Randy, my closest Canadian friend

So we’re in Cabo. We get up in the morning and head down to the breakfast buffet at around 8:30 – 9:00. I know you’re thinking that’s way too early to be getting up on vacation, but for some reason we were up, so why not.

Anyway, we’d go down, eat breakfast then head out and find a chair by one of the pools. PTH (Prime Tanning Hours) are 10:00am – 2:00pm, so we pretty much had that covered.

But back to breakfast. The buffet breakfast ended at like 11:30, so we were by far some of the first ones there, and the large room was pretty much empty when we were there. Don’t get me wrong, there were people, but the size of the room allowed for people to be seated fairly far apart.

We sit down, order our juice and coffee, then we head over to get our food. Did I mention it was all included? It was kind of like being on cruise, only without the lifeboat drill and the constant rocking…but I digress.

When we get back to our table, it was a two-topper with a second two-topper only inches away that could easily be pulled together to accommodate a party of four, there are two people sitting at the table only inches from our own. A bit of a surprise, with all the other tables around, but I just shrugged and said hello.

Randy and his wife, whose name I can’t remember were fun breakfast companions. Randy is about six foot-five, with a white flattop and one of those black cable design tattoos on his arm.

They’re from Canada and so the weather was extremely different for them. We were laughing about something when Randy told me I look like his doctor back home. So from then on whenever we ran into our new Canadian buddies, Randy called me Doc.

After breakfast we were sitting by the pool when I said, “You know, Randy is probably my closest Canadian friend.”

We both laughed and I had the strange desire to say…

”No way eh?”

You Just Can’t Tell About Some People

Melissa and I spent a few days at an all-inclusive resort called Riu Palace in Cabo San Lucas. I had never been to an all-inclusive resort before, so I was a wee-bit skeptical. I mean, they tell you EVERYTHING is included and you start to wonder. My first question was, “Do they mean food, drinks, shows, everything? Or, do they mean everything as in the bed and the bathroom and the sheets and the pillows, everything?”

However, this post isn’t about the legitimacy of the “Everything’s included” promise, but suffice it to say, “Yes!” everything was included.

I want to tell you about the most unexpected and probably the most incredible thing I witnessed on the entire trip.

Allow me to set the scene:

Melissa and I had taken the 20-minute cab ride into Cabo San Lucas to have dinner and look around. Melissa had done some research and found a couple of restaurants we decide to look for, but after asking our driver about them he suggested a place called Pancho’s.

Now in Texas, Pancho’s is a chain restaurant known for its inexpensive, semi-edible Mexican, or rather Tex-Mex food. It’s a buffet style with a Mexican flag on each table that you raise when you need your waiter to bring you more food, or more drinks, or more anything. In college, because of the prices, my roommates and I went several times a week. These days, however, it’s not a place I frequent.

That being said, we were both a bit reluctant to take our new friend’s dining advice. He said he could drop us off at Pancho’s and there were different restaurants all around and we could choose after he let us off. So we agreed on Pancho’s.

I couldn’t imagine Pancho’s Mexican Buffet from Texas had a location in Cabo, but we had already driven past a Home Depot, a Bridgestone Tire, a Blockbuster video, and of course a Starbuck's so I had still had my doubts.

As we pulled up in front, it was easy to tell that this Pancho’s had nothing more than spelling in common with his Pancho’s neighbor to the north. Needless to say we were very happy.

The food was wonderful, but that’s also not the incredible thing that happened.

We had been there probably fifteen to twenty minutes, when this very large and very loud group of Americans came in and were seated at three tables pulled together right next to us. There were at least five couples, plus about eight kids between the ages of five and twelve. Turns out it was the birthday of one of the ladies. A very loud, very blond, very busty lady.

Our first thought was, “Is it too late to move?”

We had drinks and our food was on its way, so we just decided to sit back and enjoy the show.

