Suzanne Olsen's Humor Blog - I don't offend some of the people most of the time

Month: February 2010

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

My friend works for Headstart, and she was sitting at the lunch table with several four year olds when two of them got into an argument about whether the fruit one brought for lunch was a lime or a kiwi. The boy who brought it said it was a kiwi, but the other boy, who tended to get into trouble, was emphatic that it was a lime. My friend listened to them going back and forth until the argument started getting a little heated. She thought it had run it’s course, and look at the child who said it was a lime and said, “Demond, I’m going to put your mind straight right now on this – it’s a kiwi.”

Without missing a beat, Demond looked her straight in the eye and, in a slow, surly voice, said, “Shut up, bitch.”

My friend was taken aback at first, and then could barely contain herself from laughing. Meantime, the kids jumped to her defense. “Don’t call our teacher a bitch. She’s nice. She’s always smiling. You shouldn’t call her a bitch.” Another said, “Yeah, she’s not a bitch, she’s nice to us.” One protested on principle, “Demond said a cuss word. He called the teacher a bitch, and bitch is a cuss word. You can’t say bitch at school, Demond.

Several others chimed in until it got loud enough that the head teacher came over to see what was the commotion. My friend whispered it in her ear, and she could barely contain her laughter. She had to maintain her composure and explain to Demond why this was not appropriate language for 4 year olds at school.

Out of the mouths of babes…When I was a kid, there was a variety show called Art Linkletter Presents, and on one segment that lasted about ten minutes, he’d have five or six kids about Demond’s age sitting in chairs on the stage with their starched dresses and pressed slacks, and he’d ask them a question most of them probably didn’t understand, and they’d say funny little cute things that made the audience laugh and Mr. Linkletter smile like his pants were being charmed off because everyone was enjoying these little darlings on his show. I bet the director didn’t have to coach the kids on language, because nice boys and girls didn’t hear those things in their homes, on TV, or in the movies.

Fast forward to today and you can’t go anywhere without hearing cussing right out loud – in the check stand at the grocery store, on the baseball field, even at church. My priest has said “damn” a couple of times during his sermons to make a point.

Kids will repeat what they hear, and I remember my two year old son walking through the mall saying, “Damn, damn, damn,” because he’d heard it somewhere (not from me!) and I’d read it was okay to let kids say these words because it helped with their creativity or something. An older lady gave me the evil eye big time, and I told him to stop saying it. He did, because he liked me back then – before he turned 15 and decided that zombies must have slurped up my brain because I became the stupidest human on earth.

After that I didn’t let my kids cuss. For better or worse, I never got called about language, which was a good thing because I got called on enough other stuff over the years, kids being kids. I never had to un-train them, like Demond’s mom is going to have to do or else get in fights with teachers all through school. But quite honestly, I’m glad he said this to my friend because I laughed when I heard it, I laugh every time I tell it, and I was laughing as I typed it just now. As Art Linkletter used to tell us, “Kids say the darnedest things.” I’m mighty happy they do.

Addendum: I ran spell and grammar check and my computer thinks I should change, “Shut up, bitch,” to “Shut up and bitch.” What makes my computer think that’s a more grammatical way to say this? Who programmed this phrase as good English? It’s actually a contradiction – you can’t shut up AND bitch. I think I’ll complain to Microsoft. “Dear Bill Gates: Why are you telling me to shut up AND bitch? You’re married. You know this is not possible. What’s the matter with you?” I could have some fun with this.

Or I could go to bed.

Super Bowl Relief

Super Bowl Sunday – the day we gather with friends or food or both and enjoy a game of watching grown men run around the field holding a ball and being chased by other very large men who want to stop their progress, and if they’re lucky, drag him to the ground and create a human pile on top of him that weighs in excess of 4,000 pounds. And after they slowly climb back off, everyone lines back up and does it all over again.

As much as I enjoy football, I have to wonder what kind of crazy person plays this game? We see one man go down who doesn’t get back up. Another limps off the field, supported by men on either side. We watch in slow motion as men get hit from behind, their heads snapping back unnaturally, hitting the ground on their shoulder, flipping over and over before other giant men dive on top of them.

Everyone knows they play for the money, and the money is huge. But these guys didn’t start out playing in the Super Bowl. They started in grade school or high school, where there wasn’t any cash to motivate them. The players weren’t as big, but it was all relative; they were still getting knocked down, still getting piled on, and still getting back up to play some more.

