Observations

Sagging Tattoos

Disclaimer: I do NOT have tattoos. I have no regrets for never having a tattoo. I am fine with others having tattoos. I fight the stereotypes that clutter my mind as I try to filter out the tattoos and see the person and NOT just them as a canvas with a desire to flaunt their tattoos and acquire more tattoos.

On my walk today, I passed a woman in a short sleeve shirt in her early 70’s walking her dog. Until I passed her, I was merely working on staying out of the way of her dog. As I passed her, I realized both arms were tattooed. As bright and vibrant as the tattoos may have looked when they were brought to life, they now sat on a canvas not pulled quite as tightly as it once was. As the walk progressed, I continued to ponder the idea of tattoo counseling.

Should those who get tattoos be reminded they are not of the henna variety? (Maybe they are given more counseling than reality TV makes me aware of.) The needle pricks and the injection of ink (whatever that feels like) should be a strong indication of the permanence of the decision. The likely attire, tattooedness, and piercings of the person sitting next to them with a book of tattoo ideas might also be a clue.

As with all life decisions, some are easier to forget and appear innocent. Others, as in the case of tattoos, are going to follow you through life UNLESS you choose to have them removed at an additional cost. My advice: Save your money and buy a few books. It takes awhile longer to read a book then to get a tattoo, but when it is done you can know secretly you are a wiser, and probably richer (unless they are professional athletes), person than those whose can measure their tattoos by the square foot.

Old Man Rush

As I was driving home after picking my daughters up from a end of summer party, I was feeling pretty good about what I accomplished today. I noticed some interesting license plates and complimenting myself on my good driving. (My daughters were busy reading so somebody had to.) When we got to within a couple traffic lights of the house, the right lane was merger over. And, this is where the contrast between “old man” and young, aggressive driver became clear.

As I projected onto the driver behind me and how I would my handle the situation, I anticipated the driver doing the necessary mental calculations and deciding his best path was easing his car into the middle lane (my lane) before the merger took place. So much for projecting! As the road sign screamed “MERGE” and the cones echoed merger, the car to my right kept speeding up. Knowing the speed limit, I knew I could bump up my speed a little more to teach this young whipper-snapper a lesson. As the cones began to squeeze the driver into the center lane, the trickle of “I-must-conquer-juice” in my system was completely exhausted. I had to be content blowing on my horn for what seemed like a really long time (likely just a second or so). No birds flew, and based on the other driver’s lack of hesitation when he had to decide on pushing the accelerator, he probably didn’t even use a small portion of his available testosterone.

All parties survived without any scratches being administered. This incident only confirmed what many previous events implied–I am not meant to play chicken. It may be fun to pretend how you would handle “chicken” should you agree to participate, but when it is thrust upon you, I will choose the horn over the accelerator any time.

The Family Reunion

At the very beginning of our 5 weeks vacationing out of our present home state of Texas, we had a family reunion. I am sure my family reunion is just like everyone else family reunion:

There was the cousin recovering from cancer. (He had no hair, but his smile was still familiar.)
There was the token cousin from each family of cousins who graduated from college. (Some families maybe have a higher concentration here. In our family, the farmers and assorted other blue collar workers outnumber the graduates. And, if you throw in Bachelor+ degrees, the numbers dwindle even more.)
There was the beloved family who lost an adult son a few years ago. You know they hurt even still. There smiles, however, don’t give them away.
The kids of cousins (are those second cousins?) who are way taller than they were when I saw them 5 years ago.
The young cousin/2nd-cousin with a health condition. His health condition gives us a more accepting attitude of his behavior.
A large sheet cake is brought out in celebration of a birthday, anniversary, or some other milestone of significance.
The mix of German and other ethnic food for the potluck. Many of the dishes brought currently are usually much better for you, much more colorful, and capable of generating extending conversations about how it was made or what potluck it was taken to last OR how it resembles something that used to be a potluck staple.
The cousin who runs his mouth without thinking hoping he doesn’t completely inhale his foot and develop a full gag reflex. (Me.)

