Rabbit, Resolve

              As a new year is upon us, most people resolve to do things they know they are not going to do, such as lose weight, go to the gym, be better people, etc.  I have long been an advocate of making good changes throughout the year, whenever the evidence suggests a change is needed.  I don’t know if this is because I have a pragmatic personality or if there were something in my past which haunted my subconscious?  All I know is I recently found this when I was going through the Scrapbook my mother made for me many years ago.

 

 

 

This was written when I was in second grade, at the tender age of seven.  I feel sure I truly meant to feed those rabbits and I remember owning them for a very, very short time.  It appears the upkeep and well being of those rabbits was a sore point with my mother as I was uncharacteristically succinct in my resolution.  I didn't even illustrate it, y'all.

I feel the conversation went thusly.

Dusty (dutifully completing his homework):  “Mommy, what does resolve mean?”

Mommy: “It’s when you promise to do something.”

D:  “Oh, ok.  I have to resolve to do something this year.  My teacher said.”

M:  “You need to resolve to feed those rabbits we bought you and your sister.”

D:  “That doesn’t sound fun.  I want to resolve to do something fun.”

M:  “Write it down, son.  I want to see it in writing.  In 1978 I resolve to feed my rabbits.  That is all you will have time to do.  That and making your bed.  Now go find your sister (dutifully avoiding her homework, I feel sure).  She's going to write it, too.”

D:  “Yes, ma’am.”

I remember the rabbits disappeared quite suddenly one day and I’ve never known if it was due to my lack of feeding them and their subsequent death or if we were disinterested and they died from neglect or if my mother tired of us “forgetting” we had them and sold or gave them away.  I truly do not remember interacting with these rabbits other than the day they arrived.   And this is from a kid who played with Legos too far into high school to admit; if I liked something I was invested, y’all. 

Only the souls of those poor rabbits  know their fate.   If my sister knows, she’s not telling. 

You see why I don’t resolve to do anything, people.  It could lead to death or worse…chores.

Legos, Career Options and Lying Children

               I would like to think I was not a bald-faced liar at the tender age of 11, but I recently came across something which bears discussion.  While looking through my scrapbook, I found an essay I wrote for a sixth grade assignment stating I wanted to be a welder when I finished school; just like my Dad.

                Maybe I was pandering in my bid to be #1 son, but I’d like to believe I was not so conniving.  The Dad has accused me of renouncing my heritage but there are things I like which are “his” things.  I really do enjoy listening to country music, from the 60s through the 80s only.  I requested to dress as Buck Owens on Halloween in third grade.  I already had the Hee-Haw overalls was it such a giant leap to imitating Mr. Owens?  I would never have been Roy Clark; he had weird hair and The Dad was a vociferous critic of everything Roy except his musicianship.

                It could very well have been I was unfamiliar with other occupations.  I was aware there were career options based on my extended family:  carpenter, farmer, and welder.  Lawyers, Doctors and the somewhat vague “Businessman” (like the fathers on TV), were careers I didn’t feel were available to me as they were “not us” and something you did if you lived “in town”.  I assumed my future was for me to continue the family tradition.  What that tradition was I was uncertain and most assuredly not inclined to inquire.

As an aficionado of Legos I was adept at designing the most intricate of homes, to include porte cocheres and dormers, and for several years had imagined being an architect, once I found out those were the people who designed houses.  I don’t remember if I believed I could be one, however.  Playing in your room and making a living doing something were concepts I hadn’t yet reconciled.

When I was specifically asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” my most emphatic answer was always, “Indoors.”  I was tired of sweating the in Louisiana heat (later Oklahoma heat, then Texas heat and finally Mississippi heat.  Is it any wonder why my first job outside the south was in Alaska?). I just wanted to work inside with the “bought air” which is how The Dad describes air conditioning.  How I would get indoors and what I would do to stay there, I was uncertain.  I simply knew if I were committed enough to chance a belt-whipping to hide in the front hall of my Aunt Penny’s house enjoying even a limited amount of AC, I’d definitely attend whatever school was necessary for whatever length of time was required to remain bereft of excess body moisture.  No one can pull off cute while perspiring, much less someone who was having enough trouble pulling off cute in Husky-sized Tuffskins. 

