For the wife and me, one of the selling points of our home was the neighborhood. There’s no thru-traffic and it has sidewalks, honest-to-God sidewalks. It also has plenty of children sprinkled about its 200 homes. We can count on about 50 kids on Halloween. That equates to 30 or 40 rings of the door bell that drive my dogs insane. To keep some peace in the place, I’ve taken to sitting outside and meeting the kids in the driveway on Halloween night.

This year, I sat for about three minutes before the fallen leaves and pine needles started calling me. I figured I was going to be out there for a couple of hours and had plenty of time to rake between the attacks from the little goblins so I grabbed a rake.

This seemed to throw the little costumed buggers off their candy scam. They didn’t know what to make of creepy chore man raking his yard by floodlight. Obviously, kids want to get as close to chores as they do to flesh-eating zombies. When I would catch a gaggle of them debating whether to approach the house, I’d shake my rake at them and tell them the trick was they had to put a handful of leaves in the trash can for their treat. One group of older girls (older in Halloween terms means about 12), surprised me while I had my 40 gallon trash can in tow. I promptly thrust the can in their direction and said, “Trick or treat! My bag is bigger than yours so fill it up!”

I did almost have one taker on my offer to work. I little five-year-old boy was feeling pretty tired and sat down in my driveway. While his dad was trying to perused him to move on, I told him if he stayed he’d have to help rake leaves. He said, “OK.” I gave him an extra piece of candy for his willing spirit.

The thing that impresses me about Halloween, at least around these Southern parts, is that parents use it to teach kids manners. There is a prescribed formula here when begging for candy which includes a cajoling parent in the background saying, “What do you say?” at the end of the sweet transaction. Without fail, every clink in a plastic pumpkin is met with a mask-muffled, “Thank you.”

One additional lesson taught this year was English. The Hispanic parents were not only teaching their kids manners, but English, too. Or maybe the kids were teaching the parents. I’m not sure how that went, but they all had great costumes. After all, Mexico goes all out for el día del muerto. Hispanic dad had full-on, movie-worthy skeleton make-up like he was an extra in a Tarentino film.

God, I love America. Bring us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses and we’ll all dress up, eat candy, and get drunk together. Next year, when a little Mexican kid shows up at your door with a made-in-China plastic pumpkin, begging for candy in the finest Anglo-Saxon tradition, give of your chocolate freely. There’s nothing like a good holiday to give us a common touch-point and remind us all to say, “Thank you.”

Canis fidelis

When my toes are not exposed
On my fingers you do linger
With your little lapping tongue.

When my door is not ajar
With your paw you make a scar
An echo of your tiny “Let me in.”

When my day is not the best
In my lap you ask to rest.
Tell me all is well my warm and furry friend.

If you could you’d crack a grin
Instead, your leg begins to bend
As you roll and ask to have your tummy rubbed.

And when the day turns into night,
You don’t bark nor do you bite.
You know exactly where to lie and be on guard.

You were my fine and faithful friend.
We were together in the end.
I hope the same is said of me when I am gone.

My three-day bout with some sort of nasty bacillus-er-other has come to a close. Thank y’all for the many get-well wishes. What ever this thing or things was, presented a new symptom every day. I won’t go into the gory details, but to say, “For God’s sake, don’t Google your medical symptoms.” I did and it really messes with your head.

The body’s natural defenses have to get rid of all those nasty bugs so it’s natural that things smell differently at some point. I plugged in “odor” into Google and its handy “I’m guessing what you’re thinking based on things other people searched” feature filled out all sorts of weird guess. Just a side note, people who use Google, and that means everyone, are curiously dreadful people, including me.

After visiting a couple of the the top hits, I determined that I have one of the following:

• Celiac Disease though I’ve never had it before and it’s a genetic disorder.
• Advanced, Stage 3 liver cancer though you’d think I’d have noticed some other symptoms before now.
• Any one of several heavy metal poisonings from eating large amounts of certain fish which I don’t eat.
• Am possibly pregnant. Call the National Enquirer.

For now, I’m going with “it’s just my body getting rid of all the nastiness.” But all this got me thinking. It sure would be helpful if there were people out there who could make heads or tails out of all this mess. Sure, it might take a little more college to learn this stuff, possibly four years or more. In the end, these people would be able to help us figure out what’s ailing us and maybe even help us get well. They could even dress up in funny costumes like white coats and whatnot. Yeah, probably a pipe dream. Besides, when you’re sick, you don’t feel like getting out to see people anyway.

So kids, learn from my mistakes and stay off the Google for medical advice. If you believe everything you read on the internet, you’ll be doing surgery on yourself with a power drill and Swiss Army knife in your garage out of the fear that some ganglionic mass has taken over your pituitary gland. All because WebMD said you may have Nakajo syndrome. Well House, if you do have Nakajo syndrome, your parents were siblings and no amount of warnings will dissuade you from your self-surgery.

