Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

OUR SECRET SHAME

we weren't ready to share this, but now the secret is out. i am so proud of him for being able to talk about it.

"Freedom? That Is a Yang Worship Word."

I don't think I'll be blogging much after this post. The Office of Homeland Security will probably consider me a major threat to national security, trying to recruit our 30 readers a day, 28 of them looking for new stuff from over there on the left of the screen, and charge me with consorting with the enemy or talking out of turn or something like that.

Let me make a couple things clear just in case you have any doubts. I am not in favor of the war in Iraq. I was not in favor of the war in Viet Nam. A lot of people are making a big deal about John Kerry's record in the Viet Nam war. A lot of people are making a big deal about John Kerry's protest against the Viet Nam war when he got back to the States.

Is there some doubt that he served his country by fighting in Viet Nam unlike Bush the Lesser, who had a few strings pulled so he didn't have to be a target? Is there some doubt that Kerry was against that war when he came back and exercised the freedoms we had back then to voice his opposition, unlike Bush the Lesser, who spent some time drinking and carousing and protesting a DUI charge, of which he was convicted, near his family's summer home in Maine?

Would John Kerry be protesting the war in Iraq and having some balls about the lunacy going on with the professed U.S. foreign policy of pre-emption, I would feel much better about him. Iam voting for him. I am voting against Bush. I am voting against Cheney. I am voting against Rumsfeld. I am voting against Paul Wolfowitz. I am voting against Big Oil. And I realize that Kerry might not be the answer ... I am not deluding myself.

We are engaged in a class struggle in this country. There is a huge underclass of discontented, for whom there is little hope for improvement of their lot. If Bush is re-elected, the differences will become even more apparent because such differences will become more widespread.

The riots of the late '60's will be nothing compared to what will come. And the larger underclass of the economically disadvantaged and deprived will have been armed by virtue of the Second Amendment by the same ultra-conservative, flag-waving, right-wingers that try to suppress the freedoms and rights of the individual.

I fear that bloodshed is coming if no change is effected. The slogan "Power to the People" will again be the battle cry of freedom of the disaffected.

While Bush seems to think he has a clear idea of what lies ahead in the future, he has ignored what is happening to those who are without the economic means to be heard. The meter keeps running long after major hostilities ended, long after the capture of evil-personified, Saddam Hussein. Bush continues to build the financial deficit, spending more and more money fighting "insurgents" in Iraq as a part of his Crusade for peace in the Middle East. Israel is expanding some settlements on the West Bank with Bush’s approval, which decision is anathema to his professed policy and which causes even greater instability and strife in that part of the world and such an idiotic decision will then lend credence to his Crusade.

And here at home, where, for example, half the children in Cleveland live in poverty, there is no improvement in the lot of Americans, despite what the President says.

It makes me sick to my stomach. I fear for our children.

Anyway, Anyhowe, Anywhere

She came all the way from the North Country, somewhere up near Lake Superior; and there she was, sitting next to Stacey and across from me. Stino came over to the table and expressed his appreciation to her for making the trip ... I am sure that once word gets out the inimitable KathyHowe visited the restaurant, enjoyed the food, and carried out a piece of ricotta cheesecake to have later with a mocha, we are going to have to call three weeks ahead of time to get a seat instead of only one.

People will come from the entire midwest U.S. and parts of Canada, hoping that she will return and that they will catch a glimpse of her, maybe even get her autograph on a take-out box as proof that they really did see her, meet her, talk to her, enjoy her company, and see howe she rocks.

All I can say is that it was a kick-ass weekend with Kathy Howe, during which she helped me tremendously on the business side of my life.

And we had a lot of fun, too.

She didn't complain that Stacey has the air conditioner turned down to about 64 degrees at night because Kathy is cooler than the other side of the pillow. And I have no idea how late she and Stacey were awake into the wee hours this morning or what they talked about, but it seemed like they were old and good buddies when I hit the sack.

And what is weird is that I absolutely knew this person coming toward me at the crowded airport terminal was Kathy Howe; and what is even weirder is that even though I was meeting her in person for the first time, we knew each other and were friends. She wasn't an axe-murderer.

I don't know howe it could have been a better weekend ... it was kind of like Kathy Howe had planned it all out ahead of time, right down to getting me to give her the red leather note card case from Levenger's that matches her red purse.

