Innovative Features

After owning my Nissan Maxima for eight years now, I finally learned why the car honks at me every time I put air in the tires. I have been annoyed by this feature for years now, but I had had enough today and texted my neighbor who is a mechanic at a Nissan dealership. He told me that it’s an innovative “feature” that Nissan added to all of their cars back in 2013 called the “Easy-Fill Tire Alert.” Apparently, the car honks to let you know that it’s detecting the air pressure during fill, honks again when it’s reached the optimal level, and honks more aggressively to let you know that you’ve overinflated it.

I personally think this is a stupid feature, but there is no way to turn it off. So, I will continue to be deafened by this loud honking every time I’m airing up my tires in my small, echoey garage. The automaker said that it saves people from having to carry around a tire gauge. But what place to air up tires doesn’t have a tire gauge nowadays?! I mean is there some guy out there blowing up his tires with his lips?!

Guy 1 [blowing on tire]: “Is that enough air?”
Guy 2: “I don’t know. It hasn’t honked yet, so keep blowing.”
Guy 1 [blowing on tire again until car honks]: “How about now?”
Guy 2: “A little more.”

…car honks aggressively several times…

Guy 2: “Oh, too much. Let some air out.”

…Guy 1 lets some air out, car honks again…

Guy 2: “You let too much air out. Put your lips back on there and blow like your life depends on it!”

Consequently, my spousal unit found out today that her Audi has massaging seats with three different settings. This is the difference between German engineering and Japanese engineering. An innovative feature to the Germans is massaging seats with three different settings for wave, kneading, and kidney punch. An innovative feature to the Japanese is a horn that honks while airing up the tires with three different honks to let you know if you’ve started, when you’ve hit optimal pressure, and when you’ve gone too far. Personally, I think the Germans are light years ahead.

Fight or Flight

When I was in high school, we lived in a house in a little city in the middle of Houston, TX. It was an older home from the 1970s that has since been torn down and replaced by a monstrosity. The front door opened up to a quite large entry/formal dining room. Off the left of that was a door that led to a long hallway. All of the bedroom doors opened off the hallway, and at the very end of it was the bathroom door.

My girlfriend at the time, KE, didn’t enjoy being home, because her single mother was out on dates a lot, which meant that she was home alone. So, she spent the majority of her time at my house. It was during one of these evenings, when we were there by ourselves, that I got the brilliant idea to scare her.

She was on her way to the bathroom, and I hid myself in the darkened doorway of my parent’s bedroom, which was just to the right of the bathroom. The moment that she flipped on the bathroom light, I jumped out and screamed, “BOO!” KE recoiled away from me and screamed, the terror obvious across her face. Then, she swatted me, as I laughed, before going into the bathroom to finish what she had started.

A few weeks later, we were once again alone in the house, and KE decided to get her revenge on me. So, she hid in the same darkened doorway that I had hid and waited for me to go to the bathroom. As soon as I turned on the bathroom light, she jumped out and screamed, “BOO!” Unfortunately for her, I didn’t have the same reaction as her. I screamed, but instead of recoiling, I sent a reactive punch straight into her chest. It knocked her backwards into the dark, while a look of horror crossed my face as I suddenly realized that it was her.

I rushed to her to see if she was all right. She was furious with me, and probably furious in general that she hadn’t come out on top with either of these scaring encounters. But she never tried to scare me again. They say people either have a fight or flight reaction when encountering a scary situation. She learned the hard way that night that mine is definitely fight.

The Mimic

MT was telling us a story about her daughter, OT, when OT was four years old. OT was riding in the car with her father one day in traffic, when someone suddenly cut him off. Out of habit and instinct, he called the person an f***ing moron and didn’t think anything about it. A few days later, MT and OT were in the car, when someone cut MT off too. She brushed it off, but all of a sudden OT screams from the backseat, “F***ing moron!”

Caught completely off guard by her sweet, four year-old swearing from the backseat, MT tentatively asked, “Where did you hear that word?” OT said, “I heard papa say it.” “I see,” MT said. “And do you know what it means?” OT replied, “I think so.” “So, how would you use it in a sentence?” MT asked. OT thought for a second. “I don’t know. I guess f***ing tomatoes.” MT was still shocked, but she also couldn’t fault her daughter’s logic. Frankly, she didn’t like tomatoes either. But she tried to downplay it, so she told OT that that wasn’t considered a very nice word by most people, and she shouldn’t say it anymore.

A few nights later, they were all sitting around the table, having dinner. MT’s husband was kind of agitated, and his thoughts were confusingly all over the place. He was in the middle of a rant, when all of a sudden, OT looks up from her food and says, “What the f*** are you talking about?!” NT was stunned into silence. MT had to run out the room, so that she wouldn’t laugh in front of them.

The moral of the story is that kids are, in fact, listening. And they will repeat the worst things we say in perfect context.

Bum Rock

A house around the corner put some decorative rocks in their flowerbed. This declaration isn’t all that astounding on its own. However, two semi-round rocks were placed next to each other with a slight space in between them, and with their pinkish coloring, the effect looks like a large bum protruding from the dirt getting sunburned in the afternoon sun. Every time I drive by them, I get the distinct feeling that this was done on purpose to unsubtly moon all of the passing cars. Which if I’m honest, does not offend me so much as makes me laugh.

Sitting Next to a Knight

I went to church today, and I was sitting there waiting for the service to start. A couple came into my row and sat in the seats next to me. At first, the woman was positioned in the seat closest to me, but then unexpectedly, the man switched seats with her. It struck me that he did it to shield his wife from this strange man sitting alone in the row. It was funny that he’d feel the need to do that in church. But it was also sweet that he’d chivalrously do that for her at all.

