By the Time I Get to Phoenix, I’ll Be Writhing

Posted on March 10, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

As most of you now know, my daughter is getting married in June. She lives in Colorado now, but she’s getting married here in Tucson where she was born and raised. She came home for a few days from her dietetic internship there to spend time with us and make some wedding plans with mom. My input, incredibly, is neither asked for nor given; I know that the idea of a resplendent father of the bride, arriving on a groomsmen-carried throne to the tune of Judas Priest’s Victim of Changes, is cutting edge and yet somehow universally scorned. Rather than eat myself up over what could have been, I’ve simply given up. No matter; it was great to see her again. She really is a dynamic, beautiful young woman and, while I know it’s bad to be prideful, I can’t help basking in the glow of the truly stellar example of humanity I’ve helped to create (to the extent that I was there roughly nine months before she was born).

Today I took the day off of work to drive her to Phoenix to catch a flight back home. I looked forward to the one hundred twenty-mile drive with her; we could talk, catch up, spend some quality time together. It was better than I could have hoped for;  we laughed  and the conversation was alternately light and deep, but never awkward. To me, one need no further proof of God’s provision: time spent with those you love is never laborious, but always precious and healthy for the soul. By the time we arrived at the airport, I was grateful for life and encouraged to share my joy with the rest of humanity.

Things started to go awry soon after. As we stood in the line to check in, I couldn’t help but notice how unfailingly dimwitted those ahead of us were. You hand them your license, they print your ticket, how hard can it be? But no: it seemed each person had twenty questions or some problem uniquely their own that required a hefty, time-consuming explanation. They almost seemed choked with worry, but judging by the tired, indifferent look on the face of the checkout woman, they had no reason to be. In a way, it’s probably an exciting way to travel, if you have the time: relying on your unwavering stupidity, you invariably get on the wrong flight and travel to exciting, unforeseen lands. Well, unforeseen airports, anyway. Finally, they wandered off, most likely going to Nairobi to catch a Lakers’ game, and we eventually reached the counter.

It took my daughter maybe forty-five seconds to check in, but thanks to Dumb and Dumber, there wasn’t anytime left to spend together; she had to go through security and board. I hadn’t shared any joy with humanity; humanity instead had taken my joy away. I had to stand outside the ropes, waving goodbye as my daughter disappeared around a corner. It hit me that she was gone, and I wouldn’t see her again until my youngest daughter graduates high school at the end of May. A security guard, perhaps 5’4″ tall and  approximately seventy-nine years of age, eyed me suspiciously, as though I might make a break for the security line. I thought about going for his gun, realized a little push would probably do just as well, and then decided that it wasn’t worth breaking an old man’s hip just to go stand in another line.

As I left the terminal I was greeted by thirty-five mile per hour winds; nothing makes me surlier faster than the wind. I defy anyone to maintain any level of joy outside on a very windy day, unless you’re a kite flyer (dork), hairless, perpetually unkempt, or very gassy and in a crowd. I leaned into the wind, then turned and ran approximately one-quarter mile after my hat, which ended up under an SUV. I retrieved my hat by sprawling almost my full body length underneath the massive car and then nearly lost both feet to a car pulling into the space next to it. So close was this new car that I lay under the SUV considering my options; I thought briefly about crawling underneath all the way across to the other side, but foresaw my belt buckle hooking onto something and being reduced to raw hamburger as the owner drove home. I managed to slide out between the two cars, then lift myself sideways by grabbing a door handle. I looked like a two-dimensional drawing of an Egyptian Pharoah trying to stand up. After cleaning the Armada’s doors with my belly and the Accord’s windows with my arse, I extricated myself and made it back to my car. I drove up to the parking attendant and handed him my ticket.

“I should charge you double, ‘cuz you’re wearin’ a U of A (University of Arizona) sweatshirt.” He leaned down and smiled and I noticed the ASU (Arizona State University) baseball cap atop his bulbous head. I handed him his money and smiled back.

“If you had gone to an accredited university, you likely wouldn’t be a parking lot attendant. Or was that your major?”

The drive home was no better. In this country, the left lane of the freeway is for passing and for better drivers. Seventy-five miles per hour is the posted limit, because beyond that speed most people, already a danger to those around them, become potential killers. For those of us (namely, me) who are acutely skilled behind the wheel, this “limit” is merely a suggestion of minimum traveling speed and the less time I spend amongst the “vehicularly challenged”, the safer I will be. Nowadays, people are worried about getting stuck behind a truck or someone even slower, so they camp in the speed lane. The system used to work: getting passed on the right used to be downright shameful, because it meant you had failed to move over when faster cars came up behind you; courtesy dictated that one would offer a wave or upheld hand by way of apology for their indiscretion. Not anymore; now when I flipped people off as I passed their passenger door they acted as if I were being rude, and the conciliatory return waves invariably lacked the correct number of digits. The hundred-twenty mile drive took forever; my daughter texted me that she had landed, eight-hundred miles away, as I was just getting home.

I made it home safely, thank God, and the wife and daughter were both glad to see me. The wind had died down by then, and so quickly did my surly disposition. I am blessed to have a wonderful family, who please me greatly and make life not only bearable, but often enjoyable. It’s everyone else, apparently, that I have to worry about.

