tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10776248478833082742024-03-05T17:26:46.208-08:00THE CARNIVAL IN MY MINDTHE CARNIVAL IN MY MIND by Robbi Sommers BryantRobbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-79093462882786840452011-08-23T19:42:00.000-07:002011-08-24T07:54:11.401-07:00The Bumper Boats<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpCL6xxXEs9o8Pgdo5icBWYzzJd0U-6L1lHV3yWsdm8AoJwC93_wjUhOpEvZm7-Cs0mTAlbpJ_GbD7EtpfdedyaBQJ-87Lj7vIp3KrFeXRzXFCfMAAfhVepAejXGmkcvG380gAmtmvjrE/s1600/OTHERS_52143_19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #ead1dc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpCL6xxXEs9o8Pgdo5icBWYzzJd0U-6L1lHV3yWsdm8AoJwC93_wjUhOpEvZm7-Cs0mTAlbpJ_GbD7EtpfdedyaBQJ-87Lj7vIp3KrFeXRzXFCfMAAfhVepAejXGmkcvG380gAmtmvjrE/s200/OTHERS_52143_19.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OOOOH! How cute! Look at the kids floating around in the bumper boats. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">The riders steer themselves as the boat's motor, (usually electric) powers them about across the water. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;">When you put your child in a ride like the bumper boats, you want them to be safe. I've seen parents wading around in the water, following their little bumper-boated kid--just to be there if the bumper boat were to tip, or if their kid climbs out, or becomes aggressive--even worse, if someone else's kid bumper-bullies. Being harassed repeatedly while calmly floating in your own boat--can, I've been told, create long-lasting emotional wounds. In fact, some kids will never get in a boat again....which leads me to this:</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;">As I reflect on my own childhood experiences, I remember that these sort of boat rides took place in a long, narrow canal-like pathway. Moving without any motor that we could see, there was no other direction we could go. We could turn the steering wheel, but it make no difference. It was a fake. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;">Back in the good ole days, my dad had purchased a one-seat, fiberglass speedboat. The rider's legs flanked straight out on either side of the steering wheel, vertical with and on top of, the boat's front. A single passenger boat--but what the hell? My sister was 5 years old, tops. Taking her for a spin across the lake and back in a boat for one seemed harmless. She was, after all small--not weighing much. She really didn't count as a real person. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;">My dad got into the boat and sat my sister between the steering wheel and himself. Off they went, cruising across the lake. My dad calling to everyone--"Look at this boat! Have you ever seen anything like it?" After all, this was the newest, edgiest boat on the market. People in other boats gave him hardy thumbs up. The shoreline crowd moved closer to the lake to watch the cool guy in the newfangled speed boat.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJaQdWcaOq7ZunCM_4dcH4fUk4XSjdSmsaNp5NN12pdii53UVZ1g6rbS8YlRkK6WgVpL6VH90U6vK-BenhP5ywZd9peT1VAXy61g4Qkj2bwhdwCINa7dQsPSYXQo5Z9DicFN4pW1hObjN/s1600/Washington_Crossing_the_Delaware_by_Emanuel_Leutze%252C_MMA-NYC%252C_1851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #ead1dc; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJaQdWcaOq7ZunCM_4dcH4fUk4XSjdSmsaNp5NN12pdii53UVZ1g6rbS8YlRkK6WgVpL6VH90U6vK-BenhP5ywZd9peT1VAXy61g4Qkj2bwhdwCINa7dQsPSYXQo5Z9DicFN4pW1hObjN/s1600/Washington_Crossing_the_Delaware_by_Emanuel_Leutze%252C_MMA-NYC%252C_1851.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;">Not my father.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;">My father loved basking in the spotlight. "Hello to you," my father shouted to every passerby. Zooming back and forth. Making crazy 8s and zig-zags. He did a George Washington crossing The Delaware pose as he criss-crossed in one direction, striking a body building pose on his way back. </span></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZ5Es-KmKR3rnE1kuqAdZPAuV3aeOf6ObFCJZys4mLpxhHt098pc3OkoeydwGMkrhi9rs4Db3bazx1yiOhfe1sgNLnuaDMwhQxvftEevzAwAril6fz3a-rq8fD_gftiBXXIPa_ReOgqfV/s1600/stock-photo-portrait-of-young-bodybuilder-man-41421907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #ead1dc; clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZ5Es-KmKR3rnE1kuqAdZPAuV3aeOf6ObFCJZys4mLpxhHt098pc3OkoeydwGMkrhi9rs4Db3bazx1yiOhfe1sgNLnuaDMwhQxvftEevzAwAril6fz3a-rq8fD_gftiBXXIPa_ReOgqfV/s200/stock-photo-portrait-of-young-bodybuilder-man-41421907.jpg" width="143" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;">Not my father.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"></span></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;">I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">was jumping up and down--thrilled by the speed, the sound, the idea of being the only ones with a 'neat-o' boat. My brother ran along the beach. </span></span><br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">My father took the boat into a fast curve--and something went wrong--flipping the boat and dumping my father and sister into the lake. My father, drama king that he was, grabbed my sister and began the side stroke, pulling her with him. He tried to keep both of their heads above water...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">He was struggling, we all could tell. </span></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"Help!" my dad called to a lifeguard who looked up and then over to a group of kids playing on a large boulder.</span></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; color: blue;">"For God's sake! Help us," my father screams.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">The lifeguard turns to my father, who is huffing, trying to save both himself and my father from what he thought was imminent--death by drowning. "Save the child," my father yells. "I've accepted my fate."</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">The life guard picks up a megaphone and yells to my father. "Sir...?"</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">We all glanced from the lifeguard to my father.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">"Sir! Stand up."</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">My father stopped momentarily, as if trying to understand what the lifeguard meant. Then, in one quick movement, he stood up. The water, at best, was thigh-high. Everyone on the shore began to laugh. Everyone close by in boats--howled. Everyone was in hysterics. Everyone, that is, except my father.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">He looked toward us. It was written across his face....<i> </i>and that of any possible Jew at the lake. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><i>We're Jews. What do we know about boating?</i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">My brother, upon seeing that dad was okay, broke into </span><i style="line-height: 19px;">the </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">chant--originally used the first time anyone slipped coming upstairs from the living room to the bedrooms. It was a small flight of stairs and the possibility of real injury was low... </span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">"6.7, 5.4. 6.2, 3.4 (the French judge) and 5.8, " my brother yelled as if he was a panel of Olympic judges. Not bad for a Jew.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">I don't know what happened to the boat. We never saw it again. But I can tell you this: whenever we kids went to a carnival that had boats, my mom warned us to <i>never under any circumstances</i> mention them when we got home. </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #ead1dc; line-height: 19px;">Some wounds are just too damn hard to heal.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-35478298311951485812011-08-10T10:12:00.000-07:002011-08-11T15:06:19.005-07:00THE TUNNEL OF LOVE (The Dark ride, Fun In The Dark)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtxiNTCNPoufpUeltBvxFK1_OY0GHZ6qN0qZeqa5Abawxq3rSsSRQNLLkNOk7hKag36a_lz3pSWXkk-xKzFSml_Ol3bGsbFu_zged61mtgPrMss7rtuBB80mii9BdOnK8p-Jo6Nc9hKbi/s1600/Dark_Ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtxiNTCNPoufpUeltBvxFK1_OY0GHZ6qN0qZeqa5Abawxq3rSsSRQNLLkNOk7hKag36a_lz3pSWXkk-xKzFSml_Ol3bGsbFu_zged61mtgPrMss7rtuBB80mii9BdOnK8p-Jo6Nc9hKbi/s320/Dark_Ride.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I like this ride. No, I<i> love</i> this ride and I'll tell you why: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Sex</b>.</span> I'd like to say how fab. this ride is--the sudden twists and turns, the ghosts and monsters that light up. Creatures that threaten, scenes of gruesome activities that seem to be happening as you pass. You can even eat the 3 boxes of Milk Duds hidden in your jacket in one sitting...but as much as I love this ride, I'll never ride it again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>My twins, my 12 year old and I are outside the Fun House. The kids jabber. "Let's go in. Let's go in!" I roll my eyes. I just wasn't in the mood to take two 5 year-old, very active (Okay, wild.) kids.<br />
Wild you may ask?<br />
