Everynight Lil Phez and I, or sometimes Lil Phez and Mrs. Phez, read a book and then we tell his doggy a story. "Sam the Snake", is a bedtime story that I created a few months ago for Lil Phez and he asks for it almost every night. I am passing it along to any parent in the blogsphere looking for a bedtime story. Here it goes:
Once upon a time there was a snake. His name was Sam. Sam the snake. Sam the snake was feeling sorry for himself because he couldn't do all the awesome things that his friends could do. There was Gary the Gorilla and he was very strong. There was Geoffrey the Girraffe who could see very far on account of his very long neck. And there was Toni the Tiger who was very fast. Sam couldn't do any of those things and it made him feel sad.
Then one day, all four of them were out playing together in their neighborhood when they decided to go into vacant house. They weren't supposed to go inside, but they did anyway. They went in the front door, down the hallway, up some stairs and into a room where they played. All of sudden, the door SHUT! They tried to open it, but it was stuck.
Gary the Gorrilla said, "I'll use my muscles and I will force the door open". He tried but it wouldn't budge. Toni the Tiger said " I will use my speed by running and then crashing through the door". He ran really fast and hit into the door but he couldn't break it. Geoffrey the Giraffe said I will use my tall neck to see long distances and look for help". He raised his neck taller and taller and until -boom- he bumped his head on the ceiling. Sam layed there on the floor next the door wondering how he could possibly help everyone when he noticed that if he tried really hard, he might be able to fit under the door. So he wriggled, and he wriggled, and he wriggled some more until he was able to slither under the door. He did it!
Sam the Snake went down the hallway, down some stairs, and out of the house. He went down the block to Larry the Locksmith where he got a key that would fit the lock on the door. He then went back to the house, where he went inside and went down the hallway, up some stairs and back to the room with the locked door. He used the special key and was able to open the door and let out all of his friends. They all thanked him for helping them and Gary the Gorilla said, "You were able to do something that none of us could do. You are very special. Thank you, Sam." They went to the park where they laughed and they played and they never went in the house again.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Par le vous what?
In 1991, I was nineteen and had just moved to Miami. I was staying with my dad and his wife while I was getting on my proverbial feet. My dad and step mom were going to a movie: Cyrano De Bergerac starring George Depardieu. They asked if I wanted to go along. I did. The long and the short of the movie is that a guy woos a girl by speaking French. Or, at least at 19, that's what I got out of it.
Coming home from the movie that night I had an epiphany. The only thing that was keeping me from getting all the ladies was the fact that I didn't speak French. If I knew French, then I would find a girl, impress her, and make her mine. So that was that. I was already planning on going to college for my AA degree and decided that for an elective I would take Beginner's French. I think it's important to note, and you may have heard this before, Miami does not have a large French speaking population. Spanish, yet another language that had evaded me, was (and is) quite common 'round these parts. So, do I take French or Spanish? As my dad pointed out when he was helping me choose, by using logic, one would naturally conclude that if they are going to use an elective course for a foreign language, it should be one that is spoken commonly where they live. So, naturally, I signed up for French class.
It was an accelerated night class and at the end of the course I got a 'C'. I still couldn't ask a girl out in French, nor would I be able to ask where the facilities were if she had agreed to said date. I met with my advisor who advised (funny how they do that) I should take something else for the next semester, like, maybe Spanish. She listed out all of the pros and cons and made a very valid argument. So, naturally, I enrolled in Beginner's French II.
I was really struggling. Or, as they would say in French, "La souris est aveugle." But lucky for me, there was a girl in this class who seemed very sharp and was picking up French quite easily. I figured I'd ask her to help me with the lessons. It didn't hurt that she was very cute. She agreed to help me but it was hard for me to keep my attention on the material. Did I mention she was cute? Well, at the end of the course my grade was no longer a 'C'. It was a 'D'. But I did manage to meet a cute girl. She even agreed to go out with me. We continued to date and seventeen years later she'd be standing here reading over my shoulder if she wasn't in our bed with a cold and 101 degree fever.
So, did I learn French? No. But did my plan work? You betcha!
And in case you were wondering, "Par le vous Francais" is French for "How I met my wife".
Coming home from the movie that night I had an epiphany. The only thing that was keeping me from getting all the ladies was the fact that I didn't speak French. If I knew French, then I would find a girl, impress her, and make her mine. So that was that. I was already planning on going to college for my AA degree and decided that for an elective I would take Beginner's French. I think it's important to note, and you may have heard this before, Miami does not have a large French speaking population. Spanish, yet another language that had evaded me, was (and is) quite common 'round these parts. So, do I take French or Spanish? As my dad pointed out when he was helping me choose, by using logic, one would naturally conclude that if they are going to use an elective course for a foreign language, it should be one that is spoken commonly where they live. So, naturally, I signed up for French class.
