Personal Injury Attorney Smackdown

Why do personal injury attorneys insist on giving themselves nicknames? I see a lot of signs around town for this kind of law, and they have names on them like Jim “The Hammer” or Ryan “The Lion.” It’s ludicrous. I’d be expecting to walk into the court room and hear an announcer on the microphone.

“In the red corner, representing the prosecution with a record of 32 wins and 1 loss the reigning middleweight champion of Denton County, Carl “The Iceman” Thompson!

“And in the blue corner, representing the defense with a record of 17 wins and 10 losses the challenger, Ryan “The Lion” McKenzie!

“Our trial is brought to you today by Mike’s Hard Lemonade. If you think being in an accident with an eighteen wheeler is hard, then you haven’t tried Mike’s. Stop and grab some after the trial at any local convenience store.

“Officiating our trial today is Judge Lance “The Bulldog” Lee. He’s just finished going over the rules with our combatants, and we’re ready for our bout. Take your seats and enjoy the show. Let’s…get…ready…to…RUMBLE!!!”

The Bird Convention

There was something up with the birds this morning. I was out walking, when a large group of ducks flew over headed east. I didn’t think much of it until another group flew over…and then another. And then other birds started flying by too, sparrows, herons, bluebirds…even a seagull. All of them headed toward the rising sun. I might not have thought much about it even then if they had been headed south, I mean it’s getting cold here, so warmer climates would make sense. But east? And none of them were in migration formation. It was chaotic randomness, like it was every bird for himself.

So, I concluded that there must be a bird convention in town that they were all headed to. I’m not sure what sorts of things a bird would learn at a convention…current bug population migratory patterns and what to eat and what to avoid, latest innovations and color patterns in nest building, what’s in and what’s out this year in feather fashion?! Whatever it is, hundreds of birds had dedicatingly gotten up early, braving the icy winds to attend. I swear I saw one duck flying lower than the others, flapping just a little slower with his eyes half closed. He must either have had a rough night or he’s not a morning bird, because he had a camel pack strapped to his back full of coffee, and he was sucking on that straw like his life depended on it.

Talks Only With Permission

When I was in elementary school, we would get a report card every six weeks that tracked our progress in each subject. In addition, there were other categories off to the side that would track behavioral development. Things like “Follows Instructions” or “Excessively Tardy.”

I did okay with the grades, passing at least. But the reason my parents would always get pulled into a conference was due to behavioral issues. In the category of “Talks Only with Permission,” I always got a “Needs Improvement.” It wasn’t so much that I talked all the time, which I did. It was why I was talking. I would leave my chair and walk around the room, helping all of the other kids with their tests and assignments.

I guess even then I had a teacher inside me. And I also suspect the teacher was a little jealous because I was better at her job than she was!

The Legacy of Doc Savage

I was in Denton having lunch with a friend today, and I decided to stop by the Recycled Books bookstore, which is located in the former Wright’s Opera House. I like to pop in whenever I’m on the town square to see if they’ve gotten any “new” books. For the last 25 years, I’ve been searching for Doc Savage books to complete my collection.

My stepfather introduced me to the series from the 1930s about a team of do-gooder adventurers when I was in high school. Apparently, he grew up reading them, and he was excited to find them again. Over the years, it sort of became our thing together. Whenever I’d go to a used bookstore, I’d try to find books to add to his collection. I’d surprise him on Christmases and birthdays with random finds, and he was always excited. With close to 130 books, it seemed a daunting task to ever find them all, but I never gave up hope.

When my stepfather passed away 10 years ago, my mother asked me if there was anything of his that I wanted. The only thing I asked for was his collection of Doc Savage books. They were precious to him, and I felt invested in them as well. It was the best thing I could think of to carry on his memory. Over the years, I have continued to build on the collection whenever I could find additional books. I always dreamed that one day I’d pass along the legacy to my son, and he’d continue the treasure hunt.

Well today, I found a treasure trove! I found 35 additional books that I didn’t have. Apparently, someone had brought in a large collection of the books just last week, and I was fortunate enough to find them before anyone else. Now, I’m only 23 books shy of finishing the journey I started so long ago. So close to fulfilling my stepfather’s legacy. I wish he was here to see it now, to see what it’s turned into. I don’t think either of us ever imagined we’d get this far. There’s still more to find, but the end is definitely in sight. I still intend to pass this legacy to my son. I just hope he appreciates its value as much I do.

Nachum Ish Gamzu

When something bad happens to you, it’s easy to immediately blame God or start to question why He let it happen. I heard someone once say to God, “I was serving You through this. Why would you let this happen?!” I have uttered almost those exact words myself at different times.

But I recently heard the story of Nachum Ish Gamzu, and I’ve changed my perspective on things. Nachum was a Jewish rabbi in the first century known for having unyielding optimism in the face of misfortune. He got his nickname “Gamzu” from a Hebrew phrase that he was known for uttering, “gam zu le-tovah,” which means “this, too, is for the best.”

There is a famous story of Nachum being sent on a mission by the Jews to the Roman emperor to deliver a treasure of great wealth to convince him to rethink a law that was detrimental to them. On the way, Nachum stopped at an inn for the night. The innkeeper and his son stole the treasure from Nachum and replaced it with sand. When Nachum delivered the box to the emperor, he opened it and was furious at the disrespect the Jews had shown him. He had Nachum thrown into prison, but all he said was “gam zu le-tovah,” believing that God would use this for good.

