Remembering the Two Towers

 

How To Become A Writer in Five Easy Steps

I had a thought the other day. It wasn't a very big one, but I did have one. And the thought was this: People say they want to be writers -- write columns, essays, books that make them rich and famous -- but they get bogged down in the day-to-day chore of living and never actually do anything about it.

Maybe they (and I'm really talking to YOU), maybe you think it takes up too much time, and there's not enough time in the day to get started. Maybe you think ideas come from outer space, and your space suit is always out of commission whenever you really need it. Or maybe you just need my "How To Become A Writer in Five Easy Steps" essay to jumpstart a surge of creativity that will get you started and last a lifetime.

Well, here it is, my "How To Become A Writer in Five Easy Steps" essay. I hope it works for you!

1. Get An Idea. Ideas don't come from outer space. They come from your backyard. They come from your overflowing toilet. They come from the leftovers in the back of the refrigerator that look like they're about to start breathing. They come from Wal-Mart. They come from dirty dishes. They come from work. They come from your children. They come from someone else's children. They come from everywhere -- okay, even outer space. If you can't find an idea, then you're just not paying attention.

2. Choose Your Weapon. Want to write with pad and pencil? That's your choice. Want to write on a computer? Go for it. Want to write on a napkin at your favorite bar -- the one where you always complain to the bartender how you want to be a writer, but you can't find the time, and then get miserably drunk and pass out on the floor? It's up to you. Just make a choice and stick with it.

3. Sit Your Butt Down And Begin. This may be a little confusing, so let me break it down for you: Sit! Sit Down! Sit Down On Your Butt! Once You're On Your Butt, Begin! Begin is another word for Start. It doesn't matter if you have five hours or five minutes. Just Begin.

4. Revise Everything Until It's Not Crap. Everything you write down first is CRAP! Nothing comes out great the first time. That's why you Edit. Revise. Copy. Paste. Destroy. Give Mouth to Mouth. Slap. Jab. Throw Down. Pick Up. Edit again. Realise it's still CRAP and start all over. Keep doing that until it's NOT CRAP! How will you know when it's NOT CRAP? I don't know. I'm still working on that part.

5. Let Someone Read It. People say they only want to write for themselves, for their own enjoyment. Well, that's a bunch of goat poop. People write stuff because they want people to read it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime. So, when you're finished writing what it is you've written, let someone read it. 

And then...

Find yourself another idea! Choose your weapon. Sit your butt down and begin. Revise everything until it's NOT CRAP. Let someone read it. Then Start All Over Again!

If you can do all that -- whether you become famous or not -- then you can proudly call yourself a writer.

Congratulations! I knew you could do it!

Try to surround yourself with optimistic eggs

I prefer brown eggs. Buying them makes me feel like I could’ve gathered them myself out on the farm, if only I had a farm. Those clone-like logo-stamped white eggs don’t give me the same feeling. Are they cheaper? Yes. But they’re probably manufactured by robot chickens in a solar-powered, air-conditioned warehouse somewhere off in Nevada’s Mohave Desert. I don’t mind paying a premium price for eggs that remind me of grassy meadows, windmills and simpler times. 

Of course it’s just a marketing scheme. But it’s a good one. Buying brown eggs makes me feel like I’m supporting small farms run by large families that gather dozens of eggs before the sun comes up. It’s organic. Green. Healthier. And each egg is unique, reminding me of old friends and absent family — Grandma, Papa Dutch, Uncle Bobby, Mom and Dad.

No, I’ve never gathered eggs or milked cows or called in the goats or mucked out the stables. For a city boy, that’s a foreign world. Something you read about in stories. But there they are: brown eggs in the dairy section, supposedly fresh off the farm — which makes me curious about those families, and whether or not their children are still walking five miles to get to school, up a steep hill both there and back again, barefooted, come rain or blizzard.

That homegrown illusion got elevated even more last Saturday when I went shopping for eggs and found a small newspaper-like clipping tucked inside the carton. It had a recipe on it, a cartoon, a “Bird of the Month” photo (a Majestic Maria), and a mini story and photo about egg farmers Matt and Sarah.

