It reminded me of a picture of me in Hawaii in 1985 that I encountered while cleaning off an old hard drive yesterday:
Joe Cool? You be the judge.
A year ago I wrote my most viewed post ever. By a factor of ten, this post still dominates my stat counter.
What could it be, oh gentle reader, that has so captivated the small but deranged loyal following of The Dry Spot?
Was it my first, and probably worst “embarassing stuff about myself” story?
Nope, I’ll end the suspense (such that it is…)
My most viewed piece of writing ever was my bourbon and allergy medicine inspired “Ode to a Bradford Pear” from last spring before the late hard freeze killed most of the pretty foliage in a hundred mile blast radius around my backyard.
Apparently, the poem got picked up by a group of invasive horticultural species botanists who flooded it with link love and started a heated debate among that extremely passionate geeky community. They reposted it to dozens of websites that had hundreds of comments about whether Bradfords were truly a parasite or not. Next to nobody actually commented on the poem itself, except to point out that I was obviously not a professional scientist.
No shit, Sherlock. I’m just a homeowner with allergies and an ear for the turn of a phrase who thinks it’s stupid to plant trees that explode at the first gust of a March wind.
I woke up this morning in a dark place. No, not my bedroom. A dismal vortex of despair.
I wasn’t hung over. I got to bed early. Things have generally been going fairly well in my personal and professional life. Sure, RUABelle and the animals have been in our Sewanee cabin for Spring Break this week, but I’ve been talking to her a couple of times a day and have kind of been enjoying the bachelor lifestyle since Tuesday.
Then it hit me. She always made the coffee in the morning. I’m not officially checked out on the coffeemaker, so it is a no fly zone for me. If I try, it’ll be awful. If I break it, she’ll kill me. I guess I’m trapped.
Why go on…?
It only took one car trip to Sewanee for my brand spankin’ new Camry Hybrid to go from “that new car smell” to “that gassy, wet dog with a side order of Arby’s curly fries smell.”
It was nice while it lasted.
Because I sure don’t. Yet for some reason he has decided to send me 25 unsolicited text messages (probably from prison) over the past couple of days.
It doesn’t really bug me much since I have unlimited texts anyway. But I thought I’d post about him here in case I turn up missing over the next few days. If that does happen, no matter what he says in his testimony, I most certainly did not agree to go for a moonlit walk in a secluded part of a state park somewhere…
RUABelle and I spent most of yesterday afternoon moving and rehanging artwork around our house. We’ve acquired a lot of little prints over the course of our travels and weren’t really getting any enjoyment out of them seeing as they were all stacked up in a closet.
So we distributed them around the house filling up little nooks and crannies and small areas of wallspace with a virtual tour of our favorite vacation spots.
One featured piece of real estate is in the guest bathroom downstairs. We hung a lovely little watercolor of a quaint fishing village in Ireland that we visited on a beautiful spring day a couple of years ago. The hues of the painting and the matte and the frame coincidentally perfectly complement the color scheme of the room. The evocative nature of the subject brought back a flood of fond memories of our trip to the Emerald Isle and the wonderful people we met during our stay.
I totally peed on my shoe.