A Need-to-Know Basis

Just a few minutes ago one of the admins in our office swung by to inform me that she intended to be "out of the office" for six weeks beginning Thursday. I immediately thought to myself; "this can only be one of two things: pregnancy or surgery." Either way it involves a hospital.

All this talk of babies and pregnancy set me thinking: the Bible mentions somewhere that children are a "gift from God." I don't doubt it; but I'd have to want a gift pretty dang bad to be willing to check into a hospital and have a needle stuck in my spine to get it. You know what I mean? My only real issue with the Bible is that I think God tends to gloss over the details a bit in his descriptions. Like with babies - sure, they're a gift - but so is a fruitcake. Details.

Remember that story in the Bible where God made the sun stand still for an entire day so that the Isrealites could put the hammer down on the unfortunate Hamelekites or whoever? The Bible simply says: "and then the sun stood still and the Isrealites slew them all."

HOLY S#$#$@#$&&TTTRRR!!! THE SUN STOOD STILL??? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I mean capitalize it or something. C'mon.

I'm sure after that unfortunate run-in the Hamelekites attitude was "hey, thanks. how about not helping out next time, eh?" You know in their historical literature that sun-stood-still stuff came out in bold double-underline.

Anyway, my admin friend was generally non-specific about the nature of what turned out to be a scheduled surgery (not a pregnancy). She mentioned the technical name of her procedure, but all I caught was "-ectomy" on the end; so I let it alone. My experience indicates that if they're slicing something off that you can do without - its generally not something normal like an elbow. I guess I find that I'm better off, in general, not knowing the details.

Now that I think about it - maybe God has the right idea.

Philistines on the Back Nine

In the last few years I've noticed a general trend away from use of the term "Indian" in reference to the indigenous peoples of the North American continent. It seems that they, on the whole, prefer "Native American." Sure: I'll buy that. Despite Columbus' best intentions we're still a long way from India.

In my experience its tough to admit you took a wrong turn after a 4-month voyage with nothing but flour-water to eat, so I'm sure it took some convincing before he admitted we weren't "India." It’s a good thing he didn't run ashore on Buford Highway or he might have stuck to his guns. I'm just saying: there's no sense in propogating the confusion.

I also notice some degree of resentment over our wholesale borrowing of Native American tribal terminology and traditions: "low man on the totem pole", "Seminoles", "Braves", and of course "Indians" to name a few of our misappropriations.

I don't blame them a bit for some irritation at our blatant theft of "Seminoles". If you screamed my native heritage at me in a drunken slur over and over again on television; I'd get tired of it too. Of course, now we've reduced it to "Noles!!!" which is even worse (although much easier to scream). I imagine a "Nole" is something like a furry, red, ground-dwelling hobbit in a headdress.

I would think "low man on the totem pole" would really be more of a private joke at our expense though. Representational effigy at the very bottom of a carved-up tree with your feet buried in the dirt can't be an ideal position in Native American cultural tradition. Its probably something really terrible. You're just a cubicle-dwelling office grunt, but you describe yourself as a man locked in the body of a cedar-trunk carved beaver for all eternity? You're right: that job sounds terrible.

So, as far as lingo goes I guess I'm with the Native Americans; but it isn't our use of indigineous peoples' names for our sports teams that’s the biggest problem - it’s that we single primarily THEM out for that dubious honor.

I say we pick and choose from more global national and political groups throughout history for our sports teams. What about the Turks? Nazis? How about the Hezbollah? Philistines? Zulus? Catholics?

Would you watch the Zulus take on the Sunnis in a grudge match skins game at Pebble Beach? I know I would.

Wouldn't you love to see the Philistines win the World Series in game 4 - live? No? Why not? 2000 years is a long losing streak. Why should the Philistines always have to lose?

You racist.

CranApple Anyone?

The thing about The Airline is that they don’t seem to care much about you or the status of your delicious MinuteMaid Cranberry beverage.

You can complain, but lets face it: nobody's really listening. When you talk to an attendant you're actually not talking to The Airline (believe it or not); you're talking to a 30yr old mother of two who can't believe there is an adult in front of her who really wants to complain about cranberry juice 30,000 feet over New Mexico. She has a point. You'd think a less-than one-to-one ratio of people to parachutes would be a more pressing concern but no - its cranberry juice.

Even if you were somehow talking to The Airline- should you really expect to engage in a rational conversation with an entity concerned primarily with one number (gross profit) anyway? As long as you're quiet - you're profitable. The moment you open your mouth you become a cost center. Someone in charge, somewhere, knows that…and he doesn't care. He's probably drinking the delicious Cranberry beverage that you should have gotten from the attendant.

Instead, you got a CranAPPLE beverage which reminds you of the watered-down apple juice the Sunday morning nursery workers tried to pawn off on your underdeveloped 2yr-old palate as the real deal. When you're two you spend a great deal of time differentiating between Mott's and lesser brands, and buddy - the nose knows. A 1982-vintage Mott's (glass bottle) with its gentle, fruity, bouquet and undertones of butterscotch and oak gently swirled in your sippy cup bears harsh contrast to the musty, half-fermented, off-brand decanted by institutions everywhere.

Plus, you don't want to be reminded of preschool because it reminds you of Jennifer Schrumm who called your picture "Scribble Scrabble", stale saltines, tiny chairs, and those little overall-shorts that make your knees all cold.

The airline attendant seems confused when you try to explain; and she keeps asking you if "Jennifer would like some saltines?"; vaguely indicating the sleeping woman to your right.

CranApple isn't so bad.

The Importance of Signaling

I wake up in the morning most days with a general sense of curiousity about what sort of adventure I might run into. Typically: none, but that’s the thing about adventure - you can't nail it down to a regular pattern or there wouldn't be much to look forward to, now would there? So you always just have to wonder about it a tiny bit - not enough to be genuinely disappointed when nothing of consequence happens; just enough to keep your wits about you in the event your adventure requires the application of some form of skill. You may or may not possess this skill.

My experience with deeply memorable adventures indicates that, more often than not, this skill deserts you at an inopportune time.*

Most of the time I go to work and sit down, then when I get ready to leave work I stand back up and go home. My window for adventure is roughly 24-43 minutes in length on an average day and encompasses the time I spend walking to and/or from the truck and driving to and/or from work. Quite regularly: there is no adventure. Oftentimes there is an adventure and it kicks in when I stand up from my desk, realize my right leg has betrayed me by going to sleep whilst I labored, and I crash into the stack of papers on my desk; upsetting my coffee cup into my water cup into my telephone while I fall backwards across the arms of my chair - the chair that rolls.

That happens sometimes. But not today.

Today I dressed myself (harder than you might think), and set sail for work. I ate a stick of beef jerky somewhere between Mt. Paran Road and Northside Drive. It was really tasty, but that’s not part of the adventure.

Halfway down Courtland I swung hard into the right lane (without signaling) once I passed the usual intersection construction; and accelerated through the next yellow light. I noticed, idly, that a pidgeon (we'll call him "Thornton") on the sidewalk a half-block ahead was suspiciously eyeballing an approaching pedestrian. I glanced at my rearview and began to swing into the left lane (again, no signal). I looked back up just in time to see Thornton's tailfeathers at roughly eye-level in extreme closeup. He was merging into my lane and shifting gears, but not fast enough I'm afraid. Had he taken Harris or Baker (or even Dobbs if traffic is bad) he would have been fine; but he didn't.

Through the ensuing explosion of feathers, windshield wipers, and general chaos I managed to catch one last glimpse of him in the rearview as he climbed for the sun; five remaining tail feathers fanned briefly in that ubiquitous hand signal we commuters know so well.

Today Thornton the pidgeon made his last illegal turn and I can't help but think: if he had only signaled, he might have made it.

*If the "The Goonies" really happened (a possibility I occasionally mull over) and Mozart and I were in that cave with Mouth, Mikey, and Data trying to bang out a tune on the skull piano - I'd look at Mozart expectantly and he'd be like "what? me?" and he'd have probably hit a high note and killed us all. Thats what can happen when your skill deserts you. Don't let it be you.

Happy Birthday!

I occasionally engage in creating my very own birthday cards for good friends and relatives. For some reason I've gotten what I'd characterize as "semi-negative feedback" on a few of them. See below.

Feeling flabby? Wrinkled? Past your prime? Smelling vaguely of mothballs and lavendar lotion? WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! THATS BECAUSE YOURE SO MUCH OLDER THAN ME!!!! OH MAN!!!!

I know this is a special day for you, so I asked all your friends what I should get you for your birthday; and let me tell you - they had some great ideas. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to pay for liposuction, dental veneers, and an MRI this week - so instead I made you this little card.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

The Adventurous Mr. Young

So, it turns out: in a letter identifying me as "Mr. Young"; Atlanta's Watershed Services (based on a cursory examination of my water meter) maintained their original stance that the dudes of the DudeRanch did indeed use 40,000+ gallons of water in the month of August.

Not to be thwarted, I immediately began a new series of inquiries into the innerworkings of DudeRanch plumbing and the inhabitants' water usage.

What I found was: nothing. But friends, that water is out there somewhere.

Somewhere in the deepest recessess of my [small brick ranch] house I have hidden away 40,000 gallons of water - perhaps in a little-used closet or possibly in the dark corner of that over-the-stove cabinet with all the coozies and solo cups. My water reserves could be in the attic keeping my turkey feathers company; I really couldn't say.

One day in a not-so-distant future you may well drive past the Duderanch only to find that it is simply not there - it has floated away in the night: set sail to parts unknown on its private sea of expensive water reserves. You may receive Crimmus cards from Duderanch locations far and wide bearing exotic stamps and smelling of frankincense, myrrh, and warthog. You may hear tales of the Duderanch and its 4 inhabitants that are strange and wonderful to behold. Then, you may well ask yourself - how can they afford to sail that house around the world??

But friends - don't worry: we paid for it in advance. $502.47 to be exact.

