Horn Howling

Remember the good old black and white television shows? I grew to love watching them when Nick at Nite first came out. I think I was about 12 years old. I loved watching shows like Patty Duke, Mr. Ed, and Car 54. While I don’t watch that station and those particular programs are no longer on, sometimes we find an episode or two of the Twilight Zone.

One particular afternoon, the Twilight Zone was playing on the television. I fail to remember what episode it was, but there was a horn blaring every now and then throughout the episode. In one spot, it had to go on for upwards of about two minutes. Our Luchador from #TeamSnoopervisor was taking his after meeting nap in the same room. When the horn did not stop blaring, he woke up with a cute little lonesome howl.

I imagine it took him to a dream where he was howling and ended up doing the dog version of talking in his sleep. It was a beautiful howl. He must have channeled his inner wolf to make that noise, but it was cute nonetheless.

After realizing he was waking himself up, he looked at me like it was all my fault. This meant he needed a hug and hugs is what he received! I love listening to my pups when they are verbal. It makes me feel like the communication lines are closer than we all realize. Also, it was just the cutest thing for him to wake up howling like that.

Luchador and his Horn Howl, we’ll call it.

What do YOU think?

Empathy… years later.

Starting from when our middle son was able to talk, he was not fond of bugs. No, I should rephrase that. He was terrified of anything that was alive that resembled a bug or flew that was not a bird. The kid would become so scared and upset, he would be drooling crying and trying to get away, or often times, what I called “levitate.” They say that the fear of bugs, or entomophobia, occurs after a traumatic experience with a bug. While I am not aware of any traumatic experience, the child definitely was entomophobic to the Nth degree. That is not to say there was not a bug situation that could have occurred when he was a toddler. I was just never aware of such. I assumed he was just that way his whole little life.

As he got older, it did cause problems as he was not able to be understood in certain situations. People would see him as overreacting, being dramatic, or that it was funny. I found out years later, when I became 42 years old (The answer to life!) that my ultimately taking up for him was empathy I was not consciously aware I had.

To put some context behind what I mean when it seemed unreasonable that our son felt this way, I have a couple of examples. The first one happened when he was in a day care. He was about 2 or 2.5 years old and would go to day care 3 days a week while I went to school down the street. One day, I received a call from the day care center director advising that I needed to come and pick up our son as he may have to go to the doctor or something. I asked what happened? The director told me that they have those wood boring bumble bees near the playground and one had flown too close to our son. That he had seen it and became so upset and inconsolable that he began projectile vomiting and with a terrible runny nose. I instantly knew it was just that he was afraid of the bumble bee and it was not a thing to worry about. I did go and pick him up. While I explained to the director over the phone, I did tell them in person that he has a terrible aversion to bugs and it was not anything to worry about. Nothing that a little patience and a hug won’t fix. I took him out to McDonald’s and spent the afternoon with him. He sure needed it.

Years later, when he was around 8 years old, we had dropped our high school daughter off at the local YMCA for high school swim team practice. It is a bit far from home, so instead of going home to turn around and come back, we decided to walk the trails behind the Y for some exercise and family time with the boys who were 8 and 4. We were having a good time. However, because it was late August and in the south, there were bugs everywhere. Also, it was near a river and the grasshoppers were rather large and plentiful. We were kind of picking on the then 8 year old about the bugs and he was doing an excellent job trying to be ‘a man’ about the whole situation and taking the joking in stride. But then, something happened.

A rather large grasshopper decided at that moment to take off and it landed on our son’s arm. The thing had to be about 2.5 to 3 inches long. I have never in my life or since have seen someone try to pick up both legs off of the ground at the same time in real life. This was not a jump or the willies or anything. I could see in his entire being and voice that he was thoroughly afraid and did not want his feet on the ground or to be there at all, anymore. The only way to describe it was that he wanted to levitate. I empathized with him and got him to calm down until we were done, but I did not realize how he truly felt until earlier this year.

