Come One, Come All, To The Kwanzaa Hut

My 15-year-old son made the reserve squad of his high school baseball team. So at least twice a week and sometimes more I am hauling him and his gear three miles out of town to a classmate's house where they practice in the quonset hut nestled near the practice field this particular boy's dad just happened to build on their land.

1) I would love to be able to build my kids a baseball field. I don't think I can, since I'd have to appropriate parts of at least 4 neighbor's yards and remove their fences.

2) I'm really not sure it's a quonset hut. It might be a pole building. Rural folks oughta know the difference, and if pressed I'd say it's a pole building.

But, quonset hut is fun to say. More fun than pole building.

And I've saying it a lot, but apparently not quite clearly.

From the back seat of the car, I hear Christopher ask: "When are we picking up Jeffery at the Kwanzaa Hut?"

I love the idea of a Kwanzaa Hut. A large building where people would gather for fellowship. Maybe there would be food. A good time would be had by all.

And we now have a new entry in our family vocabulary. Kwanzaa Hut.

The Proud Mamma

Parent teacher conference night at the high school. The teachers are arranged at little desks throughout the gym. They had you a map. I can't read the map with my glasses on. I can't find the teacher's names on their desks with my glasses off.

I know why people have their kids in their twenties. 47 is too old to be doing this.

The nice thing for me -- Jeffery apparently is some kind of genius. Straight As. All the teachers love him. It takes me about 30 seconds at each desk.

I told Jeffery the only thing I wanted from him was for him to shave "Mamma" into the back of his hairstyle, ala Kanye West, before baseball season.

He said he's do it for $100.

He ain't no genius. I got $100. And I just might want to spend it.

Twilight Zone or Twilight of My Life Zone

A funny thing happened to me yesterday. Funny strange. Not funny ha-ha. Although it may be funny ha-ha to you. Which, of course, is why I'm writing about it. I crave positive reinforcement.

I got on the elevator after lunch (Yes, I take the elevator for a two-floor trip. Yes, I am pathetic AND lazy -- the million dollar combination.) and punched the buttom for Floor 3 -- ladies apparel, sportswear and the DTN newsroom.

Three other ladies got on the elevator (I hate that. I like to ride the elevator by myself. It's my alone time.) They wanted Floor 2 -- Domestics, mens wear and shoes. So I punched the 2 button.

At floor two, the ladies left. The elevator doors closed. The elevator moved. The doors opened. I disembarked. And then realized I was back on Floor 1 -- Sundries, kitchen appliances and toys.

I couldn't run back on the elevator -- the people who saw me get off as they got on might wonder what was wrong with me. (Of course, they might not even notice or think anything about me at all, but that's not within my personal personality misfunction to even consider. )

So to avoid odd looks, I went in to the ladies bathroom, came back out and waited for the elevator again.

So... I can't figure out if I had a little mini-stroke and missed the trip from Floor 2 to Floor 3 and only recovered back at Floor 1. Or if there is some kind of wrinkle in the space-time continuim that can be accessed from the DTN West Tower elevator.

But something odd is definitely going on in that elevator.