I am simultaneously amazed and appalled at the ludicrous "feelings" of oppression I read on social media. Women are oppressed, men are oppressed, blacks are oppressed, whites are oppressed, Asians are oppressed, Native Americans are oppressed, animals are oppressed, Indians are oppressed, Muslims are oppressed, illegal aliens are oppressed--ENOUGH ALREADY!
If you live in a western nation I have news for you--you are not oppressed, and most likely have no idea what the word means. In fact, if you have ever typed, spoken, or felt oppressed, you have no idea what the definition of the word is. If you have the freedom to type the word "oppressed" and you feel as though you are, you should consider some psychiatric help for whatever ails you.
You are not oppressed, nor have you ever been such. Perhaps things have not gone your way in life ('cause, I mean, it's life after all), and you have blamed others (IE. groups, genders, et al.) for your situation, then you should take a few moments and reflect on the true and very real reason you are where you are. Maybe you made a bad decision, or the situation changed and you had little or no control over its outcome. This is not oppression; this is merely a situation, and situations change in the blink of an eye.
So, here I am, a white male lecturing you, the oppressed, on how you are not being held down by "the man." Evidence that no one has their old, rich, white foot on your neck is all around you, but you refuse to accept responsibility for your own decisions, actions, or lack of both. I cannot count the number of successful (insert the minority, whatever that means today, here) people I encounter on a daily basis that are not old white men. Salud to you, my non-white male successful friends! Guess who is happy and ecstatic you are where you are in life? This old white guy, that's who.
There was a time, when I was growing up, that kids played with each other regardless of skin color, financial status (kids have no financial status by the way, their parents do), the bikes we rode, or the shoes we wore. The only sense of entitlement we had was who got to run down a trail in the woods first or who got to be on offense during the first dodge ball game of the day.
Social media and the internet are fabulous tools, but I fear it has become a detriment to society as a whole. Only on social media can you surround yourself with likeminded individuals without recourse, restraint, or recrimination. This is a shame, my friends. Having real face-to-face conversations is a lost art today. Putting your phone or laptop away long enough to listen (that thing you do with those two satellite dishes on the side of your head) to someone else's perspective is fading into the past like the sun at twilight. We have allowed people like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg to control us, to take away our humanity and replace it with a keyboard and the ability to "block" anyone so retarded as to not respect or understand our personal point of view. Yes, yes, I realize I used the word "retarded" and it is not politically correct, is probably offensive, and will likely lead to someone feeling repressed or oppressed, but what the heck--the word is still in Webster's dictionary, so it is free game in my opinion.
I cannot recommend enough turning away from our electronic lifestyle long enough to talk to another human being. Go outside and talk to your neighbor. Do you even know your neighbor's name/s? Mow your lawn, burn a burger on the grill, but for God's sake--put the phone down and talk.
Note: Howard Upton loves the internet, voicing his opinion on various subjects, taking walks on sandy beaches, is a Capricorn, and a hugger. He is known to point and laugh when others trip and fall, but is quickly angered when others point and laugh at him when he does the same. You can reach him on his cell phone for a real conversation if you have his number, but you shouldn't get your feelings hurt when he is curt when responding to a text, because he despises texting and believes it is one of the downfalls of mankind.
Thursday, June 1, 2017
Monday, May 22, 2017
Repairing My Own Stuff
It is not lost on me that there are those men and women incapable of repairing or fixing things around the house. Whether it be plumbing, basic construction repairs or updates, remodeling, etc., there are those who do not know how to do it, or where or how to even begin (youtube is your friend!).
Disclaimer: I do not claim to be the handiest of handymen, but I can hold my own with regards to most things requiring nails, screws, wiring, and PVC...or CPVC. I don't sweat copper--that falls outside my skillset.
Given, my propensity to doing things like this myself was originally driven by distaste of paying someone to do something I was capable of doing myself. Most especially, I began learning how to fix things in my early twenties because I did not have two pennies to spare. Yeah, learning to do DIY was a born of necessity, rather than just being cheap like my children accuse me of being (okay, okay, I'm cheap too, but that was also born of necessity).
