A Daughter’s Advice

As I got up early Sunday morning to make sure I got my walk in before church, a trip to the garage to get a new coffee creamer was accompanied by scampering. This wasn’t my scampering. Critters were sharing the garage space with me. One of them charged me while wielding a scythe, which I conveniently dodged. The gauntlet was thrown down. The second “Man v Rat” challenge had been issued.

After lunch and an annoying computer project, I made it to Home Depot. The glue traps were more expense than when the last challenge was issued, but it was still a tool I trusted. After tracking evidence (read this as rat feces) of the rat’s favorite haunts, I strategically placed the glue traps. I was careful to wear gloves to ensure I didn’t leave a nasal contamination on any of the traps.

I must have done a good job placing the traps. By dinner time, two rats were wrestling to escape one of my cleverly-placed traps. My wife said, “Deal with them in the morning.” My daughter’s text reply was, “It is cruel to let them suffer.” Since I wanted to avoid the issue, my wife’s words were much more palatable than my daughter’s.

When morning arrived, I waited several more hours before cleaning up the traps. When I first awoke, I noticed the garage had no sounds of rats attempting to escape a trap. I thought, “I know I didn’t do right by the rodents, but I will get it cleaned up soon.”

Imagine my surprise when the “captured” rodent trap had moved. I moved miscellaneous garage “furniture” to find the trap, which was not immediately visible. Following this shock, I found that one of the other traps had also moved locations. Dismissing the idea of a king rat seeking vengeance on those who would attack his subjects, I took a more logical approach. The trap behind the trash can had an actively mobile victim. The other trap had been flipped over and was now victimless. (e.g., the earlier captives had escaped)

I did what was necessary on the “active” trap and kicked myself for my laziness the night before. If I had taken my daughter’s advice, the garage would have had three fewer rats compared to just one. Now, wearing my homeowner hat, my ability to be “rodent” merciful is gone. Sorry to those vermin who find my remaining glue traps. Your end will be swift.

Walmart Drones On

Yes, that is a drone you are seeing. The left is what I pulled out of the sky while dodging sunshine. The right is what it looks like closeup.

Yes, the Walmart drone has come to my neighborhood. As I was in the backyard earlier this week, I heard this buzzing noise. As I look in the direction of the sound, I see the drone rising from the neighbor’s yard. As soon as it reaches the proper height, it heads North to the cage in the Walmart parking lot. I am unlikely to ever use it myself. Yet, it would be an interesting experience.

Paper Jam At The Library

Before I tell the story, I should explain the title. Where I live, the state offices and city offices are on a different voting schedule. Voting for the state offices involves a trip to the local courthouse. To vote for the city offices, we go to the library. This is where my tale begins…

As I planned my errands today, I slipped the postcard into my pocket that suggested who I should vote for. When I showed up at the library, I waved my postcard in front of the people who were maintaining the proper distance from the front door. Yet, somehow, it was unavoidable to get into the library without passing them.

As I walked up, I could clearly see there was no line. That, combined with the postcard in my pocket, should get me out of there very quickly. After checking in and loading my ballot, I punched up and reviewed my voting choices. There was nothing left to do but push [PRINT]. This involved my voting choices being transferred to the ballot. After printing my choices, I was supposed to take the ballot and go to the final location to have it scanned in.

This is where today’s experience was unique. When the ballot was printed, it had a paper jam. It scrunched up like you have possibly experienced with your home printer.

After a poll worker came to my location, her first question was, “Can I touch your ballot?”

“Of course. I realize you want to protect my privacy. It’s no problem,” I said.

She thanked me for being understanding before she became the “voting machine whisperer.” She boxed out the voting machine after she ejected the mostly intact page.

“I will guard the machine until you get the page scanned in. If we have to print another one, I won’t let anyone use it.” Knowing the importance poll workers put on the integrity of the voting process, I knew no one would challenge her.