I have no way to explain my career path other than God wanted me to work in healthcare.  He has allowed me to excel in my chosen field and now I am a healthcare executive, which is something I still don’t necessarily believe even though I’ve been in this position almost a year.  I find so much fulfillment helping Veterans every day and I thoroughly love what I do.

I have to assume if I did harbor inclinations of actually becoming a welder, they were sweated out of my system by the time I started high school.  And the blue collar options winnowed themselves naturally after my lack of interest/aptitude with animal husbandry at home and Woodshop at school.  I went to college as it’s what I believed smart young men did to escape the boonies.  I was unaware of the field of federal healthcare as a possible profession.  I originally applied for my student position as a source of income while finishing my Master’s degree.  In Education Administration, mind you.

I sometimes wonder if I would have had a different journey or career if I had only prayed about college before I went.  If I had prayed about my major, the school I was choosing, or my career path?  I know God has plans and I know He knows the mistakes we’re going to make and I think He allows us to take our sometimes convoluted routes to the eventual place we’re supposed to be. I don’t know if I was destined to work in healthcare or whether God placed me where I could have the most impact, when I finally stopped running in ridiculous circles and actually listened. 

If God can make a success out of a stubborn, sweaty, lying 11 year-old, He can make a success out of you.  All I know is when I listen to Him, I’m good to go.  Since he invented ideas, I know he has plenty and I can assure you they are better than all of ours, combined.  Just ask Him to tell you His plans and see what He says.  You may be surprised.  You'll definitely be scared.  You will ultimately be happy.

Since I am apparently having church all up and through here, I guess it’s time I closed and let y’all get to the buffet.  Can I get an Amen?

Legitimate Over-reaction?

                Several weeks ago I suffered through a particularly virulent stomach flu.  It wasn’t much fun but I came out the other side nine pounds lighter so I was feeling like one of those under-fed girls from Devil Wear Prada, but in the good way.  They should figure out how to bottle stomach flu and sell it as a weight loss program.  Am I right?

                I don’t often complain about being single, but when you are sick, it’s a bummer.  I know Jesus is all I need, but He is not going to run out to the Rite Aid and pick up my chicken soup, whether it’s for my soul or not.  So, I am standing in line to buy my medicine and other illness accoutrement when I remembered I needed new air freshener for my car.  Even while unwell, I am multi-task oriented, y'all.

                I selected “Clean Linen” by Febreze, as it has a crisp light scent.  I chose the little clips you affix to your air conditioning vents.  When I got in the car, I immediately unwrapped the package, activated the container, plugged it in and turned on the air conditioner as it is Southern California and we don’t actually have weather like the rest of you poor folks in other parts of 'merica.

                You know how air fresheners are REALLY STRONG when they are activated?  It smelled as if someone had shoved a Tide Pocket in each of my nostrils, and not in the good way.  Trying to keep all fluids inside my body, I had to immediately roll down all the windows and drive with my head hanging out in the air like your pet dog, drooling ever so slightly if I'm being honest.  And I already looked a mess, having pulled onto my person the closest clothes to me when I realized I had to leave my home even though I was deathly ill. 

                Imagine the sight of me wearing jeans, a 3/4-zip pullover sweater and a baseball cap from the United States Senate.  I realize this outfit is de rigueur for tech CEOs but in my world I should have been moving furniture or hauling hay. 

                In order to not have an accident in my car or on the roadside, I was forced to hang my head out of the window, driving at a high rate of speed, half-woozy from my illness, attempting to escape a suffocating cloud of clean.  Thankfully I made it home in time to relieve myself. Now, however, every time I smell “Clean Linen” or its cousin “Fresh Laundry” I immediately have to use the bathroom. 

                My sister has the same reaction when she hears rap music. 

