About Riding Your Bike in Traffic?

I would like to write about a very sensitive (apparently) subject today. I made the decision to write about this subject because, while driving in heavy traffic today, I almost struck a (dumb ass, excuse me) poor bicyclist as he made every attempt, as far as I was able to tell, to get run over.

When I was a kid my parents bought me a bike. One of the first instructions I received, and I might add, an instruction that was repeated often (because I wasn't real good at listening to instructions) was, "Don't ride your bike in traffic!" In fact, this particular rule actually made sense to me, because I was aware that I was a dumb ass kid on a bike, and I was not wearing armor or even a helmet in those days. I'm sure they made helmets, but I was part of the macho generation and we would have rather had our skulls crushed then suffer the shame of being seen wearing a helmet.

Today most cyclists wear helmets when riding. Most of them also wear cute Lycra outfits. I suppose most riders believe that the helmet will protect them, I'm not sure what they believe about the Lycra outfits, although what I've seen so far indicates they are trying
to attract attention and it seems to work, if not in a 'what the hell is that guy thinking' kind if way.

I'm not sure when society decided that riding a bike in/through heavy traffic while ignoring traffic signs and signals, and changing lanes, usually from the far right lane to the far left turn lane, was ok. I'm sure it has something to do with being politically correct and allowing people to get themselves squashed by a bus if they want to.

Political correctness is also responsible for the confusion over some movies today. It is PC now, while watching a zombie or vampire movie, to refer to them not as the undead, but as the living challenged or differently alive. Please! Everyone knows zombies and vampires are the undead, and by the way, have you ever seen a zombie or a vampire riding a bike in heavy traffic? Even they know it's a bad idea! If anything, you may have seen them drive a car? How would you like to be on a bike in traffic with one of those guys driving around? Wait, kind of reminds me of the way my daughter drives.

Anyway, I guess my point is bikes are not Sherman Tanks. If your parents told you, as a kid, not to ride your bike in traffic that instruction actually applies to adulthood as well. It's kind of like when they told you not to jump off the house roof with a cape on, or don't drink the bleach.

If your going to ride your bike in traffic the only thing your helmet will do is contain the mess if you get hit by a car, and the only thing the Lycra outfit does is make people sick! Especially if they are in the car behind you, unless they're a vampire or a zombie.

About Microchips?

All right, I want everyone reading this to suspend your 1984, the government is spying on us (which they are, they just call it 'keeping us safe' or 'closed circuit television'), Orwellian thought process for a minute.

Ok, are you clear headed and paranoid free? Then consider this: Why don't we microchip our kids?

Now, before you wish the fires of hell upon me let's discuss this. We microchip our pets! If they get lost we can be notified in seconds, go to the local animal shelter and pick them up and bring them home to be reunited with your eight year old son, or daughter. I'm not even going to suggest a local shelter for our kids, I admit that might be to much, (notice I said 'might' be to much), and besides, what would you call it?

So, if we micro-chipped our kids and they got lost when they were with drunk Uncle Fred at the local fair because they walked away from him to prove they were independent eight year olds, when they were eventually found by a well wishing Girl Scout troop leader and taken to the security booth, all the security professional would have to do is scan the child with a grocery store type scanner and find the child's name, address, phone number and date of birth (you could add the child's date-of-birth in case the security professional tried to hold an adult conversation with the child. The security professional wouldn't have to embarrass themselves when they finally determined the child was only eight). Once this information came up on the security computer screen they could call the child's parents and have them come and pick them up.

The parents could even put a note on the microchip saying drunk 'Uncle Fred also has a microchip' so when Uncle Fred was found later that night, passed out by the hoop toss at the carnival, they could confirm his identity as well and have someone besides the police come and pick him up. This would save valuable time for the police who could then concentrate on finding the people responsible for selling counterfeit microchip scanners which, when used by security professionals, identified everyone they scanned as the manager of the local grocery store (whom was older than eight years of age).

Now, I admit I may have gone to far with this scenario (notice I said 'may' have gone to far). In reality we could chip our kids with all the information necessary to keep them alive in a medical emergency, really find them when they were lost, have their dental records on the chip and even have the teacher download their grades to the chip so when they were fourteen and got a D in math you would know so you could intervene and they could graduate with their class. Then the little darling could go on to college and become an (in-debt up to his eye balls with student loans) microchip scanner manufacturer, or maybe a grocery store manager.

I promise a more serious discussion about this subject at a later time, I'm busy looking for my dog right now, no microchip...

About Marriage?

Someone very special to me is getting married this weekend so I am going to be totally presumptuous and offer some completely unsolicited advice (for lack of a better word). Please keep in mind that i would not presume to say that i know everything about being a husband, just ask my wife! With that being said here goes:

Love: Someone once said that "love means never having to say your sorry", what a load of crap! If you screw up, and you will, have enough respect for your partner to admit it and apologize.

Communicate: you've heard it before Ill say it again; it isn't the talking, it's the listening...

Forgive: your going to have to remember this one. Sometimes people are just jerks, if you don't pick your battles there will be times when all you do is fight. Believe it or not you are not always right, admit when your wrong and remember you have not married Jesus! People make mistakes, forgive and forget.

