If I had a hammer.....

Life brings, or at least it seems to me, round pegs, square holes.

You know the kids wooden hammering toy.  Goldilocks-like.  "Too big", "too small", "too hot", "too cold."  JUST RIGHT.  Where does one fit in?

I ain't sure I've ever found just right.

We hear "dare to be different" all the time.  Yet we seemingly thirst for fitting in.

I enjoy Classic cars.  I sometimes put an eye on Nascar.  I know "lefty loosy righty tighty" but I have no desire to be a mechanic, or a gearhead, or, to follow the yellow brick road to the Indy 500.

I like golf, I do, but it doesn't consume me.  I frankly enjoy swinging by the Corner Bar, but if I didn't go for three months, I'd be ok.

I really enjoy the newspaper, but if I never ever pickup a paperback book I'd be fine and dandy.  It just ain't for me.  Read away if you like, I guess I'm weird.  My obsession with the newspaper must be about 80% because if I go on vacation I've got the option to "hold and deliver all" newspapers missed, or, "simply begin again" on such and sucha date.  I do the latter.

Virtually every school, community center, airport, yada, have "Lost and Found"s.  They ain't never empty.  So, some things, like me I guess, stay lost forever.

Witness the fact I could never be a Jehovah Witness.  All consuming ain't me.

Would I then be lost?  Or, am I found?

I'm ok if I never place my butt on a Harley.  Many would go ape if that feeling ever existed within for them.

Can I still be unique if I never get a tattoo?  I've long joked about getting a tattoo. "down there".. in teenie tiny letters that spell "Morticians suck".  You know, you gotta go down makin' 'em laugh.

But, am I weird because I enjoy laughter too much?  I can be serious, but I know folks who would look at me and scoff because I rejoice in frivolity mebbe a tad too much.

It's said there is no "I" in team, but can one occupy the bench, mebbe play centerfield if he/she has a "mind of their own?"

I don't fish.  I don't eat fish.  WHAT?  Nope, not even crustaceans.  I will one day be sieved into my urn, and I'll be fine with the fact there ain't a speck of salmon within.

There are folks that fit into amusement parks.  They literally travel the world to experience the newest, fastest, biggest turned rollercoasters of the land  Nomme.  All I see is my taught neck wondering exactly which steel girder will ultimately take me down.  Man at work - there is no such thing as perfection - as in, what if the guy folding the parachute into place is hungover?  Got bronchitis?  Going thru relationship strife?  What if Rosie or Ronnie the riveter, forgets to tighten a critical bolt on the Zambezi Zinger?  Drop me off here Uber.

Yes, I realize this blog is weird, nonsensical, but mebbe that's my fit.  My porridge.  It's my bed, but I rarely make it.

I truly admire passion.  Mind outta gutter, yes, I enjoy that passion, but I'm ok with life if I don't fit sometimes, don't have the equal passion another has about important things in their lives.  I can name maybe two Civil War battles, but some make a life of it.  All good, just not for me.

Round peg, square hole.

Older I get, less I give a rats.

Awhile back /i was sitting in new hire orientation at Home Depot.  Me and a little friendly gal all of 20, a new mom I'd learned in our conversation before the trainer got there.  Trainer got there.  Put us thru a solid hour of (boring, sorry, it's just me) things about what we can/can't/should/shouldn't do under their employ.  "Are there any questions?" trainer asked upon completion.  "Yes, I have one" the new mom, 20 yr old lass piped up with.  I'm thinking she's gonna ask about "what if my kid is sick?" or, "what kind of shoes should we wear?" and she comes with "Can I have pink hair when I work the checkout?"
Her thing.  Her just right porridge. 

I love much.  Basketball, grandkids, driving with my top down, weekly Happy Hour with lifelong townie friends, the KC Star, Royals/Chiefs, golf, many trades, but master of none.  Consumed a hunnerd percent of the time by none.

Older I get, the more I'm ok if I don't necessarily fit, ain't pigeon holed.

If I had a hammer.. I'd hammer in the morning.. but probably not at night.

Love, a wierdo

Karen Jacobsen musta been on vacation.

A few years back, I was driving South in good ole Missouri to a wedding outside a very small town, in a barn @ someone's house.  GPS told me it was roughly 38 minutes to get there.  I drove the 'assigned' "Turn left in a quarter mile", "veer right at the intersection" commandments for well over an hour.  Uh oh.  Uh huh, I was lost, WITH GPS.  Finally I came to a T at a fence line - and "You have reached your destination."  Not a bride, a groomsman, flower girl, crying mom, or even a cow in sight.

I'd never had that happen.  I was actually 20 miles into Kansas when the wedding was in Missouri.  Victor, whotheheck is Karen Jacobsen?  Glad you asked.  She is the calming voice of Garmin/GPS.

