Month: April 2014

Sitting in your kindergartener’s chair may require an extraction

image It’s time for this week’s installment of Post Traumatic Sunday, which are posts written during my first marriage. None have appeared on this blog before, and only a couple were included in my book. What these posts aren’t about is venting or vindictiveness.

So what’s the point?

Simply to offer the reflections of someone dealing with an unhappy marriage in the best way he knew how: with humor.

Eight years later, I am happily re-married to someone who constantly inspires me to laugh for the right reasons.

Now, we can all laugh together…

* * * * * * * *

Though it had been five years since our daughter’s first parent/teacher conference, my wife and I felt the same familiar anxiety as we entered our son’s kindergarten classroom, sat across from his teacher, and realized:

Neither of us is getting out of our tiny chair without having it surgically removed. Continue reading Sitting in your kindergartener’s chair may require an extraction

A Nickel’s Worth from ‘The Most Outlandish Tale About Anxiety and Depression Ever Told’

image “WAIT! THE STORY DOESN’T START HERE!”
— Adam Sendek

(For those following the BLOG HOP already in progress, click HERE)

Regular readers of this blog are probably wondering why I’m starting this week’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing with a quote from Adam Sendek of The Chowderhead and Long Awkward Pause? Or maybe you’re wondering what a “Chowderhead” IS exactly? To be honest, I can only answer one of those questions definitively. The other I have to assume won’t clear up without frequent applications of tetracycline.

As you’ve probably guessed, this week’s NWOW is going to be a little different. That’s because it’s part of a collaborative effort between a dozen bloggers, each of whom has contributed 200 words as part of a continuous storyline initiated by Adam.

Here’s the catch: The only details each blogger receives are the 200 words that come from the blogger before them. Aside from that, you’re flying blind at the keyboard. But hey, Stevie Wonder does it, right? As I wrote my portion, I realized that incorporating it into this week’s NWOW might be a great way to experience a dozen different writing voices attempting to harmonize from 12 different rooms. Sort of like an asylum after “lights out.”

And with that, our story begins by clicking HERE…

Home insurance premium up? Thank my clumsy dog

Apparently, today is National Pet Day. No one told me this. Not even our dog, who is always the first to point out important holidays such as “Arbor Day,” “Bring Your Dog To Work Day,” “National Hydrant Awareness Day” and “Bathe Your Cat Day” (which I think he made up.) Nonetheless, we love our chocolate Labrador, Stanley, and his two adopted siblings, CJ and Hazel. To celebrate, I’d like to offer this post from the past in tribute to Stanley and all the pets who make our lives so much richer, not counting what we spend on home repair…

This is the face of rising homeowner’s insurance.
Each year, we gather as a family to have our pets blessed on St. Francis Day. We do this because we want to give our pets every advantage, particularly if there’s a chance — through divine intervention — that our Chocolate Labrador’s IQ could be raised above that of a standard carrot. I know this is supposed to be a general blessing situation, but I think God would agree there was a serious oversight during Stanley’s creation process.

I know He is very busy.

I know He sees all.

But maybe He was also trying to catch the season finale of “Hell’s Kitchen.” Continue reading Home insurance premium up? Thank my clumsy dog

A gift from The Hook (or why I tell him I don’t celebrate Christmas)

image They say the best gifts are the ones you never ask for. They also say to never look a gift horse in the mouth. While I agree with both of those sentiments, I have to assume “they” have never received a gift from Robert Hookey, comedic maestro behind The Hook and Rob Ford’s running mate for the 2016 Niagara Falls Moose Lodge presidential race.

Perhaps because he is Canadian and not subject to U.S. privacy laws, or possibly because he has an overactive imagination fueled by pure maple syrup, Hook claimed to have discovered information about me which — as a gift — he promised to keep quiet. However, because I believe in full disclosure, and because these were too funny to keep to myself, I have included his discoveries here, along with some explanations. Mostly because I don’t want Peter Dinklage kicking down my door.

I promise it will make sense later… Continue reading A gift from The Hook (or why I tell him I don’t celebrate Christmas)

While you were sleeping… I was dragging a dead cow

image Tuesday is normally when I post my riveting investigative journalism feature — at least compared to watching TV static — called The Box. Then again, normally I haven’t spent the early hours of the morning on the scene of a car accident involving a cow. Such was the case this morning at 2 a.m., when my pager went off next to the bed and, five minutes later, I was behind the wheel of a wailing fire engine with a crew of five wondering, Did I hear that call correctly?

Moments later, medics were on scene reporting over the radio that the driver was out of the car with only minor injuries. Though not audible, there was a collective sigh of relief by everyone in the engine. That’s because, in most cases, getting tapped out in the middle of the night for a car accident usually means rolling up on something pretty awful. Particularly in a relatively small town where there’s always chance you’ll be extricating — or placing a tarp over — someone you know. As an emergency responder, you build up coping mechanisms for dealing with the anxiety and adrenaline that occurs when you approach a scene, work the scene and leave the scene. Keeping that in mind, when you find out there’s no loss of human life, the result is like the release of controlled pressure in a steam kettle; it’s immediate and takes a while to simmer down. That’s when a different kind of coping mechanism comes into play: Gallows humor. Continue reading While you were sleeping… I was dragging a dead cow

That time my daughter found Nemo — then ate him

image To say you could catch a fish from the kiddie pool at our local Outdoor Festival several years ago is like saying you could turn a few heads if you backed your SUV into a Harley during the Sturgis Rally.

