Fashion Sense Made Easy

My wife coordinates her clothes. This means that she does not know what she'll wear on any given day. I don't know about you, but I would find that stressful. Not to mention it would add time to my morning routine. That cannot happen.

I've observed her behavior now for quite some time. She starts with her pants. If her class is going on a field trip, it's jeans. If not, it's pants. However, it gets more detailed than that.

If the field trip is to be outside (hot), then she'll go with the cropped pants that don't go all the way to her ankles. Then, the type of jean, meaning the material, comes into play. All the jeans look the same to me.

Same with the pants. Many of them are black. Just black. Most go from her waist to her ankles which, as one would expect, most pants do. At least, all my jeans and pants do. Despite the fact that women's pants are all made of different materials -- cotton, plastic, wool, titanium, polyester, steel, spandex, iron and the like -- black pants are black pants!

Then there is the whole matching thing. The shirt has to match, or complement, the pants color-wise, style-wise, material-wise and seasonal-wise. And the shoes? Whoa! What do you mean they have to match the outfit? Pure craziness!

I'd have to get up at 4:30 a.m. if I wanted to make it to school before my students!

I prefer the easy route. I have jeans and I have khakis. Every shirt I own matches my pants, no matter which pair I'm wearing. I line my shirts up in the closet in the order that I plan to wear them. And my shoes? I have one pair of work shoes and they match every one of my shirts and pants.

If GQ, Vogue, L'Official Hommes, Elle or any other fashion magazines would like to interview me on my fashion sense, please feel free to shoot me a message at the offices of Fuzzy, Black Dogs.

Fuzzy, Black Dogs... Plus One

An interloper has infiltrated the ranks of Fuzzy, Black Dogs.

This interloper sports a full, blonde coat. She, as she is a girl, is a bit younger than Bob. She also has energy to spare. She has a very shrill, loud bark, and she's not afraid to use it. She goes by the name of Roxy (which I sometimes spell Roxie, but my inconsistencies aren't what's important here!)

The dynamic, running duo.

Roxy, as it turns out, is a teacup size Pomeranian. Except she's not. Roxy was not supposed to exceed ten pounds, but someone forgot to tell her that. She may be as much as 26 pounds, give or take, which puts her about the same weight as Bob.

Though she is not black and does not have a white spot on her chest, the actual fuzzy, black dog constituency in my household seems to have accepted her. Roxie's eccentricities have allowed her to assimilate into our merry band of misfits.

My main worry is that the fuzzy, black dogs may harbor some resentments toward the newcomer. Roxy likes to run. I like to run. I often refer to her as my blonde running partner. This, of course, causes confusion until I explain that my running partner is, in fact, a quadruped.

Technically, Roxy belongs to my father-in-law, who I normally refer to as Pop pop. My wife and I recently moved in with Pop pop. Somehow, all doggy care seems to have fallen squarely into my lap.

I haven't yet shared the news with Pop pop that I am in search of some doggy dye. After all, if Roxy is to be fully incorporated into Fuzzy, Black Dogs, she will simply have to go Goth!

Educating Second-Graders

My second year as a full fledged teacher has placed me squarely in second grade. While I love my second-graders, they're just not the worldly wise third-graders with whom I got used to teaching.

The kids in my third grade class were bastions of worldly knowledge. They knew how to break a pencil without the teacher knowing/seeing/hearing, how to disassemble a mechanical pencil, and they knew that not all pens click. Some have caps!

My sweet little second-graders, however, are not quite as savvy as my third-graders were.


"You broke your pen, Mr. Haworth," one of my girls said to me last Wednesday.
"No," I responded. "It's just a cap. See?"

I took the cap off and snapped it back on to show her. She gave it a skeptical look and I opened and snapped it shut a second time.

"It's weird," she said.
"No. It's a Waterman," I joked.
"It's a whaa?"
"A Waterman," I said and held it closer for her to see.
"What's a Waterman?"
"A fancy pen. An expensive pen."
"Does it cost a lot?
"This one was about a hundred bucks."
"Say whaaa?!"

My second-grader looked me in the eye and scrunched one eye at me. It was a bewildered, serious look with just a hint of incredulity to it. Her look said 'man, somebody ripped you off if you actually paid money for a pen!'

"Ummm... Okay, Mr. Haworth."
She just turned and walked away from me.

Car Technology Jeeping Up on Me

Five vacation days and approximately five hundred miles later, I can tell you that, while technology might be fun and amazing, it's not always for the best.

We - my wife, her dad and I - rented a Jeep Grand Cherokee 4X4 for our recent beach tryst. The vacation went smoothly until five minutes down the road. I hadn't even left my home town when I thought I heard my mother's voice.

"The speed limit is 35 miles per hour," the car said.

The two other occupants in the vehicle found this wildly amusing. I silently cursed Jeep and plotted Gretta's demise. Gretta was the name I assigned the disembodied voice that Jeep put into the car to torture me for the next 200-some miles to the coast.

Somewhere around the 120 mile mark, we ran into a cloud burst. Just as I started to reach for the wipers, they began working. I nearly ran off the road. Stephen King's classic, Christine, ran through my mind.

