<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295</id><updated>2011-09-06T06:32:43.132-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Tim Sonefelt's Tales from the Sock Drawer</title><subtitle type='html'>A full-time school presenter &amp;amp; family entertainer shares thoughts and wisdom gathered from traveling the country.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>24</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-8200949623271796607</id><published>2010-12-09T18:49:00.003-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-09T18:49:42.145-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Jimmy the Elf</title><content type='html'>For the past couple of years our daughter has wanted an Elf on the Shelf to show up at our house. This past weekend, Jimmy Elf appeared!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We’re driving a loaner car while Kristie’s van is being serviced. There’s an access door from the back seat into the trunk. Friday night, both kids could NOT quit opening and closing that door.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Saturday as we backed out of the garage to go to lunch, yet again they opened that access door. Kerwin, our eleven year old said, “What’s that?” He reached through just as we had stopped backing out and were about to move forward. His hand came back into view holding a little red figure. Katie, who’s nine, let out a horrific scream, “It’s an elf Kerwin and you killed it. You’re not supposed to touch it!” She then jumped out of the car and ran across the driveway crying from fear. The very thing she’d wanted actually horrified her!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We told her to get back into the car so we could go to lunch. She said “No! That’s a haunted elf!” We assured her that it wasn’t, but she insisted, “Then how did he get in our trunk. It’s not even our car. Maybe he’s somebody else’s haunted elf!” She was literally terrified and would NOT let that door open again. Kerwin tried to play it cool, because he’s eleven, but he too was a bit unnerved.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;During lunch, Katie asked our blessing and finished that with, “ . . . and please let our elf Jimmy forgive us.” Later that afternoon, Katie wrote Jimmy Elf a letter on post-it notes and put it in the trunk with him. It read: “Dear Jimmy, Please forgive my brother for touching you. He didn’t realize you were an elf. He didn’t mean to. Love, Katie.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Apparently all is well now. The next morning, Jimmy Elf was sitting on our mantle over the fireplace. Katie asked me if he forgave them for touching him. I told her that I suppose he forgave them at least enough to come back for one more day!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The top three morals from this story are:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Be careful what you wish for. You just might find it in your trunk and feel the need for forgiveness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Christmas is a magical time each year but in the Sonefelt home, the Year of the Elf will never be forgotten.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. I’ve found a way to keep my daughter from touching the TV Remote . . . put an elf on it!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-8200949623271796607?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/8200949623271796607/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/12/jimmy-elf.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8200949623271796607'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8200949623271796607'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/12/jimmy-elf.html' title='Jimmy the Elf'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-4508950053054794962</id><published>2010-12-09T18:49:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-09T18:49:30.149-08:00</updated><title type='text'>English Curling Iron</title><content type='html'>For a recent trip to England we had planned thoroughly. We had even purchased some electrical adapters so we could plug in our American electronic gadgets overseas. Our first morning there, Kristie had plugged her curling iron into the adapter and plugged that into the wall socket. Nothing happened . . . I mean nothing at all. The curling iron light didn’t come on. Being the handy man I am I quickly figured out that there was a little switch right beside the socket. I flipped it. I’m not quite sure if the scream or the puff of smoke came next. All I know for sure is that her hair is now PERMANENTLY curled. At least from what I can tell for now . . . until the swelling goes down.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-4508950053054794962?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/4508950053054794962/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/12/english-curling-iron.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/4508950053054794962'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/4508950053054794962'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/12/english-curling-iron.html' title='English Curling Iron'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-4804768975902675988</id><published>2010-12-09T18:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-09T18:43:03.802-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Getting a Shot</title><content type='html'>Today I learned how to respond to the news of getting a shot at the doctor’s office. I learned from my nine year-old daughter. The proper reaction is to wait until your big brother is getting his and has all the attention. At that point you slip quietly out of the door of the exam room and go hide in the bathroom. It will take fifteen minutes or more for them to find you and they’ll be so glad to finally see you that they may forget the shot all together – NOT!