We were sitting there being both amused and repulsed by our new neighbors. I’m mean we’re sitting in this place full of people, where about half to three-fourths appear to be local residents and I was suddenly very embarrassed to be an American. We were trying to pick up any hints about where these people might be from and praying it wasn’t Texas.

Right about then a small girl, maybe eight years old, with a plastic tray full of about 20 little bobble head toys walked up to our window, held up the tray, kind of half shrugged and in a very timid voice said, “Three for Five?” Melissa was mesmerized with the goings on of our American friends and wasn’t looking, so I gestured for her to wait while I turned to get Melissa’s attention.

I guess the little girl thought I was telling her to leave, because when I turned back she had moved do to the window by the loud table.

At this point there was a shift in the Force, and I rediscovered that you just can’t tell about some people.

One of the men in the loud group, who was sitting next to the window, saw the girl, stood up and started yelling for his group to, “Shut the F**K UP!” He took the girl’s tray, quickly counted the toys and yelled, “Let’s just give her 40 bucks for the whole tray!” He glanced over at us and Melissa didn’t hesitate to let him know that we wanted in. He handed Melissa the tray and I dug out eight dollars.

Melissa picked the three she wanted, then he dumped the tray on their table an handed it back to the girl with the cash.

With a tear in my eye, I walked over to shake this guys hand. Turns out they’re from Orange County California. I was little embarrassed to tell the guy that saying, “I’m from Orange County”, didn’t tell me a thing about where they were from, so I just gave an approving head bob.

The rest of the evening was very enjoyable. Suddenly, our new Orange County friends didn’t seem all that loud anymore. Well, except for the busty birthday girl, but then she spent most of the night at the bar. A fact that made both us and most of her group very happy.

Like I said, you just can’t tell about some people.

But sometimes that’s okay.

My Car Got Hit...

Yesterday, I’m running some errands with my daughter and we stop at Walgreen’s to pick up a prescription plus some last minute camp things for her. We walk out door and the first thing I notice is a huge white scrape down the back of my car.

I was livid!

I don’t know how you are about your cars, but taking care of mine is a big deal to me. I might go for weeks without washing them, but that’s about it. I think it comes from working as a mechanic in high school and college, but the fact of the matter is things like this on cars is a HUGE deal to me.

I get to the front of my car…there’s no note from a sorry and regretful driver. There is nothing or no one anywhere around. After being calmed down by my daughter, thank you Macy for keeping me from flying off the handle, I angrily, but calmly drove home. If she hadn’t been there I probably would have gotten a speeding ticket too…so thanks again.

When I got home I reassessed the damage and found not only scrapes, but also a nice sized dent just behind the door. The fact that the dent has two creases going in different directions suggests that this person (and I use that term lightly) hit my car, stopped and had to readjust their wheels and then move again. This is on the passenger side of my vehicle, so there is no way this person didn’t know they had hit my car.

I’ve only hit a car in a parking lot one time. However, I managed to find a scrap of paper and leave the guy my name and phone number. He called a day or two later and was so impressed that I had left my name that he said just forget about it. It was an old truck with several other dings, but I left my information all the same.

Now for the “glass half full” assessment:

1. The damage goes right up to the door, but the door only has a small scratch. Damage on doors usually hikes up the price of repair.
2. Also, after using some rubbing compound to clean the white paint off, the once glaring, almost neon, blemish on the side of my SUV is now only marginally noticeable.

BUT IT’S STILL THERE!!!

Next week I’ll go to Herb’s Paint and Body to get an estimate, then decide if I even want to speak with my insurance company. I can’t imagine I will, but you never know.

And to the “person” who hit my car:

If by some strange and quirky twist of fate you actually can read, and you actually happen across my blog, and actually are able to figure out that I am talking about you, and you actually feel some remorse for the grief you have caused me…

Don’t call, don’t write, don’t try to contact my in any way. You see, with me, it is too late to do the right thing. You missed that chance when you drove off without leaving a note.