As for the rest of you, be well.

Oh, and if your armpits smell like tacos, the cure for that is “take a shower.” That’s a freebie from me to you.

I’ve bemoaned my crappy digital camera for about as long as I’ve had it. The whining didn’t fall on deaf ears, either. My wife is a good listener and when she saw a good deal on a Kodak M420, she thought that would make the perfect “that’ll shut him up” Xmas gift. I’m glad she told me about it because I was about to buy a new camera for Xmas.

I was concerned that this one would be a piece of junk, too. You see, the one we have is one she got a really great deal on, too. So Xmas came early when it was delivered today. We needed to take if for a test spin so we would know whether to return it during the 30-day trial period.

In just four snaps, I was convinced to keep it. Not that any camera would have to do much to be better than the crappy Mustek we have, but this Kodak M420 takes pretty decent pictures.

It has:

• about 20 pre-set modes for various situation
• a tight/wide toggle under the right thumb
• a 27 second video w/ sound recorder (sound isn’t great)
• a big 3.5 inch (diagonal) LCD screen
• and best of all, a motion/blur stabilizer

The blur stabilizer is the feature I like best. With the old Mustek, I had to hold my breath for 5 seconds to get a decent shot. Plus, the Kodak takes much better close-ups than my old camera. Getting a good close-up is invaluable when putting pictures of items for sale on the web, which I do for my daughter’s craft site.

For a comparison here is a shot of my then-newly planted Angel Trumpets shot with the Mustek from about 4 feet away.

Angel Trumpet

Here is one of the Angel Tumpets today shot with the new Koday M420 using the zoom from about 18 feet away

Angel Trumpets in Bloom

Keep in mind, this was the third picture I took with my new camera, but I can already tell it’s going to take better pictures than my old one. Obviously, it’s not a professional’s camera or even a great personal piece of equipment, but when you’ve struggled for as long as I have with that Mustek P.O.S, anything is a step up.

I wish I had taken some before pictures of my chimney repairs, but here’s the after. You have to look closely to see that the side, which was what was replaced, isn’t exactly like the old siding (on the left and under the light). Much thanks to my cousin who gave me a family discount on the job.

Chimney Siding

Seriously.

I woke up this morning with song lyrics in my brain. Woke up, mind you. I did not acquire these from my recent environment. I haven’t heard this song in years. Yet, there it was spewing out of my mouth as I made coffee, as I read my email, as I showered. It wouldn’t stop.

This brain worm would be understandable if it were something recent, but this song was released in 1968. It got jammed into my cerebellum sometime in the 1970s, probably from an album (yes, vinyl) I inherited from my sister. Why did it decide to produce itself fully formed this morning?

Now here’s where you laugh. The song is Tapioca Tundra. Never heard of it? I’m not surprised. It was written by Mike Nesmith. Yes, that Mike Nesmith of the Monkees. So I still have to wonder, why is there a Monkees’ song stuck in my brain at 6:40 AM?

Maybe because it’s really good poetry. Maybe because I was exposed to it as an impressionable youth. The specific lyrics I woke up with are:

And softly as I walk away
In freshly tattered shoes.
It cannot be a part of me
For now it’s part of you.

Sunshine, ragtime
Blowing in the breeze.
Midnight, looks right
Standing more at ease.

That’s all I could remember until the shower water hit my head. Then suddenly the first verse started gurgling out from under the water:

Reasoned verse, some prose or rhyme
Lose themselves in other times
And waiting hopes cast silent spells
That speak in clouded clues.
It cannot be a part of me
For now it’s part of you.

I was sure that no one else in the world remembered that tune. I had to be the only one who ever heard such an obscure song. So I went to our modern repositories of all things cultural, Google & YouTube. There were the lyrics as big as day on multiple lyric’s sites. YouTube is devoid of any original Monkee’s recordings, but a few covers exist there.

I’m not alone in my insanity. That’s comforting.

During my Saturday errands, I had the opportunity to stop in my local Starbuck’s coffee shop. Stop in, mind you, not drive through. My visit coincided with Starbuck’s launch of their new instant coffee, Via^®. I bypassed the taste test table and made straight for the counter.

I placed my order for a four-shot cappuccino. When counter-girl asked if I needed a receipt, I told her, “It is unnecessary for this transaction to included paperwork.” (I’m a big fan of Foamy the Squirrel). True to her training which I’m sure consisted of a 30-minute video complete with a speech from a Starbuck’s VP, counter-girl asked if I had taken the Via^® taste challenge. I politely told her that I have never found an instant coffee that tastes good. Her corporate-programmed response was, “Everyone says they can’t taste the difference.”