Posted in Arizona, Children, Family, Humor, Living, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 18 Comments

Ten Signs My Life is Not My Own

Posted on March 4, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I’m not getting any younger. In fact, I’m getting down-right old. I’ll be fifty-one in a couple of months; if that doesn’t sound old to you, it’s probably because you’re older than that. When I met my future in-laws in 1983, they were the same age that I am now. I thought they were old then, and that was twenty-eight years ago (now they really are); that time has just flown by. I’m assuming the next twenty-eight years will fly by as well, and then I’ll be pushing eighty (if I make it that far; boy, that will be an ugly sight), which is old by any standard. My steady march to death is inexorable, but you’d think that after living a half-century that I would have some semblance of control over the rest of my life. Not so. In fact, it is much easier to see that which I cannot influence rather than the things that I can. There seems to be an ever-growing list of things which vex me and defy my attempts to influence their course. Hopefully, I am not alone in seeing what an ineffective player I am in the theater of my own existence; I would love to hear if others feel as helpless to alter the course of their life as I do.

Here, then, in no particular order, are Ten Signs My Life is Not My Own:

1) My oldest daughter is getting married in June. While her fiance asked for my permission (which I appreciated), I doubt saying the first thing that popped into my head, absolutely freaking not!, would have changed anything (I didn’t). He’s a good guy and will take care of her, I’m sure, but still…perhaps I should have insisted on a couple of horses or oxen, but I didn’t think of it and in any event my home is already overrun with pets.

2) My suggestion that I arrive at the wedding on a throne carried by slaves (or groomsmen), to the tune of Judas Priest’s Victim of Changes, was shot down without discussion. Apparently I am to merely throw money at the affair and then show up; after presenting my daughter and grumbling “my wife and I do” in response to the query “Who gives this woman to be married?”, I am relegated to the background for the duration. Travesty.

3) For some reason, my customers seem to insist that I exert no small effort on their behalf in return for their money. This is not how I like to do business; my customers have become increasingly brazen and the situation even more problematic in this slow economy. Frankly, the whole thing is starting to feel a lot like work.

4) The idea of marriage being a reciprocal relationship was brought up shortly after my wife and I were wedded; this is not how things were explained to me by my father, either by words or example. More than once I have been left to fend for myself at mealtime and have also, on occasion, been forced to do menial household chores clearly below my station. Though I feel there is still a net benefit to me, I can’t help feeling things were misrepresented to me.

5) My oldest daughter mentioned to me that she and her future husband may want to wait as long as five years before having children. This would make me sixty-nine by the time the first grandchild plays high school basketball, which is unacceptable to me. It has also been brought to my attention that in order to have a grandchild, some physical contact with my daughter may be necessary; this is simply out of the question. There has to be another way.

6) My recent directive indicating that my youngest daughter, now seventeen, be required to remain in our home for the duration of her natural life (in light of her sister selfishly choosing to marry) has been met with some contention. Apparently, even my wife, who never wants her children to move away, has taken sides with her against me.

7) My plan for financial independence and early retirement has not proved fruitful to date; the odds seem to be stacked rather high against me, and I keep forgetting to buy the tickets.

8) My backup plan for financial independence and early retirement has also failed to build any steam. As of yet I still haven’t befriended anyone for whom I care very little, but who would choose to leave everything to me, and not their relatives and loved ones, in the event of their untimely death. As far as I know.

9) Following the lead of her two older siblings, my youngest daughter has selfishly developed interests and friendships outside our home and pursues them with increasing frequency, leaving less time to spend with the old man. Moreover, she has opted to let her basketball career come to an end with her senior season, leaving me no children of my own still playing for their school. Coaching has helped to soften the blow, and for those children and their parents, I am most grateful.

10) Citing God, morality and basic goodness, my wife only seems to agree with me when it’s in the best interest of those most affected; unless I am one of them, this rarely seems to be in my best interest. I am vexed and hurt by her seemingly contentious nature and general lack of support.

It seems that unless others change their hearts (unlikely), I will continue to lose the grip I hold on my life and that which is most important to me. It would be great if those most closely involved in my life would seek some commonality with me. Why do the most basic things often seem the hardest for people to do?

Posted in Children, Christianity, Family, Humor, Living, Marriage, Parenting, Religion, Top Ten Lists, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

Who’s the Fat, Old Fart in the Picture?

Posted on March 2, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I’m not the kind of guy who spends a lot of time looking in the mirror. Frankly, it doesn’t often occur to me, which is likely apparent to others when I’m out in public. When I do, it’s usually before going out and only then to prevent horrifying those I might run into through hygienic indiscretion (i.e. salad on the tooth or crumblies in the nostrils) or my wife by association. On the rare occasion that I do use the mirror to gauge how I actually look, as opposed to what’s wrong today, I’m usually pretty happy with what I see. I know I’m not the best looking guy in the whole world, but Brad Pitt can’t live forever. Besides, I know what’s behind the mask, and that’s downright gorgeous.