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-4804768975902675988?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/4804768975902675988/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/12/getting-shot.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/4804768975902675988'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/4804768975902675988'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/12/getting-shot.html' title='Getting a Shot'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-5887969398168713284</id><published>2010-10-27T18:16:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-10-27T18:16:43.972-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Psychic Reading</title><content type='html'>I keep getting emails from someone named Tara. They always say the same thing: Your free psychic reading is enclosed. Click here, no cost. Now if they were really psychic, wouldn’t they know I’m going to delete this?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-5887969398168713284?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/5887969398168713284/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/10/psychic-reading.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5887969398168713284'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5887969398168713284'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/10/psychic-reading.html' title='Psychic Reading'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-2459574119835015609</id><published>2010-10-27T18:15:00.002-07:00</published><updated>2010-10-27T18:16:26.230-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Propane Fly Swatter</title><content type='html'>Last night I met some buddies for dinner at a country Bar-B-Que restaurant. We had finished when a ‘back woods’ looking guy came over to our table and asked how our meal was. It really was excellent and we told him so. We figured he must be the owner. We had noticed several flies on one of the windows and leaving our table he noticed them too. Moments later he emerged from the kitchen with a self-lighting propane torch. I thought he was headed to the porch to light the tiki torches because it was almost time for the bluegrass band to start. Nope, I was wrong. He headed straight for the window with all the flies and started Bar-B-Que-ing! One by one they fell. It’s the most expensive flyswatter I’ve ever seen. I wonder if they sell them at Wal Mart?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-2459574119835015609?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/2459574119835015609/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/10/propane-fly-swatter.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/2459574119835015609'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/2459574119835015609'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/10/propane-fly-swatter.html' title='Propane Fly Swatter'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-3674903697729219173</id><published>2010-10-27T18:15:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-10-27T18:15:20.721-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Interstate Sofa</title><content type='html'>I’m sure if you travel much at all, even for a family vacation once a year, you’ve probably seen a sofa on the median of the interstate at some point. I’ve seen many and have even written jokes about the situation. I’ve always wondered just how they get there though. Tonight I figured it out while waiting at a red light. A car crossed through the intersection (a CAR, not a truck) with a sofa on the roof. The sofa was NOT strapped down or even held with a bungee cord. Nope, it was held in place by one of the driver’s hands and one of the passenger’s hands. At first I laughed. Then I thought, “Yep, that explains it!”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-3674903697729219173?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/3674903697729219173/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/10/interstate-sofa.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/3674903697729219173'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/3674903697729219173'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/10/interstate-sofa.html' title='Interstate Sofa'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-7150045083254076222</id><published>2010-09-10T17:55:00.005-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-10T17:55:54.665-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Cardboard Chickens</title><content type='html'>Today I visited a local crafts store and bought some large paper maché eggs. The check out lady asked, “What you gonna do with them big ol’ eggs?” I replied, “I’m trying to hatch a cardboard chicken.” She said, “We got ‘em on aisle twelve.”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-7150045083254076222?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/7150045083254076222/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/09/cardboard-chickens.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/7150045083254076222'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/7150045083254076222'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/09/cardboard-chickens.html' title='Cardboard Chickens'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-8361549977597102179</id><published>2010-09-10T17:55:00.003-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-10T17:55:38.633-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Custom Framing</title><content type='html'>Do the big chain craft stores ever sell their custom framing for full price?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-8361549977597102179?