What little I know...

This weekend I received four messages that made me happy and in a couple instances laugh out loud, both for their content and because of who the senders were.  They are as follows:

1. Is making a peanut-butter sandwich for your dog a sign of slipping into insanity?

2. I've been wanting to ask someone this for a long time, but have been worried about being laughed at, but now I don't care so much and I really want to know: is it safe to blow-dry your hair while peeing (for efficiency purposes)?

3. If this is four-ones operator, can you please send a car out to Lake Grove, NY?

4. Thinking of you.  I love you. Always.

The first two made me laugh out loud, because oddly, I knew the answers, or what I perceive to be the answers.  Making a peanut-butter sandwich for your dog is not a sign of impending insanity, it certainly helps your case (if you strive for sanity) if you don't add jelly, or cut the crusts off.  Peeing while blowing drying your hair is very efficient, although I don't recommend trying to blow your hair straight while on the toilet as I personally don't have the coordination for this (I like to share what I know from experience), and I wouldn't want anyone else to get electrocuted by my misinformation. 

The third and fourth messages made my heart smile.  Four-ones was the car service in the neighborhood I grew up in, and only people I grew up with would know that.  The last message, for obvious reasons was well and happily received.

I keep seeing this pictogram thingy (that's a word in my world) on Facebook that says something about cousins being the first friends in your life. Dripping in cheesy sentiment though it may be, I've been thinking about that particular thingy a lot lately.  The above messages were all sent to me by cousins.  How they knew I needed them, I won't ever know, but that's how it is with people who share your history, they just know.  Like any good Irish-Catholic, I have a ridiculous amount of cousins; over twenty first cousins and countless second, once removed, kissing, and whatever other synonyms that are used to describe the people one is vaguely related to.  A friend of mine used to joke that they couldn't go anywhere in my neighborhood without running into someone I was related to.  I have a friend like that here in Denver, and I must confess that I'm jealous - I miss my cousins.   I suppose that's how it is for people who have always been a part of your life.  You are who you are because you are part of a unit that is greater than you, that envelops and protects you, and ultimately makes you who you are.    

As a child, my life revolved around being with my cousins.  The things I've shared with my cousins are innumerable: sleepovers, clothes, babysitters, food, fights, roller-skating, leg-shaving, music.  There is no other group of people (this includes my brother, of course) in this world that I feel more connected to and more myself around than them.  Even as an adult who lives so far from all of them, I am immediately relaxed when I speak to them, and 'home' whenever I am around them.

Because I live so far away from them all, out here in Denver, I don't get to see my cousins all that often. When I allow myself to think of it, my heart hurts thinking of what my own children are missing out on by not having their family around them like I did.  Just over a month ago, one of my cousins died.  Suddenly and tragically, and it is something that I am still attempting to wrap my brain around, or, "wrestle into a spot," as my cousin Dave described it.  Attending my dear cousin's funeral was awful and bittersweet at the same time.  I was with my cousins, which usually makes my heart sing, and I was bearing witness to my male cousins be the pall-bearers for my cousin whose passing left all us reeling.  All that went through my head, watching these strong and beautiful men was, 'we used to be kids'.  I believe we all made it through this day by shoring each other up, crying and literally holding onto each other for dear life.  Later, there were more tears, but some laughs, too, because, let me assure you, my cousins are the funniest people you will ever come across. 

What little I know is that receiving those messages this weekend will get me through the missing for some time to come.  I hope that my little messages and reminders will do the same for my cousins; the craziest, loveliest group of people I have ever had the privilege of belonging to.

This weeks tip:  Only by living absurdity, is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.  (Bernard Levin)

Bring me some figgy pudding...

A couple of weeks ago I heard a radio announcer talking about a recent poll taken regarding holiday shopping.  The poll concluded that people were more likely to shop in stores that hung signs stating "Merry Christmas", as opposed to stores that wished their customers "Happy Holidays".  The radio announcers then went on to discuss how this took (or not) into account consumers who were not Christian, and concluded with how Kim Kardashian might be pregnant with the holiday spirit, regardless of her recent marital troubles. 