Okay, here's an example:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">They were two years old. </div></div>My house was child proof. I mean everything. Drawers, cabinets, outlet blocks. My twins were playing quietly in the den. I ran upstairs to retrieve a book. I was upstairs maybe 8 seconds, max. When I returned to the den, they were gone.<br />
"Brian. Nick," I call.<br />
No answer.<br />
I search downstairs. They were no where to be seen. I hurried upstairs. Not there either. I checked the cabinets (<i>I</i> couldn't open those damn child proof locks.) Had they gone outside? It wasn't possible. All doors had sliding locks on the top corner. I ran downstairs to check the locks on the doors. Everything was still locked. Borderline panic looms above me. I grabbed my keys, opened the lock on the door leading into the garage.<br />
<br />
What I saw when I entered the garage...a chair had been slid over to Daddy's workbench. One of the twins was standing by the chair wearing a pair of safety glasses, a plastic wrench from his toddler tool box in his hand.<br />
Aw...how cute, you may say.<br />
The other was on daddy's workbench--plug in one hand, daddy's drill in the other.<br />
They had taken the kitchen broom, slid the child proof with the handle. Once in the garage, they used the broom to slide it back to a child-proof locked position and let it drop to the floor. I had it figured out. Damn child proof locks only keep adults out of things. Kids have no problem figuring these things out.<br />
Wild.<br />
My parents came to visit from the mid-west. I thought I'd impress them with how brilliant their little grandchildren were. I scooped one of the twins up into my arms. Once he settled, I called my parents over.<br />
"Check this out," I say proudly. "Show Papa your happy smile."<br />
Nick smiles.<br />
My parents are thrilled, discussing the fact that even though the twins were only half Jewish, the brains came from mom. Mechanical smarts, from his Dad (not a Jew) which reminds me of a funny joke.<br />
Q. How do you get a Jewish girl to stop fucking?<br />
A. Marry her.<br />
I can tell this 'joke' because I'm Jewish.<br />
But I digress.<br />
"Show Papa your sad face."<br />
Oh how cute. Isn't he cute? We all nod in agreement.<br />
Show Papa your happy cute. Every coos at the twins<br />
"Show Papa your angry face." Nick tightens his hand into a fist. makes an angry face and yells, "You Fuck!"<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I didn't want to climb in a boat with these guys...my 12 year-old, Justin, steps up to the plate. "I'll take 'em mom."<br />
I help everyone into the boat and off they go.<br />
<br />
"Too bad,"<br />
"Huh?" I turn and see a beautiful Latino man behind me. Mocha skin, dark eyes, hair tied back in a low pony tail.<br />
"Too bad--you're missing a great ride." I love that Spanish accent.<i> Love it. Love it. Love it.</i><br />
"I didn't want to go with my boys," I replied. I just stood there, staring. As I've stated before, the only men that have the nerve to approach me are Carnies and crack smokers. He was neither.<br />
"Want to?" I may have said yes. I think I said yes.<br />
He grabs my hand and leads me to a boat.<br />
The tunnel doors close behind us. Somewhere ahead, I hear my boys pleading to their brother, "Why can't I? The water's not deep."<br />
X 's leg lightly rubs against mine. Yum.<br />
"This is fun, " I say, lightly touching his arm. "Thanks."<br />
"Yes. It is," he whispers in my ear.<br />
We've made a rough turn and are in a completely black part of the tunnel. We start kissing. Deep, soft, wet kisses. On my neck. His face. My shoulder. His hand.<br />
It's good. We can't wait any longer--unfortunately this ride is not twenty minutes--which is the minimum amount of time that I usually need. I don't care.<br />
He's rubbing his hands all over me. Under my tank top. Under my bra, up my dress...<br />
And I'm all over him.<br />
My nails dig into his back as he starts to sneak one finger--<br />
I'm spinning on the tip of a needle. Feels good. Feels so good.<br />
I reach into his shorts and mumble "Oh,my god you are so--"<br />
His mouth meets mine. I feel engulfed in a thick billowy cloud. And the pleasure. Oh the please he's giving me."<br />
"No!" I hearJustin's voice ahead. A splash. "Oh Fuck! Get back in the boat."<br />
I don't want X to stop. Even with the splash. Even with the "Get back in the boat."<br />
I'm on the edge. <i>La petite mor</i>t is seconds away. This may be a world record. He's moving his fingers. I'm moving my hand.<br />
"Get Back In The Fucking Boat."<br />
I'm ready to pop. And as my body tightens, as sparks begin ricochet inside of me," To I stop and yell at them, or do I let this much wanted orgasm, I make a quick decision<br />
I scream out in ecstasy, "Get in. Get in Get in the fucking boat."<br />
I open my eyes as we crash through the tunnel doors to the bright light.<br />
I wipe my hand on my dress. He's smelling his fingers.<br />
"Mom, Nick climbed out of their boat, " Justin yells.<br />
"No, it was Brian," Nick yells.<br />
"Justin pushed me."<br />
"I did not," Justin shoots back.<br />
"All three of you are soaking wet. We're leaving. Now!"<br />
One of <i>those </i>fights is about to erupt.<br />
"You're soaking wet, too," X whispers."Will you visit me here tonight? I get off at eleven."<br />
"What do you mean?"<br />
"I run the Merry-go-round."<br />
And there it was. He was a carnie. No wonder he came on to me.<br />
But he has his teeth. A carnie with teeth? This is a once-in-a-life-time discovery.<br />
"I stop by if I can get away." I knew I wouldn't.<br />
Some rides are the best if you only ride them once.<br />
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Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-83606286464487237552011-07-25T10:08:00.000-07:002011-07-25T13:06:47.130-07:00<div class="flippy" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; background-image: url(http://www.blogger.com/img/triangle_open.gif); background-position: 50% 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; float: left; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; padding-left: 14px;"></div><div class="postContents" style="margin-left: 23px;"><div class="entirePost" style="display: inline;"><div style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5y8EDXKCVCR-KatCI8frLwyLa82HIeG4Me-Etgc-XshqdzB6SWBixHEIl1_Wr2bkaZz9y9HkRJfU-vdfkvvGzByjXlW8x27xkdHhcZNJDCpOtKDI7GF45WYr_IjC5mB7f4KZMlh0McaTf/s1600/220px-PirateFalls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5y8EDXKCVCR-KatCI8frLwyLa82HIeG4Me-Etgc-XshqdzB6SWBixHEIl1_Wr2bkaZz9y9HkRJfU-vdfkvvGzByjXlW8x27xkdHhcZNJDCpOtKDI7GF45WYr_IjC5mB7f4KZMlh0McaTf/s1600/220px-PirateFalls.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>THE LOG RIDE</b></span></div></div><div style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</div><div style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel bad that I have to take such an well-meaning ride and group it with extreme sports. I know for a fact that the log ride is fun. You climb into an artificial log boat. Depending on its size, it carries as few as four riders and up to twelve. It's a nice, slow ride that weaves between buildings and goes under caves before its final drop. The approach to the plunge is through a tunnel. Once at the top, the log goes out into the open before taking a rapid descent into water.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">I've actually ridden this ride and it wasn't bad at all. The log ride hasn't lost its innocence. I like that in a ride. No big-shot lights. No over-inflated ego p-zazz. Nope. You've got your log boat, the track and the slide. It's the implications of the log ride that causes me to worry. The implication the the boat is wood. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Orginally, the log ride was used to transport lumber and logs down mountainous terrain to a sawmill by using flowing water, the boats were logs.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="postContents" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; margin-left: 23px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perhaps this ride led to the "Let's use wood for fun" era. Want to play a game, kids? Try hitting a small, hard ball as it flies 60 mph at you. Right, hit it with this piece of wood. Okay, let's say you're not a pro. If some hard object is flying toward me, even at 10 mph, shit, even at 1/2 mph, I going to either run or duck. I can't understand why waiting for the anticipated SMACK of ball on wood is considered fun. Especially, for a Jewish girl like me, who undoubtedly would miss the ball all together. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sure, I've tried softball. I've stood, the center of attention, waiting for a ball to hurl toward me. Fun? I think not. First throw, I duck. Another pitch, great! super! I throw the bat and run as far as I can, ending up at the snack building. After a few minutes, I come around the corner with a hot dog and Ding Dongs. I don't eat DIng Dongs, they just make me look cool--even so, I was kicked off the team. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was my last soft ball game.