However, what you can do is this. The next time you hit a car in a parking lot, take the high road and leave THAT person a note.

This is the only apology I will accept.

Just me on my soapbox.

Thanks for reading.

Don't Mess with Texas

Have you ever been driving somewhere when you get a really fun idea? It happened to me just the other day.

Don’t Mess with Texas is an anti-litter campaign that was started several years ago. There are signs and billboards on the highways, bumper stickers and even t-shirts with this logo. I don’t know how successful the campaign has been in reducing litter, but it is highly recognizable by most Texans.

A few days ago Melissa and I are in the car when we see a big SUV in front of us with not one, not two, but three Don’t Mess with Texas bumper stickers…and of course I start wondering about the driver of this car.

I imagine he was thinking something like this, “If I put only one or two of these stickers on my car people might not pay attention and really stop littering, BUT if I have three stickers in a line across the back, then that is sure to make a difference.”

I mention something along those lines to Melissa and we chuckle a bit. It could have stopped there, but the antagonist within me took over and here’s what came next.

At the next light, we pulled up next to this guy and I rolled my window down. Just as the light turned green, I tossed my mostly empty Starbuck’s cup right at his car. It hits at eye level on the passenger’s side windshield and slides across to the driver’s side with coffee splashing out as it went. It bounces off the windshield wiper and rolls down the hood. That’s when I wave and hit the gas.

Now, before you start thinking that I’m crazy, or some kind of monster, let me assure you that while the events mentioned above did both cross my mind and bring a smile to my face, they never actually happened. Yes, common sense mixed with a healthy dose of self-preservation kept me from seriously considering my trashy idea. (Pun intended) I mean for all I know this guy was a pistol packing, anti-litter vigilante with a chip on his shoulder.

But you have to admit…it would have been funny.

Picky Trash-man???

Dallas has those big grey cans that either gets grabbed via remote-control by the driver then hoisted up and dumped, or they have a couple of guys who pull the cans over to a lift on the back of the truck.

In our old neighborhood, we had the driver/remote-control system and it didn’t matter what I put in that can. As long as the top closed, I could have put a person in there and nobody would be the wiser. (I’m not admitting to anything here, I’m just saying…)

In our new neighborhood, we have the guys pulling cans to the truck.

So I’m heading down the driveway just as the trash truck pulls up to empty our can. They’re blocking the driveway, so I just sit in my car and watch.

The guy gets to our can, opens it and looks inside. He shoots a half-frown glance in my direction, then reaches in and pulls out some pieces of wood and throws them on the sidewalk. Next, shaking his head, he yanks my can over to the lift on the truck.

I was dumbfounded.

By definition trash is: discarded, unwanted, or worthless material or objects.

This was a trash-man working on a trash-truck, does he get to decide (for me) what materials or objects are worthless or unwanted? Or shouldn’t he, by definition, simply pick up the objects I deem to be “trash” and haul them away?

The gauntlet has been thrown down, but I promise you this…somehow, someway these few boards I have WILL be taken by this picky trash-man.

Once again, I’ll keep you posted.

Month to Month

We recently moved into a new house and we all love it. The new house has a family room and we had to buy some new furniture. The sofa we bought has six, 36 inch square pieces. Three of the squares have a back on one of the four sides, two of them have a back on two of the sides that forms a corner, and one piece has no back at all.

When we first picked them out I had the idea of having a different pattern for each month of the year. That way we’d always know what month it is based on the arrangement of our sofa. We kind of laughed about it, but in the back of my mind I thought, “Hmmm, could I really do this?”

The sofa arrived on about the 15^th of May and we set it up like the pictures below.

As June was winding down, I just didn’t have the gumption to move anything. I started to see my monthly seating arrangement as nothing more than a pipe dream. A nice idea, but one that I would never see actually happen.

Then it happened.

I was sitting at home, with all of my honey-do projects finished for the day, when I had a new sofa arrangement vision. It was a work of art! So unconventional, yet so practical, so easy, and so user friendly. Check out the pictures below.