After doing a little “visiting” with old friends at the church I grew up in, my family arrived late at the converted parsonage where the reunion was taking place. (It used to be for the pastor and family to live, but now it is just a place with LOTS of first floor rooms and a kitchen. It must be rent-able pretty inexpensively.) One of the first people I encountered was a cousin a couple of years older than me. We reminisced briefly. Did a little update, and got in line for “firsts” before the earlier diners got seconds.

I continued to wander from groups to individuals for the rest of the afternoon – attempting to avoid the least favorite (or attempting to have an excuse built in before the conversation started to virtually guarantee its brevity.) and orchestrating the conversations with others so I could enjoy their wit or possibly their sage-wisdom for the last time. I visited my father’s grave at the church cemetery and refrained from planking on his tombstone.

As the pictures (my branch of the family one for most in attendance) wound down and the farmers needed to get back for “milking”, the cars cleared from the parking lot. As I went into the house to gather our cooler and potluck item (Since we flew in, I think our dish may have been more like a “bag or two”.), I bumped into the cousin I chatted with earlier. This conversation went something like this….

Me: Everybody is leaving and we really didn’t get to talk that much.

Cousin: We did get to talk when you first came in.

Me: You talk so slow, we really didn’t get to say much.

Cousins wife: (Gives me dirty look.)

My wife: (Says some random thing to change the subject)

Me: Well, some things never change. My mouth is still trying to lead my brain.

Although there was nearly five weeks of traveling that followed this reunion, the next couple of days I was feeling the guilt. This cousin is so laid back, while I am the type of person who often finishes sentences for people and talks over them. I am barely house trained let alone capable of navigating the many pitfalls that occur every time I open my mouth. When the apple fell from the tree, I must have been crawling underneath it while a whole bushel fell on top of me.

So, if you were the cousin in this conversation (or one of the other cousins or friends or coworkers or people I entered into a discussion with while at an amusement park or while checking out at a grocery store), please accept my sincere apology.

…And For Your Dog?

While have a little lunch date with my wife yesterday (it was a Saturday and all of the kids were either working or at the mall), we has an unusual experience. We walked up to the host, and he seated us like he always does. After we were seated, we started taking in our surroundings. Since the Mexican restaurant was not very crowded, it did not take us long to identify our canine companion. He was sitting nicely by his mistress in their booth. (The husband was sitting across from her….she didn’t embark on this little adventure by herself.)

My mind was not very interested in the happenings in our shared lives, so the dog did help us to occupy the lulls in our conversations:

“What would the health inspector do if he saw that.”

“She probably does not get out that much. She sees nothing wrong with it.”

“Maybe she is such a hoarder the dog has no where to sit down at their house.”

“What if he has fleas or something?” (After they left, we were tempted to tell the 4 Hispanic laborers who next sat in the booth.)

“Does nobody else notice? Does every one notice but are pretending they don’t?”

“Before we leave I am going to say something to the manager!” (While this embarrassed me a bit when she said it, it did seem like the right thing to do.)

After the dog and his accomplishes left, my wife did ask to see the manager. I felt badly for the server. He did oblige. The manager was at our table quickly.

She started, “Did you know the dog was in here? Certainly that is not a normal thing!”

Sheepishly, the manager replied, “We were just talking about that. We have never had to put a sign at the door about dogs. I guess we will need too. When they came in, the host told me he did not see a dog. They must have brought the dog in inside her bag. Then when they sat down, they got it out of the bag.”

Reaching a bit, but still giving him an excuse to comp our meal if he wanted, “Good thing the health inspector did not come in today.”

He apologized again while not responded to my nightmare possibility.

As the pictures shows, the boldness in carrying the dog out as she did when leaving seemed to be flaunting her sin. She seemed to be completely comfortable carrying her dog out of a dining area he will never see again. (I am saying this assuming the manager follows thru and installs the sign he said he would.) If I were more a dog person, I could easily accept the theory, “It is just like a kid to her. She meant nothing wrong.” Short of mental illness, civilized society knows pets don’t eat where other people do. Should she choose carryout every day of the week and dine with her faithful canine by her side, I would have no problems. Short of going to a picnic outside, I choose not share my air or table scraps with anything commonly found on a leash. Dine hardy, but leave your pets at home.

