I may have told this story already. I can't remember. If I have, perhaps you won't remember reading it. The same way I don't remember writing it.
A few years ago I got into a cab and noticed that the driver had a contraption hung over the passenger seat in front of me. For lack of a better description, it was some kind of a filter with a fan attached. Since the windows were closed and the air conditioning was on, I asked him what it was for. He said he had a lot of allergies and it filtered the air, so he could breathe more comfortably.
I asked him about his allergies and he said that he had had bad asthma as a child. Apparently he was the only one in the family with asthma. Unfortunately, he continued, having asthma stunted his growth, so he had to spend his childhood, not to mention his life, as the runt of the family -- his description, not mine.
When I heard about his stunted growth, I immediately realized that asthma probably didn't cause the problem.
There has been childhood asthma in my family, too. When she was eight, my older daughter started having breathing problems during mold season, so I took her to a well-respected asthma clinic for help. The drug they prescribed for her was theophylline, a medication that's almost never used any more. With good reason. There are too many unpleasant side effects and some are pretty dangerous.
After a year of having my daughter on this evil medicine [unbeknownst to me], we went to the doctor for a check up, only to discover that she wasn't growing. She was still the same height as she had been at her previous exam. Even more disconcerting, she had lost two pounds. For a nine year old child, not growing and losing weight are scary symptoms of something, but what?
The pediatrician said he had no idea why she wasn't growing, although I'm sure he thought I was doing something WRONG. When in doubt, blame the mom. At the time, I didn't think to ask the asthma clinic what was happening, since it never occurred to me there was a relationship between the drug my daughter was taking and her growth. Of course, no one wearing a doctor's uniform had warned me about side effects, since [as I've learned from personal experience], many of them don't bother to read the PDR [drug book] to find out the good and the bad about the drugs they prescribe.
By her next exam, a year later, my daughter had started growing again, but her little sister, who is two and a half years younger, had already caught up to her. For the next four years they were about the same height. Until the younger one passed her older sister.
A few years later, I made an accidental discovery on the internet. While searching for something else, I found an article by a mother with an asthmatic child who was warning everyone to get their kids off theophylline. She claimed it had stunted her child's growth. I knew immediately that's what had happened to my child.
Both my daughters had been on track to reach six feet. The old rule -- double a child's height at two and that's how tall they'll be -- accurately predicted my height. Both of my children were three feet tall when they turned two. Like me. One of them reached six feet. Like I did. [I'm currently on my way down.]
But the one who was prescribed theophylline for asthma stopped at 5'7." Luckily she thinks that's a great height, but I'm sure the theophylline cost her five inches. Especially since she didn't grow at all that one year and only slowly after that, because she was still on the medication.
Back in the cab, I asked the driver if he'd ever been on theophylline for his asthma. He said, "Oh, yeah, for years." I said that was probably the reason his growth was affected. I told him how there was anecdotal evidence that theophylline stunted growth in children. And how I was convinced it had affected my daughter. He became silent and just started shaking his head.
"That explains a lot," he said. While he didn't explain exactly how that explained a lot, I was sure he was experiencing an AHA moment. One that Oprah could appreciate. How would you feel if you had just realized there was a good chance your body been messed up by the medicine your docs gave you?
So I didn't say anything else. I figured I'd told him more than enough for one cab ride.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
Mrs. Linklater [WCAS'65] Continues to Live A Life of Quiet Desperation
Like most magazines written for the august alumni of a particular college or university, mine has a section just for news and updates on what people are doing. I believe the section for this sort of thing is called "Class Notes." However, I think "Let's Talk About Me and My Accomplishments" would be far more accurate.
As one might expect, those who write in with something to say about themselves have usually gone on to relative fame and fortune. Interesting to note, that in a class of a thousand or so, only two or three people have the balls to blather on about how grand their lives have been to date. No one admits it was Daddy who gave them their big job or a well endowed trust fund that financed it. Not that I begrudge them their success. But it sure is easier to climb to the mountaintop when pop's Bell Jet Ranger can land you half way up. Of course, I shouldn't be so hasty with my cynicism. Just having parents who can afford your college education is a huge help these days.
