I did not minor in English.
Recently, someone asked me for feedback on some instructions they were going to give out to certain employees that needed to complete a survey. I think he was looking more for content feedback, but I red lined the whole thing. I re-ordered things. I rearranged sentences. Then I felt bad. I mean, I was basically telling him his writing sucked and I've never even met him in person. So for some reason I thought it would be less painful if I told him I had a minor in English and couldn't control my editing impulses and that he could disregard them if he wished.
It should be noted that today he finally sent out the survey, and it was my version of the instructions.
Papa Leo is not necessarily going to buy a new pony for everyone. (Although he might if we bug him long enough.)
My brothers' and my families were recently at my parents for my dad's birthday. (Wow, that was a mouthful.) When my nephew Ben arrived, he overheard that we were planning on selling Scott's thoroughbred Sid. I came out the door to say hello to him, and he looked me in the face with tears welling up in his eyes. "How can you sell Sid? That's not fair."
I cannot watch other people cry. I was immediately in tears and told him that Papa was going to buy another horse that everyone could ride, since nobody other than Scott and I could ride Sid and we didn't have time.
Then I allowed myself to be talked into giving rides on Leo, even though it was 90 degrees out and the horseflies abounded. (I had a personal kill record of six in one hour.)
Yes, our horses names are Sid and Leo. Just picture two little old men sharing a New York apartment.
I could have gotten Morgan in for a test shot.
Yesterday - my one day off in the week - I got a call from Talent Group. They wanted her to come in so they could take a test shot for American Greetings. I had plenty of time, but I told them I could not get down there and back before Morgan's kindergarten screening, and by the time she was done, I would not have time to get there before they closed.
Because here is the deal on the test shots...it's not guaranteed that they get the gig. In fact, in no cases where we went in for the test shot, has she gotten it.
So no, I am not going to drive a half hour across town so you can take a picture of her LEGS. That's right, her head was not even going to be in the shot. It's a card where she would wear a tutu and sit on a giant present with her legs dangling and you would see her from waist down.
So he let me take the "test shot" myself and send it to him. I had to laugh, because Morgan has as much grace as I do and therefore her shins are bruised to hell. I hope the guy airbrushed it before he sent it in, but I do not expect a call-back.
Authors Note: Why can't I get the damn spacing to work between my paragraphs. Everytime I add a photo it screws it up. Ugh!