After hearing that incredibly enlightening diatribe on the radio, I started seeing a lot of posts on Facebook talking about the reason for the season, and how people should be ashamed of themselves for not wishing Merry Christmas to others.  This got me thinking, and when I get to thinking, usually  trouble, and sarcasm abound.  I couldn't help but wonder what the hell difference it makes to anyone what seasonal greeting people use with one another; isn't one just as good as the next?  Can't we all just get along with the idea that people are going out of their way to be considerate in offering any kind of greeting at all?  I also can't help but point out that the reason for the season is a celebration of life, love, and hope (which I may be mistaken in confusing with the reason why Jesus' story is so compelling to begin with), with Christmas and Hanukkah and winter solstice celebrations all thrown into the mix.  And, while I'm not anti-Christmas, or anti-Christian by any stretch of the imagination, isn't one of the tenets of Christianity that we shall not judge and everyone is included?   These troublesome thoughts combined with seasonal malaise and a severe case of motivational deficit disorder put me in a real foul mood.  Not the "I'm going to jump off the bridge in Bedford Falls until Clarence saves me' kind of mood, but there was no holly in my jolly.

In the midst of this emotional state, I started listening to the oldies station in the morning on my commute to work; truth told I was looking for a little auditory holiday cheer to get me into the spirit, and offer a little mental stability (I know, I know that's a tall order for a a twenty minute ride).  Complete aside, there are some really, really sucky Christmas songs out there.  The radio station is sponsoring a program where people in need can have their holiday wishes come true.  These wishes don't include laptops or a gaming system.  Their wishes include the most basic desires people might have for their family:  a decent meal and maybe a gift or two for their children.  Sadly, there are a lot of people out there who really are in need.   Amazingly though,  there are a large number of people out there who are willing to give over some of what they have in order to meet those needs; somehow the radio stations are willing to put these groups of people together and get it done. I must say that while my heart broke a little which each of these stories, it lifted my spirits considerably to get a glimpse of people taking care of one another.

Fast forward a couple of days, and I found myself at Kohls on the hunt for a red sweater for my toddler that didn't include teddy bears wearing ski caps and scarves.  Not being able to find the sweater, I found myself in the incredibly small toy section of Kohls.  In this section, I ran into a little old lady shuffling around, muttering to herself and fingering many of the toys.  After a few moments, she asked me if kids still like Matchbox cars.  I told her I thought they did and she confessed that she was there to buy some presents for Toys for Tots.  She wasn't on the hunt for a perfect toy for her grandchildren, but rather to buy toys for kids she'd never even met.  Emotional state:  fair to middling.

Most recently, I've learned of a friend of a friend who is in the process of going through an international adoption.   I find myself amazed by the courage and hope that it takes for someone to go through this process: lengthy and costly and no doubt heart-wrenching for all participants.  In the end though, this unites people across oceans in order to create families and provide love and care where there was none before.  Through tears and wishes of smooth sailing for this new family, my holiday spirit returned.

I know it's corny to point out that there are miracles happening daily, minute by minute all around us.  I am grateful to be given the opportunity to the see the light in the dark, and in these instances, I feel proud to count myself among the humans.  I didn't know I was looking for it, but finding evidence of hope and love just may cause me to wish you a Happy Samhain.


This weeks tip: With people coming over your house, you may feel the need to spruce up a little (Christmas tree pun intended).  In order to remove scratches from your wood tables - mine are caused by small children who have taken a fancy to using forks as instruments on the dining table - you can use coffee.  Yep, a little instant coffee dampened with hot water into a paste and rubbed on the surface until the scratch matches the surrounding surface will set you up quite nicely. 

I'm a stranger here myself...

