You get busy, you have a million things going on, and of course you have to have your sights set on what’s next, you have to know where you’re headed well before you get there. That makes perfect sense. But every now and then, don’t forget to look up, as advised in the following reflection.

Don’t Forget to Look Up

Don’t forget to look up. You might see an owl, a hawk, or something spectacular like an eagle in the treetop, or something magnificent, like the very top of a 200-foot-tall pine tree swaying and whispering in the wind, a tree that has been standing in that same spot for more than two centuries. You might see a purple and gold, orange and red, cloud-scalloped sunset sky. You might see a densely packed flock of birds, shape shifting, flying furiously as one, going together to someplace important in a manner that only they understand. You might see a cloudless sky, a deep azure blue dome that goes on forever and inspires you to dream. There is a grand, awe-inspiring life going on above you—always there, always going on—that might elevate your mood, connect you with magnificence, or certainly help you put the problems of the day in proper context.

Don’t forget to look to the side. There you will see your colleagues, your good friends, your brother, your sister, and your life partner. They’re helping you, working with you, laughing at your jokes, listening to your stories, listening for what matters to you, trying their best to understand what you think is important. They see you, they know you, they appreciate you. Cultivate your team, prioritize your relationships. The ride is richer and the bumps are softer. Look to your side and remember, you’re all on the journey together, so lean on each other when you need to, or even just when you want to.

Don’t forget to look down. You might see an old fallen tree, just a log now, a new home for bright green moss, the bottom surface merging itself with the soil of the forest floor; a tree that was just a seed hundreds of years ago, that probably grew to more than100 feet, stood tall for 200 years, then weakened and fell 50 years ago, and is now growing moss and fertilizing the ground around it for the next tiny seedling. You might see all of that if you look down. All that life, all those years, in that one spot where you stand. You might see a stone that’s been built into the base of a rock wall, a stone scraped and rutted from its travels through the ice age, but still reflecting the sun in tiny flecks of mineral, a stone that has seen a world that quite possibly no human being has ever seen, and now this very same stone is resting at your feet, holding other stones on its back, still standing guard, marking the perimeter of a field that has long since disappeared to become a forest. You might remember relatives, teachers, mentors, and other inspirational people that you no longer see. You might reflect on where you’ve been, who has helped you, who has inspired you, who and what came before you that gave you the opportunity you have now. We grow from the foundation that has been provided and we build something to enable others to do the same. Don’t forget to look down, it might be your dog or your cat reminding you of the lasting bond between you. It might be your child, someday, that you see looking up at you, looking right into your heart. Don’t forget to look down, feel humbled, fill yourself with appreciation and think about how you are adding to the foundation for all.

Don’t forget to look inside. Give yourself a break sometimes and appreciate the person you already are just as you embrace the person you are always trying to become. You are kind, sensitive, compassionate, warm-hearted, generous, patient, thoughtful, fair-minded and considerate. You are smart, funny, a good story teller, a good listener, a good problem solver. You are a good partner, a good teammate, a good friend, a treasured family member, and a responsible citizen of the world. You are resourceful, resilient and strong, which means every day can be full of promise. You struggle, you make mistakes, you say and do things you wished you hadn’t. You’re human. You’re a work in progress, we all are. You apologize, make amends, commit to do better the next time. You don’t give up. You’re not afraid of hard work and you know how to ask for help. Think about the people you admire, stories that inspire you. Remember to look inside, and at the end of the day, be proud of your own story.

Don’t forget to look behind you, into the longer shadow that you now cast. There you will see your parents. They are there to celebrate you, to marvel at your accomplishments, to share in your joy, to bask in your glory and pride. They know that your life is your own spotlight now, but they are there to cheer you on, to inspire you, to encourage you, to listen to your stories of mishap, amusement, adventure, and accomplishment. And they are there to help you up when you stumble. You can expect to be forever cared for. You can expect to be listened to with patience, appreciated, and treated with kindness and respect. Turn around whenever you need to, they are there when you might need someone to show you the way. They are there to lean on when you need a rest, when you need to unload a burden, when you need someone to help you think of what’s best. They are even there to carry you for part of the way if you need that. But have no doubt, they will always show up.

