Little-Known Complications of the Home Birth

I spoke with one of my granola-snorting friends the other day and was immediately subjected to a salvo of intense baby-birthing commentary. Apparently she's into "home-births." From what I gather - you roll around in one of these things:



kicking, hollering, grunting and snort-breathing until either:

A. The baby blows out of your body into the tepid water you've been wallowing in for 18 hours.
or
B. "Something" goes horribly wrong.

H O L Y C R A P.

I've done some weird things in my house, but that pretty much has me beat. I can honestly say I've never carried on, witnessed, or otherwise performed, an invasive medical procedure in The Duderanch At 6710. I'm not necessarily saying I wouldn't - I'm just saying I've never had occasion to.

Everything worked out alright for the first three kids, but I guess they got a bit lax on the 4th home-birth, because when it came time for cleanup; the placenta was nowhere to be found.

Thats right folks: there is a rogue placenta loose in the State of Georgia. I wouldn't even hazard a guess as to its final resting place, but I really hope they have a maid, she looks like Nell Carter, and she eventually finds it. I'd give my favorite toe to be there when she does.

Naturally, I explored the topic a bit. My friend had nothing to offer by way of explanation, so I blamed the dog (always a safe bet). She said "We don't have a dog, but if we did; I'm sure a dog dragging a placenta across the front yard would alert the neighbors."

Maybe I'm not a good neighbor, but you can bet every dime you've got if I see a dog run out of my neighbor's house dragging a human placenta: that's one neighbor I'm going to stay the hell away from.

No dog scapegoat available, my mind danced nimbly across various other possibilities and lighted on "crazy grandmother wants to make placenta tea." Plausible, I guess. The only problem is: I happen to know the grandmother personally and she's just not that crazy. She also doesn't carry a purse to hide things in; which I think is probably a requirement if you're going to spirit away used placentas on a regular basis.

I was left with only one possible conclusion: there was no placenta to start with. Obviously, that would mean the child numbers among The Undead and may or may not be the Antichrist.

My friend strenuously objected to that possibility and claims to have actually seen said placenta during the birthing process. I suspect what she thought was placenta was actually the red gateway to hell, but I guess it's still a mystery.

So, yeah. Thats all pretty great, but the VERY best part about the whole thing is: I know who it is and which house it happened in - and you don't.

Better keep your shoes on when you go a' visitin'.

Half of Something Is Nothing

A few comments in the general direction of my Beyoncee.

First of all, the FLW ("Forrest L. Wood") Tournament “Classic” Bass Fishing Championship is NOT necessarily “redneck” – its “Blue Collar.” There is a difference, and if you’re going to attend an FLW Championship Tournament Bass Weigh-in complete with pyrotechnics, Ranger Boat giveaway, Skoal samples, Blackhawk Helicopter flyover (sound enhanced), a special mock-battle-demonstration by the National Guard and an appearance by Forrest L. Wood hisself; you really shouldn’t sigh and squinch down in your seat every time somebody thanks God for "Arkansas" and "Lowrance brand electronic fish finders." Who are we to judge? Maybe Bass Fishing is inextricably tied to the sanctity of the American Family.

Would this guy lie to you?



Personally, I tend to be wary of anyone floating in mid-air under his own power, but whatever. I guess if you own FLW Outdoors you can float around all you like.

Secondly, she should not be allowed to confiscate my Home Depot gift certificates (some people call them “gift cards”, but I call them “certificates”; it sounds like more of an award that way). Well, maybe half could be confiscated in the interest of harmonious pre-nuptual bliss, sure. I'm flexible.

Half.

Boy was I confused. Apparently I didn’t get a few Home Depot gift certificates for engagement presents at all – we got them and 50% of we has decided that “making decisions together” means I probably don’t get any damn Home Depot gift certificates or a 12” dual-bevel sliding radial arm saw with a laser sight and a lifetime warranty covering all electrical components, housing and laser device.

Alright, so I didn't do a few silly little things like "talk ahead of time about money allocation" or "ask nicely" or "please stop crying."

So what?

At this juncture I want to point out that HALF a BMW X-5 looks a whole lot like a used motorcycle from where I sit.

“Half” of something can be a mighty tricky measurement.

Take the guy Tyler sat next to at the FLW Weigh-In on Sunday – HALF of him could easily be a skinny person, OR HALF of him could be 387lbs of gut and no skeletal frame. I was on the other side of Tyler and from the correct angle she looked like a blonde stick figure superimposed on a fat-suit background. I’m telling you - if you don't look sharp this HALF concept can come out of nowhere, snatch your wallet and run right off.

But, as the saying goes "Jedge not Less'n Yew Be Jedged", so I say God bless a man who lets his wife dip snuff and sit a row behind him in a public arena - no matter what half of him looks like.

The American Family lives.

Beau Slocumb, Troublemaker

My cousin, Beau Slocumb, is scheduled for another surgery to remove yet another spot of cancer – this time from his shoulder. Apparently they "did some scans” and found it.

"Scans." Thats alien technology, right? Like a tractor beam?

I’ve heard alot about these so-called "scans” and you can color me "skeptical." I think Beau is probably a-ok and these stiff white coats are just reading "scans" with their beer goggles on.

It was doctors, after all, who told Mom I was going to be a girl and look how THAT one turned out. Not only am I not female - I've got enough hair on my chest to weave an indian blanket and, because of modern medicine, I spent my highly-formative first 6 months clad entirely in pink. Thanks alot 500 years of documented medical practice! Tell Hippocrates I've got an oath for him.

Personally, I think Beau's shoulder issue is just scar tissue from being completely retarded for so long (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2009/06/he-never-needed-helmet.html), but more importantly: what in the hell do doctors know anyway? All you need to be a doctor is cold hands and fancy science and needles and screens and things, right?

Well, none of that is going to help you with Beau. I maintain you can't tell much about Beau on your fancy ScanTron machine or whatnot - you need to smell of him up close. I diagnosed him as “goaty” years ago and I didn't need any three-million-dollar scanner.

Doctors and their fancy screens. Pffft!

I saw a caged bear riding a bicycle on the TV screen last night - and I don't believe for a damn minute that a bear sharp enough to actually ride a bicycle wouldn't take one look at that bicycle and immediately start snacking on trainers. And one more thing: if I were a bicycle-riding bear you better believe my chubby butt is sleeping on goose down - not cage straw.

The point is: you can't believe everything you see on a screen - I don't care how much it cost. You people probably think we actually flew to the moon too. Oh, sssssuure. Rocks and gray sand. Must be the moon. We just "flew" up there.

RIGHT. I know a movie set when I see one!

I figure since Beau is a young, non-smoking, non-tobacco-using, non-alcoholic, generally healthy person who is probably not sleeping on a pile of enriched uranium - the only remaining risk factor is: Beau. So, Beau, please quit giving yourself cancer. It is stressing me out. Plus, "cancer" is so last year. If you're going to the trouble of giving yourself something anyway - may as well make it interesting. How about "mumps?" Nobody gets that anymore. Mumps I can work with in print. Cancer - not so much.

My recommendation for Beau is: get back to Texas, demand a re-"scan," crawl into that machine and place an open pocketknife under his shirt just over the ribcage. Let 'em scan THAT!

Later, after all the commotion dies down - go home and take your pants off in the den. That's my recipe for recovery:
Step 1: cause trouble.
Step 2: remove pants.

Regardless of who’s to blame on this one (clearly Beau for giving himself cancer) I will point out that, in a very Beau-like fashion, he's maintained an upbeat, cheerful demeanor without anyone threatening to beat him (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2010/08/being-thankful.html).

Maggie overheard the following exchange in the barn the other day and I figured I'd report on it to illustrate:

Beau: John – whats been going on? What have y’all been up to lately?
Uncle John: Not much. Just keeping up with the kids. Working. Just trying to keep my head above water. You?
Beau: Just trying to keep my head above DIRT ... BHWAH AHAHAHA!!!!
Uncle John: That's not funny.

Keep it North of the dirt, Beausie; we're pulling for you.

Being Thankful

Years ago Mom taught me a very painful lesson about "finding things to be thankful for when you don’t so much feel like being thankful." If memory serves: she taught it to me with the flat side of a hairbrush, then said “Now, 5 minutes ago you should have been thankful you weren’t getting a beating. See what I mean? Get creative.”

I apparently was unable to think of anything – NOT ONE SINGLE THING I was thankful for when a response was demanded of me. Back came the hairbrush and I rapidly began to wax philosophic about the sunshine, white grape juice (still a favorite), shade trees and Jesus.

Now, years later, I still self-medicate with a little manufactured thankful when the need arises. I don’t know why, but it helps. Or maybe I’m just thankful nobody is beating me with a hairbrush -I don’t know, but today I am proud to say that I'm thankful for quite a few things.

Just this morning I was thumbing through some instructional literature on outdoor survival (BASS Magazine) and I noticed a very nice photo of a northern pike on an interior page. He looked mean and furious. Some of that may have been due to the fat, white, thumb life-size Elmer Fudd had stuck through his gills, but what drew my attention more than anything was his snaggle-toothed scowl. He had multiple rows of positively-mean-looking, sharp, conical teeth sticking out every-which-a-way and a whole bunch of them were missing.

So, today I’m thankful that I don’t lose three front teeth every time I try to eat something. Can you imagine? You get up, fix an egg sammich, bite down into it , and come away with one less incisor and a loose canine? EVERY SINGLE DAY!?!?!

The animal world has it tough. That may be why they periodically eat us.

Either way – I’ll just hang on to the teeth I’ve got, thanks.

Fishing For a Little Romance

Today I asked my lovely, leggy consort if she'd like to accompany me on a little sneak-away date for a few hours this weekend. Wedding planning is a busy time and I believe its important to "make time" for a little one-on-one romance during all the hustle-and-bustle.

So, imagine my surprise when she said "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm busy Sunday night."

We discussed it via internet mail for a bit and then she broke off to attend a work meeting. Later, she said "The funny thing is - you referred to attending a professional bass fishing tournament weigh-in as a 'date'. You must be ill."

Sometimes you just can't win.