Having grown up in an overpopulated city with lots of old buildings, I learned to do without a lot of life's niceties.  The beauty of growing up without something is that you wind up not needing what you don't have.  Take that even further and you even wind up not knowing what you don't have.  If you followed that shallow and faulty logic, I will attempt to wow you with the things that as an adult living in suburgatory I have learned to live without most of my life. Things that I now live with daily, and in many instances I have come to whole-heartedly loathe, or at the very least, find extraneous.

The most loathsome household 'appliance', in my suburban life, is the garbage disposal.  Supposedly the garbage disposal was invented to cut down on food waste and odiferous trash.   It is, in short, a trash can right there in your kitchen sink.  You read that right - a trash can in the sink.  Initially, when I came upon such a modern convenience, I was enthusiastic to the point of getting carried away.  My enthusiasm led me to learn many important lessons (the hard way, of course).  Lessons include, but are not limited to: pork chop bones do not belong in a garbage disposal, pork chop bones and spoons will make the same teeth shattering noise in the disposal regardless of how many times you flip the convenient little switch to rattle those sonsabitches down into the nether land of your sink, and shrimp tails are not too easily disposed of and may or may not cause your disposal to quit functioning - many experiments have been done with this one and it comes out with 'not' clearly the forerunner.  The most important lesson I have learned about the disposal is that if someone who lives in the apartment above you has a faulty disposal, his or her overflow will affect (negatively) your sink and dishwasher function.  You are then required to bail out any excess water and other people's food flotsam, which can definitely cause temporary insanity and an insistence on using the term 'bucketing' in lieu of bailing.  I have come to terms with having this 'modern convenience' in my home for many years now, but I still treat this filthy, temperamental appliance with the utmost care and consideration.  And while I have learned to live alongside the disposal, mostly peaceably, I can't help but wonder: why wouldn't you just use the garbage can (or at the very least the toilet bowl)?

Talk of the disposal, for me, almost always leads to talk of the trash compactor.  Again, a nifty little convenience, perhaps for those without legs.  When first presented with the compactor, I was curious about how it worked.  I was shown that you put the trash in and then change-o presto, the trash is smooshed (yes, I believe that it a word).  Done and done, kinda like the Jetson's.  Unbeknown to me, we had a trash compactor in our house in New York my whole life.  It was called a leg - stick your foot (shoes recommended) into trash can and step - very effective method for smooshing trash.  While I don't find the compactor to be as loathsome as the disposal, color me very unimpressed.

Another modern convenience in the suburban landscape is central air conditioning.  I know, I know, this is not so modern and many people have enjoyed a freezer like home for eons.  I am not one of them.  As a child, my parents had air conditioning in one room - theirs.  The rest of the rooms of our home were cooled by fans and open windows, and on especially hot, muggy nights, I got to sleep on the floor of the room with the air conditioning.  I truly believe, that not only was this important for building character, but helped me avoid sinus issues for much of my life.  Now, I'm not going to lie, I like a nice refreshing burst of recycled air as much as the next guy, but I have to ask: is there such a thing as too cold?  I find that when I enter a room with air conditioning after having left a room without, I enjoy the coolness that much more, and appreciate the warm spots in a house after having gotten enough cold air for a little while. I guess I like a little control over my body temperature.

As I continue to grow into adulthood, I can only hope that there are technologies that continue to astound and amaze me; maybe I will find them more useful than the ones mentioned above, or maybe I will still walk around wondering what happened to the rotary phone.

