I want the news to be news, not someone’s opinion, and not a story about another show that happens to air on the same network. I want real journalism to return to reporting, not the continuance of the “news as entertainment/entertainment as news” ridiculousness that’s currently paraded to the public as the reporting of facts. I want both sides of the story, and I don’t care if I won’t like what you tell me, I still need to know what’s going on.

I want people to use their turn signals.

I want liars, cheaters, and thieves to devote their energy to truth, honesty, and giving.

I want straight-forward, to the point, hard questions asked of politicians, and if they don’t answer the questions, they are called out on it. No dancing.

I want to choose every channel that’s in my satellite package. I can do without “Best Bra Ever!” and “The Knife Shopping Channel”, thank you. And while I’m at it, I want the History Channel to actually show some history. “Ice Road Truckers” and “Pawn Stars” don’t teach me anything.

I want sportscasters to watch the same game I’m watching. It only takes me one replay to see what happened. You guys run it a dozen times and still get it wrong.

I want soccer moms in big, honkin’ SUVs to take a driving test in those vehicles so they will actually have to learn how to drive them. Sounds sexist to you? Drive a mile in my shoes. I can’t change reality.

I want to go to other countries around the world that are at the same latitude as me and see if they have shitty roads, too. I’m betting they don’t.

I want real food with non-genetic modifications, grown in real dirt, by real farmers.  And, yes, I’ll pay a little more for the privilege.

I want the current reality TV show template of too-much-to-do-and not-enough-time-to-do-it-in banned. Along with every show about someone who’s only famous for being famous or for being a famous douche bag. Come to think of it, I want reality TV gone altogether.

I want participation in Talk Like A Pirate Day to be mandatory.

I want my local and national news replaced with the Daily Show.

I want every person in America to Read The Guardian and watch BBC News every day so they can see what we look like to the rest of the world. Then, act accordingly.

I want a Jonny Quest, Herculoids, and Space Ghost channel on TV. (I know, but I like them.)

I want people to stop worrying about who gets the credit for good ideas and start thinking about how to leverage them for everyone’s benefit.

I want people to think of others first instead of themselves.

I want sushi. And French toast. Not together.

I want everyone to tell the people who are important to them that they love them. Every day.

I want the word “dodgy” to find its way into every day speech in America. It’s brilliant word, yes?

I want everyone to listen twice as much as they talk.

I want socks that match themselves.

I want art, music, and literature to be available to every student in every school. And I want them to be mandatory subjects.

I want more “Us” and less “Me”.

I want all the traffic lights to be green.  (Sorry, that was more me, wasn’t it?)

I want to find one thing that Will Farrel won’t do for a laugh.

I want everyone to realize that every religion has the same message when you break it down to its simplest component: Be nice; and that one religion isn’t necessarily better than another as long as everyone is nice.

I want Fridays and Mondays off.

I want every child to be encouraged to do something they don’t think they can do and to experience the satisfaction of committing themselves to a course of action.

I want common sense to make a comeback.

I want the spirit of love and giving found in the Christmas season to be present all year.

I want people to pay attention when they’re driving.

I want a line item veto.

I want our National Anthem to be sung as written. I’m not interested in your “interpretation” of the song.

I want people to learn how to pronounce “nuclear”. And “espresso”. And “supposedly”.

I want people to stop complaining about the weather. You can’t live in the snow belt and be surprised and frustrated every time it snows. That’s like people who live next to the ocean complaining about the surf.

I want field trips for adults.

I want people to learn and understand history so we can all make better decisions for the future.

I want businesses to live and die by their customers, not their shareholders. I want service to be permanently associated with customer. Customers create revenue which creates profits which satisfies shareholders. The equation doesn’t work in the other direction.

I want people to be confident enough to be able to laugh at themselves.

I want pudding. Not as in “dessert”. As in “pudding”.

