Sim Card Board

Modern technology has brought about an interesting set of contrasting circumstances.  And I will try to explain my angst.  I am not attempting to justify or judge or even make any sort of recommendations or even a theological point here, I am just reporting an observation.

On several occasions, a twist to my social interaction, from afar, has occurred.  It was as if two extremes, one from the left and one from the right came rushing together and merged as seamlessly as possible.

Where we live at the coast, we get our fair share of homeless people.  Most of them are vagabond travelers “just a passin’ through” heading to their next often unknown destination.  You do what you can for who you can, but the reality is, there is a limitation on our compassion and our grace.

I am not trying to excuse our behavior and I am not trying to throw any guilt around, Lord knows we have enough of that anyway, I am just stating the truth.

Now, just twenty five miles north, a larger smaller town resides.  And because it is larger, and it has a major highway heading east out of it, there are more services for the homeless and the “down and out” so you see a lot more of them on street corners with signs.

The signs are their communication with the world stating their plight, their unfortunate situations, and their felt need of money.  You have them where you live as well.  And, it seems like the same people are on the same corner with the same sign day after day after day.  You may not travel that route for awhile, but look at that, three months later and the same guy is still there.

Now, let’s talk about me.  I have a cell phone.  I know that is not news as it seems like everybody these days have cell phones.  I have even seen eight year olds with them and my own son, whose six, has been pretending that he has a phone for at least three years.  I remember my toy phone as a kid.  It was brightly colored with a smiling face, wheels and a pig tail piece of cord so I could drag it anywhere.

But now I am a grown up and I have a cell phone.  And as far as cell phones go, it is a dinosaur.  It has no connection to the internet and it is a flip phone.  It has not been upgraded for a long time now.

 But it works for me and since we don’t have good reception where we are and we are “grandfathered” in with our plan, there just doesn’t seem to be need for me to change it up.  Maybe someday.

The following event has not happened to me twice.  The people are different but the story is the same one.  I was in a grocery store coffee shop doing some reading, writing, and sipping on my old reliable “a grande, non-fat vanilla latte”  when a homeless guy walks in and sits down at a table.

There is a bus stop right outside, so they come in out of the rain to wait.  And without pre-judging, it is kind of obvious from just casual observation that he’s homeless.  Dirty clothes, matted hair, a well worn back pack, a bit of body odor, and a cardboard sign.

As I sit there, writing in my spiral notebook, reading my paperback, sipping on my coffee, my Samsung flip phone sitting on the table, I think to myself that I am truly grateful to God that I am not homeless.  At least not yet.  I am not lording it over him or believing that I am so much better than him, no, it was more of a realization of the undeserved mercy and provision that God has given me.

And because of that, I was contemplating.  Maybe I should get this guy a cup of coffee or a muffin or something.  Then a phone ringer goes off. And the homeless guy pulls out his smart phone and answers it. 

I mean this guy has a better, more expensive, and fully loaded bells and whistles.  I don’t know what kind of plan he is on whether it is monthly or a pay as you go, but the reality is that he is more technologically connected to the 21^st century than I am. 

On the different occasion, with a different guy, same scenario.  He pulls out his smart phone, makes a call, connects his ear buds and listens to Pandora or his downloaded  “road trip mix” and begins to read the most current novel ranked number one on the best sellers list.

I think that it is great that everyone has a cell phone.  We all know how important the can be especially in an emergency or a crisis.  Years ago, as I was watching the news about the Columbine school murders, there was an interview on how several students used their cell phones to call their parents, to call the police,  and to call for help. 

I knew then, that phones, no matter how annoying they can be, no matter how many times poor etiquette seems to go hand in hand with them, they are a good thing. So, have a phone, I am good with that.  Even if you are homeless.

I just don’t get the smart phone in one hand and the cardboard sign in another.   When did that become the norm?  Over and over again, people come and ask for money for us to put them up in a motel, or to buy them a meal, and in their pocket is a piece of machinery that has not only revolutionized the world, it has rendered useless the  need for owning other separate gadgets.  Don’t need a laptop.  Don’t need a camera.  Don’t need a stereo.  Don’t need a day planner.  Don’t need maps.  Don’t need a newspaper.  Don’t need a video game.

And yet, even with that powerful piece of technology, there still seems to be a need for some to have a cardboard sign. 

