We all say funny things. Some of us more than others. <>< Katie
Dad: I'm booking your hotel for Festival.
[This was literally two days after Festival...he clarified it was for 2011]
Laura: Mom said you already did that.
Dad: Yeah, well, hotels are weird. Sometimes you have to call them twice.
Random Guy in the Post Office: You don't need a passport to visit Hawaii, do you? Because it's in the same country, right?
Katie: What's the purpose of a foyer?
Mom: To welcome your friends into your house.
Katie: Last time I had a friend over it was October. And we came in through the garage.
Mom: I'm sorry your friends don't live in this country.
Christina: What's another word for "mouth" that starts with a "b"?
Laura: Orifice.
Christina: That's it!
Peder: Hey, Festival, love your lawn chair. Hug your lawn chair. Take your lawn chair home with you otherwise it will go into the lawn chair morgue, and we don't want that. We love our lawn chairs. You can bring your lawn chair back at noon tomorrow.
[Easter Sunday morning]
Katie: What's in your pocket?
Andy: My pocket knife.
Katie: Why?
Andy: In case I need to cut something.
Katie: What are you cutting in church?
Andy: Who knows: sandwiches, pickles, leaves, people--I'm trained to handle that.
Katie: It's wrong to cut people.
Andy: What about surgeons? They cut people.
Katie: That's a slightly different situation.
Andy: You're a slightly different situation.
Katie: So you're bringing your knife to church because we're going to have surgery in our church clothes?
Andy: No, they cut those off.
Mom: Tina, get the blue laundry basket off of the... um... what's it called?... um...
Katie: Chair. Washing machine. Couch. Counter. Mantel.
Mom: Deck!
Katie: I'm glad you figured it out on your own because I would have been shouting nouns at you for a long time before I came up with that one.
[a facebook conversation... no photo involved]
Brother One: Brother! Nobody wants to see your poop!
Brother Two: Please?
Katie: I bet your dad's interested.
the dad: I'm as interested as Katie is.
Katie: I like poop stories better, thanks.
Sarah: I sleep in pajamas most nights.
[on the bus back from the NYG]
Katie: Pastor Russ, I don't have ample floorspace back here, so I put my flip flops under your seat. If they slide up there, just kick them back to me, please.
Pastor Russ: If they slide up here, I'm throwing them in the garbage.
Katie: That's fine, but then I get to wear your shoes.
PR: Good thing I only have four different types of foot fungus.
[Mom had just used some relatively normal medical term... Christina's in high school]
Christina: I know I'm going to be a nurse and I should know what that means, but I haven't taken physics yet.
Uncle Bill: What are you holding? A zucchini? A cucumber?
Uncle Jay: A carrot?
Dad: A grape?
Uncle Jay: With elephantitis!
[it was a potato... a normal potato.... now forever known as a grape with elephantitis]
Christina: Daddy, why were you at the doctor?
Dad [creepy voice]: Bahlud. Vampries. Bahlud.
Christina: Did they take a pint?
Dad [serious voice]: A quart. Might have been a half-gallon.
Christina: Oh.
Pastor Seth: Have you gotten dinner?
Katie: I ate lunch at like 3.
PS: So you had lunner?
Mom: I need a Rav-4 Brochure.
Katie: I don't know what that means.
Mom: A Rav-4 is a car and a brochure is a little booklet.
I took her all of the little booklets I could find.
Speaker Dude: Your story isn't about you. Look it up. [pointing to a Bible]
Nikki: Keith! I think I'm sick, I've blogged twice in a week and I have two others in draft.
Keith: If that is sick, rush me to the critical care unit. And bury Katie; she's been dead awhile.
Showing posts with label hotel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hotel. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Major Parking Lot Incident
A few years ago, my family went on vacation. Dad's our pack mule and therefore moving the suitcases into the hotel is his job. Naturally, he commandeered one of those bell hop carts most hotels have. We helped him unload the van and load the cart. Six suitcases, two computer bags, five backpacks, three purses, a brief case, eight jackets, seven shoes... the cart was loaded. Full. I don't think we could have fit another bag on it if we tried.