I want an IQ test for politicians, television commentators, talk show hosts, and reality shows. Those with low IQs should be required to provide a warning stating “This show contains ideas that some viewers may find disturbing, mainly because they are the ideas of a person who isn’t smarter then a fifth grader. We put them on because we make money from doing so. If you stop watching, this insulting load of crap will be off the air faster than ‘Cop Rock’.” Likewise, all user-submitted comments on internet site should be required to answer an intelligence testing question before their comment is approved for posting.  That should weed out the room temperature IQs.

I want the number of cracker varieties to match the number of cheese varieties.

I want The Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame to stop dicking around and put Rush in already.

I want more reading and writing. And arithmetic.

I want people to think for themselves.

I want everyone to memorize at least one Monty Python sketch.

Image by Chris Bloke

My heart it breaks when I imagine her eyes
As you pulled the rug from beneath her life
How you found a way to justify
Now all I can do is see her cry

When her life didn’t go according to plan
When she couldn’t keep up you didn’t give a damn
With your selfish ways and your shallow mind
You chose to walk and take another’s hand

And mister you don’t need me to see
How you justified it was meant to be
To the rest of the world go tell your lies
But baby those eyes they could’ve been mine

To those you fooled to them you denied
You played any part in making her cry
But you had to get out so selfishly
If only they’d heard her desperate pleas

Now you’ve come up with a brand new plan
In your selfish pride you took another’s hand
Go fool the rest but you can’t fool me
‘Cause they’ve never seen your cruelty

And mister you don’t need me to see
‘Cause you know full well who you’ll always be
To the rest of the world go tell your lies
From yourself my friend you just can’t hide

As you lay your head in search of rest
I hope and pray that you’ll never forget
The look in her eyes on the day you left
I beg my God that you’ll never forget

Is there ever a chance you’ll ever be
Something more than causing casualty
Will you ever learn to live unselfishly
Will it ever be, will it ever be

And mister you don’t need me to see
‘Cause you know full well who you’ll always be
To the rest of the world go tell your lies
And baby those eyes, thank God they weren’t mine.

Lyric Copyright, Sharie Parker, 2011, All Rights Reserved (Musical collaborative with Charley Bowman)

image by La Flaf

I’d sat in that chair before many times before. I’d sat there to have a quick sandwich or a bowl of cereal or to chat with Mom or Dad. I’d sat there to put my shoes on before leaving the house. I’d sat there to play board games or cards. But come dinner time and especially on holidays, it was Dad’s chair. It was where he always sat; it was the head of the table, the place where he held court, said his piece, or simply sat quietly and listened to his family. It was the place where he stood to carve the Thanksgiving or Christmas turkey or the Easter ham. It was where he sat every morning to have his toast and coffee before heading to work.

I always sat on the other side of the table. Looking up I always saw my Dad, strong and capable, and in charge. But on this holiday that chair was empty. For the first time he was not there. This is something I will have to get used to, and I suppose I will to a certain extent. I’ll get used to his chair being empty but I’ll never get used to him being gone. That chair will always be his and his absence will always be felt.

I sat in my usual spot to eat dinner, but took Dad’s chair to finish cutting up the leftover ham so Mom could wrap it up. As I finished, I sat there, looking across to where I had sat for the last five decades. I imagined what Dad must have seen and felt through all those years, how he had looked across the table at me. Thinking about my own son, I felt a little of what he must have felt. I felt the love and pride, the hopes and dreams, the laughter and the tears. I felt him there and understood him in a new way. It made me feel close to him and yet, at the same time, it made me feel stupid for not having ever had this revelation before. I wanted to tell him that. But all I could do was sit there and fight back the tears. He was still teaching me things, he was still being my Dad. All it took was sitting on the other side of the table.

"Piece" by IceSabre

The chair legs scraped over the vinyl as he pulled on it, quickly sliding it from beneath the battered table.  Once out, he lowered himself onto its unforgiving surface, stretching his legs full length in front of him. He crossed his arms defensively.