I am huge believer in saving money, because you never know when you will need that extra five or ten bucks you put away because you changed your own lawn mower blade or figured out how to spray starter fluid into a carburetor in order to start that same mower. Have you paid to have a plumber come to your house to stop a leak? The service call alone makes me cringe!
Equally, or possibly more important than saving money is the sense of satisfaction you get when you have done it yourself. Sure, it is time consuming, more often than not frustrating, but gratifying when you finish a job and look at it with pride.
"I did that," is a deliciously glorious thing to mumble to yourself. A little gloating is in order and walking around with a big smile on your face is warranted. Let me also say there is nothing wrong in attempting to do it yourself then asking for help. That is how you learn: trying and watching. Soon enough you will be handyman/woman.
Disclaimer: I do not claim to be the handiest of handymen, but I can hold my own with regards to most things requiring nails, screws, wiring, and PVC...or CPVC. I don't sweat copper--that falls outside my skillset.
Given, my propensity to doing things like this myself was originally driven by distaste of paying someone to do something I was capable of doing myself. Most especially, I began learning how to fix things in my early twenties because I did not have two pennies to spare. Yeah, learning to do DIY was a born of necessity, rather than just being cheap like my children accuse me of being (okay, okay, I'm cheap too, but that was also born of necessity).
I am huge believer in saving money, because you never know when you will need that extra five or ten bucks you put away because you changed your own lawn mower blade or figured out how to spray starter fluid into a carburetor in order to start that same mower. Have you paid to have a plumber come to your house to stop a leak? The service call alone makes me cringe!
Equally, or possibly more important than saving money is the sense of satisfaction you get when you have done it yourself. Sure, it is time consuming, more often than not frustrating, but gratifying when you finish a job and look at it with pride.
"I did that," is a deliciously glorious thing to mumble to yourself. A little gloating is in order and walking around with a big smile on your face is warranted. Let me also say there is nothing wrong in attempting to do it yourself then asking for help. That is how you learn: trying and watching. Soon enough you will be handyman/woman.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Coffee is Love
It would be fruitless to attempt to debate the best coffee on the market--I have my preferences and frown upon lattes, milk, sugar, or anything that masks the flavor of a good cup of java. That's me, that's who I am at 5:30 A.M.: I drink black coffee and love it. My coffee is properly perked when I can float a tenpenny nail in it.
Most often, my lovely wife has prepped the coffee the previous night and all I have to do is stumble toward the brew station and press the "on" button. As the water heats up and the station begins gurgling I smile, then watch as wisps of steam roll through the vents positioned on the back of the brewer.
I often get asked what my favorite coffee is--and I have one; rather, I have a favorite roaster. 1565 Coffee is a small roaster located in St. Augustine, Florida, which happens to be the greatest city in the United States, but I digress. Admittedly, I have not tried all their coffees, but the Discovery blend is fantastic. The taste is clean, crisp, with slight burnt nodes at the end. Yum!
That aside, I enjoy breakfast blends, or blonde roasts. Two things here: (1) the darker roasts tend to be much more bitter, and (2) the caffeine content in blonde roasts is slightly higher because the roasting process isn't as harsh or as long. I learned that while working in a coffee plant, one of my favorite tours during my career.
Coffee is a primary staple in my day. It excuses my wild bed head each morning, I.E. "Leave your dad alone and stop laughing at his hair. He hasn't finished his first cup of coffee yet."
In addition, coffee makes me human. As an example, "Don't talk to dad yet. He hasn't had his coffee."
It helps move the work day forward. "Howard, can you do 'x' after you finish your coffee?"
In summary, coffee is the perfect beverage and recent studies prove that it is essential for a strong, healthy body. It has also been proven that it is essential for a longer life for those around me.
Be well, drink coffee, and don't add sugar or creamer. There...now we can be friends.
Most often, my lovely wife has prepped the coffee the previous night and all I have to do is stumble toward the brew station and press the "on" button. As the water heats up and the station begins gurgling I smile, then watch as wisps of steam roll through the vents positioned on the back of the brewer.
