As, midnight approached on the 14th, I started to become overly concerned that perhaps I just wasn't "shootable." Perhaps, Cupid took one look (multiple looks, no one can take just one) at me and said...sh(oot) - (I don't believe that cute little cherub in a diaper is a curser.) So, "shoot, that Michael is just un-shootable. If I put an arrow in his butt...his poor partner. But, everyone is "shootable," right? My grandmother always told me, "there is someone for everyone." I don't think grandma would lie, she prays, highlights a Holy Bible (with a green highlighter...I so prefer orange) and she has pictures of Jesus on her wall...I don't think she is allowed to lie.

The thought of my grandmother being a liar made my stomach turn. Turn in ways that I hadn't felt since the last time I ate her meatloaf. I knew it was late, but I would not get any rest if I didn't dispel the myth that my grandmother is a...liar - it hurts to type that. But, I must get to the bottom of it.

I picked up my phone, searched through my contacts, found "g-ma" and with a shaky finger pushed the button to call her. The phone rang 32 times. It might have been 31 or 33, I lost count somewhere around 27 and struggled to regain my counting momentum. 32 is the best guess I can offer, at this time, bear with me. Let us not get caught up amongst the unimportant details.

After 32ish ring-a-lings...no answer. I was beside myself. 2 lies. I'm pretty sure grandma told me I could call anytime. And, with a relatively high level of confidence I had always deducted that meant if I called, she would answer. I understand that it was nearly midnight mountain standard time...I'm sorry that I didn't realize "call anytime" had actual, specific hours.

Now, I have to try and sleep with thoughts of forever being alone and the lies of my grandmother dancing in my oft (save now) level head. Let this be a warning, friends, if my grandmother can lie...yours' can to.

As I closed my eyes, and said my prayers - praying mostly that my grandmother would be forgiven - I was thinking, I need to find Cupid myself. Cupid or St. Valentine. One of them can answer my multifaceted questions. They have to be able to.

I was just about to fall asleep when I felt the corner of my bed depress, as if someone sat on the edge of it. I sat up quickly, with the fierce force of a (nonviolent) tsunami. How dare, who ever it is, interrupt my prayers and wake me up just before I slip into REM(the most critical stage of slumber.) I furrowed my brow and clenched my teeth and for some reason, forced my voice to slip into the accent of Captain Jack Sparrow as I shouted, "who goes there???" (multiple use of the same punctuation marks to emphasis my surprise/anger...in this case.) No answer.

I saw the silhouette of a person adorned in a robe with a quiver full of feathers. I thought for sure a ninja had materialized out of thin air - I shouted, "I won't go down easy, Ninja. I've read 'The Art of War,' I'm basically a samurai."

As luck would have it, it wasn't a ninja at all...I guess it's good, for the ninja, because the last thing I wanted to do was some Kung Fu.

I know what you are thinking, "if not a ninja...who in the world could it be?" The only other option - Cupid.

I sat up in bed, and looked him square in the...diaper - I aimed for looking him in the eyes, but he fluttered his wings and suspended himself above me simultaneous to me sitting up. It took me a second to readjust my eyes so I wasn't staring right at his "bow and other arrow." I said, "Cupid, you S.O.M.C.(son of a mythological creature) what are you doing in my room at this hour?"

I thought it was happening, I had finally received a booty call. Cupid was going to plant an arrow in the baby soft skin of my pampered cheeks. "I'm ready I shouted!" I flipped over, ripped the blankets off and put my bum high in the air...It suddenly hit me - "the left cheek," I shouted. "My right one has...um...art on it." I can't have an arrow mark going through the middle of my tattoo! (I know that news is disappointing, grandma, but imagine my disappointment when you didn't answer the phone! And, I promise you would like it.)

I waited...waited...waited and...nothing. Cupid was wasting my time and I was about to let him know. Before I could utter a word Cupid, Amor, Son of Venus...whoever he thinks he is, spoke, "turn yourself over, I'm not wasting an arrow on your ungrateful butt."

"Ungrateful," I mumbled as I flipped myself over and slammed my hands down on the bed. Throwing a visible fit like a grade schooler whose mom just embarrassed him in front of his class by telling him not to pick his nose...and eat it.

"Yes, ungrateful," Cupid responded in a voice far too deep for his daisy-duke-diaper-wearing self. "I have attempted to deliver you love on many occasions and all you have done is denied the love and hid from it. You are the epitome of a Valentine's Day contradiction. You talk about how love will never find you but you make it a point not to find it."

I tried to cut in, but he continued to talk -

"You play the role of scorned, disgruntled ex-lover so well. You think that you are a Lifetime or Hallmark Channel movie when really your past love/relationships made you who you are today. Quit playing Adele on loop, quit drawing broken hearts on the steamed mirror after exiting the shower (how did he know about that), and for the sakes of the Good Lord stopping crying into your pillow - do you know how much bacteria lives on your pillow? Keep adding moisture to it, go ahead! Mildew plus bacteria is a winning combination."

I couldn't decide if Cupid was being plain mean or if he was just demonstrating the tough love that I truly needed. Before I could decide, he went on...I was starting to think he talked as much as I did.

"Who are you today? - made in part by the relationships that you had in the past that didn't stand the test of time for one reason or another. And, that is ok. Completely ok. You are a better person because of the successes and failures of past relationships, celebrate all of them. Having distaste for past relationships is, in a way, having distaste for who you are today. Release the love of the past, love yourself. Only then will your cheek be prepared for my arrows."

And just like that...gone. Ninja-Cupid vanished. But his words held on. It is all about celebrating the past, the time spent in past relationships did make me who I am today. Positive or negative endings, they still made me who I am. How can I not be ok with that? How can I not be excited for the future?

Good bye, friend. You have been good to me. I never thought this day of parting would come. You have meant so much to me - your voice - comforting. While you played music so sweetly - Christmas songs of Sinatra, beautiful ballads of Adelle and you even put up with that brief(read - longer than necessary) nostalgic kick I had with New Kids On the Block. You delivered me home safely more times than I can count, kept me warm when it was cold, and delivered a fresh cool breeze despite the sweltering heat. You shared the heavy load of my bag(gage)s without complaint. You've been closer than a friend.

I remember the day we first met. I found you on the internet. I had searched through thousands of profiles before I found you. I sent an email, asked if you were available. You were. But, had received many inquiries that day. We agreed to meet. I rushed to you, I knew I had found love. I spotted you from across the parking lot. You were as beautiful as I had envisioned. The beautiful description you painted of yourself, in your internet profile, was only eclipsed by what I saw when I first laid eyes on you.

Admittedly, I grew weak in the knees when I witnessed the way the sun accentuated your natural beauty. I knew then that it might not be an angel that I was seeing, but I had definitely been given a glimpse of heaven.

It was love at first sight, a near magnetic connection. We went to Italian for lunch that day. Carrabas...so, psuedo-Italian. But, it was nice. I remember how happy you seemed.

One more meeting, a few days later, before it culminated with you handing me the keys to your heart.

Four years have passed, each year better then the last. Although this is the end, we have so much to celebrate. Remember the days we talked about traveling together? Well...we did it! We made it to every corner of the US and every point in between.

When people ask why we split, I will say, "it was just time." I ask that you do the same, let no ill word be spoken. For, at this point, negativity will just dilute the beautiful past that we have created together.

It will be hard for a while...a long while. But, through this hardship, we will each find our individual strength to carry on. I'm speaking now, like I am the strong one, and we both know that I am the one who is going to be a mess the longest.

I would say that this isn't a "good bye" rather just a "see you later." But, it's not true, this has to be good bye. The memories we have created are on a permanent loop in the theater of my mind. Constant reruns of our life together will keep me going, and slow me down all at the same time. A melting pot of emotions floods my ability to think rationally about this...but, I know it will come. I will soon look fondly upon our memories, and smile about our futures. Separate futures. But, importantly a future. It may not seem possible right now, but life will go on.

As I speak, I wonder if I am comforting you, or just trying to convince myself. Whether the former or the latter, I hope my words act to comfort our hearts. I pray that you find someone quickly, someone to care for you even more than I did. Someone to provide for you and help you recognize the beauty of your future.

I could go on speaking of this forever, but I won't. It is time to bid adieu. Farewell, friend.

Thank you for all the years you shared with me, I feel like they were some of the best. I hope I treated you well, and didn't let a day go by without showing you my true appreciation and affection.

I say farewell and then continue to go on. By this, I hope you recognize the impact you have had on my life. Go now, impact others. I love you, and will always. Good bye, Mini Cooper.

We all have done it. Everyone of us. We have held on to a relationship, or parts of it, that has ended. As humans, we have a hard time accepting an "end." A problem that can truly stunt, if not completely eliminate the birth of a new beginning. Grieve, move on, never get lost in the shadow cast for you. Be complete in yourself and look for someone that compliments your completeness.

Mommy, my tummy hurts. Bad.

Who hasn't said that about one million and four times throughout the course of their young, old or in between lives?

The root cause of your pepto-craving estamago is usually easily identifiable. Either you took a big healthy-size bite of the fresh turkey grandma prepared. You know, the one she let thaw, for multiple days, at room temperature, while resting on the pathogen-filled counter. Or, you caught the bug that everyone has because it's "going around right now." I absolutely despise that statement, and am not sure how I feel about the people that use it, but, I might despise them, too.

You know when you clear your throat and mention you have a "little tickle." There is always someone standing in ear-shot-vicinity to hear your little tickle. And, inevitably they mention - "you better take care of that . There is 'something going around' right now. You know, my second cousin's Aunt Suzy, it started with a "little tickle," she ended up in the hospital with an IV drip, clear liquid diet and a thermometer in her rear end every couple of hours to check her HIGH temp." - you know it always ends up being that Aunt Suzy is a hypochondriac and the HIGH temp was a degree or two above the norm. But, that's neither here nor there. What is here or there is this: what if the tickle in my throat isn't the same one that Aunt Suzy had? What if the "something going around" is fixing to start with me? It has to start somewhere, right? Well, why not me? Or, what if I have a limited edition tickle, it only plans on kicking it in the tonsil/vocal chord region of my willing throat? Or, lastly and, actually most likely, the tickle was planning on starting with me before it was going to "go around" but my immune system wears a cape and it totally kicked the tickles' behind, sparing all humanity of the tickle felt "'round." Point is - please spare me and my tickle the "going round" story - my tickle is probably the end result of swallowing a tortilla chip sideways, scratched my throat all the way down! Want to tell me to better chew my food? - fine. But don't tell me I'm just one of the stops on a dirty pathogens circle of life, I'm the temporary host before the tickle jumps from me to the next poor unfortunate soul. (I better relax, I didn't even know how much I was against the "something going around" until I started typing.)

I forgot how we even started talking about Aunt Suzy's tickle but that isn't even important. I do wish her well, if for nothing more than so she can take the thermometer out of her behind. I know that can't be fun.

Back to the tummy -

It hurt(s).

I woke up one morning, just like every other morning, Lincoln licking my face (for those that don't know, Lincoln was the name of the 16th US President and is the name of my precious chocolate lab), attempting to tell me that my alarm had been sounding off for a few hours. I patted his head as I looked at the clock: 7am. Man, there goes the gym again - I had been setting my alarm to ring-a-ling at 5am for MONTHS. My original intentions for a 5am wake up call were to get Schwarzeneggered - but in reality, it really just became an alarm to let me know that I had two more hours to sleep.

This particular morning, I was discovering that it was harder than normal to get out of bed. Lincoln was wildly impatient - normal dogs wake you up to take them outside to tweedlely pee, tweedlely dump, but, this is my dog we are talking about. He wakes me up for his kibbles and bits. His "duty" takes a bake seat to his healthy helpings of breakfast. Only after he eats, burps, and towels off the corners of his mouth, is he ready to lift a leg. In the beginning, I would try to go to sleep while he ate, but, unfortunately, his eating is less like chewing 65 times to ensure proper digestion, and more like sucking it up like a shop vac. I barely get back to my bed before he is licking the bowl completely clean.

This particular morning, simultaneous to scooping his breakfast, I notice an incredible pain in the upper chambers of my tummy. I figured it was just my stomachs way of protesting the prior night's late night salsa and the curdled milk. The curdled milk was purely accidental, I ingested it to try an extinguish the fire created by the salsa. Whatever the root cause, my stomach hurt. Almost like I had Billy Blanked away my evening but, we all know that is not true.

I showered and carried on throughout my day, noticing that the pain never truly, completely, disappeared. It was there throughout the day, a dull constant with brief intervals of intense negative sensations.

I got home from work, fed Lincoln his dinner, took him for a walk and then stove-top heated some soup. It seemed like a good idea. I had just, very unattractively, I might add, slurped the last sips of soup broth when it hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn't even have time to grab the daily periodical - shoot, I barely had time to get my fruit of the looms around my ankles before the soup decided to make a re-entry into this atmosphere. I hate when that happens. What a waste of money. I paid $1.45 for that can of soup, and it didn't even stay in my system for a minute. Waste. It's like when you spend 4 hours wrapping everyone's Christmas presents and the happy recipients take mere minutes to tear off the paper. Waste.

It was days, weeks, years of this type of behavior. Sips of my former love Dt. Coke, left me bloated and desperately searching the PMS section of Walmart for water pills. Sure, I could've gotten this situation looked at by someone who's address labels have MD after their name - but, those people cost $...ok, it isn't the money that makes me stay away. I just know that when I walk into their office, I'm going to have to take my clothes off (again, not the problem, I love being clothless) then they are going to put their cold, lotionless hands all over me. The last MD that inspected my goodies, scraped off three levels of my epidermis with the callouses on his jergens-desiring hands. Seriously, you are a Doctor, your job is to touch this and that and push on foreign growths and ask if it hurts - well, I never know what hurts. Is it the growth or is it your rough hands? Contractor, landscaper, carpenter - cool to have rough and tough man hands - throw in some callouses and cuts for effect! Doctor - no! Use lotion, and warm those hands up before the next time you make me cough!