I’m not a coffee snob. I can’t tell a Kenyan from a Colombian, except I know one of them is in the White House. I even drink the weak, cheep Maxwell House^TM filter-pack brewed stuff provided at work. I only bought a bean grinder this, my 45th year, on the planet. My primary prerequisite for coffee is dark, strong, and hot. If there is sugar nearby, so much the better. That’s the extent of my coffee expertise, but I have never had instant coffee that tastes anything close to coffee.

I reiterated this fact to counter-girl, but the training video was stronger than the brewing espresso. She suggested that while I wait, I take the taste test. And since Starbuck’s grinds their beans under the cloven hoof of Beelzebub while you wait, I had a few minutes to kill.

Taste-test girl asked me if I’d like to take the test hot or cold. I told her, “Hot, but I’ve never tasted instant coffee that was any good.”

She replied, “Oh, everyone says they can’t taste the difference.” Now where have I heard that before?

She poured a paper shot-glass of a dark, black liquid. It was good…nectar of the god’s good. She poured another shot-glass from a different carafe and handed it to me. Being the expressive person I am, my face contorted and my body spasmed with the first sip. I was overtaken by the spirit of Shakespeare, clutched my throat, and cried, “I am poison-ed!”

Truly crestfallen, taste-test girl’s now long face asked, “You can taste the difference?”

“Dear God, yes! Number one was rich, delicious coffee. B was some sort of powdered gym sock extract suspended in hot water.”

I believe the looks I got from the Starbuck’s corporate drones were the official “banished to the drive-thru” stare. I was issued an ankle bracelet that automatically locks the doors of any Starbuck’s thus prohibiting my entry into any of their fine world-wide establishments.

If you find yourself in possession of Starbuck’s Via^® instant vileness, dispose of it as you would nuclear waste. You mustn’t let even one granule of this chromosome-damaging powder escape into the eco-system. And if you find yourself locked out of Starbuck’s, simply ask me to back away 50 feet.

Last night, my wife breezed through the living room asking for something. I wasn’t really clear what it was. She has a tendency to start our conversations before she enters the room and finish them from the kitchen, usually all while I’m either writing, proofing (ha), or intensely playing poker. Normally, I hear, “Blah…Blah…So don’t forget to buy that.” Huh? What am I supposed to buy?

It turned out to be the September edition of National Geographic. Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. Where did that come from? But being the good and faithful husband I am, I stopped by Books-a-Million while out-and-about today and grabbed the September Nat. Geo. for her.

The woman ahead of me at the cash register was buying something from the tree-killing Twilight series, but the best part of her transaction was the gushing coming from behind the counter. This kid was way, way, way too into Twilight. Then he got all forlorn and misty when he said, “I probably won’t get to see the new movie since I’m going off to basic in October.”

As some of you know, I grew up Army. I have the greatest respect for our men and women in uniform. I wanted to give this kid some encouragement. I wanted to tell him I was proud of his sacrifice. I wanted to give him some sage wisdom to carry with him, maybe even onto some foreign shore some day. Something that might save his life. I wanted to, but this is what came out of my mouth:

“Kid, I want to give you some advice for boot camp. Keep that thing about liking the sparkly vampires under your hat. Trust me on this one. You’ll have a much better relationship with your drill sergeant if you just don’t bring it up. Just keep that to yourself, unless you want a nickname you’ll never shake.” He agreed that was probably the best course of action.

I hope that young lad starts the new phase of his life a bit wiser for meeting me. I hope one day he thinks back on a random meeting with a stranger in a book shop and thinks, “That guy really changed my life. In fact, he saved my life.”

I hope my words prevent him from letting it slip over evening chow in the mess one night, just how great he thinks Twilight is. I’ve got to tell you, once everyone in basic training knows you like sparkly vampires, you’re going to get the sparkly-vampire crap knocked out of you for the next six weeks.

And you’ll never shake the nickname, “Sparkles” or “Twilight Toes”. That crap will haunt you forever. No one ever wants to be in the thick of a fire-fight and hear, “Get Sparkles on the radio! We need fast movers!” or “Lay down some Willy Peter, Twilight Toes! We need smoke!”

So I think I did him some good. I may have save a whole platoon of men. You never know just what effect a butterfly’s wings will have.

Oh, and Nat. Geo.? Totally worth a peek this month.

So, all Summer you’ve been looking at the Southern night sky and wondering what the heck that bright thing is. OK, so maybe you haven’t. Maybe you have a life. Maybe you watch your shoes and try not to step in freshly dropped, recycled dog food. But I’m going to tell you what it is anyway.

