My name is Crash Test Dummy and I'm a draft dodger

I have recently realized that I, Crash Test Dummy, was put here on this good earth for the sole purpose of driving my hub coo coo for coconuts.

You have no idea how gratifying it is to know I am fulfilling my purpose in life--and fulfilling it with flair. In fact, after 20 years, I'm pretty sure I have completely mastered it and there's a good chance I may be translated any minute now. (Hopefully I'm translated correctly.)

(Ba dum bum.)

Luckily that's not my only purpose in life.  I have another grail that gives me much more pleasure with less guilt.  In fact today, instead of blogging, I'm diligently working on my grail.  I found my grail at a young age, but my grail is like a polaroid. I captured it, and then I had to shake it out and develop it. Now I need to pass it around so everyone can point and laugh at it. 

Pointing and laughing is #1 on my bucket list for 2010. 

(Hey, I had to think of something else to do since my bathrooms are already clean.) 

So this post comes from a long, long time ago.  I found it in my draft box.  In fact, it's the very first draft in my draft box, written on September 9th, 2008. Usually I'm a draft dodger, (I have 54 drafts in my draft box) but this one seemed particularly relevant and will give you a glimpse at what I'm doing with my time today (in case my hub's inquiring mind wants to know):

..........................................................................

It's funny the things your kids pick up about you. The things they miss are even funnier. Yesterday I was clearing off the kitchen counter when I came across a folded paper entitled Understanding Parents Is a Key to a Better Relationship, which listed 2o questions. I learned that my daughter thinks my dad was unemployed, that my favorite memorable school experience was being a cheerleader, and do I have any special background or traditions? Not really, she wrote. 

But there were a few things she hit spot on. What does she enjoy doing in her spare time? 

Writing. 

And what is her main goal in life? 

To be a writer.

Some things you just can't hide.

..............................................................................

 

AMEN! 

(Now I only have 53 drafts in my draft box.)

Adopt-An-Old-Boat-Guy-For-A-Day

So I couldn't sleep last night. I think it's because American Idol starts today and I can hardly wait!

Or maybe it's because yesterday was national Adopt-An-Old-Boat-Guy-For-A-Day day.

Can you guess who I adopted? Huh? Huh? Huh?

You give up?

Okay, I'll tell you. But first you have to sit down.

And close your eyes.

Now stand up.

Now sit down again.

Now open your eyes.

I'll give you three clues:

1. He's from back in the day when this blog was just a twinkle in your eye.

2. I can't think of him without thinking of Miss Heidi and Swirl and Anjeny and Shelle Belle and the Nutty Hamster Chick and my cousin Emily at Art-in-Sewl and all of the other oldies but goodies who used to toilet paper his blog with me. But mostly I think of his daughter, my BBFF, who discovered my blog and propelled me into super stardom, (but refused to toilet paper her dad's blog)--the one and only, Funny Farmer.

3. He has a thing for boring old boats and while he was restoring his 1947 Gar Wood I had to scold him often for posting so many naked photos of his boat. However, with a little help from a loving friend, the naked boat repented, cleaned up her act and went on to win 3rd place in a boring old boat beauty contest.

You could say she went from geek to chic (which rhymes much better when spoken.)


Since I was the one who peer pressured her into getting dressed, I suggested she be named after moi.


Of course I was out voted by Murphy and his team of lawyers, who said they wouldn't touch that potential liability suit from the universe with a 10-foot pole.

So have you guessed it yet? Huh? Huh? Huh?

That's right! I adopted The Old Boat Guy.

You heard me right. And guess what! He's not as boring as his boat. He's kind and witty and wise. He's a perfect gentleman. He took me out to lunch. Along with my hub and my thirteen-year-old son and my sister and my mom. He took ALL of us out to lunch for all-you-can-eat soup and salad at my favorite all-you-can-eat soup and salad place in the whole wide world, The Olive Garden.

It was delightful.

Although when I asked if we could sit by the garden, I think the hostess thought I was prank calling her because she was like "what garden?" And I was like "you know, the garden where you grow the olives." And she was like "we don't have a garden." But I catch on quick, after I think for a minute, so I fired back, "well, we don't have a horse!"

Get it? Horse? Garden? Your horse is in my garden?

(I don't get it either.)

But anyway, if I had known the old boat guy was treating I would have invited more people, (my MIL in particular). As it stood, it was just the six of us.

It looks like there are only four of us, but my sis is snapping the photographic evidence and my son is hiding behind my hub because he doesn't want to show up on my blog.

Apparently he has no idea how many times he's shown up on my blog over the past 18 months.

For those of you who want to live vicariously through me, let me say that the old boat guy is as adorable in person as he is in print. I never doubted it, of course, except for a few minutes when he told me he'd be driving a gold Buick and wearing brown trousers.

