Overheard at Kings

Who: Two Women-- possibly mother (65) and daughter (35)? Italian. New Jersey.
Where: Kings Supermarket. New Jersey.
When: Around Thanksgiving
What: (With NJ accent)
Mother: "Oh, geez! These Chinet Plates are so expensive..."
Daughter: "Yeah, but they hold up to the sawce so good."

My Thoughts: Tonight we ate Manicotti with Marinara. If not for our Feista Wear, Chinet would have been my first choice in paper products.

Spain's Lightning

Beware of crotch lightning!

While this hazard is unknown West of the Canary Islands, our comrades in l'Espana know full well of this electrifying phenomenon. A correspondant filed this extensive report:

Crotch Lightning: Part of a Conspiracy?

Unknown. According to El Presidente: "No pensamos que este relampago tiene un objectivo al ir a buscar las entrepiernas..." After the declaration that he and Spanish meterologists didn't think the lightning was targeting crotches in particular, the Spanish President had no further comment.

However, other politicians-- from George Bush to Dick Cheney-- tout the crotch-striking lightning as some act of terrorism, possibly from the liberal voters in Florida. "Now just because evil doesn't take place where the evil originated, doesn't mean that the bad guys don't might try to harm us," the US President elucidated.

Since the story broke a half-hour ago, R. Limbaugh corraborated Mr. Bush's theory.

On his radio show, Mr. Limbaugh claimed:

To be quite honest, when I was in Florida around the time of the voting machine fiasco, I heard some sore losers say, 'In a fair election, Gore would have won.' Now, I can't reveal these sources because we met in a dark alley where I
was um recycling shredded chads and buying some pills to help me complete this
Republican- led environmental initiative... Republican led! That's cake in the face of all those liberal sissies who think that we don't care about the environment.

When a caller asked exactly how he perceived his informants were connecting the 2000 election with this latest occurance of lighting. Mr. Limbaugh said:

I am thrilled you asked. Obviously 'Gore' refers not only to the candidate, but
also to the verb 'gore,' which means to stab or pierce. Now this links the
lightning capital of the universe, Florida, with the Running
of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. Yes, SPAIN! Also, Ernest
Hemingway, the American literary icon who wrote extensively about this event,
lived in--you guessed it--Key West, Florida! The KEY to lightning is in the
WEST! Do you see a pattern here, people? 'Let's gore those people with lighting!' You'd have to be some moron to not see the connection.

Picture of Ernest Hemingway from LOC(http://www.loc.gov/loc/lcib/9911/heming.html )
This image was created by Wikipedia authors.

When presented with this evidence, a senior health and safety representative of the Spanish Government snorted in his cana of beer. Upon regaining his composure, he said, "We will take these theories into consideration. At present, we are mostly focused on educating the public about how to avoid this relampago."

Official Tips to Avoid Relampago Entrepierna

1. As with all lightning, your best defense is to go inside.
2. If you are crazy enough to be out in the storm-- say, on a river or in the forest-- you'd usually want to get off a mountaintop or out of the water to avoid direct hits.
3. Watch out for ground current. Don't let that frying energy find an outlet in your feet.
4. Metal is a conductor. To avoid Crotch Lightning, do not wear metal jock straps, especially during sporting events .
5. The government has placed Crotch Lightning Warning Signs at particularly dangerous places. (See picture above.) These signs are scattered throughout the country's plains. It is well known that lightning is associated with rain; also, "The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain."
6. Finally, convince US citizens to vote Democratic the next presidential election.

Just kidding.

Saturday visit

Man and the Twins are students from my after-school program. The fourth-grader has a real name, but his family calls him “Man.” I prefer to call him T-Bone. The twins, who are in kindergarten, also have individual names for their individual personalities, but their family dubs them “Twins.” Singularly, each is called “Twin.” For instance, I heard a neighbor yell at one of them, “Twin, quit messing with my dog!” I wonder if the boys’ sisters will be called “Girl” and “Baby Girl.”

On a rainy Saturday, they walked with me across the highway overpass from their house to mine. I grasped the twins’ hands as tightly as they grasped brown-bagged lunches. While I was alerting the twins to the bocce-ball-sized dog poop in front of the defunct Mexican restaurant, T-Bone shouted, “Twin! You’re losing your lunch.” He looked down at his ripped bag, and we turned to see a Ziplock of Oreos and sealed cup of applesauce spaced down the sidewalk like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs.

When we arrived at my house, they ate bologna on white, cookies, and applesauce. The twin whose lunch was scattered on the sidewalk realized that his Capri Sun was missing. “It’s okay,” I told him as I looked in the refrigerator, “we have milk… uh, water…” I saw the old bottle of pineapple juice and offered him a glass.

“Apple?” he asked hopefully.

“No. This is pineapple. You might want to try a little bit to see if you like it.”

He liked it. The boys sat at the table and ate until they were hyper. My planned afternoon of baking cookies, watching a movie, and making popcorn changed as they hurtled over the couch and threw my books at each other. I lost my calm arrogance and turned into some poor dupe on Nanny 911. I took a breath and turned to the one jumping over the couch, “That’s strike one for you.” He looked at me with wide eyes, not believing that I would use the after-school lingo of three strikes and a time-out on this special weekend visit.

Not missing a beat, however, he went into his usual teary melodrama, “Just one more chance, please. Just one more chance,” before I suggested we all go outside and play a game.

The “game” started with sprinting races across my narrow, ten-foot lawn. Next, I suggested we have a jumping jack competition. After a few pushups, T-Bone was onto my ploy and asked if I had a football. Nope. Frisbee? Broken. A weight-lifting bench? In fact we do have a weight machine in the dirt-floor basement.

After they bashed the weights for an hour, T-Bone asked if we could have a scavenger hunt. “Well, I haven’t made clues and our yard is so small…”

“You can just hide something and we have to find it.” Obviously. T-Bone suggested candy or chocolate. All I could find was a box of garlic Triskets. Each time they found the treasure, they’d get one Trisket each. After discovering the garlic crackers in places like the mailbox, the woodpile, and the back of a pickup truck, the twins decided to hide them for T-Bone and me to find. We searched for forty-minutes before they unearthed the bag from a flowerpot. I didn’t want a prize Trisket after that.

On the way home, I suggested we stop at Family Dollar to get a wiffle-ball set. Only one of them had a temper tandrum and sprawled himself on the floor when I wouldn’t buy Batman toys. His mood changed when he found his missing Capri Sun (straw and all) on the sidewalk.