Naked and Angry

I saw a newborn today which is rare for me. You don't typically see great roving herds of newborns out toddling the halls of your average consulting firm on a normal business day, so I won't lie to you - it threw me off. Now, I'm generally not opposed to the concept of children in the workplace (small hands are great for cleaning coffee mugs); but I draw the line at newborns - mostly just because it has been my experience that newborns spend a great deal of time naked and angry. And friends, there is no room for naked and angry in the workplace.

In my opinion naked and angry is no way to go through life, so it’s a nice bonus that most of us essentially grow through that stage fairly quickly (hopefully never to return). Growing up is tough though. Its hard to go from not walking to walking; not talking to talking…to talking too much….Its even a little tough to go from not driving to driving. When I was that age I went from driving to not driving fairly regularly as well - mostly depending on the good humor of my parents and the fickle mechanical state of my 1978 Bronco (may it rattle in peace).

Don't get me wrong - I know of fairly popular people who have forged successful careers either naked, or angry; but never a combination of the two. Naked and angry is a tough sell.

I can think of many dissimilar things that go marvellously well together - marshmallows coolwhup and pistachios, steak and potatoes, syringes and butts, my cousin Martin and button-up shirts, wood and fire, chocolate and icecream; but I'm betting you won't see Ben & Jerry roll out "Naked and Angry" in their 2008 summer lineup.

Take your average cabdriver for instance: angry? You bet. Do you get in his cab? Sure. So he's an angry cabbie - big deal. Compulsively jiggle the door handle en route, then stiff him on the tip as payback if he's rude.

Now, on the other hand - do you get in with an angry, naked cabbie? Not a chance. That’s one cab you let cruise right on by. There is just too much that can happen at 60mph that you might need clothes for to warrant putting yourself at the mercy of an angry naked man. Naked and angry just don't mix.

Typically the transition away from angry nakedness starts with solid foods - you move on from there and before you know it; you're standing in the driveway as your Dad pulls up in a brand-new 1973 Gremlin that he bought you because he heard your girlfriend say she thought it was "cute." Its your first car.

You're not naked (you've come a long way), but you're definitely angry…at least that’s how my uncle Buster tells it.

So maybe the issue is - the act of removing the outer clothing cancels out anger. Its tough to be angry and naked at the same time - you feel a tad too exposed to muster up a really fierce look - (the key to a proper rampage). So, the answer to anger management might be just 6 buttons and a zipper away, because I think you'd feel better if you took your clothes off.

Death by Goat

Contrary to popular belief I DID NOT win the $370 million lottery on Tuesday night. I know I said I was going to, but I was wrong. Were you ever wrong? It happened to me.

Instead, I actually lost the lottery. Most people don't realize this, but if you don't play the lottery at all - you can't lose it; but plop down your $1 and you've got a 217,497,189,219 in 217,497,189,220 chance of losing. To put it mildly: chances are good.

I did a little research and it turns out - I have infinitely higher chances of dying in......say..... an animal-drawn vehicle than I have of hitting the lotto. I forked over $1 to get in on the Big Game with my coworkers, but do I avoid goat carts? Certainly not. I'd take a quick spin in your average goat cart any day. If the mood were to strike I might even be willing to pay as much as $2 for that priviledge - thereby increasing my chances of untimely death by 1 in 37,110 according to the somewhat pessimistic statisticians of the National Safety Counsel.

Which brings me to my point: if it costs me $2 to die in a goat cart - I'm definitely going to come back and haunt that goat. Thats going to be one unhappy goat when I'm done with him.

I hope that $2 was worth it, Devil Goat.

JGE

Your Odds Aren't Good

Interestingly enough: while doing some research for my Goat Cart project (above) I noticed that the National Safety Counsel has an entire litany of published statistics on the likelihood of the average man falling prey to various elaborate modes of death. Now, this strikes me as an odd thing for a "Safety Counsel" to publish; I mean, do they want us to be safe, or do they want us to die in interesting ways? I can't tell.

Regardless, the NSC published their statistics in a paper ironically titled "Odds of Dying" which is dominated by a variety of interesting statistics and figures with average man's percentage "chance of death" for a given activity arranged in a long column to the right.

Not to upset the goat cart, but friends; the column adds up to 100%.

I scrolled down to the very bottom hoping to find that someone at NSC had sense of humor enough to remark that, though your chances of falling down a chimny naked while shaving in the dark are slim; ultimately - you're toast.

The stiffs at the NSC failed to drive my point home, but just to clarify: your chances of death are, in my opinion - excellent.

However, until the great golden goat cart pulls up for me; I'd like to see the NSC crank out some new statistics like:

10. garage vs. carport deaths (I have a carport, do you?)
9. parakeet-related deaths
8. dryer lint: weapon, or fuzz for hamsters?
7. dying in the front yard vs. the back
6. sword-related deaths
5. nailguns and the workplace
4. haircut-related infections
3. sunburn deaths (I've come close)
2. death from sheer terror in a movie theater

and of course:

1. dying naked

Yes Ma'am.

Sometime in the fall of last year I gently inquired of Meredith whether she would feel comfortable shooting a shotgun at a clay target. It is, after all, an intimidating prospect to the uninitiated.

A look of intense concentration immediately came over her face; "I want to shoot something so its feathers explode," she replied.

Fair enough.

So, after beating my good friend TOMMY STATHAM soundly at sporting clays and demonstrating a great deal of proficiency with her new 20ga shotgun, Meredith took to the quail woods. Gun in hand she patiently received instruction on proper quail hunting etiquette, loaded her midget gun, and advanced on the little pointer that had been arrested mid-bound and frozen in place at the scent of nearby quail.

As Meredith advanced, the bird burst from beneath her feet. In one swift motion she mounted her gun like a pro and tracked the quail's flight. Her tiny shotgun boomed and friends: feathers exploded.

She actually beat the dog to the downed bird and ran it back to us crowing the whole while, "I GOT IT I GOT IT!!" When she got to me she said "I KNOW - LETS GET IT MOUNTED!!"

So, that is how it came to be that shortly after noon on a cold Sunday in February; Mr. Jerry Mosely, Taxidermist Extraordinaire, opened his shop door and received in a very serious Meredith Q., Marketing Guru, dead bird in hand.

Totally unfazed by the proliferation of huge African game adorning Jerry's hallowed walls, Meredith reached into her Gucci purse, proudly lifted out a (very) dead bobwhite quail, and simply said: "Jerry, I want you to stuff this dead bird and put it on my wall."

Yes Ma'am.

9-Hour Ducks

When deer season finally draws to a wintry close I always take a few days off to rest. I recline with the purest intention of merely biding my time until the first spring turkey hunt rings in a new hunting season. I have grown tired from my travels and weary from long hours spent clambering around in the cold, dark woods......That lasts about one weekend.

By the second week in January I find myself frantically casting about for some form of legal shooting activity. Unfortunately, there ain't a whole lot going on in January as far as hunting goes except for ducks and quail. I don't have quail dogs; nor have I married well enough to have a plantation. That leaves me with ducks - and a longtime standing invitation to hunt them with my longtime friend Tripp Maddux in North Carolina.

Initially the idea of hunting ducks seems a little bit silly I guess. After all - one can only legally shoot 2 of them; and Kinston, NC (9hrs drive) is an awful long way to go to kill two fishy-tasting water birds that never really did anything to provoke me to start with. And with steel shotgun shells coming in at $1 a piece - its an expensive venture to boot. That’s assuming you don't drown, fall out of the boat and get sucked under the prop, get shot, fall in, get lost, or find yourself abducted by swamp people.

Fortunately I was able to circumvent the distance issue by having George drive (both ways) while I slept. I avoided the expense issue by palming Tripp's shells into the tops of my waders when he wasn't looking.....My shotgun puffed out the sweet smell of free money all morning long.
We arrived in Greensboro at 11PM - just in time to meet the legendary Will Willis and Tripp Maddux, load up into Tripp's truck, take a quick tour of the house, and head to Kinston - a 2 1/2hr drive.

We spent the entire ride talking ourselves into a hunting frenzy, got in bed around 2:30AM, and were headed to the swamp by 5AM. Tripp and Will made their way downriver to the opposite side of swamp and Thomas, George, and I slipped through the woods into the flooded cedars. By dawn the whisper of thousands of wood duck wings was incredibly....absent. When it was legal shooting light and we hadn't spotted a single duck; Thomas began a mild panic punctuated with occasional curses directed at variables which included (but were not limited to): hot weather, no wind, lack of a duck call, lack of a goose call, poaching hunters, poor location choice, too early, maybe a tad late, overcast, not overcast enough, and (of course) Tripp and Will. I thought he had a point with the "lack of a duck call" bit, but Tripp told me later that he didn't know how to use one anyway. Thomas draws them in solely with the power of his mind.

In a happy change of circumstances we were flooded with ducks a short few minutes later and cheerfully banged away at them for the better part of an hour - ultimately collecting a mixed bag of wood ducks, mallards, mergansers, and teal (blue and green-winged). No one drowned.

Reid did got severely lost on his way home and ended up 2hrs away almost at the coast - but we found him.

It is a fortunate thing for Thomas that he can wield such power over waterfowl. He's going to have to concentrate a great deal to get a proper flight of geese over his apartment in Wilmington. I know that is where he'll be simply because: he can't go anywhere else.

Our haste at pulling out of the golf course parking lot to avoid the crowd of ill-tempered, cleat-wearing witnesses was hampered by an unfortunate "chunk-sha-lunk" sound from beneath Thomas's aging Tahoe. Each head bobbed forward in unison with the sudden shortage of momentum and Will whispered: "Thomas - your transmission just lost reverse." A short while - and safe distance - later, following a furious group-effort manpower reversal across the 1st teebox (spurred on by the sound of sirens in the distance), Will said, gently: "Thomas, you're car lost first and third gears too."