This weeks tip:
When your garbage disposal gets too smelly - and trust me it will (especially if you've been experimenting) there are a number of things you can do to deodorize this garbage can in the sink.  They actually sell tablets that you can throw in there, or you can throw any citrus peel in there and turn it on.  It leaves a nice smell, and also helps dislodge any crud that may have gotten stuck on.  I like to use lime, just because I like limes (especially those floating in vodka), but any citrus rind will do.  You could also throw baking soda down the black hole with ice cubes.  This will deodorize and help to keep the blades sharp (because goodness knows, you don't want dull blades when throwing trash into your sink)

Survival of the Fitless

A few weeks ago my kids had some friends over for a marathon play date.  For the record, the very word playdate makes me cringe with its cutesy implications & smacks of everything that is wrong with the land of suburbia.  I have never had a play date in my life, although I did go to other peoples houses and play without the need for official naming and so forth.  Anyway, there were these kids at my house, playing all day and at one point they were riding scooters and bikes in front of the house.  Like a dutiful mother, I sat on my paltry excuse for a stoop and watched them zip back and forth and bicker about who had a longer turn on the Razor and who didn't want to use the Jackknife scooter.  Like a playdate, I never had a mother sit on the stoop just to watch over me as I played - if my mom was sitting out on the stoop at all it was to smoke cigarettes and b.s. with the neighbors after dinner.  At one point the kids got bored and decided to take turns riding the baby around in his wagon, a big sturdy ride complete with seatbelts.  The baby was enjoying himself quite a bit and the kids seemed to enjoy pulling him around and taking turns hopping in and out as his passengers.

After a while, thunder threatened our fun and then lightning reared its mysteriously beautiful and frightening head.  I decided that since I was in charge of other peoples children, I best take them inside and away from all the metal, wheeled objects lying about. The girls and I started putting the bikes and scooters in the back yard while the boys were in charge of the wagon.  I saw them out of the corner of my eye hop into it together and position themselves at the top of my pretty steep driveway.  I also saw them wiggle the handle around and scoop it up towards them, knowing full well that they intended to sail joyously down the driveway and into the street.  I muttered a half-hearted 'be careful boys' and continued with my task while silently praying they would pick up enough speed to get all the way across the street and experience a little terror and a lot of fun.  Was this very mature of me?  Certainly not, but I was a kid who set garbage cans up at the bottom of a hill and skated full speed into them, hoping that the bus wasn't coming; I know the joy of moving downhill on wheels.  Just as they were about to set off, my neighbor across the street came over and admonished the boys for not playing safely, thereby forcing me to fake chastise them and usher them in doors.  I was really rooting for them and was more bummed out about their thwarted plan than they appeared to be.

Just the other day, I read an article about the safety and lameness of all the new play structures found around the country.  They're all really sturdy and made of insanely colorful plastic.  They are also low to the ground and are all surrounded by wood chips, or rubber pads in case anyone falls.  Nice to look at, but apparently not all that challenging, disallowing for kids to take risks and adequately cope with fear.  The playgrounds I grew up with were made of metal - slides (you were really taking your life in hand when going down a metal slide in mid-summer heat), swings (without restraining harnesses), and monkey bars (alarmingly and thrillingly high).  There were see saws made of splintery wood and very little, if any padding beneath anything.  It seems to me that the playgrounds of yesteryear really were a test for survival.  If you made it through a childhood of burned thighs, splinters, and falling from high places while playing tag, then you were meant to pass into adulthood as a fairly well adapted human being.  If you didn't have the stamina for such things, you were weeded out at an early age, thereby saving everyone a lot of trouble down the line.  Safe play and plastic play structures make me realize that Darwin just may have been onto something.

This weeks tip:  Blood can be removed from clothing with the use of hydrogen peroxide and cold water.  If you are inclined to do laundry after suffering an injury including bloodletting, wet stain(s) thoroughly with cold water and pour peroxide directly onto stain.  The peroxide will do that weird bubbling thing that makes peroxide so much fun.  You can rub it in and continue applying water and peroxide until the stain is lifted.  Afterwards, place clothing in a load of wash using cold water, hot water will set stains.

You shoot, you score???