Later that evening, Elijah appeared before the emperor and said, “Surely you do not think the Jews would make fun of you and send you ordinary sand. Maybe it’s the kind that their father Abraham used to defeat his enemies at war? It has been told that Abraham threw handfuls of sand against his enemies that turned into swords and deadly arrows. Maybe it’s that secret weapon. Wouldn’t it be advisable to test this sand that the Jews sent you?”

The emperor was currently fighting a war against the barbarians, so he sent the sand to his generals and ordered them to try it against the enemy. And by a miracle, it thwarted the barbarians and sent them fleeing in terror. The emperor released Nachum, changed the law, and filled his own wooden box with jewels and gold from his treasury.

As he was on his way back home, he stopped at the same inn. Upon hearing of his story, the innkeeper asked him what he gave the emperor that had granted such favor. Nachum said, “Only what I carried from here.” So, the innkeeper and his son dug up their entire property and took the dirt to the emperor. They said, “This is the same dirt that the Jew brought, only we have brought more to make yo even happier!” The emperor tried the dirt from the innkeeper, but no miracle happened this time. So, the emperor ordered the innkeeper and his son to be hung and their bodies buried with the same dirt they had brought with them.

When Nachum heard what happened, he shrugged and said, “gam zu le-tovah.”

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”

Romans 8:18

 

“Set your minds on the things that are above, not on the things that are on earth.”

Colossians 3:2

 

“The afflictions of the righteous are many, but the Lord rescues him from them all.”

Psalms 34:19

Jason Statham & the Aston Martin

Awhile back, my spousal unit moved to Los Angeles for three months to take an acting class. I asked her if she had had any celebrity encounters while she was there, and she said just one. She was parked at a stoplight one day when a beautiful Aston Martin pulled up beside her. She looked over and saw Jason Statham in the car. I asked her if he’d tried to flirt with her, being that he was a notorious womanizer. She said, “Unfortunately not.”

Wait…what?!

The Bone Bruise

So, I got the results from the MRI on my knee today. Apparently, I have a contusion, which is a bruise…on a bone. Leave it to me to do something strange like that. That I only had a contusion and not a broken bone or torn ligament was the good news. The bad news was where I managed to bruise the bone. I hit it right on the ball joint of the femur, exactly where it meets the tibia. So, every time I extend my leg, the two bones come together and hit the bruise. This is why it’s so painful. It also means it’s going to take a very long time to heal. The doctor said a minimum of three months, and only if I refrain from any sort of high impact activities, like running and jumping. I’m currently at six weeks, but honestly I’ve been running around with my son on occasion, so I’ve probably made it worse. Slowing down is going to be very hard for me.

The Voice of God

GR said that when we were in our old offices, he was sitting in his cube one day, and a loud booming voice said, “Hello!” He immediately looked upward and replied, “Yes, god?” because it could only be the Almighty who spoke with such a voice.

He said, “It was like my soul was talking to me.”

“Who are you?” he asked the voice.

“This is Samuel…James…Henderson, and I’ll be your ITL…on this project. If you have any issues…any issues at all…I’ll be the person…that will assist you.”

I guess I wasn’t the only one that had a run-in with that guy.

Bicycles in Delhi

GR was haranguing us with stories of traffic problems in India, specifically in Delhi. He said that normal people become monsters when you put them in traffic in Delhi. They might seem like the nicest person in the world in the office, but put them on a bicycle, and you’d never recognize them. And bicycles are the worst. Everyone rides them to avoid traffic more easily. And they’ll go anywhere…scooting between cars, riding on sidewalks…they’ll even ride through someone’s house if they open the door!

But he said the funniest thing was when two bicyclists would get into an altercation. They’d both pull over and have a “fist fight” on the side of the road. Of course nobody actually hit anyone. They’d both point at themselves and angrily ask, “Do you know who my father is?!” Because everyone has a father in a high position of government in Delhi.

Zero Sugar...Same Medical Side Effects

What is this big fad with trying to make sodas healthier by removing the sugar? All these companies are releasing “Zero Sugar” options. Instead they’re replacing sugar with Aspartame. Which was the same thing they did when they made “Diet” versions of soft drinks. So, they essentially just rebranded diet soda to sound more appealing.

And why the focus on removing sugar, as if that's the only bad thing that’s in a soda? Many studies have raised concerns that regular and diet sodas increase the risk of heart attacks and strokes. They have both been linked to obesity, kidney damage, and certain cancers. Regular sodas have been linked to elevated blood pressure. So, is sugar really the only thing to be worried about with sodas? I’ve never heard of anyone having an increased risk of any of these things from drinking water…just saying.

The MRI

After a month of unsuccessfully trying to rehab my knee on my own, I finally went to see an orthopedist yesterday. The good news was that I don’t have any broken bones or a dislocated knee cap. After jerking my knee in several different directions, the doctor was very confident that I also didn’t have any torn ligaments, but he wanted an MRI to confirm.

So today, I went to have an MRI. This was my first experience with an MRI that didn’t involve TV, and I had no idea what to expect. Since it was my knee, they didn’t make me change clothes or anything. I just had to remove everything from my pockets and take off my belt. In hindsight, I probably should have worn sweat pants or something, but I thought shorts might give easier access to my knee. The technician didn’t seem to think there was any issue with the giant magnet ripping my zipper off my pants, so I was okay with it too.

