Butt-Dialing, or, I’m sorry, Abigail…
DISCLAIMER: Today’s blog uses the word butt a lot of times. In a funny, good way, though. Having played tennis most of my life, I am more than well aware that I have a good, nice, firm butt. Like, I could point my butt toward a bowl of walnuts and they’d crack immediately. Out of pure-D respect. I mean, facts are facts. Now, I don’t often talk about my butt because a) it isn’t tasteful to do so, and b) I mean, look at it. I don’t really have to talk about it. It’s a little gift from Up Above (two, if you...
It’s no Gashlycrumb Tinies, but the point is I wasn’t going for that, anyway.
I’ve been having the most interesting, intriguing, and ridiculous dreams lately. Last night, and I was medicine-free, mind you, I dreamed that I was a poet, of sorts, and that I was neighbors to a house. Well, I should say, House. Because this House was alive, a real, bona-fide living House. In addition to that, this House lived in an envelope. That’s right. An envelope. (It is a buyer's market, right?) At any rate, I’d been out of work for some time, and as a favor, the House had hired me to paint a new coat for its exterior. Except, instead of paint, the House had...
I’d never seen a hook rug before, mind you.
Filed under: Deep South, family, humor, life, writing
Here’s something you don’t know about me: I used to be a wiz at the art of hook rugging, or if I am to be true to its own terminology—rug hooking. As is usually the case in big families, I was most often the victim of sibling babysitting. It’s nothing short of a hate crime, trust me. Especially when you’re the youngest…and by a wide margin. I was subjected to any number of embarrassing punishments (hook rugging only one among them) which, by sheer force of being such a young age, they each ran the risk of imprinting. And now, in this present...
I’m calling this a Flash Blog*
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, writing
I’m going to write a story. I swear, I’m going to. I told myself that this morning. I said, Before this day is over, whatever else you do, write a damn story, Sit down in front of a computer, a notebook, an envelope, or toilet paper, and write something. It doesn’t matter what, just so long as it’s put to some form of paper and has a beginning, middle, and end. Or, something that resembles a beginning, middle, and an end. So, here I am. I’m sitting in front of a computer, several hours away from day’s end, and I’ve turned off the TV, and I’ve...
I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Can Brag About [...]*
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, faith, family, food, humor, life, writing
* The full, real title is I've never had a mullet, and other Things I Feel I Have the Right to Brag About and also Things I Cannot Stand. Just, you know, FYI. You should know that what follows is a) a partial list only, and b) they’re not in any particular order of Cannot Stand vs. Brag. I would say to put your Big Boy Panties on and read carefully, but it’s odd how similar the things I can’t stand and the things I want to brag about actually are. I’m not sure what that says about me, but anyway – to be safe –...
“That’s not lying,” he said, “That’s good manners.”
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, faith, family, humor, language, life, theatre, writing
Of all the hobbies I have, I most enjoy lying and eavesdropping. Because I, personally, like a hobby that's a challenge. And both of these are. It is not so easy to lie, as you might think. The closer you are to someone the craftier you have to be. But, I like that. I've always been good at crafts, thanks to Vacation Bible School. Ask U.L. He’s kept every single thing I ever made at VBS, with the exception of that frightening plastic Jesus-on-the-cross-shaking-hands-with-PawPaw objet d’art I made, when I was six. I don’t blame him for that, though; it’s difficult to know how long...
Suffice it to say, I was spanked, a second time, OR The 100th Blog.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, faith, family, life, writing
I didn’t get spanked, as a child…much.
U.L. didn’t really believe in that, unless you’d done some really horrendous thing, which I never truly did because God, you know, also rented a room at U.L.’s house, and so it was really hard to get away with much of anything between the two of them. And then there was Jesus. He was always like, Hey, we'll fix it later. I liked him the most. I hated that he moved out.
I’m not saying I never got spanked, kids being kids, but I tried really hard to be a good boy. And, for the most...
He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, family, food, language, life, theatre, writing
I figured something out yesterday: The closer I get to someone, the more of my name I lose. It's not the first time, I admit, that I've had this thought. I’ve often been concerned with the apparent fluid boundaries of what constitutes Identity, especially where names are involved. I got it naturally; after all, I’m no average Chris…I’m Kris…with a K. I even wrote a song about it once. It was always a delicious fantasy for me, though, in grade school, to change the spelling of my name on my homework assignments. I mean, Chris (with the “Ch”) was as foreign a person to...
The very idea of texting your mother…
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, language, life, writing
You tell me if you get this: a student gets up to leave at the end of this morning's class, and casually turns back to me and says, “Well teetle, I guess! Have a good weekend!” Teetle? Do you know what that means? I didn’t either. I asked her to repeat it. “I said ‘teetle.’” “Do you mean like toodle-loo? Is that what you’re trying to say? As in, See you later, toodle-loo?” “I would never say that. That sounds dumb.” There was a lull as we tried to figure out how to communicate what, at first glance, appeared to be nothing but a simple, closing remark as she...
It doesn’t matter because we’re eating Chinese food.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, faith, family, food, life, writing
Nothing irks me quite the way getting a bum Chinese fortune cookie does. And I love me a good Chinese fortune cookie. I live for them; I just don’t eat them – in case they come true. The only reason I frequent any Chinese buffet, though, even the one in Dekalb, is for the sole purpose of receiving, $9.00 later, that little baked, folded, American invention we call the Chinese fortune cookie. I guess there’s a little of Ya Ya in me, after all. Because of her, I reserve a small portion of my spirituality for the sake of superstition. It’s fun. And she taught...
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