I Can't Get Comfortable

If you've ever seen even one episode of The Big Bang Theory then you know Sheldon has his spot on the couch.  He's measured it between the bathroom and the fridge, positioned it for sunlight and the flow of air conditioning.  For him, it was the ideal spot.  No one else was ever allowed to sit in it as it was perfectly formed to his posterior.  To say he is obsessive about that small cushioned seat is an understatement.

I know how he feels to a degree, but for me it's not the seat, or at least not just the seat.  It's the head-space as well.

The Gift of Sacrifice

"No greater gift is there than that a man should give his life for another."  For some, sacrifice comes easily while others can barely pronounce the word. As a parent, I know about sacrifice.  I learned it from my parents as I looked back over the years.  There were times that we ate but they didn't.  There were Christmases that my sister and I had gifts we didn't appreciate while they had nothing.  I had what I needed for school while my dad skipped lunch.  Sacrifice.

I Just Want Some Gas!

Standing in line at Murphy’s Oil USA, I waited to make my twenty dollar donation to the big oil companies.  You would think it a simple task, but as I have found in this modern age of convenience, nothing is convenient.

An ancient man and his daughter stood in front of me, him talking feverishly to the clerk while putting his hands in the pockets of his Atlanta Braves windbreaker and her trying to get back in the car without too much notice being drawn to them.  I knew she was the man’s daughter because she kept apologizing to the clerk for the much older gentleman’s behavior and only a child would be embarrassed enough to apologize for a parent's ranting.  It's karma for how we as children embarrassed them with our flashing our underwear at the audience during our second grade Christmas play.  Our parents may even be faking it just for revenge.

Drive between the Screaming People

I don't know if it's karma, fate or mockery, but I find it absolutely ironic that after I decide on the title of my first collection of essays my glasses snap in half.  The book, "Hey, Four Eyes!” is a collection of essays based on my growing up years, in which I wore thick glasses for the majority of my puberty.  I decided on this title two days ago and suddenly I find myself in need of a new pair of eyes.  Even glasses, it seems, don't like being the brunt of jokes.  I know I hated it growing up.

Taking Out the Trash

It’s a fight every week.  Actually, it happens twice a week because garbage pickup occurs every Tuesday and Friday, but still it’s a battle being waged.  Recycling is picked up on Wednesdays but I can understand that being forgotten once in awhile since they changed the schedule, but after a couple of weeks I would think he would know.  But, he doesn’t, not until 7:30 the mornings of and that’s because I’m screaming at him as he’s still sleeping.  “Get the damn trash out!”  He leaps out of bed still groggy and tripping over his quilt to scurry around the house emptying all of the small garbage containers into one big one that he has to wheel down to the road.