After reading the story, I of course wanted more information on Matt and Sarah and their six kids. So I sent an email to the egg company asking if they could get me in touch with the family. But so far, I haven’t heard anything back. Maybe I should give it more time. Maybe they have poor cell reception, or prefer getting real letters stamped and delivered through the post office.

In the meantime, I did an internet search for “Matt and Sarah,” “egg farmer,” “six children,” and “Matt and Sarah’s Dutch Puff Pancakes.” That was the recipe I mentioned. I had high hopes my internet search would provide me with egg-sactly (sorry) the information I was looking for. But of course, it didn’t.

I found information on a Matt and Angela who live on a small working farm with their one son and two dogs and who are more into boarding horses and baking macarons than gathering brown eggs and making pancakes. No doubt I found the wrong Matt. But then again, what if there isn’t a “right” Matt?

What if Matt and Sarah are the AI-generated parents of an AI-generated family that some large egg conglomerate created just to increase profits? I’m so hoping that’s not the case because that would be stooping lower than a snake trying to scratch a belly itch on a worn-out piece of used sandpaper. But that’s where we are — living in unwanted pessimistic times when all we really want is to meet real people doing good things for others just because they can. 

Enter Reese and Danyele.

Reese and Danyele don’t have a farm. They have one daughter, two dogs, and a pen full of chickens. I saw the chickens with my own eyes. They produce a lot of brown eggs. Too many for a family of three to ever use. So, Reese and Danyele gave me a couple dozen. Each egg different. Unique. Just like people. Good eggs that help us remember that our glass is always half full, if only we have eyes to see it that way.

Living the Hummingbird life

It's tough to catch a hummingbird just sitting in one place.

I took this one shot and he was all...

1. SEE ya, sucka!

2. Wouldn't wanna BE ya, sucka!

3. Gonna sit for just a minute in your TREE ya, sucka!

4. Then I'm gonna buzz your old fat head, spin around, upside down, hover for a while until you think I'm gonna try sucking juice out of your ear to make you FLEE ya, sucka!

5. Oh, look! A flower! 

It was the least I could do

So I’m guessing you noticed that I washed some of the dishes last night and put most of them away. Very thoughtful of me. Right? One question, though: where do you keep the potato smasher? I thought you usually put it in the vintage milk-glass pitcher on the counter next to the oven with the other “too big to go into the silverware drawer” utensils, but I wasn’t sure. So I put it in the fridge, just in case you go looking for it and are wondering where it is. 

And while I’m thinking about it, I put the 18-inch casserole dish in the cabinet with the coffee mugs. It makes getting to some of those mugs a little tricky, but you could always use the other ones. I mean, we have at least 120 of them. Plenty to choose from. I would have put the casserole dish in with the other ones, nested inside each other, but I thought this kitchen needed a little spicing up. A bit more “coolness” vibe. Yes?

Speaking of ice trays. I’m not sure if you’ve ever noticed, but when I empty out the ice trays, I put them back in the freezer without water in them. It’s called “pre-cooling” the trays. Sort of like pre-heating the oven. Imagine how long it would take to cook a meatloaf if you didn’t. Anyways, I read somewhere on the Internet that pre-cooling the ice trays makes for better ice making. So don’t get mad when you see them empty up there. It’s just basic science stuff.

Oh, stop it. There’s no need to thank me for helping around the house. It was the least that I could do.

Changing the subject. I’ve noticed lately how tall the grass has been getting. I say grass, but what is really growing are the weeds — the grass, too, but mostly weeds. I wouldn’t mind spending more time out in the yard, in the fresh air, with nature, and the weed-eater, turning our yard into something we could be proud of instead of something that looks like a vacant lot next to an abandoned meth house — but I’m trying to show empathy for our neighbors.

You see, if I get the lawnmower out today, mow everything in perfectly straight lines, trim, edge, fertilize, add new plants, flowers, trees, hedges, and build a small waterfall, with the water flowing into a small koi pond surrounded by exotic Japanese plants — well, our neighbors might feel bad that they’re unable to keep up with the Smiths and Joneses. And we can’t have that, can we? It just wouldn’t be neighborly.