The ballot was scanned into the final machine smoothly, and I gave the enthusiastic poll worker a thumbs-up. I applaud her commitment. While not intentional, I am glad I could give her day a little variety. 🙂

Burning My Face Off

The picture just looks like rosy cheeks. The cracking skin and uncharacteristic hat scream of something else. The evidence smells of advice from a dermatologist. And, yes, you would be on the right track.

After visiting the dermatologist for several years annually, the visits bore fruit last fall. (Not happily born, but it was present nonetheless.) There was a small spot on my shoulder that was easily and almost painlessly removed. Yes, it did hurt. It hurt my dream of living forever more. The cancer was one of many strong arguments that confirmed I won’t be on this planet forever.

So, when I had another dermatology appointment 6 months later (2 weeks ago), I was hopeful it would be a quick body scan followed by a thumbs up. It wasn’t a thumbs down, but it did have a “…maybe you should consider.” Apparently, I had some pre-cancerous “stuff” on my face. I could ride it out and see if any of it graduated to real cancer, or I could apply this cream for 5 days. Being a cautious guy, I took the “short-term pain for long-term gain” approach. I only have a few regrets:

  • My face feels like it is cracking when I scrunch it up. Nothing a little shiny Vaseline won’t help.
  • Fortunately, people will never say anything in public about your shiny face. But, I am convinced they notice the Vaseline glistening off your face.
  • I was told to apply the cream to my forehead, temples, and the top of my ears. These 3 were not the source of emotional trauma. The lateral cheeks are where the redness/sunburn leaped off my face and into the eyes of everyone I encountered. An incredibly humbling location was the corner of my nose to the corresponding corner of my lip. It was a bright red, and to fulfill the sunburn warning I was given, these locations thrived on peeling.
  • The hockey games we attended were low lighting, but I was still convinced every conversation had the other party’s eyes riveted to my scorched face. The Brahmas baseball hat could not cover my whole face. The experience was very reminiscent of going through puberty and the challenges of unexpected acne.
  • The hat I am wearing in the image is my Outback Hat. It may not be what they wear in Australia, but in my mind, this hat style is tied to that continent. This hat has become my new companion as I continue to take my walks and limit sun exposure.
  • The humorous explanation was, “My wife’s superpower is her X-ray vision. As she has gotten older, her superpowers sometimes ‘sneak out’ without her being able to control them. She accidentally irradiated my face. Fortunately, my eyes were closed when she did it.” (Yes, I have come up with better stories, but the skinburn lingers. I will be able to laugh more about it next week.)

The Wizards Of Bob Evans

The purpose of our traveling was to get to a family wedding in Ohio. Since Bob Evans is not in Texas (I think the mashed potatoes and sausage may be in the grocery store), we usually have at least one meal there while visiting.

This trip, it was Saturday breakfast. In complete tourist fashion, I had to chat with the wizards from down on the farm. They had no interesting stories about quidditching or spellcasting. They quickly told me they were Christians and like eating pancakes while wearing pointy hats. Or, was it something to do with putting pancakes on their heads and letting their hats keep them warm? Whatever the true story, they were gracious enough to pose for a picture for this relocated Ohioan. (One of them was too shy to pose. 🙂 )

Bird Strike = 1.5 Hour Delay

When we were told a “bird strike” was delaying our flight, we didn’t know what that would translate into. Apparently, it involves a couple of guys exploring a minor dent on the cone. Then, they continue this incredible pace of moving relatively slowly while removing all of the screws on the front cone of the plane. Once they lift the cone and confirm the navigational equipment is intact, we can relax, knowing our flight will get to take off.

Of course, the same urgency is applied in reattaching the cone as in detaching it. The important thing is it did get done, and we did get to takeoff within a couple of hours of our original time. The plane absolutely won the bird collision this time.