It was only at that point we discovered the problem: the sidewalk. There was no ramp into the hotel. We were going to have to take the cart over the curb. Not a problem, we had Super Dad. He backed the cart up a bit and prepared for his task at hand.
"Ramming speed," he said, running towards the curb. The cart bounced onto the sidewalk and directly into a plant.
"BUSH!" I shouted. There was no way he could see over the eighty-seven bags.
"Push?" He repeated, doing as he said.
"No! BUSH. Like the president," I clarified.
"Reverse," he said, pulling the cart backwards, off the curb. He realigned it so as to avoid the bush that may forever grow with a big dent in it.
"Ramming speed." He wasn't so lucky the second time. The wheel hit the curb and the entire cart fell over, toppling all of our bags onto the ground.
As luck would have it, another van drove by at that exact moment. They waved. Dad's face turned red. We women were rolling.
Of course, we had to unload the cart, put it on the sidewalk, and then reload it. Someone took the front as we helped Dad navigate (naviget?) through the hotel and up to our rooms. Still laughing, we passed a maid in the hallway.
"Everything ok?" She asked.
"Yup. We just had a minor incident in the parking lot," Dad said, brushing it off.
"Actually, we just had a major parking lot incident," Mom corrected.
Bell hop carts make my heart smile.
<>< Katie
It was only at that point we discovered the problem: the sidewalk. There was no ramp into the hotel. We were going to have to take the cart over the curb. Not a problem, we had Super Dad. He backed the cart up a bit and prepared for his task at hand.
"Ramming speed," he said, running towards the curb. The cart bounced onto the sidewalk and directly into a plant.
"BUSH!" I shouted. There was no way he could see over the eighty-seven bags.
"Push?" He repeated, doing as he said.
"No! BUSH. Like the president," I clarified.
"Reverse," he said, pulling the cart backwards, off the curb. He realigned it so as to avoid the bush that may forever grow with a big dent in it.
"Ramming speed." He wasn't so lucky the second time. The wheel hit the curb and the entire cart fell over, toppling all of our bags onto the ground.
As luck would have it, another van drove by at that exact moment. They waved. Dad's face turned red. We women were rolling.
Of course, we had to unload the cart, put it on the sidewalk, and then reload it. Someone took the front as we helped Dad navigate (naviget?) through the hotel and up to our rooms. Still laughing, we passed a maid in the hallway.
"Everything ok?" She asked.
"Yup. We just had a minor incident in the parking lot," Dad said, brushing it off.
"Actually, we just had a major parking lot incident," Mom corrected.
Bell hop carts make my heart smile.
<>< Katie
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Pageant Prayer
Remember from last week the Post-It notes in bathrooms and the idea that the strive for beauty should not consume your every being? I wish I could have printed that blog and have a handwritten Post-It to give to every girl in this hotel.
This past weekend my grandma, two aunts, mother, sister, and I had a Girls' Weekend. As we enjoyed our pasta dinner late on Saturday night, there were two tables occupied in the entire restaurant. Ours, the six of us in comfortable clothes, minimal make-up, and freshly pedicured toes. And theirs, the beauty queens dressed to the hilt competing in a teen pageant and their accompanying flamboyant male friends.
Despite both being tables primarily filled with women, there were striking differences between the two. We discussed frivolous things like butt germs, pit chips, the history of deodorant, and doofus-ness. They discussed important matters, reapplied make-up, and nodded politely to one another. We waiting patiently for the waitress before we ordered our traditional trip diet of pancakes and pasta; they chased her down before having a special request with every order. My grandmother chastised me for my poor posture and flat hair; every detail of these women was scrutinized.
Every time I glanced towards their table I saw the same thing: a plastered smile flanked by over-treated hair. However, in one girl in particular did not seem to follow the trend. Rather, beneath the layers of make-up, her face showed defeat, exhaustion, and sadness.