               

A Legacy of Cuff Links

             Each time I wear a French cuff shirt and must choose the appropriate cuff links, I see among my options the ones my father gave me several years ago.  They are vintage, silver with a band that wraps around the cuff and one of my favorite pairs.  He tells me he wore them when he married my mother, admittedly his best life decision (not necessarily hers).  It made him happy to give me something I appreciated as I have seemingly rejected most everything else, including his presence in my home after a wearisome three years.  He wants to leave a legacy; to live forever through memories and in the hearts of his children.  But you don’t have the luxury of choosing your legacy.  A legacy is decided by those most impacted.

               I recently learned crying about death does not count against a man when it comes to visible emotions.  Of course, this information was shared by a fictional character (Victor Maskell) who was a stoic Irishman masquerading as an Englishman.  If Mr. Maskell is to be believed, my father, an actual stoic Irishman, has never cried.  I did not bear witness to my father’s tears prior to my mother’s death almost 16 years ago, not even at the death of his father, an admittedly bitter and unhappy man.   My mother was the love of my father’s life and he has yet to recover from her passing and I wonder if he ever will.  Since her death, he has cried on a consistent (sometimes daily) basis, seemingly unaware.  I’ll catch him staring into the middle distance, tears flowing.  When I ask what’s wrong he jumps as if I have jolted him awake and gives an accusatory stare, confused by my concern and the inexplicable moisture sliding down his cheeks.

                I often wonder if some of his tears concern me.  As the oldest son of the oldest son, I was unknowingly saddled with the responsibility of becoming everything he was and achieving everything he had not.  I rejected the former and accomplished the latter, but not in the way it was expected.  I’m too different; more like my mother than him.  To be honest, I have traits of both.  From him I inherited my sense of humor, my temper, a gift for generosity and oddly short legs.  From her I inherited a smile that almost hides my eyes, a talent for design, the ability to find a bargain and a knack for organization.  However, being “like my mother, but a boy” is not something to which a Thompson man should aspire or so I've been told, with varying degrees of insistence.

A lifetime of miscommunication and hidden feelings led to an almost non-existent relationship.  Living with him for three years as an adult led to the startling understanding of how alike we are.  We have repaired our relationship but he has attempted to revise our history through specifically misremembering watershed moments.  Those episodes he cannot convincingly rewrite, he has continually attempted to rectify through gifts as the words he wants to use escape him.  The legacy of the Thompson men is not one of verbosity; yet another example of my dissimilarity.

                He has told me before he is intimidated by me because I’m so different, so much smarter and “fancier”.  And I understand what he means.  I am unlike him in so many fundamental ways it’s difficult for people to believe we are related.  I don’t know why I’m different but I always assure him I am proud to be a member of my family and to be from where I'm from.

I want him to understand I’ve moved past the point where I need paternal reassurance of my value.  I needed his unconditional love when I was younger.  I never felt it and was a broken as a result.  You can’t un-break a heart, but you can grow beyond those feelings, and I have.  And no matter how many times I tell him, he continually wants, and tries, to right past wrongs.  His repair system is based on gift giving, so I accept the gifts; to do otherwise would bruise his perilously fragile ego.

It is through sheer force of will these particular cufflinks have become part of my heritage.  One look at the photos of my parent’s wedding will clearly show my father is not wearing cufflinks.  My response to his attempted alternative history is to feel extraordinarily loved. 

He is leaving a legacy, only in ways he can’t imagine. 

Faux Crocodile Waste Baskets and the Literary Elite

              This past Sunday I was feeling a little more country than normal because I was craving red meat like a son of a gun.  My brunch buddies and decided on Outback because most non-chain steak houses are closed for lunch and I am a sucker for a fried onion, y’all.  Don’t judge me. 
 

              Afterwards I had nothing planned other than a quick trip to the grocery store and a car wash, because my car was in need of a cleaning, people.  The dirt had reached critical mass.  The only thing around here resembling rain is, well, actually nothing around here resembles rain.  It’s as dry as Yankee stuffing on Thanksgiving, said the proper Southerner who made dressing like God intended.  And mind you, my car is spotless on the inside.  I keep my gold faux crocodile waste basket regularly emptied.  Your question to me may be why I have this in my car.  My response would be, “What color would you choose to complement a chestnut interior?”

