The Blind Reading the Blind

As I was driving home today, I saw a blind guy sitting on a bench. He had his dark glasses on and his mobility cane leaning against the bench…and he was looking at a cell phone. I’m not sure what he was “looking” at, but he was staring intently at…or at least in the direction of…the screen. Maybe it was talking to him. Or at least I hope it was.

One in a Million Shot

My son and I were out playing frisbee today in the front yard. He was very concerned about throwing it in the street and hitting a car. It reminded me of a childhood memory, so I told him about it.

When I was a kid, during the summers, my brother, cousin, and I would throw a frisbee around in the street in front of the house. There were a lot of cars going up and down the street, so we constantly had to stop and step aside until they’d passed. It was annoying to say the least.

At some point, my cousin JS said, “The next car that drives by with their window down, I’m going to try to throw the frisbee through their window and out the other side.” We all thought this was a sound plan, so my brother positioned himself on one side of the street and my cousin on the other, while kept lookout for cars.

It didn’t take long for a car to come rumbling down the street with its windows down. It was summer in Texas after all, and it was hot. My cousin got ready, lined up his shot, and timed his throw perfectly. The frisbee took off, flew straight in through the driver’s side window, floated across the car, and landed on the passenger seat. It was a one in a million shot. It didn’t fly out of the other side, but still. What we didn’t plan on was that the driver didn’t stop. He just drove on down the street with our frisbee on his seat. We had no idea if he didn’t see it or if he figured that was his reward for us using him as a firing range. But we never saw that frisbee again, and the summer got a whole lot more boring after that.

Night of the Living Dead

I had to wake my mom up this morning because the cleaning lady was going to be at our house shortly after. I was expecting her to be a little groggy, but I definitely was not expecting what opened the door. My mother’s hair was a wild mess, she was squinting from the sudden sunlight, she was leaning slightly to one side with one arm hanging limply, and she was scowling! It was like witnessing the Night of the Living Dead! If I was momentarily taken a back by her appearance, I was completely thrown by her words. In a deep, gravely voice, she growled, “What do you want?!” She sounded like she was possessed. When I explained that the cleaning lady was going to be there soon, she growled back, “Okay, and?” I suggested that she might want to get up and get ready. She grunted and closed the door.

I learned some valuable lessons. Never, ever wake up mom…under any circumstances! Let her down several cups of coffee before attempting to engage her in conversation. And absolutely never look the zombie inside of her directly in the eye!

The Car Wash

There’s a car wash around the corner from my son’s school, which is packed every day. Sometimes, I see the same people going in there every week after dropping their kids off at school. Their cars are always immaculate. I mean barring someone who works as an auto detailer, who has the time to get their car washed every week?! The only time that my car even gets close to a car wash is if I use the squeegee at the gas station to get the bird poop off the roof.

The Tiny Toothbrush

Have you ever been brushing your teeth in the morning and thought to yourself, “Man, my hand looks gigantic on my toothbrush. I’m holding the entire handle in the palm of my hand.” Only to realize that you’ve mistakenly grabbed your son’s children’s toothbrush instead?

Emotional Underwear

I heard a song today that had lyrics that said, “my emotions are naked.” I guess if your emotions can be in the buff, then you can also have emotional underwear. I wonder if it comes in different colors to define what emotion you’re having.

Stew-Pid!

I love how my mother-in-law says the word ‘stupid.’ It comes out as ‘stewpid’ instead. Which honestly just seems more fitting anyway, especially since she adds more inflection to that word and sometimes even drags it out for a beat. “Nobody can drive today! Everyone is so STEW-PID!” It’s hard to argue with that!