The same goes for washing the car. Sure, I’ve heard there’s a new carwash in town. I drove by it the other day. Looks kinda fancy. I would think myself the luckiest person in the world if my car was always spick and span, washed and waxed. But the neighbors might become envious of my always-shiny rims and my clear-as-glass windshield. And we both know that “envy” is a four-letter word that leads us all down a foul-mouthed path toward the rocky ledges of jealousy, desire, and bitterness. No ma’am. We can’t have any of that either, can we?

So that’s why I think it’s best for me to leave everything like it is. The car a little grimy, the yard a little unkept, the ice trays in a constant pre-cool status and ready at a moment’s notice, the dishes stacked in random “let’s go on a treasure hunt” places, and me stretched out on the couch resting from all the hard work I was thinking about doing today, but decided tomorrow would suffice. Sound good?

Little Sally Rode the Bus

With school soon to be in full swing, I'm betting there will be a lot of Little Sallys and little Joshes riding on school buses. 

Little Sally Rode the Bus

Little Sally rode 

the bus to school 

each morning without fuss,

even though it
was bumpy,
and smelly,
and hot in the summer,
and cold in the winter,
because Josh,
who sat in Seat 7,
was so cute,
and Little Sally was in love.

This week in "Spooky Science"

According to my interpretation of quantum mechanics, dishes left overnight in the kitchen sink are both clean and dirty — a paradox of quantum superposition — until the dishes are observed the next morning by the wife who stumbles into the kitchen looking for a cup of coffee.

SHE: Hey, it was YOUR turn to do the dishes last night. What’s up?

HE: Funny thing: I was reading about Schrödinger and his cats when I dozed off, and had a dream that every cat in the neighborhood was scratching and yowling at our front door looking to be fed. When I opened the door, they were all staring at me with hunger in their eyes. And then I woke up, and here we are.

The same thing holds true for cat litter boxes. They are both used and unused until you smell something horrendous coming from the hallway. The older cats know the rules, but that younger one? Well, it’s obvious he’s gotten too big for his britches and thinks the whole “clean up your own mess before it starts smelling like a backed-up toilet” thing doesn’t apply to him.

SHE: Hey, it was YOUR turn to change the litter box last night. What’s up?

HE: That’s weird. I don’t think my schnozzola is working at full capacity. I haven’t smelled a thing in months. I think I could walk up to that cat box, put my nose right…OH MY. Now I smell it. Out it goes!

It’s all relative, really. What smells like garlic to one, might smell like dirty feet to another. What smells like rain to your grandfather might smell like wet dog to your grandmother. What smells like exploration to me, might smell like “Dang it, now I’m going to have to find a new place to hide the Christmas presents” to her. Neither is right nor wrong, we’re just viewing reality from different corners of our own personal universes.

(Although, I hope we can agree that if someone offers to sell you 50,000 shares of vintage Machu-Picchu Bank & Trust stocks, promising they will double in value in three weeks as long as you put $10,000 in unmarked bills in a brown paper bag in the trashcan next to the baseball field tonight before midnight  — well, that might sound a bit iffy.)

It all reminds me of poor Gus. Captain Augustus “Gus” McCrae. Former Texas Ranger played by Robert Duvall in the hit miniseries “Lonesome Dove” which was based on the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel of the same name written in 1985 by Larry McMurtry.

Poor Gus died because he was too prideful to have his leg amputated; thought he would be a burden. You and I, on the other hand, might have made a different choice, like living out our lives with bionic legs and being as happy as organic clams about it. But not poor Gus.

SHE: Oh please. What does Gus have to do with anything you’ve been talking about?

HE: It’s “poor” Gus. He let his vanity and pride end his life like black holes crashing into each other at the far reaches of the universe.

SHE: Oh, no you don’t, mister. You can’t just change the subject in the middle of a…

If two black holes collide a billion light years away in interstellar space, and no one is around to see it happen, does the collision still make a gravitational wave? And if it does, when it gets to our shores, would the wave be too mushy for any respectable surfer to even give it a go? Discuss.

Man, Texas is hot! Caliente hot!