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/8361549977597102179/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/09/custom-framing.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8361549977597102179'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8361549977597102179'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/09/custom-framing.html' title='Custom Framing'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-3693058457469976598</id><published>2010-09-10T17:55:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-10T17:55:23.194-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Passive Alarm System</title><content type='html'>I parked beside a car with a sticker on the window. It was one of those small stickers about a security system that comes on windows from the car factory. This one said, “Warning! Passive Security System.” I wondered what a passive security system does. Does it wait until the thief steals all your stuff before it goes off?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does it beep or does it say, “I wish you hadn’t done that?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had to know, so I smashed the window.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-3693058457469976598?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/3693058457469976598/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/09/passive-alarm-system.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/3693058457469976598'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/3693058457469976598'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/09/passive-alarm-system.html' title='Passive Alarm System'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-6327998294149019896</id><published>2010-06-17T19:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-17T19:42:52.583-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Southern Culture</title><content type='html'>This morning I had to buy new tires. I always buy them at the same place my father bought them because when it comes to tires, us Southerners are loyal. This morning they were extremely busy. It’s a smaller place out in the country and they don’t have one of those signs saying you can’t come into the work area. In fact they have some old recliners and a sofa right beside where they work on the cars and tires. There’s no glass in between me and where the work gets done. It was like Floyd’s Barber Shop from the Andy Griffith Show listening to all the stories floating around. I was listening, but not really listening until I heard one elderly gentleman say, “When I realized I didn’t have my gun, I got back in the truck and left.” What? My ears perked up a bit. Later the same gentleman, who seemed to be doing all the talking, said, “I wish I could find who keeps lettin’ my donkeys out.” That’s when I realized . . . these people don’t need tires, they just buy them so they have someone to talk to!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-6327998294149019896?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/6327998294149019896/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/06/southern-culture.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/6327998294149019896'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/6327998294149019896'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/06/southern-culture.html' title='Southern Culture'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-8725787784021136207</id><published>2010-05-18T17:45:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-18T17:45:45.331-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Garbage Disposal</title><content type='html'>Recently while mixing my protein shake, the little flip top broke off the lid for my shaker cup. That little piece of plastic would now be classified as garbage. Ironically, it went straight down the garbage disposal. I didn’t have time to try to retrieve it then and soon forgot about it. A few days later we had a cook-out. The left over beans were put down the disposal and when we turned it on, there was a short-lived, extremely loud crunching sound – much too crunchy for baked beans. That’s when I realized what had happened. We really didn’t buy a GARBAGE disposal.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-8725787784021136207?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/8725787784021136207/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/05/garbage-disposal.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8725787784021136207'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8725787784021136207'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/05/garbage-disposal.html' title='Garbage Disposal'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-5330130410467380364</id><published>2010-05-03T13:15:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-03T13:15:19.737-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Weight Loss</title><content type='html'>I recently got on the scales in my bathroom. The readout that normally has numbers I don't care to share simply said "LO." What a great day - my weight had dropped so much the scale knew I had reached an all time low. Then my wife told me the batteries were low. Bummer.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-5330130410467380364?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/5330130410467380364/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/05/weight-loss.