Over Yonder

     Carly Simon released her album "Anticipation" in 1971. The title song from that album was actually written about what was going through Carly's mind while she was waiting to go on a date with Cat Stevens. I know what you are thinking. No...No, that song was not about ketchup. It was about anticipating something that you really want.      "Anticipation". Like watching Heinz ketchup slowly make it's way down the inside of the neck of a glass condiment bottle, we anticipate the things that we think will make our lives better. Carly sang "We can never know about the things to come". People that are close to me know that I want to stay in the shallow end of everything Pop Culture. However, I will get in the deep end with Carly here. Our current situation pushes me into the deep end with her. We are in a state of "Anticipation" right now.       I drove out to the sticks that protrude from a mud hill today. I walked around and tried to im

      "Fiddle Sticks". Ellie Knippers, my grandmother, used to say that. It was her "go to" when she was frustrated or angry. Lately, I have used a lot of words that probably should have been substituted with "Fiddle Sticks". My wife used to tell me to watch my mouth. However, she has lost her filter lately. In fact, just a few minutes ago she told me that our contractor could shove the house up his... up his...Let your imagination wander. Just know this...She didn't say "Fiddle Sticks".      There is something about my wife saying a bad word that I find sexy. And lately, she has been very sexy. She has used them all. All the bad words. I love my wife and I hate seeing her stress, but it can be sexy. Sexy, but scary.      I consider this blog to be PG, maybe PG-13 at times. Therefore, I will tell you what the last few weeks have been like using Ellie Knipper's "go to" expression.      "We put our house on the market and

     Lucy is shoving her snout into the woven straw basket next to one of the bland taupe colored walls that border our living room. She is digging out all of her toys. She is picking her next victim. The gnarled up fox, the flattened penguin, and the soggy reindeer all lay limp in the bottom of the woven straw basket of despair hoping that they are not chosen. Sorry, penguin. Today is not your day. The cold wet nose of destruction has decided your fate. Lucy plops onto the floor and chews on his face. The once functioning squeaker just lets out a defeated "poof".      Life can deal you a bad hand at anytime. The cards you hold are the cards you hold. They are your cards. I have figured out that you just need to focus on the ante and when to cash in. Unfortunately for me, I have shoved a lot of chips into the middle of the table. I guess you could say that I am "all in" at the moment. "All in" on the new house. "All in" on selling the old house.

     Robert Conrad. As a kid I didn't really know who he was, but in 1978, I knew he was a badass. That Eveready Battery commercial taught me something. Pride. That dude was proud of that battery on his shoulder and he dared anyone brave enough to knock it off.  Pride. We all have it. We should have it. But, it should be placed in the right places.      My wife and daughter went to Nashville this week for a much needed escape. Trey is in New York  between jaunts to Nantucket. Jackson is our most independent child and he bounces between work and visiting friends. Me? I work. For the past 30 years, I have been a workaholic. 60 hour work weeks ( sometimes 70) have been a staple for me. Work. Get ahead. Work. Earn. Work. Provide. People have often told me "You've got to be there for your family." My response "I am at work so that I can be there for them." Pride. My father worked all of the time. If he wasn't at the shipyard working, he was working elsewhere

     Asia's "Only Time Will Tell" was the selection from my playlist that was pumping through the speakers as I pulled into the parking space. I stepped out into the blistering Alabama heat. "Honk" my alarm sounded as I walked towards the entrance. There were two couples sitting at a black wrought iron patio table to the left of the door. There is a distinct redness to an IPA that has extra hops with rye malt mixed in. The liquid in their beer glasses had that color. These were my people. The dark wrapper on the cigar held by the largest of the men told me that he was the boss. His stubby fingers were wrapped around what appeared to be an Esteban Carreras Chupacabra Robusto Grande. "Nicaraguan?" I asked. He gave me an odd stare. A light breeze kicked up and his comb-over drifted across his bald spot. I pointed to his cigar. "Ha ha, yes! Chupcabra". I looked back for a white Cadillac Convertible with steer horns mounted to the hood. Boss Hogg

     I jumped out of a plane once. That first step out was the best. I'll never experience that feeling again. The adrenaline. The rush. My heart beating out of my chest. The sound of the wind as I was freefalling. Just thinking about it can make me feel that tingling sensation in my fingertips all over again. The carefree feeling was awesome. The problems of the world escaped me briefly. Floating. Dreaming. Not a single care in the world. Well, except for that whole slamming into the ground at 130 miles per hour with your head bursting open like a cantaloupe in front of your adoring little family. The family that came to watch you scratch this off your bucket list. Scratch the skydiving off the bucket list, not having your head burst open like...You know what I mean.      I need to revisit my bucket list. Jump out of plane - check Sing in a band - check Drive a racecar - check Travel to Europe - check Eat a whole box of moonpies in one sitting - Not on my bucket list, but c

         I don't always know where I am supposed to be. I'm not organized. I have my wife for that. She is organized. She is super Woman. Calendars are my Kryptonite. Super Woman  keeps me on track. She keeps me in the right place at the right time. Phone inquiries like "You do remember that you are working the concession stand at Jackson's game tonight, right?" After a few panicked short breathes, I'll respond "Absolutely. Wouldn't miss. Can't wait." All the while, I am frantically trying to rearrange my work calendar to make it happen. Flawless execution by Super Woman and her fledgling clueless husband. But, even she can make a mistake. Take this evening for example, she sent me to the wrong Wal Mart to pick up her online grocery order. Even Super Woman makes mistakes. Wrong place. Is there ever a right time for Wal Mart? Wal Mart is always out of something. Tonight, they were out of Peace Tea, Gracie's favorite. Bad timing. Gracie nee

