The Beauty of Slop-Pots

Holidays sure are funny. Not really funny "ha ha (although they can be that as well)," but it's a time of sharing and gathering with family and loved ones and you never know where the conversation will lead.

Oh, sure, I can bring up how corrupt Donny Trump is, but when your family is all on the same team, where's the fun in that?

So, I suppose it was inevitable that our holiday chatter eventually wound its way around to outhouses.

"Man, it sure is cold out," I said with an extraordinarily lousy segue. "I would've hated to have to go out to an outhouse and perform my duties. I mean, freezing cold and butt splinters."

Forks were dropped all around the table, but interest rose.

"I would've hated it, too," said my mother-in-law. 

"And why in the world did they have half-moons carved into the doors?" I asked. "Is it to give ventilation? Maybe a spot of moonlight to guide your through your bidness?"

Like magic, electronic gadgets were whipped out. My wife being the fastest supplied the answer. "Yes, the moon was for ventilation and moonlight, but also it was widely acknowledged as a sort of sight language for those who couldn't read. The crescent moon represented a derriere."

While I couldn't quite see how a crescent moon resembled a butt, I said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh," anyway, not wanting to be the dumbest guy at the table.

"Well, another option for certain families was a 'slop-pot,'" offered my mother-in-law.

"Oh? Tell me more," I said as I shoveled a forkful of casserole into my mouth.

"They were ceramic jars with lids for people who didn't want to go out into the cold."

"Huh."

"And sometimes they'd be beautifully decorated."

Suddenly, a whole new world of wondrousness opened up to me. I began to see slop-pots everywhere, planning my next bodily function. Besides there were seven of us and one bathroom.

"So that's what that is in our bedroom," I shouted in a very Sherlockian manner.

"No...that's a spittoon. You'd have to have very good aim," said my mother-in-law.

"And in the hallway...it's a bigger slop-pot!"

"Don't you dare use that, Stuart. That's a butter churner."

See what I mean? Slop-pots everywhere. And before that fateful day, I'd never even heard of them!

Soon, the dinner conversation drifted to potty chairs. "For the wealthier women at high society tea parties, it was considered polite to excuse yourself and use a potty chair," explained my mother-in-law.

"Wait...what?"

"It was usually a wooden chair that had a hole cut out in it with a ceramic bowl beneath to catch stuff. Some of the bowls were beautiful."

"You mean...these hoity-toity ladies were soooooo caught up in their tea parties, they just dropped trou right in the middle of the she-bang and let it drop because they didn't want to miss anything? And no one cared?"

"Well...the chairs were in dark corners of the room and--"

"Gross!"

See what I mean? A whole new world of essential information. Soon, I had another "A-HA" moment.

"Wait a minute..." I said. "My mom had one of those potty chairs in her basement. When my brother and I moved her into an apartment, we secretly threw it away because she didn't want to throw away anything."

Jaws dropped, but forks still remained high.

"You didn't..." gasped my wife. "You threw out... It was a very valuable antique!"

While I mourned my perhaps hasty decision to toss it out, the notion of a "potty chair" going up at an expensive antique auction absolutely fills me with delight. Beauty surrounds us!

The more you know...

Speaking of essential information, while researching the first book in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series, Ms. Google led me down some dark alleys regarding male strippers, places that I'd care not to revisit ever again. So please help my hard-earned research pay off and check out one of the books, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies. Only YOU can help to erase the horrific imagery and videos that's scarred me for life!

 

Stooping to a New Low

Recently, I knew the neighbors across the street were going to be away for a couple of days, so I snatched a newly delivered box from their stoop. (Not that they asked me to, mind you...it's just during the holidays Amazon is the gift that keeps on giving, even when you haven't paid for anything! Of course, I'm kidding. Or...AM I?)

So, I said to my wife, "Wife," I said, "I just grabbed a package from the neighbors' stoop."

She stared at me. Of all the responses I expected, I had somehow overlooked amused silence.

Finally--FINALLY!--at long last, she says, "That's twice now you've used 'stoop' today. Nobody says that anymore. It makes you sound like a redneck."

I can tolerate a lot, but nobody gets away with calling me a redneck! "Harumph," I snorted. "Ain't nothin' rednecky about saying stoop. What would you call it? 'A landing deck?'"

"It's a porch. Call it a porch. Civilized people call it a porch."