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5330130410467380364'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5330130410467380364'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/05/weight-loss.html' title='Weight Loss'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-112046925124680371</id><published>2010-02-17T19:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-05-03T13:13:46.556-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Funeral Humor</title><content type='html'> &lt;meta name="Keywords" content=""&gt; &lt;meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"&gt; &lt;meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"&gt; &lt;meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"&gt; &lt;meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"&gt; &lt;link style="font-family: arial;" rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/tim/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"&gt; &lt;!--[if gte mso 9]&gt;&lt;xml&gt;  &lt;o:documentproperties&gt;   &lt;o:template&gt;Normal&lt;/o:Template&gt;   &lt;o:revision&gt;0&lt;/o:Revision&gt;   &lt;o:totaltime&gt;0&lt;/o:TotalTime&gt;   &lt;o:pages&gt;1&lt;/o:Pages&gt;   &lt;o:words&gt;35&lt;/o:Words&gt;   &lt;o:characters&gt;203&lt;/o:Characters&gt;   &lt;o:lines&gt;1&lt;/o:Lines&gt;   &lt;o:paragraphs&gt;1&lt;/o:Paragraphs&gt;   &lt;o:characterswithspaces&gt;249&lt;/o:CharactersWithSpaces&gt;   &lt;o:version&gt;11.1280&lt;/o:Version&gt;  &lt;/o:DocumentProperties&gt;  &lt;o:officedocumentsettings&gt;   &lt;o:allowpng/&gt;  &lt;/o:OfficeDocumentSettings&gt; &lt;/xml&gt;&lt;![endif]--&gt;&lt;!--[if gte mso 9]&gt;&lt;xml&gt;  &lt;w:worddocument&gt;   &lt;w:zoom&gt;0&lt;/w:Zoom&gt;   &lt;w:donotshowrevisions/&gt;   &lt;w:donotprintrevisions/&gt;   &lt;w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery&gt;0&lt;/w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery&gt;   &lt;w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery&gt;0&lt;/w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery&gt;   &lt;w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/&gt;  &lt;/w:WordDocument&gt; &lt;/xml&gt;&lt;![endif]--&gt; &lt;style&gt; &lt;!--  /* Font Definitions */ @font-face 	{font-family:"Times New Roman"; 	panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; 	mso-font-charset:0; 	mso-generic-font-family:auto; 	mso-font-pitch:variable; 	mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face 	{font-family:Verdana; 	panose-1:0 2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2; 	mso-font-charset:0; 	mso-generic-font-family:auto; 	mso-font-pitch:variable; 	mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;}  /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal 	{mso-style-parent:""; 	margin:0in; 	margin-bottom:.0001pt; 	mso-pagination:widow-orphan; 	font-size:12.0pt; 	font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable 	{mso-style-parent:""; 	font-size:10.0pt; 	font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 	{size:8.5in 11.0in; 	margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; 	mso-header-margin:.5in; 	mso-footer-margin:.5in; 	mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 	{page:Section1;} --&gt; &lt;/style&gt;  &lt;!--StartFragment--&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:78%;" &gt;Recently at my mom's funeral, my five-year old nephew had been given strict instructions on what he could and could not do. He’d not been told what he couldn’t say. He walked up, gave a sigh and said, “I sure wish I could pick my nose.”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--&gt; &lt;!--[endif]--&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-size:78%;" &gt;Thanks for laughing. We laughed too.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt; &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-112046925124680371?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/112046925124680371/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/02/normal-0-0-1-35-203-1-1-249-11.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/112046925124680371'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/112046925124680371'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2010/02/normal-0-0-1-35-203-1-1-249-11.html' title='Funeral Humor'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-1303142940457639286</id><published>2009-10-06T08:17:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-06T08:18:05.516-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Arkansas</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style=";font-family:Tahoma;font-size:100%;"  &gt;I was recently in Arkansas. I flew into Little Rock then drove to Hot Springs. In Hot Springs they have historic bath houses. Apparently, historically speaking, it must have been a big deal for people there to bathe. Some of them are historical landmarks. Some of the bath houses have implements to wash every area of your body. Some had elaborate looking equipment that looked like it was right out of a Frankenstein movie.  It was scary. I didn't bathe the entire time I was there.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;On the way back I had a little time to kill. I visited the Clinton Presidential Library. I spent about two hours there looking all around the building. I didn't see a single book! I was amazed. It's not a library at all. It's a big mobile home raised up on a pedestal filled with Clinton memorabilia. A fitting tribute? I'll let you be the judge.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;Also while I was there I ate lunch at a family owned restaurant. They advertised a 100 foot buffet of home style cooking. I ate it.&lt;span style="font-family:Tahoma;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-1303142940457639286?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/1303142940457639286/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/10/arkansas.