There was lots of matriculation, mastication, and dang near car bustation.
To start the long weekend, we attended a high school graduation Friday night in a church sanctuary that holds 3,500 people. While it definitely was not filled to capacity, I was surprised at how many showed up for a graduating class of 92. Shannon and I were there for A, son of my first cousin, J.
A co-worker returned from the doctor and announced, “I have strep.”
We all knew what she meant, but my question (which I did not ask) was, “Really? Strep ear? Strep foot?”
Sometimes abbreviating a term or a phrase can be funny, and sometimes it can be aggravating. I can’t stand it when someone about to leave says, “Do you want to go with?”
Likewise, it bothers me to hear, “Do me,” instead of “Do me, baby.” Don’t be lazy, folks. The words are there for a reason.
First, thanks to U.S. Veterans past, present, and future. For my wife’s family, it’s a time to gather for their annual reunion. We’re here and having a good time. One family member is a Vietnam Veteran who volunteered for additional tours on the front lines, but nobody mentions his military service. Maybe I will thank him on the golf course Monday morning.
The term “Memorial Day Sale” is a saddening reminder of the way our country has come to worship profits.
Speaking of worship… time for more bumper sticker fun.
As much as he likes to throw it, Ben loves to kick his blue ball. To paraphrase a great quote from I can’t remember where, “his methods are unorthodoxed.” He walks right up to the ball, puts his foot against it, and then thrusts his foot forward. The ball rolls, and he likes it.
I notice, though, that he likes the way the ball goes up in the air when I kick it. One time — did you hear that? — one time, I show him how to do it my way, and explain it as I kick. He does it that way and is absolutely thrilled with himself.
Gotta say, it might be considered inappropriate to get misty on the playing field, but I could not help myself. It’s just amazing watching him learn about life, and realizing that I have a lot more to offer him if he wants it.
Ben got a sandbox. His grammy and his mommy took him to a toy store and they picked out one that’s almost nondescript, and fits in very well with our outdoor decor. I personally like the ones that look like a turtle, and to use them you have to pull off the shell to reveal the sandy innards.
It’s a boon for him because, well, he loves playing in sand. It’s exciting for us because, until he learns how to swing himself, it’s his only major outdoor toy that he can use without help. I love pushing Ben in his swing, and I’ve been known to play with sand myself, but sometimes just sitting there watching him think up his own games is quite a show.
The trick now is to keep him from adding battery-powered and wind-up toys to the mix. Somehow, I don’t think the plastic gears and wire coils inside them would like all that grit.
Seeing his toy dinosaurs in sand makes me think they look more authentic. I don’t think that’s what Earth looked like during these particular dinosaurs’ time, but it’s cool. I want to start filming them and doing voice-overs saying things you would not expect dinosaurs to say.
Dimetrodon: Sometimes, when I’m all alone and I see a lone Pterodactyl’s shadow pass over the sandy dunes, I’m reminded of a simpler time.
Triceratops: Oh, knock it off. Let’s go taunt the guys getting stuck in the tar pits.
Stegosaurus: Hey, guys, I just thought of one. “Try ceratops. Everybody else has.”
Triceratops: Dude, if you don’t quit, I’m going to feed you to the velociraptors myself.
Dimetrodon: Didn’t they disappear about 5 or 10 million years ago?
Triceratops: Fine, a T-rex. That’s not the point.
Obligatory Ben Quotes
“I can’t yawn. I got a boo-boo on my yip.”
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Turns his dinosaurs, on the coffee table, toward me.
“Daddy, my dinosaurs could yook at you.”
Turns his sippy milk cup spout toward me.
“Daddy, my milk could yook at you.”
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We ask, “Ben, what color were the two dogs?”
“The yittle dog was white and the big dog was walking.”
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“Wild animals won’t come to our house. We will yell youd and yet them go away. They will not eat my house, and they will not eat my milk, and they will not eat my bahyoon,” and he repeated this exact phrase to assure me they would not eat Tigger, Eeyore, Big Bird, Piglet, or Pooh Bear.
“And they won’t open the front door.”
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Last weekend, we heated some frozen chimichangas. Ben had several names for them before getting it right. Chiwimanga, chimimanga, and chimanga.
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The photos below are just because I can.