Inside my car, on a hot parking lot, at noon.

 

Turn out the lights, the party's over

What do I do now?

“What do you mean, what do you do now? Maybe put the cap back on the toothpaste?”

But I wasn’t brushing my teeth.

“Then what have you been doing in there all this time?”

Staring at myself in the mirror wondering who is that guy, and what is he going to do now?

“Hey. You’re starting to scare me. Are you alright?”

The Scottish are gone. And the Norwegians. They’re all gone. The French, the Spanish, the Tunisians, the Japanese. They just up and left us, as if we could manage without them. But I don’t think we know how.

“Oh. The World Cup. Is it finally over?”

In the holy name of St. Luigi Scrosoppi, the Patron Saint of Footballers, how could the World Cup be over so soon? Four years of anticipation followed by a mere moment of celebration, and now the party’s over and all the cousins are heading back home. And the question remains, what do I do now?

“You know, it’s been a while since you’ve mowed the yard.”

I knew you were going to say that. But I’ll have you know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I was listening to Rebecca Lowe on her podcast with…

“You’ve been listening to a soccer podcast?”

…Brendan Hunt, and she asked from her listeners if they had any tips for getting over something like this after it comes to an end.

“A podcast. You. I don’t think I know you anymore.”

I didn’t write in with any suggestions because I didn’t have any at the time. I was just in shock that someone else felt the same way as I do. And if WE feel this way, maybe everybody else is going through these same feelings. Especially the athletes. And the play-by-play folk. And the hotdog venders. And the… Hmmmmm. Do you think maybe I’ve gone off the deep end on all this?

“Maybe a little. Listen, I know it’s hard, dear, but I think if you just focus your thoughts on other things, you’ll soon get over this. Just like everyone else.”

(The two stopped and looked at each other. One in shock that the world might not be coming to an end. The other in shock that the other actually thought that it had.)

You’re right. Just refocus. Maybe read a book. Wash the cars. Maybe go outside and see if the lawn mower still works. Maybe cut the grass short, add some fertilizer, turn our backyard into a football pitch — a soccer field — and buy some white paint and paint some…

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

…sidelines. Maybe build a…

“Do you even hear yourself?” 

…goal out of some PVC pipes and some netting. And then…

“Forty-one years of marriage. I thought nothing could surprise me anymore. But I was wrong. You never cease to amaze me.”

I know. Awesome idea. Right?

“What would be awesome if you’d pry yourself off the couch, throw away all those chip and cookie bags, and maybe even take a shower.”

And when I’m not outside playing football, I can re-watch all the World Cup matches, but this time in Spanish. Are there any movies on soccer I can watch? More podcasts? Surely I could find replays of every soccer match that’s been televised throughout the ages. If so, I best start watching them now. I’ve only got four years until World Cup 2030. So much to do, so little time.

Texas Hoss wisdom on Cast Iron

 

An Ode to Peanut M&Ms

CHORUS — Oh, I wish I hadn’t eaten all those Peanut M&Ms on Thursday, but the bag was within arm’s reach, how it got there, I don’t know. Not a small bag that you purchase as a snack ‘tween lunch and dinner, but an industrial size 10-gallon bag I devoured in just one go. And my wife, she shook her head and said, “You’ve got a problem.” I agreed. But I kept popping those chocolate pills as if they were candy (which they were). Oh, woe is me.

VERSE ONE — I’m not exactly sure when my addiction did begin. Maybe Christmas, maybe Halloween. I was 6, or was I 9? But I’m pretty sure some M&Ms filled my stocking, or Trick-or-Treat bin. The plain ones. Easy to swallow whole. But that would be asinine.

VERSE TWO — You can’t beat peanuts for a snack, the roasted kind still in their shell. To crack them out and eat them’s worth the work, the whole day long. And then there’s chocolate, king of sweets, one piece is good, a bar is better, but add some peanuts to the mix? I can’t tell right from wrong.