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/1303142940457639286'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/1303142940457639286'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/10/arkansas.html' title='Arkansas'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-4556682756057545936</id><published>2009-10-06T07:07:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-06T07:07:54.805-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mr. Healthy</title><content type='html'>I never knew it took so much to be healthy. I was at the gym this morning when I noticed there were more people than usual in the lobby area. I soon realized we were hosting a ‘health fair’ event. I decided to investigate. Again, I never knew it took so much to be healthy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I started out with a chair massage to get relaxed. After that I moved on to the botox stand to take care of the wrinkles in my cheeks, followed by a microderm-abrasion facial. Since my skin now had that newly buffed pinkish shine, I headed to the skin care product stand for some anti-aging lotion. That should work well with the botox. Next stop Mary Kay for some much-needed make-up to cover the now skinless areas from the microderm-abrasion facial.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now that my back was relaxed and the top two layers of skin were gone from my face, I headed to the shoe stand for some new shoes to keep my back from hurting. Right next door was the jewelry booth where I found some nice things to keep my ego from hurting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With my new healthy body and new healthy accessories it was time to sign up for my tennis lessons at the tennis center booth. Since I’m now playing tennis, I needed to stop at the insurance booth to make sure I’m covered in case I get hit in the eye or twist an ankle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all this, I couldn’t leave without stopping at the photographer’s booth for a portrait of the new healthy me. Almost out the door I noticed the local Walgreens folks had a stand. I dropped off my prescriptions and got my flu shot to make sure I STAY healthy. When the needle stuck in my arm, my back tensed up. Yep, you guessed it – one more massage before heading to the car.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, and by the way, I did spend 45 minutes actually doing exercise while I was there. Just call me Mr. Healthy!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-4556682756057545936?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/4556682756057545936/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/10/mr-healthy.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/4556682756057545936'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/4556682756057545936'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/10/mr-healthy.html' title='Mr. Healthy'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-8758041996462866492</id><published>2009-08-25T10:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-25T10:21:33.987-07:00</updated><title type='text'>It's not WHAT you know . . .</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:Tahoma;font-size:100%;"  &gt;Sitting on a bench after dinner one night at a popular Coastal SC tourist area, I overheard a woman with a northern accent say to her companion, “Aw, look at the cute little chickens.” He replied, “Honey, those are pelicans.” She was sure of herself, but he was even more so. I almost fell off the bench because what they were watching waddle across the sidewalk were DUCKS! No I did NOT make this up. You CAN’T make up stuff this good!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-8758041996462866492?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/8758041996462866492/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-not-what-you-know.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8758041996462866492'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8758041996462866492'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-not-what-you-know.html' title='It&apos;s not WHAT you know . . .'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-2150023561083917413</id><published>2009-08-25T10:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-25T10:19:06.923-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Golf and Babe Ruth</title><content type='html'>Today I was playing golf with a buddy, John. We both are big baseball fans. We had been talking baseball and about the famous story of when Babe Ruth stepped to the plate, pointed at the fence and proceeded to hit a home run. He was confident, cocky or maybe a little of both.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the next tee box there was a guy in the distance on a mower. I confidently said to John, “You see that guy on the mower?” in my best Babe Ruth attitude. I was joking of course. Then I hit my tee shot. The little white golf ball raced straight towards bright red mower. John said, “I though you were KIDDING!”  I said, “I WAS!” The ball was getting closer and seemed to be picking up speed. With the mower engine roaring, he probably never heard me shout, “FORE!”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;John and I watched in horror (OK, I watched in horror, John was laughing) as the ball bounced right across the mower deck. I wasn’t sure the mower man saw my ball because he was headed away from us. I turned to John and said, “That guy has a lot of nerve.” John asked, “What do you mean?” I said, “He just mowed my ball into little bitty pieces.”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-2150023561083917413?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/2150023561083917413/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/08/golf-and-babe-ruth.