It's Hot

This will come as no surprise to anyone who isn’t on a three-day bender. It’s hot!

What happens when you subject anything to heat? Class? It expands. It’s my theory it was even causing Time to expand today. I’d been working away in my air-conditioned cell awhile. Figured it must have been about three hours since I’d shown up. Looked at my watch and it said 9:00! I almost threw myself to the floor in abject disbelief. Fie on thee, oh slow hands!

After slogging my way through the rest of the day it finally came to an end.

You have to be careful walking across parking lots with rubber soled shoes. They’ll melt and instantly bond with the blacktop if you tarry too long in one spot. Depending upon the quality of the shoe, you’ll either be stuck there or, after the sole and upper portion separate, you’ll find out the true meaning of “hotfoot.”

No lie. I walked out to my car to head home. I placed my Coke on my T-Tops so I could get to my keys. As I open the door I thought someone had been using my car as a furnace. I feared my zipper had been welded shut. To top it all off the Coke can exploded. Not only was it hot outside but now I was very much steamed myself. I never wanted the blasted T-tops/environmentally-friendly griddle in the first place.

I arrived home in a sustained state of coolness. As soon as I opened the door, heat rushed me like a stampede of degrees. There’s only one possible explanation. Heat must be running from itself. I fiddled nervously with my zipper.

This heat rumbled in here on Saturday. It made sustained outdoor activity something to avoid at all costs. I’d step outside to move the sprinkler and the heat would try to invade all of my bodily orifices. Once again, I thought it must be trying to get away from itself. I felt so . . . dirty afterwards. Of course, that had more to do with the sweat-a-thon that broke out during each trip outside than my being violated by both Fahrenheit and Celsius.

It was so bad it almost ruptured my sense of neighborly responsibility. Cut my grass? I was afraid a spark from the lawnmower might ignite it and, in a flash fire, we’d have barbequed Polock.

It was getting to the animals as well.

The cows no longer tried to keep the milk cool by standing teat-deep in the pond.

Buzzards were daring snakes to try and make it across the four-lane blacktop. If one tried . . . Hey! It’s dinner and a show for the buzzards!

That gives me an idea. I think I’m going to grill out tonight. Not because I want food prepared that way. I think it might be cooler huddled by the lit grill.

Somebody tell me, how many more days till the beginning of Winter? After today, we’re one more closer.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Is This Really Necessary?

Just this week on her way home, Marilyn spotted one of our local STP trucks. STP in this case stands for Septic Tank Pumper. These are a new necessity in our lives since moving from the city.

Not being on the city sewer, means we've got a septic tank. It’s a monster living under ground not ten feet from our house.

You ask, "Why call it a monster?"

Number one, it requires maintenance. The majority of my life I’ve been dealing with elimination either in an outhouse or with indoor plumbing. To my knowledge neither of these required maintenance. Well, other than a shovel or a plunger. The ebb and flow of nature were taken for granted as being handled without much more than a little paper work.

Now that I've got the septic system, I've got to learn the care and feeding of it. That’s right. Feeding. I'm reading "Septic Tanks for Dummies" to learn about this. As you can guess, it's full of crap.

There are those who say it needs a dose of something extra every now and then. This is to help make sure the microbes and bacteria are well and doing their job. What's their job? Who cares? I'm not going to answer the Help Wanted ad. The pay and benefits stink.

Others say this is useless. It’s throwing money down the toilet. They say you can do the same thing and visit the free buffet if you go to the casinos.

I’m not sure how I feel about this issue. In fact I thought I was feeding the demon. I'll just abide by the point most everybody does agree on. Getting the thing pumped regularly. The operative word here is, "regularly." This brings us to the second reason I call it a monster.

If you don't have its innards pumped regularly, it will get your undivided attention by defying gravity. You see, what goes down can and will come back up. Without warning, one morning you'll go out to get the paper and the stinky fingers of this monster will attack you and cause your bowels to roll over. You'd think they could handle it better since they deal with it on a day to day basis.

Shortly after we moved in last February, we had the STP truck come out. Not knowing what the previous family, with small children, might have sacrificed at the porcelain altar, we thought this money well spent. From now on, though, Valentine's Day will have this bizarre double meaning for me.

