A Healthy Fear

If you come from an extremely large family known for being generally "not quite right" as I do; you'll understand what I mean when I say you tend to cultivate a lifestyle of mute acceptance of the weird and unusual.

I was headed North on 400 the other day and as I idly noticed that I had just blown by my exit, I started thinking - I wonder if any of the run-of-the-mill pet peeves our family shares are actually mild phobias? By the time I'd gotten off, and back ON, the interstate headed South I had come to a conclusion. In a word: YES.

For starters, now I'm afraid of missing exits. I've done it so often in the last year or so that I have begun trying to trick myself into exiting on time by always choosing the "exit only" lane as early as humanly possible. If you see that "exit only" sign you better get out of the way. I'm 6,800lbs of unwashed steel hurtling your way like a four-wheel-drive comet and I do my own brake work.

I dredged up a list of typical phobias the other day and started mulling them over, so lets play a fun game: here are a few of my favorite phobias - read them and see which apply to you. My responses are in bold.

Amychophobia- Fear of scratches or being scratched. Nothing worse than that burning scratch feeling. Especially being scratched on an exposed screw. I found that out last night when the door fell on me.

Ankylophobia- Fear of immobility of a joint. I jammed my finger once and I thought it wasn't ever going to fix. Of course, now I can make it "pop" anytime I want, which is a huge bonus and even a potential interviewing skill if you play it right. But really, who wants a finger stuck straight up? Its probably an advantage if you're the idiot in the stretch Tahoe in front of me at 10th and Piedmont, other than that: not good.

Apeirophobia- Fear of infinity. Yes. Absolutely. Lets not talk about it.

Arachibutyrophobia- Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth. I actually have this recurring thought that it would be really miserable if you got that bell-clapper thing at the back of your throat somehow stuck in peanut butter. Eh? See, it bothers you too.

Atomosophobia- Fear of atomic explosions. Hiroshima? I haven't forgotten about that one. How could I? My grandmother mentioned it every time I saw her for 20 years.

Aulophobia- Fear of flutes. Actually more a fear of flutists really, but sure, all those silvery buttons and that weird reed you slobber all over? Count me out.

Aviophobia or Aviatophobia- Fear of flying. 650mph in something the size of 6 school buses supposedly floating along on "wings" 10 miles above the earth? Well, I ain't seen 'em flap yet, and buddy - don't lets forget it was built by the lowest bidder.

Bolshephobia- Fear of Bolsheviks. I don't know, but they always seem to be really upset. And they also seem to want to carry pitchforks quite alot. Emotionally unstable + pitchfork = X. Solve for X.

Bogyphobia- Fear of bogeys or the bogeyman. I wasn't afraid of them until somebody actually put this down, which makes me wonder if there are other people worried about bogeymen - they must exist. So, now I'm worried.

Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women. Ah, yes. They occasionally breathe fire - I've seen it.

Chemophobia- Fear of chemicals or working with chemicals. Nah, but I SHOULD be.

Cholerophobia- Fear of anger or the fear of cholera. I mean - I don't want to find a nice bag of cholera in my stocking at Christmas, you know?

Chorophobia- Fear of dancing. Yeah, ok. Sometimes.

Coulrophobia- Fear of clowns. Who isn't? The bogeyman (who is apparently real now) lives in clowns.

Cyberphobia- Fear of computers or working on a computer. Tell me about it.

Cyclophobia- Fear of bicycles. Ever wipe out at the bottom of that big hill? Want to do it again? Me neither.

Cypridophobia or Cypriphobia or Cyprianophobia or Cyprinophobia - Fear of prostitutes or venereal disease. Yes, and yes. I have sort of a "life rule" about this one.

Defecaloesiophobia- Fear of painful bowel movements. Talk to my buddy Josh Youssef about his last plane flight from London to Nice.

Dentophobia- Fear of dentists. "Hey! Yeah! Cram a rubber bite block into the back of my mouth and start drilling into a live nerve while I'm still awake. That sounds good. Let me pay you. No, really - I want to. Take hundreds of dollars of my money, then when I come back next week, drop a $1,500 gold crown down my throat and tell me to come back when I 'find it.'"

