Hello, My Name is Chase

I’m an 8-year old, A.K.C. registered Shitztu (I’m also neutered). My Mommy and Daddy are trying to help me find a good home. You see, I’ve been lonely since we moved to Florida, because Mommy and Daddy aren’t home as much.

I’m curious, confident, and sometimes sneaky (especially when I want to sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s room at night). I really love to play with toys when a human is on the other end of it and I like to rough house. When I’m not playing, I’ll chew on my bone, lick up things I find interesting on the floor, or just sleep. I’m also very quite.

I’d really love a home with someone who is there most of the time to play with or watch over. I also might be happy with a couple other dogs my size or larger.

I have a few traits you need to know about:

1. I have a sensitive stomach and eat special dog food I can only get with a prescription. I can’t even eat table scraps.


2. I do not like being put in a kennel, and sometimes when I left at home for more than 7 or 8 hours, I get a overly anxious.

If you know of a good home or want to take me home with you, please contact my Mommy and Daddy (contact info excluded)...

Everything above this point (including the title) was a part of a flyer I made to find a new home for Chase. Today, I took him to that new home. Unless something happens, I will never return to see him. I can't do that to him or myself.

When I returned home I lay on my stomach flat on the floor and cried and prayed. Why? (And, why am I holding back tears now?) Chase was just a dog, he turned 8 years old Feb 10th, and here I am writting an epitath just as if he died recently. I have lost part of myself. For eight years, I walked him, bathed him, played with him, and confided in him. I've seen Alexandra recently take to him and start playing with him. And now, I won't get the chance to see him grow old, he won't be there to greet me when I come in the door, he won't be around to...

Love Note: A Rock

On our trip (mentioned in my last post) we picked up a couple of souvenirs for family members. One of the gifts we bought was a small bag of colorful rocks from the Native America store in downtown Athens. Luke, as most three-year-olds do, loves rocks, so we thought he’d love them. We were not disappointed.

When we brought them home to him, he immediately pulled out his treasure box and began placing them into it. Then he started picking out his favorite rocks and pretending they were different food items. One looked like a plate and one was red like spaghetti sauce. One of his favorites was a beautiful chartreuse color and was shaped like a glass. He held it and played with it and pretended to drink from it.Yesterday at work, I was sitting at my desk, eagerly anticipating time to leave and go to the zoo with my family when I felt something poking me in my left butt cheek. I reached in my back pocket and pulled out the rock Luke had placed in there, unbeknownst to me. I immediately began to laugh/cry with joy at the beautiful little way my son said, “I love you, Daddy,” with his favorite rock.

The Long And Dirty Tale Of The 35" Televison

Shortly after my brief affair with graduate school I landed myself a well paying job. I was young. I was single. I was making a lot more money than I had ever made in my life.

I bought a large, bulky 35" Sanyo television. This was long before flat screens and wide screens and easily lift able televisions. The thing was massive, weighed a ton and because of the shape of the tube it was incredibly difficult to hold onto.

But it showed a wonderful picture and it was nice and big to look at. I loved it.

Well I loved it, until I had to move anyways, and then I cursed at its weighty bulkiness. My poor father in law has helped me move it half a dozen times and every time he threatens to drop it accidentally-on-purpose.

With the China move I decided to sell it. I was tired of moving it, we had no room to store it and I figured with the money we'd make over seas I could afford a new one when we got back.

I posted it on local boards and a few national internet places as well. I put the price low and promised I could go lower for the right story. As I am forgetful and lazy and a procrastinator, none of this happened until about three weeks before we had to move.

Desperate is the word.

About a week into it I got an odd phone call. The call was from a third party operator who told me he had someone on the other line who was making the call, but who was on a keyboard. This person would type something, and then the operator would read it to me. I then responded and the operator typed out what I said.

At the end of each statement I made I had to say "go ahead" as the signal that I was done talking.

Sounds easy enough, and it was, except I kept forgetting to say "go ahead" and there would be these long pauses interrupted by the operator asking if I was done. Or sometimes there would be a long pause where the other guy had expected more out of me and he would ask me if I was still there.

At the time I thought he was just using some internet dealie instead of calling, perhaps to save on long distance, but now I guess he was hearing impaired.

Still we agreed on a price, and we arranged to set up details via the e-mail.

I sent the pricing and instructions on how to deliver. And waited.

And waited.

Just as I was getting perturbed, he e-mailed back. It sounded like all things were go, but to be honest the e-mail was so full of spelling and grammar mistakes, I wasn't sure what he was really saying. There was something about him needing to locate his shipper and something else about Western Union. To be honest again, it started to sound like a scam, but again it was so horribly written I couldn't be sure. I wound up replying that it was all ok and to simply let me know when he was ready.

More days passed and I sent another e-mail explaining I was leaving very soon and needed to get the sale completed by the next week. He e-mailed me saying he was sorry and that I would have the payment early the upcoming week. Again all the e-mails were poorly written and didn't make a lot of sense, but again I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

I got a few other responses but ignored them as I hoped this original one would come through.

About Wednesday I gave up and offered it to the church. After much discussion they arranged to have some stout fellas pick it up. We hobbled it down the stairway, nearly dropping it twice and I was finally done with the TV.

On Saturday, after we were already in Indiana I received an e-mail from dude asking me if I had received his payment. Suddenly his words were very clear and the deal he had tried to make with me was that I would cash his check and contact his shippers. For some reason he said he was unable to get his payment to the shippers in time so he sent "extra" to me. I was supposed to then go to Western Union and make the shippers payment via that service out of my own money - the payback was already in his check to me you see.

