I Need Your Help, Please!

Dear family, friends, bloggers, and strangers alike …

Happy Holidays to every one of you! You may be reading this message through Facebook and/or through my blog … if you encounter it twice, consider it a bonus!

Strengths and weaknesses … we all have them. I can identify two weaknesses for me when I was growing up:

1. I was not a salesman. Candles, candy, cookies, sunglasses, more candles, atlases … no matter what the fundraiser was, I stunk at it. If I didn’t want to buy it, why would someone else? Door-to-door was the worst. (Thanks to all my extended family and neighbors who were nice enough to not to crush my spirit and ended up purchasing “stuff.”)

2. I was not one to ask people for help. Potential conflict or rejection was not something I looked for, so I was not one to impose or interrupt someone for help unless it was pretty urgent. I found it easier to try and do what I could on my own. (Note to self: bad idea.)

Well, fortunately, I’ve somewhat grown out of these weaknesses, as I’m about to tackle both of them with this message.

In a nutshell, I need your help to do something very special this holiday season. The ask? Prayer. And a donation.

(There … that wasn’t so bad for me. You still with me? Good.) And now … the rest of the story. Please read all of it … it will truly give you reason to be thankful this season.

Three years ago this past August, Hurricane Katrina took a direct path over the coastal town of Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. It was one of the deadliest and most costly hurricanes to hit the United States. Over 90% of structures up to a half a mile inland were severely damaged or totally destroyed. Winds were sustained at 120 mph, and the storm surge of 27 feet pushed inland up to 12 miles. In Mississippi alone, 238 were dead, 67 missing and damage totaled billions of dollars.

So you would think after three years, things would be better. The current facts are unfortunately very sombering.

• Nearly 300 families in Mississippi are being returned to hotels from mobile homes as FEMA moves to close the last of its emergency housing sites in the state.
  
• FEMA has announced a March 1 cutoff date for all temporary housing payments.


• Across the Gulf Coast, there are still at least 9,300 families in trailers and 1,600 in hotel rooms.
  
• About 3,200 FEMA travel trailers and mobile homes remain in use in Mississippi.
  
• Hundreds of federally-issued trailers and mobile homes have been identified as having high levels of toxins, including formaldehyde.
  
• There are an estimated 30,000 children living in trailers and temporary housing in the region. A Children's Health Fund study released this month reveals that the “Katrina children” are the sickest children in the U.S., with iron-deficiency anemia, upper respiratory infections, skin ailments, and behavior or learning problems.
  
• Many of these kids are going to spend their FOURTH Christmas in a place that is not their home.
  

So … how can you help?

On December 10th, I’ll be leaving with a team from Wildwood Baptist Church on a “rebuild three-day” to continue ongoing work to get people back in their homes for the holidays. The DiRT Ministry takes these trips a number of times a year, and the need for assistance is overwhelming.

But not insurmountable with your help!

Priority Ask #1 … PRAY. Pray for these victims of this natural disaster, that they don’t feel forgotten. Pray for our team as we minister to their physical and spiritual needs. If you’re not one to pray … give it a shot. While I am excited about the prospects of this trip, my heart grows heavier as I read more about the situation and consider the plight of the families still trying to put their lives back together after three long years. When I imagine what Thanksgiving and Christmas must be like for these children, my throat closes up, I have a hard time focusing on what I’m doing, and I wrestle with myself as to why I haven’t done something sooner.

Priority Ask #2 … DONATE. Please consider a donation to the DiRT Ministry to help offset the costs for travel and supplies for this trip, to cover past expenses from recent trips, and to establish a legacy for trips in the future. We all understand how much tighter the times are with the economy as it is, but think about how much more troubling it is for those who are already desperate for help. Perhaps you can bypass that cup of Starbucks. Or a fast-food meal. Maybe you save so much during Black Friday that you can give just a little back. This is one of those moments in time where an army of friends giving a little from the individual perspective will result in a fantastic outcome.

Giving is easy … play “DiRTopoly!” This online gameboard has streets listed where DiRT has served families in the past 18 months, or various other Bay St. Louis streets, landmarks or utilities. Go to http://www.w2ps.com/dirt/board.htm and roll your mouse over the various properties to see their value. Then click on the property to purchase it … which will be your tax-deductible donation of that amount to the DiRT Ministry. If you prefer, you can select Chance or Community Chest and designate a specific amount to give.

The link above is directly to the board, and it is also accessible from the http://www.dirtministry.com/ website, where you can see photos and videos about this ministry. You can use a credit card to make these donations, or a registered PayPal account. And if you wish to specifically direct your donation to scholarships (for travel expenses), tooling or materials, there is a field to make that known to the DiRT Coordinator.

Make a gift in someone’s honor … what a cool Christmas gift THAT can be! (On a side note, visit http://www.adventconspiracy.org/ for one of THE coolest videos I’ve seen this season. But not until you’ve made your donation to DiRT!)

If you prefer to make a donation by check, make it out to Wildwood Baptist Church and mail it to them at 4801 Wade Green Road, Acworth, GA 30102 and put “Mississippi Missions Fund” in the memo line. Or you can give it to me and I’ll get it to them. Please do not write my name on the check, but if you donate via this route and you mail it, please let me know via a blog comment or Facebook or email so I can thank you! At the very least, please let me know that you’ll consider praying for us December 10th through the 13th. Or more!

Still here? Wow, thanks … we made it together! Sorry if it got long … but there was plenty to tell and I didn’t want to leave out anything. Again, I hope that you and your family and friends experience all the blessings of the upcoming holiday season, and here’s to a very prosperous and healthy 2009! Thank you for your considerations of this effort.

All the best,
Chip

Fifteenth Bank?

OK ... we were driving home from a wedding in Toccoa (second weekend wedding in a row for us, with both young children as the flower girl and ring "bear," and the eldest child as a bridesmaid in today's wedding.) But I digress from the topic at hand.

There was a billboard in Gwinnett County on I-85 that left me in a more discombobulated state than I already was. It was an advertisement for a bank. Now we all have heard of banks like "First National Bank" or "First State Bank," much like we hear of First Baptist Church or even Second Baptist Church (did they lose a race or something?)

But this bank ... it's way down the line in the standings. Fifth Third Bank.

What what?

I blinked and rubbed my eyes to be sure I was reading it right. Yep, Fifth Third Bank.

Are they serious?

Well, it demanded some research. There had to be a logical reason to make your bank sound like an odd fraction or a cryptic rendition of "Fifteenth Bank."

Let's start at their website ... http://www.53.com ... I'll give them credit. That's easy to remember. OK, let's find their history under About Us. Goes back to 1858 as Bank of the Ohio Valley. Nothing weird about that. Then Third National picked it up in 1871. And in the turn of the century, the Thirds wanted to fraternize with the Fifths, and so they did. (The Fifths never forgave the Thirds for cutting in line at the bank charter store.)

Anyhoo ... fancy the thought that on this weekend wedding, I'd encounter a bank with a funny name that was the product of a wedding of their own. Fifth National and Third National (kissing cousins?) became Fifth Third.

And the rest is history. I think I still prefer my bank, which was a merger of Sun Bank and Trust Company (yes, you know who). It's much easier to say. You try to say Fifth Third three times fast and see what you come up with. Don't blend those "TH"s ... enunciate, enunciate, enunciate. Fifthird is not what we're talking here. They've worked hard for that name.

Can a zoo be sexy?

Just when you think you've seen it all ... something trumps it.

I was driving down (or up, depending on your orientation) Barrett Parkway the other day and was passed by a van or truck sporting an advertisement for the Atlanta Zoo.

This particular ad was sensationalizing the most unique and/or bizarre animal that you would ever see. (And strangely enough, an image of it was on the ad itself, making it somewhat anti-climatic in that you could see it vs. having to drive downtown to the zoo to catch a glimpse.)

The animal? NAKED MOLE RAT

Now ... here's where I started scratching my head and thinking that a blog entry was on it's way. I have two points.

