• Authority.

    With the authority vested in her by God, genetics, and a second x chromosome, Cheryl is rarely wrong. When disputes arise, I frequently do what many other men in my position do, I take my rightful place, admit to my failings, and subject myself to her authority. Things are just easier that way.

    This doesn’t mean that I always have to like it, but since when does liking something have to do with the rightful, natural order of things? This was the back drop to our conversation this morning. I don’t quite recall what we were talking about, but the rarest of occasions occurred, Cheryl was wrong. Naturally, I took the high road… not! “You know Cheryl, it’s o.k. There’s no shame in admitting that you are wrong about something.”

    “Yeah, on second thought… that’s such a lie! AHH HAA HAA HAA!”

    The kid in me was having a wonderful time, and it’s obvious there’s a whole lot of kid in me.

  • Top rung adventure.

    There is a warning on most step ladders which warn the average consumer that it is not wise to venture beyond the next to the last step at the top. Like most average consumers, I have routinely disregarded this warning.

    Cheryl and I spent this weekend at home. It was a weekend that we were supposed to spend with friends in Naples. Cheryl said she wasn’t feeling well all week, so we decided not to chance a long drive and a weekend away from our medical safety blanket. Little did I know that it was a week long ruse to keep me home for cheap outdoor labor. Friday night I’m settling into some really nice slouching, looking forward to a weekend of sports and relaxation when Cheryl drops her bomb. “John, don’t you want to get started tonight, you’ve got a lot to do this weekend.”

    “Huh?”

    Lucky for me, I went out and got my anti- yard work booster shot. Actually, it came in a series of three.

    I went out on Saturday morning to get a start on my forced labor. I was working on ways I could get out of this heinous duty, wondering how I could excuse myself without stirring up a hornet’s nest… when I stirred up a hornet’s nest (actually, it was probably wasps). I was standing on top of my step ladder, cleaning out the gutters on the front of my house, when it suddenly felt like I had been run through by some kind of sharp impediment, just below my knee. At that point I did what any of you would have done, I started flapping wildly at my leg and at invisible bugs in the air as my body descended towards the ground. Somehow managing to land on my feet, I felt a second sharp pain just below the first. Picture my likely reaction… me slapping at my legs as I high-tail it away from my ladder, through the front yard. Take out the cursing, the ladder and the bushes and this would have made a fine slavic dance routine. When it was finally over I had three stings on my leg which were swelling up like a picture in a dermatologist’s text book. Ten minutes later the pain was still with me and Cheryl was trying to convince Beth that she should play outside for a while (I think it probably had something to do with me bringing my dance routine in doors).

    After a phone call to the nurse on call and swallowing a heaping helping of Benadryl and Tylenol, I was resting peacefully on the couch again. Ah, the lengths one will go to, to find a little peace and quiet on a Saturday morning.

  • Gotta go.

    Imagine a Friday afternoon. A young man is leaving his place of work on the last day of the work week. He is in a bit of a rush to get home because he is leaving an hour later than he would have liked. If he were honest, he would admit that he really wanted to put an end to the work day about eleven hours earlier – before the day really began. Anyway, he climbed onto the narrow saddle of his bicycle and peddled through the parking lot towards home. He had just crossed the highway out front (after waiting about five minutes for the traffic light) when he felt the need to “use the facilities.” As I said before, he was already leaving an hour late so he did not relish the thought of backtracking to the office to make use of it’s facilities. He therefore decided to make a go of holding it until he got home.

    Herein lies his mistake.

    Less than a mile into his ride the pressure began to become uncomfortable. Still, he pushed forward. Three miles into the ride he began to feel painful spasms. Five miles into the ride he felt every pedal stroke. Each time a foot would reach the top of the stroke his knee put a little pressure on his abdomen. Every pump at the pedals felt like a pump on his bladder. At seven miles he began to really regret his decision. The ride became a race with his bladder. There were no businesses on his route that had public restrooms. Living in a county that practically invented the term “urban sprawl”, there were no trees to hide behind and bleed off a little pressure. There were plenty of little landscaping trees, but he felt it might not be a good idea to take a leak in someone’s front yard. Undoubtedly there is a law written somewhere that addresses that kind of thing, and it would be really inconvenient if he were forbidden by law to live within 1000 feet of a school or daycare center. At eight miles he began to seriously think about knocking on someone’s door. At nine miles he wondered if anyone would accept a trade for the use of their bathroom, but he didn’t have any money on him. He would have offered them a kidney at this point, but he figured it would be of no use to anyone by now. Half a mile from his home, the only thing that kept him from relieving himself right where he sat was having to explain the smell to his wife when he got home, and the thought of having to clean up his bike afterwards. Finally he did make it home. He was extremely tired from the effort, but he did make it… barely.

    The lesson in this is obvious. Always go with the leather or vinyl bicycle saddle… never go with the more absorbent cloth. Cloth = cramping, leather = choices.