Scam city. I'm certain his check would have later bounced and he'd be walking away with my good payment to the shippers. I even suspect he would be the shipper and the whole weird phone call is so that I would not recognize his voice when he arrived for pick up.

I decided to not respond to his e-mail. The only things I could think of to say were rude, rude and socially unacceptable. As I had already given him information about me I didn't want to piss him off and make him do something harsh or illegal to my personage. There was also a small nagging part of me that thought maybe he was hard off and on the up and up and I didn't want to crush the poor guy.

He e-mailed me again the next day and I decided to write a polite letter explaining he was too late, that I had given it away, and that I would never pay his shippers as it sounded like a scam. Then I said don't contact me again.

He hasn't, but I still feel mad and dirty.

Cat Wake-up Call

Sorry to interupt the baby talk, but this is semi-appropritate as a cat is as close to having a baby as I'm going to have...for awhile.

I no longer need an alarm clock anymore for I have a cat. Every morning anywhere from 6 to 8 in the am, my cat Thumbelina, decides it is time for me to get up. Her first measure of offense to get me out of bed is simple pouncing. She jumps up onto my bed, and then onto my body, usually with another jump.

If she is lucky this is met with a simple “umph” from myself, followed by a gentle swat to get her off of me.

If my wife is not so lucky, Thumbelina dodges my swat with a giant leap off of me and onto the wife’s belly. This is followed by a large “oooooowwwww!” from my wife and a not so gentle swat to the cat.

This usually gets rid of the cat for ten minutes or so.

Just like a snooze alarm, she comes back for more.

Often the jumping/swatting routine is repeated several times. As I ease into awaked-ness I am less likely to swat the cat away as to simply let her be. What this means for the cat is that she begins to crawl across my body.

I am typically a side sleeper, as sleeping on my belly isn’t comfortable and sleeping on my back makes me snore and gives me nightmares. So, the cat tends to start somewhere near my middle, crawling across my hips onto my ribcage and sometimes up to my shoulders. Most of this is quite uncomfortable and eventually I make the roll over to get her off which usually makes Thumbelina jump onto Amy again and we start the snooze process all over again.

After all of this Thumbelina still has one more move to get me out of bed. She no longer tries to walk on me to get me up, but rather nuzzles up beside me. Take this morning for example – after jumping on me a time or two she crept up towards my hands and gently bumped them with her head.

Thumbelina is very much a lap-cat and when she cannot find a lap on which to cuddle, she rubs her head gently upon a part of my body. While lying in bed early this morning, this is exactly what she did to my hand – with a little nasty addendum.

She nuzzles the hand briefly as if to let me know she means no harm, and then she brings out the claws. Internally I’m thinking – oh how nice a little head but to let me know she loves me – and then she scratches the crap out of me.

Actually it isn’t too bad a scratch as more of a letting me know she can get violent if I don’t get up soon. Like a trained killer she doesn’t scratch my skin to leave any evidence, but gives me just enough pain to give me a warning.

This garners a pretty big swat. But she isn’t through. Oh no, if I am still not up she comes back with more head cuddles and menacing scratches.

At this point I either throw her out of the room and shut the door (knowing full well she will only scratch at the door) or I actually get up and feed her or let her outside or do whatever it is she wants.

She’s a crafty one that cat of mine.

Blogging Finally Pays Off

About a year ago, I wrote a silly little post telling the story of my first pair of Dr. Marten shoes. Many of you know this story, as many of you have worn those very shoes.

About a week ago, I got an odd little comment on that story from a guy who listen a Dr. Marten URL in the comments and claimed to be a representative of the company. He was complimentary of my posting and asked me for my shoe size and address, for he wanted to send me a new pair.

I was a little bit worried that it might be some sort of scam, but the e-mail listed was @drmarten.com or some official looking thing, and it seemed a very odd scam, so I dropped him a line. We chatted a few times and he promised to send me some shoes.

Yesterday, I received those shoes from UPS! Lovely brown things that fit perfectly and are as comfortable as I remember.

I guess my years of blogging are finally starting to pay off. For my next story I think I’m going to write about the wonders of a new car, and living in million dollar houses. Who knows what I’ll get in the mail!

Castor Oil

Here I am. The nursery is finished, the house is clean, the bags are packed, the birth plan written. Every thing is ready. I desperately miss sleeping normally, painting my toe nails, and, oh yeah, not being huge. So it’s easy to figure out why in a moment of desperation Monday night I tried one of the oldest old wives tails in the book. I drank some castor oil.

Castor oil, for those who don’t know, is a laxative. It is thought to “induce” labor by causing your intestines to spasm, which in turn, causes the uterus to contract. After researching it online, I learned that one of two things would happen. Either I would need to go to the bathroom A LOT or I would need to go to the bathroom A LOT and I would have a baby. Again, I’m a desperate woman.

I took the stuff about 9 pm. I mixed a two oz. bottle with half a can of coke (something someone online recommended.) It wasn’t too bad. I mean I’m not going to go to a restaurant and order it, but it wasn’t horrible. The worst part was my last swallow because some of the oil had already settled at the bottom and I got a swig of just castor oil. Ugh.

So we sat around, watched some special on the History Channel about Star Wars, and about 11 pm I got sleepy. I went to bed, only to wake up an hour later needing to…well you know. Then about 2 am, they started. I’ve already had contractions here and there, so I knew what they were. They weren’t bad but I started having a lot.