</span></div><div class="postContents" style="margin-left: 23px;"><div class="entirePost" style="display: inline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">I moved on in life without having to deal with stick sports until college. Even though I studied dental hygiene, I still had to have units in phys ed. to graduate. (Why does a dental hygienist need to take phys. ed? I finally decided that it was to learn different ways to get your teeth knocked out.) </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">I hate physical activity. Now that I think of it, I was never encouraged to get involved in sports. I had Barbie and Ken dolls. I also had the first pink, Barbie convertible car. I suppose Barbie did keep me out of trouble for awhile On Barbie and Ken's first date, they took Barbie's car and managed to 'do it' in the little sport coup. In those days, premarital sex was frowned upon... bad girls went to special homes for the unwed, had their babies, signed their baby away and came back as if none of it ever happened. It was all smoke and mirrors. I had to send my Barbie to the closet for her pregnancy. I didn't my mom to find out. Of course, she did, and wrung the truth out of me. That's how I became a reader.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">In Dental hygiene school, Phys Ed was forced on me. Mandatory. I decided to try the ski class. In theory, it seemed innocent enough--after all, there's no place to ski in Columbus, Ohio. I figured we'd just talk about what it would be like to ski. My kind of sport. But first class, we were carted to a hill somewhere outside of Columbus. I don't know where, because the shock that overtook me upon learning we would put on skis and a go down a hill, left me in a vacuum. Who knew that they had a big snow maker that blew layers of snow onto a hill?. Who could have guessed we'd at be outdoors? I heard nothing and saw nothing from the moment the announcement, "Let's go ski!" was made.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">On top of the hill. I attach my feet to 2 thin, flat pieces of wood. We're in a huddle. As the instructor goes over safety instructions, I feel one of the skis slide. I shift positions, and in that one moment--which is near now in the top of my sheer-terror-moments list, I began sliding down the hill backwards. My recently learned snow plow technique wasn't effective in stopping my descent into what I imagined would be sure death. I saw myself trapped in a snow drift. Trapped and freezing to death. I saw myself eaten alive by a huge avalanche and disappearing, gasping for air, until finally suffocated. Going over a cliff, falling into an ice cave. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">The fact that this was a hill, with a snow machine regulating the amount of snow didn't occur to me during the descent. I'm a Jewish princess and didn't deserve this--</span><i style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">that's </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">what I thought about, that and the worry they would dress me in the wrong outfit for my funeral. I'm screaming for help. It seems like I'm halfway down the hill before the instructor reaches out and grabs my hand. We were still at the top of the hill. I had managed extreme skiing for only a foot or two. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">Fortunately, a few days later, I was in my dorm room with a towel over my head, breathing steam into my lungs for the cold I now had. (My people are desert-dwellers. The snow? I've never heard of a Jewish Eskimo, have you?)) I managed to knock over the boiling was: Could I use the burns to get out of ski class and still get credit?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">Needless to say, although the log ride is fun, I stay away from sticks no matter the shape, no matter the need, no matter the fun. And because the log ride <i>maybe</i>, was wood in its beginning stage, I didn't want to take a chance and never rode the log ride again.</span></span></span><br />
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</div></div>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-61998390502961454912011-06-24T17:48:00.000-07:002011-07-26T06:44:02.241-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">CARNIVAL SNACKS</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2cCR-XDXHpJ-IWNIXA3b3jUkVoquBAayLa-P2Nn1YWepwbX-k6ZXO6qX2_N2z-ol9lUc_dJSG3gpHIE2WDhDFq3COEhtyzZOkw_Hg-HUgwqQxN3EZFzG_0stEPpj-B-5syiEdEh12Bai/s1600/carnivalsnack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2cCR-XDXHpJ-IWNIXA3b3jUkVoquBAayLa-P2Nn1YWepwbX-k6ZXO6qX2_N2z-ol9lUc_dJSG3gpHIE2WDhDFq3COEhtyzZOkw_Hg-HUgwqQxN3EZFzG_0stEPpj-B-5syiEdEh12Bai/s1600/carnivalsnack.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is it possible to visit a carnival and not partake in the thrill of eating Carnival Food? Seriously. Have you ever gone and not eaten anything? And yes, cotton candy counts.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I had to say what <i>my</i> favorite attraction is, I'd have to answer, THE LINE at the snack bar.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Out of all the things to do at a carnival, the snack bar seems to be the safest. Perhaps that's why the snack bar always has the longest lines. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Myself? I get in line within 8 minutes of arrival. The truth is, I'm not hungry then, but by the time I get up to the window, I will be.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Check out some Carnival Snacks:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jBSfojklmAquCD6Hg1Dds3yossEVnoWbnjcQDwTPijE28y86OpMGk-sykmXylUSfAJnuUh4_OI6CSCZh5OBGjQwZkbU9Zxm2CvEKbwtVXvd4q9l-Ewd518mxSUIj0u79pgQ5AU6fKuwu/s1600/Nachos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jBSfojklmAquCD6Hg1Dds3yossEVnoWbnjcQDwTPijE28y86OpMGk-sykmXylUSfAJnuUh4_OI6CSCZh5OBGjQwZkbU9Zxm2CvEKbwtVXvd4q9l-Ewd518mxSUIj0u79pgQ5AU6fKuwu/s1600/Nachos.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZ45uRGdy2TdippQOzadxrRIHfK4wjirVTddVw6mK1gm_L-kMV7e8CbsDSHkjIJlC9QJn1ETtuMmNZK6Pel3Ce7rjdoNTU3XD2Pn3ELDfCWuNaXVKgwS1Ck5wGL17BLoBheuacqxyZJan/s1600/twinkiefried.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZ45uRGdy2TdippQOzadxrRIHfK4wjirVTddVw6mK1gm_L-kMV7e8CbsDSHkjIJlC9QJn1ETtuMmNZK6Pel3Ce7rjdoNTU3XD2Pn3ELDfCWuNaXVKgwS1Ck5wGL17BLoBheuacqxyZJan/s1600/twinkiefried.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-size: small;">**Fried Twinkie**</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23E1pNgj2rfAbtvVF6hLKwZX4Af6aiMdzX836rudi3VVnjI4gqwuNNASCRT_QwVWoU1P1J7TaaxJgWUH3lUcJhgQjVZS_c0w0kSZhNSfWynBgEtXpaNc_4VMjaWLvpnAC_XSBMorC_Ebh/s1600/corndogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23E1pNgj2rfAbtvVF6hLKwZX4Af6aiMdzX836rudi3VVnjI4gqwuNNASCRT_QwVWoU1P1J7TaaxJgWUH3lUcJhgQjVZS_c0w0kSZhNSfWynBgEtXpaNc_4VMjaWLvpnAC_XSBMorC_Ebh/s1600/corndogs.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Someone in front of me in THE LINE once asked me if they sold frozen yogurt or fruit. The </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">entire LINE broke into hysterical laughter, pointing at the poor woman--obviously a novice. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Plan on ingesting 600 grams of fat, minimum... and that's while your in LINE. No worries though, you'll walk it off as you drift from ride to ride...that's what </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> tell myself. Being a Jewish woman, I view exercise a bit differently than others. To me, a vigorous hike is the walk from the mall parking lot to Nordstroms. When there's a sale, I consider it a marathon and bump up the walk to a trot.</span></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A little known Carnival Sociologist (AKA Carniologist) Flander Ufpenheimer (the f is silent) did a study that determined the following: </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No matter who you are, where you came from or which political party you identify with--once in the snack line, you become part of THE LINE. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Your identity blends in and you are now considered a LINK in what I fondly call, THE CHAIN OF FAT. I hate to say this, but glance around when you're in THE LINE and consider this: </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1)the clothing your chain is wearing and</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcL8GqxxLzIXB41MU2ODMxf4epwss2iCMc6KziB2iwvecir1d-JH42tE4qHKxZ4Vz7OGguEs7jAxjuFG5YfbVyd03pxIsK2YRs7UM39xDcXcRoBwz_ezzW5MjegF-kU9ymNsJ1oasrg5K/s1600/images+%252815%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2) the size of the other 'links' in your chain.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm sorry to say that many judgments are made about a person based strictly on THE LINE you're seen in. Regardless of who you are in life, the bottom line is this: YOU ARE YOUR LINE. When someone sees you in THE LINE, you will automatically appear as a LINK, rather than your individual self. (See pic </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> below . I did not wear that outfit to the carnival. It was THE LINE, I tells ya. THE LINE.)