2018 In Drafts

It's that time of year again; time to clear out all the drafts that sit hang around my blog.  I'm going to do this stream of conscious style, so grab your bongo drums and snap your fingers:

?????????????????????

You ever have that dream? You know, the one where the motorcycle tries to run over you?  

Well, maybe it’s just me, then.  

When I was young, I used to have this dream a lot.  There were two immediate problems in this dream: 1. I was laying in the street and 2. I couldn’t move.  If you’ve ever experienced in-dream paralysis, you know what I’m talking about.

Maybe because of this, I’ve always been afraid that when there’s a crisis, I will do nothing.  Up until now, I’ve always reassured myself with the thought that my adrenaline will kick in and spur me into action.  But apparently, that’s not always the case.

I have a bad habit of placing holds on library books and then completely forgetting that I was ever interested in them.  I’ve been burned too; starting books that fail to capture my imagination morbid sensibilities.  So I wasn’t too excited when I got a notice from the library that I could now borrow The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes—and Why by Amanda Ripley.

“Oh, well,” I thought, “Might as well check it out.”

This book, this right here is exactly the kind of thing I like.


???????????????????????

Well, so it's mini pie.

I said I would make you a pie, but I didn't say how big it would be.

??????????????????????

It's been a while since I've visited my friend's grave.  I don't really have a great excuse since it's just down the road from me, but I wasn't exactly sure what my four-year-old would think of it.

"We're going to visit Mr. F's grave," I told him.

"Mr. F?" he looks at me blankly.

"You knew him when you were a baby."

We pull up to to the cemetery, which is an understatement.  You don't just "pull up" to Evergreen-Washelli.  You drive for several city blocks.  At least I knew where I was going this time.  Anyway, we pull up to the cemetery and P points at a groundskeeper. "Is that Mr. F?"

"No," I was sure I explained this, "Mr. F is dead."

"Can I get out?" he doesn't even pause.  All he sees is endless green grass and he wants to be in it.  We get out of the car and head towards Mr. F's stone.  P keeps stopping me, "Oh no," he calls, "the flowers have tipped over.  Fix it, Mommy."  We tidy our way over to Mr. F's grave, where we deposit our daisies.

???????????????????????

He has a chicken for a mother and a rabbit for a father.  He is a male, but he also lays eggs.  He is, in a word or three, The Easter Bunny.

Because of his unique parentage, the other bunnies wouldn't have anything to do with him.  The chicks were friendly enough, but he didn't look like a chicken and the farmer kept booting him out of the warmth of the hen house.  

Finally he took to the road, carrying a basket made of straw he stole from the hen house.  As he traveled, he placed the eggs he laid in the basket.  He continued traveling all year until he had many baskets full of eggs.  Finally, on Easter, he went from house to house, hopping through a dog door here and an open window there, until all his baskets had been discarded.  There was no use for them, none of the eggs would hatch, and they were a strange brown color.  

As he sneaked away from the last house, he could hear a child exclaim, "The eggs!  They're chocolate!"  

?????????????????????

Now don't try to tell me you're not exercising.  Everyone and their dog is exercising this time of year.

For me, this is the first year in a long time that I've felt I can somehow squeeze it in.  My four-year-old is bemused by the whole thing.

"Where is your shirt?" he asked me.

"I'm wearing a shirt," I tell him, "It's an exercise shirt."

He looks puzzled, "Are you wearing pajamas?"

"No, they're not pajamas."

"Can you put your clothes back on please?" He doesn't want to be seen with me dressed this way in public.

Once he got used to the wardrobe changes, he fully bought into the idea, "Are you going to work out?"

"I already worked out today," I figure that will settle that.

"Do it again," he commands.

Forget personal trainers, just get yourself a four-year-old. 

????????????????????

It’s 23 degrees outside and I just walked to the bus stop dressed like I’m going skiing. But, in less than a week I’ll be in a place where they have this thing called “the sun.” It’s this giant atom smashing machine that generates heat as well as white light. And you know what happens when white light hits the atmosphere?

Refraction, baby.