Dutchphobia- Fear of the Dutch. Yeah, I don't know. People who live in houses with round roofs on top of big dams? You know what else lives in round-topped houses on dams? Beavers. Sorry Little Drummer Boy, but I'm not super keen on 40lb rodents either.

I hear the Dutch are like water rodents - muskrat people or something. I'm not certain that I'm not afraid of muskrats too.

And wooden shoes? Seriously? Thats what you came up with in 2,000 years? Wooden shoes? Alright, well - you can strap those bad boys on and clog right on back home.

Dysmorphophobia- Fear of deformity. My right ear is significantly lower than my left. I have to keep an eye on the haircutter lady or she'll line me up on the lobes, then when you look me dead in the eye my face seems to be melting. So, yes.

Ecclesiophobia- Fear of church. 6 years in a baptist church choir will do that to you. I'm sorry, but those choir "robes?" - call it what you want Dr. Condra, but thats a dress.

Electrophobia- Fear of electricity. Ever tried to strip a live wire with your teeth? All my breakers are clearly marked now.

Eleutherophobia- Fear of freedom. What would I do if I didn't have to come here everyday?

Ephebiphobia- Fear of teenagers. 4yrs of youth leadership. Orthodontia and outdoor urination - thats what I remember.

Epistaxiophobia- Fear of nosebleeds. Ever happen to you when you're trying to give a speech to a crowd? No? How do you feel about nosebleeds now that you're worried about it?

Equinophobia- Fear of horses. I have a friend who says he's afraid of anything that produces feces bigger than his head. Puts it in perspective, eh?

Francophobia- Fear of France or French culture. (Gallophobia, Galiophobia). Yes, fortunately I speak French so I at least know what they're saying about Americans in Paris. You wouldn't like it.

Gamophobia- Fear of marriage. That big white dress reminds me an awful lot of a ghost....the ghost of your FREEDOM.

Gephyrophobia or Gephydrophobia or Gephysrophobia- Fear of crossing bridges. Did you see "A Bridge Too Far?" The Germans blew up tons of bridges. You never know when some German might want to blow up the one you're on. See below.

Germanophobia- Fear of Germany or German culture. Why do they hate bridges so much?

Gerascophobia- Fear of growing old. Yes, but I don't need to put my ear to the tracks to hear that train coming. Its headed my way and picking up speed.

Gymnophobia- Fear of nudity. I saw Kathy Bates naked in "About Schmidt" and I think that about did me in on naked people.

Gynephobia or Gynophobia- Fear of women. I'm afraid of anything that beats me every time.

Hadephobia- Fear of hell. Yeah. Sure. It bothers me. I'm bothered by hell.

Hellenologophobia- Fear of Greek terms or complex scientific terminology. Normally if somebody is telling you complex scientific terminology they're explaining something you didn't want to know about part of your body you didn't realize you had.

Helminthophobia- Fear of being infested with worms. Yup.

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia- Fear of long words. The irony that this is probably the longest word in the english language is not lost on me.

Hygrophobia- Fear of liquids, dampness, or moisture. See my basement blog.

Hylephobia- Fear of materialism or the fear of epilepsy. I'm not sure how materialism and epilepsy manage to get encapsulated into the same word, but that sounds terrible.

Isopterophobia- Fear of termites, insects that eat wood. Again, the curse of homeownership is that you lie awake at night listening carefully for the sound of a tiny meal going on somewhere in your house.

Leprophobia or Lepraphobia- Fear of leprosy. I will readily admit to fear of any disease that makes parts fall off you.

Lockiophobia- Fear of childbirth. Ah. Yes.

Luiphobia- Fear of lues, syphillis. Absolutely. Although I have no idea what "lues" are I know that it must be something nearly as bad as syphilis, so I'm definitely afraid of it.

Lutraphobia- Fear of otters. The problem with otters is they're not really cat-like, nor are they dog-like. They're "other" and thats a problem because I imagine when confronted with an otter - you're not quite sure what to do. Do I look it in the eye? Whistle? Throw a stick and holler? Back slowly away and throw all your foodstuffs into a ravine? Roast a marshmallow? Who knows? Nobody ever sees an otter.