Men will make fun of women when we go shopping all day in high heel shoes, or wrap our hips in suffocating elastic to appear slimmer, or wear curlers to make our hair pretty. But women have enough sense not to play football.

Today’s game was great, closely played, and with a good outcome. Some of the commercials were funny. My team won, and the food was ample and tasty. People stayed to help clean up, which was a real treat. I know they’re celebrating in New Orleans, and the Saints have become that much richer and probably are very thankful for the opportunity to play on the winning Super Bowl team.

Their headaches, twisted ankles, stubbed fingers, and aching elbows are probably distant memories as these players celebrate. And I have my own little celebration, because my son found other athletic entertainments growing up besides football. I know I would be proud of him if he were part of a winning Super Bowl team, but I would not enjoy the day knowing what might happen. So here’s to Super Bowls, and my selfish hope that I never have any of my relatives playing in one.

Hula-Hoop Hoopla

I went to a hula-hoop class today, dressed in jeans and a sweater because I had no idea what would happen in this two-hour class I was subbing in for my girlfriend. I assumed the class would involve learning how to make a ring stay on your waist while you sway back and forth. I did not know that a hula-hoop is actually exercise equipment.

I arrived a few minutes late and was chagrinned to find that people were holding the hoop over their heads and leaning side to side, with lively music playing in the background. I grabbed a hoop and joined in as we bent over and put it on the floor, then picked it back up and raised up. Oh boy! I felt duped. This was an exercise class using a hoop like dumbbells – which is what I felt like.

I wondered if I could just sneak right back out the door, but thought it would be rude, so I decided to give it a few minutes. Soon we were holding the hoop by our sides and using it to balance us as we did ballet moves. Yawn. I checked my watch. 3 minutes had passed. I would give it fifteen, tops.

Then our teacher, a tall, thin wisp of a thing with a waist my hands could have wrapped around with room to spare, turned the music off and said, “Now that we’re all warmed up, are you ready to hula?”

She put the hula around her waist and it started going in circles. She didn’t seem to be moving at all and yet it was maintaining a nice steady orbit as she walked around talking to us about the best technique.

“First thing you all need to know is that we’re going to be hearing a whole lot of this.” She let the hoop drop to the gym floor with a loud enough bang to cause me to jump. “When I hear that sound I can’t help but let our a little cheer, like this.” Then she gave us a sample, a high-pitched, “Who-oop!” that was cheerful but a little unnerving. I checked my watch again.

“Now all of you try it.” All twenty of us did, and so many hoops crashed to the floor it sounded like someone banging pots and pans and yelling, “Who-oop!” while they were doing it. My hoop wouldn’t go around more than 1 and a half times before it crashed to the floor.

There were mirrors on the waist, and I avoided looking at them. But when I did, I saw my hips looking like they were having spasms. Even though the instructions were to just shift our weight and do the motion in our legs, not in our hips, my hips wouldn’t obey. They insisted on swiveling in all directions like giant magnets were pulling them from different corners of the room. But after a bit, by golly, I had that hoop going for seconds at a time!

Hula hooping is good exercise, but I hadn’t anticipated that when I wore the sweater. It lived up to its name – I was definitely sweating. My whole head was getting wet, and pushing up my bulky sleeves didn’t help.

Once we got the hang of keeping the hula around our waists, she had us add movements like swinging the hoop around with our hands and stepping through it. People kept letting them go, and they’d roll across the floor, bumping into other people before crashing with a bang. “Who-oop!” Hula-hoops can roll forever. I wished I’d brought earplugs.

All of a sudden the teacher turned the music back on and ordered us to stretch the hoop over our heads. I glanced again at my watch and discovered that the two-hour class was over. What fun I’d had!

In my blog yesterday I was tongue-in-cheek criticizing people who become skilled in such things as yo-yos and hula-hoops, but after today I’m eating those words. Our teacher was in great shape, she was very graceful and entertaining to watch, and she could do just about anything with a hula-hoop. Trying to imitate her and looking like a wooden puppet made me realize that anything a person can master is a sight to behold and worthy of our admiration and respect. Which does not mean that I’m going to start practicing all the time. I had fun but I’m not so sure I’m that into it. But I’m going to try not to make fun of people anymore, and that’s going to take a whole lot of practice.

Am I a Yo-Yo for Hula Hooping?

