Halloweenapallooza

Let me start out saying that I am not a big fan of the Halloween season. I have several reasons, the least of which is that I totally hate that in my neighborhood people start decorating as early as mid September and leave the stuff up until Thanksgiving. I just want to scream. It is disgusting to me that every house has the same cheap string of orange lights or the plastic headstone on the lawn. What some houses lack in imagination they try to make up for in quantity.One neighbor literally has something on ever square foot of their lawn. It looks sort of like the Halloween aisle at Walmart threw up on their lawn.

Another issue I have is with trick or treat. I still remember the good old days when it was safe to go door to door and get a bag full of candy. It was simple, go out, ring a doorbell, look cute, get as much candy as your bag could hold, go home and eat til you got sick. These days there are extra steps. Now you go out, trick or treat and get the candy. Then you bring it home and sort it. Take out the unusables, like the pencils and the soy sauce packets. (Oh I forgot to mention, if you look older than 12 and show up at my door, I give you a left over condiment packet that I have saved from all the fast food restaurants I have gone to that year.) Next you have to take the candy to the local hospital to have it scanned for needles and razor blades. (I like to think that there is a special place in hell for people who put that stuff in the candy.) Then and only then can you go home and eat.

What ever happened to the days when it was just children showing up in cute costumes? I get sort of creeped out when adult co-workers show up all costumed up, especially in their furry fetish costumes or outfits that no fat bodies should ever think of wearing. Seriously Superman and/or Wonder Woman never had a beer gut. I really do not like it when older teens show up trick or treating (Although,if any of you college age girls come by in a french maid outfit or in cosplay attire, kudos, I will give you extra candy for that.)

So we will see how the season shapes up. I think this year our 3 year old will want to go trick or treating. I am secretly hoping that he will want to wear the Batman costume I have saved from my childhood.

One of the biggest problems I have with Halloween is the pumpkins. Pumpkins, as it turns out are harbingers of death. I am not making this up, it is absolutely true. Josh asked me to carve a pumpkin for him this year. He sat and watched me and after I had carved it to his liking we put in a candle and set it on top of the TV. It sat there for a couple of days and then pumpkageddon. I arrived home after work yesterday and saw the remains of the pumpkin in the kitchen sink. I started to ask which kid knocked the pumpkin down and Dessy cut me off saying " The TV is DEAD!" Apparently the evil pumpkin warmed up on the tv set, got soft and collapsed on itself,leaking a load of liquid death on the front of the tv, causing it to short out.


My final and the biggest problem that I have with the season is how so many kids dress up like zombies and monsters. A friend of mine pointed out that this could be bad if trick or treat happened at the same time that the actual zombie apocalypse comes. How would you know what is zombie and what is a kid dressed up like one? The answer that I came up with is that I will be forced to just shoot 'em all and let God sort 'em out. So zombies and children alike, stay off my lawn.

Things I should not be saying out loud in my house.

One of the more unfortunate pieces of my persona is a propensity to speak before really thinking about the ramifications of my words. It has gotten me in trouble more than once.

Last Friday a nice couple from church took us out to see the 'Pumpkin Patch Boogie' which is a sort of a country style carnival with the proceeds going to a nice local charity. It has a hot dog and bean dinner, a petting zoo, square dancing and lots of games for the kids. We were heading back to the petting zoo and Josh saw a few of the pygmy goats. He asked me what they were and before I could stop myself, out popped "Those are Indonesian horses. God made them tiny so your mother could ride them." There were a lot of people and with all the noise it was hard to hear me yelp when Dessy kicked me in the shin.

One of the latest things that I had launched was in response to a comment my wife made while changing the baby. The little boy was being quite squirmy and mommy mentioned that the baby seemed to be grabbing his pee pee a lot. Before I could stop myself, I blurted " I suppose if no one else is grabbing it, he figures it is fair game to grab it himself." Suddenly the room became very cold. I slunk away trying not to let my giggling be audible.