So, look ahead and watch where you’re going most of the time. Just ahead you might even see the moon laying down a pale orange path across the still and inky waters of the lake at night, but remember, every now and then, don’t forget to look up.

Love, Dad

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While the Mighty Monkshood (Last Plant Standing) have multiplied prolifically (from 4 plants to about 300, and I’ve given away dozens), this fragile variety is hovering around zero population growth (4 original plants—all long gone—producing a meager remaining population of 6 plants in 10 years, and only 3 will flower this year). Sometimes, for no apparent reason, a healthy-looking plant will just stop growing midseason, frozen in time—arrested development—at half of its potential height, as if it just got too tired and changed its mind, deciding instead that it isn’t up to the task this year after all, just doesn’t have enough energy for such a long growing season.

I like having tough plants. I could build an incredible army out of the hydrangea and the astilbe, and the mighty monkshood, and they would just keep coming at you no matter what you threw at them. I admire their fortitude, their versatility, their grit. They show up and do their job in stellar fashion—no excuses—with incredible consistency. But the fragile and the delicate, the sensitive and reactive have a purpose as well, and if we can figure out how to help them thrive we will all be better for it.

You have to be present, you have to be patient, and you have to be perceptive and discerning as you note the subtle changes in wellness and try to relate these to the circumstances. What does it need to survive and what does it take to truly thrive, to be the best it can be? You have to be attentive, attuned. If you are willing; this delicate, teetering, toothpick tower of indigo can teach you a great deal.

What they set out to do, and what they can achieve if they get what they need, if they avoid excessive adversity, if they budget their energy; what they strive to accomplish, is to rise up more ten feet above the earth, above all other plants in the garden, and sweep the sky with their elegant yet bony arms, gracing those below with a magnificent display of deep indigo beauty. Paradoxically, they don’t have the stem strength to support their own ambitions. You need to be at your best to help them grow, and once you’ve succeeded in that, you have to stay with them, lending support throughout their growth by anchoring them to bamboo poles, adjusting to new poles as they grow ever taller. Their one survival strength is that they will wrap themselves around whatever they find that is sturdy and substantial.

If they manage to reach their full potential, you will not be disappointed. They will grace your every day, bowing in the breeze as you pass, smiling their regal beauty down on you, thanking you profusely for believing in them, fighting for them, for figuring out how to help them become their best. When the season turns—the days are warm and the nights are cool—I can sit quietly on my back deck, listening to the morning come to life, and witness the quiet majesty of the delicate and the sensitive, as droplets of morning dew glisten and hang from each exquisite blossom—rich pearls of indigo subtly illuminated in the trace of early sunlight filtering through the tree canopy.

Your patience, your kindness and compassion, your dedication and determination, your sensitivity and creativity will be well-rewarded in your efforts to nurture the fragile, the delicate and the reactive, and we will all be better for it.

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Let’s face it, no one ever likes to get advice, unless they’re in the midst of a crisis, and they especially don’t like to get “fatherly” advice, particularly on a birthday (so, a triple violation). 

But this is not advice about a problem, a lifeline to bail you out after a fatal decision, or words to alter the doomed course your life is so set on taking. Such advice that is needed most is most unwelcome because it is directed to those who don’t want to do it (or they would have done it) or don’t think they can do it (or they would have done it).

But you, Gabe, are already doing it. So my advice is more like cheering on your favorite team as they march down the field with incredible skill, while showing an amazing blend of determination, composure under pressure, breathtaking raw talent, brute force, quick thinking, clear-sighted vision and an attack that is well-balanced.

So here are my four pieces of advice as you march on past 25 in glorious fashion.

Seek work that stirs your passion. You are unstoppable when you’re passionate about what you do (and when you’re not passionate you’re prone to misery).