Gender Identification

My spousal unit discovered that she had an issue today in her lab. When breeding mice, it’s important to keep track of which is male and which is female. But what do you do when the mice identify as a different gender than the one assigned at birth? She couldn’t figure out which cage to put them in. Some requested special accommodations, and others got their lawyers involved. By the time she got it all sorted, the mice were too old to be used, and the whole experiment was scrapped. Just when she thought she finally had a plan, some of the mice requested gender reassignment. Then, my spousal unit had to remove them from the experiment, because they had an unfair advantage over the other mice!

A Dog's Life

I grew up with dogs as pets. In fact, I can’t remember a time in my life when we didn’t have a dog. And after my parents got divorced, sometimes both of them would have one…or more. I can’t remember all of them or their personalities, but some of their names still float through my memories like ghosts.

Joey, who was actually a girl, but who I named with a boy’s name because my mother wouldn’t tell me the gender of the dog until after I named her. I remember that she had a litter of puppies under our storage shed one night, but they all died before we could find them.

Wild Turkey (nicknamed W.T.), who was named after my stepfather’s favorite alcoholic beverage. He was dognapped from our yard one day.

Tiffany, who was the sweetest, kindest dog that I’ve ever met. And who in my anger one day, I dropped over the fence of her dog pen, injuring her leg, which she suffered with for the rest of her life. Despite that, she never held that against me, and she loved me unconditionally. I, however, felt guilty about it until the day she died. She was truly my stepfather’s buddy, following him around everywhere he went and laying on his feet while he played computer games. And I’m pretty sure he secretly sneaked her sunflower seeds under the desk! My stepfather was destroyed when Tiffany passed away.

Amanda, the Rottweiler, who in many ways was as dumb as a bag of rocks, but was also a very sweet and loving dog. She loved to get head scratches (and belly rubs when she could get them), even climbing up in the chair with you to get them. She had no idea that she was as big as she was, thinking that it was perfectly acceptable to pass as a lap dog. She was my mom’s devotee, and she’d follow her around everywhere she went. Even if she was only leaving the room for twelve seconds, Amanda would never let my mom out of her sight. She also had an underbite, and her bottom teeth would stick out of her gums, giving her sort of a redneck look.

I always thought it was funny when we’d order pizza. We had a glass outer door on the front, so my stepfather would leave the front door open, so he could see when the pizza guy would arrive. When the pizza guy would come up to the door, Amanda would walk up to that outer door and stare at him through the glass, not menacingly, just curiously. The pizza guy would freak out! He had no idea that Amanda was sizing him up as another potential head scratcher.

Whenever my mom would go to bed, she’d throw the “fancy” pillows from her bed on the floor. Now, the dogs weren’t allowed in my parent’s bedroom, being banished to the den every night. But sometime in the middle of the night, Amanda would always sneak in and lay down on the floor next to the bed, putting her head on the fancy pillows. She might have gotten away with it too, if she didn’t snore so loud that she’d wake my mom up. She’d get shooed back into the den, only to come back a few minutes later. Ultimately, my mom gave up trying to fight it, and as she headed for the bedroom, she’d say, “Come on, Mandy, it’s time for bed.” She got Amanda a large, oversized pillow and laid it on the floor next to the bed. It was the single greatest thing in Amanda’s life…being with my mom in the forbidden room with her head on a soft pillow, snoring away the night…very loudly!

Misty, who was a cross between a terrier and a poodle, sometimes affectionately called a Toodle. She was the smartest and most empathetic dog that I ever remember us having. She was absolutely my dad’s second mate, sitting stuffed next to him in his recliner while he read his paper every night. She also loved licking his fingers after he’d eaten popcorn with cheese on it. One Thanksgiving, my grandmother told him to stop slipping her food under the table. To which my dad replied that she liked the food. To which my grandmother replied that Misty was so in love with my dad that she’d eat poop off a fork if my dad fed it to her, but that didn’t mean it was good for her!

But the thing I remember most about Misty was that she was a fierce and patient hunter…and the squirrels that frequented our backyard were her mortal enemies. She’d hunker down in the long grass, waiting for hours for them to meander into her territory. She’d spy them in the trees, but still she’d wait. She’d see them step gingerly onto the ground, looking around for danger, but still she’d wait. She’d see them take a few tentative steps into the grass, but still she’d wait. And even as they’d get more confidence and step farther away from the tree, still she’d wait. She’d wait for them to get midway between the ash tree and the fig tree, lulled into a false sense of safety and so distracted trying to dig up their buried pecans that they didn’t see her coming. Then, she’d strike.

It was quick. It was precise. Just a white and black blur, as she’d streak through the lush green grass. The squirrels would do what squirrels do…panic. And in their panic, they’d run toward one tree and then the other, indecisive as to which one offered the safest option. As they ran figure eights in the yard, Misty would be closing in on her prey. Finally, the squirrels would pick a tree and take off as fast as they could toward it. They were faster, but Misty had the head start. She also had the brains to head toward the tree in an intercepting path, not chase the squirrels directly. Usually, the squirrels would make it just as her teeth were chomping down on the fluff of their tails, but that’s when they’d make their last calculated error.

They’d assume that getting to the tree ensured their safety. What they didn’t count on was Misty following them up it! The ash tree in our backyard had a “V” between the two main branches about three feet off the ground that created a little pocket. My brother and I used to love getting up into this pocket to play. Misty realized that with enough speed, she could scramble up the three feet and safely get to it as well, which gave her a safe place to regain her footing to attempt a higher ascent into the branches. I have never seen a dog that loved climbing trees before, and apparently neither had the squirrels. You could see the almost certain doom in their eyes, when they suddenly realized that the one advantage they had over a dog, climbing trees, was now a level playing field. Ultimately, instinct took over, and they soon realized that Misty’s climbing prowess could only take her so far up the tree. So, they’d climb just high enough out of reach to chitter their insults down at her. I never saw her actually catch a squirrel, but I think the end goal was really the hunt anyway.