CHORUS — Oh, I wish I hadn’t eaten all those Peanut M&Ms on Thursday, but the bag was within arm’s reach, how it got there, I don’t know. Not a small bag that you purchase as a snack ‘tween lunch and dinner, but an industrial size 10-gallon bag I devoured in just one go. And my wife, she shook her head and said, “You’ve got a problem.” I agreed. But I kept popping those chocolate pills as if they were candy (which they were). Oh, woe is me.

VERSE THREE — The peanut ones I do enjoy, sometimes they’re honey roasted. I go for almonds in a pinch, a change is sometimes good. The pretzel ones are kind of nice, I like the way they’re toasted. But really, when they’re in the house, they’re all my favorite food.

CHORUS — Oh, I wish I hadn’t eaten all those Peanut M&Ms on Thursday, but the bag was within arm’s reach, how it got there, I don’t know. Not a small bag that you purchase as a snack ‘tween lunch and dinner, but an industrial size 10-gallon bag I devoured in just one go. And my wife, she shook her head and said, “You’ve got a problem.” I agreed. But I kept popping those chocolate pills as if they were candy (which they were). Oh, woe is me.

BRIDGE — And when that candy all is gone, there’s no room for debate, you feel just like a speedboat dragging anchors across a lake.

INSTRUMENTAL BREAK — Maybe a guitar solo, or saxophone. Better yet, a kazoo.

VERSE FOUR — Peanut M&Ms are nice for each and all occasions. Like Mother’s Day or Hanukkah or funerals if you dare. They’re great for birthday parties or a senior graduation. A bag or three at weddings show you have a touch of flare. And if someday you stumble into an odious divorce, you fight to keep the M&Ms though it’ll make the whole thing worse.

CHORUS — Oh, I wish I hadn’t eaten all those Peanut M&Ms on Thursday, but the bag was within arm’s reach, how it got there, I don’t know. Not a small bag that you purchase as a snack ‘tween lunch and dinner, but an industrial size 10-gallon bag I devoured in just one go. And my wife, she shook her head and said, “You’ve got a problem.” I agreed. But I kept popping those chocolate pills as if they were candy (which they were). Oh, woe is me.

After 40 years of marriage, who needs to talk?

I know how to make a simple homemade granola. I make my wife a batch. I make myself a batch. She eats hers as a midnight snack. I eat mine with fruit for breakfast. She eats hers most nights. It goes quickly. I only sometimes eat mine. Mine lasts longer. 

I know when she's out of her granola by the empty container she leaves on the kitchen sink. It's her non-verbal way of saying, "Hey! I'm out! Fix more! Please!"

I'm fluent in non-verbal wife talk. So, let me interpret this photo of the message she sent me the other day -- "Hey. I'm out! I've been out for a while! I found your hidden stash days ago."

That's my jar.

"As you can see, you're out now, too! If it's getting too difficult to make this granola every other week or so, I guess we can go back to buying those store-bought brands that have too much high fructose corn syrup and salt and cost way too much for the amount you get. I won't like it, but I can adjust. If I have to. But I'd rather have yours. It's so much better. And healthier. But I'll survive. I guess. Just let me know."

Message received. 

Want to stay fit? Always start at the beginning

The best time to begin a diet is on a Monday. Who in their right mind would start one on Friday? Hamburgers, pizza, hotdogs, chips and salsa. Friday leads right into a weekend of barbecue, homemade ice cream and root beer floats. Monday is a new beginning, a starting line, a chance to begin afresh. Starting a new diet on a Monday just makes sense.

And if you’re going to start a new diet on a Monday, you might as well start a new exercise plan to go along with it. Walking, pushups, deep-knee bends. It makes no sense to start a new exercise program on a Friday. Friday is the diving board into a relaxing weekend on the couch, watching the game. Any game. Multiple games. Let THEM sweat. It’s the weekend. A time to recharge your batteries. Starting a new diet and exercise program on Monday just makes better sense.

Unless of course you’re running late to work and only have time to tie your shoes and, “I wonder if there is any more of that strawberry streusel left? Yes, there is. A million calories per bite? No time to get all mathematical. I’ll eat it on the way.”

It’s possible to start a new diet and exercise program on Tuesday (the perfect day for second chances when Mondays don’t go quite as planned), but I wouldn’t recommend it. Starting on Tuesday is like lining up to race at the Indianapolis 500, but your car won’t start, and the others have already been around the track at least four times. You might as well pull it into the pits and try again next year.