Fun is like a nutrient your body and soul needs. Find the fun and use it to make the rest more bearable. 

Work with, play with, and hang out with people that make you laugh, that stir your creativity, that share your sense of adventure and match your ability to get things done when it matters. I think you are particularly energized by being part of a tremendous team, surrounded by people who can keep up. 

People matter a great deal to you—they fuel you—but not just any people. Some people can snuff out the light of your spirit and suck the life right out of you. Spend as much time as possible with people who appreciate you, people who see the best in you, people who celebrate what matters to you, people who encourage you and lift you up, and people who can support you and lead the way when you need it.  

At 25 I think you have a pretty good idea about what makes a good life, and probably nothing I am advising now surprises you. Perhaps you already see yourself this way and strongly believe in all these things. I’m just cheering you on and further encouraging you. Your first quarter century has been an amazing journey, a good time to reflect on what you know about yourself and what matters most. 

Know what you need and pursue what you need to be your best, and I’ll keep cheering you on, because the world needs people like you at their best.

Happy 25th birthday, Love Dad

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You are such a solid, grounded, and totally wonderful person; and like so many people, I’m so proud to say I know you, and I’m so thrilled to think that I get to share a substantial part of your life. But unlike all those other people, I have something they don’t have. My life, every moment of my life, is inextricably bound together with your life—even when we are not together, not sharing the current moment—because you—this lovable and amazing person—are my daughter, and I get to be your father, and—I have to tell you—that is the most extraordinary, most life-affirming feeling imaginable. I can’t tell you how many times in a difficult week that I think about that. That is my “blue sky.” Happy birthday Rachie. You are an incredible gift to me.

Love, Dad.

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Today at the staff meeting the director expressed sympathy for the staff who are quickly getting frustrated with all the physical holds (because the boy is tough to hold) and she promised a quick and effective program (delivered by me, no pressure) that would eliminate the need for physical restraint. One teacher assistant told the director that the restraints would not be as difficult if the student was taller (he’s about 4 feet 8 inches—the CPI holds are easier with taller people). We spent the next two hours designing the first part of his new program and I am very optimistic. But not everybody is so quick to understand what we want to do.

When the meeting broke up a teacher assistant approached me with an idea that she had developed after listening intently to the other assistants talk about the height complications of physically holding this boy. She wanted to know if I knew how tall children with Down Syndrome grew to be, and was stunted growth part of the condition. I told her I thought some growth under-development was to be expected but that it could vary across children (okay, I’m curious about what she has in mind).

“Maybe we could find out more about that or check with his parents to see how tall they are,” she said, proud of her clever idea. “If he keeps growing we might have an easier time restraining him.” She beamed with her brilliance and I paused a beat to be sure she was serious. Then I told her, “He might indeed continue to grow, but my thinking right now is that we can solve this problem at a quicker rate than he can grow. Undeterred, she continued, “His parents are coming in for a meeting on Monday and that would give us a chance to see how tall they are.” I smiled a little and said “Hmmm,” and she said, “Well, it was just an idea.” (No, it wasn’t, not really).

We’ll build a successful program for this boy, I’m absolutely sure of that, but the bigger challenge in this case is making the program work by utilizing people who think the best idea is to wait for him to grow. For that I want a Nobel Peace Prize.

—Dad

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Before I even fully entered the operating cubicle, I could see my dentist—donned in his blue paper smock—slumped in a chair facing a small table and looking at the wall. He appeared to be sleeping (not good), comatose (really not good) or maybe meditating (only slightly better). Toward the end of the appointment I learned why, but first I had to roust him from this sluggish state.

He grumbled something I pretended to understand as I slipped into the chair, and at that point I determined my best outcome depended on shifting him into the best mood he was capable of achieving. I was friendly, upbeat, cheerful (not an easy feat surrounded by dozens of different ways to get drilled) and I portrayed a picture of confidence and faith in his expert abilities. No problem, take your time, don’t worry about me, whatever you have to do is fine, I’m sure everything will be great (blah, blah, blah, i.e., you have enough problems and if you have to spend an ounce of your precious energy worrying about me you might make another fatal mistake, so just pretend I’m not even here). I should mention, my dentist is at least 75 years old and he looks like Billy Crystal when Billy Crystal plays an ancient old man (you know the movie, maybe one of the Monty Pythons, about a giant).