I have always felt uncomfortable seeing things on TV or in magazines or even reading about maggots. I know what they do. I know where they come from, and I know they can serve a purpose. There is nothing wrong with that. However, I cannot handle seeing them very well. This comes from someone, who as a little girl collected slugs after a good Seattle rain, played with worms, and did not find any bother by bugs or things of that nature growing up. (Palmetto bugs are an entirely different thing. That is another story for another day. I can still handle them a lot better than maggots, I assure you.)

About three weeks ago, I had killed a fly in the bathroom. After hitting it with the flyswatter, on the edge of the counter, it slid across the floor and I got it up with a napkin and went about my business. With said fly taken care of and forgotten about, I went to sweep and mop the bathroom floor the next day and found maggots all over the floor. Until this point in my life, I had no idea that if a fly had babies not yet born, they could still grow. This affected me in the worst possible way and totally grossed me out. I literally would stop and check the floor every time I went into that room! I just couldn’t handle seeing those things wiggle their way across the floor.

Well, today it happened again. I even seen one after I bleached the floor and put boiling water on it! After both times, I reflected on how my son, as a little boy, must have felt about just seeing a bug. I now totally understand the thinking behind not wanting to have both feet on the ground when seeing something that literally is hard to handle seeing. Our son is now driving age and has since outgrown his fear. He stepped on an ant one day and didn’t die. The things we experience to change our perception, huh? Maybe this is something telling me that I need to get over the craziness. Maybe…

What do YOU think?

On Sadness…

When someone tells you they are sad, often it is not that they need sympathy, empathy, or your pity. They are fighting some real emotion that can often be stronger than that of say… love. It is not an easy thing to deal with and can have dire consequences if the person is not able to handle it or seek the help they may need. That help can come in many forms. Be it just a shoulder to cry on, company, all the way through to psychiatric help. Even close friends and relatives cannot determine what kind of demons are flying around inside of someones heart. Be aware, that metaphor has nothing to do with anyone doing any harm or fowl to another. It is the sadness demons to which I am referring. It is not something that some one can just go and “suck it up buttercup.” The valleys of the lows run far more deeper than that.

From people like Robin Williams and Chester Bennington, to just the regular Joe who has suddenly found themselves unable to cope. I find sadness in the fact that human beings, who are normally compassionate and call themselves Christians will take to social media and say that this is the Cowards Way. As a Christian, who are you to judge and judge a person based upon their decision to just end it all when you have no idea what they are up against or how they are feeling. For many, it is not as easy as getting up to go get help. For others, it is a financial burden they are unable to undertake. Yet others, are not wanting to put anyone else through what they are going through or burden their friends and families with their troubles. Even more have a lifetime of torment that they are just unable to bear any longer. They say you never know until you walk a mile in that person’s shoes, eh?

Depression and sadness is hard and it makes the day drag on. It makes you feel less than worthy and like you are nothing. It has nothing to do with being a coward or something that is easily forgotten or to move on from. So, when someone tells you they are sad, bring them something nice, a blanket, a doughnut, and just sit there. Be with them and that should be enough to let them know you care. No amount of badgering or nagging is going to change things, because it is something they have to work through.

Fiction: Night Sweats

Two AM comes mighty fast no matter what time you drift off to sleep. It’s not that Jake wanted to wake up at around this time every day, he just did. The dream was always the same. He woke in a puddle of his own sweat, in his dingy little room just north of the Financial District near China Town. Always the same city sounds outside and that damned flashing sign just outside his window. On nights like this, he often wished he could just fight back in his dreams but he couldn’t.

He heard from friends about them being able to control their dreams; however this was not something he yet knew how to do. The dreams started when he was 14. He watched a man come in and slaughter his mother in front of him. From his hidey hole in the stereo cabinet. He watched the intruder laugh maniacally as he strung his mother up by her feet and placed the turkey pan underneath her. As she tried to scream through her gagged mouth, he slit her a new smile. Literally ear to ear, and just as careful. The man left after taking some money she apparently had stowed away in the kitchen.

