Remember my complaint about the bridge traffic Monday? Here’s one of the photos Janie took while hanging out of the window.* Please note the bridge in the left distance and the single, lonely car approaching from the other direction.
To add to the joy, here’s a word problem:
Sarah has to get her daughter Janie to school on time, and then drive to work. She has allowed forty-five minutes for this which is approximately twenty minutes longer than is usually necessary.
The bridge is about 2 miles (3.218 km) past the merge arrows. Janie’s school is about a quarter mile (402.3 m) from the other end of said bridge, which is a little more than half a mile (.8 km) long. It will take twenty-five minutes (1500 min.) at the traffic’s current speed to reach the school.
How far will Sarah be able to drive from this point without giving her daughter an impromptu vocabulary lesson?
In approximately one third of a mile (531 m), Janie will suddenly remember that she didn’t have breakfast. How far will Sarah we able to drive without offering a detailed and highly graphic explanation of the DOT’s collective genealogies?
Please show your work.
Extra credit: In what way would your calculations change if this is Sarah’s view for 2.25 miles (3.62 km)?
A skeleton walks into a bar. “Bartender,” he says, “give me a beer. And a mop.”
Two of my, um, foundation undergarments, long past retirement age, recently self-detonated, leaving nothing but stray underwire and a pile of exhausted elastic. The second one gave up the ghost last week—in the dryer, thank heavens, so there were no casualties—leaving me with an, ah, understaffed support system, and no time to get to the nearest Intimacy store,** which is more than three hours away.
So for the first time ever, I ordered replacements online, including a style I’d never tried in a size I was hoping would work because the color I wanted in my usual style wasn’t available.***
I sprang for three-day shipping—lest the stress on the few remaining survivors hasten their own tragic deaths—and received them yesterday.
They all fit. I repeat: They all fit.
I can’t manage that on my first trip to the dressing room of a physical store.
On second thought, this is more of a miracle than a small victory.
My question is this: should I buy a lottery ticket now or assume I’ve used up all my good luck^ for a while?
Literary Death Match
It should be clear by now that I am a complete video thief and that SBSarah over at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books is one of my favorite sources.
This is Bob Shea’s contribution to the Literary Death Match at last year’s Texas Book Festival. His first reading selection was good, but his second is priceless:
Show of hands: who is going to look for his books now — and who really wishes the second one was for sale?
And one last Douglas Adams quote:
“I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”
*She managed two before I realized the flash was coming from the outside of the car. It’s a wonder sometimes that my heart still beats . . .
**Which I recommend to anyone, of any size, shape, placement, or problem. Historically, I would rather wrap my torso in razor wire than go bra shopping (don’t ask me about swimsuits). But Intimacy has fitters, who fit you and stick with you until you’re comfortable and everything’s exactly where you want it. Pricey? A bit, even if you don’t have to use a whole tank of gas to get there. Worth it? Absolutely.
***Note to my male readers, should you exist: if you don’t understand why this is a risky move, you’ve just defined male privilege—congratulations.
^Or, rather, the good luck MacDougal Street Baby so generously shared with me last Monday.