Truth be told, whenever I really looked at myself in the mirror, there’s always been a pretty amazing looking guy (humble, too) staring back, and the person I see in the mirror today is just a more distinguished and mature version of the same man. Those of you who don’t know what I look like will just have to take my word for it; I don’t need any women parked outside my house, nor do I want to worry whether my boxers have holes in them when I go out and get my paper off the driveway each morning. If this will help you, imagine in your mind the aforementioned Mr. Pitt at age fifty and you’ll have a pretty good idea of how Brad Pitt looks at fifty (I don’t look anything like him, but I bet you still appreciate the mental picture). Those of you who do know what I look like should just shut up and also be mindful that I won’t approve any comments that don’t support the facts as I’ve presented them.

Now that we’ve (okay, I’ve) established that I’m no slouch in the looks department (by the way, I will happily include comments from those of you who know me and wish to show your good taste by backing me up here), there’s something that’s really been bothering me lately. In literally every photograph taken the last few years that includes me as either a main or collateral subject, I am invariably replaced in said photo by an overweight, grey-bearded, hobo looking dude; my brain always asks the same question: Who’s the Fat Old Fart in the Picture?

  Surely my mirror isn’t at fault here; it has been unfailingly reliable my entire life. How, then, are all these different photographs, taken from a myriad of perspectives and angles, in varying light and by no small number of different photographers, so consistently poor at capturing my external magnificence? Perhaps it’s my own critical eye, so used to bathing in perfection in the soft, truth-revealing light of my bathroom, now being unmercifully jabbed by the neanderthalic presentations of these hack photographers? And worse: could those around me, so accustomed to basking in the glow of external perfection whilst in my presence, be somehow unfairly swayed by these universally unflattering depictions of me?

This issue has seriously brought into question, in my mind, the credibility of virtually every printed image I’ve come across. Are things really as they seem? Can we trust anything to be as our eyes interpret them to be? Strangely, still images of those closest to me seem to reflect rather accurately their external essences; why, then, am I always so unfairly and horrifyingly depicted? I must admit, I am stumped and fairly miffed by the whole affair. I resolve, therefore, to avoid having my image captured and tortured in the future; I refuse to sacrifice the gifts that God has given me by exposing them to the cheap parlor tricks of the jealous and less fortunate.

Posted in Humor, Living, Religion, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 22 Comments

How I Created the Dunkin’ Donuts Drive Thru…

Posted on February 25, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

  “Nice job, son. Pull in up ahead and we’ll get a treat.”
  It was a weekend in early spring, 1977, and I was the proud owner of a driving permit. My father had let me drive for over three hours all over the Tucson area; we had driven the freeway, most of the major thoroughfares and some side streets and rural desert roads. I was tired; at that age it was hard for me to maintain that level of focus for so long, but I had performed admirably and my reward was forthcoming in the form of decadent, sugar-infused pastries. Life was good.
 I pulled into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and approached the only space available at the front of the store. My father praised me again and started to open the passenger door as I slowed to the curb. I took my foot off the gas pedal in order to apply the brake, and it was at this point that things began to go wrong. Remember, I was tired after all that driving and not yet sixteen years of age; I offer this bit of information not as an excuse, but more by way of explanation for what occurred next. I assume that my foot hit the side of the brake and then came back down on the gas. As the car lurched forward, I did the logical thing, which was to apply the brake harder. Unfortunately, the brake was the accelerator, and off we went: over the curb and onto the sidewalk. My pubescent, overburdened brain brilliantly surmised that we really needed to stop soon, so I then pushed the pedal all the way to the floor. The 1973 Ford Maverick responded beyond all published specifications: we roared through the front window and into the store.
  Fortunately, there was but one person in the direct path of the car; I will never forget her face. She was a Vietnamese girl, perhaps fifteen years of age. I imagined her as a recent immigrant, her family having endured the ravages of war and just barely escaping the advance of the communist North Vietnamese Army in the aftermath of the American evacuation. She had seen the worst of what can be seen through the eyes of a child: the horrible deaths of some of those closest to her and the cruelest, most evil intentions of mankind. She and her remaining family made it to the coast and were among those floating aimlessly for days at sea, until by God’s providence they were rescued and eventual transported to the United States for a chance at prosperity and the American dream. Life had been difficult for them in this country and only now was her family beginning to prosper in their new home. And now, after more hardship and heartache than one should endure in an entire lifetime, it was Mi Lai all over again. She found herself pinned between the counter of a donut store and the grill of a raging machine driven by a crazed young man with a vacant, catatonic stare. She looked at me over her shoulder, eyes filled with abject terror, back arched and one hand on the hood of the car as if helplessly trying to push it away.
  This had all happened in a second or two, though it seemed like minutes to me. My father quickly threw the gear shift into park and shut the engine. I opened the driver’s door and ran outside, horrified by what I had done and whom I may have killed.