In the dimming light of the evening, he took his time studying the puzzle. It was complete, the pieces locked together in a perfect fit.  Still beautiful, but it was gathering dust and he wanted something more.

The new one sat in its cardboard cube, inviting, ready to be opened and explored.  He carefully slid the old one to the side before slipping the cellophane off the new box.

Such a nice picture.  He ran his hand over the glossy photo before prying the lid with his fingernail.  This one would take time, but he had lots of it now, more than he knew what to do with in fact.  The other one was finished and it was  a lovely sight, but he was restless, always, always, looking for more.

He picked up the first piece and laid it down in the center of the table and quickly reached for another.  He could smell the newness.  The beginning was always the best, the freshness almost intoxicating.  It was the journey that mattered.  To him anyway.  The first pieces always went together easily and this one was no different.  He came to life again, like a plant being watered.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied the one he had willfully pushed to the side.  It was still beautiful, and at the time, it was one of his favorites. But it had lost a bit of its luster and it seemed to be getting in the way.  If only he could release himself from the distraction, but it was difficult.

He held still for a moment trying to harness his thoughts before suddenly removing a piece straight out of the middle.  Ah, not so perfect anymore.  He’d done it before,  so he could do it again. Holding that thought, he pulled up a few more pieces and the picture began to fade.  How remarkably easy it was, to alter the image to suit his plan.  Just a slight of hand, a trick of the mind was all it took.  But he still trembled while he pried away at the rest.  He stared at the image and watched it weaken further.  Before he knew it, it was nearly disassembled.

Once whole, now vestigial remains.  It was easy to change what it once was, to what it is now.  He felt strong and pressed on, for it was nearly gone now, completely unrecognizable to what it really was and he decided to go ahead and do it.  It would be easy to move on with no remorse, regret, or even sorrow now.  “Look,” he said to himself out loud, “You mean nothing to me, nothing at all. Go away,” he demanded. And with one swift slide of the arm, the remaining pieces flew across the room landing here and there.

There was a time when he would pick up the pieces, at least attempting to put them back into their box, storing them away for safekeeping, but not anymore.  Now he just let them pile up at his feet where he’d shuffle through them like they never existed.  Afraid they’d somehow put themselves back together again behind his back if he took too much care.  So he didn’t.  Out of sight, out of mind.  But like a burr on his sock, they lingered.

The sun fizzled on the horizon and the bulb in the lamp finally burned out. It was nearly dark now, only the glow of the street lamp slid through cracks in the drapes casting shards of light throughout the room.  It was done, he had finally gotten rid of it.  In the dimness, he reached into the box grasping the crisp new pieces. A new project had begun, a new quest, and without warning, the Widow bit him.  A network of lines traveled across his face and as he slid to the floor he remembered them, all of them, and what he had done. And although he slept, rest escaped him.

(Re-post from a year or so ago)

Unwrapped, photo by terren in Virginia

“You have GOT tobekiddingme,” I blurted as I rounded the corner, my eyes seared in the glow of  an unfathomable celebratory display. It was January 4th or something ridiculous like that, and at the time it seemed way too early, that much is certain.

It came out a little louder than intended and as I peered down the aisle, a stadium wave of shopper’s heads swiveled my way. When they realized moi was the hard hearted renegade who’d uttered the words, there was nothing to do but shrink a few inches and toss a sheepish grin. Honestly, even I realized I sounded  like a nut job, so as an added gesture of goodwill, I threw in a little wave to help smooth things over.

Granted, I stood firmly outside of the spirit of things, and if I’d have been packin’, the heart shaped boxes would’ve been peppered with a round of lead. But, as most fantasies generally right themselves, this one did too. In a random moment of clarity, I realized doing in Cupid would be something akin to wasting the Easter Bunny, who I was certain was lurking helplessly, just around the corner. Not to mention the “time” it would’ve  earned me, my only defense being a post holiday diet induced insanity. I was standing on slippery ground and the happy shoppers down the aisle were still gawking.