1. The marketing firm for the Zoo really didn't have to use the word "naked" in this ad, now did they? So why? Because ... it gets your attention. I mean ... think about it. If you thought you could get a glimpse at a mole rat, you'd probably yawn and consider trimming your toenails as more exciting. But a NAKED mole rat? Well, that's a different story. Get's all sorts of thoughts going, probably more so for the guys than the girls. Wiring, it is. But even so, the second point also deserves your scrutiny ...
   
   
2. Aren't all animals naked? Do you really see animals in the zoo clothed? Sheesh ... they wouldn't look very natural in a frock or pantaloons, now would they? So basically ... when you visit the zoo, aren't you seeing a NAKED elephant, a NAKED zebra, a NAKED snake, and those delightful NAKED pink flamingos? Why, if the marketing folks could get that wrapped up on the back of a vehicle, ticket sales would jump through the roof. Even by folks who have been to the zoo and know good and well that they aren't going to see anything different!! Am I right?? Then the zoo could work out a deal with The Varsity to sell Naked Dogs, right there on the spot. (Now that's a draw.)
   

But let me clear ... that naked mole rat was an ugly little guy. Kinda like Perry the Platypus from Phineas and Ferb. (Sorry ... Disney Channel lingity there ...) Not a pretty sight. Hairless and buckteeth.

I'd pay more to see him in a pinstripe suit, frankly. 'Cuz I've already seen the dude NAKED rolling down Barrett Parkway. Helloooo marketing people ... leave something to the imagination next time, OK? Geezes.

And a sidenote regarding The Varsity ... when I was in college at UGA, I was driving through at the greasy V there in Athens. At the board, you were supposed to order using their terms. I wanted a hot dog with ketchup and an orange drink. So what did I have to proclaim as my culinary desire that steamy Georgia afternoon?

"I need a red dog and a big squirt."

Felt a little dirty as I heard it repeated back to me. But it ate well.

Nope, nothing quirky to see here

AJ Macc tells me that I'm a blogger that she reads. Bless her soul.

And in one of her last blogs, she tagged me for six quirky things. Do I look like someone who would have even one or two quirks?

Don't answer that. Allow me to self-quirk myself. Here we go.

1. I have recently discovered a quirk that apparently I share with my mother (genetic, me thinks.) One of the most comfortable spots is to be laying/lying on the sofa with my right foot wedged in between the cushion and the back of the sofa. No, I can't tell you why. I wasn't tagged to explain my quirks. Just list them.
   
   
2. I cannot sit in a room with a crooked picture. My insides sit there shouting, "People! Can't you see that??? Dear God, will someone tip that frame just a little to the left so we can continue our conversation??? Aggghhhh!" Depending on the event and how well I know the host or hostess, I have been known to apologize politely and step over to straighten it, or just wait until they are gone and get it in order. They can thank me later. And I have been thanked by other members in the room who were having silent shouting matches with their insides as well.
   
   
3. I've been told that I have perfect pitch. I don't know how quirky that is, but it has come in handy in years past. In order to hear a pitch, I demand silence, or I have to step away so I can hear it in my mind. OK, so that may be more freaky than quirky ... I can literally "hear" stuff in my mind. It used to drive my friends crazy. They would start singing a song, but they would be like three or four keys off. I'd say, "No, that's not it. Listen." And I would start singing it as if it were on the radio. And then I'd be called a name. And the singing would stop.
   
   
4. If I had my way (and perhaps I will someday), there would not be any dry goods packaging in our pantry. All those jumbled boxes and sizes, usually taking up more space than the product inside! Everything would be in something like Tupperware. Perhaps labeled. And maybe alphabetized. And all the spices would be in the same type of shaker. And they would definitely be alphabetized.
   
   
5. I love to cook when I'm on vacation. I look for condos or houses with a kitchen, and I love to hit the grocery stores and buy up stuff to get set up and fix meals for our family. When I was younger, I wanted to be a travel agent, so I love finding places to go and planning trips.
   
   
6. I call Veda every single day before I leave work to let her know I'm on the way, and to see if she needs anything. Every single day. Is that quirky?

OK, I won't tag anyone else because I'm getting sleepy, but for those of you who are just itching to post their six quirks (to confirm what we already know), do so and we'll enjoy reading them!

Yearbook Yourself

This is a fun site.

http://www.yearbookyourself.com/

And here are some of my results:

http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=31182&l=6f078&id=501269310

Try it out! If you make some, and you're on Facebook, post your pics into a new album and post your public link in the comments.

Not for internal consumption

As I was getting ready for work this morning, I was playing my very first "rip & burn" CD that I made for Veda years ago. With a great amount of cheesiness, I named it "Veda's Love Mix" ... as it contains some of her favorite songs from the ages (as well as some of mine.) An eclectic mix of Karen Carpenter, Journey, Grease soundtrack selections (shut up), Steven Curtis Chapman, Paula Abdul, Whitney Houston, etc.

So as I finish wailing "Faithfully" with Sir Perry, I'm filled with nostalgia. It's as if I'm back in the '80s getting ready for school. And that's when it happened ... something I haven't done for years. I found myself reaching for the bottle. Dark green, gold cap, the man and his horse.

Yes, friends ... I was splashing on some Polo. No, young people. Not Polo Sport. Not Polo Blue, Silver, Black, Double Black, or any other color. I'm talking about the original. Classified as "woodsy." Leather, wood, tobacco, basil and oakmoss ... a masculine scent. Oakmoss? Heck, yeah, oakmoss. What's more masculine than that?

For many of us, Polo was the "wear-it-with-your-Izod" selection ... that cologne that meant you had finally matured beyond Jovan Musk. (Dear God ... I hope I didn't take out an entire herd of Asian musk deer to keep me smelling so spiffy.)

And boy, was the scent of Polo enough to really throw me into a time warp. My mom called me her "Polo guy" and I can remember being bowled over because our band director probably went through a bottle each week. No soap ... just Polo. You could see the distortion of the air around him as he approached, much like the heat waves in Arizona. And then it hit you. POW. Then you were disoriented for the next few minutes. Heaven help you if you had a meeting in his office.

Anyhoo ... I went about my morning routine, smelling like I just came from Crisp County High. I dropped off the kids at school, and made my way to Chik-fil-A for some free Chik-n-minis (with coupon).

About two miles down the road, I made the mistake. I licked my fingers.

Polo does not belong in the mouth. Maybe it's the oakmoss.

Have you ever gotten cologne or perfume in your mouth (by any number of means which we will not discuss here) and it literally sticks to your tongue for a minute or two? Some of the best fragrances do not taste like they smell. Polo is one that is not meant for consumption. Even a swig of diet lemonade couldn't wash it off. But I guess my breath was pretty snappy.

So ... that being said ... what was your personal aromatherapy of choice in high school? Anyone out there willing to admit Brut? (By Faberge, of course.) Old Spice? Charlie (kinda hip, kinda now)?

Now What?

Well, I did it. 15 pounds are gone. It's official.

I went from 185 to 170 since our anniversary on July 18th. 170 was an arbitrary goal. Now I will need to pick a new goal (beyond just keeping off those 15 pounds.)

Of course, I think I hollered off a pound or two at Six Flags last night. I love roller coasters. One of those few moments when it's totally appropriate to yell like a wildman.

I love my kids and their daring sense of adventure. They will do things that I never even dreamed of trying when I was a kid. You'd know what I mean when I say I cried in line for the Dalonega Mine Train when I was a kid. I think I was older than 10. Of course, I loved it.

I talked Amy and Chaz into riding the Wheelie with me. Total fun. Squeals. Shrieks. (And they enjoyed it, too.) That was after two rounds on Splashwater Falls and one round on Thunder River. I took one for the family last night and spared Veda the H2O. The cell phone in the ziplock bag was genius.

Veda and I are going to have a celebratory lunch for taking off the weight and being more healthy. How ironic! I think there is a Cheddar Bay Biscuit in my near future. And a shrimp that met with an untimely death ... let's guess it was a surprise to the little guy. And his friends.

Personal Back Patting

I've lost 12 pounds since July 18th.  On purpose, yah.

When I was a kid ... I was skinny.  Really skinny.  Nickname:  Bird Legs.  (I think that's still being used in some parts of the globe.)  I can remember the 28" waist.  Always had to find "slim" jeans.  That chore is now relegated to my 12-year-old.  Bless her genetics.