My friend signed up for a hula-hoop class that she can’t go to and she doesn’t want to let this incredible opportunity slip by so she’s talked me into going to the class as her proxy. I’m to learn the proper technique and teach it to her.

She called me twice to beg me to do this. Once was early this morning because undoubtedly I was her first choice since I have a hard time saying no. I did say no, though. But I left the door open a crack by agreeing to allow her to call me back if she’d talked to all her other friends and they had the good sense to pass. She just called back and said no one else would go (fancy that) and would I please?

Let me ask you this. Why would it take 2 hours to learn how to hula-hoop? Granted, I haven’t been able to do it since I was a kid, and I don’t know if 2 hours is long enough for me to learn, but what if people in the class pick it up really quickly. What are they going to do all that time?

I agreed to go because she was so earnest in her groveling, and it seemed to mean so much to her, and Lord knows I could use the exercise. In fact, I’m thinking that my body shape may lend itself to hula hooping. If I can keep the thing riding on top of my spare tire I may re-master this valuable skill that used to engage me and my friends for a week or two in our 4th grade youth.

Hula hooping isn’t really a skill that, once you’ve mastered it, you engage in that often. It’s fun for a while, but then what do you do with it? Just stand there rocking your hips around? For what? I bet there are people who can do all kinds of tricks and entertain themselves and others with their expertise. I never wanted to learn anything that thoroughly. At the basketball game last night they had some guys doing tricks with bicycles that you can’t believe. They were riding backwards on the handlebars, riding up ramps and doing flips over the bikes in the air. Me, I just rode a bike with my feet on the pedals. These guys must practice for hours and hours.

Same thing with yo-yo’s. If I could get one to go up and down I figured I was a successful yo-yoer. But then someone comes along who can walk the baby and do a loop-de-loop and shoot an apple off someone’s head with one. I guess there is merit in learning such a skill. My yo-yos mostly ended up in knotted wads that I’d lost interest in long before I got them untangled.

Perhaps hula-hooping can be my claim to fame, my chance to be in the spotlight. Tomorrow I will show up at hula-hoop class and perhaps learn to jump through a hula-hoop like it was a lariat, or have someone toss it over my head and I’ll catch it on my waist and start gyrating it around, walking up and down the floor, shaking mariachis and balancing a plate on the tip of one foot. Now I’m getting excited!

Who knows what I might be able to learn in two whole hours. I wonder if that’s going to be enough time. I better make sure to arrive early!

Am I a Yo-Yo for Hula Hooping

My friend signed up for a hula-hoop class that she can’t go to and she doesn’t want to let this incredible opportunity slip by so she’s talked me into going to the class as her proxy. I’m to learn the proper technique and teach it to her.

She called me twice to beg me to do this. Once was early this morning because undoubtedly I was her first choice since I have a hard time saying no. I did say no, though. But I left the door open a crack by agreeing to allow her to call me back if she’d talked to all her other friends and they had the good sense to pass. She just called back and said no one else would go (fancy that) and would I please?

Let me ask you this. Why would it take 2 hours to learn how to hula-hoop? Granted, I haven’t been able to do it since I was a kid, and I don’t know if 2 hours is long enough for me to learn, but what if people in the class pick it up really quickly. What are they going to do all that time?

I agreed to go because she was so earnest in her groveling, and it seemed to mean so much to her, and Lord knows I could use the exercise. In fact, I’m thinking that my body shape may lend itself to hula hooping. If I can keep the thing riding on top of my spare tire I may re-master this valuable skill that used to engage me and my friends for a week or two in our 4th grade youth.

Hula hooping isn’t really a skill that, once you’ve mastered it, you engage in that often. It’s fun for a while, but then what do you do with it? Just stand there rocking your hips around? For what? I bet there are people who can do all kinds of tricks and entertain themselves and others with their expertise. I never wanted to learn anything that thoroughly. At the basketball game last night they had some guys doing tricks with bicycles that you can’t believe. They were riding backwards on the handlebars, riding up ramps and doing flips over the bikes in the air. Me, I just rode a bike with my feet on the pedals. These guys must practice for hours and hours.

Same thing with yo-yo’s. If I could get one to go up and down I figured I was a successful yo-yoer. But then someone comes along who can walk the baby and do a loop-de-loop and shoot an apple off someone’s head with one. I guess there is merit in learning such a skill. My yo-yos mostly ended up in knotted wads that I’d lost interest in long before I got them untangled.