In my language gold Buick translate like this:

Thank goodness the old boat guy is color blind. His gold Buick wasn't gold at all, it was more the color of hazy satin dawn or a sleek sunrise promise.

And that silly goose old boat guy wasn't wearing brown trousers either. He was wearing pants.

Anyways, Mahalo old boat guy for a wonderful adopted lunch.

And also for the bag of I-dee-ho spuds the size of vermont.

Psychiatric Help $6

The coolest thing about selling oranges in the dead of winter (besides the notoriety and getting rich quick) is that you get to meet a lot of interesting people.  

The kind of people who will stop to buy oranges in the dead of winter are just interesting people by nature.  

Well rounded, if you will.

We've met all kinds of people from all kinds of places--Lehi, American Fork, Alpine, Provo, Orem . . . helk, we've even met people from all the way out to Payson.  

A lot of Californians drop by too because they, of all people, know that California Oranges are like liquid candy . . . with pulp. 

  

Not only do people come from far and wide to buy oranges, they also come to tell interesting stories, or to ask interesting questions. Like yesterday a couple of fellas pulled up in a pimped out, souped up Mustang and asked me if we sold honey.  I said yes. "Is it the kind of honey that bees make?" they asked.

Another guy with long hair and a beard asked me if I was a Mormon. I nodded my head. 

"But are you a true Mormon?" 

"What's a true Mormon?" I asked. 

"Are you judgemental?" 

"Of course not!" I said pulling out my scissors, "but I don't sell oranges to any man whose hair is below his collar."  

Not discriminating, just making the world a more aesthetically pleasing place to eat oranges.

Other people who stop to buy oranges just need someone to talk to. They might be coming from the hospital where their hub has been on life support for ten years because he fell out of an apricot tree. Or maybe they just came from their sister's wedding where their truck was repossessed.  Or maybe their albino dog is pregnant or their nosy neighbors just called social services on them for subjecting their kids to second hand smoke. And whodda thought fresh California oranges could be like chicken soup for the soul? 

Other people who stop just want to buy oranges.  They're not interested in stumping the dummy or sharing their burdens or getting their hair cut.

We strive to meet the needs of all our customers so we have recently added a little somethin' somethin' to our orange stand sign.  It looks a little somethin' somethin' like this: 

Everyone needs a good psychiatrist.  That's what I always say.  However, blame it on inflation and the recession, our Psychiatric help costs $6. 

But then we throw in a hair cut and a bag of oranges for free. 

Speaking of weird . . .

You know what else is weird? 

Teenagers.  

Honest to Pete, I'll never understand teenagers. 

When I dropped my daughter off at the high school today for basketball practice, there were several teenage girls traipsing about in shorts and t-shirts.  Not just any shorts, either--shorty shorts--itty bitty teeny weeny shorty shorts.

Oh my brrrrr, it was 32 degrees, for garsh sakes! 

Some of these girls were jogging, which is dumb enough, but some of them weren't.  In fact one of them was standing by her car wearing stiletto heels. With socks. Almost everything else was bare, except her little bum.  It was an LOL moment.  And believe me, I DID LOL!  Twice. I rolled my window down and LOL'd at the top of my lungs as I drove past the little weirdie with the warm toes.

And then there was a boy walking slowly across the parking lot. Not your typical 50-yard dash to the car. He was more meandering, I would say--almost swaggering--as if he were walking down Santa Monica Boulevard in August. No shirt. No shoes. 

No service, dude. 

(That's what she said.)

But enough about the nearly nudies.  I don't want to talk about nudies today because this post is for the children. One child in particular. My youngest reader, Jimmy, who just so happens to be my x-door neighbor, Martha's son. He's in fifth grade and he's been reading my private diary for his homework.

NO PRESSURE, eh?  

Not only do I need to be entertaining, I also need to be a good example.  Try that on for size. 

Plus, since it's homework, I should probably teach some sort of lesson, right?  

Okay, this lesson is for you, Jimmy!  

Stay in school!  

And DON'T DO DRUGS! 

And remember who you are and what you stand for--most importantly the National Anthem. Always stand for the National Anthem.  You should also stand whenever the prophet or the Queen enters a room. 

Remember what you sit for too. Always sit for dinner. Never eat while standing, unless you want to give yourself heartburn and a nervous condition. 

Keep the sabbath day holy. Unless you're out of milk or eggs, in which case run to the nearest Walmart, but make sure you do self-checkout so you don't have to make anyone work on Sunday.  

And last, but not least, never wear stilettos with socks!

Okay, there's your lesson for the day, Jimmy!   

LY!!!!

(Now, STOP snooping around in my private diary, will ya!)