Courtesy of dunkindonuts.com

  The police came quickly, no doubt agitated by a senseless attack on one of their most-prized hangouts. One of them came over to where I sat on a curb and tried to reassure me.
  “Don’t feel too bad. This kind of thing happens a lot. It’s just an accident and could happen to anyone.” I felt briefly better as I followed him back to the store, but reverted back to devastation when I heard him chuckle under his breath as he walked ahead of me.
  When I returned, things were much more stable and I started seeing things again through the eyes of a selfish fifteen year old. No one seemed to be seriously hurt. The Vietnamese girl was shaken up, but apparently okay. She was likely used to suffering, and in any event it was good for her to learn that not all was butterflies and tweeting birds in this country either. A mother had dropped her infant baby when the car broke through the glass; other than a superficial cut, the baby was fine. The incident served to show the world how unfit this woman was for parenting (who drops their baby at the first sign of danger or, for that matter, any sign at all)? While the donut display had been obliterated, Dunkin’ Donuts was still able to sell some undisturbed “Donut Holes” to customers who walked in through the front…gaping hole, and there were several (customers, that is – only one gaping hole). An elderly lady sitting at the still-intact section of counter on the left provided me with some much-needed comic relief.
  “Will someone get that (ding-dang) piece of (doo-doo) out of this store!?”
  Things could have been much worse. Someone could have been killed, but other than the dropped, neglected and cut baby and the slow Vietnamese girl, everyone was fine. One guy later sued, claiming he was hit in the back by a piece of board (he got $900), but Dunkin’ Donuts took care of the damages themselves (foolishly, they failed to capitalize on my demo work for a drive-thru) and no one else bothered to litigate. The debacle made the local news that night (there was a lot less going on locally back then; people were less inclined to kill each other and the media therefore had fewer options). I told my girlfriend at the time about what happened; curiously, the whole school knew about it the following Monday.
  I learned a great deal that day: stores should place large concrete planters in front of each parking space (the one I had chosen that day was the only one without); if my father had purchased a car with a standard transmission, the whole thing may never have happened; I may have issues with accepting responsibility; and never trust a high school girlfriend.
Posted in Accidents, Arizona, Automobiles, Cars, Children, Family, Humor, Living, Religion, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 22 Comments

Hey, Everybody! The Liebster Award!

Posted on February 23, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

Hoy! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the accolades just keep on coming. I was nominated for the Liebster Blog Award by Chance of Sun, which I appreciate and am thankful for. She is an Arizona girl recently transplanted to Germany (I am bitterly jealous – don’t tell her). She’s currently enjoying Karnival, the German equivalent of the celebration in Rio De Janeiro. Instead of sexy, sultry Sambas, they likely engage in painful, problematic Polkas, but there’s beer drinking involved, so no one notices the difference. Apparently this award is supposedly limited to bloggers with less than two hundred followers, so at present I am marginally overqualified. Too bad! I’m sure I’ll either offend, bore or disappoint some of my more recent followers soon and therefore requalify, so I’m just being proactive.

There is a protocol that must be followed, which explains why it’s taken me so long to accept the nomination. I must a) Thank the nominator (done), 2) Link back to them (check), c) copy and paste the award logo (yes, yes, I know that), 4) I forget, and f, no wait, e) mention five other bloggers for the award. I resent this part, because if everyone does it, we’ll all be nominated eventually, won’t we? Whatever; here’s five I always read, though there are many others deserving of your time:

Joyce De Vivre – Joyce is a young lady living in the Phillipines; she has a heart for the Lord, and I always feel better about the world after I’ve visited.

Deidra Alexander – She’s very funny and very popular. I’ve always been impressed how she responds to all who comment (it’s most gratifying).

The Warrioress – She is very insightful in her approach to the Bible and His teachings and is very faithful. I actually feel worse about myself sometimes after visiting.

Kathy Hepinstall – Kathy is an author of several published novels and has a new one set for release. She’s very funny and might even be related…

On My Square – He’s a funny guy; right now he’s doing a series about Black History Month. His posts about BET and Gub’ment cheese are hilarious.

There.

Posted in Humor, Living, Religion, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 7 Comments

Hey, Everybody! The ABC Award!

Posted on February 23, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

 So, today I just got nominated for an award by another blogger, susartandfood, which is kind of cool. You should check out her blog; she writes well and always has a great recipe at the end (occasionally she missteps by including broccoli or fish, but I understand she has to appeal to a broad audience). It’s called the ABC award (see nifty logo to the near northwest); I have no idea as to the significance of this award –  it could stand for “Another Blogger’s Crap”, but I got nominated for it, so I don’t care. Anyway, I give it instant credibility, don’t you think?…Oh, shut up.

Nothing comes easily for me, so why should this be any different? I’ve some hoops to jump through; the first of which, apparently, is to use every letter in the alphabet to describe myself. This could be painful for me, but only twenty-six words for you, so suck it up. Here goes:

Apathetic. Bloated. Calcified. Dastardly. Encumbered. Flatulent. Gelatinous. Hungry. Irritable. Jurassic. Kaput. Languid. Morose. Nobbler. Ovate. Pustulate (not really; that’s for my sister-in-law, who hates gross words that start with the letter P). Quitter. Rueful. Sarcastic. Testicled. Unshaven. Vexing. Wobbly. Xenophobic (I’m not; but you try to find a self-describing word that starts with x). Yahoo. Zeppelin (parked; not airborne). I’ll likely have several marriage proposals by night’s end as a result of the beautiful picture I’ve painted of myself but, alas, ladies (or guys), sadly I’m already taken.