Now I see that I’m going to have to open my mind and let the month’s sofa pattern find me. To tell the truth, August is Melissa’s turn, so I’m sure it will be great.

As for future sofa patterns…I’ll keep you posted!

First Time's a Charm...

I did something today that I’ve never done before…and baby, it felt good!

It was 8:00am and I’m out cutting the yard. I don’t know where you are, but I’m in Dallas and it was hot. Not “HOT!” but hot all the same.

Let me put this in perspective: It was eight o’clock in the morning and already 85 degrees, with a projected high of around 102 for the day. To me, that’s hot.

So anyway, I’m cutting the grass on our new, much larger yard. On our old house, cutting the yard took me about 30 minutes. This new and improved bad boy takes me every bit of an hour. Needless to say, when I got done I was HOT and sweating like a pig! I was so hot I was beginning to get a headache.

That’s when I get the idea to jump in the pool.

It’s never occurred to me to do this before, simply because I’ve never had a pool before.

I was headed that direction and started wondering if my sweaty body would get the pool dirty. Then I thought, “Who cares! I mean isn’t that what the chlorine is for?”

I jumped in, crossed my legs, sank to the bottom and sat Indian style on the bottom for what felt like an eternity.

I came up, wiped the water out of my eyes, ran my hands through my hair and I felt incredible.

Yep, I do believe I’ve started a new tradition.

Now I get it...

There’s this guy at my church, who reads this blog. I’m not sure how often, but I do know that he reads it, which puts him in a very exclusive and rather small collection of individuals known fondly to me as “My Readers.” I’m quite certain you can count them all on one hand and still have fingers left over.

But anyway, at church there is this guy, we’ll call him Pablo.

Pablo and I teach Sunday School together and we were just hanging out and taking attendance before the lesson started, and our conversation went something like this:

“Let me see your hands.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, I assume they’re broken, or burned and bandaged.” Looking down and toward my hands. “Nope, hmm? I just assumed since you’ve posted nothing since May that there must be some kind of problem…but I don’t see anything. It just makes you wonder.”

“Hey! I’ve been busy. I’ve had all the end of school stuff, we just moved and …”

Pablo just rolled his eyes and nodded his head.

And that’s when it hit me.

Pablo is a nice guy, a little socially inept, but a nice guy all the same. I’ve been posting here for three or four years, and in that time I’ve had a couple of posts that “tons” of people read. I don’t know how they found them, but these few posts had more than their fair share of readers. And that felt good. However, unlike my brother’s RLP blog, I didn’t really have any true Third Grade Mind followers…not until Pablo.

So for Pablo I’ll try to do a better job of keeping up with my writing schedule.

Note: Don’t you worry about Pablo. He’ll read this, but he won’t have any idea “Pablo” is really him.

Exemplary

In Texas public schools we have the TAKS test.  For teachers, it’s the equivalent of a mandatory, educational prostate exam given by a doctor with a frozen finger.  Students, schools, districts and even communities are rated based on these scores.  

The TAKS test has four scores.  The highest is Exemplary, then Recognized, Acceptable, and finally Low Performing.  For the schools, this is a pass/fail test and each school is ranked based on how many of its students pass or fail. 

We got the preliminary scores back from the state and it looks like my school, Moss Haven, is Exemplary for the second year in a row.  

It’s funny, but I have mixed emotions and I’m not sure how to feel.  On the one hand, I’m feeling pretty good.  My students take Reading, Math and Writing tests and all of my students passed all three tests.  

However, there is a part of me that despises these tests.  This is the same part of me that screams, “Traitor!” at the top of its lungs every time I look in the mirror.   For you see this part believes I’ve turned my back on true education and sided with the “Let’s teach them how to take tests,” faction of the education war.  

I hear the rationalizations everyday…”We’re not teaching them to take tests, we’re teaching them educational life-skills.  Life-skills they will hone throughout their public school experience and then use to be successful either in college or out in the workforce.”