Musophobia or Muriphobia- Fear of mice. Long hairless tail. Need I say more?

Myxophobia- Fear of slime. (Blennophobia). Uh huh.
Panophobia or Pantophobia- Fear of everything. Nice of them to wrap it all up in a bow for you, isn't it?
"What do you have??"
"Pantophobia."
"WAIT. IS THAT A NAPKIN!!!?? GET IT AWAY!!"

Papaphobia- Fear of the Pope. Men in skirts with funny hats are scary. Thats all there is to it.
Pediculophobia- Fear of lice. Uh huh.
Pteronophobia- Fear of being tickled by feathers. Uh huh.
Russophobia- Fear of Russians. Uh huh.
Taeniophobia or Teniophobia- Fear of tapeworms. Uh huh.

Taurophobia- Fear of bulls. I'm scared of anything that weighs 2,000lbs, has a terrible temper, pointy weapons, and doesn't care if you die.

Testophobia- Fear of taking tests. Uh huh.

Toxiphobia or Toxophobia or Toxicophobia- Fear of poison or of being accidently poisoned. Uh huh.

Trichinophobia- Fear of trichinosis. Uh huh.

Tyrannophobia- Fear of tyrants. Or choir teachers. Its the same thing.

Walloonphobia- Fear of the Walloons. Oh man. Theres something out there im supposed to be afraid of and I can't even identify it.

Xanthophobia- Fear of the color yellow or the word yellow. AAAH!

Zemmiphobia- Fear of the great mole rat. This one nearly ruined my life. I have a tiny problem with rats, a serious problem with moles (born BLIND?? how is that normal?), and an overactive imagination. A "GREAT MOLE RAT"??? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I'm certainly not ever going in the basement again.

Looks like I need some professional help. Unfortunately, I'm afraid of psychiatrists; thats latrophobia, in case you were wondering.

An Effective Retort

Over the weekend I posted (on Facebook) a picture of Daniel Slocumb reclining in a bamboo chair at the beach in a dirty white v-neck shirt. He has his arms crossed and the way the picture was framed up it looks like he's in a trailer park. Naturally, I made a comment on the picture sparking a line of discussion something along these lines:

Jimmy:
This is a difficult family photo to explain.

Daniel:
Yes, the fact that it is just so beautimous and, might I add, awesome - has left you dumbfounded and speechless.

Jimmy:
This is the sort of picture that will resurface during your trial in 2039.

Daniel:
I am pretty sure you mean YOUR trial...false allegations against an unwitting genius boy whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time will fall back to hurt you - not me…I'd blame the toadfish you caught yesterday if I were you.

Jimmy:
That wasn't a toadfish - I already told you: it was an Amazonian warrior woman in disguise. She tried to kill me with a 7ft spear.

Daniel:
Regardless of that, you better start running or hope, and I do mean hope, that the Dude Ranch does finally float away because I can hear the police sirens all the way from Jeffersonville Road. They're coming for YOU.

Jimmy:
You're cruising for a smack-bottom.

Daniel:
With you in handcuffs…I doubt it.

Jimmy:
The only thing thats going to be handcuffed is your face to my rump. Thats whats going to be handcuffed, DANIEL. Face handcuffs - write that down.

Don't make me set your whole world on fire, Sally.

Daniel:
The cops are monitoring you, you know...they just read your threats and I heard that they were bringing not only a straight jacket, but also a "Hannibal Lecter" mask and a set of grillz so that you cannot speak unless they want you to.

Jimmy:
Oh yeah? The cops are monitoring you through a homing beacon crammed into your....Well, you know….….Shoe.

Daniel:
What they dont know is that I kicked you so hard I lost my shoe in your...toolbox…..and yes I am walking around with only one shoe on….quite uncomfortable.

Jimmy:
You're going to have a hard time talking around my size 11. Thats all I know.

Daniel:
Seeing as how one of my size tens is incommunicado, I will have to resort to the only thing that is more powerful: Toby, our Teacup Poodle….Watch your ankles.

Jimmy:
Nuh unh!!!!

Daniel:
……..
Which just goes to show you: "Nuh Unhhh!!" is the most effective retort ever devised by man.