Oft times I will drive somewhere (be it known I hate hate hate tailgaters.. I get very nervous in filled to the gills traffic) - so, I will rebel against GPS instructions, purposely make a turn against the grain, and will hear "Recalculating."  Karen had to be on vacation that day for she guided me as if I had entered "Middle of nowhere" as my destination.

I pinched Karen that day, she awakened, I reentered my destination - she recalculated (correctly this time) how to get me there, i made it to the wedding in time, all was good.

The bride, two kids of her own partially grown, he, three kids mostly grown, and age difference between bride/groom - happy to report, they recalculated life and it's worked out very well.

Life - it seems to frequently throw us in those (oh shit...uh oh.. NOW WHAT) moments of recalculation.  Sometimes due to our own error, but oft times, beyond our control.  It don't come with no GPS (wouldn't it be groovy if it did?) so we're left to navigate ourselves "turn left here", "in a quarter mile get in the middle lane" and wouldn't it be nice to hear "pullover at the next exit, you need a break, a cup of coffee, and maybe a cig if you smoke."

OH the recalculations of life.  Marriage.  NOW WHAT?   Children.  WHERE'S THE MANUAL?  Divorce - "entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after me" HUH?  Whar'd ya go?  That tweren't on our GPS plan?

Eating too much.  Recalculating sizes in Kohls, or, on Amazon.  I cannot believe what my 'friend' just said to me.   Recalculating.

You name it, life recalculates it.  Weather.  Financial woes or yippees.  Health.  Death.  The remote control mid a boring show. Writing a blog and you've had too much coffee and all of a sudden it hits you and you have to get up and go to the............ oh, sorry.  Shoulda left that one out.  Hey, recalculating and #2 seemingly have a lot in common.

I'm a bit envious of "Karen."  She probably drives an Audi, selects/cooks any cut of beef she desires, has dessert on toppa that, still maintains a size 4 dress, AND gets laid five times a week.  Her kids are undoubtedly in the church choir, and never get lost at the swimming pool or park. Things are well planned, and if something is amiss by golly, her vocal  cords have the recalculation on the tip of her tongue.

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come, easy go
A little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me, to me.

Moose, Hos, Cain, Esky, Vargie... oops, free agency, smalltown market, "recalculating, bring up 4 kids from Omaha, two from Northwest Arkansas."  Recalculate, cause there's no crying in baseball - Ray.

Sorry.. I gotta go.  No, not that again.  I gotta go to work.  You see, Karen/GPS weren't invented until I was well into "it's too damn late now to worry about a 401K"... I haven't the foggiest idea how long or how short I'll live.  So.. a day or twelve before Social Security payday I've found myself recalculating, transferring funds from Savings to my gotta spend Checking account.

Thus, I'm outta retirement, working a few hours a week at my fun little golf course. And, I needs to get my butt going, shower, and be there by 10.

Mama, truly, always said "The secret to success is how you handle plan B."

"Victor, to get to the golf course in Kearney, you need to merge onto I-35 and continue for 7 miles."  Screw that Karen, and oh BTW, your slip is showing.  I'm heading up Highway 33.  More scenic.  Barns, cows.  Green acres is the place to be.

May your ventures in life go well, and if you wander off the suggested path, hey, it's what we children of the 60's do.  To every "Why" it's "Why not?"  To every thing, turn, turn, turn.  Sorry, that was kinda corny.

Love, Victurd

The back nine......

Life really likens golf.  If you've never played, well yeah, ya really have.

The front nine.....great concern for score, do good, pass others...  Your attire is well thought out, and you just busted open a 'sleeve' (box of 3 balls) of Pro V-1's, the most desirous ball in golf.  So, life, I'm ready... I wanna win.. I'm dressing to keep up/surpass the Jones's...  My golf ball (car/house/neighborhood) is the best there can be.

I am so intent on the front nine, I don't notice the Canadian geese on the pond by the first hole.  I did catch a glimpse of that doe on #4, but I'm eyeballing where my ball is in relation to the green, the wind, my lie, what club to use, so the doe isn't on the radar.

I check my score after every hole, don't wanna be embarrassed in this thing called golf (life).. Must keep up.. must surpass.. blinders.. full steam ahead.   My concentration is such, I hear the others in the foursome talking, I pleasantly grin, but my mind ain't there.  I'm all about 'winning.'

The 9th hole is a tough one, so in spite of what they say about keeping a loose grip, I hold the club tightly.  A few shots later, we tally the halfway score.. work to do.. some good, some bad.. but I must do better.

