on the job, a magazine featured the owner/my boss as one of south Florida's most eligible bachelors, complete with a full pictorial. Suddenly, the place became a local hot-spot and was always jammed. </div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpu4OjY5k1vdNde9ObrtMOmh1RvnvD3sMtbDm-qp6OFOvuDTvzxiuSsYX29EOgR3PxId3yJA_DE694dSmTTaqMX8H5HRMSzDw5LTANvmQkkS16xuacnZuY6b64j0bnPZYLVuwu9EJfK_57/s1600/rest+0.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpu4OjY5k1vdNde9ObrtMOmh1RvnvD3sMtbDm-qp6OFOvuDTvzxiuSsYX29EOgR3PxId3yJA_DE694dSmTTaqMX8H5HRMSzDw5LTANvmQkkS16xuacnZuY6b64j0bnPZYLVuwu9EJfK_57/s400/rest+0.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzbx0t9ACptZzFyr2CRjDrIT9LhZTcVQMNkTiX5EbTNe2mtPmVjgop9OZKEeE34kf9DRakMSoN8grWKX5kDyT3fSLMLbmy-_oaWIq3hyRacl-6IIZpkH0M3YjeGbHb_XGrK7Cin-k3LHi/s1600/rest+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzbx0t9ACptZzFyr2CRjDrIT9LhZTcVQMNkTiX5EbTNe2mtPmVjgop9OZKEeE34kf9DRakMSoN8grWKX5kDyT3fSLMLbmy-_oaWIq3hyRacl-6IIZpkH0M3YjeGbHb_XGrK7Cin-k3LHi/s400/rest+1.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Being in a chaotic and new environment caused me to forget some important and basic restaurant principles. On one of my first evenings, someone asked for extra lemon. </div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8cf2VHVCYOCv-ZQR9Eem6f3SgXzGzSI7zcI4AeBycppjShJcQjv6hZhUdYO8sd_5BX1ri8CGYCXUkCOTzHoCLWTj11UzEtB10UMQgYYNxULPLZIkFk9L0CgIC8TCOWpXpvd_d0cjjONET/s1600/rest+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8cf2VHVCYOCv-ZQR9Eem6f3SgXzGzSI7zcI4AeBycppjShJcQjv6hZhUdYO8sd_5BX1ri8CGYCXUkCOTzHoCLWTj11UzEtB10UMQgYYNxULPLZIkFk9L0CgIC8TCOWpXpvd_d0cjjONET/s400/rest+2.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcM6O6Hd5XCJDszk_wQ-vpMIDAKvOLvkZufArdKO-baG82ru_UAwxLUwx4610hHzz9rrDtk52JIZOU-GlEHKDo_kNIjFVBkwwVBAcE9vvRRJ4c1AscfdG78pgqCfhBnih-oQd2mo8MBJL/s1600/rest+3.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcM6O6Hd5XCJDszk_wQ-vpMIDAKvOLvkZufArdKO-baG82ru_UAwxLUwx4610hHzz9rrDtk52JIZOU-GlEHKDo_kNIjFVBkwwVBAcE9vvRRJ4c1AscfdG78pgqCfhBnih-oQd2mo8MBJL/s400/rest+3.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I just handed her some. Apparently I needed to deliver several neatly sliced wedges on a clean, white, saucer. That made sense.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div>On another particularly crowded evening, the bachelor boss sent me out to get 12 cartons of cigarettes. I marched down the street in the pouring rain to a nearby gas station and acted like I knew what I was doing purchasing tobacco products. </div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70nYakMhZ6CBHJPdddNUqKpAkNEkfWcZX8AHYiryggIKSzdNZEdGMxDulJL_Ng0ONLUd35jvWojfePAc3v-cogdwd8HFHl5FJCJLAwZiEPZjA_FeP8QKPgdJ-0N0OT319nWjivfw7JsF0/s1600/rest+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70nYakMhZ6CBHJPdddNUqKpAkNEkfWcZX8AHYiryggIKSzdNZEdGMxDulJL_Ng0ONLUd35jvWojfePAc3v-cogdwd8HFHl5FJCJLAwZiEPZjA_FeP8QKPgdJ-0N0OT319nWjivfw7JsF0/s400/rest+5.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><br />
<div>Things went south pretty quickly.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxpLnTWXfuxvhy_UjX-bhD05YUm_gRgHkw0IdOH_IBIiMozmYGNYzuSZoyAiwWSxCY7_8Efh-QRalBoTop6eCtBl8DE8YFKJbRhjstMWoJfqh-C91IfNPk6sBSig5mQw3nLZl2lg8Pu0d/s1600/rest+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxpLnTWXfuxvhy_UjX-bhD05YUm_gRgHkw0IdOH_IBIiMozmYGNYzuSZoyAiwWSxCY7_8Efh-QRalBoTop6eCtBl8DE8YFKJbRhjstMWoJfqh-C91IfNPk6sBSig5mQw3nLZl2lg8Pu0d/s400/rest+6.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>I didn't even know that was an option. I didn't recall the boss saying anything about any filters, so I ordered 12 cartons of unfiltered Marlboro Reds. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeicuTZkDgKFECaxoYq0Xq_-cFvlWKwHVcAM2PVWiyWtVUyPIOtKxtlfXwmXQVOWUU_wX0qzJ8vgFe-vux-jursOmE3FxVmHyZpZa3eSNMZNKn8U46ls1UZZykTf9We6JOf3depEqNgpD/s1600/rest+6.5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeicuTZkDgKFECaxoYq0Xq_-cFvlWKwHVcAM2PVWiyWtVUyPIOtKxtlfXwmXQVOWUU_wX0qzJ8vgFe-vux-jursOmE3FxVmHyZpZa3eSNMZNKn8U46ls1UZZykTf9We6JOf3depEqNgpD/s400/rest+6.5.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkQrd-HiQ1UhZKrQ844qXP5Ffhk4A8MRjAMdHddDSoLBhk0ga4y_LmaMVlDbstAiu__xZ8mnvq45ykakGfm-fjTLmHPZ-HCA4hnonbX6P002vULgvqZF6mFjBEOIrd6m_Alw7olesWJAs/s1600/rest+6.6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkQrd-HiQ1UhZKrQ844qXP5Ffhk4A8MRjAMdHddDSoLBhk0ga4y_LmaMVlDbstAiu__xZ8mnvq45ykakGfm-fjTLmHPZ-HCA4hnonbX6P002vULgvqZF6mFjBEOIrd6m_Alw7olesWJAs/s400/rest+6.6.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div><div>I walked back in the rain the with the goods. The rain caused most of the boxes to warp beyond being able to ever return them. When I arrived and proudly presented the loot to the boss, he was not pleased. I figured when he looked at me like I was too stupid to live that he had wanted filters.</div><div> </div><div><div>The coup de grace of my performance in the restaurant happened when I inadvertently held the veal saltimbocca over a customer and accidentally tilted it a bit. </div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMb-N6D22i1L85k2K_j8QKVm2n71QmAAaoC2JN2N2vR1I_XmHvWLIoM8DgZtwNkQwnDhTMTczOjU4K6PShnUA1oUb5yojasZ_E7BUo18v4d9mEMV-wsLxzpapVQ3hs_ovdhVac-DAgoqwj/s1600/rest+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMb-N6D22i1L85k2K_j8QKVm2n71QmAAaoC2JN2N2vR1I_XmHvWLIoM8DgZtwNkQwnDhTMTczOjU4K6PShnUA1oUb5yojasZ_E7BUo18v4d9mEMV-wsLxzpapVQ3hs_ovdhVac-DAgoqwj/s400/rest+7.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTIYxCbQu-Hggto4wlcXPgS7WEKSO3lk1eODKCVqRE9UUxzdaLPPSoK-awjk1OGHty5_9jw0E7JkvAsW-yPaM4QYaOj5ck3eqW1C3dX7a5Qe6CyYAKQisVbMlJx1LfkP5T_W0Ws5bNkvy/s1600/rest+8.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTIYxCbQu-Hggto4wlcXPgS7WEKSO3lk1eODKCVqRE9UUxzdaLPPSoK-awjk1OGHty5_9jw0E7JkvAsW-yPaM4QYaOj5ck3eqW1C3dX7a5Qe6CyYAKQisVbMlJx1LfkP5T_W0Ws5bNkvy/s400/rest+8.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBYFBuIkeyCp8r58XlNXjTu0_LBdek3i4X-pYjdHgyep7deKcICpLryLfyRLeO0mopMDcHGzoKmq6zBC5tdA4ji4wEWNmYZBKz9zjcp7UjWzTCtkv8P55XmMg24yIBXMLikr3BChd1L6F/s1600/rest+9.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBYFBuIkeyCp8r58XlNXjTu0_LBdek3i4X-pYjdHgyep7deKcICpLryLfyRLeO0mopMDcHGzoKmq6zBC5tdA4ji4wEWNmYZBKz9zjcp7UjWzTCtkv8P55XmMg24yIBXMLikr3BChd1L6F/s400/rest+9.bmp" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div> </div><div><div>I apologized so many times that she actually asked me to stop. I then asked her if there was anything I could do. Her response was only to say the words "Grey" and "Goose."</div><div> </div><div>Though I look back at my restaurant experience and laugh, I'd be lying if I said that thinking about the poor lady dowsed in hot meat gravy didn't horrify me somewhat still today. </div><div> </div><div>I suppose that's a normal reaction.</div></div></div></div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-63803439532199784502011-06-29T07:16:00.000-07:002011-06-30T07:01:28.489-07:00The French Dinner<div>What is it about French teachers that make middle school and high school students want to torture them with bad classroom behavior? They naturally transmit some sort of signal to young students that says "go absolutely bonkers in my class." It's like spilling a drop of blood in a shark tank, inducing what can best be described as a sort of French class feeding frenzy. I'm not sure I've identified the quality common to all French teachers that causes this; perhaps it is having a big heart.</div><div></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobe7rc9uCZjrTig9e4_oOEBo0SJpib6AUemYwfkCv6Z-PNR25qBykC3bkPZa8PBgR1bxFnvgliaGucWA2WhBv_3negkVuPqX5fzBE-T9xFUpYG0CmWqyHQcw7Qx-fPq1mN2na1pTMDuwg/s1600/french+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobe7rc9uCZjrTig9e4_oOEBo0SJpib6AUemYwfkCv6Z-PNR25qBykC3bkPZa8PBgR1bxFnvgliaGucWA2WhBv_3negkVuPqX5fzBE-T9xFUpYG0CmWqyHQcw7Qx-fPq1mN2na1pTMDuwg/s400/french+1.bmp" width="387px" /></a></div><div><br />
No matter the unjustified (but very real) cause of said bad behavior, my classmates and I were 100% susceptible to it. The most well-behaved and the most depraved students couldn't help but go crazy each time we set foot in the French room. </div><div><div></div><div><br />
Take, for example, the 7th grade French dinner. Our teacher arranged for each of us to cook a French meal and bring it to school one evening so that we could learn about French cuisine. All week we prepared decorations. One of the assignments was to draw a French themed place mat for the event. Things were already going south at this stage of the game.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQCSn3I_gLhoPKzejX9vcbLyrYoSZFF_HtPEjytlMbl6OE2BVwTqEu7hfOHOqm2o9_9ISivZivImqU1zHX8deQVfd1VpEfnSPawXHIuxyanjtbSNBWVRdugAQwzwBt8vdO-8_z3zioccr/s1600/French+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQCSn3I_gLhoPKzejX9vcbLyrYoSZFF_HtPEjytlMbl6OE2BVwTqEu7hfOHOqm2o9_9ISivZivImqU1zHX8deQVfd1VpEfnSPawXHIuxyanjtbSNBWVRdugAQwzwBt8vdO-8_z3zioccr/s400/French+2.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
My friend, Katie, was in charge of bringing the French onion soup. Very exotic. She and her friend Liz were running late, so she decided to be responsible and leave a voicemail for Madame.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMud8C62wtiYmRef6dAKRLcaKelB64xsyGUFhiNAsbAqvvrNpcBMaQOZLoa-3n9D2razElUOuQ_WMgfg9AYb1Gq1uJ1dupYXK25x-9nc65WTC3dR7DCQ6Cx1mq1bBIrfP-ZFuoOvatSD2/s1600/French+3.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMud8C62wtiYmRef6dAKRLcaKelB64xsyGUFhiNAsbAqvvrNpcBMaQOZLoa-3n9D2razElUOuQ_WMgfg9AYb1Gq1uJ1dupYXK25x-9nc65WTC3dR7DCQ6Cx1mq1bBIrfP-ZFuoOvatSD2/s400/French+3.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div><div></div><div><br />
I believe she actually said "Click."<br />
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Katie and Liz were, of course, perfectly fine, just stuck in traffic. <br />
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(Note: I realize how bad this is, but isn't it kind of hilarious that a middle schooler wouldn't know better?)<br />
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Well we all got mighty impatient waiting for the soup, so we planned to jump out and yell "Where were you!?" as Katie walked in the door. The problem was, Katie startled easily, so when we jumped out, she screamed and dumped the entire crock pot of soup onto herself.</div><div><br />