Compromise: giving in is not a weakness, seeing someone's strong points is a strength, choose both..

in sickness and in health means exactly that, if you really, truly want your partner to be around for life it means your going to get old together and,if you don't know this all ready, old people get sick sometimes and taking care of a sick person is work. You don't get to say 'I can't do this'! You are getting married to a man however, let's face it, men are big babies so accept this truth and get on with it.

You might believe in 'for richer, for poorer' but if you think it's about money your wrong! Marriage is a living, breathing thing and it grows just like your kids will. Growth is not stagnant, by definition it is change and people change in different ways at different speeds. Adapt to those changes and make the best of them, believe me, you'll look back some day and celebrate the incredible journey. The riches are in the experiences you share, being human is, unfortunately the poor part.

Which brings me to 'for better, for worse'. I guarantee that sometime, some day your going to look at your partner and think what the hell am I doing here! well you can think it all you want just don't ever say it, and remember, it always get worse before it gets better, if it's worse now you have better to look forward to!

Everyone goes to bed mad sometime except perhaps the idiot who came up with "never go to bed mad at your partner". If its important enough to fight about its important enough to sleep on! Rest has an amazing way of clarifying, use it when you need to.

Support
Believe
Understand
Cheer

About Body Parts?

I was reading over some things the other day and came across an article concerning ideas that prompt writing, or maybe it was just 'writing ideas' (that don't do anything but give you ideas..you know what I mean).

One prompt that caught my eye was a suggestion that one write something about things they don't like about themselves. Now, me being me, I immediately went into self-check mode. I thought about my mouth and my lips both of which I didn't like as a teenager but I decided I don't mind so much now, then I thought about my ears.

I think ears came up because the other night my wife asked me if I had once sported pointed ears that had been surgically fixed to look like, well, I guess to look like ears that used to be pointed but weren't any more, but that had been fixed by a really bad plastic surgeon (I doubt she would have said anything if a really  good plastic surgeon had fixed them because she wouldn't have noticed).

I have to wonder if my wife has been thinking about the look of my ears for the last twenty years and just decided to throw caution to the wind and ask me about them now. You would think she would have asked before the kids were born so she could have been prepared for little pointy eared (elf) kids, or has she been secretly warning my now grown kids about the possibility of a recessive Vulcan gene in the family that may give their kids pointy ears. I have to admit that I think the pointed ear possibilities are pretty cool, my wife would not agree however, she leaves the room if anything science fiction comes on the TV, usually muttering "stupid show" under her breath as she walks out.

So I suppose it is obvious by now that those few little innocent words asked of me by my wife triggered something in me that came out when I read that writing prompt the other day. I am still thinking like a teenager and looking at my self in the mirror wondering why I have a bump here or a scar there. My wife on the other hand, is evidently looking at me and wondering either "what could possibly be wrong with this otherwise perfect man", or she's saying to herself "Dad was right, there's just something not right about this guy".

If my wife starts looking at my feet in a strange way I will probably get so paranoid that I will never take my socks off again. The truth-be-known I have always had a thing about feet, in fact I am not going to write about feet now because I get the heebie-Jeebie's just thinking about them (mine or any body else's). Come to think of it, I wonder what my wife was trying to say the other night when she asked why I always wear socks to bed?

about Mothers Day?

Now before you think this guy's has actually forgotten Mother's Day, I do realize what day it is.  I could write something here about my mother or about my wife who is, admittedly, not my mother, but is my kid's mother (and a darn good one).  Either way they will both read this post and anything I would write about either of them has the potential to come back and haunt me.  In the first place my wife has told me not to write any thing in this blog about her, so obviously writing this in my blog about her is a problem from the get-go.  In my own defense she also says I never listen to her and this is evidence to support that, so she might be okay with it because it is proving her correct. With that being said, has anyone dealt with insurance companies lately?  Just kidding, I am going to write a little about Mother's Day and suffer what ever consequence may come.

Before I got married, Mother's Day was always a time I thought of as a day to celebrate my mom.  Now, if you were to talk to my mom she may not remember all the great stuff I did as a kid on Mother's Day.  Her lack of memory may be due to the fact that, well, I didn't do a lot for my Mom on M.D.  In my own defense I was young, broke and of the belief that a home made card of macaroni was pretty cool.

I know now, as an adult (and I figured this out when I was twenty one or so), that this way of thinking, especially about the macaroni card, just didn't cut it any more so I graduated to flowers instead.  Let me just say up front that I had no idea what hay fever was.  Evidently, as I found out later, my mother suffered from hay fever and we are not talking about regular old seasonal hay fever but the knock you down, feel like crap, need shots from the doctor kind of hay fever.  Does anyone see where I am going with this?  Yes, I was directly responsible for making my mother sick every Mother's Day and when you factor in my brothers and sister, my mother was barely able to get out of bed on Mother's Day and if you include the grandchildren now,  I'm surprised she hasn't run away from home (which she did once, to Hawaii, but that's a different post). So for my mom Mother's Day apparently turned into a an exercise in trying to breath.

