The first time I bought a plane ticket in my life, it was to London, England. Small-town girl who couldn’t even navigate Toronto on her own (nor did she want to) planning to get on a plane and fly to Europe.
I was packing my suitcases months before my departure.
I remember a lot of stupid stuff about preparing for that trip. Stuff that made me look pretty dumb. Like not reading about the baggage limitations, for one thing.
Now, it’s so bad that I pack and weigh my bag here. Then I add the number of books I plan to buy and make sure I’m still under the restrictions…
Two days until I leave, and I actually feel slow to be still packing now. Isn’t that insane? But I’m always paranoid that I’ll forget something, so I need your help.
Okay, I’ve got the tazer. Because, well, you know how those writers can be.
I’ve got the case of handcuffs John asked for. Not sure why he wants them.
There’s the lumberman’s jacket Stuart asked for.
And the book I’m supposed to give to Steve.
Except I’m greatly displeased with Steve at the moment!
He started a blog, and didn’t tell me!
Maybe he doesn’t want me to read it. Jerk.
I’m going to go pout now.
Oh, and really? Tell me the things you usually forget, so I remember to take them! I have that horrid nagging feeling right up to the end…
A few to make you laugh or groan From Forrest
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, purportedly told of a time when he climbed into a taxi cab in Paris. Before he could utter a word, the driver turned to him and asked, "Where can I take you, Mr. Doyle?"
Doyle was flabbergasted. He asked the driver if he had ever seen him before.
"No, sir," the driver responded, "I have never seen you before." Then he explained, "This morning's paper had a story about you being on vacation in Marseilles. This is the taxi stand where people who return from Marseilles always come to. Your skin color tells me you have been on vacation. The ink-spot on your right index finger suggests to me that you are a writer. Your clothing is very English, and not French. Adding up all those pieces of information, I deduced that you are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
"This is truly amazing!" the writer exclaimed. "You are a real-life counter-part to my fictional creation, Sherlock Holmes!"
"There is one other thing," the driver said.
"What is that?"
"Your name is on the front of your suitcase."
A defense attorney was cross-examining a police officer during a felony trial. It went like this:
Q: Officer, did you see my client fleeing the scene?
A: No sir, but I subsequently observed a person matching the description of the offender running several blocks away.
Q: Officer, who provided this description?
A: The officer who responded to the scene.
Q: A fellow officer provided the description of this so-called offender. Do you trust your fellow officers?
A: Yes sir, with my life.
Q: With your life? Let me ask you this then officer -- do you have a locker room in the police station -- a room where you change your clothes in preparation for your daily duties?
A: Yes sir, we do.
Q: And do you have a locker in that room?
A: Yes sir, I do.
Q: And do you have a lock on your locker?
A: Yes sir.
Q: Now why is it, officer, if you trust your fellow officers with your life, that you find it necessary to lock your locker in a room you share with those officers?
A: You see sir, we share the building with a court complex, and sometimes defense attorneys have been known to walk through that room.
What's three times three?
A Psychiatrist is assessing the mental status of three patients.
He asks each of them to answer the question, 'What's three times three?'
The first patient says, '158.'
The second patient replies, 'Tuesday.'
The third patient answers, 'nine.'
The shrink turns to this last patient and asks, 'Good! but how did you came up with the correct answer?'
'Easy,' he quipped, 'Just subtract 158 from Tuesday!'
(Okay, someone explain this one to me…)