Watching that intruder walk away with that fist full of ten light purple banded stacks of cash as he cackled his path out the door enraged him. Further, afraid the man would come back, he had no option but to watch his mother bleed out into the pan on the floor. Only after it was nearly full did Jake dare to venture out of his secluded safety spot.

In reality, he packed a book bag with a few changes of clothes, a few comic books, and made a couple sandwiches. He paused by his mother long enough to regard her condition, forever burning it into his memory, and told her he loved her, that he was sorry. He left the apartment door open and walked away. Upon reaching the ground floor, he went out into the street and became part of the city.

All these years, he could clearly see that mans face and it haunted his dreams every day since. In his dreams, the man always came back and did the same to Jake. Jake often wished he did. That man took away the only somebody that ever loved him and the only somebody who could understand the nightly terrors he had to go through. As usual, Jake could not go back to sleep. He decided to head out and find something open to have a coffee or a beer. Depending on what he happened upon first. In a city like this, it was like a game of chance.

Finding a bar open, and luckily with only a few patrons, Jake meandered up to the bar and took up real estate on the bar stool. After a few moments, the barkeep asked what was Jakes poison. Asking for a beer, the barkeep popped one open. As he magically produced a paper coaster and firmly set the bottle down upon it, he said. “Whoa, you look like you have had a lifetime of rough nights.” Jake simply replied, “Yeah, must be a curse.” At that the barkeep laughed. Jake looked up and his blood ran cold.

He knew that laugh and he knew that face… the face of his nightmares…

What do YOU think?

Van Pelt on the Bloody Intercom

I know I am being quite cliche when I say that sometimes, the book of faces can be an amazing thing. This morning, as I did my daily morning check of my news feed, I happened upon a post where I had honored three teachers, all of whom touched me at different stages of my life. One of their responses was of an incident that happened in high school. It is a story my family and especially our children know well. It is also a story of which I am often reminded after hours of hacking away at my keyboard or when it is exceptionally cold. Yes, it relates to an injury and somewhat of a permanent memory. It involves a choir teacher, a head football coach, a principal and the assistant principal as well as a Chinese restaurant. But seriously folks, all I was worried about was this: I have to work today. Even at 16 years old, I actually loved my job.

During my junior year in high school, I was in the show choir. We had a show coming up and we were practicing three days a week after school in order to get ready for it. I had a very animated, very funny, very ALIVE teacher for that and she is a lovely human being full of world travel, compassion, and general life. A little background. The fine arts building that we had our classes/practice in was shared by both the middle school and high school. As such, it was situated in between the two. As a convenience for the students and staff, it had an intercom “switch” that allowed for the room to be tuned into the appropriate school during the times each school had students in that building. This was in the early 90s, so this … state of the art thing was nothing more than a glorified looking light switch. One of our principals was a lovely man named Steven Van Pelt.

During this beautiful spring afternoon, Mr. Van Pelt made a recurring, almost excessive use of the high school intercom system after school, which kept interrupting our rehearsal. As we had to stop and listen to each announcement reverberated and overtake our rehearsal, we often would have to start over despite being almost done with the current song. After about the fourth time, I stepped down from the permanent risers of which we were standing and quite aggressively swiped at the intercom switch to change it to the nearly empty and certainly more quite middle school mode. Not quite instantly, I understood that was a mistake.

The next few moments, still play in almost slow motion for me just as it did on that day. Clear as a bell, I can replay it in my mind as if it just happened. After flipping the switch, for some reason, I had stood there and regarded it as if I didn’t recognize the thing. In this particular school, the wires were encased in a rectangular tube that ran along the walls from the ceiling in each room to a terminal box that housed the switch itself. While most of the rooms had the plate covering the switch box of the correct size and long since sealed shut with years of paint, with this building being slightly newer than the rest, it was one of the rooms where the intercom switches had a metal plate covering that had about an inch or two overhang all the way around the switch box. For a moment or two, not realizing the danger, the corners of those metal plates were quite sharp.