Naturally, I'm always curious to see how the graduates are doing at the fine institution where my own parents spent a considerable amount of money. As expected, most of the updates are two or three sentences of pure, unadulterated braggadocio, listing awards, honorary degrees, promotions, inventions, recently published books and articles, and any other types of laudatory accolades that reflect well on the alum. Divorce, disease, and disastrous failures are rarely recounted. I noticed that the older alums spotlighted tend toward white guys in suits. But in the more recent classes, women and minorities have helped to balance out the male WASP contingent.
In the most recent issue, several people had received high class professorships, inaugural chairs, that sort of thing. Others had become managing partners of law firms and consulting groups, or senior vice presidents of famous companies, and one was now a highly regarded museum director. Still others had published their first, 20th, and 24th books respectively. Blah, blah, blah.
I couldn't believe what I was reading. Quite a departure from the usual self-serving b.s. that passes for news in an alumni mag. I wondered whether writing that she was retired and now living at home with an aging parent surprised the editors of the magazine when they read it. Regardless, she seems to have embraced it, almost gleefully. Which, of course, got me wondering about the rest of her backstory. Was she ever married? Did she keep her maiden name to make a feminist statement? Did she sleep with her boyfriend the last night before he went to Vietnam and get pregnant? Did she give the child up for adoption? Or did she never marry at all? If so, why not?
Then I began to ask myself what I might write about my own life. Having never bothered to send in news of my tiny pile of gold stars at the time they occurred, was now a good time to start? And given my propensity for leg pulling, should I take that route or be serious for once? I decided to give it a try.
Mrs. Linklater, [WCAS '65] -- wait. Let me digress for a moment. WCAS '65 is probably meaningless to you. In the olden days, we might have said I had a B.A [Bachelor of Arts] in English. '65 was my class. That's 1965, not 1865. Even back then, however, my university was calling my degree an A.B. for Artis Bacheloris or something.
Now the degree is from the Weinberg College of Arts and Sciences or WCAS, named after the folks who gave a boatload of dough to the university, earmarked for us liberal arts folks [now Arts & Sciences]. As a result, changing the familiar B.A. or even A.B. to WCAS makes my degree nearly indecipherable. In fact, the delineation of degrees has become so hard to understand that my alumni magazine actually devotes an entire section to a lexicon of all the different meanings for the new unfathomable letters which have replaced the old, familiar ones -- the ones that made sense. In fact, that, in a nutshell, describes the life I live -- replacing the comfortable old ways of doing things with everything new, most times just because it's new -- a thought for another entry that I won't ever write because profound thinking is so not my cup of tea. Profound whining on the other hand, we can talk.
But back to my news blurb for the alumni mag. Perhaps I should send in something along the lines of:
Mrs. Linklater [WCAS '65], a longtime resident of the Chicago metro area, spends many hours of the day on facebook, which she still doesn't know whether to spell with a capital "F" or not. Occasionally she writes an entry in her blog, which, after only eight years, has grown to forty-four followers. A devotee of Starbuck's de-caf tall mocha hazelnut fraps, Mrs. L spends several afternoons working on freelance assignments from a table in back or catching up on episodes of her favorite TV shows on Hulu.
Scary. My life in three sentences. Dare I send it in?
As one might expect, those who write in with something to say about themselves have usually gone on to relative fame and fortune. Interesting to note, that in a class of a thousand or so, only two or three people have the balls to blather on about how grand their lives have been to date. No one admits it was Daddy who gave them their big job or a well endowed trust fund that financed it. Not that I begrudge them their success. But it sure is easier to climb to the mountaintop when pop's Bell Jet Ranger can land you half way up. Of course, I shouldn't be so hasty with my cynicism. Just having parents who can afford your college education is a huge help these days.