Hunting over for the weekend, we followed with a short nap, lunch, and two solid days of sporting clays shooting punctuated with breaks for delicious food of all kinds. There was an abortive attempt at hunting geese in the small pond of a local golf course Saturday afternoon, but we were ultimately forced to hang up our waders in order to avoid an instance of "calling the police" on the part of a tiny, irate, geriatric brandishing a 9-iron. Wizened, golf-ish features creaked into a spray-tanned grimace when she realized that, despite my best imitation; I was clearly not a lone section of cattail growing at random on the edge of the 14th fairway. The hunt was over. The proud "Kinston City Limits" sign we passed on our way in should have been our first indication to turn back but youth, fervor, and a golf pro with a hunting license got the best of us.

In addition to shells I also "borrowed" a gun from Tripp for the weekend ("Why?" you might ask. Did I lack a shotgun of my own? No. Was mine broken? Certainly not). I used Tripp's new shotgun simply because of Beau. My cousin Beau taught me that success isn't measured by how many animals you bag - its measured by how many other peoples' equipment you use to do it.

In all: I give duck hunting an A+ which should rise immediately to an A++ once I spend a few thousand dollars on new equipment specifically for duck hunting.

Quack Quack.


Weekend Quotes:
"Want to go to Nag's Head?" You're halfway there!!!" ~ Will Willis commenting on the profundity of Reid's wrong turn.

"Look how slim he looks in those waders." ~ Thomas Benton on swamp fashion.

The Dude Ranch Beckons

I was pleased to find that; although my longtime roomate, Matt Dunn, recently betrayed us all by announcing a move-out date a full MONTH EARLIER than absolutely necessary (due to a rapidly-approaching nuptual beartrap); he honored us with the following Craigslist.com post:

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

$650 Sandy Springs Room Available - Best Folks EVER

Brandon Mill at Roswell

$650 Gets you a room in a classic ranch house with some of the best people I've ever met. Utilities (gas, electric, trash, water)? Paid for! Cable with every movie channel? Paid for! FREE long distance? Paid for! Internet? Well...just kidding...Paid for!

Best time of my life! So why am I leaving? I'm getting married and want to fill the room with the right person on the way out. Come to think of it, why am I getting married?! (Just kidding, baby. I love you)

I work north of Sandy Springs (Northridge) and my commute takes about 10 -15 minutes. Another roommate works downtown and his commute takes 15 -20 minutes. We have all kinds of EXCLUSIVE back road knowledge to share about getting around town.

If you are a good (fairly clean, very considerate) roommate with a great sense of humor, call Matt at 404 324 7843 about filling my spot or reply to my email link, found above.

The DUDE ranch beckons...and the Dude Abides

A DUDE RANCH CHRISTMAS

As you all know: roomate Christmas is just around the corner and I want everyone to know that I specifically DID NOT get any of you a pony despite a certain unnamed roommate's constant request for one (Matt).

While the shock of that initial disappointment settles in, let me say this: I have something unique and wonderful for each one of you (except Seth whose present got backordered and won't be in until Tuesday), but the most unique and wonderful thing I have for you this year is: me.

You get to have spent an entire year living with - me. Doesn't it feel nice?

So, as you unwrap your tins of cocoa, sacks of oranges, cans of brazil nuts, fruit-of-the-loom whites, fruitcake slices, and target-brand t-shirts under the tree on Sunday: enjoy them in good health, but try to remember that the point of this Christmas is: me. Its not you, and its especially not Emily Jones (even though she is our mascot).

We'll be gathering at the DUDE RANCH at 7PM to venture out to Fellini's or similar (I'm accepting suggestions from DUDE RANCH members ONLY. LESLIE - NO, WE'RE NOT GOING TO ROASTERS for dinner). Afterwards, we will be returning to the DUDE RANCH to open gifts before heading down to Meehan's for some light post-paroxysms-of-greed refreshment (and possibly a game of darts).

Also: $20 goes to the person who can successfully sneak a portion of seafood into Emily's dinner. She'll be blowing bubbles in the toilet inside of 30 minutes and it would really make my Christmas special.

I Fought the Law

Sometime between 7:30 and 9:30PM on Saturday night I rolled over onto my back in a briar thicket and thought “So, this is what its like to be a criminal.” I didn't think it very loudly though - the Game Warden was far too close for any sort of loud thinking.

I arrived at the deercamp this weekend to find it in uproar and disarray. After several abortive attempts at storytelling I left Seth to find My Uncle John and get it straight. It turns out: the GAME WARDEN had crossed over onto our property late that afternoon and had mistakenly identified a neighboring hunter’s encroachment on our property line with “bait” as an illegal activity on the part of our club members.

Now I don’t need to tell you, gentle reader, that we would never associate ourselves with individuals of such inauspicious character as the sort to “bait” for deer. However, GERALD PARSONS(478.955.0222) when questioned by the GAME WARDEN on the situation merely replied “Oh, I don’t know. It must be that tall brown-headed boy from Atlanta.”

Apparently that sort of thing passes for “humor” in his neighborhood.

The four-wheeler noises started at approximately 6:01PM. By approximately 6:14PM the four-wheeler noises were accompanied by a distant dirt-bike noise. By approximately 6:14:15PM I was pasted to the side of my clip-on deerstand shaking so hard the tree I was in was whipping like it was in my own personal windstorm.

Now, I'm not typically afraid of four-wheelers as a rule. I got on one with Watson Moulton once and ended up violently terrified of that particular four-wheeler, but other than that isolated pants-wetting I've had fairly good experiences with four-wheelers in general. What bothered me in this instance was the knowledge that Mr. GAME WARDEN often traveled accompanied by a female Ms. GAME WARDEN on a dirt bike.

Putting two and two together, I realized: “I don’t have my license with me. It is in the truck - so the GAME WARDEN is going to write me a ticket for hunting without a license. Then, GON is going to put me in the HALL OF SHAME files in their magazine. Then, someone is going to mistake MY name for DAD’s name and the Governor is going to personally fire DAD for unethical hunting practices. By the time it’s all sorted out; it’ll be too late - somebody else will be in Dad’s job. So, to summarize: if I get caught out here without a license I’m going to get a ticket and my Dad is going to get fired and it’s all going to be Gerald Parson’s fault.”

The game was afoot.

After determining that the noises I was hearing were indeed the GAME WARDEN and his assistant the GAME WARDENATRIX; I took stock of myself.

After a short while I realized my stock was “not too good” about the same time the four-wheeler noises shut themselves off in the vicinity of my pickup. My truck has an Atlanta tag – identifying me to the GAME WARDEN as “Atlanta Boy: known violator. Recently sold downriver by a member of his own crew.”

Now, if there is anything worse than a four-wheeler GAME WARDEN noise it’s a four-wheeler GAME WARDEN noise that has just stopped nearby; because then you know there’s a GAME WARDEN nearby, but suddenly he could be anywhere – the tops of the trees, sneaking through the thicket, riding a horse, in an airplane: ANYWHERE.

Is that a squirrel? No, it must be the GAME WARDEN. Is that a dog barking? No, it must be the GAME WARDEN alerting his GAME WARDENATRIX partner. Is that a woodfire I smell? No, it must be the GAME WARDEN smoke-signaling my location to the GAME WARDENATRIX.

During my stock-taking I identified my deerstand as a potential source of metal-on-metal noise: a sure path to the GAME WARDEN stockade for yours truly. The metal ladder makes noise when one shifts weight on it, so I knew I must sit perfectly still for as long as it took – all night if need be. Dad’s income depended on it.

Then, a deer walked up and bedded down directly underneath my stand and began to gently lick itself. It looked up directly into my eyes. I blinked and it jerked its head up into the wind. I knew if I spooked the deer – the deer would alert the GAME WARDEN creating a new path for me straight to the stockade.

So, I closed my eyes.

After approximately 1.5 hours the GAME WARDEN cranked his four-wheeler back up and continued to ease around my location; stopping every 150 yards or so and shutting off his four-wheeler to listen for sounds of me attempting to escape.

I opened my eyes. The deer was gone. I didn’t realize it because my eyes were closed. It was very dark. I couldn’t see. I still had my safety belt clipped on. I couldn’t find my rifle. I dropped my Outdoor Life magazine. It made noise. I panicked. The four-wheeler started again.

Suddenly, as quick as thought, I leapt from my stand; unsnapping my safety harness in mid-air as I slid as far down the ladder as I could: stopping mere inches from certain metal-on-metal noise, incarceration for me, and poverty for Dad.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The four-wheeler started again and I took one last tentative step down the ladder…SKKKRREEEEEEEEETTT!!!! METAL NOISE! CURSES!

The four-wheeler stopped and I began tabulating my fine.

After several breathless minutes of cringing at every sound I slowly picked up my BudFannyPack and began slowly creeping through the moonlit thicket. I tiptoed across country for 2 hours, stopping only to bury my .17HMR armadillo-shooting pistol, flashlight, and empty shell-casing to avoid suspicion of illegal activities.

2 hours later I emerged near my truck, jumped in it and drove away: wallet and license held high for all to see.

I went back the next day to look for GAME WARDEN tracks. There weren’t any.

Turns out - the GAME WARDEN was really just the guy across the creek riding around on his four-wheeler to check on his cows.

Now, if only I could find where I buried that pistol....

I fought the law...I thought....

Thumbs Up for EAW

I want everyone to remember that my friend and fellow EAW-goer (thats El Azteca Wednesday for the uninitiated) Paula Igou is very sensitive about her *little thumbs*. Her condition is your average run-of-the-mill deformity and it cannot (I repeat CANNOT) be "caught" as I so callously lead you all to believe last week. In short: Paula's *little thumb* deformity is not contagious and you should not be afraid to eat with her, shake her hand, ride in the car with her, look at her, talk to her on the phone, or breathe her air as I originally indicated.

I am sorry for the confusion surrounding Paula's crazily-deformed, wacky-looking, almost freakishly tiny, midget, *little thumbs* and I want to make sure that you all know how terribly sorry I am for ever making fun of how incredibly weird and truncated her *little thumbs* appear to outsiders. I am doubly sorry for bringing her insanely disturbing deformity to the attention of people who were not already aware of it.