How Tall Are You?

It’s hard to be holy.  I don’t know how they did it back then in the good old days.  They had so much focus; they had so much drive.

They relished in their new life, they put their hand to the plow and they never looked back.  They just lived in victory after victory after victory.

But me, I can’t hold a candle to those guys.  I have a candle, but the flame seems to flicker as the breeze blows back and forth, and once in a while, I’m not going to lie, my candle blows out. But I do have a hidden lighter to reignite the wick. For appearances sake.

Their armor must have been made of the finest material and any advances from the devil, from the recesses of their hearts, and from the flashing lights of the world’s pleasures just bounced right off of that breastplate.  Their helmets were securely on and that sword was sharp and swift.

It’s hard to be holy. I want to be like them, I really do.  But I can’t seem to figure out the formula, to follow protocol; and I have yet to unlock the secret code of how they we able to live and lead that holy life. 

I mean, just read through the New Testament and all you see it the church, you know the called out ones, the body of Christ, those reborn believers living in a manner worth of the calling.  Wait a minute.

The New Testament is full of admonitions, urgings, exhortations, some condemnations, and even a few warnings regarding the way that they were living. Why, they weren’t consistenly doing so well, now were they? 

I guess it is not as easy as I had thought, now is it? It seems that these once hard to climb up their pedestal saints of old weren’t so high up there after all.  It appears that they didn’t even have lifts in their shoes, or sandals I suppose.

And all of a sudden, I am not feeling so bad.  And it isn’t like I am lowering the standard of holiness, I realize that I may have been beating myself up more than I really need to as I made this worn path leading to righteousness.  It is hard to be holy after all.

I have tried very hard at times, and then not so hard at other times, attempting to keep above the fray and come to find out that we are the fray.  It is not an excuse; it is just the way it seems to be.

So grateful we have the Holy One who keeps building in us His holiness.  Turns out, we are not supposed to be “our” holy; we are to be “His” holy.  Let’s just live like we know we should.

Over and Out

I haven’t blogged for a bit, and I haven’t done much in the realm of social media either, as I guess I was licking my wounds.  I probably didn’t need to be licking them and I probably shouldn’t have felt wounded at all, but it did.

I got disappointed.  Big deal, everybody gets disappointed.  You are right, and I know this.  I so do not want to be the type that puts on the perpetual pity party, but this one kind of stung.

Disappointment usually comes in two forms.  Either we disappoint somebody, or somebody disappoints us.  Sometimes it is the actions that disappoint and sometimes it is words.  Or promises.  Now we all have our reasons for acting, saying, or doing something that causes disappointment.  Circumstances, situations, life just gets in the way sometimes and we are unable to keep our word or our obligations.

I know that I should not have felt so hurt by this because I certainly have been a disappointment, even a huge disappointment, in the eyes of others.  And when that happens, I want them to forgive me or just “get over it” as it really doesn’t matter in light of eternity.  And usually it doesn’t matter in light of the next year or two. 

And I find that my disappointment in others stem from my own pride.  They made a promise and I feel like they have violated my trust, my rights, my schedule and now, instead of yelling at them, instead of confronting them, because that is not the Christian thing to do, I will just internalize it, feel bad about my violation, and wallow here a bit in my hurt.  Guess what, that is not the Christian thing to do.

People will disappoint us, people will say things that cause hurt to us, people will not keep their promises, people will lie to us.  That is always going to happen.  Because nobody is perfect, and yes, that includes you and me.  And it isn’t like other people do not get disappointed as well.  We are all one big populous of disappointers and disappointments.

We even feel that God has disappointed us.  Things didn’t turn out the way we expected.  After all, we did our part, but He seemed to drop the ball on our end.  I believed, I prayed (with confidence), I acted and behaved as I should and this is the thanks I get?  Nothing.  He knew how much I wanted this to be or happen.
And I always find, as it relates to my faith, that the disappointment is not in God, His ways or even His promises; it inevitably comes and sits on my own shoulders and I must carry the burden.  Because I had expected God to act a certain way, my way, and because of that He failed me.

The reality is that God never disappointed me at all.  I placed things upon Him that were not part of His “big picture”.  And my friends, He has a pretty “big picture”.  When it seems like He has disappointed you, take courage in knowing that He has not.  It is we, who have attempted to make God work for us, instead of us working for Him.  After all it is we, who believe, who are called “bond-servants”.