Gecko Freak Out

Spousal Unit: “Uh…there’s a lizard on the freaking ceiling.”
Me [looking up]: “Yep, there sure is.”
Spousal Unit: “Well, aren’t you going to do something about it?”
Me: “That’s a twelve foot ceiling. What do you think I can do about it? Besides, he’s not hurting anything. He’s probably eating the spiders. Leave him alone.”
Spousal Unit: “What if he decides to fling himself off there in the middle of the night?! I’m not sleeping in here with a potential daredevil lizard hanging over me!”
Me: “Oh for crying out loud, I’ll get the fly swatter.”
Spousal Unit: “Don’t kill him!”
Me: “I’m not, but how else do you expect me to get him down? Come on, little guy. Don’t fall off of there. No, no, no! Don’t run over there! Crap, hang on, I’m going to get a chair.”
Spousal Unit: “Hurry before he gets away.”
Me: “Where did he go?”
Spousal Unit: “He ran down the wall over there.”
Me: “Why are you standing on the bed?”
Spousal Unit: “In case he comes after me.”
Me: “He’s capable of climbing up the wall and hanging upside down from the ceiling, but you don’t think he can climb up on the bed to get you if he wants to?”
Spousal Unit: “Okay, I didn’t think it through. Just get him.”
Me: “Come on, little guy. Sit still, so I can put this cup over you. I promise that I won’t hurt you. I’m trying to get you back outside. No!”
Spousal Unit: “What happened?”
Me: “He ran behind the changing table. Now, I have to move everything. Oh, come on!”
Spousal Unit: “Now what?”
Me: “He ran behind the dresser. Why couldn’t you have just left him alone?! Ugh, this thing weighs a ton. Okay, nice and easy. Stay…stay…stay. For crying out loud!”
Spousal Unit: “Did you get him?”
Me: “No, he ran behind the mirror. Okay, I’m about to go get the fly swatter you stupid lizard. Stop running away from me! Got him! He’s a little Mediterranean House Gecko. Oh my god, he was probably just trying to sell you insurance!”
Spousal Unit: “I’m not buying. Get him out of the house. And then, can you please put everything back? I’m really tired. I’m going to bed.”
Me: “Yeah, I’m sure all that standing on the bed and squealing really wore you out.”

Goofy

Spousal Unit: “Do you know what I heard today? Apparently, they found another planet in our solar system. It’s a lot like Pluto, but a little larger. It apparently has more gas though.”
Me: “I’m sorry, but how can they tell that it farts more than Pluto?!”
Spousal Unit [laughing]: “I don’t know, but they gave it a stupid name, something with letters and numbers.”
Me: “I’m sure it’s named G00FY, since you said it’s similar to Pluto.”
Spousal Unit: “Please stop.”

Uber Black

Javan: “My mom is almost here. The Uber Black picked her up about fifteen minutes ago.”
Spousal Unit [whispering]: “Did he just say Uber Black? What’s that?”
Me: “It’s an Uber only for black people. You don’t know about it, because you’re always taking Uber White.”
Spousal Unit [suspiciously]: “Really?”
Me: “Sure. It’s like a Cadillac Escalade with chrome and 24” rims. White people can’t handle something that nice, so we end up in beat up Toyota Corollas with the bumper duct taped on and food wrappers all over the floor.”
Spousal Unit: “I think you’re taking the piss right now.”
Me: “No, I went earlier.”

Insane

Me: “I know it should be obvious, but I feel like I still need to verbalize it. Can you please make more of an effort to coordinate the clips you’re using to close the cereal bags to the color of the cereal box?”
Spousal Unit [laughing]: “Absolutely not! I will not be held accountable for that kind of craziness. If you want to be in charge of that, help yourself.”
Me: “This is a perfectly reasonable request. I’m not sure why it’s not keeping you up at night, like it is for me.”
Spousal Unit: “Because I’m not insane!”
Me: “Pfft! That’s something an insane person would say. Besides, your refusal to coordinate the clip color to the box color would suggest otherwise.”

Margaritas are Greek

My Wife: “We’re going to the place with the cheese sauce.”
Me: “AnnaMaria won’t like that place.”
AnnaMaria: “No, I will. They have margaritas.”
Me: “Did you know the Spanish word ‘margarita’ means daisy, like the flower? The one with the white petals and yellow center?”
AnnaMaria: “Yes, we have the same word in Greek.”
Me: “Margarita or daisy?”
AnnaMaria: “We call both the drink and flower ‘margarita.’”
Me: “Wait, I thought all words had their root in the Greek. So, how could that be if margarita is Spanish?”
My Wife: “We incorporate words from other languages into ours.”
Me: “Well, then of course every word has their root in the Greek, because you just steal words from other languages and call them Greek!”
AnnaMaria: “I think margarita is actually Greek.”
Me: “You can’t be serious! ‘Margarita’ is not Greek!”
AnnaMaria: “Let’s look it up. It says here that it comes from the Greek word ‘margaritari,’ which is Ancient Greek for ‘pearl.’”
Me: “Wait, are you using a Greek website to look that up, because of course they would say that it’s Greek?!”
AnnaMaria [laughing]: “I’m using Google.”
Me: “You can’t use that either, because Google is Greek! What else have you got?”
Georgios: “It says the same thing on the deep web.”
My Wife: “So, there you go!”
Me: “That doesn’t mean anything. You can’t trust what you read on the internet.”