Breaking in the New Neighbor

(Guest blogger – written by our new neighbor that just moved in a little over a month ago.)

It is great to have our own place again after living in an apartment waiting for the right house to come along. After we found the right house, the 4 months to get the financing lined up was a little excessive. Despite that, we are in the house now and it is great!

My mother finally has the room she needs. There is a covered back patio and a covered area to the left of the front door. It is a perfect area for her to smoke. Since they are covered, I don’t feel as badly making her smoke outside. I realize we have one neighbor to our north who may have smoke blow into their yard and patio. With the fence between us, at most it is 5th or 6th hand smoke. And, they haven’t complained, so it must not be bothering them.

It is also great to have the pool out back. It has not been warm enough to use the hot tub. This is unfortunate. We still like to be outside whenever we can. The neighbor to the north is pretty quiet, so we consider it our responsibility to bring a little life to this end of the street. Since I work out of the house and my mother is there with me, we enjoy being in the back yard and talking loudly and freely. We can talk about guns in our purses and the impact of age on our bodies as if we are in a confessional–no one but those on our side of the fence to worry about.

My mom’s dog is a little deaf, but his nose still works fine. The walking path that runs behind the house keeps his sniffer working pretty hard–as long as it is not raining. As he has gotten older, he seems to like other dogs even less. He barks at nearly every dog and owner walking along the path. Usually, my dog joins in and gets every dog within a 100 yards excited as well. The neighbors to the north are usually so quiet. I don’t even think they are around to hear all of the noise we have added to this corner of the subdivision.

Overall, the new place is working out. It was worth the wait. I am afraid to ask the next door neighbor if we are louder than the previous owner of the house. They wave nicely and seem to be fine. But, if I ask the question, I don’t know them well enough to know how honest they might be. We do like to talk, and we prefer loudly. So, I will probably just continue with the wave and pleasant “Hellos”. Anything more than that, and I might get more than I bargained for. At least I don’t have a neighbor on the other side. I am only at risk of raising the decibel level for one immediate neighbor. I bought the house, so a family has to live!

Walking With My Senses

As I was walking today, I experienced a couple things that inspired a few of my sense to higher places. As a stroke of creative genius (or in a fit of over-inflated ego), I captured pictures of a couple of things my senses constantly seeking….

Smell

Since we lived in Ohio, I have missed the smell of lilac. And, while I cannot say for certain this is a lilac, it smelled LOTS like one. It may have only temporarily hijacked my sense because my lilac-sensor was out of practice. Regardless, whatever it was, I enjoyed it. The aroma/scent/smell tapped into a part of my brain I have not visited for awhile. I pictured our house in Ohio with the lilacs on the east side of the house. I pictured my nose stretching into their blooms with my eyes closed–trying to capture the moment a little longer.

Sight

All parts of the country (and world I am guessing) have their native wild flowers. I don’t necessarily love just this flower while forgoing all others. While working at my landscaping job many years ago, I took great pride in trying to memorize all of the names of the flowers sitting in the green houses at the nursery. (My pronunciation may not have been right, but I could spell them.) I love natures color. And, since spring is the season worthy of queen status, I love this time of year the most. (The wet Texas spring has certainly helped remind me how much I love it.)

Sound (No pictures here!)

When I walk, I don’t have the ear buds in. I just like listening to whatever is there to distract me. If I want to talk to myself, I don’t have to talk over any music. If I want to listen to the birds or the breeze or the the bicyclist/walkers who I walk past, I can give them a smile and “hello” without trying to convince them the music (or whatever the buds are delivering) are more important-I can try to be sincerely interested in them.

Touch

A bit of a stretch here—I am not in the habit of picking up things or crawling while on my walk. During a portion of the walk, the rains has gifted me with a partially flooded path. As I walk thru this part of the path, I tiptoe or pick my feel up to try and avoid the wet impact my normal gait would create. When the splash occurs, the droplets briefly run down my leg. I only feel the first one–my mind has gone gone back to a time when walking barefoot through the water and splashing were more acceptable. Everyone should have some memories involving water and unexpected wetness.