I often get asked what my favorite coffee is--and I have one; rather, I have a favorite roaster. 1565 Coffee is a small roaster located in St. Augustine, Florida, which happens to be the greatest city in the United States, but I digress. Admittedly, I have not tried all their coffees, but the Discovery blend is fantastic. The taste is clean, crisp, with slight burnt nodes at the end. Yum!
That aside, I enjoy breakfast blends, or blonde roasts. Two things here: (1) the darker roasts tend to be much more bitter, and (2) the caffeine content in blonde roasts is slightly higher because the roasting process isn't as harsh or as long. I learned that while working in a coffee plant, one of my favorite tours during my career.Coffee is a primary staple in my day. It excuses my wild bed head each morning, I.E. "Leave your dad alone and stop laughing at his hair. He hasn't finished his first cup of coffee yet."
In addition, coffee makes me human. As an example, "Don't talk to dad yet. He hasn't had his coffee."
It helps move the work day forward. "Howard, can you do 'x' after you finish your coffee?"
In summary, coffee is the perfect beverage and recent studies prove that it is essential for a strong, healthy body. It has also been proven that it is essential for a longer life for those around me.
Be well, drink coffee, and don't add sugar or creamer. There...now we can be friends.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
You're Still My Friend
I debated on penning this blog--it seemed so senseless and repetitive to me. We have all read or heard someone talking about taking a break from social media, or disconnecting from the world if you allow it (social media) to consume you (us, we, all, etc.). I suppose I agree with this to an extent, and will be the first to admit that I've allowed someone's written remark to get my dander up, but part of being a mature individual is moving beyond emotion when confronted with a difference of opinion.
Some of my friends are polar opposites of me: politically, socially, and perhaps even morally. Quite often I find myself disagreeing with a belief they hold and, as a result, engage in debate. Other times, some of my friends who disagree with me will do the same. This, folks, is healthy and okay, unless taken to an extreme (and yes, I'm guilty of doing that too).
Over my almost decade on Facebook, and much longer than that in bulletin board groups, the predecessor to social media, I have had the opportunity to meet many of the people I have arbitrarily disagreed with on various topics. As a result of my meeting these individuals, friendships have formed and lasted for almost two decades. Imagine that! Friendships formed even after disagreeing with one another. That's almost unfathomable, isn't it?
Still, after the disagreements and sometimes disparaging remarks, these people, by and large, remain my friends. I have no ill will or animosity toward any of them, because we are all just links in one giant human chain. It is interesting to me to watch people become overwhelmed on a particular topic to the point of eliminating someone completely from their life; a person who, if they were seated directly in front of them, would still be a close friend.
I don't intend this entry to be a lecture; rather, it is just my perception (as limited as it may be) of the intricate relationships forged and destroyed over subjective opinion. To wit, I will tell you, that no matter our disagreement, if you were my friend, you are still my friend. Maybe it is time we examine what friendship means to us--because it must mean something beyond a casual acquaintance.
Be bold in your position, but not so much that you take yourself seriously to the point that you alienate yourself from the world!
Peace, love, and yogurt to you all.
Some of my friends are polar opposites of me: politically, socially, and perhaps even morally. Quite often I find myself disagreeing with a belief they hold and, as a result, engage in debate. Other times, some of my friends who disagree with me will do the same. This, folks, is healthy and okay, unless taken to an extreme (and yes, I'm guilty of doing that too).
Over my almost decade on Facebook, and much longer than that in bulletin board groups, the predecessor to social media, I have had the opportunity to meet many of the people I have arbitrarily disagreed with on various topics. As a result of my meeting these individuals, friendships have formed and lasted for almost two decades. Imagine that! Friendships formed even after disagreeing with one another. That's almost unfathomable, isn't it?
Still, after the disagreements and sometimes disparaging remarks, these people, by and large, remain my friends. I have no ill will or animosity toward any of them, because we are all just links in one giant human chain. It is interesting to me to watch people become overwhelmed on a particular topic to the point of eliminating someone completely from their life; a person who, if they were seated directly in front of them, would still be a close friend.
