Unless I completely misconstrued what they were asking. On purpose. To make you think about where my sick mind was going.
Author: All the Right that's left
No time wasted.
I start my day with an hour or two of coffee. Truth be told, I’m just waiting for my Adderall to kick in. I try to multitask by reading the news or skimming articles for ideas to research, get in some writing. Usually, I can be up and about by noon, finished with the to-do list and FREE!!! This is the most productive time of the day. Head out to the golf course to practice my profanity. If they made a true golf movie, it would have to be rated PG-13 for language alone. The smoking, drinking, gambling and emotional trauma are graded separately. After I’ll do something about dinner. I end the day with four or five hours of reading. So, I don’t really waste any time.
I’m retired. A master of efficiency.
Coconut butter and butt whippings.
When I was growing up, my mother’s best friend was Miss Ollie-May. You don’t have to be southern to understand that that is the way she has always been addressed, Miss Ollie-May. Show respect or catch a fresh lesson in manners. I love that woman to this day. My brothers and sister and I spent a lot of time growing up in her house. To this day, if she calls, I go running.
This is about first crushes and Miss Ollie-May wasn’t it. It was her granddaughter. Of course she was beautiful. We were friends and spent a lot of time together. I remember that her hair always smelled like coconut butter. She was my first kiss. As kisses go, it was great for a first try. No plan or conversation, just looking in her eyes and meeting in the middle for a gentle kiss. My head was reeling, I felt like I was floating over the porch. When I landed my breath whooshed out.
Miss Ollie-May was standing on the spot I had just vacated. What followed ensured I would never forget that first kiss, that epic butt whipping. She didn’t even make me cut my own switch, with that walk of shame where you have to explain to everyone what happened. I was whacked with everything at hand until she found a belt.
Every now and then, we’ll see each other when I visit. She still looks in on her grandmother. I’ll give her a hug and shell her hair. She’s still beautiful, still smells of coconut butter. I hope I always remember that kiss. It was worth the whipping.
My eyebrows say it all.
They’re evil or scary. Maybe even a little creepy, like caterpillars crawling across my face. They have conversations and express emotions all on their own. Very unique. The subject of numerous comments and accused of arguing with people for no reason. Troublemakers of the first stripe.
My second childhood.
To my daughters’ dismay, I have entered my second childhood. It began a couple years ago when I retired. Lived the dream and just walked away. It was an ugly downward spiral from there. I admit that there was little playing in the dirt with Tonka trucks or burning ants with a magnifying glass. I did play with the girl next door, but not with Barbie dolls. I went to summer camp and played golf, ate great food and swimming (scuba diving).
I guess I had a summer job. I was bored and felt a little useless. After a while it proved untenable. It interfered with my golf time. There were also calls from my girls to help with moving or working on a house. So, I freed myself from my summer job.
Retirement doesn’t mean not working at other things. It means working on the things that matter to you. Taking time for the family and personal interests, a reward for working hard for decades to provide for your family. Really, I want to go back to summer camp. I want to find that ball I lost last time.
Isn’t it funny?
My sense of humor, the oldest and most reliable thing I own and use it every day. It has carried me through so many dark days and lightened the good ones. Nights sitting around a campfire with friends laughing until we hurt and fell out of our chairs. Family get togethers where a group of us would sneak away and relive some of our best days and greatest follies.
Sometimes it is dark and I’m the man on the gallows, living only as long as I keep the crowd laughing. Poking fun at myself and laughing at my circumstance. How long can I laugh in the face of my own death? stick around and find out. I was recovering from some injuries and sent to a counseling group as part of my recovery. One man stands out in my memory because of a comment, “I would worry about you, but you laugh at everything. You’ll be fine.”
To be honest and fair, most of the time I only amuse myself. That’s okay by me. As long as I can laugh at the world, it’s all good. Boards are showing green. Perspective is clear.
As I age and my mind starts to slip, I may lose my sense of humor. That’s okay, too. Between brain injuries and Alzheimer’s, I probably won’t notice. I expect to be making inappropriate suggestions to my nurses and imagining that I can still deliver on my promises. I hope I don’t though, humor anyway may be the only thing I have left
Just a nap.
Just sleeping on the couch with my cat curled up on me. Lying there together purring and snoring together. A perfect mess.
What I said and she heard.
My girlfriend and I went out to play golf and I learned something. She doesn’t understand me.
“Aim a little more left.” I suggested.
She listened and aimed left. Good hit, not great but she’s learning, down the left side of the fairway and a little short. I’m pleased. She’s pissed. “I aimed left like you said!”
Instead of reacting to how she said it, I asked, “What did you hear me say? I meant aim to the left of the flag, because of the way the green sloped.”
The back and forth revealed we speak two different languages. I say one thing she hears something completely different. It made me rethink every conversation we have ever had. I’m fairly taciturn and blunt, assuming everyone understands me and appreciates me not wasting words with lengthy explanations. It sounds condescending, mansplaining.
I can’t think and speak the way other people do. It’s unrealistic to expect others to adapt to their way of thinking and speaking. I don’t care if someone misinterprets what I say because they have adopted a new or radical understanding of a word. That’s your problem. Feel free to be insulted. If you don’t want to understand, I feel no obligation to console you or change to accommodate you.
But I’m trying to be a better boyfriend and I do care if she understands me. I started asking questions and building a new vocabulary. There was a lot of back and forth with me trying to expand on what my words meant and trying to understand what words she would understand. The whole communication loop on repeat.
Her golf game didn’t get any better, but our communication did.
Scotch Whiskey
Old, smokey, just a touch of sweet from a sherry cask and tint of red, caramel and fire sliding down the back of my throat. Let’s put on British airs and insist on Speyside. Only barbarians insist on ice or watering down the flavor. Of course, a class of spring water, to cleanse the pallet between sips. Sipping is the only way to savor the bouquet exploding across your tongue. If you must, just a few drops of water to cut the alcohol. If you can, skip the 12-year-old., even the sherry cask is a little rough but tolerable if starved for choices. This isn’t shooting Taquila and trying to hide the flavor with salt and lime or margaritas with the girls. This is Scotch.
My personal vise is The Macallan. I’ve been drinking it for thirty years, well before it became popular. It was my first experience with whiskey that left me breathless rather that gasping for breath. For years Cutty Sark and Chevas Regal passed for a decent drink. Then in London, at an Irish Pub no less, a bottle caught my eye. The words said. The lingering taste on my lips. There is no going back.
This advice not intended for children or people serious about saving money and paying their bills. Drinking good whiskey can become habit forming and involve equally expensive cigars and expensive collections of both. Following my advice, in general is a very bad idea. If you find yourself saying phrases like, “Hey, guys! Watch this!” or “I bet I can do that.” seek help immediately.
Nice and dangerous?
I’m not sure if it should be something like “Do not disturb” or “Approach with caution”. Both were appropriate for a long time. Add, only open in times of war, dangerous content, not appropriate for children, contains content and images that may be disturbing. For a long time, I just radiated violence like a warning tag. DON’T POKE THE BEAR! I was a little hurt and sometimes shocked by how people reacted to me.
I’m a nice guy. Really, in spite of everything I say about myself, I love little kids and old people and never seem to have a hard time approaching them. I’d pull up to the playground and flag down a water ice truck and treat everyone and just drive away. I’d get complaints because I blocked and intersection and helped an old lady with her groceries cross the street. I tried not to hurt people and do good where I could.
I guess my tag line needs to be both, nice and dangerous. I will give you the shirt off of my back if you need it, just don’t try to take it.
The New Word Wars 