Naturally, I'm always curious to see how the graduates are doing at the fine institution where my own parents spent a considerable amount of money. As expected, most of the updates are two or three sentences of pure, unadulterated braggadocio, listing awards, honorary degrees, promotions, inventions, recently published books and articles, and any other types of laudatory accolades that reflect well on the alum. Divorce, disease, and disastrous failures are rarely recounted. I noticed that the older alums spotlighted tend toward white guys in suits. But in the more recent classes, women and minorities have helped to balance out the male WASP contingent.
In the most recent issue, several people had received high class professorships, inaugural chairs, that sort of thing. Others had become managing partners of law firms and consulting groups, or senior vice presidents of famous companies, and one was now a highly regarded museum director. Still others had published their first, 20th, and 24th books respectively. Blah, blah, blah.
And then, like a breath of fresh air, there was the 64-year-old woman who had "completed 100 cartwheels in under eight minutes at a fundraising tumble-thon for gymnastics programs in her mile high city." It was noted that she was fifty years older than all the other contestants.
Now THAT'S an accomplishment. One that can best be appreciated the older one gets. The only thing missing was a picture of the event.
Equally refreshing was a surprising reminder that some of us have other obligations besides framing our multiple successes and hanging them on a wall. (Names, locations, and dates of graduation have been changed).
"Jane D. Jones [Business Degree, 19XX], of Anywhere, USA, a retired accountant, is living at her former home with her father, John B. Jones [Business Degree, 19XX]. She is into housework and yard-keeping and trying to shrink her number of hobbies. Seven years ago she adopted a dog that is part basset-hound. She writes, 'Just call me 'stud nanny.'"I couldn't believe what I was reading. Quite a departure from the usual self-serving b.s. that passes for news in an alumni mag. I wondered whether writing that she was retired and now living at home with an aging parent surprised the editors of the magazine when they read it. Regardless, she seems to have embraced it, almost gleefully. Which, of course, got me wondering about the rest of her backstory. Was she ever married? Did she keep her maiden name to make a feminist statement? Did she sleep with her boyfriend the last night before he went to Vietnam and get pregnant? Did she give the child up for adoption? Or did she never marry at all? If so, why not?
Then I began to ask myself what I might write about my own life. Having never bothered to send in news of my tiny pile of gold stars at the time they occurred, was now a good time to start? And given my propensity for leg pulling, should I take that route or be serious for once? I decided to give it a try.
Mrs. Linklater, [WCAS '65] -- wait. Let me digress for a moment. WCAS '65 is probably meaningless to you. In the olden days, we might have said I had a B.A [Bachelor of Arts] in English. '65 was my class. That's 1965, not 1865. Even back then, however, my university was calling my degree an A.B. for Artis Bacheloris or something.
Now the degree is from the Weinberg College of Arts and Sciences or WCAS, named after the folks who gave a boatload of dough to the university, earmarked for us liberal arts folks [now Arts & Sciences]. As a result, changing the familiar B.A. or even A.B. to WCAS makes my degree nearly indecipherable. In fact, the delineation of degrees has become so hard to understand that my alumni magazine actually devotes an entire section to a lexicon of all the different meanings for the new unfathomable letters which have replaced the old, familiar ones -- the ones that made sense. In fact, that, in a nutshell, describes the life I live -- replacing the comfortable old ways of doing things with everything new, most times just because it's new -- a thought for another entry that I won't ever write because profound thinking is so not my cup of tea. Profound whining on the other hand, we can talk.
But back to my news blurb for the alumni mag. Perhaps I should send in something along the lines of:
Mrs. Linklater [WCAS '65], a longtime resident of the Chicago metro area, spends many hours of the day on facebook, which she still doesn't know whether to spell with a capital "F" or not. Occasionally she writes an entry in her blog, which, after only eight years, has grown to forty-four followers. A devotee of Starbuck's de-caf tall mocha hazelnut fraps, Mrs. L spends several afternoons working on freelance assignments from a table in back or catching up on episodes of her favorite TV shows on Hulu.