Well, while you'd never really think it for those of you who know me and have seen my legs ... I was growing technically overweight according to the BMI calculators, even at 185 lbs. (for a 5'11" man.)  Now that I'm down to 173, I'm right under the mark.

I do feel better.  Was it the two Cokes a day?  C'mon, gimme a break ... remember where I work for cryin out loud.  It was my coffee in the morning and my pick-me-up in the afternoon.

Was it visits to the vending machine?  I haven't seen the inside of a Snickers wrapper in a long time.  Or a good bag of pork rinds.  Turkey Creek BBQ Pork Rinds.  Why do I know that?

I'm sure it's a combo of many things.  I'm learning to like broccoli (particularly steamed or grilled with some kick to it). I'm enjoying walking the neighborhood a couple of times a week with my wife for a couple of miles.

Since I have a fairly sedentary desk job, I walk all the way across the office campus to go to the bathroom.  In a totally different building.  Through another building.  Hey ... it gets me moving.  And keeps me awake to boot.

Today, my 36" waist pants were looking a little pitiful, somewhat bunched up under my belt.  I actually saw my belt buckle without seriously sucking it all in.  Can it be?  Is all this hype about good eating and exercise for real?  Sheesh!

I hope to touch my toes one day.  But I think that's a stretching issue.  Ergo, long Bird Legs must get more flexible.  Dang it.

My goal is 170 lbs.  I've been holding at 173 now for some time.  And I'm OK with that.  If I make it to 170, I'm going to celebrate with a Coke and a Krispy Kreme.  Booyah!

Then someone will have to scrape me from the ceiling.

Miss it ... and miss out

We interrupt this blog for a short commercial break. DO NOT MISS THIS. GO SEE IT ON OPENING WEEKEND. I'm not kidding. We were very fortunate and grateful to screen the movie at the Fox Theater this evening, and even with me medicated, it was awesome. Do your life and your marriage right ... get your tickets and go. Not married? Doesn't matter ... it's something we all need to hear. Especially in these times. September 26th. DO NOT MISS OUT.

A new kind of chef

Last night, I finally finished a soup I had started about a week ago.

Earlier in the year, I had a white bean soup at a downtown Atlanta restaurant, and I vowed I'd try to make it at home, because it was so good. I found a recipe and held on to it for months. Then I finally bought some dried beans, and held on to them for a while.

About a week ago, I soaked the beans, which took about 12 hours. Then I drained them and stored them, because I was too beat to make the soup by the time the beans had soaked.

But last night, I pulled out the beans and set out on the 1 hour, 5 minute prep (an unrealistic estimate from the recipe, which turned out to be almost two hours) of this cheesy white bean soup.

It was worth the wait. All the kids loved it. They kept wanting to give compliments to the chef, routing them to Veda. "Oh no ... this was your father's makings ... he's the chef of the night." And many thanks and praises came my way.

"But what about the sandwiches? I didn't make those," I admitted. "Let's say they were made by my sous chef."

Chaz took another bite of sandwich and looked at it, then turned to Veda. "Sue! These sandwiches are GREAT!"

It's just tiny rocks ...

Sand.

Now before I go totally off the deep end, let me set the record straight. I love walking on the beach. The beach is sand. If A=B and B=C, then A=C. So you'd think I love sand.

Well, if it would stay on the beach, perhaps. But it doesn't. And it doesn't in spades.

Perhaps it's a childhood trauma. I do remember being caught up in a particularly heavy surf and having my rear end drug through the sand, coming up with enough inside the lining of my swimsuit to level out the greens of a small golf course. Even at that tender age, I knew what uncomfortable meant when you're dealing with the area around the Gentiles, and SAND was certainly not a friend.

We spent about two hours at the beach today. My children seemed to have no problem with the fact that they were covered head to toe in the granular stuff. Now mind you, they didn't want to walk back to the car in it, but that's beyond the point.

I had been squatting with my back to the Gulf of Mexico building my sand resort ... one of those drizzle castles with a moat and then a retaining wall and another moat to fend off the raging sea. Unbeknownst to me, with each wave bashing into my posterior, tablespoons of the sugary stuff were depositing themselves inside my board shorts. Layering themselves between the outer shell and the lining. Crikey.

I got up (which took a second or two) and for a minute, I was alarmed. I thought I had my cell phone and that it had fallen out of my pocket into the leg of my board shorts. "No, that can't be. I don't have pockets." Plus, it was on both sides, on the backs of my thighs.

Arrgh ... you guessed it.

So I waded out into the surf, shaking the bottom of my board shorts trying to free myself from the grit. Perhaps no one was watching. Yeah, right ... EVERYBODY does a little people-watching on the beach. Don't say you haven't, because you have. And especially white pasty males shaking their legs in unnatural ways in the green surf.

After the bizarre water dance, I thought I had it all removed, and we set out on our journey to cross the blazing noonday Sahara back to the beachside showers to rinse off. Like a dribbling little public beach shower really gets it all. Nope. Especially when it's in your hair.

We get back to my in-laws house and the kids hit the showers. Had I been crafty enough, I could have used the sand that came off of them to make the concrete for our new addition's foundation. Why weren't they uncomfortable??? They sat in that stuff all the way from the beach to the house! A 20-minute ride! I would have been going bonkers.

How is it that sand can get in places where other natural resources can't? Apparently I had gotten into it more than I realized. You know you're cursed by the sand gods if you take a potty break and you pass sand.

So I hit the showers to rid once and for all (until the next beach trip) these microscopic boulders plaguing my crevices. Down the drain they went, perhaps on their way back to the sea. Farewell and good riddance.

And don't even get me started on sunscreen ...

God Bless Truett Cathy

This man has to be one of the greatest heros of our time.

For those of you who are under-rock dwellers, Truett Cathy is the man behind Chick-fil-A. Beyond his unwavering dedication to God and support of family, including refusing to open restaurants on Sunday, he has one thing that just rocks my world.

He got the recipe for public school yeast rolls and uses it to make his Chick-n-Minis.

When I found these little jewels of poultry for breakfast, I was in heaven. I used to trade stuff to get yeast rolls in school. I even mentioned them in my high school graduation speech.

Now call me strange (as if you haven't before), but I used to put stuff in my rolls. Green beans. Mashed potatoes. And certainly any type of meat we had been served up, however mysterious it may be. I loved making yeast roll sandwiches. I still make sandwiches out of stuff, much to the chagrin of my wife as my children gleefully request to "put mac and cheese in white bread like Daddy."

So thank you, Truett Cathy and all your marketing and research for bringing back these delicious baked goods to my life. And it doesn't hurt one bit that they are stuffed with a good ole piece of fried chicken. A man after my own heart.

Project 607

We're about to start building. May the Lord help us.

The drawings are done. The contractor selected. The contract will be finalized in the next week. And then the real fun will begin.

See where we've gotten to already at http://project607.blogspot.com

It's gonna be good.

Dog Tired

Well, another year of camp has come and gone. And I'm beat. No doubt about it.

Funny enough, though, I think I got more sleep this year than I ever had. Was in bed around midnight just about every night except at the beginning and the end. I was up until 2 a.m. packing on Thursday evening/Friday morning, so perhaps that's why.

Leah came down with fever, chills and general "malaise" on Thursday. She was devastated that she had to leave camp. And it broke my heart. This was her first year as an official camper. At least it was at the end and she didn't miss much.

One thing did happen that struck me as awesome that I have to share with you guys. On Friday, after all the campers depart for home, we go to the office to pay our tab with the FFA camp staff, and load up cars and trucks with all the equipment and stuff in our entourage. I had cleaned out the office and ran over to my room to load up my luggage, and then I'd be heading out.

As soon as I came out of Pulliam with my luggage, it had started to rain. I mean BIG rain. Those huge drops that smack the pavement like little dive bombers. I threw my bag in and hopped in the car, then drove up to the 7th grade girls cabin at the top of the hill to get a good cell signal and make sure our friend was able to pickup Leah's stuff (thanks Rebekah for packing and Connie for transporting ... my lifesavers!)