Realizing nothing good could possibly come out of Plan A, I changed my tack. In a preemptive strike, I tallied up the laps/miles required to stave off the impending poundage – a great deal, I calculated. It had been a caloric blur since October. I had finally stopped mining through the plastic pumpkins filled with thigh padding confections (I had to, they were empty), finally rid the freezer of turkey and other Thanksgiving detritus, and at last ditched the residual fat grams of Christmas that were haranguing me to take them in. Just hours after ringing in the New Year, now this. As if the recent festivities hadn’t been enough. I’d hoped to catch my breath as well as prevent layers of cellulite from erupting on my thighs.

I was coming unwrapped. How could they? The Heartless Marketers have created one giant 365 day holiday, blending them together seamlessly, interrupted only by a stealth change of colors and a clever switch in mascots to keep us buying.

It was just too much, the icing on the proverbial cake so to speak, a dieting rock bottom rising up to greet me. With an exasperated sigh, I admitted defeat. I’d been pulled in by cupid’s chubby paws. I knew this because suddenly, I wanted just one little itty bitty piece, and like a prairie hawk, I swooped in.

The next weekend I would be standing in three feet of snow watching four bundled up kids frolic in more snow that any of them had ever seen.  They did swan dives into the snow as if it were water and came up with great big smiles and hearty laughs.  Their cheeks grew more rosy by the minute as the wind blew off Lake Erie but they were oblivious to the cold. This was fun.  Snow angels, tunnels, snow forts and snow fights followed, as the underdressed adults retreated to the warmth of my parents’ house to smile and laugh at the joy these kids were experiencing.  This is the winter I remembered.

Later, as the wind subsided and it grew dark, I stood on the back deck marveling at the piles of snow on the railing, the roof, the picnic table, and enjoyed the crisp stillness that accompanies these days of abundantly clean and fluffy snow.  Some think of winter as a dead, ugly season.  I think of it as vibrant and alive.  This is the winter I love.

Maxim to missive aligned with the race
Letters to chapters fulfilling the pace
Soles depleted from myriad miles
Moments to scenes a fable compiled
Passages and chapters soon filled up the page
Converging together the setting of stage

Poignant trails between shadows of trees
Obscured in the lines where no one can see
Perusing the past with the changing of eyes
Ameliorated heart as the only surprise
One before the other in lyric and rhyme
Copious footsteps through the changing of time

Listened for signals on faraway shores
Long stopped knocking on bolted shut doors
Eternally past are the darkening skies
Desisting to hum the sad lullabies
An infant who cried until finally he sleeps
As slumber descends he no longer weeps

As footfalls crossed the denouement line
One before the other in lyric and rhyme
Finally an end to the skipping of stones
That fall to the ground amidst towers of bones

Copyright Sharie Peters Parker, 2010

I used to think the concept of suffering was innate to the human condition. I thought we were born with the idea that we preferred not to suffer. The original pioneers traveling to the western frontier knew it sucked to ride in covered wagons. Sure, it was a convenience not having to walk, but it still sucked. In fact I’m pretty sure that’s where the term, “pain in the ass” originated.         

Like everyone else, I thought I knew all there was to know about suffering. And then I started traveling by air. It was the airlines that taught me how to properly suffer. I can’t remember a single trip I’ve ever taken by an airline, that didn’t result in some level of personal suffering.

Just last week my wife and I flew from Texas to Pennsylvania. A simple one stopper in Dallas and I’m home. My E-Ticket said the total duration of my trip would be five hours. Easy peasy. Since I’m a relatively experienced air traveler, I know how to adequately prepare for the minefield of obstacles normally encountered at airport terminals. The key, is knowing how to avoid the significant suffering. That’s what’ll save you.