Taste

For some reason, I am not in the habit of picking up things and tasting them along my walk either…. Today was no exception. Today, I had an early-stage cold coming on. I have been brainwashed into believing using Zinc lozenges is a way to minimize the length of the colds uninvited stay. Although my sense of taste is generally left out of the walking experience, today I tasted every bit of medicine (homeopathic, but still medicine) before it was swallowed on its journey to whatever zinc does when it is invited by way of an oral invasion.

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Although not explicitly stated, this blog post is meant to be a little “thank you” to God. I am blessed to have each of my senses, my thoughts, and experiences. I don’t have to rely on a walk to be reminded of these things, but it is a pretty good catalyst. When I separate myself from the computer and most of my electronics (the phone that almost never rings does accompany me), I gain perspective. I am reminded of my size in comparison to the rest of creation, and I am reminded of my Creator. So, the question is, “Do I really like to walk OR do I really just like to use all of my sense to carry on a dialogue with my Maker?”

Women In My Life Today

As I attempt to bring some product over from China for my business, I have had the pleasure to encounter a few women today who provided some degree of help. The vocations of 2 of the 3 are known. Since the vocation of the last is unknown, I have taken the liberty to assign her a role that I found as humorous….

The Broker: Last night (Tuesday), the company representative from a Chinese company provided me a piece of paperwork referred to as an ISF (Importer Security Filing). After approximately 10 emails went back and forth last night (morning time for China), I realized even though our emails appeared to both be written in English, we were not communicating. (Before I ordered this product, I really tried to sort all of this out so this problem would not occur. Either I was unable to properly express this concern OR the Chinese salesperson just wanted the sale and was not concerned about any hiccups that might effect me on this side of the Pacific pond.) With my inadequate understanding of Chinglish, I was left with only one option–I needed to call the company in Los Angeles that was receiving the container from China that carried my stuff. As I spoke to Alexa this morning, I turned on my charm OR my absolute cluelessness could not be disguised. She gave me two options to resolve my problem:
1. You can go down to your local customs office and file the ISF
  with them (they will walk you through it) just make sure to take all your
  documents with you. Since I did not know what paperwork and I did not have much time before the cost of my importing went up (I believe I have 48 hours after the boat casts off in China to get the paperwork filed.), I did not see this as a viable option.
2. We can file the ISF for you, but you will have to wire transfer
  $200.00 and fill out a POA with our Customs Broker. I didn’t like the cost, but I believed the cost was a fair trade when balanced against the potentially higher cost of failing to file the paperwork in a timely manner. As part of this option, I needed to get a piece of paperwork notarized at the bank.
The Banker: I have worked with the banker quite a few times. She is always glad to give me a helping hand. Although I don’t recall, she claims I often have an entertaining story or two. Today, I can only recall my elevated stress level. I needed to get a deposit and a wire transfer done. Fortunately, these were quite easy. The challenge was the Power of Attorney document. It needed to be witnessed by someone other than a bank employee. So, being a resourceful person, I asked if any of the clients in the bank lobby were available for this task. Once permission was granted, I turned on my charm, or more appropriately, made a beeline for the only person in the lobby.
The Candlestick Maker: I have no idea what this person does. I didn’t need to know. All I needed was a signature confirming her as a “witness” who saw me attach my signature to the Power Of Attorney document. I needed nothing more from her. I didn’t need to tell her what I was ordering from China. I didn’t need to try and sell her on the legitimacy of what I was buying. Frankly, I did not even need her real name. I only needed to have a signature of someone or something as a “Witness”. If I were to choose someone to sign my document I would not have chosen a mousey woman like her to do it. My standards were thrown out the window when “eenie-meenie-minee-mo” was not an option. After I practically coerced her to sign, I did feel a bit badly. Those feelings were easily ignored in light of the pressing need to get the paperwork done. Conscious clear–Keep moving on!