Nothing Says "I Love You" Like a Pork Rind

I was enjoying a bag of tasty, flavorful pork rinds this afternoon during a quick break when it occurred to me that I should share some of that tasty pork goodness with my friends. Accordingly, I wandered down the hall to see if my good friend and associate, Betty, was interested in sharing my bag of deep fried pork fat.

I was rebuffed with great prejudice, but at one point during her rude commentary on the evils of swine - she let slip a crucial piece of information: Courtney G. (Gertrude) Swaim, HR Manager, loves pork rinds. I know my good friend Courtney to be blonde, thin, and under 30; so I can only assume that ALL thin, blonde, women under 30 love pork rinds.

Now, I know what you're wondering: "How can I get my lovely paramour to join me in the brotherhood of the pork cracklin' snack?" After a great deal of research I found a website (http://www.blogger.com/www.imitationpickles.org/rinds) dedicated to the pork rind which suggests some helpful tips on how you can get the blonde, thin, under 30 object of your affection to appreciate pork rinds as much as you do, see below:

What can I do to create the perfect Pork Rind experience for the girl I love?

The first thing that you have to do is prepare ahead of time so that you are not fumbling around when she is ready to experience the joy and beauty of Pork Rinds. I recommend cutting open a bag of Microwaveable Pork Rinds before hand, and pouring the unburst contents into a champagne glass. Have a microwave that you can watch the contents through, and put a single pork rind in it. With her at your side you should turn the microwave on for about a minute and a half, and watch together. The Pork Rind will grow before your eyes. Remove it from the microwave when it has grown to its fullest extent, and give it to her to eat while it is still hot and rubbery. After that take several more Pre-Pork Rinds and make a heart out of them. Put them in the microwave for a longer period of time (this will depend on your microwave), and you can watch the heart grow, and writhe as your love for each other also does. If this girl is truly special you may want to put a ring on an unexpanded Pork Rind, and cook it before hand so that you can honor her with a truly special and memorable Pork Rind Experience.

Naturally some people are embarassed of their pork rind habit - afraid to snack on fried pig offal in front of their respected friends and coworkers. Ridiculous, I know. However, pork rinds are not nearly as unhealthy as they seem. In fact the website mentioned above dealt with this question as succinctly as anyone might wish:

Aren't Pork Rinds unhealthy?

This is a great lie spread by the same people who try to make you believe that UFOs aren't stealing all of the Earth's butter. But we know the truth. Pork Rinds are perfectly healthy, and a great number of people die of heart attacks when they are thirty. However, among the eaters of Microwaveable Pork Rinds which have sixty percent less fat than fried pork rinds (it says so right on the bag) the chances of heart attack are greatly reduced. The majority of these people do not die of a heart attack until they are 32, or as late as 35.

Fortunately each bag of pork rinds comes with a brief Last Will and Testament in blank for your use. You have only to sign your ready-made will and snack away - your earthly possessions will rest easy in the capable hands of Rinds, Inc. in the event of your untimely demise.

So snack on! And enjoy your pork rinds in good health.

An Aggressive Brushing

The Sandy Springs Reporter's "Police Blotter" column recently reported the following:

"A man called the police and said that he was in fear of his life, of his wife, because she 'aggressively brushed up to him.' He said as the day went on, things progressively got worse to the point that she was "snatching things away from him." The officer recorded the complaint and then gave the man a brochure for 'Man Camp'."

Seriously?

If I had to stop and call the police everytime a woman snatched something away from me I wouldn't ever get all the way from HBO to the Outdoors Channel. Anyway, I can't help but think how nice it would be to have a wife who wants to "aggressively brush up" to me. I mean - don't throw me in the briar patch, you know?

It’s a sad commentary on our time when a man can't stand up to some good, old-fashioned, "aggressive brushing." Has postmodern man devolved into a pudgy weakling strapped to a luxurious armchair of defeat and complacency; whining because the expensive Sub-Zero refridgerator keeps his cheap American beer too cold for his sugar-weakend teeth and delicate stomach?

Our harried combatant has sat out a few rounds too many and needs to get his head back in the game. He doesn't need "Man Camp"; he needs a mouth guard and a sparring helmet.