</div></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHmUs0u5q0xryH09GaBo2AjMRiNxrl5eOclVNDtwD49ymj5-gksx3lCYD0xJnY-mDguX9-SI3xK8A4zmkcl6AbesXZh41modbN2niXDvocy4iBSf1FuxpZoa6VUFxXDWuj-7YXcmx1698/s1600/French+4.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHmUs0u5q0xryH09GaBo2AjMRiNxrl5eOclVNDtwD49ymj5-gksx3lCYD0xJnY-mDguX9-SI3xK8A4zmkcl6AbesXZh41modbN2niXDvocy4iBSf1FuxpZoa6VUFxXDWuj-7YXcmx1698/s400/French+4.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYzsYiGUB31PZ0dSq18rlFJmy05PC7voMFbxlOWi3SIqaLQq1ISFa9HzKt4k-IWTdu_tvgle9_OHF4naimiKMriiOIr9U2zbdHQqlbWpcbUren0P9lvPhVqvT4uHvSGZ1D0mLSr3ZJhl4/s1600/french+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYzsYiGUB31PZ0dSq18rlFJmy05PC7voMFbxlOWi3SIqaLQq1ISFa9HzKt4k-IWTdu_tvgle9_OHF4naimiKMriiOIr9U2zbdHQqlbWpcbUren0P9lvPhVqvT4uHvSGZ1D0mLSr3ZJhl4/s400/french+5.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>The dinner spiraled out of control from there. I believe we ultimately made jokes about Madame's recent gall stone removal procedure and then began launching crepes out the window at passersby.</div><div></div><div><br />
In high school, one might think we had matured and could carry ourselves in a more civilized manner. Not so. Once, when a giant dragon-fly flew into the room, we all used it as an opportunity to act panicked, as though a B52 bomber was swooping around overhead. It was a most immediate descent into madness.<br />
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</div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKGL3WxbXA5_jSmncgNcbmxAO2FztKqrxvntadcCR_2p7sipViRDSrRKWOJiR0Dd71rjxbPbCOzfGRUxK1umRa5uxNNSY_mPhsLefzEd42lhq57VEqrI1srigscHqfY7K8RtXmevwrfdQ/s1600/french+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKGL3WxbXA5_jSmncgNcbmxAO2FztKqrxvntadcCR_2p7sipViRDSrRKWOJiR0Dd71rjxbPbCOzfGRUxK1umRa5uxNNSY_mPhsLefzEd42lhq57VEqrI1srigscHqfY7K8RtXmevwrfdQ/s400/french+6.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div><div></div><div><br />
When someone trapped the insect in a cabinet drawer, we could still hear its wings buzzing.<br />
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</div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99TPNeGPOEedVJlMC-JDGKK9kQSRljEBDBTsEDSLKCZv3IFZ93hz3hyphenhyphenHmOVdNOpdSzxzAlC8JuGZ9FvUuljePlRMQuPgupuau5zTj-Dp2t1ia6bNrocygf1vT_SIhkqkX5FMwvKCcWZaL/s1600/french+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99TPNeGPOEedVJlMC-JDGKK9kQSRljEBDBTsEDSLKCZv3IFZ93hz3hyphenhyphenHmOVdNOpdSzxzAlC8JuGZ9FvUuljePlRMQuPgupuau5zTj-Dp2t1ia6bNrocygf1vT_SIhkqkX5FMwvKCcWZaL/s400/french+7.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
Quite often, our teacher needed a mental break from us, so a lady named Mrs. Chen would come in and substitute. She didn't know a lick of French. Every time we had her, she would threaten that if we didn't behave, she would make us watch West Side Story as our punishment. She must have loved that movie because even before we could act up, she was popping that tape in and pressing play. <br />
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</div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8e5prvv854AjojfG3LU1K5tWKYHr2EKcENzYTkIXxEy5PKpd8zBTXBkyfyGjSPcXozXAp7ONdu6s6I0oI_KmSH1Mg9x7_6Et6iYKBSmLsLdGI0eQV-JqRPPR-QsIATdc5ASZDi9Capty/s1600/french+9.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8e5prvv854AjojfG3LU1K5tWKYHr2EKcENzYTkIXxEy5PKpd8zBTXBkyfyGjSPcXozXAp7ONdu6s6I0oI_KmSH1Mg9x7_6Et6iYKBSmLsLdGI0eQV-JqRPPR-QsIATdc5ASZDi9Capty/s400/french+9.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div><div></div><div><br />
We must have seen that movie at least 30 times.</div><div></div><div><br />
When our teacher was preparing us for the AP French exam, she asked that we take a practice test. Before we began, she reminded us not to have "wandering eyes," meaning no sneaking a peak at anyone else's test. That's when John piped up with an honest question.<br />
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</div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhW_7l3ia-794d7yf4u_dNDS1y82n3GInK7AQagkWVwjCNQU8JTTlibCU6fhACUhfj_ujOjonxeUXophtZi1_R4_PKRJjHuyyhsIl2DbRW2ulMaTJMLoWL7WNQJKCWa21XVEC2VHKz8Pm/s1600/french+10.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhW_7l3ia-794d7yf4u_dNDS1y82n3GInK7AQagkWVwjCNQU8JTTlibCU6fhACUhfj_ujOjonxeUXophtZi1_R4_PKRJjHuyyhsIl2DbRW2ulMaTJMLoWL7WNQJKCWa21XVEC2VHKz8Pm/s400/french+10.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
He had a point. None of us knew any French.</div><div></div><div><br />
If you know any middle or high school French teachers, give them a hug the next time you see them. They probably need it.</div></div></div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-8502482690333604042011-06-06T12:43:00.000-07:002011-06-06T12:43:05.849-07:00First Impressions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Soon after I accepted my offer of admission to college, I started getting mail from my institution about an opportunity to go on a week-long camping/hiking trip with some future classmates. What better way to get to know your new peers than to not bathe in the woods for a week with some of them? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wanting to get a head start making friends at a new school, I submitted my registration forms and began gathering equipment. In south Florida, being outside generally meant going to the beach, so Carolina mountain gear was pretty foreign to me.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWj2wEIgxRC3ybej9FqyhcbT-YquKhki46mO6amhBTgqUhC7sIMHxcsOIg8NA0BK3hedmZZ0vxhlTuQXnnXX1aQH9EwINFIv8wqR1gP_mCtMoDJ3GhLgE6CC7mHLzn85x-GGzKhRPBstR/s1600/a+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWj2wEIgxRC3ybej9FqyhcbT-YquKhki46mO6amhBTgqUhC7sIMHxcsOIg8NA0BK3hedmZZ0vxhlTuQXnnXX1aQH9EwINFIv8wqR1gP_mCtMoDJ3GhLgE6CC7mHLzn85x-GGzKhRPBstR/s400/a+1.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOsveRlMjqmolTH8e1RbwmKX7PUkLZ_lL40ketZZ3vbnW57SJNrUkgh2rUd_JXgoX4e1rlwvI8Uv9U57tU11QWMnoK13aU7bGpedR6QhJ1ZdK27Btav0s_7QREKcJWkDxiaYMQo1woXGw/s1600/a+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOsveRlMjqmolTH8e1RbwmKX7PUkLZ_lL40ketZZ3vbnW57SJNrUkgh2rUd_JXgoX4e1rlwvI8Uv9U57tU11QWMnoK13aU7bGpedR6QhJ1ZdK27Btav0s_7QREKcJWkDxiaYMQo1woXGw/s400/a+2.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_q-2SR4pe5urHbZqNRgVxP_OCx5slHqTsiySBlaOgBvrhdD9QxFZhyphenhyphenRxBOU9x0UI3UU5TZo_lbZaW5eZymsCNM0Ejri2LRlfjSmlopmGXCdc3GzyAMy0UGiQI-8pfeKYc07aWrPL6GGPC/s1600/a+3.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_q-2SR4pe5urHbZqNRgVxP_OCx5slHqTsiySBlaOgBvrhdD9QxFZhyphenhyphenRxBOU9x0UI3UU5TZo_lbZaW5eZymsCNM0Ejri2LRlfjSmlopmGXCdc3GzyAMy0UGiQI-8pfeKYc07aWrPL6GGPC/s400/a+3.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One of the registration forms asked that I share an interesting fact about myself for my upperclassmen trip leaders. I was told this would be kept confidential. Naturally, I took it seriously.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHI0ghOBLGhKXy_Rkn2-rMS6_DYA9QZfORc5uBEkZihk777eoLSacD5CLl3nU9aLuLoD8qRzOoNSR79Pdo46B4HZP2hXk6VxXEkmaw_a35DYoX1JXfLnJ0EORdJbdC9uvfYmdDB8sRJ0aR/s1600/a+4.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHI0ghOBLGhKXy_Rkn2-rMS6_DYA9QZfORc5uBEkZihk777eoLSacD5CLl3nU9aLuLoD8qRzOoNSR79Pdo46B4HZP2hXk6VxXEkmaw_a35DYoX1JXfLnJ0EORdJbdC9uvfYmdDB8sRJ0aR/s400/a+4.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Toward the end of the summer, I packed my bags and headed north into the wilderness. My group of fellow campers was a hodge-podge collection of kids from all types of locations and backgrounds. As soon as we started chatting, I knew I was in for a good week.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0LLlvYfQIPNHySSYafP2rswYDUUh00hOw4EEXRW2WRMDh8wYM4qyqZYuIxU29FigXc_F3RKxY6-iO5OV_Gopsv-m_wQzu-CVyNxFfhjRzw6tBBgsTk3CHGLDLOGiHfdV0GnW5oZKlBVhl/s1600/a+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0LLlvYfQIPNHySSYafP2rswYDUUh00hOw4EEXRW2WRMDh8wYM4qyqZYuIxU29FigXc_F3RKxY6-iO5OV_Gopsv-m_wQzu-CVyNxFfhjRzw6tBBgsTk3CHGLDLOGiHfdV0GnW5oZKlBVhl/s400/a+5.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
I really took to the mountainy outdoors. For one thing, my hair mysteriously got all big, soft, and poofy.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi164viw9NA8DnqKaOrbQItFZw2Wd_-Gg5Rnhg2NA0iF-gHqSey8xQ0VqlTyzCzBIfFn7ehNN0uBdbA2KKWWZTAIJAvTzqMFJtMMHaJwIJ9xBZ5E9AJQyNVAu6cG7kBCSkjm6dnwp5645iY/s1600/a+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi164viw9NA8DnqKaOrbQItFZw2Wd_-Gg5Rnhg2NA0iF-gHqSey8xQ0VqlTyzCzBIfFn7ehNN0uBdbA2KKWWZTAIJAvTzqMFJtMMHaJwIJ9xBZ5E9AJQyNVAu6cG7kBCSkjm6dnwp5645iY/s400/a+6.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
I also told lots of good jokes and my group thought I was really funny, which is what really mattered to me.<br />
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I suppose that the interesting hair situation and the good jokes had me feeling pretty confident. Confidence on me is akin to wearing a suit that is three sizes to big. It doesn't quite fit. I belong in the goofy-thus-approachable zone.<br />
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One evening, several groups had gathered at a camp site, so we were all enjoying time getting to know more future classmates. I was on fire with good jokes. Someone pulled out a frisbee and we began tossing it around. Eventually, someone accidentally threw it into a tree. Wanting to continue my streak of being impressive, I volunteered to climb the tree and get the disc. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-qOL9p3P4_dpHbFQM21cjBDwgHU_5EW2WnTS_SDmk1Kt87kyZ2gR-QguCljJadqyw6duAhQCXkl_n7wLuiG6ExkTN1u-lOb3wt4q3K-xkNT_My9Bl0mgavaq9I6h1IQMiNfToLPJoGzw/s1600/a+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-qOL9p3P4_dpHbFQM21cjBDwgHU_5EW2WnTS_SDmk1Kt87kyZ2gR-QguCljJadqyw6duAhQCXkl_n7wLuiG6ExkTN1u-lOb3wt4q3K-xkNT_My9Bl0mgavaq9I6h1IQMiNfToLPJoGzw/s400/a+7.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I landed on nature's most dense gathering of thorns.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsEVQiMIdteF94FAR5RY6RhoHQhKAQ2PDlUnDkUbTMLsQKBd9zNXNg14tpuXrt2SAxnEFh-qSYfXPdXZIgkqXO1YBOyR7ii4orQixEd8_rYBJJktNuSnrykNLYky30MVHyEa-c8tzccim/s1600/a+10.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsEVQiMIdteF94FAR5RY6RhoHQhKAQ2PDlUnDkUbTMLsQKBd9zNXNg14tpuXrt2SAxnEFh-qSYfXPdXZIgkqXO1YBOyR7ii4orQixEd8_rYBJJktNuSnrykNLYky30MVHyEa-c8tzccim/s400/a+10.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
The scene was pretty bloody. I ended up standing in the middle of about 20 kids who were plucking thorns out of my body. This was not how I wanted to identify myself in college - as that bloody kid who took a face plant from a tree into a mess of thorns.<br />