Richelieu

After over a year Cardinal-free, the stupid red bird is back again.  I found him outside attacking the mirrors in the tree again almost as if he had never stopped.  I guess it was too much to hope that he had finally moved on and found someone new to antagonize.  Since he's going to be around year after year, I decided to adopt the little guy and give him a proper name.  After all, I can't keep calling him "stupid red bird" anymore, now can I?!  So, the only fitting name is "Richelieu" after the famed Cardinal from The Three Musketeers.  I have to admit that giving him a name has softened my stance on the determined little bird.  And though I will deny it in a court of law, I sort of missed him while he was gone.

Dogged Determination

I’m sitting here at the park, watching this woman distractedly walking her dog. I say distractedly, because she’s yammering away on her cell phone the entire time. The woman has the leash encircling her left hand and most obviously wants the dog to walk on her left side. But for whatever reason, the dog keeps slowing down and walking behind the woman to get on her right side. As soon as the dog gets on the right, she speeds up to get ahead of the woman, wrapping the leash around the back of the woman’s legs.

The woman will step over the leash and pull the dog back over to the left or spin around to unwrap the leash, only to have the dog go behind her to the right again. I’ve been watching this go on for ten minutes now as the pair have made their way around the small pond in the park, laughing at the dog’s determination and the woman’s distracted obliviousness. And I can’t help but wonder why the woman never took a few seconds just to move the leash to her right hand.

Product of the Technological Times

Today, I was looking at pictures of my wedding in a photo album when I got to one that had quite a bit detail in it.  It was of the buffet at the reception, and I started to get curious about what kind of food we had been serving (I didn't in fact get to eat any of it, so I have no direct recollection).  I couldn't quite make out the food in the photo, so I put my thumb and index finger on the picture and tried to enlarge it.  That's when it dawned on me that this was an actual photograph in an album, not some picture on my phone.  I guess it's obvious that I'm a product of the technological times!

Jesus in a Shopping Cart

Tonight, at my men’s group, one of the guys asked the group if we ever had awareness of God’s presence during our day-to-day activities, like going to the grocery store. Another guy answered that he didn’t, and I replied, “You mean you don’t imagine Jesus sitting inside the shopping cart as you push it around the store?!” The entire group started laughing, and we got completely derailed at that point. Everyone chimed in with a funny thought about Jesus doing some miracle from inside the cart, like clearing an aisle at checkout, so that you never have to wait in line. Or parting people in the aisles like the Red Sea, so nobody is ever in your way. Or fixing the squeaking, perpetually-shaking wheel on the back of the basket. Or asking for chocolate cereal like a child, trying to convince us that it’s probably healthy. It was a really fun time, and now I can’t stop imagining Jesus riding inside my shopping cart as I fill it with groceries.

Napping Naked

Is there anything better than taking a nap in the middle of a Saturday afternoon without a stitch on? The feel of the soft sheets against your bare skin. The freedom of not being confined or restricted by clothes…to sprawl out across the bed without guilt or the necessity to share the space. Why do we spend so much time doing what is proper and socially-acceptable when we’re entirely alone?! Who cares if you’re wearing pajamas? Who’s going to see them anyway? You’re missing out in life if you don’t take at least one naked nap.

The Roadrunner

There is a roadrunner that lives in a copse of trees near the golf course. I’ve seen him at various times running around the neighborhood, looking for food. In fact, I’ve gotten so used to seeing him that I actively look for him every time I drive by that area. I've named him "Rune," a play on "Runner." I mean, I can't very well call him roadrunner all the time, now can I?

Besides burning up the concrete, he also likes to jump up onto the six-foot tall stone wall across the street from his home. He can make the leap in a single bound (I've witnessed him doing it), and then he’ll run along the top of the wall at breakneck speeds. One day, I was walking along the sidewalk near this very stone wall, when the roadrunner came flying along it from the opposite direction. He stopped when he got next to me, and we stared at each other for a full minute. He was so close that I could clearly see that he had a beard, little scruffy feathers sticking out from his chin, and a mustache (although that might have just been a snake hanging out of his beak). I’ve never been that close to a roadrunner before, and it was pretty awesome.

UPDATE: Apparently, there is not one, but two roadrunners living in that copse of trees. I saw them both today, kissing. At least, it looked like they were kissing. They were beak to beak. I suppose they could have been fighting or a having a very close conversation. I'm assuming that the second one is a girl, and I've name her "Roe," a play on "Road." Of course, I'll never know which one I'm actually seeing now.

Death of a Friend

I am sad beyond consoling. One of my oldest friends was killed tonight. She has been my constant companion, sleeping with me almost every night, for the last seventeen years. No matter what was going on in my life, she was content to curl up in my arms, stretching out against me and making me feel safe and comfortable. Her body perfectly molded to fit mine. But one misguided act of kindness stole her away from me forever. There will never be another Patricia, and my heart will yearn for her for the rest of my life.

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.