Generally speaking, I’m a relatively calm person. I don’t tend to fidget or need a constant physical outlet like some people. But when someone tells you that you can’t move, then all you want to do is move. So, I was stressing about trying to keep my knee perfectly still. And the more I tried not to move, the more my knee would spasm uncontrollably. So, I started to panic that I was going to screw up the imaging.

I was trying to determine the acceptable movement delta that surely had been calibrated into the machine, because nobody could be perfectly still for 20 minutes. Then, I was trying to determine if I’d exceeded that threshold. This was becoming so mentally exhausting that I eventually dozed off. But when I realized that I had dozed off, I jolted awake with a start. Then, I started to panic that my jolt had exceeded the threshold and started all over again.

While I was dozing, I was consciously aware of the giant magnetic field surrounding my body. I could feel it reverberating across my skin and moving the hairs on my legs. I started to imagine that I was being affected by the field and that it was changing me, imbuing me with superpowers. I dreamed that I was Spider-Man, which is when I woke up.

Then, I started to wonder if I really would get superpowers from this like a bionic leg or something. On one hand it would be cool to be able to run faster and jump higher. On the other hand, it would be inconvenient to only have it on one leg. I imagined myself running in circles because the “normal” leg couldn’t keep up with my new bionic leg. Or trying to jump, only to end up going sideways.

With that, the time just flew by. Twenty minutes seemed more like five. I entertained myself with my overactive imagination. And this is precisely why I shouldn’t be left alone with my thoughts for too long. And in case anyone was wondering, no I didn’t get a bionic leg.

Real Food Allergies

I have two strange food allergies. Both are mild, but the effects are annoying enough that I generally avoid these foods. I am allergic to jalapeño seeds and onions. Most people don’t believe it’s an allergy unless you break out in hives or are on the verge of death…neither of which happens if I consume these two foods. But they are real allergies nonetheless.

With jalapeño seeds, I get the hiccups. The only time I consume these are either in salsa at a Tex-Mex restaurant or sometimes on nachos, but without fail I will get the hiccups. And yes, just the seeds, not any other part of the pepper. I’ve experimented on myself extensively.

With onions, I get very bad indigestion. It doesn’t matter if the onions are raw or cooked. I became so sensitive to the effects of onions in my food, that I could pinpoint a single chopped onion that was purposely inserted or aimlessly forgotten.

So, now you know. If I tell you that I can’t eat jalapeños or onions, that’s why. If I say I’m allergic, it’s a real thing. Don’t be disappointed if eating them doesn’t result in my imminent death!

No Reply

I really hate it when someone at work will send me a direct message that simply says, “Hi.” I move on to something else, waiting for whatever should come next, but it never does. It’s only later that I realize that the person won’t continue until I say “Hi” back. I don’t understand why people need some sort of acknowledgment before they can convey their request. Just send it all in a single message. I don’t have time for that kind of nonsense. I guess the bright side is that it usually takes me so long to get back to them that they've reached out to someone else to answer their question.

Singing Purple Leprechaun Monkeys with Sunglasses

When Google’s search engine first came out, I used to have this game I’d play with my friends to see if we could enter in the oddest combination of words to return exactly a single result. This is incredibly difficult, and even more so with how sophisticated the search engine has become now. It’s learned to return partial search results, “similar” search results, and even the “we think you meant this, you total moron” search results. Not to mention how much more information is actually available on the Internet now.

However, with a lot of time (and I mean missing out on your kid’s entire childhood kind of time) and a creative imagination, you can still do it. But the real fun is seeing if you can string several seemingly-nonsensical words together in the process and still find a page that has them in that exact order. For example, try this search string, which as of today, returns one single hit for a website selling t-shirts.

"singing" "purple leprechaun monkey with sunglasses" "dragons" "horror"

You can also adjacently learn a lot while doing this. For instance, there apparently used to be a pub in Nova Scotia called the Purple Leprechaun Roadhouse where the owner was inexplicably tased by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

Now, I have to go get ready for my son’s college graduation. He was three when I started this game.

BONUS:  "Leek Soup and the Flatulating Tree" will also return a single result...and it just so happens to be to this very blog!

Erasing the Music Teacher

I have one memory from the second grade. That’s it; a single memory. And that was of getting into trouble for hitting a teacher with a chalk eraser. Now, before you go siding with the teacher against a mischievous youth, you have to hear the whole story.

Mr. Barckholtz was our music teacher. He was also a bully and physically abusive. But this was in the ‘80s, and back then teachers had supreme power to do whatever they wanted. He would never have gotten away with his antics nowadays. Anyway, he used to torture his students for his own amusement. He picked up my friend and threw him in a trash can for getting an answer wrong, or made up cruel nicknames for kids based on their name…things like that.

One day, when I walked up to the front of the room to turn in my quiz, he grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back. He asked me something, which I got wrong, so he held me like that, while he asked the wide-eyed, stunned class the same question. When nobody volunteered an answer, he refused to let me go. As I stood there humiliated and in pain, I searched for a solution.

There resting on a tray in front of me was a chalk eraser, full of chalk. Without thinking, I grabbed the eraser, twisted out of his grip, and whacked him in the head with it. He had a rectangular mark in his hair, and a cloud of white particles floated around him. At first he was just stunned, but all too quickly he became furious. He sent me to sit in the ledge outside the classroom and wait for my punishment.