I don't intend this entry to be a lecture; rather, it is just my perception (as limited as it may be) of the intricate relationships forged and destroyed over subjective opinion. To wit, I will tell you, that no matter our disagreement, if you were my friend, you are still my friend. Maybe it is time we examine what friendship means to us--because it must mean something beyond a casual acquaintance.
Be bold in your position, but not so much that you take yourself seriously to the point that you alienate yourself from the world!
Peace, love, and yogurt to you all.
Monday, May 8, 2017
The Little Book That Could
If you know me, you know I love to write. There's something about bringing words to life, giving strange phrases new meaning, or personifying inanimate objects in order to render a story more meaningful. To give enjoyment where there was none, or to provide a world for the reader who may not have had the opportunity to travel to foreign places yields a particular joy for the writer, and a sense of accomplishment when the story "is finished."
Like most who write, I especially rejoice in reading a good book. For within the confines of those crisp white pages, I allow my mind to drift to blowing winds through knee high grasses, or hear a strange bird caw in fear or warning. And every now and then I read to get a sense of what a writer thinks, believes, or simply wants to convey to me in whatever tone and syntax he or she chooses to use.
A few years ago, a friend released a short book of stories and poems about her life growing up in the Sandhills of north central Nebraska. Having lived in the western United States for a few years, I had a certain appreciation for the work and dedication of a group of Americans whose lifestyles have changed little over the decades.
Western styled shirts, starched and pressed Wranglers are the trademark of a true westerner. Grit and determination walk with them, and their connection to the earth is unlike most have experienced. So, when Loranda Buoy told me that she was going to publish her small tale of growing up there, I was quick to purchase and read it.
Her language was rustic and unrefined, much like the truck she drives and the land she works. I could sense in those words the love for her husband, passion for the ranch she manages since his passing, and the desire to bring something wonderful and nice to those who may not ever know what it is like to live in the grasslands of America.
I invite you to check out her short book--hey, it's only eighty pages or so--and tell me your thoughts about it. Her book Thanks For Talkin' To Me: Stories and Poems of Living, Loving, and Laughing in the Nebraska Sandhills. My opinion is you'll enjoy it, and can order it by clicking here. :)
Like most who write, I especially rejoice in reading a good book. For within the confines of those crisp white pages, I allow my mind to drift to blowing winds through knee high grasses, or hear a strange bird caw in fear or warning. And every now and then I read to get a sense of what a writer thinks, believes, or simply wants to convey to me in whatever tone and syntax he or she chooses to use.
A few years ago, a friend released a short book of stories and poems about her life growing up in the Sandhills of north central Nebraska. Having lived in the western United States for a few years, I had a certain appreciation for the work and dedication of a group of Americans whose lifestyles have changed little over the decades.
Western styled shirts, starched and pressed Wranglers are the trademark of a true westerner. Grit and determination walk with them, and their connection to the earth is unlike most have experienced. So, when Loranda Buoy told me that she was going to publish her small tale of growing up there, I was quick to purchase and read it.
Her language was rustic and unrefined, much like the truck she drives and the land she works. I could sense in those words the love for her husband, passion for the ranch she manages since his passing, and the desire to bring something wonderful and nice to those who may not ever know what it is like to live in the grasslands of America.
I invite you to check out her short book--hey, it's only eighty pages or so--and tell me your thoughts about it. Her book Thanks For Talkin' To Me: Stories and Poems of Living, Loving, and Laughing in the Nebraska Sandhills. My opinion is you'll enjoy it, and can order it by clicking here. :)
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Conversations With Rex
Some of my best discussions are had with my little buddy, Rex. He has a look that oozes intelligence and personality, while drawing smiles from anyone he encounters. His amicable and steadfast temperament, willingness to listen to my daily complaints or woes, and general all-around love for his mommy and daddy make him the perfect companion.
