At lunch, the friendly waitress asked me what I’m reading on my iPad. “Um, it’s a book about psychopaths.” She gave me a funny look and left my check and didn’t come back. Was it something I said?
The hubby is conducting a Promotions Board for the military. This is where they evaluate soldiers prior to recommending them to advance onto the next rank. It consists of a series of different questions, which the candidates have to do their best to answer.
Hubby: What is the name of the Islamic jihadist group that currently has a presence in Syria and Iraq?
Candidate: Wait, I know that. Hmm, is it SSI? No, no, that’s not it. It’s like I…S….oh wait! I got it! SISSY!
Hubby: <bites on his pen to keep from laughing out loud>
Me: Hey, there’s some research that the World Health Organization did. It’s saying that your zip code determines your overall health.
Me: The World Health Organization.
Me: Didn’t you hear me? I said, the…you’re very funny.
Me: <eye roll>
For a short period of time, my mother lived in what was called “older adult” housing. That is, apartments for “mature” people, aged 55 and older. In her ‘70′s, my mom certainly fit the requirement.
Basically, folks who lived there were independent. If they required special assistance as time went on they would be given whatever they needed; meals prepared, apartment cleaned, that sort of thing. The ages of the residents ranged from relatively young and active 55 year olds to a few 100 year old spry citizens.
Every once in awhile, someone wouldn’t be seen for a few days and it would come to pass that the person had died in their apartment. This was taken very matter of factly by the residents, who didn’t seem too fazed by it.
I didn’t realize HOW not fazed they were by it until one day when I was visiting my mom. We were talking in the communal dining room. An older gentleman approached us and asked my mom if she wanted in on this month’s “action”. My mom shook her head no and he said “It’s gettin’ up there pretty good, you should think about it.”
After he walked away, I asked my mom “What’s the ‘action’?”
“Oh, these idiots are collecting money for a bet.”
“They’re betting on who is going to croak next.”
“WHAT?!” I was horrified.
“Shh!! Do you have to be SO loud? Every month you’re supposed to put into the pot ‘x’ number of dollars. And then whoever dies next, if you guessed it, you get all the money. People haven’t been guessing very well, because I heard they have collected over one thousand dollars. Someone is going to make a killing.”
The hubby and I are on our way to Hollywood for a special tour. Sometimes we like to play tourist and do things that tourists would typically do. It’s fun to see a different side of where we live.
The GPS is taking us the long way around as the tour is on Sunset. The GPS makes us go further north to Hollywood Blvd and then has us come BACK to Sunset. We have the following discussion while I’m navigating Saturday night traffic in Hollywood:
Me: Man, the stupid GPS is taking us the long way ‘round. Why did it do this? We wanna be on Sunset not Hollywood.
Hubby: Doesn’t the Sunset on Hollywood?
Me: No, it doesn’t cross.
Hubby: You didn’t hear what I said.
Me: (irritated while navigating traffic) What?!
Hubby: Doesn’t the SUN SET on Hollywood? (Giggles)
Hubby: I’m not gonna talk to you anymore. Every time I do, it goes on the blog.
Hubby: this is going on the blog, isn’t it?
One precocious 12 year old boy, talking to his mother–Dad is a social worker and mom is finishing her studies to become a psychologist.
“Um, yeah Mom, I know you and Dad are both therapists. But seriously, we don’t need to process EVERYTHING.”
Got up at the crack of Jack this morning, to see the “blood moon”. When the moon finally turns red, what does my husband (the L.V.N.) say?
“It looks like a blood clot.”
The hubby is talking with a friend, who is asking him some specific questions about American history. The friend is amazed and says:
“Wow, I was born and raised in the United States but know so little about American history. Yet, I can name all four of the Golden Girls.”
The hubby and I are babysitting our godson, who is about 5 years old. When his mom comes to pick him up, he tells his mom he has to “pee”. We send him off to the bathroom, so he doesn’t have to hold it all the way home. He runs upstairs and we hear him running water after a bit. As he’s coming down the stairs, we have the following conversation:
Me: Did you wash your hands?
Hubby: Did you wash BOTH hands?
Godson: (smiles) oops. (runs back upstairs)