Jupiter. King of the planets. Number 5 on the “out from the sun” list. To find it, simply look south for the brightest thing in the night sky. It will be due south around 10pm local time. Up and to the right is the bright star Altair (alpha Aquila). Further up and to the right is Vega (alpha Lyra). Remember the move Contact with Jodie Foster? Vega was where she went to meet the aliens.

The current backdrop for Jupiter is the unimpressive constellation Capricornus. If you look to the right of Capricornus, you’ll see the much more impressive constellations of Sagittarius and Scorpius. Go out around 8pm local time and this will be due south.

Sagittarius, on the left, is identifiable by it’s tea kettle shape, currently tipping out on the scorpion’s tail. Scorpius contains the impressive red star Antares. Antares means “the other Mars” (anti-Ares, get it?). Its red color is why the Greeks gave it its enduring name. You’ll need to get out soon to see Sagittarius chase Scorpius because the chase will soon be below the night horizon.

But Jupiter will be ruling the early night sky for a few more months. If you can get your hands on a small telescope get a bead on him and be awed. At least look up every once in a while. There are whole worlds up there. It might be worth taking your eyes off your shoes for a night. It might even be worth stepping in a steamer. Naw, probably not.

There are one hundred reasons I am annoying. Number 54 is, I’m an absent-minded singer. I hum. I whistle. I sing. I get a tune stuck in my head and it randomly comes out during the day. I’m sure it’s annoying, but people don’t say anything. Their silence is probably born from fear. I guess they think I’m a bit mad. If I’m uninhibited enough to just burst into song, you can’t be too sure what I might do or so the logic goes.

Distractedly singing in public can get you some funny looks, not to mention, in all sorts of trouble. Today was one of those days.

I was in a great mood and Led Zeppelin was my all-natural, rhythmic Prozac. It started innocently enough. Nobody’s Fault But Mine popped into my head on the way to work. A simple whistle escalated to full-blown, belting-’em-out-at-the-stop-light car tunes. By the time I got to work, I needed a real fix. So I slapped it up on YouTube while I read my morning email. By the second chorus, the guy who shares my office was probably fantasizing about jamming a letter-opener into my neck, but I didn’t care.

YouTube, being what it is, suggested more Led Zeppelin for my enjoyment and others annoyance. I selected Since I’ve Been Loving You from the video jukebox and prepared for my morning meeting. All prepped, I decided to grab some coffee and hit the head.

Now kids, if you’re a singer like me, what you don’t want to do is find yourself in a crowded men’s room, belly up to the bar so to speak, singing Since I’ve Been Loving You softly to yourself. It’s not a great career move to have your boss catch you with your hands full, melodically swaying to, “Lord, you know it ain’t right. Since I’ve been loving you, I’m about to lose my worried mind.” In this situation, people get all sorts of the wrong impressions about your relationship with Mr. Spanky.

Now kids, if this ever happens to you, don’t not panic. Panic leads to only one thing … quickly replacing the song with another. Panic freezes the brain and since it’s stuck on Led Zeppelin, panic makes the conspicuous transition to Whole Lotta Love, complete with guitar intro. Panic fails to obfuscate what is obvious to every suit in the vicinity. All panic can do is:

“Badantdahdandant. Badantdahdandant. You need coolin’, baby, I’m not foolin’. I’m gonna send you back to schoolin’. Way down inside honey, you need it. I’m gonna give you my love. I’m gonna give you my love.” Badantdahdandant. Shake. Badantdahdandant. Shake. Badantdahdandant. Zip. Badantdahdandant. Flush. Wash. Badantdahdandant. Hi Bob. Way, way down inside honey, you need it. I’m gonna give you my love.”

It seems every time I post something on this blog, someone unsubscribes. That’s cool. Maybe I’m boring. Maybe they switched to Google Reader. But it’s starting to give me a complex. Speaking of unsubscribing …

I did something I promised I’d never do. I wrote an article about religion. I fully expected to lose subscribers over it. I knew my views about homosexuality & Christianity weren’t the most popular. I hoped that the writing, logic, and honesty would carry the message. As it turns out, everyone reads through their own experience-tainted glasses.

I caught all sorts of grief over the article. I got comments on both sides of the controversy. I enjoyed the conversation. One person (that I know of) even wrote a scathing rebuttal which accused me of prejudice against homosexuals (aka homophobia). I had some tell me what a dead-on, great article it was. Most of the latter group know me in real life so I give those comments a little extra weight than internet avatars. Either way, thanks for reading.

I was sure people would unsubscribe to my Associated Content account in droves. Before I wrote the Gay Clergy article, I had 647 subscribers. The final tally after was 653. Even the lady who wrote the rebuttal article unsubscribed and then re-subscribe. We exchange some mail where she admitted it was childish to unsubscribe because she respects the fact I can write well. That was nice to hear.