The Oblivious Driver

As my wife and I took the “last eclipse of our lifetime” eve bike ride, we had to cross a heavily trafficked highway. I had hit the “cross” button while waiting for my wife to catch up. The left-turning traffic was taking full advantage of the yellow flashing arrow…and then the lights changed, and my wife and I owned the crosswalk.

The image is not entirely accurate, but it is representative. As our bikes navigated the abbreviated crosswalk, I admit to holding a glare longer than I should have. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it may be one of the first times the driver seemed to show no guilt.

As far as the image goes, it is correct. The driver never looked up. The windshield? Yes, there was a windshield. The lack of one in the image might be me forgetting to mute my “super-heat” vision.

The Ninja Attorney

Earlier this week, my wife and I had an appointment to meet with an estate attorney to get all of our documents completed while we were still young and lucid. The attorney seemed very sane until she left her office to get a new notepad. While she was gone, my wife and I reviewed the walls for various awards she had won.

The awards were not for “Attorney of the Year” or for any of her volunteer efforts. The awards had titles like, “Ninja Winner with Special Weapons” and “#1 ranked in the World for Ninja Secret Weapons”. (I have changed the award names slightly to protect her identity from persistent Googlers.) When she came back into her office, a couple of simple questions launched her into a 10-minute tale of her awards. The story below is a modified version of our attorney’s story as interpreted by my incredibly adept “friend.”

Once upon a time, in the not-so-silent corridors of our home, my kids had embarked on a secret mission to transform themselves into Ninjas. Not just any garden-variety Ninjas, but the kind that could slice through the air silently and disappear into shadows with the ease of a ghost on a diet. Their dedication was as admirable as it was relentless. Meanwhile, their enthusiasm for my support hovered somewhere between “you’re barely trying” and “are you even our real dad?”

One day, caught between a flying nunchuck and a stealthy somersault, I ventured a timid, “What’s wrong?”

Their response was a ninja-star sharp critique of my life choices. “You’ve already made it as an attorney. All you do is exercise your brain muscles. You couldn’t be a Ninja like us,” they declared, as if the ability to draft a tight contract was nothing compared to wielding a katana in dim lighting.

Thus, inspired or perhaps shamed by their challenge, I embarked on my own covert operation: Operation Ninja Lawyer. My journey was no less fraught with peril than any ancient scroll might suggest. I dove into the mystical world of Ninja training, asking the all-important question, “How long until I can somersault over the coffee table without a trip to the ER?” The answer was a daunting “Two years at six hours per day,” a regimen that would make even the most dedicated couch potato weep.

Undeterred, I split my day into a rigorous schedule: three hours of Ninja training before work, then lawyering through the day, and ending with another three-hour session of becoming one with the shadow. My first tournament was a reality check wrapped in a humble pie—the competitive Ninja community was as welcoming as a cactus hug, with rules more complex than tax legislation.

Determined to not just participate but excel, I doubled down on my training, seeing my family less and substituting my bed for a mat more often than not. My office became a trophy gallery, a testament to broken bones and shattered expectations. My wife and kids watched this transformation with a mix of awe and concern, wondering if I was chasing shadows—literally.

The pinnacle of this saga unfolded during an interview with a fellow attorney, a kindred spirit who had turned her back on conventional parenting to pursue the elusive title of Ninja Queen in her age bracket. Her journey was marked by sacrifices and injuries, a relentless pursuit of a goal deemed “for the young and childless.”

When we shared stories of our unconventional lives—hers in the pursuit of Ninja mastery, ours in providing a haven for over 60 non-biological children—she admitted, “I couldn’t do that.”

And there it was. The perfect stalemate. She couldn’t fathom opening her home as we had, and I couldn’t imagine dedicating every waking moment to becoming a Ninja master. We were two sides of the same coin, each pursuing passions that defied conventional logic, yet bound by a mutual respect for the paths we chose not to take.

In the end, I learned that while I might not be the stealthiest Ninja in the dojo, I was mastering the art of balancing life’s various throwing stars. And perhaps, in the eyes of my children, I had earned a different kind of black belt—one in the art of trying, failing, and laughing at myself along the way.