I took a peek out the window at the neighbors' so-called "porch." "That is not a porch! A porch constitutes s a gathering place where you can hang out with a friend, sit in a rocking chair, drink hard lemonades, and yell at the neighbors' kids. THAT is nothing but a one step up, 6 by 6 foot hunk of cement. Hence, it's a stoop!"

Things got pretty heated in the great stoop versus porch debate, so I walked away, mumbling, "Sometimes a stoop is just a stoop."

But it got me thinking even though I forgot about it for a couple of days soon after. Until my wife sent me an article.

Helpfully entitled "The Difference Between a Stoop and a Porch," I felt my heart slowly dropping into my stomach for I was certain the article in question would certify my wife as the winner of this bout (and she usually is). Otherwise why would she send me incriminating evidence she was wrong?

(Then I thought, "Huh. You mean...there're other people in the world where this fine distinction is debated over?")

With great trepidation, I began to read.

A porch is typically a roofed area that projects from the exterior wall of a house or other building, while a stoop refers to the steps leading up to an entryway.

Wait...what? Whazzat??? Could I be misreading things??? Did I finally--FINALLY, FOREVER FINALLY--win a battle of the words with my all-knowing wife?

HUZZAH!  Shout! Raise the roof (but not so much as to disturb what's very oh-so-obviously a PORCH)! Smack the cat and put the kids out! I was right!!!

But I'm a humble winner. When my wife got home, I kept my glory down to a dull minimum (Fireworks! Attempted cartwheels that ended up with me in traction! "In your FACE!!! BWA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA!" Banging of pots and pans! Phone calls to my friends applying bragging rights! "STOOP! There it issss...STOOP, there it isssss..." Okay, okay, maybe it was overkill. But you gotta understand something...I'm not used to being right! HA HA HAAAAAAAAAA!)

I think I'll go sit on my porch and bask in my victory (while opening up my new gift from the neighbors.).

Speaking of men behaving badly, meet Shawn and his mentor/bad penny buddy, Redmond. Stuck in corporate hell, their days are spent in walking, mind-numbing comas, while their nights are spent in bars, trying to forget their days. But if you think that's bad, wait until a werewolf starts ripping Shawn's coworkers to shreds. Could the werewolf be one of Shawn's coworkers? Maybe someone close to him? Or...could it be Shawn himself? Find out in Corporate Wolf, available right here!

 

The Name Game

What's in a name? Quite a lot as I discovered this past Thanksgiving.

Ever since the holiday, when my relatives dropped some great names and stories, I've been thinking about it quite a bit.

Let's take college sports, for instance. My nephew told me that the name of the University of Oklahoma's quarterback is..."General Booty." Yep, not a typo, not a bad dream, not a military title, but more than probably parents with a sense of humor. Or they hated their son.

I mean, I can hear the game announcements already: "Looks like we've got General Booty on the field!" or "Would you look at that General Booty!" or "The ref just made a Booty call!"

Poor guy. No wonder he had to excel at sports. (Although I suppose it's better than being named "Specific Booty.")

Then here in my stomping grounds of Kansas, ripped straight from the basketball team of my alma mater, KU, comes...Gradey Dick! Now on the surface, the Jayhawk guard's name isn't that unusual. But it's become kinda a Big Deal with people on the intronets, trying to one-up each other with naughty posts on Gradey's name. It's even become part of the lexicon of the game announcers (whether they realize it or not). Things I've read or heard include: "Dick is driving it hard on the floor!' and "What we need right now is some Dick!" and "Looks like Dick is pummeling the other team!"

(But don't feel too bad for Mr. Dick. My niece told me some less than pleasant things about the guy. Clearly trying to live up to his name-sake, I suppose.)

While we leave the world of sports behind, let's turn to real-life, shall we? Over the holiday, there'd been some reminiscing about stories from many years ago in Oklahoma. I'm thinking specifically of "Egghead Dinger."

"Egghead Dinger?" I said. "Why was he called 'Egghead'? Or was that his real name?"

"Well," said the anonymous storyteller, "his head looked like an egg."

While I was busy giggling over the poor Dinger, I tried to imagine just how egg-like his head was.

Quickly, my relative added, "But he was a good-looking guy!"

Now, I really was curious to see a handsome egghead.

