Why men don't like to take out the trash

In those days, the old folks would tell of a splendor which had once illuminated the heavens.  Though they had not seen it in ages, they spoke fondly of it.  And they called its name "the sun"...

I cannot recall the last time I didst see the yellow sun.

It has rained all year.  And more rain is forecast. It's like living in Seattle.  Except without the Space Needle, formerly cool music scene, or proximity to the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.

I'm beginning to think the Mayans may not have been completely wrong, just off by a month or two.

There is talk of this so-called "sun" appearing on Friday, but I'll believe it when I see it.  In the mean time, I think I may begin pricing gopher wood on Craigslist.  And livestock.

Today, the garbage was at the peak of its stench.  Unable to put it off any longer, I decided to brave the rain and take out the trash.

Big mistake.

To reach the communal waste receptacle, I have to go out the back gate, down a sidewalk, and across a small parking area.  It's roughly 72 steps, though I take longer strides to round it down to a nice OCD-friendly 70.  Actually, 80 would be more friendly.  Or 100.  Or 50.  I tried taking 50 once but then I just looked like a big lurching, creepy orangutan.

Often when it's raining, I'll jog instead of walking.  I don't want to run too fast, so as to appear scared of getting wet.  It's more of a manly trot, really.  Like a firefighter, in a bit of a hurry because, hey, you never know when there might be a life to save.

Well, the sidewalk part of the trip is fine, but once I get into the parking lot area, there is standing water.  At first, it's not too bad, just a few puddles.  But then I feel it soaking through my Chucks.  (Yes, I wear Chucks.  I dress like Ted Mosby.  I dress exactly like Ted Mosby.)  I cringe, but it is too late.  They are saturated.

With each step, the water seems to deepen exponentially.  Like the parking area must have been built on a slant for some reason.  By now, it has to be at least a foot deep.  So about halfway through the parking lot and with water soaking me from the knees down, I decide to abort.

What?  They always tell you in a flash flooding situation if you encounter standing water, do not try to cross.  Am I right?   Besides, it is a fact more people die from floods each year than are killed by automatic car wash mishaps and being crushed by vending machines combined!

Armed with this knowledge, I veer off to the right to begin making a half circle back towards home base.  But as soon as I do, I realize I still have a garbage bag in my hand.  My mind races.  I can't turn back now.  What am I gonna do, take the garbage back inside?  But Bone, you could die!  Yes, but this garbage really stinks.  Good point, risk it.

I veer back to the left, planning to toss the bag into the dumpster from ten yards away so I can retreat as quickly as possible.  It is then that I notice the dumpster door is closed.  I also realize that my free arm has, for some reason, begun flailing out to my side, as I... continue my... manly, fireman-like trot.   

I think I'm beginning to understand why J.D. Salinger didn't leave the house for 30 years.

I glance up at some of the windows.  They look dark and suddenly strange.  Hollow, yet not empty.  I wonder if someone is watching from within.  Or worse, videoing it all.

I mean, picture if you will: a man in his late thirties, daintily high-stepping through a foot or more of water, with a trash bag in one hand, other arm flailing like he's just seen a mouse, veering across the parking lot in a bit of an S-pattern, and now thoroughly soaked nearly up to his skivvies.  (I may have also let out a high-pitched yelp at some point when the water reached my knees.)

Moments like this are the entire reason YouTube was created!  Also, the mental health profession.

Resigned to my fate, I wade over to the dumpster and deposit the bag of trash.  Soaking wet and now also freezing, because not only is it raining, but it has not gotten above 38 degrees all day, I begin the 70-step slog back.  Except for some reason, I don't walk.  But I do not trot, either.  It's more like I'm skipping now.

Involuntarily, inexplicably, skipping in the rain.

And pretty sure I no longer look anything like a fireman.

"Hey, come look through the window pane / The bus is comin' / Gonna take us to the train / Looks like we'll be blessed with a little more rain / It's four feet high and risin'..."

Into a cup, in the middle of the day

It's the continuing saga of the struggle of one blog to survive. I think I'm ready to proclaim next month Blogust. I just hope we make it that long. In other news completely unrelated to my lack of blogging, my current FreeCell record is 353-28, while my most consecutive games won is 44.

In attempting to recreate the 4th of July this year, I severely misunderestimated the difficulty in finding fifty-six people to wear powdered wigs. Actually, you could have ended that last sentence after "people" and it would have been just as true. So instead, we decided to try and recreate last year's 4th of July celebration: canoe ride, small-town fireworks display, etc.

Well, that went about as well as a Kanye West awards show improvisation. I think I may have been a bit overconfident in my canoe skills after last year's five-hour virtuoso performance, because we hadn't been on the water fifteen minutes this year when we tipped over.

