Dirt spilling down the drain.

Skin born again.

Friday the Thirteenth, that helps explain it.

Coming into work, I used the restroom. I flushed. I washed my hands. I prepared to exit. Only problem, the toilet kept running. And running. And running. Embarrassed, I jiggled the handle. Nothing.

I considered calling Facilities, but really, who wants to be “that guy?” Running toilet guy. Nope. I needed to figure a way to wait it out.

I jiggled the handle some more. Nothing. I prayed. Nothing. I tried jiggling the handle several more times. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

It felt as if hours had passed (actually, it was probably two minutes). I jiggled the handle one more time. Miracle of miracles, it stopped. The water stopped running!

I high tailed it out of there.

Flash forward to later in the day. I was using a different Men’s Room. Standing at a urinal (sorry, it’s a critical part of the story), the urinal next to me flushed. No one else in the room. No reason for it to flush. A phantom flush. Super creepy.

I washed my hands and high tailed it out of there.

My friends, I did not believe in ghosts, but now I am beginning to suspect that Potty Poltergeists are real.

I had arrived home. My boys all retreated to their rooms. Even the dog was still. The only sound that remained was the soft bubbling of the crock pot on the kitchen counter. A feeling of guilt washed over me.

I should be chasing my boys off their screens. I should be playing with the dog. Vacuuming. Laundry. Dinner. A thousand things that I should be doing.

But the silence was beautiful and so rare. I welcomed it. I rested with it. An unexpected visitor that I invited to stay.

And the crock pot kept bubbling.

As he sat on the floor, I could see that my friend, Kirby the Beagle, was struggling. Repeatedly licking the top of his mouth, Kirby was struggling to dislodge a string caught in his teeth. His rope toy was falling apart and a loose string was now causing grief.

Approaching Kirby, he looked at me with suspicion. I gently grabbed his head and pried open his lips. Using my index finger and thumb, I began loosening the string.

A thought crossed my mind, equally disturbing and unlikely. What if Kirby decided to chomp off my finger like a rabid lion?

Well, needless to say, Kirby appreciated my emergency assistance and he allowed me to remove the string. All my fingers survived.

Turns out, Kirby is more like a lamb.

Walking through the grocery store, my face lit up. I had spotted a new product, which is always a highlight for me.

It was a Cadbury “Scream Egg.” Get it? Ha, ha. In time for Halloween, a “Cream Egg” filled with green cream. I was in a state of new product bliss, especially because my son, who loves Cadbury Cream Eggs was standing next to me.

In delight, I pointed out the new candy. Turning to me and responding in a matter of fact tone, he said, “Lately, the taste of chocolate has been making me feel sick.”

I smiled, because I have heard very similar phrases before. Phrases uttered by someone that I love. Phrases delivered by his health conscious mother.

My son was speaking “mom speak” and I had no response. Just the way it should be.

So the other day, my teen son was driving me around on some errands.

Traveling down a quiet stretch of road, my son activated the hands free option to change the radio station via voice command.

Car’s Automated Voice, “State a command.”

Me seizing the moment, before my son could speak, I provided a command for the car, “Scratch my butt.”

Then I laughed and laughed and laughed at my dad-style cleverness.

Juvenile humor, oh yeah, I speak that.

As I begin to inventory my less than perfectly functioning body parts, I believe Middle Age can best be summarized as the following.

Your body is no longer pre-certified used and now you are just hoping that there is some value remaining at trade-in.

This morning, I was described as “Handsome, smart, and friendly. A treasure.”

Okay, I’m going back to bed, because days don’t get better from there.

I recently saw this State license posted in an elevator.

I still rode the elevator to the top floor, because being a bad speller doesn’t necessarily disqualify you from being a fine elevator inspector.

At least, I pray that is the case.

A few months ago at work, my friend Lisa and I attended a meeting with a new co-worker from another department to provide some project background and offer some basic assistance. I of course brought cookies to the meeting.

Earlier today by the elevators at work, Lisa ran into that same co-worker from the other department. In the course of conversation, the other person asked Lisa, “What is the name of your co-worker (a.k.a. me)? He’s the best!”

Yep, that’s right folks. I’m the best! Carve it in stone. Put it on the ol’ resume. Now, it’s official.

My secret? Always start a meeting with cookies on the table.