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But alas. I was. <br />
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At the end of the trip, we drove directly from the last campsite into Orientation at the college. As many well-dressed students and families roamed the campus, my group trudged in covered in mud, sweat, and in my case, dried blood. We were instructed that we could shower and change in the Student Rec Center. On the way in, I opened the wrong door and set off the world's loudest alarm, calling more unfortunate attention to myself. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09NV8GtjTJ0phM3GO_wTpcyeWzIVJOTDtsdTvLJmZScDMcqk5Govo7YNklHbwY8FswL_kJa6LZjUux2i-Bi-QnnCysgwtLbxoqYN4H5X3bNlV-cQl_x54Pq7mwjmkW201oHnVggK5M70w/s1600/a+11.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09NV8GtjTJ0phM3GO_wTpcyeWzIVJOTDtsdTvLJmZScDMcqk5Govo7YNklHbwY8FswL_kJa6LZjUux2i-Bi-QnnCysgwtLbxoqYN4H5X3bNlV-cQl_x54Pq7mwjmkW201oHnVggK5M70w/s400/a+11.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
Once Campus Police got the alarm turned off and I got cleaned up, I met up with my parents and we headed over to the Dean's welcome address for the entire freshman class and their families. Of course my parents made us sit in the very front row. Part of this speech was about the amazing accomplishments of certain members of the class. All that stuff like starting an orphanage abroad or being a world champion at something like cup stacking or alpaca farming. The Dean concluded with a final point.<br />
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"There are also a few students you may want to watch out for. For example, look for student with a huge dent in his forehead. He sneezed so hard he blew his head into the microwave door. This is one of your future classmates!"<br />
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Startled, I jumped up about a mile in my chair. He actually leaned down and said:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ehApcNz7mLBCsD_80MBzyhJ_68vKakDxHWyq7W2_ApzVkY3qw6uVqxRoROlbndA_lkXZkxkoE7UAI-QOzqqBvD0-RcUdx1-yji2rLns_zRD4ksQReyQA_6u7mpB9d__l8KJKfrN0NjdB/s1600/a+12.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ehApcNz7mLBCsD_80MBzyhJ_68vKakDxHWyq7W2_ApzVkY3qw6uVqxRoROlbndA_lkXZkxkoE7UAI-QOzqqBvD0-RcUdx1-yji2rLns_zRD4ksQReyQA_6u7mpB9d__l8KJKfrN0NjdB/s400/a+12.bmp" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><br />
Apparently, those forms weren't so confidential.<br />
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Good or bad, I had certainly made a first impression in college. </div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-60672021298800025412011-05-23T09:21:00.000-07:002011-05-23T09:39:49.831-07:00Texas!<div>Almost two years ago, it became apparent that I was going to be moving from the East Coast to Texas. No one was more surprised by this fact than I was. Living in Texas was about as high on my list of life goals as contracting rabies. Still, I found myself packing my bags and heading for the only state with an x in its name. </div><div></div><div><br />
My original plan was to resist the fanatical cult-like obsession most people here have with the state. <br />
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</div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJ4lD7zXNdgIIXdzkuWtm0Jt9e56Pn6zCtmyJ0XuJQW4ynf0CjL1S9oFuUukxVEcReEx5FI85M036qr8zN9YJ5kP4HCCUZmF3rN4KV9AyN2SrZ1JLdFEXUyBYyPfgrLdO-hGuQ4xhFItp/s1600/Texas+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJ4lD7zXNdgIIXdzkuWtm0Jt9e56Pn6zCtmyJ0XuJQW4ynf0CjL1S9oFuUukxVEcReEx5FI85M036qr8zN9YJ5kP4HCCUZmF3rN4KV9AyN2SrZ1JLdFEXUyBYyPfgrLdO-hGuQ4xhFItp/s400/Texas+1.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
But there really is a lot to like here in Houston. Take the beef, for instance. It seems that red meat is a necessary but not sufficient means of hospitality. Everywhere you go, you can't avoid being offered steak.<br />
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</div><div></div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRC0SDYi9v1gpfqLG1iyTwCV7YfbXHwpynkh87RkN99zal-rte-4XUqJiKo2jQDLl4u-MoCbFmPQFkB-I7VXtnCxa2UyWX8QTq1vSwmJxZaPYhH0oRV0slGVKs3LndCWj58b6l3P6P3i79/s1600/Texas+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRC0SDYi9v1gpfqLG1iyTwCV7YfbXHwpynkh87RkN99zal-rte-4XUqJiKo2jQDLl4u-MoCbFmPQFkB-I7VXtnCxa2UyWX8QTq1vSwmJxZaPYhH0oRV0slGVKs3LndCWj58b6l3P6P3i79/s400/Texas+2.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div><div></div><div><br />
Most bars here don't regularly serve food, but once a week, they will have a steak night. They just wheel out a grill and start cooking slabs of beef. It's an idea both simple and beautiful.</div><div></div><div><div><br />
I have a friend who is a vegetarian, which is about the equivalent of being a communist here.</div><div> </div><div>Then there are the roads. In Texas, they love their 12 lane highways. It's very common to find yourself on an overpass where at least 900 major highways are intersecting. You always feel like 8 million cars are careening into your face. <br />
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</div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_6xP7z4HYtbrjeHe4FV4X5WK-Jx76nvkuM2pOzRlAp_ZYGfmwOsIcCWNhijkpWIejcG-O9HCHPimbu_LPsLbqNFYyodCT-rml9z3wU7WNtUNvBJ1kbBFngZ5ZhwkTAYJ2gJV499RyRAG/s1600/Texas+3.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_6xP7z4HYtbrjeHe4FV4X5WK-Jx76nvkuM2pOzRlAp_ZYGfmwOsIcCWNhijkpWIejcG-O9HCHPimbu_LPsLbqNFYyodCT-rml9z3wU7WNtUNvBJ1kbBFngZ5ZhwkTAYJ2gJV499RyRAG/s400/Texas+3.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
They also have feeder roads that run the entire distance of the highways, but just parallel to them. All I'd every known were on- and off-ramps. Remarkable!<br />
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It's important to note that there is a distinct country western theme here. Despite the city being very modern and metropolitan, it's still Texas. The other day, I was walking along a city street with a friend when she exclaimed:</div><br />
</div></div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXtQimGNO-JsQaO7OPcSdfmEtjCS70GugQg2yaOrDwPrZ5GxADG71uMXWd710o9Z26dcO1q5i94ftEStnaGpp1HzIVnklnMRL0zUtwuTGld-0SLvR0mVaIHcdtU_0JujwK7IophO04QBhp/s1600/Texas+4.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXtQimGNO-JsQaO7OPcSdfmEtjCS70GugQg2yaOrDwPrZ5GxADG71uMXWd710o9Z26dcO1q5i94ftEStnaGpp1HzIVnklnMRL0zUtwuTGld-0SLvR0mVaIHcdtU_0JujwK7IophO04QBhp/s400/Texas+4.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div><div></div><div><br />
I'm telling you, you don't have the opportunity to say that where I'm from.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>To be fair, Houston is also home to the world's largest medical center (so it's a great place to study medicine or to break your leg), the second most Fortune 500 companies headquartered in a city, the most restaurants per capita of any city in the U.S., one of the nation's largest shipping channels, 4 standing performing arts companies, and a vibrant arts scene. <br />
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But so what when you're home to the world's largest rodeo? The term "world's largest rodeo" is no joke. Imagine sitting in a giant arena, watching children cling desperately to the backs of sheep that are cantering through a giant pit of dirt (an event called "Mutton Busters"). </div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlNKuUE_k7ws8ZK_GIasRBIhVr5rAH9eKCnUY4cSkHb22N7c1LP-RIMDRLk8Fsh6xhjS4DcUlY0jhQxyVTNPJRJO2kzwHROB39O9ysOkzLb812VIwaswZ2avvTeOHlXzG5YWyufLsXmbe/s1600/Texas+8.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlNKuUE_k7ws8ZK_GIasRBIhVr5rAH9eKCnUY4cSkHb22N7c1LP-RIMDRLk8Fsh6xhjS4DcUlY0jhQxyVTNPJRJO2kzwHROB39O9ysOkzLb812VIwaswZ2avvTeOHlXzG5YWyufLsXmbe/s400/Texas+8.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> Next, you see what must be the world's largest American flag unfurl above you as troops repel from the ceiling amidst indoor fireworks. </div></div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Then, because it's Tejano night, the arena transforms into a giant stage where a popular Mexican musical group performs entirely in Spanish to a crowd that sings along to every word.</div></div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1ddUM_q5ZlDkRwHlFQP42oYxIA-4XmjinxDreq8dGK-1n_lEJKbV-7eBeeJlaB4qalbyX7q12WcYYUTO0KapqZI4-ZfdnrdKy9pL0A529JtuiLgaI6ef4nesN_Ae_92-DpvpYdUI7cy5/s1600/Texas+5.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1ddUM_q5ZlDkRwHlFQP42oYxIA-4XmjinxDreq8dGK-1n_lEJKbV-7eBeeJlaB4qalbyX7q12WcYYUTO0KapqZI4-ZfdnrdKy9pL0A529JtuiLgaI6ef4nesN_Ae_92-DpvpYdUI7cy5/s400/Texas+5.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div></div><div><div></div><div><br />
It is mind-blowingly awesome (and around here, kinda viewed as normal - I recently mentioned how weird the rodeo is to a Houstonian friend, and he looked at me and asked, "What's weird about it?").</div><div></div><div><br />
In Houston, there is also the issue of no-zoning. This means that virtually anything can be built anywhere. <br />
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</div><div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pFWXWIaxD4sPYMPHO4knV9dxr0SUOyTXT97OA3g-DosXnUNo7ixzgypLWSxT8n4k45cPVVfSeb0J8i3gSAxgzrMT3NSf7BN7sXbB3glswt5NlfXoPDNsXGBZrtwLOKpxSusZFwGn09e8/s1600/Texas+6.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pFWXWIaxD4sPYMPHO4knV9dxr0SUOyTXT97OA3g-DosXnUNo7ixzgypLWSxT8n4k45cPVVfSeb0J8i3gSAxgzrMT3NSf7BN7sXbB3glswt5NlfXoPDNsXGBZrtwLOKpxSusZFwGn09e8/s400/Texas+6.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
You never know what you're going to get as you drive along.<br />
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As I mentioned before, my original idea was to resist falling in love with the great state of Texas. I am somewhat disturbed to report that despite maintaining a healthy sense of humor about this place, I haven't been entirely successful in sticking to the plan. I don't know. There's just something about standing up in the 7th inning stretch of an Astros baseball game and joining an entire stadium of fans in singing "Deep in the Heart of Texas..."</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuociywIkZATy4yRKBiGx5BqZq9zaycxeKfIwVFBoggWHZKFFoMaKrmSpr5FSjIguLbgw9moa_8qsOlmxKqVR9mAI5flwLh8yvWRIm97SoD03l5tI9DBDy1HWRX0X1_RCB33igSwsXFV30/s1600/Texas+7.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuociywIkZATy4yRKBiGx5BqZq9zaycxeKfIwVFBoggWHZKFFoMaKrmSpr5FSjIguLbgw9moa_8qsOlmxKqVR9mAI5flwLh8yvWRIm97SoD03l5tI9DBDy1HWRX0X1_RCB33igSwsXFV30/s400/Texas+7.bmp" width="400px" /></a></div><br />