Enlightenment

The topic of public restrooms seems to resurface here often. I think that's because the public restroom is a basic fact of working life, yet it's such a profoundly flawed experience that its gross inadequacies just fly all in my face. It BOTHERS me that the public restroom experience has pretty much stagnated since 1945. Everybody uses them, yet somehow nobody is paying attention to their design and function. How has technology managed to completely bypass something that everyone utilizes? I just don't get it.

I don't want this to be a journal of my public bathroom experiences. That's not what we here at One Brick Shy are about. That having been said, let me draw your attention to del banyo for une momento.

See this thing here? Look familiar?



What in the H E Double L is the deal with this thing?

Do you have any idea how many times I've had to crawl all the way up into the dark, forbidding recesses of this cavernous monster to fumble my way to the end of the roll? To operate this thing properly you need a socket wrench, a drill motor, and an endoscope. Please, allow me to illustrate:




Hey America - know what I've noticed? You're so damn greedy you've made the damn paper so damn thin that Helen Keller her-damn-self couldn't work her highly-trained, nimble fingers around that roll to find the .001 nanometer-thick change in depth that indicates the end! It's impossible. By the time I get out of there - the floor under the dispenser looks like a family of wombats moved in and spent the last week shredding paper. I've literally used a pocket knife on this contraption and ripped the face off the thing and I still can't make it work right. It's torture.

To recap: we, as a society, can put a man on the moon where he has absolutely no business being, but we can't figure out a way to dispense toilet paper without making me want to KILL MYSELF?

Is this the path to enlightenment?

Die Smiling

"Are raw oysters really dangerous?"

Having never been attacked by one, I couldn't tell you, but I do know one thing: they're delicious. Every now and again you snag one that smells like your sisters jelly shoes in 4th grade. That one might kill you.

My solution?

Don't eat it! Instead - pick another one!

Even in spite of my advanced sniff test abilities, some still say your average oyster may be a lurking killer. I don't know that for sure, but I do know one kind of oyster that's beating the system: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/271781/viagra_oysters_a_dangerous_twist_to.html?cat=51

It might still kill you, but you'll die smiling.

Just a Quick Game of Squash

Despite my recent truculence and my not-so-subtle desperate plea for help regarding a certain rehearsal dinner; there IS light at the end of the tunnel. Two nights ago my lovely Aunt Greer called to inquire as to my progress and recommend the Capital City Club as a suitable venue (lamb chop lollipops, thank you) and more importantly: offer her assistance.

Dad, always a peach, piped up in the background with "Hey is that my sister? Tell her she sure is nosy! Why is she asking? Is she offering to pay for it?"; an unhelpful salvo which, fortunately, she completely ignored. He than wandered off clutching a framing hammer mumbling something about "financial straits." Greer asked a few more pertinent questions concerning menu and drink offerings and suggested I call her later in the week.

This morning I got an email from Capital City with a menu and prices all laid out followed by an email from Uncle Milton (Greer dictates, but refrains from addressing the computer directly) with a few additional ideas.

Shortly afterwards I received another email; this time from my friend Strib Stribling with an attached menu from the Piedmont Driving Club. Strib suggested we stop in there together tomorrow because he would be on-campus "playing a game of squash."

My experience indicates that, among unacquainted men, awkward conversations are the norm, but I can imagine few conversations more awkward than the one required to arrange a pick-up game of squash, live, at the Piedmont Driving Club.

"Hey man. Can I. Err. I mean can you. Well, first off: I'm Strib. Ahem. Do you want to play with me? No! I mean not play with me. Squash me. I mean eh, can you come out and play? What I mean is - will you squash with me? Lets us two squash. Sound good?"

It sounds suspiciously like a Man-Date to me, but if that's what you're into Strib - squash away.

As I'm sure you know, I generally don't befriend squash players, but I'm making an exception for Strib due to his other sterling qualities and generally good nature. After all - I need all the support I can muster. All I've got going for me these days is an Aunt with Cold-War-quality negotiation skills and a guy with a name that sounds like a bodypart; but I think we're going to be a-ok.

Help, they say, is where you find it.

License to Steal

I'm going to be funny again after I get married - I'm certain of it, but right now the stress of planning a rehearsal dinner is making all my chest hair fall out.

Choosing a rehearsal dinner location is alot of responsiblity for someone who still has linoleum in his kitchen, but after great travail; I finally found a place I like. I even managed to meet with the convicted felon they had masquerading as a party planner. Do you know what this extortionist quoted me, total, for the event? Bear in mind - we're talking about a seated dinner. Dinner. Where you get together and eat with other people. Just dinner - not a talking dog and pony show followed by lion-taming. No magic tricks or murder mystery theater. We're talking food, drink and possibly a slide show of all my conquered animal heads, but basically - just dinner.

$10,000.

That's TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. TEN THOUSAND. When the chirpy idiot who quoted me the price dropped that piano on me - I immediately felt simultaneously hot and cold all over. Then, I got furious.

If you so much as gently breathe the words "wedding" or "rehearsal dinner" towards these greedy, twisted, evil, party planning thieves; it's like a license to steal.

It boggles my mind.

I immediately thought of so many terrible things to say to her that it created a mental logjam right at the front of my brain and all that came out was "eeeeeek!!". I wanted to say "You, madame, are smelly and shaped like a walrus", but I literally couldn't get a word out.

Tyler, who happened to see my eyes bug out and my nostrils flare, managed to pipe up with "well, thanks! we'll be in touch" just in time, then steered my catatonic, lumbering frame gently towards the car.

If you pay $100-a-plate for hotplate food prepared in advance and cheap beer - you better be eating sauteed Passenger Pigeon served with a light Tazmanian Devil compote and it better be beer brewed by Benjamin Frankline himself and dredged up from the wreck of the Titanic or you're just plain getting screwed.

You know what they wanted $100-a-plate for? Grilled chicken or an 8oz filet. Not BOTH, mind you - either /or.

Seriously, I am in the wrong industry. I need to figure out a way to capitalize on someone else's joyous occasion and if I can potentially ruin it by piling on financial worries - I'll just consider it a bonus.

So, to the ASS who tried to stick me for a $10,000 dinner with a grin on her face like I'm a full-grown newborn with a wallet - even though YOUwere going to charge ME for EVERYTHING (linens, candlesticks, chairs, trash, servers, lighting, parking) I left you something for FREE

...it's smeared all over your door handle.

For the Sake of Production

Whenever I feel a bit stymied in life I tend to throw myself into an activity. This is especially true when I feel stymied because I know I should be pursuing a certain task, but I don’t really want to. Strictly speaking: I prefer for the substitute activity to appear productive without actually providing value to anyone. I can keep myself happy doing nonproductive, but energy-absorbing tasks for an obscenely long time.

When I have something to do that I must do, but I don’t WANT to do – I throw myself instead into something I really WANT to do, that I haven’t had time to attack yet.

At the moment I need very badly to paint my house.

Instead, I spent all day yesterday reorganizing my workshop. Today, I’m going to go home and re-upholster something, or possibly find a bunch of things to throw away that don’t really need to be thrown away urgently – like shoes.

I love throwing away old shoes.

Tomorrow afternoon I’ll probably re-stack some wood, pressure-wash my boat, clean a few fishing reels, and mount a scope on my favorite deer rifle. Later, I’ll probably get the ladder out and survey my roof, then spray some bug killer around my gutters and sweep the workshop again.

Wednesday I’m going to clean the tires on my boat trailer, burn some cardboard boxes, and organize my reloading bench. I’m saving the best for last though.

On Friday I’m going to collect a load of Home Depot and Lowes purchases I’ve made in the last 12 months (still in shopping bags), but not used; and return them. I wouldn’t want to live in a world where I can’t extract money out of Home Depot and Lowes.

The returns department is amazing. You get the intense gratification of making the purchase, THEN get to feel like they’re giving you money when you take it back.

Halcyon!

Sometimes, if I’ve had a really bad week I’ll pretend like I don’t have a receipt. Then, when the customer service person smells blood in the water and tries to offer me a gift card instead of cash back (dirty trick); I’ll whip out a stack of receipts and grin at them. “Must’ve been right here in my pocket all along!”

They hate that.

This trend of frantic, unnecessary activity will continue until I can find nothing else to do around the house and then, because I must remain in constant motion, I’ll be forced to finally paint the house.

The result is - I end up doing a million things I don't need to do just to avoid completing one very necessary task, THEN I end up going the necessary task anyway.

I don’t know why I do this to myself.

Inequity

I’ve noticed a few inequities in life that I feel are desperately underrepresented. The latest serious injustice I’ve been forced to consider is this: If Taco Bell is required to display their 100-point health rating and reasons for any failures in each of their restaurants; why aren’t proctologists and ladydoctors required to have a plaque prominently displayed in their offices that lists their primary reasons for going into those medical fields?

Thank you, YES - I DO want to know why my local Taco Bell only scored an 80 / 100 on its health inspection, but more importantly – why do you want to look at my naughty parts?

I don’t want to be unreasonable. I firmly believe we all deserve to know what’s going on behind the counter at Taco Bell. Similarly, when my naked butt is the focal point of a complete stranger in a professional setting – I want to know a little bit about motivation.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m fine with someone (or groups of someones) wanting to see me in the altogether. In fact – thanks! I appreciate you! But how about some disclosure so I can make the decision to don the paper prom dress in peace?

Is that asking too much?

I just don’t understand why in the world I have to strip to my Batman Fruit-of-the-Looms just to get my teeth cleaned.

AAA Meetings

I've felt generally non-funny lately.

I think I'm in a slump.

I need some good material, but all I can think to tell you is that I managed to incorrectly install a wheel on the hub of my boat trailer a few weeks ago.

You would think it would take alot of effort to get "match these two round objects" wrong. It didn't though. Putting it on wrong was super easy. All you have to do is grab a socket wrench, focus on being a complete idiot and, voila! you're all set.

The problem was brought to my attention mid-way through a hairpin turn above Lake Blue Ridge by a snaggle-toothed gentleman who slowed me to a crawl and drawled "Hey there buddy. You got you a wheel thats done nearbout come off'n the trailer" before tossing his flowing mullet behind him and passing me on the curve.