Perhaps hula-hooping can be my claim to fame, my chance to be in the spotlight. Tomorrow I will show up at hula-hoop class and perhaps learn to jump through a hula-hoop like it was a lariat, or have someone toss it over my head and I’ll catch it on my waist and start gyrating it around, walking up and down the floor, shaking mariachis and balancing a plate on the tip of one foot. Now I’m getting excited!

Who knows what I might be able to learn in two whole hours. I wonder if that’s going to be enough time. I better make sure to arrive early!

Is It Too Loud in Here?

This evening I went to a Trailblazers basketball game and lost my hearing. Thank goodness it’s only temporary, but the ringing in my ears will last for days. I even use earplugs, but still the noise is amazing.

It’s no longer the roar of the crowd, it’s the roar of the sound system. They have it turned up so loud blaring out, “We will we will rock you,” with all the clapping and foot stomping that goes with it. And if the game gets close, lights flash all over the place with messages to, “MAKE MORE NOISE!” My gosh, the floor is shaking already, do the players really need us to turn it up a notch?

I’m not averse to noise. I’m a rock n’ roll kind of gal who likes to crank up the sound, but somehow the very loud concerts I’ve attended all my life have gotten louder. Doctors warn that kids are losing their hearing, but they’ve been saying that for years – even when I was a kid. But now the noise is so elevated I’m starting to believe them.

When the floor shakes in a huge building, I think it’s probably too loud in there.

Thank goodness we won the game at the last minute. I guess my desperate prayers begging, “Please Lord don’t let this game go into overtime,” were heard. I despise overtimes. They make the game last another twenty minutes and turn me into a nervous wreck. By the end of a regular game, I’m as exhausted as the players from all the noise, cheering, clapping, stomping, and searching for a concession stand that serves ice cream instead of yogurt. Not to mention climbing over seats to get in and out because there is barely enough room to keep you from hitting your knees on the seat in front of you when you’re sitting down, much else trying to walk in front of anyone else in your row. So I climb over the back of the seat because there’s no one in the row behind me, but I know I could fall and break a hip.

The one thing I really like about these basketball games is the mascot. His name is Blaze and he’s got a human body with a wolf’s head – I guess it’s a wolf, or some kind of giant animal. Anyway, he’s a pretty cool guy who can do flips on the trampoline and make baskets during commercial breaks, and he can dance. He struts around getting into mischief, coaxing people out on the court to dance with him and pose for pictures.

I also like the cheerleaders because they do flips and build very tall pyramids with guys holding them up by one hand. Every now and then a guy will get tired and drop one of the cheerleaders, which is entertaining. They all look wholesome, too, unlike the Blazer Dancers who look like tramps. My husband says that’s what’s so great about them. They are very professional looking, though, and dance well. They could all be strippers, which I guess is a compliment.

We won by three points after being behind all evening, so it was a great game, and I’m happy I went even though now I keep reaching for the telephone, but no one is on the other end.

Give Us Some Medical Advice We Can Use

I read about a study in the paper today that seems to indicate something really amazing – the kind of thing you’d say to yourself, “Why, who would have thought?”

It seems the study, conducted by Harvard biologist Daniel Lieberman, concluded that people were born to run – barefoot! That’s right, folks. We were not built to run on elevated running shoes that have lights flashing in the soles and a pump up air mechanism. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?

The study revealed that people wearing those cushy shoes strike the ground on their heels first. You don’t have any choice the way they’re designed. This gives everybody painful heels, a condition doctors call plantar fasciitis because they want to sound smarter than all the rest of us.

I have had painful heels myself and spent a lot of money, which I’m not going to divulge the exact amount in case my husband ever sees this blog – trust me, it was A LOT of money – to get insoles put in my shoes by a specialist in foot doctoring who said it would help my heels heal much faster. It did not. What cured me was a half hour visiting with Google who said I needed to stretch my Achilles tendon by standing with the balls of my feet on a step and letting the heels hang down. This cured me right up. What was interesting is that my foot doctor told me NOT to do that – he said I needed to keep coming back to him for exercises and examinations. Interesting…

I once had a co-worker who ran all the time, and he explained to me that I needed to change my running style and land on my heels first, which I went to great pains to do (and the pun was intended – I have to take them when I can get them). He said he got this information from his doctor, so I assumed he knew what he was talking about. I know now that it probably explains why I kept getting heel pain.