Scary. My life in three sentences. Dare I send it in?
And The Winner Is. . .
The Brave Little Blogger contest awarded its first, second, and third place prizes for writing about CENSORSHIP. Read about the winners HERE. I didn't win, but I'll get over it. I think I attempted something that ended up taking a bigger bite of the apple than I could chew. However, the blog entry I personally liked the best is HERE and she didn't win either.
The list and links to all the people who entered is HERE, assuming I haven't screwed up all my cutting and pasting to do these links.
What do you think?
The list and links to all the people who entered is HERE, assuming I haven't screwed up all my cutting and pasting to do these links.
What do you think?
Thursday, April 12, 2012
The Green Green Grass of Home
Years ago, I used to mow my own lawn. Which reminds me -- I was once swapping stories with a Jewish friend about stereotypes that gentiles have about Jews and Jews have about gentiles. So I asked my friend how he could tell when a gentile family lived in the neighborhood. He said, "Because the guy's wife mows the lawn." Haaa.
Anyhoo, speaking of gentiles mowing the lawn, I had a wonderful, durable, Jacobsen mower with a Briggs & Stratton engine. That mower was the closest I've come to owning a Rolls Royce. I even learned how to properly take care of it. Spark plugs, changing the oil, that sort of thing. After twenty some years, my sturdy American mower gave out and I purchased a Honda. Honda makes great automotive products. Translate that into lawn mower technology and you've got a mower that cuts grass at motorcycle speeds and costs as much as a car.
As for maintaining it yourself, Honda made sure nothing was visible, not to mention, accessible, when you opened up the engine. I never found anything resembling a spark plug. After a year of trying to keep up with this overpowered, badly-engineered machine, I was pleased to discover that my hips were giving out -- from sports -- not mowing lawns. So about eight years ago, I took that as a sign to give my lawn mowing skills a rest. And I sold the Honda for more than the Jacobsen cost new.
Since then, I've had a lawn service, opting for the cheapest I could find, when it became obvious that NONE of them could tell a weed from a flower, no matter how hard I tried to explain myself. Mostly I begged them to be careful, pointing out the danger areas or the delicate blooms that would be lost. Clearly my three years of high school and college Spanish weren't up to the task. Plus every week, it seemed, a different group showed up and I was often at work.
I lost my my beautiful, eight-foot tall, deep purple clematis, when a giant mower blade decapitated it at ground level. TWICE. My gorgeous orange poppies became victims of a weedwacker, whose operator thought they were thistles. I used to have eight different kinds of hosta. Now I have two. My patch of pachysandra and the long row of day lilies I planted myself are now history.
For ten minutes each week, the lawn service came to my house, made more noise than a freight train, moved all my lawn furniture, didn't put it back, then charged me $35 a visit, until I found one that only charged $25. What happened to the kids who used to mow lawns to save money for college? I put an ad in the high school paper once and got ZERO replies. I'd pay a kid $20. The season runs from March through November. That's $720 for my lawn alone. Three lawns is over $2100 to put away for school. Meanwhile, the service was costing me over $1000 easy. Especially when you add the spring and fallrip-offs clean ups.
Each week the crew would emerge from their truck, like circus clowns climbing out of a car. You can't believe so many people fit into such a small space. They'd open the back of their pick up and pull out industrial strength lawnmowers, more suited to the lawns of Windsor Castle than my tiny plot. One of the mowers was so large that the operator had to stand on it to see over the giant handlebar steering thingy.
Needless to say, he only had to make two passes of my front yard and he was done. To get into my backyard, he had to use my neighbor's driveway because the space on the side of my garage with the attached porch isn't wide enough. And there's a row of arbor vitae on the other side. I'm sure my neighbor is pleased as punch with that arrangement.