We stop in the clubhouse for a beer, a diet coke, a hot dog.. a bag of Fritos.  Not standing on the green green grass gives me the capability to listen more closely to my buddies.  They're enjoying, I'm semi frantic, more worried about later getting in my car to "I won" or "I lost."

Driving to the 10th tee, something comes over me.  I look at my playing partners.. i remember being on the same little league team with him.  That one, he and I were in the 8th grade play "Robin Hood" together.  The 4th guy, he was a jovial as the day I'd met him 50+ years ago. i don't know how he does it, what, losing his mate after all these years.

I'm tired.  Golf/life does that to you.  I can't hit the ball near as far on the back nine.  My body doesn't have the energy it did on the 1st hole.  For some reason, I'm more concerned that my buddies do well, and how I play is of little significance.

I hit one in the woods.  A few holes ago, that woulda really bugged me, but, my buddy hollered out right after we watched it go into never-never land, "Cpme on Vic, you're gonna hit this one right on the green!"  And I did.  Two holes later he bonked one in the woods and I got to play the role of supporter.

I realized it'd been at least four holes since I peeked at the scorecard.

I finally laid my eyes on that doe again.  This time, she was accompanied by the buck and the yearling.  My eyes following in amazement, and in thanks for nature.  I barely heard "Vic, you're away, it's your turn,"  I'd learned a little bit from the front nine of golf (life) so it didn't take long to pick the hopeful right club.  Older, but much more relaxed than i was on the front, a fairly decent shot followed.

I paid a lot more attention to conversation on the back nine.  Buddies came close to being tearful as they discussed ailing relatives, hip and knee replacements, cataracts, and the price of tea in China (ha!)..

I heard things.  Nature. Friends.  The sound of the ball off the club. I saw things.  The geese, my buddies smiles, the afflictions that slowed them down but were accompanied by smiling faces.

The tune of winning changed.  We all were winning.  I'm so very glad golf (life), my buddies, moved me to "stop and smell the roses/fertilizer/Ben Gay/geese droppings, yada."  The front nine of golf left me in such a hurry, I didn't make time for that.  I was climbing the ladder, or trying to, when I shoulda been putting buckaroos away as the day would finally come, needing a ladder for a job, I could say "there are people we can pay to do that."

I recall my score that day, but it didn't control me, make me sad, make me happy, on the way home. I very much though, recall the hugs, goodbyes, laughter, as we departed.  Recognition of being blessed.

We made plans to one day do it all again.. and yes, /i think I remember hearing "The Good Lord Willing."

The back nine of golf (life) is so enjoyable, even if I am not near as physically able as I/we were in our youth.

Band camp, a couple years ago, my buddy Rick called me to relate "Spring Softball is about to begin, we're having practice at the City Park at 3pm on Sunday."  I truly was thankful of Rick's call, what, me being the eldest on our team.  In fact I related to him, "Rick, I keep waiting for the day, year, when my phone doesn't ring regarding softball."  Quickly, Rick shot back "But Vic, if I didn't ask you, then I would be the oldest one on our team."  Ha.

I appreciate every phone call, text, email, instant message, smile, hug, "Love you", "love you too", high five, knuckles..laugh.. so much more today than I did on the front nine of golf (life.)

I can't hit it as far today, I buy boxes of recycled golf balls (24 for $9.99) insteada those $39.99 a box of 12 Pro V-1's... Somehow, that's ok, and all the more enjoyable.

Sure, "hitting them straight", staying outta the rough/woods matters to me today, but thanks to old age (and mebbe high blood pressure and anti anxiety meds) it really, really doesn't bug me.  Besides, it's only fitty cents a ball.

May you enjoy the back nine of life.

Love, Victurd

Heroes in a half shell....

TMNT.  The little fellas first came on the TV screen in 1987.  Many a spin around the living room watching back then, several bags of candy attained thanks to Michelangelo at Halloween time.

Going full circle, now, my grandson spins around the room, watches, and has a trunk full of TMNT toys.  Sitting down one day to enjoy with him, many similarities, but they've added a little hip-hop to the music in keeping with the times.  Cool.

Interspersed, and stolen from Google, a kid walks into the library and asks the librarian for a book on turtles.  Librarian replies, "Hard back?" The kid replies, "Yeah, with little heads."

This morning, someone posted a video of a turtle on its back.  Nowhere, no way to run, hide.  Immobile.  Life is all about trying to be Pollyanna, but sometimes, we all get this feeling I reckon, stuck on our back, howintheheck, whatintheheck do I do now?

Kinda reminds me of the Hank and Harley story.  There were camping, found themselves awake, on their backs, staring at the stars.  "What are you thinking Harley?"... "I'm thinking someone stole our tent."  See?  You too can blog, all ya gotta do is steal crap.

