Witty Witness

"But I'm afraid," I squeaked meekly from my bed as my mom turned off the light to my room and slowly closed my bedroom door. Hearing my pitiful plea, she stopped mid shut and opened the door again. Standing in the doorway and peeking her head around my half opened bedroom door, she turned on the light again, and glanced toward my bed with a loving smile of aggravation. As a parent myself now, I can totally relate to that frustrating scene and accompanying dialogue at bedtime. Selfishly all parents really want is just 1-2 kid free hours in the evening, before they put themselves to bed and hit repeat on another day when the alarms rings early next morning.  So like she had done numerous nights before, mom stepped back into my room for "put Adam to bed, take 2," and she opened the top drawer of my dresser. Reaching in the back of the drawer, she pulled out the familiar spray can. In my memory, I can still see the graphic of a monster on the outside of the can.

"I'm not paying for that. It looks terrible." In my defense, I never claimed to be an expert cookie cake decorator. However, I did try my best and I needed the money during college, so I didn't want to lose my job at Great American Cookies. The lady who came to pick up the cookie cake "for her bible study group," that particular Sunday afternoon, was clearly unhappy with my work. Little did she know, it was far from the worst cookie cake design in my short career at GAC.  Busy with other customers and frustrated with what I perceived to be somewhat unrealistic expectations for a $16 cake made entirely of cookie and made entirely in the mall, I swallowed my pride, apologized, and told her I'd be happy to replace the cake. Taking my time and carefully focusing my attention on every detail this go round, the lady watched from just on the other side of the glass counter. I began my rework, using the chocolate and vanilla icing bags like Van Gogh us

  Baseball is a lot like life . The current season of life, is JB's first season of kid pitch baseball. JB has pitched a few times already and each time he takes the mound, I pace around the inside of the chain link dugout like an overweight lion caged at the zoo. I'm far more nervous for his games than I ever was for my own.  I want so badly for him to have fun, help his team, and do good.  Each inning watching him, the anxiety forces me to stuff my cheeks full of sunflower seeds, so my fingernails may be spared from stress. I go through so many seeds with so much sodium, that after each game my mouth stays sore for a couple of days and my wedding ring hurts my swollen finger.  When JB leaves the dugout and runs onto the field,  a part of me is out there with him . I'm not able to do the task at hand for him, so instead I anxiously await his return, and shout words of encouragement to him in the meantime.  I love the game of baseball and all it teaches: teamwork,

"I don't believe you," my teacher told me with an accusatory tone. Though heartbroken and embarrassed, I didn't blame him.  I was however innocent . Yet my body of work, my usual behavior as a student, and my modus operandi if you will, clearly suggested I was the likely culprit. Very rarely did I possess "clean hands" when mischief was afoot. There wasn't much I wouldn't do in school to get a laugh or gain attention. In my defense, I wasn't a juvenile delinquent or troublemaker per se, but the title of "silliest and most likely to disrupt learning," would have fit quite nicely. Our class had been looking forward to visiting the U.S. Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama all year. It was more than just a fieldtrip, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. I personally was beyond excited. After all of the anticipation and travel, when we finally arrived and our visit was cut short, it was devastating. Althou

Alfred Hitchcock directed a film in 1963 entitled, "The Birds." Most of you have likely seen the film, or at least are aware of its existence. If you haven't, don't. It's terrifying. The movie basically follows unexplained violent bird attacks on people in the "Bodega Bay" area of California. Even despite the vintage nature of the film, it's still quite unsettling to watch. Especially if you are like me, and have an unhealthy and unnatural fear of birds. I find myself in a strange paradox where I very much appreciate birds for their majesty and beauty, but I fear them for their beaks and claws. Are they called claws? They should be. Twice in my life I have been the victim of a bird attack. I intentionally chose the word "attack," because in my mind, it was nothing short of that and more. The first occurred when I attempted to move a wreath on my front porch, that a small bird had recently made home along with some eggs. Suffice it

I've heard it said, "Necessity is the mother of invention." Stated slightly differently, I would argue, "Poverty is the mother of ingenuity." I know this to be true first hand, because during certain seasons of my life, I've lacked the financial resources to even value size a McDonalds menu item. College for most people, myself certainly included, is a time void of financial resources, where monetary sacrifices and creative currency contemplation is demanded, in order to stretch a dollar to the point of tearing. I worked a handful of part-time jobs during college to try to pay for books, rent, and food. When I started doing the easy math in my head, I realized two hours of hard labor at one of my chosen jobs was not worth getting my hair cut, at least not professionally. Enter my girlfriend, Amber. It is important at this point in my story to share with you that Amber had the same number of hours of formal training in cutting hair that I did, which