In my effort to make sure everyone is sensitive to Paula for her horrific and embarrassing defect I am including in this EAW invitation a description of ordinary thumb deformities and their treatment. Please see my checklist below:

JGE

undergrowth of digits
Underdeveloped fingers or thumbs are associated with many congenital hand deformities. Surgical treatment is not always required to correct these deformities. Underdeveloped fingers may include the following:
1. the digit is small (oh definitely. You might even say it is "nubbin-like")

2. muscles are missing (definitely Paula here too)

3. bones are underdeveloped or missing (I think so, yes, but without an autopsy it is hard to know for sure.)

4. there is absence of a digit (no, not this one).
Treatment may include:
A. limb manipulation and stretching (oh my - yes. We should try to stretch out those weird little suckers. That’s the ticket.)

B. splinting of the affected limbs (no - I'm concerned that splinting her minidigit against her normal digit would only serve to retard the normal digit)

C. tendon transfers (I'm short on tendons, but I have 2 strips of raw bacon and a microwave. I bet if we concentrate we can just wrap her little porkers in more bacon and fry up those *little thumbs* for more stable movement).

D. external appliances to help realign misshapen digits or hands (we at the DudeRanch were hard at work building an appropriate *little thumb* replacement, but progress was halted by a shortage of popsicle sticks).

E. physical therapy to help increase the strength and function of the hand (we feel that Paula's very healthy middle finger will compensate sufficiently to render physical therapy unnecessary, but, yes we agree she should be in therapy).

F. skin grafts - involves replacing or attaching skin to a part of the hand that is missing skin or has been removed during a procedure.(oh my. Indeed, but we'll need more bacon).

G. prosthetics - may be used when surgery is not an option, or in addition to surgical correction. (again, pending discovery of another Ziploc bag of popsicle sticks DudeRanch Prosthetics Inc. should have a working model available in 2007).

So, dear friends support your friends with *little thumb* disorders. After all; they're people too.

Lobes of Love

I recently made the classic mistake of taking my lovely girlfriend, Meredith, deer hunting. She is a very good sport. I knew that and I appreciate it. A lot.

What I failed to realize or appreciate is that she (despite being an extremely good sport), entertains a severe allergic reaction to mosquito bites. Ahh, would that I had known that before choosing a deerstand location near a swamp.

About an hour into our hunt several deer walked into sight. Before being completely engrossed in the scene in front of me I gave the strictest of orders "not to move" and indicated that multiple deer were within range.

I failed to notice Meredith's desperate attemps at blinked distress signals until several minutes later. Finally she hissed "SOMETHING IS BITING ME!!!" Naturally, I again gently encouraged her "not to move" and shifted my eyes towards her just enough to see a look of intense pain and concentration come over her face. I then shifted my attention back to the deer.

After approximately 20 more minutes the deer relocated and I again shifted my vision towards Meredith. There had been no change. She appeared frozen in place with a look of intense consternation pasted across her furiously-clenched brow and tightly-clamped eyelids.

I waited a few more minutes for my own private enjoyment, then nudged her and indicated that it was ok to move about again. She immediately began clawing rabidly at her right ear and kicking me viciously in the knee.

After the furious melee, we continued to enjoy our time together and I quickly forgot about the incident. Several days later I noticed that she had taken to wearing her hair down over her ear. Curious, I lightly brushed aside her chocolatey brown locks only to find that the top of her right ear had swollen to twice its normal size and had taken on a decidedly "pointy" appearance - not at all unlike Mr. Spock from Star Trek. When I say a "pointy appearance" I mean "freakishly pointy" "pointy to the point of public humiliation" or even "embarassingly pointy."

The ear? It was pointy; there is no denying that, but pointing that out sure was a huge mistake.

Recently (and to my great dismay) there has been some discussion of Meredith removing a significant portion of her hair and donating it to "locks of love."

I suggested donating a portion of her ear to "Lobes of Love" instead.

She was not amused.

Meredith: may your ear live long and prosper.

A Lot Cleaner Than I Really Am

Dear Watershed Services:

I just opened up a $502.47 water bill representing 66CCF of usage over a 27-day period. Looking back at my bill history I have used an average of approximately 10-15 CCF per billing period for the last several years. That is a 340% increase in water consumption at my house in a 27-day period with no other changes in my home or residents - roughly 6 months of normal water usage. All bathrooms in my house are currently being used, so a constantly running toilet would attract attention. I checked each bathroom for toilet leaks and found none.

I immediately considered the possibility of an underground leak in my yard. So, I checked the yard for pooling water and/or waterlogged areas and found none. I also checked to make sure all water inside the house was shut off, then checked the meter in the front yard to see if it was spinning - it was not. Based on that observation it appears that there are no leaks between my house and the meter, which makes sense because that much water would (literally) flood my entire front yard. I would be the only floating house on River Springs Court.

Given that 1CCF = 748 gallons of water; my usage this month is 40,392 gallons higher than normal. My yard is .54-acres and slopes back-to-front. 40,392 gallons of water (even coming from a source 18" underground) absolutely MUST surface in my yard. Needless to say, here is no such water to be found. Especially given the rain conditions over the last few weeks - that water has to flow somewhere and, given the slope, it would have to run out into the street almost immediately!

Assuming that showers in my house approximate the national average for shower output of 2.7GPM: that means a shower would have to run (full-bore) 249 hours in order to put out 40,392 gallons of water. I'm not nearly concerned enough about hygeine to shower for 249 hours, even on a bad day.

A 27-day billing period only has 648hrs in it, so that means over my last billing period I would have had to run a shower, full-blast, 24hrs each day for 10.4 days. I assure you that has not been the case. I think maybe the City of Atlanta thinks I'm much cleaner than I really am.

In the case of a leaky toilet [assuming it leaks at .5GPM, which is high] - a leaky toilet would have to run 1,346hrs to leak that volume of water. That’s roughly double the hours in my 27-day billing period. In other words - the laws of this universe dictate that a leaky toilet does not have time in 27 days to leak that much water.

Graphically: 40,392 gallons of water would fill a 10' x 10' pool 74 feet deep.

Either there must be an error with my bill or my roomate, Matt, has done a better job hiding his 5-story hot tub on the premises than he did hiding his last box of twinkies. I spotted those right off.

Also - call it arrogance, but I like to think that my powers of observation are such that I'd immediately notice construction of a 74-foot water tower in my yard fairly quickly and think to myself: "Wait. Something is not right."

Based on my analysis it appears physically impossible that I have used an additional 40,392 gallons of water in the last 27-days. Could you please help me with this?

Sincerely,

Jimmy Ewing

Whereupon I Realize I Can Blog From My Deerstand

I'm in a deerstand. The wind is blowing. It is pouring down rain. My rump is wet and beginning to itch. There are no deer. Everyone else is at the camp. It is dry there. Their rumps are not wet and they do not itch.

That is all.

Sometime later:
You know that somebody-just-spilled-beer-on-me feeling? I've got that except without the beer. Or the people. Or the loud music. Or the bad date that you can't wait to lose, but have to be nice to because Mom's best friend asked you to take her out claiming that "her wooden leg isn't really that noticeable" and you homeschooled so you're really not that great a catch either.

Sometime after that:
I take that back. There is a deer. Hallelujah. He looks very good-natured and very stupid. I think he is grinning at me. I say he looks stupid, but I'm the one sitting in a steel box 30 feet off the ground under a lone pinetree in the middle of an otherwise empty field...in a thunderstorm…..

No make that a hurricane: pieces of the titanic just floated by.

I'm going to have to tell Kate Winslet to gimme some more room on the dang floating door here in a second. I'm gonna need to paddle us out of here.

90 Things Mom Taught Me.

1. When someone is being very rude to you in conversation; imagine them naked in public wearing clown shoes. Then mentally shrink them down until their voices get very, very high and they're 3 feet tall. Its tough to be angry at a publicly naked midget clown.

2. When in the buffet line at a wedding - eat two items while in line and put one on your plate.

3. Always touch the last biscuit before asking if anyone wants it. You're asking because YOU want it, remember?

4. Avoid strict schedules. They're too confining.

5. If you're terrible at something get good enough at it to squeak by, then move on to something else.

6. Avoid television.

7. Experiment.

8. Wear your seatbelt, its sitting right there anyway.

9. Brush your teeth frequently. Why not? It doesn't take long.

10. Keep M&M's handy.

11. Never be afraid to throw away a food item someone gives you if its terrible. Tell them you loved it. That’s a white lie, not a black one like when you lied about eating all the M&Ms.

12. If you circle the table while eating, the calories and your exertion cancel each other out.

13. Maybe you can't help how you feel, but you're the only one who can control how you act.

14. Catharsis is rarely worth it.

15. Closure is overrated.

16. They're not family, so don't worry about it.

17. Try food you've never liked before once and while. Sometimes you change your mind.

18. If your time invested doesn’t line up with what you think are your priorities, something is wrong.

19. People know when you don't mean it. They're not stupid either.

20. If somebody says something, and you think maybe they meant something else - you're probably right.

21. The people are more important than the meal or the event.

22. You rarely lose by giving someone the benefit of the doubt.

23. Chances are good they meant it. Chances are also good that if you ignore it, it'll eventually go away.

24. If you're not passionate about something - you're boring.

25. You are like your friends whether you like them or not.

26. Don't be stupid.

27. Be nice to nerds because:
A. Somebody out there thinks YOU are one, and
B. You're going to end up working for one eventually.

28. Don't waste time. Either be doing something, or be asleep.

29. Don't take sports too seriously. That’s boring.

30. If you do watch television, at least don't yell back at it.

31. Until you find someone you can't stand NOT to be married to, please don't get married.

32. Do not comment about newborn babies. Period. If you must speak say, "that is a beautiful baby."

33. R.S.V.P.

34. If you're feeling lonely at a party; check the nearest corner. There is someone there lonelier than you. Talk to them, then go check the other corners. Pretty soon the party is in your corner.

35. Chasing the cool crowd puts you…..right behind the cool crowd. They're chasing a cooler crowd. Leave it alone and go find the nerds.

36. Strategize.

37. No, you're right. She did it on purpose to manipulate you and she does it a lot. You normally don't notice, but you better!