It was an accelerated night class and at the end of the course I got a 'C'. I still couldn't ask a girl out in French, nor would I be able to ask where the facilities were if she had agreed to said date. I met with my advisor who advised (funny how they do that) I should take something else for the next semester, like, maybe Spanish. She listed out all of the pros and cons and made a very valid argument. So, naturally, I enrolled in Beginner's French II.
I was really struggling. Or, as they would say in French, "La souris est aveugle." But lucky for me, there was a girl in this class who seemed very sharp and was picking up French quite easily. I figured I'd ask her to help me with the lessons. It didn't hurt that she was very cute. She agreed to help me but it was hard for me to keep my attention on the material. Did I mention she was cute? Well, at the end of the course my grade was no longer a 'C'. It was a 'D'. But I did manage to meet a cute girl. She even agreed to go out with me. We continued to date and seventeen years later she'd be standing here reading over my shoulder if she wasn't in our bed with a cold and 101 degree fever.
So, did I learn French? No. But did my plan work? You betcha!
And in case you were wondering, "Par le vous Francais" is French for "How I met my wife".
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Mr. Slick - Not!
So there I was...on a hot date! I was nineteen years old and was on a date with a girl from college. Yes...she had a name - I just don't recall what it was. Our date consisted of hanging out at my dad and step-mom's home. We'd have dinner with them and would swim in their pool. I know that the idea of taking someone home to meet the parents relatively soon in the relationship, i.e. on our first date, sounds perilous to a relationship, but when you're on a limited budget, it can be very appealling. Maybe it was the proverbial nail-in-the-coffin...that was our only date. Of course, that could have been on account of my not-so-slick-moves at the beginning of the date.
I drove over to her house, an hour away, to pick her up and on the way to my dad's house, stopped at an incredible bakery to get desert. This young lady was very attractive and I was very excited (read as: akwardly nervous). We went into the bakery, I bought the desert and escorted her out to the car whilst holding the cheesecake. I placed the cheesecake on top of the car at the passenger side of the car so that I could open the car door for her. Now I know what you're thinking...no, I did not leave it on top of the car. I shut her door, grabbed the cheese cake, opened the passenger side back door, placed the cake on the floorboard so it wouldn't slide of the seat - hey, I was thinking here! I then closed the back passenger door, walked around the back of the car, opened the driver's side car door, slid inside, and closed the door.
And while it was the driver's side door...it was the wrong one. I was sitting in the back seat.
On the bright side...I had made it to the back seat on our first date - sorta.
PS Mrs Pheasantly finds this story very, very funny.
I drove over to her house, an hour away, to pick her up and on the way to my dad's house, stopped at an incredible bakery to get desert. This young lady was very attractive and I was very excited (read as: akwardly nervous). We went into the bakery, I bought the desert and escorted her out to the car whilst holding the cheesecake. I placed the cheesecake on top of the car at the passenger side of the car so that I could open the car door for her. Now I know what you're thinking...no, I did not leave it on top of the car. I shut her door, grabbed the cheese cake, opened the passenger side back door, placed the cake on the floorboard so it wouldn't slide of the seat - hey, I was thinking here! I then closed the back passenger door, walked around the back of the car, opened the driver's side car door, slid inside, and closed the door.
And while it was the driver's side door...it was the wrong one. I was sitting in the back seat.
On the bright side...I had made it to the back seat on our first date - sorta.
PS Mrs Pheasantly finds this story very, very funny.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Stories Are a Wonderful Thing.
Memory Lane make for an interesting trip. We all have stories that we can recall; I believe it's important that we tell our stories. Mrs. Pheasantly is encouraging me regail my fellow bloggers with some trips down my memory lane and she, like most better halves, does have an ulterior motive. She wants to save them for our boys. So, I will begin collecting my blog posts and will commit to posting often so that whenever our children wish, even once we are dead and buried, they will be able to feel connected to us, because after all isn't that what stories are all about...connection?
Want to hear a story pulled from my memory lane, you'll just have to wait, but not too long.
Want to hear a story pulled from my memory lane, you'll just have to wait, but not too long.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Wanna Hear A Story?
