Ginormous Deal

So ginormous is now an acceptable word. Big deal. I've been using unacceptable words for years, and no one ever noticed. Aren't new innovations often ignored until the passing of an age? Only years later, after some child genius bites the dust, are such gems discovered.

"Cootie" is an example of child genius never given its just due. My whole first grade class knew what it meant: some yucky thing on girls that rubbed off on boys. We knew enough to run away from girls who had them. But adults never learned the word. Look in a dictionary and it says a cootie is a body louse. Maybe first grade girls did have body lice, I don't know, but my point is the true meaning of cootie hasn't been recognized. Modern definitions simply lack the intimate connection of cooties to girls, and boys running away from them. If first graders can invent words, why can't we? Think of something that will make you famous, then write it down:

Snargle (verb):
1) to express disturbing feelings (She snargled at her husband all day long)
2) to trip over one's feet on the way to the bathroom at nighttime (Why don't you put your shoes in the closet where they belong, so I won't snargle all the time?)
Synonyms: dunkdraggle.

Until later.

I Don't Like it When . . .

A . . . a person lies to your face -- and pulls it off.

B . . . someone tells you the brutal truth -- just to be brutal.

C . . . a pastor acts holy -- but is holey.

D . . . someone smiles in your face -- and pees on your leg.

Add your own comments; be bold, be ruthless. Might as well get it off your chest.

What Is Your Life Song?

Dear Readers:

Last night I finished this, only to find it wouldn't post. So goes life; we all navigate minor obstacles every day and, occasionally, major stressors. Currently, my wife and I are exploring new job opportunities. Though hopeful for better times, we are nevertheless stressed-out. At least, now, we have time to reassess what's important in our lives. It's such a rat race out there; I'm often left with little time to reflect on where I've been, and where I'm going.

This was not my concern as a high school student, until my senior year. I was at a loss to know what I'd do after graduation. Then a friend told me he was going to be a veterinarian, and I thought I'd found my future. I've always loved animals. Only thing is, I didn't become a vet; it wasn't in the cards. Instead, I went to medical school and became an ophthalmologist; then I went to theological seminary and became a minister; then I trained to become a psychiatrist. After all this training, you'd think I'd had figured out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Not so. It's a work in progress; I'm a work in progress. Not everyone finds one vocation to settle on forever.

Happiness is another issue to navigate. Chasing after your vocation is one thing, but the pursuit of happiness is even more elusive. My grandfather was a postal worker for forty years. When he wasn't delivering mail, he took lead roles in community theater. He was a happy man and found balance in his life. Everyone's different. Community theater wasn't my lot. It took me quite a long time to realize happiness came not only from pursuing a vocation, but from being with my family, loving, and being loved.

Money can't buy happiness. Celebrity status, getting rich, and flash in the pan experiences are newsworthy events, but pursuing such things only distance us from the most important life-giving aspects of our lives. Jesus said it best: "Where you heart is, there your treasure lies also." So my faith sustains me and keeps me centered on the most important things in life. Trying to live by Jesus's code is easier said than done, however. Work , family conflicts, and unwanted intrusions into our lives occur constantly.

I'll say this in closing. When I was a teenager, I took a job as a busboy. Low pay, bossy waitresses, and a lazy assistant manager (who also bossed me around) were highlights of that experience. What struck me as the most memorable occurred when, after work, I thumbed a ride home. An elderly man pulled over and let me in on that grey, rainy day. I remarked, "Lousy weather, huh?" His answer still haunts me: "Oh, I'm just glad to be alive another day." A poignant reminder of what's most important. A life well lived is a happy one.

Until later.

I'm Feeling Really Blue

Dear Readers:

Which story is true? You decide.

For many years I'd asked myself this question: "Where, oh where, is Wonder Bird?" Finally, I located him (picture enclosed). Wonder Bird had control issues. As soon as I discovered him, he demanded we duel. So we squared off and stared at each other. Sometimes I crossed my eyes to gain advantage. He won of course (that's why they call him Wonder Bird), and I had to look away. But I did manage to give him something to remember me by. During our staring contest, the strain got to him, and he started to shake (I can cross my eyes for a long time). His veins were popping out all over his body, and he turned blue. I guess our fight did something permanent to his feet, because the blue never changed back.