Standing there, regarding the switch and its shiny metal plate, (yeah, my brain processed the shiny part right then,) my pinky finger on my swiping left had began to feel quite warm. I turned to my right to look at my fellow students and Ms. Thompson, our show choir teacher, who was sitting at the piano. All the while, slowly raising my dripping left hand to inspect the warmth I didn’t recognize. Once I laid eyes on my finger, the world began to zoom in on me and Ms. Thompson had suddenly hit hyper drive and just literally appeared by my side, all in a frenzy.

I had sliced my finger open. I will find out later, and with a trophy reminder, of just how bad I had been bitten by the metal plate on that intercom switch.

Looking down, and still not quite comprehending, I seen two red dots on the otherwise white tiled floor as she ushered me into the hallway and across the front commons to the main office. As we approached the office, it was apparent I had done the thing right. (As I always do. Go big or go home, right? Or was it go big AND go home. Yes. That’s it. I did the latter. Ah… but I digress.) I had blood running down my arm and I already had a fist full of those lovely brown paper towels wrapped around my hand en masse.

Upon entering the office, Coach Mensch (the head football coach,) Steve Van Pelt (the intercom principal,) another staff member, and it was either Ms. McPherson (another principal) or Mr. Logan (the had principal) were all standing at the office counter and immediately rushed me to the nurses room to bandage something that likely looked like I had lost a few fingers. As they formed a circle around my hand, each of them loudly telling me to “remain calm.” they cleaned it up and wrapped it up the best they could. Someone called my mother. I can still hear Ms. Thompson muttering about what happened and Coach Mensch literally hollering. “It’s all right! Everything is going to be fine Barrett! You are just going to need stitches, but stay calm!” Yeah, he was in coach mode if he ever was. I imagine if I had a helmet on, he would have grabbed the bars on the front, after patching up my finger of course, to give me what for for doing such a dumb thing.

Now, while all this commotion was going on, I was actually quite calm. I had sliced my finger near to the bone and so bad that I could not feel it other than when I looked at it. Even then, it was not that bad. Not a tear was shed. I do remember sitting in the nurses chair, with my chin in my hand wondering if I was going to be able to work that day.

My mother came. By then, the chaos I had created had calmed down and she took me away in her white car. (The same car I later ‘stole’ to go visit her in the hospital. Another story…another day.) I told her I had to go by work before we go to the hospital. With my job being in the next town over, by the time we got to my place of work, The Golden China, my arm had once again began to look like I had lost a couple of fingers. Before going in to talk to the head waiter, my mother had given me a hankie to hold to my elbow to prevent any blood from dripping all over the place. I go in and the head waiter is at the counter and with my bloody arm and hand wrapped up to the gills, I tell him I will probably not be in to work today.

This man. He should have been born a true American Blonde instead of Cantonese. He looks at my arm, takes it in and after a moment goes, “Why?” I became appalled. I took a stack of napkins, splayed them across the counter and snatched the bandaging off my hand. This was the first time I had seen the damage and it was almost as if half of my finger was just peeled away from the inside of my little finger. The waiter does the woosy wobble and says “Okay, okay, I get it. I will tell Selena when she gets back. Thank you.” I scoop up the lot of napkins, put the spray bottle of cleaner in it’s place, say to the waiter “I would wipe that down if I were you” about face and march out of the restaurant. It was before 5 PM at this time and the restaurant had not yet re-opened for dinner. Thank gosh.

I got stitches. They stuck LOTS of Novocaine in there before stitching it up. Two rows of stitches. Like twelve or so. Apparently, I was stabbed with the corner of the switch plate and it grabbed hold and pulled, thus the necessity of two rows. My skin ripped like paper the doctor said. Being the hardheaded teenager that I was and hearing my mother go on and on about the hospital bill, I did not keep it clean like they told me and ultimately pulled out the stitches myself. Some of which had begun to heal under the skin. (Listen to the doctor kids, when they say to clean it 2 or 3 times a day, you better!)

