Why.

Just as I was getting ready to call it a night last night, I was suddenly treated the unmistakeable scent of a skunk. Somebody’s cat or dog had picked the wrong animal to argue with and was now paying the price.

Then I remembered Tom was outside.

The last couple of times I smelled a skunk, Tom was innocently on the front porch awaiting his chance to come in the house. Not last night though. Of course not. I turned on the lights on the back deck and there he was, eye swollen shut from getting sprayed, right in the face. I could smell him through the door.

It only happens when Earl is out of town.

I herded him into the garage (ever trying herding cats?) where he carried on like a madman and I figured out my strategy. I grabbed some old towels, finally cornered him and got him in the kitchen sink where I washed him with everything but the kitchen sink. Shampoo, dish detergent, vinegar.

He then spent the night in the garage.

This morning he doesn’t smell too bad but the garage stinks to high heaven; I think it needs to be aired out. I’m probably going to leave the garage door open all day and hope some miracle wind comes through and wipes out this stench.

Such a lovely adventure.

By now everyone has heard about the new security precautions in place for those flying, with one of the new precautions being that you can’t bring liquid onto an airplane. While the necessity of this new precaution is easily questioned, many passengers are complying by throwing out their liquid personal belongings before going through security checkpoints. Apparently some folks in New Jersey at Newark International Airport decided they couldn’t live without their Maybelline or whatever and stocked up on the items they had just thrown out by stopping in one of the airport convenience boutiques, intending on bringing the items on the plane.

Now, I’m not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but the idea of the security checkpoints is to screen for items that can’t be brought on the plane. Bully for them for thinking they made the passenger concourse a safer place by giving up their makeup and whatnot, but I’m pretty confident the new rules applied to the actual airplane as well. Apparently they were quite shocked when they couldn’t bring their newly purchased items on the plane.

As I drove home for lunch today, I took a moment to make some observations of those around me. I’ve mentioned before that I find people fascinating, but today I think “dumb” would be a better adjective to use.

Observation #1: An apparently dear, sweet old lady is driving up the busy four-lane street that goes right through downtown. She is in the left lane and couldn’t be closer to that middle yellow stripe if she was knitting the damn thing. So what does she do? She stops in the middle of the road, slams her Buick in park and then gets out to read the flyer that she ‘suddenly’ discovered under her windshield wiper.

Observation #2: Mid 50s-ish, slightly balding, presumably gay man walks out of ‘trendy’ restaurant in downtown area with lady (cough, fag hag, cough) friend in tow. His shirt is [strike 1] pink. His collar is [strike 2] popped. He is singing, loud enough to be obnoxious, [strike 3] Prince’s “Cream”. (A popped collar trumps my jean shorts anyday. I don’t care what anyone says).

Observation #3: Because of the diversity of the folks in this area, the city recently changed all their “WALK” and “DON’T WALK” signals to symbols of a hand in a stop in the name of love motion and an asexual person walking to the left. The person walking lights up white, the stopping hand is amber. Apparently this stumps pedestrian traffic as they now avoid the crosswalk all together and walk kitty-corner across the intersection.

Observation #4: Some flag people at construction sites think they have way too much power. I know the gesturing to the left motion you’re making means I need to turn left. I don’t need the flag waved at the car like some neon colorguard routine, I don’t need to feel like my Acura is bigger than the 747 you are apparently trying to land with all those gyrations you’re doing, I got it. Turn left. Considering the road was blocked off in every other direction, it didn’t really take that much energy for me to figure out which way to go.

Observation #5: I’ve never smoked anything in my entire life, so maybe I don’t get this addiction thing going on, but if you’re driving a new Mustang that you refuse to smoke in, please don’t pollute the 10 feet between your parking space and the office front door by smoking a pack while in transit.

“April Showers Bring May Flowers.” That’s what we were taught early on in elementary school. I rarely paid attention to my kindergarten teacher, hence one of the many reasons she thought I was mentally retarded, but I do remember her croaking on and on about “In Like A Lion and Out Like A Lamb” and the April showers bit. I suspect these cutsey sayings are meant to divert one’s attention that the weather just basically sucks when it’s raining and we should be sing-songy about the whole ordeal.

With our vacation so close that I can taste it but really can’t touch it, I’m itchin’ to hit the road. But if the behavior I exhibited on my way home just now is any indication, this may be a bumpy ride.

I feel like ‘stupid’ has taken over, especially when it comes to manners and social graces. People talk on cell phones loudly and in the most ridiculous locations. Drivers ignore the basic rules of the road, creating a mini island of chaos in the middle of four lanes of pavement. Voters turn a blind eye to the issues gripping our nation and opt to vote against things like same-sex marriage because it smacks against their narrow minded beliefs of what love is.

Anyways, as I was driving home for lunch on the local expressway, I was passing a car in the right lane (which is correct) and came upon a woman going 50 MPH in the left hand lane. The speed limit is 65 MPH, by the way and surprisingly I was only going 65. So I sort of paced behind her a little bit, planning on passing her once she moved back into the right lane.