Years of bloat, pain, and random lightning fast evacuation of dinner finally landed me in the Doctor's office. The conclusion: Gluten Allergy. Yuck.

I found this information out about 6 months ago. Sure, I feel better. An immeasurable amount better...physically. But, imagine telling an Italian he can't eat pasta? Sure, I am healthier, I have dropped 30ish pounds, blah blah blah. But, whenever someone tells me, "Oh, I have heard living gluten free is so healthy. You will be happy how much healthier you are" - why do people that utter these statements always say them with a big fork swirl of pasta in their mouth or whilst chomping on an above-average mouthful of high-gluten pizza...inevitably, having my favorite toppings atop of it.

My tummy doesn't hurt as bad anymore. However, my former joy of novel reading has been replaced by label reading. I almost don't have time for my kindle anymore. But, like so many have said, I'll repeat it, only without pizza in my mouth: at least I am healthy(ier.)

There is something in most of our lives that for now, just hurts a little when we do it. But, the more we do it, the more it could hurt. Learn the lesson before I did. Cut out the bad from your lives. Concentrate on the good. Listen when it hurts "a little" don't let it get to the point I did. Whatever it may be, a less than healthy relationship, a bad job situation, or just a bad habit. Stop the hurt. Be healthier.

Imagine, if you will, my complete and utter disappointment when I found out that God the Father hand picked Harold Camping to holla out the Doomsday Date to. I mean, the last Holy text I read on the subject said, "not even the angels in heaven know." So, ALL these years of my life, I have been operating under that premise, if I knew there was even a chance that God was thinking about changing up some ancient text, I probably would have thrown my hat in the ring.

I don't know if I am more disappointed that Camping was picked over me or that, according to ol' boys calculations, the end of civilization was fixin' to happen just before my birthday! I mean, I don't mind dying young. Some pretty note able people have. But, if no one is left on earth to mourn my tragic doomsday demise or even compare my passing to the likes of great ones that have passed before me - Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Bobby Kennedy, Bambi's Mother, Simba's Father, Alladin - or wait, did he make it to the end of the movie? I can't recall, I spent the whole movie wishing I was a blue genie (or just a genie in a bottle, baby) and I don't really remember what actually happened in the sub-par, innuendo-filled film. I mean, if the news of me leaving this earth can't be compared to and uttered in the same breath as Marilyn Monroe...its just not worth dying.

OK, obviously, it does not nearly have as much to do with dying and being held in infamy, as it does me wanting to collect the killer gifts I asked for for my birthday this year!! - (Two exclamation points should clearly demonstrate the high level of  excitement I am attempting to portray!)

Keep the candles off the gluten-filled-birthday-cake, you know I'm intolerant. (More on this, highly unfortunate, recent discovery, later.) Put away the ice cream, you know I can't digest dairy without the assistance of a little pill.  Don't bother stirring up the Hawaiian punch, the red #4 it contains causes me to bloat like a woman sans the excuse of "I'm retaining water." I guess we can celebrate with water and maybe some brown rice - with as little of attention that you have to lend to the actual celebration, imagine all of the energy you can put into the gift!

Anyway, less about the extremely important event referred to as "My Birthday" and more about the show stealer - "The End of the World."

Ol' homeboy warned us all that on May 21st we would all meet our maker, leading up to that date I had dismissed Camping's warnings as nothing short of hogwash and attention seeking silliness (which I know nothing about)

From what I understand, some people took this a little bit more serious than I did - giving away their homes, selling all their belongings, taking elaborate vacations, cashing in their life savings, etc. I tried to get a hold of some of these doomsday doers - I'm like if you are giving away your life savings, holla at your boy. I'll hold on to it...for a minute! Just a minute before I blow it on giant gummy bears, ride on dinosaurs, big bouncy balls, high top sneakers and, quite possibly, a snow cone maker. It's just fine, you would never know I blew your hard earned money on a remote control Pterodactyl. Doomsday is scheduled to make an appearance before any record of the purchase would be recognized.

I really never planned on devoting any of my seldomly replenishable energy to Campings warnings. But, as the day drew close, and then the hours, I googled his warnings so I knew what to expect...you know, just in case. I am told, it is usually most the time always a good idea to be prepared. I figured, I better apply the rule to this event, rather than allow it to be an exception. You know, just in case.

Google really didn't offer much. I don't want to say g to the oogle failed me. But, it certainly didn't wow me to the usual level expected from google. There were a few articles, giving high-level details about how at 6pm, in every individual time zone, on May 21st, the world would meet it's end.

I, like usual, forgot all about that which I read, until about 5:55pm on the 21st. I only had five minutes left of this life. That didn't give me enough time to execute any of my plans:

First Plan - I was going to drive to the next time zone, to the east, and wait just before the line. About 20 miles away just in case the demise spilled over the line a little bit. And, then, after about 45 minutes of the world ending, I was going to drive over the line and survive the apocalypse all Will Smith - I am Legend style!

Plan B - I was going to dig a fallout shelter below the city. It was going to be about 350 feet below the Earth's surface, deep in the crust, just before the core. According to the plan I had generated in my cerebellum, this was going to be a surface-level apocalypse - I had nothing founded in science, nor did I find it in a hidden message from Camping, it was simply based on my figuring. With only 5 minutes left to live, my bunker was going to have to go without being built.

Plan C - unfortunately, I didn't make a plan C. I really didn't think plan A or B would fall through. They seemed so solid, in my mind.

It was now 5:57pm, I started to panic, what if Camping was right? What if I only had three minutes left to live? I had to rely on instinct.

I had accepted that this could be real. The world just might be ending in 3 minutes. In crunch time, I had finally come up with Plan C. I grabbed my cell phone and ran into the bathroom. I undid my pants and pulled them down to my ankles - I thought, this would be the ultimate in being caught with my pants down!

Standing there with my pants down staring at the second hand on the clock, almost willing it to slow down. With one minute left on the doomsday clock, I reached for my cell phone and dialed my grandmother. She is the most Christian person I know, if God was going to whisper the doomsday date to anyone, it would more likely be her than Camping.

She answered right away, "Hello." I was too nervous to speak. I just wanted her to keep talking for the next minute. If she stopped talking and I was still standing in the bathroom pantless, there is a good chance the Lord called His people home and left me to pick up the pieces...and my pants.

"Hello, hello, hello...," she continued. I was staring at the clock - just 15 more seconds of "hellos" and I would be aware of my fate. "Hello," she shouted into the receiver with 1 second to spare. And then...silence.

"Grandma, grandma," I shouted into the mouthpiece on my phone. "Grandma." I waited through the defeaning silence. Either I was left behind or grandma got tired of saying, "hello."

Just as I was about to accept my fate as "left behind" grandma echoed my "hello" with one of her own. "Well, my word, Michael," typical grandma talk, "I thought you had stopped the world and got off" - something she always says to me. She tells me I wait too long in between phone calls...and, I do. Sorry, gma!

I told her that I thought the world was stopping tonight and all of us were getting off. I had to explain to her what I meant because she had forgotten all about Camping and his hogwash. After I refreshed her memory, she uttered something about blessing Camping's heart and blah blah...I didn't hear the rest because I set the phone down to do a little jig in honor of still being alive.

I talked to grandma a little bit, mostly about the weather and my latest growth spurt - width-wise, but, basically the convo was over when I discovered we were all still alive.

From what I understand, the Lord threw a change-up and Camping was there to catch it...again. The new doomsday is in October of this year...hope I'm here to talk about it after!

Life rarely turns out the way we plan and plot it out in our hopeful minds. Very rarely. If it did, how many of us would be parking our Ferraris in the third stall of our seven stall garage, while our significant other is lounging by the pool with our above average intelligence children chasing our golden retriever around the yard?

Too bad there is a fantasy world and too-er badder there is a reality world. The one where you are actually parking your station wagon in the garage-less driveway, while your significant other is screaming at your snotty-nosed children for tying your mutts tail to the tree...again.

There are times, plenty of times, when living in a fantasy world is perfectly fine. Like, in the morning when most people are taking their daily periodical, People Magazine or a new sudoku book to the can with them. I leave all those materials behind and just bring the fairy tale land that exists completely in my mind.

While everyone is reading about Kate and her 8 or trying to figure out how putting the numbers 1 - 9 in small little boxes without ever repeating a number or allowing like numbers to come too close to each other is actually possible. I'm lost in the fairy tale land of my mind, generating stories about how some invention I created just made me millions and how based on all the revenue my fun little invention provided, I was able to turn my dream house into a giant playground - by the end of my imaginary story, I start to feel bad or greedy, for all of the imaginary material possessions I have given myself - so, right before I wipe and flush, I usually finish the story with "so, I donated all my money to charity." - I leave the toilet feeling so good about myself. Not only because I am cleaned out but because in my fairy tale world I am so charitable.

Like every other youth of our nation, from the time I entered kindergarten I had to field the question of "what do you want to be when you grow up?" Back then, I had the standard child answer all ready to go: "veterinarian." But, like most other kids I usually pronounced it "veteran." My teachers would "aw" thinking I was so patriotic. Really I just wanted to play with puppies all day. It wasn't until much later that I found out, veterinarian actually meant dealing with sick animals, animals that might actually go on to be with Jesus right in your office. I couldn't handle that! So, I left the idea of playing with puppies behind and decided that I was going to be a firefighter.

A firefighter! How backdraft of me! But, in all honesty, my father had a friend who fought fires for a living. We watched him on the news a few times. I looked up to my dad's friend (and I still do) and I wanted to be on the news - so, firefighter it was! Hold the hero comments! I found out long after I propositioned the firefighter calendar people to be Mr. May that fighting fires isn't all about tanned pectorals and posing with dalmatians. You actually get dirty and people might get hurt. Nope, no big yellow pants and red suspenders for me. I changed my mind, I was going to be a baseball player!

Now, since there can only be one shortstop, at a time, for the New York Yankees, I decided I better right them a letter. Mind you, up to this point, I had not played organized baseball. Sure, I had gone to a few games...my cousin's little league game and it all looked pretty easy. I mean, for awhile, the batters were hitting every pitch. My cousin's pitcher was laying them in there so softly, I thought letting the batters hit was the name of the game (holla at your boy, MJ!) My letter read something like this:

Dear New York Yankees -

I feel it advantageous to you and your organization as a whole to send a scout to a secret location (*which was going to be nothing more than my backyard) to watch me play baseball. I shall wow you with my abilities and leave you begging me to commit to your historic organization.

A few of my feats include holding the triple crown title in my local baseball league (*which included me and two other boys who were too young to hold a bat, let alone swing,) I consistently throw no-hitters (*like I said, the two other league members couldn't even hold a bat,) and fielding my position to the tune of the first ever platinum glove winner, because I am too good for gold.

Thank you for your interest. I think you should get back to me fairly quickly, because a phenom like myself, does not stay secret for very long.

It is with the greatest love and deepest admiration that I contact your organization first before notifying other MLB teams about my superior prowess.

Michael Steele

*signifies material that was not in the original letter.

The Yankees never sent a scout. They did however send a team photo and a "thank you for your letter, letter."

I gave up on the notion of being a baseball player when a new player showed up one day. I pitched one right down the middle of the plate, expecting the normal swing and miss, I was already yelling out "strike" when homeboy made contact and sent the ball right back where it came from. Straight back at me. My cat-like reflexes failed me and the ball collided with the crown of my cranium. I saw stars in 7 different variations. I must of passed out. I saw black holes, dead people, giant ants and the light at the end of the tunnel. After several minutes I came to. I stood up, threw my glove over the neighbor's fence and drop kicked the ball. One crater in my cabeza was enough to send me straight to the showers and into immediate retirement.

At this point it is becoming abundantly clear that I am not cut out for...well, much. The words of my third grade teacher "you'll never amount to anything," are beginning to ring true. I knew I never should have told on her for showing us a rated R movie! Maybe if I just sat back and enjoyed the naughty movie (like I would today) she wouldn't have said such mean things to me!

At this point, I decided I was going to be a teacher. And since I had a pretty significant crush on my science teacher, I thought I would teach science. I would bring her in apples with marshmallows connected to them using toothpicks. I would tell her it was the molecular structure of my love for her. It was about the 5th model of love I brought in for her, I had started using different colors/flavors of marshmallows so she didn't get bored of the same 'ol, I stopped into her class after school to see how she was liking my gifts of love...I found the latest gift in the trash. Without even a nibble taken out of it. She crushed my molecular structure and my little atom of a heart :'(. I stomped out of her room and yelled, "I hate science...and, and, and...Albert Einstein has bad hair!"

Devastated. I spent the whole walk home trying to figure out what my new career was going to be. I thought about being a superhero. I mean, I already had enough costumes to form my own little crime fighting crew - can't do that. They are all too tight. They outline my not so superhero tummy and my cookies and bits. I couldn't be a human cannonball because loud noises scare me. I couldn't be an acrobat because cartwheels and somersaults make me way too dizzy. I couldn't be a killer whale trainer because I would be trying to free Willy all day! I couldn't be an astronaut because I have the most unhealthiest fear of heights...I can't even look up into the sky unless I am sitting down on solid ground.

