I am still writing stuff.

I am still writing from time to time, but I thought it greedy of me to hoard my sure-to-be-classic-literature all to myself . . . . actually I’m tickled to death that my nonsense has been chosen for posting by a big blog.

I am fortunate enough to have one of my stories accepted by Sweatpants and Coffee.

Personal Essays | Letting Out the Novel Within

This is a story about finally writing the novel we all have inside.

 

 

To Everything, there is a Season. . . Even Cats.

I like cats. I really do. You might even say that I’m a cat person.

But three is a lot for our small house. The hair and litter boxes are hard to keep up with.

Two of the three cats are very old and grumpy. They have lived good lives

Basically what I’m saying is . . . If the kitty-cat Death Angel came calling, I would not paint my door frame with lambs blood.

A Question.

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So if aliens were to take over a persons brain . . . Does that person know that their brain has been taken over? Or would they just suddenly wake up one day and find that their hat fit a little tighter and it seemed like maybe they could read the thoughts of their cat?

. . . No not me. . I’m asking for a friend. . .

I like to improve people’s lives . . . Even TV bad guys lives.

On TV, there is always that one good guy “expert” who can explain how to disarm a Bomb over the phone by telling you what color wires to cut.

Now if I was a TV bad guy, I probably wouldn’t follow any type of specific color code for my bomb wires. Or I might even get tricky and use a black wire where the red one is supposed to be. That would make any bomb manual wiring diagram inaccurate, and thus, making the TV good guy expert not such an expert

I feel compelled to explain this to the TV bad guys so there evil plans aren’t so easily foiled . . . Thus, improving their skills as bad guys, and thus, improving the quality of their TV lives.

The Marriage Wall of Shame.

Whenever my wife has some little task that she wants me to perform, such as taking a garbage bag out to the end of the driveway or take a box downstairs, she will leave that box or bag laying in the middle of the entry-way between our dining room and living room. On the object will be a sticky note with the objects destination written on it, like “basement” or “end of driveway”. I have even come home from work to find my oldest daughter sitting in a chair with a note stuck to her forehead that read “girl scouts”.

I find it terribly annoying.

It’s not so much that I am annoyed at doing these little jobs for my wife, It’s more in the way she just leaves the object in a place where I have no choice but to do something with it. And the little notes, she could at least ask me face-to-face . . . . or even add a “please” or a “thank you” to the note. . . . I would even accept a smiley face.

One particular day, I came home from work to find four large boxes blocking my path to the dining room. On each box was a note with its intended destination written on it.

I was angry.

I decided at that very moment that I was putting a stop to this sort of spousal labor oppression. I was not going to move a single box.

When my wife came home from her errands, she looked at the boxes and then at me sitting on the couch.

“Didn’t you see the boxes?” She asked.

“Oh, I saw them alright,” I replied in a tone that I hoped would relay my protest.

With a piercing look that was a little frightening, she let out a “grrrrr,” and stomped off. The boxes were not mentioned for the rest of the night, so I figured that I must have won the battle.

The next day when I got home, the boxes were still sitting in the entryway, only now, there was also a shoe rack that had a sticky note on it that said “shed”. Now I was really angry. The battle of wills was on, and I had no intention of losing. So once again, I ignored the shoe rack and boxes.

For a week, the silent battle raged on. Everyday there was a new object sitting in entryway with a new sticky note attached; so many object that it soon became impossible to walk from the living room to the dining room. The entire entryway had boxes, bags, shoe racks and even my collection of Star trek memorabilia (just to make me angry) all stacked nearly to the ceiling.

For a person to go from the living room/bedroom half of the house to the kitchen/dining room/bathroom half, you had to walk out the front door and around to the back door that entered into the kitchen.

Days went by with neither my wife, nor I giving in. I had begun to get used to our new divided house. At first, I would always go around the north side of the house when traveling from the living room to the kitchen because it was seven steps shorter than going around the south side. But then I realized that I could further make the trip easier by leaving my car parked in the front yard. That way I could simply walk out the front door get in my car and drive to the back door.

This was working great until my whiny neighbor, Robert, complained about the fact that my one set of tires was rolling through his flower bed in order for me to fit my car around the corner of my house. I, not willing to give up so easily, realized that if I removed a small section of fence, it would allow me to drive around the other side of the house and into the back yard, leaving Robert’s precious flowers unhurt.

I could tell that my wife was getting closer and closer to either giving in or killing me. I had an unfair advantage in that, if I had to go to the bathroom while watching TV in the living room, I could simply step out the front door and pee behind our large rose bush (being very mindful of the thorns). She, on the other hand, had to make the entire journey from front door to back door in order to get to the bathroom. I could see her anger mounting with each trip to the bathroom or kitchen.

And then one day it finally happened. I was sitting in the living room watching TV when I heard my wife behind the wall of boxes in the dining room. Looking through a small gap in the clutter, I could see her setting the table for dinner. Putting my mouth up to the small hole, I politely asked, “Could you get me a glass of iced tea? My car is low on gas and I don’t want to chance running out on the trip to the back yard.”

Like a flash, my wife’s eyes appeared in the hole in the wall, piercing me like lasers. She began to scream at me, putting her mouth up to the gap when she was yelling, and then switching back to her angry eyes peeking through to give me dirty looks in between sentences. For ten minutes the fight raged on, followed by the both of us walking out and slamming our respective doors. I went to my shed and I heard my wife get in her car and leave with squealing tires.

