A little note on compassion and the children who aren’t learning about it
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Not so very long ago, one of my nephews—none are older than seven, yet—asked me a plain and loaded question. We were eating Sunday dinner at Nana’s and he looked up at me and simply said, “Why do I have to be nice to people?” He wasn’t baiting me; he was honestly asking. Granted, the context had been a Valentine’s Day activity of the sort that seems so obligatory in elementary school where everyone gets a card, even the mean kids, but humiliation is reserved for those who are a little too self-aware. That, sadly, is a family trait we unwillingly share. I countered by...
Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.
I’ve decided that I’m allergic to my facial hair. And that, in and of itself, is an odd thing to know about myself, because for years I couldn’t stand facial hair. Not a goatee, not a moustache, not the hint of a 5 o’clock shadow. It seems that, without even realizing it, though, that I’ve changed my mind on the issue. Out of nowhere it seems I sprouted a full beard, and kept it. Until it started itching, and I had no choice but to shave it. When I did, I realized why I’d allegedly grown one in the first place: I was fat. Somehow,...
I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, humor, life
I like to think I’m a good guy. I know I’m not, but still…it’s nice to pretend. Heck, every now and then I even convince myself. I do try and go through the motions, you know, on a fairly regular basis: being nice, opening doors for the elderly, picking up the random piece of stray litter, speaking when spoken to, lending a dollar on occasion, offering gum…you get the picture. I try and do these things with some consistency. However, there is a very real part of my Daily Routine in which I flat-out, no-holds-barred hate people. And that part is driving. I absolutely hate...
A word about Free Enterprise and blood pressure monitors.
I found myself, yesterday, in the middle of Walgreens. I was comparing the prices of blood pressure monitors, and not for U.L. or a grandmother. I was purchasing one for myself. It seems I stay in a constant state of Stage 1 Hypertension, according to my third doctor's appointment in the last month. This, almost more than anything else, means I am now a bona fide Adult. Nothing says Welcome to Life like high blood pressure. I brag a lot about how healthy I am, but the truth is I’m only doing that as a means of psyching myself out. I know all too...
You can’t kill a Honda, unless you’re an 18-Wheeler.
Mornings make me nervous. I wish that they didn’t. But they do. I wake up with such issue with the Day, every single day. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had three hours of sleep or a hundred. And I don’t settle down until after 2:00, usually…on bad days 4:00. I think it’s because I’ve lost my mornings. That's what it feels like. I mean, I wake up knowing I have a drive ahead of me just to get to my office, a drive I’m beginning to hate with the heated passion of a thousand burning suns, and it’s caused me to reevaluate what I do...
Faith for five dollars…and Tennessee Williams.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, faith, family, life, theatre, writing
I did something nearly unforgiveable, today: I cried in class. Don't worry, no one saw me. The lights were off, and most were, I'm happy to say, engrossed in the video documentary I was showing on Tennessee Williams. I counted three sleeping students, but I only heard two of them...so I let them rest. They're athletes and all, you know. I've seen this A&E video on Williams a hundred thousand and six times, but today, today, the story resonated in a deep and tragic way, wholly new to me. I suppose it's the stress, I'm saying it's the stress, but whatever it was, it touched...
I’m curious by nature, curiouser by Pinot Grigio.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, food, health, language, life, writing
I keep a little file folder on my desktop labeled "Better Jobs Than This." I like to read it when my current job drives me to the brink of pulling out my hair and anyone else's who's unfortunate enough to be standing next to me. My stress relief is to routinely surf the web looking for employment. When I find a job that appeals to me, for whatever reason, I either copy and paste the announcement, or I copy the entire link. I open my little file folder and I deposit it there for a rainy day. Or a sunny day. I hold...
It takes a Village and Xanax: Tacoma Tales, Part 1
Things I remember about Tacoma, and its people: 1) it's not Seattle; 2) I had to fly on a plane to get to it; 3) they fully believe in a Farmer's Market - despite the fact that, in my estimation, there were probably only two or three actual farmers at the market; 4) they want everywhere you turn to be something worth looking at; 5) so, that means there's a lot of random art and sculptures everywhere; 6) Sundays are just as dead there as here, and 7) did I mention I had to fly on a plane...
I don't believe I cared much for sixth grade.
I don't believe I cared much for sixth grade. I was already fully in the grips of a terrific identity crisis (mostly sexual) by the time I was rounding out my junior high years. At my school, sixth grade was the last grade on the junior high side. Seventh graders had to move around to the right side of the building, and that side was high school. They also had more than one teacher, and several different classrooms. That didn't shock me nearly as much as when I was told they also had periods. Even the boys. I was terrified of high school. ...
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