The world, and especially my corner of it, has been enriched. We'll do it again, for sure.

FUNKYTOWN

here 'tis. as promised. just a couple days late.

again, sorry for the fuzzy quality. but you get the picture, right?

The Howling

Scout the Beagle wanted to go outside. She let out her little yelp to let me know. 2:31 on the digital clock. A.M., that is. Fucking dog.

So, I made it down the steps without incident and opened the front door for her. I crashed onto one of the couches.

A beagle howling is not something that the neighbors enjoy, especially at 2:30 in the morning, but that's what she was doing. Howling. And howling. And again. And she didn't stop. Fucking dog.

I rolled off the couch and crawled to the door. I opened the door. She stood on the grass across the driveway about 60 feet away and looked my way. She looked across the street and howled at the two deer standing in the front yard of the house across the street.

I got up off all fours and went outside and sat down on the driveway. Scout trotted over to me and sat down next to my left knee. And there we sat for about a half hour, relaxed, watching the deer.

Buying Gas At Dairy Mart

"A bee," she said with a smile on her face, shoulders shrugging.

The problem wasn't the bee at all, at least for me, that is. I was just minding my own business, talking on my cell phone, filling up the white VW Beetle with "The Who" sticker on the back bumper at the Dairy Mart gas pump.

I don’t normally stop at the Dairy Mart gas station, but the gas gauge beeped at me that I was going to run out of gas yet again, which would not have been a good thing. And why don’t I stop at the Dairy Mart gas station? Because “Dairy” implies milk, not gasoline and other automotive petroleum products. The individuals who stop in at Dairy Mart buy gas as an afterthought. They are there for milk, bread, eggs … and they might as well get some gas, too, while they’re at it. Amateurish. Unsophisticated.

So, there I was, like I say, minding my own business, talking on my cell phone, when I glanced over at some type of commotion on the other side of the gas pump island. A woman, fortyish, short dark hair with blond streaks, like she had her teenage daughter do the coloring, Mickey Mouse t-shirt over khaki shorts, was waving the gas pump nozzle around, pointing it at me, swinging it back and forth, like she was trying to shake gasoline out of the nozzle. But the damn thing was swinging, pointed in my direction!

This is what I get for stopping at Dairy Mart for gasoline. "Don’t be pointing that thing over here!" I yelled, trying to dance this way and that to avoid the black hole that was the business end of the nozzle, trying to pump my gas and talk on the phone. I didn’t want to yell, but it just came out in that panicky, don’t-wanna-get-doused-with-gasoline-and-be-a-human-torch kind of way.

The client on the other end of the phone call wanted to know what was going on. I said I’d call back.

The lady dropped the nozzle on the ground and jumped over the raised concrete island, patting and brushing her clothes, as if she was putting out an imaginary fire. "A bee," she screamed.

Like I said ... amateur.

THE SIMPLE LIFE

as part of the bedroom "redo," we "redid" the closet. it was a freaking mess. you would not believe the clothes and crap we took out of there. then we rebuilt the closet organizers. three hanging poles, basket drawers, and shelves. ohmygod, i love it.

but now... i'm in an organizing frenzy. bill and i tackled the linen closet yesterday. heretofore, i would clean out the closet myself, spending HOURS, refolding, rolling, stacking, really just straightening it up. dumb. a week later, it would be the same damned mess. cuz i NEVER THREW ANYTHING OUT! yesterday, I SWEAR TO GOD, i threw out matt's dinosaur sheets that he loved when he was 3! i threw out at least 50 white towels. i have never once in 30 years bought a white towel. wtf? did the boys steal all these towels from locker rooms???

we filled 4 garbage bags! i have two COMPLETELY EMPTY shelves! i feel so liberated. i feel like i'm drowning in "stuff," and i'm loving letting it go. it's like therapy. i'm sitting here at work all happy, and then i remember why. it's cuz i've got a bunch of clean closets! who knew?