On the walk home that day, I identified a lot of things I couldn't be. But, the biggest decision I made, was no matter what I was destined to be, I was going to be the very best at it! If I were to work at Walmart, I was going to be the best greeter, cashier, etc. Sam Walton ever saw. If I were to work in a restaurant, my guests were going to get the best service with the hottest, best tasting food imaginable. If I was going to lead a choir, I was going to sing with a voice so full of sound it would reach the heavens. If I was meant to skate in the ice capades...ok, well, everything has exceptions!

My point is this; the very attitude I describe is one I demonstrated in all of my jobs. I kept the promise that I made to myself on the walk home that day. From my jobs as a paperboy to line cook, from my job as waiter to my job to a caterer...all the way leading up to my time in the President's service. An honor to serve my country, not in the noble way of military service, however in the way of public service. I thank God for the opportunities I have been given, and continually seek the next opportunity to demonstrate this way of life.

It is with great encouragement, I offer these words to you: whatever it is you chose to be, be the very best. Live with a grateful heart, live with humility and demonstrate love everyday. Accept life's challenges as learning experiences and flourish in the face of adversity. Today's trials are tomorrow's opportunities.

(Never before, in any of my postings, have I been talking directly to myself like I was tonight. I hope it speaks to you as much as it did to me.)

I hate getting my hair cut. Hate it. Please don't get stuck on the word "hate." Please don't write me and say, "hate is a strong word." I know it is. And, that is ABSOLUTELY why I am using it in this case.

I don't know what is worse - getting a haircut or taking a shower. I hate showers! Don't get it twisted, baths don't count in the overall equation of despising showers - I l-o-v-e love taking baths. I could literally live in the bath tub as long as I have the proper floating toys and reading materials. It must be the act of washing that causes me to loathe the shower. I have done everything to attempt to develop a better relationship with the shower. I introduced myself, I purchased all kinds of pleasant smelling shampoos and shower gels, I stopped wearing my bathing suit in the shower (bad childhood experience with an airplane shaped soap,) I even talked to the shower head about my day - nothing, hate is still there. Deeply embedded in the hallows of my cavernous soul.

Haircuts, showers and rounding out my list of absolute hates - doing laundry. I would rather hang my denim and unmentionables out my bedroom window during a rain storm (which I have done) than throw them in the Maytag.

My earliest memories of laundry distaste stem directly from my "awkward stage." You all know what the "awkward stage" is right? When you crossover from "cute little bug" to growing into your "lopsided adolescent self" - where you are rounder than you are tall or taller than you are round. You trip over your own feet and embarrass yourself by saying things you don't quite know the meaning of, you are just trying to sound like an adult? You that stage? The one accompanied by acne, and clothes that don't fit quite right, braces, maybe your first pair of glasses, you starting to wear deodorant because the gym teacher pulls you aside to tell you how you smell like an adult after dodgeball, odd smelling gas escaping your caverns at inconvenient times, you are starting to notice that picking your seat and your nose is social unacceptable but you still try to get away with a quick grab, pick and flick from time to time, all this happens right about the same time that you start thinking - kissing mom and dad when they drop you off to school isn't quite "cool" (In Junior High I would make my mom kiss me a block away from the school)...understand the "awkward stage" now? Good, because when the parent is in denial, it makes it much more difficult for the child.

Very Important - when you encounter a parent who is in denial about their child, do not point out their child's "awkwardness." I made this "mistake" - still paying for that one - I am pretty sure I have been excommunicated from that family. Don't feel sorry for me, it saves me $.42 a year on their Christmas card, and I don't get one of those picture Christmas Cards showcasing their "awkward stage" children. Win - win.

You see when I was going through my "awkward stage" I had one pair of jeans that fit me right...well, right enough. They were from Kmarts (why do people add the "s" to the end? I don't know. But, I guess its cute.) They were blue denim, for the majority, and one leg had a black patch that went from the top of my expanding hips to the mid-shin range. I think the "black patch" was supposed to go all the way to my ankle, but, I was in my awkward stage and growing!

Anyway, they were the only pair that fit me comfortably. I don't want to say that my mom was terrible about laundry, but on most days, she wasn't going to win any domestic diva awards. In all fairness, I was/am one of the most impatient people you will ever encounter. Hours could have felt like days, and sometimes still do. But, I just knew, if I put my jeans in that hamper, it was like waiting for lost luggage on a United Airlines flight. So, what did I do? Wear the jeans everyday sans the rinse and spin cycles. I had to.

I haven't spoke to the haircut, yet - when you are a kid, haircuts aren't a big deal. You sit in a chair, get to wear a cape (big win!), and if you don't cry, than you get a sucker. But, as you grow into an adult, more is riding on the haircut.

First, it actually does matter if ol' Edward Scissorhands knows what there doing. When you are a kid, you can just throw on a hat if you get a bad mop chop. But, as a grown adult, hats can't be commissioned to cover uneven Beiber flops, mohawks, faux hawks, red tail hawks, or the Atlanta Hawks. You can't just shrug your shoulders if the one you trust enough to turn your back on while they have 6 inch scissoring blades in their hands suddenly lets out an "oops" when they are working ever so carefully around your evil cowlick.

When you are an adult, you can't just be nonchalant if you sign up for the Clooney cut and end up looking more like Pink than the sexiest man alive.

Talk about a game changer - when George Clooney cut his hair short and put that inverted rooster tail just about his forehead...I dare you to name a boy in the US that didn't convert from the bowl cut or the Beaver-Cleaver-part to the Clooney cut?

You could walk into everywhere from a high end salon to a barber shop - the one where the old red, white and blue spinning thing is still firmly affixed to the outside of the building - and see little boys and grown men pointing to the cover of People magazine featuring Clooney saying, "I want that."

When men wore their hair as more of an afterthought and less of an accessory, life was so much easier. Men used to run the comb, that they kept in their back pocket, through their $8 haircut and not worry about what their hair was saying about them. Along came Clooney, David Beckham and Matt Damon. Now, men have to worry if their hair "finishes their look." A responsibility formerly given to a man's watch, or his wingtip loafers.

Men went from popping into barbershops on Saturday mornings to scheduling appointments with hair dressers receptionists...huh? Men went from going with the way their hair grows to trying to change the course of growth through borrowing their wife's hair mousse, styling gel and hairspray - all to accomplish the "wet look." Then, Paul Mitchell or one of his stereotype fabricating brothers decided it was better to create and market hair care products for men. And, the "wet look" was suddenly out.

Now we have Axe hair care for men. For men. Yet, they sold out and propositioned a whole bunch of women to tell us how we should wear our hair. Genius, Axe. Now you can sell pommade for the clean look, the messy look, the sophisticated look, the dull, the shine - but, be careful with their paste. If not mixed in well, it looks less like a good hair day, and more like a fly-by pooping by bird of prey.

Here is the thing - before hair became more of an accessory than your rolex, hair cuts were easy. You could be excited about wearing a cape and getting a sucker. Board rooms used to be full of men talking about the Masters and how they went fishing. Now, they are all whispering to each other, "hey, your hair looks good, what's your hairdressers name? Do you think s/he is accepting new clients?"

Men, stop! Go back to using the Flowbee in your grandmother's kitchen. Please. I can't handle the pressure of making sure my cowlick lays down just right (it never does.) I can no longer enjoy wearing the cape - I worry if I am wearing the right hair dressers' cape. Am I going to stand up from this chair with a hair cut that is going to be the envy of all my opponents on the racquetball court or are all the men going to be laughing at me in the locker room before I even take my towel off?

Let's go back to $8 barber chops from guys name Sal who only use clippers. Let's exchange appointment times for tee times. It's just too much pressure.

Men, lets go back to worrying if our portfolio growth is out pacing that of our prostate and leave worrying about hair to the ladies in our life.

There are countless social pressures that bombard us in our everyday lives. Fend of the social demands of "looking cool." Fads disappear but integrity, respect and compassion live forever. Accessorize your personality with qualities that last forever. Leave fads to those that haven't figured out where beauty truly comes from.

I have been caught up doing a lot lately, (and posting updates has not been one of them) some of which I can talk about and others I will have to wait for the statute of limitations to expire before I can make any public confessions/proclamations.

What have I been doing? :

If I haven't been chasing the ghost of Wild Bill Hickok around Deadwood, SD, I have been sitting in front of the mirror working on my Seattle, Washington accent.

If I haven't been studying for the series 7 and series 66 exams (in anticipation of gainful employment with Edward Jones - more on this later), I have been practicing the ancient art of tourist hair braiding - just in case I ever have to flee the United States and elude the authorities amongst the locals in Bermuda, Jamaica or any of the other "come on I want to take" ya's.

If I haven't been searching my parent's closets to see what I can eBay, I have been watching countless hours of Lord of the Dance - hoping one day I look that good in those pants.

If I haven't been volunteering for Big Brother Big Sisters, I have been scouring www.date-an-inmate.com- looking for a lonely mama. Not just any lady will do - she must have a prison tattoo, a scary nick name, and be able to out bench press me (not hard to do.) If I'm going to pen pal a felon, she has to meet/exceed my criteria.

I even commenced a search for my birth parents, only to find out they were the ones that had raised me my whole life, the ones that had been given me the bad Easter baskets all along.

I spent a bit of time contacting various scientific organizations to donate my body to their cause(s). Apparently, your soul has to have moved on to be with Jesus before most tests can be run. Shame, they made some of the experiments sound so cool! (I did find a few "living science experiments." Mostly testing the side effects for new drugs. I'm currently testing one that is supposed to stimulate hair growth and one that prevents the hair from growing on a man's back - I didn't realize how counter productive these tests are, until I just typed it out. Oh, well...making money!)

Meanwhile, while I am running around messing with inmates, science and the Lord of the Dance - and some guy is "messing with Sasquatch!"

I took a break from watching dvr'd episodes of the Rachel Zoe project and shopping at ruelala.com, flipped on the news to see this guy Thomas Byers of Shelby, NC. He believes he found the legendary creature who has avoided all of my expansive tracking efforts...Bigfoot! I'm purchasing discounted 2xist undies from the rue.com and this guy is driving down a lonely road in NC, innocently filming the open road, and Sasquatch himself runs across the street and offers a friendly wave.

Darn it, Thomas! Why couldn't you be the one sitting on the couch buying up all the overstock underwear...and, me be the one on the road with a camera?

Another question, Homey - why was your camera so out of focus? It looked like the end of your lens had a smudge, or was taking direct hits from a rain storm.

And, Why didn't you pursue him into the woods? I mean, Sassy was just Sunday strollin' his way across the street. I saw the video, he wasn't Usain Bolting it!

Thomas, you could have put on your hazard flashers, pulled your compact sedan to the side of the road, hopped out, looked both ways and run into the woods after his loafy heiney.

Thomas, you have let down your Bigfoot searching fellows. You have disappointed everyone - (except maybe your mama, she probably still loves you.)

I had so many questions that needed answers so I made a valid effort to locate and communicate with Thomas Byers of Shelby, NC. He apparently has other stuff to do because I still haven't found him. I even employed the efforts of the modern day super sleuth: facebook. Nothing. Thomas, you elude me with the effectiveness of Bigfoot.

I'm starting to doubt his story. Tommy said that Bigfoot snarled at him before he ran into the woods. Did you hear the snarl? I have been "snarled" at by a domestic feline named fluffy that put more fear in my soul than that noise that exited the supposed Bigfoot.

Thomas, you couldn't get that camera focused in the 4 seconds it took Bigfoot to cross the road? I mean, here I am chasing children around parks to capture some happy snaps, with managed success, but at least some are in focus. And, you can't even focus in on BF for at least a brief moment in time? Lets trade places. You come out here and capture childrens' smiles. Let me chase Bigfoot through the rural, open roads of NC.

I'm pretty confident that Thomas has pulled a fast one on us all. He has taken advantage of the general publics' unquenchable thirst to believe in the unbelievable.

I'm not mad at you, Thomas. You got your video to go viral! Good for you! But, get a hold of me. Let's talk Bigfoot, perhaps go on a hunt together.

It is so easy to allow ourselves to be fooled. To allow our eyes and minds to tell us a story that our hearts know isn't true. Its so fun to allow are imaginations to go absolutely wild! Allow our minds to take off with stories that only exist in the confines of our own imagination. Encourage creativeness today!

PS - Bigfoot, if you are reading this, come see me...please! 

Wedding bells are ringing, again, my friends. And, this time it is my older sister.

She sent me a picture message the other day of her finger, caption: "he asked me!!"

I thought to myself, "asked what?" Knowing my sister and mines' relationship, I thought she was picture message flipping me off - I said a prayer for her sins and went to the mirror with my camera phone to try and position myself so I could "picture message moon" her in reply. I had just snapped the perfect 1/4 smile, 1/4, cheek, 1/4 tattoo and 1/4 crack picture when she texted me again: "I said, he asked!!!"

Upon further review of her message...she wasn't flipping me off at all, in fact, she was sending me a picture of the engagement ring her boyfriend had just proposed with. (side note - I sent her the picture of my moon anyway.)

In retrospect, this is probably the point where I should have said, "congratulations," or "I'm so happy for you all." But, I needed to know some important deets first:

"Please tell me he didn't propose on Valentines Day!!!!" Was my first message. Notice I used exclamation points - I had to make it a statement, I couldn't pose it as a question...I was TOO afraid she would say he had. (I don't mean to offend those that use the commercial holiday to define/express their love, but, if you do...stop!)

My second message was: "Total carat weight and clarity?" Her answer left me stunned. I knew it wasn't something I could ever live up to, what if I ever got a girlfriend and she saw this ring...oh man, think fast, Michael!