I also need to recommend a couple of other bloggers. There’s a bunch that I follow and are pleasing to me, but for now I’ll recommend the following two:

Oh God, My Wife is German : Funny stories about a guy married to his ubersmart German Wife. His profile picture is the best I’ve ever seen.

dampsquid : This guy is hilarious, prolific and apparently unmoved by the comments of his followers (ahem).

There you have it. I’m sure there’s a book contract with this award, or at the very least a cash prize. There just has to be. Anyone?…Anyone at all?

Posted in Blog Awards, Christianity, Humor, Living, Religion, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Ten Times I Nearly Died

Posted on February 18, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

Yes, apparently it is time for another top ten list from me; it is now my goal to have at least ten top ten lists by the end of the year. Why do I do them? Well, for one thing I am by nature a lazy person; writing anything of real substance or significance requires a great deal of thought on my part (for the faithful, you’ve no doubt noticed that posts of a thoughtful nature from this blog are fairly uncommon). Thinking, I have found, commands a considerable amount of time and effort, at least for me. Anything that demands my time and effort then becomes, by definition, a chore and as I’ve already mentioned, I am lazy and therefore quite wary of and generally resistant to anything chore or chore-like. Top ten lists, or in this case a list of ten, come fairly easily to me and as a result avoid the chore distinction. This is not to say the quality of these posts suffer  because they’re generally void of any substantive thought; on the contrary, and as proof I offer you…absolutely nothing, because I would have to think about it and, as I’ve already established, that is a chore.

So now, without wasting any further time (beyond the entire opening paragraph), I offer you (the least effortlessly remembered) Ten Times I Nearly Died:

1) As a toddler, I “fell” into the Yellowstone River and the swift current began to take me away. As I hurtled past, my dad managed to reach in and pull me out. My siblings claim that from then on the family dynamic was irrevocably altered; details of the “accident” remain sketchy to this day.

2) When I was six, I climbed a very tall and narrow palm tree. As I neared the top, I looked down to see how high I’d climbed (at least four stories, give or take two stories), then panicked and loosened my grip. I slid down the entire length of the trunk and shredded my chest and stomach like a chunk of cheese down a grater. While this may not sound like a near death experience, I suggest you peel off your nipples and epidermis with palm bark before passing judgement.

3) When I was six, I was encouraged by a mob of my peers to jump from the roof of a tall shed onto a Privet hedge. The hedge was very thick, leafy and healthy, providing the illusion of softness, and in the crowd was eleven-year-old Bridgette, who could throw like a guy and was therefore someone I wished to impress. After I managed to both extract myself from the impromptu woody colo-rectal exam and retrieve my sac from among the tangled branches, I ran home crying, with the sound of Bridgette’s laugh ringing in my ears.

4) When I was six, I was given a physical by a physician on the school stage; the entire student body awaited their turn from the other side of the stage curtain. As I performed the obligatory “turn your head and cough”, the doctor placed his stethoscope on my chest; I promptly sprayed him, me, the stage and the curtain (that stethoscope was cold). It was like someone dropped a miniature (I was six; watch it) fire hose, flailing and firing in all directions. He stumbled back through the curtain, yelling angrily (some bedside manner); I stood, paralyzed with shock, and finished peeing before running off. I didn’t come close to dying, obviously, but clearly wanted to.

5) When I was six (by now you have likely determined that I was a very stupid six-year-old), I was shooting baskets with an older brother at the school basketball courts. For no coherent reason (my brother says it’s because I was a little *#%!), I threw a rock at and hit a very large, ultra-ripped man playing on the next court. He came stomping over, with  rage dancing in his eyes; my then thirteen-year-old brother stepped between us and somehow diffused the situation. A couple of minutes later, as my brother admonished me for being a little *#%!, I was hit by a rock thrown from the other court. I was struck not only by the rock, but also by the man’s cruelty and immaturity and my brother’s unwillingness to defend my honor.

6) When I was ten, my buddy and I took turns standing in a closet to look at two glow-in-the-dark models we had just completed. Unfortunately, the closet had no interior handle and my friend was deaf. For what seemed like an eternity, I was locked in the dark with The Mummy and Dracula and no one to hear my screams of abject terror.

7) When I was fifteen, I found my stepfather’s gun; I took the clip out of the gun and started handling it. I stuck the gun in my mouth, up to my head, aimed at various things around the bedroom, and finally settled on a spot on the carpet near my mom’s sleeping poodle. I pulled the trigger; the resulting explosion shook the deaf dog from his slumber and he bolted from the room. I didn’t know about the chambered round; by the grace of God, no one was hurt. I don’t know what would’ve happened to my mother had I shot the dog…

8) While in college, my friend and I were walking past a ridiculously large, drunk biker trying to force his way back into a bar’s entrance at closing time. I may have made an innocent comment or two about the man’s ill-conceived plan – something along the lines of “What a foolish beast of burden. I seriously equate him to the opening of one’s pooper.” Whether this drunk biker had a keen sense of hearing or my volume control was slightly askew was a point of contention between my friend and me later on, but for whatever reason the monster instantly turned and set upon me with murderous intent. I did the only thing I could: I threw the perfect right hand, which landed solidly on the point of his bearded chin. I heard his teeth clack, and for those of you who have played baseball, the feeling of my knuckles on his face was like that of your hands when you crush the ball with the fat of the bat: I felt nothing at all. I stood to admire my home run ball (him falling on his face), but the next thing I knew I was on my knees, arms at my sides, lungs free of air, looking up as he raised a boot to shove in my face. Fortunately for him, the bouncers stepped in before I could crack his heel with my nose.