And now back to my disappointment.  I am over it. It wasn’t mine in the first place.  And here I go again.  Pressing on.

Over and Out

The Long and Winding Road

They say that the two things you are not supposed to talk about are politics and religion.  First off, I believe that they are wrong.  Second off, here we go.

Politics is a Greek word “politikos” meaning of, for, and relating to citizens. And Wiki says that politics is “achieving and exercising positions of governance-organized control over a human community.”  Politics is the manner in which humanity is governed.  There are many kinds of political systems.  A republic, a democracy, socialist, monarchy, a dictatorship.  But they all determine and decide how we should live.  It affects everyone who lives under such rule.

Religion is a person beliefs and worship.  The definition is “people’s beliefs and opinions concerning the existence, nature, and worship of a deity or deities.  They are personal beliefs or values that someone lives by.

So, now that we have got that out of the way, it seems to me that politics and religion pretty much affect our lives as humans.  Everybody lives under some type of government and everybody lives under their own personal beliefs or values. 

It seems, in that sense, all of us are involved, and if we refrain from speaking politics and religion, then the only thing left to discuss is the weather.  How trivial and stale is that?  Boring.  Pardon me if I do not play along but I am quite capable of discerning the weather by myself.  If I need to know, I will step outside, and figure it out.  Sunny, windy, rainy, cold, snowy, stormy.  Yeah, I got this one.

Society, the ones based upon politics and religion, can be weak or strong.  They can show off the best of humanity, or sadly, the worst.  Great ones, ones with morals and good values, and those that tend to last, are those that display the following trait.  But first. . .

Our church went to a senior assisted living facility for our annual Christmas caroling and gift giving program.  We have been doing it for a few years now.  We arrive right after lunch as the residents are still in the cafeteria.  As I peer into the faces of thirty or forty people who are advanced in age and need some sort of help with their daily routine, I see not who they used to be, but all I notice is weakness.

For most of them, they are close to the end of their journey, and their contribution level to the rest of society is miniscule.  Now, before you begin to throw stones at me, hear me out.  There are societies and movement who see no value or purpose in the weak.  I am reminded of the former Colorado governor who said that the elderly, if they have a terminal illness have "a duty to die and get out of the way.  Let the other society, our kids, build a reasonable life." He is now 78.  I wonder how he is feeling.

I am getting to know a fifteen year old boy who has huge disabilities and his mental age may be around three. And he needs help with a lot of things and his parents will be caring for him all of their lives.  What will his legacy be?

Recently another country’s government voted 50-17 to extend euthanasia to children with disabilities in certain circumstances.  It also extends the right to request euthanasia for adults with dementia.  Many people call this the right to die.  It is a hot topic currently and there are those on both sides of the issue.  But the thing that both sides can agree on is that death is involved.

I’m a life guy.  M preference when it comes to hard choices is to side on the side of life.  I’m really not for the death of anyone, be it the unborn, children with disabilities, the elderly, and those in prison.  I’m just not.  I know all of the arguments on all of the issues concerning all of the sides, and I certainly haven’t had to personally wrestle with them in the midst of the circumstance, so my thoughts have yet to be tested, but that is where I stand.

But back to the trait that societies who possess them tend to last.  It is not how strength is dealt with; rather it is how those who are the weakest in society are dealt with and how they are treated.  Are they cared for?  Are they treated with respect?  Are they protected since they cannot protect themselves?  Do we see their value to exist?

When a society begins to discount life that seems useless, wasted, or a strain on the status quo, that society is destined to deteriorate.  All are valuable.  All have worth. All contribute.  And we must care.   Even if it means more work for us.  Even if it costs us something, so be it.  He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

The Confession

Since September my son has been going to a pre-K class.  We decided that he needed to develop some skills in the social behavior area.  You know, like sitting, doing work, sharing with others.  He is so active that it is hard for him to stay focused.  If we could only harness his energy.

His school is out of a Foursquare church in the town eight miles away.  It is a small class of seven children in the late fours and early fives age range.  We thought it would be the right size for him.  When I called to inquire about it the teacher said that they learned their numbers, alphabet, math, sound of the consonants and vowels, learning to read small words, some crafts, and the Bible.