Ticketing and security are two major minefields I managed to breeze through without a hitch. My level of suffering had remained at zero. With my boarding pass tucked neatly in my shirt pocket, I passed cleanly through the gate…..check. My carry-on bag fit neatly in a nearby overhead compartment from where I was seated…..check. Isle seat pre-selected for additional leg room…..check. John Grisham book and reading glasses in hand…..check. The aircraft taxi’s out and somehow manages to take off on time…..check. Then the pilot comes on the intercom to inform me that we’ll be landing in Dallas about ten minutes ahead of schedule…..awesome! My suffering was still zero. As I watched the flight attendant handing out tiny cups of refreshments, I pondered the concept that it may actually be possible to travel comfortably by air. I was beginning to get cocky.

I exited the plane into the Dallas terminal with forty minutes to spare before my next flight. Learning that my next departure gate was a short distance from my arrival gate, I set off on a leisurely stroll enjoying a little window shopping on the way. I even paused to recheck my Level of suffering…..still zero. Could it be possible?

I arrived at the departure gate to learn my flight was temporarily delayed for maintenance. Apparently the previous pilot decided the breaks “didn’t feel quite right”, wrote it up in the maintenance log, and went home to enjoy the remainder of his wonderful asshole life. The airline representatives told me they hoped to be boarding in about an hour, so I convinced myself it was a nothing more than a minor inconvenience and headed straight for the nearest Starbucks. I should have remembered that denial is not an effective technique to avoid suffering. I had officially achieved suffering level one.

Four hours and three thousand dollars later, my caffeine binge was in full swing and I was seriously ready to go. My heart raced when a voice announced over the public address system that my flight was ready to board. Then again, it was already pounding out of control, so I’m guessing the announcement had little to do with it. I reassured myself, Okay, no problem, I can live with level one, let’s just get the hell out of here, and madly dashed twenty feet across the hallway for absolutely no reason.

I prepared myself for the normal boarding process and was moving through the gate when the ticket agent; a.k.a. dragon lady from hell, decided my carry-on luggage was too large for the overhead compartments. Level two. Now if I had been in a better mood, I might have commented that she was not the first woman to tell me I had a large bag, but I knew this was no place for humor. Besides, other passengers were already piling up behind me. Instead, I took the irrefutable logic approach by assuring her in my best authoritative tone of voice, that the size of my luggage had not been an issue on previous flights, and that I was sure it would fit just fine. She countered my iron clad argument with her irrefutable opinion that my carry-on luggage was too large.

Great.

When I felt the synchronized exhalation of the fifty some irritated passengers standing behind me, my level of suffering increased proportionate to theirs. Adding two points put me at level four. Concerned for my personal safety from those standing behind me, I relinquished my bag to dragon lady, I mean ticket agent, and headed down the jet way. Besides, I knew I had everything I needed for my in-flight entertainment. I can deal with level four.

I arrived at the row of seating I had preselected through the Internet a month earlier to discover my isle seat had metamorphosed into a window seat. Add a point on the suffering scale, but I don’t care. We’re leaving. I plopped down in my window seat with my wife next to me and began performing my own before take-off ritual in a futile attempt to fight back against the rising level of suffering. I was focusing on my relaxation breathing, attempting to achieve suffering level four, when ginger mom appeared. I call her Ginger Mom because she had bright red hair and I never learned her name. Standing in the isle of the plane, she asked if anyone would mind trading seats with her so she could sit with her four year old son. Poor planning on her part, was about the only thing that crossed my mind in the next two tenths of a second before my wife jumped to her feet and left me. Alone and defenseless I did some quick math in my head. Two additional points for abandonment put me at level seven. Not knowing what to expect next added another point. Level eight! Ginger mom tosses her ginger son into the seat next to me. Nine!

Eventually, the pilot pushed the throttles forward and the plane picked up speed for take-off. We didn’t skid off the end of the runway and crash violently into trees, so I considered this a good thing and subtracted one level of suffering. I also realized that since my wife had taken the seat directly in front of me, I had the unique opportunity to pull her hair throughout the remainder of the flight. Three hours of hair pulling should easily drop me back to level seven.