Rex's innate wisdom and desire to share his own life experiences make it so much easier for me to engage him in dialogue. He was, after all, imprisoned for several months for a crime he did not commit. After adopting Cathy and me, he explained his dilemma in a way only Rex can--
On Prison
Rex--Prison life sucks. I was in a cage, man. Water and a little food each day, paper to pee on, and PT time for an hour. The prison guards were pretty nice, but some of the cats in cells next to me talked about wanting to sink their teeth into me and shake the life from my eleven pound carcass.
Me--That sounds terrible.
Rex--Dude, ain't no prison in North Korea that could touch what I went through. I was a DOW
Me--DOW?
Rex--Dawg of War
On Being a Eunuch
Rex--I woke up, looked down, and suddenly I was a doggie priest. Who does that to someone, man?
Me--Wasn't me, son. I wouldn't have done that to you.
Rex--*points at self* All this, and no woman will understand what Rex love is about. It's a shame, really.
On Pooping Outside
Rex--I do what I want.
On Grabbing our Shoes and Putting Them on the Couch
Me--I don't understand your shoe fetish. Why do you seek out our shoes and put them on the couch or the bed?
Rex--Look, man. I can only lick my butt for so many hours when you're at work until I lose my mind. You leave your shoes within reach and I'm like, "Challenge accepted."
On Sleeping in our Bed
Me--You know you have your own bed, right?
Rex--Yeah, I have my own bed, but yours is much more comfortable. Besides, I can't really see the television from the floor. Watching the news before I doze off is the recipe for a good night's rest.
Me--*rolls eyes*
Rex--Don't do that. Your eyes will get stuck in your skull.
On Sniffing Tires
Me--Why? What's the fascination?
Rex--I can't explain it. Some people with OCD have to place things in a certain order, I have to smell every tire on every vehicle in a two mile radius.
Me--Yeah, but sometimes you pee on them then sniff them again.
Rex--Mind your own business.
On Fishing
Me--It would be pretty cool if you could fish with me.
Rex--*blank stare*
Me--What?
Rex--I don't have any thumbs.
This is just a sample of our conversations. Sometimes we discuss geopolitical issues, or have conversations centered on religion. He is a devout Catholic, but has been caught drinking Holy Water on a few occasions. Apparently, that is frowned upon.
Rex's innate wisdom and desire to share his own life experiences make it so much easier for me to engage him in dialogue. He was, after all, imprisoned for several months for a crime he did not commit. After adopting Cathy and me, he explained his dilemma in a way only Rex can--
On Prison
Rex--Prison life sucks. I was in a cage, man. Water and a little food each day, paper to pee on, and PT time for an hour. The prison guards were pretty nice, but some of the cats in cells next to me talked about wanting to sink their teeth into me and shake the life from my eleven pound carcass.
Me--That sounds terrible.
Rex--Dude, ain't no prison in North Korea that could touch what I went through. I was a DOW
Me--DOW?
Rex--Dawg of War
On Being a Eunuch
Rex--I woke up, looked down, and suddenly I was a doggie priest. Who does that to someone, man?
Me--Wasn't me, son. I wouldn't have done that to you.
Rex--*points at self* All this, and no woman will understand what Rex love is about. It's a shame, really.
On Pooping Outside
Rex--I do what I want.
On Grabbing our Shoes and Putting Them on the Couch
Me--I don't understand your shoe fetish. Why do you seek out our shoes and put them on the couch or the bed?
Rex--Look, man. I can only lick my butt for so many hours when you're at work until I lose my mind. You leave your shoes within reach and I'm like, "Challenge accepted."
On Sleeping in our Bed
Me--You know you have your own bed, right?
 |
| Rex (L) and your author (R) |
Rex--Yeah, I have my own bed, but yours is much more comfortable. Besides, I can't really see the television from the floor. Watching the news before I doze off is the recipe for a good night's rest.
Me--*rolls eyes*
Rex--Don't do that. Your eyes will get stuck in your skull.
On Sniffing Tires
Me--Why? What's the fascination?
Rex--I can't explain it. Some people with OCD have to place things in a certain order, I have to smell every tire on every vehicle in a two mile radius.
Me--Yeah, but sometimes you pee on them then sniff them again.
Rex--Mind your own business.
On Fishing
Me--It would be pretty cool if you could fish with me.
