Another Window Into My Dreams

I’ve mentioned before about my dreaming habits.  Well . . . here’s another example from last night’s dream (with only some minor editing for clarity):

I was walking down the street with a real life martial artist friend of mine, when he turns to me and says, “That was one nasty bar fight.”

I just nodded in response.

“I can’t believe I put that guy in a headlock for fifteen minutes!” my friend continued.

I gave a short laugh, then replied, “I can’t believe I put that guy in a matlock for an hour!”

“When did you do that?” he asked, looking more than a bit puzzled.

“When I put his head through the T.V.,” I answered.  “Matlock was on, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

Yes . . . sometimes I do worry about me.

That . . . And I’m Not Sure I Could Top A Line Like That If I Did

“Oh, awesome!” L’s Mother exclaims to me today.  “L. can twist his tongue around! I was hoping he’d inherit that!”

After several hours consideration, I still don’t know an appropriate way to respond to that statement.  (And I have neither the time nor the inclination to record all my inappropriate responses.)

But At Least Reporters Have Better Hair These Days

There was a time when I’d be reviewing a hard-hitting investigative report that revealed corruption and skewered hypocrisy with cold facts and impeccable research, and think, “I can’t believe I’m reading this!” because the report was so shocking.

These days I still think that, mind you, but now it’s because that style and quality of reporting is so rare.

And Not Even The Most Important One (PG-13ish)

I’ve yet to meet a woman who wanted to be treated solely like a sex object, and I’ve met a few who didn’t want to be treated that way under any circumstances, but I’m happy to say I’ve met a gratifying number who enjoy making an evening of it now and then, and that was just one of their many fine qualities.

Or Type It (Part Three)

It happened when I was walking over to a friend of mine to ask if something was wrong, when she looked at me and said, in essence, “Oh God, Rob, I’m having a really bad day, and the last thing I need right now is you trying to be ‘funny’ about it!”

And what hurt . . . I mean what really hurt was the sudden realization that was a completely justified thing for her to say to me even if I was only innocently coming over to ask if she was okay because she didn’t know that.  What she did know was how often I made jokes of and from situations, and how little she was in the mood to be made fun of right then.

And take it from me, there’s nothing like hearing something like that to make you start considering if maybe, just maybe you should back off on being “funny” in favor of being kind now and then, if only so when you’re moving to comfort a friend, they don’t honestly believe that your coming over to kick them when they’re down under the pretense of “being funny.”

I didn’t change overnight, of course, but that was the start of my realization that even if I’m thinking of the funniest and/or most insightful line in the world (and it probably isn’t), when I’m saying it, how I’m saying it, and who I’m saying it to are all some of the things that should be considered before I say it.

Or Type It (Part Two)

Now judging by the constant stream of stories about one person after another being the latest to “open brain, insert Twitter,” I don’t expect this attitude will catch on any time soon, because where would be the fun in that?  (Provided you’re the one watching from outside the splash zone, of course.)  But some of us . . . well, a few of us . . . well . . . maybe it is just me . . . are painfully aware we have been given the tools to work at the speed of light in saying or do something we’ll regret.  And on top of my own personal sense of decorum, I’ve also got the added motivation of trying to set a good example for L.  (And honestly there are days I feel like I’m playing against type and the odds on that one.)  An example won’t always substitute for learning something directly on his own, but at least it might save him some time . . . and maybe some pain, which would be good.

Because I remember how painful my lesson on this subject was.

Or Type It (Part One)

When I was younger, I was quite simply unable to keep my mouth shut if I had something funny or witty to say . . . funny to me, that is.  Sadly, that all too often included sarcastic remarks that were unfeeling at best, and downright cruel at worst.  These days I do my best to keep those kind of remarks to myself unless they are truly warranted (This doesn’t happen very often.), even if it means (like today, for instance) I find myself composing an ever-growing mental list of my new favorite retorts/answers to a person (or persons) that honestly don’t need that kind of heat in their life from me right now.

But like I said, I didn’t always used to do this.  (Nor do I always succeed even today, but the difference is these days I make the effort.)  I still say what I like, mind you, but I do my best to consider if I would like myself for saying what I’m thinking before I say it.

The Fault Lies Not With Our Stars

I’m not entirely sure what brought this story to mind (perhaps the stars are to blame in this case), but I remember once hearing a story about the seer Nostradamus, and how he had been commissioned to cast the horoscope of a young prince.  As I recall, some important birth data for the horoscope was unavailable, so Nostradamus said he needed to observe the patterns of moles on the prince’s body . . . everywhere on the prince’s body.  Not entirely unreasonably, the prince refused to strip down naked so a stranger could examine him, and considered that the end of the matter.  Unfortunately for the prince, his mother, the queen, knew her son slept naked, and gave Nostradamus permission to sneak into her son’s room while he slept and have a servant remove the bed covers for the examination, and thus the horoscope was cast after all.

Sadly though, the horoscope failed to include the warning that would have interested the young prince most; namely, “Your mother shall allow your naked body to be ogled by an old man while you sleep.”

I Didn’t Even Get Enough Time Today To Complete The . . .

Did . . .? (Hang on.)

Did you . . .? (Just a sec, I’ll be right back.)

Did you ever . . .? (I’m starting to sense a pattern here.  One moment.)

Did you ever have one of those days . . .? (Pattern, nothing, I’m starting to sense a conspiracy!)

Did you ever have one of those days where you got interrupted every time you sat down to do something?

For What It’s Worth

With Father’s Day fast approaching (my first, in a sense), I find myself on uncertain ground when it comes to answering questions like “What do you want for Father’s Day?”  The question frankly baffles me almost as much as the first time someone called me “Mister” and meant it.  To complicate matters, when a question baffles me like that, I tend to go deliberately over the top in my answers, most of those answers having been deemed by me as being unprintable here. (Not necessarily for the reason you might be thinking though.)  Some I consider unprintable because they’re not funny enough, some because they’re too funny to stay within my self-imposed rough PG-13 guideline, and some because they’re nobody else’s business except for the person asking the question.  (What?  I said “not necessarily,” not “not,” now didn’t I?)   These reasons are far from mutually exclusive, of course, but to give you an idea of how over the top I’ve been going for, the one answer I will admit to here is that I put in a request for Charlie Chaplin’s hat.

Maybe next year I’ll be better prepared for the question, but in the meantime, let me just say to my Dad that I’m sorry about that time I took “Stay right here until I get back,” to mean “Run home if you get bored, and be sure not to tell me so I don’t know where you are or what happened!”

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!