Archives

The most important thing about holding hostages is to not turn your back on them.  I wish I’d remembered this.

Imaginary Keith not only gave me the slip, but somehow snuck the car keys, then drove to Best Buy and bought a TiVo.  He is smiling and excited and seems to be holding no grudge about his previous predicament.

I am finding it hard to keep a stern face.

“Dad, teachers puff up when they’re mad or serious.  Didn’t you know that?  Their voice gets deeper and booms and they straighten up really tall.”

[This lesson comes along with a nice illustration of a teacher “booming” the folly of pouting.  I will add the picture later.]

A note attached to my van states that they will tow away my vehicle if it is not moved before Monday at 2:00 p.m.  Apparently my lease also requires that I drive around on occasion.  Monday’s to-do list continues to grow.

I have emails to return, but haven’t had time.  Silence must not be confused with ignoring.

In fifteen minutes I head to the roller rink for three hours of balancing practice.  If it wasn’t for the falling, I’d say that human feet would be better with wheels.  I can still skate backwards but can no longer leap like a disco-version Baryshnikov.  Okay, I never could.  But once I could fall down, laugh, and pop back up all without missing a beat.  Now, the consequences of a fall must be monitored as closely as the core temperature of a nuclear reactor.

Goodwill is a good place for kids books, although the clerks name tags are not always printed the clearest.  For a second grader, a capital “I” should have crosses along the top and bottom.  Without them, an “I” will always look like an “L”, and with that mysterious silent “E” on the end of things, an eight year old, attempting his best to read and sound out the world and be polite will calmly thank the clerk by saying:

“Thank you Jackal”

when he really means: Thank you Jackie.

Call it karma.  Call it kismet.  Call it the will of God.  Call it whatever you wish, but let it be known that I think I’ve developed the uncanny ability to locate every hairstylist in town with short arms.  It’s an odd talent, and not something I was expecting.

One of my goals in life has always been to never comb my hair.  It’s not high on my list, but it’s on the list, all the same.  If it seems unreasonable, or even crazy to you, you should just stop for a minute and think about it.  Wouldn’t you, too, like to never have to comb your hair again?  The time savings alone would make it worthwhile.  I have a feeling that once you think about it, you’ll be adding it to your own life goal list.  If you keep such a list, that is.

Anyway, one of the ways to avoid combing your hair is to receive regular haircuts.  Here’s the rule: If it looks unruly, walk into the nearest Super Duper Cuts and say “A number 2 on the sides.  Sort of sticking up on top.” That should do the trick.  There are other methods, such as hats and balding, but I won’t discuss them at the moment, except to say that I’m trying them all with varied success.  Each method has it’s pros and cons.

Carefree hair is really that simple.  After that, all that’s required is water and a quick brush of the fingers to set it right.  Maybe a little dab of gel, when you’re feeling fancy.  Five seconds tops, I promise you. 

So what’s this have to do with fate and short-armed hairstylists, you ask?  I’m not quite sure, except that I’ve begun noticing that Super Duper Cuts’ stylists have a tendency to have short arms, and that as I sit there getting my cheap, life-goal reaching haircut, their bellies always seem to be bumping into me and pushing me around.  I can’t say I like it.  My own belly isn’t the flattest in the world, but at least I try to keep it off of people when I’m working. 

But then, maybe it’s just me.  Maybe my arms are longer then most people’s, and it’s easier for me.  Or maybe it’s just my last couple years of self-imposed isolation that has me noticing these bellies bumping up against my personal space.  Maybe I realize the sadness in the fact that the only womanly touch I receive these days doesn’t spin my head, but my chair.  Maybe bellies have always knocked me around and I just didn’t notice.  Maybe hair stylists have always had short arms, and I just didn’t care.  Maybe I’m the same old Keith I’ve always been.  Maybe there’s nothing uncanny going on around here at all.

But I do have short hair this morning.  I know that much.

It seems the son of Imaginary Keith lacks possessiveness.  Good for the world, but in this case, bad for his mother.  I give to you a recent sample, pulled directly from the page of his second grade report on a large, stuffed bear that he brought to school for sharing (show and tell for the old people).

This is my mom’s bear she had it hand made at a stor.  My grandma has a black won.  But my mom’s is gray.

And then the clincher.

My mom is about four feet tall and about four feet side-to-side also.