You're Hooked on WHAT?

           The other day I was at lunch with a couple of friends, and one of them happened to mention her first date with her husband. Turns out they decided to go boating in canoe, truly a romantic first date. The river was sparkling blue and a gentle breeze helped guide them along. 

Then, as they went under a bridge, a fishing line was hanging there, and the fish hook snagged her nose!

          What are the odds of this? First, you have someone sitting on the bridge, who knows when, who loses their line. But wait—the line miraculously gets stuck and doesn’t fall all the way into the water.  But wait—it manages to dangle its hook exactly at the height a person’s nose could be, if they were floating by in a canoe underneath. And then the boat is lined up perfectly. Folks, you couldn’t do this if you tried 1,000 times.

          My poor friend had to go back to her home with her date, as he carefully removed the hook from her nostril, and dabbed her nose with alcohol. Some of you (and you know who you are) would be crying and screaming at the same time, right?

          As we left our lunch area, they mentioned the overly chatty woman sitting next to us, dining by herself, yet jumping into our conversation as well. My friend mumbled something, and I thought she said, “Better than having a bishop in your nose.” (Well, we’re all LDS so we actually do have a bishop.)

          “What did you say—having a bishop in your nose?” I asked.

          “No, a fish hook,” she reminded me.

          “Oh, yes,” I agreed. “That’s much better than having a bishop in your nose.”

          And that’s when I realized I might be just a teensy bit like autocorrect. Sheesh!

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Currying Favor

           I’ve told you before that our four kids are comedians. Not professionally, just happenstance-ily.

          We were on a Facetime call last weekend, all sharing what’s new in our lives, when Nicole mentioned that she is seeing someone, and that he brought curry over and they watched a documentary by a Swedish guy with a Hispanic name.

          “What was in the curry?” everyone wanted to know.  She listed a few ingredients.

          “That’s good that he can cook,” someone said.

          “And why does the Swedish documentary guy have a Spanish name?”

          She pointed out that lots of people who live in Sweden are from somewhere else.

          I frowned. I like the dolls in It’s a Small World to stay in their assigned spots. No hula dancers wiggling off to the igloo area, no one in a sombrero joining the can-can dancers.

          There were more questions about the curry. What kind of rice? How was the meat seasoned?

          Someone asked our daughter-in-law, Tiffany, about her upcoming yoga retreat and she said that her students’ trauma was a heavy thing for them to carry.

          “Especially when they have to carry it doing all those hard poses,” Brandon pointed out.

          Then Cassidy asked Brandon how many kids he has (which is zero), and complimented him on his Dad joke.

          “I like how Nicole mentioned she’s seeing someone, and all anyone asked about was the curry,” I said.

          “Well, and the documentary,” Brandon added. Yes, good point. Another successful family gathering.

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