Sometimes I have the time to think about what is going to come out of me, but unfortunately I never really pay attention to the voice yelling to stop before it is too late. On the way home from church last Sunday Josh asked his mommy if she was a boy or a girl? Mommy asked him to reason it out, "What do you think mommy is?" Josh thought it over and got a big smile and said "A Girl!" I thought I would help reinforce his perceptual process and asked him what was his grandmother, girl or boy? He relied a girl so I then raised the difficulty a couple of notches. "Josh, what is your cousin Amanda? Is she a girl or boy?" Josh immediately replied, " A girl!"

So I ask, " Are you sure? Why then is her name A - MAN- da?" Josh got a very confused look for a minute and his mother just shook her head and mumbled something in Indonesian.
At least she has the sense to blurt things in a language that I do not understand.

WHY, WHY, WHY?

Josh has hit the stage of childhood that I have not been looking forward to. He asks"Why?" about everything. Well, almost everything. He does have a correlated phrase that is often coupled with the Why argument, he also likes to ask;"And then what happens?"

Now I try to be patient with him, honest to Pete I do.
I largely believe a child should be nurtured and loved as long as it does not directly affect my personal biosphere, which by the way is only a working theory, I routinely have my space violated. Take last week for instance. Josh had me read him a bedtime story and fell asleep. I nodded off for about 2 hours then was awakened by a sobbing child and cold wet sheets. I changed him and the bed at 3:00 in the morning, at which point he decided to go back to his own bed and sleep, as his work was done.

About 2:30 this morning I hear a stirring in his room and stumble out half asleep to hear, "Daddy, I pooped" This is not the normal night routine, so I give the kid a pass and tried to be cordial as I cleaned him up. Josh seemed to not feel well and he asked if he could sleep with me. I agreed, and he got into bed and snuggled up to me. I was feeling all happy that my son was needing his daddy, and I reached over and turned out the light. "Go to sleep now Josh, close your eyes."

I was trying to be patient as Josh said "WHY?"
"Because I am sleepy and have to go to work in 3 hours."
"Why?"
"Because We need money to buy groceries."
"Why?"
Because we need to eat every day."
"Why?"

At this point I put a pillow over my face and prayed for a quick end. It was not to be.

Josh got really quiet and I thought he was asleep. I just started to doze off again and Josh just started blurting out everything that was on his mind at that point. I banished him back to his room.

A few minutes later I felt a little sorry for him, and maybe a twinge of guilt. He is only three after all and perhaps not the evil genius/nemesis that I am thinking he might be.

I walk to his room and I see him laying on the rug.

"Joshie, get up! You cannot sleep on the carpet."
"Why?"
"Because your bed is cleaner than the carpet."
"Why?"
"Because there could be spiders on the carpet."
"Why?"
Civility came to a screeching halt at this point and my regularly scheduled programming kicked back in.
"Because if you sleep on the carpet a spider will come get you and crawl in your ear!"
"Then what happens?"
"IT WILL EAT YOUR BRAINS!!!"
"And then what happens?"
"You will get all stupid."
"And then what happens?"
"You will not get into a good college like Harvard and you will have to get a vocational certificate from a trade school."
"And then what happens?"
"GO ASK YOUR MOTHER!!"

So he toddles off and I hear him say "Mommy, What happens if I cannot go to a good college?"

Just as I drifted off to sleep I hear Dessy mutter; "You end up married to someone like your Daddy."

To which Josh replied; " Uh oh,  I am going to bed NOW!"

The Looming Storm

I want to deviate from my normal sarcastic drivel and be a little serious.

Right now up and down the eastern seaboard untold thousands of people are in a state of panic. Some are evacuating, others are digging in. Most are scared out of their wits wondering what is in store for them.

I want to encourage all of you to not lose hope. These are not just idle sentiments I am tossing out there.  I can speak from experience on this, as I have lived through a few major storms. Not the hurricanes per se, but the mental and spiritual storms. I am just going to use the hurricane as a metaphor.