I’m coming to a point, if you’ll bear with me, just as soon as I can think of one. In the meantime, I have to wonder why so many people have an aversion to common sense? It seems like it would cure most ills if we humans would just quit listening to learned specialists. I remember when the food pyramid came out and they wanted everyone to eat lots of grains and pastas – it was at the bottom, so the biggest chunk of your diet was supposed to come from breads and cereals and Italian food. I looked at that and thought, “Every time I eat this stuff I put on 10 pounds, and now I’m supposed to go out of my way to eat it?” I’m convinced that America became obese because of this pyramid, and I think we should file a class action suit because of our pain and suffering. If someone wants to spearhead that, count me in.

Over the years the know-it-alls have told us all kinds of things that have not been good advice. I can’t think of anything else right now, but I’m sure you can. Well, I am thinking of something, though it’s not so recent. They used to bleed people for illnesses – cut right into a vein or artery and let the blood squirt up and arc into a bucket – I saw a picture in a book one time. Ghastly. That was supposed to cure you of everything from pneumonia so a sore pinky finger. The doctors of our first President, George Washington, bled him literally to death, or so my history teacher told me and it’s such a good story I don’t want to risk looking it up in case it’s not true. These days we’ve figured out that losing blood can actually kill you, and we busy ourselves putting blood back into people who have lost it. I don’t know how they missed that back in George Washington’s day. Maybe they were too preoccupied because they were also diving into ponds and catching leeches for medicinal purposes as a supplement to slowly bleeding people to death. Can you imagine walking around town with about 10 leeches stuck to your face and neck? I get embarrassed if I have a band-aid showing. And what was that conversation like at the doctor’s office? “Well, son, I see you have an infected cut on the shin, so we’re going to surround it with these leeches here, and you need to wear them 24/7 for the next two weeks, or until you die. I’m just joking, of course, because we all know this is proven science that will cure just about anything that ails you. Now, let’s see that leg.”

All in all, as I read about medical “discoveries” they’ve spent years researching on millions of mice and men, and how they reach such obvious conclusions like we should breastfeed our babies or run barefoot, I scratch my head and think, this is what centuries of humans did before modern times and the species survived just fine. But who am I to judge? I sit up until all hours writing blogs and staring at bright computer screens, driving myself slowly blind, and where’s the common sense in that?

I will end on this piece of interesting advice from a write-in column about home remedies. Aloe vera will cure warts. Honest to goodness. Take the leaf of an aloe vera plant; slice it open and put the plant juices on your wart and sometime or other it will go away. Now this is the kind of information we can all use – and, wouldn’t you know it, it didn’t come from a scientist.

You Can’t Trust Anyone

I’ve been posting this blog for 109 days and I’ve gotten some interesting comments. I’m not sure but I think people must find random blogs and try to get your to respond back to them so that they can infect you with some mischievous virus that causes your computer to hand over all your personal information and then start smoking.

I’ve gotten comments like, “Yes, to agree that a fine post but never before.” As flattering as it is to get comments in the first place, I’m not sure exactly what this means. This one is a mystery too: “bluilpile is chaper than you think. Click here!” Plus I got one that said, “Remember me? I’m Mary from Russia. Reply back soon.” I’ve had several like this, and, of course, one of them had the word, “Viagra,” in it because for some reason I cannot escape this word being splattered everywhere I look at a lighted screen – be it a TV, computer, or my child’s old Lite Brite that was invented before Viagra – before all the men in America became limp.

I have written a blog about Viagra already, and I’d like to repeat everything I said there, but instead I’m going to somewhat stick to my subject for once. These identity theft people are very sneaky. I have posted some ads on Craig’s List, and I’ll get responses like, “Yes, I am very interested in your item. Please email if it is still available.”

“Oh boy!” I think. “Someone wants to buy my item!” I reply in an email right away and don’t hear back, so I figure they’ve bought someone else’s item. Then about a week later I get an email from my email provider, let’s say Comcast, that reads: “We are updating our email security from before and wish to have your current login and password for our records. Please to provide and reply to this email. Thank you for your very immediate assistance. comcast.”

When I got the first one of these, I scanned the message and, I’m ashamed to admit, typed my user name in the space provided. When I started typing my password, that little voice of caution whispered in my ear, “ARE YOU NUTS?”

I re-read the email carefully and was able to pick up on a foreign accent, plus I thought the “comcast” wasn’t very professional, and there was no cute little logo on the bottom.

