In Dec. 3 Issue
We certainly hope your turkey sandwich is still moist and your belt is still in the same loop.
We were extremely proud of ourself this week. We went to the doc for a check-up and eventhough it was a few days after Thanksgiving, we had lost a couple of pounds. Fear not, we are sure we will find it before Christmas is over.
Pat and Tom Mathews shared some stories this week that had been brought to their attention. These have been contibuted from various sources......
While I sat in the reception area of my doctor's office, a woman rolled an elderly man in a wheelchair into the room. As she went to the receptionist's desk, the man sat there, alone and silent.
Just as I was thinking I should make small talk with him, a little boy slipped off his mother's lap and walked over to the wheelchair. Placing his hand on the man's, he said, 'I know how you feel.. My mom makes me ride in the stroller too.'.
* * *
As I was nursing my baby, my cousin's six-year-old daughter, Krissy, came into the room. Never having seen anyone breast feed before, she was intrigued and full of all kinds of questions about what I was doing.
After mulling over my answers, she remarked, 'My mom has some of those, but I don't think she knows how to use them.'
* * *
Out bicycling one day with my eight-year-old granddaughter, Carolyn, I got a little wistful. 'In ten years,' I said, 'you'll want to be with your friends and you won't go walking, biking, and swimming with me like you do now. Carolyn shrugged. 'In ten years you'll be too old to do all those things anyway.'
* * *
Working as a pediatric nurse, I had the difficult assignment of giving immunization shots to children. One day I entered the examining room to give four-year-old Lizzie her needle. 'No, no, no!' she screamed. 'Lizzie,' scolded her mother, 'that's not polite behavior.' With that, the girl yelled even louder, 'No, thank you! No, thank you!
* * *
On the way back from a Cub Scout meeting, my grandson asked my son the question. 'Dad, I know that babies come from mommies' tummies, but how do they get there in the first place?' he asked innocently. After my son hemmed and hawed awhile, my grandson finally spoke up in disgust. 'You don't have to make something up, Dad. It's OK if you don't know the answer.'
* * *
Just before I was deployed to Iraq , I sat my eight-year-old son down and broke the news to him. 'I'm going to be away for a long time,' I told him. 'I'm going to Iraq ..' 'Why?' he asked. 'Don't you know there's a war going on over there?'
* * *
Paul Newman founded the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp for children stricken with cancer, AIDS and blood diseases. One afternoon he and his wife, Joanne Woodward, stopped by to have lunch with the kids. A counselor at a nearby table, suspecting the young patients wouldn't know that Newman was a famous movie star, explained, 'That's the man who made this camp possible. Maybe you've seen his picture on his salad dressing bottle?' Blank stares. 'Well, you've probably seen his face on his lemonade carton.' An eight-year-old girl perked up. 'How long was he missing?'
* * *
His wife's grave side service was just barely finished, when there was a massive clap of thunder, followed by a tremendous bolt of lightning, accompanied by even more thunder rumbling in the distance. The little old man looked at the pastor and calmly said, 'Well, she's there.
Finishing up our work at a trade show in San Diego, my co- worker Maureen and I decided to go sightseeing across the border in Tijuana, Mexico. While there, we went shopping and bought a few pieces of clay kitchenware.
As we crossed back into the United States, a customs official asked if we had anything of value to report.
"Not really," Maureen replied, digging in her bag for the bean crock she had purchased. Everyone around us froze as she continued, "I only bought a little pot."
Our manager at the restaurant where I worked was a friendly, jovial man. But there was one subject you didn't dare discuss in front of him--his height. Or, should I say, his lack of it.
One day he stormed through the door and announced angrily, "Someone just picked my pocket!"
Most of my fellow waitresses and I were speechless, except for one who blurted out, "How could anyone stoop so low?"
Working in an ophthalmology practice that specializes in LASIK surgery, I am expected to comfort nervous patients. But prior to one operation, the patient was so nervous she was actually shaking.
Nothing I said to her would comfort her so after the doctor finished on the first eye and before he began on the second I wanted her to know the surgery was going well.
There, I said, patting her hand reassuringly, "Now you only have one eye left."
I used to work in an art supply store. We sold artists' canvas by the yard, and you could get it in either of two widths: 36 inches or 48 inches.
Customer: "Can you please cut some canvas for me?"
Me: "Certainly, what width?"
Customer: (confused and slightly annoyed) "Scissors?"
I couldn't find my luggage at the airport baggage area. So I went to the lost luggage office and told the woman there that my bags never showed up.
She smiled and told me not to worry as they were trained professionals and I was in good hands. "Now," she asked me, "has your plane arrived yet?"
The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its annual contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words. Here are some of the selected results.
-- Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
-- Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
-- Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
-- Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
-- Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
-- Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
-- Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
-- Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
-- Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
-- Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with 'Yiddishisms'.
-- Frisbeetarianism (n.), The belief that, when you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
See ya next week and be careful putting up the Christmas tree.