38. Make the most of it, but don't worry too much about how you look. You're stuck with it.

39. Always have a casserole handy.

40. There is no such thing as an unwanted guest...as far as they know.

41. You can't play fair if there aren't any rules. Either make rules, or don't worry about playing fair.

42. A big task is lots of small tasks. Do one small task everyday even if you can't complete it right away. Then one day you'll be shocked to realize you finished the whole thing. Its like finding money in the dryer.

43. Most people probably shouldn't sing out loud.

44. If they put something on the table you just can't stomach; you better eat it anyway.

45. You can't fake modesty.

46. Don't fight with your sister.

47. Most of the time its not worth it to be right.

48. You can find a way to pay for it.

49. You can always put it on a zero-interest credit card and figure it out later.

50. Might as well buy the best one if you're going to spend all that money anyway.

51. The rule about doing what adults tell you to do does not apply to your uncles. They're like children.

52. Do NOT get on the four-wheeler with your Uncle Robert.

53. You're not "insensitive"; you were just born without a key emotional component that most women have.

54. Sometimes telling her the whole truth really isn't the nice thing to do. Put her on a "need to know" basis and get out of there.

55. Lying and omission of the truth are identical. The "whole truth" and a "white lie" are somewhere in-between.

56. Cornbread is much harder to get right than most people realize.

57. Using more than one type of pre-mixed ingredient packet means its from scratch.

58. If you win at any cost you're usually the one who pays for it.

59. Losing gracefully is much easier if you really don't care.

60. Lets buy the $15 shirt from target instead of the $40 shirt from the GAP and spend the $25 on icecream for everybody.

61. If you go for the check; get the whole thing.

62. If you really wanted to get the check you wouldn't have asked; you'd have snuck your credit card to the waiter when nobody was looking. People subconsciously realize that. Don't be cheap.

63. There is nothing worse than cheap people.

64. Let yourself be taken advantage of for money, time, food, or work and count on God to take care of you. If He doesn't its his fault, not yours. Either way it becomes somebody else's problem and you don't have to worry about it.

65. Do not tolerate people you love being taken advantage of.

66. People will always take advantage of you. If you get rid of everybody that hurts you you're going to get lonely.

67. There is nothing wrong with sneaking out the back if you find it more convenient.

68. Get there late and leave before people are ready for you to. That way they're always ready for you to come back.

69. The center of attention can be alot of fun depending on the type of attention.

70. Driving 80mph in a 70mph zone when you're only going 80 miles to begin with saves you 11.66 minutes. The last ticket you got cost you $200. Thats $17.15 per minute or roughly $1,029 per hour. Your time isn't worth that much: slow down.

71. There is always somebody smarter, tougher, faster, more successful, better looking, or richer than you. Knowing that doesn't make you feel better when you lose, but at least you're not surprised.

72. In relationships: fish or cut bait.

73. If you get a weird feeling about something - get out of there.

74. If its not on the table already - don't ask for it.

75. If you wait to develop wholly pure motives before you do something nice for someone; you're going to be waiting a long time. Go ahead and do it and don't worry about why. So you're motives weren't pure? Big deal. At least you did something nice.

76. You don't miss the money you give away.

77. Its better to have friends with a boat than to have the boat yourself.

78. If somebody you know talks too much and one day they betray your confidence; its your fault. You knew they were a blabbermouth to begin with, dummy.

79. Granddad always said that if somebody borrows $10 from you and never pays you back; it only cost you $10 to find out he's a crook and a liar. Thats good information - cheap.

80. Do your own thing.

81. If you stay up late - you can always sleep late to make up for it. Thats the nice thing about nighttime.

82. There is nothing wrong with doing two things at once if you can get them both done.

83. Be nice to Grandma. She let you spill stuff all over her house when you were little and didn't complain.

84. You'd be amazed if you knew how many people thought the exact same thing about you.

85. Hopefully people don't think the same thing about you.

86. Its amazing what you can get away with if you try it with a smile.

87. Rework your criteria for picking causes.

88. Eating it doesn't really help the people starving in Africa, but it does help put your life in perspective.

89. Its good to be the boss, but its also good not to be the boss too.

90. Don't make too many decisions based on what other people will think. Chances are good they're not really thinking about you anyway.

91. There is nothing wrong with a mild Christmas present obsession.

92. There is no excuse for being rude.

93. Doodling is healthy.

My Apologies, But Could You Hand Me My Eye?

It seems that I have damaged my left eye. If one did not know better one might think that Satan was attempting to enter the world through my left eyeball. It is that red. Think "fires of hell" red. You're close. So, by "damaged" I mean that the ordinarily-white part of my eye has turned a particularly virulent red. I can only assume that it has begun formally addressing everyone who walks by because they don't speak back at it, but they do stop and stare; a facet of humanity that I have always found somewhat rude.

If you're going to stop and stare at part of my body you could at least direct towards it some sort of appropriate question. Even a quick "well hellooo" under your breath would be fine so long as I can see your lips moving.

I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't do it myself. This morning is a great example. I simply said:

"Hellooo strangely-formed, wide, somewhat oblong, wrinkled rump standing before me on the escalator! How are you today?"

It gave me a pleasant waggle in greeting and I went on about my business.

For now all I will say is that the accident involved me, twelve hundred (1,200) acres of pine trees, one (1) pickup truck, one (1) machete, one (1) bottle of water, one (1) leather glove, and 1 (one) chunk of pine tree traveling at mach 947.

I went into work this morning for a little show-n-tell with the injury. Ultimately my boss (after attempting to exorcise my demons) encouraged me to run down the street for a quick visit with the eye doctor. Its been years since I've been to an Optometrist, but I took his advice.

When I arrived the good doctor dumped a squirt of eye-opener in my eye holes. He then attempted to plug me into a large metal contraption with a shiny tip on it that was entirely too close to my left peeper. Naturally, I asked him what he was going to do. His response was "I'm going to poke you right in the eye with this little metal piece."

Well alright.

But why am I naked?

JGE

Mom's Memorial Ride

Over the last few weeks my family has been the object of more love and affection than I would have thought possible. Our friends, family members, and, in some cases, people we don’t even know have ministered to us. In spite of their own feelings of grief and personal loss; they have lifted us up in prayer and comforted us.

For that I thank you.

Clearly the intent of this event is to celebrate Mom, and I can think of no better way to do that than to share with her family and friends this place that she loved so much.

I wish I could condense her experience on the Silver Comet Trail into one paragraph, but I’m afraid I can’t. She saw so much beauty on this trail. She saw snakes and birds. She followed deer and foxes. She made a new friend here every day.

Mom experienced creation on a Cannondale.

I never fully realized this at the time, but the two most important things Mom found in this place were beauty and community. I can think of no better place to experience community than in the presence of beauty.

She expressed to us on many occasions how much she loved cycling and how much she enjoyed the people she met here every day.

On her behalf, my family thanks the cycling community and the hundreds of people who brought joy and adventure to her life through this sport.

From my family to yours: it is our hope that this tragedy will not cause you to change your lifestyles and habits out of a spirit of fear. Mom was acutely aware of danger, but that awareness empowered her. She was attentive to the perils in life, but she refused to allow a spirit of fear to temper her willingness to embrace beauty.

Mom lived an intelligent life. She knew that the greatest danger in existence is not a nameless evil lurking in the shadows. The greatest danger in life is allowing fear to prevent you from pursuing your dreams.

My family’s belief is that Mom’s death saved a life; maybe one of yours. So, since she cannot be here to enjoy it; I encourage you to enjoy it for her. I urge you to go out from here in a spirit of joy with the knowledge that you have a clear trail ahead of you, but most of all I pray that you will remember my mother in this place.

JGE

Covered in Glory

As an addendum to our little talk about ants yesterday: you know, the thing I had forgotten is that fire ant-bites turn into little pustules for some reason. I wonder if "necrotic tissue" is the right term to use here? Regardless, I'm currently the proud owner of small areas of necrosis all over my lower legs.

At one point during the hunt I was standing in the field, gun laying in the dirt, doves circling my head like a Hitchcock thriller, furiously slapping my legs, arms, and chest, until finally; I sighed, my shoulders slumped, and I started taking it right on the chin like a man.

Blam! BLAM! Bird goes down.
Wince! WINCE! Two ants bite me.
BLAM BLAM!
And so on.

I just let them do their work. That appears to have been the right move because I eventually got used to it. My experience with ant-bites developed my sensitivity to the process to such a degree that I could sense when an ant was going to light into me. My vision is slightly blurry from the venom, but I have evolved a powerful kinship with my enemy.

He'd be moving along, moving along, down, down, down, down, my leg - toodley doo, toodley doo. "Don't mind me Mr. Man, I'm just tiptoeing along minding my own business. Yep, I'm just shuffling along down this-here pants leg looking for something to drag back home."

Then, all of a sudden, he'd do a little pause, shuffle, ant-dance, right, left, two-step, approach, waggle, address, and tear into my leg like a 6-legged soldier demon with a glandular problem and abusive parents. When I got home there were dead ants all in the tops of my socks and the cuffs of my pants.

Several brave ants appeared to have died attempting to erect a tiny ant-flag on the crest of my left boot.

They died covering themselves in insect glory.

JGE

Taking it All Off

Some of you have been taught (in error) that there are four seasons to every trip around the sun. That’s simply inaccurate.

There are actually two seasons each year: summer, and hunting season. Hunting season is my favorite of the two, by far. So, it is with great pleasure that I report to you the official start of my favorite season of the year: HUNTING SEASON. Yeah, its on.

This weekend my travels led me to Griffin, followed by Columbus, Cusseta, Sylvester, Macon, Bolingbroke, and Smarr; none of which you're likely to find on a map with great ease (except Griffin - that one's pretty easy).

Saturday marked the start of archery season which I've been looking forward to with great alacrity for approximately 12 months. However, due to a scheduling conflict I ended up shooting dove all weekend instead of deer.

You'll not hear me complain.

The field we shot was a recently-cutover cornfield that was absolutely full of birds. I knew about that part ahead of time. It was also absolutely full of ants. I found out about the ants a great while after finding out about the birds - much to my dismay.