I want to believe it…

I try to believe it… 

I think some days I do believe it…

But then I go to school and I see the faces of my third and fourth grade students.  These are faces whose biggest worries should be about things like Barbie, GI-Joe, ballet, and little league.  Not whether or not they are going to pass some huge, scary test.  

Yes, my school is Exemplary for the second year in a row. 

And I’m very proud,

I guess…

Moving...

Moving is a pain in the butt!  

There's the packing, the unpacking and all the little glitches along the way.  First we had no electricity, then we had some electricity and finally we have most if not all electricity.  It's been a crazy, mixed-up world.

However, after about a week, things are finally getting back to normal...well, kind of!

I'll keep you posted as best I can.  

Looking Behind the Curtains

Life is full of curtains.  

There are stage curtains, window curtains, curtains that separate patients in hospitals, and we even have a curtain that hides our toilet.  However, some the most interesting and necessary curtains are the ones we put up to hide the parts of our lives we don’t want anyone to see.  

I got a glimpse behind one of those curtains today, and it was very humbling.  

I teach eighth grade boys Sunday school at church.  We were talking about our testimonies when a boy, we’ll call him Pepe, who recently made a profession of faith asked if he could give his testimony to the class.  

I’ve known Pepe for several months, but to tell the truth, the only thing I know about him is the fact that he has a great smile.  It’s one of those incredibly infectious smiles that can brighten any room. 

Pepe started talking and only a few of the other boys in the room were really listening.  Most were engaged in kind of half-whispering, off task conversations…but after about the first sentence, you could have heard a pin drop.  

Pepe talked for about 20 minutes and I’ve never been around that group of guys when they weren’t talking until today.  

Out of respect for Pepe and his unique situation, I’m not going to go into specifics.  What I can say is that first my jaw hit the floor.  Next, it took every ounce of strength I could muster to not become a blubbering idiot. 

This is a church in a well-to-do area of Dallas.  This is an area that I never would have expected anyone to have something like this behind his or her curtain.  But maybe I just haven’t taken the time to look. 

Like I said, life is full of curtains.  

And I need to pay more attention.

Where's that coming from?

It was a Tuesday night, and Melissa and I were working on creating a budget kind of thing.  She was using Excel, a program that I have no desire to understand or know how to use, when I decided to shoot to Baker Brother’s to get us some food.  

I hopped in the convertible and took off.  

I was carrying the bags back into the house, when I heard this beep.  

It sounded like the sound our alarm makes when the front door is opened, only not as loud as usual.  I glanced around to the front door, but it was closed.  As I was putting the bags down on the kitchen counter I heard the beep again, only it sounded like it had moved.  

“What is that beeping sound?” I asked the whole house.  

“What beeping sound?” Came the puzzled reply from the computer room.  

"BEEP" 

“There is goes again!” I said. 

Melissa met me in the hallway.  “I don’t hear anything.”   

Looking at me like I was crazy, she stared at me as we waited…and like clockwork, it beeped again.

“I don’t know what it is, but it sounds like it’s over here.”

“BEEP”

“Wait, now it sounds like it’s over there!”

"BEEP"

“It keeps moving!”

This conversation went on for about half an hour and we were all getting frustrated, because it didn’t matter where I went in the house it never got louder or softer, or closer or farther away. 

At this point I gave up and decided that whatever it was I was going to either find it later, or wait until it made itself known to the world. 

I was at the end of my rope! 

That’s when I reached into my pocket to take out my wallet and phone.  However, what I at first simply assumed was my phone was actually the pager Baker Brothers had given me to alert me when my order was ready.   

And then I heard an irritating, yet familiar – 

"BEEP!"  

"normal"

 I’ve always put myself in the category of growing up in a “normal” home.  I assumed my home life was normal and that most people had families and family relationships that were similar to mine.   Don’t get me wrong, I fully understood that some people had more material possessions than me and that probably even more people had less than I did, but I assumed that, for the most part, families were all like mine…loving and supportive. 

