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.

The Old Man and the Park Bench

(At a recent dinner with my wife’s family, I kept the conversation going at our table with a variety of stories. I stumbled across the word “raconteur”. This posting just helps to capture my affection for the word.)

Eleanor had always loved the bustle of Central Park, but even the familiar clamor felt different today. Pausing on the pebbled path, she surveyed the scene – a symphony of dog walkers, pretzel vendors, and the rhythmic thud of joggers marking their miles. Her gaze settled on a worn, wooden bench and the old man who occupied it. He was slight but spry, a mischievous glint in his watery blue eyes.

“Gorgeous day, wouldn’t you say?” The old man’s voice was surprisingly strong, with a hint of a long-faded Irish lilt.

“It is!” Eleanor responded, a smile warming her lips.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already patting the spot next to him.

“Not at all,” said Eleanor, settling down.

For a moment they both watched the world go by. Then, the old man chuckled, a sound like dried leaves rustling in a gentle breeze.

“You ever stop to think about the stories out here?” he asked. “Each person, a whole book in ’emselves. I bet I could tell you somethin’ ’bout every one of ’em.”

Eleanor’s curiosity was piqued. “Like what?”

The man’s eyes sparkled. He pointed to a young couple strolling along. “See them? Sweethearts. But look closer – he’s tense, knuckles white gripping that coffee. She’s forcing a smile. Bet you a fiver there was an argument this morning.”

He shifted, gesturing to a harried woman, phone squawking. “That one? Corporate climber, late, about to get chewed out by her boss. See how her briefcase is clutched tight, like a shield?”

The observations kept flowing, some silly, others surprisingly pointed. Eleanor laughed, then gasped as he accurately predicted the trajectory of a wayward frisbee.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

“Ah, lassie, just a knack, and a lifetime of watching people. Makes you a bit of a raconteur, I suppose.” He winked.

The word struck a chord with Eleanor. “A raconteur? A storyteller?”

“That’s the one. It’s more than telling tales, though. See, a good raconteur doesn’t just spin a yarn. They make you see the world a little different. Find the extraordinary in the ordinary.”

The sun dipped below the treeline, casting long shadows.

“I must be off,” Eleanor said regretfully. “It’s been…illuminating.”

“The pleasure was mine.” The old man tipped an invisible hat.

As Eleanor walked away, she thought of the young couple, the stressed woman, and wondered about their hidden dramas. The park, once just a backdrop, now hummed with invisible narratives. Her heart felt lighter, and she smiled. The old raconteur had given her a most unusual gift.

Leap Into the Unknown: A Hilarious Yet Heartfelt Recap of the Leap Year That Changed Everything

(While my anonymous assistant captured some memories of our last leap day/year, he didn’t realize how special it was having our family living under the same roof for one last 6 month period.)

Ah, February 29, 2020. The leap day that leaped us right into what would affectionately (or not so affectionately) come to be known as the “Covid-times.” Little did we know, as we added that extra day to our calendars, that we were also about to add an unprecedented chapter to the story of our lives. Here’s a humorous, yet reflective look back at the transition into a world where “unprecedented” became everyone’s least favorite buzzword, and toilet paper became more valuable than gold.

The Great Indoors

Remember when “staying in” was for the introverts and the “Netflix and chill” crowd? Oh, how the tables have turned. Suddenly, our homes became our offices, our gyms, and our Michelin-star restaurants (if you squinted hard enough at your burnt toast). We became masters of our own little universes, each day a journey from the bedroom to the living room, with exotic vacations to the forgotten lands of “The Backyard.”

Zooming Through Life

Before 2020, Zoom was just a sound effect from a comic book or a feature on a camera. Fast forward a few weeks, and it’s where we lived our lives—business meetings in the top half, pajama party in the bottom half. We learned the hard way that “mute” is both a feature and a lifestyle, and that “Sorry, I was talking on mute” is the modern-day equivalent of “My dog ate my homework.”