When I was in the second or third grade, I decided I wanted to play basketball.  I'm pretty sure one of my friends was going to play and like any good little follower, I was going to play too.  Like most of the other girls on my team, I had never played before but this didn't stop me from joining the team at St. Matthias.  Our first practice was held in the ridiculously small gymnasium that was also being used by a team of teenage girls.  They had half the court and we had the other and our coaches showed us how to make shots by swooping the ball between our legs and where to stand around the key.  At our first game my team only stayed on half the court.  Good thing it was the side of the court we had practiced on, or we would've been completely screwed.  We didn't know that we were supposed to use the whole court and subsequently we lost.  We were trampled.  All it took was that one embarrassing game for us to figure out a pretty frigging important aspect of the game. After each game, my father would take me home and make me watch St. John's college basketball to show me how it was supposed to be done.  That season, all of us little girls learned how to play the game, and probably most importantly, how to lose.  I can assure you, we survived the losing.
Last summer I signed my then three year old daughter up for soccer.  She wanted to play the game her older brother had been playing and I thought it would be a fun activity for her.  And it was, for approximately half an hour.  The remainder of the time was spent crying that she didn't want to run, she wanted to be on her brother's team and that it was too hot.  After about two weeks of cajoling and arguing with her, I stopped taking her.  I was not going to spend my time dragging her around a soccer field only to torture the both of us (and it was really hot).  I also vowed that she would wear the team shirt until she died because it amounted to a hundred dollar tee shirt after I paid the fees for her to be on the team in the first place.  At the end of the season she received a trophy and a certificate.  The girl who played what amounted to one game, got a trophy.  Apparently it's the leagues policy for every kid to receive a trophy regardless of their participation level or proficiency.
This summer, my son is playing baseball.  Machine pitch baseball.  A few summers ago he played tee ball but was bored to tears.  He's seven and a half (about the same age I was when I started playing basketball, mind you) and watching his baseball game is not unlike watching paint dry if you're on a bad acid trip.  Each 'inning' is comprised of every kid on each team getting up to bat.  No one strikes out, no one gets tagged out at base and the inning is over only when each kid has gotten up to bat.  Matter of fact, there are no outs at all.  There were a lot of runs scored, as each inning had about fifteen kids batting, but I couldn't tell you who won because no one was keeping score.  I'm all for slowing down a game for the kids to learn, but shouldn't they learn some of the pretty major parts of the game in the process?  I feel certain that we'll be getting another trophy at the end of this snooze fest of a season.
The troubling thing for me regarding the lack of score keeping, and the trophies given out just for showing up (or not) is that all these kids are learning that there is no competition, there is no winning or losing.  There is just mass movement towards mediocrity that only requires showing your face at a certain place, at a certain time.  I wonder where is the fine tuning of skills, the pride taken in learning how to do something better than others your age, the realization that you really suck at something, and its time to move on?  If we're not careful here, these kids are going to get used to being awarded for producing the least amount possible and getting patted on the back for it with enthusiasm - oh never mind, that's perfect for the adult working world.

This weeks tip: If you have little kids playing sports outdoors, you're going to wind up with some dirty, smelly clothes.  You can use white vinegar to deodorize and help remove stains from their sweaty, grimy gear.  You can remove perspiration stains from clothes by hand washing the item one cup of vinegar and one quart of water.  You can also remove stains from clothes by rubbing the stains with white vinegar and then washing as you regularly would (you can do this with upholstery also).

Any day now...

A little over a month ago I was considering my options for health insurance for my family.  I won't bore you with all the dreadful details, but everyone knows insurance is expensive and I wanted to see if I could get a better deal with an individual plan for my family than I get through the group plan from my job.  I called a broker, got facts, got prices, called human resources got more facts, more prices, etc  It was overwhelming to say the least.  In the midst of looking at all of this information and feeling too paralyzed to make a decision before the enrollment period at my job ended, I had a wonderful, unburdening thought.  I will ask Dad.  Dad knows about all this stuff and while he won't tell me what to do, he'll lay it out in a way that will make the decision easier for me.  A few minutes after comforting myself with this thought came the crashing, heart wrenching realization that I couldn't ask Dad.  He died almost nine years ago.  Then, I had myself a good cry.  I don't know why the realization hit me so hard at that moment, and when I asked my mother later when this sort of heartbreak would stop, she simply replied that it wouldn't and that she was sorry.

