Even though I wake up early and have plenty of time to get ready in the morning, I find myself frittering and wasting time until I have to rush out the door.
So I prepared a routine and wrote it up on a dry-eraseboard tacked to the refrigerator. And every evening, I lay out everything I need tomorrow: vitamins, fiber chews, clothes, coffee pod and cup, and so on.
And it still doesn’t work. Because one of our cats usually sleeps on the clothes pile, and I end up playing with the cat instead of getting my morning routine started.
Tag: personal
Dedication
There’s a lot of people I should thank for my stories. And there’s a lot of people who expect to be thanked for them, too.
I must admit that some of those people who expect to be thanked have been invaluable in inspiring my stories.
Especially the horror stories. Because they were total fucking assholes.
So, when I published my first book, I put a line on the dedication page with “sign your name here” under it
The good people can sign their name there. The bad people can sign their name there, too.
I’ll just write more stories, okay?
Bob Dows
The man in the white wig and blue glasses was famous.
But not for being an ungrateful monster.
No, the city loved him. For all the wonderful things he did for people.
Except for his cameraman and producer, who he depended on for everything.
When the famous man died, the television station got rid of the producer, but they couldn’t shake the old cameraman.
This was all he truly cared for.
He shot whatever needed shooting. Edited anything needed editing.
They wore him out. He had one knee replaced. Then the other.
But they never brought him to his knees.
Wallet
I remember my first wallet. It was more of a change purse with a single zippered compartment, and a velcro flap over some key hooks.
Over the years, I got real wallets of black leather, three folds, and slots for cards.
Now, I keep my phone, cash, and cards all in a phone wallet. And I choose carefully only the cards I need to keep with me. No room for them all.
The movie theater loyalty card, museum membership, and Starbucks are all apps on my phone. Dozens more in there.
God forbid I leave the stupid thing somewhere, right?
Tires
For my wife’s birthday, we bought her a new truck.
She gave me her old truck to drive, but it needs new tires.
For the past two weeks, instead of helping me get new tires, she’s been watching football.
Fuck it. I’ll go myself.
And when I went out to the parking lot, her new truck was up on blocks.
Someone had stolen her wheels.
Instead of going to get new tires for my truck, she needs to get new tires AND wheels for her truck.
And while she waits for the insurance to process her claim… she’s watching football.
My Baby
I used to call Piper my little baby. My little burble baby, because she sang.
And when she died, I screamed that my baby was gone.
I found Bruwyn in the bushes. In the rain. In the dark.
He was solid black, so I called him a baby panther.
Myst arrived a few months later. She was Baby to me. The baby baby panther.
Bruwyn never came home, so she was the baby panther. The only one.
Tinny? Even smaller than Myst. But I call her kitten, not Baby.
I should just call them all Cat. Less confusing for all.
When we were friends
We recently added Netflix to our television.
I’ve been watching complete series of various shows for the past month.
But today, I started watching the old series Twin Peaks.
It’s so old, that it’s in the old four by three format.
The picture looks plastic-smooth, and yet grainy. Upconverting artifacts of a filmed television series.
The black curtains on either side of the television feel strange… I’ve gotten used to widescreen.
I’m not watching this to watch it. I’m watching it to remember when I first watched it.
Who I watched it with. With friends.
When they were still friends.
Sports Sunday
The Texans were in Baltimore, doing their best to let the Ravens win.
Schaub threw his obligatory pick-six early, the Ravens ran a punt back for a touchdown, and all the Texans could manage was a pack of field goals.
I spent more time looking at my laptop, watching the live update of the blowout the Astros were suffering in Cleveland.
That’s when I picked up my Steve Jobs biography and headed for the tub.
Sunday is for sports on TV, but the Texans and Astros never got the message.
Maybe when it’s cooler outside, I’ll go read out there.
Crazy One
My sister has severe brain damage.
The surgeries to keep her condition from getting worse have made her unstable.
And the medicine makes her even more unstable.
So when she calls someone fucking crazy, they’re really fucking crazy.
Or are they?
The fact that she’s unstable, brain damaged, and perpetually drugged to the gills casts doubt on her credibility, right?
She can’t even identify colors. Or order anything other than a Big Mac and fries without freaking out.
No, she is the crazy one. Not me.
The voices agree with me, too. I’m not crazy at all.
Not one bit.
Shows Stopper
Other than baseball and a zombie show on Sundays, I rarely watch television. Instead, I listen to podcasts, and I hear things that spark my imagination.
My wife wanted to check out Netflix, so I signed us up.
That’s when I saw all the Dr. Who episodes. And Torchwood. And Blackadder. And Red Dwarf. And…
Well, my podcast queue it getting clogged up. And I don’t get inspired to write as many stories as I used to.
But you know what?
Screw it. They’ve got all of that Futurama show, too.
Good news, everyone… it’s time for some more television!