 It all sounded good and as I was reciting back to the teacher about what they would be learning, se again emphasized, “I want you to understand that we will be talking about the Bible.”  To which I said, “I am counting on that.”

Even though we would have to pay as it is a private school, the cost is worth it, because we want it to be a good successful experience for him.  And it seems to be working well for him.  He is still quite energetic which at times keeps him from finishing his work.  As his teacher told us, “He has a brilliant mind and his thoughts and creativity are going a mile a minute.  I liken him to a great chemist or physicist who has to remember to stay in the room.”

On the first day, picking him up from school we asked him how it went.  Our five year old said, “Awesome.”  And we knew that was the truth as he has wanted to go to school for about a year and a half. 

So, buddy, did you make any friends?”  “Oh, yes!”  And he proceeded to name off his fellow classmates who all had normal names.  And then he said, “And there is my friend Omelet.”  Even though we live in a community known for its liberalness and interesting characters, we were pretty sure he had gotten the name wrong.  The boy’s name did start with an O, but for the sake of anonymity and for the fun of the story, we’ll just call him Omelet.

I picked my son up from school the other day and was greeted by his words.  “Hi, Omelet hit me in the face.”  And he did have a red mark on his cheek just below the eye. The teacher said,  “Yes, but we are going to sit down and discuss it.”

Teacher:           “I. where is your chair?”

I:                      “Over there.” (pointing to his left)
Teacher:           “And Omelet, where is your chair?”
O:                    “Over there.”  (pointing to the right)
Teacher:           “So, here is where I am having a hard time.  O. if you were sitting in your chair over there, and you I. were sitting in your chair over here, how is it that you could hit him and how is it that you could have gotten hit?  The chairs are pretty far apart.  If you were sitting where you are supposed to be, I can’t understand how you reach him.”

And good old Omelet replied as he outstretched his arms, said, “It was easy, I have really long arms.”  And busted.  Good old Omelet, grinning away with “egg on his face.”

Sometimes the Title is True

I started my blog in July of 2010, right before I was going to quit my job and stop, at least for awhile, working in off-price retail management.  It was also as I wrote “an attempt to take a risk and live out in faith." 

The title of my blog is Sometimes the Grass is Greener.  It is a play off of the phrase “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence”.  This means, as you know, that we naively assume that someone else’s life, someone else’s world is better than our life or situation in which we find ourselves. If only I were on the other side of the fence, or if I had what they had, then all “my trials Lord, soon be over.”

But as soon as we are on the other side and look back, there seems to be this optical illusion of sorts, and all of a sudden our former grass appears to be a sharper shade of green than we had previously thought. It becomes an exercise in futility, of coveting other people’s stuff and world and we end up living in an atmosphere of excuses, raw deals and not being content with what has been unfairly forced upon us in our little corner of the universe.

But my friends, sometimes the grass is greener.  It just is.  Not from a coveting standpoint, not from a yearning standpoint, or from non-contentment, but from an objective look at reality.  Sometimes the grass is greener.  It then gives clarity into certain situations, scenarios, and circumstances.  And now for my revelation.

It is the day after Thanksgiving, the morning after to be exact.  We are spending the holiday with my wife’s brother at his house in the city.  Not a huge city as it is only about 150,000 in population; and also it is the place where we lived before moving to the little town on the coast.

I like living on the coast.  There are many reasons for that, but the main one is pretty obvious.  We live a block from the Pacific Ocean.  So that’s pretty cool.  The town itself likes to be called a village and has 700 residents.  We have one little grocery market, used to have a gas station, but it closed recently.  There are just a few shops and one flashing yellow light

There is a lot that the town lacks when it comes to amenities.   To shop at a department store (Walmart or Fred Meyer) one has to drive twenty-five miles to the next decent small coastal town.  That also goes for the nearest hospital.  But for whatever this village doesn’t have, it does have the Pacific Ocean, so there you go.

Here I am at 7:30 in the morning, and while everybody is sleeping, I grab my coffee and step outside of my brother-in-law’s house and onto a city block.  There is some frost on the ground, trees, and cars.  There are houses to the left, houses to the right, and houses on the other side of the street.