                Prior to provision acquisition I frequented my favorite car wash place.  It’s one of those automatic washers which pull your car along a belt so you can literally do nothing while cleanliness occurs all around you.  I decided to check Facebook to see what’s going on in the lives of those friends who I haven’t unfollowed due to their ridiculous rhetoric about guns or politics or both.  And for the record, when it comes to politics, I am decidedly con.  I find most politicians repugnant or, at the very least, untrustworthy and exhausting. 

                To my surprise and delight, I found Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) was having a book reading and signing in Pasadena, home of Big Bang Theory and about 30 miles from the particular spot where I sat gliding through the foam.  And it started in 45 minutes.  And I needed to see her (1) because she has written two hilarious books (Let’s Pretend this Never Happened and Furiously Happy) and (2) I wanted to introduce her to my blog.  My hope is to turn my blog, this one right here, into a book, y’all. 

                For those not living in the Los Angeles area, most people can get 30 miles in about 30 minutes; around here, not so much.  I knew I had to leave immediately to even begin to arrive within a reasonable amount of time to meet, much less hear Ms. Lawson; who is honest, hilarious and a writer like I want to be.  As I am always appropriately attired, I didn't have to give my clothes a second thought.  It's times like these when I am glad I never leave home in anything less than a fantastic outfit.  I knew every minute counted so I did not return home to retrieve her books, naively thinking I would pick up a copy at the store.  I bypassed the free vacuum with purchase and raced toward Sheldon and Leonard’s ‘hood.

                I arrived at the location much more quickly than I would have thought possible without a TARDIS, only to find they were sold out of both of her books.  I chose to purchase a “Be Awesome Today” journal in electric salmon leather as I can always use a new journal and I felt Jenny would approve.  And two and a half hours later, she did.

It was Big and Red but Definitely not a Barn

             In 1990 I was pledging Delta Sigma Omega and I was a nervous wreck.  This was my opportunity to be a regular guy and I was determined not to mess up.  During Hell Weekend, alumni would stop by the college and the active members would take them and the pledges to The Club to bond, I suppose, over the sharing of libations.  As a teetotaler and avid dancer (yes, I know it sounds rather non-fraternal) I had designated myself as the driver of the alcoholics, which is what I call anyone who drinks more than me.

Throughout the week we had been requested to do all manner of embarrassing things like run across campus wearing only boxer shorts, dress up as nerds and escort each other to class, carry (and keep from breaking) an egg, etc.  I was pretty sure hijinks were to ensue at The Club as hijinks seemed to be de rigueur in this particular establishment.

When we arrived, we found there was a dance contest and I had been entered; the winner was to receive $300.  In 1990, y’all.  That was enough to buy 750 soft tacos and a medium Dr. Pepper from Taco Bell, people.  I was about to get rich up in here. 

My brothers were depending on me to take the trophy and I couldn’t let them down.  If you threw in a few orphans or a park/nursing home to be saved, this would be like 1/3 of the straight-to-video movies in the late 1980s.  Regardless I was determined to be a hero, like Kevin Bacon dancing in Footloose except not athletic or in a feed mill or with a trashy preacher’s daughter in red boots. 

I scoped out the competition as those movies had taught me and I felt pretty good about my chances.  We each had a turn and the judges narrowed it down to the finals which included me and a sketchy looking girl with “Sonic Hair” and extremely tight acid-washed jeans who bent over a lot.  The last finalists were two friends from out of town who had a routine; they literally 5,6,7,8-ed at the start.  I felt much cooler than these two with their rat tails and Z Cavariccis and that’s saying a lot.  I was spectacularly uncool.  However, I was also rhythmically gifted.

I told the DJ to choose something funky with a great beat and he chose Kyper’s “Tic Tac Toe”.  Y’all remember that song?  If so you know it was ON.  I danced with all my might and thought I was doing well.  About a minute into my dance, three young ladies from the social club (Mam’selles) with whom we were partying danced onto the floor and made a sexy semi-circle around me.  They looked like Robert Palmer’s video girls but with actual smiles and bigger hair but relatively the same amount of red lipstick.

The winner was based on audience response and nothing beats 30 or so slightly inebriated frat boys and social club girls.  Not even acid-washed clad hoochies bending over.