Shelby, who my dad got as a puppy when my spousal unit and I were dating, and who I named after the famous race car. He was a Sheltie, and from day one, he chose me as his human. Despite the best efforts of my dad to win the top spot in Shelby’s affection, he remained my dog throughout his life. He’d always choose to sit next to me on the couch during Pizza Movie Nights. He’d always prefer playing with me and hanging out with me. If I was in the house, he’d just prefer me in general. My dad was only seen as a suitable replacement when I was gone.

I think our bond really solidified during the year that I moved into my dad’s house after college. We connected on a much deeper level. I didn’t try to make Shelby be what I wanted him to be. I took the time to understand who he was, and I appreciated that. He was soulful and thoughtful, almost poetic. Sometimes, he didn’t want my dad messing with him. He just wanted some quiet time to think. So, he’d head out into the backyard, lie down in the grass, and look up at the sky. Shelties are known as “sky gazers,” because of all the dog breeds, they are more likely to look up at the sky, watching planes or clouds roll by. And that was Shelby to a tee. He’d lie out there for hours just watching the sky and thinking. I have no idea what he was thinking about, but there was a deepness in his eyes, like he was grasping the enormity of the universe and contemplating his place in it all.

I was the only human allowed to disturb this time of thoughtfulness and self-reflection, because I respected the sanctity of it. I’d sit quietly next to him in the grass, my hand gently stroking his back, watching the sky too. My dad didn’t get it. He always had to be engaging you or had to be surrounded by noise. He could never just sit quietly and be.

A few months before Shelby died, my spousal unit and I visited my dad and stepmother for Thanksgiving. By this time, my parents had long since left the home where Shelby had spent his early years and moved out to a ranch in the country. They also had a younger Sheltie, who Shelby and I both found annoying. As the cacophony of noise increased inside, the Thanksgiving Day parade on the TV, a myriad of conversations overlapping in the kitchen, annoying Sheltie barking for treats, I sought solace in the one place that I’d always found it at my dad’s house…with Shelby. But he was nowhere to be found. As I searched the house for him, I glanced out the window and saw him lying in the backyard. I snuck out through the back door, and he glanced up at me as I stepped outside. Neither of us said a word. We didn’t have to. We had always understood each other and appreciated the quiet. I sat down in a chair and absently scratched his head as we watched the cows grazing in the distance.

At some point, I looked down at Shelby’s black, white, and brown body…more white now than before…and a feeling passed through me. I can’t explain it, but I somehow knew that it was the last time that I’d ever see him. And through that strange connection that we had, I think he knew exactly what I was thinking. He looked up at me, not with sadness or regret, but with understanding and comfort. Almost as if to say, “I’ll miss you too. But it’s going to be okay. You’ll be okay. This is the way it’s supposed to be.” I started crying then. Even as I write this now, I’m crying thinking about it. I didn’t want that day to end. I wanted to hang onto it…to hang onto him. I wanted to cling to every last moment with him. It suddenly seemed like the most important thing. The food, the people, the din of noise…none of it mattered. Just this moment with Shelby in the backyard, sitting in companionable silence and watching the sky.

It really sucks that God made it so that humans live so much longer than dogs. I was there for the entirety of his all too brief life. I have never missed another dog as much as I miss Shelby. I have never had a connection like that with a dog. Honestly, I’ve never had a connection with a human like that either. He was like my soul mate, which I understand sounds weird to say about a dog. And when he was gone, it was like a part of me was gone too. I can’t talk or think about him without crying. My little sky gazer. I hope God found you a special place to watch the clouds and the stars forever.

What is the Time?

My mother-in-law is in town for visit. Every day, I come downstairs and ask her if she’s hungry and would like some lunch. Every day, without fail, she says, “What is the time?” and looks at her watch, which is still set to Greek time. It’s like our daily ritual.

What does it matter what time it is?! If you’re hungry, then you eat! If it wasn’t lunch time, then why would I be coming downstairs and talking about it?! And furthermore, how does a watch set to the wrong time help her make up her mind anyway?! “Hmmm…I see that it’s 8:00 p.m., so I guess I should eat something.”

It also cracks me up that she acts like she’s doing ME a favor. Like she’s not really hungry, but she doesn’t want me to have to eat alone. She’ll inevitably say, “Eh, I guess I could eat something…something small.” Then, she’ll horf down a large sandwich in three minutes flat.

UPDATE: My spousal unit said that her grandmother would eat at exactly 12:00 p.m. every day, so her mother is now the same way. So, when she’s checking the time, it’s to make sure that it’s not too early to eat!

A Study in Green

I have asked my spousal unit to write her next research grant on breaking down and identifying the underlying components in flatulence. My hypothesis is that flatulence is not all the same, but is affected by the foods we eat. Thus, some flatulence has a smell, while others do not, just like some makes a sound while others do not. Furthermore, not all flatulence smells the same, so it must be affected by something.

But truly what I want her to prove is that with the release of every emanation, we give off a little bit of DNA with it. This identifying marker could finally be used to match the flatulence to the person and forevermore end the debate of who tooted on the elevator.

She adamantly refused, and told me the whole conversation was ludicrous. She followed it up by telling me that she might write a grant to determine how many brain cells she just lost listening to that stupid conversation. I think I need to take my ideas to a scientist with more innovative foresight.

Freeeeedooooom!

A little baby just ran by me, running from her mother and screaming, “Liberty!!!”

Personalized Underwear

I had a dream last night that I was the director on a movie. Before we began shooting, I bought everyone in the cast a pair of underwear with the role and name of their character stitched into it. I figured it would help the actors visualize “stepping into” their roles and becoming the part. Then, when they were ready to step out again, they could just take them off. It would help them separate their professional lives from their personal lives. There were a few cast members that didn’t wear underwear, so I got them personalized socks instead. Same concept though.