It was still raining like crazy. The road I was on is like a huge loop around camp ... kinda like the FFA 285. So I continued to drive it all the way around camp, the rain beating down. I was passing cabins where I have been a counselor on the guys side, and all the other places where I've created memories for the past 10 years.

But once I passed through the main camp gate to leave, the rain started to ease up. By the time I got to the end of FFA Road at the highway, the rain had stopped. And that's when it hit me.

I could not help but think that God was washing camp.

Kids left behind junk this week. Stuff. Things that Satan had been coating them, suffocating them, and sliming them down with. They left it all behind. And now God was washing it away in the rain. Just there in camp. Cleaning it up for the next group.

You know ... when we were in the Prayer Room on Sunday before the campers arrived, many prayed for God to show up. But I am of the belief that God never leaves camp. He's always there. Waiting for us. Longing for us. Wishing that we would take Him with us when we leave camp and to share Him back at home. At work. At school. It doesn't take camp to have Him in our presence and our daily lives. The camp experience can be year-round.

But even when we fail Him ... year after year, He's there at camp. Just waiting. With a cleaned slate ... a fresh year of camp ... ready to wash us with His presence and His love.

Let it rain. Let it rain. Open the floodgates of Heaven. Thanks be to God.

Confessions of the Soul

It's shameless.

I actually watch The Bachelorette.

Veda and I hunker down every Monday night after the kids are in bed to debate over who DeAnna is going to select from her dwindling selection of guys.

It started two seasons ago ... we watched as Bachelor Brad methodically (per the script?) narrowed down the field to two ladies, including the current bride-to-be who he left at the alter before ever giving either one of them a chance. Many nights of moaning and groaning over bad acting and the absurdity of it all.

Then we slid through "London Calling" and the British bachelor. Ho-Hum.

And now we're rooting for the Georgia girl. And tonight, at least she dropped Graham. Sheesh ... he was as immature as it gets. Couldn't look her in the eye ... was he camera shy for kissing on screen? And what he came dressed in for the rose ceremony ... heck, let's just really throw the contest with our jeans, shirt untucked from a sweater and a jacket to dress it up. Good riddance. At least Twilly knew how to dress.

Of course, I step back from the show and ask myself, "Why? Why would I even bother blogging about something as mundane and moronic as a show about selecting your true mate from a field of 25?" Is it possible that God would arrange it to be so? I guess that Trista lady would say so.

The shamelessness will continue ... next Monday, same time, same channel. Arrgh, and we'll be at camp! Hello, DVR!

Lord have mercy.

Holiday Down

Another holiday has passed. The cruel reality of work is before me.

Do you working adults remember the excitement you had for summer vacation? Day after day of down time? Then the summer job came. That was only a glimpse of what was to come. Ah well ... it's good to be the worker bee. We had a great weekend, and I'm thankful for it.

And by the way ... I've had requests for a play-by-play on Duran Duran's "The Reflex" (a personal fav) and Manfred Mann's "Blinded by the Light." I can tell you now folks ... there's no mention of any feminine products in the latter. No matter what you thought the lyrics were (and no matter how I sang it when I was a kid, not that I sang it all that often.) I may have to do portions ... they both are pretty interesting. But neither are as funny to make fun of as Princey-man was. I'm just sayin'.

Does anyone else out there have difficulty leaving the digital volume on a stereo, iPod or MP3 device on an odd number? When I mean odd ... I mean numbers like 17. 33. 41. They are just weird. I have to have it on a multiple of 5, or at least an even number like 28. Course, if I'm pumping it up to 28, I'll go ahead and make it a round 30. Natch.

Just a little nugget there. I know I'm not the only one. Enjoy the short week ahead.

Lunch Blyte #3

OK ... prepare to sit a bit for this blyte. I was listening to the radio and heard a song from the eighties (my era) and it hit me how funny the lyrics were. The more I listened and thought about how this guy would be perceived in today's world, the more I laughed. See if you agree in this play-by-play reaction. And if you have an 80s song you'd like analyzed, post it in a comment and I'll give it some consideration.

Raspberry Beret
Prince & The Revolution, 1985

1 2, 1 2 3, huh
Yeah
Good show, man ... counting is a prime skill for the job market. Yeah.

I was workin' part-time in a 5-and-dime
Only being able to count to three may limit your career choices to small outlets and less than full-time status. Note the fact that you even had to start over counting at least once. Practice makes perfect.

My boss was Mr. McGee
Cousin to Mr. Magoo, a fine fellow ... can you see it?

He told me several times that he didn't like my kind
Cuz I was a bit 2 leisurely
Methinks it had someting to do with your spelling skills and gratuitous use of the number 2 incorrectly. As far as being leisurely goes ... this wasn't a cruise ship. It's a 5-and-dime. Sweep, man!

It seems that I was busy doin' somethin' close 2 nothin'
But different than the day before
While it appears you are making an effort to diversify your daily work schedule, a skoosh above "nothin'" is not a career builder.

That's when I saw her, ooh, I saw her
She walked in through the out door, out door.
OK ... Her entrance style should have been clue numero uno that this was not going to bode well for you, dude. Dyslexic or illiterate ... neither one will be a benefit in the long run.

CHORUS: She wore a raspberry beret
While the descriptive adjective sounds appealing and even tasty, colored berets should be reserved for the French or for military deployments.

The kind U'd find in a second hand store
Don't let your guard down. While she may appear to be Salvation Army today, it's Neiman Marcus tomorrow. What kind of contraction is U'd, dude? I have to award points for simplification ... you may have been a 15-year pre-cursor to texting.

Raspberry beret
And if it was warm, she wouldn't wear much more
Again ... she's playing the poor card on you man. Beneath that raggedy Daisy Duke exterior, the gold digger will run over your toes as she's heading to Phipps once she gets your 5-and-dime paycheck. Or perhaps that will be Wal-Mart. Either way ... she's going to rob you blind.

Raspberry beret
I think I love her
May I suggest the word "think" is your Achilles heel ... you better KNOW you love her before tripping over to The Shane Company.

Built like she was, huh, she had the nerve 2 ask me
If I planned 2 do her any harm, hmph
Hmph indeed. Let's make a self assessment here. Look at you. Dr. Ruth could take you out in one blow. So could your nameless beret girl. And my five-year-old.

So looka here, I put her on the back of my bike and ah...We went ridin'
down by Old Man Johnson's farm
Huffy or Schwinn ... we're not sure here. But it makes for a funny picture.

I said now overcast days never turned me on
But somethin' 'bout the clouds and her mixed
Somethin' ... 'bout ... Is it possible for you to begin to use full English words in the near term? You don't sound 2 bright.

She wasn't 2 bright,
Ah ... perhaps you are a match made in heaven. Course, we figured out her brightness level when she entered the store through the exit, remember?

but I could tell when she kissed me
She knew how 2 get her kicks
The only kick here should be 2 the curb ... either one of you.

CHORUS
The rain sounds so cool when it hits the barn roof
And the horses wonder who U are
The horses are also wondering who's going to get stuck having to eat that bale of hay you're doing the deed on.

The thunder drowns out what the lightning sees, huh
Huh. The lightning would prefer to be blind.

And U feel like a movie star
Not likely in your future from the looks of the side you're showing in the barn. Whatever you do, never do a bathtub scene in an opening of any of your music videos. Whoops ... too late. When Doves Cry was in 1984. Not a good look. Flash forward ... Purple Rain did not a movie star make.

Listen, they say the first time ain't the greatest
Ah, the infamous "they." Just note ... some would debate this point with you.

But I tell ya, if I had the chance 2 do it all again
I wouldn't change a stroke cuz baby I'm the most
With a girl as fine as she was then
Questionable at best. Old Man Johnson called her a "cow" as he was running you out of his barn. Mistaken identity? Perhaps not.

Lord, ras...
OK ... first it's choppy words, now you're not even completing sentences. You may have to give up your name and become a symbol if you can't grasp the English language.

(CHORUS)
The kind U find, the kind U find, oh no no! Uh huh, uh huh
And who wrote this song for you anyway? Was it during a writer's strike? Repetition equals "running out of things to say." Get your money back.