While I sat there half in terror for the unfair punishment to come and half in mirth at the absurdity of the situation, my home room teacher Mrs. Commodo came walking up and asked me why I was sitting there. I relayed the entire story to her, and she told me that I shouldn’t have disrespected a teacher no matter what he did to me.

So, I ultimately got sent to the principal’s office, and nothing happened to him. When my mom found out, she was furious and demanded a meeting with the principal. She tore him a new one for letting that teacher do that to children. It must have had some effect, because Mr. Barckholtz never touched another student. But he also never missed an opportunity to take out his anger on me. And unfortunately, a few years later, he became my eighth grade homeroom teacher. So, he had a lot more opportunities to harass me after that.

The most ironic thing is that I only had a run-in with one other teacher at that school. The woman who made me pee in my pants in kindergarten, who later became my third grade teacher. And that woman was Mrs. Barckholtz, his wife. Nastiness must have run in the family.

Layers of Anticipation

When I was in high school, I used to wear a pair of shorts under my jeans or jean shorts. This pair of shorts was like athletic wear, and at any time, I could Magic Mike my outer pants off and be able to engage in an impromptu game of basketball or a romp in the park. I had to buy bigger outer pants to accommodate the extra clothing, and it wasn’t always the coolest option, temperature-wise. But I was faithful to this style well into college as well.

I’m not exactly sure why I started doing this, I think this originated from when I was on the soccer team, and I didn’t want to have to worry about changing in front of people. But it proved useful in a multitude of situations where one might need a change of clothing at a moment’s notice. It was like my own version of a secret superhero costume under my “normal” clothes. When I needed my superpowers, I’d run into a phone booth…or whatever was on hand…and assume a new identity. Instead of skinny, nerdy kid in street clothes, I was skinny, nerdy kid in athletic wear!

Unexplained Dreams

I had a strange dream last night where I was showing my spousal unit a photograph.

Me: “Look at this picture. On the wall in the back, you can see a painting of a tree. I painted it before we left our old house.”

Spousal Unit: “That’s so cool. It looks like stained glass. And the tree is so big that you can only see the bottom part. And are those branches curving down from the top?”

Me: “Yep. On one side is the sun, so the tree and branches are orange, yellow, and red. On the other side is the moon, so the tree and branches are blue, purple, and white.”

Spousal Unit: “Beautiful. Who are those people in the photograph?”

Me: “That’s my father, my ex girlfriend, and me.”

Spousal Unit: “What are you doing?”

Me: “We’re playing tennis.”

Spousal Unit: “Well, why is your father hanging upside down from a harness from the ceiling?”

Me: “I have no idea.”

Stress-Induced Anxiety

Today, I had an appointment at urgent care. Over the weekend, my wrist started to hurt, and the pain started to get worse as time went on. At first, I thought it was just a sprain, but when it kept getting worse, I started to get worried that maybe I’d somehow managed to fracture it. Perhaps it was just paranoia due to the fact that my son had recently broken his wrist, but I felt it was better to know and put me out of my suffering. What I didn’t expect to happen was to leave the urgent care in an ambulance…well, almost.

I have a psychological disorder called stress-induced anxiety. It’s actually pretty common, inflicting about 40% of the population. Most people have minor symptoms, like an upset stomach before going on stage in front of lots of people (butterflies in your stomach). While others have symptoms so severe that they will avoid situations altogether, like white coat syndrome, where people will actively avoid getting medical care due to a fear of doctors. I’m not that extreme. I won’t avoid getting medical care, but something about the experience definitely sets me off.

What happens is that I get so worked up that eventually my blood pressure drops suddenly and extensively, causing me to black out for a minute. It’s like my body senses an issue and shuts down to analyze the problem and reboot the system. To me it feels like a black mist enveloping me, and when it completely covers my face, I’m gone. I usually wake to someone shaking or slapping me, and it feels like I’m being pulled out of a deep, refreshing sleep. I know that I’m dreaming, but due to the violent nature that I’m awoken, I can never remember about what. Most times, it’s just embarrassing, but occasionally, like on this day, I sustain injuries as well.

And I can’t tell you a pattern as to when it might happen, because it doesn’t happen every time I go to the doctor. It also doesn’t happen at the sight of blood, as many people erroneously seem to think. It doesn’t even solely happen at a normal doctor. I had an episode at the optometrist once when he dilated my pupils. In fact, it also has an empathetic nature, where I can be triggered by someone else’s pain. The other unusual incidents are when nothing physically is happening at all. Someone can just be describing a medical procedure or something they had done to them, and I’ll feel the “change” starting to happen.

Which is sort of what happened today. After examining my hand, the PA was telling me what he thought it could likely be, and I blacked out. The bad part was that I was sitting on an examine table at the time, leaning forward. I apparently fell right into the surprised PA’s arms. Thank God that it was a man who was sort of strong enough to catch my weight and lower me to the floor. I say “sort of” because I sustained injuries before or as he caught me.

You see, they had pulled out the footrest on the examine table for my feet. So, as I fell, my legs slammed into the footrest, catching the corners on my knees and then raking down my shins as I slid off. It wasn’t until I was leaving that I realized the extreme pain that this incident caused. And that was because I was a little distracted by the after effects of blacking out.