Some people tell this story differently. They'd like you to believe my brother-in-law snapped this picture of a Blue-Footed Booby in the Galapagos Islands. That's one explanation, but it doesn't explain why his feet are blue. I think you'll agree my version is superior. My observations were studied under strictly controlled conditions and should pass muster with the scientific community. Also, my mine is the more pleasant one to read.

Until later.

Don't Tell Anybody

Dear Readers:

Today I decided to expose three of my childhood secrets:

According to Mom, I was "painfully honest" as a child. But truth is a relative concept. I remember playing with my younger brother in the neighbor's barn. A large metal tank was sitting in the middle of the dirt floor with a faucet at one end. I turned on the spigot, tasting the nastiest water imaginable. I told my brother to try it, which he vigorously attended to, taking in several gulps. Then he started to have a nose bleed, and I think he vomited blood. We were scared and made a break for home. The secret is this: I tried to run faster than him to get to Mom first. I knew I'd be in serious trouble if he got there before me and told his version. My legs moved like egg beaters, and I huffed and puffed while trying to think of an alibi. I flew into the house announcing: "Something's wrong with Middle-Brother." I tried to look perplexed to cover my anguish. The perplexed part was to demonstrate my innocence. The anguished part was the guilty Catholic knowing he was going to Hell; I had poisoned my poor brother.

I never liked trouble, but somehow it always found me. That's the second secret. Like the time that snotty little punk-of-a-friend Freddie (with his stupid pet turtle, Bubbles) ratted on me for starting fires. I was minding my own business, trying to focus the sun's light through my magnifying glass. The dried leaf started to smoke and a hole began to form when what should appear on the horizon but Eddie and both of our moms. My mother had told Freddie's mom her son "would never" start fires. I guess she wasn't a good judge of character. At least in this instance, I didn't have to tell the truth. Since I was caught red-handed, truth-telling wasn't necessary.

My last secret is more personal. I can cross my eyes, one at a time, and without looking at the end of my nose. You heard me correctly. My habit has been a long standing one, and I've become quite famous for this phenomenon. It must be genetic, because my son and oldest daughter can do it too. When my son was four he announced, "I see two Daddies," and I knew our family was double crossed. My mother used to tell me, "Stop crossing your eyes or they'll get stuck." I'd get back at her by crossing them some more, and it usually worked. She couldn't look at me when I'd to the eye thing -- her face would cringe and she'd look away. Now that three of us possess this gift, we have the power to strike simultaneously.

Until later.

Remember Y2K?

I remember it very well. Our family's toast to the new millennium never happened. My siblings brought out the champagne and stemware. Then, they remembered Doctor Rick was a teetotaler. They put away their glasses, and New Year's Eve passed without imbibing. We soberly watched the TV screen while the world celebrated with fireworks, lanterns and beach parties. I guess my brother and sister didn't want to drink alone. It made sense. When I was in college, I expected my friends to chugalug with me. (Someday, remind me to tell you about my high school buddy who saw a leprechaun in the bottom of his glass. He was Irish.)

My teetotaler status stemmed from an incident years ago at a local pizza joint. I was enjoying my usual beer and pizza when one of my kids remarked, "Dad, do you realize alcohol kills brain cells?" I thought for a moment how that only applied to "excessive" consumption, and I readied for my beer's defense. Instead, I relented and joined hands with elementary school children and my kids' classmates who'd made a pledge to the D.A.R.E. officer to abstain from alcohol and drugs for life. Plus, I didn't have many brain cells left, so the death-to-brain-cells theory helped persuade me. There was no point in arguing against the collective wisdom of an entire elementary school class. Besides, I worried they might hurt me if I resisted.