At some point during the furious melee of hot lead and feathers I managed to gently lay my body down and roll myself in a red-hot ant village; teeming with furious ant citizens.

Like many other of life's little mistakes; I didn't realize it at the time.

The interesting thing about ants is that they are quite small; whereas I am quite large. Another interesting thing about ants is that they seem to maintain a deep attachment to their dirt villages. From what I can tell they greatly resent any sort of booted intrusion; but they go about retribution with a certain amount of conniving coordination and delay that’s quite admirable. As a testament to their stealth and ingenuity; I had ants (literally) in my pants for a solid hour or so before realizing something was amiss.

So, approximately one hour after my unwitting intrusion; after I had tromped a half mile out across the open field to pick up a downed bird, some ant Chairman of Homeland Offense gave the order and the troops lit into me as if my freckled skin were an insect Western Front. The infantry threw all it had at me in the initial salvo; then called in reinforcements hidden in my boot socks. The attack mounted in ferocity starting with the lower thigh and running all the way down into my boots. With a secondary attack underway on the delicate skin of my underarm and snipers beginning to colonize my right cheeck, I surrendered the beach and attempted to retreat. A brief moment of clarity seared its way through the pain and, in flash of total calm, I realized: "I am about to be naked."

You might think the sight of a screaming naked person writhing across an open cornfield with a loaded shotgun would draw a crowd, but it doesn't.

I know.

JGE

Counting to 20

Sometimes in life one comes across individuals in the course of business that just ain't right...in the head. I've had the good fortune to cross paths with more than my fair share of such individuals, and the following is an email from one of my favorites. I think it might also serve as a solid portrait of the automotive experiences one might encounter while living as a young, blonde, 20something in Atlanta.

I would love to be sitting at home watching one of the numerous Judge shows, but instead its Monday, my head hurts, and I'm at work. Plus, I had a flat tire this morning. Well, really the alarm on my Beamer went off last night on the way home from training. To be honest - I couldn't tell which tire it was that was flat according to the alarm.

They all look so small to me.

So anyhow, I went to the gas station this morning; (yes, I drove my car with a flat tire) and proceeded to fill all of the tires with air. No, I didn't use a gauge - I counted to 20 for each and figured that was enough air to get me to work and not enough to cause the tire to pop.

Anyways, I get to the front tire on the passenger side - and at this point some guy drives up to use the air. I am thinking, "great, just my luck." I feel intimidated when a boy catches me trying to perform boy activities, like filling up a tire.

So anyways, he offered me the use of the gauge and checked the front tire pressure for me. I thought I spotted what might be the culprit causing the loss of air pressure, so I asked his opinion; "does this look like a screw in my tire to you?" And he agreed. It was a screw.

Ding! 1 point for me - I located the problem.

So anyhow, he helped me fill up the tire to get to work and even gave me some anti-bacterial lotion to put on my hands. Unfortunately, anti-bac does not get rid of the nasty, dirty, crud that moved from my tire and rim to into my newly painted nails ("Sweetheart" was the color Kelly picked out on Saturday).

Anyhow, my thumb still has black crud on it and I see a speck on my thumbnail. Guess I won't be giving the thumbs-up sign today.

Update: I just counted. I see dirt on two other fingers and my other thumb. For sure - no thumbs up today.

Seeya!

Part II - The Tire

Here is the much-anticipated ending to my dear friend's tire problems discussed in an earlier post - as told to me.

Friday morning I woke up with every intention of heading over to Firestone first-thing to have that pesky screw removed from my tire. The idea was that I would repair the tire early so Kelly and I could get on the road to Charleston at a decent time. Unfortunately, I was 3/4 of the way through The Devil Wears Prada and didn't feel like getting off the couch to have a stupid tire repaired. Priorities.

I guess it was a little after noon when I finally headed over to Firestone to put in my tire repair request. The hairy little guy immediately asked if I had "run-flat" tires and honestly, I really thought I did. I mean, one of them is flat, but its still running, right?

I maintained that line of reasoning until he explained (in not the nicest voice) that I most definitely did not have run-flat tires.

In an attempt to make him laugh I said, "Hey what do I know? I'm a girl!" He didn't appreciate my attempt at humor and I actually think I might have offended him on some level; whatever level you can offend a man named "Claude" on. We then had a brief exchange regarding my options at which point I asked, "how long I would have to wait for the tire to be repaired?" To which he replied, "over an hour." I thought to myself, "over an hour! Are you kidding me? I have a five-hour drive in front of me!"

Unfortunately, "thinking to myself" and "talking through my mouth" are quite often one and the same.

Mr. Harry Neckline did his best to mimic me and informed me that he was quite serious and that there were "lots of people with nails in their tires before me." I said "thanks!" and started to get in the car. He looked at me shocked and asked, "where I thought I was going?" I told him that there HAD to be another shop that could repair my tire in under an hour.

I wished him a fabulous weekend as I brushed him back with the mirror on my way out.

I called my step-dad and told him that I had a feeling, deep in my gut, that the tire would be okay for the five-hour drive to Charleston. I also called Kelly to tell her I was on my way to get her, and we were going to be driving on the tire with a screw in it. She seemed to have no problem with that proposition which, in retrospect, concerns me for her.

I guess it was about 2:30 pm when we got on the interstate. I would estimate that we made it approximately 43 minutes down the road before that stupid tire alarm went off again.

Are you kidding me?!?!? What about my gut feeling?!?!

We decide to grab a bite to eat and I filled the tire while Kelly sat in the car (complaining). The wall of the tire said something about 51, so I figured that meant I was supposed to fill it to 51, right?

I reset the alarm and we got going again. We were making much better time, so I decided to call my parents. I explained to Mom that I filled the tire to 51 since the wall said 51. Her high pitched "Are you kidding Paula?!!" caused me to wonder if I had, indeed, put too much air in the tire.

"Pull off immediately and let 15 lbs of air out of that tire. Are you crazy? If you hit a bump that tire is going to pop!"

No, I am not crazy, but I do have a schedule to keep and the stupid tire was not helping matters.

Kelly and I pulled off at the next exit whereupon Kelly produced a tire gauge that had apparently been hidden somewhere on her person. I know I certainly don't have one. The air pressure readings in each tire were 50, 30, 40, and 40, respectively. Averaging that out equates to about 40 so I figured we were okay. Kelly briefly perused the owners manual and stated that we "might have overfilled 3 of the 4 tires and OH MAN TURN IT UP PAULA!! TURN IT UP PAULA!! THAT’S THE NEW KEEN SONG!!"

I quickly moved from tire to tire and let the air back out.

While I was in the midst of that delicate manouver a huge 4X4 work truck with a bunch of guys in it pulled over onto the shoulder. Since I was busy working on the tires; I told Kelly that she had to tell the guys we were okay.

When the guys rolled up and asked what was going on, Kelly told them that we "have too much air."

I was about to fall on the ground laughing so I kept my face hidden behind one of the rims and pretended to be studying something complicated in the undercarriage. They really couldn't understand what Kelly was saying through the 110-decibel Keen song and her simultaneous tears and laughter.

She finally mumbled something to the effect that we "really were okay" and they headed on down the road in a cloud of testosterone and illegal emissions.

I am happy to report that we finally made it to Charleston a few hours later with no additional alarms, bells, or whistles of any kind.

My lessons learned during this trip:

1. I really shouldn't have a drivers license.
2. I shouldn't own a motorized conveyance of any kind.
3. My friends trust my judgment way more than they should.
4. My reasoning ability is somewhat more limited than I had anticipated.

Hope to see you on I-85 or 400 soon!

Piggy

A Blue Kayak of Average Quality

Nearly everyone has had a roomate at one point or another. I have too. In fact, I like roomates so much - I have 4 of them. Roomates are great. Anyway, it gets lonely in a house by yourself!! For that reason, if none other, a roomate is a very handy item to keep with you.

Inevitably one's path in life tends to diverge from the paths of those with whom one cohabitates. It is an inescapable truth that I have (unfortunately) been party to on numerous occasions. In fact Alvin, King of the Terrace Level, recently left us for greener pastures.

His blue kayak and antique bedstead stayed.

It didn't take us long to realize that various of Alvin's personal effects were in no immediate danger of moving towards Alvin's new pasture under their own power; and friends: Alvin was nowhere to be found.

It is true that we heard tell of him in the Himalayas. Matt saw his likeness carved into a roadstone in Southern Mozambique. Seth saw him whirling with the dervishes in India. Danny was briefly abducted by pirates in the Tortugas who claimed to have known Alvin passably well, but we knew better. No pirate sallies forth without his trusty, blue kayak!

In order to jog Alvin's memory we sent him the following liquidation announcement:

FOR SALE:

1 "antique" bed of dubious heritage and quality

1 blue kayak of average quality (without paddle)

8 pounds of manure (horse) inside a blue kayak of average quality

6 spent cigarette butts inside a blue kayak of average quality

19 honeybaked hams of (previously) excellent quality inside a blue kayak of average quality

1 toilet seat gently stapled to a blue kayak of average quality

197 beer cans inside a blue kayak of average quality

If you act now; the dudes of the dude ranch will throw in the manure, cigarette butts, and honeybaked hams totally free of charge with the purchase of your first blue kayak of average quality.

Better hurry - Matt has been wanting to do something to that kayak for weeks and I don’t think I can restrain him much longer. He's just too hairy.

P.S. He just got a new drill.

Love,

THE DUDE RANCH

The Impending Collision

Last year (on yet another blind date) my willing accomplice mentioned that she had recently invested in a new pair of Seven Jeans (they are, after all, for all mankind). Naturally, I inquired into what sort of return she anticipated on that investment.

She was not amused.

Typically, a good rule of thumb is to gauge the response to a joke, then respond in kind. Instead I laughed quite a lot, and for entirely too long.

My polls took a nosedive.

