I went to inform the leasing office of my aptartment complex that there was a crack in my tub. My room mate had pointed it out, I would have never seen it.

The leasing agent wrote "Tub cra" and scratched it out. She wrote "Tub crac" and scratched it out. She wrote "Tub crak" and for a third time scratched it out. She wrote "Tub cr." She asked me, "How long has it been cracked?" I said I didn't know.

She gave me a look like I was the biggest idiot on the planet.

I'm thinking a woman who doesn't know how to spell "cracked" has no right to give such looks. I told her I wear glasses, but I take them off to shower so I can't see the crack, my room mate mentioned it to me.

She laughed at me as an adult might laugh at a child who is telling a story with too many details and said, "that doesn't matter."

I wanted to flick her forhead.

She asked me what my apartment number was. I was thinking I'd help her out by making it very simple. I said, "Four Zero Two."
She began to write as she spoke, "4 . . . "
I said "Zero Two."
She said "4 . . . "
I said "Zero Two."
She said "4 . . . "
I said, "Zero Two, Four Zero Two. FOUR ZERO TWO!"
She looked at me and asked with raising intonation "Oh two? four-oh-two?"
I said "Yes, four-oh-two." I guess that whole zero bit threw her off. I should have known when she couldn't spell cracked.

They must try hard to find the biggest dummies alive for that job. The first leasing agent I talked to wanted to be sure I made at least "ten hundred" dollars a month before I moved in.

"Did that really happen?" said Maggie White. She was an dull person, but a sensational invitation to make babies. Men looked at her and wanted to fill her up with babies right away. She hadn't had even one baby yet. She used birth control."
Slauterhouse Five-- Kurt Vonnegut

I don't know which one I like more, "Love, love the Jews" to the tune of "Love, Love me Do," or "Baa, Baa We're Lambs" to the tune of "Bar-Barbara Ann." I got a tape from my friend of Christian parodies of popular secular songs . . . I can only hope they were intended to be funny, because that they are.

The degeneration of a conversation:

Flossie and I were admiring our new "associate appriciation" t-shirts and I tried to say that I was going to alter mine, but the words got jumbled up and some strange made up lanugage came out instead. She matched my made up language with her made up language, and I responded in an Asian sounding made up langauge and a bow. She said, "It looks like you're praying to your t-shirt." At which time she got down on her knees and began to worship my t-shirt.

The I thought, "Good Lord! This conversation was so normal less than a minute ago! How does this happen?!" It's not like it was an isolated incidence either. This is why people ask if we've been huffing gas from the lab.

I bought a dvd player. When I turned it on for the firs time it said, "WAIT . . . LORD"
Well, that caught me off guard. I wasn't sure how I felt about my new audio visiual equipment addressing me as "LORD" when I realized that it had really said "LOAD."

Which makes me wonder 1. why I can't read and 2. why I often assume the oddest things when I misunderstand a word or situation.

One time I was riding with my friend when I saw a sign that said, "10% DISC NT" So I said, "Hey did you see that? It said 10% disco night!" (It was a Ci Ci's pizza place) "What does it mean? Is it 10% off if you dress like a disco person? or do they play disco music and you get 10% off?"

My friend looked at me and said, "Are you kidding? That says '10% DISCOUNT' the "U" fell out!"

Oh. I still thought Disco night would be more fun.

Not only can I not read, I can't speak either! The other day I was making fun of my co-worker for saying "elbow tennis" in stead of tennis elbow and I was all. "Oh no, I have tellbow ennis! . . . ah wait . . . I mean elbow tennis . . . I mean tennis elbow . . . dang it!"

Those brain cells are going fast.

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What is your flirting style quiz:

my score: Your flirting form is like that perfect martini — a great balance of style and smoothness. Your twist? Your natural curiosity about people leaves them feeling like they made a real connection. How's that for a perfect 10?

See, even the non social type can do it right if we really try!

I went to get my hair cut on my birthday. I hadn’t had it done in a while, because well, I hate paying to get it cut. I mean, it’s not like I have a “do” so I don’t have to worry about it growing out. My general pattern is to get it cut to my shoulders and let it grow for a few years. When it’s too heavy, and it gives me a head ache, I get it cut again.

So off to the Vietnamase school of cosmetology I go, for an experience and a $5.00 hair cut.

I walk in, and immediately get the sensation of being foreign. I’ve entered a strange new land. I am the only white person in the room and a foot taller than anyone in the salon.

I am greated: “Hello! You wan’ hair cut?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You sign paper.”

The paper is to remind me that I am getting my hair cut at a reduced rate because it will be done by an advanced student of cosmetology. The school is not responsible for my satisfaction.

Fine, I live on the edge, I sign the paper.

Then I am asked, “How you wan’ hair?”
“I want three inches off the back, long layers in the front, and bangs.”
“Ah, okay, okay, no problem, you follow her to shampoo room.”

So I picked up my purse and when I turned to “follow her.” I couldn’t tell which one she was! Dash it! They are all small Asian women with black hair! So I wandered around until I found a room with a very large black man sitting on a very small chair. He was getting a pedicure. It seemed Alice-in-Wonderlandishly out of place. I said, “I’m looking for the shampoo room.” I was told to come in.

While my hair was shampooed I was told several times “How Fine, how good,” my hair was. “Your hair very fine! So much! Very nice!” I figured by “Fine” she meant “good,” and by good she probably meant full or healthy or thick, or some adjective that goes with “nice” for hair, but I suppressed the English teacher inside of me and didn’t correct her with a lesson on what “fine” means in connection with hair.

So my little Vietnamese student of cosmetology started cutting my hair. I could tell she was a little nervous, I think she even measured my hair to be sure she got three inches exactly. She was a little shaky and she asked, “You in hurry?” “No? Okay, I go slow, be very careful.”

So, an hour and a half later, after several consultations with other students and teachers, after every student there gathered around what turned out to be that day’s lesson plan (me and my long layers) the teacher/owner of the school finished off my $5.00 hair cut with a razor comb and a flourish. There was applause and someone spoke from the crowd to announce “He is a master with scissors!”

I half expected the scene to go hazy and an ancient blind master to appear saying, “Grasshopper, you must not let the scissors master you--- you must be the master--- of the scissors!”

The paomnnehil pweor of the hmuan mnid.

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in
waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht
the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total
mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the
huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a
wlohe.

Amzanig huh?

It's good to be a ledgend somewhere, to be that person someone's mother says "why can't you be more like . . . ." about. Yes, someday when I've disappeared without a forwarding address, you'll be sitting around saying, "Yes, I know Shannon would do that." (or would never do that which you will have done) "I wonder what she's doing now . . . she's probably in Mongolia, acting as the saviour to a goat set for sacrifice, a goat long ago spray painted pink and decorated with tinsle in anticiplation of a feast."

Yes, and most likely that will be exactly what I'll be doing.