Where have all the raspberry women gone?
Where have they gone? Into hiding ... in a commune of raspberry women ... out of embarassment for those silly berets.

Yeah I think I, I think I, I think I love her!
I think, I think, I think ... thinking doesn't appear to be your strong suit.

(CHORUS)
No, no, no No, no, no, I love... Tell me where have all the raspberry women gone? {fade out}
We covered this already. Sounds like you could use some listening skill training as well.

I think I love...
Oy vey.

Of Chickens and Roads

What do you do when you're brain dead but you want to blog? How about a little plagarism with a side order of sarcasm? I found this a while back and pulled it out of storage. If you've read them before, read them again. If they are new to you, enjoy the freshness.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

GEORGE W BUSH -- We don't really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road or not. The chicken is either against us or for us. There is no middle ground here.

BILL CLINTON -- I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What is your definition of chicken?

RUSH LIMBAUGH -- I don't know why the chicken crossed the road, but I'll bet it was getting a government grant to cross the road, and I'll bet that somebody out there is already forming a support group to help chickens with crossing-the-road syndrome. Can you believe this? How much more of this can real Americans take? Chickens crossing the road paid for by their tax dollars. And when I say tax dollars, I'm talking about your money, money the government took from you to build a road for chickens to cross.

MARTHA STEWART -- No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer's Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level. No little bird gave me any insider information.

JERRY FALWELL -- Because the chicken was gay---isn't it obvious? Can't you people see the plain truth in front of your face? The chicken was going to the 'other side'. That's what they call it … 'the other side.' Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too.

DR SEUSS -- Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told.

GRANDPA -- In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and we liked it.

BARBARA WALTERS -- Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart-warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish its life long dream of crossing the road.

CAPTAIN KIRK -- To boldly go where no chicken has ever gone before.

SIGMUND FREUD -- The fact that you are at all concerned that the chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying sexual insecurity.

BILL GATES -- We're working on a rollout of Chicken2009, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your checkbook.

ALBERT EINSTEIN -- Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

THE BIBLE -- And God came down from heaven, and he said unto the chicken THOU SHALT CROSS THE ROAD. And the chicken didst cross the road, and there was much rejoicing.

THE LATE COLONEL SANDERS -- Did I miss one?

Red Dot Fever

It's an obsession now. I watch that little ClustrMap on the right for new red dots. How cool is that? Last week I identified a fan around Turkey. How appropriate. And now somebody is reading in Africa (or at least read once before screaming and running for the hills.)

And what looks to be Iowa ... maybe Ottumwa? (I always felt I would have been Radar on M*A*S*H if I had been in the service ... just not as mousey.)

And I see Tenessee and Toronto. It's like looking through the Romper Room special mirror ... I can see all of you special people!

And if you don't know what Romper Room is ... well, sorry. You missed out. Especially Romper Stompers. Talk about a chick magnet ... those things made you at least six inches taller. Who would have thought you could make money off of two little yellow plastic buckets turned over with rubber handles on them?

Sorry ... I'm having a flashback. Is that Snuffleupagus I hear? Or is it Rita Moreno shouting "Heyyyyyyy Yoooooouuuuuu Guuuuyyyyyssss!" as the director on The Electric Company? And you haven't lived until you've "Zoomah, zoomah, zoomah, zoomed!" with the cast of Zoom.

Where are they now??? Barney had them snuffed out.

Could you imagine Snuffy going up against Barney? Now I'll admit the purple dino has an edge since he stands on his hind legs all the time. But Snuffy could take him out with that trunk in one swift blow.

Not to mention ... Big Bird and Oscar could take on Baby Bop and B.J. any day. Throw in the Teletubbies, and you'd have one serious melee.

Colorful, but serious. I'd pay to see that one.

Lunch Blyte #2

I love Star Trek.

And yes, you do want to know why.

Have you seen the inside of the Enterprise? It doesn't really matter which version you are talking about ... the original, the next gen, or even the ones about space stations or other ships ... they all have one thing in common. It's orderly. Even the Klingons are orderly, albeit somewhat lacking a ship maid. And the Borg are Order Extraordinaire.

If you watch the shows ... you'll never see a pair of shoes sitting in the hallway going to the holodeck. Or toys scattered about the turbolift when you're heading to the bridge. Now mind you ... I'm not bashing being a parent of three. I'm just saying ...

Even in the crew quarters ... everything has a place and everything seems to be in it's place. It's much like when we go on a cruise. You don't have a huge stateroom, and what you do have is very efficient. Little storage nooks and crannies for your small amount of stuff.

I love cruises ... probably more than Star Trek. Yep, I'm certain I like them more. Now if there was a Star Trek cruise, where the ship was like the Enterprise and I had my own replicator ... THAT would be cool. No Earl Gray tea for me ... gimme a Coke float in a frosty mug to carry up to the holodeck, yes-sir-ee.

There's more that I like about Star Trek, but I'll hold it for future lunch blytes. Like the crash scene in Star Trek: Generations (the seventh movie, I believe). Talk about on the edge. I like The Matrix movies, too. Especially the motorcycle scene in the second one. But I digress ... this is becoming a bloated blyte.

And FYI ... I added ClustrMaps to my blog yesterday, and I have a reader somewhere on the western edge of the Black Sea. Perhaps Turkey or Bulgaria. I'm honored. And I hope I don't scare you away, little red dot.

Midnight Near the Beach of Gulf Shrimp and Something that Starts with E

OK ... I was trying to make a play on "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil," but the brain just quit in the middle there. Sorry.

It's the evening (now morning) of our first full day at the Moore's house, my wonderful in-laws. We try to visit them every now and then. It doesn't hurt that they are about 15 minutes from the beach, but it's the 7 hours it takes to get to them that makes it an uncommon visit.

The kids are in bed (Leah is reading a book behind me, because I'm using Dad Moore's DSL wire in the room where she's on the pullout sofa ... I'm sure she wants me to go to bed.) The house is quiet. THIS is spring break. Ah, the deafening silence.

We all went to the movies today, and everyone split up. Veda, Trudy and Leah to see Nim's Island. Trudy's boys to Superhero. And I ... I took the movie less frequented by. And it has made all the difference. (Apologies to Robert Frost for maiming his poem.)

I took Amy and Chaz to see Horton Hears a Who.

Now mind you ... I loved Dr. Seuss as a kid, and still enjoy reading his literature. Who wouldn't love The Foot Book? Yeah, yeah, yeah ... green eggs and ham and all that jazz. But there's so much more!

Anyhoo ... let me just say this ... movies can get the best of me. And apparently, good animated ones can, too. It hit me weird today, though. Why the heck was I choking up in the middle of Horton Hears a Who, for crying out loud?

It's the nature of the human spirit ... the willingness of everyone to want to survive. OMG ... I really did like this silly movie. I held myself together, but man, it was tough. I guess it's the fact that I really GET into the movie and connect with the characters, even if they are a goofy elephant or the mayor of Whoville.

Amy laughed as much as I did. Chaz was like Veda ... pretty quiet ... not much laughing out loud. Even when it was gut-busting funny. Weird. He was more interested in why we didn't have popcorn (we had just come from lunch) or why there were lights on the steps in the aisle.

So ... thumbs up for the movie. And if you don't get choked up ... then you must have a heart that's two sizes too small ... that's all.

Lunch Blyte

OK ... so I'm still suffering some ailment as described in my last post. But it hit me today that I'd be better off blogging short little snippets, perhaps while I'm eating lunch at my desk. I used to do this when a good friend of mine was stationed in Kosovo. I would sit down with my lunch and type up a Seinfeld letter ... much about nothing. Just banter ... jumping from one topic to the next. I think he enjoyed them. So this should be fun.

Here we are ... your lunch blyte for the day. Blog + byte. We're you really wondering? Not to mention, it rhymes with bite. So there you have it.

Topic for today: Sanford Mr. Sketch Scented Watercolor Markers. Can you believe these wonderful sticks of smell are still around??? I have a Blueberry one that was sitting here on my desk. I can remember saturating paper with color just so the aromatics of the picture would cloak the ineptitude of the visual. Teacher: "That doesn't really look like a flower." Chip: "Well no ... but smell it! Mmmmm."

