Author: admin

Collectively Claustrophobic

We’re a claustrophobic society. Maybe because we take Freedom and America’s vastness for granted we’re quick to feel uncomfortable when someone’s in our space. You know, that invisible personal zone – delineated by our magic sensors that detect body heat, food-breath, and clothing that carries an odiferous blend of Chinese restaurant and bowling ally – that warns of a close encounter. And I think we’re becoming more space-sensitive, evidenced by social warriors employing their three by five inch shields, held in a defensive posture; small-target body profile, head tipped forward at forty-five degrees, eyes side-glancing for imminent intruders.

I make an effort to be that violator when I detect spacial discomfort in someone I’m talking with, typically one of my wife’s friends or my daughter’s boyfriend. Not so close as to be freakishly uncomfortable, just six inches closer than normal. Their reactions are always noteworthy. The retreat step backward. A break in eye contact with side-glances for escape routes. Arms folded in front with their spine in a notable backward arch.

My son Joe got the gene and intentionally creeps up on me at work or home, leaning over my shoulder while I’m on the computer, intentionally breathing on my head or reaching around me to grab something off the counter. So I understand the instinctive urge to drop an orange safety cone to mark our space.

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Raise A Shoe In Solidarity!

I’ve always maintained that there’s no such thing as a bad kid or a bad dog. They just need different levels of finesse. I say that having raised several dogs, a girl and a boy, and coaching kids of all ages. There are however, more and more rotten parents whose apparent structure-deprived lifestyles enable zoo-like behavior from their youngins. Continue reading “Raise A Shoe In Solidarity!”

Old Fashioned Snowball Fight

“HOW MUCH DO THEY TAKE OUTTA YOUR CHECK?” Gabby said as she stormed into my office.

“Hi Gab,” I said as I turned away from my computer to see her studying the piece of paper in her hand.

“How much?” She asked without looking up.

“A SHAHIT LOAD!” I said, laughing at how upset she was about finally recognizing her role as a working taxpaying host.

“It’s not funny. This isn’t fair,” she said.

“It’s the redistribution of wealth… America’s charter,” I added.

“WHOSE WEALTH! I’M A COLLEGE KID WORKING TWO JOBS AT THE MALL, NOT SOME OLD BUSINESS OWNER GUY!”

“Don’t call me old!” I said looking over my glasses…like an old business owner guy.

WHERE’S IT ALL GOING? WHY DON’T I HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT?”

“You do. Vote!” I said.

“FOR WHO?”

“WHOM.”

“I can’t even talk to you sometimes,” she said angrily, storming out of my office. “I’m going to work out.”

It’s funny how kids with the same gene pool can be so different. Gabby’s a type A personality. Rigid. Intense. Vulcan-like, yet funny…and a little combative. Unlike her brother Joe, her “gray area” is a pencil thin line between black and white. I understand her personality as she IS the proverbial nut that fell from my family tree.

I appreciate her frustration from taxation with no apparent representation. I had the same questions when I first realized I was a voiceless stationary target, supposedly fraught with success-guilt from cashing my government-calculated paycheck. I have often thought there should be full disclosure on W4 forms, detailing how tax dollars are redistributed. Maybe a pie chart in appropriate colors; green for environmental dollars, blue for the military, yellow for infrastructure, and appropriate shades of gray for everything else that denotes an oppressive sweaty taxing body pressed uncomfortably behind us with both hands fumbling in our front pockets.

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Shut Up! (Yes, we say “shut up”)

I miss my German shepherd. I’m a dog guy. They’re good company and the house felt safer having four-legged security. But I do have a dog, kind of. It was a package deal when I got married. “Flower.” And as you’d surmise from the name, she’s bunny-like small, needing an escort to venture into the yard for a duty-run. This is a critter that shivers, peeking both ways out the door for an all-clear before stepping into the daunting jungle that is my manicured back yard. But when you’re three-pounds-tiny I suppose even robins and squirrels are terrifying. (In case you still haven’t conjured a complete mental image, this is an animal that jumps and runs to the next room and hides behind a chair when the toaster pings.) But she’s cute. And like naughty toddlers, cuteness helps me overlook the fact that she wears a pink diaper and smells like an old sneaker.

As a dog owner I try to be a good adoptive “parent.” After all, pets are like little kids, needing attention, care, love, and patience. I get it. What I don’t get is the recent pet role-reversal I’m seeing now everywhere I go. What started as service animals for the handicapped has morphed into “emotional support animals” that supposedly help the unchallenged cope with the stresses of life; you know, like going on a plane ride or getting a burger, calmed by their “support hamster.” And here I thought “safe space” coloring books and Play-Doh were the nerve-calming antivenin for daily ravages endured by the millennial snowstorm.

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30 Seconds

It’s funny how I think about stuff and remember people from my past. While working around the house late this afternoon I thought about a kid I knew in grade school. Maybe I was thinking about the past because the kids are away at school and Bek is working on a theater project and the house is unusually still.

His name was John. He went by “JP”. For some people initials don’t work. My brother Chris is a “CJ”. I think he tried it once but it was just trying too hard. John, on the other hand, was JP.

I remember him as a kid. He was bigger than me, and really most of us. He had wavy sandy brown hair and blue eyes that saw to your soul, making any space between you and him closer. He wore sweaters. Brown ones. Sometimes stripes. And he was friendly.

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