**note to matthew, do NOT say ONE WORD to me about getting rid of those dinosaur sheets. not. one. word.

a couple weeks ago, when bill and i were in columbus with our friends, i saw a cool, cool hassock/foot stool in the doorway of a furniture store. "whoa! isn't that cool," i said to bill. i need one for the bedroom since our new mattress is so much higher than our old one. we walked over to take a look at the price. are you sitting down? seven HUNDRED freaking dollars! WHAT? who the HELL spends $700 for a footstool? why? how much money do you have to have to think that that's a reasonable price? and if you think that's a reasonable price, in my humble opinion (ha!), you have TOO MUCH FREAKING MONEY! it's turned your brain to cream of wheat. and - you've lost your soul, too.

i spent saturday afternoon in a fabric store picking out fabric for MY footstool. it's gonna be sooooo much cooler. worth at LEAST $1000. i'll post the picture tomorrow.

The Scream ... Prime Suspect

I have a soft spot in my heart for Edvard Munch's painting, "The Scream," which was stolen in a daring daylight heist. I have a very nice tie with "The Scream" on it. I have worn it only one time. A judge threatened to find me in contempt of court if I wore it again. The next day, in a different court, another judge told me that wearing the "ugly tie you wore yesterday" would get me thrown in jail if I stepped foot into her court with it on. It hangs on the rack, unworn since then.

Now, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but this theft happened in Norway. Our blog friend, Michelle, over at Wind Spirit just happened to roll into Norway over the weekend, commenting that her luggage was lost. This would anger some people, cause some people to seek retribution in some way. I'm not saying that Michelle is one of these individuals, but there are some things that raise some questions in my mind.

Many Happy Returns

Stacey and I went to lunch on Saturday after hitting up Starbuck's. I admit that I am pretty far removed from having lunch with my nine-year-old son. And I was never the non-custodial father taking his nine-year-old for the weekend. And my kids got to where they are by rather circuitous routes. So, I don't know about me giving some guy advice about child-rearing; but there was a pretty strange conversation going on behind me at A & J's Grill, which was a pretty good idea for lunch for the dad and his son. The menu is varied, with sandwiches and pizza, something for a nine-year-old and his father.

The conversation seemed to be one-sided, although the nine-year-old had a nice, quiet restaurant voice, in contrast to his father, who obviously, by how loud he was talking, wanted everyone in the place to know just how good a father he really could be. Needless to say, and I really make no judgments here about the choice of topics, but I now know more about the return policy of Best Buy than I really care to know, whether I have a receipt, paid cash and have a receipt, paid by credit card and have a receipt, don't have a receipt and paid in cash, or don't have a receipt and paid by credit card. And I must point out that the kid was a very good listener. He seemed to understand the whole deal, since he did not have one question for his father. I, on the other hand, wanted to ask about debit cards and whether they are treated like a credit card or cash or some strange hybrid, but I didn't want to interfere with a father's rather limited time with his son.

Office Psychopaths

Robert Hare of the University of British Columbia has come up with a test to determine who in your office environment has a psychopathic personality ... ruthless individuals with traits similar to ... Ted Bundy ... remorseless, unfeeling climbers of the corporate ladder. Here is the test:

1. Does he/she break promises?

2. Does the person take credit for the work of others?

3. Are they erratic and unreliable?

4. Would the person disregard a code of ethics?

5. Does he/she manipulate others to their advantage.

6. Is he/she a bully?

7. Would the person tell you to 'pull yourself together' if a family member died?

8. Do they set unreasonable deadlines?

9. Is the person remorseless when they set a goal?

10. Does he/she fly into a rage over a small problem?

11. Does your colleague fake sincerity with great conviction?

12. Does he/she think the world revolves around them?

13. Is your colleague two-faced?

14: Do they lack any kind of personal depth?

15. Do they blame others when things go wrong?

16. Is he/she unfocused and a poor organizer?

Scores (number of 'yes' answers). 0: Your colleague is a saint; 1-5: Their good points outweight the bad; 6-10: Clear psychopathic tendencies; 11-15: Dangerous - watch your step; 16: Extreme danger - don't become a victim.

I took this from SkyNews.

Closing the Book

One of the darker chapters of my life is coming to an end. And although I can think of many, many good things ... well, uhhh, maybe not many, many ... just many good things ... Yes ... although, looking back now, I can think of many good things that have happened, I find that this time has left me bereft of the passion that I thought could be revived.

I am saddened, but the future is bright because I am moving on. I have made a decision. I will not be looking back on the experience with regret because it has brought me to a place where I can say that I have achieved significant milestones along the way, which will prepare me for the path I will take ... some may say that it is the wrong path, but who can be the judge of that at this stage of the journey.