The Fashion Revolution: Pajamas to the Rescue

Speaking of fashion, let’s have a moment of silence for our work clothes, who watched in despair from the closet as their casual cousins took center stage. Ties became relics of a bygone era, high heels gathered dust, and bras… well, let’s just say they went on an extended vacation. In the Covid-times, comfort reigned supreme, and if you managed to wear socks that matched, you were already ahead of the curve.

The Toilet Paper Chronicles

In what will surely be a puzzling chapter for future historians, the early days of the pandemic saw a global obsession with hoarding toilet paper. Supermarket aisles became battlegrounds, and a roll of two-ply was worth its weight in gold. Looking back, it’s hard not to chuckle at the absurdity of it all—our civilization’s advanced technology and sophisticated cultures, momentarily upended by the pursuit of bathroom tissue.

Learning to Laugh

Despite the challenges, or perhaps because of them, we learned the importance of laughter. We shared memes like they were going out of style (which, let’s face it, they never will), and found humor in the most unexpected places—from Zoom backgrounds gone wrong to the great sourdough bread baking saga. In a world turned upside down, laughter became our universal language, a reminder that even in the darkest times, there’s a lightness to be found.

As we reflect on the leap day that leaped us into the Covid-times, it’s with a mixture of nostalgia and disbelief. We’ve come a long way since those early days of uncertainty and toilet paper hoarding. And while we may not miss the lockdowns or the endless days of isolation, we’ll always cherish the lessons learned, the laughs shared, and the resilience discovered along the way. Here’s to leaping into the future, whatever it may hold, with the same courage, humor, and adaptability that got us through the leap year that changed everything.

The Last Supper: A Tale of Food Warmups and Their Inevitable Demise

(Today’s entry written by an anonymous guest)

Ah, leftovers. The culinary ghosts of dinners past, lurking in the depths of our refrigerators. They start their journey with such promise, don’t they? Packed away in their little containers, they’re like edible time capsules, waiting to transport us back to a meal that was, presumably, worth remembering. But as with all good things, the appeal of leftovers has its expiration date—both literally and metaphorically. This is a story of how food warmups become less an act of sustenance and more a dance with destiny.

Act 1: The Rekindling

It begins with a spark of optimism. You open the fridge, and there it is—the lasagna from three nights ago, looking just as hearty as the evening it was born. The microwave chimes its readiness, and you eagerly await the reunion of flavors. But alas, it’s never quite the same, is it? The once-crisp edges now tread a fine line between chewy and charred, a culinary tightrope that not all dishes navigate successfully.

Act 2: The Cooling Off

By day two of the leftovers saga, the relationship between you and that once-beloved dish starts to cool, much like the center of a reheated piece of lasagna that refuses to warm up. You open the fridge, see the container, and think, “Maybe I’ll just have a sandwich.” The lasagna, with its slightly less vibrant sauce and noodles that have seen better days, begins to understand that its time in the spotlight may be coming to an end.

Act 3: The Forgotten

Days pass. The lasagna is pushed further back into the fridge, making room for newer, fresher meals. It becomes part of the landscape, like a forgotten landmass on the map of your refrigerator. Occasionally, you’ll catch a glimpse of it and think, “I should really do something about that.” But action seldom follows thought in the kingdom of leftovers, and the lasagna remains, a testament to meals gone but not quite forgotten.

Act 4: The Final Goodbye

The inevitable can only be delayed for so long. One day, armed with a trash bag and a sense of resolve, you finally face the lasagna. It’s not quite the meal you remember; time and refrigeration have taken their toll. With a sigh that’s part regret and part relief, you bid farewell to what once was, acknowledging the cycle of food warmups and their eventual disposal. The lasagna has worn out its welcome, but fear not—it makes room for future meals and the promise of new leftovers.

In the grand theater of the kitchen, the saga of leftovers is a tale as old as time. They remind us that not all meals are meant to last forever and that sometimes, the best thing we can do is let go and make room for the next culinary adventure. So, here’s to the leftovers, the food warmups, and their eventual journey to the great compost bin in the sky. May they rest in peace, or at least in biodegradable pieces.