The closing scene of this little movie shows me with my winnings treating 30 people to the Shoney’s Breakfast Buffet, which at that time was only $5, everybody. 

The End.

Wonky Moles, Ninja Turtles and Shame

           The rate at which people I’ve just met are asking me to disrobe is alarming.  I made an appointment with a Dermatologist for the annual mole patrol.  I arrived at the appointed time and location and was ushered into a room and introduced to the Nurse Practitioner, Nurse Lady (not her real name), who summarily asked me to undress and then began pointing at my body and commenting on what she found less than desirable. This I did not need at 8:15 in the blessed morning. Keep in mind this was before I had me daily iced tea from Dunkily Donuts.

            If I’m being honest there are many wonky things about my body but this particular wonkiness could be related to cancer so I allowed the inspection to continue.  Did you know there are ABCs to mole/spot inspection?  There are and it’s cool in a medically nerdy sort of way.  A is for asymmetry – if your spots or moles form a complete circle without lots of meandering lines, you’re probably good to go.  B is for border – if there are visible borders, it’s a good thing.  C is for color – if the entire spot is one continuous color that’s good.  If it’s not, you’d better have a doctor check it out.  Ombre is only good on fabrics and hair, y’all.  You heard it here first.

            Unfortunately we must return to my partially nude body.  Unlike a turtle, I prefer to be on my back if required to be in the prone position.  Admittedly my ninja skills are subpar, but what I do have I would like to employ and you cannot do this when lying on your stomach.  There I lay, face down, clad only in boxer briefs being scrutinized by my new friend (trying to go through my shtick about where I'm from which is required each time I meet someone new and I open my mouth and a magnolia falls out).  But this scrutiny I can manage until I hear a brand new voice.  And I am introduced to Nursing Assistant Lady while my old and dear friend of 15 minutes, Nurse Lady, pulls down the waistband of my underwear to ask the new girl her opinion of a somewhat wonky dot on my top left butt cheek. 

            Since I cannot see or interact with either of these ladies due to my position, I attempt to insert myself in the conversation by stating, “Of course it’s wonky.  I don’t buy my freckles and moles at Brooks Brothers. If I did they’d be plaid or at least paisley.”  I hold for laughter and there is none.  I have never done stand-up but I feel fairly certain failing to elicit a giggle while mostly nude, face-down on an exam table in a dermatologist’s office about three blocks from the bad part of town would be considered bombing.

            The next thing I hear is one of the voices say, “What was that, Mr. Thompson?  We stepped out of the room.”  What?  Not only did they leave me unattended with a partially exposed butt check, they didn’t even close the door leaving my nakedness visible to all and sundry in the outer office?  And what did they see on my cheek to cause them to whisper in the hallway like one of the downstairs people on Downton Abbey?

At first I was nervous, then I was appalled, then I was sad for those who sneaked a peek as my derriere is not worthy of discussion or viewing.  Semi-public nudity is not the direction I have been trying to take in my life.  My family is not a naked family and I am not a naked person in any context other than a shower and only then because not exposing your skin to the water will get you less than desirable outcomes.  Also, when I showered in my underwear after a football game in 7^th grade, I was so mercilessly mocked by my teammates, it caused deep psychological harm, y’all. 

We must return to the nudity once again to bring this story home.  In my haste to right the many, many wrong(s) of this visit, I attempted to flip over onto my back to at least let the paper napkin of a gown cover me.  As I was doing so, Nurse Lady attempted to flip me back over onto my stomach as she needed to relieve me of three wonky moles to be sure they were not cancerous.  The misunderstanding of who exactly was in charge of my body movement resulted in a pulling of something in my hip region, causing admittedly limited pain, but pain nonetheless.  The unforeseen consequence is this injury is preventing me from attending the yoga/Pilates/rolling on the floor with fat people class this Saturday. 

What can I do?  Nurse Lady’s parting instructions were to avoid strenuous activities for at least two weeks.  Her exact words were, “If you don’t hear from me in two weeks, it means the tests came back benign.”  But I can read between the lines.  I do work in healthcare, y'all.