The wheels had barely retracted up into the aircraft and I was already reaching for one particularly vulnerable hair projecting out from the side of my wife’s head. That’s when Ginger son puked on my arm, taking me directly to suffering level twelve. Trust me, when projectile vomit from an unfamiliar four year old saturates your shirt, math calculations are no longer necessary. I was still reeling from the odor when I saw my wife looking back at me with one eye through the space between the seats. She was obviously enjoying the same odor I was. Ginger mom was already busy cleaning up her ginger son; no concern for me, when he let loose with a second round of puke in her lap. The second wave of odor increased my level of suffering to thirteen. Prior to that specific point in my life, I didn’t know the scale even went that high.

As I endured the sensation of ginger son’s stomach contents dripping from my elbow, I heard a familiar “bong” sound, and looked up to see that the airline captain had made doubly sure the seatbelt sign remained brightly illuminated. For added measure, the cabin attendants parked their drink cart directly in front of my only escape route to the center aisle. I was going nowhere. I closed my eyes in complete resignation and reflected on the entire crew’s unique ability to conspire against my best efforts to avoid suffering. Their prior planning and coordination must have been exhaustive. The timing alone was nothing less than inspiring.

I opened my eyes to the voice of a cabin attendant asking if there was anything she could get for me. Her voice was like an angel from heaven. A comforting voice that discredited all thoughts of conspiracy. I was grateful for her assistance in my time of need and asked her for whatever she had that would help. She handed me a tiny cup of Pepsi.

One week and thirty seven showers later, my suffering has diminished to level one. I don’t feel as though I can fully return to normal until I stop smelling vomit every time I blow my nose. My new therapist suggested I should stop obsessing. He’s certainly a zero.

I gently extracted myself from the car.  “What’s wrong? “ I whispered, my voice carrying through the still air of the night.  I squinted at the dimly lit clock on my cell phone noting the time.  Nearing midnight.

“Grandma’s stuck in the car,” my son droned, as if this was something that happened every day.

“She’s stuck in the car?  What do you mean she’s stuck in the car?  How did she get stuck in the car?”  I asked, as if these were the only words I knew.

“She can’t get out,” he explained, “we can’t find the keys.”   He shook his head and his expression leaked, You’re a moron, what’s not to understand here?

“Oh, I see,” I dithered stupidly.  I’m not normally so slow on the uptake, but at that moment, my mind was apparently folding in on itself.  I couldn’t find the connection between the lost key and the ability to get out of the car, and I seemed to be the only one who was confused.

Mom’s head swung back and forth between us while we talked before she slid herself back through the window and began fiddling with things inside the car.  We’d been talking over her as if she was invisible and I thought I saw her glaring at us through the tinted glass.  I looked over at my son again.  Apparently something had gone missing between his brain and his mouth because he seemed to have nothing else to offer by way of explanation.  He resumed his pacing.  I continued probing while he raised his hands in the air, waggling them at me dismissively like I’d just had a lobotomy.

Yes, I was confused and I cocked my head from left to right like a parrot, and continued my parade of questions.  Annoyed, he mirrored my movements, before booming with the force of a Town Crier, “We can’t open the door without the key,” and then he went on with the arm waggling thing again while muttering something about alarms, neighbors, and noise. “and we need to get Grandma out.”

Perhaps he noticed the vacancy in my eyes, the lights-out-nobody’s-home placard I had tacked to my forehead, because he  was now speaking in italics,  “We need a flashlight to find the keys mom, could you find one please?” he asked,  as if speaking to a small  child. Under normal circumstances it would’ve pissed me off, but I was okay with it because  the pesky hand signals were getting annoying.

“Okay,” I lamely offered up into the suddenly rising tension, “I’ll try to find one.”