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/2150023561083917413'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/2150023561083917413'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/08/golf-and-babe-ruth.html' title='Golf and Babe Ruth'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-8977305188195093920</id><published>2009-05-21T12:53:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-21T12:54:19.222-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Larry the Duck Comes to Life</title><content type='html'>It had been a long day on the road. I had just gotten in and was unloading the show cases from the truck. Those of you who are familiar with my programs know of the recurring puppet character, Larry the Duck. I have an ‘old’ Larry puppet laying on the shelf just inside the door of my studio.  As I walked by with a load of equipment out of the corner of my eye it looked like old Larry moved.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“That couldn’t be” I thought to myself. I went back for another load of equipment. This time by Larry didn’t move. However, on the next trip by he wiggled a little.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I decided to investigate. I went over to pick up Larry when all of a sudden out of nowhere came a rabid chipmunk. OK I’ll admit I don’t know if he was rabid or not, or even if it was a he. It was moving so fast I was barely even able to determine what type rodent it was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I say chipmunk, I realize it conjures up visions of the cute little Disney characters ‘Chip &amp;amp; Dale.’ This wasn’t Chip or Dale. This sucker was MEAN! He had assaulted Larry and had taken up residence in his torso.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I grabbed the nearest weapon, a broom that was nearby. I swatted, swung and smacked trying to run the varmint out of my building but he would not go. He had decided he liked it in there. Maybe it was Larry. Maybe it was my new air freshener. Do chipmunks like Vanilla?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got tired of waiting so I went in the house to get my shotgun. I do live in SC after all. I did leave the door open though in case he decided to leave peacefully. Inside I cooled off and after a few hours went out and checked around. The critter was no where in site and Larry was all alone. I lowered the overhead door, apologized to Larry and went in for the evening.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next morning I left early for another program when I got a page that we had a message on the voice mail. It was my neighbor. Apparently his dog had escaped and was in our yard. When the neighbor came to get Cash, their black lab he happened to look toward my studio window. The message he left said there was a chipmunk looking back at him. He thought I’d want to know. How nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bad news is that I was away for the weekend. When I returned on Sunday I was afraid to open the door, fearful of what I might find. Would it be roadkill smell? Would it be everything gnawed to bits. Would I find a rabid she-rodent and Larry the Duck in wedded bliss?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Much to my delight, there was no smell, no gnawing remnants and Larry was still single. I left the door open for a few more hours so the chipmunk could find his way home. There’s been no rodent residue or any other signs of him since. Larry is still single with no one to argue with but me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-8977305188195093920?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/8977305188195093920/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/05/larry-duck-comes-to-life.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8977305188195093920'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/8977305188195093920'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/05/larry-duck-comes-to-life.html' title='Larry the Duck Comes to Life'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-5325099870311501856</id><published>2009-05-06T07:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-06T07:30:24.092-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Cell Phone Driver</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I must be getting old. In fact I think I'm turning into my dad. People are starting to irritate me. You know, those that drive while talking on their cell phones. They're a big distraction when driving. Just today I was headed to the post office. This guy on his cell phone was in the other lane. I came up beside him and he didn't even know I was there. He just came right over on me. I had to jerk the wheel to avoid a crash. He caused me to spill my hamburger all over the seat. Lettuce and tomato went flying. He even made me spill coffee on my road map. People really should be more careful.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-5325099870311501856?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/5325099870311501856/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/05/cell-phone-driver-i-must-be-getting-old.