<div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div></div><div>...that makes you feel at home.</div></div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-48020403137749805922011-05-02T09:06:00.000-07:002011-05-02T09:47:27.622-07:00The Perfect PictureOne day at my parents house, I noticed that a rather large cabinet filled with fine china was slowly sliding down the wall.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602151066250082642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 278px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljrMiMsBRZQ7mWFG0nuHORoVOpE7QuKVEAcmW_vN9SxMbqDGOtP8RQJObDBj-nYXFkhUXINtTAbo8sv_4U4Vtuxqo7COJYko7TR8z7UNWfHna2AK1n0FJ2ML4H6xEeVH0iZNnYaGbux1i/s400/aunt+0.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602151192129149746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 306px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyDEPRjNNkmgdhsuT_X5zZoi4LiITaL2pJuJcADwalZHb67sPA7FygVINFYP4yh3aw_M1XH_otqOMdyNMIEV00x57ggsjzaNyzHM04zv3MfjI4CCpVD_s0fz5fpNfb_71rxFJaxwpc5o3/s400/aunt+1.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602152338232036482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 278px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVqNc1cVtDUzYT0XAHKPqSPkwUyh6hPE18YU-lI9T79I7NjYKoxCcF_c3bcs0tqWqXnl_ADQr_DpLBV28NqsEQtKCljERHbXAxL-jguYqaZMphqw505mihVxvWLucNxmr1el2BF_I2t_a/s400/aunt+2.bmp" border="0" />I alerted my dad.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602152100813309938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 311px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNawUu-NGFssMS9LS34xphGf9IErYHqUhk2Jam7EIPFzh0lfyN_fXFGZFNuaSbeYBtqdKCoS3CxoWSJ3SQBev-bWEQ6i7BxzTrqGT4AF0dMUEHM2wJfVsyTAJXTsUbdC9j6Tk1GC8tF5Cx/s400/aunt+3.bmp" border="0" />We decided that the best immediate course of action was to grab bricks from outside and stack them under the cabinet's wooden frame to keep it from sliding completely off the wall.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602152729275839746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 385px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDf034-3sIQ6SDTeFA-4D5KNnBqsT9g7jJjDOakNE7ZnCOPyg7PxnNXyKugTy4kEdyZDnibhoOsmzVdrs604ZKGK01cxsw0V-dKbFB3DRMxH1r70yzMcO9Ln9B7ZP5vtRmLyr4aw0YSwk/s400/aunt+4.bmp" border="0" />My mom didn't take the news so well.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602152918052757154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 269px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSSQt4z274gSWVoF1T90hTbZJcacwC__Ltvrp7kPM27glqlyX4DCp-w9rchRIqK_W9Ru1M9r1IzdOEi2BOYYHUZSo1O5_tDDKOKR1-rfKaYl6lT5arbHGuB_XN03fzAIX6wjKkwkxZXig/s400/aunt+5.bmp" border="0" />It was fun.<br /><br />My aunt came over to help prepare for the party. Because I was conned into serving as the wait staff, she gave me a very thorough lesson about how to pour the champagne.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602155038872475826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 350px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoBC7Qu13N_44ZjUGAJvmJ4H2A20KTElLDpx5B5STVqJFKgOs_4Kt1d2pnOHxWmwnMlTfKlAoOQ-EzBVjeP8naYjX7uhc8pV2J9p6kVgv97_dYEAhsvSb20QpWw_DIjimGlsKZVynRFmm/s400/aunt+6.bmp" border="0" />We made sure to warn my aunt not to go too near the cabinet because it could fall on her.<br /><br />A little while later, I decided to document the festivities by snapping some pre-party pictures.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602154173450345378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcy6VaqS8Wlfg_qBIaGbQ56GErrURyFjTZAyGLtrECtF1b_ZL2AVcPZ2Meah9hh2gSWw7GAXTs_-j_GN9-r1yKuxRH0UnB6Vngw6DIbvB58J4FqP-pqq2yppLoCAFdSFQ5jd7a649gsCIZ/s400/aunt+7.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602155761824166066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnbCU-VmhOCPJE2uJQWEfEgOMaHetwANNKZLezWdEcRd5ew9-zLwMthxJi2201ePsjWqmKlbzvLVCij3wgiS4qqcHUtuYuUecFnIy02ASFrnLWrdDt-h3hEdF2WmwShyphenhyphenrJK1BkDqoNpao/s400/aunt+8.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602155937270151906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheIfRhfhqb8eZhv0mbp16DxbIlmj5hFdRDw1CXpyL_TU5uS4LlZh6nxATp5oIymdD-lpsZ1kD6N1akc0VYL5O_isCk7jlKhLtzMMlFNNC5eGqKgUHSeafWKWuYic-huX4UlUlxa6W2J8x/s400/aunt+9.bmp" border="0" />I approached my aunt, who was in the kitchen where the cabinet was. I asked her to smile for the camera. She held up her hands and flashed a big grin.<br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602156396367311922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyYJGMN1ll-A9Mptva5se_bH4kV_MdoImr4jiBkzlM2Uldn7jPK2jvE82nDqjtNJUT9l1FiZIpOkuzLOG7u8gtB9VrfQIj7nfpO6IseU17ROWe6XONszSeo1VSWVjaN8pSqu6OKriGJju/s400/aunt+10.bmp" border="0" />I pressed down the shutter button. There is a slight delay on many cheap digital cameras between pressing the button and an actual picture being taken. In that brief instant, someone on the other side of the kitchen dropped a pan, which clattered loudly onto the ground. Because my aunt had been warned about the possibility of the cabinet crashing down upon her, she immediately assumed this was what was happening. With a look of sheer terror, she turned to the cabinet, waved her hands frantically, and screamed loudly. That's exactly when the camera snapped the picture.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602156173576765250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVcVqUGufFNynPOgjuIM5AVnbjJaTmx2uFyOpsTXWBO2woYcCUZD2D2HelFs85g-bYWTu9i4NUP8BRf5tQeSDPHNTTEMoRzTxrP-qd_N3jd5mCCVaz3dSPJE38xRW9uoH_wLI2SpH_pCh/s400/aunt+11.bmp" border="0" />She was so far away from the cabinet.<br /><br />I captured the best picture I will ever take: pure, honest terror of impending death on my aunt's face. Every once in a while, I like to dig around on my dad's computer, find the photo, and email it to everyone in the family. My aunt really appreciates it.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-34736760001662942752011-04-22T09:21:00.000-07:002011-04-22T12:18:23.159-07:00Mom's MistakeMy mom is a saint. She's a pure angel who floats on a cloud, gives out compliments, treats everyone nicely, and gives mean people the benefit of the doubt. It drives my dad crazy.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598444434855956866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 280px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYiGg1FoeyCHDDHfg84cXoQKi7aoje_Bz76eY99CssVGhNX1-8lGOxhfnos7lsKIf_bofGSlvu5DrH4ST83qqE7vtj9tKjqU5fsv7cFQpie8AIGDZc1dxMgEFz45-_kYy0-kpt99wNx2hE/s400/pelican+blog+1.bmp" border="0" /> Her compassion and benevolence often caused my sister to cry at the dinner table.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598444736651766962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 280px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2JTjD6Isi2Gqs7ipI7udszfIR8UsTNUd9fklMzLVQOUvXbyR-EcEmheqiDP2fNFGwyCwlKK-L__0Q6WLq7u1shG3tn-huT1GdGMyfTDengyp8t3bS7SOPyg-MNXkWiREYm-Axfsf1H8l/s400/pelican+blog+2.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598445042009725202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 280px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLd7LbJ3dqcOdOHgBiBYFbdGpCaJ3YsxZdbr1-wLHU2_8xk02VVluCQm-iEBl4DqSzvKZQk_Fvw7HeYo3v8p_BNXbB6ruWBgmnK-jzI4SKnRwDy1K_Ld5_a_ef-H3Rt-4mS7ItMT3RmG2R/s400/pelican+2.5.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598445507140630226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 239px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWwMF5TzAlLNCIFgFKW6uW85LdVseCREa01uCmiynZ-NZj28-wDOKJnPu1oH0IQpe7zL7pzT70U60xvB0EUxcfX_iWNH7WcJSg1yLgluzPU-fueaqEYVLY_PaYu3YsUq3-vgeYOk3ahIpo/s400/pelican+blog+3.bmp" border="0" />We had to institute a no-sad-story-at-the-dinner-table policy on behalf of my sister, whose sobs routinely turned to gagging fits. This seemed to be a policy to which my mom never quite adhered.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598453076241443650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 230px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01OsDUV3jwNCObJoI5Nh_YxuZb2gqLSQ9QhPtBYoBiCAoIMWi6tlJcMfIge055QVzTBXVXcF6sAFC3XVa420jxujqhjPXrCDXU93D4COpObz6vC_QQSQSuU0IhevXgAxm9jx_ri7DBj-c/s400/pelican+blog+5.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598484617445301170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 277px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhb0QL_StG_NeVQ3ViUP1OrLy69vZhmxUuO6CaiJO6eiwZ9cAQar60ce82AI66a50cc_1MP7ALkMNQ7mRamgicvZvDUpPxgci6R_8P-fyMvY6EBe-vydGVqMLZYn9hguvJDjLKDtvzwuH/s400/pelican+blog+6.bmp" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598453659717567378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 340px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHAFRwfZIsWOFgg3OHsAaAjruV1odsbmv9xehsXwJdvdSkfKpHs2MlQQ6hrDeKIHXeX9-50vViseXnNnNLdPz3mY9lWxiwYuKUaRlRo2ZRZVFF-08OS_P7HiF2InePvGTRUZbc1wbK5aaL/s400/pelican+blog+7.bmp" border="0" />As a child, my mom was so perfect that I can't get any good stories about her out of my grandparents. When I asked them what the worst thing she ever did was, their honest answer was that when she was in first grade, she ran out into the street chasing a squirrel without looking both ways. I had been hoping for some dirt like a story about how she ran off with the teenage son of the local mob don, changed her name to Harmony, and served as a drug mule in the 70's. Turns out, she never even puffed a cigarette.<br /><br />But she did make a mistake involving a pelican once.<br /><br />We were out on a dock on the intercoastal waterway, unloading the unused bait from a fishing trip, when a large pelican swooped down and landed on one of the pilings. He waited atop the barnacled post, watching us work and eyeing the frozen fish. That's when my mom got an idea.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598478274548305666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 239px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz125bctfPgD3FvQL7S4QmMXjmyCgzgf8AZdi1IkTczC_1grje_y5BPMHOWWnk8g9XxV4KHiglSJDyeJfuERcj1QeOn_J_SV5l1Nl6rvdzD7iF7ZBiuvHh5smkOfULYBY6mbAirrYuwC8f/s400/pelican+blog+4.bmp" border="0" /> She explained it to me with enthusiasm.