As I move closer and closer to forever obfuscating my identity and embracing my alter ego via changing my middle name to “Danger,” I find time to look back over my many years of moving and changing schools, and the fun of meeting new people with some of the oddest names.
First things first. If you have to ask what a cheechako is, you are one. (I really hate it when my point is moot.)
Nevertheless, that doesn’t actually preclude you from reading any further. Somewhere along this diatribe, perhaps you will come to know the enlightened path of the Sourdough. Then again, there are some things you just can’t truly experience by reading about them. Maybe it’s time to pull up those big-boy Carhartts and man-up to the real Alaska experience.
Despite all the stupid little farm animals and cheesy “purple rose butterfly smiles” that come flying at me on Facebook, there are some things I have actually found quite useful on the site.
(Don’t get me wrong. Those cute little smiles YOU sent me were extra-special and not at all cheesy. I was referring to the other ones, of course.)
If you are reading this while awake, upright and semi-conscious, congratulations! You’ve survived your first day of school.
I realize this is — technically — the second day of school. But, I understand how some of you may need a little extra recovery time — especially with all that back-packing, lunch-making, clothes-arguing, hair-disaster-fixing, ribbon-straightening and shoe-tying going on. Besides, I’ve heard from a number of reliable sources around town that there is a secret, underground network of Homer moms who meet surreptitiously for champagne after dropping their kids off on the first day of school.
While perusing the aisles of one of our local grocers this week, I found myself mysteriously beckoned by the odiferous call of Crayola Crayons and Elmer’s Glue.
Ahhhh — the sweet smell of back to school.
It’s true, I no longer have school-age children through which I can enjoy the yearly quest for pencil boxes, pink erasers and safety scissors that can’t cut through butter. (And we wonder why our children get frustrated?)
When wielded correctly — and not used for evil — sarcasm in its purest form can be beautiful.
I could give you plenty of examples to support the above statement, but do you really think it would kill you to do a little research yourself every now and then?
According to UrbanDictionary.com, a sarcast is “one of a talented few who practices sarcasm as an art.”
I think reality TV is totally lost on me.
First of all, I pride myself in not actually acknowledging reality in the first place. It’s a plane of existence I’m just not comfortable with. Sure, it’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. It’s kind of like one of those timeshare seminar vacations. The brochure is full of sunbathing, snorkeling and sightseeing.
I’ve finally decided what I want to be when I grow up. (OK. That’s not exactly true, but it’s as close as I’ve come since hanging up my Nomex hood and spanner wrench a few years ago.)
And if any of you are cruel enough to suggest that I have yet to reach that all-important stage of “grown up,” I have only one thing to say:
I woke up Monday morning with significantly more gray hairs than I went to bed with the night before.
(No, I don’t actually count them all. Perhaps I didn’t stress the word “significant” enough.) I’ve heard some people say hair can’t actually turn gray that quickly, despite theories about stress levels and worry.
I’ve had just about enough of this whole “gravity” thing.
I first learned about gravity when I attempted to extricate myself from my Pooh Bear penitentiary at the age of 5 months. When my red-shirted bear decided to make a break for it, no stinkin’ crib bars were gonna hold me back. (The bond between a boy and his bear runs deep. What can I say? Me and Winnie were tight.)