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5325099870311501856'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5325099870311501856'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/05/cell-phone-driver-i-must-be-getting-old.html' title='Cell Phone Driver'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-5309449962435927083</id><published>2009-03-23T19:40:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-23T19:40:37.917-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Color Changing Shoes</title><content type='html'>If you travel much at all, you know that the majority of the time is spent waiting. Airports have come up with some innovative ways to help travelers pass the time. You can watch the over-priced automatic trash compacting garbage cans. You can buy a $6 cup of coffee. You can even buy a below average meal at an above average price. However one of my favorite activities is the time-honored shoe shine stand. If I never traveled, my shoes would never be polished. Most major airports have several locations where you can get your shoes shined. I typically get mine done adjacent to gate B-17 in the Atlanta airport. AT $5 it’s still one of the best deals around. Nothing makes a good first impression like freshly shined shoes, especially for people who look at your feet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On this trip I had over an hour after getting to my gate, B-22. Hey, I’m not too far from the shoe shine man. Since I’m on the “B” concourse, I made a “B” line to the shoe shine man. When it’s my turn, I climb up into the chair. The gentleman who will  be my shiner today is one I’ve never seen there before. He gets me situated with my feet on the pedestals and starts applying the polish. I’m enjoying my $12 smoothie and not paying much attention to what’s going on. Half way through the polish applying process he asks, “Are these shoes black?” What? My first thought was how did a color blind guy get a job at the shoe shine stand. I said, ‘They are NOW!” with a chuckle. He laughed and continued to polish, never looking up. He finished the job, I paid him and headed back to B-22 to catch my flight. I couldn’t help but wonder though as I walked away, how many people had experienced the mysterious phenomenon of the “color changing shoes.”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-5309449962435927083?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/5309449962435927083/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/03/color-changing-shoes.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5309449962435927083'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5309449962435927083'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/03/color-changing-shoes.html' title='Color Changing Shoes'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-6698206991278422216</id><published>2009-03-22T11:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-22T11:26:51.388-07:00</updated><title type='text'>S.W.A.T. Team at School</title><content type='html'>I was running some errands the other day after doing some &lt;a href="http://www.creativeauthorvisits.com/"&gt;reading programs&lt;/a&gt; and got an email on my PDA from our kids’ principal. It said:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Please be advised that the SWAT van has broken down in the vicinity of our school. Many officers have been standing around waiting for assistance but are being moved from the area in an effort to squelch rumors that there is a problem at the school.  Please help us alleviate any concerns or rumors regarding this matter.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All I need to add is that, “You can’t make up stuff this good!”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-6698206991278422216?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/6698206991278422216/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/03/swat-team-at-school.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/6698206991278422216'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/6698206991278422216'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/03/swat-team-at-school.html' title='S.W.A.T. Team at School'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-7050051341050216579</id><published>2009-01-25T14:09:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-25T14:17:33.965-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SXzkdx30ZqI/AAAAAAAAABI/GjBGN_sYNyM/s1600-h/After+the+race+2.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SXzkdx30ZqI/AAAAAAAAABI/GjBGN_sYNyM/s320/After+the+race+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295358462135658146" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"  &gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Half Marathon Men&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The story of Barry and Tim’s Excellent Disney half-marathon adventure aka two guys having a mid-life crisis.&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They arrived at the Disney motel.  Tim booked low budget on this one because Barry is such a tight-wad.  At the check in desk Tim whooped out his travel agent badge, another one of his ponzi schemes, and asked for a room upgrade.  The lady said, “You’re already in a preferred room.”  Barry said, “What if we preferred a better one?”  She said, “This IS a VALUE RESORT.”  Tim said, “That’s two words that just don’t go together.”  Barry asked, “What is a preferred room?”  She said, “It’s the one we preferred to put you in.”  She had a sense of humor after all.&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next day the boys go to pick up their runner’s packets and T-shirts.  Even if they don’t finish the race they get to keep the $100 T-shirt. &lt;/span&gt;  &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Race day began at 2:30 am with an alarm.  Bright eyed and bushy tailed the boys headed for the bus to the Epcot starting line.  Ok, they got on the bus but weren't too bushy tailed.  The race began at 6:00 am so there was a great deal of time to stand in line at one of the thousands of port-a-pottys.  They also watc hed some guy named Nigel sing 80's music off key, who had really big hair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;As the starting time neared and the port-a-potty lines grew longer, they started their 1.5 mile trek to the starting line. Guess it was too much to ask for the bus driver to let them out there. Disney had turned the race start into a celebration with music videos, trivia and Mickey Mouse. With thoughts of not finishing, under training and over eating, they turned it into an anxiety attack. Disney announced that along the race there would be several stations with water and sports drinks.  