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyUVneNqkzQLVgq75KlPwB0HJe7RQrnil-WPiygTOjCvI5rk9UYYDlhJPoVxAcLCDmkAb11R0GetwyAhrwtw19svjXtXCkcizkhnk-CsE_16XDJ5k0e2x2FJDKSjLd_ynVKq0ZbayIpmo/s1600/THELINE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyUVneNqkzQLVgq75KlPwB0HJe7RQrnil-WPiygTOjCvI5rk9UYYDlhJPoVxAcLCDmkAb11R0GetwyAhrwtw19svjXtXCkcizkhnk-CsE_16XDJ5k0e2x2FJDKSjLd_ynVKq0ZbayIpmo/s1600/THELINE.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Me On Far Right</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I recently went for a dental hygienist job interview and the employer and I hit it off ... when it was over, he implied the job was mine </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That evening, to celebrate, I took the kids to the carnival. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes. I got impatient.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was cocky.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Risking it all, that night I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">indiscriminately chose the shortest line. It just made sense. It was a Thursday evening. No one I knew would be at the carnival. No one except my </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>almost</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> employer. Who wants a dental hygienist with a fried twinkie stuffed her mouth and an order of nacho in her hand.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey, I'm telling the truth. Go to the carnival, see if I'm wrong. In the parking lot, check the bumper stickers:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> YOU ARE YOUR LINE. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">THINK BEFORE YOU LINK. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6;">GOT CHAIN? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and the always popular </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">MY CHAIN LINKED AN HONOR STUDENT. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know for certain, I'm not the only one who has read the infamous, "Easy Rider. A Manual For The Carnival Novice."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Abe Cohen was so impressed with THE LINE dynamics, he changed his name to ABE LINKIN' During his presidency, (and this is a little known fact) he frequented Carnival Chains to stay in touch with the people. This famous quote was first heard as he advised a fellow link how to deal with a stinkin' linkin' ( LINE slang for someone trying to cut in front of THE LINE):</span><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><span class="body" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm."</span> </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"> --Famous Abe 'Linkin' Cohen quote</span></i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4L8XG2j46rnrD553WjOcduKZpKvBw7GGhKWOuud9xgABuOQSKVkOFmVcs1y-nlIb7hiG2vPRZgwDyJM2bEWVnDXcF4xxz40fLPqI5p_cImnbTXx63OVvjvuX-GEtkIfdwCx_T_CKl9ysq/s1600/images+%252820%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4L8XG2j46rnrD553WjOcduKZpKvBw7GGhKWOuud9xgABuOQSKVkOFmVcs1y-nlIb7hiG2vPRZgwDyJM2bEWVnDXcF4xxz40fLPqI5p_cImnbTXx63OVvjvuX-GEtkIfdwCx_T_CKl9ysq/s1600/images+%252820%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTUSuA5ogI2rfEh_aIkhhk60cLNWbHmOHXUweVejFUvjMUe8P1pP9p59Gsag_KxMOGzk7UJs2PGZgNn8_atai8fA3nMJCfG2ZUoxy8mhP3EkBfCUXB8F5_HQoYZvKsUwC5hH7sUVC_VUL/s1600/images+%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTUSuA5ogI2rfEh_aIkhhk60cLNWbHmOHXUweVejFUvjMUe8P1pP9p59Gsag_KxMOGzk7UJs2PGZgNn8_atai8fA3nMJCfG2ZUoxy8mhP3EkBfCUXB8F5_HQoYZvKsUwC5hH7sUVC_VUL/s1600/images+%252822%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Abe Cohen Linkin' triying to avoid recognition in THE LINE by wearing various disguises.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When my book, </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THE BEAUTIFUL EVIL</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(<u>Advertisement: </u></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Days away from being released both on Amazon and Kindle, THE BEAUTIFUL EVIL is an edgy, psychological thriller. Coming attractions: www.robbibryant.com )</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">becomes a best seller, I'm going to need a disguise, as well.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> No disguise</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvMA5kYN_m4eR5_MZuDZWDzBp9Gs4xGp0nGEARqmnatVl34sHcTvrFcXqkgubEk6J7D46mgbAjs3OFg4mNYBR21Lr3fDIuujiodCEo6IPe_XtipgJ32pmK6idCSzQn0-drZxcvITlOx3X/s1600/book2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvMA5kYN_m4eR5_MZuDZWDzBp9Gs4xGp0nGEARqmnatVl34sHcTvrFcXqkgubEk6J7D46mgbAjs3OFg4mNYBR21Lr3fDIuujiodCEo6IPe_XtipgJ32pmK6idCSzQn0-drZxcvITlOx3X/s320/book2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVwfcIPcePqvTckeKfYlINCeBKSPhVgEY-LzfU3lTs5phEumbYd-izVgZ652NQrHpxIPDaJuFF9hIoaGM4jrjqQB7tPGfuHtCxbnbt6eoYALWHPv4rqsB8TnUzv6RAjQ97XKhggBoMcx8/s1600/DSC00842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVwfcIPcePqvTckeKfYlINCeBKSPhVgEY-LzfU3lTs5phEumbYd-izVgZ652NQrHpxIPDaJuFF9hIoaGM4jrjqQB7tPGfuHtCxbnbt6eoYALWHPv4rqsB8TnUzv6RAjQ97XKhggBoMcx8/s1600/DSC00842.JPG" /></a> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once-I'm-Famous</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">disguise</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"> for</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "THE LINE."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, next time you go to the carnival, see you on the funnest ride of all: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The SNACK LINE</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-16569468532149457552011-06-13T15:08:00.000-07:002011-06-18T07:49:52.608-07:00The Hall Of Mirrors<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9OuV7-HE-PN8B6niWq5Bh40fh-_t1e5aMFpLqQGspYz9q6z0unZ6cZ8fnG1QC4Q3FEZqU51PFY7rT9m2n6Y3vWfevdNtzhmPPdNDnek5gSj3sJF_9hcXGQ3F1z4sSSdTyIYo72AbRJd1/s1600/images+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9OuV7-HE-PN8B6niWq5Bh40fh-_t1e5aMFpLqQGspYz9q6z0unZ6cZ8fnG1QC4Q3FEZqU51PFY7rT9m2n6Y3vWfevdNtzhmPPdNDnek5gSj3sJF_9hcXGQ3F1z4sSSdTyIYo72AbRJd1/s1600/images+%25282%2529.jpg" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">"The Hall of Mirrors</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">is a traditional attraction at carnivals...The basic concept behind a hall of mirrors is to be a </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maze" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: blue; text-decoration: none;" title="Maze">maze</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">-like puzzle. In addition to the maze, participants are also given mirrors as obstacles, and glass panes to parts of the maze they cannot yet get to. Sometimes the mirrors may be distorted because of different curves, </span><a class="extiw" href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/convex" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: blue; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="wiktionary:convex">convex</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">, or </span><a class="extiw" href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/concave" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: blue; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="wiktionary:concave">concave</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> in the glass to give the participants unusual and confusing reflections of themselves." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">wikiup</span></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Do women actually <i>want </i>to tour the hall of mirrors, anymore? I remember the days when a size 8 was considered skinny. These days, women starve themselves to become a 2. Young women's smaller sizes now dip into the minus numbers. I don't care how much fun it is to find your way out of a maze or to see yourself hundreds of times from every angle. Unless you're a size 0 or less, ride the merry-go-round instead.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;">We all have an idea of what we look like before we enter The Hall</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;"> O</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;">f Mirrors. And we know that the curvy mirrors </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;"><i>should </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;">make us laugh. I don't know about you but when I look into <i>any </i>mirror, I believe that it's telling me the truth. Even if there is a BIG sign with an HUGE arrow pointing at the curvy mirror that says, "NOT REALLY YOU, ROBBI. YOU'RE NOT FAT." I believe otherwise. Signs lie. Mirrors don't. Ask around.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">The only things that I could possibly compare my experience in The Hall Of Mirrors with are the</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> Victoria's Secret dressing rooms. The combination of the pounding heat from the too-bright lights juxtaposed with the unmistakably bad mirrors--it's a nightmare. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;">If you didn't hate your body before you went into the VSDR cubicle, you will when you come out. And for Godssake, don't look in the mirror behind you. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMkqQ3NcYZGlcEYUfueHE7Yg6JeBUQEzBEDi81dX5znjnvI_FDEGiWB8Q9gD_fsZwoZDr3JjBEKrtJ0NFQESejbcJ8a4pC04TbYaJlkeAl8WVCAPFRnviu3KQdRiOHKAzyXnpLBOKwSAdz/s1600/Mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMkqQ3NcYZGlcEYUfueHE7Yg6JeBUQEzBEDi81dX5znjnvI_FDEGiWB8Q9gD_fsZwoZDr3JjBEKrtJ0NFQESejbcJ8a4pC04TbYaJlkeAl8WVCAPFRnviu3KQdRiOHKAzyXnpLBOKwSAdz/s1600/Mirror.jpg" /></a> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">I've said this once and I'll say it again, DO NOT LOOK IN THE BACK MIRROR at Vicky's Secret, no matter how much your best friend offers to pay you. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">If your feeling down, bloated or simply in a mood to look at your backside in a mirror, get yourself to Macy's. These, ladies, are the good mirrors. Why Victoria's Secret has to rub your nose in your cellulite, I don't know. I'm there to buy something to look hot in, instead, I end up feeling like an rhinoceros in a mouse's bikini.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">It's not difficult to look good in a Macy's mirror. I've seen women line up to get in. I've seen women drag other's out to make a place for themselves (these are usually the PMS group.) I've seen women sneak lovers in, just to look hot during love-making. Trampling? It's happened. Women don't just shop at Macy's; they recharge.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">I think a carnival ride ticket costs about $1.00 a piece. Usually, each ride calls for all your tickets except for one--no matter how many you buy. Six to ten may be the minimum for a ride, I'm not sure. But this I am sure of, I'm not about to pay $10.00 to enter</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;"> The Hall. Seriously. Hell, I wouldn't go in for free.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">I base this decision from the only time I did go into The Hall. I lost my innocence there--</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">hey, hey, hey! I meant, I used to think I looked pretty damn hot, pre-hall.( FYI, I lost the other innocence on spring break in Miami.)</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"Mom, look how much fatter you look." Mirror 2. The Hall of Mirrors.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">"How much fatter? Are you saying I'm fat?" I </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">squawk.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The carnie at the entrance must have heard Bri because, out of the blue, he calls to me, "You ain't fat, baby."</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yeah, thanks for that," I call back. Teeth or no teeth, he <i>did </i>compliment me.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">I peer at my reflection. Size 8. I looked remarkably huge. "This is fucking unbelievable! I'm as big as a pregnant cow." I yell loud enough for anyone in or near The Hall to hear. Laughter echos throughout the hall, ricocheting from mirror to mirror. Everyone's having a big, fucking laugh. They don't know that a size 8 used to mean you were hot. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"Mom! You said fuck," Four year-old Nicky says.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"I made a mistake. Don't you guys use that word."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"But <i>you </i>said it,mom." his identical twin, Bri, adds.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"I'm a grown up," I snap. I broke at mirror 2. I wanted out immediately. "Merry-Go-Round anybody?" </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"Yeah! Let's go, Mom!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"Let's make a hand chain and see how fast we can get through the maze. It's a race." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">We grab hands; I stare at the floor as the boys lead me out.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIosZbr0hCqe2qx8YdRazC8VDMaVG1gq-akQ5OlXM4DGhh0o6aJRh5NuCJG7ZXazQ1ALAQ1r3Hv_zRRao_r49dgMe_En9aISsva8ZOvWHjZi7gcj60Rxt7sB-rkybLuhd6PHN3hhEmarhi/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIosZbr0hCqe2qx8YdRazC8VDMaVG1gq-akQ5OlXM4DGhh0o6aJRh5NuCJG7ZXazQ1ALAQ1r3Hv_zRRao_r49dgMe_En9aISsva8ZOvWHjZi7gcj60Rxt7sB-rkybLuhd6PHN3hhEmarhi/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Marilyn Monroe drops to the floor, aghast, upon seeing herself in the curvy mirror.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later that day, Daddy comes home. </span><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Bri and Nicky went on the kiddie roller coaster today, all by themselves." I say, proudly.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">"Wow!" Daddy says, enthusiastically. He likes these sorts of macho milestones. "That's so great. You guys are becoming so grown up. Did you have a good time </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">at the carnival?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For a moment, the room fell silent. Both boys were deep in thought. I had no idea why.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"We had a great time!" Bri says nonchalantly and looks at Nicky.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yeah, and The Hall Of Mirrors was fucking unbelievable." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And out the door, my oh-so-not-grown-up twins ran.</span><br />
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</span></div>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-77133842106759913212011-06-02T13:55:00.000-07:002011-06-04T10:54:40.018-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxmdPPCGLQ5fnhEoA4t3HYrkbE5tpMzltyn6JlbZYPL9y0RXyPBPbVh-sHWfxOI1dhxy9LsxDipwVigQjRZ6g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">The Bumper Cars</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know, I know! Everyone loves the bumper cars. It's almost as if the bumpers were the most sacred of all the rides, simply because you can smash into other people's cars, without consequences. Which I suppose is fun, if that's your thing. The idea of no consequences--<i>that</i>, I like. That's why I wrote erotica for all those years. I could slip into a story, be up to no good and escape unscathed. Sweet, huh? Anytime of the day or night. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Writing erotica isn't as easy as it sounds. The research alone is time consuming and sometimes downright exhausting. I started writing erotica as an assignment given by my therapist. The reasons why are personal, the payoff priceless. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One morning, while reading the paper, I saw a small ad for an escort service. What happened was comparable to one of those songs that you can't get out of your mind, say like, any Barry Manilow song. Click the arrow below. I dare you. See how often this song comes into your mind today. (Plus, whoever did the video made it quite enjoyable.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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The escort ad kept looping in my mind all day long until, I couldn't take it anymore. There was only one way out. I called the escort service. Of course, the escorts were for men who were looking for women. Who cared. I asked if there were any women who liked women. No... but the owner's best friend, a beauty of a woman, liked women...<br />
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The charge? $300 for 2 hours with her. As a writer, one has to self-invest. I rented a room in a nice hotel in San Francisco and met her in the bar. I'd had a couple of calm-my-nerves shots of tequila (I don't drink often) before she arrived and was very, <i>very</i> relaxed when she showed up.(BTW, she was extraordinary.)<br />
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I don't remember how we got up to the room... We were in the bar. I blinked. We were in my in my room, on the bed, kissing...<br />
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<i>"Her name was Lola, She was a dancer."</i><br />
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Sorry. I watched that damn Manilow video and am doomed to hear this song loop through my mind the next week or so.<br />
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...kissing, kissing. Her soft, moist...<br />
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Penthouse liked my story and published it at $1/word. They wanted 1000 words. Sweet. (my investment paid off.)<br />
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After, my two hours were up, she called the service and said the 2 hours were up and she was leaving. She hung up...turned to me... and stayed an extra hour, on the house.<br />
