My Glorious Summer of ’76

Note: Since I’m on vacation, I’m giving you a rerun. This first appeared on June 3, 2015, back when I was new to blogging and had about 10 followers. It relates a childhood memory of mine that involved murder and explosives, as all good memories do. Also, the post includes a recipe because when I first started blogging, that was supposed to be my schtick. Then I forgot my schtick.
That’s the trouble with schticks. They only work if you remember them.
Oh well. Enjoy.

Growing up in the 70s was great. I’m not even talking about the movies and music from that era, although we had some darn fine ones.

What I’m talking about is the total lack of parental involvement. Even if a parent stayed home, they pretty much left us to our own devices. It was great.Kids-jumping-and-playing-outside-940x600

Brother and I had it even better, as both Older Sisters and Older Brother were out of the house.

We’re talking complete lack of supervision, baby! Frankly, it’s a wonder we didn’t burn the whole place down.

Though we came close. Continue reading “My Glorious Summer of ’76”

Why Are White People So Sensitive?

White peopleWarning: This post does not contain the folly typically found therein. Sorry. But non-folly thoughts were in my head and I needed to let them out.
Totally understand if you click away.
(I’ll judge you, but I’ll understand.)

This last week, I came to a startling realization: we White People are a sensitive lot.

Make that damned sensitive. Continue reading “Why Are White People So Sensitive?”

The Suicidal Mice of 40th Drive

One look at that little rodent corpse, the serene look on his face, and I knew. It was a clear case of mouse suicide.

My family lived in west Phoenix in a square cinderblock home, painted turquoise. And the thing to know about cinderblock homes, however unattractive they might appear, a splash of turquoise paint makes them nearly… less unattractive.

housemouseIn any case, cinderblock keeps out rodents and reptiles, and for desert living that’s darn smart.

Although about the time I was 12-years old, my dad built a garage in our backyard.

Actually, it wasn’t so much a garage as a giant workshop/sanctuary. It took up nearly half our backyard and was made primarily of wood.

That’s when the mice moved in.

The reason we knew we had mice is that every so often, about once a week or so, we’d find one floating in Pepper’s water dish.
Pepper being our family dog.

Continue reading “The Suicidal Mice of 40th Drive”

Bad Theology or Bad Parenting?

wp_20170104_14_18_20_proAlrighty gang, our judgment on last week’s Bad Theology post was considered not harsh enough for some readers (though one defended the picture), and I pledged I’d condemn with greater vigor from here on out.

Later, I found myself saying, “Meh. I’ll do what I want.”

In any case, I want you to know it’s not that I’m waffling on this week’s entry. It’s more that I’m not sure how I stand on it.

Is it bad theology, or is it just bad parenting? See for yourself: Continue reading “Bad Theology or Bad Parenting?”

My Daughter Was 4 When I Told Her About Sex

Warning: This article contains grown up words like penis, vagina, and boobs. If that offends you, then you need to read this article to learn why it shouldn’t.

Daughter was four, Son was five, and we were living in a small town in Colorado. In a big house we didn’t own, across the street from a library and park. Charming, right?

little girlBut just like all parents, I harbored fears that someone might harm my children. I didn’t obsess over it, but I remember that little niggling fear anytime they wandered out of sight, or when I lost them in a store, or if I saw yet another news story– what if it happened to us?

Then the newspaper ran a series of articles. They interviewed convicted pedophiles about their crimes. Five of them, and they held nothing back. They told everything — when they started, how they chose their victims, what they looked for, how they planned it out, how long they waited to make their move.

Continue reading “My Daughter Was 4 When I Told Her About Sex”

Parking Lots, Lost Cars, and You

We all need certain people in our lives, right? Good friends, people we can be ourselves with, people we can have deep conversations with — people like that there.

I need an additional person: someone who will wander aimlessly in a parking lot with me looking for a lost car and not wig out. Fortunately, I have Daughter.

It is a sad fact that losing a car in a parking lot is not difficult for me. Typically my mind is on far more important matters than something as trivial as where I parked my car. Such as something I heard on the radio two weeks ago, an idea I have for an award winning play, or the classmate of mine from the sixth grade who had the most unusual body odor and seriously, what would cause a person to smell like the elephant pen at the zoo?

Geez, he was weird. What are the chances he had a pet elephant?

Where was I? Oh, yeah, the lost car. So anyway, done with our shopping, Daughter and I walk out from the shopping centerdesert ridge — I better give you a picture because this is not an ordinary shopping mall. This is Desert Ridge Marketplace in Phoenix, which has a big, sprawling, open plan. Shops and restaurants are everywhere and the parking lot was designed by an insane person. (I think this has been proven. I’m sure it has.)

We stare out over the sea of vehicles, I turn to her and ask, “Do you remember where we parked?” She turns to me, smiles, and says, “No idea. You?” Continue reading “Parking Lots, Lost Cars, and You”