“Se habla, Español?”
Jean, I and two friends went to a Mexican restaurant in Chicago years ago and had one of the first Mexican dinners of our lives.
After a very nice, ample dinner, I went to the cashier to pay the bill.
The woman at the register was the co-owner, as was her husband. I showed her the bill and said, “I’m afraid there is a mistake…”
“No mistake,” she said.
“But a meal for four people can’t be less than six dollars,” I explained.
“No mistake,” she repeated.
“Too little,” I insisted.
“No too little,” she insisted.
“Do you speak English,” I finally asked?
“No speak English,” she replied.
I plunked down $15 or so, as I recall, and gave up.
Ah, but there’s a companion piece, here. At about the same time, more or less, we needed some work done on our living room floor. The squeaking of it was becoming a real issue. Jean called several carpet dealers as asked if they would take up our carpet, re-nail the floor, and replace the carpet?
Nobody wanted to do it, preferring to sell a new carpet, of course.
Finally, she found a willing merchant in a neighboring town. Two workers came out (about a 30-minute drive) and did the job. When Jean asked them, “How much?” they said we’d get a bill in the mail.
When the bill came, it was marked, “no charge.”
Jean called the firm and asked to talk to the bookkeeper.
When the firm’s accountant came on the line, Jean said, “I’m Mrs. Van Delinder and there’s a mistake on our bill.”
The woman said, “Just a minute” and went to get the file.
“No, there’s no mistake,” she said.
“But, the men were here most of the morning,” Jean told her.
“Can’t help that. There’s no charge.”
“But,” Jean tried to protest.
“Look, lady, if it says no charge, there’s no charge!”
“Well, okay,” Jean said. “I’ll say this…your prices are right!”
Friday, May 1, 2009
Do cats wear pajamas? By GJ
When our daughters, Donna and Nancy were about 10 and 12, we got them each a kitten. Donna named hers Charlene, and Nancy’s was Kelly. Donna’s reason for that name is lost to me, but Nancy’s reason was that Kelly was a calico cat. Since we never bothered getting a birth certificate, the spelling might have been Cally, I suppose?)
Kelly had beautiful markings, with a lot of white on her chest and neck, and very pretty orange, brown, and black on her head and face.
One day, I heard a noise at the front door, so I opened it. I looked down, and there sat Kelly, looking up at me with something large hanging from her jaws. Not knowing what it was, but pretty sure it was an animal, I barred her entrance with my foot.
Kelly opened her jaws and the creature’s long (and I mean LONG) ears popped up to reveal a good-sized rabbit! Kelly had brought us a gift, and I wasn’t showing much appreciation.
The rabbit leaped away and went darting across the street to the safety of some shrubbery, with Kelly close behind. (I’m afraid I never discovered whether or not that kitty ever forgave me.)
Ah, but there were two pets, so there has to be a companion tail, right?
Then there was the time both cats had kittens of their own. Kelly had four (despite being the obviously larger feline) and Charlene had six.
The nesting boxes for all 12 cats was in the basement and every now and then Charlene would come up, cry at the door, and we’d let her in only to hear her cry more as she remained in the doorway. We’d go down the stairs to see what the matter was, and there, in Kelly’s nest were all ten of the kittens. Kelly got in the habit of “kitnapping” Charlene’s six, because four weren’t enough for her, I guess.
When the little ones got bigger, they were up in our recreation room where the floor was linoleum and slippery. Ten kittens were slowly looking around, sniffing things, and investigating the new environment.
I suddenly let out a roaring sneeze, and all ten kittens tried to scamper for hiding places, but their paws could not find traction and the sound of those forty, tiny feet was a real laugher as they slipped and slid across the floor. Both Kelly and Charlene appeared out of nowhere to see why their children were meowing in panic.
Kelly grew to be a BIG cat, I’ll tell you. Both lived a pretty good spell after the girls left our nest, as I recall. (It must be noted that Donna has had cats, almost ever since…often two at a time so they can keep company while she’s at work. Her current room-mates are Lucy and Sally, I think.)
Oh, yes. Out of all the cats Donna has had, several would “fetch,” believe it or not. Now, one will and the other won’t. Or vice versa.
Kelly had beautiful markings, with a lot of white on her chest and neck, and very pretty orange, brown, and black on her head and face.
One day, I heard a noise at the front door, so I opened it. I looked down, and there sat Kelly, looking up at me with something large hanging from her jaws. Not knowing what it was, but pretty sure it was an animal, I barred her entrance with my foot.
Kelly opened her jaws and the creature’s long (and I mean LONG) ears popped up to reveal a good-sized rabbit! Kelly had brought us a gift, and I wasn’t showing much appreciation.
The rabbit leaped away and went darting across the street to the safety of some shrubbery, with Kelly close behind. (I’m afraid I never discovered whether or not that kitty ever forgave me.)
Ah, but there were two pets, so there has to be a companion tail, right?
Then there was the time both cats had kittens of their own. Kelly had four (despite being the obviously larger feline) and Charlene had six.
The nesting boxes for all 12 cats was in the basement and every now and then Charlene would come up, cry at the door, and we’d let her in only to hear her cry more as she remained in the doorway. We’d go down the stairs to see what the matter was, and there, in Kelly’s nest were all ten of the kittens. Kelly got in the habit of “kitnapping” Charlene’s six, because four weren’t enough for her, I guess.
When the little ones got bigger, they were up in our recreation room where the floor was linoleum and slippery. Ten kittens were slowly looking around, sniffing things, and investigating the new environment.
I suddenly let out a roaring sneeze, and all ten kittens tried to scamper for hiding places, but their paws could not find traction and the sound of those forty, tiny feet was a real laugher as they slipped and slid across the floor. Both Kelly and Charlene appeared out of nowhere to see why their children were meowing in panic.