Tuesday IS a great day to start making plans for a new start. Grocery list — fresh vegetables, fruit, beans are good, skip the chips and soda, eggs can’t hurt, lots of fiber-packed avocados. Exercise plan — morning stretches, lunges, plenty of squats and pushups, might need some new walking shoes and some sweat-wicking workout clothes. Online shopping will deliver it by Friday just in time for Monday. And this time I mean it.

Unless of course something unexpected comes up like your house drops into a sinkhole, and then your neighbors are all up in your yard asking, “So, what did you do this time? I told you not mowing your yard would have consequences. And NOW look at your sad, flabby, out of shape and homeless self. What a shame.”

If you really want to start a diet and exercise program off right, not only should you plan to start it on a Monday, but a Monday that just so happens to also be the first day of the month. Like Monday, June 1, 2026. That’s a double-whammy of good-starting vibes.

Unless of course you’ve already planned a cruise to the Bahamas, then never mind. A cruise is the LAST place you want to instigate a “Nope, I’ve had enough. I’m on a diet. And now I’m off to jog around the ship about 100 times. Want to join me?” plan.

As you can tell, I’ve been giving this too much thought.

But if you really want to start a new diet/exercise journey on the right foot, the triple-whammy of all whammies is to begin the adventure on the first day of a new year, when that first day just so happens to be a Monday. Not because of some New Year’s resolution gimmick that we both know never lasts (The next alignment falls on Monday, Jan. 1, 2029, which gives us plenty of time to procrastinate), but because we truly care for our health and fitness.

Finding McVitie's Digestives

I celebrated the day I found McVitie's Digestives in our local Walmart store. I bought several boxes. Took a photo of them and texted them to my wife (hoping she wouldn't happy cry in front of her coworkers). Made a second pot of coffee the moment she got home. We dunked and ate them like we did in our younger days. And we wished we were back in England where McVitie's are just part of the culture.

I've been to Walmart a couple of times since, and the McVitie's spot has been consistently deserted. Maybe others are remembering their younger days, too.

As they should.

Aunt Edna would be a MUCH better president

Does the United States really need a president in the form and fashion that we currently employ? Why not turn it into an honorary position? A figurehead who welcomes visitors to the White House, throws out the first baseball, starts the Indianapolis 500, is a rescue animal spokesperson?

Anybody could be a president like that. Willie Nelson. Serena Williams. One of our local school bus drivers. They’d hold the office for a year, live in the White House, fly on Air Force One, represent Truth, Justice and The American Way, and at the end of the year, pass the torch to the next President.

Age wouldn’t matter. Political party wouldn’t matter. Sexual orientation wouldn’t matter. Religion wouldn’t matter. The only things that would matter would be having a winning smile, a firm handshake, and a cheery disposition. You wouldn’t have to be practically perfect in every way, but knowing how to fly fish would get you close. 

Shouldn’t a President know how to parallel park a dually and plant a vegetable garden? I’d like to see one in office who can ride a motorcycle and has a Hot Wheels collection. Being a pet owner is pert near a prerequisite. If you can juggle or ride a unicycle, you’d be a shoo-in.

Sure, there’d be no “real” power in the position, but is that such a bad thing? Being the one person who can skirt the checks and balances of a system and push a button to turn the whole world upside down may have its advocates, but is that what our world — as Carl Sagan described it: A little planet circling an insignificant star in the obscure outskirts of an ordinary galaxy which contains 400 billion other stars, a galaxy which is just one of 100 billion galaxies that make up the universe — is that what our world really needs? 

I want to see Grandpa from Des Moines sitting by the fireplace, reading the Sunday comics to the nation. I want to see Aunt Edna from El Paso teaching the young how to change the oil in their own cars. I want to see Uncle Harry from Portland discussing the finer points of bird watching. I want to see Cousin Frank from Albuquerque singing along to a Bad Bunny song. 