Silly me.

She did not move into the right lane. Instead she flapped her arms like some one-sided see-saw indicating that I should pass her on the right.

Uh, that’s illegal. And two wrongs do not make a right. So I continued to pace behind her. She flapped some more, undoubtedly making fart noises under her armpit all the while. I finally got sick of her flapping and just said “screw it” and passed her on the right. While doing so, I rolled my window down and extended my arm out so that she could clearly see that I was flipping her off with as much flip as I could muster.

Now, that’s not being very nice. I know that. And I shouldn’t spread more gloom, there’s enough to go around.

But she moved over to the right lane after I passed her. I guess she got the point.

Did anyone catch American Idol this week? It was country night and the chosen superstar to guide our favorite musicians of the moment was Kenny Rogers. So they ushered Kenny Rogers on the screen. Now mind you, I was watching this from across the gym while burning off hundreds of calories on the spazzmaker machine. So I didn’t get a super close, clear view of the man that walked on to the set. I heard in my headphones that it was Kenny Rogers.

But who the hell was that man?

Now Kenny has admitted to having some plastic surgery in the past. Well apparently he’s having it in the present too because you could bounce a quarter off his face it was so tight. I’m surprised that they didn’t introduce the very vital assistant to Kenny who’s sole job is to mist his eyes with water from time to time, since it’s very obvious that Kenny no longer has the ability to close his eyes or even blink. His face was pulled so tight I thought it was going to jump right off his head and snap like a broken rubberband.

I know people that have had a little plastic surgery. Correct a nasal problem here, get rid of a sixth finger there and while you’re at it, round off the ears a little bit. And I don’t even have a problem with corrective surgery or even something trivial like breast enhancements on women (and yes, I’ve seen them on men) as long as it looks reasonably natural and it doesn’t look like they’re carrying two elementary school sized children on their chest. But the way these celebrities are pulling and stretching and pleading with God to give them just 15 minutes more of fame is getting a bit of ridiculous.

I mean, look at Joan Rivers. If you can. I can’t. My God, she looks like a Barbie doll from the 60s that was left on a heating radiator for too long. It’s like her face melted a little bit and they tried to put it back in place. Does the owner of that face really believe that’s beautiful? Does Joan?

I won’t even go down Michael Jackson Boulevard with all the things that he’s done to his face and body. Someday I expect a news blip stating that he took his mask off and the face came off with it.

The body ages. Things wrinkle. Chests fall. Balls drop. It happens to everyone. But c’mon people, look at it as a badge of experience. I look at my face today and I see some wrinkles, especially around my eyes. Am I going to get Botox injections? Absolutely not. I’ve earned those wrinkles from smiling too much. I’ve earned the gray streak in my mustache from worrying about what lies ahead on the path I’ve chosen. I’ve been blessed with freckles to enhance my ‘cute’ factor. The scars on my leg are from when I was a kid and I learned that you can’t always creep through a barb-wired fence. Would I get rid of these things? No. I’ve earned these marks of experience and I wear them with pride.

Perhaps those that get all this work done on their face and whatnot are doing it to boost their confidence, quite similar to the fact that I shave my head to do the same. But you see, there’s nothing wrong with aging. That’s what the human body does. Would I have the remaining hair on my head permanently removed? Never. Accept what you have, dress it up a little bit, make the most of it and then “work it”. Hold your head up high, you’ve made it this far and you should be proud of yourself for simply doing so.

Every six months or so an idea so terrifying it strikes fear into the hearts of travelers everywhere surfaces and gets bounced about in discussion.

The airlines are thinking about allowing the use of cell phones at 10,000 feet and above.

Most everyone knows what it’s like to fly these days. You’re hurded like cattle whilst being poked and prodded en route to a giant paper towel tube. There’s never enough seats for the number of people actually planning to fly on any given flight, so it’s a crap shoot as to whether your $700 ticket will get you on the plane.

Once you’re actually on the plane, you find row after row of high-chair sized seats that are actually down low but then the realization comes that you’re suppose to sit in this chair for the next four hours or so. But only after you squish everything you’ve lugged on board into the breadbox mounted over the high-chairs. Will it fit? Don’t worry, the surly flight attendant will check, check, check and re-check again, slamming the breadbox door four or five times so that you have a headache to accompany your experience.

Then you’re given a meal that can be best described as indescribable and tastes like nothing you’ve had before. You wilt more than the lettuce did.

Then you’ll be offered some headphones to watch a movie that bombed at the theatres. All for the mere price of $700.

Now picture this carefully. Add 200 cell phone conversations of yelling, bidding, talking, chatting, screaming and laughing to this cacophony of fun.

Ladies and gentleman, now you know why Earl and I are driving across the country next month.

Just say NO to cell phones in the sky.

So yesterday half the citizens of the United States were stumbling through their Monday because they had no idea what time it was. They were told to eat when they weren’t hungry, sleep when they weren’t tired and work when they wanted to play.

All because of Daylight Saving Time.