I am watching cars drive by and as I take a few steps down the sidewalk I hear the whistle of a train, a couple of police sirens, the neighbors outside having an early morning conversation before they head out shopping.

Looking down the street, I can see the signs and lights of local businesses.  And as all of this imagery hits me full in the face, I realize I am witnessing the hustle and bustle of living.  Don’t see that much in my town.

It is interesting that most people travel to the coast and especially to the village where I live in order to get away from the city life, the rat race, the populous of people.  And that is certainly understandable.

There is a calm, a slowness of everyday experience at the coast.  The long walks on the beach, the reading of a good book relaxing on an Adirondack, and even running to the little marker for some last minute groceries.  At our market the selection is easy.  You either buy the item or you don’t.  There is no deciding between like products, it is this one or nothing. Then there is the stroll to the only ice cream shop for a double scoop of Tillamook’s finest and then a slow jaunt to wherever or nowhere.  Ah, this is the life.

But, the city, as I absorb all of it at once, I miss it.  And it is because of the people.  Not necessarily the people that I know.  It’s just the people.  And every time that I see someone, I am reminded of how much my God loves them.  I don’t know them, and I have never seen them before, and I may never see them again, but I see their need, I see their loneliness, I see their poor decisions that have beaten them to the ground.  I see the resigned unhappiness that is their life, and I hold in my heart and head the answer, the solution, the cure.  Jesus.

There are people in need everywhere.  I know that.  Whether it is in my town of 700 or in his city of 150,000 people have the same ache.  It is just more pronounced in a larger city where anonymity is the rule and not the exception.  In a small town, everybody knows you and your business, whether you wish them to or not.

Dwight Moody, the great evangelist, when he felt the need to go to London to present the gospel was asked this, “Why go there when there is need here?”  His reply was, “I go where I can do the most good.  That is what I am after.  It is souls I want – it is souls I want.”  Why did he want to go to London?  That was where the people were.

Sometimes the grass is greener.

An Amazon Birthday

My wife’s birthday was coming up and, now days, I shop online.  One, because it is easy, and two, living in a little town on the coast, the drive time to a variety of stores (i.e. malls), is one and a half hours.

So, with my Amazon account in hand, I begin the search.  First on my list is a CD, yep CD.  I haven’t gone completely digital yet.  It is by MercyMe and it has a song called “Here for You” and it seems to be only recorded once.  Add to cart.

I went for a Robin Jones Gunn book called “Victims of Grace”.   My wife enjoys her books and has attended a conference where she was the main speaker.  Add to cart. 

Finally, a book that she used to have called “Why We Say It”.  It is about how common expression and phrases came to be in the English language.  She is an English major, so you know.  Add to cart.  And after purchasing, all that is left is the waiting.

Amazon is awesome.  I order from home; get it delivered at home (well, for us, at the Post Office) and all I have to do is point and click.  And then between five and seven business days, I have mail!  In this case, I have box! And I am just days away from wrapping her presents.

One great thing about having a post office box, regardless of the fact that we all have to have one, because there is no street delivery in our town, is when there is the bonus card.

Grabbing my keys, locating my box, turn the key and there it is!  Along with a couple of bills, there is an approximate  4 inch by 10 inch yellow card with numbers written and with each of those numbers scratched off  with ink.  Except for one.  My number.   It means that I have a package.  And now, I get to go to the front desk and retrieve my item.  Yep, I am special.

This is not a just “open box and grab some letters and head home kind of day.  No, my friend, this is much bigger than that.  This card tells me that I have something too big for my Post Office box.  No longer is it just getting the mail.  This has now become sort of like a super spy transaction, where I give the secret code, in this case a yellow card with a number on it, and then the other spy goes into the back room and returns with a box containing what I need for my next assignment.

Taking the cardboard box home, I stealthily head up the stairs before the wife finds out, and with anticipation I cut open the “Amazon tape” and peer into the box for its contents.  One Mercy Me CD, check.  One Robin Jones Gunn book, check.  And one “The Dean Koontz Companion” book, che. . .  What?  No, no, no!  It is supposed to by “What We Say It”.

I have not read any books by Dean Koontz and neither has my wife, so I am pretty sure that we will not be needing his “Companion Book”.   They have sent me the wrong thing.

