Nobody likes to go to the hospital.
Correction: MOST people donâ€™t like to go to the hospital. There are hypochondriacs who thrive on such experiences, but I donâ€™t count myself among them.
I have known such individuals, including one now deceased, who was in my fringe family circle. She was an interesting woman when you could get her to talk about matters other than those that ailed her, but this was no easy task since she thrived on what my spouse calls â€śorgan recitals.â€ť
But thatâ€™s fodder for another day.
Numbers have never been my friend. I embrace words with passion, but numbers are another thing altogether.
Words, their meaning and their usage come to me with little effort, but the same canâ€™t be said for figures, and that would be just about in any form, including old telephone numbers.
Those I use regularly at work are fixed in my brain, but numbers of the past? Not even a dim memory where most are concerned.
The shining exception is the phone number I had when I lived in an apartment in Fayetteville as a young married woman. That number was Hillcrest 2-2287.
Humor is great at any level and even better when itâ€™s involving church folks who, I contend, are the best of the best. Those of us who have had the â€śjoyâ€ť (thatâ€™s a euphemism for which you may substitute an appropriate word choice) of setting the church bulletin know how easy it is for a typo to get by that changes the meaning of an announcement.
The change sometimes can be embarrassing, but more often than not, is really, really funny.