     There is a difference between attending church and going to church. People attend church every week, but they don't really go to church. Attending church allows you to be seen. You get to shake hands with the pastor, hug the necks of little old ladies, say a few "Amens" during the service and check the box "being seen as a good person" off the list until next week. Walk the walk. Talk the talk.     When you "go to church" or when someone "takes you to church", you hear the Message. You feel the Spirit.      "Big Nate" is an associate pastor at a Baptist Church in Columbiana, Alabama. "Big Nate" is also an employee of mine. The only thing larger than Nate is his Personality. Nate's shoes are a size fourteen. A fourteen. He's a mountain of a man. A gentle giant. The strength of an ox. The gentleness of a lamb. When Nate smiles, there is room for little else to exist.      Big Nate started attending church wit

     "Be sensitive, but not overly sensitive." What a disappointment. I am drinking a pint of beer as I crumple the small slip of paper and toss it on the counter next to the Bob Ross Chia Pet. I didn't read my lucky numbers. Why bother? The whole point of the fortune cookie is that slip of paper. What I just read sounds like life advice you would get on an ice cream wrapper at a theme park. I worked my ass off today, took a $12,000 loss on one of the houses that we can't live in, and the "Low Fuel" light came on as I pulled the SUV into the parking lot of the apartment complex. I don't need a ten cent Dear Abby wannabe message. I need a slip of paper pulled out of cheap folded pastry that says something like "You'll win the lottery and a long lost cousin will give you a fully restored 1970 Ford Torino GT convertible."      Overly sensitive, my ASS. I take a dump in a combination bathroom/closet everyday. Who writes this fortune cookie cra

     Trey and Jackson are on their way to Atlanta. Gracie is staying at the lake with one of her friends. I am sitting at the dinner table with Minwax Dark Walnut stain on my hands while my wife, Stephanie, lies beneath a blanket on the couch watching Netflix. I stare at the brown mess that is permanently affixed to the skin under my fingernails. I am a disgusting splotchy creature. I look like a Neanderthal from the wrists down. What a pathetic  sight. My hands give the impression that I was In a cage match with a chocolate Easter Bunny.      I look up at the Bob Ross Chia Pet that is on the counter next to me. His pitiful chia hair is growing out wrong and he looks like he has a green mullet. I wonder what Chia Pet Bob thinks of me. Dawn detergent can't save the man with Dark Walnut hands. I tried.      I was at one of the houses that we can't live in earlier today. I built my wife a farmhouse table in the garage. I was listening to music while staining the table. I was usi

     Curry, incense, and automobile exhaust fumes greeted me as I stepped out of my SUV and back into the current chapter of my life. Ahh, the sweet scent of apartment life. Apartment life has a smell. Well, it has a lot of smells. The best part is that the fragrance changes daily. Variety. As I walk away and lock the vehicle, I wonder what dish was being made with curry. I don't wonder what the incense was masking. That's a page in someone else's life.      I lumber up the concrete and steel stairs. My feet ache. My body sighs. Another day has defeated me. My keys jingle as I unlock the door. The sound alerts the dogs that I am back. Charlie doesn't care. He hasn't cared about anyone walking through the door in a long time. He used to hump the couch cushions when we had guests. He doesn't do that anymore. I've been excited to have people visit, but Charlie's excitement was on a whole different level. Now, he just lays there wearing adult diapers for do

     Lucy is sitting next to me in the combination dining room/den watching me eat cold French fries off a paper plate. I lazily push the ketchup across the plate. How did I get here? In the poorly lit combination dining room/den? She is making these loud sniffing noises. She is sniffing the food, but she is working hard to get my attention. I'm not fooled. I know what she's doing. She wants the fries. She will pace the combination dining room/den and return. She will sneak under the table and lick my foot. I have never wanted a French fry bad enough to lick someone's foot while they sit in their combination dining room/den.      Part of the charm of an apartment is the combination rooms.  My daughter is in the combination kitchen/foyer/hallway bagging the trash. The noise of the rustling garbage stopped Lucy from licking my foot. She is seeking another opportunity to forage. Relief. I'll eat another fry.      Apartment living was great when I was single. All of the t

       The Macanudo Maduro Vintage 1997 is a cigar from the Dominican Republic that should be enjoyed on a beach, a yacht, or on a mountain top overlooking a beautiful lagoon. Imagine the smell of coconut oil wafting in the air as the sun beams down on your face. Your eyes are shielded by a mesh safari hat like the one worn by Panama Jack. Imagine the taste of that cigar in one of those settings. Imagine the serenity. Now, imagine the drifting smell of dog urine emitting from pee pads that are placed at your feet on the porch of an apartment that was not part of your master plan.       Lucy, our sweet Wheaton Terrier, is taking a crap in front of me as I write this. She missed the pee pads.       The Macanudo tastes wonderful as the crickets chirp in the background. The putrid smell is almost as intense as the cigar is robust. I am drinking a Michelob Ultra Amber. This is not my beer of choice. However, when beer left by your lounge chair at the apartment pool winds up in your fridg