Mom tipped her head and slid it through the partially opened window again, “I need my phone too honey.”

I was so lost.  “For what?”  I didn’t wait for an answer, “Here use mine,” I offered, placing it into her hand.

She rolled her eyes and handed it back.  “I need mine,” she insisted, “I can’t remember his number; it’s programmed into my phone.”

“Whose number?”

“Richard’s.   I’ll call him and he can bring another set of keys.”

I still wasn’t getting the whole key thing and I somehow sensed that this whole episode may have been brought on by some mishap of my son’s.  A rush of panic fluttered across my face.  That and she had on what I believe to be called a “duster” you know those frumpy house dress thingies?  I found it disturbing, for company anyway.

“You can’t call him, look how you’re dressed, and look what time it is.”  I tapped the face of my phone offering proof.   She stuck her arms through the window waving me off in a go on silly girl; just get me my phone gesture.  My mind began skidding off to some distant plane of consciousness and I was now staring off into space considering how a “duster” got its name in the first place.

Then my son’s words sliced through the air again, breaking my semi fugue state.  “The flashlight mom, we need the flashlight.”  And there was the enunciating thing again, and now shooing motions as if I was some errant child being sent off to my room.

“And my phone,” my mother piped up, her neck and arms still wrenched through the window.  Her tone was sweet, calming, as if she expected fireworks to ignite from the powder kegs of either my son or myself.

I held my hands palms down, fingers splayed, trying to smooth the air in a placating fashion.  “We’ll get you out somehow mom,” I lied, hoping I looked every inch the part of someone who was actually in control of the situation.

I felt a headache unfurling over my right eye.  Maybe it was the bump on the head I got at the amusement park, or maybe it was hunger, as my lunch had blown off into the bay during a picnic.  Whatever the case, I moved slowly, my right leg feeling somewhat loose, unhinged, from the little race thingy I ran the previous morning. I was concerned that it might fall off.

Like a mantra, I kept repeating, flashlight, phone, flashlight phone, hoping to remember what I was in there for.  I walked past a pile of laundry and I have no idea why, but I reached down, scooped it up and tossed it in.  Flashlight, phone, flashlight phone, I kept repeating to myself as I poured the soap into the filling tub.

Something was wrong with me, really.  Electrolyte imbalance or something.  Possibly I had sweat away my IQ, but I carried on searching; everywhere…..

…….After turning over the last couch cushion, I stopped the ridiculous flashlight search and turned to go back outside.  When I got back to the car, my mother was punching numbers into her cell phone and my son was holding the flashlight pointing it inside of the car, fiddling with things on the door.  This all happened while I was searching in vain for both, with vast gaps of unaccounted for time.

Netting ourselves in unusual spots seems to be a family hobby but I believed we were reaching new heights of absurdity because no one seemed to think this was out of the ordinary.  Standing next to the car, I started to laugh.  It had a ripple effect, spreading like a rogue wave.  While hee hawing, I tried to stop her from calling her friend, but she already had.  I really thought we could handle it ourselves.

Right.  Handle it ourselves.  When we were now laughing like a trio of drunken seals.

Anyway, somehow the keys were found inside of the car, the alarms were disengaged, or something like that, but I still haven’t figured the damn connection.  Strange wiring maybe.  Anyway, mom got out of the car.  Then like magic, Richard pulled up, a twinkle in his eye, a smile on his face, and everyone began chatting as if we were at some normal midnight gathering.  God love a man with a sense of humor.  The same man who drove two hours to exchange the suitcase I had accidentally brought back from the airport – belonging to someone who lives in Dubai – and returning with the one that actually belonged to me.  Sweet sweet man.

And then I looked down, and to my horror, I realized I had run my little late night errand with my t-shirt on inside out and backwards, the tag flapping in the front like a cute little flag.  How stylish of me.  But then I also noticed that, Praise the Lord, nobody really seemed to notice, or they did,  and it just somehow struck them as normal – for me anyway.