Rex--*blank stare*
Me--What?
Rex--I don't have any thumbs.
This is just a sample of our conversations. Sometimes we discuss geopolitical issues, or have conversations centered on religion. He is a devout Catholic, but has been caught drinking Holy Water on a few occasions. Apparently, that is frowned upon.
 |
| Nap time |
Monday, April 10, 2017
There's a Pony in a Luggage Rack
Traveling can be exciting, strange, and bizarre, most especially if you are on the lookout for the aforementioned. In all my years on the road or in the air, I've yet to have a totally uneventful trip. There are those things in airports, truck stops, gas stations, and hotels that make your head snap and your brain question your current reality. I've been accused of having an eye for detail--perhaps it is just the story teller in me that seeks for everything outside the scope of the mundane--and an ability to exaggerate for the sake of the tale. This is NOT one of those times.
Cathy, Cassidy, and I hopped a plane in the wee hours of the April 8th in Atlanta, Georgia heading to Dallas, Texas. We missed our flight the previous day because of a tragedy that I won't cover here; let's just say it was very heart-wrenching. As a result, we were forced to move our flight to the next day for a quick in/out into Dallas followed by a two hour drive to Arkansas to see our son married to his lovely new bride.
After landing in The Big D, we shuttled to the rental car center at Love Field and began the cross-Texas drive to Texarkana to (hopefully) get into our hotel rooms ad catch a nap before the wedding. Since we would be arriving into Texarkana around eleven in the morning, we had not held out much hope for an early check-in, as hotels often do not want to rush their weekend cleaning crews around to accommodate a couple people. I don't blame them for that, but we were very tired and needed sleep.
We arrived at the hotel, the name of which shall be redacted, walked inside and began begging for mercy.
After some finagling with the desk clerk, we managed to upgrade our rooms to suites (oh, yeah!) and headed to the elevator, all of us with road-weary looks on our faces, but with broad smiles knowing that very soon we would be napping until it was time to get ready for the wedding. We walked Cassidy to her room, swept through to make everything was in order and to assure no boogey men were hiding in the closet or tub then made our way to our room. I was dragging behind Cathy because I stayed to give Cassidy a couple last minute instructions. By the time I made it to our room, she was standing outside the door, her eyes the size of half dollars.
"I think there's someone in our bathroom," she said.
"Nooooo," I replied, the disbelief apparent in my voice.
I walk to the bathroom door and knock and receive a sharp reply, "I'm in here!"
We didn't know who "I" was, but I immediately pick up the phone and called the front desk, explaining what we've just encountered in our room. While I'm speaking to the young lady at the desk, the toilet flushes and out walks a gentleman with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He grabs a clipboard he had placed on an end table and walks out while simultaneously apologizing for being there. We came to understand that he was the hotel engineer and, I'm speculating here, he made use of the suite as his personal break room, made apparent by the use of the restroom, the television he left on, and the two slices of pizza that I found in the refrigerator.
Within seconds, the worst imaginable smell began wafting through our room. Cathy and I were both still in shock as the engineer walks back into the room with cleaning supplies in hand. He proceeds to clean the toilet, which did little for the stench emanating from the bathroom. I look at Cathy and can see the same thought on her face that is running through my mind: Is it common practice for hotel employees to use a clean room before guests arrive? I know, I know...there are things we really do not want to think about, and this is certainly one of them.
The desk clerk vehemently apologized, found us another suite on a different floor and put us in there. Within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, I was asleep. Cathy chose to stay awake for fear of not falling asleep later that evening, but I did not share her concern--I needed some shuteye.
My boy's wedding was nice and went off without drama, which is a very good thing for a wedding. Afterward, we drove from Hope, Arkansas, the site of the wedding, back to our hotel in Texarkana. I fell asleep without much fanfare, thankful no one was dropping a deuce/making Mr. Stinky in our bathroom upon our return.