Me: “So, why I am I getting cavities now when I never used to get them?”
Him (fumbling with the five-foot Novocain needle): “What kind of toothpaste are you using?” (the same kind I was using when I didn’t get any cavities, is this discussion going to net me any useful information?)
Me: “I also use a fluoride rinse”
Him: “That’s no good.” (Well, every single checkup I’ve ever had with you that is what you recommended, so what you’ve been telling me is no good?). “You need a prescription fluoride past, or you can just buy it off me.” (he hasn’t fired up the drill yet so I am as agreeable as possible to anything he recommends, even if it is the opposite of what he has recommended in the past and even if he’s selling toothpaste out of the trunk of his car).

Free of any unnecessary concern about me, my dentist starts lining up the tools and getting the novocain ready.

Him: “This is going to sting right up here in your palette (you mean that thin bony layer on the roof of my mouth that’s packed tightly with nerve endings and just a potato chip crunched against it the wrong way is excruciating?).

Two shots of Novocain, one cracking through the palette and one through the gum (I didn’t look at the monstrous needle), and now we’re ready to let it take effect, that gradual numbness that makes your face feel like its five times its real size and makes you chew on your tongue.

But wait, we’re not letting the Novocain take effect, we’re going right for the drill.

Him: “Let me know if this feels any more uncomfortable than just pressure,” he says (ahmmm, what in the world is going to keep this tooth from exploding with pain as that sharp metal pierces it in just two seconds? do you mean just pressure as in I might pass out from a little too much pressure?).

Sure enough the drilling starts and I instantly feel the first sharp, acid in the cut, knee-weakening jolt.

My goals right now are the same goals I had when I came in. Do not spend any more time than necessary in the chair with my mouth stretched open getting paralyzed, and don’t get the guy with the tools upset. Both goals convince me to take the pain for as long as I can because I also know that within five minutes the Novocain will take effect. How bad can it get, it’s just pain? My eyes are watering and my fingers are digging all the way through the padding on the chair.

Each time he stops the drill and puts it down I think, whew, I’m through, but he only asks the assistant for another fitting so he can go deeper and sharper. When we started this operation, I could understand the assistant completely, but now she is talking to him in Spanish, yet he answers in English. I think for a minute that this could be a hallucination, and then I wonder, where did that Novocain really go. I can’t feel it at all in my mouth (and I never did) so it must have been misdirected into the speech comprehension part of my brain.

He finishes packing the hole and polishing the surface. I can hardly wait to see how it came out. The last time he did such a slipshod job and the material was so poorly matched to the tooth and so much of it was left roughly around the surface it looked like I had just stuffed a hunk of clay in there myself. About now I wasn’t caring too much about appearances. I would have walked out of there with something looking like a horse’s tooth, just to get out of that chair.

Me: “That went fast.” And I meant it too, only 20 minutes for what usually takes a half hour. Of course, if you don’t wait for the Novocain to take effect that can get you on your way a lot quicker.
Him: “Well you were a nice patient.” Not everybody is so cooperative.” (there’s the first clue about why he had looked so beaten when I first saw him slumped in the chair)
Me: “It’s probably a good idea to stay on the dentist’s good side while you’re getting your cavity filled.”
Him: “Not everybody thinks like that, some people fight you all the way.”
Me: “I don’t think that’s a good idea with a room full of drills. Somebody could get hurt.”
Him: “Or worse.” (okay, where’s this really going, what does he mean, worse than hurt, what’s worse, death? I’m just kidding around, but I’m not sure he’s completely kidding)
Me: “Hey, we’re all friends when we enter this room, and we all want the same thing in the end, to leave in better shape.” I say this as I’m backing out the door and inching toward the check-out desk.
Him and the assistant: “You wouldn’t believe some of the people we’ve had in here today. It’s been one of those days, and it’s not over yet.” (for me it is, and I’m getting out of here right now).