First I want to give you a little glimpse into my past. Most of you have no idea about some of it and I apologize if it is unsettling to any of you.

I have battled extreme chronic depression since I was about 17. For many years it seemed that I was largely happy but I would have short periods of sadness or disillusionment. By the time I was 30 the periods of depression had elongated to the point that the feeling of happiness was more of an oasis in the vast desert of my despair.  It was not very long until I was looking for an escape. As it happens with so many of us, be it obvious or hidden, I had lost all hope and was trying to find a reason to continue onward. By spring of 1992, I had lost site of the oasis and no longer had the will to trudge on.

I had the means at hand. I was well armed and my thoughts were racing. I sat on my back porch and watched as the sun started to set. My mood was tranquil and I thought to myself that this was the best I had felt in years, why not go out on a happier note? I deliberated on how to execute the task, and decided that if cut my wrists, I could peacefully succumb while the sun set at the same moment that the life drained out of me. As I got up to go get a tool worthy of such a task, I had a vision. I saw my future, There walking up to a house were 2 small children and my future wife. The wife turned to me and beckoned as if to say, "Will you be coming with us? Or will you take a different course now?" It shook me to the core.

I sought help immediately. I ended up in a locked ward on suicide watch for a while. I spent a couple of years in therapy trying to find clarity. I still have to fight the urges to give in at times.

BUT....

I have learned that there is hope. Real, tangible, measurable, reach out and grab it HOPE.  And you know what? Hope is not just wishing that there will be change. It is a promise that it will change. I have found that what is improbable in most of our lives is that the problems surrounding us will actually kill us. So far in my life, despite my fears and lack of trust, everything has worked out for the good. I am not saying I am complete or even content with my life. It is not bad, but I am certainly not dancing on top of the hill like some scene from the Sound of Music.

What I can tell you is that even the most difficult of situations, the ones that I had initially thought were without hope actually have never been as horrid as I had imagined. I have been destitute. I have been homeless. Believe it or not I spent a year and a half in the back of my Trooper in the  mid 1990's. During that time I managed to stay in college, not fail out of school, did not freeze or starve to death and maintained my current circle of friends. Some of you had no idea I was living like that. It was not the end of the world.

So back to the metaphor. What happens in a storm like a hurricane? For the vast majority of us it creates disarray. We emerge from our refuge to see the mess. We pick up the debris and toss it out. We smell the fresh scent of the freshly washed earth and of the new opportunity. Sometimes we look around and we are standing in utter destruction. But we are STANDING! We may lose our keepsakes, but we still have the memories. We start anew. History tells us that even being lost in the desert for 40 years did not mean the end. We rebuild, we improve, and we find strength we did not know we had. We discover that others watch over us and help fill in the gaps where we are helpless.

For me, I rely heavily on my friends and faith to keep me afloat. In the worst times of my life I was always rewarded by seeing the Light that was there to illuminate the path. No matter how dark it gets either spiritually, mentally or otherwise, I know in my heart that there is One who is keeping me in His care. My life has changed. I still have fears, but I look at what God has done for me and marvel. I have the family for which I had hoped and prayed. I have survived layoffs, furloughs,  and have not lost our house, The kids are healthy. We are fortunate and blessed.

There is no other way for me to attribute that. God has not failed me and I know this adventure is not over.
One passage from the bible comes to mind for me. This is a paraphrase, if you will pardon me on that.

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them (various enemies or problems), for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."

If any of you need an ear, a prayer or just a good word, let me know. It is my hope that I can help you to be free from  the feeling of despair.

The Parents And The Play Date

My little boy is starting to grow up a bit. He has been aware that he wants a friend for a few months now. I have been a little saddened by his unfulfilled need.