I asked quickly and in a very judgemental tone, "Well, has he ever watched "Blood Diamond?" (Starring Leonardo Dicaprio - Leo formally occupied the 5th spot on my 'Top 10 Man-Crush List' but, following his sub-par performance as the Narrator for 'Hubble an Imax film' I had to let him go. Don't feel bad for Leo, I also had to let Lance Armstrong go - just like he did his wife who stood by his side while he went through his horrible ordeal.) I answered my question for her: "Obviously not! He wouldn't have bought that kind of diamond if he watched the movie. Poor child soldiers!"

I was convinced he would have forfeited their future childrens' college fund if this ring was real, so I spent the entire remainder of the night scanning HSN and QVC websites looking for a CZ ring in its likeness. Or, that new fake stone QVC has introduced to its most loyal customers - diamonique. I didn't find it...yet. But, I won't give up my search. I'm pretty confident I'll find it some where. I mean wives of pro athletes wear rings like this, not wives of...wait, I have no clue what he does for a living. Maybe he is an athlete. Oh, I hope it's curling. I have always wanted a curler for a brother in law!

Early the next morning, even before the sun was due to rise, my newly engaged sister was ringing my cellular telephone. I sent her to voicemail and rolled over. It rang again ---> voicemail. Again ---> voicemail. Again ---> this time I pushed answer: "you better have an emergency to be calling me this early in the a.m. And, it better be good." She tried to start talking, I cut her off. "Sh! Your next words better be something like 'help, I'm being chased around Old Faithful by a hungry brown bear and I'm not wearing any pants.'

Fortunately for her, Unfortunately for my story-telling self, there was no brown bear in her story and everyone was appropriately wearing pants. Boo.

Her excited voice rang out like an untuned piano stored away in grandma's basement. "Umm, we would like to know if you would marry us?"

I leapt from my bed and shouted in the phone, "Yes! I'll marry you and the curler!!"

"The curler?"

I ignored her inquisitive words. Hung up on her, and ran straight to the computer to find step by step instructions on how to get properly ordained. I couldn't believe my sister was actually going to support my craziness! I didn't want to waste time, for fear she would change her mind. I found an organization called "Worldwide Christian something or other," paypal'd them the dollars, selected "Reverend" as my title and sat back and waited for my ordination certificate to arrive!

As I sat there waiting, my mind started to wander. I had to call her back and express my demands/concerns to her.

I heard her phone answer. Didn't let her say a word before I shouted into the receiver, "I have a few demands." She wasn't happy about that but I told her it was a short list of 5. She would be ok.

"Meet these demands, and I shall perform your nuptials,":

1.) I walk out to entrance music, selected by me. Perferably after you have already walked down the aisle but I will accept you going after me, as long as you agree to my choice of song. I thought an awful lot about my song choice, so please hear me out. We both know no other artist would do me justice quite like the King of Pop would so MJ's catalog of songs was a natural place for me to start looking. Originally I chose "Bad," well, because I am. Then I switched to "Thriller" so I showcase my dance skills as I walked out. I wasn't quite sure I made the right decision, so I wanted to keep looking. My heart wanted to pick something like "Heal the World," or "Man in the Mirror." In a pure stroke of genius, I scratched MJ and figured I would just keep him spinning at the reception! After this ingenious idea, I had to go back to the drawing board. I went to itunes to cycle through songs, looking for inspiration (I know a lot of you are reading this thinking, "duh, Justin Timberlake's 'Bringing Sexy Back' is the obvious choice," and you would be right, but he says bad words in that song, and there will be little kids in attendance) and chose...ready for it..."HANGING TOUGH" by NKOTB. Another song to which I can showcase my dancing ability to!!! "Hanging Tough" wasn't a run away winner, it battled hard against "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. But, in the end, you know it...Hung Tough (sorry, had to say it.)

2.) My name is mentioned somewhere in the program. And, I would like "The" to proceed my title and name. As in: "The Reverend Michael Steele." If my name could be surrounded by squiggly dos or curly ques that would be nice, as well - it would draw that little extra attention I "deserve" (read "need.")

3.) You not only allow, but you think it is a good idea that I wear a collar and a Pope hat - I'm willing to forfeit the demand for the hat if you allow me to bedazzle the collar...and offer me the use of your bedazzler that I bought your for Christmas a few years ago. Don't worry, I am not going to over-dazzle it. I am not talking about Vegas Showgirl flair (although that would be nice) just a few rhinestones to add necessary pop and character.

4.) Chicken wings and skittles are part of the reception menu - even if it isn't offered to everyone else, at least have it on my plate. And, no funny stuff with the Skittles. I want to taste the original rainbow! None of the new tropical, mixed, sour, fizzle shizzle! Just the original red pack!

5.) Sasquatch is on your guest list and reserved a seat at the head table with me. Oh, I didn't mention I would be at the head table? I guess it was just assumed! You know, I have dedicated far too much of my adult life to the discovery of Sasquatch for this last demand not to be met with the seriousness it deserves. Don't worry about the smell, I will be sure to get him properly groomed before he arrives.

Oh, I know I only said 5 demands, but one last quick one. You know how I love roses...so, if you are going to be standing close to me during the ceremony, which I assume you are since you are the bride, can you please make your bouquet consist of roses so I have something pretty to look at?

There was dead silence for a count of 7 after I finished talking. My sister broke the silence by saying, "nevermind. We will find someone else."

I was shocked! It was not like I had asked for a private helicopter and 1 million dollars in unmarked, non sequential bills!

"Bye, Michael." My sister said as she was about to hang up the phone.

"No wait," I shouted back. "I'll do it! If I can just have entrance music, that is it."

"Bye, Michael."

"Ok, just the collar, please don't take away my collar!"

"Bye, Michael."

"Fine, you win. I'll do it, as you wish. But, at the reception, all bets are off! I am going to take over! Tell the curler to watch out. By the end of the night I'll be dancing with his sister!"

Click.

In the end I recognized how although my sister is allowing me to cross out one of my craziest bucket list items (to be ordained and marry people), it meant just as much to have her brother stand beside her. So, I decided not to make this one about myself and give up my list of demands to officiate her wedding!

In important times, family is what you have. Family is who you want standing right beside you. Be good to your family, concede the small stuff and dwell on love.

(side note: btw, he isn't a curler:( he's an electrician - I wish I knew what they did.)

Cupid, I have many things to say to you, and none, count them, none of them are nice. I really thought we had an understanding this year...you know, I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I quit talking about how there is no such thing as forever love and you bring me a Valentine...remember?

Cupid, in the words of my 3rd grade teacher, "you are a failure, you will never amount to anything. All you are is talk."

Cupid, god of Love, the one whose celebration of existence can be traced all the way back to (according to some Valentine experts) 496 AD, it is time you quit running/flying around in a diaper shooting your meaningless arrows. Because, to this point, I do not see the value in your antics.

The goal of my rant is not to be hating on you, Cupid, but, I will tell you, if anyone can be shot by your arrow, it's me. I mean, my butt is always out and it's not like I can be described as a fast moving target. I'm slow as g-ma's molasses...well, unless there is carrot cake or a sale on Seven for All Mankind involved.

Cupes, I know you are busy, and I really am not trying to be too demanding. I just thought we had a deal. I come out publicly and say, "ok, there is such thing as real, true, forever love" and you bring me the love of my life in time for me to not have to eat Valentine's dinner alone...again. I opened up my heart to you and revealed all my inner thoughts and emotions...all for not. I told you, my fear for this year was that I would be heating up dinner in the microwave and netflixing reruns of The Office in my typical Valentine's Day tradition. You promised it wouldn't happen. Liar. That is exactly how last night went.

I really thought the deal was I support you, you support me? If I'm wrong tell me I'm wrong. Was my list too demanding?:

I mentioned that I wanted a girl as feisty as Snooki with the character of Mother Teresa. A woman as outrageous as Madonna with the presence of former First Lady Laura Bush. The comic relief of Ellen Degeneres with the stature of Condi Rice. The style sense of Joan Rivers with a splash of Lady Gaga's edginess. The heart of (my favorite housewife of all time) Real Housewife of NY Caroline Manzo with a dash of the self-righteous attitude of Nancy Pelosi (just a dash.) The sincere smile of Kelly Rippa with a pinch of the competitiveness possessed by none other than HRC. And, lastly, the innocence of Leslie Knope mixed with the cardigans of Pam Halpert. Doable, eh?

 

Cupidity Doopity Doo, I have broken it down in a simple math equation for you (see above.)

I fear it is too late for me (or you), we made a deal, at least I thought we had. You were going to pair me up with the one my heart desires and help me avoid having to buy a heart shaped box of chocolates for myself (I really prefer flowers but, didn't want to sound too much like the girl here.)

Perhaps I should give you the benefit of the doubt...maybe you did try to shoot me with your magic arrow and your aim is just off? Maybe you did shoot me and I am just immune to your love venom? I guess it is possible that I have denied your powers of love for so long that they will never have there intended effect on me.

Admittedly, the few days/weeks/maybe months leading up to Valentine's Day my defenses were probably down just a little bit. I wanted the holiday to be my own little Lifetime Channel movie - you know, the one where I'm in the grocery store and I reach for the milk at the same time as a perfect stranger reaches for the same gallon of skim (from a local farmer) who after one minute of gazing into each other's eyes we are asked to move by an impatient customer behind us. But, right after that, we kiss and fall in love forever and ever.

Upon further review, probably a Hallmark Channel movie as opposed to a Lifetime feature. On Lifetime, everything always goes great until one day the husband starts noticing the baby sitter which leads to the inevitable beating of the wife - well, as long as Uncle Jesse plays me in the onscreen adaptation, I'd settle for Lifetime.

Cupe, I even bought Valentine's cards this year in preparation of my new love affair. Ok, that is not exactly how/why I bought them...I actually walked into Target to buy dill pickle cashews (hush, they are sensational) and the new issue of "Inked." While walking to the cashew aisle, I couldn't help but notice a bit of a commotion to my immediate right. Now, I usually have a one track mind, but, I am nosier than the old lady, that wears the bad hat and sits in the back of your church so she can get the best view of all the "hypocrites" occupying the rows in front of her blessed soul. So, if there is a commotion, my behind is right in the middle of it, taking notes on all the details.

I elbowed my way through to the third level of the ever-gathering crowd to discover the source of the commotion. It was 30-40 men, of all ages, shapes and sizes - they were clamoring to get their hands on a folded piece of paper decorated with words that they couldn't come up with on their own. Silently, in my head, I judged every single one of them, "look at you all...you wouldn't have to fight for a card if you didn't wait until the last day to buy one. You should be ashamed of your pathetic selves."

But, I figured, as long as I was head-deep in the dog pile, I wasn't going to be left out. No way. My competitive spirit wouldn't let me. I dodged, ducked, dipped, dove and dodged my way out of the crowd with a fistful of cards. I did not dare look at my bounty until I paid for them and ran out of the store. I was so caught up in the excitement, I failed to grab the new issue of "Inked" and MUCH WORSE I forgot the dill nuts...but, at least I had cards! So, if Cupid actually came through, I would be prepared.

Safely seatbelted into my car I began to leaf through the cards. I pulled one out of the bag for "my husband," "my son," "my step-father" - I threw those useless cards out the car window and reached in the bag for the one card left, I silently hoped for an appropriate one. I quickly pulled it out of the bag...not a Valentine card at all...a sympathy card for the "widow of a former Health Inspector." What? Who would ever need/think to look for a card that specific if they did need one - Hallmark, you are good. You do your thing.

Well, Cupid, I guess I have to let you off the hook...again, this year. I am not the easiest to please. I mean, there is only one Caroline Manzo, Leslie Knope, Kelly Rippa, and Pam Halpert. Perhaps, one more year alone will force me to relax my requirements a little bit...nah.

Cupid, I will give you one more year, then I might have to turn your arrows on you.

I hope everyone enjoyed the holiday! I hope at least some of you took a bite out of every single chocolate in your candy box. I hope some of you didn't just take a bite out of them all but actually ate the whole box (I know it's gross, but it's funny.) I hope everyone put "spending time with the ones they love" above any gift they received.

And, for those of us that sat on the couch and Netflixed episodes of The Office while our dinner cooked in the microwave, I hope you found a way to enjoy the day, as well.

Love with your whole heart everyday and do not take for granted that your partner knows how you feel about them. Tell them. Show them.

Pops told me he was better than me at life. I kindly (at least in front of him) disagreed. After many weeks of arbitration and debate, it was clear there was only one way the argument would be settled: a DUEL.

I wanted an Aaron Burr -v- Alexander Hamilton style duel. He wanted a battle of wits. I wanted a battle of might and strength. He realized there was no chance he could win so he wanted a cook off. Me remembering he DVRs "The Iron Chef" countered with challenging him to a foot race - silly us, that would have been more a fast walk and less a Usain Bolt vs. Michael Johnson affair.

With all of the duelin' options quickly being exhausted, the 'ol man laid down the terms of the duel we officially decided on.

Challenge: A short story.

Terms: we each take five photographs and give them to the other. A 1500ish word short story must be written based upon the other person's photos. After receiving the photographs, the short story-ers each had one week to complete their stories. 

The winner will be awarded the coveted Dundie Award!

The challenge has been made and the deadline for writing the story is this Sunday. Look for the stories to be posted this week. Celebrate with me as I accept the Dundie!

2010 recently exited stage left. Leaving me with the bittersweet tasting morsels of "change" toying with my tongue's unusually sensitive tasters. Apparently, that Obama guy was right...this was/is a "time for change."

Most people hate change. I don't. I believe I own/control the change. Sometimes, when purchasing a good or service, I use exact change. That's just what I do.

What change, you ask?