Maybe I’m naïve, but that’s what I had always believed.  

The last 15 years that I’ve spent as a teacher in public education have done nothing, if not proven to me that what I thought to be a normal home life is sadly A-typical. 

When you meet parents who don’t even know what grade their child is in, it becomes painfully clear why school isn’t a priority for their poor child. 

Or when you have a student who tells you their parent will “whoop” them if they get in trouble one more time, you begin to feel like a Boy Scout with a box of Band-aids who’s looking down the barrel of a gun.  

My first few years as a teacher, I would hear depressingly negative conversations in the teacher’s lounge and shake my head in disbelief.  Not disbelief in the things I was hearing about, I knew things like that were happening in the world, but rather disbelief in the fact that these teachers who I knew and admired were allowing themselves to have such a pessimistic view of life. 

Then came the day that I heard myself, out of frustration with an overly difficult situation, mutter the same kind of negativity that only a few years before had cause me to shake my head in shame.  I had gone over to the dark side. 

How had this happen?  Did I change, or had the scales simply fallen from my eyes and now I could see the world as it really is.  Negative. 

Maybe it’s wisdom, maybe it’s courage, maybe it’s age, but a few years have passed since I was violently forced into the real world, and I’ve learned how to see past the negative.  

Is it still there?  You bet it is.  However, for every student I have who’s home life is unbearable, I’ve got three or four who may be struggling educationally, or financially, but who have parents that are concerned and eager to do whatever they need to do to help their child succeed. 

I think the few tough cases take so much of my attention as an educator, that they seem bigger than life.  I’ve just got to work harder at focusing my attention on the positive…and life should be “normal” again.

 

Note:  This started off as a very different piece that it became. I was angry about a situation as school, but I couldn’t really write about that, so I was simply trying to vent.  Being forced to think through things as I was writing, my mood and perspective changed.    

Thanks for being my therapist.  

Re-meeting Rob Wells

Rob Wells walked into my class in the fall of 1998.  He couldn’t sit still and he couldn’t stop talking.  He was a mess!  But it was his infectious smile and persistent good mood that hooked and pulled me in.  I didn’t know it yet, but my life as a teacher would never be the same. 

Unless you’re behaving badly, it’s hard to stand out on the first day of school, but not for Rob.  It’s been ten years and I can’t really remember exactly what it was about Rob that drew me to him.  Maybe it was his quirky sense of humor.  Maybe it was his constant state of disorganization.  Maybe it was his non-stop stream of odd questions.  Maybe it was the fact watching Rob interact with the teachers and other students reminded me a little too much of myself.  

Whatever the reason, a bond was formed that I’ve only felt with four or five students in the 15 years I’ve been a teacher.  I remember most, if not all, of my students.  And I enjoy seeing all of them, but with these few students, seeing them is more like seeing family.   

I recently found Rob on Facebook and we met for lunch this week.  

Rob has had an incredible 10 years!  He lived in Paris, France for three years during high school, and is currently a college student with a part-time job as a banker.  (Not with AIG!)  

We went to Snuffer’s, shared cheese fries, talked and enjoyed each other’s company. 

Before this, I hadn’t had the privilege of re-meeting any of my former students from that far in the past.  I must say I was very pleased! 

When Rob was in my class, I remember wondering about what course his life would take.  Rob wasn’t one of the students I worried about, but I have been curious for the past ten years.  

Maybe all teachers do this, (down deep inside I hope they do) but I can’t help wondering/predicting what kind of adults my students will become.  I always just expected that Rob would grow to become a fun loving, responsible person.  

It’s nice to see that, at least in Rob’s case, my predictions were right on the money.  

                   Rob gave me this card in 1999.  

I found it stapled to the wall in my garage.

The Things I Remember...

When I was in 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th grade the world was a different place.  