A few months back Josh asked if we could go to the store and buy potato chips. I asked him why and he replied " If I had some chips maybe I could have a friend over to share them with me." I was heartbroken to say the least. Soon Josh was making up imaginary friends. I would hear him playing with them in his room, carrying on long conversations. At this point my sympathy began to give way to concern. Two days ago, he took the imagination to a whole new level. He began to speak in a higher voice and insisted that he was not Josh, but rather Suzanne. At this point I was just getting creeped out. I was convinced that this was not an exercise in gender confusion. This was more like a version of Sybil, the story of the woman with 30 personalities. Not being sure what to do about all this, because admittedly I may have failed the semester of childhood behavior and development while getting my psychology degree. I was not remembering much of what I should do on a cognitive level to properly nurture the boy, so  I tried some old school remedies. First I tried ice baths, and when that did not shake him out of his funk, I sprinkled holy water on him and yelled what little Latin I remembered from being an altar boy. Nothing. Not even a head spin or projectile vomiting. Next I tried the home made electro-shock therapy, by building up static electricity on my rug and then going and touching him on the nose. This actually elicited somewhat of a bad response, his voice went two octaves lower and he told me I was bule gila, which is an Indonesian term roughly translating to "crazy honky". At this point my wife intervened and banished me back to my room, which is really where I wanted to be in the first place. It gave me time to think of an action plan for the boy.

It turns out, He had his own ideas. For the last six months he has been pointing at the house across the street and telling me that he wants to go play with Justin Beeber. I don't know why he thinks that the singer lives there, but I do know that Justin Beebers mom looks pretty pissed off when she is mowing the lawn while Justin Beebers dad hangs out in the garage drinking beer. Sunday afternoon I told Josh to get in the car and he went out to the garage. I come out a minute later and he is at the end of the driveway talking to two kids over twice his age. I broke character for once and asked Josh if he was making new friends. (Normally I would be yelling to get the bikes off my lawn) Later that evening the two boys showed up on the step asking if Josh could come out and play. It was like a dream come true for Josh, and I could not have been prouder and happier for him.

To prove this we totally ruined it for him by standing out on the front porch making the kids pose for home movies and pictures. As I stood there taking snapshots, I had an revelation. I had become the persona that I hated as a kid. The doting parent with a camera. I was now that parent who insisted on taking the picture of me and my date before the big dance. I remember well. I just wanted to pick up the girl and get to dancin’. Nope. Boy, get in here and meet the father. Stand up against the fireplace and take a picture with our daughter. Keep your damned hands to yourself. Don't stand so far away from her, I cannot get you in the picture. Are you afraid of our beautiful girl? What is wrong with her? What, don't you don't want to be with our daughter? Wait, what, You DO? What do you mean by that??!!

Sorry, had a momentary flashback there. (Don't worry Kayla, this is not about you, your dad only threatened to tear my head off.)

The sorry thing about all these pictures is that Josh will NEVER care about having the memory. He will come to loathe it when we show him these pictures at family reunions 20 years from now. I know I hate those pictures about me, especially since I am married. My wife has found some of those pictures. It brings up questions I do not like to answer. Like what happened to that girl? "Well after I took her to prom, a few weeks later she went into intensive psychotherapy and last I heard she married Chaz Bono." No one wants to ask any more questions after that response, so I am off the hook.  Unlike my poor kids who will have to face the same torture that the rest of us did.

Does It Mean What I think it does?

The first thing this morning I hopped into the shower and grabbed the shampoo.As I dispensed a bit, I read the label which included the word "Professional". It got me wondering "What is even remotely professional about that?" It seems that everyday I am being offered a product that is 'Pro' this or 'Pro' that. I started wondering if I had the wrong idea about the meaning of the word. So I looked it up. (Yes, I walked right out of the shower, went straight to the living room and stood there buck naked, dripping wet, pulled the Websters dictionary off the shelf and read it.) The definition was "Professional: Following an occupation as a means of livelihood or for gain: a professional builder." Well,OK.then.