Now I’m vacillating. I enjoyed writing about religion. It got a lot of traffic and it spawned some good conversations. I just don’t know if I can mix it well with all my satire and comedy. Meh, you never know. Maybe I’ll try again. God loves laughter. Why else would he given us the platypus, the giraffe, and Brittney Spears? I guess I’ll proceed with caution for it is written, “But take heed lest by any means this liberty of yours become a stumbling block to them that are weak.” (1Cr 8:9)

Here’s the whole thing if you want it: Should We Ordain Gay Clergy? Can a Christian of Any Stripe Be Gay?

Here’s something newer for a laugh: Republican Attacks on Intended Obama School Speech Backfire in a Flurry of Congressional Action. I’d love to know what you think in light of today’s indoctrination of our school children.

Have I mentioned that I’m going to have something I’ve written printed? “Big deal,” you say? Well, it is for me. Here’s how it happened accidentally one Wednesday morning last Autumn while I was at the dry cleaner’s picking up some shirts…

The writer’s site Accentuate Services was holding a series of contests. They threw out a theme and people submitted short stories. The stories were sent out to 3^rd-party judges. The winners were compiled for an anthology.

I never had time to finish any of my … let’s say brilliant since they were never finished and won’t be published … short stories for the contests. However, as filler between the four sections of the book, Accentuate held poetry contests, too.

You’re asking, “Can this idiot write poetry?” The answers is, “Apparently he can.” I find it an excruciating process though. Writing poetry, good or even decent poetry, is hard. Much harder than you’d think. For all my effort, I like to think that I won 2^nd prize in a beauty contest like the Monopoly game community chest card because the prize was $10. Ten dollars and the pride of seeing something I’ve written in a lovely, hard-cover binding.

I’ve had things printed before, but those were usually because I was the only one dumb enough to volunteer for my high school newspaper and yearbook.

So the short story of these short stories is that you can pre-order the anthology, Elements of the Soul. If you order now, you can save the S&H&Tax ($13 US). I’ve read most of the winners as they were announced and can say without reservation, you will love it. Go on. What else were you going to do with that 13 dollars?

Order Elements of the Soul here and save the S&H&Tax fees. Ten percent of the profits are donated to literacy programs too. So you can have a heart while you enjoy a good read.

Oh, and enjoy my poem. It’s about lost childhood and innocence and trying to recapture the same. My mom even has it on her refrigerator so you know it’s good.

My wife is a believer in dreams. I don’t mean she has lofty aspirations or inspirational goals. I’m talking about the fuzzy images her brain generates while she is asleep. Many the morning I’ve awakened to cold, peering eyes watching me from her side of the bed. Those are the mornings when I know, some how, some way, I’ve been up to no good in her dreams … and I’m about to hear about it.

A common scenario involves her dreaming that we are both back in high school, wherein my dreamy doppelganger is ignoring her and is putting the teenage moves on some other girl. On those mornings, my coffee is less tasty while I hear about what a cad I am … er … was in high school. Not the high school of 30 years ago, but the high school of 30 minutes ago when she was dreaming. It’s all very confusing for me.

I only know one thing. At some point during my shower that morning, the water will suddenly burst forth in a jet of steam when my wife exacts her revenge by flushing the toilet for no other reason than to scald me … er … my dream self … er … but my flesh self still has first-degree burns. It’s all very confusing for me.

My sly male brain concocted a plan. I would tell her I had a dream. Her strong belief in the validity of dreams would compel her to follow up on my dream. It was a perfect plan, until I put it into action.

I set it up one morning with, “G’morning, Dear Heart. I love you. Wow! I had a dream last night.” Step one. Interest piqued.

“What did you dream?” Her reply fell right into my trap.

“It was a wild sex dream.” Bait dangled. Of course, she must know if she was part of my dream.

“Was I in it?” Bait taken. Now to snuggle up close and seal the deal.

“Of course sweetheart. Who else would be in my sex dreams but you?” Get ready to call work and tell them I’ll be late…

“That counts then. We’re good for another week.” Damn you, twisting female logic! At least I could take my shower as cold as necessary after my failed plan.

Today’s lesson: reach for your dreams with an open hand in case you have to pimp slap a brother on the way.

If you follow me on Facebook, you saw a post this morning that read simply, “O Lord! I think we’re going to the jewelery store. Someone save me!” The follow-on comment predictably read, “My God! What have I done?” which is a fitting quote from my favorite Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime. After several inquiries, I felt an expanded explanation was in order. No humans were harmed in the making of this blog post.