One positive benefit, on the way home I didn’t have to deal with that lingering feeling of fat tongue and face enlargement. Remember, it pays to be nice. You never know what’s going on with the person who might be drilling you.

—Dad

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I found out that the end of the bone (on the hand) is broken off and pointing downward toward my palm, and that’s the way it is growing back together. Seems weird and sounds like a problem, but surprisingly, it isn’t. They wouldn’t do anything with it surgically (now or when it first happened), because it doesn’t affect the full use of my hand, which they tested in the office. I guess you don’t need your bones pointing straight ahead for your hand to work perfectly fine.

First I had to see the nurse.

I have not met a more humorless person than the nurse that first showed me to the examining room. She was young, maybe 30 years old, but completely flat, no emotion—her face frozen, immobile like a mask—didn’t show even so much as a twitch of affect in her face the whole time she interviewed me. And none of my attempts at friendliness made any noticeable impact.

        She looked over my form, pages of material I had filled out at home, luckily, without the encumbrance of the cast (lol, I had to stop wearing that thing, so I’ve been keeping it on my desk, but I put it back on for the office visit).
        “You say you’re not in much pain,” she starts off.
        “Right, hardly any at all,” I answer, thinking that’s a good thing, but also wondering if she thinks I’m wasting her time with an unnecessary visit, and maybe that’s why she looks unhappy.
        “So it doesn’t hurt if you squeeze the hand or bang it?” she asks.
        “That’s excruciating,” I say, “but I try to make sure that doesn’t happen. That’s why it doesn’t hurt, because I don’t do any of those things to it.”
        She doesn’t deviate from her course. “What would you say the pain level is if you squeeze it?”
        Not nearly as much pain as I’m in right now, just answering your questions, I want to say. Instead I say, “about an 8.”
        “Do you elevate?” she asks, pen on the form, waiting for me to answer.
        I squint at her (but she isn’t looking my way) trying to get her to elaborate a little. We’re not communicating very well, I can tell. Do I walk around all day with my arm in the air? Isn’t that a little extreme for an injury of this magnitude that doesn’t hurt unless you squeeze it? I’m not even wearing the blasted cast, to tell you the truth.
        “No, I haven’t been elevating,” I say, “because I still have to live my life,” I add.
        Her pen stays frozen on the page. Not funny and not a productive answer. After a few seconds she resets herself and moves on.
        “Would you be okay without the cast on for a few minutes so the doctor can get a closer look?”
        LOL. I’ll see if I can manage to tolerate it, considering that its been sitting on my desk for the last three days, after the nasty rash it gave me. Yeah, I’ll give it a try—just don’t crush my hand when you get up from the table, as tempting as it may seem.
        “No Problem,” I say.

Here’s my exchange with the doctor.

        “Your hand is fractured, but you already knew that, and the tip of the bone is pointing down toward your palm,” the doctor said, summarizing the X-ray fresh out of the machine.
        “So why is the bone pointing down?” I asked.
        “Because it’s broken,” he answered, exasperated, like, do you have any idea about what a broken bone is, and isn’t that why you came in today and are you listening to a single thing I’m saying, do you need me to go slower?
        “Oh, I thought maybe the bone had split down the middle and sort of spread each piece to the side.” That seemed completely plausible to me, even more likely than what really happened.
        He gave a short, quick shake of his head. “No,” was the only word he said, but what he meant was: Quit being ridiculous. We don’t have time for such foolishness coming out of you.
        Okay, I’m thinking, I didn’t look at the X-Rays, so give me a break, here. “So that won’t be a problem to have it heal that way?” I ask.
        “You just won’t have a knuckle anymore, so you can’t be a hand model,” he said.
        Of course, a doctor in a bow tie would say something like that. Snappy fellow. BTW, I don’t have fingerprints, according to my last CORI check, so now I won’t have a knuckle. Also I was born without tonsils or wisdom teeth. Who needs all that stuff, anyway?
        “You have full use of your hand, you can make a fist and your finger tracks properly, so surgery would only be for cosmetics,” he said.
        “What about the cast, do I need to wear that to, you know, promote the rest of the healing?” I asked, hoping for a particular answer. And before you answer, doctor, keep in mind that all the positive things you’ve been saying about how the hand is healing fine—that’s without wearing the cast very much.
        “You don’t need the cast to help it heal, you just wear that as a precaution, so no additional accidental trauma occurs to the bone while it’s trying to heal.”
        Phew. Good thing he said that. I was tempted to ask him about how critical it was to elevate, but I didn’t want to push my luck.