I stopped in the middle of the road, walked around the truck, and, sure enough - the wheel done nearbout come off'n the trailer. More specifically - it was hanging on for dear life by the barest of lugnut connections and no amount of effort on Tyler's part could get them off. I finally told her to knock off with the tire iron and we just called AAA for a tow.

Tyler and I spent the next hour-and-a-half throwing rocks at a road sign and making various wild, unfounded claims to each other concerning our pitching arms before AAA was kind enough to come by and tell us the trailer was too big to tow.

Clearly someone at AAA has studied psychology; because I do prefer to get very bad news in person and from a complete stranger.

Fortunately, "Billy" was kind enough to follow me down the mountain with wobbling trailer in tow and we managed to find our way to a repair shop.

When I finally got my boat back I asked the mechanic how the repair went and he said "Buddy, it was the worst looking thing I ever had to fix and it nearly killed me getting those lug nuts off." I felt terrible because obviously the stress of the repair had made all his side, top, and rear teeth fall out. To me, that's hardly a worthwhile exchange for a wheel repair, but he cheerfully gummed his four front lower teeth a bit and said "sure was glad to get 'er done."

Sudeenly, I felt a renewed sense of purpose in life. If there weren't people like me around - there'd be nobody to help make sure things stay broken!

Then where would we be?

Adopt a 17-yr Old

Having had very little experience with "lactation" in the past (other than a few, brief, unpleasant encounters with those weird little alien newborn things all you moms seem to dote on); you'll all be pleased to know that my life-long dedication to remaining lactation-ignorant came to a screeching halt recently through the presence of a family member's newborn at a recent long weekend vacation.

It's pretty weird.

So weird, in fact; that I'm surprised women (at least those of you who have ever toured a dairy) will actually go through with it. Your average newly-born basically turns new mom into something of a cross between a human battery and a very sensitive Holstein. Its dehumanizing. It is. I watched it happen.

I know NOW it sounds exaggerated, but just you wait a few years. Every two hours when your new little Bartholemew or Bertha cries - you too will be scurrying about for a clandestine corner in which to partially disrobe...or perhaps not. Perhaps you'll join the bold contingent of Militant Nursers who insist on bareing lumenous expanses of never-before-daylit skin to the horrified gaze of mankind. Sure, it could be you! Nobody matures into adulthood thinking "I want to grow up and have my coworkers see me partially nude"; but some among you will one day fill that role.

I digress. My point is - you're not a nutritious fire hydrant. You're a person. Don't let the little leeches drain you of hard-won calories, sleep, and peace of mind. Instead, I vote that we tack a rider on the next health care bill that mandates all children be left in the care of the hospital until they're ready for first grade.

How much nicer would it be if little Wanda came home from the hospital to see her new room for the first time; and instead of spending the next 3 years learning to talk (only to become an ungrateful 3yr-old); could instead turn to you and say "Thanks for the new digs. I promise I'll take care of you when you're old."?

It's just an idea.

I Have Failed

Gentle Readers:
I regret to inform you that my fall from manhood is complete. I assented to the creation of a "wedding website" in which I have documented the details of our engagement.

http://weddings.theknot.com/pwp/pwp2/view/MemberPage.aspx?coupleid=5064394449537812&pid=10318393

I apologize, but you'll be happy to know that when Tyler asked me to marry her - I didn't mean to say "yes" and throw away my bachelor freedom. I MEANT to say "I'll think on it" but I choked on a boiled peanut and it came out all garbled as "Yeah".

I just didn't have the heart to take it back.

Sincerely,

Ex-Bachelor Ewing

Epic On The Cape

After a (far too brief) 4-day trip to the gulf this weekend the topic on everyone's mind seems to be oil and oil booms. "Were we able to get out into the gulf through Port St. Joe?" The answer is: Yes. We were.

I understand Barack Obama has some kind of half-ass orange contraption all buoyed-up around the mouth of the bay, but I think it is more for panache than anything else - just so Port St. Joe can get in on the oily action. A blind manatee (or "aquatic speed bump" as we like to call them) could get through, over, or around said oil boom with ease.

From what I was able to tell they've set buoys strategically and have the yellow booms on stand-by - ready to stretch across; but they're definitely not set so as to block traffic or actually do anything constructive.

When we headed out into the wild blue I tried to convince Fred B. Hand, IV (Captain, Friend, Patriot) we should troll alongside the floating booms at the mouth of the bay for billfish, oil globs and kayaks, but he disregarded my advice.

There you have my basic oil report.

As to the Annual Crash-The-Hand-Family-Vacation vacation I'm pleased to announce that it was a rousing success. Attendees: Me, Twylerpants, Fred B. Hand, IV; Fred B. Hand, III; Kelly Logan (IV's girlfriend), Frances Hand, and finally - Fred B. Hand, Jr. Thats right - this year Fred's granddad came down.

We had a ball. We had a bit of boat trouble, but perhaps you should read about it as reported earlier this week. Please, do read on....

Last year when Fred broke the throttle cable (on the 20' Mako offshore boat) they took the boat to Indian Pass Marine. Indian Pass Marine had (written) instructions to take the Mako BACK to dry storage when it was fixed. Instead, Indian Pass Marine set the boat in their backyard and left it outside in the weather all year. ALL year - August to July. When we got there on Saturday, the poor Mako was an absolute wreck. Mildew all over everything. It was rough.

So, Fred took my fiancee and drove off and left me with his Dad in the parking lot of Indian Pass Marine with a wrecked and mildewed Mako somehow hooked to MY truck.

Mr. Hand was absolutely beside himself. It was like watching a well-educated Yosemite Sam lift off into orbit. I mean he was foaming at the mouth over paying for dry storage for 12 months while the boat sat outside. I'm serious - the man was almost unable to speak.

Almost.

We got in my truck and took it to the washdown place where I proceeded to wreck my good clothes with "pressurized foam spray" and Clorox whilst washing down the Mako under the very detailed tutelage of Mr. Hand. Thank God he finally ran out of quarters. It took 60 before we were through. I'd hear the alarm beeping and think "maybe we're done now," then I'd hear him furiously cramming quarters into it again and swearing violently to himself.

Once we finished attacking the baked-on mildew as best we could; we went to the gas station...then to Autozone....and the place to get yamalube.....then back to autozone....then to Bluewater Outfitters for bait....then back to the yamalube place again....and finally back to Autozone...again.

So, I finally made it home to the beach house around 4pm with a truckload of petroleum products, dry goods, hardware, a semi-wrecked-looking boat in tow, and a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid-50's furiously gesticulating at every car that got in front of us.

We pulled up and Mr. Hand said completely serious (to sodden, soapy me shivering in the arctic air of my truck AC) "Oh good. Thank God the girls have already unpacked everything so we dont have to. Now arent you glad we missed all that mess!??"

I looked at him through soap-blurred vision and shivered my assent.

The next morning we took the Mako out and I said "Hey did y'all put fuel stabilizer in this thing last year?" and I got blank looks. So inside my brain I went "Oh boy. I wonder how today is going to turn out?"

We crank it up and it immediately starts surging and sputtering. I would have turned back. Fred dropped the hammer and let it surge, sputter, and cough us 7 miles offshore towards a storm front.

We surged and sputtered around for a few hours, caught a few spanish mackerel and sharks, then headed back surging and sputtering (hammer down). It sounded like a completely screwed fuel system to me. I was just waiting to hear a rod go through the top of the motor. "KAAAWWWAAACCCKKAAA!!! Call the Coast Guard!"

By dint of sheer Hand-Family-Luck we barely limped back in, put $72 worth of assorted fuel additives in it at Mr. Hand's direction (octane boost, stabil, seafoam, Lucas Miracle Oil, Lever 2000 - whatever would fit in the tank) and took it back to Indian Pass Marine. Mr. Hand handled it from there, gleefully, I might add.

Basically, the fuel was ruined as you can guess; which filled up the water separator filter with water and lawd knows what else....Which plugged all the filters and ruined the spark plugs and shot h20 all into the cylinder heads doing who knows what kind of damage. I'm sure it shot the 02 sensor too. When that ethanol stuff separates (which it does in about 3 months - or sooner in that kind of heat) it grows all kinds of algae and crap in the water at the bottom of the fuel tank which immediately gets into everyplace you don't want it.

Fred remained extremely upbeat, even "sunny and cheerful", through the whole thing; he was even heard to whistle a few bars of "I've Got Sunshine" on the way back and I couldn't figure it out. Then I realized - A. We're on a "major adventure" so, naturally he and I felt pretty good right off; but B. He knows if he can figure out a way to blow this motor - he's going to figure out a way to get Mr. Hand to rebuild it and put on his other boat, then put a fresh Yamaha on the Mako or something. So - it was a win/win for him. In fact, he may be leaning a bit harder towards "stranded" just to get the new motor.

Anyway, Fred was happy as a clam so I didnt worry about it.

Indian Pass Marine finally fixed all that and who knows what else. Mr. Hand said alot of words to me with boat terms mixed in when I asked him what was wrong with it - but I dont think he really knew what they did. I suspect when Indian Pass Marine told him; he was thinking too hard about the next thing he was going to say to blast them to really pay attention to the diagnosis. Anyway, Mr. Hand bore down on them so hard they had the whole boat fixed and looking brand new in two days - in the middle of high season.

To top it off Indian Pass Marine then said they needed to replace both throttle cables - which they did. That REALLY pissed The Freds off (Fred Jr got in on the action at Indian Pass Marine too - they took his big Cadillac over there and parked it out front for intimidation).

All I know is we had a ball. Fred's Dad was positively overjoyed to have somebody to bear down on, Fred Jr was tickled to get to critique Fred III in action ("I'd have been a whole lot harder on those idiots Fred, why did you go so easy on them are you getting soft?"), Fred IV got a little less heat on him because the heat was all on Indian Pass Marine, Mrs. Hand managed to slip away and fish with us whilst all the heat was getting poured on Indian Pass Marine, I got to watch it all happen, and the Mako ended up a-ok.