Hard of Hearing

Me: “As I’ve gotten older, I notice that I talk to myself more.”
My Mom: “That’s okay. Wait until you have to start asking yourself to repeat things because you weren’t paying attention.”

The Alien Parasite

Spousal Unit: “Do you want pizza for dinner?”
Me: “It doesn’t matter what I eat. I’ll be dead by tomorrow, so sure, why not.”
Spousal Unit: “Why will you be dead?”
Me: “I’ve had an upset stomach all day. I’ve spent more time in the bathroom than out of it. I’m pretty sure that I have an alien parasite.”
Spousal Unit [laughing]: “Where did you come up with that?”
Me: “I plugged in my symptoms on WebMD, so you know it’s true.”
Spousal Unit: “I see. It’s probably from the leak soup you ate.”
Me: “I had that for lunch today, so it’s not affecting me already.”
Spousal Unit: “Lactose intolerance maybe?”
Me: “I never have an issue from the dinky amount of milk I have in my cereal in the mornings.”
Spousal Unit: “Hmmm, I guess you’re right then…alien parasite.”
Me: “That’s what I thought too. I figured I’m going to lose half my organs tomorrow because of the leak soup. So, losing the other half to the pizza probably won’t matter. It might even be a good thing. Once I’m empty inside, the parasite won’t have any reason to stay! Of course, then I’ll have to worry about blowing away. I’ll just be a dada balloon!”
My Son [laughing]: “A dada balloon…that’s funny.”
Spousal Unit: “This conversation has ventured into the ridiculous.”
Me: “Just now? It hasn’t been ridiculous the entire time?!”

The Lab-Warming Gift

My spousal unit has been setting up her new lab for the past two months now. As a lab-warming gift, I got her a coffee mug that said, “My Husband is Hotter Than This Coffee.” I figured it would give me some street cred with her new colleagues. What I didn’t plan on was that she’d only be drinking iced coffee out of it. Talk about an epic backfire!

The Ool

When I was growing up, the neighborhood pool had a sign out front that said:

Welcome to our OOL.
Notice there’s no “P” in POOL?
Let’s keep it that way.

Parent Drop-Off

I passed an elementary school today that had a sign out front that said, “Parent Drop-Off / Pick-Up.” I guess this is where kids go to get rid of their parents for a few hours when they just need a break from them.

To-Go Order

We ordered breakfast this morning. But since I was already out in the car for an impromptu shopping trip, my spousal unit asked me to pick it up instead of having it delivered. When I walked into the restaurant, the hostess approached me. I told her that I had a TO-GO order, and she asked, “Did someone already pick it up?”

I was very tempted to reply, “Yeah, they did. I just wanted to drive up here and let you know that it had been picked up already.” But instead I said, “Not yet. That’s why I’m here.”

The Intimate Encounter with the Sink: Day 3

Today, the reds in my bruise have dissolved into a faint orange with the yellows becoming more pronounced. I told my mom that I had moved into the Summer collection now. I started to tell her that the Fall collection was next, but I guess I’ve already done the “fall” collection. That’s how I got into this mess to begin with!

The Intimate Encounter with the Sink: Day 2

Today, the bruising has now started moving back along my eyelid. It’s actually a pretty blend of reds, pinks, and yellows, and it almost looks as if I have eye shadow on. Of course, it’s only on the one eye, so it’s like I went to the mall and had someone at a kiosk give me a free sample, but I decided to leave before they had a chance to do both eyes! I told my mom that this was the Spring collection.

The Intimate Encounter with the Sink: Day 1

Around 2:30 this morning, I got up to use the restroom. No, that’s not the significant part of this story, but it lays the groundwork. I didn’t want to turn the light on and disturb my wife, so I went in the dark. Normally, this isn’t an issue as there is enough ambient light coming from the den to act as a night light. I’m also usually pretty steady, but for some reason this time I was a little more groggy than usual, and I ended dropping something on the floor. As I bent over to pick it up, I accidentally slammed my head into the corner of the sink, just missing my eyeball and catching it along my eyebrow instead. However, I hit it with enough force to knock myself unconscious, and then I then tipped backwards and hit the back of my head on the edge of the shower basin.

And that’s how I awoke, crumpled in the corner of the bathroom, in the dark, with no recollection of any it happening, and wondering what I was doing on the floor. I managed to gingerly lift myself up and slide along the wall to the door, so I could call to my spousal unit for help. She came running into the bathroom, switched the light in, and exclaimed, “Oh my god!” That’s when I knew it was bad. And seconds later, I felt the blood start to drip from my eye to confirm it.

My head was spinning, and I was nauseous, so I kept my eyes closed. My spousal unit was freaking out, asking me what I needed. So, I directed her to get me something to stop the bleeding. After she got me a wet rag for my eye, I asked her to look at the back of my head, since a dull throb had started to emanate from there as well. Apparently, I had a laceration there too. I asked her to get me some ice, while I held pressure to both sides of my head. My spousal unit was adamant that we go to the emergency room, but I was just as adamant that I wasn’t going. I didn’t want to wake up my son and make him sit in the emergency room all night while the hospital staff deemed us not enough of an emergency to warrant immediate attention. Been there, done that.

After the flow of blood slowed down, she wanted to at least get me off the floor, but I told her that I needed to lay there a little longer. When the room had stopped spinning, and I felt like I could move without throwing up, I crawled to the bed on my hands and knees. My spousal unit managed to help me into the bed, and then she went to get me something to drink while I continued to hold the ice on my wounds. Since there wasn’t much else to be done, I told her to try to get some rest.

The pain came on gradually and made it virtually impossible for me to get any sleep. Not to mention that I’m a side sleeper, and I would have had to choose between the cut on one side or the cut on the other side of my head. So, I stayed up for the rest of the night with my eyes closed and half listening to the TV drone on in the background, wondering why these things always happen to me. I’m going to take a sick day today. I’m too exhausted to be able to focus on work.