Fortunately, we were able to salvage two left flip-flops, two now-completely-soaked-and-therefore-useless towels, my Gilligan hat (it refuses to die!), both paddles, and most importantly, the cooler. Because honestly, the main thing getting me out on that river was the promise of a sandwich, a snack and a Sun Drop.

Turning the canoe back over was a bit of a challenge and took me four or five tries. But I refused to give up, because all I kept thinking is how embarrassing it would have been to have to call the canoe guy to come and get us. That would be quite emasculating. And if there's one thing I am, it's masculating.

Anyway, I can officially cross "tipping a canoe" off my bucket list, although it wasn't actually on my bucket list. I guess I can go back and add it... posthumously. I don't think that's the right word.

It had started to rain the last hour or so of the canoe trip and it continued to rain until sometime the next day, forcing them to postpone the fireworks show. So we went home and watched the fireworks on PBS with Reba McEntire and some actor I didn't know who looked a little bit like a taller, more serious Rob Schneider.

I entertained myself by reading the hometown gazette. The sheriff's report (blotter?) was particularly interesting. It included, among other things:

"There were twelve deer/vehicle incidents reported in the past week."

"Mrs. Carolyn New called to report that a turkey flew into her windshield on Highway 80 Tuesday evening. She wasn't injured but her windshield will have to be replaced."

"Someone reported several cows out off of Highway 11 Thursday evening."

The next day when we came up on a horse which had apparently become detached from an Amish buggy, I said that we should call the sheriff to report it. But I was outvoted, 1 to 1.

There was one final highlight to my Independence Day weekend. A personal milestone, if you will. For the first time in nearly four years, I peed into a bottle, in the car. Apparently I feel compelled to document each time this happens, as I wrote about it the last time, too.

I'm going to pretend that twice in the past four years makes me a bit of an expert on the topic of in-vehicle evacuation, at least among this focus group. So I would like to close today with a few tips I think you will find quite helpful:

First, you want to make sure you have plenty of hand sanitizer. And a good-sized container, large enough to handle the, um, output. I don't have to tell you that it is both nearly impossible and excruciatingly painful to try and cut off the faucet midstream.

You might also want to move to the backseat, or make the other person or persons in the vehicle promise not to look, lest you suffer stage fright and be unable to perform. Been there, was unable to do that.

Next, you want to make sure that the outlet is entirely above the receptacle, and that the receptacle is as close to straight up as possible. This might require some awkward body positioning, but will ensure that you are able to use the full capacity of the receptacle, and it should also make aiming easier. Trust me.

And finally, what if you're not a male? Well, I imagine that could be a tad more difficult.

"And when that summer sun starts to beatin' down and you don't know what to do, grab your swimming trunks, ice up that old Igloo, and drive until the map turns blue..."

April showers bring... something from the Bone-chives

I'm off to Cincinnati, where there is a 70-90% chance of rain all weekend. Hopefully, they'll be able to fit a baseball game in there somewhere. Even if there's a four-hour rain delay, the game doesn't end until midnight and there are only like fifty fans left in the stands, I'll be one of them. And there's a 100% chance of that.

This would have been a perfect opportunity for stop number two on the Blog Reality Tour. Unfortunately, I don't believe I link to any bloggers in Ohio. There used to be one in Kentucky, and maybe a couple in Tennessee, but I guess they've all found other ways to occupy their time.

I shall return on Monday. That is, unless a Reds scout notices my surprising athletic ability and the agility of someone fifteen years younger as I scamper to chase a foul ball, and they decide to hire me on the spot as a full-time ball boy. Or, ball man, whichever. Until then, and in honor of Earth Day, I am recycling a post.

It's poetry month over at Cooper's. (OK, so as I google it now, evidently it's National Poetry Month. Who knew!) So I figured I'd do a poem for one of my three posts this month.

I would never claim to write actual and decent poetry. I'm way too literal, and always end up feeling like somewhere the words have to eventually rhyme. I'm more of a lyrics guy. Lyrics without music, that's me. I think I would have collaborated well with Bobby McFerrin.

Now that I have hopefully lowered your expectations to a sufficient level, here is an attempt at poetry, originally posted in 2007:


Perfume hint caught
Memory sparked
That year I was in love

Eager heart leapt
Lesson relearned
Forever is but a word

Freely falling fast
Feeling remembered
And missed

Past replaces present
Eyes now tightly closed
Smile grazes lips

Midnight phone calls
Sultry afternoons
Slinky black dress

Past recedes to past
I'll always believe
I loved you best

"Ain't no sun. Ain't no blue sky. The wind blows cold now that you've gone away. And tomorrow, just like today, there's a hundred percent chance of rain..."