Kelly grew to be a BIG cat, I’ll tell you. Both lived a pretty good spell after the girls left our nest, as I recall. (It must be noted that Donna has had cats, almost ever since…often two at a time so they can keep company while she’s at work. Her current room-mates are Lucy and Sally, I think.)
Oh, yes. Out of all the cats Donna has had, several would “fetch,” believe it or not. Now, one will and the other won’t. Or vice versa.
The Derby reminds me, by GJ
Tomorrow is the Kentucky Derby and I’m reminded of the time we happened to be in Louisville and visited Churchill Downs.
We were RV-ing at the time (1985-86) and camped close to town. We unhitched the “fifth wheel” and drove the truck out to the track. There was no “big” race running at the time, probably on a week day, and a normal one all around. Except…it had rained, and rained hard. The track was almost a giant pond, with puddles everywhere.
We decided to watch a couple of races, maybe make a small ($2) bet on one, and then give up on the wet track. As we scanned the program, we were both amused by a horse whose name was “Spooky Tooth.” We laughed at the name and placed the minimum bet, “to win.”
When the horses came out on the track for the walk to starting gate, we didn’t see number three (ST) anywhere. Finally, about fifty yards behind the last horse, here came ST; head down, looking like he was depressed, and a pretty, light gray coat. He slowly followed all the other thoroughbreds out to the gate and eventually took his place.
We are, by now, convinced that we had wasted two dollars.
The familiar shout of “They’re off!” came from the P.A. system, and ST broke in front. He led at the first turn, drew away in the backstretch, and romped home ten lengths ahead of the field.
As ST drew up to the area where they honor the winner, we saw why he had won. He was the only horse whose color, or jockey, or owner colors could be seen! (All others were covered in mud.) He just didn’t want all that mud in his face from trailing behind the others! As I recall, we got about $22 back for our $2 wager. Good old Spooky Tooth paid for our dinner that night. Never had a doubt.
We were RV-ing at the time (1985-86) and camped close to town. We unhitched the “fifth wheel” and drove the truck out to the track. There was no “big” race running at the time, probably on a week day, and a normal one all around. Except…it had rained, and rained hard. The track was almost a giant pond, with puddles everywhere.
We decided to watch a couple of races, maybe make a small ($2) bet on one, and then give up on the wet track. As we scanned the program, we were both amused by a horse whose name was “Spooky Tooth.” We laughed at the name and placed the minimum bet, “to win.”
When the horses came out on the track for the walk to starting gate, we didn’t see number three (ST) anywhere. Finally, about fifty yards behind the last horse, here came ST; head down, looking like he was depressed, and a pretty, light gray coat. He slowly followed all the other thoroughbreds out to the gate and eventually took his place.
We are, by now, convinced that we had wasted two dollars.
The familiar shout of “They’re off!” came from the P.A. system, and ST broke in front. He led at the first turn, drew away in the backstretch, and romped home ten lengths ahead of the field.
As ST drew up to the area where they honor the winner, we saw why he had won. He was the only horse whose color, or jockey, or owner colors could be seen! (All others were covered in mud.) He just didn’t want all that mud in his face from trailing behind the others! As I recall, we got about $22 back for our $2 wager. Good old Spooky Tooth paid for our dinner that night. Never had a doubt.
"Squealing, by Grandpa Jim
I’ve got a tale to tell on my Dad. If he were still with us, I wouldn’t dare squeal on him. (Before “ratting” on someone, the term was “squealing.”)
He used to tell the story of how he came home quite late one night. He was careful to open and close the front door extra quietly, take off his shoes and climb the stairs ever-so-carefully, and then slowly remove his clothes. He would pause, here, and assure us that it was not easy to slip between the covers, but he was proud of how slowly and gently he did so.
Just as he got comfortable, Mom’s voice startled him as she said, “You’re drunk,” turned and went back to sleep.
Moral of the story? Moms are tough to fool. They have this seventh sense that no doctor has courage enough to reveal.
Was he drunk? I seriously doubt it. He never drank, as far as I know. We never had booze of any kind in the house, and after Mom died he brought me up, so I would have known. I feel pretty confident that in a house without booze, you’d detect its odor when presented to you. I think that, quite possibly, he had accepted a beer, or maybe two during a long game of pinochle, and was afraid that Mom would smell it. And he was correct!
Or, come to think of it, rather than a seventh sense, maybe a super-sensitive olfactory sense? (Our daughter Nancy has that, and is sensitive to the slightest perfume.) DNA again? Hmmmm.
He used to tell the story of how he came home quite late one night. He was careful to open and close the front door extra quietly, take off his shoes and climb the stairs ever-so-carefully, and then slowly remove his clothes. He would pause, here, and assure us that it was not easy to slip between the covers, but he was proud of how slowly and gently he did so.
Just as he got comfortable, Mom’s voice startled him as she said, “You’re drunk,” turned and went back to sleep.
Moral of the story? Moms are tough to fool. They have this seventh sense that no doctor has courage enough to reveal.
Was he drunk? I seriously doubt it. He never drank, as far as I know. We never had booze of any kind in the house, and after Mom died he brought me up, so I would have known. I feel pretty confident that in a house without booze, you’d detect its odor when presented to you. I think that, quite possibly, he had accepted a beer, or maybe two during a long game of pinochle, and was afraid that Mom would smell it. And he was correct!
Or, come to think of it, rather than a seventh sense, maybe a super-sensitive olfactory sense? (Our daughter Nancy has that, and is sensitive to the slightest perfume.) DNA again? Hmmmm.
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