I have heard folks in other countries accuse the United States of doing everything big to the point of excess. While I think it’s very difficult to form a fair opinion of a country until one has lived in it (and maybe even lived all your life in it), I can understand how at first glance it would be easy to make blanket judgments about Americans.
Stores with literally acres of floor space dot and/or scar the landscape, and are filled with products that nobody really needs.
Executives paid sums only dreamed of by most are slapped on the wrist for bilking millions from unsuspecting investors.
Professional sports stars sign multi-million dollar contracts and endorsement deals, while the average American fan cannot afford to attend a live sporting event, and exercises only enough to walk to the refrigerator.
Hollywood studios crank out big-budget movies that are, for the most part, no more compelling than the movie somebody’s cousin Lou made with a mini-DV and his computer.
Marginally talented but cute singers are given a sound that recording industry insiders believe will sell well, and in turn the radio stations and music video channels owned by huge conglomerates feed a steady diet of it to music fans nationwide. Video, it appears, truly has killed the radio star.
All of the above complaints most often are refuted by one simple statement.
(note: The story of “Wall” ends here)
Shannon’s eyes are no better. At her three-week checkup, the doc’s office told her to hang tight until the next surgery, which they say must wait four months from the date of the original procedure. That means she gets to have all this done again and start recovery fresh in August, just in time for her birthday and our wedding anniversary. You may want to read my post on her experience to refresh your memory on what happened to her.
She requested that they write her a prescription for glasses to wear in the meantime. Although the lenses are much thinner than the bottle-bottoms she wore prior to the surgery, without them she cannot read street signs until it’s too late to make the turn. And, unlike the planned follow-up surgery, they were not free.
If this next trip under the “knife” does not fix her vision, then I’m considering going public.
(note: to continue reading “Wall,” please click here)
Potty Pooper
I’m about to be indelicate. This topic pretty much requires me to be gross, so I ask forgiveness now.
Saturday, we were going to a birthday party scheduled to start at 3 p.m. Taking Ben to such an event without his having a nap would have been reckless, and we did not want a repeat of the birthday party we attended the previous weekend. So, although our schedule did not allow it, I put Ben down for his nap at about 2:20 and he finally went to sleep at 2:45. He woke at about 4:45. We were going to be very late.
Then, in a display of timing only toddlers can muster, Ben said he wanted to poop in the potty.
(NOTE: If you wish to continue reading “Wall,” then you’re in luck. I posted the next installment over at A Storied Man. It is not quite finished yet, but I think we’re getting close.)
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In a belated note about Mother’s Day, I have this to say: people who live about 30 miles north of Dallas must really love their mothers. Either that, or an inordinate number of people here eat out on Sunday morning.
The night before Mother’s Day, Shannon and I went out with friends, and paid a relative stranger (with high marks from friends) to babysit Ben. It was a good time for all. After Shannon returned from taking the babysitter home, it looked like we were on a roll for a good Mother’s Day.
Our plan was not complicated.
For those reading “Wall,” thanks, and hang in there. Although I’ve hammered out 1200 words so far for the next entry, I decided to wait until late Sunday night to post it and whatever I’ve added. If I always had time to write 1500 words a day, then I either would not have a job, or would not have a family. Unless, of course, that job was writing. Ah, a man can dream.
I might plug this too often, but if you have not read “Talk with a Killer,” then please go do that (or do it again) this weekend. It’s the first place I used Stivins as a character, and was not a continuation of something I started years ago (as is “Wall”). It’s the story of a reporter’s interview with Stivins, consisting largely of Stivins recounting his escapades, and, although the ending’s a bit rushed, the focal point remains that intimate talk. Plus…
Stivins never set out to implicate someone else in a murder he committed. On that count, however he was two for three. Another man very nearly was convicted for Denise’s death, but investigators never found her body. With neither that nor an eyewitness to foul play, prosecutors had to let the man go free.
He had not planned to involve anyone else in Frank Shaeffer’s death, but the old man’s unexpected resolve allowed him to escape just long enough to make his misfortune known. Gaither, whom Stivins never had met, proved to be a malleable man who did as well as he could expect considering the circumstances.
He liked Gaither as a scapegoat. Leaving the body in open sight was a snap decision. The other Timex employees and the authorities, lacking a flair for the artistic, would see the dead man and his blood dripping into the shimmering liquid metal as horrific. They would dog their suspect until the fearful public was satisfied.