I like almost all the colors but black. Black stinks. They now have a set of 18 (the original 12 plus some pastel flavorings: light pink bubble gum, lavender cotton candy, light yellow banana split, peach, light blue raspberry slushy and light green tropical punch.) I'll stick with the originals.

I think these markers have been around since 1972 ... I couldn't find a good history on them. I was five at the time and very impressionable. And I liked smells. So I have an affinity for these olfactory cylinders.

Kinda like the affinity for wet mimeograph paper. Those of you who are old enough ... you know what I'm talking about. And I'll admit ... I did inhale.

Have I Become a Blahgger?

I hit the ground running. Ah, a blog! A way to express myself and share a little bit of me with all of you. (Annie ... no comments about "yeah, both of us.")

I was firing off posts left and right ... leaving comments on blogs of my friends and their friends' blogs. I was excited to be in the blogosphere! Some of you even linked to my blog, and I wept. Course, I had to hint and beg, but you came through. The rest of you should follow suit.

And then it hit ... just as suddenly as it took off. It was like a train wreck.

I got blogstipated.

And don't pretend you don't know what that is. You log into your blog and you end up sitting there, trying your little heart out to produce something. You may even turn red in the face and break out in a sweat, straining for something. Anything! But nothing. The brain gets all stopped up. You're stuck ... bloated with emptiness ... wondering if you should investigate a blenema. I had to do more research before taking such a drastic step.

So I whipped out the trusty Wikipedia to see if I could determine exactly what condition I had ... to explain to me how it happened and what I should do about it.

Did I need to join B.A.? No, no, no ... this was the absense of the addiction. I was simply stuck. Certainly I could get things going without 10 steps.

But I had stalled after 10 random things. What was happening to me???

Was it blogtle dysfunction? Had the honeymoon worn off? Were mental issues affecting my performance? I mean ... I hadn't lost interest in blogging. To the contrary ... I was still infatuated with the ability to talk/type for an hour or so without interruption. But when it came time to do the deed, I was coming up short. Yes, it was sounding more like BD with every Google second going by. I even think I saw a commercial for this debilitating condition on The WB. Had I truly lost my li-bt-lo? (Log in, blog to, log out.) I'm only 40 ... it couldn't be.

But more alarming was the discovery of an entire plethora of conditions that I could face while in this wonderful world of Web 2.0. I pressed on.

Had I suffered from blogorrhea when I first joined in? I mean ... I wasn't incessantly blogging hour after hour, but I was doing it at least once a day. Sounds fairly regular to me ... no Pepto for me. I'd pass, thank you. Nasty stuff.

Many of you have come out of being blistless for a while ... a sense of apathy or disinterest with the whole thing. I'm glad to see you back. Perhaps knowing I wasn't alone would help.

I can assure you this much ... what you are reading is not a flog. It's all me, 100%. Fresh from the medulla oblongata, or somewhere near there I think.

Perhaps it's just a time issue ... not enough time when I'm sitting at the computer. Perhaps I should try moblogging from my cell phone? Short, sweet nothings to the blogdience? I know, I know ... you'd want more. And I can't do 80 words per minute on a ten-key.

But here I sit ... realizing my problems are finally over. I've emerged once again ... active and alive. I can go ride a horse or swim or do whatever I want, feeling fresh and renewed. I'm back in the blogging saddle, revived from reading all of your blogs ... finding my blog in your links ... laughing and singing and dancing. I can now stand up and move on with my life.

Yep ... all it took was a little blaxitive. Thanks folks ... you are all wonderful people.

I've been hit ...

Or should I say tagged ... thanks KTB ... you're gracious to think of me. Or everyone else has been tagged. Or your mama told you to. Whatever it was ... I'm game.

And the game is 10 random thoughts. Well, I've got about ten minutes before I have to start getting ready for a meeting tomorrow, so let me see what I can come up with. I guess this will be paced at 1 RPM (1 randomness per minute). Buckle up ... here goes.

1. I have two toes stuck together. It's like having a webbed foot, but only between two toes, not the whole foot. The technical term for fellow geeksters is "simple syndactyly." Wasn't that a Robert Palmer song? Anyhoo ... I used to pretend I was the "Man from Atlantis" with my webbed foot. Granted I don't look anything like Patrick Duffy. But I tried to swim like he did, like a flailing, dying worm with my hands by my side and my feet together. Did you know that you really can't get far underwater flailing like a dying worm with your hands by your side and your feet together? I know ... now. And so do you.
   
   
2. My great-grandfather, grandfather, dad, brother and nephew are all named George Bush. But our family is big into nicknames. My grandfather was "G.I.", my dad is Irvin, my brother is Skeeter, and my nephew is Bucky. Wackiness.
   
   
3. When I was born, the doctor told my mother, "Well Helen, you have a healthy bouncing baby boy." Her reply was, "Well, if that's the best you could do." I'm still not sure what to think of that, but I bet she was drugged.
   
   
4. I had three dates in college. They were with three different girls, and all within two months. I was having too much fun as a Redcoat (marching band) to date.
   
   
5. I like order ... lots of order. I prefer to have things in Tupperware containers vs. packages and bags of various sizes. If I am at your house and a picture is crooked on the wall, I can't concentrate until it's straightened. Notice the numerical order of the next one. More indications of the order disorder.
   
   
6. My six radio station presets, if you exclude the numbers, are Star River B Q Fish Jazz. In that order.
   
   
7. I love acting ... I won some awards in high school for the one-act play, and went on to act in the dinner theater at FUMC, which was awesome.
   
   
8. I hesitate to even mention this, but I LOATHE the "p" word used commonly to describe female underwear. It is the most wishy-washy, lame, gross word that I know of in the English language. Whenever someone says it, it's like someone whining. I know that God made everything, but the bad guy must have come up with this word. I think Eve originally called them "leaves" ... why didn't we just leave well enough alone and call them that? Works for me ... a bra and leaves set. No whining there.
   
   
9. I played french horn, trumpet and baritone/euphonium in high school, college, and into post-college. I also love to sing. I used to sing with a group at FUMC, and one year we were invited to sing at the lighting of the Rich's Great Tree at Underground Atlanta. THAT was way cool.
   
   
10. Let's wrap up (as we opened) with some more physical oddities. I'm color blind ... like for real. Not someone who has problems matching clothes, but really, genetically color blind. When I look at those circles of colored dots in the Ishihara color blindness tests, I cannot see the numbers in many of them. Oh, and I'm AB+, which is one of the rarest blood types and the universal recipient ... I can take blood from anyone. Well, I'd like to have their resume and accomplishments first, but in a pinch, I won't be picky. I'm married to an O-, the universal donor. I love that woman. And not just for her blood.
    

How random was that? Now I have to tag out ... let's hear from mother/daughter duo Kaye and Ann, and let's see if Ruth Allen will play the game! If not, we're going to call her a butthole (by her graces, not mine.) If I used language like that, I'd probably choose "butthead" vs. "butthole." Maintains complete distance from the leaves. Just FYI.

Toy Time

OK ... here's one everyone can relate to.

What was your favorite toy when you were a kid?

Now beyond my culinary fascination with Play-Doh (revealed in my last blog), I think my favorite was Tinkertoys. One big can of wooden Tinkertoys with plastic connectors and levers, etc. I made ferris wheels and cars and helicopters. When the pegs swelled up too much on the ends, I had to clamp the ends a little with my teeth. Much like Play-Doh. Little did I realize that getting them wet made them swell more. Ah, well.

My second favorite was a chemistry set and microscope. I was a dork. But those slides of mounted flies and blood stains ... all cool stuff.

Third up was a tie between a bike and an electric organ, which was basically a big fan that blew in the housing and allowed air to escape through the keys when they were pressed. I never learned how to play piano, but I belted out stuff on that organ. What a noise it would make when I leaned on the keys and tried to press them all down at once. Like a dying cow. Not that I've ever heard a dying cow. But I've heard one in labor, and my electric organ didn't sound anything like that.