Perhaps feeling guilty about disparaging Egghead's head, my relative continued trying to make Eggy seem palatable. "He was so good-looking, he married Fannie Mae, who--"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! 'Fannie Mae?'"

"Yes. Fannie was the school teacher who all the guys--and the kids--were gaga over. She rented an apartment with another local teacher that overlooked the school-yard. All the kids gathered around the yard at a certain time because it became wide-spread that Fannie liked to dress with her curtains open."

Yow! Now I REALLY wanted to see a pic of Egghead and Fannie, two of the best names ever! If I wrote them into a book, all credibility would be lost. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

So I started thinking about horrible names. And why the parents of these horribly named offspring felt the need to punish them for all their lives.

I uncovered Phat Ho, Dick Swett, Mr. Perv (a grade school teacher), Chris P. Bacon (wouldn't you think he'd drop the middle initial by now?), Mike Litoris, Moe Lester, Major Dickie Head (And how is that better than "Richard?"), Dr. Wett Fartz, F. You, and so many more.

You can't tell me these poor long-suffering people were unaware of their names, even with a language translation barrier. There are plenty of bilingual bullies out there. And what kind of sadistic animals are their parents? I suppose some parents find it cute. Then again, most of my cited examples involve (intentional or unintentional) potty humor.

In my ever-diligent research (Hello, Ms. Google!), I found a recent British study of 1,772 parents, with the majority of them claiming they gave their spawn weird names to help them stand out on social media! Dayum! Since when do parents want their kids to be noticed on Tik-Tok, where the likes of "Mr. Perv" goes by the handle of "Sunshiny Unicorn" or whatever? Why, I remember the day when parents wished for their kids to have better clothes, better schooling, and an all-round better life. 

Even more startling is 94% of the respondents claim that made-up nonsense names are "in" for kids!

Huh. So if I were to have another child, I think I'd name it "Poo-Poo Platter." Because I would want my child to have nothing but the best and most visible internet presence. Ever.

While we're on the topic of bad names, my protagonist (of three novels, so far!), chooses to go by "Tex," rather than  his birth name of "Richard." Because bullies early on let him know that "Dick" was short for Richard. But you can't explain bullies' behavior. Never mind all that. Tex has just discovered he's a witch. And there's a serial killer targeting his friends at school. And a lotta other stuff. Check out Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series.

The Return of the Human Lab Rat!

It's been some time since I filled you guys in on my amazingly unfathomable necrotic, skin-eating disease (which has thus far stumped my regular doctor, a dermatologist, several nurse practitioners, a legion of allergists, and my UPS guy {Hey, he had "Resting Therapy Face."}). And the ensuing human lab rat "study" that my allergist talked me into enrolling in for an experimental drug. (For all the horrific details, refer back to my older post. I'll wait right here until you're done reading.)

So, between being turned into a human pin cushion by sadistic nurse Carla (I kinda think she might have been blind whenever she tried to find my veins on a weekly basis), and then having two--count 'em, two!--mystery drug infusions, I still have my incomprehensible series of rashes. Oh sure, after the first infusion, I was miraculously healed up! Hallelujah! For about three weeks, then the itchiness and bumps came back with a vengeance. I suffered until the next infusion, hoping for the best. Again, it healed my skin, but this time for only a week.

Despondent, I asked the fresh-faced, fast-talking, hipster-slang-slinging, straight outta diapers research kid, Darren, what happens next.

Darren shrugs and says, "That's it. Now they want you to lay off any kind of drug that might help you for eight weeks."

"Eight weeks?!!? But...but...lookee!" I pulled my sleeve up to show him a gruesome run on my arm. "How am I gonna hold out for eight weeks?"

Another shrug, this time accompanied by a sly grin. "I know, right? It's kinda crazy."

Well, "crazy" doesn't supply relief. Don't get me wrong, the allergists never did cure my ailment, but at best, they were able to mask the symptoms with a succession of drugs (at least for a little while) by applying kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers' "throw-it-all-against-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks" methodology. Highly scientific. But, hey, I was desperate for relief. Even though a constant diet of Prednisone had turned me into the Michelin Tire Man.

I went home and suffered for another couple of weeks until I'd finally had enough and pulled the plug. I felt guilty, like a namby-pamby quitter, but to me it was unfathomable to sit and suffer for another six weeks for no particular reason. On the bright side, I wouldn't have Nurse Carla digging into my arm every week, spelunking for gold or whatever. Bonus!

