Month: February 2011

When my father died two years ago, I inherited more than his truck and his favorite rugs. I also inherited his wacky friend. My father didn’t do many things very well in the last few months of his life, but he never lost his knack for friendship. If he liked you (and he liked almost everyone in some way) he bent over backward to help every way that he could. He knew how to listen. He knew how to make things work. He wasn’t a saint (and he’d be the first to admit it) – he drank too much, he

Well, ok, not really. The pizza will probably kill you. But if it doesn’t, you might just get lucky and have a delivery driver like Susan Guy, who is now a hero for two reasons. (The first involves appearing on doorsteps with pizza. For the second, keep reading.) One of Ms. Guy’s regular customers was an elderly woman who ordered a pizza every day for approximately three years. (1,000 Domino’s pizzas. In a row. Yikes.) The order never varied – a large pepperoni (apparently for one) – and was so regular that the store often prepared for it in advance.

February 23 is official “Inconvenience Yourself Day.” (Some assembly required. Instructions not included.) I’m not entirely sure how this one works, but in the spirit of full observance permit me to offer some suggestions as to how you might inconvenience yourself today: 1. Lose your stapler and spend 45 minutes looking for it. (Bonus points if no one else benefits from the loss.) 2. Forget your coffee in the microwave (or on the counter) so you have to reheat it 3-4 times before it actually gets consumed.  (Note: this gets double credit because you not only inconvenience yourself, you also

Another Tuesday means another Tank-Day post. Unfortunately, I’m in the weeds where work is concerned, which mean a gratuitous tank photo and a little story to go with it, and the promise of a more thorough post as soon as I can see over the weeds. This is Fluffy. Fluffy is a coco worm, and the long white tube is his home, which he built himself. The reason for his name should be obvious, though it wasn’t always, wherein lies a tale. We brought Fluffy home on Christmas Even, 2010, along with another red coco worm we called “Ed” and

The idea that humans are tribal comes as no surprise, whether you’ve spent most of your life in the city, the country or a cave. Writers tend to be loners. This stems partly from necessity, as most of us work alone. It’s also in our nature. Most writers I’ve met are “closet introverts” like me. We channel the social butterfly when we have to (and most of us do it well) but we never really feel at home in a crowd. We prefer the voices in our heads to the ones that don’t quite understand our oddities and all-too-common quirks.

Yesterday afternoon a very good friend made a comment that started me thinking. (And when I say “thinking,” I mean in that creepy, up-all-night disturbing sort of way.) The comment was “Why is there so much lint, and where does it come from?” Before you laugh…think that over a little longer. How many times have you washed and dried your towels? 15? 20? 157? Yet no matter how often you run them through the machines, that lint trap fills up every time. For years on end. In fact, it occurred to me that if I saved all the lint that

February 16, 1862. Fort Donelson, Tennessee. Confederate troops under the command of General Gideon Pillow controlled Fort Donelson, a vital outpost near the Kentucky border. When Union troops laid siege to the fort on February 11, 1862, the Confederates had the advantage in numbers and in position. (Because generally speaking, the guys inside the fort are better off than the ones knocking on the door. That’s a keen historical insight you can use in days to come.) After a two-day standoff, General Pillow decided to launch an all-out attack on the Union position. He attacked on February 15, but in

The aquatic adventure has taken another step fish-ward with the arrival of five new critters: a second sand-sifting starfish, three more tubeworms, and a green spotted dragonet which my son promptly christened “Flappy” (after the pet dragonlings in World of Warcraft, which we often refer to as ‘flappies’). For those who have never seen a dragonet may I proudly present….FLAPPY (image courtesy of my friend Wing, who took this photo and all the others appearing in this post). Yes, that’s my dragonet hunting for food at the bottom of the tank. A couple more images for those who’ve been wondering.

I’m in the weeds with The Occupation Of Which We Do Not Speak today, but since it’s apparently inappropriate to refuse to notice a certain observance on February 14 (though admittedly less inappropriate than what I say when I do notice) permit me to share a happy news story. Sparky the dachshund was born deaf, a defect which apparently qualified him for early euthanasia. The pup found his way into the Missouri Department of Corrections’ “Puppies for Parole” program (located at the prison in Licking, Missouri – seriously, I couldn’t make this up). The program teaches prison inmates to train

Don’t be intimidated by other people.  They put their pants on the same way you do. Except that, if you’re lucky, they use their own pants.