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The consequences? I got audited that year. Thank god, I'd asked for a receipt.Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-13858154193863040632011-06-02T08:41:00.000-07:002011-06-02T08:41:02.581-07:00For A Good Time Visit The Carnival In My MindRobbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-90306893219250533092011-05-25T07:11:00.000-07:002011-05-25T07:11:30.149-07:00Irresistibly Sweet Blog AwardThank you Rene Nightingale for the Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award. My first Blog Award! One sentence that describes me: An interesting, out of the box thinker who is not afraid of being true to myself.Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-63470954594484108132011-05-19T09:45:00.000-07:002011-06-02T09:11:50.260-07:00THE GIANT WATER SLIDE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-LXh5I_GQlSQeqJxQuXG8CbuqfCL5HZwCiDInS7tuytjDy4SthIqOMbrPhkA33ZbUVtYFbiDAIMh_z6RqbZrEl78OWliLifba9BKo_MJrKKQGFnepIChRXt2NwZPiBcplra04GgdGgCO/s1600/Slide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-LXh5I_GQlSQeqJxQuXG8CbuqfCL5HZwCiDInS7tuytjDy4SthIqOMbrPhkA33ZbUVtYFbiDAIMh_z6RqbZrEl78OWliLifba9BKo_MJrKKQGFnepIChRXt2NwZPiBcplra04GgdGgCO/s1600/Slide.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I only have one question about the Carnival Big Slide:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Why?</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don't get me wrong, even I don't mind sliding down a reasonably sized slide. Climb 9 steps, sit and down you go. Yippee. Fun!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's when we take things that work and try to make them bigger that things can go horribly wrong. Which is exactly what happened when a certain, Mr Howard W. Sellner, decided to take a perfectly good 9 step slide and create the Giant Water Slide. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What kind of person would take a child's slide and turn it into an anaconda? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Herbert W. Sellner, That's who.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizaxxhIjCt32aEQl0jm7pNQQiCXRkSj1QKinhbm2MPtneX0eHDVZh6D-eQBEB8-LWqSpdSwJL0sg27amNl6Rw7OvNMmfZKPeRxzfVfgyatKDIKnjvgULXZHdGsgv0pWCpYHpObcDGhyFPn/s1600/oldfact1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizaxxhIjCt32aEQl0jm7pNQQiCXRkSj1QKinhbm2MPtneX0eHDVZh6D-eQBEB8-LWqSpdSwJL0sg27amNl6Rw7OvNMmfZKPeRxzfVfgyatKDIKnjvgULXZHdGsgv0pWCpYHpObcDGhyFPn/s200/oldfact1.jpg" width="174" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>A.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Here's today's question: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of these men </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">on the left is a serial killer. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other is Herbert. Which man is the serial killer? A. or B.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEYMQMYsn3o8m9ByePT_mcoFOhdUHfaui-hj7rmqNWvIQmGdVejujC9AxXz_oVVLOJsxdwJohXKumr2KF3CXw_RT-as83U08KZm_LFvDzLl8eh4orGVRBPCpZ7TfFAO7bpRInYRsfvh_f/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEYMQMYsn3o8m9ByePT_mcoFOhdUHfaui-hj7rmqNWvIQmGdVejujC9AxXz_oVVLOJsxdwJohXKumr2KF3CXw_RT-as83U08KZm_LFvDzLl8eh4orGVRBPCpZ7TfFAO7bpRInYRsfvh_f/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">B.</span> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Herbert W. Sellner is the mastermind behind the Giant Water slide. Stare at his pic for a bit of time and you'll see the likeness to your typical, upstanding community member who's buried 12 bodies in his back yard. By the way, B is your serial killer.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tack his portrait on a wall and watch his eyes follow you. I look at his pic as I write this, and think, ah.... no doubt, SERIAL KILLER. If nothing else, how many have died on that slide of his? That would be a mass murderer. Regardless, Herb's not a serial killer (at least not that I know of.) </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I'm just saying... he <i>could</i> be one.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tried this once. Thumb-tacked his picture on a bedroom wall. Sure, he watched me, I understand--I'm an interesting woman. But when I thought I saw him peeping through my kitchen window, I started dating a cop.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nonetheless, we go to the carnival as a group. That would be me, my 15 year-old son, Justin and my 8 year old twins, Nick and Brian. After a few rides, we find ourselves directly in front of the Giant Water Slide. Immediately, my boys stripped to their suits and jump in line. After two rounds, they make their way over to me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom! Mom! You </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>have </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to do the slide!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I don't do rides," I reply, knowing the conversation usually ends here.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"This isn't a ride! You said you'd do the slide."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hadn't I mentioned the 10 step rule on the way over? "10 steps. That's as high as I climb."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"You can do this, Mom. It's just a slide."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, c'mon!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Do it, Mom."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's such a thing as mob mentality and it suddenly ignites. They surround me and their movement toward the slide drives me along with them. Reluctantly, I hand them my t-shirt and began the long, treacherous climb. The line behind me keeps growing and by the time I reach the top, there's no turning back.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I looked over the the side and see my kids, two blue dots and a yellow, far below. Only one person stands between me and the descent to hell. I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> turn to the distracted carnie. He absentmindedly takes my ticket. Is this guy high?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Excuse me, please" I say too loud. The slide dwellers behind me start to mumble. "Sir?" I touch his shoulder.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Well, hello there, young lady." I'm in my forties. Who does he think he's kidding?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Many accidents on the slide?" I ask.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I keep a close eye on everyone," he says, his eyes glued to my cleavage.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, the young girl ahead of me let's go of the rail and starts screaming, "Get me off of this, I don't..." she disappears around the first curve. My estimate? she was doing at least 65. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Ah, sir? The girl wants off!" </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He turns to check but she is already gone. I hear faint screaming somewhere below.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's my turn. The pressure's on. The line burgeons behind me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I can't do the slide. I thought I could until I reached the top," I say to the carnie.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Behind me, a teenage boy says, "You can do it!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Sure you can," his friend adds.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yes, you can!" shouts another.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Do it!" Another chimes in. "Do it."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Do it! Do it! Do it!" A chant begins.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I see my kids, far below, moving up and down like jumping beans. Are they chanting, too? I do a quick scan of the carnival. It seems everyone is focused on me, jumping up and down, chanting. I feel dizzy. Is that group to the far left doing 'the wave' as they chant? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lean close to the carnie . The smell of engine oil and grease overwhelms me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Listen," I whisper. I can't do the slide. I'm a Jew. We climb, but don't like coming back down.. Ever since we roamed in the desert and..."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Ah, yeah, the Moses thing," he laughs.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Why yes." I'm impressed he knows. Are there Jewish carnies? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moses climbed the mount and upon his descent, he fell, broke a leg and <i>kvetched</i> about it for months. Try wandering in the desert with a Jewish guy who has a broken leg. Of course, this is a little know 'fact' and who knows what's true and what's not ... but as we Jews say, <i>why take a chance? </i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"</i>I get of that a lot ...Moses and the fall," he says, showing off his too-bright, upper denture and three lower teeth.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"DO. IT. DO. IT. DO. IT." The chanting takes on a life of its own.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Is there another way down?" I'm a dental Hygienist. If I had brought one of my cleaning instruments with me</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, I'd scrape that tartar off his bottom teeth ... or maybe not. I once cleaned a guy's teeth-- all he had were three, lower front teeth. Once the tartar was removed, the teeth moved like drunk sailors. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hey," he says, as I open the door. Wanna get a beer and a cotton candy? I get off tonight around 11."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh, that sounds like soooooooooooo much fun," I say sweetly. "I've got to work tomorrow and am in bed by 10." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What about tomorrow?" I hear him faintly. I'm already at the bottom step.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As flattered as I am that carnies and crack addicts find me attractive, and touched that they are the only men with the <i>chutzpah </i>to come on to me... </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a 20 tooth rule. </span><br />
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</span>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-37508606522064259722011-05-16T16:57:00.000-07:002011-05-17T05:47:23.673-07:00THE ZIPPER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTKZ3sHUVySUbiO6O9oG46sgnxzNW68XnADDXiOe3RtkS2aZJ7QhGaPobBLnICVogSER1_EQpOcW2nVqK-49VN1XsNfXinc-o6c7hdMycmkbD4FsmhXuBOAkPCB0zG3t153RcuJpdcAbG/s1600/zipper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTKZ3sHUVySUbiO6O9oG46sgnxzNW68XnADDXiOe3RtkS2aZJ7QhGaPobBLnICVogSER1_EQpOcW2nVqK-49VN1XsNfXinc-o6c7hdMycmkbD4FsmhXuBOAkPCB0zG3t153RcuJpdcAbG/s1600/zipper.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I've always wondered if the riders on the carnival's Zipper Ride are real people. I mean, who would subject themselves to this kind of environment...for a good time. Seems to me, you use this sort of equipment if you want to make a prisoner talk. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You're put into a small cage--and it's locked from the outside by you know who, the carnie operator. What if he steps behind a tent to smoke a joint and ends up at the cotton candy stand, drunk on sugar? He could be gone for hours. Or if he snorts meth and returns to the ride cranked up...you could end up flying around in that cage at 75 miles per hour.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm thinking that the carnival buys old crash test dummies and they ride the ride. It's all for show. <i>Look what we have. Aren't we a great carnival?</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's a small bench that seats two (The new safety rules now required 2 per cage.) A metal bar--wow, that should really hold you in if there's an emergency. The bar is lowered to your lap and off you go.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember a love affair I once had with 29 year-old latino man. Oh la la. I'm walking down the street in Sonoma County, California with my dog Capri. I'm wearing sweats. This car slows down...and a gorgeous, young, stud rolls down the passenger window.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Cute dog," he says. I'm expecting him to drive off after complementing the dog, after all, he didn't look like a meth addict AND he had his teeth. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He invited me to his job site (he's a contractor) to show me his work. I've been told not to take candy from strangers and was relieved when he didn't offer any. "Are you a serial killer?" I ask. Maybe he is one...doesn't mean he's not honest. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Nope." He smiles and I'm thinking...this guy is like a fantasy. In the movie, the girl would go to the job site. No question about that. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I'll follow you," I say. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I'm telling this story because there's a similiarity between going to the job site and getting in The Zipper's cage. I've got to look the carnie in the eye to decide whether </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I'm going to trust he'll keep me safe. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He starts kissing me, the stud, not the carnie, and I feel like the cage has just been locked. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The way The Zipper works is this: The entire ride spins and each car flips taking you upside down and back. This kiss is making me dizzy. My heart is pounding my stomach prepares for the sudden drop. I'm hot and I reach for his zipper... </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2mXNCumr4HFSIHOce8hbTXWA7X9nmFerVBLJy8ib0XGggxnNk59t1AoKD4eWFEKJOolefopYykAdwp0ba-zJDpGh69HsHFH9SFIfdZ05gFRcPUhgOD2RlmiGqR-RjibvKkTxg1ODPez-/s1600/zipper1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2mXNCumr4HFSIHOce8hbTXWA7X9nmFerVBLJy8ib0XGggxnNk59t1AoKD4eWFEKJOolefopYykAdwp0ba-zJDpGh69HsHFH9SFIfdZ05gFRcPUhgOD2RlmiGqR-RjibvKkTxg1ODPez-/s1600/zipper1.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Check out how that thing flies around. Some people like that kind of thrill. Me? I prefer risks that will bring me to my knees--but not kill me. Which, by the way, is what happened at that job site. I <i>think</i> I crawled out of there...all I know is that somehow Capri and I made it home.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which brings me back to the ride. This morning, while I was taking a break from writing The Zipper story, I open the paper and this is what I read:</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqedPg7BOexcr9yBw02LRKavSf8KEV1aZ8RCmvrEBaULUZQWUaBKy7yOcjEu1gKkh_P5ijQdExGuosBX1ry0Ol_bi2fQyclS-o8T3UtZC8DncEJxp40Y-DoD_00WcC49heNm4jhkBn7PVw/s1600/The+zipper+news.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqedPg7BOexcr9yBw02LRKavSf8KEV1aZ8RCmvrEBaULUZQWUaBKy7yOcjEu1gKkh_P5ijQdExGuosBX1ry0Ol_bi2fQyclS-o8T3UtZC8DncEJxp40Y-DoD_00WcC49heNm4jhkBn7PVw/s1600/The+zipper+news.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqedPg7BOexcr9yBw02LRKavSf8KEV1aZ8RCmvrEBaULUZQWUaBKy7yOcjEu1gKkh_P5ijQdExGuosBX1ry0Ol_bi2fQyclS-o8T3UtZC8DncEJxp40Y-DoD_00WcC49heNm4jhkBn7PVw/s320/The+zipper+news.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I swear, I found this article after I'd started the Zipper story.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The article indicates that as the kids were getting off The Zipper, it went into motion and dropped them 15 feet. No mechanical problems were found. We all have an idea of what happened...the 'ride operator' wasn't paying attention. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the ride I took? Let's just say that ride operator paid attention. Oh, yes he did.</span><br />
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</span>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-29308952508780738062011-05-14T10:43:00.001-07:002011-05-14T12:28:07.824-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_4ih0xas2xwEjNwSnKisozw7d6a9zwQolMrOx5Ew7kFEzeyPzay-h3QXRhvIpbdWTup3eSqrFGEgSnLFtWAAUsf7fK0zTAr85b3HNgkE3gMsuFYlZgqhpTNRWjxU0AF2-hD_1NSOW26-/s1600/Carnswings1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_4ih0xas2xwEjNwSnKisozw7d6a9zwQolMrOx5Ew7kFEzeyPzay-h3QXRhvIpbdWTup3eSqrFGEgSnLFtWAAUsf7fK0zTAr85b3HNgkE3gMsuFYlZgqhpTNRWjxU0AF2-hD_1NSOW26-/s1600/Carnswings1.jpg" /></a></div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><u>THE SWINGS</u></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="background-color: blue; color: white;"></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><u><br />
</u></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let me start with this: I don't like going in circles. I remember when my older brother first got his driver's license. It was 1963. We were the first on the block to have the new 'smallest' car, the Chevrolet Corvair. Back then, the corvair was considered so small that it came with a large, mock, wind up key. Cute, huh? (At least the one my father brought home had one...) I searched online to find one of those keys and came up with a blank. It was probably on display and my dad talked them into giving it to him.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So my brother is driving us in the corvair. Fun you might say. I suppose it could have been for most kids. But my experience? Not so good. He drove us down our street to the corner, turned around and headed back to the circle of the dead end street. When we broke into the circle, I was all smiles. But my brother thought it would be funny if we never left the circle--and so, we began our revolutions. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first go-round, not so bad. But with each consecutive round, as the speed increased and houses streaked into blur, the realization that this may be the worse event in my life, hit. Clamped onto the dashboard with my fingernails, I tried to get my brother's attention. "STOP!!!! STOP!!" Perhaps he glanced at me, because later, he mentioned that he'd never seen me turn yellow-green before. </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course my misery added to the fun. How could it not? "It's like the merry-go-round," my brother shouted on, let me estimate, the tenth round. He had a knack for eventing games. One of his favorites was "A Quarter Stops The Machine." We only played this game when he babysat my sister and me. The moment the front door closed and our parents drove off--he began walking toward us, swinging his arm, hand in a fist, back and forth. "A quarter stops the machine," he said with each step he took toward us.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My brother was not mean, he was absolutely great. He just had a different opinion of what's fun. The 'machine' stopped before he actually reached us, which was thoughtful. And I'm certain he thought my screams were those of glee and carnival ride excitement.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In my mind, as we circled, the corvair had lifted off the ground and we were whirling around the dead end unattached to anything. Wheeee! Funnnnn! To me, we were on a collision course toward infinity...which brings me back to the carnival swings. </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you realize that as your flying full speed, lifted high from the ground--that the swing you are in, let say you weigh 120 pounds or higher, is held on to the ride by chains? Yes, chains, my friends. Which are checked and maintained by, you guessed it--the carnie ride operators. I'm not saying anything discouraging about the carnies, but I know what they're thinking. After all, I'm their type. They want to impress me. "I like that foxy woman on the swing. I'll show her how to have a good time." The ride clicks into super-speed mode. That's how the carnie guys strut their stuff. Making sure that you really enjoy the ride.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And if you step off the swing, yellow-green, they know you're itching for more.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-68336184916614379352011-05-13T15:51:00.000-07:002011-07-23T15:46:51.506-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobjzJHTX__UpWPcVHiLIxU_en2z4kwNJ2Z1WDA9lMaJFgjg6bxOa6srjNVowwOxzlVuLdxezcaeg1_5AWB_Zk-BVejsw_omSl-XpjDwTV-8r4iAVa9Nl5B5oQaQmqmkk-5ob1AtpSgVeC/s1600/ferris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobjzJHTX__UpWPcVHiLIxU_en2z4kwNJ2Z1WDA9lMaJFgjg6bxOa6srjNVowwOxzlVuLdxezcaeg1_5AWB_Zk-BVejsw_omSl-XpjDwTV-8r4iAVa9Nl5B5oQaQmqmkk-5ob1AtpSgVeC/s1600/ferris.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">THE FERRIS WHEEL</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I'm going to play hooky. Well, I did work from 5:30 this morning until 10:00am. but now, I'm in line for the ferris wheel in my mind. Which always reminds me of the fact that the guys who have the nerve to come on to me are usually crack addicts sitting on the sidewalk in San Fran or the carnies. I'm serious. I'm told I'm intimidating, I'm not sure why. I'm very sweet. Perhaps because I like to step out in style? Or that I'm an extrovert?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, as a dental hygienist, it was always tough to carry on a conversation with the carnie ride operators because it was difficult not to gawk when they opened their mouths to say, "Hey baby, I'll give you a real ride." Wink. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, in reality, you can't get me on any ride. I get dizzy just making the decision to go to a carnival. I hate the round and round of, let's say, a merry-go-round and the stomach plunge on an up and down ride. But when a carnie offers you a <i>real</i> ride, it's better to climb into the ferris wheel chair rather than hang around. Simply saying "I only date crack addicts," used to be sufficient. But now, the reply I get from the carnie is, "I smoke crack, baby." I see those rotten teeth and jump into the chair.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once, it was me and a friend on the ferris wheel. The carnie stops us at the top. They like to do that. At first, I'm thinking, wow what a gorgeous view...that thought lasts maybe 1/32nd of a second. And then the horror that we have to go back down, hits me--the thought of it sucks the breath out of me. I'm ready to panic and start screaming for a ladder. Meanwhile, while my not-so-good friend rocks the chair so we're swing like a couple of over-ripe apples. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A carnival used to come to a shopping center near my house when I was growing up. Rides, junk food...This particular outfit had a trailer that when you went in, which was scary in itself-- you had the unique opportunity to view a two-headed baby embryo in a jar. Stuff like that. We loved/hated that trailer--I got dizzy standing in line for the two-headed baby, as well.</span>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-40836819871039012272011-05-11T16:58:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:52:40.810-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlKOcXnIITkxAymk74deQpq-V3c8To2rq5EUyKSKkpokI_w2UE0JOqfEYHZObayRxgN9hNzzYoDrmX7xkhuAav135pldxQMPeAFuXI2fxp95qfwqk_m6nYOSCTQBiagrY-xTtkZpphWsX/s1600/Girls1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlKOcXnIITkxAymk74deQpq-V3c8To2rq5EUyKSKkpokI_w2UE0JOqfEYHZObayRxgN9hNzzYoDrmX7xkhuAav135pldxQMPeAFuXI2fxp95qfwqk_m6nYOSCTQBiagrY-xTtkZpphWsX/s320/Girls1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The weather here moves between over cast and sun. Rain is on its way. I don't care. I'm dressing spring/summer. I like this picture and I want these woman as friends.</span>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-35745096906333450862011-05-10T15:53:00.000-07:002011-05-10T18:28:08.481-07:00Shouldn't there be some sort of twitter conference where all of us twits could meet up, hear some speakers, whatever. Wouldn't it be cool to chat with some of your twitter friends? Or should I just have a tweet party at my home? LOL.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-m2s7M5J-Eob42ZR1FoA7ixyNsR4YdWbPUsQhd9C9u-BAZVs6mZ3JDelRYPgQHeULhhJ2K2kW7tXbBIPbApZall6cxEFdTtSHRQX907PjR-e5vVHAI7HBx3_r5vOVUQPqDwKCkiNn3Xd/s1600/little+man.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-m2s7M5J-Eob42ZR1FoA7ixyNsR4YdWbPUsQhd9C9u-BAZVs6mZ3JDelRYPgQHeULhhJ2K2kW7tXbBIPbApZall6cxEFdTtSHRQX907PjR-e5vVHAI7HBx3_r5vOVUQPqDwKCkiNn3Xd/s1600/little+man.gif" /></a>Today I sent out two more queries. My goal is to get two out everyday. Only two, you might say to yourself? For me, it takes awhile to tract down an interesting agent or pub house. Lately, I've been sending out to Lit agents but will go back to pubs soon. Some have asked for my manuscript.<br />
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Spring is here and ...well, we all know what we're thinking about in spring...Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-39700977091169580992011-05-10T15:47:00.000-07:002011-05-10T15:47:13.206-07:00Re: Are you a serial killer.Okay, here's the story on the serial killer test. You must answer the riddle even if it's I don't know. Someone with a proclivity toward serial killing will give a particular answer. So give me some answers!!!!Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1077624847883308274.post-24272004683064661412011-05-09T08:55:00.000-07:002011-05-09T08:55:47.483-07:00THE CARNIVAL IN MY MIND<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-JHcM6N8hMVqfjUzxjzEaaSYeAe-cMTrMHeMgDJsMeI9C7wSGwXmbb_rb7a6ZcSjqkSJYzkFTxk67rwjBLRFKukvkrDOuKt1yxWm9UL5DuArvkf5r8QvovuDpMGBjbjpf8CKaC-qNBxHx/s1600/carnival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-JHcM6N8hMVqfjUzxjzEaaSYeAe-cMTrMHeMgDJsMeI9C7wSGwXmbb_rb7a6ZcSjqkSJYzkFTxk67rwjBLRFKukvkrDOuKt1yxWm9UL5DuArvkf5r8QvovuDpMGBjbjpf8CKaC-qNBxHx/s1600/carnival.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS';">The good news? I no longer have a committee of critics in my head trying to break me down. It's been replaced by a fantastic carnival. The bad news? A few drunk carnies hang out there instead. Occasionally, though, when I have an extra smart idea, I win a small stuffed bear. </span><br />
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<tr><td colspan="2"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">FIND OUT IF YOU HAVE THE MIND OF A SERIAL KILLER? </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS';">(If you answer this riddle correctly...don't hang out with profilers.) </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">While at the funeral of her own mother, a woman met a guy whom she did not know. She thought this guy was amazing--the dream guy she'd been searching for--and she fell in love with him immediately.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">However, she never asked for his name or number and afterward could not find anyone who knew who he was.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">A few days later the girl killed her own sister.</span></span></span></div><div style="color: #000033; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS';">Question: Why did she kill her sister?</span></span></div></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">Todays Quote:</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;"><br />
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To say this book is about about me (which is the main reason I was uncomfortable---me, me, me, me... frightening!) is ridiculous. This book is not about me.<br />
--Super model Kate Moss, talking about her book, Kate: The Kate Moss Book</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Robbi Sommers Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06829442733704073045noreply@blogger.com5