“Know when to give up, and when to keep forging on.” People used to always tell me, usually on the heels of some grievous defeat, that things will look up, that if I keep working hard the world would reward me. But that’s not true, is it? There are so many people out there trying … Continue reading Knowing When
The lights are obvious, their staccato rhythm mesmerizing against the gloomy backdrop of the highway at night. But they are alone, with no siren to punctuate the otherwise still air, as the old car eases to the side of the road. Steam rises from the car’s exhaust pipe, disappearing into the dark sky as it climbs. Sliding into place a moment later, a police cruiser blocks out the view of the old car as it sits idling on the shoulder, like an old lover tossed aside.
A man emerges into the shadow cast by the blinking lights. He gazes for a brief while at the passing traffic, at all the cars that ease across the lane line in the opposite direction, their drivers splitting their focus between the lights and their own destinations. It’s easy for him to forget the past when the present is so immediate, so sensitive. His cruiser purrs at his back, bringing him back to the moment, and the reason why he stopped in the first place. He approaches the old car, his long stride getting him to the driver’s door in four steps.
The man in the old car sits ramrod straight, but his back is crooked so it hurts him to no end to assume such a position. He just knows it’s expected of solid citizens, something he is not, but something he wants to portray to the officer who is approaching his vehicle. He checks out his eyes in the rearview mirror, and they sparkle with a pent-up mischief that might just be his undoing on this starless night, on a road he’s never been on before, in a county that detests his kind.
He has long, greasy hair that hangs limp past his shoulders, in the fashion he has always preferred, even after the lice were found to have infested that same hair some months back. In fact, he still itches from time to time, what he perceives as a ghost itch but what is in fact still lice doing spring cleaning in the nest on top of his head. There are beer bottles scattered across the back seat of his car, something he can do nothing about. At least it’s not light beer, he thinks, strangely proud of his manly attitude in the face of difficult questions to come. Continue reading “Firefly Lights”
I just realized I’m predictable. You know those people who you see, who just go with the flow and everything always seems to be “whatever” with them? Yeah, I’m not one of them. I’ve never been one of them.
From the start, actually, I guess I’ve been a small bit contentious, and a big bit obvious. I’ve rarely given something new a chance. I would still be eating plain cheese pizza if not for my sister and best friend slipping some mushrooms under the cheese so I didn’t know it was there that one time. When I find a food I like, I stick with it, to the exclusion of a lot else.
Case in point: my wife and I like to get to Pizzeria Uno and/or the Olive Garden at least once a year or so, usually on an anniversary. She often orders different dishes to get some variety and to sample whatever she hasn’t sampled before, or at least not in a long time. I get pizza at Uno’s, and the filling penne pasta dish at the Olive Garden. Every single time.
In fact, I’m the person who others can order for and get it right 99.9% of the time. And it doesn’t just go for food either. When I find a show I like on TV, or a movie that is a particular favorite I will watch it over and over again. My favorite movie — Back to the Future Part II — I’ve seen 32 times. Yes, I keep count. Those shows and movies are like traditions to me. If you ever caught up with me on my birthday you would already know what I would be watching. That’s how predictable I am with most things in my life.
I remember when my oldest daughter was born, the first words out of my mind were, “Thank God she’s not Chinese.” Now, don’t worry. I’m not some Sterling-esque hater who puts down other cultures. I said it because one of the things people sometimes worry about with IVF (we utilized the technology to get both of our children) is that components from people other than the actual parents might have gotten mixed up. My wife — God bless her soul — having just given birth, just rolled her eyes and told the midwife, “It’s okay. He thinks he’s funny because we used IVF.” See. Predictable. Continue reading “So Obvious”
I envy people who just sit down and write whatever comes to mind at that moment. You see, I’m not one of them. I really haven’t ever been, even in the wonderful confines of my own journals throughout the years. Indeed, even this post is the result of a great deal of introspection and editing. … Continue reading Opening Up
“I don’t have to pee. I don’t have to pee. I. Don’t. Have. To. Pee.” I kept telling myself that for the past ten minutes. It didn’t matter that I had just used the toilet fifteen minutes previous, or that as a rational adult I can hold it for quite a long time. The only … Continue reading Locked Out
It’s odd how something that is completely unrelated to something else can still trigger those memories in my mind. For instance, I was listening to Rod Stewart this morning (The Motown Song) and it made me think about Pepsi. Of course the song is all about hanging out and listening to old records to set the mood. It has nothing to do with Pepsi, but follow my logic…
When I was in high school I worked on a mushroom farm. It was 1991, so the song was on the radio a lot, and we listened to it while we worked. That song will forever be indelibly linked to mushrooms, fertilizer, heat, Losing My Religion, and Diet Coke soda. The mushrooms, fertilizer, and heat were related to the boxes we were packing to ship off to people trying to grow mushrooms, the song was another big one in the rotation on the one radio station we listened to, and the Diet Coke was what our boss let us have when we were in some downtime. As I can’t stand Coke, my mind instead goes to Pepsi when I hear the song, as it did this morning.
That happens a lot to me since my mind is always going a mile a minute, and I pretty much dare people to keep up, to trace back my brain’s journey to get to the bizarre destination. In fact, it has gone on so long that it has become sort of a game for me to even figure out my own logic and connections, a variation on the six degrees of separation, but internal instead of external. It’s why a pair of blue jeans reminds me of Von Hayes, why a kid on a bicycle brings back memories of the Empire State Building, and why Fred Flintstone saying “Yabba Dabba Doo!” inspires me to do the Humpty Dance.
So, I think about 900, and what comes to mind are the SATs, you know, the exams that are supposed to test your potential ability. I recently found out that the newly revised (again) SATs will feature a return to a 1600 perfect score, so I will theoretically be able to compare my score with my daughter’s score when she takes the test in 8 years. Back in my day, the math score had a ceiling of 800, and the verbal score was the same. Usually people did a lot better on one or the other, but the score to look at was 900. Most schools would accept you if you scored a 900, so it was what you strove for, right? Continue reading “900”
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Exploring life, love, lifting, and (almost) literally everything else, frequently aided by laughter and libations
Just a small town girl who writes about Christian stuff.
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