And so I now have a story to tell every time one of our kids ask me, or our grand kids ask me, (even Cal asked me when we first started dating.) “What happened to your finger? That looks like it hurt?” Well, it only hurt during the first two shots of Novocaine. Before and after, not at all.

So there you go. My real life version of a disaster. Go big AND go home right?

What do YOU think?

Part Four: Opening the Door at One Second

The continuing saga of the appliance rebellion…

I know. It’s been a while since I have been at odds with the electronics and appliances in the home. However, this one happened a few months back and it just occurred to me that maybe the television and stove is in cahoots with other appliances and devices in my home. Gosh help me if the computers decide to get in on the revolution going on in my home. I am of the masses of human beings who love to play the game with the microwave where you snatch open the door with one second remaining to avoid hearing the beeps of the microwave. Yes, I admit it to the masses. I am a fan of opening the door at one second.

This one particular day, obviously after I had gotten good at it, I had snatched open the door, as per my custom. I had something else to heat up after my coffee on this day. Saturday mornings, I tend to eat breakfast when I have my coffee. You know how it is. there is not any work, work to be done and you can have your coffee when the sun is actually out, dancing around the kitchen with the birds, Snoopervisors in Tutus, all of that… ah, but I digress. I put my breakfast in the microwave to nuke it and watched the countdown begin. I was wrapped up in a television commercial, thus not hearing the beep. Or so I thought …

I turned around and it felt strange not to hear the three beeps that everyone is accustomed to when the microwave is done doing it’s nukeful magic. In wonder, I put an additional ten seconds on the microwave and watched it this time. There was no sound. The microwave not only had refused to tell me that it was complete, it was not beeping when I pushed the buttons.

Had someone been a fly on the wall, they would have noted me looking around guiltily as I pulled my breakfast out of the microwave, scooped up my mug of java, and quietly tiptoed to the living room where I set up camp on the couch to work on my #SOCS. It was still early for the other inhabitants of this domicile and no one seen me and the microwave have our non-discussion.

Later, the 11 year old sleepily comes meandering to the kitchen and proceeds to heat up a hot pocket or whatever it was that he was wanting in his still sleepy state of hunger. Normally, this kid will go back to his room. However, he lingered in the kitchen a bit longer than normal. I look up and begin watching his reflection in the television. For a moment, he stands there staring at the microwave, then he turns to look in my direction and then back to the microwave. In reply, the microwave just stops. Being the one kid who has inherited so many of my genetic thought processes, he puts an additional ten seconds on his hot pocket and I can see him tilt his head to the side just a tad. Of course, no beeping with the buttons and no beeping announcing the end of the microwave magic.

This lovely child, now obviously awake, prances into the living room and plops down on the couch next to me, as if he was interested in what I was doing. I can say, writing is not one of the past times he inherited from me. He is, however, a voracious reader. Anyway…. “Mom?” he says to me. “Yes?” I innocently reply. “The microwave is not beeping anymore.

What happened next made me stop writing and just close my laptop. Once I stop procrastinating and sit down to work on something, it takes nearly an act of God to make me get up or not finish. This was more so an act of Cal. From his spot, snoozing on the other couch, the love of my life, without even opening his eyes or moving announces that “Mommy broke the microwave.”

Uh…yeah. I just closed my laptop, sat back, and finished drinking my coffee. The gig was up. I was busted. The appliances are still out to get me, and I had Guilty tattooed in invisible ink on my forehead. Still, a year later, it reappears in neon letters across my forehead every time I or someone else uses the microwave. I have been marked.

They are still out to get me.

What do YOU think?

#SOCS: ad/add/AD (Anno Domini)

This post is brought to you by Linda G. Hill and her Stream of Consciousness Saturday happening over here. Check out all the participants and their blogs responding to the prompt. It is quite fun! Enjoy. In the mean time, here is mine:

Your prompt for #JusJoJan and Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “ad/add/AD (Anno Domini).” Use one, use ’em all–bonus points if you fit them all into your post. Have fun!