So what was your childhood favorite? If you are going to comment that your favorite childhood toy was a Wii ... don't. I'm grumpy and I'll have to slap an age limitation on this blog.

OH, and BTW ... please pray for our family. I leave for San Antonio tomorrow, and Veda is going to fly out and join me Thursday evening. Leah, Amy and Chaz will be here with my in-laws, and Chaz is coughing up a storm. We think it's allergies. But nonetheless, it's tough for Mommy to leave for some R&R if her baby is sick.

And a haiku for you ...

Tinkertoys ... they rocked

And the can made a great drum!

Better than a cat.

Is that King Tut's Tomb in there?

Ain't it tough when you uncover the unfortunate choices of others that you now have to deal with?

I spent WAY too much time this afternoon in our shower. And I only wish it had been under some hot water. But no ... I was going to recaulk our shower. A quick job, it was to be. You know ... you get to a point to where you've used enough bleach to where the caulk is ready to throw in the towel. If it separates from the tile, removing it should be as easy as wheeling Britney out on a stretcher. Again.

So I get in there to start easily peeling away each precious bead of caulk, having done it's job and prepared for the caulk afterlife. Little did I know ... this caulk was heading for the underworld. At least, I was cursing it there.

Let's put it this way ... I broke one blade in the process, and at the end of two hours, I had stripped but not caulked a single bead.

For those of you who may be new homeowners, here's a little tip. TAKE OFF THE OLD CAULK BEFORE PUTTING ON NEW CAULK! A wise piece of information that the previous owners must not have read in Better Homes and Gardens. (Or perhaps they didn't discuss caulk removal in his magazine of choice. Not even a photo of caulk removal. Nada.)

It was so bad ... one corner had THREE layers of caulk. How did I know this? It was like going through an archaeological dig. I could tell by the strata and colors that this was no ordinary corner. And to top it all off, once I finally removed said caulks (yeah, plural), there was no grout in the corner at all ... it was a gaping hold between tiles. I had uncovered a secret passage. Was there money hidden in that crevice? No ... just wet caulk.

This was not the simple project I had planned to take on. Arrgh.

Fortunately, I had some tile grout. Now granted, it was about six years old, but after walking around with the tube in my hand, kneading it and rolling it like Play-Doh, I was ready to grout the gap.

So now our shower is posted as "out of order" for the next two days instead of one. But fear not, we will not grow ripe. We have other bathing options.

Homeowners ... please be informed. DECAULK before you caulk.

Sheesh.

Speaking of ... Play-Doh was the only time I can remember getting sent home from school. Or at least getting in big time trouble. In kindergarten, I tried to get someone to eat Play-Doh with me. I never could figure out why red Play-Doh tasted salty and not cherry flavored. But then again, so did the yellow and the green. Weird. Did you know that Play-Doh was originally invented as wallpaper cleaner? Now see, if I had known that, I certainly wouldn't have ingested it. Duh.

He's not Mafia ... I Promise

It appears that many of my blog posts will be regarding something overheard at dinner. Perhaps that's when the funniest things are said.

So, without further ado ... here's the star of this evening's show!

Chaz: "I want to say the blessing tonight!"
Chip: "OK ... you go for it."
C2: "OK ... let's pray."
(All heads bowed).
C2: "God is gweat ... God is good ... let us ... NO, WAIT!"
(C1 and family snickers)
(C2 goes Brando ... to the tune of "Where is Thumpkin?")
C2: "God ah faddah ... God ah faddah ... (pause) ... Ah-ah-men ... Ah-ah-men!"

And with that, our food was blessed, along with our hearts and our comedic senses. Good show, son!

Word Veri

One of the bestest bloggers out here is Caroline B. No, really ... you should read her stuff ... she's good. If you don't, you're not good.

She posted a comment on one of my posts recently that puzzled me ... I had no clue what she meant. Was it a typo? Was she medicated? I couldn't figure it out. In closing out her comment, she said, "Moilwax ... best word veri ever."

And for days, I fretted and fumbled around that comment. Was it a puzzle? Perhaps it was code ... something I had to figure out. She'd do something like that to me. More likely at 3 a.m. at summer camp, but I wouldn't put it past her on any other day.

But today, the clouds parted. I finally got it, while posting a comment on Annie's ultimate blog (another one you SHANT miss if you know what's good for you. And even if you don't ... I know what's good for you, and it's Annie's musings. Do it.)

Anyhoo ... as I was posting an eloquent comment to one of Annie's most recent perceptions into the human soul, I was reminded to type in a word verification for my comment so they'd know I was human ... as opposed flora or fauna, who have yet to master the keyboard. Word Verification ... hence Word Veri (sans the fication).

And ahhh ... I was released from my shackles. Course, at that point in time, now I had the best word veri ever. Me, me, me. And I'll share it with you.

Amfmkuny

Don't try to phonetically pronounce it. You have to spell out the A-M-F-M part first. Then say "kuny." I think it refers to the wickedly terrible state of Atlanta radio right now, with stations flopping around left and right.

Who comes up with these word veris? Flora or fauna?

Amfmkuny ... someone get Webster on the phone and let's get this one in print. 'Cause I like it. Just like snumping and snopping.

If you don't know ... don't be afraid to ask.

Tribute to My Wife

I don't see how she does it.

Here I am, working from home today. Veda is on a field trip with Leah, and I am so thankful to have a job where I can request a "working from home" day every now and then.

But how does she do this, day after day? Is this a superstrength item that only the female gender possesses? I am stunned. EVERY husband should have to do this one in a blue moon.

I am taking this five-minute break from everything to pay special tribute to her, for the fact that she manages this home daily without rarely a peep. She does it because she is dedicated to this family.

In addition to working from home, and there's plenty to do, both Chaz and Amy are here today. That was in the plan, and I was prepared for it. But then it hit me this morning ... we have an architect coming by at 3 p.m. to discuss some long-range items for our home. Outsider? Coming in to our abode? Dear GOD ... I've got to straighten up or he won't take our project!

So between feeding children and answering their 1,238,456th question regarding whether or not they can brush their teeth now (why don't they ask to do this at night?), attempting to keep them from pulling out while I am putting away, juggling a spreadsheet full of data for reporting, unloading the dishwasher so the sink can be emptied and cleaned, sweeping the breakfast area, cleaning the table ... and that's all just before lunch! And I haven't even made it to the living room yet! Sweet Jesus, save me!

Lord ... bless Veda, and all the wives/mothers out there who do this day after day. You have truly blessed Man to have given him Woman.

Now ... where did I last see the vacuum?

Haiku Shot

Tissues fill the trash

Homage to the battles fought

with my snotty nose.

Is this a PG-rated blog?

I texted my brother and his kids last night while I was sitting in front of Outback Steakhouse. I was waiting for my beautiful bride to arrive, so we could pull up a wonderful table (for two ... woo-hoo!) and we would chow down on some quasi-authentic Australian cuisine.

I was messaging my family to clue them in on this blog. (Which by the way has moved to a new URL of http://chipsup.blogspot.com/ ... reflects my generally upbeat disposition and the fact that I'm usually up way too late in the evenings/mornings on my computer.)

I love texting them when I think about it ... just a quick note ... a connection point in our harried lives. Yes, I could call them, but a text message is a broadcast ... I can get out a message to many with a single blow. Efficiency or laziness? I like to consider it efficient. Not to mention ... it's something they can read on their time, and respond when they can. I like that ... non-intrusive. Like blogs and email.

Anyhoo ... it hit me that I hadn't emailed my parents to let them know I was now blogging socially (versus blogging with a cause, like we did when Dad had his fall.) Do I dare fill them in? Would letting them read my blog reveal any new discoveries about their son ... shattering any pre-conceived notions about their "baby?"

(Sidenote: There's a running tradition that I'm the "baby who ..." and you just fill in the blank with whatever is going on in my life at the time ... so I'm the "baby who went off to college" ... the "baby who went to work for Coca-Cola" ... the "baby who got married" and so on and so on.) It's just a subtle reminder that I'm the baby of the family. As if I'd forget that notion.