In a last-ditch attempt to take back the night; I ingeniously followed up the above obvious social gaffe with the rare and legendary impending collision scare on the way home. You know: that’s where your unwitting passenger is absentmindedly taking in the scenery and you (you mischevious little devil) lock up the brakes while simultaneously screaming bloody native heathenism at the top of your lungs.

Friends, you cannot begin to imagine the breadth of response that comes from that clever little conversation starter....In this case we had a very nice conversation about the wisdom of "frightening people who had recently been in major vehicle collisions."

Ohhhhh waiter! Check please?

JGE

The Emotional Hijack

One day several years ago I felt it incumbent upon me to gently admonish one of my closest female friends with the following pithy bit of wisdom:

"....And I will warn you that sappyness or hijacking someone else's emotional situation for your own will definitely get you teased...by me.

You know that thing where certain persons crave emotional release so badly that they take on somebody else's junk as their own, then freak out about it just so they can blow off emotional steam?

Thats the legendary emotional hijack. "

The relational aftermath immediately following that conversation could only be described as an emotional steamroller.

The important thing I learned that day was this:

I don't understand.

Anything.

And its best if I remember that.

JGE

You're Standing Too Close To My SCORCHED EARTH

I just found out there is a corporate finance vehicle referred to as a "SCORCHED EARTH POLICY." I heard that term and immediately thought, "I dont know what this is, but it sounds AWESOME and I want to be a part of it."

Turns out - thats where the stockholders of a company have a deal in place to financially blast the company away in the event of a hostile takeover. Its really a preventative measure rather than an all-out attack on the aquisitive company, but it still sounds neat.

Who knew there was anything that insanely cool lurking in the dusty confines of your corporate finance textbook? All I remember from that class was something about a "beta" and asymptotic graphs of risk. I also remember how my professor was such a genius that he took his college loans and, instead of paying off his debt to the school, leveraged himself into mineral-rights trading. So, what I came out of that class with was a general sense of dissatisfaction over my inability to make money off mineral rights.

By the time he got out of college he was a millionaire and had property all over the place. When I got out of college I had a 1993 Ford Explorer with all the carpet torn out of the back and no other property of any kind....BUT I now know about SCORCHED EARTH policies, and apparently he doesn't. Clearly I WIN.

I'm going home now, and I'm taking my SCORCHED EARTH POLICY with me.

JGE

Sweet, Sweet, Des Moines

The interesting thing about Des Moines is……. The airport. Because as far as I can tell it doesn't have air conditioning and it smells like a hospital would smell if hospitals admitted farm animals.

While in Iowa a few months ago I also noticed a stunning lack of racial diversity of any kind and an unbelievable number of pregnant women. And twins. Lots of twins. And milk. Everyone drinks milk. I had to convince my waiter at the restaurant that "No, I really do NOT want any milk. No, seriously. I mean it. Get that milk away from me."

I cant quite grasp it, but I'm almost certain that there is a milk/twins/pregnancy link that I haven't quite figured out yet.

I think I heard they're attributing the airport AC shutdown to a cow that got sucked into its air intake. I guess that’s what you get for parking your airport in the middle of a cornfield.

Moo.

JGE

The Blind Date

I excerpted the below from an old email I sent to a friend evaluating a blind date.

So the date was a success, I think. I'm basing that on the fact that she didn’t ask to leave early.

Other than that I'm totally oblivious to all hints, subliminal signals, and hormonal indicators that most people would identify and interpret to indicate a positive or negative experience.

Nobody cried

Or vomited

And she didn’t hit me

…hard….

So I guess that went well.

All things considered - not bad for a blind date.

Dead Man Walking

In attempt at tracking the efficacy of my new low carb low calorie low sodium low fat low taste low fun weight-loss program I have decided to post regular results on my blog; displaying my fat American shame to the world. Enjoy.

May 29, 2006 - Day 1: 224.5lbs: I'm a big fat dummy. I have pronounced jowls. I feel like a walking face. Don't look at me, I'm hideous.
Day 7: 218lbs:
I'm starving and I can't feel my legs, but I've lost bodyweight roughly equal to an average-sized newborn.
Day 14: 224lbs:
Whoops. Week at the beach. I swam out too far after what I thought was a floating snack pack and a fisherman tried to harpoon me. It turned out to be seaweed.
Day 18: 218.5lbs:
Back on track and whaling down with an unprecedented 5.5lb loss. I have confirmed visual contact with my toes again, but I'd sell my house for a twinkie right now. A twinkie lite. A snack cracker. Six grains of rice. Anything. Instead I'm having a nice snack of...water.
Day 19: 222lbs: AAACCCCKKK**!!!#$#$$$%CCKKK!!! How in the world am I 3.5lbs HEAVIER today? That is not physically possible. The laws of the universe have finally betrayed me. Whats next? Gravity? If I start losing gravity I'm going to be really upset.
Day 20: 220lbs: So far it would appear that I have lost 15.5lbs over the last 20 days while simultaneously gaining back 13lbs. I'm not certain how that is possible, but the numbers do not lie. Maybe I should get a blood test. That'll fix it. A good blood test'll fix anything. If I go to the doctor and get that cholesterol test done I always feel right as rain when I leave....Even if his printout says I'm technically dead from a cholesterol overdose.
Day 27: 218lbs: Back on track. No clue why I'd show up two pounds lighter because I definitely haven't done anything to precipitate the loss. Maybe I've been snoring harder in my sleep. Thats great exercise AND its low impact. Nobody ever blew out a knee from excessive snoring.
Day 30: 221lbs: So, not great progress for the last couple of weeks, but I went in to workout with my trainer again today anyway. Big mistake. Sometimes I get myself into these situations where I'm doing something; then all of a sudden my brain goes "wait, now remind me - how did I get here?" Today was one of those.
I was stoically plugging away at 100 leg lifts when my all-bones-and-muscle trainer eased a step closer and suddenly hollered, "IS CAESAR NOT MERCIFUL!!!??" right in my ear. Naturally, I fell off the other side of the bench. The chuckle that followed could only be described as "despotic."
And I pay for this.
Day 75: 212lbs: Ok hey, a new all time high low!!! On one hand, that’s a big step in the right direction. On the other hand, its depressing that my fat rump has grown to 212lbs from a svelte 200lbs even.

Lets face it: I was not built for speed.

Also, I'm eating beef jerky like its going out of style. I'm not kidding, it’s the only thing standing between me and the grim reaper. The Pemmican Jerky Company CEO has started sending me holiday greeting cards.

For Mom

TESTIMONIALS
Memorial Service
For
Jennifer S. Ewing
July 31, 2006

James G. Ewing, Jr.

I think my family fought the tendency this week to blame itself for this trouble. Surely a family as strong as mine could have prevented this atrocity with more care for Mom’s safety, more attention to her whereabouts, or more warning on the dangers of riding alone.

What I have realized is this: only things can be made safe. You can hide away your treasures from the world, ensuring that they endure well beyond their use, but you cannot protect a person from the attacks of a ruthless enemy.

Mom was a staunch believer in spiritual warfare. Anytime we felt our family coming under spiritual attack, Mom was quick to remind us that a clever enemy only lashes out against a threat. She always said that, as a Christian, if you’re not under attack, you’re probably on the wrong track.

What we all must realize is that her death took place on the front lines of a battle much older than anyone in range of my voice. The enemy is smart, and Mom was always on the front line.
She was on the front lines of everything - especially anything funny. What can you say about a 54 year-old woman who watched Napoleon Dynamite on a weekly basis and regularly quoted Ferris Bueller’s Day Off at the dinner table?

Mom played her group of seventh-grade Home-school British Literature Students a clip from The Blues Brothers and created a miniature rift in the Home-school parent community.

She was hilarious.

I thumbed through Mom’s library this week and I came across a quote from Elisabeth Elliot’s book “A Lamp for My Feet.” She said:

When we imagine that our problems are so deep, so insoluble, or so unusual that no one really understands us, we delude ourselves…Our story, whatever it is, is an old one, and He who has walked the human road has entered fully into our experiences of sorrow and pain and has overcome them. He has comforted others in our situation, gone with them into the same furnaces and lions’ dens, and has brought them out without smell of fire or mark of tooth.


Hebrews 4:15 and 16 says:

Ours is not a high priest unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who, because of his likeness to us, has been tested in every way, only without sin. Let us therefore boldly approach the throne of our gracious God, where we may receive mercy and in his grace find timely help.

Today I ask for help, but I also bear witness to a life well-lived and a family built strong on Christ; the only foundation that can’t be shaken.

An annual tradition in our family was for Mom to read Truman Capote’s book “A Christmas Memory” as we sat by the tree. The last paragraph details the death of Capote’s dear friend and it’s a reflection of how I feel. Mom never made it through the end without crying, but I’ll try:

And when [she’s gone] that happens, I know it. A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, walking across a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven.

Today we feel like a thousand kites cut loose from their moorings…..but we’re not. We’re bound tightly to the hand of Jesus; connected to one another in a web of love crafted by my mother.

Hey, Haircut!

Friday night Melissa surprised me with tickets to the Guster / Ray Lamontagne concert at Chastain. As you all know - my polls come out consistently in favor of girfriends who get off their wallets. So, in a very predictable trend - preliminary results have shown a marked rise in Melissa's girlfriend poll from a near-record 97% to an all-time high 99% (with a standard deviation of approximately .9901).

As part of the "Classic Chastain" series, tickets to the event far exceeded my $75 credit limit, not to mention my frugal nature. So I feel like, on the whole, it was possibly the only profitable date I have ever engaged in. Plus, it was my first Classic Chastain Guster concert. Hopefully it was not my last (free) one.

As an added bonus Melissa not only arranged for the event, but she also prepared an entire Chastain-table meal complete with carry-in coolers, tray tables, candles, tablecloth and napkins (matching), wine glasses, champagne flutes, wine, champagne, two kinds of chicken, strawberries, two kinds of salad, cake, and various other eatables that are entirely not on my diet. She even thought to bring the thermacell mosquito repellent. Genius.

To put it mildly: I enjoyed it. A lot.

All I planned to do was show up (late), get in the car, pay for parking, park, complain about the heat, and complain about the walk, eat, drink, enjoy the concert, and then leave. That’s it. The requirements placed on me were entirely within my capabilities.