Hilarity ensued. It was a giant win/win/win/win/win.

In between all the hooplah we managed to cook a bunch of stuff that was entirely too complex for the venue, stay fairly sodden, hide beer cans all over the house and deck for Fred III to find, get in big trouble with the rental agency for having a dog over to visit, and do a bunch of scalloping around.

My favorite was when I overheard Fred III on the phone invite 5 extra people to dinner on Tuesday night and tell them I was cooking.
I panicked and looked at Tyler, my sous-chef, who mouthed back "WHAT DID HE SAY??!?!!"

The trip was, to quote Fred B. Hand III "Epic".

My apologies to the Hand Family - you'll never get rid of us now.

Simpatico

I picked up a spy novel recently and was reminded of my adolescent love of that genre. I have always harbored a secret desire to be a real, live spy. Actually – a spy OR a sniper. Either one is fine.

On the odd occasion when I’ve mentioned that fact to others; I’ve always gotten a weird look and, generally, some sissy comment back from the speaker indicating he or she wouldn’t be able to shoot at a deer – much less people.

Oh, I could.

My only worry is that the military wouldn’t give me enough bullets. That’s one thing terrorists seem to never run out of: bullets. Ratty clothes, cave dwellings, unkempt beards…...but plenty of bullets.

Either way, I’m not saying I want to shoot at anybody. I really don’t. I’m just saying I could definitely shoot at a terrorist from way far away if I had to and, due to reading that latest spy book, I’ve been thinking about it a good bit lately. So much, in fact, that I wasn’t really surprised this weekend at Margaret’s wedding when a very well-dressed, distinguished gentleman with a lovely brunette on his arm leaned over to me and said slowly and clearly “S I M P A T I C O U P S T A I R S. T A K E T H E L A M B.”

I didn’t immediately recognize him, but at the same time he looked very familiar....Exactly like a spy should look.

He looked me square in the eye and winked then paused, awaiting a response.

My mind fairly bulged with the shock, intrigue and pride I felt at the faith my government had obviously placed in me to engage in espionage on behalf of my beloved country. What better place to recruit me into their service than a family wedding?

My eyes narrowed and, as my mind furiously searched for an appropriate response, he leaned in a bit closer and said even more slowly “S I M P A T I C O. Understand? S I M P A T I C O” then his eyes narrowed slightly and he winked his right eye briefly, just once.

Still in shock I mustered a knowing wink through fear-widened eyes and responded as clearly and slowly as I could: “Y O U S A I D ‘THE LAMB’, I S T H A T C O R R E C T?”

Awaiting further instructions I continued to hold his gaze for a moment while maintaining an awareness of all my blind spots and he responded:

“T H E L A M B” equally slowly, and with a curt nod.

I know our government can be a tid-bit enigmatic, but I was really starting to get confused. If you give somebody a damn code word you’re supposed to tell them ahead of time what the range of code words could be, right? I mean good grief. If I could read minds Tyler wouldn’t be furious at me right now.

We continued to stare at one another, live music blaring in the background until his gaze hardened and he said

“D O Y O U U N D E R S T A N D”? S I M P A T I C O. G O U P S T A I R S “

“NOW?” I responded quizzically, glancing up the stairwell towards the deserted groomsmen’s quarters.

“NO. NOT NOW.” He hissed, glancing around nervously.

“B U T H O W W I L L I K N O W W H E N I S S I M P A T I C O?” I whispered, checking the corners of the room for eavesdroppers.

“T H A T I S U P T O Y O U” he responded, slowly and clearly.

“I T I S Y O U R R E H E A R S A L D I N N E R.”

So, to Mr. Frey of the Marietta Frey's (who cleans up very well I might add) thank you for recommending a rehearsal dinner location - "Restaurant Simpatico" for my upcoming wedding weekend.

I am sorry I thought you were a spy.

The Voyage of the HMS TallyWacker

I rolled over in my bunk around 2AM and heard a low melody coming from somewhere topside. I fumbled with the hatch above my bed and stuck my head out through the floor of the main deck. Unable to get a perfect fix on the sound, I clambered through the hole in the roof, my cabin mate, Austin Britt, barely rolling over as I eased myself out onto the salt-rimed fiberglass of the 50-foot Voyage sailboat.

I stepped over Emily Jones’ sleeping, towel-swaddled form laying above the galley and made my way onto the foremost portion of the deck. I paused for a moment, hearing nothing, then from a suspiciously-lumpy portion of the mainsail cover emanated:

“Heyyyy, heyyyy, PP P P PAAUUULLAAAAA!!! I wanntt to o oo (snort, hiccup)…. maaaaaaarryyy youuuuuuu…Hey HEYYYY PAULAAAAA!!! (snooorree)”

I peeked inside the makeshift hammock and found a sodden Charlton M. Bouchemeyer clutching an empty Jack Daniels bottle and gently singing in his sleep. Upon further inspection it turns out that CMB had rigged a tiny portable hammock between the mast and the main foresail supports – effectively using the motion of the boat to gently rock himself to sleep.

Noting that all appeared to be in order, I returned to my cabin and slept.

I awakened to the sound of my hatch being opened from the outside. A pair of twinkling green eyes appeared over the lip of the square hatch, and a I heard a cheerful voice say:

"Um. Hallo. Ah. Do you want to get up and come play with me?!"

Tyler.

“Aaaugh. What TIME is it?!?!?” I said, burying my head in my pillow.

“Um. Hallo!! Hallo!! It’s a looovely day!!! It’s TIME FOR YOU TO GET UP AND COME PLAY WITH ME!! LETS GOO SNAAAAAARRRKLINGGGG” she warbled, avoiding the question.

“Ok ok ok ok ok. I’m up, but WHAT TIME IS IT!?!?”

“Um. It’s ALREADY 5:45”

“IN THE MORNING?!?!? You are a crazy person.”

“EVERYBODY IS UP UP UP BUT YOU!!”

Augh. Alright I’m up. I’m UP. I'm UP. HANG IT ALL.

I arose and donned my bathing suit, then stumbled into the galley towards the scent of frying bacon. Tyler stood before the stove and I could see Captain Ken’s feet standing at the wheel on deck.

“Well, I see you, me, and the Captain. That’s not EVERYBODY.”

“Everybody IS up….Well, except for Ashleigh, CMB, Austin, Emily, Anslee, and Eric.”

“So, its just you, me and the captain.”

“That about sums it up.”

“I’m powerless to refute that argument.”

“Oh good. Well, want a bacon and egg sammich?” she responded brightly, distracting me with food - one of her more effective tricks.

“Ok.” I grumbled. “Is it at least REAL bacon?”

“Yuppers. Sure is!”

“Well, at least there is that!” I responded, relieved.

Then, in a devious, purely evil move designed to undermine my personhood, she watched me eat half an egg sammich slathered in turkey bacon before I realized it. THEN in an even more provocative move she responded to the onslaught of my pork-imposter wrath with “I just said the bacon was REAL – not that it was made of pork!! Tee hee!”

And that’s pretty much how each morning began aboard the HMS TallyWacker. We scalloped about the British Virgin Islands for a week or so, making all sorts of new friends (a boat crewed by 4 couples in their mid-40s looking to “swing” followed us, or rather Ashleigh, for two days), we saw all kinds of ocean life, and we even managed to get a tan.

There were few casualties unless you count the time Anslee pushed CMB off the rear deck and into the lower hull – splitting his chin open to the bone; an injury which required approximately 8 stitches, but got a butterfly bandage of duct-tape instead…..Or the time CB managed to get himself snarled in a fast-moving mainsail rope; burning the meat off his right hand and left foot – effectively becoming the first sailing non-sailor in history to get footropeburn.

As a result of his burn injuries CMB felt compelled to promptly drink 8 ounces of bourbon to “numb the pain.” It seemed to help because he then wrote a political treatise on the economic fallout of evil “big business” out loud for our edification....But I guess it worked, because he seemed to have completely forgotten his hands altogether.

We experienced all the islands had to offer (except dirty swingers) and made it home alive. In short: I declare the Voyage of the HMS TallyWacker a rousing success.

Tally Ho!

An Ordinary, Intelligent Day

I’m convinced that ordinary, intelligent, people do extraordinarily stupid things very regularly and they’re just fortunate enough that, 85% of the time, nobody sees it. Somehow I managed to get myself born under an unlucky star and about 95% of the stupid things I do - someone manages to see. And not just “see” but witness, verify, then relate to others.

Last week I was scalloping about on craigslist.com when I came across a young man selling a set of five (5) automatically-inflatable PFDs (that’s automatic life jackets to you non-fishermen-folks) for $125 plus $16 shipping. I priced the units out at $119-apiece at the fount of all things good and wonderful (BassPro Shops)and was astounded to calculate a cool $454 in savings.

I almost lost my mind.

Naturally, I bought them and they showed up in the mail just a short few days later – as promised and just as described. I was thrilled. So thrilled, in fact, that I immediately put one on and walked around in the kitchen wearing it while cooking dinner. I’m a grown man, and if I want to walk around in my own house wearing an inflatable life jacket – I’ll damn well do it.

I imagine Joshua K. Wallace, Roommate, was very surprised to turn the corner and see me rolling on the kitchen floor in a plate of hot fish, rice, and beans; gasping and clutching at the fully-inflated life vest wrapped around my throat, but he had the wits about him a few moments later to help me deflate it a bit, and take this:


To HELL with camera phones.

Communicating With a Quasi

I called my (newest) quasi-cousin (or “interloper” or just “quasi” for short); Mrs. Jessica Pitts-Slocumb Sunday night to relate the happy news of my upcoming nuptials. She answered the phone and I said simply said “well, we’re engaged!”

