Zoetic (Teen Edition)

See my teen son's tie? It's our Stewart clan Dress tartan. I bought that tie for him years ago after we enjoyed watching the Scottish army re-enactors in their period costumes here.

Not long ago we had this special occasion to attend so my wife bought my son a new tie but he decided to wear his tartan. Why? He knew I was wearing my Stewart clan Royal tartan tie. And he wanted to match.

Ya I know. Awwww. As my fave Scottish blogger friend Alistair might say: "My heart did a wee dance," or "That was a gemmie."

Believe me though: these sorts of moments are rare. It's rough raising teenagers. And he knows it....

My teens are well aware of how important education is to me. School was always my refuge and university saved my life. I want the same for them. But they've grown weary of my nattering. Recently, while visiting with a crowd of relatives, someone asked my son what he wanted to be when he grew up. Smiling directly at me and without missing a beat he replied, "a stripper."

Lovable brat.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

This is the still life on my bedside table? This?! 

Nothing says romance like a tooth grinding dental appliance.

Things that are most likely the devil:

This is the pail of slop that I dug out of my eaves-troughs (aka gutters) yesterday.

Yup. This is my life. Take that Ashton Kutcher.














#smellslikethawingcatpeecompost
#smellslikethedumpsterbehindaplaceofferingcheappedicures
#smellslikecabbageandredwinevinegarinaditch
#smellslikeasewerwaterpopscicle
#smellslikeabagofexpiredblood
#smellslikeadeaddeerwithgingivitis
#smellslikewhatiguesshyenabuttersmellslike
#smellslikethehairballwedugoutofthedrainwhenwemovedthebathtubearlierthisyear
#smellslikeishouldneverchewmynailsagain
#smellslikesomeonepayingAshtonKutcher$700000perepisode

Things one should never outgrow:

photo booths (the more people the better).

#thankswillandtreena

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Available at WalKILLmart.
What the crap would anyone need this for?

It was brought to my attention that apparently I did not invent the hornet sword.

What? Genghis Khan had a hornet problem too?!

Whoa.

Uh, not exactly a Swiss Army Knife is it? This thing gives me the serious heebie-jeebies. And I don't get it either. I admit that I am somewhat impressed with movie weaponry props as much as the next guy but those are intended only for "make-believe." Is there a gene that inspires someone to collect deadly knives as opposed to sea-shells or books or McDonald's happy meal toys like the rest of us harmless OCD'ers?

I have no idea. But just think of the future Hoarders episode where they feature some partially toothless guy with a entire room of these stockpiled. Gulp.

Helen

Look who's baaaaack.

Yet something seems different. Helen's changed. She's been deadheaded. And she's trimmer too, likely due to the equivalent of the The Kidnapping Diet® (similar to the Survivor Diet but without mudwrestling-type challenges). She clearly looks healthier but it's more than her physical transformation. She seems more...contrite. After enduring her harrowing plantknapping, I hope that humbled Helen will finally show some gratitude for the life we've provided for her here with us.

Now all we need is for someone to kidnap our teenagers so they too will undergo this transformation and thus appreciate their wonderful parents.

Oh I'm just joshing of course!

But maybe next time the plantknappers need two uh, babysitters they might consider hiring our teens and just drive onto our lawn, storm our house while wearing balaclavas and uh, throw them in the back of their jeep? Just an idea.

Wordfuse (Crime Scene Edition)

utwerped (verb, past tense): usurped + twerp(s) = when fools* seize and hold something without legal authority, something that does not belong to them! Go here for the gistory.

*In this case, by fools I mean goofy friends. Harmless too...or are they?

Have you seen...?

We don't know WHAT TO DO?!?!

Our flowers were plantknapped [sic] right out of the front yard! *gnaws on fist*

They told us not to be "heroes," aka DON'T CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES but we had to do something. They even used the word "deadhead." *lip trembling* 

We hope they contact us soon. PLEASE.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

They curl my toes (in a good way).

See these pyjama pants? $3! I don't wear them to bed. But I have now spent entire weekends in them. Mowed the lawn in them. Greeted people at the front door in them. Visited with friends in them. I would live in them if I could. I would wear them to the bank. I would wear them to work if I could. My wife made me go to a friend's house and pick raspberries but I insisted that the only way I would do so is if I could wear my happy pyjama pants. Her reply? No prob.

So I guess I would even renew my wedding vows in them.

#igetitnow
#completelygivenup

The Bus Dream

There’s this dream I have. There are different versions but I call it the bus dream.

It’s a city bus. It’s big. It’s cumbersome. So many windows. Everyone can see.

There’s no one on it but me. Watching myself. Driving it.

And I’m  required to drive it. It’s my bus. I am responsible. It may appear empty to those who might be looking from the sidewalk (yet no one ever seems to be on the sidewalk anyway). But my bus is not empty. It’s filled with everything I am responsible for, everything I’m trying to manage.

And I’ve been driving this bus for so long.

Which explains why I get distracted and I forget how big the bus is. Truthfully though, I know how big the bus is. I don’t kid myself. This job is important: everything I’m absolutely steering in life is on this bus. I’ve just been driving it for a while. When a person drives something so immense, after so many years even it becomes small. And stupidly, one can forget. Or get complacent.

(Do not think this means I have ever truly grown comfortable driving this ten ton behemoth.)

So I’m driving down this street and I’m half way through some sort of cage before I even notice there is no possible way the bus can fit into this cage. Think of a cage like the construction cages they put below skyscrapers along the sidewalks; they narrow the passage and prevent pedestrians from being hit with a hammer (or other debris) and possibly to hide the new facade. It’s supposed to provide protection but anything could happen to someone who gets trapped in there. By someone. Or something. So the bus I’m driving, it’s plowing through this cage, (could someone be in there?!) and it’s cutting through the sides of the bus and I’m cutting through the cage and that’s when I realize I'm not. Nothing is happening. Nothing. There’s no sound, no scraping of metal on metal, no windows exploding as these objects collide because I’m driving through it like a ghost slipping through a solid wood door.

Finally I’m beyond the cage and it’s like I need to keep going and that’s when I recognize where I am: my old street, 1^st Street West, in the town where I grew up. It’s a familiar place but it’s not home. And I’m shaking so badly so I crank that bus right and then I wake up like I’m choking.