Back to the turtle on its back.  Thankfully, there was a husband turtle too, and he pushed, shoved, until momma turtle was finally upright, and off they went.  Then again, it very well coulda been a wifey turtle that was trying to upright a hubby turtle, but then again folklore would have "Why would she wanna do that?"

Feel free to make any assumptions you like:   An old rancher is talking about politics with a young man from the city. He compares a politician to a "post turtle". The young man doesn't understand and asks him what a post turtle is.

The old man says, "When you're driving down a country road and you see a fence post with a turtle balanced on top, that's a post turtle. You know he didn't get up there by himself. He doesn't belong there; you wonder who put him there; he can't get anything done while he's up there; and you just want to help the poor, dumb thing down."

The longest trip I ever took was to St. Thomas.  I think Branson was 2nd longest, ha.  Whilst there, got to go on a snorkeling cruise.  Sea turtles are amazing creatures.  They've been around for 110 million years. (Editor's note:  Really?  Howinthehell do they know that?)... They can migrate as far as 1400 miles, but they always go back to where they were born.  Kinda like growing up in Liberty I guess.

After hatching, it may take a week for them to dig themselves out of the nest.  They emerge at night, move to the ocean and remain there, solitary, until it's time to mate.  Sea turtles live about 80 years. Holy crap, I could move to the ocean and remain there, solitary, until it's time to mate, but I don't think I got 80 more years in me!  I'm done!  Go ahead, flip me on my back...

What do you call a turtle with an addiction to pastries?  Donutello.

There are differing statistics on how long a sea turtle can stay under water without emerging.  I think it was the guy who claimed they were 110 million years old that came up with "months and months."  One place said "30 minutes".. another "5 hours, though a feeding dive is usually 5 minutes or so." The lady in charge of the snorkeling cruise thingy, she would tap us on the shoulder when she saw a sea turtle, and it was usually like 5-7 minutes they'd stay down and feed, then surface to the top.  Pretty cool to observe.  

What kind of pictures do turtles take?  Shelfies. (Thus, the name, snapping turtles.)

One time, band camp, I heard a story about a man and his wife that had separated.  She moved in with her sister.  Once, she put the remnants of an ashtray in the trash bag, set it in the garage, and uh huh, it caught on fire.  Holy crap.  Victor, what's this got to do with turtles?  Hang on.  Anyways, fire department was called.  Hear tell there was pretty severe damage, but thankfully, it was reported "all ok, everyone got out, no one was burned."  A couple days later, hubby went to pickup his child at the sister's place, and his wifey came to door... she had a huge hickey on her neck.  Laughing on the inside, he pretended to be frantic on the outside "OMG. OMG. I THOUGHT YOU SAID NO ONE GOT BURNED?!!!"..  Moral, she shoulda worn a turtleneck.  There, there's your turtle correlation.

OK.  I'm turtled out.  May your life be lived rightside up.  I'm moving to the ocean and will remain there, solitary, until it's time to mate.... Seeya what.. 2064 or so?

Cowabonga,

Love, Victurtle

I'm going to Kansas City... Kansas City here I come....

It's vacation time - so, reckon that's what I'll do....

Self described "Lover of levity from Liberty."

The great divide.  Repub/Dem?  Pro Life/Pro choice?. Wall/No Wall?   100,000 troops to Iran/Hell No We Won't Go?   Early riser/Night Owl?  Coffee black/Creamer and two cubes of sugar please?  Innie/Outtie?

Nope, Liberty/Kansas City.

The great divide, the 152 Highway bridge over I-35 is set to be blown up (purposely) on May 31 of this year.

This bridge separates "Founded in 1822 around this inexhaustible spring" and progress/hustle-bustle/borrowing from Butch Cassidy "Who are these guys?"...

I hear (thank God I can still hear...some old farts lose that capability long about this age.., some long term marrieds purposely lose that as well).. anyways, I hear all the time "Traffic sucks, I'm glad I don't live in Liberty any more" - or, "It just ain't the same any more."  Well... well...  . duh.

I don't care.  I still love Liberty.  I love every one way street, prestigious Oak tree, old-fashioned street light, church bells that remind me the hour (and the 1/4 hour, 1/2 hour, 3/4 hour, yada).. The Corner Bar.. the High School Junior High Heritage Middle School Cougar Mellencamp.  Who needs theme parks, roller-coasters, bumper cars, ski ball, games of risk... one here can take a perilous walk around the old Square and ya just never know when you might get hit by a falling brick - or maybe even an entire falling wall.

On a sunset hill of glory there sits the HS/JR HS/Middle S/Mellencamp.. WJC.. the old Methodist Church/Whatever it's called now. and Nebo Hill.