Jessica: “Ok yes. You have my attention.”
Me: “No. We’re engaged”
Jessica: “Right I got you. I’m tracking with you. We’re engaged in conversation. I'm fully engaged. Tell me what’s going on.”
Me: “No, I mean seriously - We’re ENGAGED.”
Jessica: "Yes I know. We are. You and me – I’m 100% engaged with you and I AM LISTENING. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON. Hurry UP!!! YOU KNOW HOW SWEATY AND NERVOUS I GET. OH MAN (I hear what sounds like arms flapping up and down) THERE WE GO. NOW YOU'VE DONE IT - I JUST GOT ALL SWEATY.”
ME: I’m not sure how else to say this. Let me think.
ME: ....thinking….....
Jessica: “You are making me really nervous. Seriously. Who died? Just tell me (deep breath). I’m ready. Just tell me.”
ME: Eh. “I NEED HELP FIGURING OUT HOW TO CHANGE MY STATUS ON FACEBOOK TO “ENGAGED”!”
JESSICA: (piercing shriek ” “YOU AND TYLER GOT ENGAGED OH WOW OH WOW OH WOW YOU’RE ENGAGED!!!! HOOO LEEEE CRAAAP. YOU'RE ENGAGED I DON’T BELIEVE IT!!!”
Jessica: “Why didn’t you JUST SAY SO. TEARS JUST SHOT OUT OF MY EYES AND MY ARMPITS ARE A SWAMP.”
ME: Well, that’s gross.
Me: Totally my fault.

Facebook has warped the earth.

Cooking Evaluation #1: The Mysteries of The Pork Chop

In general, I intend for my FutureWifePerson Evaluation Techniques to be succinct, accurate, and accompanied by solid graphical data. However, I was prevented in appropriately documenting our first test entitled "The Mysteries of The Pork Chop" by threat of physical violence on the part of The FutureWifePerson.

I will not harp on an ugly scene but, in short, she blocked my shot of the test results and then slapped the camera clean out of my hand. I tried to recover, but she pulled rank and threatened to "throw away my dinner" which, if you're familiar with the infamous 1987 "Mom took his biscuit away and he cried" incident, you know its a threat I take seriously.

I was generally hopeful that this test would kick The Period of Evaluation off on an upbeat note because we all know pork is delicious. Even well into the preparation process I was confident in Tyler's abilities.

It wasn't until she said "do we have any flour?" then when I replied in the negative responded with "oh ok well - maybe corn starch will work" that I got nervous.

She clamored about the kitchen rattling pots and pans, talked on the phone, whistled tunelessly through her front teeth for a bit, then I heard her say to herself "well, I'll just defrost the meat now."

Approximately 9 minutes later, after 4 or 5 brief phone conversations and a nervous giggle or two, I heard her open the microwave and mumble "whoops" under her breath. She then approached me and said "hey, what do you think I should do with these?" as she guiltily held aloft 6, 1/16" thick, microwave-blasted atomic pork slivers.

Naturally, as an independent examiner I am barred from comment, so I simply located some flour for her and left her to her own devices. Approximately 12 minutes later I heard the unmistakable sizzle of re-frying pork and the smell of hot grease and knew what her solution was: "just fry it."

We're in the south, so that move is actually worth positive points.

Before I get to the overall results - I once read a children's story where a tree was cut down and all the other beautiful trees grew strong and tall and then spent a lifetime making fun of the stump. Not to ruin it, but at the end of the story it turns out that the tree was used to build the cross Christ died on to absolve the world from sin. Ha, Ha - guess that goes to show all the other mean, abusive trees - right? So, the cut-down tree was a key player in a major world event and all the other trees just stood around, then probably went straight to the eternal sawmill.

Well, lets just say I hope the pig who walked into the sausage plant on four feet and came out in pork chops bound for Tyler's kitchen hadn't read that story because all the other pigs are probably still laughing.

In her defence - we have a disturbingly-powerful microwave. When you turn this thing on you have to clench your teeth so they don't buzz from the radiation, you pick up AM radio in your skull, all the birds in the yard fly off - I mean this thing is potent.

She could not possibly have known that and avoided triple-blast-frying the meat without warning, so we'll give her a "pass" this time.

Forunately, Uncle Ben's Cheesy Instant Rice and some dehydrated-potato-au-gratin-cheese-food product served as a delicious garnish and saved the day. It was a flavor explosion of pasteurized-process cheese product with notes of oak, a sharp cheddar nose and a light, fluffy, napalm-pork finish.

I'm refraining from assigning a numbered score to this first test due to extenuating mechanical food preparation circumstances, but I'm on the alert.

Who's Got the Skillz?

I've decided that my blog is going to take a brief hiatus from the mundane ramblings of my ordinary pre-engaged life. Instead I'm going to start my first ever multi-part series in the next week or so.

The topic: Evaluating Tyler's various spousal skillz and general preparedness for marriage.

Now that we're officially betrothed, I feel like this is my last shot to kick my evaluatory techniques into high gear with some overt analysis.

I anticipate a multi-part format evaluating basic life skillz with tests such as the following:

1. Cooking Eval. 1 - The Mysteries of The Pork Chop
2. Basic SpeedBoat Handling Exam
3. The Art of The Neck Rub
4. What Do I Do With This Meat?
5. A Thrifty Person Goes To Publix For A Non-Thrifty Person.
6. Backing a Trailer (3-part test focused on "Panache", "Grace", and "Accuracy")
7. Basic Boat Maintenance
8. Cleaning Eval. 1
9. Riflery, Through .30 Caliber
10. Where Do I Start Cutting This Dead Animal? (Graphical Analysis)
11. Recognizing Hormonal Interference (this is a two-part test)
12. Aiding In Basic Handloading

I will keep you, faithful readers, abreast of the results as they are completed.

One Brick Over The Limit

I'm pleased to report that I've successfully tricked a real live woman into agreeing to marry me. Thats right - Tyler M. Davenport and I have offically engaged each other.

I maintain that she asked me, and she swears that I begged her - so we've decided to stick with "engaged each other" so as not to offend either of our delicate sensibilities.

Despite her Mother's ambivalent words concerning my engagement plans: "Well, that all sounds nice.....I sure hope she says yes!"; Tyler did indeed agree.

I thought I was in the clear, but after that comment I spent some time practicing on my kitchen floor just to be safe. I found that when I got down on BOTH knees I could pick up the overhead light just enought to stun her with the glare off the diamond; temporarily blinding her and rendering her sufficiently incapable of wise judgment. So, to be clear, I was not "groveling" I was merely on both knees to pick up better light. Like so many other things in life - I think that was the key to the whole thing - good lighting; but I also plied her with champagne and talked very, very quickly - two of my only remaining good bachelor tricks.

Since Le Engagement I've been the unwitting receptacle for all sorts of advice, witticism, quips and pithy maxim. Here's some of the most recent:

"Welcome to the club, where nothing you say is right and nothing you say can fix the first thing you said that was wrong."

"Hey man, how long did y'all date?"
"a little over a year."
"Err. Ok. Well, can you tell my girlfriend that you dated for six years? That would really help me out alot."

"Raise your hand if you like Tyler alot more than Jimmy."

"You've outpunted your coverage."

"What did you say to trick her into it?"

"Thats the finest Cubic Zirconium I've ever seen."

"Hey - I'm calling to say we just got engaged!"
"Great - more importantly - did you fish in that bass tournament this weekend?"

Thanks for the support guys - its been a good ride.

Summer Came Early at 6710

Tyler: Nancy’s pizza for dinner or sushi?
Me: I’ll do sushi if you're buying. I'm not buying you sushi anymore. You can eat more $5-a-bite raw fish at a sitting than Free Willy.
me: har har har just keeding
Tyler: har har....
me: is this a double date or just u n me?
Tyler: just us!
me: oh oh oh ho!
me: Are you workin hard today or hardly workin?
Tyler: It's a mix. Are you smelly just today or all of the time?
Tyler: Har har har!
Tyler: Oh just happened to think, there's a new restaurant called Cantina at Terminus where lola used to be.
me: Perfect. That’s a 35 minute walk. I’ll have to eat on the way over and on the way back to make it.
Tyler: Umm, its probably a 20 min walk, max.
me: Well, we can probably cut thru somewhere anyway.
Tyler: Ooh adventure!

When I got home that day I found this in my yard:




Its just another day in paradise.

I Had It Coming

It seems that about once a year I have an absolutely terrible day - a day frought with pain, destruction and travail wherein the fates conspire against me.

I can accept it because: I guess I've got it coming.

Take Sunday for instance:

After church I grabbed my two brand-new-upholstered boat seats, sat them up on the deck of my boat and went downstairs to grab a screwdriver. I walked back outside just in time to see a gust of wind catch the driver's side seat and blow it off the rear of the boat; landing upside-down on the top right corner, ripping the upholstery, piping, and seam.

I stood there for a minute in apopleptic fury at the wind not doing what I wanted it to, grappled with my emotions, subdued them, stuck the screwdriver handle-first into my pocket, and jumped in the boat to install the now-damaged seats.

Forgetting I had left the seat-installation-screws in a cup on my dresser, I went back inside, dumped the screws out of the cup into my hand, then dropped them in my pocket.

Back in the boat I lay down on the floor to screw the seats in, jammed my hand into my pocket for a screw, and immediately buried four shirtpins 1/4" into each of the first three fingers on my left hand.

Whoops! I forgot I put the screws in the cup with the shirt pins, but it really hurt - which reminded me.

I shifted my weight onto my right side to extricate my hand from where it was, literally, "pinned" inside my pocket...and managed to roll over on the screwdriver - crushing my $275 cell phone into useless oblivion.

Bleeding profusely, I attempted to arise and, as I straightened at the waist, four more shirtpins buried themselves in the top of my left thigh. The shooting pain from the thigh-pins threw me back down into the floor of the boat where I landed again on the screwdriver...raising a lovely blue-black bruise on the top of my right hip.

I managed to flop out over the gunnels and into the driveway, panting and bloody, only to land directly in front of the running hose - which soaked me.

At this point Tyler came outside and offered me an Arnold Palmer in a nice cool glass and a BLT sammich; both of which I accepted from my position on the driveway. She did not seem curious as to why I was laying in the driveway, instead she looked down at me with one raised eyebrow and said "you about ready to go?"

After finishing my sammich I managed to successfully install the (brand-new, ripped, torn, seats) and get underway without further incident or damage, other than to the Arnold Palmer glass; which I accidentally broke.

