Very recently, I am loath to admit, I was not the shining beacon of
Christianity that you have come to admire.
No, dear readers, those who bore witness did not see Jesus in me, to be
sure. Now it wasn’t so much what I said
or even that there could have been choreography (I believe some people refer to
it as gesturing), there was simply a loosening of my self-imposed limitations
for public displays of my unhappiness.
And other than the occasional forced wrangling of a wayward server at a
dining establishment, I am usually free of anything bordering on pedestrian
behavior. And I’m not talking about
persons in crosswalks. Let me elaborate.
As you may or may
not know, I am not a fan of bicyclists. So much so that it sometimes causes me
pain. Now I would like to say, before
you get all out of sorts, that I do not hate bicyclists, that would be un-Christian,
and I even have some very close friends who are cyclists. However, were I to come across them on their
velocipede (because I am that guy) I would want to hit them…just…so. Mind you, I don’t want anyone to die; I just
want them out of my way and off of my streets.
The main reason is
I cannot stand the fact that they are selfish.
Allow me to elaborate again. They
can’t decide if they want to be a car and share the road or something far more
nefarious and ignore stop signs and traffic lights. At least the motorcyclists who weave in and
out of traffic illegally state their obnoxiousness through loud tail pipes and
ponytails. All you see of those blasted
cyclists are skintight clothes and weird little helmets. For those outfits alone, they should be
punished. Because, I can assure you, no
one wearing spandex should actually be allowed to do so. Those who have the body to pull it off don’t
seem to feel the need, apparently.
But as I am a
benevolent chronicler, I will give them a free pass as I have other questions
to share, dear readers. And some of
those would be:
1.
Why do I get weird songs stuck in my head when I
hear my father whistle? And I don’t mean
weird as in “did he make that song up?” I mean weird as in “why on earth is he
whistling ‘Little Drummer Boy’ in June and why does it make me think of Janet
Jackson’s ‘Black Cat’?”
2.
Why does my father ask me if I brought
leftovers, specifically butter beans, when I come home after a Friday night
Happy Hour, where I go to eat inexpensive food whilst my posse drinks it up? Where does he think I go after work, the VFW
Hut?
3.
Why does he consider all of my friends who are
not fat or a redneck to be a dork or a nerd?
And, yes, I have plenty of non-dorky friends, thank you very much. Well, not PLENTY, but some.
4.
Why does he insist on wiping his spills on the
counter/stove/table with his hand (not a paper towel or dishrag) and even then
only half-heartedly? Has he decided that
the only way for me not to be able to remove him from my home is because he was
literally stuck to the counter in the kitchen, like the tomato seeds and
strawberry juice that typically reside there until I come home from work to
more work? Did I mention I walk to work? Uphill.
Both ways.
5.
Why does he insist on sharing the murder report
from across the bay (Oakland) and pretend it’s for our little town; acting as
if this sleepy little haven of wealthy, older folks is dangerous. It’s Menlo Park, for goodness sakes; a
bedroom community of a bedroom community of San Francisco. The police report in our weekly paper is
filled with such breathtaking crime as random noise disturbances and reports of
“suspicious persons”, which always ends up being a case of mistaken identity
with either a new gardener or the housekeeper’s grandchildren.
6.
Why does he insist on calling my house, which is
on the grounds of the medical center, government housing? I know it is in the literal sense, but you
know what he means. And, no, I don’t
know why it bothers me. That’s a bit
more introspective than I can to be at this juncture.
7.
Why can’t he remember that both the woman who
cleans our home and the woman who cuts our hair (also in our home) are both
named Clara and they are not, in fact, the same woman? One is about 23 and pregnant; the other is
about 50 and clearly not pregnant or even chubby but he can’t seem to tell them
apart.
8.
On that note, why did “Haircut Clara” say to
Lulu, on her first visit to our home, “Do you smell my doggie on my hand?” as
she offered her hand in a sign of friendship, like you do when you meet a new
dog, and then proceed to tell us her dog had died thirteen, yes you read that
correctly, years prior? Is he stuffed and
mounted in her den, I wonder?
9. Why can't I ever figure out how to properly close a blog post?
These are the questions I have. If you have answers, please let me know. And that is all I’m saying.
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