I walked into the living room where Charlie was reading and watching T.V. “Honey,” I said, “I’m having a lot of contractions, and they’re no big deal, but I think we should start timing them.” Well that got him excited. He got out his watch and a little notebook and started writing them down. My doctor has advised me to go to the hospital when contractions are about 5 minutes apart and about 45 seconds long. Other doctors may suggest something else. After about 30 minutes, mine were averaging about 3 minutes apart and about 45 seconds long. However, even though I was uncomfortable, I didn’t really feel in labor. So we called the hospital. The nurse said to stay home until contractions began to intensify. Then, we needed to go to the hospital.

I decided I just wanted to relax and watch The Little Mermaid. Charlie started to get ready. He got dressed, he made sure his bag was packed, he practiced cutting the umbilical cord on a hot dog. I just sat there watching Ariel, nothing changing, nothing getting more intense, and no baby coming.

Needless to say, nothing every happened. At about 8 am, my contractions fizzled out and I realized that Harrison was not coming after all.

The moral of the story: If you’re pregnant and you want your baby to come, don’t drink castor oil unless you want to poo a lot and want a big let down.

Neighbors From Hell

I live on the second, and topmost floor of my apartment complex. I have four “neighbors” in this building. Next door to me are two female grad students. I often bump into them coming out and into the apartment. They are both very nice and we involve ourselves into the small talk of acquaintances.

Downstairs, below the grad students, reside a young couple with a little girl. They too seem pleasant enough, and we exchange “hellos” from time to time. Both adults are smokers, and while it is wise of them to do this activity outside, away from the child, I will admit to some annoyance at smelling that foul odor when I am out on my porch. But I don’t smell it too often, so I don’t mind so much.

(Humorous side story: my first night in the apartment I witnessed the woman and child bid the man farewell for the weekend which was shortly by the man watching hard core pornography on his television. Still brining boxes in from the car I passed by his window several times, which was only covered by a light-weight sheen curtain, whereupon I could see into his apartment and what was on the TV.)

Both of these apartments have been occupied by the same people since we moved in. The apartment below us, however, is now on its third tenants. The first couple stayed about a year and were pleasant enough. I rarely saw the, and though they had a big dog, I never heard it bark. The second couple were a little rough looking (think young bikers) and had a habit of playing their music at ungodly levels. Their stereo had the big bass hook up, so we would often hear this –thump thump thump – emanating through our floor. Though I must say they only did so during daylight hours, so our slumber was never disturbed.

The current family is about to do me in. It is a middle aged couple with a son who I’d guess was in his early twenties.

They are all compulsive chain smokers. One day, as I was pulling into the complex, I saw them open their door and quite literally a wall of smoke came shooting out. The smell seeps up through the piping causing our bathroom, utility room, and furnace to smell like a giant ashtray. We now burn scented candles non-stop in the bathroom to help us not vomit.

Though their cars seem to be held together with duct tape, they have what appears to be a very expensive, wide-screen, high definition television. This is played at high volume at all hours of day and night. It is not a rare thing to be waken up at two in the morning to hear its roar.

Speaking of their automobiles, the son drives a very old Blazer with an engine that sounds like a sick volcano. It revs and roars and makes me want to shoot it to get it out of its misery. The son also carries on some very odd hours and it is normal to hear him coming and going at all hours of the day and night.

Recently, they have started storing a large lawnmower next to the outside apartment stairs. It’s not all that noticeable, but just adds to the trailer park feel they have already created.

The final straw, in my mind, is the fact that the mom parks her old, rusting mini-van in a no parking area. Like most apartments and businesses there is a section of the sidewalk leading to the apartments that dips down allowing wheeled access to the parking lot. This dip allows wheelchairs and dollies a smooth transition from the lot to the sidewalk and thus our apartments. The section of the parking lot that connects with this dip has big, bright lines painted across it to indicate that nobody is to park there. It’s common courtesy to not park in these areas so that any wheelchairs or dollies can have that access.

My neighbor continually parks there. I know this is a small thing, and the truth is we don’t have any wheel chairs in the complex, and the UPS guy can manage, but this just burns me up. I am nothing if not a rule follower, and it’s not like there isn’t plenty of space in our lot. It is never full. This woman is just lazy. She’ll park in the no-parking spot to save herself from walking an extra ten feet.

I’ve been having fantasies about drilling a hole through the floor and poisoning them.

Somebody buy me a house, please.

A Sort-Of Easter

The wife and I usually spend Easter with her parents. Usually we head down Saturday and spend the day playing cards, watching movies and walking the abnormally lovely park (for such a small town.) Sunday is greeted with church services and then her mother fixes an amazing array of deliciousness for lunch. Amy’s mom is a great cook under any circumstances but she tears it up for the holidays. I swear to you she can make a simple sandwich lunch into a seven course meal. And for Easter we usually get a big ham, home-grown vegetables and a variety of other sumptuous treats.

Alas, this year, her folks are out of town. Being in the visit other churches mindset we decided we would travel somewhere near and visit a congregation we have never attended before. There is a small town named Judah that resides about 30 miles to the south. There is a young lady, whom Amy knows from her parent’s congregation that now attends services in Judah due to her recent attendance at Indiana University. This is the place we chose to attend today. Or, I should say, this is the place we tried to attend services.