Stuff here, on this side of the bridge... is cool.  Back when architects cared more about pleasing to the eyes than the pocketbook.  The other side of the bridge is all new.  Right angles.  Lenexa beige, for lack of a better term.  Yuck, patooey (just my take.)

Nope, won't stand in the way of progress, but then again, it wouldn't upset me if they never built that wall, er, I mean bridge, back again.

I even kinda look forward to filled byways.  Filled byways where long ago, one waived to every other car 'cause even if you didn't know their first name, you knew the family name, where the dad worked and what subdivision they lived in.  Yeah, now, when it's imploded, there will be even more boo koo traffic like yain't never seen, KC folks caught on this side to mix in with the bonified townies - and I anticipate the waves will be replaced by "flipping off" every other car.  Might as well, hell, it's the way of our world now.

I vote keep 'em out, just kidding, kinda sorta.  Do do do do take me back.  Take me back to 19sixtysomething, population 8909 to when/where people drove old Ramblers and even cattle trucks to the Ku Ku.

We don't need no stinking WalMart...We've got a Dollar Store, Dollar General, a Five Dollar Store - and a Piggly Wiggly.  The only slice missing in this piece of heaven is maybe a smalltown Casey's, but hell, we've got 24 places to buy pizza and a few places to buy donuts, so we're good.

I honestly do love this City, but I ain't never understood why, in general, all the kids on the KC side go to Liberty High School, and the kids on this old side go to Liberty North.  We'll haveta figure out some way to fjord their Homecoming Floats across the Divide - but we've got some time to plan for all that.  Mebbe them Clay County Deputy horses can pull 'em across.

Vacation?  Victor, whatsup with that?  Well... I was thinking Cancun.. Vegas.. i ain't never been on a cruise..

Then I thought, well, i could take an old fashioned drive the station wagon somewheres.. maybe I'd pack a boatload of clothes, a cooler full of goodies - and make the 4 day trek from Liberty to WalMart where I could simply people watch all them People of Walmart folks. I could camp by the Flintlock Flyover, take my turns flippin off people... I love nice, long drives.

Then again.  Maybe I'll stay right here.  Whadda they call it?  Staycation?  Yeah, that works,  I'll splurge for a 300 burger, try the batting cages, spin around town and think back to what was where, who lived there...  I've got all I need here.  Franklin and China to remind me of when we moved here.  The HS, The College, and even Church Archer for a later date.

Besides, I'm a ginger, Cancun would sunburn me, Vegas would bankrupt me, a cruise by my lonesome would be no fun - and I hear tell you can't even fit two in onea those showers, so that ain't no fun. We've got a Hallmark city right here anyways..

I'll just stay here.  GPS, take me to McBowl...er, I mean Retro Bowl.

Whatever attachment you might have to 64068, have a Happy Day.

Love, Victurd

I feel ya kid.......

As old age forced me to limp across the parking lot of the Community Center (going in to workout).. up ahead there was a young lad and his father walking out.

This lad was about a year or so past 'fit pitching age', but, he was doing that anyways.  Crying, LOUDLY, and walking with BOTH hands covering his ears.  I think many in my shoes woulda thrown a look of scorn, a few might even'a said something... I.. well, I kinda giggled - as I thought of the many times I've felt just like this little guy.  Maybe it was in part the fact he was a ginger too that influenced my giggle insteada scorn.

Not long ago, in keeping with my diet, I had a craving for a Wendy's Vanilla Frosty... Driving across 152 Highway in Liberty is in and of itself enough to make one want to cry and put both hands on one's ears.

"I'm sorry sir, but our Frosty machine is broken."  So... I pulled thru, crying, with both hands on my ears.  I didn't, but felt it.

Over the years, I've become quite adept at driving, having both hands doing something else, and steering with my thighs.  Just ask one former girlfriend who usedta scream, holler, grab my hands and place them back on the wheel.

7th inning, Phillies 7, Royals 0.  Crying, hands covering ears, straight ahead.

Tyreek Hill.. amidst the crying, muttering "Please say it ain't so", hands on ears.

There are, times in our lives, we just feel like we should cry and cover our ears.  Crap is gonna happen, so why not cover our ears when it does?

That one guy.  The guy who gives speeches with all the red baseball hat wearing folks behind him.  I'm crying, hands over my ears.

Divorce, death(s), health woes, peeking down at the scale after one waddles on....... much, makes one want to cry and place both hands over the ears.

Oh yeah, being in WalMart, having to pee, but finding oneself 612 yards away from the restroom makes ya wanna cry, throw both hands over my ears.  At least thataway, it mebbe it would camouflage the pee pee dance en route.

One still has to cry sometimes whenya peek at caller ID, but at least ya ain't gotta cover the ears.