9) While in college, I turned onto a two lane road; there was a guy on a motorcycle at least a quarter-mile back. He was upon me in an instant (he had to be going over 100mph), pulled alongside me, cussing and motioning for me to pull over. Never one to shy away from a fight (he was maybe 5’2″ and at least in his mid to late fifties), I agreed and quickly pulled over. Before I could open my door, however, he came alongside, stuck the cold barrel of a .357 against my nose and cocked the hammer back. I have seen evil in the eyes of man before, and this ZZ Top looking munchkin held the glare of Hitler, Bundy and Berkowitz all at once. I blubbered apologetically and smooched his rump with butterfly kisses until he finally roared off. The shame that almost overcame me was quickly washed away with the overwhelming sense of relief that came from knowing I had done the right and necessary thing.

10) I let my wife drive me once last week.

Posted in Christianity, Death, Family, Humor, Living, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 39 Comments

Freshly Pressed But Still Bedraggled

Posted on February 14, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

Last Sunday evening I published my latest post, The Ten Other Greatest Inventions of All Time. Early Monday afternoon, I came home after work and checked my email for any notices from WordPress about likes or comments about it. There’s something very gratifying about checking your email and seeing a message from WordPress saying “Horridzittyface liked your post”, or “Hideousstalkerchick is now following your blog.” There was a comment or two, no more or less than usual, and so I decided to visit my blog to answer them and to see how many views I’d had so far.

Before I had the chance, the most curious thing happened: my incoming email messages began to propagate like hot, bothered bunnies before my very eyes; first ten, then thirty-four, then fifty-six in a matter of seconds. Oh, lovely, I thought. Satan the computer hacker has deemed my email account worthy of a visit. As it turned out, all of them were notices from WordPress. Soon there were hundreds of them. I went to my blog and checked on my site statistics; views for the day are shown in bar graph form. Monday’s bar was rising up like (get your mind out of the gutter) a bump on Wile E. Coyote’s head (see? this is a family friendly blog). I surmised, brilliantly, that something was afoot (because I looked down and saw a shoe on it. Then I also figured something big was happening on my blog); I went to WordPress’ home page, and there it was: a recent post, Cat’s in the Cradle, there for the whole world to see. I was Freshly Pressed!

I don’t know how it happened (I do know it wasn’t anything I did), or why they picked that particular post. Almost everything I write is intended to be humorous (some will argue there is often a loss in translation); Cat’s in the Cradle is about my relationship with my father, there is nothing funny about it and it’s not one I would have chosen for such a wide audience. Beggars can’t be choosers, however, so I’m not complaining, but evidently they can be chosen, and I’m very grateful for that.

On that first day I had over twenty-eight hundred views and over thirty-two hundred the next. By the time Cat’s in the Cradle had dropped off Freshly Pressed and I had returned to the relative obscurity to which I’m accustomed (and likely deserve), my blog had almost ten thousand views in five days. Sadly, no one with any money has asked me to become the next David Sedaris or Bill Bryson – two of my favorites – but I have quadrupled my followers and, even more gratifying for me, people other than the early faithful have been reading my other posts.

In closing, I must say thank you to WordPress; Freshly Pressed was a rush for me and I hope it happens again some time. Until then, I’ll happily go on writing to the very few. To the faithful, thank you so much for being just that. I write for myself first, but I’m thinking of many of you when I mention certain things. In my mind’s eye, I can see your faces when you laugh; it is pleasing to me (most of the time – some of you screech like a barn owl or have hideous mugs when you laugh) and so I find myself writing for you as well. As for the new followers, I hope you stick around; the heartfelt, mushy posts are really hard to squeeze from a heart as hard and cold as mine, so they don’t happen very often. I hope you find enough here to keep you interested and, if it hasn’t happened to you already, that there’s a Freshly Pressed in your future as well.

Posted in Family, Freshly Pressed, Humor, Living, Parenting, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 24 Comments

The Ten Other Greatest Inventions of All Time

Posted on February 5, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

  Since the dawn of time, mankind has faced countless and imposing obstacles that have defied its progress. Fortunately, each generation of man has produced clear thinking, innovative geniuses willing to push past the throngs of perplexed, idly drooling strugglers (such as myself) in order to meet problems head on. The results have been impressive: thanks to inventions in just the last one hundred years alone, we can now travel the world quickly (airline turn-your-head-and-cough security checks aside) and converse and trade with people worldwide almost instantaneously. It boggles the mind to think of what might come next (I hate when my mind gets boggled, so I try not to think too much about it).