So, this year, I'm mowing my own lawn again. I got new hips, so why not. But I opted out of a gas or electric powered engine. I'm going green -- nothing to propel the blades but my own power. No noxious fumes. No loud, unmuffled engines. Call me self-righteous, but I will be a better person for doing this.
Naturally, pushing a mower, instead of being pulled along behind it at breathtaking speeds, takes some getting used to. I started out shortly after nine this morning. It's almost 1:00 PM and I haven't finished the back yard yet, what with the time outs to check my email, etc. It also took me a minute or two and a couple of phone calls to figure out how to get the blades low enough to actually cut the grass and not just nip the tops off. And I think I should invest in a grass catcher.
Yes. There will be photos. Here's a link to a guy who bought a solar-powered lawn mower. I thought it was a great idea until I heard the noise it made. That sound is as bad as exhaust fumes.
UPDATE: Working in twenty minute increments, I finished mowing the lawn in just three days. Have I mentioned that the mower needs a grass catcher? An edger and some dandelion killer would help, too. The good news is that by lowering my standards, this is doable.
Anyhoo, speaking of gentiles mowing the lawn, I had a wonderful, durable, Jacobsen mower with a Briggs & Stratton engine. That mower was the closest I've come to owning a Rolls Royce. I even learned how to properly take care of it. Spark plugs, changing the oil, that sort of thing. After twenty some years, my sturdy American mower gave out and I purchased a Honda. Honda makes great automotive products. Translate that into lawn mower technology and you've got a mower that cuts grass at motorcycle speeds and costs as much as a car.
As for maintaining it yourself, Honda made sure nothing was visible, not to mention, accessible, when you opened up the engine. I never found anything resembling a spark plug. After a year of trying to keep up with this overpowered, badly-engineered machine, I was pleased to discover that my hips were giving out -- from sports -- not mowing lawns. So about eight years ago, I took that as a sign to give my lawn mowing skills a rest. And I sold the Honda for more than the Jacobsen cost new.
Since then, I've had a lawn service, opting for the cheapest I could find, when it became obvious that NONE of them could tell a weed from a flower, no matter how hard I tried to explain myself. Mostly I begged them to be careful, pointing out the danger areas or the delicate blooms that would be lost. Clearly my three years of high school and college Spanish weren't up to the task. Plus every week, it seemed, a different group showed up and I was often at work.
I lost my my beautiful, eight-foot tall, deep purple clematis, when a giant mower blade decapitated it at ground level. TWICE. My gorgeous orange poppies became victims of a weedwacker, whose operator thought they were thistles. I used to have eight different kinds of hosta. Now I have two. My patch of pachysandra and the long row of day lilies I planted myself are now history.
For ten minutes each week, the lawn service came to my house, made more noise than a freight train, moved all my lawn furniture, didn't put it back, then charged me $35 a visit, until I found one that only charged $25. What happened to the kids who used to mow lawns to save money for college? I put an ad in the high school paper once and got ZERO replies. I'd pay a kid $20. The season runs from March through November. That's $720 for my lawn alone. Three lawns is over $2100 to put away for school. Meanwhile, the service was costing me over $1000 easy. Especially when you add the spring and fall
Each week the crew would emerge from their truck, like circus clowns climbing out of a car. You can't believe so many people fit into such a small space. They'd open the back of their pick up and pull out industrial strength lawnmowers, more suited to the lawns of Windsor Castle than my tiny plot. One of the mowers was so large that the operator had to stand on it to see over the giant handlebar steering thingy.
Needless to say, he only had to make two passes of my front yard and he was done. To get into my backyard, he had to use my neighbor's driveway because the space on the side of my garage with the attached porch isn't wide enough. And there's a row of arbor vitae on the other side. I'm sure my neighbor is pleased as punch with that arrangement.