Let the directly-elected people who have dedicated their careers to serving others take care of the country. Let them worry about carrying the nuclear football, passing bills, taxing, spending, engaging in diplomacy to maintain good relationships with our neighbors and allies. A President needs to be free to attend state dinners, ring the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange, make surprise visits to food pantries just to help out, kiss babies (but not in a creepy way), represent charities that are near and dear to their heart. 

I think you’d make a great President. Sure, you’ve got issues and quirks and insecurities you’d rather not admit, but that’s what is so endearing about you. You’re just like the rest of us. You’re not some gazillionaire who doesn’t have a clue what the rest of us go through just to survive.

You know that an oath to the Constitution is worth fighting for. You know your word is your bond. You know how to be kind to others and forgive their mistakes. You respect that we are all fellow travelers, and that none of us are better or worse than anybody else. Yep. You’d make a great President. I’d vote for you. So, how about it?

The Repentant Rump

I had this great idea. I'd start a social media tornado in the form of What Would Our President Sound Like If He Was Sorry In Any Way About Anything? I'd call it:

The Repentant Rump

I'd post examples of him being sorry about stuff. It would gather a great following. I'd be on talk shows. Write a book. Become Enemy No. One to "you know who." And my life would change for the better.

Here are some examples:

"Forgive me Father, for I don't sin."

"It makes me sad to know that everywhere I am not, there lies a Shithole."

"I gladly bare the weight of Winning, so you don't have to."

"I should eat more Humble Pie, but I'm saving that all for you. You're welcome."

"I always turn a Blind Eye to ugly people because they make me sick."

"Asking for forgiveness sets you free to do it all over again."

"I apologize from the top few inches of my heart."

In the end, I decided I just didn't want to waste my time on an endeavor that would keep me constantly thinking of "you know who." 

I'd much rather spend my time watching the birds and foxes and squirrels who come to my yard for a friendly visit. 

And I'm not sorry about that at all.

It's Just Onions -- a sonnet

"Something smells good. What you cooking tonight?"

It's just onions, I rascally reply.

"Can't be just onions. That doesn't seem right."

Nope. Just onions. Do you think I would lie?

"Let me see. Hmmmm. Onions. Just like you said.

Will you add anything else to the pot?

Maybe potatoes or chicken in shreds?

Don't say those onions are all that we got."

Well, I might add some garlic, cumin, thyme.

Maybe ground turkey. I think that sounds nice.

Simmered in sauce 'til the brew tastes divine.

Spoon it on top of a big bowl of rice.

So, when you ask what's under construction,

I don't know, but it starts off just onions.

The life of a trill-seeker

You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve tried to figure out how to flutter my tongue to produce a perfectly luscious Spanish rolled R. Years and years. Years of doing tongue pushups and jumping jacks inside my mouth; years of making sounds like air leaking from a car tire, which causes concern to any passengers; years of blowing air across, over, under and around my tongue in more ways than you can imagine just to produce a perfectly luscious Rrrrrrroberto or “Mi casa es rrrrrrrrrroja.”

To this date, nothing has worked.

I had to stop making leaky tire noises while I was driving because I was blowing so much air out of my lungs that it was making me light-headed. I hate to even imagine the excuse I’d have to give the police officer who showed up at a possible accident scene: “Officer, I was trying to figure out how to say “Rapido corren los carros, cargados de azucar del ferrocarrill” with perfectly luscious Spanish Rs — and I passed out.”

“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Step out of the car, sir.”

Whenever I tell people I can see okay without my glasses, the first thing they say is, “Okay, so how many fingers am I holding up?” Whenever I tell people I’m colorblind, the first thing they ask me is, “What color is my shirt?” Whenever I tell people I can’t roll my Rs, the first thing they do is demonstrate that they can, with long luscious motorboat-sounding Rs with enough fuel in them to meander around the lake all day looking for a good fishing spot, leaving me on the shore without bait or a fishing pole.

Many years ago, in a fit of desperation, I offered $25 to anyone who could teach me how to make a perfectly luscious Spanish R. Many rolled the dice, but all came up snake eyes, or worse. They all were kind-hearted, but saying things like, “Oh, it’s so easy. Listen to me doing it, and then you do it.” Or “Watch my tongue. Now make yours do that.” Or “Have you ever thought about taking up crotchet?” — None of that helped one bit. And now I’m up to $125 for a perfectly taught luscious Spanish R.

