Thanksgiving: Part 2

Kids these days. My young cousins introduced me to a new game that’s going around in schools this fall called “poision dart.” Evidently, participants go around calling each other’s names, making eye contact, and pretending to shoot a blow gun at each other. Once someone has been shot, he must immediately lie down on the floor until a fellow student pretends to pluck the dart out of his neck. This game can be played whenever and wherever, including at the thanksgiving dinner table. It was pretty amusing to see my kid cousins slumping out of their chairs randomly, sprawling on the floor, yelling “pull it out pull it out!”

Anyway, I’ve noticed that, quite contrary to popular opinion, playing football on thanksgiving is a very bad idea. Everyone is stuffed to the neck with turkey day delights, so there’s a sort of tension in the air as everyone waits for someone else to vomit. Meanwhile, all of the older males try to re-live their highschool glories while the younger ones run circles around them. Finally, there is hardly every an opportune playing field, so the street is often used, resulting in several damaged knees and parked automobiles. The end result is rather comical, as the elderly lay panting in the yard, licking their wounds, while the youths go inside for more pie. I think the whole mess should just be avoided as everyone gathers around the television to watch the professionals.

The women of our family love to play board games after dinner, having much more common sense than the men, who choose to jostle their biggest meal of the year playing a contact sport. We played “Loaded Questions” this year, a fun game where participants write down their personal answers to questions such as “which three species would you choose to have extinct?” (answers such as hippies, school mascots, and political parties were plentiful), “What do you find to be your most attractive feature?” (more than one body part below the neck was mentioned), and so on. The game can be quite fun, but was rather complicated this year by the fact that we were all dodging imaginary poisoned darts.

I’m so thankful for the ability to get together with so much of my family every year. If you are without your family this thanksgiving, for whatever reason, know that you have my deepest sympathies.

I’m thankful for how much I am blessed with. When I take a look at all the things I have been given, I’m very humbled.

I’m thankful for my wife. Without her, I’d just be another jock bachelor. Not a pretty picture. My wife makes my life complete, full, and fulfilling. Thanks for that babe.

Think about what you’re thankful for. Then think about it some more. Be thankful.

-unknown

_creativmynd

Post Script: I know this isn’t a humerous entry, and for that I am rather sorry. Dare I say, my mind just isn’t very creative today? Please tune in tomorrow for a more jovial tale.

 

American Football and Lactic Acid…

There seems to be a direct correlation between the playing of American Rules Football and an incredible buildup of lactic acid in the thighs and hams of the participants. I just recently experienced this phenomena while playing a rather violent pickup game this past Sunday. By the end of the day, I was beaten, bruised, and thoroughly worn down, and that dreaded lactic acid was already seeping into my every cell. I imagined that those little lactic acids were gleefully frolicking about in my veins, clogging up all sorts of passageways and generally disturbing the peace. It makes me shudder just thinking about it.

Monday morning rolled around right on schedule, of course, and hit me like a freight train. I oozed out of bed and set about my morning rituals: Bathroom, kitchen, closet, keys, wallet, leave, go back for cell phone, leave, arrive at work…accept this time, I felt like I had put in a full day’s work by 9 am. My legs were like logs, my feet like bricks. Needless to say, it was a rather long day.

I took my wife out for tea after work, my intention being to sit and have a long talk about nothing in particular in a coffee shop. We ended up shopping for a new outfit. How does that happen? I’m really not quite sure. Somewhere between her cute smile and sparkly eyes, she turns her ideas into my ideas, or something to that effect. She practically makes me believe it was my idea for her to try on a new outfit. So there I stand, feeling rather smug and pleased with myself, while she tries on some Miss Mis jeans…whatever those are. It’s not until she apologizes about ruining my date idea that I realize what has happened. I sulk a bit, naturally, playing it up and all, but really I’m just happy that she’s happy. And that the lactic acid seems to have finally worked its way out of my system.

_creativmynd

On the origin of a species…

Who, on God’s verdently green earth, decided to beed yorkshire terriers? In case you are not familiar with the breed, allow me to expound for a moment.

The yorkshire terrier originates from England, evidently (God save the Queen), and displays a coat similar in coloring to a rottweiler and in texture to a silky something or other. This particularly small specimen weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 pounds, and bears resemblance to a very dirty mop in the hands of a custodian on speed when awake. When the dog is awake, that is.

Anyway, my wife and I recently acquired such a creature, and since the time of her acquisition I must say our lives have changed somewhat. I rise early in the morning, not to the gentle sound of a silent home, but to a rather obtrusive yipping. Our puppy’s cries could be summarized by the sounds of nails on a chalkboard, an infant’s wail, and the sound of a child beginning his first lesson with the violin. Needless to say, it is somewhat begrudgingly that I rise to take her on her morning trip to the out of doors.

She is not, of course, all pain and suffering for her owners. There is nothing quite like a puppy to make one’s life feel more full. A puppy sees only the very best in its master, which is both refreshing and sobering. It can be scolded for piddling on the mat for a minute straight, and have nothing more to say than a wag of the tail.  It apparently has no end of love for those it chooses to love. This quality, of course, makes it vitrually impossible for one to stay mad at the little dustmop for long.

But anyway, back to the original question: Who on this very green and affable creation decided it would be a good idea to create such a creature? By create, of course I mean breed, but semantics-shmantics. The question remains.

I am forced to conclude the following: Someone, probably a duke or baroness with a rather dank old castle or estate, must have had a need for a rather small kanine to create small puddles, chase feet, and be remarkably pleasing to the eye, all while emitting sounds well within the boundaries of the terms “severe” and “vexing.” Either that, or the runts of the litters of bigger dogs found one another attractive for several generations in a row.

Regardless, my wife and I have one now. Her name is Roxi, by the way. I can’t help but like the little rapscallion, with her bright eyes and needle teeth. Like I said somewhere up above, probably in the paragraph where your mind started to wander, the love she shows me is just too much to not return a little. She brings joy that only a puppy can bring.

I wish I was the person my dog thinks I am.

-unknown

_creativmynd