This week was the ninth anniversary of my dad's passing.  It is, as it has become, a sad and contemplative  week for me.  I had some Budweiser and listened to The Doors and Otis Redding (favorites of my dad) and thought about writing something worthwhile about my father.  I thought long and hard but everything I came up with seemed trite and did nothing to say anything real about my father.  I made a list of some of the sayings he used : she looks like 10lbs of shit in a 5lb bag, it's colder than a well diggers asshole out there, they can burn you but they cannot eat you, etc.  Thinking of my dad's witty one liners did a lot to improve my mood, but did so very little to accomplish actually saying anything about him (the fact that he was funny was sort of implied).  This went on for most of the week until I decided to scrap the compulsion to write anything about him at all. 

Then, a miraculous thing happened.  I spoke to my brother.  My baby brother, who is currently in the midst of putting together a benefit for a friend of his who has recently and suddenly gone blind due to diabetes.  On Facebook my cousin Tara made this comment about my brother in regards to the benefit:  "Funny on the outside, but completely filled with a huge heart on the inside. Sounds comfortably familiar to me. I know he's smiling down on you ;). "  And there, my dear cousin hit the nail on the head.  She managed in a brief comment to say about my father what had been alluding me all week. 

My dad was funny and brusque on the outside.  Downright intimidating sometimes.  He had a way with language that sometimes had you wondering whether you should be laughing or heading for the door.  There was no one he didn't make fun of, no one was safe and he certainly wouldn't have been considered politically correct (not that he cared to be either).  Ballbusting was a specialty of his, nay an artform.  Thing is, while he made fun of you, he made fun of himself too so that you never walked away feeling bad about yourself; you walked away laughing and feeling good about the world.  He was terrible with names and called everyone, friends and strangers alike, some endearment or another.  Chief, big guy, sweetheart, doll.  He did it in such a way as to never make these endearments seem cheesy or diminutive, rather they seemed genuine and they were. 

He had a HUGE heart.  He did things for people that we didn't even know about until after he died.  Loaning people money, time, his home, his clothes, his love.  One of my cousins told us that my father gave him his first baseball glove after realizing that my cousin's father never did.  It meant a lot to my cousin and a lot to those of us who never knew.  He went out on a limb to get people whatever they needed, even if they hadn't yet realized they needed anything.

I am saddened, all the time, that my own children will never get to know my father.  He would've eaten them up, of that I am sure.  I like to think that he might have had a hand in choosing the precious souls that have been placed in my care.  Every once in a while I see something, a rascally look, a chuckle, or a quiet act of kindness in one of my kids, and I know my father is around, always. 

I'm not sure I accomplished what it was I set out to do when I set out to write about my father.  I know that I'm a hell of a lot closer than I was at the start of the week.  I know that I could think for years and write for decades and never get down in words what it meant to have such a man in my life to shape the person that I am, the person I watch my brother being. Any day now I will stop feeling weepy when I think of the loss of my father.  Any day now it will be only laughter (which it often is) when I think about him.

This weeks tip: Chris Rock once said that real dad's deserve the big piece of chicken (paraphrasing here) - if you need to sew two chicken wings to a pork chop to get that big piece of chicken for the man you will celebrate this father's day, then goddammit go out and do it (or you know, buy him a tie).  Either way: Celebrate we will, for life is short but sweet for certain (D. Matthews)








 

A Tale of Two Donnies

My brother had two friends named Chris: good Chris and bad Chris.  Good Chris was a regular kid, played sports, spoke normally, ate large amounts of pizza and played video games with my brother.  Bad Chris wore lederhosen.  You read that right, he was a thirteen year old kid, living in Queens in the twentieth century, and he wore lederhosen.  Frequently.  He also mumbled a lot, looked moist, had a vacant stare, and seemed to stumble around the streets while playing roller hockey with the other kids.  He was a nice enough kid, if you could get him to speak coherently, but he was a grade A goof, ergo Bad Chris.  Fortunately, for me, my brother spent a lot more time with Good Chris as he got older because he was allowed out after dark and didn't bring headgear to sleepovers.

