So last night my neighbor and I took the kids to the local water park and since we were only to be there a few hours, I didn't want to go to the fuss of renting a locker. We stowed all the valuables in the car, locked the car (an important step and one encouraged by law enforcement professionals) and proceeded into the park with towels and, of course, the car key, which I secured in the Velcro pocket of my new swimsuit that I bought largely for the fact it had a Velcro pocket (and the fact my previous swim suit tended to billow in the water in such a way as to become a flotation device around my chest, as well as the way it tended to cling tenaciously to every nook and cranny of my body when I emerged from water, which is not so flattering when you look like me). With key secured, we slid down many slides and took part of the activities in the wave pool, which was mostly bobbing. Emerging, I felt for the key and found it where it should be, in a suit that did NOT cling to my body, thereby sparing nearby strangers the embarrssment of experiencing my shortcomings and feeling the need to give me sympathetic looks. Next up was the lazy river, an attraction in which you float, lazily, in a lazy current. And as I got up from the tube, my hand when automatically to my cro-- er, pocket, and, hmm, no bulge. But I had a key, so there should have been. A bulge, I mean.
No key.
No (expletive deleted for fear of offending censors) key.
Fuck!!!! (Expletive not deleted to express righteous anger).
The authorities were duly informed, who responded quickly and decisively with two guys walking slowly around the lazy river. Surprisingly, they found nothing. Despite their best efforts to appear concerned ("You the guy with the key? Sorry"), we wondered if perhaps we would be better served by telling them one of our kids had just crapped in the lazy river, and they might want to think about draining it if they thought a floating turd might have an effect on the park's reputation. But no, I merely sent out Bryson and Hannah and Ryan to take a few laps and look for it, and they did, informing all those around them what they were doing, so as I waited at the point where people departed the river, I lost track of the number of times I heard, "You the guy who lost the key?" followed by, mumbled of course, "What a dumb shit."
But then out of nowhere, a word of success. They had located a youngster who did indeed recover the lost key, with the word "Toyota" emblazoned upon it and, seized by the opportunity to help his fellow man, promptly tossed it over the fence of an adjacent miniature golf course. Well, initial word was "Tossed." About 20 minutes later, with myself and a lifeguard combing the nearby vegetation, the toss was more accurately described as a "hurl," and then, a bit later, as "He totally whipped it."
Resigning myself to the loss of one key, my friend Paula called our neighbor Julie, who had keys to Paula's house, where there was a garage door opener to my house, inside of which, on a kitchen counter, was a spare set of car keys. Twenty minutes later she arrived, I took possession of said keys, and we were able to escape without ever meeting the fine lad who found the key and mistaked the adjacent miniature golf course for the lost and found department.
And that was my night.

So a Bryson story -- I picked him up from school Thursday and on the way out, his mom said to me, "We had a talk about sex. I'll tell you more later." Seeing as how she wanted to talk to me first before I brought it up to Bryson, I asked Bryson about it (because that is the kind of ex-husband I am, and speaking of which, not too long ago I was in her classroom and one of the parents came in and heard Bryson call me dad, so the parent says to her "Is this your husband?" and she stammers, pauses, stammers some more and says, "He's, uh, that's Bryson's dad" as if I am some sort of dirty little secret, which I am, not that there's anything wrong with that).
"Bryson, your mom tells me you had a talk."
"A talk?"
"Yeah, about, you know, stuff."
"About what stuff?"
"Boy and girl stuff."
"You mean S-E-X?" (yes, he spelled it out)
"Yeah, that's it."
"We talked about it."
"What did you say? What did she say?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because she said I can't tell anybody."
"Well, I'm pretty sure she was talking about your friends. Besides, bud, you're not going to tell me anything I don't already know." (I was hoping this was true.)
"OK."
"So what do you know?"
Pause, as if wondering if he would get in trouble. "That boys have different things than girls and girls have different things than boys."
"You already knew that."
"But when they kiss and stuff, and their privates touch, the girl's thing goes into the guy's thing and the guy's thing goes into the girl's thing and you can have a baby. That's when it's S-E-X."
I pause, wondering if he's going to spell it the rest of his life. "You know, that's pretty true. There's a little more to it than that, but it gets real complicated." (Boy, does it.)
"Like how?"
"That's a story for another time." (When you're 24.)
That's all.

Welcome to the first of an occasional series of Stuff That Really Bugs Me.

Coming home today from work. I am in the left lane, no cars between me and the next light in about a quarter mile. In the right lane is a Jag, windows so darkly tinted I can only assume someone is in the driver's seat. But what do you know, I'm wrong as the Jag slowly cruises over into my lane about a foot (seriously, no more than 12 inches) off my front bumper. No signal, just a cruise over because, as you know, those who drive Jags also own the road. It's right there in the owner's manual. Under the header, "Since you pay as much for yearly insurance as most people pay for their entire car, all asphalt within five miles of your car is yours so use it as you wish with disregard to laws and others."

Now the question is, do I honk? I had to slow down as soon as I saw the alleged driver make a move and saw he was going to make it over without contact. I was ready for him, knowing his ownership of the pavement. If I honked, he may have tapped his brakes out of sheer instinct learned during the days he did not own a Jag and with it the road. If he tapped his brakes I could have tapped his bumper, the noise of which would be heard by every Jag mechanic within 10 miles (though since we were in Mesa, I doubt there were any within 10 miles). And that Jag mechanic would be in the market for a fourth boat. And since the cops would arrive, note that it was a Jag, point out to me just how much of the road the alleged drive owned, I would not only be ticketed, but be responsible for repairs, and there goes my kid's college education fund. So instead I merely screamed at him, shaking my fist like an old codger, and wondered how much I was withdrawing from the Karma bank for venting my fury at someone who owned the kind of vehicle that entitled them to the right of way wherever, whenever. Of course, I silently hoped that within the next mile, said Jag would be T-boned buy a Hummer, which also owns the road and is way bigger.