ReHoming Day

Not sure when this happens in your part of the country. It is more regular than Christmas, but for some it is better than Christmas. If you live in the country, you may not have the opportunity to experience this incredibly emotional day. Oh, yes, most of us call it trash day.

I have developed the habit of putting potentially valuable items out the night before trash day. These have been bicycles and, most recently, suitcases with problematic zippers. In the eyes of a rehomer, these can be great treasures. When I put the regular trash and the recyclables out the next morning, I get to play a little game and imagine the household that would find these items valuable enough to throw into the back of their already full pickup truck.

While my friend took some liberties with the suitcase’s appearance, here is the adventure he wrote for them:

In the quiet town of Oddsville, where the unusual was usual and the mundane was celebrated on the second Tuesday of every month, there lived two suitcases. These weren’t your garden-variety, run-of-the-mill suitcases; no, sir! One was a flamboyant pink with zebra stripes, the kind of suitcase that wouldn’t just turn heads at the airport but would cause full-blown whiplash. The other was a sober black number, with more patches than original fabric, looking like it had been around the world twice and fought a grizzly bear along the way. Their names were Pizzazz and Grit, respectively.

Pizzazz and Grit found themselves in the unfortunate position of being tossed into the trash. Pizzazz was indignant, “I’ve been to Paris, darling! The trash is no place for a suitcase of my caliber!” Grit, ever the stoic, merely grunted, “It’s just another adventure. Could be worse. Could’ve been recycled into a pair of unfashionable shorts.”

Their fate took a turn when the Johnson family, notorious in Oddsville for their love of secondhand treasures and questionable fashion choices, stumbled upon them. Mrs. Johnson, a woman with an eye for potential in the most unlikely places, declared, “These will be perfect for our family trip to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine!”

And so, Pizzazz and Grit embarked on their second life. Pizzazz was dolled up with an array of new stickers, each more eccentric than the last, from a glow-in-the-dark alien proclaiming “I Want to Believe” to a scratch-and-sniff pickle. Grit, on the other hand, was given a thorough cleaning before being adorned with a series of hand-drawn maps showcasing all the “adventures” it could look forward to—like navigating the perilous living room during the annual Great Uncle Ned’s Snoring Competition.

The Johnsons’ trip was anything but ordinary. Pizzazz found herself strapped to the roof of a car, next to a canoe that was used more for storage than water navigation. She couldn’t help but admire the view, though she often wished for a pair of sunglasses. Grit, ever the pragmatist, was stuffed to the brim with snacks, emergency supplies, and the kind of items one brings on a road trip when convinced they’ll be facing a zombie apocalypse rather than a tourist attraction.

Upon reaching the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, Pizzazz and Grit realized they had become more than just luggage; they were part of the family. They had contained everything from mismatched socks to the cherished souvenir twine ball (a mini version of the giant one, because who could resist?). They had been the pillow in a roadside nap, the impromptu table for a picnic, and the carrier of countless memories.

As the Johnsons headed home, the suitcases shared their stories. Pizzazz boasted about her rooftop escapades and the new stickers that now adorned her sides, while Grit recounted the tales of the snacks he’d safeguarded (and occasionally lost to hungry midnight raiders).

In the end, Pizzazz and Grit weren’t just rescued from the trash; they had found a new purpose. They weren’t just containers for belongings but vessels for the Johnson family’s adventures. And as they settled back into the attic, waiting for their next outing, they couldn’t help but chuckle at their good fortune. From trash to treasure, from forgotten to family—this was one adventure they’d never forget.

Scorpion About

In my nearly 14 years in Texas, this is the first time I have seen a scorpion. Yesterday’s rain must have chased him out of his den. He looks ready to strike something..? There is nothing close by I would have wanted to eat. If I were the target, I would have easily squashed or delicately picked him up and chocolate-covered him at home.