When you go to a brand new kidney doctor and he is absolutely gorgeous, when he asks what your name is, don’t say, “Hubba-Hubba”
Don’t ask me how I know.
Hubba-Hubba
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Author Archives: thecrazylady3
March Madness, Little League, and Rabbit Ears
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March Madness, Little League Refs, and Rabbit Ears
Ever since my son played little league basketball, I heard the phrase, “Hey ref, put down your rabbit ears.” I always wondered why the fans yelled that. I’m serious. I did.
I didn’t dare ask for fear I’d look dumb. (D’Oh) I mean, I was already known as the town dunce, I didn’t want to look like one, so I went along with the rabbit ear phrase.
It was when my GRANDSONS started playing basketball that I understood the ‘rabbit ears’ comment. For over twenty years, I believed, the ‘rabbit ears’ comment meant the cute, little, fluffy ears of a bunny. D’Oh. I finally understood it was a reference to the antenna on an old television. “Ah ha!”
A few Saturdays ago, I told a purely awful little league ref to ‘put his rabbit ears down.” I quickly found out HIS rabbit ears were particularly sensitive. Geez.
Apparently his ‘rabbit ears’ overheard my comment to a young mother about him being the worse ref I have ever seen. Now, granted, I know I was at a little league game and not watching a ref at the March Madness games . . . but still . . . ya gotta know when someone is running down the court with ball in hand, not dribbling it one time, that it’s a travel.
As soon as this 50 something ref overheard my comment, a time-out was called. “Uh oh.”
The rotten ref headed straight to where I was sitting, crossed his arms in front of himself and stared me down! He was staring me down—a sweet, innocent grandmother. The gymnasium instantly grew silent as all eyes watched the stare-down between the ref and me.
He didn’t know who he was messin’ with. I’ve been in plenty of fights with refs, umps, etc., before. I was no rookie.
I stood up in the stands, folded my arms in front of me and stared HIM down. He uncrossed his arms and motioned a technical foul.
A technical foul? How the heck did someone make a technical foul? We were in a time-out!
When the time-out was over, the teams took the floor again. With our eyes still locked on each other, the ref walked to the end of the floor to throw the ball in. Before he started the game, looking directly at me, he yelled, “MA’AM?”
It was as if the fans were watching a tennis match instead of a basketball game, in unison, their heads turned to look at me. The ball was in my court, so to speak.
I yelled, “Concentrate on the game old man and PUT YOUR RABBIT EARS DOWN.”
There was an audible gasp while all heads turned to look at the ref. What was he going to do? Call a technical foul on a fan?
That’s just what he did. He motioned a technical foul. My second one . . . in a game I wasn’t playing.
The gym was silent. No balls bounced. No whistles blew. Not even a baby cried. What the heck?
The coach of my grandson’s team, who happens to be my son-in-law turned and said, “Shhh . . . we’re losing sportsmanship points with every technical you get.”
What’s up with that? I’d never heard of such a thing. The refs are judging the fans for sportsmanship? What if that happened at the March Madness games? Huh? I suspect the fans would be all over the refs . . . not at THIS game. No one dared speak. They didn’t want to get a technical foul.
To add insult to injury, my son-in-law whispered, “Why don’t you sit with the other team’s fans and holler so they’ll lose some sportsmanship points too?”
With my bunny tail tucked between my legs, I shuffled to the sit with the other team. On my way, I made some sort of motion to that awful ref. I only needed one hand to do it.
But, if you’re at a March Madness game, don’t holler, “Put your rabbit ears down,” just in case.
http://www.amazon.com/author/laraeparry
Good Times at the Doctor’s Office
Just got back from the cardiologist. That was fun. All the paperwork and stuff. Here’s how the first two minutes went:
How ’bout this for a report. Hubby and I get to doc’s office on time. The receptionist handed me some papers to sign AND a clipboard with some papers and told me to sign the two papers and fill the other one (on the clipboard out)
Sounds easy enough, right?
I signed the first paper: (Last name, first name, second initial) Easy cheesy:
Parry LaRae L
Today’s date: 12/14/04 . . . hubby sees it. “NOOOOOOOO”
I line through it. “Well, what IS the date?”
Hubby: It’s the 12th
Me: “Okay, I got it. What year is it?”
Hubby: “2014”
Me: “Okay, I got that right too. What month is it?”
Hubby: “March”
Me: “Hmmmmm . . . I thought it was April.”
Hubby: “You put the numbers in the wrong place.”
Me: “Picky, picky.” I straighten out the date.
Next paper:
(Last Name, First Name, Middle) . . . easy cheesy:
Laparae LaRae Parry L . . .
Hubby sees it: “Nooooooo!”
Me: “What?”
Hubby: “You spelled your first name wrong”
I look at it . . . “No I didn’t”
Hubby: “You spelled that first name wrong.”
Me: “No I didn’t”
Hubby: “What is that first name then?”
Me: “It’s my last name . . . Parry. I spelled Parry wrong.”
Hubby: “At least scribble over it.”
Me: “No. They’ll think I don’t know how to spell my last name.”
Hubby: (Face is redder than usual) “Well, by the looks of it, you DON’T know how to spell your last name.”
Me: “Picky, picky.”
Next Page . . . to be continued
www.amazon.com/author/laraeparry
Crud . . . Another Journal
http://www.amazon.com/Crud-Another-Journal-Crazy-Lady-ebook/dp/B00GCVZC36/
What Rabbit Ears?
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Who’s in YOUR Family Tree?
Everyone has a family tree.
But do you know who is your family tree? I do.
I know lots and lots of people in my family tree. Some of ’em are very, very famous. Some of ’em are crazy (I’m the only crazy one at the moment, but I’m working on my grandchildren). And some of ’em are squirrel-y. (I’ll show pictures later)
I have a grand idea . . . Let’s have a “One Upper Family Tree Game”. You don’t know how to play “The One-Upper Family Tree Game?” What? Are you nuts? Of course you don’t know the family tree game . . . I just made it up . . . but it sounds like fun.
This is what we do . . . we find people in our family trees and try to “One-Up” each tree . . . like, for instance, I know someone who has several serial killers in her (Donalie Beltran’s) family tree. I don’t know if she wants everyone to know that, so I’ll keep it to myself.
But . . . get this . . . I just found out that King Lear was one of my grandfathers . . . Now . . . up that if you can.
Let’s see where are roots and branches are. And share pictures of your ancestors if you can. What fun!
My family tree . . . I feel bad about my tree’s neck though. 😦
About the “Help Us Help Our 4-Legged Frynds” Inititiative
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Today I Danced
I knew I was playing with fire, or rather, playing Russian Roulet with my heart. Correction: since I was listening to “Beethoven’s Last Night,” by The Transiberian Orchestra, I was playing Russian Roulet with a German composer.
I have severely damaged lungs and a weak heart. All I have heard for the last few months was “Stay down. No activity. Do not overwork your heart—it’s fragile.”
Lately my heart thinks it’s racing in the Kentucky Derby against Sea-Biscuit, or Secretariat. To be honest, I’m surprised my heart even knows about horse races. Maybe it recognizes greatness when it sees it—like the impromptu opera dance I was watching.
Today I saw greatness—my heart, that is. I watched my eight-year-old granddaughter dance and twirl to the opera of, “Beethoven’s Last Night.” I was witnessing something that was absolutely priceless and I could not restrain myself. I had to dance—good ticker or not—I had to dance.
As a former dancer, whose heart still yearns for those days, somehow, I was transported to my younger days when my heart was strong and I could breathe on my own . . . today, I leapt, twirled, sashayed, and shuffle-ball-changed up a storm.
Today, my granddaughter and I performed the most beautiful, miraculous musical ever enacted. The audience, even though unseen, was felt. I suspect we probably had a couple thousand spirits who stopped doing whatever they were doing just to watch the impossible being made possible. Today I danced.
My husband couldn’t watch. He did not want to watch me die on our family room floor. He didn’t need to say anything—my failing heart sensed it. I understood. But, what could I do? Could I pass up the chance to dance with my granddaughter one last time? No.
I told myself if I died, right then and there, I would have died with joy in my heart . . . doing something I loved—dancing with my granddaughters—but something that has been denied me for several years.
Today I danced. My heart pounded out of my chest and I was short of breath. At times I had to sit and watch while Breia carried on with a solo until I could again join in. As my heart pulsated, I knew it was too happy to give out during our makeshift opera. Even if it only had one more beat left in it, it would wait—it would find strength from somewhere . . . for it wanted to dance too.
If dancing today took a year off my life, it was well worth it. Today, my granddaughter and I starred in the best opera ever performed . . . the unseen audience confirmed it. As I struggled for breath, I heard their cheers, “Encore, Encore.”
I sat while I watched my Breia bring the show home with the lullaby for Beethoven. I wish you all could have witnessed it. Today I danced.
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