One other time, I have experienced receiving the wrong item.  While Amazon and their individual distributor’s have a pretty good success rate, the first time I received the wrong order turned out to be quite entertaining. 

After attending a concert and the singer sang that great folk song, “If I had a Hammer”, I decided to order a CD from the performer who wrote that song, Tim Hardin.  So I order the Tim Hardin CD and five days later I receive my package.  I open the envelope and pull out, not Tim Hardin’s Reason to Believe CD.  Instead I am holding in my hands The Barrio Boyzz  “That’s How We Roll” CD.

Yes, Barrio Boyzz, with not just one Z, but two Z’s.  They look like a morphing of ‘NSYNC and gangsta street thugs.  They are considered the first Latin American R & B, pop boy band.  Well, there you go.

While I have nothing against the Barrio Boyzz, and they certainly may choose to roll however they want to roll, I would have preferred Tim Hardin.  So, I hesitantly write an E-mail to the distributor.

“Dear Sir or Madam,  I ordered Tim Hardin’s “Reason to Believe”  CD with the order number # ……. and I did not receive it.  Instead I received The Barrio Boyzz “That’s How We Roll”.  I do not want the Barrio Boyzz “That’s How We Roll”.  How may I receive the CD that I ordered?”

It wasn’t too long before I got an apologetic reply.  They would be sending, right away, the  CD that I had ordered and upon receipt, I could return the other CD, on their dime. Sigh of relief on my end.

And sure enough, only two days later, my replacement CD arrived.  Opening the envelope and inserting two fingers and my thumb, I pull out. . .yep. . . The Barrio Boyzz  “That’s How We Roll”.  You have got to be kidding me.   Back to square one.

I called this time and spoke to a human who figured out that the wrong code has been attached.  Which means, that no matter how many times I order Tim Hardin, I will receive The Barrio Boyzz.  They assure me that they will find the CD that I want and send it to me.  In the meantime, I may do whatever I wish with the wrong CD’s.

While I have no need for two Barrio Boyzz CD’s, I decided to send one back and keep one for, well, because you just never know.  And eventually I did receive the correct CD and I listened to Tim Hardin once or twice. It was okay, but it was not as great as I had hoped.  The Barrio Boyzz is still sealed in its original packaging, even to this day.

 And now back to the wife’s birthday.  She opened up her presents.  First, MercyMe.  “Thank you.”  Second, Robin Jones Gunn.  “Thank you again.”  And finally, The Dean Koontz Companion.    As the stunned look of “What the heck?”   came over her face, I simply replied, “This is your own personal version of The Barrio Boyzz.  Koontz, with a Z.  “Cuz, that’s how I roll.”  Word.

Guy's Only Weekend Part C

Off we are heading up the old highway for the adventure of a lifetime.  Or at least, as adventurous as me and my five-year old can be.  And with a few wrong turns here and there, I find myself back on to the interstate.  Oh well, at least it is a known route for me.

Once I get up to the proper speed of sixty-five miles per hour, yes, I am not a speeder, I settle in for the rest of the drive to our destination. My boy and I are engaged in a rousing game of “Who can fake burp the loudest and the longest.”  For the record, he stated it. 

Periodically looking back at him, in the rear view mirror and on occasion a quick turn of the head, to see how he is doing, I notice that he is attempting to drink from his milk container.  It still has the foil on it with just a small hole for the straw.

My remedy for the situation is to retrieve the container from him and place another straw in the hole.  But, alas, no straw is to be found anywhere.  So I tell him to hand me the milk and I will pull off the rest of the foil.

And at 65 MPH, I reach my right hand a backward trying to contort it in position to grab said container.  I do not know how my wife can do that.  She has no problem reaching back and touching him or grabbing her purse from the rear seat.

 It is as if she can dislocate her arm at the elbow and twist it to reach directly behind her and grab with two fingers any item she desires. I believe it is a mom thing and a trade secret kept from the guys.

I place my hand in baton receiving position and can feel with my fingertips only the outer plastic of the container.  To which my son seems that if I can touch it I should be able to grab it, similar to the pee-wee league football coach who barks, “If you can touch the ball, you had better catch the ball.” And he lets go.

The over half full container of 2% white milk from McDonald’s has now spilled all over the floor of the back seat.  And me on the freeway with no pull off in sight! 