Spooky Meetings

Yesterday, on a whim, I bought this Halloween mask from the store. I’m not really sure what I’ll do with it, but I liked it, and it was relatively inexpensive, so it was an impulse buy. At the very least, I know that Troy will enjoy wearing it around.

For some unknown reason, I decided to wear the mask during a meeting at work today. I don’t usually use the video during meetings, but this one meeting requires us to be on camera, so I figured it was the perfect opportunity to try it out. I didn’t want it to be too scary, so I also put my glasses on outside of the mask. The reaction was priceless.

It’s funny how many people will be doing other things while they’re waiting for a meeting to start. Some are looking down at their phones, while others are distracted by something in the background or on the other monitor. So, nobody noticed me at first. But then someone glanced up from their phone and caught sight of me and jumped, saying “whoa!” It was classic…almost as good as the time that I posed a skeleton at my desk before turning the camera on.

The Talking Shoes

When I was in high school, I had a pair of talking shoes. They were a pair of black Converse All-Stars where the sole had separated from the toe. You could see my socked foot sticking through the gap, and it looked like a tongue sticking out of the "mouth." Whenever I'd walk, the shoes would separate, so it looked like they were flapping their lips in silent conversation. 

At first, I kept them because I was cheap, and I didn't want to replace perfectly good shoes just because they had a minor defect. Then, I became known for my talking shoes, so it became sort of a trademark. The problem was that they were getting worse and worse, so it was getting harder to actually walk around in them. I solved that problem, but putting duct tape around them and drawing a zipper on it in permanent marker. That way, it just looked like I was tired of hearing what they had to say all day.

I didn't really realize the impact that my talking shoes had on people around me until someone actually mentioned it when signing my yearbook. Oh well, I guess there are worse things to be remembered for in high school. The sad part is that is ALL I was remembered for in high school. My mark on the teenage world was talking shoes!

Chicken Fingers

I love chicken fingers. I really do. But I realized something today as I was driving in traffic. If I eat chicken fingers, then there's a whole bunch of chickens out there that can't check social media, pick their beaks, make play gun gestures, or express themselves with road rage. I’m depriving them of another side of life.

Sorry Gay Driver

On the way to the mall today, I passed a car with a bumper sticker on the window that said, “Sorry Gay Driver.” My first thought was, “What the heck does that mean?!” Was she apologizing for being a gay driver, apologizing for being a bad driver and blaming it on being gay, apologizing and calling me a gay driver at the same time? Or maybe she wasn't apologizing at all! Maybe she was just informing us that she was a sorry...gay...driver, so we needed to watch out. And what does being gay have to do with driving? Does being gay make you drive differently?

My second thought was that it’s interesting how the world has changed. She’s not just unashamed of being gay, but she’s proud of it. Like someone would be proud to be Black or a woman. So much so that she feels the need to advertise it on the window of her car. I don’t feel the need to advertise that I’m straight. I don’t feel proud of that either. It just is what it is. It’s disturbing that it’s become trendy to be gay.

Then again I don’t feel the need to advertise my race or gender either. And my feelings about my race or gender wouldn’t be characterized as pride either. I’d say they’re more contentment. I’m comfortable with who I am.

The Memory Hoarders

CC was trying to relate a story about his son today, and I realized that he was struggling to remember it, because he doesn’t write things down. No matter how many times I’ve suggested he do it, he won’t. He relates the stories to me and expects me to record them. Why? Because I’m a memory hoarder. And I was born from a memory hoarder.

My mother and I attach sentimental value and stories to everything. We remember, because it’s important to remember. If we forget and don’t pass it along, then it’s like it never happened. I heard someone in a movie say, “If we forget someone after they die, then it’s like they died twice.”

Notes from a Madman

Sometimes when I’m driving, I’ll ask Siri to take a note for me. I’ll go back months or years later and find the notes and have no idea what they mean. They could be grocery lists, I suppose, or possibly a dream I had, or a reminder for a new blog post, or maybe Siri just screwed up what I was trying to say. At this point, I have no idea anymore.

Here are some of my favorites:

• My feet stank and then I ran off and had soup
• Coming to stop and then running red light brother was cool
• Told GPS to avoid tolls GPS immediately took me to the toll road has contract with toll authority
• Waving at blind horses
• Father hanging from the ceiling in a harness

And then some of them read like headlines in a newspaper:

• Banana pudding and milk
• Leek soup makes me toot
• Smokers peeing on my suitcase
• Cucumber scented resumes
• The bus is coming

Just in Case

As we prepared to leave the house today for a birthday party, I found myself standing at the sink, scrubbing dishes and thinking. I realized that I tend to approach leaving the house for a day outing with the family a little differently than most people. Before I can leave, I like to tidy up. I make the beds, sweep the floor, do the dishes, straighten the pillows on the couch, make sure all the laundry is folded and put away, and clear my browser history. My thinking is that if today is the day the bus gets me, and my mother has to deal with my estate, then at least we didn’t leave a mess behind for her. I mean dealing with the remnants of someone's life is hard enough without having to worry about caked on food residue, skid marks, or searches for non-chafing man thongs!

The Cardinal: Revenge

So, I did a little tree pruning on my oak tree in the backyard last weekend, because the grass under the tree wasn't getting enough sunlight.  I decided to cut the bottom two branches off the tree to raise the overall canopy level, which seemed to immediately help.  The problem was that one of the branches was where the stupid cardinal liked to sit and peck at the mirror hanging in the tree.  So, now, he can't conveniently sit and attack his adversary.  It's a little bit of work for him to swoop down from one of the higher branches.  To show his displeasure with me, he's decided to go back to slamming himself into the windows on the back of our house again.  Every morning, without fail, at precisely 7:00 a.m. he launches himself off my fence and into the window...repeatedly...until I finally get up and go wave my arms like a half-crazed, naked lunatic at the window.  Then, he'll go out and start a beef with the mirror in the tree.  I guess I'm going to have to adjust the position of the mirrors in the tree to more align with his particular wants and desires.