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598478695758778786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrgO65jZHpp26rrnleFylhCR0NPHb0fSnc5VqOj1IkJN-kQP-57qZpOJHaWX181d4amFSzFrhJwr8QEleKS0SwuWPnKefEXjzlpi2DW26UqP83fZEGRDXMAqFWvghdGSgrwBPxd37LXumO/s400/pelican+blog+8.bmp" border="0" />I had some concerns.<br /><br />She continued to endorse the plan. She said it would be fine. She had never lied to me before, so I held up the fish, ever so tentatively.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598479261234331410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtcL7p_gzLxyYZJCqZHDHmPNeOB7DRZfpjLh-oylXdXLDOyBjm76-UY-YYMiMDU2o_luvmkK7V_Kjkhozh8Uc4MM4iAPuRF4qYEZBe_hxqy2MTSoDfckxpg9S9c1P95MBQJvpKN7NeuAt/s400/pelican+blog+9.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598479352746029074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuN7YRAal_5O9w65tSc13tbrBDK-qK9Hrjp32vHSvqfIt_8VhXQpe_XKC_V5D_amdwaibD_mfIsR5jo7kotKcme8zkImDbjWVrIgDQVv0ovb3D-wzn_MpteLiwVFsC5TIOlFdckn1cnUgo/s400/pelican+blog+10.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598479520061335074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgc91WvcAiTQRXxm6-WlJ6IiNHoovB4O757mcWwbDXNWJcnY4txmCje3pmG6uP8dn2ZBya2ja2Cp68PYiZDx2bhJfM0uB10HCpng3TU0KC3IOWcCXk2U5VmrI2Dai85ceKLF9sLWEBQ_C/s400/pelican+blog+11.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598479431740921810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzY5hO3czP1LjWEetr8wmOHpqKi91H79RopB5DKhEf8XIGhAPV0Ey3b20s7pcTIYMX1fygayc_9BhILj80DF6vZkXbT8PvGb0qtnst0uw8pRVSEt-EHXjIuQPFBt5ULJHhHv88iAxvCLyX/s400/pelican+blog+12.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598479608927586626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMLR3J9dHPaSPuKv3PUf3aOohhdSUXJYMCzaZRWi1RyynwX-7lQsmbLlvGqv8vtDiiPUXfgrfr8Uwdau3Pz67jZDf_jeWsXzm5fHV5KyiHHz0rjl_M8m9kO5Y_WmCxUMsqhjEzZXGVV2V/s400/pelican+blog+13.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598479678274698098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSNEr5zKCQiBJ5W-gky8K94Qw_ZQwn1BN0dZBdivtomFWPcSU1liN1ijsVIFljDyXkrAZVV8YbyLIK-yTbI3pt9eW0Zv36FY4YwUZzmRLedjHsAhClo_yHzvlfIgqnx1zzVgJSgLvG54I/s400/pelican+blog+14.bmp" border="0" /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjH5GALFqUJI3hw42cynofVTRDQqRuVGXQl4ImWUthlFTlalC-KFELCqTqgE11JvuxzthLNc_BR7RG71gcXi0wqoKMI2oCU5j9kdWM4QU5ragMrB5kTD3BO_mfiCR4JqMnRwi-YcNBhJEH/s1600/pelican+blog+15.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598479750728576946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjH5GALFqUJI3hw42cynofVTRDQqRuVGXQl4ImWUthlFTlalC-KFELCqTqgE11JvuxzthLNc_BR7RG71gcXi0wqoKMI2oCU5j9kdWM4QU5ragMrB5kTD3BO_mfiCR4JqMnRwi-YcNBhJEH/s400/pelican+blog+15.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598482679750776594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 223px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZL20V6gT0d_KNmuds-5spGgJ8iSgUTXWF73HKUCd10CwVinbkON4b9zrrPqgKS4mZjufqHUuXNEgNKedzFvilnazfPrlF6-nlB-nPaWViwQ11goDxvMMb8ySYGPXV9SV8q3ywmRHMbHdS/s400/pelican+16.bmp" border="0" />I cried out in anguish, partially from the pain of my shredded hand caused by the sea beast's razor beak, partially from my all too close encounter with a disease infested sky demon, and partially from my loss of innocence resulting from the shattered facade that parents were always right.<br /><br />My mom never got over her guilt. To this day, when she sees a pelican, she dies a little inside.<br /><br />On the plus side, I did get a sweet scar out of it.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-51225898360757363532011-04-19T13:40:00.000-07:002011-04-20T08:13:08.413-07:00A Bad Homecoming Habit, or Nun of Your BusinessAs a member of the student council in high school, I felt that we spent more time trying to build floats on boat trailers than we did fostering a democratic system of self governing. Though I had envisioned tackling school-wide issues such as getting Coke instead of Pepsi in the vending machines, I quickly became somewhat disenchanted with the program.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597397931894204242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKUZBCIjf7UantQWHQZAvCe5MQBLuCBggsqUqYl3-uIe01tQRgdt3VDV_mZlpln-Qs_3JIdFy3S6cAVs-vp4saWmbEsWAUvHxHeAyzks99cMb0HbJO-8YPk4hiejEGetpxjHjbQPgIIhC/s400/float+1.bmp" border="0" />Despite the trivial nature of the work, I was lured back into service each year by a combination of power hunger and the need to affirm that I was well liked through a formal election process. I also got pretty good at giving speeches, so running for office was usually pretty fun.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597398602132014082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 242px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvF-YL4LiAGesRRApWZSFKgiL4eXEJ7DJvC50Ku4y8sJrh-eQTGcY7qGzScsl1GF__t39dFaNK9DkO5b9TvaKPrwOrv5q9DsrXLkbwXPotnuyR0rBSF5an2QuHopekNbNQaSm2pv54fQ2/s400/float+2.bmp" border="0" />The trivial nature of student government activity was remedied by the collective intelligence and sense of humor of my classmates. We quickly realized that the zeal for winning goofy homecoming week competitions displayed by the other grades wasn't quite our thing.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597398736849017442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 394px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesSbwAQWagfCYFhY7yDysgbG2k1UWcrFhKxoZnUqgZia-gBfWHb5EKk2rfcA0nqKb2D6EGby-2L6pz8VJ6PXGpgiUfbWA0c1lG76bEn2y9kE-qm9dIgeqh994hQ6A4qF4ABqOQMFrmJA2/s400/float+3.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597402925223156498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 292px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhyphenhyphenu93XJhqOdr2FZbdSmsgLwLmHVHhu-IVjCGPWyeg-yKpEPl3In0PksXwF83CePdiY_r4SkalAT3-siUboYBqQ9fyZ3VpkVECWb9fes9DoPuXFKw4XzNLdOZZHga07Zo6Vk4j3Eds4iy/s400/float+9.bmp" border="0" />This gave birth to a sort of anti-competition campaign in which we tried to lose each event as ridiculously and wonderfully as possible. I won't even get into how the boys in the male cheerleading competition lost, but let's just say the plug was pulled on the music before the dance number ended due to behavior unbecoming of the institution.<br /><br />We tried to start a movement to get the cleverly titled "Homecoming Week" changed to "Semana Spectacular," but that was squashed by the administration. We also tried to substitute the usual tricycle riding contest with an ultimate jousting competition in which students battled teachers while balancing above a giant kiddie pool filled with Aveno bath. We actually did get the jousting, but the Aveno bath was nixed.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597403822816789202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 243px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBt7Zx1Hu0Wt4Qqmb1cA7GmRdXh1S-xMGFB3f0_8Fg7r5acEkfg-rzlhjIUf522LLrS8mvocRKsZIowL2u7gFbRYVHulPTgKIu0s0lw5YSlQ7WS7iCd82GLEhtkqex9heP-SaWdKBv1GWU/s400/float+4.bmp" border="0" />Senior year was our coup de grace. Tired of building floats to drag like mules onto the football field at halftime while the athletes pointed and laughed, we decided to pick a class theme for the year that would minimize the amount of work and effort involved. That's how we chose to become the "Boat Trailer Seniors." The float would be completed before we had even started it. We could just drag one of the empty trailers onto the field. We even had t-shirts made with a poorly drawn boat trailer on it.<br /><br />The problem was, we were too immature for our own immaturity. We began to modify the original idea, once beautiful in its simplicity. New concepts spun wildly out of control. The results were phenomenal.<br /><br />The boat trailer, which was originally supposed to be dragged out by listless, apathetic seniors, was now slated to be pulled by monks to the 2001 Space Odyssey theme song. Then, pirates would come running and screaming from behind the big hill past the end zone, pillage and steal the trailer, and leave a trail of monk bodies in their wake.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597404804981061090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 243px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3Sd4-8D3YDADhprgIySdA-nNBM4rrk3LNZMarcFxwwqRa2YjfZwHGpQaV7v1KY9dBRg9IGkaX48Qy1Tpk9dg6tFFfH2ITKRlBG5Lgg563msnbHgmNINdLFszJmlD3t3CNcX0E4V5UKDj/s400/float+5.bmp" border="0" />As you can see above, not everyone got the pirate costumes just right.<br /><br />The biggest problem was that the order of monk robes got mixed up and the costume company delivered nun habits. We adhered to the adage, "the show must go on," and carried out our plan. The last minute costume change exacerbated the the violence and offensiveness of the scene. (Note: most of the nuns were actually guys in habits, and a lot of the pirates were girls, so that seemed to help - and added to the humor, I think.)<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597405145872628098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 307px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyuzgjgFo7nq1k7uuGhz51m7whCweARS_xEKNyKeO7a8IVrvPS0E4iR1-175uSYZEJRlgTRM8M_xcDdBVzSlCVRBFSdI6HGQ3eK5dNcSSPBRZiOuhDQyVBQahlYWNMqhYrnqjA7m3gDpKY/s400/float+6.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597405554564545410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 307px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6I37W0vMlU17fpAwc-rGWZ6PJspBQdSNBBS5a22NVEZFs6FuNdIaY3AsVUulqup8lwvgW_S_IUeXpaLEbXbmpJkk7V88LGVMN4h5IBS7EL44lBFDoq29lqA-qDBhKVBv64kVVhLWnnhPH/s400/float+7.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597411550312644546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinb84zxpcgXHjWWiv724wIrqOVP54m2G-uRWlPphkXJKkQScatiUxEZqEohZhyWv86FXTavWYJX3Brix-ivWxLaX-qOv8KyICbIVmjweMY0bx0HYWXSNc7FVOapJXSlzAWMEcn433qEatM/s400/float+8.bmp" border="0" />The weirdest part was that we didn't come in last place. The seniors were pretty bummed and the administration never invited that year's panel of judges to return.<br /><br />Since then, homecoming rules have been amended. I guess it's understandable.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-52282754043871524442011-02-05T11:18:00.000-08:002011-03-15T07:19:02.179-07:00The PromThroughout my life, I have never been able to do anything with dignity.