Evidently Marilyn didn't notice the wording on the truck when it came to give us this inaugural pumping. Most likely it wasn't there at the time. Her female perceptive skills have only increased since marrying me. However, when she was driving home the other day, she did notice it. How could anybody miss it? On the very end of this tanker truck, prominently displayed for everyone behind it, was the word, "Inedible."

Really?

Am I the only one who finds this a bit disturbing? What act of will or conscience brought about the need to have this word displayed on the back of this type truck?

That thought gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Evidently, the firm that handles this part of rural life feels a need to absolve themselves of any and all liability. Should ever a case like this come up in court you can bet your momma I’m going to be there. I’d have to see it with my own eyes.

If this isn’t the epitome of redundancy, I don’t know what is.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

My Name's Not Earl But We May Be Related

I’ve straightened up a bit since my youth. While I was no major league hellion, down in the minors I was involved in things falling under the heading of, "never tell your kids." I no longer heave cans, bottles or Grade A Large eggs out of car windows. The environmentalists tell us the ACLU thinks it’s inhumane for prisoners to actually get out and do some work, such as picking up litter. Therefore, we’re all called upon to do our part. So chunk your cans at members of the ACLU.

Not too long ago, Marilyn and I were traveling in her car. When we’re in close quarters like this she has a way of letting me know my breath would offend a buzzard.

"Want some gum?" she says, forcing the package toward my face.

Once I tried to decline but she persisted. As I opened my mouth to object again she banked a piece off the steering wheel right into my mouth. She’s a crafty little feller, that girl. Now, when she offers, I dare not resist out of fear of her possible slam dunk.

At some point in chewing gum the jaws fatigue. The flavor has gone and the soft chewy texture becomes annoyingly Michelin®. On this particular trip, ours reached that point at the same time.

Isn’t that the greatest about being connected with someone so completely? You just do things simultaneously without even trying. Either that or her dominant control of the conjoined marital brain willed my jaws to tire when she had had enough. Either way, from that point on she knew she wouldn’t have to worry about others passing us thinking there was a cow driving the car.

Inquisitiveness is one of her many traits. Having blown quite a robust bubble she showed me so I could admire it. She must have had the "Husband View" option unchecked on her thought bubble because I missed the, "I wonder what would happen?" Having lowered the passenger side window, she tossed out her tired gum with the bubble still intact. I asked for a piece of paper for mine.

"Why not throw it out?" she asked.

"Did you get it off the road?"

"No, it landed in the middle of the other lane. Why worry? It’s biodegradable."

"Not before some other car runs over it and slings it all along its body."

Karma is that cosmic all-seeing mother whose mantra is, "I told you so." For those not acquainted with this belief, Karma says, "Do good and good things will come your way. Do bad and you might end up a politician or real estate developer."

It’s the reap what you sow principle. What goes around comes around. The goblin’s gonna getcha if you don’t watch out.

During my life I may have had a total of three instances where I’ve had to remove gum from the outside of my car. Since she threw the gum out, back this April, she’s had at least three "accidents" (not according to Karma) where she’s come home and brightly colored bubble gum was pin-striping itself down her car. She knows why and she rues the day she nonchalantly tossed her gum.

I would say, "I told you so," but I value my life too much. She is a crafty little feller after all.

Besides, I’m in no position to cast the first stone. Karma sometimes chooses what behaviors it will deal with. Not only was I throwing cans and bottles from cars back when I was younger, but I joked incessantly about hemorrhoids.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

The Potty Principle

You know the routine. When several couples get together at a restaurant it never fails. The females' biological clocks are all synchronized so potty time arrives for all of them at the same time. You couldn't get two out 200 guys to have to go at the same time, no matter what they'd been drinking.

One lady in the group will say, "Excuse me, but I have to go to the ladies room." Glancing at all the other girls, with eyebrows slightly raised as if to say, "Well, you coming or not?" the entire female clan rises and with purses in hand, head for the restroom. Before they return, a quarter of the males present will experience the beginning of male pattern baldness.

What keeps them that long, in of all places, a restroom? All we guys have to go on is what we see in the movies and on TV, and our own trips to the ladies room. The latter of these two happen only on an extremely rare occasion.

What takes so long is inventory. They have to check out what the others are wearing and what's in each other's purses. Coupons will be exchanged. The dieters will be asked to show off, followed by words of affirmation. Either that or a group hug followed by the exhortation to keep on trying. They'll try on each other's clothes. One of two of them will pull out a different pair of shoes to show the rest. There will be a makeup party where they all apply makeup to each other.

