A Memorial Memorial Day: the not-so-triumphant return of Bag Stranded

The morning of Memorial Day I woke up, as usual, with my youngest child just in time to catch the last re-airing of the previous night’s Sports Center, before anyone was willing to wake up and comment on sports all over again. I was exhausted from the preparations that I undertook with my oldest child having what we lovingly refer to as a puking spell the night previous. Luckily, the spew only flew twice before going to bed, though I had readied myself for an all-night hourly vomit session. So I had a hard time going to bed and I didn’t stay there for too long. To top things off, Miranda was feeling under the weather as well. I had been looking forward to a meaty BBQ and Miracle-Whip-based-pasta-salad fest with the extended family, but I was sadly coming to the realization that it might not happen.

The stress hormones that are released in my body when I have to play the caretaker to my ailing family is a great way to reevaluate all of the things that are going wrong in my life. 5:00 in the morning is a good time for that as well. And so I mulled over my plans for the future, and inevitably, my hopeless and lately lacking devotion to this blog was one of the first things that came to my mind.

So, the fact that I have not been “active” on this blog lately is something that has been weighing heavily on my mind. My lack of writing has not been from a lack of will, but rather a lack of time. Well, let’s call it a lack of will to spend time doing it when I could just as easily spend that time catching up on TV Land reruns of Barney Miller’s 7th season (or the “Golden Season” as it is known in some circles). I love Bag Stranded, even if you might not. I hate the idea of blogging, but I love the experience of writing and there is no better subject to write about than my less than worthwhile existence. Though it takes work, I actually like sharing information with you that you never really wanted to know in the first place, but which might be kind of amusing at some point.

I have never been very good at keeping the lofty goals I set for myself. For examples, please refer to January 2nd of every year of my entire life. But as I sat watching Hannah Storm and her misshapen body dictate something about how LeBron James’ love of gyros might mean a move to the Greek leagues next year, I realized that it might be time for me to change my ways. Along with drinking less carbonation, abstaining from compulsively eating processed cheese slices, and finally learning how to speak Arabic, I realized that I should devote more time to my little blog and its little, so very little, group of fans. Being the terrible goal-setter that I am, I prayed for a sign to know if making these resolutions was something that would be sustained by a higher power.

Then it appeared.

Opening the blinds and looking into my backyard, a peacock the size of a Dodge Stratus was preening itself beneath the Japanese elm. It was mind-numbingly glorious. How it appeared in my backyard was a mystery, but I was convinced that this giant peacock was sent to me as a cherubic sign that my goals were, in fact, approved by deity.

Later in the morning, while the wife and children watched fully-protected behind the sliding-glass door, I went out to feed the peacock bird seed, sliced carrots, and Frosted Cheerios. I cautiously approached it and it cautiously eyed me. It’s neck turned to try and see me at all angles and it’s crest dangled from the top of its head like some type of tassel from a Lebanese belly dancer. Meanwhile, my wife and children waited in anticipation for the bird to do something like put its tail feathers on full display or savagely eviscerate me with its beak. I whispered in a way so that my family could not see how crazy their husband and father had become. “Thanks for coming. I’ll try to do better with my life.” The peacock faced me directly, stared into my eyes, and opened its mouth to reveal its gravelly, purple pointed tongue. However, rather than a James Earl Jones-esque voice bestowing divine wisdom on my behalf, the peacock emitted a little gagging sound and dropped from its mouth a partially digested carrot slice.

It flew away, or pounced, or whatever peacocks do just a short time later. I don’t think that I have the ability to be an interpreter of signs, so I guess that the backyard peacock is as good of a sign as any. And, one of the easiest goals that I can set for myself and one of the most rewarding to keep (arguably ahead of moderating my cheese slice intake) would be to write a Bag Stranded article once a week. And that is exactly what I am going to do. So, to my loyal fans: thanks for sticking with me through this latest rough patch. For any new readers: sorry if I don’t live up to the hype that got you here. Please be sure to check back here into Bag Stranded every Friday where I will post a new article about some other embarrassing facet of my life. It can and it will be done, so sayeth the peacock.

The feathered oracle.