Alas, tonight I bid a not-so-fond farewell to kegling. I will bowl competitively no more. If I am asked to roll a game of bumper bowling, I will surely not refuse; but if I am asked to participate in a league, in a tournament, or on an alley with gutters, I will eschew the opportunity. I have, in fact, snubbed my teammates the last two weeks, preferring to work on some home remodeling projects, seriously slashing two fingers and suffering other injuries in the process, but enjoying it more than rolling that swirly pink ball that I am compelled by the rules of the game to touch.

Tonight is the finale. I will bid adieu to Ken, the mainstay of our team, who has an average of 210, even though he takes that silly little hop step at the end of his approach, and who bowled the high series in the league and a 285 game, both of which I did not witness because of my utter disdain for the sport. I can say that I did witness bowling perfection -- a 300-game -- by Jim, who takes bowling and life a little too seriously for me.

And me, you ask? What about me? I rolled a 192 in one game, the highest in my recollected history. But more than that one stratospheric line on the scoring sheet, more than my average that was lower than most of the women's averages and almost as much as Big Gene's waist size, what was truly wonderful about this experience was that I spent a lot of time with an 18-year-old, who I thought was still a kid when we started out, but who turns out to be quite a man. This stupid game that I hate was the vehicle that brought me closer to the Jackal.

I'll thank him tonight for asking me to be on the team.

DUMBASS, CONTINUED

the comments on my last post led in a whole different direction than i anticipated. not one that i haven't thought a lot about, mind you. so now i HAVE TO write about that aspect of the handicapped parking thing.

first of all. i'm talking ONLY about those people parked in a handicapped spot who DON'T HAVE A PLACARD - WHETHER THEY LOOK HANDICAPPED OR NOT.

if you're handicapped and don't use a placard, SHAME ON YOU. get one. use it. big deal. and don't get all self righteous if people are annoyed that you've parked illegally if you don't have yours out (of your glove box). how do YOU feel when you pull in some place and the handicapped spots are "used" illegally?

never, NEVER assume that someone who looks non-handicapped BUT HAS A PLACARD DISPLAYED is parked illegally. just don't do it. there are many appropriate reasons for this. not every handicapped person LOOKS handicapped. that's a biggie. the next big one is that the handicapped person is already in the store or restaurant or whatever, and a non-handicapped person is accompanying him or her. don't jump all over the non-handicapped person, assuming they're using a placard illegally.

yeah, yeah, i know this happens every single day. it's my personal belief that at least a quarter of the handicapped placards you see in parking lots every day are being used by the non-disabled relative. you know, for convenience sake. it sucks. but you still can't bust somebody, assuming that they're that kind of schmuck.

bill and i have a kind of a nasty game that we play. yes, yes, it's nasty, i know. the little white beetle with the who sticker ALWAYS appropriately displays the handicapped placard. always. so here we come. two not really old people zipping into a handicapped spot. and bill JUMPS out, all healthy and ready for business. me - i'm a little slower. for the game, you know. and the old couple getting into their car next to or in front of us start with the glaring and murmuring to each other. the more annoyed they are, the friskier bill is and the slower i am to get out of the car. just want them to work up a head of steam. just when ther're ready to attack bill, i get out. me and my cane. and obvious handicap.

it IS nasty. but maybe, just maybe that's the last time they'll make THAT particular assumption. {did you see how i turned that little bit of nasty fun into a public service? did you SEE that? impressed, aren't you?}

in a related note: bill keeps jumping all over me that "handicapped" is not the preferred nomenclature, dude. that i should be saying "disabled." yuck. i, myself, i speak for only myself, prefer handicapped. or better yet: i have a handicap. to me that means that one or maybe more parts don't work properly. to ME, "disabled" means that i'm like turned off, inactivated, non-working in the altogether kind of sense. do you, you know, kind of. get it? that's MY take on it. i mean no offense when i say "handicapped." i'm talking about ME.

Cadillac STS

I was watching the Olympic Games. And a commercial came on for Cadillac. Apparently, Cadillac STS is supposed to be a performance car of some kind. This appears on the screen.

REAL PERFORMANCE CARS ONLY HAVE TWO SEATS.

