This weekend we had the pleasure of going to Joane’s Fabrics to buy some crafts, and we waited 58 minutes in line…
We get in…and we have the store to ourselves (practically). It was more dangerous waiting in line than going into the store.
With COVID-19 things have shut down quite a bit, pretty much all basketball has been cancelled/suspended. Thus the Powell family is spending a lot of time at home. Just two pictures for March.
The Emergence of Ava!
Ava played varsity this year for Meadowdale’s Lady Mavs 3A team as a freshman, and struggled often during the season, and sometimes playing JV and Varsity. The Varsity qualified for Districts, but in their first game lost to Snohomish. They had to win three games in a row to advance in the loser-out bracket. The first of three games were against Everett, and when we arrived she was being announced as a starter.
And she remained in the lineup for the the last four games until being ousted by Hudson’s Bay.
WHAT DID THE BRAIN SURGEON SAY TO THE ROCKET SCIENTIST? Answer: You know, it doesn’t take a hair stylist to figure this out.
Ava and Gia recently were the subjects of an artistic study undertaken by Aunt Tracy, my wife’s younger sister. She wants to graduate as a hair stylist from the elite Northwest Hair Academy (this coming from a guy with no hair and no job). To reach the upper echelons of cosmetology she must master the aesthetics of dye, chemistry, color profiles, parrafin wax, and creative foil. Will she earn her PhD (Philosophy of Hair Development)? Can she enter the H.I.T. (Hair Institute of Technology)?
NEXT CORNY JOKE: Anyway, the other day I talked to my psychiatrist and became enraged because he told me I have an ‘anal-oral fixation’…So I told him to kiss my ass.
DANCING WITH A Wii: Against sanity my wife bought a Wii. Another time-wasting gadget. We hosted a party, and after the kids went to sleep we adults started dancing to M.C. Hammer’s ‘Can’t Touch This’ and Blondie’s ‘Heart of Glass’. Alright, it wasn’t hell, I’ll concede. But this brought up reminiscences of high school. For us guys (or myself), one brush against breast while slow dancing at a Junior High gala produced three weeks of bliss. Now, in my forties, one night of passion is forgotten the next day. Oh, to be young again! (Anyone remember how, during Hotel California, everyone on the dance floor didn’t know whether to slow or fast dance?)
LAST CORNY JOKE: I went back to the psychiatrist and told him about how I could not eat anything but spaghetti or fettuccine or ravioli because, as a kid, we always ate Italian food. It gave such fond memories that any other food left me wanting. He told me, ‘You have to stop living in the pasta.’