<br /><br />Even during many of my life's major milestones, my supposed moments to shine, I have somehow ended up with egg on my face. Take the first and last Annual Extended Family Talent Show, for example. As a six year-old, it seemed like a very big deal, so I rehearsed my act for weeks in advance. When the day of the big show finally came, I stood in the middle of the living room with my aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and that creepy boyfriend my older cousin had inappropriately invited, waiting for my cue. I was so excited that I was bouncing around like a maniac. That's when, as per usual, things took a turn for the embarrassing. My dad delivered the fatal blow. <span style="color:#ffffff;">ce</span><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570289028430599746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 271px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdQiQH99NfQzlg8u9cf3Ka-K0o33eNK2lR1oxWvtVW_k0m0ez1S1EHi1CXCoUCfkwoHzrqiAOlDXrCuC-8U2EPETrovMHU3HeXHlU8mg0puY5PeDcRCyNyjn3MLLRkffb9DgXscorv9YN/s400/prom+1.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570290371810485458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 220px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyD6z6B_OOU5e0xACox-Q16oLGXqbeE2qF5C4a8g_TgQ5eR5PzgnofdVbXUvlFU5pSGOwbDJJttUBv3wPpYfGATQ6lEGtg4k2Ranac72YAl-Nbm_rICvMNPz65ECteN8-NzCiOMWhQBbsR/s400/prom+2.bmp" border="0" />That ended up being the entirety of my act that year.<br /><br />Sadly, my dad was actually correct.<br /><br />I also thought my high school graduation might be a time of potential dignity. Not so. Despite having practiced my speech for weeks, and despite delivering it with great aplomb, I ended up falling flat on may face.<br /><br />Literally, I ended up falling flat on my face.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570290933430072658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 327px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5-rZ80Uo5yrrpmQZzA057lOJQCYlPNNFc5X7d8L3TcgGlY1G1eFPl4zogVYorgiveiS2RuJz6GQTphrut_DyugnS9lidBYr4-m_ayieeZ1bUA6WgQga6Qd5vd1mgDFCc0L1_qMBKvo7a/s400/prom+3.bmp" border="0" /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570291139160207426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 327px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxezsyCrCY5eWWVLK45HgCrsrSrJjg3FDEKJfcGgjm9TGFxxpo-ggerRlhlHIPbcK3gQg28GybFEoTduzT7IWRujY0WAZWDf5pfUL4gkURFpxSsYhMtZNjfVSuLlLgatyU5Nl9gDYUrOA/s400/prom+4.bmp" border="0" />So when the senior prom came along, why did I ever think it would be a normal, American, teenage rite-of-passage?<br /><br />It all started when I picked up my date, Tammy, at her house. Her family waved as we drove off. Of course, her little 8 year-old sister chased after a ball and dashed into the driveway in front of the car.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570291909774074610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 235px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_1bZ1b8ZozGJbeNLimoNSaFKDom8HigjgyGZZe2Ob23r_HfdHqV_KIKic2oA-gFDFNkohgsADt3G7OTKqs9vZwrHm_tvAWDUN2-sDbR02sN2KfJn1jAPMFe6StPr6632A-fOoHS6U36Y/s400/prom+5.bmp" border="0" />It was an awkward departure. Next, Tammy and I headed to the pre-party at my friend's house. We had to park down the street and then walk along the sidewalk toward his home, me in my tuxedo and she in her dress.<br /><br />You know how people tend to gawk at prom kids? Well one woman driving down the street did it for a little too long and failed to see the truck stopped in front of her.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570293013252489298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 264px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5bEr0Ee-fbJydM71i3YFYtkAuJGKnFW6n0mbHWrN6Eb-SUdie9zLU0M5ak8E1oo4MleSKWH7Gv56-Z9MGM0_xlnf-DG3PuOIlZidyLtMz9sA6gQOtgweDfHCIEqa6wjx-dkpcV_t6JSw/s400/prom+6.bmp" border="0" />She had been traveling at about 35 mph and so the airbag deployed. There was a lot of smoke. Some bystanders had to drag her unconscious body out of the car.<br /><br />We turned to walk up the driveway to the party to find that everyone was outside.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570293638368774258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCS6_AT_v0PZX7DQjtBceXYRGMzJVhHSx1-G3aU43kaF7YdY5bb2Gvo0sNEaUAlA4M0CXndR6CtBdK0MI6lMG5JeeezTgQOOQC_vN8LzfsLvxaIy-uCygJDwPdUXjOZ0KUNSrv_dJcQhoX/s400/prom+7.bmp" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570294104224590162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 263px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9vWa3UuNdLsB9O0oLRApIDb58zGW3XQZrGyD_rNxZh5rIdGTKTQYQpsYg-5JDt6lf7ZkDd-AcXrwSI1XisPtlR3d534k-kO8HSobK9qxJndYib5mlQxkevm_tTGl_5Eb2ZvJCgjiDRGd2/s400/prom+8.bmp" border="0" />Apparently, nothing kills a pre-party like a little face-slamming-into-airbag-at-high-velocity action.<br /><br />Things picked back up when the cops arrived and let us pose in handcuffs by the squad car. Our pictures ended up looking something like this: </p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570295410901560946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 271px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhQQHJt3j3mzZPAOdSRIxF4yKzFhVQEieWXpnFBjafH6f8mM_Qe9o-eGLVkAMsbS-LqVhsxYGq4Ja0GKOD_qmDMVsraMTH3jHC-fiqPQTg_tdf9ah2eZFqt7ynwQ6mP3QDD9cHbFSNtIl/s400/prom+9.bmp" border="0" /> It wasn't your typical pre-prom shoot. Finally, it was time to go. That's when we realized that we were missing something.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570296056640225458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 321px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG738TCX528t3OR7Cacpn4Z-CvkgiZrP9Cu3ChyphenhyphenjU3I_bjMuZ7iDfdJqyR26SWosidMrVW0EyVKjgKr5PwAZzV96DkEYkwiGsiiSD_C4WYp4rQXjfONtKIUXOY7qPovv6PwmFwKU43j1Jj/s400/prom+10.bmp" border="0" /> We waited and waited. After a while, a limo actually did pass the house. Thinking it was our limo that had simply gotten lost, Tammy took off down the street after it.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">space</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570296826383262066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 262px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCvqCEKvJy4njSCo5UFQZcpwdRsPiIZciJYfROO9-R15PBd8gzM_XeZU-GQjE6NWYg2kSrmafplqDzUj-aYp8S4eHwgIGmMAED1H1JcX0KLk2QHhAATu9L-cB6G_OzI_RoX8gTV3wlSKz/s400/prom+11.bmp" border="0" /><br />In a cruel twist of fate, that wasn't our limo. My friend John called and learned that they had no record of our reservation...despite the DEPOSIT WE HAD PAID!!!<br /><br />We ended up calling a cab and cramming our whole group into it like one of those clown cars at the circus. When we arrived at the entrance of the prom, we just tumbled out into the street.<br /><br />The prom itself was great! Tammy was a huge hit. </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570298465009271266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 262px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqVTnobJwBlDcOyxgh4SB95So6Mn-zcV0x_PK3_nhgw4sM5ckikSaupIvR_JSonuLaexgeotGkUriyH4RLKhwi776ZlE4c0lx8Kc2J5cFmK0ppLORW2hXoHKcJ3MPndko1KXARpwHKwFGi/s400/prom+12.bmp" border="0" />After the prom, everyone climbed into their spacious limos to be whisked away to the after-party. My group stuffed itself into another cab. On the plus side, as we rode to the party, Tammy made friends with the driver.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570299302055187458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 262px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYHT4w3BF1_ZFuoqRCGRnIy___9GvpgiWgGTBFx3ngn6UkmhWQGQbre0BHEORqCZsZ2q084kRw6Znr-apOEA97XHrwkCyTYrcr1rx6ryOKFjCDXMG0VbUunh1HeQ19PkZ56TJkerx7yV8/s400/prom+13.bmp" border="0" />At the after-party, an intoxicated football player became drunk-obsessed with throwing me in the pool, so I basically spent the evening ducking behind pillars and clawing at the at the patio tiles. It was actually a really fun night.<br /><br />No dignity, but lots of fun. It was pretty standard.Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-73323940118536873352010-12-21T14:28:00.000-08:002010-12-21T20:00:30.185-08:00An Investigative Report<div><div><div>Paradox: Nothing could be more nightmarish than ending up on a reality-t.v.-adventure-dating show, whereas nothing could be more heavenly than getting to experience the audition. </div><br /><div></div><div>But sometimes things have a way of working out.</div><br /><div>A friend discovered that NBC would be holding auditions nearby for a reality show and wanted nothing more than to "check out the clientele." That was all I needed to hear. I was in.<br /><br />A group of us arrived at the bar and found a lot of trendy young people who looked like this:</div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553267058111856770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 245px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjQthLaUBFWW5wU282dKKIUlEANcOc3nWm0FCKdtDPD6CesOsSiluN04FYFMfjm0YqOzXiIpTMrJRKSZKaBtFOiKbXzxoqncNSM3RdMu_QhL0wGbGYGfbav7jr-wjPllmD6XoT0EEA3I-/s400/reality+tv+1.JPG" border="0" />And this:</p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553267628150817154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 235px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO7nymWkxdpzl7CJVxJGBLBFqV1fjhjnsibKANCy5-tShBKZrPh84hD5FtxSmBsESOznWQ4mPFQku6Jzu5tu4k-ooIlRZvFS5BGacIxqEu-6ndToqTiQkSFBVJbmE6-eySVjZQygMZlQwE/s400/reality+tv+2.JPG" border="0" />Next, we found the NBC folks taking people's information and giving out audition numbers. </p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553267947264173442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 295px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZ4wONujRYXC34GLYCrvlCpT5un3TW81P_DwhtD3jEdEGqRVWkLyxsz0ggdr2Stco2h3Sja5dSSHyke-HoYb0simbStH7DqM1DDoilY9xUphTUzZlHVXTuT4yHNELlpwpqE8_Ur4JPhPO/s400/reality+tv+3.JPG" border="0" />That seemed about right.<br /><br />I decided not to register because I really just wanted to chat with prospective fame junkies. I played dumb and pretended that I had accidentally stumbled upon all this, asking people what it was all about. Most looked embarrassed and mumbled something about a reality show.<br /><br />"About what!?" I did probe.<br /><br />The response usually consisted of a lot of ashamed mumbling and staring at the floor. People said things like, "It's like adventure and travel...and dating I guess. It's stupid."