Vacation

I love vacation, but there's this weird 'tweener funk I always wind up in when I have time off without a plan for how to spend it. It's been nice to do a little bit of nothing for a couple of days; however, I am now on the threshold of pure laziness. Good news: I am half-dressed today. That's as good as vacation evolution in my book--I'm moving up in the world!

Walking Jukebox

So, I already know that my human-jukebox effect goes into overdrive in certain scenarios. Namely the following:

1) Around my immediate family, especially my brother.
2) When I haven't been around people socially for an extended period of time.
3) Any setting where I am excessively tired--usually accompanied by slap-happy mode.

Here's the fun part. All three of these elements have been relatively constant over the holiday weekend, so there may be several folks out there that would be willing to physically clock me upside the head if I break into one more spontaneous rendition of, oh let's say for demonstration's sake, Handel's "All We Like Sheep."

On a fun note, the most recent song to be stuck like a broken record in my head is from Zooey Deschanel's new album, and it's simple and catchy, and I love it like a whiny puppy...in the rain...that cries like a tortured child at the most inhumane hours of the night when it's supposedly too cold for beast outside.

Okay, now I'm just ranting about the neighbors. Seriously, if you ever want to hear the most pathetic, heart-wrenching sound this side of the samurai screams in an Akira Kurosawa film, come over at 2 o'clock in the morning and listen to our next door neighbor's dog. It sounds like it needs rescuing, but there's clearly no one awake enough to be hurting the little guy.

Side note finished, here are the all-too perfect lyrics to my new jam:

Why do you let me stay here all by myself
Why don't you come and play here
I'm just sitting on the shelf

Why don't you sit right down and stay a while
We like the same things and I like your style
It's not a secret, why do you keep it
I'm just sitting on the shelf

I got to get your presence
Let's make it known
I think you're just so pleasant
I would like you for my own

Why don't you sit right down and make me smile
You make me feel like I am just a child
Why do you end it, just give me credit
I'm just sitting on the shelf

(followed by a lot of fabulous vocal doot doot doots)

http://www.sheandhim.com/sheandhim.php

When did I turn into my father?

My dad dropped off a bowl of his infamous peanut brittle on my desk last night with a cute little card that says the following:

DANGER!
*No Artificial Sweeteners
*Unhealthy for those on Diets
*Low Fat, High Sugar Content
*Not Recommended for Diabetics
*Contains Peanuts
*Non Nutritive Formula (low protein, no roughage)
Consumption Hazard – May Cause Addiction

This just gives me the warm fuzzies because he is SO incredibly proud of this peanut brittle. Apparently over the years people have complimented him enough on the recipe that he now hands out recipe cards with everything you need to know about his special treats except for what he calls the “secret ingredient,” aka the brand of butter that “makes the flavor.”

I, of course, play along with his little game by spreading the gospel of his peanut brittle to friends near and far, passing taste-testers around the office, and offering to make some for neighbors but always report back that his secret is safe with me.

This is only one of the infinite number of quirky things my dad and I do together. We both are prone to wipe anything on our hands off on our clothes—preferably the pant leg region. Both of us go into what my mom has deemed “bulldozer mode” when we really need to get something done. Our eyes get wide enough that you can see the whites all the way around the irises, and we insist that we can “handle it” ourselves. AND We both indulge in occasional public hand-holding that sometimes makes strangers think he’s a cradle robber—I’m not sure he’s aware of this last one.

What I’ve discovered in the last couple of weeks is that, whether I like it or not, I have also inherited my dad’s penchant for worrying obsessively. I never worry about the important things like making enough money to pay the bills or whether friends are upset at me. Rather, I spend my time worrying about things that are out of my control and usually hold the potentiality of approximately .0019% of actually happening. This particular habit intensifies when my dad isn’t around to do it for me.

Exhibit A: Dad goes out of town. Mom’s health starts acting up. I proceed to worry that she’ll wind up in a hospital in Pomona and no one from her work will call me because I don’t live at home anymore. Then, my brain follows this through to the logical conclusion that they would call my brother, he would get woozy at the hospital, and the both of them would be in beds alongside each other before I knew what hit me.

Exhibit B: Friend flies home for Christmas and promises to call me upon landing. After a day and a half I have convinced myself that they are probably dead and the likelihood of me getting the news within the month is slim to nil because I am nowhere close to next-of-kin and no one with them knows I exist.

Isn’t it fun how holidays bring family together?

"The shortest distance between two points is under construction." -Noelie Altito

I swear. Sometimes Doug Savage reads my mind.

Today I am driving Gordy the Goshen to Disneyland for the youth group's skip day where I will serve as group photographer and Main St. studier of Koine Greek. I've never studied at Disneyland before. We'll see how long it takes before I'm distracted by the happiest-christmas-on-earth-ness.