So, I launched into my apology tour. Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers was compassionate and kind (just like his late TV namesake), of course. But then he hit me with some insanely bad news.

"Unfortunately, your last blood test showed some truly weird anomalies in your blood. The drug development company would still like to monitor your blood work."

"Wait.. What?... WHAT?"

"Your blood work showed something really strange..." While he went on to explain it in boring scientific bla-bla-bla that I wouldn't understand anyway, images of a creepy, maniacally laughing, giant Nurse Carla coming at me with a bazooka sized hypodermic with a needle the size of a bayonet burned into my brain. 

"...and while I don't *think* (inserted finger quotes) you're dying, everyone thinks it'd be best if we continue to draw your blood for the next couple of months and--"

"Dying? Wait...what? What's wrong with my blood??? TELL ME DOC!"

"It's just a weird anomaly that we've never seen before, but there's no need to panic. They just want to make sure--"

"YOU'VE NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE??? WHAT HAVE I BECOME?"

"There, there..." I barely felt his lame pat of condolences on my back. "Nothing to worry about, it's just--"

"AND IS CARLA STILL GONNA DIG INTO MY VEINS???"

"Hang on just a second." Suddenly, kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers zips out of the room and zips back in with a very inquisitive young woman. She introduces herself as the new nurse practitioner and starts questioning me about...well, everything.

Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers finally says, "Well, she just wanted to see you. At first, based on your blood work, she thought I'd made you up. That there was no way you could be alive."

"Wait...I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE???"

"There's nothing to worry about. We just--"

"BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID! ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS QUIT THIS STUPID STUDY AND SUDDENLY I'M DYING!!! I'M NOT EXACTLY INSTILLED WITH CONFIDENCE NOW!!! I JUST--"

"There, there, there. Nothing to worry about. We just bla bla bla..."

This went on for a while. And I STILL didn't get what was up with my blood. However, after two further months of Nurse Carla jackhammering at my veins, the "anomaly had cleared up."

Now calmed and relieved, I had one more stop to make on my apology tour, this time to Darren, research whiz kid.

Grinning oddly, Darren mumbled something nearly indecipherable. Either that, or I pretended not to hear what he said, the horrors just too much to process.

"What? I'm sorry, I didn't get that."

"I can get you into another study," he repeated, still grinning like he knew a very special, fun Big Boy secret.

"Great GOOGLY-MOOGLY! You gotta be kidding me! Why in the WORLD would I ever consent to doing another one of these??? The last drug turned me into some kinda weird-blooded, 50's sci-fi monster and didn't even work! Then having Carla use me as a voodoo doll every week is just--"

"We'll pay you."

"Okay."

(Stay tuned for the further adventures of "Stuart, World's Worst Human Lab Rat!")

While we're chatting about colossally stupid decisions, my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, is full of people making them. There's the cranky old woman who decides to battle three demonic children on Halloween. Hey, there's the young woman who decides to go underground--deep, deep, dark underground--in search of her missing brother. How about the man who believes his wife is cheating on him, so decides she must die? The list goes on and on. If nothing else, my protagonists should make you feel pretty good about even your worst life decisions! (If that's not a Must-Read plug, I don't know what is!) Check it out here.

 

The End of the World is Here (for only $99)!

Okay, the last thing anyone wants to read is more of my railing against our so-called "politics" in America. Everyone's sick of it, my wife's sick of it, you guys are sick of it, and I'm beyond sick of it. But this...THIS...transcends even the dumbest politics going on right now. It transcends the stupidest, dumbest, most idiotic, childish scenario I could even begin to imagine (and that's saying a lot).

Congrats, Donny, you corrupt orange con man, you! You've broken me! (But thanks for the laughs; I haven't yet quit giggling.)

Trump, up to his Barnum and Bailey blusteryessness, teased on his ludicrous (and failing!) app about a "Major Announcement" within the next couple days. Everywhere in MAGA-land (a wonderful, magical, place where people's votes don't matter and nothing does except for the Great Pumpkin, benevolent and beloved dictator of all who poops unicorns and puppies), the few remaining loyal were on the edge of their seats, awaiting the mega-MAGA-Major Announcement, sure to right all that's wrong in America. Would it be an announcement of future policy, promising change and revision and locking away Democrats? Would he proclaim Marjorie Taylor Greene or Kari Lake (two fine, fine politicians) as his running mate? Maybe he would nominate (Kan)Ye as ambassador to Israel?