I woke up laying on the floor, surrounded by four extra people that hadn’t been there before. At first I was confused, but then I had a sinking feeling that I’d gone through “the change.” It’s funny, because to me it reminds me of one of those werewolf movies, where the guy wakes up in the woods, covered in blood and no idea how he got there. Then, he realizes that he must have transformed again. So, there I am laying on the floor, calmly realizing that I must have blacked out, confirmed by a different PA telling me that I just blacked out, trying to regain focus on reality. And this is when the series of stupid things starts to happen.

The first stupid thing was when the second PA, we shall call him “the moron” from here on out, suggested that they lift me up into the chair instead of leaving me on the floor. I was already dizzy and my stomach was churning, so the sudden motion of putting me into a chair exacerbated the situation. The second stupid thing was the fact that the moron kept telling me over and over again that I had passed out and drilling me with questions about my past history with this, and what I’d eaten that morning, etc. instead giving me a few minutes to recover first. The third stupid thing was when I told them that I needed to lie down, and the moron said that he didn’t want to move me yet. So, I had another anxiety attack and blacked out again.

This time they were able to catch me and keep me in the chair. I guess the moron felt like I’d be better laying on the examine table than sitting in a chair (ya think?!), so he and the first PA, we shall call him “chicken little” from here on out, helped me to the table. And that is when the fourth stupid thing happened. Chicken little told me that I looked like I was having a seizure when I had blacked out the first time. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that I can almost guarantee that nobody looks graceful unconsciously falling off a table. I’m sure that my uncontrolled everything where probably doing whatever they felt like doing in the dance with gravity. But when I told him that I didn’t have seizures, and that I’d never had a seizure in my life, the moron, who wasn’t even present at the time, started insisting that I had. He didn’t want me to drive home because I could have another seizure on the road. So, he wanted to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital. While trying to convince him that I wasn’t having seizures, I blacked out again.

So, you see, they kept inducing my blackouts by continuing to rile me up and stress me out instead of calming down the situation and resetting things. After the third blackout, they called 911. The fire department EMTs showed up a few minutes later, and now there were eight people in the room. So, for someone that doesn’t like performing in front of an audience, I was suddenly on stage for one! But to their credit, these guys actually seemed more capable than the moron and chicken little.

One of them checked my blood pressure while another checked my glucose levels. A third guy calmly talked me through things, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder and asking how I was feeling (something that nobody else had thought to do). Only after he’d successfully calmed me down and gotten me a bottle of water did he start asking me questions. And that’s when chicken little started in with the seizure comments again (I swear this guy must have been doing medical research on seizures or something). The EMT asked if I had a history of seizures, to which I replied “No,” and he was satisfied that it wasn’t a seizure. Chicken little got so disgusted with this that he promptly left the room.

And that’s when the first intelligent thing happened. The EMT asked me if I had white coat syndrome. When I affirmed this, which I had told the moron and chicken little THREE times but they ignored it in lieu of seizures, he knowingly started asking me if I had a history of this. I told him that I did, but hadn’t had an incident in five years, and he concluded that I was having a severe anxiety attack. My other vitals were fine, so he told me that it was up to me to choose to go to the hospital or not. So, I chose to go home. The moron got so disgusted with this that he promptly left the room.

I profusely thanked each and every one of the EMTs for coming all this way to check on me, and they left. Alone at last, I lay on the bed drinking my water before calling my wife to recount this bizarre incident. It was at this point that I realized that my knee was throbbing. I looked down to see blood coagulating on my shin. But after the stupidity I had seen on display today, I didn’t want them providing me with any other “care.” So, I limped to my car to go home to ice my knee. It was the first time I’d ever gone to a doctor and came out more injured than when I went in. And I had a $75 copay on top of that, so it was the gift that kept on giving!

Red Means Go

I was sitting at a stoplight this morning with my son, and I suddenly had a flashback to a similar memory with my brother. We had just left my mom’s house, heading back to my dad’s, probably around some holiday. It was just the two of us in the car. As I pulled up to the stoplight, it turned red. I slowed the car to a stop, looked around, and then inexplicably pushed the gas and drove right through the intersection.

The weird thing is that the reality of the situation didn’t sink in until my brother calmly looked over at me and said, “You just ran that red light.” He wasn’t surprised or freaked out. It was like this sort of thing happened to him all the time. Thank God nobody was coming through the intersection at the time. But when I think back on this memory, I still laugh that I did something so stupid and remembering my brother’s reaction.

The Grass is Always Greener

Why do people in Hallmark movies always leave their boyfriend or girlfriend for some new, random stranger that they meet and fall in love with in a matter of days? They inevitably have been in their current relationship for 3-5 years, and up until this point, they have been content with it. Then, suddenly someone makes them see that all that time, they have been fooling themselves about who they are and what they want. And they run off with the new, exciting thing!

How come they never stay with the current person? How come they never choose the known over the unknown? I’ve had many chances through the years to leave my wife for something that seemed better, but I never did. I would always realize that things are always great before you know someone. They’re always great until you have to go through something tough with someone. Relationships are not like a job. You shouldn’t just hop from one to the next when a recruiter comes along and says all the right things. Just like every company will have its issues, so will relationships. You have to work through them. You have to invest the time. They should make a Hallmark movie about that, instead of always telling people to jump ship for the metaphorical greener grass.

Aladdin's Lamp

The most interesting thing I find about the story of Aladdin’s lamp is that all of the wishes are humanistic in nature. It’s about gold or title or fame. These are not only very selfish, but also short-sighted. They are trying to fix problems that are a byproduct of a broken world. Why not fix the world, then you wouldn’t have problems like poverty or inequality? Why not wish to remove sin and the devil from the world and bring it back into alignment with God’s original plan forever? We have the benefit of hindsight, so why not use it to fix the point where it all went wrong?