First a little backstory
My bride and I just celebrated our 27^th wedding anniversary. We treated ourselves to a few days retreat at The Secret B&B. We relaxed. We ate. We talked. Several of those conversations were about how my lovely bride desperately wanted a new wedding ring. She had lost her first in an unfortunate surgical accident where the ring was literally cut off. The replacement band with 13 diamonds I bought some years ago somehow shrank over the years.

During the intervening week, she and I have looked at dozens of rings on websites far and wide, but we both secretly knew she wanted something built around her mother’s old engagement diamond. She made some calls around town and discovered that our local Zales store had a master jeweler on site today. Today only!

Did I mention how desperately she wanted a new symbol of our love? Boy, she sure did.

Present Day
I found a ring on the Kay’s website that we both really liked. Though she wasn’t feeling up to it, I gave her an incentive to get going today. I told her, if she would go with me to make sure the size was right, I’d buy her the Kay’s ring today. No need to say it twice. I think there is a burn on the carpet between the bed and the bath.

We went to Zales to see what they had and/or what the on-site jeweler deal was. We knew we had Kay’s as a backup. I showed the lovely crew at Zales a few old rings and we were presented with a white gold setting. It was pretty enough, but had a broad, flat wing shape on one side which just overpowered the 1/4 carat solitaire. The jewelery designer quickly explained that it was perfect because that ledge would be cut out and as many diamonds from the old band as possible would be clustered in the newly cut channel. Well, OK. How much for the custom job? Zero? Done deal.

I guess the journeyman master jeweler was paid for. It didn’t matter if he made one ring or twelve today. He was there to do whatever was necessary. It was fascinating to watch him work. Within an hour he was done. There was my wife’s newly-minted, custom-made wedding slash anniversary ring. White gold with 13 recycled diamonds from the old band and her mother’s engagement solitaire bezel set on top.

The Surprise
While we were waiting and watching the creation of the new ring, my wife pointed out some earrings that were on sale, but I told her she would have to settle for the ring. Upon completion, there were tears and neck hugs for everyone in the store. I think a few innocent bystanders even got hugs.

As we drove out of the parking lot, I reached in my pocket and handed my wife another jewelery box and simply said, “Would you hold this while I drive?” Of course, she opened the box to find the ear rings.

The Title
So you’re wondering why this happy story is entitled “Making Toast in the Bathtub.” After 27 years, I’ve discovered that’s what marriage is. It’s more precarious than politics. It’s more dangerous than war. Love and especially marriage is a precarious balancing act filled with compromise and joy. It is like making toast in the bathtub. One false move and you’re dead. But if you’re careful, really, really careful…you get to eat a sandwich in the bath.

Or something like that.

I have a new daily task. I am a carcass sweeper. Every evening, I sweep hundreds of dead brown beetle carcasses from my walkway and driveway. More accurately, I power blow them with a Black & Decker cordless pavement sweeper. (It doesn’t have quite the power to be called a leaf blower.)

“Hundreds” is no exaggeration. There are literally hundreds of these little buggers, some still squirming, littering the front of my house. As I swept away the carcasses tonight, I said aloud, “Why do they come to me to die?” Then I remember that I installed photosensitive switches on the lights at the end of the garage. They come on automatically at dusk and turn off at dawn. The blinding 25W CFL bulbs are drawing these little insect sex fiends to their nightly orgy. Spent, they die and make my morning walk to the car precarious at least, crunchy at most.

Each evening, I carelessly sweep away the carcasses as my brain slowly desensitizes to death. I guess I have a hard time concerning myself with the killing field that is my yard. After all, these beetles are getting their one night of passion which is more than I’m getting lately.

On a side note: You may have noticed my gratuitous use of the word carcass. For a noun that means “dead animal body,” it is one of the funniest words in English. Not the definition, but the sound. Repeat it ten or twenty times. It stops sounding like a word and starts making you laugh.

Carcass. Night y’all. Carcass.

This week three celebrities died, Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. They died in that order like Death was doing some celebrity countdown. Each one was a bigger celebrity than the previous. When the week culminated in Jackson’s death, hysteria filled the air and digital waves. Twitter and Facebook spiked with everything from the major networks stories down to the smallest “I remember my first kiss was to a Michael Jackson song” tribute on MySpace.

Do I mourn these people. Sure I do, in a John Donne For Whom the Bell Tolls sort of way, sure. But I didn’t know these people and neither did the 99.9% of the people who pretended their deaths were the end of an era. No matter what fond memories you have of The Tonight Show, Charlie’s Angels, or the Bad album, you didn’t know any of these people. All the internet equivalent of throwing yourself on their caskets does only one thing. It makes me sad…for you.