I take the nearest exit, which happens to be a rest stop, turn off the motor and grab the two napkins provided to me by McDonald’s and head to the back seat.  The milk has conveniently already soaked into the floorboards and is not only mixing with the other dirt and gunk and spills since the car had been last detailed. Uh never.  Vacuumed, yes, but shampooed, nope.  And the milk is rapidly reaching room temperature.

We chalk it up to a casualty of war and back on the road to our destination.  We go shopping, we play in a park, we go to our friends, have dinner, spend the night, wake up the next day, and in the afternoon jump in the car for our next overnight stop. 

And what is that smell?  Oh yeah, spoiled milk. Ahhh!  Not good.  Not good at all.  I drive to the nearest store and purchase two “Fresh Linen Car Air Fresheners” at a higher price than I would normally pay, but this is an emergency. 

We arrive at my in law’s house for the evening and to spend the night.  Her mom went to the funeral as well, so for the night, three generations of men.  Grandfather, father, and son.

After visiting for a bit, I am ready to bring in our gear for the night and….   There is that smell.  And it is not getting better, just more spoiled.  Back in the house I am on a hunt for Febreze.  Not having any luck, I do happen to find a lavender or some sort of scented dryer sheet.  Grabbing that, I head back in, unprotected, to face the horror.

I find myself wiping the floorboard over and over again with the dryer sheet.  And as it disintegrates in front of me I am left with a putrid smell of rotten milk, linens and lavender.  I have only made matters worse by combining smells.  It is like Tuesday night at the buffet during the early bird special.

The next morning I locate some Lysol and spray away.  The Lysol has seemed to remove at least some of the smell, plus giving a nice Lysol aroma.  Just in time to pick up my wife from the airport.

Remain calm.  Stick to our story and maybe she won’t notice.  And as she opens the car door her nose crinkles.  And I can’t be sure because I was avoiding eye contact but I believe she “teared” up a little bit.  I am assuming that it was because she was glad to see me.

Guys Only Weekend part 2

So, where was I?  Oh, yeah, we dropped my wife off at the airport and my boy and I were off and running for our man weekend road trip.  And first destination, lunch.

 

Being the adventurous type, I decided to head an alternate route and bypass the freeway and drive up the old highway.  With maps in hand, his and mine, we head for the next town for a quick bite to eat.

One thing about our family is that our navigational skills during a visit or vacation involving other towns and cities are based on the landmarks of restaurants.  We may not know how to get to the University’s football stadium, but we can make a no detour beeline to the Mexican restaurant on Sixth Street. And it is right next to the infamous 7-11.  I’ll get to that story later.

We like to try places where we wouldn’t generally eat.  We like trying new places.  Although that trend has seemed to have had a slight adjustment since moving to a little village off of the Oregon coast.  In our vicinity of easy access, there aren’t very many chain restaurants available.  So, we find ourselves at times when we are in a bigger city, eating at the restaurants that are available only in larger towns and cities.

 

And on this day, as the scenic countryside subsides and we enter the first town on our tour, I begin to scout for a place to eat.  Hopefully, I can find a place we haven’t tried before and that is suitable for a five year old appetite.

And there on the right, is our destination all light up with the angelic aura around it.  McDonald’s!  I’m lovin’ it.  Well, at least we haven’t ever eaten at this one.  There is no play area at this one, so a bathroom stop and then, time to eat. 

 

My son is having the usual.  One Chicken Nugget Happy Meal (4 nuggets, small fries, apple slices, on round bottle of white milk).  Plus a Halloween bucket with a sheet of self assemble stickers.  My turn.  I settle for the number 1, a Big Mac meal, that I know will look nothing like the picture. 

 
Finding a window seat with the view of the parking lot, I say grace and begin to consume  my 1,130 calorie with a side of 1,320 mg of salt intake meal that will sit heavy in my stomach for days. I did satisfy 15% of my daily need of Vitamin C and will no doubt keep my girlish figure and waistline, if by figure, I am comparing myself to a woman nine months pregnant with twins.

Unable to finish his milk before it is time to roll, I grab the container and proceed to drop the straw that I had inserted into the foil covering of the milk for less spillage on the road.  But no worries, because I always have a spare straw.  So with a buckle of the belt over the boy and his car seat, it’s time to head out.  Get your motor running. . . .