As I continued to talk with the banker as I worked my may through the task, I did find out my tactics on “Mouse Woman” may have been solely responsible for removing the lobby as a potential recruiting ground for “witnesses”. Should I ever need a witness again (unlikely I would ever have such a tight time table, but certainly possible), I have my strategy planned. I will comb the bank parking lot or the health club nearby. I will bribe a person (or buy them Subway across the street) to have them volunteer as an associate or friend or fellow cabalists. Whatever the contrived story, it will keep the machine of business moving forward and the sweat shops of China active.

Honorable Mentions

The Model: As I was taking my walk along a long strip of sidewalk running parallel to a railroad track, I saw an object growing in size as approached the crest. As I continued to get nearer, I noticed a young lady in a one piece bathing suit on the railroad tracks. There was a gentlemen guiding her movements while he had camera in hand. He had her do a sitting pose one way and then the other as he tried to make the most of the mid-afternoon sun. Once I realized the photography session, I falsely assumed it was a girl getting senior pictures taken (or something like that) Although they may still have been senior pictures, my closer proximity revealed the coloring I attributed to being shadows were actually tattoos covering about 1/3 of the areas her bathing suit did not cover. I did not stare as I past. I looked down at the camera bag that originally grabbed my attention. I just said a little prayer hoping my daughters don’t decide to get tattooed in the same way.
The Phone Jockey: When coming home from my walk, Tru Green had placed their service paperwork in our front door. I usually don’t look at it, but this active brain of mind seemed to be demanding it be fed something. As I looked at the bill, it appears we only had 1 sq foot of our yard treated. Since I already prepaid for this years treatment, I will admit to feeling pretty ripped off. I called the customer service number and finally talked to someone (a she someone so she qualifies for being included) after being told a few times of the high call volumes and how I was insane not to leave a message. She checked old service orders, and seemed to confirm the recent order was probably a typo. She offered to have the technician call me, but when the “retreatment” option was offered, I did what any loyal customer would do – I said, “Yes, thank you!” Since this was just yesterday, I am anticipating seeing another work order again soon with more realistic numbers.

Snow Conspiracy Theory

(Again, me editing ability (as dismal as it may be) has precluded my life. If there are pictures of snow when it is warm and sunny out, it likely is not you, it is me playing “publish the old drafts”. Since this one was started in late February of 2015, it might be a little dated…)

CIMG1024

As I stared at all of the snow coming down, I thought fondly of some of the beautiful snowflakes I had seen growing up. Great, big bountiful snowflakes! Some as big as the tip of your little finger. And, although the average size was quite a bit smaller, I remember distinctly an orbital or spherical shape to them. Whether the circular shapes have been exhausted or Texas flat out refuses to allow them in the state is not known for sure. What I do know is the snow I was pelted by today was not normal!

It was like this snow was the result of a block of ice being ran through a cheese grater—a VERY fine cheese grater! The “snow needles” or snow straws or whatever they were had lots of company in north Texas today. Whatever created this snow seemed to be only creating one variety today. Just like in art class, only one type of snow flake is created. How exciting would it be if you folded the paper all over during art class while you were in elementary school and all you had when you were done was a hollow roll of paper? Not very! The circular stereotype for snowflakes runs deep. The orbital snowflake lobby has been contributing money for years to the art teachers retirement fund. Like the “flat earthers” of old, the “round only” flakers are content to allow the facts (actual touchable snowflakes that readily refute their bias toward spherical flakes) to lie right out there in the open.

The orbital snowflake lobby usually has a very easy job in the southern states. (If they don’t see flakes, they will believe what they see rather than asking their science teacher for the truth.) When the occasional snow storm does hit a place like north Texas, they have systems in place to close the schools down immediately. When the schools are shut down, the curious minds might are prevented from asking questions about snowflakes in a public setting. If a question is asked of Google, it will only cite answers on the internet. (Yes, Google does sometimes do funky things to search results.) And, everyone knows the internet can provide any answer you want based on how you ask the questions. So, the lies are protected when asked outside of the classroom.