That's why these get togethers often involve trips to the emergency room for one or more of the males. Guys rarely are ready for a reveal from Extreme Makeover Bathroom Group Edition when they take a girl out. They get a bad case of whiplash, doing a swiftly intense double take when their date returns. Or else, when they're alone in the car again, he gets wacked on the back of the head with her purse for looking too closely at one of the other females.

Just one from the massive list of male faux pas.

Sometimes when the female exit-to-the-john happens, one girl stays behind. Gentlemen, be wary when this happens. She is known as the DH. The Designated Hearer. Her job is to record the conversation that transpires between the males, even to the point of participating in the mitigating conversations while the other females are out of earshot.

How does she manage to do this without taking notes? All women have a digital high-definition audio/video recorder stored somewhere within their bodies. They take it all in and it's immediately stored on some organic media for fast and accurate retrieval at the snap of a finger. To compliment this sophisticated system, they have a bazillion gigabytes of storage capacity. Elephants envy them.

When the others return, this information is passed on merely with expressions of the eyes, eyebrows and head movements. One will look quizzically at the DH, with head slightly tilted, eyes intent. The DH nods, her eyes rolling in the direction of the unsuspecting male. The questioner changes her expression. With eyes slightly closed in anger, one eyebrow arched to a point above the forehead and pursed lips being pushed to one side, her expression pleads, "Are you sure?" Once the affirmation is made, the others stare with their heads stretched forward on the stem of their necks. Mouths are either gaping or more politely covered with the fingers of one hand. Some poor sap is about to experience a double pain in the neck after this dinner party, if you catch my drift.

Gentlemen, if you find yourself with a bunch of guys at a table with one girl, who so conveniently stayed behind, just go monk. Observe the rule of silence until the ladies return. Your neck will be most appreciative.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

A Vessel of Consternation

To the majority of males, a woman’s purse is an enigma. It's as mysterious as the wherabouts of the Holy Grail. As curious as the reason Donald Trump still wears his hair that way.

Want to see a grown man get weak in the knees? Let his wife or girlfriend say, “Look in my purse.” Male thought patterns become scrambled hearing these words. For a few seconds he’s like Jell-O right before it sets up. The smart man will back off and say, “Forget it.” Nothing is so important that he need stick his bare hands into the equivalent of the River Styx. No sir. Put out the fire and call in the dogs. This hunt is over.

I picture women, quietly giggling in disbelief and rolling their eyes thinking, “But why?”

Men like simple things such as the wallet. In the wallet you’ve got the compartment for folding money. Slots where you stash your driver’s license and credit cards. Lastly there’s the plastic see-through accordion for pictures of the kids and the one of you in the two-piece from years ago.

Yeah, we still carry it.

Every woman is currently making a mental note to thoroughly search her man’s wallet to find and destroy this picture. After that catharsis, there might be a heated sermon from her along with some laying on of hands. Most assuredly, it won't be for healing.

A purse, on the other hand, is akin to two or three carnival fun-houses, grafted together, with twisting halls and multiple mirrors. It has compartments within compartments. It’s a behavioral modification maze for the male. No matter how many times we run up and down its corridors, we’re never going to find the cheese.

It is the epitome of, “A place for everything and everything in its place.” No matter how a man concentrates on the arrangement of items inside this magic kingdom, if he upsets the fragile ecosystem, he’ll never be able to restore it to its undefiled state.

Other women know exactly how to navigate in each other’s purse. It’s an innate ability. One female can tell another, “Go look in my purse and bring me my lip gloss. Not the hot, wet-looking one but the wholesome-mommy one.” She will ram her hand into its depths and come out with the right lip gloss in less than four seconds. A man on the other hand would fish for a while. Next he would open it wide and peer down into it as if he could see the desired object. Finally he would wind up taking every single thing out, and still not be able to find it. It’s that hidden compartment thing. There’s no other explanation.

It’s all an illusion for men. We see the purse as a bag, slightly larger than a biker’s wallet on up to almost brief case size. Yet in feminine reality they are bound to be the size of a walk-in closet. How else can you explain how a woman can go to the restroom and return wearing a totally different outfit?

It was a challenge to our fathers and grandfathers. It still remains so. The mystery of the purse versus the ineptitude of the man when confronted with it. We’d sooner jam our hands into a pail full of dirty diapers than be asked to dig around in a purse. Either way, it’s going to raise a big stink.

You can wash off anything acquired from a diaper pail but you can never wash away the failure of being unable to fetch from a purse what was asked of you.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

The Lawn More Man (with all due respect to Stephen King)

On Saturdays, or the day prior to the one when lawn waste is picked up, DNA manifests itself with homeowners breaking out lawn mowers, weed-eaters and leaf blowers. Meanwhile, their counterparts in apartment complexes are going to pool parties, where there’s music and dancing, grilled food and chilled beverages, along with the smell of coconut flavored SPF. “Poor saps,” we homeowners think. “They don’t know what they’re missing by renting instead of buying.”

DNA is shaped by both parents to make our personal genetic quilt. There are times, though, when certain genetic receptors malfunction. During these times, the gene racks marked, “factory seconds” and/or “slightly damaged,” suddenly get thrust into the main draft rotation. This, in turn, causes slightly flawed individuals known socially as “politicians” and “developers.”

My DNA, as well as that of a few others, renders us mute when it comes to the following phrase: “It’s just grass. Let it grow how it wants.” We are incapable of letting by lawns be by lawns. No, we have to enhance it, romance it and finance it to keep us within the status quo of our neighborhoods.

My father is Lord of the Lawn. No, he doesn’t go out and dance a fast-paced Irish jig on his grass. He’s Polish. It would be a polka.

His yard has always been top class. If there were commencement ceremonies for yards, his would graduate magna cum lawne. He’s the only man I know who uses a carpenter square to check his edger’s accuracy. Before anyone had conceived of an edger as something you pushed, he used grass shears. On his hands and knees, he would go around the yard, clipping it so the edge of his Bermuda stood at right angles to the sidewalk.

I’ve heard of sod farms trashing an entire harvest after seeing his yard. His grass blades know how they should stand because he is the Grass Whisperer. I have seen moles crying at the yard’s edge because they are enamored by the sight of his beautiful sod and wouldn’t think of disturbing it. Homeowners have moved from his cul de sac because they couldn’t take the pressure, un-implied as it was, of rising to the bar he sets in lawn maintenance.

His relationship to Bermuda grass is directly disproportional to what Donald Trump’s is to hair.

However, I have two parents as most everybody does, except politicians and developers, and this grass growing gene has been diluted by my mother’s side of the family. Mom grew up on a farm. At her earliest opportunity she hastily made way for another life. She packed her suitcase and was off to the big city. Afterwards, her idea of picking cotton was for garments or household accessories from some department store.

Pappaw was a farmer/watch repairman. Whenever he wasn’t in town repairing watches, he was out on his modest farm. To him grass was wasted ornamentation. It was unrefined milk. Cows eat grass. Cows produce milk. It's all a part of the food chain. If due to some environmental quirk, the grass in the field had suddenly dried up and disappeared, Pappaw wouldn’t have had any qualms about turning the cows loose in the front yard, while admonishing the rest of the family to make sure they didn’t pitch over into the ditch.

There were always stories about some form of livestock pitching over into a ditch. Early on, I got the indication that livestock, especially cows, weren’t the brightest animals in the lot. I mean, any animal that's going to let you pull on its udders day in and day out, without exhibiting some sort of resistant behavior has got to be a few curds shy.

You'd think at some point in the evolutionary theater some cow, having become sufficiently fed up with matters, would have stood up and said to a farmer, "Now see here, my good man. This yanking and pulling on my nether regions must stop. What form of amusement or satisfaction do you derive from this behavior? Your forwardness with me can be described as nothing more than the mannerisms of a cad, a scoundrel and a boor, as it was, and I will not allow it to continue any further. I am no strumpet nor tart. Restrain yourself and refrain from this dastardly act or I shall rain terror upon your hind pockets, if you catch my drift."

Quite a high brow cow, eh?

Of course, the whole cow /grass interface is lost on politicians and developers. Politicians would want to tax the cow, tax the farmer for having the cow, tax the land that the farmer has the cow on and then tax the things which the cow would produce. For schools and road improvements, of course. Next thing you know, they’d want cows of their own but with loopholes to escape all the taxes. They want to be cowboys’ in-absentia. Developers on the other hand would say, “Cows? Forget cows! We can buy the farm land cheap, put 160 houses on those 40 acres and have room for apartments with pools. Cows? Aren’t they antiquated by now? Put ‘em in a museum or the zoo.”

All this leads to my predisposition to want to mow myself silly. I panic if something comes up to delay me even a day from mowing. That extra day could mean more mulched grass lying on top of the lawn for all my neighbors to see. This could lead to a formal shunning.

Am I complaining? Heaven forbid! Cutting the grass is like therapy to me. I strap on my portable CD player, place my beverage of choice in the cup holder and I’m off. Listening to the tunes, I’m seat-dancing and foot-stomping, as I ride my way to a halfway decent looking yard. Sure the neighbors probably think I’m off my rocker when I’m singing along to “Long Cool Woman.” We’re talking full frontal lip moving here. I make no pretense about having a good time at every opportunity. I take the much-bandied-about e-mail enticement, “Dance like nobody’s looking,” to heart.

Think that’s something? You ought to see me and my weed-eater.

© 2005 Michael Wicinski

The Baking of the President

Because I make a mean biscuit I’m the designated biscuit maker in my house.

This past weekend, Marilyn asked if we could have biscuits for breakfast. At first I said no, knowing we were running low on the mix. Then I noticed that sad, teary look in her eyes and I reconsidered. How could I deny her when she was getting emotional about this?

It wasn't till later that she told me her allergies were bothering her.

Being low on mix, I measured out enough for 2/3 of a recipe. Looking into the box I saw there wasn’t even enough to save. Throwing caution and the recipe to the wind, I dumped the remainder into the mixing bowl. Got the milk out, poured in what I needed and then a tad bit more for the extra mix. What could possibly go wrong?

As I stirred this concoction, I could tell it wasn't right. To say the dough looked dry would be like saying Death Valley is a wee bit warm during the summer. It looked like a glob of white play dough that’s been sitting in the sun way too long. Adding more milk helped some, but I began to wonder whether these would be fit to eat or better used in a rock wall I’m starting.

With trepidation, I threw the dough onto the cutting board, kneaded it a time or two and then set about cutting my biscuits. When cutting biscuits you wind up with oddly shaped fragments, such as triangles and Siamese-concave strips. Not one to be wasteful, I always gather these up and press them out by hand to make a few more to add to the pan.

After folding all these fragments together, I came up with something resembling an albino, hairless protozoa on some serious steroids. I didn’t think the slightest thing about it. I’ve ended biscuit making this way many times, so why should I? I popped the pan into the oven and shortly thereafter we were sitting down to breakfast.

There’s the unspoken need to relish my biscuits yet another day. So there’s always a few left over. Among them this day was the biscuit I formed from the leftover fragments. Looking at it with biscuit-happy eyes, Marilyn commented on how it was layered and textured, and quite interesting looking.

She sometimes wishes I was more like that.

Rising from the table, I stared down at it and was totally shocked at what I saw. On this biscuit was a face staring back at me. It was totally unplanned but still it was a face. But whose?

My initial thought was it must be a president. Not a movie-star, athlete or religious figure. I knew it had to be a president, but which one? I tried picturing it as Bush or Clinton. Neither was it Ronald Reagan nor Jimmy Carter. The biscuit lacked that sincere Carter smile. Nor did it look to have the capacity to lust after other baked goods. Then it hit me.

Gerald R. Ford.

When I uttered this, the first thing Marilyn said was, “Sell it on eBay.” Then she giggled at herself. Mind you, she was still sitting and hadn’t experienced the aerial view as I had. As I left the kitchen, I heard her say, somewhat surprised, “It does look like him.”

Why would she ever doubt anything I say?

On that day, four biscuits were leftover. Three of them would be part of some later breakfast. However, that last one was special. In the realm of presidential baked goods, I believe this last biscuit becomes, the First Biscuit. Somewhat biblical in perspective, wouldn’t you say?

The Gerald R. Ford Commemorative Biscuit is now securely sealed in the depths of our freezer, being preserved for the future. True to her jest, it could possibly end up at auction on eBay. It might not bring as much as the fabled grilled cheese sandwich with the image of the Virgin Mary on it, but it should still fetch a pretty penny nonetheless. After all, what Gerald Ford memorabilia collection could be considered complete without this one-of-a-kind piece?

Or we may just donate it to the Gerald R. Ford Presidential Library, to have it displayed for the world to see. That might be a more noble thing to do, not taking money for our own personal gain, but bestowing the wealth of this work for the masses to enjoy.

Since when have I ever given a flip about nobility?

They say everything’s for sale. We may just have to see.

Correct me if I’m wrong here, won’t you, but there are Gerald R. Ford memorabilia collectors, aren’t there?

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Water Hammer

Gadgets, not dogs, are a man’s best friend. Dogs happen to be the first gadget man discovered. So they fit nicely within this group. Gadgets make a man’s existence easier. Dogs have been taught to do things to ease the burdens of a man’s life: fetch this or that; sit; lay down; lick between his toes. All important activities.

I, being the typical male, like my gadgets too. I bought one I had never needed until we lived in our previous house. You see, during the spring and summer, there was always something in need of water. With any watering after dark, I’d have to grab the flashlight or just go stumbling in the dark through the flower bed to turn off the faucet.

One word why this bothered me: Copperhead. As in snake.

To alleviate this problem, I bought an automatic timer designed for watering. I could set it, turn on the water and have full confidence it would automatically turn off at the preselected time.

Ah, life was good.

There is a term in the plumbing industry, "water hammer". This occurs when a sudden stop in water flow happens - this is important to remember - such as when a dishwasher, or clothes washer, toilet or even just a faucet is turned off, creating a shock wave that travels down the water line, shocking the pipes and creating a very audible hammer noise.

One evening after purchasing the timer I had set it up to water until well after dark. The waterline it was attached to displayed symptoms akin to water hammer. When turned on slightly, this faucet would rattle, hum and sing like a plumbing supply ochestra. On more than one occasion, Seaworld called us saying we were making Shamu's eyes cross. It was that bad when it was just barely on. However, if you turned it wide open there was no problem. It was one of those things you put up with living in an older house.

Having extablished men like gadgets let me mention something else that's obvious. Men are spontaneous, reactionary, compulsive and protectors of our domain. Ladies, these are the things you really dig about us.

We protect our domain and you, being part of it, are protected too. Don’t get all feminist and hatchet-toting with me here. I am not saying you’re our property. You just happen to live on it, so we’re inclined to protect you. That’s all.

Our spontaneous side is seen when, out of nowhere, we’ll say something like, "Baby, I sure do love you a lot. How’s about going and getting me something cold from the fridge?" Ladies, you know we mean it with all our heart.

That compulsive side of us comes out when we tell you about the sweet card we know you'd have loved the we saw while buying our latest car magazines down at the drugstore.

Let me draw from my personal experience to describe a guy’s reactionary tendencies. Remember now, the timer has been set and in my mind, forgotten. Marilyn and I are watching TV on the love seat. Everything is as Ozzie-and-Harriet as it could be in our little part of suburbia.

Out of the clear blue came a loud bang from outside that made the actors on TV forget their lines momentarily.

I reacted.

Jumped straight up out of my seat and dashed outside looking for the young jerk who had been brazen enough to just - are you ready for this - attack my house with a baseball bat. You with me here, folk? In my perception of things, the sound I just heard caused me to think we were under imminent threat of life and limb by some ne’er-do-well swinging a baseball bat.

Why anybody in their right mind would have such an urge to do such a thing didn’t matter to me at the moment. We live in a strange world with an overabundance of strange people who do bizarre things. For all I knew, some methed-up crackhead saw my house as threatening and lashed out at it violently.

Here’s the problem with being a spontaneously compulsive reactionary. I had taken no more than three steps off my front porch when my mind pointed out the following to my body:

1. You think someone has attacked your house with, of all things, a baseball bat.
2. You, being the protector of your domain, are not going to let anybody get away with that.
3. Right now, you are testosterone-in-action. Hear you roar!
4. Dude, what are you going to do if you actually find someone out here with a ball bat? You didn’t bring jack to defend yourself with!

I quickly slowed my charge around the house.

On her face was a look that look said, "Am I ACTUALLY married to this?" as I sheepishly made my way back inside. She asked, "Weren’t you watering the lawn? Was the sprinkler still on?"

In those two simple questions, I found myself having a moment of insight. It was as if some sixth sense came over me and said, "Boy, you are dumber than a sack of hammers. Sit your tail down now and stop being so compulsively ignorant. If your momma saw you acting like this, she’d have cause to wonder whether you were actually hers or not."

If anyone knows where I can pick up a box of Common Sense, please let me know. I’d like to see how that gadget works.

© 2005 Michael Wicinski - revised 2006