Over 140,000 other people died today. Their lives were just as important as Michael Jackson’s. They just aren’t in your iPod. Do you mourn their deaths? This year over 300,000 women died in child birth leaving 300,000 motherless children. Many of those same children died of malnutrition or curable diseases before their fifth birthday. In fact, 5.3 million children under five died this year alone. Did you mourn them? Did you even donate to a charity that was trying to prevent their deaths? 22 million abortions were performed this year. Less than 3% were done because the mother was at risk. That’s more than one abortion every 3 seconds. Did you try to help those girls in distress? Did you offer them an alternative? Did you just picket a clinic and make them feel worse about their predicament? More than half a million lonely people committed suicide this year. Did you do anything to reach out to any of them and try to prevent their deaths?

I’d venture to say, someone in your neighborhood had a family member pass away this year. Did you take them food or even send a condolence card? I was expressing these feelings to my sister-in-law this morning. A member of her church died this week. She didn’t know them very well, but she vowed to at least attend and help out with food or the nursery so others could mourn properly. That is how you deal with death. That is real. That is tangible. That is mourning.

Sappy, crappy, faux feelings for someone you never even met because you feel they touched your life doesn’t impress me. It makes me kind of sad. There are people on your street who could change your life in infinitely more meaningful ways than a few entertainers, if you would just let them. When was the last time your even spoke to your neighbor? Do you even know their names? If you got their mail, would you know where to return it without looking at the address?

Do us both a favor. Don’t post another stupid ode to Michael Jackson on your blog unless you meet a neighbor you haven’t met. No more fake feelings on Facebook about Farah until you visit a nursing home or hospice this week. Stop acting like you know these people when you don’t even know the names of the people you work with every day. Make death personal and deal with the people involved face to face. Then you’ll have something of substance to talk or write about.

You can check these and more statistics at the World-o-Meter.

Summer is officially here. The temperature is pushing triple digits (Fahrenheit) and the talking heads on the news casts are doing their summer heat precautions shtick again. If my digital weather station is to be believed, the humidity inside my house is 71%.

But that’s OK. After living 28 in Alabama, you learn a few things about how to beat the heat. My grandparents live 80 years in L.A. (Lower Alabama) without air conditioning. They pickup and passed on a few tricks for survival, too.

Rule #1: Water. Drink it. Drink it all day. If you want to change it up, drink decaffeinated iced tea. Because…
Rule #2: Lay off the caffeine and alcohol. They are diuretic and sap the body of water.
Rule #3: Take breaks. Take it easy and rest in the shade often.

This third rule is why Yankees characterized Southerners as slow. We’re not slow. We just don’t move too quickly because of the heat. We’re smart that way. Life goes on. Chores still need doin’. We just know how to work with the heat and not against it.

Just to prove how important water is, here are some before and after pictures of my Angel Trumpets. In the before shot, you can see how the leaves are curling and drooping. The after pictures were taken only five minutes after a good soaking with water, just plain old water.

Plant one. Before.	Plant one. After.
Plant two. Before.	Plant two. After.

My advice for beating the summer heat is simple. Be a plant. Don’t move around to much. Let the breeze move you when possible. Drink plenty of water all day long. However you choose to beat the heat, stay hydrated.

Weather is one of those things that we are hard-wired for. It’s our base brain which responds to weather. Sure, you can intellectualize it. You can quantify it with temperature and pressure. But weather is as primeval as fear, food, and sex. You’re not buying this, are you?

Think about it. What do we talk about? Our fears, good food, great sex, and the weather. “Nice day?” is one of the most common introductory phrases spoken. Like a fire, we stare at the sunrise. Who hasn’t laid on a hillside and made shapes in their mind from passing clouds? If we’re lucky, sometimes we have the perfect dinner, stare at the sunset, and follow it with great sex. See, your primeval brain can have a great night out.

We’re wired to pay attention to the weather like our lives depend on it and they do. Just like our ancestors, we need to know when to take shelter from a storm and when the season is right to plant our crops. Even our moods are affected by how much sunlight we see. People at extreme latitudes suffer more depression in the shortened days of winter. We should feel sorry for them, but during those long night, they’re having great sex so screw them, literally.

So where’s the odd little happy in all this talk about the weather? Today was gray and overcast. There was brilliant, ozone-creating lightening and rolls of echoing thunder this morning. It rained most of the day. True to the old saying, “Don’t like the weather? Wait a minute,” by 5 o’clock, the sky was clear and blue. The birds were back singing after hunkering down all day. The dogs weren’t afraid to go outside again and stopped peeing on the rugs. Things changed that quickly.

Some complain about the rain, but I don’t. I didn’t have to mow the lawn today or water it either. Free, nitrogen-rich water literally fell from the sky. Some complain about the sun, but I don’t. I just put on my sunglasses, pour a tall iced tea, sit on my deck, and took fabulous in the good light. Whichever the weather, you just have to learn to take the good with the good.