Whomever had the brilliant idea of jockeying the clocks back and forth in the interest of “energy savings” should be shot. Has it ever occurred to these Einsteins that perhaps we are now burning more energy during daylight saving time because we are running more air conditioners to keep cool? How about Sally and Seth Suburban now jumping in their SUV monstrosity to enjoy more of the evening daylight instead of sitting home? Any chance that they are using more energy now?

Last night I had to go to bed when I wasn’t tired. Do you know what that means? I woke up this morning when I wasn’t awake and that means I’m really cranky this morning. The cat is in hysterics because his feeding schedule is off kilter, my muscles are confused because I went to the gym at the wrong time and quite frankly I think I’m constipated because my body doesn’t know when to poop.

As I’m writing this, I realize that now I’m going to be late to work because it’s later than I thought. Silly me for not knowing what time it is. was. will be.

You’d think that after 37 years on this planet I’d be used to this by now. But I’m not. My life is about to be thrown into a turmoil in which it’ll take me a month to recover from.

Daylight Saving Time begins this weekend.

For as many years as I’ve had this blog (I think it’s almost 5), I’ve complained about Daylight Saving Time. My body doesn’t like it. My mind doesn’t like it. It throws me out of synch with the planet’s natural rhythm. I’d rather fly to Hong Kong and back and endure the jet lag than deal with this time saving nonsense.

I’m always amused when people say we have Daylight Saving Time to make the day longer. “The sun is out longer”, people sometimes say. “Ring ring”. Here that, it’s the clue phone? People. The day is still 24 hours, the sun has not slowed down it’s path across the heavens. We just monkey around with the clock so that it seems like it’s light later.

“The farmers love it because their crops get more light.” To that I say, “shut the fsck up you idiot.” First of all, farmers hate DST as much as I do because Bessie and Henna Hen can’t tell what time it is and they get impatient. Milk and egg production actually goes down for a bit. Secondly, the corn field has no idea what time it is and as I mentioned before, it’s the same amount of light in the overall scheme of things.

So now I’ll have to drive to the Central Time Zone as much as possible to feel back to normal for the next several months. And don’t get me started on that whole Indiana time zone mess that’s going on.

I apologize if I sound cranky. My alarm clock is going off right now because it thinks it’s Monday.

At a previous job I was pretty much the only non-Catholic in the office. Everything was Catholic, Catholic, Catholic. I would purposely eat a Whopper on Friday just to prove that I’m not Catholic (I was baptized as a Methodist.) Now I feel that anyone is free to honor their spiritual beliefs in any way that they see fit. But there’s some things I just don’t get about the Catholics.

I don’t get the “can’t eat meat on Friday” thing.

From what I understand, back in the day if you ate meat on Friday you went to hell. Then it was decided that the no-meat edict only applied during Lent. Well what about the people that had already gone to hell for eating meat on Friday outside of Lent? Did someone decend to hell and say “Whoops! Our mistake! You can go to heaven now!”

I didn’t think so.

Apparently now it’s o.k. to eat meat on Friday during Lent if St. Patrick’s Day falls on a Friday.

What?

Isn’t that like saying “Sorry dear Lord, I know we honor you by not eating meat on Friday during Lent, but I’m really jonsing for some corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day. So we’ll set aside the whole honor thing while I chow down on some corned beef and green beer.”

Again, I fully believe that anyone can honor and engage in their spiritual beliefs in anyway that they feel is appropriate. If you want to bow before a lilac bush, then bow before a lilac bush. If you want to dunk your head in a bathtub when you reach age 25, then dunk your head. Whatever makes you happy. But if you’re going to do it, do it all the way. If your beliefs include no meat on Friday during Lent, then no meat on Friday during Lent it is!

From time to time I rant about the apparent degradation of the English language. Of course, there are probably many Brits that think we’ve destroyed the ‘real’ English, and they’re probably right. But it seems that as time moves on, the use of proper grammar is becoming more and more rare.

I’m not perfect. I’m not a perfect writer. I’m not a perfect speaker. I make mistakes everyday when it comes to my use of language. But here’s some chestnuts that I’ve heard or read in the past 24 hours that would have me tearing out my hair this morning if I had any hair to pull.

“You’re going to regret your decision. Mock my words, I’m telling you, you’re going to regret it.” Should the other person have responded with “neener neener neener” since he’s mocking his words?

“Go ahead and unplug it. After it has resetted, you should be all set.” Ugh.

“I’m going to go to my supervisor and conversate with her regarding this.” Why conversate when you can converse? Which leads me to…

“I have to orientate him tonight.” Sounds kinky.

“The ‘puter went broke.” I hung up on the customer calling that trouble in. Let someone else deal with his ‘puter. I should have asked how the ‘puter went broke, bad luck on the casino websites?

Then we have the daily loose/lose and desert/dessert confusion going on. People! “I need to lose a few pounds so my pants will be loose.” “I’ll have two desserts when eating in the desert.”

I’ve complained about this before. I know I have. But hopefully someone, somewhere will read this blog entry and say to themselves, “perhaps I can speak English more goodly.” Then they’ll do something about it.