Adventures in Hosting Hockey Billets: A Culinary Comedy on Ice

Do you know what a billet is? In the fascinating world of junior hockey (and probably in many other corners of the universe), a billet is basically a kid who crashes at your place during the season. It’s like having an extra teenager but without the luxury of sleepovers being optional.

These young gents somehow manage to become part of our family dynamics, for better or for worse. Despite their potential to be younger than 18, they’re essentially barred from turning 21 until after the New Year’s confetti has settled. Now, let’s talk about their culinary preferences – if it’s served at a drive-thru, chances are, they’re all in. And don’t even get me started on their cleaning skills; let’s just say they believe in the “out of sight, out of mind” cleaning philosophy.

But wait, there’s more! They have this inexplicable aversion to drinking water from anything other than a plastic bottle, and when they finally decide to tidy up their mess, it’s a production worthy of a mini-cleanup crew.

Yet, despite these quirks, here we are, embarking on our fourth year of playing host to these hockey hopefuls. Surprisingly, most of them are charming and grateful for the roof over their heads. We even engage in riveting conversations after dinner, where they enlighten us on the intricacies of hockey (and occasionally, inquire about our day).

Our biggest challenge? You guessed it: the limited menu dictated by the hockey season. It’s like a culinary Groundhog Day, with pizza, burgers, and lasagna making repeat appearances on the menu. I once attempted a culinary revolution with my “FlavorTown” creations, only to receive lukewarm reviews at best. The struggle is real, my friends.

Currently, we’re hosting two hockey enthusiasts. One is a culinary daredevil who’ll devour anything in sight, while the other is a tad more discerning. As we eagerly await the arrival of a new recruit, we’re crossing our fingers for another member to join the “I’ll eat that” squad. If not, well, it’s back to the drawing board, or should I say, the repetitive menu board, while my wife indulges in her frequent salads. (Did I mention that vegetables are more of an optional garnish in the hockey world?)

Blood Encouragement

In mid-January, I became eligible to give blood again. This meant I received a few unanswered calls on our landline phone. I received additional encouragement to give blood when the evening news had a story about a blood shortage. The news story said donors would receive a $20 gift card. I didn’t walk but ran to my computer where I scheduled my appointment for the next day.

When I give blood, it is almost always “double red”. This allows me to do a good thing, but not get frustrated with the inefficiencies at the blood donation center. I am only eligible every 16 weeks instead of the standard 8 weeks. I still get the mini-physical. I just get half as many as those who go every 2 months.

Now, back to the blood. After signing in and a brief wait, I was screened for the day’s donation. Wisely, I had done my pre-donation questions on-line. There were a couple of new ones that were mostly HIV related. After getting the lowest blood pressure reading in a few months, I was pushed out the screening door toward my home for the next 45 minutes.

After my extra long-eyelashed employee sweet-talked me and set up the equipment, the donation process began. It was while giving the intermittent squeezes to the object in my palm that I noticed the extreme violence on the monitor mounted just to my left. Since it was the climax of the movie, the violence was at its peak. The good guys were releasing their powers on the almost equally gifted bad guys. There was blood, tears, and perseverance through certain death blows. Did I mention blood? Yes, there was plenty of that.

After a point, I couldn’t resist asking my attendant, “Who chose today’s movies?” After she replied, “I did.”, I had nowhere else to go. I watched this movie end as the next one started, “The Covenant”. I let the blood flow on and off screen until my bag was full.

I don’t think the visual blood accelerated or hindered the donation process at all. However, I would vote for no visual entertainment, but most certainly non-violent videos in this setting. I understand it is their work environment. Maybe a music station that covers the spectrum? The attendants need to be entertained. Whatever decision is made, I suggest a “no blood” policy in their future choices.