So, this year, I'm mowing my own lawn again. I got new hips, so why not. But I opted out of a gas or electric powered engine. I'm going green -- nothing to propel the blades but my own power. No noxious fumes. No loud, unmuffled engines. Call me self-righteous, but I will be a better person for doing this.
There's nothing fancy about this rig. But I could trick it out with a grass catcher.
Grass is cut as only a handmower can cut it. Badly. Now it's time to rake the lawn.
Yes. There will be photos. Here's a link to a guy who bought a solar-powered lawn mower. I thought it was a great idea until I heard the noise it made. That sound is as bad as exhaust fumes.
UPDATE: Working in twenty minute increments, I finished mowing the lawn in just three days. Have I mentioned that the mower needs a grass catcher? An edger and some dandelion killer would help, too. The good news is that by lowering my standards, this is doable.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Law & Order Mrs. Linklater Style
The courtroom, small by Hollywood standards, was packed with about sixty-five people, enough to fill it to the brim, a sure sign of a long, boring afternoon. There was a lady with two toddlers and no registration like me, a biker with his foot in a cast and his arm in a sling, who was there as a witness. There were a lot of people who didn't speak English so there was a translator. There was a boatload of women with DUIs. There was one guy who had shop-lifted his lunch from Whole Foods. Besides the lady with her kids [and stroller!] there were about thirty more of us with various traffic tickets.
On top of all the ticket holders, there were at least fifteen DUI lawyers, milling around, chatting with the prosecutors or sitting and swapping lies in the front row, wearing some of the most terrible ties I've ever seen. There were several signs plastered on and around that front row pew, repeatedly reminding us that this area was reserved for cops and attorneys ONLY. Although they made room for the lady with the babies, who had started fussing. Hey lady, you can't get a sitter?
All of the cops and attorneys were men, by the way, save for one woman who looked like she had slept in her clothes and forgotten to comb her scraggly hair, despite wearing a well-tailored, booty-flattering pantsuit to distract people.
The judge showed up and OMG, he was the same smart ass, wisecracking judge I'd had four years ago. That day, I'd come loaded for bear to fight the cop who'd written me three tickets for mouthing off to him in the forest preserve. I was sitting in my car, killing time, putting on makeup before driving downtown for lunch with friends. Mine was the only vehicle in the entire place. There was a light dusting of snow covering everything, so the parking lines weren't visible. Instead of parking diagonally, I'd just pulled over to the side and parallel parked.
WHY? BECAUSE THERE WAS NO ONE ELSE THERE BUT ME. Only here comes the forest preserve cop, who feels the need to drive up and give me a hard time for not parking within the designated parking lines.
WHICH YOU COULDN'T SEE BECAUSE THERE WAS SNOW ON THE GROUND.
Did I mention we got into an argument about him harassing me for no reason? I had the nerve to ask him, "Why should I have to park between the lines, when I can't see them? And, besides, there's no one else here?"
Next thing I know he's inventing tickets to give me. And I'm happily giving him more grief for being such a jerk. Anyway, I go to court, and the judge notices that the cop has left off a key piece of info on the tickets. The date or something, I forget. As I recall, I remembered whatever it was and thoughtfully provided the information to the judge. He turned and just looked at me, shaking his head. Peering over the top of his reading glasses like an exasperated father, he quietly suggested that I might want to just shut up and be quiet. It became pretty clear the cop had indeed been harassing me on that snowy day, so I'd have to waste another day in court to get out of the tickets. The smirk on his face gave him away.
So now I was back in court with the same judge, but a different, much more pleasant cop, who'd let me keep my driver's license and didn't need to see my insurance card. He also said that the case would be dismissed as long as I had my registration by my court date. Meanwhile the judge was reeling off all the cases he was going to hear first, reminding people with DUIs they needed lawyers, which explained the crowd of them hanging around. He also ticked off which cases wouldn't be heard until the end, so sit tight folks and we'll get this show on the road. He wasn't kidding.