And if that was not enough, this is when things got weird
Apparently, Cathy and Cassidy did not sleep nearly as well as I did. We walked to the breakfast area of the hotel early in the morning on the 9th of April to get a little food in us before the long drive back to the airport in Dallas. After eating, we climbed into the rental, turned west on I-30 and began driving on the flat Texas interstates that, at least to the casual observer, appear to be black top to eternity. Texas is larger than most countries, with terrain that allows a cow to graze unobstructed across ranchland for miles on end without breaking a sweat. It is as flat as a tabletop, and the white lines on the road serve little purpose other than to hypnotize a driver of a vehicle faced with having to drive across it.
As I stated, Cathy and Cassidy did not get the same amount of sleep I did, and quickly fell asleep in the car while I drove. I have grown accustomed to being the only one awake in a vehicle; this serves as reflective time for me and I really do not mind at all. Just past Rock Wall, Texas, however, I was forced to wake Cathy. She had to see this and I needed a witness.
A fellow was driving an SUV with one of those luggage racks that attach to a trailer hitch. It looked very similar to this:
Standing on that luggage rack was a Shetland pony. I kid you not. The pony had a gorgeous buckskin coat with a blonde mane that was getting slung around by the wind as the driver pushed eighty miles an hour down the interstate. I shook my head to make sure what I was seeing was real. A freaking pony was standing in a luggage rack with no other supports surrounding it. To top it off, the animal was staring at me! Immediately, my mind went into overdrive and within a couple of seconds I imagined an entire conversation with this mini-horse. It went something like this:
Me: Are you aware that you're standing on a luggage rack attached to a vehicle driving eighty miles an hour on an interstate in Texas?
Pony: Do I look like an idiot to you? I realize ponies get no respect from humans because we aren't big and strong like our full-sized brothers and sisters, but that makes us no less intelligent. Do you ask human midgets questions like this?
Me: I've never seen a midget in a luggage rack.
Pony: Oh, so now you're a comedian, huh? Did you know ponies can suffer from depression and tend to be suicidal?
Me: Wait, what?
Pony: That's right. We are laughed and pointed at our entire lives. Kids want to ride us all the time, and for God's sake, when we are moved, we're put on a luggage rack! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?
Me: I'm getting a pretty good sense of it, yes.
Cathy, Cassidy, and I hopped a plane in the wee hours of the April 8th in Atlanta, Georgia heading to Dallas, Texas. We missed our flight the previous day because of a tragedy that I won't cover here; let's just say it was very heart-wrenching. As a result, we were forced to move our flight to the next day for a quick in/out into Dallas followed by a two hour drive to Arkansas to see our son married to his lovely new bride.
After landing in The Big D, we shuttled to the rental car center at Love Field and began the cross-Texas drive to Texarkana to (hopefully) get into our hotel rooms ad catch a nap before the wedding. Since we would be arriving into Texarkana around eleven in the morning, we had not held out much hope for an early check-in, as hotels often do not want to rush their weekend cleaning crews around to accommodate a couple people. I don't blame them for that, but we were very tired and needed sleep.
We arrived at the hotel, the name of which shall be redacted, walked inside and began begging for mercy.
After some finagling with the desk clerk, we managed to upgrade our rooms to suites (oh, yeah!) and headed to the elevator, all of us with road-weary looks on our faces, but with broad smiles knowing that very soon we would be napping until it was time to get ready for the wedding. We walked Cassidy to her room, swept through to make everything was in order and to assure no boogey men were hiding in the closet or tub then made our way to our room. I was dragging behind Cathy because I stayed to give Cassidy a couple last minute instructions. By the time I made it to our room, she was standing outside the door, her eyes the size of half dollars.
"I think there's someone in our bathroom," she said.
"Nooooo," I replied, the disbelief apparent in my voice.
I walk to the bathroom door and knock and receive a sharp reply, "I'm in here!"
We didn't know who "I" was, but I immediately pick up the phone and called the front desk, explaining what we've just encountered in our room. While I'm speaking to the young lady at the desk, the toilet flushes and out walks a gentleman with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He grabs a clipboard he had placed on an end table and walks out while simultaneously apologizing for being there. We came to understand that he was the hotel engineer and, I'm speculating here, he made use of the suite as his personal break room, made apparent by the use of the restroom, the television he left on, and the two slices of pizza that I found in the refrigerator.