—Dad

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I had to go the Rl Attorney General’s office, Bureau of Criminal Investigation (BCI), to have them conduct a national background check on me. You’re probably thinking that I’m being investigated as a world-wide terrorist, or maybe cooking Meth, but it’s really just a requirement for working in schools (not very intriguing, I know). I’ve been avoiding it for months, because it’s such a hassle. As I’m currently in violation of the law by avoiding it for so long, now I risk being an actual criminal. So, I decided to go in on Monday on my way home from work.

It’s a big hassle to get there in downtown Providence and nearly impossible to find the time when they’re open and not on break. So, on Monday (after a month of trying to find the time) I finally made it with just enough time before they closed. I loaded up the meter with all my change (who knows how long I’d be in there, but I had an instinct that it wouldn’t be quick), but it turns out I only needed five minutes.

I learned right away, from the perpetually miserable clerk behind the bullet proof glass, that I could not pay the fee with cash or a credit card; they take a check only. Usually places refuse to take checks and insist on cash or credit card, but not the attorney general. They even have a separate sheet of instructions as to how to obtain a check or money order in downtown Providence. Evidently it is a common enough occurrence that people are completely surprised—dumbstruck, actually—that they can only pay by check. So, it’s a common enough occurrence for them to have a sheet of instructions to help people solve the problem that their ridiculous policy creates, but not common enough to warn people ahead of time when they visit the website to figure out how to get the background check in the first place. If anyone should take a check, it’s the police, because they can prosecute fraudulent check writing and they already have the complete background of the check-writing criminal from the background check they just did on the person. I tried my best, most charming approach and still the clerk wouldn’t budge, she just sat on her stool behind the glass—perched to rule over her domain—and pointed to the flimsy slip of paper explaining how a deadbeat could get a check from a pawn shop in downtown providence. She had to know, when she told me to do this, that five minutes after I left to get that check the Attorney General’s office would be closed.

A man with a gun on his hip (probably a sergeant) took notice of the commotion and came out from behind the glass and escorted me aside so the other unsuspecting people in line could conduct their business, which, by the looks of them, their business could have been any one of a dozen crimes. I was the only one wearing a suit and without a tattoo. The sergeant wanted my story (let’s start from the beginning, he insisted), including why a psychologist would need a background check (listen detective Stabler, not everybody is a suspicious character up to no good, so settle yourself). I finally got him to believe me (it was harder than it should have been because he kept looking me up and down to see what I was really up to), and he seemed to warm up to me (or at least he sympathized with me) so he gave me a package of “paperwork” to fill out, just so it wouldn’t be a completely wasted trip. I left knowing that I had accomplished absolutely nothing, and as I vacated my parking space a driver immediately pulled right into it to discover that I had left him a full hour remaining on the meter.

I returned two days later, and oddly enough, the clerk and the sergeant remembered me, but it was a higher-ranking official who took me back for finger printing. I’m pretty sure it was Bookman from Seinfeld, all business, no sense of humor (standing in front of the ominous machine, “what happened to the old ink pads?” I said, then smiled and nodded, kept nodding and smiling, he gave a dead stare for a slow count, then, simply “I.D.” please”.).