It seems me that any item that I can buy at WalMart should not really be considered a Professional grade product. I go back to the still running shower and rinse out my hair. I put on some shaving cream, also a 'Pro-Series' then grabbed my new Pro-Glide razor. My mind starts to race. As I began to shave it occured to me that if this is truly a product for professionals why am I using it? Never once in my life has anyone offered to pay me for shaving my face. I can imagine it though. The paparazzi all clamoring around me flashbulbs a poppin' and microphones being thrust in my face. "Mr. LeClere, Mr. LeClere, to what do you attribute your great fame and wealth?" "Well, I was kind to animals, I ate all the veggies on my plate and every day I SHAVED MY FACE!!!" All this is followed by a hushed silence as everyone silently nods in agreement.If only it worked that way.

Later in the day I decided it was time to get my hair cut. Where else to go, but the local "Pro Cuts" at the mall. I have no idea why they call it that,no self respecting professional would let these people touch their hair.  In fact I did not see one person there who really qualified as a 'Pro" Just a lot of kids and the occasional once upon a time athlete. You know the kind I mean? Six foot five, tribal tattoo on the bicep, wearing sunglasses backwards, mouth breather with a buzz cut, and about 60 pounds overweight. Also notable is that the guy is wearing the baggy multi-colored M.C. Hammer style pants with a pattern that is best described as "Puking kaleidoscope", and a black sleeveless tee shirt with the W.W.F. logo and a picture of the Undertaker. I bet I see this guy at the Walmart in about half an hour.

I sit down in the salon chair, tell the stylist what I would like to see, and she proceeds to give me a haircut that will be an embarrassment to me for the next 6 weeks. As she is cutting my hair, she mentions that I should not worry about the way things look now, it will grow back in.
This is of little reassurance to me. I reminded her that the rest of the hair keeps growing too, so pretty much my hair will look this bad for the duration. It turns out that this is the equivalent of sending your steak back at the restaurant, because it is undercooked. You get the steak back cooked properly, but you don't dare eat it because someone spit in it. In this case, when she went to trim the hair off my neck with the electric clippers, she spent what seemed to be an eternity and I asked if everything was alright? "Oh yes it is fine" she said. " I am just being careful to make it straight." and she shot me a smile that reminded me of Satan welcoming me to hell.

After the haircut I made my way over to the Walmart to look for a more items that had "Pro" but could not possibly be used in any professional capacity. I was reading the label of a can of baby formula, "Enfamil Pro-Sobee" to see what made this suitable for professional babies, when I heard "Hey Putz!"
I turned around to see my mouth breathing friend in the technicolor pants from the salon. I asked him what possessed him to call me that? He pointed to the back of my head. I went to the nearest mirror and saw that etched onto the back of my skull, the stylist had buzzed in the offending word. It is embarrassing.

But it will grow back in.

My crappy life

Some people have a bad life, Some have a an average experience and some have a great life. No matter where people fit in this, they will still complain. Which is why I am here.

I have been noticing how much of my life is immersed in literal crap. It fills my home, my thoughts and my daily life.

You ask; "How can that be, when you have a nice wife and beautiful children?" Kids are where it starts! I have a 9 month old who may as well be a fertilizer factory. This kid can load a diaper in record time. He even has different settings for firmness and quantity.

The 3 year old is no better. He is nearly potty trained, except for the number 2 part. On the plus side, he is advanced in his training so he comes and asks for a diaper so he can go do his job. Which by the way, he is quick to let you know, that once you have supervised the application of the diaper, your presence is no longer required, as he "wants his privacy." A few days ago, just around bedtime, I hear the shower turn on and much arguing between Josh and his mommy. Apparently he had taken it upon himself to remove his own diaper once it was at capacity and in doing so managed to soil the throw rug in his bedroom. I was already asleep when the circus started and groggily waddled into the bathroom to see this huge brown stain on the rug, and then was accosted by a smell that would put a stockyard to shame.