Well, most recently, I have relocated from my primary domicile on the East Coast to the bitter cold of the West (Wyoming, specifically.) I have raised up from at or below sea level to almost a mile above the Little Mermaid and her Sea - I'm afraid of heights! I am a short guy, I don't climb mountains, the highest above sea level I have been is 5' 8". What a change 5,700' is. The air is thin up here! How do birds and pterodactyls do this?

With changes in elevation comes changes in behavior. Like, the use or requested use of oxygen. The doctor did not oblige. I tried to tell him I couldn't breathe. That the air was too thin for my under-the-sea-level lungs. He was quick to tell me that I will be just fine, I just needed to blow my nose. He was probably right, but, I definitely used the elevation and my "inability to breathe in such thin air" as an excuse when I lost my first few racquetball games.

Relocation is tough to deal with. Moving to a strange place, where no one knows your name can be hard. It could be much easier. I mean, if Nerf Gun owners had a National Registry...or if model rocket builders (or, as I like to call them/myself "rocket scientist") had a National Association, relocation would be a breeze! Move to a new town, contact the registry/national association and BAM you have new bffs! Unfortunately, there isn't a match.com/bigfootbelievers - if there was, I wouldn't be doing all of this research on my own!

The challenges of breathing with your head above the clouds and making new friends is straight pittens when compared to the biggest challenge of all: changing my wardrobe!

It did not take me long to figure out that I would no longer be able to comfortably wear my favorite winter shoes - uggs. Yes, they do come in Men's, too! Not just the ladies get to wear the wonderfully warm sheep skin (sorry, mutton chops, but I guess the "song that never ends" has come to an end for some of your sheepy friends...but their demise was not in vain, it is all in the name of keeping my(our) toes toasty!)

The Uggs may have been the first to go, but they definitely weren't the only thing. I have had to make many fashion-esque sacrifices. Apparently, there is a rule that men west of the Mississippi are not permitted to take advantage of the unique skills possessed by Korean Mani/Pedi shop owners. I call BS. My feet are calloused and I have crazy volumes of hang nails, dang it! If I want a pedicure, I shouldn't have to do it while hiding in the corner of my own room. I should be able to walk straight into Lee Nails and pay for the service of a toe-nail-shaping professional!

I will spare you the details of getting my eyebrows properly manicured. But, just know, it cost me 7-10 layers of my epidermis because the esthetician found it difficult to wax my eyebrows while laughing at my request to have them done. She got a tip. The tip of my penny loafers to her tibia. The part that hurts. Midway between her knee and ankle.

I can handle the thin air up here, I can handle the alternate footwear, I can even handle using my razor and tweezers to groom my own brows. Yes, I recognize I said razor but, desperate times require the execution of desperate measures. Even if these desperate measures prove the myth true "shaving will just make them grow in thicker." I speak nonchalantly about it now but, if it is true, I guess that means I will have a couple of shrubs growing outward from just above my eyelids by the time I'm 25. (Shhh, I know my years have already advanced significantly beyond 25. But, not everyone knows, nor do they need to!)

Sure, I can handle all of the aforementioned changes...but the one thing I struggle with the most is the change of living my everydays without "you."

As previously mentioned, and avoiding going through it all again, you defined love for me in a way that had always been void in my life. You gave description to an indescribable word, feeling, thought and emotion. As quickly as it you entered my universe, I forced  you into leaving. I stand here with empty arms, and a hole in my heart that remains void despite how desperately I attempt to fill it. I think I have finally come to the place where I recognize, it won't be filled. And, that is OK. But, perhaps, it will grow smaller as I begin to open my heart again. 

Your love taught me so much. I was used to running through life at warp speed, the background always blurry. Always chasing the next big thing and not recognizing the little things around me that made up my universe. You taught me to slow down and not just notice the little things but appreciate them for all the value they had to offer. You taught me it's not just about the end goal but it can be just as much about the journey. Thank you.

I move into 2011 embracing the changes that 2010 left me with. Not just learning the lessons and from the changes of the previous year but living them.

I hope you have learned from the lessons of your past. Make 2011 a fresh start. Don't worry about breathing thin air, be happy you live to breathe another year. Don't worry about having to change your footwear, worry about those that walk without shoes - offer them your boots. Don't worry about having to use your bathroom to keep up on your grooming, worry about those that don't have a home.

Slow down in 2011. Value the little things. Show others love and begin to see the world through their eyes, putting others first make your little spot in this world one of happiness - it's amazing how catchy it can be!

So, I find myself, on the Eve of the New Year kicking it with the ol' hangin' ball. The ball has a big job. Year after year, on December 31st, it finds itself positioned high in the Manhattan sky just waiting for the appropriate countdown to be called out so it can begin its big ball free fall.

In my humble (or anything but humble) opion - so much hoopla of lights, fireworks, music, Ryan Seacrest, blah blah blah...all for 10 seconds of counting and a ball shimmy-ing down a pole. I had wondered what the ball thought about all this, and wanted to ask it. But, silly me, balls don't talk!

Look, although I do not understand the point of New Year's, I am not one to be a party pooper. I will use any excuse I can to operate a noise maker, wear a crazy hat, pop some bubbly (sparkling apple cider, that is), sing, dance, pee outside...umm, umm, I mean...well, anyway, you get my point - I rock the party that rocks the party.

New Year's isn't all about the party is it? It is also about that other crazy tradition, making resolutions! I have never been one to - is it: "resolve," "resolute," anything.

This year is going to be different, I am going to make some resolutions. And, I am going to try and keep these resolutions and perhaps even track my progress, for the world to see...or, at least, the few people that visit this site.

Before I can make resolutions for the year to come, I think it is important to reflect on the year that was. It is with complete confidence that I call your attention to the above average performance I had in the mighty year of 2010, the year of the tiger.

My 2010 Accomplishments:

In 2010, I made great strides in developing patience. I have never been known for my overwhelming amounts of patience...in fact, on occassion, I have been known to snap at very young children for having less than appropriate timing with their whining (in fairness to the child, I must admit, I don't think there is ever an appropriate time for whining.)

Me, being fully aware of the fact that I am patience-challenged, decided to make a conscious effort to display some level of understanding/patience for those things that are outside of my control.

As evidence: I was very patient with an old(er) lady who thought she was helping by putting my slighty too expensive, all cotton, polo shirt...in the dryer. My shirt exited the dryer 3-4 sizes smaller than it entered. I wanted to use language that is reserved for naughty movies, but instead, I smiled at the old(er) lady and said, "thanks for drying my clothes!" My grandmother smiled and said, "no problem."

Another one of my 2010 accomplishments was me making the effort to explore the arts. I had always heard that, "kids in the arts have the best hearts" (I have never really heard that, I just couldn't find anything else to rhyme with "arts.")

First I tried painting...by number. I stunk. I didn't have the patience to keep my horse hair brush in the lines. Then I tried playing an instrument. I downloaded a piano application on my iPad. I have an ear more for hearing sports, less for hearing notes. I thought maybe I could sing. My audience thought maybe I couldn't. They were right. This left only one form of art: dancing. I am more than happy to report, I mastered the art of dance. Wii dance.

I have Dance Dance Revolution, Dance Party 1 and the 2, the Michael Jackson Experience. You name it, I have it and can shake my Wii Controller to it. Yeah, I think I can dance.

Wow, now that I think about it, I did a lot last year. It is going to be hard to duplicate those efforts in 2011. I'll try. For my first resolution, I will start small.

My 2011 Resolutions:

Every year, everyone I know recommits themselves to their former love: the gym. That relationship lasts a few weeks, and then they go right back to cheating on the gym with their real love - chocolate chip cookies and the couch (I am not pointing fingers. I am admitting my infidelities.) The resolution: This year, I will stave off the inevitable by bringing my cookies with me to the gym.

Another popular resolution is: get out of debt. Every year, people proclaim, "by the end of x year, I will be out of debt. No more spending." What? How do these people expect that to ever happen? What, all of a sudden Macy's is going to stop having "One Day Sales?" No, I don't think so. But, sure, I will jump on the bandwagon: The resolution: Assuming Macy's stops their sales, Nerf doesn't come out with a new "must have" gun, Playskool doesn't come out with an upgrade to "Big Foot the Monster," and I deactivate my eBay account, I, too, will get out of debt this year.

Another resolution I hear is: I am going to get organized this year. I don't even know what that means. Does that mean I am so disorganized, I don't even know how to start the organization process? The way I see it is my life is a complete, solid, 100% mess. Not sure if I could function if "organized" - whatever that means. I googled "get organized." 1,000s upon 1,000s of product pages came up. There were electronic organizers, paper organizers, people that organized, coupon organizers, important paper organizers, LLCs willing to assist in getting me organized, there were day organizers, year organizers and organizers for your organizer. I think its because of these organizers that people think they are disorganized, when, in fact, they were probably doing just fine. The resolution: Come up with a solid definition of "Organized" and submit it to Webster for consideration.

Enough. I will leave this child's play to the habitual resolution-ers. I am going to move on to some serious, big time resolutions. These resolutions are little less focused on my personal development because I can't get much more perfect. They are instead resolutions that will effect the greater good...in a very, very positive way.

Serious Resolutions:

I will make it my #2 priority (#1 priority - shower with increased frequency) to find, and introduce the world to Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yetti, The Missing Link, Harry...or whatever else you want to call him.

I have dabbled in the world of Bigfoot before, but it is time to jump in with two feet. I know he is out there, I have seen him, and even had my picture taken with him. But, was unsuccesful in my attempts to "laso him and ride him through town" -(the idea of my expedition partner.

My next greater good resolution:

I will send an unmanned (model) rocket to the moon...or as close to the moon as a rocket from Hobby Lobby with an Estes engine can go. There is so much research left to be done, and with NASA concerened about irrelevant details like legislative funding or "oh, is pluto a planet" we may never get back to the moon. So, while NASA is caught up in their appropriations hearings for this year's budget, I will be carefully constructing a rocket in my parent's garage. (By the way - this project cannot be counted against my "get out of debt" resolution.)

My next and final greater good resolution:

I will begin to prepare my bid for Presidency. I think us citizens have been let down in the past by elected officials that promise the world and deliver the planet formally known as Pluto. All we ask is that our voice is heard. And, it is, during the campaign. After a succesful election, the President forgets about the "little guy" that got him "there." We are living in hard times, we need a President that will be fiscally responsible with public money. We live in a dangerous world, one that requires a strong, responsible defense system. I can bring this to you. And, that is why I will soon officially announce my bid for Presidency of my Neighborhood Watch Program.

I encourage everyone to make their resolutions. Stand by them. See them through to fruition. Someone named anonymous said, "Many people look forward to a New Year, for a new start on old habits." Don't let it happen this year. Make 2011 different. Welcome the challenges, embrace the rewards. Don't dwell on your troubles, take pride in overcoming.

The number one question I receive in my email box: michael.steele@yessteelecan.com is: Are you single? or Why are you single? I don't really understand the latter but, for the time being, I will address the former:

Yes, I am single.

For yet another year, I don't have to check the +1 on my holiday party invites...I'm "flying solo, solo, solo..."

Please, save your "lo sientos." I'm as happy as a pig in mud that I don't have to worry about going to the in-laws this holiday season for dried out stuffing, lumpy mashed potatoes or some kind of crazy gift exchanging rituals.

Out of one side of the mouths of my friends they are offering condolences to my persumed lonliness, yet, out of the opposite side they are complaining to me about their trips to the inlaws. "I can't believe we have to go see my mother-in-law, her food is awful and her house has a funny odor," says one of my friends expecting me to reply with something along the line of, "you poor soul." I say nothing. Its his fault he can't stand up to his wife. She wears the pants and the jock...seriously. At least I think she does, she is always adjusting herself.

Don't be sad for me! I'm as happy as a clam (I have never, ever understood that saying) that I don't have to buy gifts for a finicky female. That doesn't know what she wants for a gift, until you buy her gift and then she finds 1000 things that she likes.

What happens when I bring home a shirt in a Large and she really wears a Medium? This happened to me once. And, "that silly sales associate handed me the wrong size" was not a good enough excuse - I didn't want to tell her that I really thought I needed to get her an X-Large but got the Large as a bit of a compliment.

Don't cry for me, Argentina! I'm happy as the day is long (again, whatever that means) that I only shave my face when I want to. I have a very sensitive face. My facial follicles kick and scream everytime I attempt to trim them...everytime, without fail.

I dated a girl once that was the ultimate hinderance to my beard progression. I could shave five minutes before I would kiss her and she would pull away from me holding her lips like I had just cut them with a razor blade. I should've. She never heard me complain about her mustache. Did she? No. Honey, bleaching it just conceals it. It doesn't make it go away. Nair that hair.

Do you see through my lies, yet? Or should I keep going? Of course, everyone wants a special someone (or two) to cuddle up next to while the yule log glows. Of course I want two straws in my egg nog while I watch Oprah's Gift Giveaway.

Most certainly, I want someone to be the marshmallow in my hot chocolate, the bubbles to my bath, the library to my dewey decimal system, the paint to my canvas, the coupon to my clearance sale.

Enter the problem. I have a wee bit of a fear of commitment. Well...maybe a little more than a wee, maybe actually a wee wee bit. I have such a fear of commitment that I have never made a dinner reservation, rarely keep a doctor's appointment, I change my car every year, constantly have to apologize for missed lunch dates, etc.

I have done everything I can to get rid of the fear. I have physically forced myself to keep commitments and requested the help of professionals. Nothing has worked with great efficiency. In a last ditch effort I listed my fear on eBay. Check it out. There is no reserve. Please take it from me.

I ain't afraid of no Ghosts. Well...at least, I don't think I am. But, I guess I have never tested that theory. I mean, I have never personally seen a ghost, that I know of. I have seen some pretty scary looking people but, despite their frightening appearance I do believe they were still living, breathing, with a solid flesh cloak covering their vulnerable souls. In other words, "alive and well human beings."

Lately, I have been told countless stories from people saying that they heard their name called or felt a hand on their shoulder, felt a brush of cold air, saw an orb, etc etc etc. Being an overachiever nonbeliever (standard definition: go to great lengths to prove something isn't true), myself, I figure, I am the perfect candidate for exploring the possibility of the existence of ghosts or goblins or whatever else might own the night.

I took the liberty to ask several local residents about their favorite ghost stories. Many people told me about hearing their name called...blah blah blah boring. I want good stuff.

My life being void of any paranormal activity, I didn't even know what to look for. I did some research on the web of the wide world and found several stories that all shared one common denominator: they all occurred at the same location. For the purpose of: this is a capitalist world that we live in, and we are all owned by the dollar and the potential to make many more dollars, I solemnly swear(ed) not to disclose the location of my overnight blogging adventure to prevent any negative publicity.

Background: several people claim to have seen a man patrolling the perimeter of the aforementioned building wearing a blue suit. The man was described as a tall, attractive man wearing a suit complete with a fedora (nice to know this ghost at least has style.) Many others claim to have heard their name called and felt themselves pushed out of the building. Others have reported to feel severe cold spots at various points throughout the building.

Well, that all sounds good to me! I packed a bag of flashlights - for seeing in the dark, a winter coat - in case I find myself sitting in one of the "severe cold spots," a few cameras - one even equipped with night vision technology, the latest issue of GQ in case I have to bait ghostly-man into talking to me, and an extra pair of undies just in case these stories prove to be true, I will surely be scared poo-less.

I have a few accomplices for this mission...all overachiever nonbelievers, just like myself. (What, you think I was going at this alone. No way! What if there really proves to be a ghost!)

The hour of 12 midnight:
The hour quietly passes with nothing more than the rumble of the gas in my tummy (broccoli for dinner) and the creeks of my quickly-aging bones.

The hour of 1am:
Boring, boring, boring...what was that? Either someone is playing a sincere evil trick on me or the silence of this dark night was just shattered by the hair-raising scream of an adolescent girl in severe danger. I grabbed my flashlight and waved it through the darkness...nothing. How disapointing. I was really hoping to see something, anything. Nothing.

The hours of 2, 3, and 4 all of the am pass without a single disturbance. Truth be told, in the interest of full disclosure, I am pretty sure I fell fast asleep...and stayed that way all through the night.

With great joy I remembered I set up a night vision camera. I went to review the tape to see if it captured the happenings my sleeping eye might've missed.

I started cycling through the tapes listening for noises and watching for movement. I had become completely complacent, staring at boring shots of a still building. I had just allowed my mind to wander unto what else I hoped to accomplish throughout the day when I heard a knock. A knock so loud I jumped straight off the chair, I was sitting on, and lost control of my flailing arms casting the camera to the side as I grabbed my now fiercly beating heart. This was it...a ghost was in my precense and it was letting me know by knocking/banging loudly!

As the knocking got more persistent, I tried to hide under the table. Unfortunately, not matter how much I wiggled, pushed and attempted to wedge, my behind was not fitting under there! I started looking for the closest exit. I could see it at the end of the hallway...I started running as fast as my legs would carry me. I got to the door and burst through it like the building was on fire. Fortunately for me, I got out. Unfortunately for the cleaning lady knocking on the door to come in, she got knocked out.

I tried to apologize but my "lo siento mucho(s)" went completely unheard. She was laying on the ground, sound asleep, seeing stars.

I went back into the ghost-less building to get a glass of water. Shaking my head the whole way. I couldn't believe that I thought the cleaning lady knocking was a ghost.

I returned to where she was napping, still bewildered by my stupidity. I gently splashed her face and politely suggessted she wake up. I was just getting nervous that I was going to have to do the vaccuming when she opened her eyes.

"Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento much," I screamed in her face!

"I speak English, dummy." She shouted back as she pushed by me to walk into the building.

I quickly gathered my gear and left. I tried to ask if she was ok. She would only answer with a wave...with one finger...the bad one.

"I hope the ghosts get you, meany," I shouted as I left.

This Story isn't over...I have a few, more promising, places to check out.

To be continued...

How many times does one tip their bike before they learn the proper technique for keeping it upright, on its' own two wheels?

I am not certain what the correct answer to my question is. However, I am certain I am tired of trying to keep a 670lb bike with burning hot mufflers from crashing into the ground and taking me to the pavement with it.

For the most part I am wildly successful but there is the occasional time that I turn the corner too fast or the hot house mom from up the street thinks she knows me so she stops in the middle of an intersection to wave. My inexperience with riding forces me to perform an awkward swerve and dip manuever and tip the bike over on its unexpecting side. In the incident of the Hot Mom wave, I was able to pull of a Ringley Bros move and save the bike from it's impending doom. But, my poor brand new leather boot weren't so lucky :'( - (Yeah, I use emoticons. Please don't judge. How else am i supposed to express my emotions?)

Hot Neighbor Mom saw what happened so she stopped to apologize. I didn't want to hear her apology, rather, I just wanted to look at her. Yeah. She was pretty hot. I flipped up the visor on my helmet to flash her a smile and a wink. BAD IDEA. The pads on the side of my helmet squish my cheeks SO bad, I look like the Mayor of Munchkin Land...and not in a good way.

Hot Neighbor Mom thanked me for flashing my deformed smile by rolling up her window and accelerating from the scene...quickly. I think she likes me. Its a good thing I watched her all the way to her drive way. What? Don't worry its not like I followed her...well...with anything more than my eyes. I had to. How else would I know where to find her again? I mean, like, if I needed to borrow a cup of flour or an egg or glass of milk or...a kiss.

I decided, I dropped my bike for the last time. The paint is too pretty (and, I mean that in the most manly, Harley riding way) to be dented, dinged, scuffed or etc. I needed to find a riding coach and I needed to do it now.

I googled "riding coach" (I suggest you don't try the same, or at least adjust your 'search settings' before typing in such a phrase.) Google exposed me to a few links that I could have gone my whole life without seeing and never felt like I missed anything.

About five search results down from the top, right underneath a few pay-per-view sites and a "How to be a successful Jockey" link, I found what I was looking for: Motorcycle Safety Class.

I clicked the link, found the schedule and reserved my seat in the class. The explanation of the class said: "teach the novice rider proper techniques for successful riding. Most novice riders are able to successfully complete the course."

Well, I'm kind of novice. I know how to start it, I can sort of keep it going in a straight line and I definitely know how to use the accelerator...I'm kind of short on braking skills and lack proper shifting technique - the toe of my boots are too big and they don't fit comfortably under the shift lever...but, they look so darn good with my jeans, I have to wear them.

I look like more than a novice rider as I have Harley gear from head to toe (I was SUCH a sucker for the attractive sales woman - nice Harley Casper, way to know how to sell a $500 jacket!) Way to convince me that I needed a Harley headband to go under my Harley bandana to wear under my Harley helmet. And, way to make me think that I needed the Harley baseball cap to put on after I took my helmet off or the knit cap for when it is kind of cold (that proves how much of a sucker I am...I DON'T leave the house when it is cold, let alone ride my bike!!!) The attractive sales woman knew she had a sucker when she convinced me I needed a Harley chain for my wallet (I don't carry a wallet), a Harley Decal for my car (I don't believe in stickers on cars), a Harley back pack, and a back-up pair of Harley gloves just in case my first pair rips. Sucker.

I decide that it probably wouldn't be the best idea to show up to class adorned head to toe in faux confidence gear. So, I leave all of my Harley gear home and just throw on a t-shirt and jeans. I wake up SO late, that I don't even have time to comb my hear or brush my teeth. I just throw on the jeans that I had been wearing while I ride and grabbed a t-shirt from the closet. Why didn't I look down? Why don't I ever pay attention? I get to class and notice that I have a Cuba size stain down the front of my shirt courtesy the Hot Pocket Lean Pocket I ate for dinner last night (FYI - there is nothing Lean about those pockets! Liars.)

I notice that I have a jacket in the back of my car, I put it on and walk into class. Of course, it is the hottest October weekend in history 80 degrees, and here I am with a North Face Fleece zipped up to my neck...suddenly I hate how warm and comfy this fleece is.

For a moment, I thought about sporting the stain. I thought about trying to convince everyone that the stain appeared miraculously and if we held it at the proper angle we could probably see the Virgin Mary - but, that was WAY TOO much effort for this time of the morn.

All my woes floated away on the wings of fate when I walked into the room. There, in the third row of the class room, was my soul mate. I found an empty seat beside her and promptly got lost in the thoughts of our blissful life together here after. It was sometime just after I named our second child (Harley Sturgis Steele - if you wondered) when the class instructor interrupted me. Jerk.

"Let's take a few minutes to introduce ourselves to each other," the instructor said, "introduce yourself to the neighbor and they will introduce you to the class."

My Biker Mama turned to me and told me her name and what she did for a living and what she was hoping to get out of the class blah blah blah...all I could say in return is "I love you."

I don't know if it was her full sleeve tattoos on both arms, her infinite number of peircings, her bulging muscles from her tank top, the fact she ate two double whoppers in the three minutes since I met her or those electric eyes that told the story of a woman full of adventure...but, whatever it was, I now realized I was destined for this class. The stars or possibly the Good Lord Himself had set up this meeting. He was the one that continually pushed my bike over.

I bowed my head for a quick prayer, "Hey, JC, what's good? Listen, I just wanted to tell you, in the future, You don't necessarialy need to tip my bike over to teach me a lesson. I sometimes listen real well to just being talked to. Whatever the case, thanks for delivering me to this class, I have found my love just as you intended. Holla at your boy. Much love."

The teacher talked, somewhere lost in his words were some pretty important things, I'm sure. I didn't hear them - I was too busy trying to find an empty spot on her arms for my name to be tattooed. It's a good thing that sometimes I go by "Mike" because there wasn't much room for my full name - "Michael Who is Like the Lord" or "Michael the Great" for short. Don't judge, its kind of God-given. Don't believe me? Look Here.

I think the "I love you" response scared her a tad but, she is a champ, she hung in there. She just looked at my name tag for my name and told everyone what it was.

I spent the next three days chasing her like a hunting dog on the trail of a fox...never, ever responding to the sound of the bugle.

I continually got yelled at for driving the class motorcycle "too fast" through all of the exercises but, I never wanted my soul mate to get too far from me.

I some how successfully completed the class, gathered up my certificate and went to work on my Biker Mama.

"So, congratulations on passing the class. Maybe we can ride together sometime," I said.

"Thanks. Sure, maybe we could do that," she kindly replied.

We walked to our cars as we continued the conversation. "I'm pretty much free all of the time. So, whenever you get some free time, I'll be available."

"Sure, ummmmm, I'll call you. How does that sound?" She asked as she climbed into her car.

"That sounds great, my love" I answered with a seductive tilt of my head, a playful wink and an innocent smile.

I turned and skipped to my car as she peeled out of the parking lot, screetching her tires all the way down the street. I love her! I thought as I closed the door to my car. It must have been the sound of my door closing that snapped me out of my euphoric dream state. "She never took my number," I screamed in a tearful voice in the direction of no one in particular. She just said that to get away from me :,(.

I drove all the way home sad as can be. I opened the garage door to walk in the house and saw my bike sitting there. I smiled and hopped on. I was going to take this thing around town to see if I could find her. As soon as she saw me on this, she would love me!

I started it up and got all excited, feeling the motor shake, hearing it roar and the anticipation of finding Biker Mama were almost too much for me. I got about 100 yards from my driveway, took my first curve and BAM! The bike came out from under me and I lay on the ground, a bloody, road rashed, broken ribbed mess. I should have paid attention in class!

Our lives' journey is full of twists and turns and intersecting roadways. Pay attention to lives lessons, don't be distracted by the way you "think things should be," allow some room for "the way things are."

Dear Bloomies John ...well, I am not quite sure how to start this letter. It certainly is a letter to Bloomingdales and it certainly/unfortunately is a "Dear John" letter...of sorts. I am just confused becuase I have never had to scribe a break up letter prior to this occasion. I have always been the broken, never the breaker. I might be, for the first time in my life, a bit lost for words.

I know it needs to be done. I mean, my new love is almost demanding it. The last thing she wants to do is share my heart. She knows that as much as I love myself, I must only have a little bit of love left to spread around - half of a little bit is a littler bit and she has 0 desire to share the littler bit. - I thought it was pretty bold of her to think that I would actually devote "half" of what was left to her but, she was already feeling down so I didn't express those feelings to her.

Prehaps I should show you a picture of my new love and you tell me if it is even worth ending my long term love affair with Bloomingdales.

Here she is:


Well, what do you think? Is a relationship with Harley V worth breaking up with Bloomies?

Now before you are too quick to answer that question...let me tell you the depth of which Bloomingdales has been there for me over the years.

I have always been able to count on a daily email from Bloom Blooms (my little pet name for her.) In her email she is always professing her love for me: "Buy More, Save More." I buy $250 worth of apparel and/or accessories, she gives me $50 back. Sure, that isn't quite a 50/50 relationship but what relationship is nowadays?

Bloom Blooms has always been my open arms when ever I have needed a compassionate hug. She has always been my pick me up when I've felt like curling up in a ball on my old tathered throw rug. She has always been my tailor, fitting me with my perfect suit. Her clearance sale has never left my Big Brown Bag empty, she has always filled it with sensational loot. She has always been my shoe horn, squeezing my gargantuan foot into a medium width shoe. She has always been my Elmers when it felt like my world was coming unglued. She has never let me down, always stood right beside me. Never uttered a curse, never, with me, has she been angry. It will be hard to say good bye, for all the reasons I have sited here but, my new love is jealous and has made her decision clear. In order to foster a relationship with Harley V, I must bid adieu to my bloom.

Here goes:

Dear, Bloom Blooms -

It is with a tremendously heavy heart that I scribe this letter to you. I sit poised, pen in hand, tissue box in reach, and Kenny Rogers, "Islands in the Stream," softly seranading in the background.

Given this picture I have painted for you, I am sure you probably know what's coming next.

It's not you, It's me. Well, actually, it is Harley V. It really hurts me to say this but we must go our seperate ways.

I know this must come as a total shock to you, it has to. We were so close, our heart nearly beat as one. Ever since you slipped that first pair of Lucky Jeans on my unsure butt. It was love at first twirl in the mirror.

You opened my eyes to so many new experiences, and more importantly, so many brands of designer denim. You Rock'd my Republic by showing me what True Religion is, while demonstrating how it's for All Man Kind and every Citizen of Humanity. I thank you for that. I may have never known, if not for you. Thank you.

This shouldn't be a sad time. Let's use it as a time to reflect on our past, all the happy times.

Your love for me (and vice versa) has laid the important, fundamental ground work for every relationship I may hold in the future.

I can not thank you enough. But, I must say good bye.

Shhh! Please, don't say a word. There is nothing you can say to help, I am already gone.

Love Always,

Michael D. Steele


Break ups are tough. When we give a piece of ourselves to someone else, we want/expect the same in return. When that doesn't happen, the subsequent reality is difficult to digest.

We have talked a lot about "love" in previous posts. I have divulged my near complete reluctance to believe in "love" or, at least, in the terms of a "forever love." However, I heard this quote yesterday, and if I subscribe to this school of thought, than I love you all...forever!

"Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained." - CS Lewis

I was pedaling my seemingly happy behind down the street, thinking I was getting all kinds of magnificent exercise. I could feel the burn in my glutes, my inner thighs and my forehead - I was confused about that one, too. I didn't know there were muscles in the forehead. I was thinking I had probably discovered a new muscle group when I realized that it was just the sun beating down on me and penetrating the vents of my helmet - probably a good thing because I am not sure there are too many exercises that would help define your forehead. If there are, I am sure they would be too tough, I would have to let mine be flabby.

I had rode about .07 miles from the house when I was passed by a few bikes...with motors. "Show offs, try pedaling like a real man" I yelled. Of course, I only yelled when they were way too far away to hear my voice. Last thing I need to do is get beat up by men in pony tails and leather.

I had some time to myself as I dismounted my bike to walk it up the hill. Regardless of how many gears there are on my bike there were none low enough to manipulate this endless climb. I knew how Lance felt in the ol' tour de after attempting this feat.

It was during this time of walk in self-talk that I got thinking...a bike with a motor might not be a bad idea.

I returned home, opened the garage door, put on a flannel shirt and began to call on all my memories of American Chopper - I had watched plenty of episodes and subsequent reruns on the Discovery Channel and I was rather confident that with a bend and a twist of some metal and a little bit of gas I could probably get my 10 speed looking and possibly acting like one of the bikes they create.

I started gathering essential bike building tools: hammer, screwdriver, drill, a few wires, blow torch...and some nonessential tools, as well: bologna sandwich, the Doctor of Pepper (Diet, so I don't feel guilty about the cupcake) and some spare shoe laces.

I was going to use my 10 speed as a starting point - a Specialized Hard Rock. This bike was obviously built for someone with a little more leg power and a little less impatience. Nice bike, just heavy as a storm door and it requires actually human-powered-pedaling for it to move. What was I thinking spending real dollars on this?

Next it was obvious I was going to need a motor. I looked around the garage for a spare motor...oddly, there wasn't one. I only found the motors being utilized by the lawn mower and the snow blower. I took a quarter out of my pocket and announced, "heads and the lawn mower gets castrated, tails and the snow blower gets it." Upon the first toss I fumbled the quarter and it landed on tails. I didn't think it was fair to the blower that it had to suffer due to my literal I-can't-believe-it's-not-"butter-fingers" (it's an old trick my g-ma taught me. Put butter on your bologna sandwich and it saves your hips from the impendent doom of the mayonaise.) So, I tossed the quarter again. This time it landed on heads. I pulled out a wrench and lunged for the mower. In some scary exorcism type moment I heard the mower begging for a reprieve. Alright, "best two out of three, and that is the final answer," I shouted in the direction of the only two motored objects in my immediate 10 foot circumfrenece.
 
It came down to the mower losing the battle of the coin-flip. Fair enough. The grass is brown and we are about to go into our 9 months of winter anyway.

I got the motor part way off and discovered that it was connected to all kinds of blades and what looked like it might be a spark plug of some sort. This was far more confusing than the American Chopper guys made it look.

I hate to admit defeat but, I was hungry again and I still wasn't any closer to possesing a motor bike. I knew there were plenty of motorcycle shops in town so I thouht I would take a tour of them to see what I could find.

**Side note - if you walk into a Harley-Davidson shop adorned in designer jeans, a button down, dress shoes, a shiney watch, diamond studs, and a tennis bracelet (regardless of you swearing you bought it from the men's section) you probably are going to have to beg for a sales associates attention - I walked around and sat on every single bike in the entire store, I even bounced on a few...nothing. I had to act like one of the bikes was tipping over and I could barely hold it up before anyone came over to help.

"Excuse me, you, this is exactly why we do not play on the bikes. One of the bikes could get hurt. And, if that happens, you might get hurt," the sales associate said, without even a wink or a smile. I think he was serious.

"Well, sir...I was hoping to look at a few bikes. And, if you aren't too busy," I said while scanning the empty store with my eyes, "perhaps you could answer a few questions for me?"

He just stood there without saying a word. He might of grunted. I couldn't tell if it was a grunt or a toot but a little bit of noise definitely came from his general direction.

"I am a new rider," I barely got those words out of my mouth before he said, "wow, you don't say." Instead of taking the time to decipher his sarcasm I just continued to speak: "I am interested in a bike that wouldn't be overwhelming for a new rider yet enough of of a bike that I won't get left behind/made fun of by the local bike "gangs."

After countless hours of searching the entire store for a bike that I could swing my leg around and reach the ground on both sides...let me tell you something...that didn't leave many bikes for me to chose from. Basically I found two bikes. I could ride the Sportster - oft saved for females (not that there is anything wrong with that) mini-mes, and those looking to upgrade from their scooters. Or, I could ride the V-Rod.

"This here is the V-Rod," says the salesman, "you can beat a Corevette on the open road with this thing."

"SOLD!"

The salesman let out a bit of an embarassing chuckle. "Let me get this right," he said, "you have never ridden a bike and now you want a V-Rod?"

"Do you want to make a commision and is 'ridden' even a real word?" I fired back out of anger/embarassment.

I told him how I wanted the red one with the gold stripes, and it would be nice if he could throw in some saddle bags...I have some stuff to carry around.

I was so excited, I left him to shine the bike and I skipped to the car to go ask the bank what they thouht about my purchase. I had a few extra moments so I stopped home and looked online to start ordering my matching accessories:

Skull chain for my wallet - check.
Skull belt buckle - check.
Skull belt strap - check.
Shoes, jacket, gloves, helmet...no, no, no, no...Nothing matched the color scheme of the bike! Nothing. Now, wait a second. What fun is it to buy a bike if I can't accessorize like Ms. Universe in her evening gown. I called Harley right up!

"Umm...fold back up your shinning cloth! I am no longer interested in that accessory-less bike. I now understand why that bike was sitting all alone on the showroom floor. You will be selling that bike to another customer, not this sucker!" I said all of that with one breath, I only let him speak because I had to stop for a quick inhale before I passed out.

"Are you serious? You don't want the bike because there aren't matching accessories available?"

"Yes, as serious as could possibly be. I am a tad bit disapointed that you tried to sell it to me when I am sure you already knew this. You must have known it."

He hung up on me without another word. Apparently, he doesn't want my business.

I am not sure why I haven't been able to get any salesmen to help me on all my subsequent trips to Harley post the accessory-less disaster. I found a jet black bike that allows me to touch the ground. I want it. Someone better help me soon. I already made the appointment for my tattoo and bought all my accessories. Including chaps.

Sometimes we look to "accessorize" our lives with all kinds of things that we think are going to make us happy. After we are all decorated with everything that could possibly glitter and shine, we often discover that all the accessories did were temporarialy mask our lack of happiness. Strip yourself down to the basics, find your internal happiness. Stop hiding behind "accessories" before too long the shine is gone and you are left with nothing.

An email came through on my "mobile device" - no longer the Blackberry you are used to me raving about. It has been quite some time since I have had a job that requires constant email contact (and, by "quite some time" I mean - 1 year 6 months and 16 days but who's counting?) so I switched from the pratical Blackberry to the fun Android Operated HTC Hero.

Once Blackberry started relying on its name over its features to sell itself, and went into mass production, for commercial purposes, (similar to the Dodge Neon,) I knew it was time to move on.

You probably don't need to know all of my reasons for turning my back on Blackberry...but, quickly, the final nail in the coffin was when they began featuring colors such as pink and purple - and selling rhinestone covers. Big business decisions were formally made on Blackberrys...now, they were more worried about trips to the mall and accessorizing with one's summer dresses. Goodbye, Blackberry.

Anyway, back to the specific email that came to my Hero. It was from one of my favorite senders: eBay!

I think I even made an audible "Oh" noise when I saw the message in my inbox. I couldn't wait to open it when the subject line was: "you are the current highest bidder." Click my heels together, belt out a "Sing for Me" and call myself the Phantom of the eBay.

I opened the email to find out that, much to my delight, I had just won a completely useless...nutcracker. I don't even remember bidding on a nutcracker. I am not talking about one of those cute decorative types that come out at Christmas time with the ballarenias and dancing rats...nope, I am talking about one of those old fashioned ones used for actual nut cracking purposes, nothing decorative about them. Who cracks their own nuts anymore? I don't know about you, but I rely on Mr. Planter and his solo spectacle(d)-self to do the cracking for me. Its so much easier that way. But that is not important or even relevant, at this point. The key is that I won! I will figure out what to do with it later.

I don't always win, in fact, I quite often lose. Just in the course of writing this I have lost auctions for: a used kitchen knife (I don't cook), an "antique" fishing lure (I won't fish), a pair of knitting needles (for self-defense), a polaroid camera (for those quick, can't miss moments - yeah, I know they don't make film anymore, shut up!), a fencing helmet (for my Olympic tryouts), a SCUBA diving knife (it would look so cool strapped to my calf!), a paint sprayer (my intention was to use it for spray tanning), and a dog leash (just in case I ever decide to take Lincoln for a walk.)

I have to become much better at the art of losing...much, much better. My father called right between my losing the polaroid camera and the fencing helmet (which, I thought was a sure bet, btw!) I was so miserable at the fact that it was looking like I wasn't going to be able to take snapshots of myself while training for the Olympics, it was too hard to hide it. The last thing I wanted to do was carry on a holly jolly convo with pops...or anyone (nice use of "Holly Jolly." That reminds me of the Sinatra Album I just won, yeah!)

Dad hung up quick...he hung up with the "I guess I will talk to you later line." Which can be literally translated to mean, "you must be on a losing streak on eBay, call me after you have won."

On an 8 auction losing streak. eBay, these are the times that I hate you.

An 8 loss streak is one of my longest. I am usually quick to break the streak before it gets to 4 or 5...let alone 8.

I am bitterly disapointed in myself and I will probably need some time to myself. I retreat to my room and quickly think of happy thoughts. Like of the time that I went on a 10 auction winning streak. Or, like the time I bought my entire families Christmas presents off of eBay (not yours, mom, I really did buy your pearls while I was in China...maybe.)

These happy thoughts are working. So, I think of some of my best purchases: there was the 12-pack of Nike tube socks that I paid $2.95 for(hate tube socks but love $2.99), the Obama Chia pet, the countless Legos and tinker toys, the original Mr. Potato Head and all the faux designer gear anyone could ask for.

eBay, it is times like these that I love you.

The flood of happy thoughts made me realize it was time to pick myself up by the boot straps, or in my case - loafer buckles(Ferragamo loafers eBay(ed) for $199.99 just about 3 moths ago) and get back on the horse (don't have a horse but do have a saddle I eBay(ed) for $99 - my equestrian friends tell me that was quite a steal.)

I fire up the laptop and start happy-hunting again. I decide to go for some quick easy wins first - I do some "buy it now" purchases for some quick-winning (some think this is cheating, not really winning auctions. I think those some are haters.)

I start some ferocious bidding on a few Buzz Light Year T-shirts, Disney DVDs, motorcycle gloves, camera cases, a wet suit, tornado survival kit and a 3-pack of inner tube repair kits. I am bound and determine to start a new win-streak.

Sometimes if an auction appears like I am going to win it too easy, theres no competition involved. I bid against myself. Sometimes myself gets too ambitious and bids too high, makes me mad at myself. But overall, yeah, I'm a winner.

Well, I'm off to win some auctions. I just found a potato chip with the face of Jesus in it...eBay, its times like this that I LOVE YOU!!

Placing the fate of your internal happiness on the shoulders of an external source will lead to eternal dispointment.

I spent this morning "saluting the sun." It is one of the only yoga poses I can actually perform. I learned it from my "Yoga for Beginners" DVD. So much for "beginner," saluting the sun is the only manuever my less than flexible body can perform off of the entire 60 minute instructional DVD.