So, cinch up that chin strap and brace yourself for an aggressive brushing, Bob - you can do it.

You Guinea Pig

Based on my earlier comments about Splenda I decided to do a little further research and find out just exactly what sort of long-term impact I could expect this little molecule of chlorinated goodness to have on my body. I'll give you a hint: its not good news.

I managed to locate a solid article on the internet by Dr. Marcelle Pick that didn't give me a comfortable, happy sort of feeling about my artifical sweetener of choice. See below:

So, is Splenda safe? The truth is we just don’t know yet. There are no long-term studies of the side effects of Splenda in humans. The manufacturer’s own short-term studies showed that sucralose caused shrunken thymus glands and enlarged livers and kidneys in rodents. But in this case, the FDA decided that because these studies weren’t based on human test animals, they were not conclusive. Of course, there are countless examples of foods and drugs that have proved dangerous to humans that were first found to be dangerous to laboratory rats, and then again, countless others that have not. So the reality is that we are the guinea pigs for Splenda.

Observational evidence shows that there are side effects of Splenda, including skin rashes/flushing, panic-like agitation, dizziness and numbness, diarrhea, muscle aches, headaches, intestinal cramping, bladder issues, and stomach pain. These show up at one end of the spectrum — in the people who have an allergy or sensitivity to the sucralose molecule. But no one can say to what degree consuming Splenda affects the rest of us.

Maybe instead of "Splenda" they should call it "Instant Rash" "Colonic Implosion", or "Liver No More."

Apparently Splenda consumption has the same sort of symptoms you might expect from garden-variety STDs. "Bladder issues" sounds a bit ominous; sort of like "pumping blood", "complications from surgery", "or the doctors aren't sure...." I don't know what a "bladder issue" is exactly, but I bet if you've had one you know it.

So, my bladder and I have decided hold off on Splenda - just for awhile - to see if any of you guys die first.

Manna Combo with Fries

I had a dream last night which, in itself, is surprising because I rarely ever have dreams - or at least I rarely ever remember them. Last night was different; most likely due to an unfortunate combination of grapefruit juice and pepperoni pizza coupled with a Breyer's Carbsmart icecream bar loaded with Splenda - a substance that, if exposed to sunlight, has the potential to unmake the world.

It wasn't exactly a nightmare, but it wasn't fluffy clouds and harp strumming either. It was something in-between: it was Chick-fil-a.

For some reason I went to sleep, woke up dressed in Chick-fil-a attire, and headed out the door for my first day of work. I felt very worried because I didn't know how I would make my mortgage payment at $6 an hour, but it seemed reasonable that I would be headed there for work. Now, the connection between Christians and Chick-fil-a notwithstanding; I love some tasty Chick-fil-a - I won't lie to you. My non-Christian friends often refer to it as "Jesus Chicken", but they know all that biscuity goodness surrounding a hockey puck of superheated chicken meat is just what one needs at 4AM on a wintry Saturday morning.

I won't make the obvious reference to "the desert", "Manna" and "Quail" from God, but I will point out that if you want to get a brief taste of life as an Isrealite: go stand in your sandbox at noon on July 4th and eat a chicken biscuit. That's all I'm saying.

So, in my dream I was looking forward to kicking off Monday with some quarter-sized potato shreds and a nice deep-fried biscuit.

When I got there the manager turned out to be my long-time compatriot, mentor, sometime turkey poacher, and friend, Mark Stephens, apparently fresh off another career change at 55. I absentmindedly thought that Chick-fil-a Managership was an odd choice for a licensed home inspector, but knowing Mark it seemed plausible enough, so I took it in stride.

My job was to take bags of Chick-fil-a to patrons after they had placed their orders. During the lunch rush Mark's method of handling the bags was to write a customer name on each one; which would have been fine if he had written their actual names down; but he didn't did he? Nope. Instead he made up "funny" names based on the physical characteristics of the customers and I had to go shout them out in the crowded restaurant.

Hollering "Great Big Fatty!!!" out across a fast food restaurant at 12:05PM does not win you friends.

Needless to say: Mark blamed the entire thing on me when Truett Cathy showed up which, of course, he did.