As I age, I find myself in more and more situations where I simply wanna forecast my own 'weather', thus, I cry and throw my hands over my ears.  Akin to a spaghetti strainer, or, maybe even turning hearing aids off.

I can't 'act'.  I come from a family of folks that were in plays, plays and more plays.  Me, not so much.  Stage fright mebbe.  "Oh come on Victor, it'll be fun, you'll love it."  So, finally, they were doing a play, there was a part for a deaf mute. "I'll do it!"

I love acting in real life though.  In many times when I wanna cry, place both hands over my ears, instead, I simply throw a S-eatin' grin and maintain silence.  I think I ran many off here by occasionally dropping F-bombs and the like..oh well.   But... wanting to cry, throw both hands over the ears - but smiling instead is basically like thinking "F-you very much."  I so love old age.

I don't know what was wrong with the kid in the parking lot at the community center.. probably didn't wanna leave..dad said "no" to "can we go get a toy"", or, he was hungry, tired, and maybe it was because the wind was coming outta the East, who knows with little ones.

Formulating my own future, one fit throwing cry, hands over the ears at a time.

Love, Victurd

One more.....

One more bowl of Spanish rice please mom....

One more......

Game of catch?..
An hour long visit on the porch swing?..

One more dialing 781-4398 to hear "How's my Victor?"...
One more time, going to bed, to say "Good night mom, I love you, you're the best mom in the world,"

One more trek across the Booneville bridge to hear you say "I always feel like I'm home here,"

One more trip to your office at William Jewell...
One more clever newspaper article to read that you've written, huh mom?
One more ballgame...

One more bus trip to Macy's downtown to shop for Christmas...

One more time just to see/hear you holding your breath until I caught mine after I coughed.

One more Kodak pic of you and dad at Christmas..

One more across Missouri trip to that slice of heaven, The Mill.

One more trip to see Santa on Court Street....

One more hour watching you sit in the window seat looking for dad's car when he gets home from a sale's trip...

One more smile...
One more hug.....

Embrace, before there are no more......

Happy Mother's Day...

Like the back of my hand.......

I call bullshit.

I was laying in bed the other day.. (Forgive me Mrs. Isley, I ain't sure if that should be 'laying' or 'lying.'?)

Anyways, I was in bed.  I was pleased to awaken to yet another day on this planet.  I glanced at my phone laying/lying beside my bed to attain exactly what time it was, so I could relay to myself "yes, you got enough sleep, get up,", or "no, you idiot, lay/lie back down."

I sincerely didn't know exactly when I would get out of bed... what the prompt would be... and I was reminded "I guess really don't know me."

Much.. much happens in life to where we draw the conclusion "I'm not really sure I know anyone."

On the back of one of my hands is a very small growth that's been there forever and a day..yes, I think since 10/13/1952.  Without feeling for it, I never really know which hand it's on, thus, the "BS" quote.

We don't know ourselves, how can we know another?

Blue skies, smiling at me.. nothing but blue skies, do I see.

Camouflage.

See the funny little clown....he's laughing on the outside...

A mask of happiness.

Robin Williams.

Two, VERY beloved, in my lifetime.  "I had no idea, and I'm literally shocked."

We all struggle.  We neatly sweep it under the rug to hide from friends, loved ones - or, we let newspapers accumulate on the rug, don't let anyone in, and then one day pickup one of those newspapers and it's from early March.

Ya just never know.

Trusted Dave.  Trusted Dave was my car mechanic when I worked in Grandview, MO.  He wasn't necessarily the cheapest (nor the most expensive).. but ya just knew, if you took him your sickly car, it would be fixed.  After years of taking one clunker after another to him for him to rescue, I asked "Dave, have you ever found anything you can't fix?"...  He paused for a long moment.. then said "No.. no, I haven't."

Brakes, struts, coils, engine codes, power windows, you name it, he can fix it.

Depression/anxiety, not so much.

I hesitated writing this blog because it deals with the most precious thing we have - life.

Who am I to give answers?  Well, who is Google.. or Bing.. or Wiki.. ? There are, though, some pretty good suggestions on "what to say, and what NOT to say" and Heaven knows I know from personal experience my foot doesn't taste very good.

Most, I think, "conceal and carry."  You'd never know it.  Some, out rightly ask for help - and of course that HAS to be taken with great sincerity.

Some hint.

What do you do then?

Dave?

I don't have answers either.

A friend once shared that a close friend (I didn't know this friend's friend) told them "and I have severe panic attacks about it."

I was disturbed, because I didn't know what to do, what to suggest.  Yes, Google does have a wealth of information - and it should certainly be kept in your toolbox because it can be helpful.