Which brings up another issue. I live on the edge of the city, where 100 yards away we have the border to open country. Less than a 3 minute drive from us there are bovines. Lots of them. Depending on the time of year the feedlots near us can have thousands of them. If the wind is in just the right direction you can experience the invigorating aroma of fermenting fertilizer and ammonia in the evening air. Sometimes I like to sleep with my window open and the fan on and get the benefit of the pleasant smell of fresh air and the clover in the fields. Once in a while the wind shifts and the fan turns into the equivalent of a turbocharger for flatulent cows. There is no better way to get me out of the bed than to blow Angus methane up my nose. 2 days ago Josh walked into my room and asked if I would read him a story then his nose wrinkled up. "Daddy, what is that smell?" I replied, "That my son, is the smell of the country." He looked at me funny and then decided he did not really need a story all that bad after all and went to his own room.

Last night I was asleep when I the familiar fragrance drifted in. I sleepily closed the window and remembered that I had forgotten to take a pill. I went to the kitchen, pulled the basket of medicine off the fridge and dispensed myself some blood pressure medicine. Downed a big glass of water and went back to sleep. About 3 hours later I had a sharp pain and made a beeline for the bathroom. Dessy heard the commotion and calmly walked in the room with the bottle of medicine I had taken. She said "Hon, did you take you blood pressure medicine?" "YES, for crying out loud, can't you see I am busy here?"
She lovingly smiled and showed me the bottle. "Did you mix up your bottle with this bottle of laxatives?" She then got this evil smile,like she could not have planned that one out better herself and she returned to bed.

I read the bottle and realized my mistake.

Well crap.

The Class Reunion

A few days back one of my class mates organized a 50th birthday party for all of the people in my high school class that were turning or had turned fifty this year.It was a real treat getting to see some old friends again. I would like to say it is because I miss old friends and love to rehash memories from the late 1970's. But that is really not the whole truth. I found that in fact that reminiscing was actually a softening tool in order to get the real story form some of my cohorts. Oh sure, 20 years ago the reunions meant that we had to brag about how successful we were in just ten years of adulthood. I am totally the worst of the worst at that. For my 10 year reunion I actually went out and bought a used Mercedes to show just how successful I had become. I suppose I would have been more convincing, but I could only afford one of those t-shirts with the tuxedo drawn on it and some jean shorts.

We arrived fashionably late and as I entered the gathering, I heard, " Hey, it is Mark, we can start the party now!" (Unfortunately I had to pay Dessy 10 dollars to say this, and because of the loud music, no one heard it anyway) I had not been at the event even ten minutes and I was comparing hernia stories with 2 guys, and explaining in great anatomical detail how my surgery progressed. I also learned that one classmate was either selectively deaf, or he was absolutely accustomed to eating and hearing the words "testicle" and "grapefruits" in the same sentence. He did not even pause once as I explained my operation while he gobbled his pizza and salad.

It seemed that the color of conversations had changed a lot over 30 years. Fresh out of high school we all were so young and fresh and bulletproof. Saturday it went one of two ways. Either everyone was marveling over how great someone still looked, or they were doing what I was doing. The underhanded compliment, also known as the "Stealth" insult. Let me give you an example of one of my conversations with some folks that night.

All names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Me: "Wow, Malcolm looks so great, those plastic surgeries really paid off."
Sam: "Did he have a tracheotomy?"
Me: "No that is his belly button, one too many face lifts, the last one was just a little too aggressive, ya know?"

Roland: "Did you see the great pictures of Jim Bob and his kid who just got admitted to Yale?"
Me: "Yea, you heard it wrong, he said jail." 

Elenore: "Look at you, Mark, you look so great!"
Me: Little early in the evening for you to be so drunk, isn't it?"

I also fielded a personal complaint.

Georgia: "I cannot believe how sarcastic you are now. Boy you have a pissy outlook on life!"
Me: "You would too if you had a kid that kept dropping your bifocals in the toilet!"