In this 2019th year of our greater power, Anno Domini, it is time to pay homage to one of my favorite author. I say this because he has provided several things alluding to the great number of 19. It is especially pronounced in the series of eleven or so books in which we learn about the life long mission of the Gunslinger, Roland of Gilead. Often, in addressing his Ka, or Ka-tet, he attempts to pass on wisdom he has learned over the years to add to the dangerous knowledge which will take them to the tower.

Throughout the story, the author, Stephen King, even talks about how things like the transportation system has become with addle with trains like Blaine and Patricia. He addresses other degenerates of society when he pulls an addict through one of the mysterious doors randomly sitting in an open space, out of place and in disregard of what makes sense. It is all attributed to the beam, you know.

Another interesting thing about this series is a story, which happened during a killer frost storm, where King wrote it as an addenda, and lovingly refers it to book 4.5 in the series. Now, not only is the number 19 quite significant, there are a great many other inferences which are in addition to that which my fellow Constant Readers can appreciate. I will not that once you find a King novel that you like, his stories become quite addictive and you begin to see many references and parts of his other stories in additional novels that you will end up reading.

This year is your year, Stephen King! Your Ka lifts their class in unison, and the masses are cheering you!

In other news, I must say it is advantageous for me to just add this little digression with out detracting from the advice I am suggesting here to go read a King novel. I am not advocating this as a paid advertisement it is just that I really, really like his stories. If not a King novel, just support your local library and read a real book from time to time! I tend to use the library to read things outside of my comfort zone and genre.

As always, what do YOU think?

Love

Today’s post brought to you by #JusJotJan and #OneLinerWeds from the great folks over at: https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/24840312/posts/2145598875

Found in a poem painted on a restaurant wall when I was in high school and it just stuck with me:

Love is the dance of two open spaces who celebrate each other and that only true love can exist between absolute equals.

What do YOU think?

#SOCS: Television

This post brought to you by Stream of Conscious Saturday where anything goes! (If you are interested in participating the rules and this weeks prompt can be found here.)

Television. This weeks word made me chuckle a bit. It reminded me of my Daddy. A cantankerous man, he drove my mother up the wall and quite batty with the television. That was the bottom line. Sure, he was a typical man, falling asleep in front of the tube on a Saturday afternoon. Of course, the minute my mother picked up the remote to change it, turn it off, whatever, without even opening an eye, he would, without moving, say to her, “I’m watching that.” It absolutely danced on her last nerve that he was able to do that. Another thing he liked to do was watch about three different channels at a time and flip back and forth during the commercials. She swore it gave her a headache. I mean, I could feel where he was coming from on that one. After all, it was the 80’s. Who liked watching the cheesy commercials then? Am I right? Ah, but I digress… no, really. I did!

What the word ‘television’ reminds me of is the year we moved to an apartment for the summer before I started middle school. We had already spent a horrible year in a little house in Pasadena, Texas, that had indoor/outdoor carpet in the living room and the carpet had motorcycle tire tracks all over it. Yes, another thing that absolutely drove my mother bonkers. We moved from there to this apartment complex on the other side of town. That first day moving in was a torrential downpour as we had to bring out things around from the truck at the back of the building to our apartment in the front. Not only that, for some reason, it must have been frog season, because those hopping things were EVERYWHERE! I remember mom standing at the doorway to our first floor apartment with a broom shooing them back out into the grassy spot in front of our apartment to prevent them from getting in the house. Good times.

The next day was just as rainy. I was sitting on the steps just outside of our door. It was also during the middle of an electrical storm and I was not allowed to play my stereo, video games, or watch television. My books were still packed away so there I sat. Bored. Mom was in the kitchen unpacking the dishes and Dad was doing whatever it is that Dad’s do during an electrical storm, somewhere in the apartment.