I was playing baseball in high school and didn't get that diagramming sentences stuff. I wasn't an English major in college. I'm just a goddamn lawyer. I pose this question for all of those more knowledgeable than I am: What does that mean?

Does it have the same meaning as: "Real performance cars have only two seats?"

Just wondering.

Scion

I saw a billboard. I would tell you that this is my interpretaive drawing of what was on the billboard, but I would be misleading you. This is exactly what was on the billboard.

We're in the fucking 21st Century. Where are all the flying cars the fucking-brilliant engineer-types were drawing when they were in high school and college?

I'm changing professions and getting a cushy job as a car designer because I was drawing cars like this stupid-looking Scion from the time I was about 6 years old. In fact, I still draw cars like this. I'm a perfect match for the job. And I could add wings to it, too, with a little rocket on the back ... and little lines coming out of the back ... Voila! A flying car!

DUMBASS!

we were to meet the jackal and his bud, cal, at our favorite pizza place, danny-boy's, for dinner tonight. had to stop, had to, duh, at starbucks on the way. there's a car in the first handicapped spot, with, GUESS WHAT? no parking placard. a perfectly marked spot, btw, the sign, AND painted parking spot. you cannot mistake this spot for a regular space. so we head in. even though it's not our REGULAR starbucks location, the two barristas working are ones we know.

bill says, "there's a car parked in a handicapped spot with no placard." barrista dude says, "i'd love to call." bill says "i'll do it." all the while, there's a guy standing MAYBE 18 inches from bill. he's listening intently. bill calls the police while barrista dude and i start to trash idiots who park in handicapped spaces. b-d's 15-year old cousin has m.s. you KNOW the car belongs to latte man. he's not sayin' a word, just looking around nervously. he gets his coffee, RUNS out to the car, bill goes to the door, YELLS, "GET SOME BALLS, DUMBASS!" i mean EVERYBODY within a mile of this place heard him. b-d and i are laughing our asses off, while everybody else is shuffling their feet, looking at the floor.

head off to danny-boy's with our caffeine. there's a car in the second handicapped space, ok it's not PERFECTLY marked, there's only one sign for the two handicapped spaces, but both spaces have the painted emblem. the woman comes prancing, i mean prancing, out of the grocery store, makes me wait to get out of the car until she gets in her car. bill says, "need some help, dear?" as if. i say to the woman, "nice handicapped placard." she says, "i had no idea it was a handicapped spot." me: "yeah, i know, you don't have to have an iq of at least 100 to get a driver's license." her: nothing. i shoulda said 60.

so bill and i are now going to start carrying the digital camera around and taking pictures of these imbeciles' cars and post them here or on another site. what do you think?

PROOF!

that mullets CAN be cute:

matt was 9. so this was a long, long time ago. but check out those curls!

It's Been A Bad Week

I am officially on a losing streak. Two trials, civil in nature, went in the dumper, one involving a window and siding salesman and the other resulting in the abominable trip to Lost Vegas, where the witnesses testified in support of my client, but apparently were not believed by the good ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The latter trial ended Monday, and I got the findings of fact and recommendations of law on the former on Tuesday; so, yesterday, in furtherance and support of my mental health, to make myself feel better, so to speak, I attended a session with my dentist.

I exercised my freedom of choice and instead of getting a fake tooth implanted on a steel spike rammed into my jawbone over the course of six or eight months and having large portions of my wallet excised in a peripheral procedure, with all the follow-ups and 3,000 other reasons, I elected to just have the damn tooth yanked out. It's way in the back, so I won't look like I'm ... well, no need to insult hockey players or others ... It won't show, and I figure the little gap back there will be a good place to hide microchips and stuff I smuggle into the country.

I was sitting in the dentist's countour chair, meditating, figuring that was as good a time as any, when he said he was ready to go. He said he was going to split the tooth in half and take out each half, and I was in no position to tell him otherwise, since he was jabbing me with his novocaine needle and had several fingers in my maw. My tongue was exercising its limited freedom, intruding on the guy's territory and obviously wanting a piece of the action. I found it hard to control my tongue, which is probably why I lost the last two cases I tried.