Ideas I do have.  Be there.  In sickness and in health.

I ask myself "What makes me feel good?  What perks me up?"

Lots, thankfully.  A good friends "Merry Christmas" text.  A longtime friend asking "How's your health?"  I'd never been asked that.  I appreciated it and it was a damn good question, because sometimes we forget to stop and ask our self that.

Examples.  Examples of people we really respect makes me feel good.  Know one, or twelve?  What is it about them?

My sister is deceased.  No, cancer, not that.  My niece (her daughter) recently told me "I never heard her say a bad word about anyone."  That's an example.  A very good one.  REMIND me of that.

Any time "it shines" on me.. By shine I mean things like a buddy recently messaging me "I've got four tickets to the Royals and I know you're a big fan, wanna go?"  I had grandkid duty, but oh if he only knew how good that made me feel.  Another recent message from a buddy in Dallas I haven't seen or talked to since college "Hey, the Royals are here on such-n-such date, get yourself here, I'll take care of the rest."  Again, I am pretty sure I'm not going to be able to - but OH how good that made me feel.  So, 'including'.  It's really nice to be included.  (and uh huh, OF COURSE, vice versa.)

People caring.  So.. if I could get off my selfish butt and do things that show my care, concern for others - that'd be a good start.

Back to camouflage, blue skies smiling at me, see the funny little clown.  Those are the ones that put the greatest fear in me.  We never know.

Logic tells one "pay it forward" (whatever makes you feel good, do to others,)  Be there, ALL/ANY time.  Use words like love, appreciate, you'll-never-know-how-much-you-really-mean-to-me.

Be a good person, and no, I don't preach, I remind myself.  The world is full of enough shit, don't add to it.

I've found, the most helpless feeling in the world is not knowing how to help.  Not knowing what to do.  Not knowing where to go. Not knowing who to ask.

We must rely on fellow man, woman, our God - and certainly professionals.  If we'd all try to take care of our own selves  too in doing that, it'd be a good start.

I just felt.  The growth, wart like thing is on the back of my left hand, but I really don't know the back of my hand.

Love to you.  If you have answers, ideas, suggestions, I'm of the listen more talk less ilk.

MatchDogCom.....

In a perfect world, I'd be a dog.

I'd go to the Doggy Park, and I wouldn't have a care in the world as to whether or not fellow Fidos drove up in a Caddy, a beat up ole Rambler, in a jeweled or spiked collar, or none.

I, the person, walk into any gathering now...tepid, and emphasis on walk.  Doggies, nuh uh.  Ya ever go to a doggy park and observe a new arrival at the gate displaying "Ah.. do I have to?, My mate drug me here."..   Nuh uh.  It's Katy bar the door, "outta my way, I'm here to win friends and influence and/or ignore people."(Dogs, they do that.)

Bits and pieces of this story I've mebbe blogged about before.  Sorry, I know that's 'ruff', but, you're kenneled with it, ha, or, don't let the door hit you in the tail.

I had a 'loaner'.  No, not a rescue.  No, not a foster.  A loaner,  I was dating...ok, living in sin, with another.  She had this wonderful little miniature Schnauzer named Nascar.  (Really though, he had her.) I once, semi jokingly, told said 'another', "If we ever breakup, I get visitation rights to Nascar."  Ha,  happened, and while I haven't done too awful much with Nascar since that split up - I have 'borrowed him' a few times.

Back to 'the perfect world I'd be a dog' - he, Nascar, remembers me.  When I initially see him, he still takes off as if he's hit a triple in the gap, and he's gotta run his damn fastest to make it to third base - back to me. It's akin to a toddling grandbaby holding up his/her arms for you to lift them up.

I ain't gotta dog.  I wish I hada dog.  Where I live, nope, can't have 'em.  Sucks, cause dogs are better neighbors than people.

Scrolling backwards, in preparation for "Trip #1 to Doggy Park", Nascar underwent formal obedience training.  The day came for the first class, we were all prepared - he with his head out the window to suckup the fresh air, we, with our poop-picker-upper bag, and two pockets full of bribery treats.

Seven PM sharp, we were pulled..yes, pulled, into the Community Center Doggy Behave class.  A nine pound dog pulling a 200+ pound (don't ask) man, with 'another' following close behind.  'Another', said lovingly, was guiding the 200+ pound man with "Make him heel, don't let him pull you."  My thought was, "Pull away buddy, Doggygarten hasn't started yet, you're a free mongrel still."

Yip.  Yip pretty much describes small dogs.  That kinda sorta correlates to smaller people.  Ya know folks, all skinny and stuff, that go go go?  Uh huh, me too.  Whereintheheck does that energy come from cause they don't eat enough Kibbles and beef to even stand upright?  Back to yip.