He told me to take one step forward toward the machine (soup Nazi style) and place my index finger on the glass. It would appear as a print in a designated square on the display screen, he told me, but it didn’t, not even a piece of a print. He told me to press harder, so I did, but this revealed just a small sketchy patch. Annoyed, he marched over to where I was standing, pulled a glass cleaning kit out of the draw and meticulously polished the surface of his special machine. Then he grabbed ahold of my right index finger and pressed it down himself, as if a girlie man psychologist might not have the strength to push it as hard as he wanted. The print that appeared was less than 50% complete, and when he tried the rest of my fingers he got the same result.

“For crying out loud you don’t leave any finger prints!” He gave me a look that made it seem like somehow I was at fault. “It’s not like on T.V., you know,” he said, as if explaining the ineptitude of his prize finger print machine. “Everyone thinks it’s so easy to get a print off any old damn object at a crime scene. That’s the way they make it look, but there’s other people just like you who don’t leave prints. You don’t have the coating on your skin that you need to leave prints.” I thought he would question me further to see if I had any other super powers, but instead he left to retrieve some special fluid.

A minute later Bookman returned and applied a mysterious fluid to all my fingertips, then he personally pressed each one in the designated square. Sure enough, the prints appeared as clear as could be and now I am in the national data base. So, with my prints on file in every state in the country, my chance to be a successful criminal is very limited. Of course, without the special fluid my prints are nearly invisible, so… you never know.

—Dad

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It took a year to decide on the colors for the dining room and living room but the final decision for the color of the bookshelves was made last night and it was not based on any of the paint chips or paint samples I had retrieved. It was based on a lacy cotton ivory-colored dress. So, this morning I had to return to Home Depot with the actual dress. I carried it into the store in a plastic grocery bag and discretely made my way over to the wall of paint chips and samples. Like sneaking a bag of candy into the movie theater, I surreptitiously opened the bag and slipped in one paint chip after another to compare it to the ivory-colored party dress.

Periodically looking over my shoulder, I compared dozens of paint chips, each one I thought would be the perfect match, but the more I compared them, the further from a match it took me. The whole color matching process, I realized, was slowly and steadily turning me color blind. I made my way over to the light booth (where you can see paint chips enhanced under stronger and different types of light), and in a bold move I pulled the entire dress out of the bag and put it under the light. It didn’t help a bit, and what’s worse, now the dress was completely out of the bag.

My back was to the paint manager but apparently my activities didn’t escape his scrutiny. At 7:30 in the morning the store is nearly empty of customers, so what made me think I could escape notice? He snuck up behind me and asked over my shoulder, with a slight bit of amusement in his voice, “So what’s going on?” Sheepishly I turned to face him. He had the wrong kind of smile on his face, but the dress was out of the bag and I couldn’t reverse time or erase his memory or make myself instantly disappear, so I had to follow him over to the counter with the dress, trying to think of just the right thing to say that would give him a favorable impression of these circumstances (instead of providing him with a priceless work anecdote to share with his girlfriend).

I thought he would say, “People bring in all types of crazy things to match the paint, so this is totally normal.” He didn’t say that. He took the dress from me, adjusted his orange apron, and hooked up the dress to the computerized “eye” to break down the color code. Unfortunately, I had to interrupt him and correct his handling of the dress, advising him to use the satin inside lining instead of the lacy outside pattern to get the color match that interested me. He paused briefly and gave me a look with just one eye, held it for a second to make his point, and then turned the dress inside out to use the inside satin lining.

I’m pretty sure the rest of the day will be eventful enough for the paint manager to nearly forget all about the man with the lacy cotton ivory-colored dress. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

-Dad

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That’s enough detail on things disgusting for one update, so I won’t describe what I had to clean out of the recycling bin yesterday, but I used a full bottle of ammonia and the pressure hose. Nearly gassed myself to death.

And before I had my morning cup of coffee today I had to clean out the filter to the dishwasher. It was oozing pink sludge.

Just trying my best to keep the house from turning itself into the Okefenokee Swamp.

—Dad

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