To find the congregation I first googled it, but for reasons I do not know, all I found was garbage. Either Judah is so small Google doesn’t recognize it, or nobody in the town is net savvy enough to make any sort of dent in the Goggle ratings. From there I went to church-of-Christ.org and looked it up. They had two congregations listed for Judah, but one of them only had a PO Box and a rural route number. Since I can’t find directions to a PO Box I chose the other congregation. Google mapped the address and we were set to go.

We left at 9:30 expecting to arrive a little before the 10 AM kick-off, I mean worship. The drive down was pleasant, though quite cold for a mid-April Sunday. Looking at the directions we were a little confused as it gave a Bedford city name, which is a town a bit south of Judah. But we had mileage directions so we figured it must be close enough to Bedford to be considered in the city limit.

Eighteen miles in we were supposed to turn left on Main Street. Twenty two miles in we found ourselves in Bedford proper with no sight of a Main Street. We made a left at the next light and wandered the streets looking for something to lead us properly. The directions had a turn on Fifth Street and being onSixteenth Street we made a left and slowly moved towards Fifth.

On Fifth we turned and hoped it was the right direction. The guide told us Fifth turned into First, but we were having none of that. Miles down the road I realized we were well outside the city, and the road had turned into State Road 50. Turning back Amy say another road listed on our directions. We doubled back and turned there. Well into the outskirts of town we saw Anderson road of which the church was supposed to be located.

This was a short, dead-end road with nothing but residential houses. The short road did contain the blockage we were looking for, but there was no way I was going to knock on somebody’s house and ask them if we could worship.

Racing back into town we hoped we could find the regular Bedford congregation, of which we attended a few months ago. No such luck. Though not a large city, Bedford has too many streets that look just alike to make any head-way. At 10:30 we gave up the search and headed to Wal-Mart.

Purchasing some crackers and juice we then made our way to Wendy’s. It was right at eleven at this point, and having had but a small breakfast we were both quite hungry. Bellies full we headed home. It was a nice drive as we sung devotional songs the entire way. Our home congregation is a bit old, and empty of young people so the songs we tend to sing are more traditional. I love the traditional, but sometimes my heart longs for more devotional oriented music.

Arriving home we sang some more and had communion.

It is the second Sunday of the month, which means pot-luck followed by a 1 o’clock service at the home congregation so we rested for a moment then headed for services.

All in all it wasn’t what I had expected out of my Easter Sunday, nor what I will ever dub my favorite, but it’s definitely something I’ll remember for years to come.

Amy Loves Books

Hi, this is Amy, the other half of the Brewster household. Mat's finally gotten me write something for the blog. He's even trying to tell me what to say to introduce myself.

About once a week my husband and I venture into town for entertainment. Occasionally we see a movie, but more often, we visit the public library and the bookstore. The library has books of all sorts, movies, and music. We each have an account and each gather a pile of items to peruse. Our interests vary. I venture towards the non-fiction. I might pick up a book on sewing (though I don’t have a machine, my mother has long put off teaching me), gardening, birds or cooking.

Sometimes I choose a book on exercise and diet which I dutifully read and apply one principal of, once, and then forget. Other times, I check out books on finances and budgeting. Those are even more difficult to apply. But the effort of reading the book salves my conscience and heightens my awareness of my flaws.

Mat will pick out fiction (mysteries and thrillers) and lately graphic novels. We have an extensive collection of classics at home (both were English majors), so we rarely look for that at the library. In the movie section, I invariably choose foreign films that sometimes we watch. Mat’s choices include horror. We both like the classic films in black and white.

For me, I never know what to choose in the music section. Each time I come home with at least one CD that has visited our house before in Mat’s collection. I’ve been picking up books and audio programs on CD as well. My 6 hours a week in the car has encouraged me to listen to new music and books. I’m still not used to paying that much attention while driving though. So I’ll listen to NPR instead because Morning Edition’s stories are three to six minutes long.

More about books

Something I’ve wondered about: sequels. Sequels in the literary world are a bit different from sequels in the movie world. I’m not thinking of books in a series like Harry Potter. That’s an original author continuing their work. Really, I’m thinking of those books that nod to, are inspired by, and continue or twist an original. In all honesty, I haven’t read too many of these.

My reading listing includes Wicked from Gregory Maguire (who has made a living out of “sequeling” the fairy tale stories and rewriting them for grown-ups) and Mrs. de Winter, the sequel to Du Maurier’s Rebecca. There’s another sequel to Rebecca as well, Rebecca’s Tale. Then there is Scarlet, the sequel to Gone with the Wind and all the Darcy sequels to Jane Austen’s famous characters from Pride and Prejudice. I glanced at one of these in the store and saw immediately that the author hadn’t captured Austen’s writing style: the quotable Austen! “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” (I almost had it from memory. I was close, Dr. Shull!)

So what about the literary sequel? I enjoyed Wicked for it's story but not Maguire's intellectualizing, but it is so unlike The Wizard of Oz that they don't compare that well. I don't remember Mrs. de Winter and would only re-read the original. On the other hand, Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead was a success. But not all sequels fare so well. And yet, we want to remember these stories, to reconsider them, and in some cases to reinvent them. Do we have the right?

The stress of garbage day

Driving home last night after our child birthing class, I passed the homes in our neighborhood with their garbage cans neatly placed at the end of their driveway...

As I progressed further into the subdivision, I noticed fewer and fewer garbage cans... by the time I was on my street, there were only about 3 or 4 people who had their garbage cans by the road.