In the north, they get so much snow. They don’t have time to look at individual snowflakes. Their curiosity is never sufficiently aroused to really ask these type of questions. All the kids in the north see is another driveway or sidewalk to shovel. They don’t see the uniqueness or beauty of individual flakes. So, the super-secret snow flake lobby is largely unconcerned with any rumors developing to dismiss the “orbital” snowflake shape theory. (Not a theory, but without serious questions asked, it has become one of those assumptions rarely questioned–practically a part of our society…like the theory of evolution….;-)

Regardless of what form it arrives in or what it does to school schedules, it has been great to be visited by this old friend from the north a few times this year. He and his companions (freezing rain & wind) made life a little more interesting and memorable this year. Even if I will never look at a paper snowflake again, it well worth sacrificing an “urban legend” to be a kid again–even for a few moments.

When Winter Makes An Appearance…

In an effort to clean out my drafts, I am really going for it today!

Winter has made multiple appearances in Texas this year. While it is not a “winter-free” state, it is not a state well equipped to deal with this uninvited visitor. (He is not unwelcome, but multiple visits of snow even wear on the hardiness of Texas snow drivers.)

This “draft” was started nearly 6 weeks ago. The image on the left is just showing what we are NOT supposed to see in March in Texas. The image on the right is of the variable rate toll road. It was so bad today (by local standards) the almighty “Wizard of Tollrates” decided he (It could be a “she”. If that is your preference, please substitute “Wizardess” or whatever is appropriate.) felt guilty charging people extra to use the less cluttered toll lanes.

While my daughters LOVED having a day off of school with snow, it did cost them getting the day off after Easter. The school builds 2 or 3 calamity days into the calender, but rarely uses them. This year the snow/ice decided they should!

Morale of the story: Eat, drink, and be merry because tomorrow could be a calamity day!

Gutter Check

As a nearly 5 year Texas resident, rain has not been a frequent visitor. When it rains, it can be just like a rain you might find in the midwest–just less frequently. There are the teasing rains and the downpour rains. The little sprinkles are not likely to reveal a special type of sin like what is only experienced when the heavens open and let the rain droplets all drop at once for an extended period. This morning was one of those days. And, the sin is failing to clean out the gutters.

My sin was not a singularity but something I allowed to occur in both the front and back yards. Although the contents of the gutters varied slightly, both front and back were full of similar stuff: monster pine needles, seeds and buds from our elm tree (the same elm tree that makes us toil endlessly to make our pool “floatee” free in the spring and fall) a few leaves from whatever tree is tall enough to contribute, and although not a contributor to the blockage, both gutters had a layer of the gravelly stuff originally attached to our roof shingles.

In the front yard, the surface was level. The ladder allowed me to stretch upward and the rains continued to come downward. After fishing around in the little creek previously referred to as our gutter, I grabbed a handful of organic material. Even though the first handful had changed the flow and saved the flower that was becoming pelted by the faulty gutter, I took a couple more handful to save myself climbing up on the ladder again later. (I was wet already, so a few more seconds did not matter.)

The backyard had the additional challenge of stairs. I mentally committed to “fixing” this one after the rain. However, since my clothes dried pretty quickly from the first installment in the “Set Our Gutters Free” project, I decided I could handle the second installment in the rain as well. When I reached the top of the ladder, the detritus was bobbing in the gutter like it was awaiting me. As I plunged my hand into its depths (not even up to my wrist) while precariously balancing myself on the top of the ladder, I had a slight feeling of vertigo. The porch steps (see picture below) were causing me to stretch further than I felt comfortable. Knowing the gutters would not clean themselves, I focused on removing this final sin (I have LOTS of other sins I seem to insist on committing, but for the sake of this post, I am only referring to the sins that prevent my roof and related systems from functioning as they were designed.). Once I threw the globs of tree dung to the concrete below and slowly reversed my climbing, I rapidly stepped out of the rain.

Once the rain stops, I will clean up the evidence of my sins against my house. As a homeowner (sometimes referred to as a “home moaner”), I sometimes fail to be as proactive as I need to be. And, as an infrequent blogger, I sometimes attempt to make the mundane entertaining. I guess I will have to leave these sins to be addressed at a later time.

The seeds, needles and leaves gifted to our house so that it might reside in our gutters until a time such as this.

This bucket was empty when the gutter began its excessive partying. After the party catalyst were removed, the buckets and its contents could somberly observe the tumultuous downpour.

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy