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The CSI: GAMERS EDITION

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The suspects claim innocence, but the cat looks like he knows too much                                  I wasn't here to witness the mayhem, but I did see the video. My daughter tells her husband and my grandsons, “Mema will be here tomorrow, so clean the house.”   Of course, the boys don’t do a thing. They’re gaming, chilling, living their best lives… until they realize: Mom will be home in ten minutes. DEFCON 1 panic.   What’s their solution? Grab a vacuum? Pick up the laundry? Nope. Genius plan: stage a home invasion. Maybe she’ll be so grateful they're alive she won’t notice the mess.    They blacken Captain Chaos eye with shoe polish, tie him to a chair with a pillowcase over his head, and scatter broken glass from the trash all over the floor. It was a crime scene straight out of CSI: Gamers Edition. And of course, Dad’s filming. Why clean when you can go viral? ...
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Methodist on the Sidewalk and the Midget Giraffe

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                                                       Unrestrained Travis   Act I: The Methodist on the Sidewalk The Warning We were all dressed in our funeral best—looking less like a grieving family and more like a local band that had just lost its lead singer. I looked at Travis and gave him "The Talk." “Travis, just behave for today.” He didn’t even blink. “I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises.” The Crime Scene As we walked up to the Apple Barrel, a guy from the Subway next door was out on the sidewalk with a massive industrial mop. Travis stopped dead. “Is that how you get rid of unwanted customers?” The guy looked up, exhausted. “No. It was here when I came to work. No idea what happened.” Travis walked into the café and announced to the table, “Did you see all that blood? That guy is mopping up huge puddles of it.” The Methodist ...
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Miss Chief and the Case of the Missing Guppy

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My niece, Jana, bought three guppies for her three kids and set them up in a little fishbowl. One day, they got a floater. A fish passed away. Jana did what every good mother does: held a solemn toilet-side funeral and flushed the dearly departed. Down to two. A few days later, Jana walked by the bowl… and there was only one fish.
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Building a Rifle in the Driver's Lounge

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                If you saw my last post about my broken glasses , you know my depth perception was shot. This story is proof that I probably shouldn't have been allowed out in public that day.     Early one January morning, I had just loaded our laundry in the washing machine, then I walked into the driver’s lounge, minding my own business and clutching my coffee like it was an emotional support animal. A man was sitting there, putting his Christmas present together. The “barrel” rested on a rack while he tried to attach the “butt” of a rifle. Now, my brother used to build rifles from kits, so at first I didn’t panic. I just thought, Huh. Someone else with a hobby that requires instructions, patience, and a willingness to lose small screws. But then I noticed… he had a woman’s nylon pulled over his head, the toe tied in a knot at the top.
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The Day I Glued Myself Into Temporary Blindness

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                                                    No place to set my glasses while I got dressed, I set them in the safest place possible: My seat. Then I forgot, and sat on my wire framed glasses. The plastic line snapped, the lens fell out, and I realized I only needed them to… see. A minor detail.    Being in a truck pulling a 53-foot trailer, we can’t just pull into the local Optometrist and say, "Hey, I need help." So I bought super glue. Because nothing says “responsible adult” like fixing your own eyewear with a substance that can permanently attach you to your seat.    I put a tiny dot of glue on the frame. We hit a bump. That tiny dot turned into a glob the size of a toddler’s tear and ran straight down the lens like it was sliding down an icy mountain. I tried to wipe it off—which only smeared bits of paper towel and a thick la...
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The Unwritten Rules of Truck Stop Bathrooms.

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When you're trucking across the country,  the first thing you look for at a truck stop is the bathroom. But as any traveler knows, public restrooms have a secret code of etiquette. Ladies, we all know the rules—the ones no one teaches us, but we follow like gospel. Rule #1: The Long-Distance Stall Strategy. If you have to do more than a quick tinkle, you go to the very last stall. As if distance alone can hide noise, shame, or… aroma. Rule #2: The Pre-Surgical Seat Scrub. Once inside, you scrub the seat like you’re prepping for surgery. Antibacterial wipe, elbow grease, the whole ritual. So there I was — fifteen empty stalls to choose from — and out of pure habit I marched straight to the end stall. Just in case. You know… noise. Smell. Humanity. I’m sitting there, panties around my ankles, when suddenly the stall door next to me SLAMS.
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The Day I Officially Lost My Sanity

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                                        E.C.O.L.O.G.Y I’ve been living on a truck for week now. I marked that day in my memory as the moment I officially lost my sanity. Take two people who have sorta been married for 28 years. He lived on a truck.   She didn’t. Now shove them together in a cab the size of a walk in closet for twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, months at a time. “One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus” hits different out here. And “Give Me Forty Acres and I Won’t Kill This Man of Mine” becomes less of a song and more of a daily affirmation. We’re starting the new year in Oregon.  Do you know why Oregon is so clean and green? Let me tell you — I spent four of my formative years here. Every year, twice a year, they made us watch a film about Lake Erie catching on fire. Not metaphorically. Literally burning. While other kids learned reading, writing, and...
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