<br /><br />My favorite was a guy we called "Head Shot." He acted like he didn't care and claimed his friend made him try out, but then when we asked what was in his manila folder...</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553269184450779762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 359px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQM4v8-bhemFNW8DocTh9L3MUYWvXmNCto7maAwPg1UDXuoWC6SHxHyvVuF9H9j_A-4FDCR2-sRh2PTXqHH4ktexK2nGibd-tB4nW-crjdIwUJzoZByXdN-zTQF-7Qj1Nj2SxNlRW6iCE/s400/reality+tv+4.JPG" border="0" /> Head shots and an acting resume! Jackpot!<br /><p>When he came out of the audition he was reticent to say too much because we were potential competition. Those were his words, not mine. Well, he didn't use the word "reticent" but you get the idea. Visual scans of the crowd revealed that NBC wasn't going to have a productive night. No one was model-y enough, especially the old biker guy with the long gray hair and a ZZ Top beard. </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553269885893453106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 312px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsnjKQ1mf0SLVFOFZbTocK-a_5wVbm1WlXf2dz_Aavfzyo5JzaqCl9NOmH7VQ1o1SEiOVYgd_zJDrm2bnGIAxN_RvnUNaK8-kARWJwxQMsSti-87FV0n7QBnTQWn7tKDmbBWzUzEJ5t0w/s400/reality+tv+5.JPG" border="0" />He was awesome, but not exactly the island-love-romp type. Maybe more of an "American Choppers" kid of guy. </div><br /><div>There was one blond girl with a headband around her whole head and we all agreed she had the best shot. She looked like someone more interested in flirtinis than in multivariate calculus, but that's perfect for these types of things. </div><br /><div>Soon it was time for my cadre to enter the group audition. I was standing next my pals when the guy waved us in. I protested that I had not registered and was just there for moral/comedic support, but that didn't seem to matter.</div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553270782322843378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 312px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiodCawwArT3qs7F5jZs2OpbahaV3LcWV7JuBkpPdFqs2b91r9aS98f0H4vimrqoBXdixlA2BPfKEhEiRxtYakGxUPThB3UxIWSrN6eDIvPoD1IDuKo3cL4QCM7EVyLO0XZSRNEebmJbrZ/s400/reality+6.JPG" border="0" />The casting lady inside was so bored with us from the start that she failed to notice I didn't even have a number. About six of us sat down and got to field important questions like "What you do all think about celebrity cheating?" My response didn't exactly win me any points.</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553271252334589522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 292px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvV_au3vqmDD_-ZKPfLqfKuk0cbJftG_WnYWZ1yr-9S9AyMraoKLJMsrDkgx4vymnoyIvJdOs-oSPC04yvVbVMTr8CsBVQ9dtr7fnXQ7hAxNSn6DxQtF6XHox7_DQt4D0JClsj5XUf80j/s400/reality+tv+6.bmp" border="0" />Then we were asked about the most romantic thing we'd ever done. Again, my answer was unsatisfactory.<br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553272036969442306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 292px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjpMwXOWOnQ4n0fxpoUqibx3zraxCTaTUI4R4VDPK0VEaQ-1uShPqCP81a_6IXRco51RtL5IOFuhykYuiRi9406f4XQ7hTTw7N_x3tVrZl_wL0YD5LyVohruwuDQ4VMkDxxSoJMJwisHjW/s400/reality+tv+7.bmp" border="0" />They really seemed to like the girl who said that Eva Longoria was her 11th cousin or something, but when I asked if she had ever met Eva and she said no, the casting professionals became less interested. I actually had to apologize for blowing it for her.<br /><br />I always kinda wondered how they find these reality stars, and now I know. In high school I helped my dad film an audition video for the first season ever of Survivor where he pretended to eat our pet parrot. He got tapped for an interview but showed up in Miami with a 103 degree fever and to this day he isn't sure what happened in there except a decent amount of sweating.<br /><br />It was a productive night.</p></div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-25769649337793316142010-12-17T12:48:00.000-08:002010-12-17T13:25:48.242-08:00Coupon Caper: A Delicious Debacle<div>Recently, two of my friends scored an awesome Restaurant.com coupon to a trendy restaurant in town. Being that our friendship is based primarily on cheapness and a common yearning for a good deal, the three of us were in a terrific mood.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">spance</span></div><div> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551756260205289202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 297px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjj7h5AL9usmEUiyEtDuqJPqxw_VWMUAxuTMJ1Q1SjMip8Fb3jHxhaVz0xwAJImrrdMHu21_tW7nmv6ukTwZLCQc73LIPSj0osEZAhe6RDn3aD4DHiXAyib26UpqN-k2K7w1wQg6hu7lEE/s400/dinner+1.bmp" border="0" />All we had to do was spend $35 to get $25 off the bill. We arrived at the restaurant and immediately began calculating how to spend the exact amount of money that would yield the maximum amount of savings.<br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551757334312926962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 280px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit4d6NE5nl21M6yrzqsZ5mrsUwfmtKXalh41_OX53c3Kk2wmIvZdhBqcU2Nhtw5ExXPEb-HsXO19j5HBb9L3Pdos6Rb0u6R3dff82CrsKWl8uwC1swukdLiIgYzvnUkqHlPVJdVt_Hvn5d/s400/dinner+2.bmp" border="0" /> </div><div>It was all about the numbers. What we actually wanted didn't matter so much.</div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551757155702398802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 305px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1r21OFoH0FRobgigvoB8GaiTXz9nbv21Rbniz2ihyphenhyphenexdhbYgPu-UQjWo1StU8pongiua41CoM3BehYydpGZbfb8h0QJgcNhV6m-qAS1HZWKVwE8VstVgy5CB_0bCkqn7WUox-sLt-0Gv/s400/dinner+3.bmp" border="0" />Approximately one hour later we were ready to order. Despite having taken our sweet time to decide, we begged the server to let us have the happy hour appetizer price even though it was one minute too late. She pitied us and obliged.<br /><br /><div>Spirits were sky high, on account of all the savings. We were living the high life, but all that changed when the server returned with some important news. We had misread the coupon and actually needed to spend $50 for the discount. This was dramatic and funny. I decided to be macho and solve the problem.</div><div></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551758151995153762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 332px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHk4cgduURONiJHyzdK35lPD7QwX3gW7mYPKJ1f457EoPYXsVRe7OqhRDVZJePvCOAncroH_pzV8xvESoRN6K-x-TWbwj3jn_XkOtZ2ja9qynLgh5kRl9UsQ7CgA9E6eQMr2upaHqa9RS/s400/dinner+4.bmp" border="0" /> Normally we would never indulge in restaurant dessert, so we were feeling pretty high class. All of this was mitigated by the fact that the deal wasn't looking quite so good anymore, but the mood was still jovial.<br /><br /><p>That's when the server returned with more bad news - Happy hour appetisers didn't count toward the $50 total. We handled the news with maturity and grace.</p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551758620836620098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 332px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qhD-gAhC1pVeOK7iOuGmc1sxQeBavIH0n4oENtcG-2bBj8R_KpNrlC0ybyYuGuSCT6N4VaQgTEPpxkQQyv52Too0yxUAOOmPBCkp5-XdFIKQUZ0gyn0PluMZPKcUHoFyWy9GdCewx8Lk/s400/dinner+5.bmp" border="0" />We ordered more cakes. This time, it was of the to-go variety, as we could hardly handle any more food. Once it arrived, we learned that to-go items didn't count toward the $50 minimum. This was too much to handle.</p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551759335610295202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 332px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib2wBGdkrbojZ3Pu6kej9tOyo7VedIuAvt6yzT-VPztDv0VdpF143abEaZbBxNnQHGyuo3YF3-wH796hjiRz068R1RA6Dg3H6C5j0fxMyMVLtp3Ezy4SDonMPJjYlPrwaCSxxmAhyphenhyphen2TOoZ/s400/dinner+6.bmp" border="0" />I suggested that they bring the cakes out on a plate, we could each take a bite, and then we'd ask for a doggy bag. That seemed to appeal to their logic and the plan was set in motion. </p><p>The cakes and coffees were really starting to pile up, but we had to keep spending in order to save. I think the sever felt bad, because when she came back with our bill, she also brought one heck of a great story. </p><p>"You see the man in the blue shirt over there? Well, he's the owner. The other day, he brought his six-year-old son to the restaurant and the kid was being loud and acting up. He poured sugar all over the table and then..."</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551760249140863138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnAcav2JXjtEnNd7oPk2X4OmpNi3mRvzDs7q98UQwws2c8jkGQB8wIi64gIehXmSd99Yip_rWs-lSHILKK1Jzkf30u1WhkhRbr3j7NqYGHWybz3CRik9AVbdPMgFZdGoFRr9oxAdUf3SJ3/s400/dinner+7.bmp" border="0" /> <p>It was an enchanting evening.</p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">(To read about another adventure involving this trio, visit </span><a href="http://leemar.wordpress.com/2010/12/15/ye-olde-blog-post/"><span style="font-size:78%;">http://leemar.wordpress.com/2010/12/15/ye-olde-blog-post/</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;">. It's about the time we patronized the World's Largest Renaissance Festival (using discounted tickets, of course).)</span></p>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-76282281949683061362010-12-14T14:54:00.000-08:002010-12-16T07:07:41.576-08:00Mon Pere. Tu Me Manques.<span style="color:#000000;">When I was in high school I thought everything was funny. Honestly, I think I just walked around for four years snorting and wheezing at just about any form of novel external <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">stimulus</span>. </span><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550675752055043042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 297px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxVzfPIf-9z1-LaUYzoiKUrn2JNYPDmNF8fuFzkph6cVyF-YS_uZYGRuWNHOp7f4slhyphenhyphenW1xYHwON_9-OSC6BmbhKpDQz3XhhL2cnPElglrF7XWLnE2jiLEo6W0y6bWnfM7c32BLx6et7E/s400/laugh+1.bmp" border="0" /><span style="color:#000000;">A math teacher once dropped the eraser and made a little noise like "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">urp</span>!" and I laughed so hard I choked on my own saliva and nearly hacked up a lung right there in the front row. And those serious National Honor Society inductions where we all had to act somber and stand in front of a crowd on the risers? Forget it. </span></p><span style="color:#000000;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550676239128238386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 221px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jIHWkxm9rLEa_hx6LyKw7DQzer97KUMXjF_SLzE3B-GZiapEVH1_7SyAmbBqOj45RHwyJTJd8CTJY8G3CP-EkxZf488mftbkM4VXJgUK1v3mZJbH7lV9TCOuH-2GZzHI8lemwkju9QGO/s400/laugh+2.bmp" border="0" /></span> <span style="color:#000000;">I miss those days of life before I became an adult (of sorts).