The Bus is Coming

Shortly after I got married, I had this recurring dream four nights in a row. It was always the same, so I took it as an omen of my future. In the dream, I was walking across the street when a city bus came out of nowhere and ran me over. I don’t know how far into the future it might be, but I have always assumed since that day that I was destined to meet my end at the front of a bus.

I supposed there are worse ways to go…and possibly better. As far as strange deaths go, it is sort of pedestrian and middle of the road…pun intended. What I have often wondered in the days following is if it was indeed an actual bus or something more metaphorical. Like if I die of a heart attack, which feels like the pressure of a bus on my chest. Or if I die because my spousal unit or son drive me up a wall.

Day of Selfishness

Based on a recommendation from a total stranger at the Disney Store today, I decided to declare today a Day of Selfishness.  The man said that he takes one day a month to do something selfishly for himself, and I loved the concept.  So, I decided to start today.  In the spirit of the day, I decided to buy myself a gift to thank myself for being awesome.  So, I bought a Darth Maul mug.  When I showed it to my spousal unit, she sneered at it and said, "Why would you buy THAT?!"  I sneered right back and replied, "Because it's awesome just like me.  And I don't care if you don't like it, because it was for me.  So, now, you're forbidden to use it!"  This obviously didn't have quite the effect that I had intended, because she said, "I wouldn't be caught dead using that mug, so that's fine with me."

Fuel on the Fire

This morning, my spousal unit told me that she was worried about the grant she left behind at her previous job. Her new employer told her that she’d need to reach out to her old university and obtain permission to bring the grant with her. As per usual, my spousal unit immediately started hashing through all the things that could go wrong, like her old boss blocking the transfer. I told her to stop focusing on negativity and think positively. No matter how many things she could think of that could make this fail, God could overcome them all. When you have Him on your side, none of that other stuff matters. She immediately lashed out at me that I was “chewing her out.”

Later today, I heard her on the phone with her friend, discussing the same situation. Her friend was throwing fuel on my spousal unit’s already blazing fire, not only justifying her concerns, but adding to them. She was basically saying exactly what my spousal unit wanted to hear. Misery loves company, I guess. This is a huge concern of mine about my spousal unit. She has weak faith, and she surrounds herself with other people who are not believers, or who are not practicing believers. They focus on the limitations of the world rather than the power of God. So, instead of building her faith, her friend helped tear it down.

I believe my spousal unit revels in drama and anxiety. She doesn’t believe she deserves more. She doesn’t believe that God cares about her “petty” problems, and she refuses to let God take over. It doesn’t matter how many times that God surprises and amazes her when she feels no hope. The moment the next obstacle comes, she’s back to freaking out again and running through the doomsday list. I get frustrated at how easily she forgets what God literally did for her not two weeks ago. But it frustrates me more that she lashes out at me and latches onto what her unbelieving friends think. The same friends that gave up on every other situation as hopeless and were proven wrong when God did one of His patented miracles.

The saddest part is that my spousal unit has all the qualities to be a great leader and an influencer. People would follow her, and she could make a difference, if she’d just believe…if she’d just let God guide her life. Maybe she could encourage her friends to put their faith in God when their own storms arise instead of encouraging their paths of self-deprecation and destruction.

Meeting Art

I had an unusual amount of meetings today, which I find boring and generally unproductive, especially since most of them only require my presence, but not my actual voice.  It's very easy for me to zone out if I'm not speaking or doing something active, so I entertained myself by arranging my throat lozenges into Picasso-like faces.  Even my art seemed to be questioning the usefulness of these meetings.

The Weeper

I cry a lot nowadays. Nobody knows I do it. It’s always after everyone is gone, and it hits me at the strangest moments. A movie. A song. A memory. Anything can trigger it. I’ll just be sitting there and all of a sudden, I feel a heaviness welling up inside me like a tidal wave. It pours out and washes over me, and I can’t stop it. So, I just let it go. It usually stops after a couple of minutes anyway. But this might happen several times in a day.

The weird thing is that I can’t really remember the last time I cried. It’s been a while, so this feels like I’m catching up for lost time. But I know it’s more than that. Maybe it’s chemical or hormonal. Maybe I’m out of balance so to speak. Nothing else about me has really changed. I’m tired, but not really sad. I’m actually more at peace than I’ve been in a long time. As I’ve drawn closer to God, I’m learning to let more things go.

Honestly, I don’t always feel sad when I’m crying either. Sometimes, it’s completely unexplainable. I suppose crying is a better response than flying off the handle and yelling like my father does. So far, it’s personal and private. But I don’t really think anyone around here would notice or care if it wasn’t. I guess that’s the saddest part. Nobody would care that I’m sad.

Free Shot

A former police officer in my men’s Bible study was telling us a story about how they used to practice potential scenarios, such as an active shooter, hostage negotiation, etc. He said that some of the officers would be the “good guys,” while others had to be the “bad guys.” His squad usually got picked to be the bad guys, and they got so good at working together that the other team couldn’t shoot them. Eventually, they had to let the other team shoot them just to complete the exercise.

Later on, we were discussing that sometimes bad things have to happen in your life to fulfill a purpose. The example given was that Jesus still picked Judas to be one of his disciples despite knowing that he would later betray him. I said that was the Jesus equivalent of letting the other team shoot him to complete the exercise, and the former officer started cracking up laughing. They wouldn’t have “won” unless He allowed it.