Certainly the automobile, airplane, computer and electricity are among the most obvious and influential inventions of all time. You could also toss in the boat, sewage control, vaccines, indoor/outdoor plumbing, agriculture and the harnessing of fire. However, there have been other, less ostentatious and yet still brilliant innovations that have served mankind nearly as well. I have given this a great deal of thought – literally minutes – and offer you a list of what I consider some of the lesser known great inventions to benefit mankind. I realize the title of this post may be somewhat misleading, since I admittedly haven’t devoted enough time to definitively declare these among the greatest ever; but my other idea for a title, Ten Things People Thought of that I thought were Pretty Smart and Kind of Cool, just doesn’t have the same pop.

So, without further ado, my list of The Ten Other Greatest Inventions of All Time, in no particular order:

1) The Twist-Tie. Someone invented bread; someone else invented plastic bags to carry it in, but then the bread fell out when it was carried incorrectly. Then someone invented the knot (actually, it was invented long before and then adapted to this purpose), which solved the bread falling out but really pissed someone off when they wanted to open the bag for more bread. Then, eureka! The twist tie; and somehow managing to cover the wire in paper: the brilliant cherry atop the sundae of epiphany.

2) KFC Extra Crispy. A crunchy, salty, delicious fried batter seductively covering a tender, mouth-watering protein hidden underneath. We would leave a bucket of this rapturous offering on the dashboard of our truck for three or more days on fishing trips; it remained faithfully delicious and food-borne bacteria-free for the duration. Truly a marvel of artery-lining cooking oil and industrial preservatives. Mmm…I’m going to stop here. I have to go out for a bit.

3) Sorry, I’m back (belch)…The Fork. Have you tried eating salad with a spoon? I personally don’t eat much in the way of salad, unless it’s mashed between two beef patties and two buns, but I can tell it would be hard to do. With this indispensable tool, efficiency and propriety were introduced to the dinner table almost overnight. Manners and decorum replaced clawing, teeth-gnashing and evisceration at mealtime; the fork was the key that opened the door to a civilized society.

4) The Newspaper. Let’s face it; each of us become little more than Cro-Magnon man daily (most of us, anyway) when forced to sit and tend to our most basic evacuative functions. Think about it: for those few moments (or minutes or hours, depending on water consumption, diet and age) we are simply waste-dispensing organisms, devoid of any productivity or self-respect. Add a newspaper to the equation, however, and dignity and utility are at once restored; we are again a processing, multitasking, commanding being.

5) Hemorrhoid Creams and Ointments. Often inventions can cause new problems or obstacles that must be conquered. See #4.

6) The Television Remote. Sure, the television was an impressive invention, but the remote brought it into the realm of indispensability. There are some of us who recall when there were only four channels and you had to get up to change them. If there were commercials on all of them, you had to stand and wait to see what was on. Television viewing in the 1970’s, for men in particular, often became an aerobic exercise; the remote transformed television into the idle, sloth experience it was always intended to be. If you question the validity of this particular choice, just remember how frantic and perturbed you become when it’s missing.

7) A-1 Steak Sauce. A mouth-watering blend of tomato puree, vinegar, corn syrup, raisins, spices, orange and grapefruit juice concentrates and other seemingly incompatible ingredients were ingeniously combined to completely change the dining experience. With its introduction, the killing and eating of dim-witted livestock was instantly transformed from a ritual of marginal sustenance into a passionate, exotic intercourse between dead, cooked animal flesh and the oral senses….whew…it’s getting hot in here…time for another break.

8) The Oral Thermometer. An important advancement in the field of medicine was the discovery that a person’s temperature could help determine the extent and imminent threat of infection to his or her body. For this purpose, the thermometer became an invaluable tool for taking the accurate measurement of body temperature in humans for both the medical profession and at home. Without the invention and introduction of this particular type of thermometer, however, it would have been impossible to take mine.

9) Toothpaste. Self-explanatory. Can you imagine meeting, conversing and becoming intimate with people who greet you with bits of sinew and various plant matter hanging from their smiles? If everyone alive in the pre-toothpaste era were as discerning as myself, mankind could very well have been extinct by now.

10) Soap. The thought of living in an era of squatted-upon chamber pots and sanitization by way of finger-dipping in rose water is almost more than I can bear (see recent post, They’re Everywhere!). There must have been poo on nearly every reachable surface; a Nazi goose-stepping army of E.Coli likely ensured that people were expelling body wastes trilingually on virtually every street corner, some spontaneously and in explosive fashion. Naturally, the existence of soap now still doesn’t guarantee its use by the most offensive among us; I therefore include liquid hand sanitizer, though certainly worthy of its own ranking, as a proud member of the soap category.

There you have it: ten incredible inventions that stand at or near the front of the line of life-enhancing innovation. You might argue that some of the things on this list reflect a somewhat personal bias; I reject that notion by stating here and now that if everyone were more like me, these inventions would have universal appeal and influence, and life for all would improve as a result. I would love to hear some of your nominations for great inventions; please be mindful (as I am) of who might benefit most from their use.