All that to tell you this: last night I got fired from my dream job at Chick-fil-a.

Special Challenges

You want to hear something funny? I noticed this comment on the "Homeschooling Alumni" website:

"I have finally embraced my identity as a home school graduate, along with all of the special challenges and opportunities that background has created. I was encouraged just to know that I have a community of fellow alumni..."

That’s not the funny part.

The funny part is this: it wasn't until just now that I realized I had special challenges.

Once the terrible truth sunk in I immediately began to investigate the challenges of dealing with special needs persons such as myself in order to determine how best to advise each of you to treat me from here on out. I found an excellent text on a related topic at About.com, so I took the liberty of editing it for our purposes.

What can be more frustrating than harsh realities are subtle realities for homeschoolers and ex-homeschoolers. Living as an ex-homeschooler is difficult but can sting even more when people encountered are:

impatient
rude
insensitive
inconsiderate
pessimistic
or
unhelpful

Impatient people try to rush ex-homeschoolers through life. A man who was behind me in the grocery line one day tried to unload my cart for me. The gesture would have been welcome if it had been rooted in kindness, but it was obvious I was too homeschooled for him in this fast-paced world we live in.

Inconsiderate people can be found using handicapped bathroom stalls and parking spots, facilities specifically designated for people with disabilities and homeschoolers. Inconsiderate people do not hold doors open, a simple action that can make things much easier for a homeschooler in hoop skirts or petticoats on her way to harpsichord lessons.

Rude and insensitive people are often found staring at homeschoolers during school hours. They seem to not like what they see, or imagine themselves in the role of the little homeschooler. It creates an uncomfortable situation unless you either ignore the person who is staring or scream until they leave.

Demanding people and those who lack understanding about the realities of your homeschooled life can also be provoking. A friend of mine had a surgical procedure which restricted her ability to milk a cow for a period of time. My friend's mother called to tell her she needed to go milk that big 'ol cow before it kicked over a lantern or something, disregarding the restrictions that were given to my friend. She had to tell her mother she couldn't help her. Needless to say: Chicago burned - all because of a homeschooler.

Pessimistic people can annoy and be hurtful. Pessimistic people focus on the negative aspects of homeschooling instead of trying to build up, encourage, and praise the accomplishments of homeschooleys. Pessimistic or negative people don't want to learn about the realities of pretending not to be a homeschooler. They have preconceived ideas and often treat little homeschoolitos as if they are faking or lazy. Even worse, negative people sometimes treat homeschoolers as if they have no abilities at all - even when they demonstrate excellence in life-critical skills such as chess and spelling.

Unhelpful people are yet another category of people who can annoy and frustrate homeschooled people. For able-bodied people, most tasks are effortless. The same task for a homeschooler is perhaps an impossibility. Changing lightbulbs or air conditioner filters, scrubbing showers, getting a large load of groceries - it's just part of daily living. Who does it for the homeschooled person, since they don't have electricity or cars?

What you can control, whether you are able-bodied or homeschooled is: yourself. All humans face challenges, it's just that puny homeschoolers face different challenges. You will not rid the world of impatient, rude, insensitive people, but you can control how you react to them.

Impatient people cause you to be more patient. Insensitive people cause you to be more sensitive. Negative people cause you to react with positivity.

For each negative person you encounter, you have many more positive encounters. Surround yourself with people, things, and experiences which make you feel good and do good. Do you deserve less than that (even as a nerdy homeschooler)?

In summary if you are impatient, rude, insensitive, inconsiderate, pessimistic, or unhelpful to me in any way - you can stop that anytime. Go on and give it up.

After all, I have special challenges.

Overheard

Greetings from the Beach. Let me give you a brief taste of our normal June vacation week at Pawleys.

Uncle Robert (out of the blue):
Babies learn to crawl in the first minute of life. You shouldn't wrap them all up so tight right away in them what do you call 'em - "swaddling clothes." Never learn to walk right.
After all - Jesus didnt wear swaddling clothes

Uncle William:
Ah. Yes He did. The Bible says so. Read it.