Now my kids have grown into young adults. They say "it doesn't matter anymore" if I drink or don't drink. "That's when we were little, Dad," is the familiar refrain. My absolution came just in time. Temptation reared it's ugly head last weekend. It was family reunion time and middle brother brought his usual stash of booze. One of those moments occurred during happy hour when my brother offered me some wine. I hesitated, but before I could resist, he told me he'd give me just a "splash." Indeed, it was a small amount; like the splash of wine we get in church every Sunday, right? Anyhow, I can't recall how many splashes I got that evening, but I'm sure I've killed some brain cells. (No wonder my brother is in sales. He's good at it.)

Until later.

The Scarlet Tanager

I know. How random is this? My last story profiled five-legged slugs and primordial soup, but now I'm bird watching? It seems that blogging has revealed something of myself. I like variety and get bored with monotony, sameness, routines. Don't get me wrong -- I'd lose my sanity if there weren't any predictable schedules and ways of managing life. Chaos is just too much to handle. But on an every day level, the cycle of work, sleep and work, doesn't cut it. Too mundane. Watch me cut the grass and you'll notice I never cut it the same way. It isn't planned, but it happens every time. I'd hate mowing if I were forced to travel the same circles every time. Such an endeavor requires a little spicing up, variety. (My kids would say I rarely cut the grass, so I shouldn't be talking like this. Well, maybe they're right, but they get paid.)

Not everyone's the same. My neighbor's more neurotic (I mean disciplined) than me. He cuts and trims his yard with clockwork timing and precision accuracy. His yard has more curb appeal, and I have more weeds. So we both have something to brag about.

Anyhow, on to the Scarlet Tanager. It's a beautiful bird. Bright scarlet body with black wings and tail, it's something to behold. I've rarely seen one, but sure enough, my wife and I sighted one last week. We were sitting in our car, and it lit on a branch close by. It stayed for only a few minutes before it left its perch, but we were awed. When we headed home, the rat race of work and errands took over, and the peace we experienced faded. It was back to the grindstone -- work, sleep, work. Maybe I should juggle my schedule a bit to spice things up. How about work, sleep, vacation and take up a hobby? Or call in sick and run a marathon? Or call in "really sick" and finish my novel? Or say I was kidnapped and travel the world ?

Until later.

The Big Bang Theory

Bang! Our universe came into existence. The explosion rained water and ashes upon the earth and clogged the sewer drains. Out of this slurry wiggled the first slug. It was a creepy, crawly thing that slid on its belly. Later, it mutated and grew five legs. Legs enabled it to pole-vault over sticks on the ground, and it could move fast. It multiplied, and soon the earth was covered with little land rovers that could go zero to sixty in . . . well, no one's really sure.

Finally, two-legged, upright slugs won out. They ate less, and because they stood upright, reached the tomatoes high on the vine that the short, stubby, five-legged ones couldn't. Since they ate less, they didn't spend as much time foraging for food, and their schedules allowed for more discretionary time. So they took off Saturdays and Sundays and became our first human beings.

So there you have it. I can vouch for the authenticity and credibility of this account because I learned about it in college, and believe it to be true. It explains why we're fascinated with Fourth of July fireworks. We are wired to look to the sky, to the source of our being, when a long time ago, the first explosion shook the firmament of the earth and showered us with primordial soup.

Until later.

Smoky Mirrors and Everything Dear

Dear Readers:

Well, hey. I solved the mystery. Mom visited her internist a few days ago to check out her blood pressure and her sore knee. The nurse asked if she needed any refills on her thyroid medication. My mother smiled, politely informing her she quit it because she took "too many pills." What was she thinking! No wonder she felt weak and had trouble walking. Low thyroid levels probably had something to do with her recent fall. I urged her to not quit medication again unless her physician advised her to do so. The bland expression on her face told me she needed convincing. It wasn't going to be easy.

Later she had an appointment with her orthopedic surgeon. No broken bones, but he told her to use the walker for the next three weeks -- no exceptions. So far, she's complied, sort of. My daughter caught her pulling the walker behind her while she galloped ahead. I also caught her walking backward with it. I pointed out the error of using a walker in such a manner. She had to use it properly, or she could fall again. Catchers wore face masks to keep flying objects from squashing their noses, right? But the masks had to be worn properly to protect them. Mom listened, but her face remained blank. I think she imagined a muzzle covering my nose.

Until later.