We walk in.  There were 20-some dogs of various sizes, shapes, and they owned people, of various sizes and shapes.  Nascar only knew his own yard and the occasional squirrel that he'd chase up a tree.  He never caught one, but I always wondered what he'd do if he did.

Predictably, yip (aka Nascar) was flipping out, barking, pulling, frothing, excited, heart assuredly beating fitty more times a minute than whatever is a normal miniature Schnauzer heartbeat.  Anticipation was a room full of yip..ROOF (that's "bass" for BIG dog) and a scene from Don's Barking Dogs.

It wasn't that.   It was serene - except for Nascar.  Seated, yes, seated, in a circle, we dogs of all sizes, accompanied by people they own, of all sizes.  Calm.  They just sat there.  They seemingly gave this "Be for real" glance Nascar's way. The hell?  No barks, no yips, no "ROOFS."  The people they owned, equally sedate.  Finally, lady with a British accent (shouldn't every dog trainer 'av a British accent") walks up to us and says "Ahhmm, 'av you been here before?"  Nope.  "Wehl, this is the ahdvanced class.. they are all 'service or suhpport' dogs.. the beginner obedience clahss started at 6pm."  Oh.  Sorry.  Never mind our red faces and yippy dog, we'll be back next week.... at 6. (I butchered translating a British accent, sorry, my first bloody attempt at it.)

We were, did.  Much better this time.  In addition to Nascar, yip, pull, froth, there were dogs of all sizes, accompanied by the people of all sizes they owned, and they too were yipping, pulling, frothing, and several were sniffing, peeing, growling, that stuff.

Nascar flunked the class.  He did wonderful on sit, stay, heel, come.  it was the interpersonal "I can't control myself because I've never seen a full room of dogs and I like you all and I want to walkup and be your friend, NOT ignore you like I'm sposeta."  I was proud of the little dooger, and in my book he was Valedogtorian.

So, with ambition to one day to ger his dogGED, we were off to the doggy park.  Head out window, check.  Plastic poop bag, check.  Pockets full of treats, check,  We pulled in.  With excitement like a junior high schooler attending his first "no parents allowed" dance, Nascar pulled me to the entrance gate.

This is the 'check in', but it more literally is the 'check out' spot for Spot.  We, we humans, we hop on a bus, and it's boring as hell.  If a dog hopped on a bus, all the other dogs would jump up, run to the door to checkout "hi, how ya doin', I'm Tank", "hey, I like you", "Grrr, I don't like you", "Will you be my friend?", "Will you leave me alone?"  Dogs are like that, yeah they are.

After the official entrance into the DoggyMarriott, individualization happened, or didn't.  Some were glued to their friends.  Some friends didn't wanna be glued to - so they would put up with it for awhile, then maybe snap-snarl as if to say "leave me the hell alone,"

I was proud of Nascar.  Whenever a bigass Shepherd, St Bernard, Lab, whatever, would pick on a smaller Yorkie, fellow Schnauzer, or Rat Terrier -Nascar would stand up for his little friend, size be damned and fend off the big oaf.  Fortunately, he eventually went home with all four limbs still intact.

As time passed, dogs, like people, went their own way at the park, or didn't.  Some were inseparable, some didn't stray (ha ha) far from the people they owned.  Some, Poodle properly sipped from the doggy water bowl, some slovenly laid in the mud whilst they slobberly lapped.  Some chased tennis balls, some showed off by catching Frisbies, some, like people, had no interest in doggy sports.

Future CEO's, politicians, sales reps, jumped up on the doggy benches as if to proclaim, "ha, look at me."  Others could give a rats.  After ahwile, many dogs took on the characteristics of teenagers, as in "Come here" and they wouldn't.   The ones that did immediately "come here" to the people they owned, well, it made me wonder howintheheck are they gonna make it one day on their own if their owner was no longer around.  Trust me, i love my God, but I often wonder if He got it backwards, and people should live the short life of a dog, and dogs would be there forever and ever to teach us humans how to make it thru life.

Time to leave.  Winded.  Satiated.  Happy.  Yeah baby, let's do this again happened.  We did, we would.  Eventually, when he heard "Doggy Park?" he knew it was yeah-baby, off to the junior high dance.

This week's local paper announced "Plans for a (2nd) Doggy Park, this one in the North end of town considered."  Northern Liberty is mebbe more affluent than Southern, wonder of the dogs would notice?  Hell to the no, they wouldn't.  Just hop on the bus Gus, we'll sniff, yip, froth, love, follow, chase any race, religion, gender, size, socio-econmic sized doggy there is.

I shoulda been a dog.  Anyone wanna go chase a squirrel?

Love, Dogturd.