We put the boat in the water on Lanier and motored across the bay to John's house where I immediately ran the boat up on his dock, gouging it (see previous post).

I motored back across the lake below max RPMs, then made Tyler back the trailer down into the water to avoid further interaction with calamity.

We made it home in one piece, but I consider it a miracle.

Have a Good Cry

I have a very dear friend who will periodically cry in public; and I don't mean slam her thumb in the car door, leaving it dangling by a shred of tissue, then cry. I don't mean she'll stub her toe, or experience great emotional trauma of some sort; and as a result: cry.

I mean, she'll literally just cry - for no apparent reason and for an extended period of time - much longer than you might expect for say, a funeral attendee, a newborn birthing, a "cotton: fabric of our lives" commercial, or even a wedding. She'll start crying, then continue to cry for so long that she'll be forced to go about her daily tasks whilst weeping profusely.

No kidding. I have no idea how she keeps a job. In my opinion you don't want to walk into your attorney's office and find the staff weeping profusely on a regular basis -it erodes the confidence.

One day we went to dinner and mid-way through the meal tears began absolutely streaming down her cheeks. Everyone sat for a moment in stunned silence, mouthing "WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HER, YOU ASS?" to each other and looking down suspiciously at the fish. Noticing that a pall had fallen over the table, she looked up from the small puddle that was forming in her plate, smiled bravely and sobbed "P P P P leease p p p p p paaassss the p p p ppeppper."

She then continued to weep and sniffle throughout the remainder of the meal while periodically looking over at me to say "WHAT?! You've never seen a woman cry before?" like I am the unstable one.

I didn't follow-up further on the nature of her, ahem, "disorder"; mostly because I lack faith in my ability to completely divine what might cause such a confluence of conflicing emotions to arise in a person. I just haven't quite grasp what it is that could reduce an otherwise healthy person to such a state.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I managed to run my new boat up against the corner of John Willis' boat dock and scratch the living devil out of the nice, totally un-scratched, sparkly paint. Its not just "scratched," its gouged. The boat has been gouged and I did it.

As it happened, I felt a giant heaving sob well up inside of me.

Fortunately, I managed not to cry on the outside, but I finally understood what Sobbing Samantha goes through on a daily (yes, daily) basis.

As the gouging incident occurred I suddenly felt very ashamed of myself for comments like "damn it; she's ruined another shirt", "lookout! she's sprung a leak", "heads up on the mascara migration" and even "Oh man, you can't make a sammich in this place without somebody sobbing all over you."

So, my apologies. Grace and peace to you, Sam. May your nose never redden, may the wind blow-dry your eyes, may plentiful supplies of Kleenex and Visine follow you wherever you may go, and may your emotional boat go forth un-gouged.

Find Me a Two-By-Four

Today I would like to exhibit for your edification a series of in-depth graphic drawings depicting proper utilization of a Home Depot Aisle.

.....Unfortunately, that graphic depiction does not exist.

Know why? Because nobody in the world is dumb enough to seriously be unable to properly handle a Home Depot aisle. I mean, right? It’s an aisle. You walk down it, staying out of everyone’s way, moving with the flow of traffic, until you pause - just long enough to swoop into the bins and collect your kill.

Right?

No. Scratch that – it’s true.

I spent the better part of Saturday afternoon inside Home Depot tearing the store apart inside my head while waiting on a collection of mental-ward-escapees to incompetently scrape about directly in my path. It was absolutely painful and Home Depot, God bless them, does their dead-level best to make sure there is no way to segregate the idiots.

What you really need is an idiot-area where the incompetent can congregate, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, Home Depot is happy to provide each and every one of you with a big damn orange cart gigantic enough to see from the air - complete with casters that don’t turn, broken wheel bearings, and no rub-rail; then send you careening down any one of 30 narrow, concrete, steel-walled aisles directly at me.

I had to wait 2 minutes (2 FULL MINUTES) for a big fat idiot to get off his 1990’s- vintage-Powertel with some other idiot who was absolutely no help in picking between two $3 boxes of nails; all the while Home Depot employees fairly streaming past him un-questioned. Buddy, whoever you are - I’ll give you the $3 for the extra box of nails plus an extra $48 just to get the hell out of my way.

And for you folks out there who don’t know who you are, but perhaps vaguely identify with the individuals in this narrative - let me help you identify yourselves; if you pulled up in a 1999 model Camry expecting to get a 4’x8’ sheet of plywood in it and you don’t own a quality hammer – go immediately to customer service. Please do not call in a lifeline from mid-aisle in the fasteners section; you are not the kind of person who has friends that can help. Instead, go to Wal-Mart and call whoever you want from the “gaming” aisle and forget about building a doghouse – it’s not in the cards.

If you’re the woman in the gigantic wide-open plywood aisle wearing flip flops and a Bluetooth device; and your phone rings: DON’T ANSWER IT – NOBODY IMPORTANT IS CALLING YOU, I PROMISE.

No matter who you are – please; by all means - do continue to consult everyone except the Home Depot employees – that makes the most sense given your options.

I can find nearly anything in Home Depot in the dark and completely by feel. Do you know why?

Because I can read....And BECAUSE I can read – I know where the flashlight aisle is.

There is no excuse for you to stand under the Home Depot aisle marker sign clearly stating “LUMBER” in BLAZE ORANGE and ask yourself, me, your wife, or anybody else where the 2x4s are. It’s just not reasonable. The sign is 15 feet wide and ORANGE for crying out loud. Look up occasionally, and watch out for falling pianos.

In spite of my rant against all things shopper-related I am occasionally impressed by a fellow shopper or store employee. This time it’s White Porsche Guy.

White Porsche Guy: God Bless You for going to the furthest spot in the parking lot to park in order to save the finish on your sparkly white, very gay, Porsche. And God Bless You for parking so close to me – literally the only other car in that row - that I couldn’t open my passenger door. White Porsche Guy: May the road rise to meet you.

….And may that road be a road fraught with potholes that ultimately terminates in an ocean.

Breaking The Ice At Wal-Mart

This weekend Eric Hagen, Anslee Murdock, Tyler and I kicked off our first (and only) Voyage De Credit Limitaire Sailing Trip planning party at a Wal-Mart in sky Valley, Ga. As an ice-breaker we set out to brave the wilds of Wal-Mart. The challenge was to come out with exactly one item as close to $3.99 (with tax) as possible.

An hour later we found Eric asleep outside the bathrooms and were able to determine that Anslee had never actually gotten out of the car.

Unfortunately, they had a great fishing stuff section, so I accidentally spent $62.57 on lures and a can of Silicon Spray Lubricant that had fancy packaging, while Tyler a.k.a. “Scrooge McDuck” spent $3.98; saving a whole penny for the win.

Not a great start, but it turns out the trip was entirely worth it because at some point during Tyler’s focused search down the “Hardware” aisle, she absentmindedly leaned in and patted me on the rump, then gently ruffled the back of my hair as she walked by.

And by “me” I mean: a total stranger dressed in shorts like mine.

Classic.

DragonTamer

Tyler: HEYYY JIMMAAYYYY - wanna take me to a mooooveee? Huh? Do ya?! Huh?
Me: Ok. Whats out?
Tyler: "How to Train Your Dragon" in 3D!!!
Me: What ELSE is out?
Tyler: Nothing. Thats it. Slow month for Hollywood.
Me: Seriously, what else is out?
Tyler: Seriously - nothing.
Me: How about we go see "How to Train Your Dragon?"
Tyler: That is a great idea! See you at 7!
Me: Ok.
.....

Box Office Lady: Two tickets? That will be $39.
Me: HOLY CRAP. What is the promise of a first-born child worth these days?
Box Office Lady: A Little White Boy? Not much.
Tyler: Pony up, biggins - we're missing the previews.
Me: How's 2 twenties sound?
Box Office Lady: now we're talking.
Tyler: heeeheeeeeee!!!(playing on the escalator)...

......

We enter the theater and sit down then I turn around to comment briefly on the average age of attendees...and this is the sight that greets me:




Grouchina Marx.

Just a Quick Dip

Just a short few weeks ago I was surprised (and quite pleased) to receive the following photograph on my handheld from Charlton M. Bouchemeyer:



He included the following pop quiz:

The following picture depicts (select one):

A. Seth sneaking up Loch Ness-style on Buster.
B. Seth hooked the big one, Buster is not impressed.
C. "Boat noodling"
D. Busters rescue operation after Seth sinks the boat. Who knew you
had put that plug in?
E. Rectum? Damn near killed him!

I think you have a general sense for what is actually going on here; but in case you don't: Buster has forgotten to put that pesky little drain plug back into his boat. Consequently - it immediately began to sink.

My favorite part of the whole fiasco though, is this - Buster's one and only legible comment: "Seth, you're going to have to get in the water."

Seth wasn't even on the boat - he was on another boat.....one thats not sinking.

My thanks to CB for the quick thinking and the snapshot; and many thanks to Seth for being the only person willing to get wet and naked in front of two other men at noon on a blue-sky Saturday.

Crappy Fishermen

The Magnificent members of the Huntfish Adventure Club (and Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, Pledge) took a field trip to Lanier one lovely spring night recently in search of Crappie. That's "Crappie" as in: the fish, not "things that are Crappy".

Before you get too excited and start pronouncing the fish "Croppie" - let me help you: it IS pronounced "CRAPPY" as in the word "Crap" with an "EE" on the end. Sorry, crappie fishermen the world over; you can try to distance yourself from the word "CRAP" all you want, but the letters just don't lie. You are, in a nutshell "Crappie Fishermen" and thats all there is to it.

The big idea on this trip was to pull up to a bridge piling about 10PM, tie off, set the lanterns out, grill out on the pontoon boat, fish 'till we got worn out and generally tell loud, riotous, soul-scorching lies until the wee hours of the morning.

Even with 12 rods out, I managed to not catch a single fish; but everyone else did (even CB who immediately fell asleep on a cushion with the dog, but woke up periodically to holler "I GOT ONE!").

We had a great time until we realized Fred, who had been nominated to clean all the fish, had been stealthily slipping them all back into the water to avoid the chore.