Sock and Underwear Blues

For those who rely on their Christmas gifts of socks and underwear to ignore the obvious need to replenish these items immediately, this tune is for you:

(Verse 1)
To the tune of jingle bells, hear my dryer spin,
Losing socks every day, where do I begin?
Through the laundry maze, we go, searching high and low,
But what’s lost is never found, into the void they go!

(Chorus)
Oh, socks and undies, they’re a treat,
The best Christmas gifts that are oh-so-neat!
Socks with stripes and undies so grand,
The unsung heroes, isn’t it grand?

(Verse 2)
Last year’s pairs are tired, they’ve really lost their flair,
Holes in toes, faded rows, elastic’s beyond repair.
But then comes Christmas morn, with gifts in shiny bows,
New socks and underwear, watch my face just glow!

(Chorus)
Oh, socks and undies, they’re a treat,
The best Christmas gifts that are oh-so-neat!
Socks with polka dots and undies with lace,
Put a big, warm smile on my chilly face!

(Bridge)
In every drawer and closet, they patiently await,
For their moment of glory, oh, they just can’t wait.
From cotton to wool, and every blend in between,
These are the unsung heroes, if you know what I mean!

(Verse 3)
So here’s a toast to the socks and undies we hold dear,
May they last through the year, bringing comfort and cheer.
Next Christmas when we meet, I hope to find once more,
A bundle of joy, from the store, that I absolutely adore!

(Final Chorus)
Oh, socks and undies, they’re a joy,
Far better than any other toy!
Here’s to the gifts that keep our toes and tushies snug,
Socks and undies, give them a hug!

(Outro)
So let’s celebrate these gifts, so simple yet so fine,
For socks and underwear truly make Christmas shine!
Merry comfort to all, and to all a good-night,
May your feet and your seat stay cozy and bright!

Ode to Pants

Everyone had pants under the tree this year. My AI friend, when prompted, came up with pant’s ditty:

(Verse 1)
Oh, pants, dear pants, you’re my daily strife,
Full of zippers, buttons, the story of my life.
High-waisted or low, you come in all sizes,
But why, oh why, do you hide surprises?

(Chorus)
Pants, oh pants, what’s your grand plan?
Sometimes too tight, or way too span.
But without you, what would we do?
Naked bottoms in the morning dew?

(Verse 2)
From skinny jeans to baggy slacks,
You come in styles that leave us waxed.
Cargo pockets or denim blue,
In pants we trust, forever true.

(Bridge)
So here’s to pants, our fabric friend,
Supporting us from start to end.
No matter the fashion, no matter the trends,
Pants, you’ll always be our rear’s best friends!

This was not “his” best work. Yet, with the extra sugar from cinnamon rolls and our caffeinated bloodstreams, it strangely hit a cord.

I Like A Better Ratio

A couple of weekends ago, most of my family made a quick trip to North Carolina to celebrate my in-laws post-50 anniversary. We were grateful we could go. We squeezed in a college graduation before returning to our home briefly, and then driving to the airport for the North Carolina flight. With waiting on flights, layovers, and time in the air, we had over 10 hours involved with transportation. Even including the two nights we spent there, we had less than 40 hours in North Carolina. It is travel:to:non-travel ratio I want to discuss.

I don’t know where “whirlwind” begins on the travel spectrum. If you are absent from your house for 48 hours and 20% of that time is spent in the “there” and returning from “there,” it may not qualify as a tornado, but maybe a “tree-bending breeze” or something like that. When we fly to Europe with a roundtrip travel time of over a day, I like to have at least 7 days between the flights. (Notice the greater than 4:1 ratio.) If you will travel great distances for a few hours at the destination before beginning the return trip, we are unlikely to be travel buddies.

Whatever your ratio is, your “whirlwind trip” will look different. If you hate traveling with no upside, there is unlikely to be any ratio of “travel-to-non-travel”. As a medium-ish homebody, I tolerate but accept brief periods with disruptive travel schedules…as long as I have a few months to prepare for the flurry of activity taking place within the compressed time. I may not be the most fun to travel with. Fortunately, my wife doesn’t complain…much.