It was planned to a "T."

Melissa even brought a handheld personal fan with foam blades; powered by two AA batteries to help us beat the formidable heat. What a great idea! A mini fan, just for you! Check out this link to get your own: http://www.alwaysbrilliant.com/aa/aspx-products/1-488/2-50809/3-1/bb/mini_portable_fan,create_your_own_personal_breeze_anywhere!.htm

It's a great little device. You flick the switch, point it at your face, and cool away. Its very refreshing. And no, of COURSE there isn't anything dangerous about a mini fan!!....until you get it too close to your girlfriend's long, blonde hair.

Whoops.

Melissa's piercing screams shattered the peaceful pre-concert night as my portable electronic min-fan quickly and inextricably wrapped a 1/4" thick locke of blonde hair into its tiny mini-axle. Rows C - F looked on in stunned silence as I neatly sliced away 4 inches of her hair along with the offending mini fan.

It only goes to show you: sometimes things in life go as planned and sometimes they don’t; but regardless - it is always a good idea to carry a pocket knife.

JGE

The Lightest Brush of Porcelain

I have to admit that I'm not a huge fan of the public restroom concept. Its unpleasant. I just don't like it very much; at least partly because I'm extremely conscious of the potential unsanitary condition created by even the lightest brush of porcelain, plastic, or stainless steel on skin….Any skin.

I don't want to touch the seats, sinks, or door handles. I don't want to brush past the door frames. I don't want to grasp the hot and cold knobs on the sink. I definitely don't want to handle the paper towel dispenser.

Unfortunately it’s a necessary part of life, so I've learned to cope, but mostly I just don't think about it. Today I did, but what grabbed me today wasn't the germ situation; it’s the urinals. In my office restroom there are two. One is three feet lower than the other.

I don't know why.

I have, however, noticed that people, for no clear reason, tend to gravitate towards one or the other. If you wander into your office restroom on day 1 and find Joe standing at righty; chances are good that’s where you can find Joe on any restroom visit in the future. He has committed.

I, for one, have opted not to make that important commitment just yet. I'm concentrating on ferreting out the pros and cons of both righty and lefty before making the call.

I'm also a little thrown by the melamine stall dividers. I mean, seriously, take it on down to the floor - you know? Why leave the shoe-identification gap at the bottom? Was that one additional foot really enough to blow the construction budget? I'd love to listen in on that conversation.

"Well, almost done. Just have to put the walls up on this here stall."
"Walls? Don’t you mean 'dividers'?"
"No, you know - a wall. All the way to the floor. I mean, it’s a bathroom. You need privacy."
"I'm sorry. That’s just not in our budget. Leave it just high enough off the floor for shoes to poke through."

There are probably only a few times in life that I really, really mind having my space invaded by feet. That’s one of them. Next time some guy's docsider cheats off into my side - he's going to get a solid stomp right in the toe.

Also - if that weren't bad enough, I think stall walls are shrinking. I walked into one restroom recently where you could easily slide an average-size dictionary through the gaps around the door. I guess it does help reduce the tendency for unwanted stall-handle rattlers.

I don't need a dictionary to tell you what I think about handle rattlers.

JGE

Wherefore Art Thou?

It has recently come to my attention that I am sadly lacking in the poetry-writing department. Furthermore, my most recent relationship user poll has indicated that I should begin to consider developing my talents in that arena and start putting some serious thought into directing those efforts towards a certain someone.

I'm fairly well-educated. I went to college. Studied the great thinkers. Read some Shakespeare, Faust, Goethe, maybe a little Sappho. So sure, I understand poetry. I like Robert Service quite alot and Service was a great poet! He tended to stay within the comfortable confines of man-talk. I can appreciate that, but somehow I doubt any young lady I know would appreciate the appelation "claw fingered" or "wanton." See below:

Dance-Hall Girls
~ A Poem by Robert Service ~

Where are the dames I used to know
In Dawson in the days of yore?
Alas, it's fifty years ago,
And most, I guess, have "gone before."
The swinging scythe is swift to mow
Alike the gallant and the fair;
And even I, with gouty toe,
Am glad to fill a rocking chair.

Ah me, I fear each gaysome girl
Who in champagne I used to toast,
or cozen in the waltz's whirl,
Is now alas, a wistful ghost.
Oh where is Touch The Button Nell?
Or Minnie Dale or Rosa Lee,
Or Lorna Doone or Daisy Bell?
And where is Montreal Maree?

Fair ladies of my lusty youth,
I fear that you are dead and gone:
Where's Gertie of the Diamond Tooth,
And where the Mare of Oregon?
What's come of Violet de Vere,
Claw-fingered Kate and Gumboot Sue?
They've crossed the Great Divide, I fear;
Remembered now by just a few.

A few who like myself can see
Through half a century of haze
A heap of goodness in their glee
And kindness in their wanton ways.
Alas, my sourdough days are dead,
Yet let me toss a tankard down . . .
Here's hoping that you wed and bred,
And lives of circumspection led,
Gay dance-hall girls o Dawson Town!

Now, wasn't that nice? Lusty youths? Claw-fingered Kate? Thats good poetry. I'm sure I could probably whip up some pithy, over-the-moon, wherefore-art-thou talk, but certainly not in the daylight, and definitely not during deer season. I just don't have the strength.

Bad Carbitude

Monday is a fitting day to begin any sort of torturous endeavor, so I figured - why not start a low-carb diet this Monday? I'm starting my whale-down workshop today so watch out Krispy Kreme - your profit margin just dropped about 2%.

Diets always sounds like a great idea while happily satiated and sitting around the remains of Sunday lunch, but when confronted with the glorious offerings of Rosa's pizza, I tend to inwardly curse my well-intended post-lunch declarations. Of course, then I'm like "well I might as well workout today too (at 6AM) if I'm going to eat healthy." I think you can see the downward spiral from there.

You know you're relatively overweight when your family becomes so accustomed to your porkosity that they feel comfortable remarking on it. "Well, you know how round your face gets..." is not on my top ten list of things I'd expect to hear from a conscientious support group.

The end result of my well-intended new diet is that I'm not only starving, but I'm really sore - sometimes in specific places, but mostly just all over. Plus, my little pinkie toe appears to be sprained. A man ought not ever to be made aware of his pinkie toe.

There is nothing so discomfiting as an acute awareness of one's pinkie toe. It is hard to feel masculine and powerful if you're forced to consider a pinkie toe because an internal undercurrent of pinkie-toe awareness is very distracting. They are perhaps the most unmanly and powerless human appendages ever devised so I prefer to ignore them altogether. When I can't ignore them - it’s a problem.

Dating has taught me that many women seem to feel much better after a nice long conversation about their most recent painful life event. Having talked about my pinkie toe issue, now I think I feel a great deal worse. I can only conclude, then, that despite my pinkie toe awareness - I am not a woman. Thats good news.

Also, I just got a Krispy Kreme mailer with a 10% discount. I've got that going for me. Monday might not be so bad after all.

JGE

Used, Dented, Damaged, Slightly Scratched Car Parts for Sale

It turns out that a 2006 Honda Accord hood costs $1,200 to replace. I know this because I bought one.

Not a Honda Accord - a Honda Accord hood.

I bought one because I backed into my girlfriend's Honda Accord parked in my driveway on Monday morning. It gave up the ghost with a very pleasing"Crunch."

My insistence that the large bumper-shaped dent in her hood "wasn't that bad" has done very little for my love life. As a concession I offered to buy her a used dirt bike for $1,200. I figured we could share the new dirt bike and just leave the dented hood alone. Hoods really aren't that useful if you ask me. I'd just as soon see down into the engine guts on my car. That way you can see right off if anything is amiss.

My kind suggestion didn't help me much and from the looks of things I won't be enjoying the blazing speed of a Kawasaki 250cc dirt bike anytime soon either.

So now I have no dirt bike, no money, and a dented Honda Accord hood. I also just got a property tax bill in the mail. Oh, and one of these days I'm probably going to die.

From the looks of things I'd say a Honda Accord might be involved.


JGE

Beauty Fades

This week my hotel manager put me in a handicap-accessible room; ostensibly to take advantage of the king bed. I had to kneel down to access the thermostat, the clothes bar in the closet was so low that my pants all dragged the floor, and I managed to break the shower chair neatly in half while trying to work the faucet.

Next time I'll take the two doubles.

Last week I spent two nights in a bridal suite (bride not included) because there were no other rooms. I hung my clothes on the shower rod to steam the wrinkles out and overspray soaked my suit jacket just before dinner.

I showed up to an attorney's office the next morning in slacks and a polo shirt only to find myself surrounded by black suits and red ties. On the way home I shoved a binder into my attache case and accidentally crushed a Chic-fil-a honey mustard packet that had snuck into one of the pockets - leaking honey mustard all over my wallet and keys.

Its hard to know what to do when one finds oneself apprehended by one's boss in the restroom while scrubbing a yellow gummy substance out of one's wallet and keys. I find the best approach is to shrug and grin like an amiable dolt while wildly gesturing in an incomprehensible manner. People don't normally stick around for much of that.

On the way back, after I approached the airline ticket agent with my credit card; I discovered that my assistant had erroneously booked me on another flight....the one that had just taken off.

I was upgraded to first class on the flight home - a potential indicator that my travel luck might be changing....Until I realized that I had been upgraded, but my 4 bosses weren't. Ridicule heaped high upon me as the majority of the upper-level Mergers and Acquisitions Consulting group filed past traveler Ewing in seat 1A on their way to the back of the plane.

When I finally found my truck in the airport parking deck I found that someone had smeared axle grease all over the passenger-side door, and honestly, I don't know why.  I guess they just don't like silver pickups.

Finally, I returned to my office from traveling and promptly dumped Sprite all over myself in the kitchen in front of our managing partner.

So it turns out - as I have gotten older many aspects of my life have changed, but I'm definitely still clumsy. Thats the one constant.

Beauty fades, but clumsy is forever.

JGE.