Then...the Major Announcement happened! Trump's releasing a set of his collectible trading card NFTs at a mere $99 bucks a pop! Score! "Perfect for Christmas" as the Orange one proclaimed during his Major Announcement!

I nearly tinkled a bit in my pants.

This...THIS...coming from a former president (I refuse to believe people would put this clown in office again).  What a rook. It's a rook, I tell ya. Oh, sure, the faithful MAGA folks will be lining up to buy these "collectible" cards, shoveling yet more cash into the Don's pockets. And what do they get for it? Not even a physical card they can hold and show off and shellac with plastic and sweat and love and hang on the Christmas tree. Nope. They get a hundred dollar JPEG.

Maybe Donny's biggest grift yet. I'd be a little bit impressed with the sheer audacity of it all, if I didn't think the guy sucked so hard.

Don said these cards would surely sell out...FAST! Hm. You don't suppose there's a limited run on these, do you? Gosh-a-roonie, I'd better get in line fast for these limited, hundred buck digital images, because once they're gone, they're gone FOREVER. There'd be no way they could ever make more of these once-in-a-lifetime collector's items!

It just gets better and better... Donny claims these cards showcase his life and history. I mean, who among us didn't thrill when he came down from Krypton, spraying laser vision all over the libs? Or when he was a cowpoke on the Yellowstone ranch? Who could forget when he landed on Mars and tossed out paper towels to the aliens? Just like real life. Only better!

Okay, before I lied. A hundred bucks doesn't just get you a digital image (collect and trade 'em all!). It also enters you into the Grand Sweepstakes where you could have dinner with the Mandarin Candidate! Wow! Sign me up! (Note: the fine print says you have to pay for your own travel, lodging, and even dinner. Don can't be bothered to buy your Big Mac.)

Me? I'm tempted. I'd love to have lunch with the Trumpster Dumpster. It probably wouldn't last longer than two minutes before Don would sling his shrimp cocktail at me and upend the table and storm out while his secret service men swarmed me. I'd probably only get in one question before it would come to a crashing halt. I'm torn between "So as a repeat rapist, did you ever consider you could be on the receiving end when you go to prison?" or "I'm a huge MAGA supporter. That stands for 'Make Abortion Great Again,' right? Is that because of all the abortions you've paid for?" or "When you were always picked last in gym class, did you whine and cry and lie that it was corrupt? Or did you dodge gym (like the draft) with a letter from Daddy, excusing you because of your baby hands?" or "Hey, could I get a peek under your comb-over? I'd really like to see the "666" mark." or "Why does a billionaire have to constantly grift his followers?"

But I refuse to give this dick any money. Don't do it! He's stolen from America, spat on our country, embarrassed us world-wide, and made a mockery of democracy. He's dangerous. Worse, he's dumb. And if this latest card scheme (his "Trump Card," so to speak) doesn't smack of desperation, then nothing ever will. C'mon...wanting to really, really stay out of prison is no reason to run for president.

Stop the grift!

And on that note, happy holidays everyone! (Please stuff my stockings with Donald Trump NFT Trading Cards! I'm really trying to locate the rare one where he battles dinosaurs with nothing but a loin cloth and a Big Mac.)

Maple Avenue Freeze-Out!

Two nights before Christmas in Kansas and I'm sitting here writing this post bundled up like Ralphie's brother in the film, A Christmas Story. 

It's nine degrees below zero outside. Snow is on the ground and isn't going anywhere. The windchill is negative 27 or some other ungodly number. The coldest night we've experienced in years. And our furnace decided to conk out this afternoon.

Merrrrrrry Christmas! 

At least to our HVAC guy who will be collecting a huge, Christmas bonus check ("Why, thank you guys! It's a Christmas miracle! For only $399.99 extra, I can vacuum your coils. No extra charge over the initial $399.99. My treat!") 

Whenever or if he should decide to come out, that is. They're pretty busy right now.

I should've heeded my earlier Christmas haunting. Several hours ago, I had gone into the basement (can't remember why) and swore I heard the furnace singing various Christmas carols via an angelic choir. I thought..."Whoa...time to start drinking," and wrote it off to my typical nuttiness.