<br /><br /></span><p><span style="color:#000000;">Anyway, having the propensity to laugh despite situational appropriateness had its down side. Boy did it.<br /><br />One day in the tenth grade, our French teacher took the class to the theater to see a production about international travel geared toward students learning French. They would do a scene in French and then repeat the scene in English. We all expected it to be trash, but it was actually a high class show. I thought it was pretty funny, how good the show was, so I was already feeling a bit goofy early on.<br /><br />As fate would have it, I was seated with some friends in the front row on the left side of the stage. We were awfully close, but we were off to the side. Therefore, my stifled laughter wasn't going to be too much of a problem. At least not until they took one of the scenes, the serious graveyard scene, directly to the edge of the right side of the stage. This is where things went <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">afoul</span>. </span><span style="color:#000000;"><br /><br />Out of nowhere, this happy-go-lucky show of traveling young adult tourists took a detour for the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dramatic</span>. One of the characters got off the train in Normandy to visit the grave of his dead father. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">kneeled</span> in front of the grave, and consequently right in my face, and began speaking/crying to his dad. It basically looked like this: </span></p><span style="color:#000000;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550677190936885746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 376px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigzil2rNRbZ6wy3dULZTw20h6eigpfEXRaMyjZQIQxdsO9uqqvsFmpBnHGQ_SOw2psvEMD_OMuKfZXmt6tC0RVfgy5f4fdQr6INsSuFqE3_a3QHoWjR6gWlAQXvIh-0xBMO8hg3Un6-Anb/s400/laugh+3.bmp" border="0" /></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I was doing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ok</span> holding it in until I heard just the slightest inhale-after-a-quiet-laugh from my friend sitting next to me. It was too much for me to handle.<br /></span><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550677818986738482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 244px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNpAzQMLendWzGFl0jdQmc9N87lb5B3yj3Oyo78ndQ89CcxuZl2xp9RG1nMaEbMbtiSTD1eSeaiuiJkwuc-_SiPKFKVFQHuSCbIwRXKADOqO-LjNINBvOCS5IfDA0hm3y5EDArJXrXsnfh/s400/laugh+4.bmp" border="0" /> <div><span style="color:#000000;">Right there, in front of a theater full of teenagers, I laughed in the face of a man saying goodbye to his deceased father. Of course, this had the dreaded ripple effect, and soon the whole audience was having a good chuckle.<br /><br />I looked up at the actor through by bleary eyes and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Not enough to be able to stop laughing, but guilt nonetheless. I then looked back at my French teacher.<br /></span></div><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550678318029620642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_HIdmWzwwiw0HAyML7m8RvtU3m5zKGKd5T_VEOi_rYXihZAlxc5iomWZi4Wo1LwtrR4jmSt5s5pGsyCE7Q3jwQJxsEX0QkTnBWuBxDQ8TC_tUYqyLuAA0LhxNlXvnQWYSeiDCpLluPzy/s400/laugh+5.bmp" border="0" /></span> <div></div><span style="color:#000000;">I really did feel terrible. This laughter wasn't out of malice or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">disrespect</span>. I knew better. I just couldn't do anything about it. </span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><br />I freaking loved high school.</span>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3932087039384844089.post-75960566910336946442010-11-27T09:01:00.000-08:002010-12-15T15:11:59.293-08:00Important Advice: Don't Follow the Blinking Martini GlassMy college once hired a hypnotist to perform for the student body. I had always been incredibly curious about what it was like to be hypnotised, but I also had reservations about being made a fool in front my peers. That was a job I usually reserved for myself.<br /><br />Most hypnosis volunteers I had seen in the past ended up like this:<br /><br /><div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544277070983904418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 399px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWl1fU04HC7D3a-_7sLERtIlCxX7hGtwovdFrZ3vjVfx4et5zt1p1cNJ5WVIv8yUM7ZVzj-3_O7C3b7afWZBGJp3z9U8A4VKAoEN-xz9Y2Og6OwSZIKfNKB2l4HyxMNQOE6dTVsrFbmcIF/s400/hyp+blog+1.bmp" border="0" /></p><br /><p>I was especially nervous because I secretly find <a href="http://www.popgunchaos.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/not-being-john-malkovich-431x300.jpg">Cameron Diaz </a>funny and once laughed a little too hard during a screening of "The Holiday." In the end, curiosity won out and I bum rushed the stage when the guy asked for participants. He told us that anyone who wanted to volunteer could come up, but for some reason everyone got needlessly competitive about getting up there.</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544278009341166930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ozQ7pCJjatQWRTPw-l0EicaRlLb_3mP4nlg7jwYswXP-tx5J-0fLYmMangLme-B1GywrGHydw_FdLgQUFDTwcdecmV2VpoEzdtJipk8a8vNwyOghMIFJNAaI9NTe51t6EUNLJezsYgUC/s400/hyp+blog+3.bmp" border="0" /> The hypnotist looked ridiculous...<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544278449967050210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 330px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKWrXEUweDyXCmi2GBkSxxU7WrnbZqzQp1s97XD1MMzp74xgLnlTqd5xBUDFYBU_hcCbXyGtboHAuGY4mK4dLEACgMerwxuQmnDSRZuf6o9ilSoTkcKYpvh0D0E70rWNpaLXdPsiUyJgg/s400/hyp+blog+2.bmp" border="0" />...but the first thing he did was make fun of my plaid shorts. This was ironic but also probably somewhat fair.<br /><br />Finally, it was time for him to do his voodoo magic. This is when things went terribly wrong.<br /><br />He started with small tricks like making us believe that we could not separate our clasped hands. The crowd chuckled as we tried to pry them apart. But then he made us "sleep." When he snapped his fingers, we all slumped over. He began giving us instructions about how we would believe we were driving race cars at top speeds. When he snapped his fingers, everyone on stage was going wild.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544279148461121906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi1uZtEBg0Ekm-wKmKO-ehPa9hQ4N6X-beY1-6v47yM0zk03ecGGKDktOV9-eLhEqCzFGf6tNPcX3b01JytUUEwjA3N9UpOp4Ab6d_GXteL3k4yeWUgZyxBsAjX_ZE68WP8DRk2HkGUOtI/s400/hyp+4.bmp" border="0" /> Everyone but me, that is. I was somehow rendered completely incapable of speech, movement, cognition, or non-zombie-like behavior.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544279522354004658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 335px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwK0v32NmPqLOosOrci7UoZDdXlEVLMXMhjrBP7wMZ3ZjaxahtxausmO_g9qOg2VTZMsX8uNMco5xthnMFsqZAGtfh1Ee1dqJK4O7WuvL7saPpck9hUQt84f_8OQ3GnwXCd1XFpx1rOe8/s400/hyp+blog.bmp" border="0" /> I just sat there uselessly. Several photos taken from the audience revealed that my pupils were dilated to the size of dinner plates. At first everyone thought it was pretty funny.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544280102050779010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 328px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVFkESU2-SNmuIT56W1aQ71w9Dy5Tu_AixULZpUDjfhClD2kxfHS7qPC5cZ-M_30derxgjh2hCE4ExfSfWuEPhJGi2f8gXGG2bHTCjpVHPOLiSGGE_YjHxZrnezMdHoIadfIXMwVdc_St/s400/hyp+5.bmp" border="0" /> But as the show continued and the hypnotist created new, hilarious scenarios, I remained in a drooling, baby-like state. People started getting nervous, not sure if this was normal.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544288174999386226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkS1rNDuOMof8fBtTySqa1-xDS2OpI4pLgMd3O_L3yO1ZPpsMSnp4JG_ZhjsnZ4KybFMUHwtLpjKUezzldEhZZ0dif4XWGX8IeK1Z6A0pSrwcWVgGzx54ipQ4dnogTfR11laXKaUZwwp3/s400/hyp+6.bmp" border="0" />I could hear and see everything that was happening, but I was simply unable to react properly to stimuli. I started to notice that even the hypnotist was looking at me a little worriedly. I would have become upset, but nothing really seemed to matter in my morphine-like condition. Not even the drool that was collecting around my chair.<br /><br />Finally, when he snapped us all out of it, I kinda came back to. People crowded around telling me they were relieved and asking me what had happened. I really couldn't explain. I think I was still in a bit of a daze, like after one of those naps that lasts too long and stays with you for a while.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551050460029991762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60H_ADBVZy1h1SSrvNhMZoUpUAmtaTEbnOs96dKCdQD9fe8fxlnaIhUVTASkf8QaTSJ0azvazoZY7HvaDg23ttsJfJZ3tiVanpgvZwCEx1NYnz2eNhTmtFcUHHzaaBEIDToj-9knsxe9i/s400/hyp+7.bmp" border="0" /> A few days later, I overheard someone I didn't know point me out to his friends and say, "That's that kid on drugs." I was disturbed but figured I had misunderstood. Then it happened again. And then a third time. I learned that everyone who didn't know me on campus assumed that I was addicted to heavy narcotics based on the hypnotist show. Apparently being hypnotised wasn't a logical enough explanation.<br /><br /><div>And that's the unlikely story of how I got street cred.</div></div>Jordiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08597601462877183723noreply@blogger.com4