Q: Old Zeke handed Justin his day's worth of mail and looked longingly at the cool shade under the porch, half hoping, half anticipating an invitation to enjoy a cool drink and a few minutes out of the sun. His state-of-the-art mail delivery vehicle, an old green Ford with busted air-conditioning, sometimes elicited sympathy from those along his route, but the ones with beer were the best. However, Justin just looked through his mail and then began watching the sky. "You ever think about gravity?" Justin asked suddenly. "No," admitted Old Zeke, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Justin sighed a little. "You ever fall off your ladder?" "Well," considered Zeke. Damned if this wasn't a round-about way to offer a fella a drink, but maybe after all this Justin would offer him a beer instead of that watery lemonade he made. "Yeah." "How long did it take you to fall?" Well hell, muttered Old Zeke under his breath. Maybe all those stakes he was driving in had given Justin a touch of the sun. The thought made him consider hauling Justin back to town, although the truck might finish the job the sun had started. "A second or two," Zeke replied. But before he could load Justin into the truck, he figured he would have to collect a few things from the house, and maybe from the fridge he'd collect a few drinks... "That thing up there hasn't fallen a foot in ten minutes or so." Maybe Justin had a small bottle of something tucked away under the... "What thing?" Justin pointed. Zeke shielding his eyes with his hands and looked up. "Oh, that weather balloon?" Justin's expectant face seemed to droop. "That what it is?" "Yep. Looks like it's almost out of helium, the way it's floating so low. Launched 'em myself thirty years ago in the Army." Question: Whose mail truck was parked on the street? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- the Army's
- Zeke's
- Justin's
- not enough information

A: Zeke's

input: OPTIONS:
- 3 minutes
- About 30 mins
- not enough information
- 5 hours Now, answer this question: Hmmm that's a hard one. At first I was going to say giving them daily chores, but the "reward" part of that has actually not been realized yet (what with all the eye rolling and such). So I will have to go with family dinners at the table. Sometimes, "dinner" is fast food, sometimes it is a meal I slaved over for hours - that part doesn't seem to matter. Whether we are talking about our day, learning manners, having serious discussions, or laughing until we spit our drinks - it is where grow. There have been horrible nights at the table, where we shared bad news. There have been fabulous nights where we celebrated successes and talked about exciting things to come. There have been nights where the kids can see that Mom and Dad are "at odds" and nights where they see us push that aside and joke with each other for the sake of saving the evening. When they were little, we did "About Your Day" - one funny thing, one sad thing, one new thing you learned. Now, they are all teenagers, and the conversations just seem to flow, with never enough time to fit it all in before someone has to rush off to work, to study, or to get ready for bed because we are eating "after practice". My twins will be Seniors next year, and I know that our table will look a little different from now on. But when I look at that worn oak (outdated) table, that needs refinishing in the worst way - I am grateful for the evenings there, where my kiddos learned to be a family. Don't be misled, we are not the Cleavers. We have "Fun Friday" where Mom does not get to badger them about their table manners (ugh - they revel in this), Sometimes we eat in the living room while we watch a movie, sometimes we eat in shifts because of our schedules. However, the majority of meals have been together ~ I feel like this is a gift we gave them. Question: Dinner probably usually lasted: === The answer to the above question is
A:
output: About 30 mins

Problem:OPTIONS:
- a couple of decades
- several years
- not enough information
- a few days

Jason had been sitting alone at his table, staring at the tall, platinum blonde for an hour. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of kissing her full lips while his hands explored her lean, muscled body. Tonight he didn't need the whiskey to warm him up. But he kept drinking it anyway. She stepped away from the mike, sat her acoustic guitar on its stand, and walked down from the small stage. Jason beat all the other losers to the bar and sat down beside her. "You must be pretty thirsty after all that beautiful singing." How many times had she heard that line? But at age 33, she'd probably heard every pickup line known to man. "Yeah," she said, giving him a quick glance. He wasn't a bad looking guy. Probably a couple of inches shorter than her. At six-foot-two, she was accustomed to that. But a lot of men couldn't deal with her height. They liked to be the tall one in the relationship. Not that she'd had many relationships. Mostly one-nighters. Without her saying a word, the bartender sat a glass of ice down in front of her, and poured her a can of Diet Coke. "Thanks, Joe." She took a sip as he walked away. "I'm Jason." "Sondra," she said, looking straight ahead as she took another sip. "I really enjoyed your music--especially that last song. Did you write it yourself?" "Yeah." "Wow. It was sad, but moving. You've got talent." Here we go, she thought. And I suppose you're a talent agent or a record producer, or you've got a friend in the business. And you'd be more than happy to get me a record deal--assuming I'd be willing to go with you right now to some sleazy motel. "I'm sick of this business. In fact, you just heard my last performance. First thing Monday morning I'm going out to find me a real job. One that will pay the bills." Question: How long has Sondra been probably performing for? === The answer to the above question is
****
A:
a few days