Several hours later, I walked back in the front door and into the living room. To my amazement, the pile was completely gone.

“HA! I won!” I exclaimed, somewhat amazed.

At that very moment, my wife came in the back door. She paused for a second, and then said, “I won!”

We were both very confused.

Just then, our two teenage daughters entered the dining room with their arms crossed and very serious looks on their faces. Apparently they had gotten sick of the wall dividing our house and had (for the first time ever) voluntarily taken care of each and every object that made up the wall. They then sat my wife and I down, and lectured us both on getting along and resolving our conflicts peacefully and fairly, sometimes quoting some of my own lectures that I had given them.

In the end, it was decided that my wife could leave things with notes on them if she included the word “please” and I would take care of them. But I also had to replace the section of fence, fix the tire tracks in the lawn and stop peeing on the rose bush. I guess you can’t have everything.

 

It’s been Six Days Now.

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My wife has gone to Swaziland, Africa to volunteer her time to benefit the thousands of orphans that have been left in the wake of the highest concentration of AIDS on the planet. This desire to help others is one of the things that I love about her.

She has been gone six days now.

When you have been married to someone for over twenty years, it’s easy to start taking all the things that they do for granted.

I just pulled In the driveway and happened to notice that metal box on the wooden post that I always weed-whack around. I remembered that it had something to do with mail (the non-electronic type). I decided to get out of the truck and investigate . . . seems like my wife is always walking out to this lawn obstacle for some reason.

I opened the door that I found on the front of it and discovered it to be stuffed with mail. . . and by stuffed, I mean the mail person must have had to use their foot to pack it all in. I took all of the contents into the house.

I think I just did what is referred to as “getting the mail”.

I got out of the shower yesterday and went to grab a Q-tip. But there were none. Apparently she took them with her to Africa.

I would have been angry, but then I imagined the all the little African children getting their ears Q-tipped for perhaps the first time ever by my wife. . . . I was glad to give up the Q-tips.

But the odd thing is, I kept thinking that I would have to suffer with ear debris until she brought the Q-tips back from Africa. It didn’t occur to me that I could go buy more Q-tips . . . I’m just not usually the Q-tip purchaser.

And the girls, who knows what types of murderous behavior that are getting away with. They keep asking me if they can do this, or go there, or buy that. I think they can read the unsureness on my face.

When they see this unsureness on my face, they have already learned to quickly hit me with a “mom always lets me”. . . . I’m thinking I should start a list of things that mom lets them do so I can check when she gets home.

It’s still a week until she gets home. I think we will survive . . . . But PLEASE, my dearest, don’t get eaten by a lion or hippo!

By the way, if you are reading this, and you know my wife well enough know where she keeps that sticky cat hair remover roller for clothes thingy . . . . Could you tell me where it is? I always just ask her and she goes somewhere in the house and comes back with it.

 

 

I’m Dying.

The Doctor’s office calls me and tells me that the doctor wants me to come in the NEXT day to talk to me about my blood work.

I am immediately positive I am dying. . . . Maybe only a week to live since he wanted to see me the following day. . . . . He just wants to avoid the embarrassment of telling a dead body that they are dying. . . . . That is the only reason a doctor could ever fit you in the next day. . . . .

I show up to the appointment with my affairs in order . . . Conversations already plotted out as to how I would break it to my wife, my kids . . . the cat.

“Your vitamin D is a little low” he says.

If I was younger I would have punched him and spent the night in jail thinking it was worth it.

I Apologize.

I apologize for my absence. I’ve been spending my precious few moments of spare time submitting my nonsense to higher traffic sites and publications. 

I love writing, but it would appear that I am not well suited to blog promoting, and again, lack of time is probably a factor. I’ve been going for almost a year and a half and I have accumulated a little over 300 followers. I look at other sites with 5000, or 10,000 followers and I realize I’m not so good at selling my blog. 

I am not abandoning my blog by any means. . . Just taking a look around in the world of writing.

Sorry to my cherished followers. I shall check back in a while!

Do As I Say, Not As I Do!

I told my daughter that she must always treat other people with kindness and respect. She answered, “But you yelled at and threatened the cable guy, and made him cry the last three times he was at our house!”

I told my daughter’s they must never lie. They both answered, “But you told us when we were younger, that kissing boys causes cancer.”

I told my daughter that she needs to take care of her toys, because I wasn’t going to buy her any more if they got ruined. She said, “Then how come whenever your weed whacker won’t start, you can smash it into a million pieces with a hammer and go buy a new one?”

I told my daughter’s to be wise and save their money, and not waste it on silly things. They asked me, “Then why did you spend a hundred dollars on an a Darth Vader helmet lamp, and fifty on a bass that hangs on the wall and sings ‘don’t worry, be happy’ ?”

I told my daughter she must never disrespect or talk back to her mother. She wanted to know, “So how come whenever you and mom argue, you go out to your shed where you think no one can hear you, and mumble swear words about where she can go if she wants to be like that, and where she can stick her honey-do list?”

I’m starting to get gun shy. Whenever I feel the need to lecture one of my daughters, I must first make sure there is nothing I’ve done that they can throw back in my face. Sometimes it’s just easier to tell my wife what I want to yell at them about, and have her give them my lecture . . . she seems to have less skeletons in her closet.