I’d spend the night at Ronnie Vickery’s house and we’d stay awake until the wee hours of the morning.  His family had a kind of game room above their detached garage, and that’s where we would play pool, horse around, and just as the sun was coming up, eventually drift off to sleep.  

Late into the evening we’d roam around the neighborhood in search of entertainment.  I don’t remember exactly what type(s) of entertainment we were hoping to find.  I don’t remember if we ever really put all that much thought into what we were doing.  And I don’t remember much about the specifics of what, in the way of entertainment, that we ever actually found.  All I know is that I loved spending the night at Ronnie’s! 

I do remember that on one the above-mentioned evenings we decided to go streaking.  Thinking back, I can only imagine we were inspired by Ray Stevens’ song The Streak.  We were probably up in the game room playing pool and listening to the radio (This was Houston, and based on our ages we were probably listening to 104 KRBE) when his song came on the radio.  And the wheels began to spin.  

What we decided to do was head out shirtless with only gym shorts on.  We’d walk down to the end of the block, take off the gym shorts and run around the block.  

All we knew is that streaking was running naked.  It didn’t occur to either of us at the time that, even as the song suggested, to truly be “streaking” you needed to somewhere where not only people could see you, but somewhere where having a naked person might disrupt the venue.   We were streaking around the block of a dimly lit neighborhood at 3:30am…not really the same thing. 

However, like I said, that never crossed our minds.  So off we went.  Reaching the end of the block we made a quick, but extremely thorough, scan for life forms.  Finding none, we stripped off out shorts and took off!  

I’m not sure how far we got before we started talking, but I’m sure the conversation went something like this:

 

“This is cool! Right?” 

“Yeah!  I think I expected it to feel different.” 

“I know.  It’s not all that much different that just running, except I feel a little silly carrying these gym shorts.”  

“So, how far are you supposed to go?  I mean to really call it streaking.” 

“I don’t think there’s set distance requirement.  I’m pretty sure as long as you’re running and naked then it counts.” 

“So, in theory, we could stop now and still have completed our objective?” 

“I suppose, but we should probably run a bit farther.” 

“Um, why?” 

“Well that way when we tell the guys about this, and they ask how far we ran, we won’t have to say only about half a block.” 

“I guess that makes sense.” 

“We could stop here and just say we ran around the whole block…I mean who would know?”

 “That sounds good to me!”

 

And that was the end of our streaking.  We stopped, put our shorts back, turned around and walked back to the garage.  I think in the end we only ran about six houses, but we were cool. 

Like I said, when I was in 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th grade the world was a different place.  

Or is it?

There's Something I'm Missing...

 It doesn’t happen often, well, not these days anyway, but every once in a while something pops up that reminds me I’m head injured. 

You would think after almost 19 years my life would have probably leveled out.  Everything that was going to be different would be different and everything that was going to be the same would be the same.  

At least that’s what you would think.  

That’s what I would think.  

Actually, that’s what I used to think.  

I don’t even know where we were, or what we were doing and I don’t even think it matters.  Whatever it was, I started laughing and that’s when it happened.  The look on Melissa’s face told me that something wasn’t quite right.  

“What?” 

“Your eyebrows!”  Came the startled reply.  “They just did that cute thing that they used to always do…you know...before the accident…” 

And my heart sank.  

It’s hard to face the fact that a character trait is missing.  It is especially hard when the character trait in question is something that your wife remembers was “cute.”  

She tried to show me, but to tell the truth I don’t even know exactly what it is that’s missing.  I mean really, how many times do you see your own eyebrows while you're laughing?  

I know I’m not exactly the same.  And really, wouldn’t I have changed anyway?  It’s been over 18 years!  

What gnaws at me is the fact that there’s something I’m missing. 

Sleep Deprived...

Have you ever heard of a Sleep Deprived EEG?  