Being trapped in the dentist's chair and trying a case are comparable. You're never in control and sometimes you get drilled, mostly when you least expect it. It was like that in the dentist's office. The fucker pulled out a drill and started drilling away. That's not what he said he was going to do. The smell of burning organic matter, my organic matter, was in the air. What happened to the concept of a smoke-free environment? There was smoke coming out of my mouth. What happened to painless, non-invasive dentistry? I'm wondering right now just what novocaine or xylocaine or Michael Caine are supposed to do ... none seem to act very well anymore.

Then a masked woman said to the dentist, also behind a mask and some funky glasses, "It was just too easy in the beginning." What the hell did that mean? She was sucking away with the sucker tube ... was she talking about the sucking? Or the drilling? Or the whole procedure? And do you really want to say something like that to a conscious patient. That's why they use general anesthesia ... so the patient doesn't know how bad he's fucked up.

He stopped drilling. Then he got some kind of instrument that only a gynecologist could have invented. He rammed that sucker right into my mouth and moved it around. I closed my eyes. I tried to push the damn tooth out of my jaw ... it must have worked because he said, "Here it comes!" Then, "There we go." Then he said, "I'll just clean out this granulated tissue." Then he said, "Give me some gauze."

Then he said, with a sigh of relief, "All done." He droned on about some rather unimportant stuff about bleeding and infection and swelling and generalized malaise. But unlike a car repair shop, I was not offered the used parts back.

Y'know, for the tooth fairy ...

Tan Lines

Scene: Starbucks

Players:

Bill (Starbucks regular)
Kevin (Starbucks irregular)
Michelle (Starbucks Barista)

Kevin: Venti triple non-fat latte, please.
Michelle: You shaved your head!
Kevin: Yeah, I thought I'd try it out.
Bill: You thought you'd try out being bald?
Michelle: (Uncontrolled laughter)
Kevin: Yeah. Just did it.
Bill: Yeah, I know. The tan line makes you look pretty silly.
Kevin: You are fuckin' hilarious, man.
Bill: For a real bald guy.

ONE YEAR!

I Survived Cafe Istanbul

There we were, staying at the 5-star Columbus Hilton at Easton outside of Columbus, Ohio. I called the concierge and asked for a recommendation on a restaurant. She suggested Cafe Istanbul, and I asked her to make reservations for ten, which she did. Cool. Heh-heh. Five-star hotel. Woo-hoo!

This Cafe Istanbul place is kind of a lot like Burger King ... it's got a lot of stuff on the menu where you can't like figure out what the "food" is made of. It is totally foreign, and I couldn't figure out what number the Turkish Taffy was in the dessert part of the menu. I was like okay with this food experience, you know, trying new things ... or old things made different ways.

The special was Swordfish Kebab ... Yeah, I could dig that. Swordfish is like one of my favorite sea foods. And I give that dish a real good review. It was delicate and tender... but, you know, it was like anything would have been pretty good after the appetizer.

Now, just to make sure, I looked it up. An appetizer is something that should be designed to "stimulate the appetite." You would think that it would be appetizing because that kind of sounds just like appetizer.

So, I wasn't far off, thinking that the appetizer should be ... umm ... appetizing and appetite-enhancing, instead of a fucking dinner killer.

Do not order the felafel at Cafe Istanbul; or if you happen to order it, do not eat it. Do not try to eat it. Just kind of like play table soccer and flick those fried balls across the restaurant with your finger.

I finally figured out this whole hatred-of-America thing by Middle Eastern people ... they gotta think that felafel is from America.

This fucking felafel was, without any doubt at all, the absolute worst thing I have ever eaten in my entire life. I mean, I accidentally ate a worm covered with dirt once ... well, you know how sometimes you get tricked into eating something that is so doggone fucking awful that you gag ... well, I fucking paid for this felafel. I would not give this stuff to my worst enemy ... It said something about "chick peas" in the translation in the menu ... and I really do not like chick peas, but I was willing to give this a try ... fuck ME! This was not made of the chick peas with which I'm familiar ... you know, the ones in the can ... let me drink that fucking liquid right from the can before you force me to eat felafel! Where is the FDA when you need it? Oh, yeah, that agency regulates FOOD, not felafel.

And I certainly don't mean any offense to those of you who might eat felafel for a living or enjoys likes might not gag every time when you choke it down with that yogurt sauce that doesn't help it taste like anything of this Earth.

By the way, I'm looking for someone to help me with a new project ... it's a new diet book ... I just need you to taste-test a few recipes ...