Since my experience with bad Chris, it seems that I have a preternatural sense for goofballs and losers; people I refer to as strays.  I lose patience easily with these societal castoffs and tend to steer clear.  This is not true of the rest of my family who is decidedly nicer and more patient than I.  Members of my family have been known to drag around with whomever they find out in the streets, inviting them to dinner, holiday celebrations and to live in the basement in some cases.  I remember visiting my parents for the first time after their move to Colorado, when a guy I'd never seen before ambled down the stairs (from the bedrooms above) to fix himself a garden burger.  No one seemed to notice this guy but myself and I watched incredulously as he sat down at the dining room table to eat his meal.  I had to finally ask who the hell he was.  While my immediate family is ridiculous in their stray pickup, no one can beat my husband for his uncanny ability to attract and become entangled with the sorriest of human creatures. 

Years ago my husband worked for UPS in the middle of the night.  He drove every night to and fro by himself and put up a notice on the work bulletin board to see if there was anyone interested in carpooling.  This innocuous notice brought a couple into our lives who I came to refer to as the Chubbs.  I don't know what their actual names were, but they were a young couple who approached my husband about the carpool.  They asked if he would mind driving every other week, with him beginning the rotation.  The first week of his driving went without a hitch, they lived close by and he didn't mind the company.  When their turn came around, it was revealed that they didn't have a car.  THEY DIDN'T HAVE A CAR.  What they really wanted was someone to drive them to work and later someone to drive them to work after waking them up by flashing his headlights at their window.  Sometimes he had to bang on the window because they were in too much of a stupor after partying all day long to get up with just a flash and a horn toot.  Most people, and by most people I mean me, would've washed their hands of these meth addicted messes as soon as their end of driving fell through.  Not only did he continue to drive them, but he had them to our house for Christmas Eve one time.  They brought us a really nice bottle of scotch as a gift, which the male Chubb proceeded to drink until it was empty.  The female Chubb also got extremely intoxicated and they had some sort of disagreement during which the female fled and the male had to  be carried home.  My husband stuck by them until he no longer worked for UPS and checked in on them every once in a while afterwards.  We haven't seen them in years, but if you ask my husband, he will refer to them as his friends.

While the Chubbs are part of our history, my husband has more recently acquired a man we call Ron-Don.  On either side of our house, their are men named Donnie.  There is a good Donnie who lives with his girlfriend, tells funny stories and is nice to my kids when they're out playing in the yard.  Bad Donnie reminds my husband of Sally Struthers, if Sally Struthers were strung out on heroin and aimlessly roamed the streets talking to herself.  I think he looks more like an old, white version of the disadvantaged children Ms. Struthers works to raise money for.  My husband mistakenly called this Donnie Ron once, a mistake for which he has been verbally abused going on three years now.  Ron-Don is a drunken, mumbly mess who likes to stop by, holler at my husband and borrow money.  My husband has driven this man to the store, to see his father in the hospital, loaned him money and invited him in for vodka and Pepsi cocktails (this combination alone offends me on many levels).  On one such visit, Ron-Don insulted our paint choices and commented that our fishbowl was dirty.  This from a man who wears his hair in bobby pins.  Ron-Don had moved away for a about a year, but has recently returned to his family home (he is in his fifties).  I think I saw him and my husband out for a joy ride last night.

This weeks tip: Changing your phone number is free if you tell the phone company that you are receiving a lot of solicitor calls or calls from creditors that are not yours.