Well I hadn’t either, but evidently if “they” want to rule out other things and confirm a migraine diagnosis then “they” decide that that (I mean a sleep deprived EEG) is what you need to do.  I’ve been up since 5:30am on 2/9/09 and we report to the EEG place at 12:15pm on 2/10/09. 

So we’ve only got about 10 more hours to stay awake…I’ll try to remember to keep you posted, however, I’m getting a wee-bit loopy.

I'm Scratching my Head...

What would make a person decide that it’s socially acceptable to answer the door in their underwear?  

For me, and I’m not sure what this says about my upbringing, but I’m not in the habit of lounging around the house in my drawers.  The only times I can think of that I’ve only got on only underwear are the times when I’m in-between outfits, or getting ready to take a shower.  I have been known to sleep in my underwear, but I usually sleep in running shorts.  (I realize I’m bordering on too much information, but stick with me, I’ll get to the point soon!) 

However, even if I was hanging out in nothing but my skivvies, I wouldn’t answer the door without first putting on some pants, or throwing on a robe, or wrapping something around myself.  A blanket, a towel, a jacket, a trash bag...something!

So please explain why a parent would decided to not only come to the door, but also invite her child’s teacher into her house wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of red, lace panties! 

Sure, there are times you’re caught off guard, but this is a person who was told, not five minutes before, that people were coming over! 

Sometimes all you can do is scratch your head and avert your eyes.    

Not for Human Consumption!

On our coffee table we have the usual things.  There are a few large books that nobody every picks up let alone reads, an antique looking wooden box, a matching letter opener and magnifying glass with carved ivory handles, a large white bowl with a blue, Asian looking picture of a dragon, a stack of coasters, the television remote and a square, turquoise dish that is full of little red, dried, berry-looking things that smell like red-hots and are designed to make the room smell nice.  

As for the last coffee table item I mentioned, I don’t think I’ve ever mistaken potpourri for actual food.  Sure, I’ve joked around at friends’ houses and acted like I was either eating, or going to eat something odd from their potpourri bowl just to get a laugh, but what self-respecting teenage guy hasn’t done that at least a dozen times?  

However, last night Don, my father-in-law, came over just to hang out and spend time with the family.  He’s sitting on the sofa and we’re talking about the economy, President Obama’s first few days in office and other chitchat stuff when, in mid sentence, he reaches down and grabs about a half handful of the dried berry-looking things.  I don’t think I really understood what he was going to do, because before I can say anything he pops a few in his mouth! 

I’m sitting there in kind of a stunned disbelief as the chewing begins, and his face starts to distort.  Melissa comes back from the kitchen just in time to hear him say, “Man! These are really strong!”  

To which she replies, “They should be, it’s potpourri, but not supposed to be eaten.”  

At which point, I burst out laughing.  

So now, if you come to our house, our coffee table will have all of the above-mentioned items, PLUS, a tiny, strategically place sign that reads, 

“Not for Human Consumption!”

PS3 and Me

So I’ve got this PlayStation 3 (PS3).  It was a Christmas present a couple of years ago.  I don’t have all that many games, but the ones I do have are pretty addictive.  

Years ago a game called Wolfenstein got me hooked on first-person shooters.  However, I could only play against the computer, and once I beat that on the hardest level for the 500^th time the game would pretty much lose its appeal. 

My newest game is called Call of Duty – World at War.  This game not only has the play against the computer mode, but it also has an online mode that is much more interesting.  Now I can play against people all over the world, and it is far more difficult!  

I logged on earlier this morning and was informed that there were 122, 849 people playing.  That’s larger than the population of most towns in Texas!  And this is only one of he hundreds of games that are played online all over the world.  

Relatively speaking, I haven’t played online all that much, but I can see why the childhood obesity rate in the USA is so high.  I mean why go out and ride my bike or play baseball when I can simply stay at home, go online and magically become whoever or whatever I want to be.  

I’m not sure, but if these games had been around when I was a kid, I’d probably be as big as a house right now.