Toothbrushes

Yes, I am difficult at home. I admit that. But there is no toothbrush in the shower. Why? Because somebody didn't like the one that was in the little basket?

Concession was made at one time for the kind of toothpaste in the shower, the kind someone else likes. I had assumed that disposal of the offending toothbrush would have resulted in some kind of replacement of my toothbrush.

Since college days, I have brushed my teeth in the shower. In the morning, I take a shower. And my three faithful readers know that I am a shower freak. Being without a toothbrush causes an extreme and debilitating disruption in the whole showering process. It is kind of like a scratch on an old-fashioned vinyl record that causes the same thing to play over and over and over again.

I get stuck. I don't know what to do next. I look around. I grab the toothpaste tube.

I stand there, water coursing over me, cascading from my bald pate, an automaton with a glitch in its programming. Like tears in the rain ...

This morning, the judge asked: You want to tell us why you're late? I replied, fumbling for the right words for the situation, not wanting to cast blame or clue anyone in on my daily habits: I had a malfunction in the shower this morning, your Honor. She looked at me askance, wheels turning, and said: I have a feeling that there is something more to this story, but we won't go into it now. I wiped my brow and sighed with relief: I appreciate that, Judge.

I will buy a new toothbrush.

Hold on ... wait a second ... now I remember. I did have a new toothbrush ... and someone said that the end was too pointy. It was my toothbrush. I bought it for me ... I'm the one who brushes my teeth in the shower. There's the toothbrush at the sink with the toothpate that someone else uses. Somebody got rid of that pointy-ended toothbrush, and I got the one out of my personal hygiene travel kit. It's all coming back to me. And now that one is gone, too. I mean, I didn't really like that one -- the one in my travel kit, that is -- but it was mine. Now, it too has joined its pointy-ended brother in toothbrush oblivion ... gone from the face of the earth ... or worse, relegated to cleaning the grout with cleanser or bleach. The thought of that fate horrifies me.

I need a new toothbrush, one with a chain, yes ... a chain on it ... like the pens in the bank ... so it can't be removed from the shower.

Boxer Shorts

The Man is holding the annual retrospective of his Top 40 posts at the Chucklehut. I do recall one from way back about the contents of his underwear drawer; so, I'm stealing that idea, in part, and posting about underwear.

And I find it hard to believe that someone like Stacey with her proper manners, sensibilities, and all would post a picture of me on the world wide web in my underwear ... my Joe Boxer brand boxer shorts with the dogs on them, but she did. If you want to consider this some measure of revenge, then so be it.

I have some other pairs of boxer shorts, which may or may not give some insight into my personality. I like the Joe Boxer brand because there's a reminder on the tag to "Change daily," and everyone knows that when one becomes ancient history, like me, the mind goes south, so to speak, and every little reminder helps.

My Joe Boxer red boxer shorts with the small, blue paisley pattern is a favorite. Unlike the pair with the dogs running around, this pair has "Joe Boxer" emblazoned on the waistband all the way around. Silly. Being so attached to a pair of boxer shorts, but they match a "power tie" that I sometimes wear to court. If I'm ever in an accident, the ER nurse will point out that the underwear matches the tie ... or not.

Another favorite pair is royal blue with bowling pins scattered about. Not Joe Boxer ... Hathaway Sports. And there's a new pair of Hathaway boxers I found to my liking -- black with bottles of hot sauce. Okay, maybe not silly -- being so enamored of pairs of boxer shorts -- fucking nuts is more like it.

I just can't get a pair of just any underwear on any given day. They have to feel right -- well, not really "feel" right. I have to have the right attitude to wear a particular pair of boxer shorts. When I need to brighten my day, I don't wear dusty blue Hathaway Sport boxers or the heather gray pair with black waistband from Joe Boxer, but something more ... er, uplifting. And if I really need to hammer someone in court, it's the paisley pair, without hesitation.

And I will let you in on a secret. Being the one who washes the clothes grants me unlimited access to underwear. I don't know who first had them, but I now possess a black capilene pair from Patagonia, which I rely on when the paisley pair is in the hamper.

Of course, the tiger striped pair from The Gap is a good performer, as well. And there are a couple other Joe Boxer pairs that are both black with "JOE BOXER" repeated around the waistband and a couple other Hathaway Sport pairs that are blue with some kind of design -- little diamonds or something like that, but the latter are kind of bottom-of-the-drawer items that hardly see the light of day.