Then it occurred to me... I am only reminded of Wednesdays being garbage day because I see others with their garbage cans by the road. I certainly don't have a reminder on my Outlook calender, my phone doesn't remind me, and I don't put a note on the refrigerator reminding me... I depend on my neighbors.

But what about the house at the very beginning of the neighborhood? Who reminds him/her/them? No one! They are essentially fully responsible for reminding the entire 500+ home neighborhood that tomorrow morning is trash day! They don't pass any other homes in our neighborhood and the surrounding homes outside our neighborhood have a different trash day! I can't begin to imagine the stress level in this home! They must have notes littering the living room. Notes on the dashboard of the car. Notes on door knobs. "I can't forget, everyone is relying on me!"

The first home in the neighborhood is a very nice home, but brothers and sisters, I wouldn't take it for all the money in the world if it helps me avoid such stress.

Termite, or termite not

My wife and I have, over the years, become somewhat of termite experts.
We bought a house with termite damage. We knew this going in and the house was sold with a termite bond.
Before everyone gasps in horror at the idea of buying a home with termite damage, let me clarify...
Termite damage does not always mean that your house is about to collapse. It is not like those commercials where swarming termites are flooding your home, and it doesn't mean that your interior wall studs are being eaten away as you eat dinner. It can be something as simple as some drywall paper having been eaten away. Having said that, we have had to puddy up and repaint alot of spots in our house (But to the untrained eye, you'd never know, we are just that good!).

We had a swarm last week (swarm, in this case, = 6 to 7 termites). Let me educate you really fast. Unless you work in the outdoors alot or with wood, you've probably never seen a TRUE termite. You may have seen the termites with wings, but honestly, the winged ones don't eat wood at all. They do no damage. The real termites are ugly white bugs that look like ant larva but with a mouth and legs. Their job; Eat wood as high as possible and make a hole for the winged termite to crawl out of and fly away. When the winged termite finds a nice cool spot to burrow in, it digs itself 60 feet underground, has about 500,00 children, grows to look really fat like a grub worm, and is pretty much uncatchable by predators or man. (See picture on this blog, thats a full grown queen, but they only look like that once they are way in the earth).

We pay $70 a year for our termite bond. This means someone comes out once a year to inspect the house for new damage. It also means that if I see a swarmer... even ONE, and find the damage she came out of, they will come out, and AT LEAST fill the hole with a shaving-creme-like stuff or at MOST they will dig a trench around my house or drill out some predrilled holes in my carport and fill it to the top with termite killer (keeps them dead for 12 years)... this is free for me as long as I pay $70 a year. To the average joe, this costs at least $385, and up to $1,200 just for the treatment. Last summer we were lucky, no swarms or damage. This year we did okay. One spot of damage and about 6 or 7 winged ones. Pretty good for us. It's sad but kind of funny that the termite specialist with Zap Pest Control knows me and my wife by name (they see us pretty much every year). These are good folks. They are sensitive to our pregnancy and spray accordingly. They all have kids, so they understand.

In any case, my termite guy just left. The news isnt so great, but could be worse. Turns out, I have a crack in my foundation. The recent damage occured in the hallway... the middle of the house. Termites only attack places that are near the ground and they dont aimlessly roam inside walls. Their job, as I said before, is to go up and out. And somehow they found a crack so small that i never even noticed when we laid the new carpet. My termite man said they only need 1/8th of an inch of a crack. How do bugs with a brain the size of a pin head do this?

Then I asked him "I thought my house was sprayed for termites when it was built" (It was built in 1994, and the good stuff lasts about 15 years). He said that the residence of my neighborhood about 10 years ago filed a class-action lawsuit against the company that Alfa home builders hired to pretreat the foundations. Turns out, they were spraying water... taking the profits and saving money on the chemicals. Needless to say, that company went out of business. So it is a bit comforting to know that pretty much all my neighbors that dont have a brand new home suffer as I do.

But again, there is no rotting wood, no cracking walls, and only enough swarmers to count on two hands gernerally. And they do it during a one month window per year. I freaked out the first time I found them, now I just shake my head because I hate fixing the walls all the time. The treatements they did around my house and in my carport honestly worked; I havent seen any termites in the front of my house or along the walls of the carport for ages. But this damage in the hall is a new one for me. They will have to roll back my carpet in my office, drill 3 holes in the foundation, and pump the termite poison in the ground... they said it will affect an area in about a 10 or 15 feet radius so it should cover that cracked area, whereever it may be...

It'll suck, but it is free and it has to be done and honestly, I am not worried about it. All part of home ownership I guess. Things could be worse. I hate termites so much that I have studied them to no end and have actually began to appreciate them. They aren't heartless little woodeaters... they just work really hard to spread their seed. Fortunately, the ones that leave the roost to spread the seed dont fulfill that dream when they fly around in my house...

"What Is That Smell"

Starting yesterday afternoon, my office took on a very strange, and quite horrendous odor. It smelled like death, or rotten eggs. I sit underneath a air vent, and I have a pretty piss poor sense of smell, so it didn’t bother me too much. Only when I moved out from under the vent, or first came into the office.

We searched the office for something peculiar. The trash was investigated for rotting foods, the corners and underneaths checked for dead things. Nothing was found.

Today we complained, conjectured and made faces about it. But there was nothing to find as for a cause.

About a week ago, the group who work upstairs from me had complained about bats in the attic. There was some conjecture about whether it was bats, birds, or mice, but measure were taken to get rid of them. Somewhere on the roof there was a slight opening which, it was thought, would be the place to which the bats might enter. A wire cage was placed around the opening and the problem was theoretically solved.