My oldest daughter had just turned seven, and the pool was literally brimming with farm-raised trout that would’ve just as quickly latched onto a Milkdud as Powerbait. Given a window of 15 minutes of fishing for every dollar, most kids old enough to hold their own poles were standing gawk-eyed with a fish in their sack after less than five minutes. So, when my daughter landed her seven-incher, I asked if she wanted to keep it or throw it back in — hoping against hope that she would opt for the throw-back.

I think my exact words were something along the lines of, “Sweetie, do you want to keep the baby trout until he runs out of air, or put him back in the water with his family?”

“I want to keep him,” she said firmly, then turned to her mother and asked for another dollar. Continue reading That time my daughter found Nemo — then ate him

If the jeans fit, wear them (until your legs go numb)

image Welcome to this week’s installment of Post Traumatic Sunday, which are posts written during my first marriage. None have appeared on this blog before, and only a couple were included in my book. These posts aren’t about venting or vindictiveness as much as they are about reflecting someone dealing with an unhappy marriage in the best way he knew how: Through humor.

Eight years later, I am happily re-married to someone who constantly inspires me to laugh for the right reasons.

Now, we can all laugh together…

* * * * * * * *

I have a favorite pair of jeans I refuse to give up, and which, over the last few years, my wife has attempted to eradicate on six different occasions. She hates these jeans because, according to her, they are “ripped, frayed and embarrassing.” Particularly when I forget to change them before going out somewhere in public, such as our front yard. Her attempts to get rid of my jeans have escalated from them being “lost,” to an incident last week in which she claimed my jeans “spontaneously combusted,” forcing her to put out the flames with the nearest extinguishing device: A meat cleaver. Continue reading If the jeans fit, wear them (until your legs go numb)

I don’t really do the ‘award’ thing — unless it’s weird

imageI don’t normally do award things because, let’s face it: I’m an ungrateful jerk. Ok, maybe not. But I do kind of feel like one when I respectfully decline. It’s not that I don’t appreciate being recognized by fellow bloggers; it means a lot actually. It’s just that the rules that usually accompany these awards, including the mandatory passing along of the award to multiple bloggers, has a chain-letter feel to it that doesn’t sit right with me. However, I do make exceptions when 1) the blogger who nominates me is relatively new, therefore giving me a chance to send traffic their way, or 2) the award is a little weird. In the case of The Jolly Lobster Award bestowed on me by CeeLee at Swim In The Adult Pool, it’s both.

Shortly after my WordPress “new follower” cross lit up last week, I found my way to CeeLee. Ok, actually I attempted a cartwheel that ended in something resembling a twerk first. The point is, once I got to her site I was immediately impressed by her writing as well as her tenacity and spirit. Effectively dealing with adult ADHD means CeeLee has to approach her sometimes relentless creative spark in ways many of us would never think of attempting. Sort of like my “twerk-wheel” but with better results. Continue reading I don’t really do the ‘award’ thing — unless it’s weird

Do publishers really give a [Tweet] about a writer’s social media presence?

image Welcome to Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing, a weekly writing feature heralded by Master of Horror® Stephen King as “A rare combination of writing advice and rabies…” and by 50 Shades author E.L. James as “My literary yardstick, which I’d like to break over someone’s…”

But enough accolades!

For those who might be visiting for the first time, I should explain that my NWOW is when I gather the writing wisdom I’ve gained through 15 years as a columnist and offer it to you, much like a coffee baristo preparing your favorite latte, except without all that annoying screeching and frothing. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.

This week’s NWOW topic was actually suggested by talented writer, mom and blogger Michelle at MamaMickTerry, who asked:

Dear Mr. Hickson: Does having a blog help or hinder getting published?

She followed this up a short time later, after what I’m guessing was a glass or two of wine, with a more specific question:

Listen here, Neddy-O: Do you think publishers really give a [TWEET] about a writer’s social media presence? DO you? And hey, is it just me or does Thor’s hair need some de-tangler? Continue reading Do publishers really give a [Tweet] about a writer’s social media presence?

When it comes to maintaining my yard, the luck stops here

image It was the sweet, yet somehow guilt-ridden aroma of fresh-cut grass wafting from my neighbor’s yard that inspired me to uncover the mower and plot a course for adventure last weekend. Though I knew my decision would alter the course of an entire ecosystem that had evolved within our front yard over the past month, I had nothing but the best of intentions when I set out to cut the grass last on Saturday.

Keeping in mind Murphy’s Law says that anything that can go wrong will go wrong, those of you who experienced a problem-free day of activities on Saturday can thank me — because Mr. Murphy spent the day at my house.

Given the fact that any yard hazards (dog bones, garden hoses, hibachis, small bicycles, etc.) had long been swallowed by what appeared to be grass genetically altered to grow at the speed of light, there was no small amount of trepidation in my hands as I unscrewed the gas cap to check my fuel supply.

And, of course, the tank was empty. Continue reading When it comes to maintaining my yard, the luck stops here