It’s important to know that my family had these industrial washing powder barrels that mom kept all kinds of things in. To this day, she still has this same pink barrel that used to have washing powder in it. It stands about four feet tall and is about two feet wide and has these silver sealing bands on the top to close it and seal it up. We also had a 19 inch color television. (At least, I think it was. It may have been bigger than that.) Now, you have to appreciate this thing. It was one of those CRT televisions with the UHF and VHF buttons on it. That fancy clicker button for that orangey color if you were into that sort of thing and, of course the volume button. It also had an antenna built in to the back so it had the two retractable, aluminum arms that poked out of the top center of it and would fold up neatly against the back of the television when moving it from place to place. It was still a behemoth thing and not easy to carry. Well, the television found it’s place atop this pink barrel and, for some reason, the back of the television was the first thing that greeted you upon opening the door to the apartment.

As I was sitting there, bored, and watching the rain, the thunder and lightning was particularly loud. Trying to gauge how close it was, I found myself counting the seconds between flash and boom. However, the last one was different. The flash from the lightning was exceptionally bright. I don’t even remember hearing the thunder, because I heard something else.

ZZZZZAaAaAaAPPPPPPFFFFFFfffff!

It came from inside the apartment. Wide eyed and afraid something horrible had happened, I get up and cautiously open the front door to the apartment. As the door swings into the apartment, I see a stream of smoke coming out of the back of the television. The lightning had zapped the television. My focus turns from the television to my mother, who was still wiping down the dishes and putting them in the cabinet as she was taking them out of the box. Expressionless, she says, while wiping a plate aggressively. “See Doug! I told you not to turn the damn television up. You will never learn will you?” and she turned to put the plate away.

I turn to look at my Dad. Standing as if frozen in time, there he was. In front of the smoking television. His eyes were wide with shock and his arm was reaching out toward the television, inches from the volume knob on the front. His eyes were wide with shock and he stared blankly at the smoking television. In his other hand was his whiskey glass. Filled with a double shot of Jim Beam on the rocks, his favorite, and topped off with Pepsi, the ice in the glass shifted and I was suddenly aware of what had just happened.

I burst out in hysterics. Knee slap laughing to tears, I was laughing so hard, I had to roll around on the floor in front of the open door while dad continued to stand stone still in front of the smoking television.

I can still see the entire scene play out in my mind as if it just happened. After a few minutes and when I begun to catch my breath, Dad just reached down, unplugged the television and said to no one in particular, “I am going to take a nap.” With that, he about faced and walked to the hallway which led to the bedrooms. I think it took at least another five minutes before I was able to catch my composure.

Surprisingly, the television survived. I ended up with it a couple years, a town house, and another house later. I am not sure if they paid to get it fixed or if it still just worked but it was a tough old piece of electronics. They sure don’t make televisions to last like that anymore.

So, yeah. Every time I see the word television, it makes me snork a little bit.

What do YOU think?

#SOCS: Art

This post brought to you by: Stream of Consciousness Saturday 

Linda G. Hills is doing phenomenal work on her block and you should check it out! Lots of interesting reads over there. Without further ado, lets see what Art has to tell us today.

I always check for the prompt on Firdays, so I can mentally prepare my mind and clear it out for the stream to flow by the time I get up in the morning. Before I begin, let me apologize for starting my day a tad later than normal for a Saturday. I have lots of plans for the upcoming year and, this morning, I gave myself permission to NOT work on stuff and just do nothing. Of course to me, nothing involves reading, cleaning, or some other thing that is not ‘work.’ Yeah, I know hard to ‘splain. Ah, but I digress…

A lot of people tend to not see the art that is every day life anymore. Recently, I was looking through our New York City photographs to find a perfect icon for our business decal and happened upon a few that I did not realize were even taken. It was a perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. It even had the moon perfectly centered above it. That was art in real life. While I to remember Cal and I taking the time to just look. I also remember how exceedingly cold it was. Ah, tis New York City, yes?

Absolutely. This world today tends to spend more times with their face in a piece of electronics than they do interacting with life and I find that a shame. Because of that, I am cutting this short and I am going to spend the rest of my day doing absolutely nothing. That, my friends, is the art of life!

What do YOU think?

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