The smell, so went our thinking, might be from a trapped bat/bird/rat from the cage, that has since died. We got a ladder, pulled open the drop ceiling and went to investigate.

Nothing still.

No sign of dead vermin, less stink in the opening. We sniffed around the vent, thinking something might have died in the furnace.

Nothing.

By afternoon I was crazy mad over it. It stunk. It is my office. That’s not right.

We searched in every cranny, and nook. There is a box on one of my cabinets filled with junk from my predecessor. I looked casually in it, but found nothing. Then we noticed some mouse droppings on some papers near the box. I checked again and found droppings on a glove inside the box.

Then I found the mouse, dead, inside this box. Rotting. My office. Dead things, for who knows how long.

I worked amongst the dead.

Gross.

No Room For Rest

I work in what can be nicely considered a converted house. I say nicely because for the most part, the conversion consists of moving some desks into the house and wiring it for multiple broadband connections. I am quite literally in the basement. I would add “converted” basement to modify that noun, but then I would be lying. The only conversion that has been done is to add to walls to create my office, throw some desks around, and we have a refrigerator and a photographer’s basin that we use as a sink.

In the middle of the floor still sits the furnace, the floor is hard, cracked concrete, and most of the wall are cinder block. As it is the maintenance department, tools hang everywhere. There are also no windows, so I feel like I am in a dungeon, or a cave.

The only bathroom is upstairs, which is where the billing department is located. Every single time I go up, the ladies up there give me the oddest looks like they don’t know who I am, or what I’m doing there, or they do know and they don’t like it.

The bathroom, also, doesn’t have a lock. It’s a single toilet (like you’d find in your house) but after doing a thorough search, there isn’t a single way to actually lock the thing.

My first two weeks on the job, I thought we had a system worked out – the bathroom door would be left slightly ajar when not occupied thus everyone could easily tell when it was available for use. But this week, being my third, that system has been thrown off. The last several times I have gone upstairs to use the facilities, the door has been closed. After waiting several minutes, I have gone back downstairs and held it. The thing is, I don’t think anyone was actually in there. There didn’t seem to be a light on (but it is hard to tell because there is a big window in there) and while waiting I heard no signs of use.

But I just can’t tell, and without the lock I am afraid to walk in on someone. I’m now too scared to even go up. Yesterday, I actually used my break to run to a convenience store and bought a Coke and peanuts just so I could use their restroom.

This is nuts. But I don’t know what to do. This place is so crazily PC and weird that walking in on someone on the toilet would not only be awkward, but potentially job dangerous.

Grove Park Inn

The Mulls and The Brals had a grand ole time in Asheville, NC.

Sometimes I forget how much I can laugh, and sometimes I forget how much I can make other people laugh, but apparently I had because we all laughed alot... likewise, we rested alot.

I won't go into how good the food was, and how nice the spa was, nor about how nice it was to stay up late in the grand hall by a fireplace that 15 men could fit in while I tried to convince Mullins to use some of my material in his standup routine. I will also pass over the part about getting a box of chocolate (And the box was made of chocolate) delivered to our room by a guy Mullins had befriended that worked there...

But, I will leave you with a few pics... I have some awesome ones of all 4 of us, of the Mulls, and of just me and my wife, (another one) but this is all I had at work. The rest are at home.

I am really relaxed in this first picture...

Sat on their park bench like bookends...

Everyone has friends. What seperates folks is the quality of those friends and the bond of that friendship.

As mentioned in an earlier post, Jamboree was last weekend and I did the stage managing duties, as always. This year, John Gordon brought in a few old school Jamboree hosts and hostesses from years past. One of those was a one Jennifer Puryear (Now Jen Duncan).

Jen was one of my first friends at Faulkner. Yes, before Brew, and before Sip. Maybe not before Ryan though. Jen and I have seen little of each other since she graduated F.U. She came to my wedding, I went to hers, and other than that, it has been virtual radio silence. Sure, the occational email will be tossed in there, but not much else.

Were we mad at each other? No. Did we have a falling out? No. Was our friendship put on hold? No. But relationships do this from time to time... they don't fizzle out, they just slow down for a period of time I guess. Life takes over and life changes, and friendships adjust accordingly.

Joining MySpace may have been one of the best things I have ever done to push out any remaining depression I may have had in my life. Reconnecting with so many old friends has been glorious. Jen being one of those friends. We were able to reconnect, catch up, and appreciate our friendship again! I then learned she would be coming to town for Jamboree and I was as happy as you could imagine.

When Jen came into town, we went to lunch that day. Let me tell you folks, it was like she never left. We laughed at everything. Just like the old times. Back in the day we would just look at each other in chorus practice and laughter would ensue. I have way too many memories to share so I won't even start. But after lunch last week we grabbed my camera and shot at least 15 pics of ourselves with as many expressions as we could come up with. The top picture is "Melancholy".

A test of a true friendship is going a long period of time without seeing or talking to one another, and seeing how strong the relationship is after that "time out"... and not freaking out or losing your mind when you realize that the relationship is in a time out . I'm happy to say the friendship I share with Jen is as strong as ever, and ever will continue to be.

Of course the obvious question people used to ask is "She is beautiful! Why didn't you ever go out with her?" All I can say is that I never looked at Jen based on her looks. She became my friend when I honestly had few if any friends at Faulkner and from that day forward, that's what she was to me. I wouldn't even call it a brother-sister thing, we were pure and simple friends! I am sure I considered it once or twice in the many years I knew her, but 2 minutes later she would call and ask if I wanted to play hide and seek or go climb a tree and those thoughts just went away for what ever reason.