That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening.

And I had only been there 15 minutes at that point.

The Road Rage Incident.

It was a hot afternoon and the highway was crowded. I was just driving home my normal route, eating a taco bell burrito,drinking a water that had been sitting in the hot car all day and listening to the radio, when suddenly my mundane drive got a little extra flava.

I was on the interstate getting ready to merge onto my exit when I noticed a little red car speeding up to pass me on the right. The car cut me off from being able to exit in the prescribed lines and as it passed me I happened to be taking a bite of the taco. Apparently my eating was an offence to the driver who promptly flipped me off. Flipped me off!!

That should have been the end of it, but of course you know it was not. The driver then positioned himself directly in front of me and slammed on the brakes, and again gave me the one finger salute.

I responded by taking another bite of the taco. This must have infuriated the other driver who then reached out his sunroof and again gestured his displeasure. I decided to change lanes and the aspiring hand model then followed suit and again with the bird, out the drivers window.

At this point, I was out of taco so I decided to take my cell phone in hand and prepare to call the guy in for road rage like behavior.

He then pulled over in front of me and stopped. I stopped my car on the side of the road and the guy jumps out of his car, yelling profanities and this is when I noticed he was about 6 foot tall, 200 pounds tattooed from head to toe with a construction mohawk. I could just feel a cultural exchange coming on.

I rolled down the window as he approached yelling. It was not what I expected, as he declared he was on the phone with the cops. I politely and calmly stated that I was in complete agreement, and that he should call in the officers and let them referee.
O.K. Maybe not politely. "Go ahead Jackhole, get them over here, you cut me off, slammed on your brakes and are flipping gang signs at me!"
At this point he told 911 that it was cool, and he hung up. Then he yelled at me about raising my hand as He passed  and cut me off on the right. I held up the Taco Bell bag, and Said, "I WAS EATING A TACO!!! "

At this point his demeanor changed, and he said, "Oh, sorry man." and held out his hand in to shake and relieve the tensions. We shook and he got in his car and raced off.

As I thought about it, I realized a few things. One, I am not as young as I once was, and it may be harder to defend myself than it used to be. So I need to make sure I am armed with more than a hardshell taco when mixing it up with the local talent. Maybe a hot coffee from Mcdonalds or a mashed potato and gravy bowl from KFC.

I also realized that maybe I should change up my snacks. I bet if I had been eating a carrot stick, the guy would never have gotten pissed off at me. On the other hand if I had been eating a celery stick he may have thought I was flipping him off.

From now on I will be more cautious, but if you know I am in a bad mood and you see me getting a 12 pack of taco's at the drive up, steer clear of me. I may be forced to drip lettuce and cheese and taco shell all over you.

Dude, You're Sick!

Have you noticed how some terms suddenly do not mean what you once thought they did? Take the word 'sick' for instance. To a lot of us it means being less than well, to others it means totally insanely crazy cool. To me, at this moment it is more like bronchitis on a stick. I had been sniffling and all that for about a week and it started to subside, but a little over a week ago, it came back with a vengeance. I regressed quickly and went from stuffy nose to insufferable jerk in about a day. I know, there are those who may argue that it was a slippery slope or a fine line for me to reach that point anyway. I would refute that point. That is, if I still had a voice.

Two days ago, to the delight of my family and neighbors, I lost my voice. My 3 year old especially loved it because for the first time in months, he was able to get a word in edgewise during a conversation. Fortunately my job is one that I can type messages to people so it has not really affected my ability to work.
One thing that is affected however is story telling at bed time. My son came up to me the other night asking me to read him a Bible story. I hesitated but then got a great idea. I started to open the book and told Josh that if he was not a good boy, God would make it so I could not talk. He looked puzzled like he was thinking very hard about this. Then he got an evil grin and he smacked his little brother on the head and said "OK God. Smite daddy!"