My sun salutations gave me a bit of an idea. I thought I would do pops a bit of a favor - one of those "double bonus feature favors." The one where it looks like you were helping out by doing the yard maitenance, but really you just want to get a tan and you are far too anxious to just sit in the yard in a lounge chair so you mow the lawn, weed wack and possibly rake just to add to your deep summer color. Yeah, thats the type of "favor" I am referring to.

I put on my soccer shorts. And, by "soccer shorts" what I really mean is mid-thigh length, loose and flowy. Please, I have never played soccer, I just want to raise my tan-line a little bit (or, a lot a bit.) I wore a black t-shirt because I have always been told dark shirts work to attract the sun (and hornets, but, more about that later.) By "attracts" the sun, I think it actually means: the heat of the sun and not its long-lusted-after-tanning-rays.

I step out into the yard with the sun in its high-noon position. I think briefly...very briefly about applying sunscreen of the spf 30-50 variety but that would require getting my hands greasy...and, I don't do greasy/dirty. I looked up to the sun as if to bargain with it, "Hey, Sun. How about just a light tan today. No burning, ok? You know how I loathe pain or even the threat of it. So, if you could just tell your UVB rays to gently kiss the surface of my skin, I would appreciate it. Thanks."

I grab the weedwacker from the shed and spend the next 37 minutes trying to convince it to start. I read the three-step starting instructions about 15 times thinking I had missed something critically important. There was nothing to be missed in the 10-14 words (depending if you count "A" and "The") instructions. Immediately following my dirt-kicking, teeth clenching, under-breath-bad-word-using, 300th pull of the rip cord the weedwacker started up just like a charm. I hit the trigger a few times just to hear the vrrooom vvrrrooommm - basically letting the weedwacker know who's in charge (unfortunately, I do that far too often with inanimate objects.)

I whack a few weeds in typical weed whacking fashion - aim for the base of the weed and squeeze the trigger. Umm...apparently, I do not possess the weed whacking skill that I thought was innate in all males. I must have hit myself in the face, shins, arms, elbows, and thorax with every single chlorophyll-filled leaf and weed that I attempted to eliminate from my corner of Mother Earth.

Weed whacking - done, weed pulling - complete, it was time to pull out the mower. I skipped to the car port (the home of the mower) checking out my arms and legs to see if I had gotten any darker, yet. The skipping and self-checking-outing prevented me from seeing my impending doom. Although it was hanging right in front of my face!

I grabbed the mower and spun to the exit. There, right in front of my very face, was my doom. A wall of highly active bald-faced hornets building a nest and blocking my only safe exit. (I learned that term from Billy The Exterminator, I have no clue if that is actually what they were. I Just know they were definitely bees and they were carrying a really big dagger for a stinger.)

I evaluated my options and decided that running through the garage wall was probably the only viable choice for avoiding a sting. The last time I ran through a wall (read "attempted to run through") the wall won and I got spanked.

With "running through wall" eliminated from my safe-exit-list, I had to develop a plan B - dive, tuck, cover head and roll was going to have to suffice. On a four count, I covered my head and dove through the door. I heard some buzzes and felt the whisper of some wings but overall, I escaped unscathed...sans the lawn mower. The mower isn't particularly "tuck and roll"-friendly.

I ran into the house to officially declare the state of emergency. No one was around to hear my emergency bulletin. I was in this alone.

I grabbed the can of Raid from under the sink and returned to the car port - I realized I was pretty much taking my life into my own hands but someone needed to help the bees "permanently relocate."

I shook the can and pointed it straight at the Queen and all her Pollinating Prince and Princesses. I think I even tipped my head back and cackled while I hollared, "I'll get you my pretties."

Well...although I erradicated the queen and her pretties...apparently, their couisins were building a nest three feet to the right and their other cousins three more feet to the right of that. And, the pheremones (thanks, Billy the Exterminator for teaching me that) released by the stressed bees caught the attention of all the cousins and they came swarming. I took off from the car port with the sprinting speed of Hussein Bolt - three kamakazi bees dive-bombed me from the east. One catching me in the behind, the other in my arm, and the other just barely missing me as I jumped and did a full pirouette - scraping four to seven layers of my epidermis on the low-hanging car port roof.

My family came home to find me icing down my various stings. I told my father about the nests, he went to look and then came inside and called for backup.

His pal came over armed with a holstered .45 magnum. Ummm...what is that for I said as I pointed to his hip? He didn't say a word. He walked to the carport, I followed close behind him. I heard him say, "bees" just seconds before he drew down on the nest and blew it out of the sky. He quickly took aim at the remaining nest and blasted that one as well.

Firing his gun gave him a burst of energy. He chuckled and claimed he could shoot the "wings off the flying beasts." He got his opportunity really quick as multiple bees began to fly from the fallen nest. He emptied a clip in the general direction of the bees and claimed success - I am not sure he actually hit any of them but, I certainly wasn't going to tell him he didn't as he reloaded his magazine.

"Is it legal to willy-nilly fire a gun?" I asked.

He responded with a crooked smile on his face, "this is Wyoming, let freedom ring!"

Ol' Six Shooter climbed back in his truck and took off with a friendly wave of "call me anytime."

Apparently, willy-nilly target practice in ones backyard isnt't acceptable. I figured this out quickly as a police cruiser pulled up outside.

McGruff the Crime Dog jumped out of his car and came running. He had his hand on his gun and yelled, "hold it right there buck-o." He continued to yell, "your neighbors just reported some shots fired."

"There sure was," I said. "A whole royal family was taken out." I pointed to the car port as I said, "right in there, Deputy Dog."

I stood back because I knew what was buzzing right behind that door. As Andy from Mayberry opened the door he was slapped in the face by a thousand flapping wings and multiple stingers. He ran back to his car screaming into his radio, "I have a code 272."

I don't know what a code "272" is, but, I do know I better get a hold of Billy and find out how to get him to Wyoming.

Do you know someone who likes to "shoot the nest" then sit back and watch others get stung? Well, if/when it happens to you, keep your stinger tucked away, don't get yourself swarmming. The nest will eventually fall on the shooter, let it happen. Don't waste your stinger on someone who will eventually self-implode anyway. 

Pops came in the front door and caught me mid-nap. My mouth agape, snoring so loudly Lincoln was sitting beside me howling in unison to the ungodly tune projecting itself from my nasal passages.

I was trying my hardest to be post-nap by the time my father came home, we had plans to go to the gym and I did not want to be groggy while attempting to return his racquetball serve. I am a severe danger to myself and all those within a 7-10 foot radius around me when I am bright-eyed and bushy tailed let alone when I am groggy and operating on a 5 second delay. Last time I played while I was tired, I hit myself, with the racket, in the back of mi cabeza and right square in my kielbasa - the game had to be delayed for multiple hours while I rolled around on the ground coughing, gagging, and crying in several unidentifiable languages.

At this point it didn't really matter. Pops was home and I needed to get up and get ready. I checked my gym bag for the necessary equipment: shorts - check, t-shirt - check, gym shoes - check, jock - check, socks - check (I really wish someone would have told me that the "grab and sniff" method is not the most effective way to determine if your gym socks are clean. In case you wondered - 6 out of the 7 pairs buried in my bag proved to be less than clean...that explains the smell emanating from the depths of my gym bag.)

On the way to the gym dad asked me if I wanted to take an art class with him. He said it was a one day oil painting class and the instructors told him they promised instant success in painting. I agreed to tag along. I mean say I do achieve "instant success," that would be alright with me. I would not mind being an artist. Being an "artist" is like giving someone free reign to be as eccentric as they want to be and 0 judgement is ever passed on them.

Typical conversation between two people when referencing an artist:

"Look, that guy hasn't showered in 7 months."

"Yeah...but, he's an artist."

"Oh, that makes sense." - nodds of approval all around and every moves on.

I already don't shower, so it would be nice to have an excuse.

Racquetball was uneventful. After the games dad went to the treadmill to finish his workout, I went to the 3rd stall from the wall - something about running around a little glass room makes me digest my food embarassingly fast.

On the way home I asked my father if he knew what the subject matter of the painting was? He didn't have a clue, which put my mind into a tailspin. How could he not know? I want to be an artist! But, I certainly can't be the next Rembrandt just painting a lifeless plant. What if we have to paint kittens at play - that won't make me the next Monet. An angel sans a halo will never make me Frida Kahlo. A mountain capped with bright white snow certainly cannot make me Vincent van Gogh. Then it hit me:

I thought back to all of the sit-coms and movies that I had watched throughout the course of my life, that included an art class...the subject matter was always the same: The art class commences and in walks a model adorned in nothing more than a strategically placed towel. The towel drops and so do all the jaws around the room. Everyone acts embarassed and are unable to draw/paint the nudey. That wouldn't happen to me, I was going to prepare myself so no nudey in a towel could surprise me or catch me off guard. 

I pulled down the vanity mirror in my fathers truck so I could practice my "jaw drop." I had to act surprised just like they did on tv. My last practice round before we pulled into the driveway was the most dramatic. I really wanted it to be convincing. I pulled my bottom jaw down with such force I am pretty sure I dislocated my mandible. Mandible sprain or not, I had my jaw drop down and I couldn't wait for art class.

I didn't tell my dad that I had figured out the subject matter. I wanted to see the shock on his face when Nudey McNuderson entered the room in all his/her glory.

The day of the class arrived and I insisted that we get there early. I wanted a good seat, right near the front of the room. You know, for proper shadowing reasons.

We get to class and I take a scan of the room. There is no hot young blonde in a towel anywhere. The room is full of retirees sipping coffee from styrofoam cups, talking about their sore backs and inability to sleep. I am tugging at my father's arm, telling him we must have walked into the wrong class. I had no clue that I was accompanying my father to a senior mixer. I thought I was going to be painting live art with oils not still life with a bunch of fruits.

One more eye-lap around the room just to make sure I hadn't missed a potential model - I spotted a lady cowering in the far corner...she was looking a bit coy and only glancing at people through the corner of her eye. I thought she might be the model...and we were certainly going to learn serious shadowing techniques if she was the model. She had deep frown lines and crow's feet that could completely hide a quarter. I am not trying to be mean...I am sure she earned every single one of her wrinkles. And, she should be proud of them...even it means it will be difficult for me to paint.

Just when I was convinced that Madam Shar Pei would be disrobing, putting herslef on display (in an artistic way, of course) for us to paint her bits and cookies, I noticed another lady who looked like she may be acting a bit too anxious. Listen, painting her was not going to be any easier. Poor thing. She had more freckles than the red-headed orphan Annie herself. My painting was going to appear as if it had been printed straight off an archaic dot matrix printer.

I was about to pick out a chair near the back of the room when the instructor said, "no, sir. You sit over here." As she pointed to a chair near the front of the room.

I looked at my father and the smirk on his face sent my mind racing on the autobahn. Had I been tricked? Was I the subject matter of today's class? But, I can't disrobe in front of everyone. I am so embarassed. My mind quickly fed me reason after reason as to why I couldn't allow myself to get naked...even in the name of art: I am only a few weeks into my new workout program - my arms may look alright but my pecs are still a bit saggy, my abs are less a 6-pack and more a case or two. It's cold in here and it has been years since I have groomed. I am in trouble.

The instructor touched my shoulder and spun me around towards the class. "This is Michael," she says as she rubs my shoulder in a very comforting way. "This is his first class, everyone welcome Michael to the class."

I am sure people were saying hello but I didn't hear anyone. The room was spinning. I figured I probably shouldn't delay the inevitable any longer. I started unbuttoning my shirt as I casually waved to Shar Pei and Connect the Dots. I got my shirt completely unbuttoned and had removed my shoes and belt when the instructor whispered in my ear..."ummm, is everything ok?"

"Yes," I answered. "I am not necessarialy happy about this but, I do not want to disappoint those that paid for the class."

The puzzled look on the instructor's face pretty much should have let me know that I should have bent over and picked my pants up off the floor. But, I missed her cues as I stepped out of my pants completely exposing my black and lime green jockeys.

"Umm, are you sure you are ok?"

"If I am being honest, I am pretty uncomfortable. I don't think I am ready to be naked in front of the class, yet," I answered in the strongest voice I could muster. But, my nerves were challenging the very strength of my vocal cords as my voice cracked and faded in and out. I some how choked back the tears as I dropped my shirt off my shoulders.

I grabbed the waistband of my barely-there-briefs when the instructor grabbed my hand and whispered to me..."ummm, if you don't mind could you please put your clothes back on? I would like to begin class now and I think you may be a bit of a distraction."

I was definitely puzzled now but I obliged. I was tucking in my shirt when I looked up and saw her unveil the subject matter: a painting of trees, some water, and a bright red canoe.

The shade of red on my face certainly challenged the bright red of the canoe. How could I be so stupid?

After she demonstrated the first few strokes she asked me to follow her into the hall.

"I understand some artists like to be comfortable when they paint," she said, "but, for this class, we should probably understand that we are in public. You should probably keep your 'gifts from Eden' hidden."

I was SO embarassed I just shook my head 'yes.' I put my head down and turned to walk back to the class. As I was walking away, I felt a slap on my behind. I turned around to see the instructor biting her bottom lip and winking in my direction.

The 8 hour class could not end fast enough. I was so embarassed. All and all my painting turned out ok. I am happy with it. I left the class with a framed canvas, three phone numbers, an offer for a private class and a threat of an arrest warrant.

I have learned that in this situation and in most situations, I should probably take the time to gather all of the facts before I generate my own conclusions. Assuming I knew the conclusion before I gathered all of the facts left me vulnerable and well...exposed.