The Cardinal: Slow

Well, the cardinal finally found the mirrors hanging in the tree. Maybe he really is a “slow” bird. He’d been standing next to them for weeks, but he didn’t see them until today. He saw his reflection, and he slammed his beak into the mirror, sending it twirling. He got a cocky confident look on his face like he’d just defeated a giant, but that look quickly faded as soon as the mirror spun back around. As soon as his reflection came back, he reared up and slammed into again…as if to say, “Didn’t have enough, eh?! You want some more of this?!” Over and over, he attacked the mirror until he was satisfied that the bird in the mirror was red from his wounds sustained and not his feathers anymore. And then he flew off, probably to the pub to exaggerate his latest accomplishments.

Dishwasher Art

Doing the dishes for me is like an art form. Maybe it’s my OCD, but I take great pride in loading the dishwasher in a way that not only utilizes the space but groups items by their function. I try to leave adequate gaps between each one to allow the water and soap to cover every surface to ensure optimal cleaning. I even spread the silverware out across all of the slots, so spoons and forks don’t stick together. It actually makes unloading it easier too, because each section goes to the same place in the kitchen.

My wife on the other hand has a completely different philosophy when it comes to dishes. Her philosophy is more of “shove that crap in there.” She loads it as she goes, so things are randomly placed in whatever hole she sees first. This includes stacking things on top of things and possibly stacking things on top of those. She believes in using vertical space as well as horizontal space. So, if the rack slides back in, then it’s okay! I know it’s not wrong, per se, it’s just different. But it still feels like a chaotic mess to me. Almost like a tornado went through the dishwasher.

The Cardinal: Mate

I was premature on the cardinal situation. The stupid bird came back today and once again slammed into the window. He then proceeded to sit on the window sill and bang his head repeatedly into the glass. When I approached the window, he flew out to the fence, and that’s when I saw the female cardinal sitting on the bird feeder.

So, the reason I hadn’t seen the stupid bird for a while was that he had somehow managed to find a girl. Based on what I know of the male, either he was the last available option or the other choices seemed less desirable…which is somehow hard to imagine. Maybe she likes males who brain themselves senseless, because then she can take advantage of them to get what she wants. Either way, he was back and fighting his imaginary enemy to impress her. I can’t imagine she’d be too impressed by this display of stupidity. Perhaps, she was already starting to regret her choices. I mean, are you sure THESE are the genes you want to be passing on to your offspring?! When you realize that cardinals mate for life, it makes it even more perplexing.

The mirrors in the tree obviously are having zero effect on this stupid bird. When I brought this up to my son, he said that it’s because they are spinning…which is probably true. At one point, I saw the cardinal sitting on the ground, watching the lights dance around him. He seemed less scared of them and more just intrigued. I’m so glad I could give him another reason to enjoy coming to my yard…sarcasm implied.

Dead Air

There was a commercial on the radio this morning that said, “Have you ever thought, ‘I could do your job’? Well, prove it! Every Thursday, you get to influence the playlist.” I thought to myself, “I could probably be a DJ. Now, would I want to do that? No. But I probably could.”

As I pondered this question, I realized that I have the gift of gab. For all of my claims and even penchant for introversion, I am still able to talk with the best of them. And I’m really good at filling the silence. I don’t have to have something specific to talk about, but I can usually come up with something to say if nobody else is speaking. I have lots of great stories, and I have a wickedly strange view of things around me. I mean I will often call my mom on my 40-minute drive to my son’s daycare, and I’ll probably talk for 35 minutes of the drive. I’d like to think that my mom is enjoying the conversation and being wildly entertained, but maybe she just puts the phone down and walks away!

Really my biggest issue with public speaking is standing up in front of people and seeing their reactions or getting their feedback. But that’s not a problem with radio, because you’re just talking to “dead air.” You’re sending your words off into the ether without any clue who is listening or if they’re listening. You’re talking to fill the silence.

And then it hit me. Being a DJ is a lot like talking to my mom on the phone. Your audience is unusually quiet, so you just have to fill the dead air on your own. In fact, you’re not even sure if they’re still tuned in. But you speak with the hope that they’re enjoying your words and being wildly entertained.

Homeless Cell Phone

Near the university where my son has his daycare, there is a constant presence of homeless people begging on the corners. There is one man that I see quite often, shuffling slowly along the side of the highway feeder road, a drugged out blankness on his face, adorned in grungy clothes, and smoking a cigarette. Today, when he turned around to shuffle back to his corner, I noticed a large black cell phone in his back pocket. I could tell it was one of the newer model iPhones, and so many questions popped into my head.

If you have no money, how can you afford to buy a phone that costs several hundred dollars? How is it that you have a newer model than I have? How do you pay the monthly bill? And if you’re homeless, where do they even send the monthly bill? If you have no power, how do you charge it? And maybe the most important question is…who are you calling?!

Bum Bubbles

I poured my milk this morning and there were two large bubbles floating next to each other. They were the exact same size, and it looked like two cheeks in a bum. So, I started today being mooned by my milk. Happy Valentine’s Day to me!

The Cardinal: Kamikaze

It’s been a few days now, and there has been no sign of the cardinal. I’m not sure if he has been attacking the mirrors, and I just haven’t seen it. Or if the twirling lights actually scared him away. Either way, I’m hoping this finally resolved the issue.

UPDATE: My spousal unit informed me that the cardinal did attack the window this afternoon. Apparently, he flew into it at full speed and knocked himself unconscious. He laid on the ground for several minutes before getting up and flying away. Maybe this was his last-ditch, Kamikaze flight before he acceded defeat.

The Cardinal: Mirrors

I did it. I hung up mirrors in the tree outside to entice the stupid cardinal to take out his misplaced aggression on them instead of the window. I’m not sure if it’ll work, but if nothing else, we have a beautiful light show now when the sun reflects off the twirling mirrors.