Consequently, we have very little to show for our troubles other than some dark circles under our eyes, an empty bag of Cheetos, and, in Judson's case, two fresh new scars from an absolutely beautiful double-finger-hook-set incident (he actually put a treble hook into each thumb, effectively handcuffing himself - something I've heard about, but never actually seen done before). Fortunately Hank is handy with a set of needle-nose, so we stayed out of the hospital.

I reckon maybe we're just Crappy fishermen after all.

IWA

I managed to scoot away from work at a reasonable hour the other night and slip over to Lanier to spend a few hours on the water before dark.

George met me at the ramp, boat in tow, and we were underway in no time at all. I got the boat up on plane for just a few seconds, then we dropped down to a fast idle and shut her off to fish an outgoing point in the mouth of the creek. The sun was setting, the water was smooth. It was perfect.

And, at that point of complete calm and serenity; things began to unravel at an alarming rate.

1. First cast on my new reel - massive (MASSIVE) backlash. Un-pick-out-able. Rod retires to rod locker, 5 minutes re-rigging.

2. Second cast - bait hung up in tree. Broken off, $5 lure lost.

3. Ski boat nearby hails us in distress. We motor over good-natured-ly and the two men in the ski boat (already suspect) say "can you please tow us over - the motor died".

Too kindhearted to say no - we hook up his cheap tow line and say "where to?" Both slackjawed ski-boaters indicate "just over there" pointing at a huge marina..barely visible...and clear across the lake.

"You mean right here?" I responded, wistfully, gesturing vaguely at the bank 300 yards to my right.

"No - over THERE" the idiot pointed excitedly. "WAYYYY over there!!! Thanks so much for the tow!"

I should have been suspicious when the driver immediately shook out an entire newspaper, put his feet up on the dash, and started reading; but when, a full HOUR later, we arrive across the lake with the stupid ski boat in tow the man said "here's $20; I told the last guy that towed us we'd pay the next guy;" I nearly fell out.

George looked over at me and said, incredulously "THE LAST GUY THAT TOWED ME??? I guess this is par for the course then, huh?"

IWA - the idiots win again.

The HuntFish Widows' Whine Club

It seems the The Magnificent Denizens of The Huntfish Adventure Club have come under attack, once again, by several insanely jealous members of the (somewhat) fairer sex.

Thats right; Tyler, Christie, Kelly, and Janet have created a competing organization entitled "The HuntFish Widows' Whine Club" wherein the 4 women conflabulate together; daintily sipping various cheap whines poolside while generally downgrading their absent significant others, ahem, i.e. - us.

Although I'm generally in favor of HuntFish Widows maintaining healthy friendships amongst themselves, I've noticed a general sense of injury and malaise seems to pervade the attitudes of Whine Club Attendees subsequent to attendance at a Huntfish Widows Whine Club (hereinafter "HWWC") event.

I have, therefore, decided to attend the next HWWC gathering of the deserted, injured and emotionally maimed quasi-sportswomen this Sunday (unless Fred and I have gone fishing) and report back on their no-doubt distasteful and unseemly activities.

If I find anything particularly disturbing or otherwise damaging to my delicate sensibilities taking place therein; I will report back immediately.

Humbly Yours,

James G. Ewing, Jr.
HFAC Co-Chair

An Easter Defeat

I’ve spent a fair amount of time lately wandering around Lake Lanier trying to figure out how to catch fish. You’d think with a body of water as large as Lanier – your options would be fairly limitless.

That’s not the case.

I can say that definitively and I should know – because I’ve mostly found some great places where fish aren’t.

So, despite owning a bass-fishing-techniques book signed by Kevin VanDam; I think my strategy has been overall flawed. I prefer to drive around very fast until I see an area that looks “fishy”, then shut off the power and coast directly at it. Apparently that’s not the way to go, but you’d think even with a somewhat-flawed strategy you’d still meet with some success – or run over a fish and kill it or something. I ran through a portion of the lake that actually SMELLED very fishy last week and I got very excited about that, but I only caught one fish.

So far I’ve caught exactly 5 fish this month, and we’re not talking whales here either. It’s a good thing I wasn’t catering the Sermon on the Mount because I doubt these 5 fish would turn into much - even with 5 loaves and some divine intervention.

I have, however, managed to amass an immense quantity of tackle that I don’t quite know how to use and drive around very, very fast – I’m pretty happy about that.

Which brings me to my point: Easter has come and gone and, in addition to a stunning lack of success on the water, I’ve also managed to magnificently underwhelm everyone with my complete and utter failure during the Easter Egg Hunt. Not only did I not conquer the Golden Egg, but I also managed to shame up my family by not knowing either

A. Gma’s middle name (Clara – not Lillith, Lillian, Claire, or Clarke)
and
B. the name of the street in Macon on which my mother first lived.

I also have not been successful in continuing to love the Blue Team of Cousins who beat me so ignominiously during the competition. I loathe them - all of them, and I will be forced to carefully consider many elaborate pranks of retribution in the coming weeks to soothe my wounded spirit.

I also intend to loudly elaborate on the many grievous ways in which Team Blue Cousins cheated and otherwise behaved in an unsportsmanlike manner. I will begin with this:

1. Thomas cheated during the Blindfolded-Pinwheel-Pickup event by peeking out from under his blindfold while my completely discombobulated partner (Tyler) blindly wandered around the front yard uprooting handfuls of grass at sporadic intervals and laughing uproariously.
2. I saw – CLEARLY SAW – Sherry mouthing the word “CLARA” to Ashley during the infamous Not-Knowing-Of-The-Grandma’s-Name trivia situation.

Clearly, I cannot be expected to perform at the upper limits of my capabilities under such extreme duress.

I'll Be Your Tribesman

Today Tyler mentioned that some of her friends went on a National Geographic cruise trip to Antarctica.

Well, whoooop-tee-dooo.

I'm sure, like several of my ex-girlfriends, Antarctica was lovely, frigid, forbidding, and yet somehow extremely fascinating.

As you may have guessed - it does NOT sound great to me, but I would never discourage you from going on such a trip. In fact - go! I encourage it!

Me? I don’t see much point in taking a National Geographic trip anywhere there aren’t sweaty naked people. After 10 formative years furiously thumbing through National Geographics for photos of naked tribespeople (’87 was a good year); I’m not sure I can go through life fulfilled without gawking at an indigenous people group clad in the altogether at least once.

I find it fascinating that in 2010 there are still entire societies on earth that wander around in various stages of undress. It’s fantastic. By the time I shuffle off this mortal coil I will have spent something like .055% of my lifespan on the mind-numbing chore of taking things to get cleaned that these people groups did away with altogether! And WE claim to be the more “evolved” tribe?

The general anthropological study is interesting I guess, but I just can’t quite wrap my mind around it. Can you imagine what our society would be reduced to if shirts were optional?? I, for one, wouldn’t get a single useful thing done, and I certainly wouldn’t have sufficient focus to hunt or gather. The power grid would flicker and go completely out by day 5 and by day 200 the US population would have either happily starved to death with peaceful smiles on their faces or doubled – I’m not sure which.

Without the dry cleaner we’d be just another group of sweaty tribesmen with barely enough focus left to sharpen a pointy stick.

Hug your dry cleaner today. He'll understand.

Spray Tan Your Way to Success

"My bathing suit bottom has officially disappeared," Aunt Sherry sighed; gently waggling her rear in the corner of the sitting room.

"I mean, it's 18 inches deep and going out of sight" she continued, stifling a giggle.

"This one is going to take a surgical team to extract" she chortled, walling her eyes and gesturing vaguely behind her.

"MOM! I can't take you anywhere!" Ashley wailed.

Then to me: "At Beau's wedding we he had to take her wine glass away before she ended up on stage with a tambourine!"

"You know I just asked the band if I could play the tambourine one time and for all the noise y'all make of it you'd think I walked up on stage naked playing a trombone! I've always wanted to play the tambourine, ok?!" Sherry said. Then, before Ashley could retort, she gave the hem of her black cocktail dress a series of violent tugs and sashayed off in the direction of the dessert table.

“Did she say “bathing suit” Aunt Greer buzzed into my ear from behind me. “Why did she say bathing suit?”

"I’M WEARING MY BATHING SUIT BOTTOM BECAUSE THE ELASTIC HOLDS MY GUT IN!!!" Sherry announced gaily from the dessert area; chocolate covered strawberry held triumphantly aloft.

I heard a noise behind me and turned just in time to see Aunt Greer’s glasses slide off her nose and onto the floor. I bent to pick them up and noticed that they were missing an earpiece. “Greer I think you just broke your glasses" I said.

"Oh no honey. I know. They’ve been like that for awhile." She replied, carefully balancing the broken spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “If I hold my head just-so they stay on fine.”

Between bites of strawberry Sherry continued: “Last night Robert and I went to Nichole’s salon to get a spray tan; and I realized how skinny these bathing suit bottoms make me feel; so I thought to myself ‘well, maybe I’ll just wear them to the engagement party!’”

“What?! Robert gets a spray tan? He always does look very dark!” Greer peered at her, owlishly; eyeglasses slightly askew.

“Oh noooo, Robert has his own tanning bed at the house! He just came over to have a glass of wine and watch me get spray tanned" Sherry finished.

Oh man I think I’ve heard enough about your weird married games” I said. “Is this one of those things Cosmopolitan says to do to spice up your marriage?”

“Well I don’t know. I just called and said ‘Robert take the ham out of the freezer to thaw, I’m going to get a spray tan,’ and Robert said, ‘I’m on my way.’ When I got there he had a bottle of wine open and his reading glasses on and he said ‘Nichole spray her down good.’”

Greer twittered guiltily, further jostling her glasses and said “Well. Ahem. Harrumph. Let’s take a family picture.”

We did, and cousin Sarah insisted on closing her eyes at the flash, so we had to keep re-taking it until she was satisfied with lighting, skin tone, and degree of eye-open-ness.

None of the resulting photos managed to capture the ephemeral photographic “good side” I’ve been searching for in photos of myself for years, but Sarah seemed pleased with her results.