Hearing Jen sing last weekend was unreal. We all have known her our who college lives, and we were all friends with her. I grew to "get used" to her singing abilities. I guess you could say I took them for granted. I knew she sang well, but I had heard her sing so many times and I knew her so well that frankly, I stopped getting a thrill out of her amazing singing voice. When she started to sing Friday night at Jamboree I could not move. Ussually I am busy backstage when there is a performance going on. I rarely just stop and watch. But I sat there remembering that "Hey, she is a really good singer" because frankly, I had forgotten. I guess in a way this is just another sign of a true friendship; I wasn't her friend because of her looks or her singing abilities... but man, can she sing!

Anyway, I know many of you know Jen, and thought you may enjoy that story. A quick update, she is in a suburb of Nashville with her VERY good looking husband who runs a recording studio. He must be good at what he does because he has a few Grammy's to prove it. Success and money have not changed the Jen we all know and love. She is as solid as she has ever been.

I leave you iwth a few more pics taken during jamboree, of more "Old Friends" as the title of this blog suggests (Assuming you have heard that song).

Me and the lovely Compton sisters.

You can't talk about old pals without talking about Fred...

Perhaps you remember Jason Gray?

Who can forget Knapp?

Saying something I never thought I'd say

Jamboree has come a long way.
Sure, the hosts and hostesses aren't going to win grammys anytime soon.
Sure, the club shows can be cheesy and repeatative.
But this year, I actually had ... FUN!
And next year, I actually HOPE I can do it!
The students at Faulkner (At least the ones in clubs) were a pleasure to work with. They were all fun, well behaved, and extreemly nice and welcoming. And ALL the shows were actually GOOD!
Gone are the days where you have one club show that is really good, 2 that suck, and one that doesn't even exist. The clubs work VERY hard on their shows, and honestly, few really care if they win or lose, they just have fun and do really great shows!
I did a video. Unfortunately, there are no shots of the new clubs show (cant remember their name... basically they are Mu Beta Sigma with alot of Kappa members in them) who did an awesome Alladin show, complete with the blue and red genie! I also didnt get any shots of the Zeta and AAA show, who did a fun pirate show. The two best shows were Kappas and Epsilons... and guess what? Epsilon didn't win this year, shocker! But both clubs did great shows!

Enjoy the film! If you have MySpace, check out all my photos from Jamboree on my page...

Family Secrets

I’m still trying to research this a little, and fill in the details, so there will likely be a longer, follow up story in the weeks to come, but I found some information about my family I wanted to share.

My grandfather fought in the Philippines during World War II. This is a fact that not even my father knew until a few years ago, for grandfather never, ever mentioned it. Last summer I brought it up with him wanting to get some stories out of him before he died, but all he would say is that he had seen action.

Talking with my grandmother, this past weekend she told me that when his active duty was done that he was told to stay in for two extra weeks, doing office work, and he would get a nicer benefits package. He refused outright and wanted to be shipped immediately home.

Once he returned home he boarded up his windows and nailed his door shut, afraid that the Japanese would sneak in and take him.

For a year after he returned he would often cry out to his mother that he could never go to heaven. That he was bound for hell for the things he had seen. The things he had done. For he had killed men. He had bombed buildings, murdered innocents. He had seen little children’s arms and legs flying dismembered from the explosions he had caused.

Eventually, she said, they calmed him down and made him understand he had served his country, and the Greater Good and could indeed go to Heaven. But hearing that story, broke my very heart.

Here was a young man, 17 at the time, I believe, from the hills of Tennessee. Seventh grade education, never seeing much beyond the farm he grew up on. Suddenly he is shipped to the wonders of California where he learns how to be a warrior, a soldier, and killer. Then he is shipped to some exotic island to experience what hells I’ll never understand only to again be shipped back and expected to live a normal life.

I may not agree with the politics of our current wars, but my heart goes out to all the men and woman who quite literally put their lives on the line ever single day. I pray God brings them home safe, healthy and able to adjust to normal life again.

A Most Unusual Washing

Over the last few week’s we have had a handful of storms delivering 1-2 inches of snow each time. The temperature has not risen above freezing in that time, and thus we now have a very dirty, collections of nasty slushy, snow conglomeration. Needless to say my automobile looks most miserably disgusting.

This past Saturday, even though it was still well below freezing, I decided to get a car wash. It was a very pretty day, and the weather wasn’t calling for more snow for at least half a week. Wanting to get the nastiness, especially all the corrosive salt off my car I decided it was worth bearing the cold for.

Apparently, this was a common thought, as there was quite the line at the car wash. Three lines extended into three separate automatic washers. I choose the one on the far right. As we nudged closer, we noticed that the walls of each washing stall were covered in ice. We also laughed as we saw large ice sickles hanging off the washing lines.

Finally there was only one car before us and nudged our way up to the pay-machine. Inserting our cashola we watched the car in front of us get a wash.

Interestingly, the pre-wash soak part seemed to not be working. Little soap bubbled sort of dropped from the machine, but the car was certainly not getting a good sudzing. That doesn’t look good, we thought, but what could we do? We were trapped in a stampede of cars.

A knock came upon my window and a fellow stood there telling me the machine was definitely broken.