It does not take much effort these days to get sick and with the economy the way it is, many folks will go to work even if they are not well, simply because they cannot afford to stay home. I am one of those people. Last Wednesday, I made the mistake of coughing out loud at work. It was like an alarm went off and one of my co-workers piped up and told the team lead, "Mark is sick, can you send his dumb a** home please?" To which the lead replied, "Oh you betcha" and I was on the next elevator to the ground floor.

I worked from home and stayed in bed, hacking and wheezing most of the Memorial Day weekend. Despite all rest I was not improving so I decided to see a doctor. As it turns out there is no doctor to be had on a holiday weekend so I had to go to one of the county health clinics. This is never a good thing, especially in my area. For one reason, I live in what is arguably an impoverished area, lots of immigrants and seasonal workers with no money or insurance. When I arrived at the clinic, I could see a long wait ahead of me.

Fortunately I had a strategy to help shorten the wait. I call it the "Moon Pie Maneuver." I went to the bathroom and took a moon pie out of my pocket, and ate it. I then walked back into the waiting area and started coughing. I asked for a tissue then in plain view of the receptionist I coughed our a nice wad of phlegm and chocolate. I looked shocked and said "whoa, THAT can't be good!"
Let me tell you something, I suddenly was in an examination room. You would have thought I was a celebrity or something. In walked an aging doctor who looked a lot like Dick Van Dyke wearing a large bow tie. Apparently my impression was not that far off because he took the Mary Poppins approach to medicine. He sang a little song about how a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, then he did a heel toe, right shuffle, ball, heel, toe, toe; ball change right back out of the room.
Soon an assistant came in with a prescription for an inhaler and showed me the door. I was out in the parking lot before it hit me that I had not actually been examined, and I was out of moon pies so I just went home.

I am using the inhaler, but not in the way it was intended. It turns out that stuff is pretty flammable, so If I take a puff then exhale over a candle, I can trim my mustache and eyebrows all at the same time. To which my kid says, "Daddy, that is so SICK!"

Till next time....

The Fog, The Fantasy And The Facts Of The Matter

Monday morning back to work day. I backed the truck out of the garage and started down the highway. I needed to adjust the side mirror and rolled down the window a little. The fresh air felt good so I left the window down.

The day was gloomy and overcast, cool and misty. I had a long drive ahead of me,
so my thoughts began to wander. It was not long until I hit a patch of fog I was completely in fantasy land.

I sat taller in my seat, thrust out my chest and imagined I was in a much better place.

Now I  was Captain LeClerc, sailing the high sea in on the HMS Beagle, wind in my hair,the ocean rolling and heaving, the feel of a light rain against my clean-shaven cheek. I could hear roar of thunder in the distance as I charged forth unafraid and bold, toward the fearsome foe, the uncertain destiny that waited for me.

The thunder grew louder and closer, and I could smell an acrid burning smell, almost assuredly the stench of death from Davy Jones locker. Suddenly there was a sizzling sound and a huge wave hit the starboard bow, rolling up to the ships wheel where I stood undaunted and unwavering. I was the "The Captain". 

The sizzling suddenly got louder and I was suddenly jolted back to reality. I was
not a captain, I was not wearing a uniform, and my ship was just an old pickup. A tractor trailer rig had passed me on the left, and the rain had gotten harder. I was getting soaked. The smell of death was only the combination of the  diesel exhaust from the semi, and the wet manure of the stockyard I was driving past.

The aroma of all that cow crap was just formidable and at this point, I was compelled to roll up the window. I turned off the Roger Whitaker CD (only those of you over the age of 70 will understand that obscure reference, so basically none of you) and wiped my glasses clean. The fog was lifting and the rain was steady.

I knew from experience that once you leave a daydream, you never really get to go back. It is just not the same. The work parking lot was full and I had to park farther out than usual. I would be able to enter a new fantasy.

The one where I love my job and sunshine and butterflies fly out of my rear end.