| Dancing |
[Apr. 9th, 2007|02:58 pm] |
Well I just found out that I will be taking dancing lessons with MJ @ Moraine Valley, so that way we can dance all perty on our wedding day.
I am getting OLD!!!! 12 days until... dare I say... I'll be 37 years old... I actually watched a Balck and White TV. How many people here remember the TV show "The Banana Splits and Felix the Cat???? Please don't let me be the only one... :-) |
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| The cab ride |
[Aug. 15th, 2006|09:25 am] |
My sister sent me this and it made me cry, I figured I'd share. ~Peace~
THE CAB RIDE
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away.
But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated".
"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?" "It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long. " I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now"
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said . "You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life .
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?
What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
You won't get any big surprise in 10 days if you send this to ten people.
But, you might help make the world a little kinder and more compassionate by sending it on.
Thank you, my friend...
Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well dance |
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| Just realized |
[Jul. 21st, 2006|03:24 pm] |
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I should be FLOGGED with wet noodles... I Missed Langs_Place Birthday... Sorry sweetie... |
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| The Pirate test |
[Jul. 21st, 2006|12:40 pm] |
You scored as Sinbad.
You are gifted with gab and can talk your way out of just about any situation. Very charming, but sometimes the charm gets you into trouble. The gods look on you fondly and sometimes through obstacles at you just to see how creative your solution is.
Sinbad
92%
Captain Jack Sparrow
83%
Long John Silvers
75%
Will Turner
50%
Black Beard
50%
Mary Read
42%
Captain James T. Hook
42%
Dread Pirate Roberts
33%
Morgan Adams
8%
Captain Barbosa
0% |
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| Here a joke |
[Jun. 2nd, 2006|08:07 am] |
>Sara Pipalini
>
>Three Italian nuns die and go to heaven.
>
>At the Pearly Gates, they are met by St Peter.
>He says, "Sisters, you all led such exemplary lives that the Lord is
>granting you six months to go back to earth and be anyone you wish to
>be.
>
>The first nun says, "I want to be Sophia Loren;" and *poof* she's gone.
>
>The second says, "I want to be Madonna and *poof* she's gone.
>
>The third says, "I want to be Sara Pipalini.."
>
>St. Peter looks perplexed. "Who?" he asked
>
>"Sara Pipalini;" replies the nun.
>
>St. Peter shakes his head and says, "I'm sorry, but that name just
>doesn't ring a bell."
>
>The nun then takes a newspaper out of her habit and hands it to St.
>Peter.
>
>St. Peter reads the paper and starts laughing.
>He hands it back to her and says.....
>
>"No sister, the paper says it was the 'Sahara Pipeline' that was laid
>by 1400 men in 6 months."
> |
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