I Should Not Have Said That... I Really Should NOT Have Said That

My ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time has rarely been equaled. My wife would add “every time” to the cliche.  She might have a valid point.

It's more of a disease, I think. I've tried out-patient services, isolation, superglue and even involuntary slap-therapy. Sure they all work for a short time, but nothing seems to be a permanent cure.

I never try to hurt anyone's feelings on purpose. It just seems to work out that way. One damage control method I've used in the past that showed some hope was what I call the “Drunken Duck”. When I say something over-the-top stupid, it's usually apparent instantly. As soon as the awkwardness hits, I'll slur a couple words to make it seem as if I've had too much to drink and then quack like a duck and walk away with a partial stagger. The situation works like this: “Hi Stacey, I haven't seen you in a long time... Me? I'm good. Looks like you are doing pretty good too. How far along are you?” (Stacey informs me she isn't pregnant) “Oh, well the bartledoo banana basin brackmire... QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK” See? I get away almost clean. It wasn't always that way though.

I've been at a few wedding receptions, where as the best man I was expected to make a toast. I hate weddings. By the time I get dressed, stand there for the ceremony, then eat poorly prepared greasy chicken, corn from a can and instant potatoes with not nearly enough gravy, it's time to say something odd. Apparently, the bride's family isn't interested in hearing about how I dated her first and passed her off to the groom. Nor, are they excited to hear all about how the groom and I “totally tore it up” at the week long bachelor party.

I love telling the story about the mess in the delivery room when we had our 4^th baby. My wife oddly enough, does not. Come to think of it, nobody that I told that story to liked it much. Must be a matter of perspective I guess. It probably isn't so much the subject matter as the descriptive details in which I find joy repeating.

In church I've been known to sigh very loudly when I didn't agree with what I was hearing or if the sermon was running a little long and the Viking’s game was dangerously close to starting. One time I thought I was whispering to myself, but I must have vocalized, “Would you JUST get to the point already?” loud enough to receive a “Holy Elbow of Justice” from my right. The bruise cleared up in a week or so. I usually pick up my “A game” of uncomfortable conversations around my church family. I assume it's because I try to be as careful as possible not to say something offensive or something that can be judged as off-the-mark. That is basically like wearing snowshoes in a mine field. The harder I try not to goof up, the more I do. What you call awkward silence, I call stunning them with brilliance.

As an adult I was told by my elementary and middle school principals that I was lucky to survive. It wasn't the other kids that were the danger, it was the teachers that wanted me dead. Back then there really wasn't any diagnosis or medication for ADD, ADHD or what I call being an energetic child. The doctor told my mother to make me drink two cups of coffee in the morning before going to school. I guess the idea was the caffeine would have an opposite effect on someone that was already two speeds ahead of the norm and perhaps calm me down enough to allow me to concentrate. The research supporting that therapy may have been a little faulty.  So every morning from about third grade on, I sat there and drank two large cups of heavily sugared dark coffee, sprinted the few blocks to school, bolted into the classroom and the fun ensued. When a nine year old is sitting in his chair bouncing up and down at 8:00 am on a Monday morning, the teacher can't be very optimistic about what will come out of his mouth.

Hey, it's not my fault the world isn’t keeping up with me.

Camping and other such silly things

I'm sitting quietly, looking out the back window of my camper at the river and misty hills on the opposite side. In the gentle, but steady rain everything seems more calm. The rain freshens the air and along with the newly cut grass around the camp-site, the aroma is like heaven compared to the scent of the wet family dog and wet clothes and socks strewn about the camper. Since it's my first time camping in several years, I am quickly reminded of many of the ups and downs of such a recreational activity. 
First, was the parking and unloading of the new camper which ended with the total destruction of my pickup tail-gate. Details of that may be given in person with the right amount of liquid bribery. But, I'm in no mood to publish it at this time. Next was the amazement of how I was able to get most all the features to work on the rig without a terrible amount of taking the lord's name in vain. I still need to figure out how the TV antenna works, but that's a job for a 10 year-old kid to teach me at a later time.
Whether the weather is sunny or rainy, eating is apparently the main fixation of camping. Three large meals a day with adequate snacks in between have kept me properly nourished and ready for naps at a moment's notice. I'm not sure if it's the wet weather or what, but my shirts have all shrunk at least one size in just a few days. I'll work that out later, but for now, pass the cheese dip and Doritos please.
My sister and brother-in-law have one of those permanent campsites a few miles away. I'm not sure when that phenomenon began, but apparently half of east river buy campers and pull them to the "camper-town" above the mighty Missouri river.
Once there, a deck and awning are built, trees are planted, sewer system is installed and presto, a home away from home. Many of the residents travel almost weekly to spend time with their family and friends from over a hundred miles away. The same ones they see almost weekly at home. Ya, I don't get it either. Different strokes and all I guess. 
I was invited to my sisters for a camp fire. Shortly before sundown, I ventured her way in the pickup, dodging deer and horses like a seasoned professional. I almost missed a couple of them.
Once there, the fire was started and around 10 people began to enjoy the quiet and beauty of the sunset and good company. After a few libations were served and the sky darkened, the campfire began to blaze higher and higher. My brother-in-law who is a natural pyrotechnician was expertly moving logs around the fire-pit and adding certain sized ones to certain areas for maximum effect. The radiant heat of the blaze was warming our faces pleasantly.
One of the guys there who was quite a bit taller than the rest had been using the landscaping bricks that protect the inner ring of the fire-pit like an ottoman. Not long before I was ready to leave, another fella said to him, "Hey Rick, you might want move your feet off there. Your shoe looks funny like it's glowing or something" He pulled his foot back from the pit and the bottom of his shoe had indeed gotten a little too warm. There was a large white bubble on his tennis shoe that at first appeared to be a baseball sized roasted marshmallow, but was actually rubber from the shoe burning into a bubble. We had a good laugh and thankfully, he wasn't permanently injured.
My own campsite with its gorgeous view has provided some much needed rest and self-reflection. Getting here proved to be far less work in preparations than I had thought. I'm also a terrible liar. 
If I can figure out the right amount and type of food to bring and the right household supplies to have in the camper, I may just find this camping thing worth doing every now and then. Until then I'll keep washing the dishes with hand-soap, walking 200 yards to shower hoping someone left some shampoo in the stall, and sleeping on a mattress built by the lowest bidder.