Excuse me, ma'am, I said to her in my head. Your fake-smile is accompanied by a deep sadness in your eyes. You're trying to hide it under all of those layers of make-up, but you're not successful.
In the conversation in my mind, the sad girl explained she'd just lost the tiara. It seemed plausible. Maybe she'd risked everything to be here once more before she out-grew the age bracket and led the stiff competition before losing the tiara at the last final moment. Except it led me to wonder if others were more successful in hiding behind their facades. Was it possible that all of these girls were screaming for help?
A few summers ago, I worked with several pageant girls. I heard them talk about the rigors of their chosen lifestyle. They eat, sleep, and breathe pageants; most of them love it. The strict diet, the close relationships with their tailor, and the drama all included. It blows my mind. Knowing how self-conscious I became merely sharing a hotel restaurant with these pageant people I cannot imagine the pressure required to sit at that table. Those high heels hurt my feet, and I’m not even wearing them.
That does not mean I look down my nose at them in disgust.
Pageant girls, I admire your dedication. Your willingness to sacrifice everything to fulfill a dream.
I want that.
Except I don’t want my goal to be a diamond-filled tiara. Rather, I want six simple words. “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
<>< Katie
PS: What's a Girls' Weekend without a good quote?
Grandma: These pancakes that look like eyes would be really good for if you have a hangover. You're eating breakfast, and they're staring back at you.
Aunt: Yeah, throw some tabasco sauce on them and it's like looking in a mirror!
This past weekend my grandma, two aunts, mother, sister, and I had a Girls' Weekend. As we enjoyed our pasta dinner late on Saturday night, there were two tables occupied in the entire restaurant. Ours, the six of us in comfortable clothes, minimal make-up, and freshly pedicured toes. And theirs, the beauty queens dressed to the hilt competing in a teen pageant and their accompanying flamboyant male friends.
Despite both being tables primarily filled with women, there were striking differences between the two. We discussed frivolous things like butt germs, pit chips, the history of deodorant, and doofus-ness. They discussed important matters, reapplied make-up, and nodded politely to one another. We waiting patiently for the waitress before we ordered our traditional trip diet of pancakes and pasta; they chased her down before having a special request with every order. My grandmother chastised me for my poor posture and flat hair; every detail of these women was scrutinized.
Every time I glanced towards their table I saw the same thing: a plastered smile flanked by over-treated hair. However, in one girl in particular did not seem to follow the trend. Rather, beneath the layers of make-up, her face showed defeat, exhaustion, and sadness.
Excuse me, ma'am, I said to her in my head. Your fake-smile is accompanied by a deep sadness in your eyes. You're trying to hide it under all of those layers of make-up, but you're not successful.
In the conversation in my mind, the sad girl explained she'd just lost the tiara. It seemed plausible. Maybe she'd risked everything to be here once more before she out-grew the age bracket and led the stiff competition before losing the tiara at the last final moment. Except it led me to wonder if others were more successful in hiding behind their facades. Was it possible that all of these girls were screaming for help?
A few summers ago, I worked with several pageant girls. I heard them talk about the rigors of their chosen lifestyle. They eat, sleep, and breathe pageants; most of them love it. The strict diet, the close relationships with their tailor, and the drama all included. It blows my mind. Knowing how self-conscious I became merely sharing a hotel restaurant with these pageant people I cannot imagine the pressure required to sit at that table. Those high heels hurt my feet, and I’m not even wearing them.
That does not mean I look down my nose at them in disgust.
Pageant girls, I admire your dedication. Your willingness to sacrifice everything to fulfill a dream.
I want that.
Except I don’t want my goal to be a diamond-filled tiara. Rather, I want six simple words. “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
<>< Katie
PS: What's a Girls' Weekend without a good quote?
Grandma: These pancakes that look like eyes would be really good for if you have a hangover. You're eating breakfast, and they're staring back at you.
Aunt: Yeah, throw some tabasco sauce on them and it's like looking in a mirror!
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