“Pull through,” he said, and advised me to get into another line. Pull through I did and drove around to wait in line a second time. For my trouble he gave me double the cash I had originally paid.

Waited again, we did and finally got the car washed. While being soaked and washed we laughed as the mirrors and back windshield quickly froze over, before being washed again, thus wiping away the ice. The end came, and I slowly drove through the dryer. Not slow enough, it seems, for when we parked at Kroger, the entire car was caked in a thin layer of ice.

It eventually did melt, and get blown off, but that was definitely the most unusual washing my car has ever seen.

Inner City

What I am about to say here may sound pretty pathetic, mean, hateful, and will sound very much like a man who has no faith in the power of God. I reckon it is fair to say that. However, I have to get this out of my head and onto paper...well, er, the screen...

Every Tuesday night, I go to our church and participate in the Montgomery Inner City Outreach. Basically, several churches around the city take a bus load of kids varying in age on different nights (We take 7, 8, and 9 year olds on Tuesdays for example). The night last 40 to 60 minutes. But class only runs for 40 minutes.

Essentially we have 2 to 4 classrooms with 7 to 10 kids in each class... 10 at most, sometimes 6 after you send the bad ones out. We read a story about Jesus, we answer questions, color, do a word search related to the story, etc... We all think of inner city kids as being mean, hateful, and rowdy. Well, in a way this is true. But honestly, they are just kids and there are a handful who are just as sweet as your own child. Then there is the one who has behavioral problems out the yen-yang because she got hit in the neck by a stray bullet and her brother molests her every night.

Here is where my faith in god may sound lacking. Our work seems useless and futile.

First of all, our curriculum is written on a 3rd or 4th grade level. Have you ever heard an inner city public school 8 year old try to read the word "Apostle"? Or even try the name "Daughter"? How about the one kid in every class that looks up at you when he comes to the word "then" because he cant pronounce it? So mistake number one is that these lessons need to be readable on a 1st grade level at BEST because that's how these kids read. Granted, there are the 1 or 2 kids in the class who love to read and read like an ace and my heart goes out to them because they have everything it takes to be successful yet they were dealt different cards in life as you and I and will have to work EXTRA hard to be successful.

Secondly, as these kids read aloud, the remaining 7 or 8 are in la la land either looking around, kicking one another under the table, flipping the other off, or trying to get out of their seat. And you cant really get mad at them. Heck, they are probably fussed at all day or worse, beaten. Best you can do is get the bad ones out of class and the rest are fine.

Okay, best case scenario: They come in, sit like little angels, read like a poet, comprehend every bit of it, and go home only after giving you a big fat hug... They get home, find mom (and maybe a dad) in the house selling dope or weed, repeating the F-bomb over and over, treating the child like an inconvenience, neglecting the child, and subjecting the child to rap music that does anything but lift a child's spirit. 24 hours later, the fact that Jesus died on a cross means nothing to this child. You can't force a mom or dad to be a good mom or dad...

Half these kids don't go to church and the ones that do go with their grandmother to some church OTHER than the one sponsoring this outreach program.

Now, here is where I come in.... I no longer feel like I am doing this work for God or the Church, but rather for the people that do it with me. Let me explain...

Before I did inner city, I was doing VBS. I noted that alot of guys and gals I knew and loved from church stopped coming to help with VBS. Being a sweet and innocent boy, I figured "I have no right to be upset that they aren't coming if I don't help THEM with inner city!" So it started. I started doing the inner city thing. Already for the wrong reasons.

Well, turned out, me being there didn't encourage anyone anymore to come help with VBS the next summer. Yet, I knew the need for inner city workers was great so I kept going. Not for the kids, not for God, not even for me, but so my friends wouldn't be deserted when a big bus load showed up and there are only enough teachers for half those kids. Guilt I guess.

Do I like doing it? No! On Tuesdays I simply stay at work till 6:30pm rather than drive to Wetumpka only to have to turn back around! I miss dinner and wife time in the process. I'd love to never go again? Why? Because I not only don't think I am doing anything worth-while, but I KNOW I am not doing it for God but rather my friends. TOTALLY wrong!

There, that's off my chest. I know God can do ANYTHING, but sometimes, it seems like Tuesday nights are His biggest challenges...

$10 and my faith in humanity

So my general faith in the world at large isn’t what it should be and I’ll easily admit that. This morning while I was showing Isaac how to pump gas, the kid likes to be helpful what can I say, some guy asks me for a couple of bucks so he can get these two girls to work and then back home.

I look around at the other cars and see that they have this less than approving look on their face.

I think,” this is a test” amid everything else in the world I’m being tested by this schlep that needs gas. I get $10 and hand it to him he give me a couple of “God bless you” lies and the usual stuff and then starts to get in his car. I yell at the guy and tell him “Now, get the gas now!” “Oh, yeah”. The woman in the drivers seat, the whole time is mouthing “sorry, sorry” and while the guy goes in, I imagine he’s prepaying for the gas, the bitch in the back seat gets out and gives me this sob story. I tell her that I’ll get paid again in a couple of days and as long as he’s not buying smokes and junk food I don’t mind helping someone out.

When Isaac and I finish we walk in and considering this is one of my two places I get fuel I ask Carl how much gas the guy on one got. “The first time he spent two bucks, just then he spent $1.50”.

What a shit heap. By the end of the day I hope I won’t be pissed about this but there is a good chance I’ll not be able to reconnect to the forgiveness post of yesterday. This is insignificant and won’t matter in the great scheme of things but it’s a shitty way to start the day.