I always wanted to be in ballet.
OK. That’s not exactly true. In fact, my mother once tried to make me take lessons. She did it under the guise of teaching me something more refined than football, cops and robbers and catching crawfish in the ditch across the street. (By the way, in case you are ever stranded in southern Louisiana in one of those Survivor shows or something, you should know that bologna works very well for catching crawfish.
In an effort to support the vegan code, which is to not use anything which involves the harming or exploitation of animals, I’ve decided to forego the whole turkey thing this year and stick with a strictly animal amiable menu. The tofu turkey was easy enough. What I’m still trying to figure out is where to draw the line on the whole vegan thing. To me, the vegan lifestyle relies on vegetable profiling and unjustly implies that vegetables are functionally incapacitated, therefore placing them lower on the evolutionary food chain. Can you honestly say you’ve never felt the slightest bit guilty biting into a baby carrot?
I remember sports in high school. It’s a bit of a stretch, since there is only so much REO Speedwagon and STYX you can listen to before permanent brain damage sets in. Either that, or the numerous hits I took in football as a relatively pathetic wide receiver finally took their toll. Still, there are glimpses.
While it still may be a bit early, I’ve been using friends with young children to help me prepare for my upcoming years of “toddler-speak” as grandpa-ism starts to actually take hold.
No, my 5-month-old bundle of grandjoy isn’t starting to wax poetic just yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s trying to communicate with me via toddler telepathic messages.
It’s true, you know. Sleeping can be very odd, when you think about it.
Perchance to dream. Aye, there’s the rub.
I’ve been having rather odd dreams lately. I asked my therapist for some sort of interpretation, but she just keeps mumbling something about psychotic features and scribbling furiously in her notebook. (Heck, for all I know, she could be secretly finishing her novel on that legal pad cleverly hidden behind a manila folder.
In honor of Halloween, I thought I would take the time to relive some of my childhood terrors for you. Unfortunately, I can’t get past bunnies and clowns, so I guess you’re stuck with another year of pathetic memories of me and my black panther costume.
I am endlessly amazed by what people in Alaska come up with to keep themselves entertained in the wintertime. (O.K. So we’re not talkin’ jaw-dropping, head-spinning, awestruck amazed. I mean, it’s not like I see people out creating three-story ice castles or taming herds of wild moose.)
One of my greatest and most terrifying fears has finally come true: A raucous rabble of rabbits is stalking me.
I know that sounds a little odd, but surely you don’t think I would make such a leap without a cacophony of cogent evidence to back it up?
The older I get, the more trouble I have keeping track of my glasses. And while it’s not like I’m blind without them, let’s just say my arms sure aren’t getting any longer.
These glasses came after years of shamelessly flaunting my razor-sharp, crystal-clear, 20/13 vision and proudly proclaiming my precision visual acuity to everyone within earshot. (Sadly, I quickly misplaced the optical aids I coughed up $600 for, and found myself shelling out a big $9.99 at Fred Meyer for reading glasses that seem to work just as well; only I can’t find them either.)
Have you ever had one of those times when you are driving late at night and you just want to get home and go to bed? You start getting a little bit tired and take a sip of your soda. You reach over and turn up the radio, only to find they are playing a continuous loop of Kenny G’s greatest hits. You glance up from the radio, squint a little bit and then…