While your chasing the odd little happy, beware of reindeer-munching, semi-depressed Eskimos looking for a one-night stand and keep your eye on the sky. The odd little happy may be just behind the next cloud.

After yesterday’s post, I got several comments here and at the Facebook version which is autofed.  Over at Facebook, Cindy Gunnin commented using my new favorite phrase, “those odd little happys.” Then Michy asked for more pictures of my flowers. I decided that it’s not in me to deprive people of the small beauty I’ve tried to create. Therefore, today, I shall grant Ms. Michy’s wish and offer up a few out-of-focus shots of my flowers.  My digital camera really sucks for close ups so this is the best I could do.

I start out simply with the two-week-old Angel Trumpet my wife bought. This is her attempt to join in the grand experiment. The arrangement we apparently have is she will buy plants on-line or from QVC and I’ll do all the work potting and caring for them. I don’t remember signing up for that, but I’m sure she has some paperwork somewhere.	Angel Trumpet
Feather and Verbena Leftover Feather and Verbena	I emptied the window boxes. They were full of sundry perennials that I transplanted to the front yard. Sorry, I didn’t take pictures of that. My wife complained that she couldn’t enjoy the deck without “her” window boxes so I stuck some Feather and Verbena in them. I’ve discovered that Verbena is just about impossible to kill.
You may remember (Who am I kidding? You don’t remember. Here’s a link.) that I did a little concrete work to fix a downspout/drainage problem I had. I stuck a bunch of stuff there, but the Petunias really took off and took over. Sadly, the Dahlia were lost. Something about needing full-sun and the Petunias blocking the light.	Attack of the monster Petunias
Impatiens around a pine	Lastly, here are the Impatiens (pink) and Begonia (white) I planted in the front yard. I started with the Impatiens, but thought they had drown in the Spring monsoon we had. I went back and filled in the gaps with Begonia.
Unbeknownst to me, I have a green thumb and everything shot up together. The resulting bed under my Dogwood is pretty impressive, in my humble opinion. Here’s a couple of more angles. You decide.	More of the front bed

Impatiens (pink) and Begonia (white)

Here’s a parting shot of the same bed. I hope even virtual flowers made you smile today. Today’s odd little happy for me, in addition to sharing my flowers, was seeing the first lightening bug of the Summer.

Yesterday, I stopped by the Dollar General on the way home from work. Why? Cheap coloring books my wife could use as quilting patterns. Smart, no? But that’s not the point of this thought. It was the five-year-old girl with her mother, checking out ahead of me, that really got me thinking.

The child was proudly holding a 10-inch red ball. I think it had some cartoon character on it, maybe Dora the Explorer. She was so elated that mommy was buying her that ball. She repeatedly expressed her appreciation. For a moment, she had me convinced that $2.50 could buy happiness. I wanted to go back and buy a ball.

I wanted to go further back and be that innocent, to be in a place where something as simple as a red ball could make me that happy. It was a moment of clarity and confusion. It was a moment where my heart knew exactly how that little girl felt. In that same moment, my head couldn’t understand why I wasn’t as jubilant as that child. After all, I’m in the prime of my life. I’m earning more money than I ever have. My kids are grown and sort of out of the house. I have a wife whom I love and loves me more than grits. I have two little Chihuahuas who think me walking through the door is grander than the sunrise. The bank is letting me live in a nice house, in a nice neighborhood. The bank even lets me park a new car in the driveway. My yard is full of colorful flowers that I can point to and say, “I did that.” Thanks to years of hard work and steady insurance payments, I even have a new roof over my head. But somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to enjoy a simple red rubber ball.

Sure that little girl may lose her ball tomorrow. She may forget about it in a week, but for a few hours yesterday, that 10-inch sphere made her the happiest girl on the planet. When do I get my red rubber ball? When do I get that second chance at innocence? Is there a switch in my brain I can throw to tell my heart it’s time to be happy again? I know money can’t buy happiness, but I’m seriously considering taking $2.50 to the Dollar General tomorrow just to buy a ball. I’ll bounce it off my head a few times and see if that switch flips.

Or maybe, I’ll just be grateful for what I have. That was a pretty good list I just wrote. For someone, any one of those things would be their red ball. I’m going to go pet my wife and kiss my dogs.

Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Why did I get that Twitter account? Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Haven’t even opened my Facebook page in a week. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Paid bills. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Have no money left for fun. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Money would be good. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Got to go back to work tomorrow. Guess what? I’ll be bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.

How’s with you? Smily happy fun game show good time?

Me? I’m bored.  You know “Bored” was a great Young Ones episode. I should go find that. Maybe I won’t be bored.