I arrived there for a 1:30 PM call. It got started around 1:35. I figured I'd be there past 3:00. The judge ran through the fifteen female DUIs very quickly. Then he started in on the high speed chases. I figured with the fines and court costs, the Illinois justice system had racked up over $5000 in about fifteen minutes. Then there were a bunch of accidents. But lots of witnesses didn't show, so the people got off with a warning to drive better. I remember spending four years as the key witness in an egregious traffic accident involving five children. I was the only person who stepped up at the scene. And there were lots more people who saw it. But the young woman who ran a red light and broadsided a mother and her family got nailed after two trials. Finally. Thanks to my testimony of course. The attorneys for the insurance company thanked me for my four years of court time, parking costs, and taking time off by cutting me a check for $50. Haaaaa.
Meanwhile, the judge handling my case yesterday sent one girl to traffic school because this was her second supervision in a year. She also had to pay over $1000 in fines, etc. Turns out the guy with the broken arm and bum foot didn't have to testify because the person who ran him down pled guilty.
Then the judge called the thirty run-of-the-mill traffic offenses. I was the last one called. I thought hearing all those people would take at least an hour. He had us line up in the aisle and we went up as our names were called to have our cases reviewed. If we pled not guilty we'd have a trial. I was standing in front of him, twenty-nine people later, in less than ten minutes.
I didn't even have to plead not guilty. The judge looked at my ticket and said, "Do you have your registration?" I said I did. The prosecutor looked for my name on his list, then went through my folder of receipts and proofs of purchase, stopping when he got to the picture of the new sticker on my license plate and basically said he was satisfied I had done my duty. My case was dismissed in less than a minute.
It was 2:05. I wonder if Guinness keeps records for speedy trials.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Mrs. Linklater's Pick for Monday's Final Game
Sheesh. Mrs. Linklater chose the two red teams [Louisville and Ohio State] to win the NCAA semi-finals. And face each other in the finals on Monday. She picked them over the two blue teams, Kentucky and Kansas. Clearly rankings mean nothing to her. She's all about the uniforms. Which may explain her poor result.
Using her tried and true method of determining who will win the game by picking the best uniform, especially if it's red or black, she figured red unis had more mojo than blue. She was not only wrong, but both blue teams were wearing their white travel uniforms, the worst color ever for any kind of mojo. Clearly Mrs. L will have to rethink her cockamammy theory. For now, she'll still take the team that ISN'T in white on Monday. However, if the team in white travel jerseys does win on Monday, she'll have to send a boatload of Twizzlers to an unnamed person who somehow managed to pick the winning teams.
UPDATE: Game over. One boatload o' Twizzlers on the way to New Jersey. Actually I filled up one of those USPS boxes you can stuff with as much as you can no matter what it weighs -- for one price. Mrs. Linklater is still stunned that Kentucky won it all in white jerseys. Semis and finals. Clearly her prognostication tools need some readjustment.
Using her tried and true method of determining who will win the game by picking the best uniform, especially if it's red or black, she figured red unis had more mojo than blue. She was not only wrong, but both blue teams were wearing their white travel uniforms, the worst color ever for any kind of mojo. Clearly Mrs. L will have to rethink her cockamammy theory. For now, she'll still take the team that ISN'T in white on Monday. However, if the team in white travel jerseys does win on Monday, she'll have to send a boatload of Twizzlers to an unnamed person who somehow managed to pick the winning teams.
UPDATE: Game over. One boatload o' Twizzlers on the way to New Jersey. Actually I filled up one of those USPS boxes you can stuff with as much as you can no matter what it weighs -- for one price. Mrs. Linklater is still stunned that Kentucky won it all in white jerseys. Semis and finals. Clearly her prognostication tools need some readjustment.
Since the guy who won the bet doesn't read my blog, unless I send him a link,
he has no idea that I've sent him eight packages of his fave flavor -- strawberry. There was a sale and that's how many I could fit inside the box.
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