Within seconds, the worst imaginable smell began wafting through our room. Cathy and I were both still in shock as the engineer walks back into the room with cleaning supplies in hand. He proceeds to clean the toilet, which did little for the stench emanating from the bathroom. I look at Cathy and can see the same thought on her face that is running through my mind: Is it common practice for hotel employees to use a clean room before guests arrive? I know, I know...there are things we really do not want to think about, and this is certainly one of them.
The desk clerk vehemently apologized, found us another suite on a different floor and put us in there. Within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, I was asleep. Cathy chose to stay awake for fear of not falling asleep later that evening, but I did not share her concern--I needed some shuteye.
My boy's wedding was nice and went off without drama, which is a very good thing for a wedding. Afterward, we drove from Hope, Arkansas, the site of the wedding, back to our hotel in Texarkana. I fell asleep without much fanfare, thankful no one was dropping a deuce/making Mr. Stinky in our bathroom upon our return.
And if that was not enough, this is when things got weird
Apparently, Cathy and Cassidy did not sleep nearly as well as I did. We walked to the breakfast area of the hotel early in the morning on the 9th of April to get a little food in us before the long drive back to the airport in Dallas. After eating, we climbed into the rental, turned west on I-30 and began driving on the flat Texas interstates that, at least to the casual observer, appear to be black top to eternity. Texas is larger than most countries, with terrain that allows a cow to graze unobstructed across ranchland for miles on end without breaking a sweat. It is as flat as a tabletop, and the white lines on the road serve little purpose other than to hypnotize a driver of a vehicle faced with having to drive across it.
As I stated, Cathy and Cassidy did not get the same amount of sleep I did, and quickly fell asleep in the car while I drove. I have grown accustomed to being the only one awake in a vehicle; this serves as reflective time for me and I really do not mind at all. Just past Rock Wall, Texas, however, I was forced to wake Cathy. She had to see this and I needed a witness.
A fellow was driving an SUV with one of those luggage racks that attach to a trailer hitch. It looked very similar to this:
Standing on that luggage rack was a Shetland pony. I kid you not. The pony had a gorgeous buckskin coat with a blonde mane that was getting slung around by the wind as the driver pushed eighty miles an hour down the interstate. I shook my head to make sure what I was seeing was real. A freaking pony was standing in a luggage rack with no other supports surrounding it. To top it off, the animal was staring at me! Immediately, my mind went into overdrive and within a couple of seconds I imagined an entire conversation with this mini-horse. It went something like this:
Me: Are you aware that you're standing on a luggage rack attached to a vehicle driving eighty miles an hour on an interstate in Texas?
Pony: Do I look like an idiot to you? I realize ponies get no respect from humans because we aren't big and strong like our full-sized brothers and sisters, but that makes us no less intelligent. Do you ask human midgets questions like this?
Me: I've never seen a midget in a luggage rack.
Pony: Oh, so now you're a comedian, huh? Did you know ponies can suffer from depression and tend to be suicidal?
Me: Wait, what?
Pony: That's right. We are laughed and pointed at our entire lives. Kids want to ride us all the time, and for God's sake, when we are moved, we're put on a luggage rack! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?Me: I'm getting a pretty good sense of it, yes.
Pony: Why couldn't I be placed in a horse trailer like a regular horse? Who the hell puts a pony on a luggage rack and drives down the road?
Me: Man, I don't know what to say.
Me: Man, I don't know what to say.
Pony: Oh, I've got more problems, and since you're here, I'm going to tell you all about them.
Me: I'm sorry, but I have to wake my wife up right now to see this. No one will ever believe it.
Me: I'm sorry, but I have to wake my wife up right now to see this. No one will ever believe it.
Pony: I hate you, man. You're going to wake her up so you can both laugh and point, aren't you?
Me: I have to, Mr. Pony.
Me: I have to, Mr. Pony.
And that is how our weekend went--from a guy sawing brown logs in our bathroom to a pony in a luggage rack.
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