This has been the question of the day for the last two days around our house. It is posed by our 3 year old and the answer really doesn't matter, because a story will be told. Then we hear the undeniable classic opening of all great literature..."Once upon a time". Though it sounds more like, "Unce upon a tuh-yme". Then we hear about a witch. There is some sort of conflict with him, playing the part of the main victim-cum-hero of the story, the witch, and one of his favorite characters who come to his aid, and in addition, sometimes fruit is involved. Then just as the story is getting juicy, well as juicy as it could get coming from a three year old, he says, "The end".
He told me 11 stories on the way to school this morning, a twenty minute drive, and ten of them had a witch as the nemesis. The eleventh story started out with Once upon a time but before he got to the part about the witch, which is the second sentence, he announced he was hungry. I imagine that the story will pick back up when I get him from preschool this afternoon. And I am waiting with baited breath, really.
He told me 11 stories on the way to school this morning, a twenty minute drive, and ten of them had a witch as the nemesis. The eleventh story started out with Once upon a time but before he got to the part about the witch, which is the second sentence, he announced he was hungry. I imagine that the story will pick back up when I get him from preschool this afternoon. And I am waiting with baited breath, really.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
What Happens in Vegas May Stay in Vegas…but Phoenix Ain’t no Vegas!
That is the title of the speech that I will be competing with this evening at my Toastmaster's humorous speech competition. The contest is at my club, and the winner goes on to compete at the area ( 7 clubs compete), and the the winner there goes on to compete at the division (5 areas) and the winner there goes on to compete at the district (10 divisions). Our district covers the state of Florida and the Bahamas. The speech is about going to Phoenix last weekend to attend the Toastmasters annual conference and International Speech Contest which has two more levels of competition than the humorous speech contest. Do you think that we like to compete, maybe just a little?
So, for your reading pleasure, here is my speech...
Last weekend I had the opportunity to watch our very own Jim Bussey compete in my first ever Toast Master International Speech Contest.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to visit Phoenix, Arizona for the very first time.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to:
learn the latest in traveling fashion
make a new special friend on an airplane in a special way
experience the joy of dry heat
experience a blazing fire…in my mouth
Madame Contest Master, Fellow Toast Masters…what happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but what happens in Phoenix becomes fodder for a humorous speech contest! In order to be in Phoenix, one must get to Phoenix so on Friday morning there I was at the airport. While waiting to board my plane in MIA, I heard this sound. [squeak, squeak, squeak]. It got louder. [squeak, squeak, squeak] I turned around expecting to see Norman Bates, or maybe a mouse...on steroids. But instead I saw these two precious suitcases. They were neon pink and had "Cinderella" plastered across the front of them. Naturally, I looked for the little girl that would have these suitcases. Nothing. Then I looked for maybe a little bit older of a girl. Nothing. Then I looked for maybe a young lady reliving her youth? Nothing. Instead I say a man. A tall rugged looking man. No one else. Just the man and his luggage approaching the gate agent. There was no daughter, no niece, no female child at all in his vicinity – just him. In fact the agent even asked if he was traveling with someone else, and he just walked off - alone with his pretty, pretty luggage and a special spring in his step.
So now I’m on the plane for the first leg of the trip. I was flying standby with another member of my Toastmasters club and we were grateful to be on the plane. Of course, we were seated separately and I was seated in the middle seat of my row. Nothing funny ever happens in the middle seat. Nothing exciting happens in the middle seat, except for when Troy is sitting in the middle seat! I was very tired, the air was stuffy, there was no movie – so I fell asleep. The thing is, when I woke up I realized I had snuggled my head on the shoulder (pause) of a really big guy next to me. Complete with spittle. He gave me a special look and I just knew he wanted my telephone number. Did I give it to him? [flutter eyelashes] A gentleman never tells.
Once we arrived in Phoenix I quickly departed the aircraft. When we exited the terminal and got outside, I realized that my traveling companion was hot! I mean smokin' hot! Of course at 112 degrees Fahrenheit even Donald Trump is hot. Yes ladies and gentlemen, 112 degrees. Of course [air quotes] they (who are they? The locals, the weathermen?) tell you, “Well, it’s a dry heat – so it’s not so bad”. Yeah, guess what – [air quotes] they’re lying. It is bad. It is unbearably bad. Oh and the whole “it’s not as bad as Miami” because there’s no humidity. Uh, no…the humidity is why we wrinkle less than they do. That damned dry air makes you shrivel up like a raisin in a big cereal bowl full of sand. Give me my 86 degrees with 112% humidity any day – at least my tongue doesn't feel like sandpaper.
But that’s not all the heat I was going to experience. Oh no. Apparently our friends in Phoenix are not content with just external unbearable heat. It seems they enjoy a raging inferno on the inside as well.