We ate deep-fried pork bites, mashed potatoes and roast beef, asparagus, and roast corn dip until we lacked the strength to navigate the buffet; then we carried the party back to the Gaither’s for a post-engagement-party wind-down. During the wind-down phase we discovered that the lunchtime coleslaw had disagreed with some of us; and those unlucky few spent the remainder of the evening with feverish, perspiring faces nestled gently against the cool, soothing side of a porcelain fixture.

Cole slaw, the silent killer, brought yet another family of strong, sociable, southerners to the throne of repentance.

I say if coleslaw, the most unassuming of foods, can take you down: I’m certainly not going to worry about raw oysters; but regardless of food-borne illness and in spite of the casualties - I’d say that the weekend was an overall success. We all learned a bit about the new in-laws and Eufaula, Alabama; but the single most important thing I learned was this:

Life Rule #698: A good spray tan is the key to any successful marriage.

Attention

Some people require very regular attention or they get very disgruntled.

me: So - you eggsighted for our big weekend of fun?
Tyler: Yeppers. Speaking of eggs, I made another delicious breaky for myself.
me: You're not afraid to eat some food are you! Good lawd. Fatty!
Tyler: Who you calling “fat,” haircut? Breakfast is good for you, chump. Egg whites, whole wheat bread, swiss cheese, tobasco, perfection
me: Good grief. I cooked myself cheerios for breakfast once. That’s about all I had in me.
Tyler: Yah. You have that nerdy dairy allergy too. I'm surprised you made it through middle school.
Me: Eh, so whats up?
Tyler: knock knock
....KNOCK! KNOCK!
....KNOCKYYY KNOCK!!!!!
..........HALLO?
.....(Um, I think thumbody is at your door...)
me: Sorry, I’m back. Um hallo? I mean: “who's there?”
Tyler: Esther
Me: Esther a doctor in the house?!?!?
me: Did I get it??!? IS that it??! Hhahahhaha I made that one up!!
Tyler: NO. Also, you are not funny.
me: ok ok ok ok, fine. "Esther who?"
Tyler: Esther bunny!
....knock knock
..........KNOCK KNOCK
......(ugh, we're going to have to work on your knock knock skills, loser.). Ok, nevermind.
me: Sorry, back again. Ok ok fine. "Esther bunny who?"
Tyler: NO! AGH!!!
me: "ESTHER BUNNY WHO?"
Tyler: You is retarded.
me: ESTHHER BUNNY WHO
Tyler: NO! I said "knock knock" again, nerd.
me: Geez. ok ok ok. "WHO IS THERE?!?!"
Tyler: Anna
me: anna who?
Tyler: Annanother Esther bunny!....Knock knock!!
me: Oh man I’m not sure I have the strength for this; but ok: “who is there?”
Tyler: Stella
me: "Stella who?"
Tyler: Stella nother Esther Bunny!!!! (they're everywhere!!!)
me: Oh man. I’m done. I've had enough. I cant take the mirth
Tyler: I tell you when you're done, and don't you forget it!! KNOCK KNOCK!!!! (one more please!!!)
me: I'M THERE AND I'M ARMED.
Tyler: It's orange! Yoo hoo, Orange is at the door!!! ORANGE IS AT THE DOORRR!!!
me: Ack. Argh. Fine – ORANGE WHO?
Tyler: Orange you glad there are no more Esther bunnies?!?!??!?
me: ok. Is it over?
Tyler: HAPPY FRIDAY JimMay
me: I'm officially dumber now
Tyler: hahahahahahahahaa I was crying I was laughing so hard. So, I enjoyed it at least.
me: Oh man. You don’t get out enough.

Exotic Pets

I generally don’t want a cat for a pet; but after seeing an aquarium full of ferrets at the pet store the other day – I specifically do not want a ferret. A ferret is 100% not to be trusted and, for some reason, this particular collection of ferrets look vaguely "sweaty" which really threw me off. I’d rather have an average-sized tiger wandering around than a ferret - that's how badly I dont' want a ferret.

At least with a tiger you can keep track of its whereabouts. If there is a live tiger in my house, I promise you I’m going to know exactly where it is at all times.

I’d consider that a “priority.”

But not a ferret! No telling where your pet ferret is. It could be anywhere.

Having a pet ferret would be something like having a pet snake crossed with a pet tiger crossed with a cat burglar – it’s an animal that’s extremely unpredictable, untrustworthy, potentially vicious, and it could be anywhere at any time and you wouldn’t necessarily know it.

I find that prospect horrifying.

I’m not sure what the animal theme is all about lately, but it’s obviously been on my mind. Seeing a whole aquarium full of pet ferrets in the pet store the other day is probably what set me off, but the squirrel thing in the news the other day (see previous post) really got me started thinking about rodents and such, in general.

Nothing beats Mom’s story about the python in Macon though. This is apparently a true story that took placae on the street behind my grandmother's house. Here's the gist of it:

Lady comes home from work.

Phone rings. It's Son on the phone.

Son says “Mom, my 13ft long pet python needs sun. Can you take him outside?”

At this point in the story, my Mom’s phone would have abruptly cut off. Someone would have had to immediately escort her to the nervous hospital to recover from “there is a python in my house” shock; but apparently this woman was a bit sturdier around reptiles.

Anyway, I digress.

Lady prods sluggish python outside for a little R&R.

Python charges up its sunlight batteries, then turns on its captor, completely encircling her in its coils but, unaccountably, refusing to eat her.

6hrs later Husband comes home to find woman laying prone, and perfectly still in backyard…wrapped head-to-toe in very-much-alive python.

Apparently playing dead saved her neck because, according to later reports, when she struggled the snake tightened down. Methinks she picked a good time to sit tight.

Man says, “Honey, are you ok?”

Wife says “get this thing off of me.”

Sherrif arrives; but refuses to enter backyard.

Hussband manages to extricate wife. (How? We don’t know. Perhaps by insulting the python verbally – we don’t really know the whole story here; except that, at this juncture, no one has yet had the presence of mind to produce a sharp implement or firearm).

Sheriff shoots python in head from roof of house with state-issued shotgun…..multiple times.

End of story.

Which really all just goes to show you: do not mess with ferrets.

A Second-Best Kind of Day

Apparently the second best day of my life happened this past Tuesday. I thought it was pretty nearly one of the tip-top very best A-#1 days, but according to those of you bent on ruining my life and stealing my joy - it was only second best, to be followed by a long period of misery, and finally the very best day of my life which culminates only due to my impending financial ruination.

Wwaaahhh wahhh waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh, thank you for coming to the party Mr. and Mrs. Downer and all your Downer family progeny.

Tuesday, I bought a boat. A big, fast, bad-to-the-bone redfish and bass fishing boat that I'm positively terrified of, and don't really know how to use.

Was that an intelligent financial decision based on my career as a CPA, and everything I know about the economy, myself, and my plans for the future?

Of course not.

Was that a decision based on my understanding that moth and rust destroy? That the things of this earth will perish and that one day, I too shall return to the dust?

No, but thanks for bringing it back to Biblical.

Was this an investment in my future? My future progeny, or things of an eternal nature?

Negative.

This was an investment in going real' fast because: I want to go real' fast.

This collection of nuts, bolts, oil, and various spinning-things under pressure will, presumably, help me achieve the goal of mind-blowing, gravity-defying, intense, terrifying, not-at-all-safe, fastness; and THAT is why I wrote the check.

Perhaps Fred B. Hand, IV; said it best as he looked at me this weekend and said "Jimmy, this boat needs to go real' fast. When we're done fishing, let me help it go real' fast."

45 minutes later; Fred hunched behind the wheel of my new boat, face set in a grim picture of hell-bent determination but, as we rocketed past his grandfather's house at 70mph with my terrified screams filling the air, I still found my speed-numbed brain pulsing out one lone thought: "THIS IS AWESOME."

So, to all you non-boat-owners who immediately chuckle and begin spouting your pithy anecdotal references to boat ownership, cost, and stupidity let me say this: I have kept careful track of your derisive comments and I will wave to you at the dock...

As soon as I get my boat out of the shop.

Insanity Reigns

Sometimes things in the world get so bad that even the most sheltered of us are forced into a head-on collision with reality. One would think my steadfast refusal to watch the news or read the paper would protect me from the evil, polluting, influence of the outside world; but it doesn’t.

You can’t even get through the Bible without crossing paths with some pretty heady stuff. I flipped through Romans the other day, minding my own business and thinking nothing but good thoughts; and what did I see? “Orgies.”

Seriously. I’ve never even been invited to one of those and here the Bible is bringing it up!

I guess there’s no escaping the realities of a fallen world.

Somehow, the insidious evils of this mortal coil continue to pursue even I – not even the protective wall of tackle boxes, soft plastic worms, crankbaits, and other bass lures I’ve carefully built up around my tv-room chair has been able to buffer me from the stream of bad news pouring out of our television.

This morning Chalrton M. Bouchemeyer, evildoer, sent me the following link - http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/4489792.stm - and something pure inside me died.

How long before the annual Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament becomes a gritty struggle for existence? What is next? “Dolphin Eats Fisherman?” “Flock of Bluebirds Carry off School Bus – Children Maimed?”

“Anderson Cooper Accused In Betty White Disappearance??!?!”

How many more indignities must we suffer before the rapture finally comes?

I’d like to direct your attention to a small, seemingly-innocuous sentence in the article - overshadowed somewhat by the headline, but chilling, nonetheless:

“Komosmolskaya Pravda notes that in a previous incident this autumn chipmunks terrorized cats in a part of the territory."

"Terrorized."

To me that means some number of chipmunks intentionally and prolongedly terrified and insulted a cat, or many cats; with no higher purpose than the sheer, liberating, freedom that must follow from a pack of chipmunks asserting themselves.

Somebody help me.

I can tell you 100% for sure that if I ever turn a corner and spy a pack of teenage chipmunks terrorizing anything; there’s going to be a me-shaped hole in anything solid between there and my Grandma’s house; because Grandma’s is the only safe place I know of when insanity reigns.