Hahahahaha … wait a minute … seriously? Someone really — REALLY! — hooked up his toaster to Facebook? Set it up so it can tell him (and I guess all his friends) when his toast is ready? Because the little bell that goes “ding” wasn’t high tech enough? I read it in the Wall Street Journal. An article titled, “Now, even granny’s fuzzy slippers are texting you.”
Failing the worm test. Now on to a house with chickens
So we did the test. The worm test. Vermicomposting worms. The kind that eat table scraps and leftover vegetable bits and human flesh. (No, I’m making that last part up.) My wife said: “If we can keep worms alive then it will be a great test for how we’ll do with chickens.” Chickens have been her dream for years. Laying hens. Big, fluffy fowl that you wear on your shoulder like a parrot. Who guard your house while furnishing you with eggs. Who bring love and joy and eat everything in your yard, down to the bricks, which they would also eat if only they had sledgehammers.
Playing hero to a daughter … if only briefly
A hero for five minutes. But what a five minutes it was. All thanks to Elmer the Elephant. Or I should say finding Elmer. Which I did. And which made me a hero. Even if for only five short ones. I’ll take it. It had been bedlam that morning. Mother and child hurrying about the house, trying to find something. Heck if I knew what. All I knew is it looked like there had been an avalanche of stuffed animals in my daughter’s closet, and there may or may not have been one of my family members trapped below them.
As my arteries slowly weep …
I can feel it. Creeping up my sides. Slithering through my veins. In my belt, oh yes, definitely there. How my pants don’t snap the same way anymore. There’s less give. A bit more snugness. And I feel heavy. And slow. And lethargic. When I sweat I smell barbecue sauce. Thank you Fourth of July. Thank you for my grilled meat overdose. I awoke Monday to a meat hangover. A coworker asked if I had the meat sweats.
A new knee and playing nurse for dear old dad
It’s a strange and wonderful thing, helping a parent recover from surgery. “Wonderful” because you’re returning the favor after all those years he or she raised you. Wiping your bottom. Cutting up your steak. Listening to doctors’ instructions, and remembering when you’re supposed to take medicine. Not even trying to duck when you threw up. “Strange” because now it’s you asking things like: “So … uh … you don’t actually need help going to the bathroom, right?” Because I’m sure as heck not wiping any bottoms! Pop got a ride home from the hospital and I’m calling it even.