As for my wife; as I stated before she is not my mother although admittedly she may argue that point (not about being my mother but having to act like one, especially when I'm sick).  Over the years my wife has been instrumental in not only raising our children to be great people but in also assuring their survival in the face of well, me.  Now I don't want anyone to think that I was, or am, an abusive parent, let's just say that I have different 'buttons' than my wife and the kids learned early where they were.  My wife knows where my 'off switch' is and she knows how to use it.  Anyway, this women I am married to has become an expert in everything kids.  She remembers every birthday, anniversary, middle name, actual ages and the list goes on and on.  Now before one of you think to yourself that this is no big deal keep in mind that there are four kids and eleven grand kids and if you think it sounds easy try it!  So I buy her gifts every Mother's Day, not only to show her how much I truly appreciate her and all she does, but also to reinforce her behavior because if I have to start remembering all this stuff all I can say is I hope everyone likes macaroni cards...

About Bella?

I started out this morning thinking I was going to write this or that about well, this or that.  Instead I am going to concentrate on... who the hell knows.  I started this BLOG in order to fuel my need to write, and to take a break from other projects.  I figured there are hundreds of good BLOG ideas out there so I will be able to sit down at the computer and just punch something out whenever I feel like it.
Ha! So, I sat down at the computer and came to the realization after ten minutes of non-typing that I am a crappy writer who can't come up with any good ideas, and who would want to read it any way etc, etc.  So I decided to ramble!  It, after all, still feeds my insatiable need to write something and will probably sink me in to an even deeper depression when I check (probably fifteen times over the next day or so) and realize that in fact no one is reading my BLOG which may be a blessing.
So today I am going to talk about Bella Rose.  Bella is a cat.  Now for all you cat haters out there, and I know you exist because not only did I used to be one but my father had a fear of cats that I am sure was in some way hereditary, just bear with me and read on you may enjoy it.
Bella was a gift to me on my birthday a couple of years ago from my wife who decided that giving me a kitten would make me a better person.   After all they are cute and they sit on your lap and purr, and they act like you are the only person alive, especially when they are hungry.  Lets face it they are master manipulators who couldn't give a damn about you or how you feel or anything.  They decide when they are going to be nice to you and just to let you know that they are in control, when you play with them they scratch the crap out of you  for fun.
Anyway, Bella and I became good friends.  I tried to ignore the fact that over the years Bella developed an eating disorder which means Bella ate her weight in food whenever she got the chance.  I decided to put her on a forced diet to get her to lose weight and she decided that sucked so she just went out and caught something to eat.  Of course she would always bring it (bird, mouse, and once I swear, another cat although I can't prove it) home and show me that she was still in charge as she dropped the remains of some poor creature on the carpet in front of me. I, of course, said good kitty and patted her which is exactly what she wanted me to do, and then I fed her something and got rid of the corpse on the floor before she realized it was gone.  So, as you can see I lost that battle and Bella continued to grow...
We then, 'we' being my beautiful wife, decided that we would get another cat for Bella to play with.  Enter Harley.  Day one of the Bella-Harley play date was a disaster with Bella growling at Harley and Harley knocking the crap out of Bella whenever he got the chance.  My wife always said that Bella was never taught how to be a cat because she didn't really have a mother to teach her.  She was raised by humans and did not know how to respond to 'cat talk' which evidently pissed Harley off so he would, as I said, beat the crap out of her at every opportunity.
So the battle continued and during that period of time Bella became neurotic and adopted the attitude that our home is her cat box.  Now before all you cat experts out there decide on how I should have handled this  let me just say that I am a man and I am in control of every situation!  So when Bella started pooping and peeing all over the house I did what every other man in the world would do when he didn't know what to do, I ignored it.
My spouse, on the other hand did not (ignore it that is) and after she had to clean up Pee for the hundredth time she made it clear to me that it was my cat and she should not have to clean it up all the time.  I tried the old, but honey I didn't see, smell, suspect it routine but she saw right through that immediately and let me know that I was not in charge she was (which as every married man knows, is true whether you admit it to yourself or not).
So I started watching Bella like a hawk when she was in the house.  She knew I was doing that and would go from room to room until I tired of it and either put her out or, yes, ignored her thinking that she would not dare pee in the house now because I was in charge (denial again) and she was just a cat.. She continued to pee, and I continued to miss it, and my wife continued to find it and, well you get the picture.
Yesterday, after an argument with my wife, I decided that It was time to find Bella a good home where she could pee to her hearts content and I would not have to keep being in denial about it.  The local animal shelter was my only hope, mainly because I asked my daughter if she knew anyone who would take Bella and she basically laughed in my face with that 'I couldn't do that to my friends' attitude.  We loaded up and went to the shelter and before I could get in the door a nice lady named Gin decided she wanted to take Bella home with her.  After a few questions, which I tried to be open and honest about ('tried' being the key word here), Bella went home with Gin and I went home to Harley who is now beating the crap out of another cat we have.
Suffice it to say I am depressed today and I miss Bella although I doubt she misses me much because I have been following her around the house for months and she was getting sick of it and me.