Turns out the tailgate lifted itself. The high beams come on and off on their own. The vehicle told me how much fuel consumption I was using when I switched to manually change gears, which was considerably lower than when in automatic. Must be a Jeep glitch and not my driving. I'll mention that in my complaint letter to the company.

While I'm not 80, and I don't need a car to parallel park for me (I'm perfectly capable, thank you very much!), I will admit that I did particularly enjoy the seat warmer and cooler-offer. 

Curse Jeep for utilizing technology to try to make me drive safely and keep me safe, as well as create a comfortably enjoyable ride! I'm most upset for the technology Jeep didn't employ... Ejector passenger seats. By utilizing THAT technology, I could have slipped it into four wheel drive and really given that SUV a proper test drive!

My four wheeling suggestion made my passengers antsy, so to speak. New technology, Jeep, and I won't be drafting that official letter of complaint.

What's in a Name?

My mother, the family genealogist, believes in the power of names. She utilized family names for her own children, creating solid foundations for my sisters and myself.

It has been my understanding that when I was born, there was a lot of discussion that took place. Not what to do with me, but as to what my mother should name me.

According to my mother, she was leaning toward Edward, Stuart or Harper. Of these, Harper was a family name. My grandmother strongly suggested Beauwater, which she claimed was a traditional family name. Thank  goodness I dodged THAT bullet!

Some other family member suggested she use Harper for my first name. His reasoning? The best presidents and greatest men in history had the same first and last initial, like Woodrow Wilson, Herbert Hoover and Calvin Coolidge. According to my mother, these were the only examples he gave. Hmmm...

My mother entertained other suggestions and... Well, she entertained them. Harper just seemed a bit unusual to her, so she relegated it to my middle name. Phillip, though, just sounded right to her.

The irony in my name, however, is that Phillip means a lover of horses in Greek. While I don't hate horses, I can't say I'm a big fan of the furry, oversized creatures. I'd like to say the reverse is true, but it's not. Horses hate me.

Healthy... Or Harmful?

I recently turned 50 and made a shocking discovery about my mother. Despite evidence to the contrary, it turns out that she really wasn't trying to kill me off when I was younger!

For years she slipped the most peculiar things into my food. Then, she had the audacity to insist that I eat it! I was given no choice or voice in the matter! A couple of times she went so far as to threaten to save it for me for breakfast the next day. My life was like a horror movie, except I persevered!

Some of the poisonous, foreign objects were square, some round and some shapeless. They came in all colors like orange, red, yellow, brown and green. The textures and consistencies were sketchy too. Nothing digestible actually squeaks when you bite into it!

Most of it was unrecognizable, though some was. I always recognized the mushrooms. They were of the poisonous variety. I knew they were because every time I ate one, I would fall out of my chair, gagging for oxygen, while different colored orbs danced before my very eyes.

I accidentally ate one of these poisonous mushrooms recently. Yes, it squeaked when I bit into it. Magically, I didn't fall out of my chair. I didn't gag. No colors. No near death experience. By the grace of God, it seems that my body has built an immunity to the toxins.

That incident sent sparks flying through my neurons and synapses which, of course, led to my discovery. I started flipping through some of my recipes. Could it be that she was feeding me red, green, yellow and orange peppers? Onions? Cabbage and celery? Mushrooms, certainly. But squash and okra?

The items listed above are all items that I cook with consistently. My wife has even witnessed me consuming said items. Some of them I even find tasty.

Surely the onions I love to put on nearly everything I eat aren't the same as the ones my mother tried to feed me! Her opaque, and sometimes translucent, food articles she called onions sometimes sent me reeling. If memory serves me correctly, I developed hives after eating them. Or profuse sweating. Or maybe convulsions...

Roomba Missing! Reward!

He, as I call it since I've not ascertained the gender of my Roomba, was last seen in the hallway heading towards the front door. He's very short, round and black. He has moving parts on his underside and some glowing symbols on his back. He looks very similar to the one pictured below.

His dock has remained in isolation now for about six days. I suspect the dock is depressed due to its lack of activity and listless nature.

A reasonable facsimile of my Roomba.

The way I see it, one of three things has happened.

One, the Roomba is in hiding. I perceive the black coloration of my Roomba to be a flaw in his design. I've looked under the sofa. I've looked under the bed. I've looked under the furniture with the TV on it. I've even looked upstairs. No Roomba.

Two, Bob attacked and ate Roomba. Bob has been known to eat some strange things. Usually, these strange objects tend to show in his, um, excrement since they generally don't digest too well. However, nothing unusual has been spotted. Yet.

Three, the Roomba couldn't handle all the dog fur from three fuzzy, black dogs and somehow broke out of the house and is looking for a new owner. During the short while we had him, he sure complained a lot. It beeped constantly for its owners to empty its refuse containment unit.

Sadly, option three seems the most likely to me. So if you locate a loose Roomba roaming around the streets of High Point, please contact me at the offices of Fuzzy, Black Dogs, Inc.