Word to the wise: ALWAYS heed your Christmas hauntings.

After some consideration, I told my wife, "Baby, it's cold inside."

She poo-poohed me, didn't believe me, knowing that I run a lot colder than her as usual, just par for the course.

So I stole a peek at the thermostat. Good Lawd, it read 64 degrees! And it had been set at 70. Something was up. Definitely NOT the temperature.

"Honey, we got a problem," I bellowed like a dying dinosaur during the Ice Age.

In the basement, we approached the furnace, pressed buttons, pushed gadgets, twisted knobs, fiddled with ding-dongs, and prayed a little bit we wouldn't blow ourselves up. Finally my wife said, "Huh. I think we have a problem."

Time for a brewski. Snikt!...Tsssss...

The call was in. The soonest the HVAC tyrants could get somebody out here was tomorrow morning. No particular time, natch. "But...but...," I whined, "we have like a bi-annual subscription with them to check our junk out. We're preferred customers!"

The answer to that was...too bad. With space heaters blasting, the thermostat now read 58 degrees in the house.

Alcohol is my friend.

"That'll just make you colder," said my common-sense wife.

No fan of common sense, I devised a plan (okay, my wife mostly devised it, but I was there!). Not only did we worry about our own freezability, but we had two dogs that I didn't care to see turned into pupsicles. Hell, they didn't even want to go out this morning (or all day). Can't blame them.

We pinpointed the warmest room in the house (and by that, I mean now reading a comfy 54 degrees), "Tom." (We named our two spare bedrooms "Tom" and "Jerry," much easier to remember than calling them by the pesky directions they face.) The plan was set and now onto the execution.

Alas, the damn futon never wants to work right, usually ending up in the two halves coming apart. Worse than any piece of furniture you might (un)assemble from Ikea. Finally, after many curse words and much back-ache and the ultimate worst possible fate (*gasp*), referring to the manual, we put it back together again.

(TO BE READ LIKE AN AIRPLANE PILOT): "Ahhhhh, now we're sitting at a cool 52 degrees....Uhhhhhh, you might want to consider bundling up, it's ahhhhhh gonna drop to the single digits in your room....ummmmmm...your stewardess is coming by with the cocktail cart, so please be sure and...errrrrrrr...tip."

Pass the wine.

Our electric blanket was stripped from our bed upstairs and moved down to "Tom." Another electric blanket was put on the floor, dog beds atop it.

At 50 degrees, I swear I can see my breath. Merrrrrrrry Christmas!

My wife says, "Get over it. Pretend it's like winter camping."

This...

This was the craziest thing I'd heard in a while. Anyone who knows me totally understands I don't camp. Especially in the Winter. I'm not insane. My idea of camping is a cabin (not too far from a bar and convenience store and pizza delivery) with WiFi and a hot tub.

Where the hell's that bottle of wine? Merci Chrimmy.

In the pursuit of true journalism, never leaving my dedicated readers in the lurch, I'm now sitting in a frigid living room (temperature now in the 40's), delivering the truth with frozen, unfeeling fingers and a head full of alcohol.

Mister Chriminee everbuddy!

My Romancing History in Cars

You can tell a lot about people through their driving history. For instance, in my 45 years of driving, I've had six--count 'em-- six cars! I'm a firm believer in the "Drive 'em Until They Drop" theory.

My younger brother, on the other hand, has probably had 45 vehicles in his 47 year driving history. How did my younger bro have two years up on me in driving, I hear you asking? For whatever reason, my parents let him get his driving permit when he was 14, using the excuse that my dad was in a wheelchair. Although Dad was, I think that was just an excuse for a 14 year old to drive to school every day, even though we lived two blocks from school! Bragging rights I was never afforded (although I knew better than to drive at that young age). Anyway, he's had every type of vehicle from gas-guzzling, monster pick-em-up trucks to motorcycles to sports cars to stuff-the-family-into HUV's.

Then there's my daughter. After 12 years of driving, she's already surpassed my record of six vehicles (mostly because of her fondness for blowing up her cars).

But that's me digressing like the wind. When I started thinking about my run of cars (only six, keep in mind!), I realized how they all coincided with various degrees of romance through the years, a lotta bad, some good, the last one great.