Uncle Robert:
No it didn't. You're reading that Mormon thing.
That mormon thing is all about Joseph Smith. Not Jesus.
He passed Jesus in the desert and waved "heyyy!" And that was it. Everything else was all "Joseph Smith" this-and-that.
Anyway, it didn't matter with Jesus. He could go "POOF" and know how to walk.

Uncle William:
(Silence…)....

Uncle Robert:
Jesus rode a Harley.

Uncle William:
Jesus did NOT ride a Harley! You've lost your mind.

Uncle Robert:
How do you know? You don't know nothing about what he did from 12 to 33. Maybe not a Harley; but definitely something cool.
Anyway, He threw all them gamblers out of the temple when he was 18. That’s between 12 and 33.

Uncle William:
That was when he was grown.

Uncle Robert:
Oh.
Well. Babies still learn to crawl in the first minute.

Uncle William:
Most girls don't want tthat nasty dirty baby put on 'em without being cleaned up. That takes more than a minute.

Uncle Robert:
Well. Maybe it was 15 minutes. They have 15 minutes to crawl to the bosom.

Grandma:
Who said "bosom?" I heard "bosom." We don't say "bosom."

All:
Well. What about Uncle John? He's a "female doctor" you know.

Grandma:
He can say "bosom."

Uncle Robert:
Well, babies born in water know how to swim.

All:
Collective groan....

Screening the Sun

The interesting thing about sunscreen is that its not exactly a "screen" for the sun, you know? I mean: lots of it still gets through the screen so it ain't much of a screen. If I sold a bug screen that worked this bad I'd be out of business in 2 days.

The fun part starts when sunscreen fails and everybody near enough to see the rosy glow beaming off your scalded hide immediately wants to help:

Oh well - you should have reapplied.
Did you get in the water? I bet you got in the water.
You know if you get in the water you have to reapply.
What number did you use? 6?
6 isn't enough to keep you from getting burned. You should know that. You're 27 years old.
And then to make it worse you got in the water, didn't you?
I can tell you did. Your hair is all wet. You got in the water.
You know its not really 'waterproof'. Its your fault.
You know you shouldn't do that - get burned like that. It'll give you cancer.

Everybody is so quick to defend sunscreen, but c'mon. If you're wearing sunscreen there's a 90% chance you're on the water somewhere. Waterproof should mean "GO ON JUMP IN! YOU'LL BE FINE!", but it doesn't. It means "OH MAN GET OUT OF THE WATER AND SPREAD SOME MORE OF THIS WHITE BUTTER ALL OVER YOU QUICK BEFORE YOU ROAST LIKE A HAIRY PORK LOIN."

And what do the numbers mean? EXACTLY? Eh? If it says "6" that, to me, means you can stay out 6 times as long with this marinade spread all over you than you could otherwise.... Apparently that is not the case.

Which brings me to my point: the back of the sunscreen bottle should do away with all the warnings and ingredients and stuff. Shove those SPF numbers off on somebody who cares. All I want to see is a close-up of a man's back after he's spent 6hrs sitting in the sun with that particular sunscreen on it.

Then I'll know what I'm dealing with.

Vanilla Is the Loneliest Number

There comes a point in every man's life when he has to make an important decision. It could be anything: roll or squeeze the tube? Chocolate or vanilla? 10w-30 or -40? High test or low? Mid-grade? Cream cheese icing? Pound cake or yellow? Convertible or hardtop?

You never can tell what'll come of it. The tiniest of decisions may have huge ramifications. You could miss meeting your mate over something as simple as choosing the wrong icing. Think about it. There you are; both picking your way to the cake through a crowd of wedding-goers. Your future mate approaches from the North, you - from the South. You circle once and sidestep - passing just out of range of several conversation grenades lobbed in your direction by crazy aunt Mattie. "Heyyyy Aunt Mattie can I get you some cake?" Brilliant - she'll grow gray waiting on that delivery.

As you near the table Rich Uncle John leans over to tie his shoe and over his back you see it: gritty white icing with that nasty red rasberry jelly stuff between layers. Bleechhh. If I wanted jelly I'd make some toast.

But who is that lovely brunette reaching for a slice?

Who cares.

You peel off and head for the bar and she marries your cousin based on the strength of his "I can dislocate my shoulder" party trick.

You die lonely.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

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