On our way to the hotel we stopped at a restaurant and I ordered an American classic: Macaroni & Cheese. I tend to like mild food and how could I go wrong with that? Ha! It had macaroni, it had cheese. It had also had Jalapenos, Scotch Bonnets, and Habaneras. It was served with a bottle of hot sauce and a damage waiver. Folks in Phoenix are crazy! That bowl of fire should've been called "Macaroni and oh please this is hot"! Bottom line: If you aren't crying at the end of a meal in Phoenix, then your meal consisted of water.
I’m not saying to not go to Phoenix, it’s a beautiful city. You'll have a great time as long you carry pink luggage, find the perfect airplane neighbor, go naked and most importantly bring a mini fire extinguisher for dinner. And always remember: What happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but what happens in Phoenix could seriously hurt you!
So, for your reading pleasure, here is my speech...
Last weekend I had the opportunity to watch our very own Jim Bussey compete in my first ever Toast Master International Speech Contest.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to visit Phoenix, Arizona for the very first time.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to:
learn the latest in traveling fashion
make a new special friend on an airplane in a special way
experience the joy of dry heat
experience a blazing fire…in my mouth
Madame Contest Master, Fellow Toast Masters…what happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but what happens in Phoenix becomes fodder for a humorous speech contest! In order to be in Phoenix, one must get to Phoenix so on Friday morning there I was at the airport. While waiting to board my plane in MIA, I heard this sound. [squeak, squeak, squeak]. It got louder. [squeak, squeak, squeak] I turned around expecting to see Norman Bates, or maybe a mouse...on steroids. But instead I saw these two precious suitcases. They were neon pink and had "Cinderella" plastered across the front of them. Naturally, I looked for the little girl that would have these suitcases. Nothing. Then I looked for maybe a little bit older of a girl. Nothing. Then I looked for maybe a young lady reliving her youth? Nothing. Instead I say a man. A tall rugged looking man. No one else. Just the man and his luggage approaching the gate agent. There was no daughter, no niece, no female child at all in his vicinity – just him. In fact the agent even asked if he was traveling with someone else, and he just walked off - alone with his pretty, pretty luggage and a special spring in his step.
So now I’m on the plane for the first leg of the trip. I was flying standby with another member of my Toastmasters club and we were grateful to be on the plane. Of course, we were seated separately and I was seated in the middle seat of my row. Nothing funny ever happens in the middle seat. Nothing exciting happens in the middle seat, except for when Troy is sitting in the middle seat! I was very tired, the air was stuffy, there was no movie – so I fell asleep. The thing is, when I woke up I realized I had snuggled my head on the shoulder (pause) of a really big guy next to me. Complete with spittle. He gave me a special look and I just knew he wanted my telephone number. Did I give it to him? [flutter eyelashes] A gentleman never tells.
Once we arrived in Phoenix I quickly departed the aircraft. When we exited the terminal and got outside, I realized that my traveling companion was hot! I mean smokin' hot! Of course at 112 degrees Fahrenheit even Donald Trump is hot. Yes ladies and gentlemen, 112 degrees. Of course [air quotes] they (who are they? The locals, the weathermen?) tell you, “Well, it’s a dry heat – so it’s not so bad”. Yeah, guess what – [air quotes] they’re lying. It is bad. It is unbearably bad. Oh and the whole “it’s not as bad as Miami” because there’s no humidity. Uh, no…the humidity is why we wrinkle less than they do. That damned dry air makes you shrivel up like a raisin in a big cereal bowl full of sand. Give me my 86 degrees with 112% humidity any day – at least my tongue doesn't feel like sandpaper.
But that’s not all the heat I was going to experience. Oh no. Apparently our friends in Phoenix are not content with just external unbearable heat. It seems they enjoy a raging inferno on the inside as well.
On our way to the hotel we stopped at a restaurant and I ordered an American classic: Macaroni & Cheese. I tend to like mild food and how could I go wrong with that? Ha! It had macaroni, it had cheese. It had also had Jalapenos, Scotch Bonnets, and Habaneras. It was served with a bottle of hot sauce and a damage waiver. Folks in Phoenix are crazy! That bowl of fire should've been called "Macaroni and oh please this is hot"! Bottom line: If you aren't crying at the end of a meal in Phoenix, then your meal consisted of water.
I’m not saying to not go to Phoenix, it’s a beautiful city. You'll have a great time as long you carry pink luggage, find the perfect airplane neighbor, go naked and most importantly bring a mini fire extinguisher for dinner. And always remember: What happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but what happens in Phoenix could seriously hurt you!
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