The Cardinal: Fighting Hour

We have this stupid cardinal that keeps attacking our back window. Every day, he flies up and starts attacking his reflection in the window. Apparently, he sees the “other bird” as a rival that needs to be driven from his territory. However, unlike other territorial birds, cardinals won’t stop when they find a mate. They just keep coming back to fight!

A lot of posts online said that you can cover the window, but apparently cardinals are so aggressive, that they’ll just go pick a fight with another window! And they’ll come back every day around the same time. I’m imagining him checking the watch on his wing.

Cardinal: “It’s 1:42 pm. Time to go give that other bird a beating!”

…flies to to the window…

Cardinal: “I see you didn’t learn your lesson from yesterday. You came back for another round of thunder and lightning,” showing the reflection his wings one by one.
Reflection [mirroring the cardinal]: “…”
Cardinal: “Are you mocking me?! Put your wing down! Put it down! Stop copying me, or I’m going to give you a beating your future offspring will feel. That’s it! Reap the whirlwind!”

…Cardinal pecks at the winds several times…

Cardinal: “Take that, you swine! There’s plenty more where that came from. I suggest you don’t show up again tomorrow.”

Some of the posts suggested hanging mirrors out in the yard, so the bird would fight out there instead of attacking your windows. I liked that idea, but I’m afraid he’s so stupid that he’d leave the mirrors alone and still come to the window. Or worse yet, he’d form a gang with the “other birds” to take down his rival by the house. The next thing you know, there’s a whole flock of cardinals wearing matching leather jackets with “C-Birds” on the back, holding tiny pistols sideways at the window all thug style.

My Christmas Love

I was watching “My Christmas Love” on Hallmark today; the premise of which is that a girl has a secret admirer, and she has to figure out which one of four men it is. Three of the men are clean-shaven, and one has beard scruff. I knew right off that the three clean-shaven guys didn’t stand a chance. The funny thing is that one of the clean-shaven guys was the main love interest in another Hallmark movie, and he had beard scruff in that movie.

For some reason, Hallmark believes that the epitome of sexiness for every woman is a man with beard scruff. Even for guys that really can’t grow it, or where it looks really bad. They still force the issue. I assume this is why Hallmark has never come calling me. I can’t grow beard scruff. I can either do clean-shaven or a semblance of a full beard. There is no in between. Well, the beard thing and the fact that I’m not over six feet tall. That’s really all that’s keeping me from being a Hallmark leading man.

Phytoplankton Dragons

To continue my theme from yesterday, I also see a dragon on my desktop background. It’s supposed to be a picture of a phytoplankton bloom as seen from space, but to me, it appears to be a dragon emerging from the blue mists. His wings are unfurled. His mouth is agape. And he’s ready to unleash havoc on the world. Clouds of smoke swirl in front of him, outlining his last fiery blast. You might be asking, “Where on earth did a dragon come from, I thought they were all gone?” Nobody truly knows if they’re all gone. They could be sleeping in eternal slumber, but maybe this one had his sleep disturbed. Perhaps this is the last of his kind. Maybe you’re asking, “Well, why is he burning everything?” Maybe it’s, as I mentioned, because his sleep was disturbed. Maybe he’s fighting the knight who’s vowed to finally rid the earth of the last dragon. Maybe he’s cold, and he’s trying to light his fireplace, but he doesn’t understand stacking the logs with proper airflow. Whatever the reason, he lights up my desktop every day with his fiery blue breath.

Flying Chickens

For some strange reason, every time I go into our guest bathroom, I see a flying chicken on the Kleenex box. I know it could just be the pattern in the marble, but that’s what it looks like to me. And now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it. You might be asking, “Why a flying chicken and not just a chicken?” Well, because it appears to be coming into view from the left side, and the chicken is horizontal. I imagine it being shot out of a cannon and soaring across a blue, cloud-filled sky, looking at me with a pleading, “Help me!” look on its face as it helplessly passes by and out of view on the right side of the box. Now, you might be asking, “Why would a chicken be shot out of a cannon?” Which is a great question. Maybe he’s a crash-test chicken, testing the viability of being shot out of a cannon before a person attempts it. Maybe he’s being rescued from being falsely imprisoned in a castle, and the only way to get him over the walls was to shoot him over in a cannon. Maybe he’s a stunt chicken, and his publicist thought this was a good idea. Whatever the reason, he’s flying across my Kleenex box.

Ride or Die Jesus

The radio station had a fun call-in question today. Apparently, there is some video going viral of a woman reading something Jesus said from the Message version of the Bible. Her comment was “that’s my Jesus, He’s sassy!” This prompted the radio station to host a question, when you think of Jesus, what does Jesus look like to you?

Everyone called in with different answers that were relatable in their own right. But one woman’s answer was “that Jesus is my ride or die homie.” He’s loyal to a fault. He’s got your back no matter what. Even though He might not agree with your decisions, He’s still there with you. He’s like, “Yo, I don’t think this is a good idea, but let’s go.” He’s the truest of friends. He’ll call you out on your stuff, but He loves you in spite of it. And I thought, “that’s how I want to think of Jesus…as my ride or die Homie.”

Soccer Geese

We were on our way to a birthday party today when we passed by a soccer field covered in…geese. Maybe this wouldn’t have been so surprising, except the geese were having a game! It was a team of white geese versus Canadian geese playing for what I can only imagine was the North American soccer championship. My son and I were both disappointed that we couldn’t stop and watch it play out.

Killing in a Tree

I had a dream last night that I was playing one of those first person shooter video games with my brother. We were situated at some high vantage point methodically picking off bad guys from a distance. As I watched the bodies piling up, I started to sing this song:

“Two little snipers sitting in a tree
K-I-L-L-I-N-G
First comes aiming
Then comes shooting
Then comes a corpse and a whole lot of looting.”

My brother stopped pulling the trigger long enough to look over at me with a bewildered look in his eyes. Then, a smile spread slowly across his face, and he turned and started shooting again in rhythm to my song.