Window Burn

We had a friend over last night for dinner and a visit, and she asked me how I was doing. I had to pause for a few minutes to think how to answer that. If she’d asked about my son or wife, I would have had a ready answer, but it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t have an answer about myself. I don’t spend enough time doing a self-evaluation to really know how I’m doing.

On the one hand, that leads me to conclude that I’m definitely not a selfish person. On the other hand, it also probably means I need a little more self care. Although, I guess on the third hand, it could also mean I just lead a boring life!

Ultimately, all I could think to tell her was that I had a sunburn that I had to deal with. To which she legitimately asked how I got a sunburn if I worked from home and never left the house. All I had for that was that we had windows in the house, so it’s possible to get a “window burn.”

Foot Anxiety

I have a doctor’s appointment today with a new doctor to get my foot checked out. Most people would not find this a scary or stressful thing. I don’t mean the prospect of what a doctor might say, but I mean the act of going to a new doctor. You see, I have anxiety of new and unfamiliar things. Whenever I find myself in an environment where I don’t know what to expect, and therefore can’t prepare for it, I start panicking…long before I’m even in the situation. For instance, I’ve been up since 3:45 am, not because I’m not tired, but because my mind started thinking about having to go to a new doctor today. Truth be told, I was already starting my anxiety attack yesterday.

The Tongue of Concentration

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always stuck my tongue out during moments of intense concentration. I don’t even notice, it’s subconscious. When doing artwork, putting a puzzle together, writing code, repairing a robotic snake…no matter the task, if my brain is fully engaged, then my tongue will be sticking out. I call it the “tongue of concentration.”

Unfortunately, I caught myself doing it today as I weed-eated…weed-ate…whatever, the backyard. What brought it to my attention was when a piece of freshly-cut grass landed on my outstretched tongue. So, not only was I thinking too hard about a mostly trivial task, but I realized that the tongue of concentration is not appropriate for every situation.

Addict

I am so addicted to sweet tea. I really thought I could control it, stop whenever I wanted to, but I realize now that that was a lie I was only telling myself. For the last few days, I have been trying to ween myself off of it. But as soon as two o’clock hits, I start tasting that sweet, savory goodness on my tongue.

I know that I can easily put myself out of my misery by driving down to Sonic for Happy Hour, when the drinks are half-priced. But I know I shouldn’t. I mentally wrestle with myself for two hours, trying to stop myself from putting on pants and grabbing my keys. But as soon as four o’clock hits, I’m fine. Happy Hour is over, and I’m safe for another day.

It’s sick. I’m like a dog salivating at a bell. For two hours every day, I’m an addict, shaking and sweating, needing my fix. So far, I have held strong, but I can’t wait until I no longer notice what time it is.

Wallowing in Misery

Today, CC called me to complain about something related to his son. It seems like the only time CC calls me anymore is to complain about something…his new house, his landlord, his stress level, his students, his son, etc. I listen, but I no longer participate in the “woe is me” party anymore. I don’t really share much about my life or complain about anything anymore, because there’s no point. He always tries to ask and goad me into chiming in, almost like my misery validates his own. But I’m tired of fixating on only the negative in life. I want to be happier and focus on happy things. I don’t want to be upset and depressed all the time.

So, I tried to raise his spirits. When he asked how I was doing, I told him that I was playing with my toy skeleton. His response was one of confusion and concern. (Surely I must be two steps from the mental hospital.) So, I told him about the newest member of our family, Boney. I described the antics and funny things the skeleton does each day, and how he’s brought such joy to our lives.

I thought he’d laugh and joke. Instead, he said, “How do you have that much time? Seems like a waste of time for someone so busy.” And I ended the conversation right there. That’s someone that wants to wallow in misery. That is not someone calling a friend to help pull them out if it.

It’s really sad. He used to be a fun guy to talk to, but now I find myself avoiding his calls. If I do pick up, like today, I just wonder what I was thinking. The ironic thing is that Boney is not a waste of time. Living life only looking for the problems and negatives is the waste of time. I’m choosing to be happy. And if it’s a toy skeleton that brings me joy, then I’m choosing Boney…even over my depressing friends.

Masquerade Murder

My spousal unit and I decided to go out on a date night tonight. It was our first date since…well…I guess since about three years ago. Our community was doing a murder mystery / dinner masquerade for couples, and we signed up. I’d been very much looking forward to it. I’d spent weeks planning my outfit and trying to find the perfect mask, and my spousal unit had even bought a new dress (mostly because I insisted that she couldn’t go in her usual black pants). My mom came up to watch Troy for us, and off we went.

We chose a table with only one other couple, two lovely lesbian women named Sasha and Sarah, who ended up being a lot of fun. The event itself was not managed very well, as they tried to do the dinner simultaneously with the murder mystery. So, we found ourselves trying to scarf down food, while also running around and gathering clues. I also realized that you have to have a certain sort of outgoing personality to walk up to complete strangers and question them like suspects. It also doesn’t help if the people are dry and not forthcoming with information. Sasha was selected to play one of the suspects, the vengeful maid…, and I was selected as one of the bachelors.

