Who knew that once you were in the hole and burried up to your neck, the sides of the hole could collapse, thereby causing severe injury or death. In my 41 years of living I have never heard this happening to anyone. I think Matt and Meredith just make this crap up to have something to say while Al and Ann are barbequing on the Plaza.
The joy is being taken out of every little thing. It seems the only way to not be in danger is to lock the doors and stay in bed all day. But then I'm sure there's some major risk of bed bugs or atrophy or Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Holy cow, I think of all of the stuff I did that actually WAS dangerous, and I am still living to tell about it. I'm cringing. God or someone must really want me here and alive.
-Swimming in the raging Atlantic, alone, after a major storm and being carried out by the undertow (defintiely the closest I've ever come to death).
-Driving while under the influence several times (many years ago, but still).
-Having a one-night stand with a complete stranger (as in didn't even know his name)
-Jumping off of 50' cliffs in Greece into waters of unknown depths
-Rappelling off of my college dorm building with ROTC (10 floors high)
And those are just the few that come to find at this moment. WWMLS?? (What Would Matt Lauer Say).
This subject brings back a memory from my more daring and carefree days. I was in college - a sophomore going into junior year, I think. I was home for the summer, working at the Chesapeake Bay Seafood House. A dumpy, greasy, and dark all-you-can-eat establishment frequented by the obese. First course - fried hushpuppies, followed by bowls of fried shrimp, fried scallops and to drink - Stroh's beer, or Stroh's light if you were on a diet. It was one classy spot.
My parents, being chain-hating, deep fried food-opposed people wouldn't get near the place. One night, unbeknownst to me, they came in with my brother and asked to sit in my section. They were all dressed in hideous clothes. Someone wore a pair of those rainbow suspenders. My brother had one of those cylinder looking things that "moo-ed" like a cow when you turned it over. They kept yelling at me "Ma'am!!! Ma'am!!! We need some more fried crap over here."
But that's not the point of the story. The point is that while working at the CBSH, I met this guy Scott. He was a pretty serious and stiff type. Obviously not my style. But he did ask me out on a date and I was bored that summer, so I accepted. He showed up at my parents' house the night of our rendez-vous.
Dad: Hi Scott, nice to meet you. Where are you and Beth going tonight?
Scott: (Looking my dad in the eye) - I think we'll go to the Inner Harbor in Baltimore and get some dinner. It's a nice night
No sooner had Mr. Stiff and I gotten in the car, when he said, "You want to go flying? I'm trying to get my pilot's license and need to put in some more hours." I was all, "Sure, why not?" (which is funny, because I now HATE flying, am terrified of it, even when I'm flying on a commercial airline under the influence of Xanax and vodka with pilots who are not only licensed, but have hundreds of years under their belts. I guess getting older has made me more uptight. I would still dig a hole at the beach, though).
Next, we're off to some municipal airport. Scott gets some teeny single engine plane from a hangar. We climb into the two seater. I'm calm. It was getting dark, so Scott pulls out his flying instructions, i.e., the steps he needs to complete before taking off. I have this vivid memory of him holding a flashlight in his mouth and reading the guidelines from some book. I'm calm. We take off, and all seems to be going well. We fly from Baltimore to the eastern shore of Maryland. It was beautiful at night. I'm calm. We land at some small airport and have what should have been a romantic dinner if I had any attraction whatsoever to Mr. Stiff. I think I had Coquiles St. Jacques. We got back in the plane and headed back towards Baltimore. I had completely lost track of time, but it had to have been at least midnight. We're airborne, thousands of feet up when Mr. Stiff reveals that we're almost out of gas and that we'll have to land at some tiny landing strip by someone's house to refuel. I'm calm. We land and it is completely dark, no one in sight. We bang on some house and wake up Mr. Fuel Guy. He refuels us and we take off for Baltimore. We land safely, Mr. Stiff drives me home. I'm pretty sure I didn't kiss him, or else it was completely not memorable. He probably deserved at least a touch of tongue after all of that, but I wasn't giving it up. I had standards.
I'll never forget walking into my parents' house. I figured they'd be long asleep. Instead, all the lights are on, they're both awake and they start screaming at me. "Do you know what time it is? It's 3 o'clock in the morning! Where the hell have you been? We were just about to call the police. Do you have any idea how worried we were?? " I calmly said, "We went flying." "YOU WHAT? Who the hell do you think you are? Don't you have any respect for anyone but yourself..." Yada, yada. It's now a humorous story to tell around our dinner table, but back then, I was in the doghouse for quite some time.
And no second date with Scott. I don't remember if he didn't ask, if my parents forbade me, or if I simply said, "no."
So - Matt Lauer, how does that compare to your pussy sand hole?