So with that, I scanned my previous posts. But why? Would I actually be writing ... committing to Internet perpetuity ... anything that I would be ashamed of? I don't think so. I think I've said the word "fart" in front of them before, and I didn't end up eating the Ivory.

And then it hit me ... would I write anything that God would be ashamed of? Well I certainly hope not! I mean ... come on ... if anybody knows exactly what's on the Internet ... HE does. And I'll bet that His stance on it is the same as it is with everything in the world. Some of it pleases Him, and some of it doesn't. I hope that He at least grins every once and a while with mine.

So with that, I am extending an invitation to Mom and Dad later today to join in the studio audience. I hope that what they read makes them smile, as is the case with all of you. I hope they get a sense of the wonderful support group of friends and family that I have when reading your comments (keep them clean now).

I can attribute 99.8% of who I am to their influence. I find myself a perfect combination of the two. I love to tell stories like my Dad. I worry like my Mom. I love to sing like my Dad. I have a heart for others like my Mom. But above all, they taught me the importance of living a life with God in the midst of it all. And I truly thank them and love them for that.

Now the question is ... do I tell Veda what my blog URL is? =8^]

At the Dinner Table

Chip: "Chaz ... what is your full name?"
Chaz: "Chazzy Bush."
C1: "No, no. What is your REAL name?"
C2: "C ... H ... A ... Z!"
C1: "Well, that's great spelling, but what is your full long name?"
C2: "Allen ... Bush ... Junior!"
C1: "Closer ... what is your real first name? It also starts with the 'ch' sound. Ch ... Ch ... Ch ..."
C2: "CHUG!"
C1: "Oy vey."

Oops, Forgot the Haiku

Hmm ... let me think.

Sinuses draining

I don't have time to be sick.

Cough, cough, sniff. Cough ... ack.

I Can't Be Old

I went to college today.

Yes, I left the house at dark:30 this morning to get to Athens before all of Atlanta poured out into the federal interstate system.

Every time I go to UGA, I hope I don't stick out. Aren't there grey pot-bellied students?

Anyhoo ... today I was in a suit, carrying one bag and sporting my red and black backpack off the right shoulder ... just the way we all wore our backpacks in school. The only thing missing was my cassette player in the back pocket with earphones, cranking out "Oh Yeah" by Yello from Ferris Buehler. But that's OK ... I was looking good as I left the parking garage and headed by the Baptist Student Union toward the Journalism building.

Not thirty seconds out of the garage, and I had to laugh. "What a moron," I said to myself regarding a passing student. "Total nerd ... wearing both backpack straps on his shoulders. Lame-o." And I grinned to myself as I continued on my journey.

Wait ... another goober fully engaged in backpack straps passed by. Then some folks came out of Fine Arts. Why is everybody wearing both straps??? Don't you know how odd and out of place you look? Look at me, people! This is how you WEAR it ... draped off the right shoulder, giving yourself a bit of a swagger. Can you see it? Like this ... let it bounce off your right hip. See?

Hmm ... well, it appears once again that I was the moron on campus. The old fart, I suppose. Everyone knows you can seriously screw up your back wearing a backpack off to one side. Lord, forgive me for those mental lashings of idiotness. These are just healthy students trying to get through a semester.

But come on ... are those really the kind of pants that guys wear these days? Sheesh. And you ... yes, you ... the guy in the American Eagle shirt. You're tossing locks of hair on the front of your face more than Emeril with a wok of crawfish. I mean it ... stop. You look like you have a nervous habit, DUDE. If you can't speak through the hair, let me introduce you to Sir Scissors.

I went to my speaking engagement ... totally feeling like the grown up. Ugh. But then, I had lunch with my parents at the Mayflower Restaurant, which was established in Athens when Caesar was in Rome. One of these meat and two veggies places. I felt young in that crowd. I saw Michael Adams while I was there. The waitress called me, "Honey." NO tip in the world is enough for that type of service ... along with sweet tea (real sugar) and lemon.

OK ... so I'm older. Fine. But I dress better, and you can see my eyes without a fling of the neck. Fat, dumb and snappy, I am.

Not to Be Outdone

Well, as I find blogs from friends and family, I realize how much I've been missing! It's like talking, but nobody interrupts me. How cool is that?

Now I will admit to being a bit of an anomaly. A white male who enjoys communicating. In the proper circles, of course. Someone asked me if I enjoyed the Super Bowl. Admittedly, it was never on the TV at our house. (Now college would be a different story, but NFL just doesn't do anything for me.)

So I write. And I'm not hung up on sports 24-7. But I do carry a man card. I appreciate justice, but don't necessarily like to fight. More like a Jean Luc Picard without the starship and the torpedoes. Don't get me started ... I can guarantee you'll hear more about Star Trek. Who does that jazz up for future reading? Here's a shout-out to all my Trekker peeps! Be Heard!

Anyhoo ... I'd rather negotiate between conflict than be one of the sides. Annie, I guess that rules me out as Peter Pan. While he was good and all that, he didn't flinch at a battle. Besides, I don't look as snappy in green tights. Trust me. But the hat is dapper.

I digress. A writer. Low sports. A lover, not a fighter? And I get really gigged over finding a good deal. ESPECIALLY travel. Always did, even as a kid. I was the one to research hotels (the pool had to kick) and make reservations for our vacations. "Travel agent" was one of many jobs that I planned. Along with architect, civil engineer, pharmacist, weather personality, and (pity the thought) a yearbook representative. You know, like for Jostens.

Wait ... did someone just whisper "lame" under their breath? Mmm-hmm. Don't think I don't hear you.

I even love to just walk in the mall. No real goal, just ambling. Odd, yes. Relaxing, yes. And I love walking hand-in-hand with Veda. But she's a goal shopper. Get in ... get what you need ... get out. We truly are sometimes the perfect storm of a role reversal. God is good ... He knew what He was doing when He put us together. But doesn't He always know?

For those of you who have no clue ... here's the family unit on the left. Well, at least the fam as I knew it back in 1976. Looks like we all had the same hair stylist. And yes, I was a blonde. What of it?

I'm surprised our collars did not just open up and swallow our heads whole. Or start flapping and take flight. If my collar didn't, my ears were prepared as backup in case I needed to be airborne.

I took pride in pulling teeth. In fact, I determined it was quite the business, and I think I pulled three over the course of two weeks.

Here's the current Bush family, where I'm the head. Veda's the neck. Yes, yes, yes ... turns the head. Leah is the heart (shares space with God.) Amy is the memory ... like an elephant. And Chaz is both arms and legs ... flailing them about whenever he can. Boy, will he be a future blog topic. And, of course, a haiku for you!

A man's family
Reflects his innermost traits
I'm a complex guy.

The Start of Something Beautiful

Testing, testing. 1 - 2 - 3

Mrs. Teevee: I assume there's an accident indemnity clause.
Willy Wonka: Never between friends.

Hmmm ... after a failed attempt to get someone to laugh out loud on MySpace (perhaps nobody was reading?) ... we'll try something new. Something fresh for 2008. Something that has been done for years now. OK, OK, remember that I turned 40 this year, so I'm catching up.

Actually, I'm not new to the blogging scene ... to the contrary. When my Dad had his traumatic brain injury in August, 2007, it was a blog that came to the rescue of our family. It kept us from fielding phone call after phone call. It gave us a place to share what was going on, and to let everyone have a peek into our family and how we pushed through (with God's grace) a very trying time. It's still there ... a legacy to God and His miracle. http://gibush.blogspot.com.

And BTW ... Dad was released to drive in December of 2007. God is good!

But this isn't going to be about the past. I've trashed my MySpace account ... snumped it, I did. While I thoroughly enjoy Facebook now, I also find the musings of some of my favorite people in the blogosphere quite entertaining. And I love to write ... even at 12:44 a.m.

So we'll give it a go. Successful blogging requires dedication and skill. It requires cunning and wit. I only hope that I can provide as much laughter as others can. Life can be a laugh fest.

But then again, perhaps only Caroline can say "gassy" and really make one laugh. But it works for me, every time.

My eyelids they droop
Midnight, thou hast past me by
Blogger slumber time.