Essentially, three bachelors were chosen to either get rich, marry a celebrity, or die. It was a game of Russian Roulette, except the decision wasn’t by chance…it was entirely in the hands of our fellow banquet goers. Each man was given a chance to explain what they’d do with the money if they were chosen to get rich. The first said he’d buy a house for his family, noble but not aligned to the hearts of the greedy, selfish crowd with his fate in their hands. The second said he’d buy a boat, better but still not big enough. I said I’d buy my own private island, which was met with cheers and applause. This was more like it! Ultimately, I was voted almost unanimously to get rich, but my glory was short-lived as the host of the party was murdered instead of one of the bachelors. And this is how the murder mystery started.

In the end, we didn’t successfully solve the mystery, but neither did anyone else. We did win the award for Best Detectives of the Night for asking the most and best questions. Although that was entirely because of Sasha and my spousal unit. I was tripped up by not knowing that I could ask more than one question at a time, so I never really learned anything useful. It was also extremely chaotic with the number of people and the frequent interruptions by the “detective.” But we had a good time, and it was good to get away and do something for just the two of us.

My Stepfather's in the Microwave

We have some women that come and clean our house each month. Whatever cleaner they use to clean the microwave perfectly captures what my stepfather smelled like. Part man, part machine. If I could have bottled his essence, that would be it.

In life, there are certain smells that trigger memories in our brains. And every time I open the microwave door, my stepfather wafts out at me. I’m instantly transported back to over a decade ago; sitting next to him at his desk, talking about the latest computer games, and munching on sunflower seeds and gummy bears.

I still miss him. I wonder what he would have thought of my son. I wonder if he’d have been proud of the man that I became. I wonder if he’d have transitioned over to consoles instead of computers to play his games. But unfortunately, I can’t ever know that. He was taken from me before I was ready. But at least I can remember him every time I open my microwave.

Insurance Payout

I’m not sure if I should be worried or not, but my wife has been asking a lot of questions about my life insurance policy all of a sudden. How much is the payout? Is the payout in a lump sum or in installments? Will they payout only for a natural-looking death, or would any instrument of my demise suffice? Can she still receive a payout from prison?

Possibly even more disturbing than that was the response I got from HR when I asked all of these questions for clarification. The HR Partner simply wrote back, “Would you like to change your beneficiary?”

Covid Chicken

I’ve been sick the last few weeks. I’m not sure what I might have; but I’ve had fever, stuffiness, and coughing; so, I'm sure it's something viral. Because it's been lingering for so long, my wife encouraged me to go get checked out at the doctor. So, I made an appointment at the urgent care and went in this morning. I guess because my symptoms cross over several different possibilities (or maybe because they could charge the insurance more), they decided to do a flu test, strep test, and Covid test on me. The flu and step came back negative immediately, but I had to wait for the Covid results.

So since I had some time to kill, I decided to go home and have some lunch. As I ate my leftover chicken, I became worried because I couldn’t taste any of the food. It was just like a bland, pulpy mass in my mouth. If you're at all familiar with Covid, you realize that this is one of the symptoms, so I immediately started having a panic attack. How could I possibly have gotten Covid? I'm vaccinated, and I'm usually so careful. Did I get one of the mutant strands? Who have I come into contact with? It had to be some moron who didn't think Covid was a big deal, so there's no reason to take precautions or be safe. Who might I have given it to? Will my wife and son get it now because of me?

All these thoughts were flashing through my mind, as I sat eating this tasteless chicken. Then, I took a bite of the green beans, and I realized that they were very flavorful. I wondered. Is it possible to only lose taste in part of your tongue? I tried something else...tasty. I tried the chicken again, thinking maybe my taste was returning...bland. I was confused. 

Luckily, I didn't have to wait long for my results from the doctor, which confirmed my Covid test was also negative. I concluded that my wife hadn't used a lot of spices on this particular batch of chicken, so it would have been tasteless either way. In general, Greek cooking uses the "blander" spices, like oregano, basil, rosemary; rather than being salt and pepper heavy like American cooking. Since I was raised on salt and pepper, it's sometimes hard for me to taste the subtler, yet wonderful, flavors of other spices. But this batch of chicken tasted like it had been plucked and thrown straight into the oven. That it happened to coincide with my Covid "scare" was an unfortunate coincidence.

Just for Chest

While talking to my friend JR today, I realized that there is an untapped niche in the men's care market. You've probably heard of Just for Men, which is hair dye specifically designed for men. To be honest, I'm not sure what makes it specifically designed for men. Is men's hair different from a woman's? Do we really need separate hair dyes? Or is it a marketing gimmick? Anyway, I digress. Whatever the reason, we have the product line. So, back on point, we have the hair dye, and then the company released Just for Men: Beard (now since expanded into Just for Men: Mustache & Beard for all of those non-Amish users of the product), which is essentially the same exact product, but it also comes with a little comb so you can be more targeted with your dying. But why stop there?!

Why not Just for Men: Chest? Or Just for Men: Pubes? It would be the exact same formula as Just for Men, but marketed in different boxes, so men think they need to buy them all. It's genius! The marketing campaign could center around a man's dating life. Start with the head and face, and as your dating life progresses, you move down your body, dying as you go. I mean you can't have a woman realizing that you're fake all over when she sees silver in your chest hair or pubes, but your hair and beard were black! I'm telling you, untapped market. This is a sure-fire winner.