I’ve watched dozens of Insta-Tube-O-Gram videos on the subject. Some have furthered my understanding about the mechanics of trilling an R. Some have furthered my understanding that mechanics is not my thing. I’ve even seen diagrams and X-ray movies on the Who, What, When and Where. But the How? I still haven’t a clue.

(I saw a video where the “instructor” was advocating using the eraser end of a pencil to jiggle your tongue while you blew air over it in the hopes of giving it a kickstart — I kid you not. Jiggle it fast enough, and you’ll have success. She wasn’t a Spanish speaker. She was Croatian. I should have known better. Still, I tried it. I was that desperate.)

Often, after a few days of frantically trying to get my tongue to flap in the wind, I give up and give French Rs a go. I can make gargling sounds all day long. Often, after a few days of pointlessly trying to make a French R fit into a Spanish sentence, I give up on Spanish and French and try my hand at German. Often, after a few days of not sounding German at all — not even close — I give up and bark at the dog for awhile. By the looks she gives me, I may be fluent.

It's Dinner Time

 

I squeak, therefore I am

Is there anything to be done with a squeaky pair of running shoes? Obviously not, or I would have found it. They’re not completely squeaky. Just one. The left. And not just a whisper of a squeak. A terrified mouse squeak. Such a terrified mouse squeak that when I walk through a crowded room, people start talking about what kind of mouse traps are best to invest in.

I had a dream way back in 2015 to run a triathlon. A triathlon is a three-part race of swimming, bicycling and running. My swimming ability was slightly better than a dog’s, my bicycle had more rust than wear on it, and the last time I ran anywhere, Uncle Sam was making me do it. So, I took some swimming lessons, greased up my bicycle, and bought a new pair of running shoes.

Good running shoes are expensive. My first pair didn’t squeak at all. If they had, I would have asked for a refund. “First pair” because you can’t have only one pair when you’re starting a running adventure. I’d never owned two pairs of running shoes at the same time in my whole life. I was determined to triathlon my best. The third pair started to squeak about six months after I bought them. Just the left shoe. Terrified mouse squeak.

If I was a running shoe manufacturer and wanted to make sure of a steady stream of income, I’d design my shoes to squeak after a specific amount of mileage, annoying the runner to the point of ditching the old for some new. Squeaky shoes would be like squealing brakes that warn of end of brake life, and if you don’t have them replaced soon, you’ll have nothing but trouble and strife. Keep the old pair for mowing the yard or gardening. That’s what I was thinking.

But then I bought the fourth pair of running shoes, just to walk around in. They started squeaking, too, and not after high mileage. Just the left shoe. Probably out of spite. Very little wear and tear. No stuck pebbles between the treads. Terrified mouse squeak. I only wear them now when I forget not to wear them.

No matter how hard I think about it, I can’t come up with an explanation for why only my left shoes are squeaking. You, on the other hand, probably came up with a perfectly plausible postulation post haste.

“It has nothing to do with his left shoes, expensive or not.”

“Obviously.”

“Are we thinking on the same wavelength?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“The problem is not with his left shoes. It’s with…”

“His left foot. He has a squeaky left foot.”

Sorry. It’s not my left foot. That would be just plain silly. I can walk around barefoot all day with nary a squeak, shriek, squeal, or screech. Unless I step on a rock, of course. But that’s different.

No, I think all that squeaking is a reminder that it’s okay to have a squeaky wheel whenever the universe deems it necessary. It’s okay to make a little bit of noise. To speak out. To transform your every-day Clark Kent persona into the fighting-for-truth-and-justice Superman. If only for a moment. To not would be pert near Lex Luther-ish.

Last year, I bought another pair of running shoes. High quality. Different brand. I don’t run in them. I use them as my daily go-to-Walmart shoes. At first, not a squeak. But recently they’ve been screeching like a pack of rats trying to steal the Feta right out of my fridge. 

Looks like it’s time to dust off my cape.