Now, there was some discussion at Starbucks about the cost of a venti mocha at the Las Vegas airport. One of the "partners" didn't believe me. So, I show the world my proof:

So there. Fucking addiction.

GET A CUP OF COFFEE, GONNA BE A LONG ONE, FOLKS

disclaimer: pictures are ba-ad. forgot to take them until tonight. daylight pictures are always so much better for me. i hate the flash on my camera, and i suck at photoshop. the picture of jax is great, though.

thanks for the birthday wishes! here’s what i got from bill:

then came the construction/decorating projects:

basement is a work in progress – no pictures available

jax room: except for a little touch-up work, here it is:

matt (and mel) and mark’s room / guest room

obviously, we’ve gone futon-crazy.

bill and stacey’s room:

done: paint, new floor, new mattress, rebuild bed, lamps, bedding, etc.

needs: some touchups, mirror doors on closet, closet reorganization/build, reorganization in bill’s work area, but it’s basically done

i did a little “redressing” of two of the bathrooms. they still need to be painted.

i’ve also been getting together jax’s final credits for his high school graduation from what we lovingly call the ECSOFA (eric clapton school of fine arts exits only in our minds – it’s what we call jax’s home school high school education). DONE. credits approved by the overseeing teacher, papers submitted to local school superintendant. jax will be signing up for classes at local community college this week. (YAY!) mark took this picture of jax -- i think it's the perfect graduation picture for ECSOFA, don't you?

bill and i DESPERATELY wanted to have a “prom” for the ECSOFA (really a big graduation party – a mix of all ages, friends, family, etc.), period prom attire required for all attendees. j nixed it. we are just too weird, he says. i was dying to see bill in the black “jumpsuit” tux that he wore to my senior prom again. oh well. i don't know what i did to this picture to make bill look like a 4-foot hobbit. i suck.

mark was home for a week helping with the house projects. i know we couldn’t have done it without him. he is a wonderful young man, we are blessed to have him in our lives. we adore him. without reservation. he’s leaving for baltimore this week to find an apartment. he’ll be living and working in baltimore, and bill and i are looking forward to lots of long weekend trips there! no, mark, you may NOT take sheba!

matt and mel are settled in their really nice new apartment in columbus, OHIO! he’s starting in the direct-PHD track program in computer science next month at THE ohio state university. mel’s starting at her new job today with verizon.

this saturday, bill and i are heading down to columbus (while matt heads UP to cleveland for a saturday night outing with jax!) to the hilton at easton town center with a bunch of college baseball friends and wives, “dt” (donnie) and lee, “buck” and chris, “diesel” and his wife, “press”, “kinger”, and bob and joyce. neither “scrotie” (yes, his nickname was scrotie. i never asked why. didn’t wanna know) and wife or his brother, greg, and his wife will be there cuz greg’s back at home in indiana after some heart surgery at the cleveland clinic two weeks ago (bill and donnie went to visit him, report he looks better than he has in ages). but i just had to write those names. we are old people, folks. the nicknames crack me up. i want a nickname! wait. let me think about that. umm. no. better not. at least not from this crowd.

one last thing. during one of our trips to target, bill and i (in the bedding aisle) overhear this. a mom shopping with her soon off-to-college daughter: "if you get a down conforter, you're gonna need a bidet. honest to god. bill almost choked. i, of course, showed no reaction at all until we were 4 aisled away. we laughed ourselves silly.

Cancer

Not astrology, either. An 8-year-old girl, who raised money for cancer research, died, which reminds me that Crazy Girl, Keri hasn't stopped running for cancer research.

You absolutely need to send her a donation. Well ... please.

See, I can be nice.

Dog-Day Sunday Night

It's like quarter to twelve and that damn Beagle decides that she just wants to stare at me and not come in the house. So I bribe her with a rawhide chew thingy and she does one of those I bet he's dumb enough to give it to me while I'm still outside so I can stay outside moves, but I didn't fall for it. In a battle of wills, I got her to come in the house by letting her steal the rawhide from me while I was down on all fours with the rawhide in my mouth. Works every time, I tell ya.

I'm not doing that if she wants to stay outside at 3:30. No way.