My first car--and still my favorite--was a yellow, black-topped '67 Mustang. She (sexist!) was a beauty, a real classic. Until some dopey, possibly doped, long-haired, barefoot kid ran into four stalled cars on a busy street with his junker, my 'Stang accordioned in the middle. We jumped, flew, got bashed up, until the cracking metal and smoke ceased.

Heartbroken over the fact that it was probably totaled, I began the long walk home until my parents found me (and consequently grew enraged at me, even though the accident hadn't been my fault; that lay on Dopey McDoperson).

Surprisingly good news! A garage my dad found said they could fix it. Which coincided with my very first high school date (okay, it wasn't a "real" date; I was just a placeholder for my friend, entertaining his girlfriend until he got back in town). But I was so excited, I neglected to inspect the body work and drove my faithful Mustang out of the garage and straight to pick up my buddy's girlfriend. Hopes were doused when my friend's GF ridiculed the now white hood, with the rest of the car being yellow. It also felt scary to drive since the accident, feeling like it could fall apart in the street.

Time to go to college! And with it, a brand new (to me, at least; I've never bought a "new" car) ride, a Toyota Celica. The Celica was a good, reliable car, but when it broke down, it totally broke my wallet, even though I managed to steam up the windows quite a few times, if you know what I mean and I think you do. But I had it for years, long enough to woo my first wife in it, and woo we did, the Celica and I.

Then...sudden, surprising, shocking divorce! And I was stuck with a rusted Celica, not the most appealing car to the ladies. ("Hey baby, wanna come check out my Celica?")

So, my dad took it upon himself to find me a new car (I think he took pity on me for the divorce; or he just liked haggling with dealers, a "hobby" I've never understood anyone enjoying.). He even concocted an elaborate scheme to get my dangerously oil-leaking car out to the dealer (I had to keep pulling over and putting oil into it on the way) before it burned up so we could trade. We barely made it and to my nervous disbelief, the car dealer didn't even have anyone look at the leaking hunka' junk.

I came back with a blue Oldsmobile. Again, not the most sexy car, but hey, at least it wasn't held together by rust.

But it did break down a lot. Fun little side note: one time while the Olds was in the shop, my mom loaned me her second car, a BMW, to tool around in. Women were drawn to that like flies to an outhouse. They'd give me Love Eyes at the gas station. When I finally grew bold enough to chat them up, they got turned off when I told them I worked as a graphic artist, clearly expecting me to be bringing home the big bucks.

Over the years, the Olds took me on a lot of dates, some successful, others not. Most not. Which prompted my one sad, middle-aged-crisis purchase, a Chrysler LeBaron Convertible. Very cool! Well...not exactly cool in the Summer. But definitely cool, freezing cold in the Winter. 

Which was when I met my second wife, during the coldest part of an unseasonably frigid Winter. On dates, we bundled up in layers, looking like the Michelin Man and Woman. I finally sprang for a mini-heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter, for all the good it did.

Eventually, we married, and one of the first things my wife did was go car shopping for me (probably because she was tired of freezing). Thus came the Toyota Camry. A very solid car, good for many years during our very solid marriage.

But, it too, eventually went the way of the dinosaur. With a heavy heart (my only vehicle not affiliated with a tragic time in my love life), I remember saying a fond, nearly tearful, farewell to it in the parking lot of CarMax (where we expected to get $200, but crazily got a couple grand).

Which leads me to my current ride, a Highlander. I love the car (my wife insists on calling it a "truck," but I would never be caught driving a truck, for crying out loud! How uncouth!). Oh sure, it had some growing pains. When we purchased the sweet ride, we made the mistake of taking it to our mechanic AFTER we brought it home. The mechanic looked it over with a fine-toothed comb, ready to give it a thumbs up, until he remembered hearing something about that model's engine block cracking in half. Kinda a big deal. Sure enough, he saw enough evidence that made him suggest we get it fixed. I still love it; it's a great car (ummmm, except for the engine).

There you have it. My six automobiles, all connected to a different romantic time in my life. Kinda like my stints in prison (wait...did I just say that out loud?).

Speaking of romance, pity poor Shawn Biltmore, who is caught between two beautiful women. Why pity him what others would envy? Because it'll be very hard for Shawn to romance any woman when he's a part-time werewolf. Not to mention the fact that there's another werewolf eating his coworkers. Or could it be Shawn doing the dinners and blacking it out? Only Shawn's autobiography,

Corporate Wolf, holds the shocking answer!