I forwarded the email to Comcast (not my real service – I’m trying to guard my privacy here), and they replied that it was a scam.

Now I trust no one. If my daughter calls on the phone, I make her answer a security question before I’ll agree to whatever she’s asking.

It’s a sad world when you can’t trust anyone or anything, especially if it’s on your computer screen. But I’d live without complaint even in these trying times if I could just get Viagra away from me. I want this company to go out of business right now!! I don’t care if they are helping billions and billions of Americans. I can’t stand them. And KY Jelly is moving up my list of despised products in ads. Back in the day, in mixed company, I used to think Kotex commercials were bad. Now I’d give anything to replace all the limp men’s commercials with feminine hygiene products. They could have as many side-by-side comparison tests where they pour a gallon of blue water in the chosen brand and it doesn’t leak a drop. They can show dozens of carefree girls in white pants doing squats or on a dance line kicking their legs up over their heads and I’d be delighted if it would just get rid of Viagra. I’d gladly watch a million hemorrhoid commercials if I could just go back to the good old days…

Avatar Again

I saw Avatar for the third time today. The first was in 2D with my son and daughter on my birthday. The second was in IMAX 3D with two girlfriends last Thursday. The third was with my daughter, also in IMAX 3D because she hadn’t seen the 3D version yet. All in all I’d say I’ve gained three pounds because of this movie – a pound of popcorn each at the first two and a pound of candy today.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t go into any building where they are showing a movie without gorging on popcorn. As I go in the door, waves of popcorn smell lift me in the air and carry me, half hypnotized, to the concession stand where I get the biggest bag because it’s a much better deal. The concession stand guy says, “Do you want the large bag for $50 – that’s only a quarter more than the medium bag.” Who can pass up a bargain like that?

My daughter wanted candy, so we were forced to buy a two-pound box of Reese’s Pieces that could have satisfied an elephant. Human-sized boxes are not available anymore. As we worked our way through the box, the remaining pieces rattled from the very bottom to the small opening in the top. Very often my daughter had to shake the box to get a fistful out. If you haven’t seen Avatar yet, let me explain that this is a very engrossing movie, and many parts are wondrous and quiet, so no one talks or makes a sound. A rattled box of candy sounds like a mariachi band. I could feel eyes boring into the back of my head. I kept slumped down in case someone decided to take a swipe.

I’m at least smart enough to get a large diet soda because I figure I can burn off substantial calories lifting that huge container up and down, which might offset some of the “butter” calories on the popcorn. I put the word “butter” in quotes because we all know the substance is artificial oil that comes from a “butter” tree, a tree that was scientifically engineered by Julia Child and only grows in France. The oil from the butter tree has 10 times the calories and toxic chemicals of real butter, but at a fraction of the cost.

Unfortunately, the carbonization in all sodas, particularly diet sodas, acts as a bladder massager – the more you drink, the more your bladder gets massaged. Scientists studying the phenomenon believe that carbon bubbles go in the bladder and mutate into actual fingers that push on the walls of human bladders, thusly simulating the urge to pee – and pee right this instant. Therefore, even though the giant tumbler seems like a good deal on the surface, the average moviegoer will end up missing about 25% of the movie due to frequent bathroom breaks. When you consider that an IMAX 3D movie like Avatar costs $15.50 at today’s prices, and you’ll have to see it at least twice to try and catch the 25% you missed the first time, your good deal, just like your bladder, doesn’t seem to hold water.

Today it was unfortunate that even at 3:00 in the afternoon the movie was sold out, so the only two seats left in the house were in the middle of the row, and they weren’t even together. I had to beg people to scoot together so that my daughter and I wouldn’t have to sit on opposite ends of the theater. On my frequent trips to the restroom, because the rows in the theater are built for pygmies and are impassible without forcing fifteen people to stand up along the way, there were many angry patrons hissing, “SIT DOWN” behind us as I made my way back and forth. It was like one of those “waves” at a football game, except this was a wave of hissing.

All in all it was a fun experience, except my eyes felt like cotton balls after wearing the 3D glasses for 3 hours. But who’s complaining. I’ve finally gotten to see the whole movie from beginning to end. And if I have missed anything because of going to the bathroom, my husband still hasn’t seen the movie so I’m sure I’ll get a chance then.

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Copyright © 2021 by Suzanne Olsen