Posted in Christianity, Family, Humor, Inventions, Living, Top Ten Lists, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 30 Comments

Fishing For Trouble – Part 1

Posted on January 28, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

Crankbait

Crankbait

I like to fish. Actually, to be more accurate, I used to like to fish. As I’ve broadened my horizons and become wiser (gotten fatter and older), it’s become apparent to me that fishing, particularly in Arizona, is often a hemorrhoidal experience. I live in the desert, so after all the preparation and cost involved in a fishing trip (bait and tackle, poles, beer, fatty foods, beer, licenses, beer), there’s still a several hour drive before you can find fishable waters; even then, the results are rarely that impressive. As I look back on my fishing experiences in Arizona, my memories of what I actually caught are few and far between. Rather, events and near-disasters during the trips themselves are what I recall best.

One such trip occurred while I was still in high school. My buddy, his older brother (we’ll call them Bob and Mike, respectively, as those are their names) and I visited a lake in Southern Arizona close to the Mexican border, intent on laying waste to its sizeable (likely four or five) population of Largemouth Bass. There’s nothing like the start of a fishing trip, when you first hit the water and expectations for a bountiful catch are high. It was pretty early yet and we were the only ones on the water; hills awash in gold from the morning sun and dotted with scrub oak rose up steeply from the water’s edge. Around us was only blissful silence, save for the lapping of water against the side of the aluminum boat and the occasional derisive honk from a passing duck (who likely knew how pointless our endeavour truly was). Life was good.

We were assailing the edge of a forest of cattails with lures of the type shown above (note the double treble hooks, six sharpened barbs in all; once gaffed, nothing can escape them). these cattails were the perfect ambush cover for hungry bass. I sat in the middle of the boat, with Bob in the front and Mike in the rear (front, middle and rear are nautical terms used to describe the various areas of a boat). We had literally been fishing for two minutes when my friend flipped his rod back for his second cast. As he did, his lure plopped onto his brother’s head. Before Mike could speak, Bob whipped his arm forward and the lure dug into his brother’s scalp like a plow into a turnip field. He didn’t seem to make the connection between Mike’s girlish screams of pain and the fact that his lure never hit water, so Bob then did the strangest thing: he tried to cast again. By now the lure had burrowed into Mike’s hair and scalp like an arctic fox after a mouse in a snow bank. The screaming girl was now also cussing like a girlish sailor. Bob, now vaguely aware that he may have done something to hurt his brother, let his pole fall towards the front of the boat; this placed tension in the fishing line and increased the torque of the lure on Mike’s head. Mike bleated like a sheared sheep and leaned forward to give slack to the line; I fumbled for some scissors in my tackle box and managed to cut him free from the pole.

After a couple of minutes of hysterics and unbridled tears, I stopped laughing and things began to settle down. I grabbed my needle-nose pliers and confidently told Mike to hold still while I assessed the situation. Instantly I noticed a bit of a problem: Mike had hair like the curlies from the privates of a Lebanese wrestler – extremely dense and tightly wound. The scene atop his noggin was like a scale-model depiction of a plane crash in the Amazon; only the top of the lure was visible amidst a jungle of hair. As I moved in for a closer look, I saw that four of the six barbed hooks were imbedded in his scalp, while the other two were hopelessly tangled with hair. By now the blood had started to run down his face and neck. I grabbed the base of one treble hook with the pliers and tugged almost futilely, more to judge how painful it was for him than to see if there was any hope of dislodging the lure. He screeched like a cat whose tail had been stepped on and the lure failed to budge.

“Um…Dude…you’re screwed. That’s not coming out.”

I blushed at the expletive-laced tirade that followed, but resolved to be the voice of calm and reason; Bob was clearly flustered by his blunder and was going to be of no help.

“Calm down, calm down…here’s what we do: let’s fish for a couple of hours, it’s not like that lure’s going anywhere and we’re already here. Then we go back home and we’ll take you to the E.R.” Brilliant, I thought to myself.

Bob seemed keen to the idea, but Mike had clearly tired of fishing, even though we’d just started, and told us so in no uncertain terms. What a selfish baby. He had driven, though, and it was go along or get left behind. As we motored back to the dock, Bob and I tried trolling for bass (no luck).

After we loaded the boat onto the trailer, Mike insisted we drive him to the closest emergency room, which we found just a few miles away in the border town of Nogales. While walking behind Mike towards the entrance, I noticed that I could have cut the fishing line a little closer to his head. At least eighteen inches in length, it came up off his head and bent in the direction of the wind. It was quite an effective weather vane; the thought made me laugh all over again.

He was seen fairly quickly, and when he came out he looked like a Franciscan monk in civilian clothes. His pubic hair-head made removal of the lure impossible, as I myself had diagnosed (I should have been a doctor), so they shaved a large, asymmetric circular pattern atop his head; in the middle were two separate and scraggly lines of stitched black thread. Strangely, he never shaved the rest of his head to match, but rather left the hairless patch to eventually catch up with the rest of his pubic hair-head. He never fished with us again, but we never asked him, either. Five hours of driving for five minutes of fishing just wasn’t worth it.

Posted in Arizona, Family, Fishing, Humor, Living, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 12 Comments