Currently viewing the tag: "here’s something"

Bingo! Bingo! Bingo! Thanks to the lovely people of Savannah, I had bingo before noon on St. Patrick’s Day.

Here are some highlights…

Luckily, this girl was inches away from some paramedics. (When we advised the paramedics of the fact that we were certain they would be carting off a fallen drunk fairly soon, they asked “Which one?”)

Now, I have to confess that the Mr and I left the St. Patrick’s Day celebration around 2:30 pm.m, because we were in Jacksonville until 8 a.m. that morning (the Mr’s aunt’s memorial service was Wednesday afternoon.) I feel certain that there was so much more to see throughout the day, and I’m sorry that we didn’t get it all.

However, I did get some ideas for next year’s game of Leprechaun Bingo, including…

Optimistic douchebags

Green fountains…

Also, this guy…

Take-my-picture guy’s friend, someone who has been growing a rat tail for two years (it’s dyed green, for St. Patrick’s Day, of course)…

One more thing I’ll have to add to the bingo card: someone you know, because even in a city far far away from my home, I ran into my cousin in the middle of the parade.

Here are some photos of folks playing Leprechaun Bingo elsewhere in the world:

The lady of Flynnsight (twitter handle @flynnsight)

The always hilarious VerbVixen (twitter handle @verbvixen)

And poor hateyouprobably, who had to work all day, but sent this as her entry for “guy not wearing any green” (twitter handle @hateyouprobably)

It’s not too late to send your Leprechaun Bingo photos; they’ll be celebrating in Savannah all weekend long. If you have pics to share, e-mail or tweet me, and I’ll add them to the post.

I’m almost back, but I still haven’t had a chance to draw you a picture. Please don’t hate me. I did try to take a photograph of the Mr’s feet (you’ll see why in a second), but that didn’t work out (that, too, will become clear in a second.) What’s not clear is why the Mr is still married to me, because I say things like:

Me: I hope our kids get my feet.

Mr: What?

Me: Look at how cute my feet are compared to yours.

Mr: Seriously? I hope our kids are healthy.

Me: Sure. Me, too, healthy but with my feet.

Mr: What’s wrong with my feet?

Me: They’re flat. So flat it’s like you’re walking around with flippers on.

Mr: *blinks*

Me: How come you don’t swim faster?

Mr: OK. I get it.

Me (realizing I have overstepped–haha. Get it? Oh my.): No, I mean. They’re so ugly they’re cute.

Mr: Nice recovery.

Me: They’re like the Chinese Cresteds of feet.

Mr: Are you finished?

Me: They’re like the Shar Peis of feet.

Mr (gets up and walks out of the room)

Me: Like the Yoda of feet!

Had the Mr been a Star Wars fan, perhaps this would have been a good way to win him back. And I would have been able to include a picture of his feet for this post. Sadly, he’s indifferent to Star Wars and would not be still for long enough for me to snap a photo.

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I have two brothers and one sister. The order goes like: older brother (who just turned 30), me (28), younger sister (24), younger brother (almost 22).

When we were kids, our house was chaotic. Lots of people, lots of toys, lots of trouble.

It’s safe to say that my siblings and I divided our time equally between terrorizing each other and sitting in time out for our misdeeds.

There was no rhyme or reason for the way we picked on each other. But the absence of a motive never slowed us down. Growing up, we spent hours of our time chasing after each other, hitting each other, hiding each others’ toys.

Because we were older and responsible for “setting a good example”, my older brother and I were often in more trouble than my younger brother and sister.

The younger kids seemed to skate for offenses that would have landed my older brother and me alone in our rooms or worse. I’m still stinging from the time my younger brother bit me on the arm for taking the front seat in my mom’s car when he wanted to sit up front. He bit me so hard that he actually drew blood, and my mom’s only reprimand was to tell him to “buckle up.” The event reeked of injustice to me.

One day, tired of enduring punishments–but not at all sick of doling them out–my older brother and I decided to join forces. Usually, he and I were sworn enemies, but we had had enough of time outs. Enough of groundings. We decided that the only way to pick on our younger siblings and escape the consequences would be to work together.

I’m sure my parents would have been proud, had our motives not been so sinister.

Regardless, for a brief moment, my older brother and I became unlikely alliances in the greatest insult ever told.

(“Barbara” is not the insult. It’s my nickname for my little brother. I lovingly call him Barbara to his face, and he is fine with it.)

Our mission was clear: mischief without reprimand.

With our eyes on the prize, we went looking for Barbara and were pleased to find him minding his own business, playing with his cars. Unsupervised.

This was around the time that the “your epidermis is showing” joke was making the rounds at school. And if that gag had taught us anything, it was that the only way to tease without consequence would be to tell Barbara something about himself that was true but to make it sound repulsive and embarrassing.

And so it began…

Poor Barbara. We knew we had his attention by the distressed look on his face. He had no idea what a brain was, and now, it was the last thing he wanted to have.

And then came the all important denial.

It was beautiful. Our trick had been a success.

Then, it was time for the all-important, ever-present “run-and-tell-mom” move.

We had known it would come, but considering how clever the teasing had been, we expected we would at least be able to talk our way out of punishment.

“We were just trying to help him learn about brains,” we would say.

But then came a plot twist O. Henry himself couldn’t have written any better.

In a glorious twist of fate, my mother had affirmed our hour of teasing in the hopes of calming my younger brother.

Unknowingly, she had endorsed Barbara’s tormentors and rocked his 3-year-old world.

After realizing that she had not, in fact, righted Barbara’s concerns my mom spent a good 30 minutes explaining that everyone has a brain. Even his terrible older brother and sister.

We were never punished. I can’t be certain why, but I like to think my mother was too impressed with our cunning scheme. Maybe she just forgot to punish us, because she was in the middle of raising four kids under the age of 10.

Regardless, the alliance between my older brother and I quickly disbanded–probably over who ate the last cookie or something–and our house resumed its “every-man-for-himself” atmosphere.

But it didn’t matter. We had had our moment in the sun. It was brief, but “the brain tease”, as it has come to be known, is still the stuff of legends among my siblings. Even Barbara loves the story these days.

It will go down in family history as the day we committed the perfect crime.