Which leads to the question of whether you should take it all the way down and do Just for Men: Legs. The answer is emphatically, "No!" Why, you might ask? Because the target demographic for this product, men 40+ years old, have already, for some completely inexplicable reason, started losing patches of their leg hair anyway. So, there's not enough there to dye or worry about. Besides, who is really focusing on legs when you get to that intimate moment?

Flying Tacos

When I lived in Missouri, I used to drive back to Texas occasionally to visit my family. It was about a 16-hour drive, and there were several routes I could take. My favorite was down through Arkansas, because it had the prettiest scenery. The shortest was through Oklahoma, but it was also the most boring, because there was nothing to see. Someone recommended that I try heading over to Kansas before heading down, so on one visit, I tried that route. Big mistake! It was just as boring as the Oklahoma route, but also longer. But that’s not the point of this story.

During my trip, I got hungry and pulled over at a Taco Bell to get some portable lunch. (This, of course, was back when I could actually digest and process Taco Bell without turning into Mt. Vesuvius for the next three days.) So, as I drove on down the road, being lulled to sleep by grasslands and cows for as far as the eye could see, I grabbed one of my soft tacos and started unwrapping it. I liked to wrap the paper around the bottom like a diaper to catch any particulates that might fall out of the taco. I got my taco ready and looked up to see no road in front of me.

I was on a slightly raised portion of the highway, and the green fields were spread out below me. My car was pointed at one of these fields about to launch off the highway and go flying over the barbed wire fence. A disinterested black cow was standing on the other side of the fence, munching on some grass, watching my car barreling straight at her. As she realized that I was not swerving to follow the highway as it curves off to the left, she became much more interested. Her mouth stopped mid chew, and the wet, half-chewed grass dropped from her gaping mouth.

Realizing that I was about to die in Kansas of all places, and take this poor cow with me, I threw my soft taco across the car, grabbed the wheel, and jerked it to the left. My car responded, and I skidded along the gravel shoulder, my tires just kissing the grass along the edge. By the grace of God, I managed to get back onto the highway. I pulled over a mile up the road and collected the remnants of my taco from the floorboard and tried unsuccessfully to put it back together again.

I never went that route again. Mostly because I couldn’t bear to face that cow again. Her dark, judgmental eyes still haunt my dreams. I wonder now if I might have cleared that fence (and the cow) and landed safely on the other side. I’m not sure what I would have done at that point if I had. I guess I could have driven across the field to the farmhouse and tried somehow to explain what happened. Logically, it would make sense for someone not to believe such a far fetched story. But the fact that I was miraculously in their field would have been irrefutable proof. Well that, and the taco. We can’t forget the taco.

Puzzle Trash-Talking

My mom came up for the long weekend, and we pulled out a puzzle to fill the gaps in between playing with my son. We’ve been puzzling together for years now, pushing ourselves to finish a ridiculously difficult puzzle in a very short timeframe. Each time, we’ll both say that we won’t make it, but we always do…even though sometimes it comes down to the wire.

We have a system that works well for us. She starts on the edges, while I pick the hardest part of the puzzle…the sky, the ocean, the grass…and try to knock it out. I learned long ago that most people will save the hard part for last, because they’re intimidated by it. They’re hoping that they’ll have eliminated enough pieces beforehand to have a running start at the hard part. I prefer to face it head on.

Truth be told, I’m weird when it comes to puzzles. If I’m working alone, I won’t put the edges on until the very end. I like the challenge of the free-form chaos, forcing you to beat the puzzle on equal terms.

After she finishes the edge, my mom will pick some other, easily-identifiable part…a castle, or colorful canopy, or people…to work on. She’ll patiently pick away at it, making slow progress, while I am wiping out the hardest and, often times, largest section of the puzzle. When I’m done, I’ll move on to the second hardest part…the trees, or bushes, or something else equally uniform in color.

In my pretend cockiness, I’ll trash-talk my mom at how much more progress I’m making than her. And she’ll dish it right back, saying something like, “You wouldn’t have been able to do that, if I hadn’t grouped all the pieces together for you.” It’s all good-natured fun, and it helps pass the time and make our time more interesting.

Besides, the real race happens when I finish my two large sections, and we layer in my mom’s contribution. My mom excels at filling in the one-off gaps, and she’s constantly finding the exact piece I’ve been looking for for the last ten minutes. She makes up a lot of ground quickly, and this is a major reason why we’re able to squeak by at the eleventh hour.

I love these puzzle sessions with my mom. I’ve been fortunate enough to have done dozens and dozens of puzzle with her through the years, and I always miss it when we don’t get to do one.

Geoffrey the Giraffe

My stepmother recently reminded me of a fond memory from my high school days. She, my father, and I were watching TV one night when a commercial for Toys ‘R Us came on.

My father: “I don’t like those Toys ‘R Us commercials. That talking giraffe really freaks me out.”

My stepmother: “You know he’s not real, right? Giraffes can’t really talk. He’s animatronic.”

My father: “Of course Geoffrey is real! An animatronic giraffe couldn’t own a toy store!”

Me: “So, you think they trained a real giraffe to do all of those things in the commercials?”

My father: “Why not? Is that so hard to believe? They can train dogs and horses, why not a giraffe?”

My stepmother: “Train him to own and run a toy store?”

My father: “Why not?”

The sad part is that I think he was serious. Still makes us laugh.

 

UPDATE: If you’re at all curious, it was in fact an animatronic giraffe made by the Stan Winston Studio for Toys ‘R Us. In most commercials, it was only a robotic head in a box, not the whole body.