Mile 3 was water, mile 8 was food, and mile 12 a morphine drip.&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Barry and Tim ran through the Magic Kingdom, Epcot and the Disney sewage treatment facility. It turned out they had made a wrong turn at the Dumbo ride. Once they were back on course, things went well until half way through mile 10 when Tim's cramps started and Barry's bladder got full. That's what you'd call 'a situation.' Tim stretched while Barry found a port –a-potty and then the adventure continued, but at a slower pace.&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally, the end was in sight. For the last half mile the streets were lined with people with bells and whistles cheering everyone on. Disney even had a head cheerleader on a loud speaker with way too much energy. Barry wanted to smack him but couldn't find him. Tim and Barry crossed the finish line in 3 hours 8 minutes 22 seconds, side by side with their arms raised. Everyone thought they were acting victorious. They were actually reaching out for a paramedic! A few steps past the finish line, Disney gave everyone a bottle of water and wrapped them in a silver plastic blanket which was quite comfy - NOT! Then the boys saw them . . . their coveted Donald Duck gold medals. As they limped up to receive their metals it was an emotional moment.  As they placed the metal around Tim’s neck a tear formed in his eye.  It would have happened to Barry too but all the moisture had left his body.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;There were 27,000 runners at Disney and Tim and Barry finished third . . . from the end!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-7050051341050216579?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/7050051341050216579/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/01/half-marathon-men-story-of-barry-and.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/7050051341050216579'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/7050051341050216579'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/01/half-marathon-men-story-of-barry-and.html' title=''/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SXzkdx30ZqI/AAAAAAAAABI/GjBGN_sYNyM/s72-c/After+the+race+2.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-5089002183686860418</id><published>2009-01-03T09:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-06T04:57:37.261-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Put Down "7"</title><content type='html'>Last night we were on our annual pilgrimage to see Santa at the Mall of Georgia. That's where the REAL Santa is. We left right after school so my 4th grader was doing his homework in the car. Kristie and I were helping him with some of his math . . . something she's much better suited for than me. On one problem in particular, Kristie and I were disagreeing over how to arrive at the proper answer. Kerwin, our 4th grader was growing impatient. Finally he said, "I'll just put down SEVEN!" It was so spontaneous and so far from correct, that we both started laughing out loud. He was laughing too. Finally we asked him why seven? "Because SEVEN is my lucky number, so it might be right."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then on the way home we had just crossed back into South Carolina, over Hartwell Lake. About that time Kerwin asked where we are. I told him that we'd just crossed back into SC. He said, "Oh, was that the Mississippi river?" He was very serious. Katie our 2nd grader replied in a real snooty tone, "Kerwin, that's NOT the Mississippi River. We're still in the United States.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;These, my friends are prime examples of kids say the darndest things!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-5089002183686860418?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/5089002183686860418/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/01/put-down-7.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5089002183686860418'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/5089002183686860418'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/01/put-down-7.html' title='Put Down &quot;7&quot;'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4323312706911380295.post-7565450846566439719</id><published>2009-01-03T09:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-03T09:13:03.444-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Brand New Blog</title><content type='html'>OK so I have a FINALLY blog! Welcome to the modern age . . . I guess. Since I love to write, it seems I should have done this long ago. Over this weekend, I'm in Houston, TX at a conference for school show presenters.  Stay tuned because I have many stories to share . . .&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4323312706911380295-7565450846566439719?l=timsonefelt.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/feeds/7565450846566439719/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/01/brand-new-blog.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/7565450846566439719'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4323312706911380295/posts/default/7565450846566439719'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://timsonefelt.blogspot.com/2009/01/brand-new-blog.html' title='Brand New Blog'/><author><name>Tim Sonefelt</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08052133156781129584</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ws3XTU1FTBk/SgIwm7nWHsI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ey40bzQAf5M/S220/BlogPic.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
