Ever randomly smell something in the air that instantly takes you back to your childhood? I get that sometimes. It, for some reason, most often brings me back to the county fair. The smell of fryer grease and body odor is strangely a combination that unfailingly transports me to a time when I was freshly marvelling at the freedom of running around in public without my parents looking over my shoulder. Probably the last place you want to let your children loose, but, hey... the 80's were a different world.
It's odd that specific smells can have the power of time travel. It's not the same with sights. I find it much more difficult to bring back as vivid a memory when I see something that reminds me of my youth. Or hear something. No, the nose is the ticket.
But I digress... That isn't what I really wanted to talk about. My original intention was to explore the senses, yes. But more to compare the intensity, or clarity, of my senses with those of others. My wife's, specifically.
Don't worry, she's not reading this. If I disparage her in any way in my blog, she'd never know it. Don't get me wrong, she has access. I made her download the app and everything. She might have read maybe the first entry. But only to indulge me. She doesn't find my thoughts humorous anymore. She's lived with them for too long. She barely notices my eccentricities. I'm no longer amusing to her. She's seen this movie too many times. She knows the jokes too well, has the dialogue firmly imprinted on her poor brain. That's why I have you! A new audience! Who isn't already sick of my shit (and if you are, then why are you still reading this?).
Too often, I need to ask someone to repeat what they just said to me. Yes, yes, we all do that. But I've had to do it so often and for so long, that I've found myself often just smiling and nodding after the second repeat. I would miss a word or two, then I'd need to look for context in what followed so I could fill in the blanks with what I assumed they just said. I was not always correct in that assumption. Which, of course, leads to all sorts of miscommunications. This has happened embarrassingly too often. Also, when I'm focused on listening for context, my brain has trouble keeping up with the direction the conversation goes in. So, not only did I miss a crucial word a minute ago, but now I'm also hopelessly lost with the rest of the conversation. At this point, I'm probably looking for escape.
Again, digression. The point is, my hearing sucks (the fact that my ADHD compiles the problem is fun for another bloggy). I have a hearing aid to prove it. It makes a humungous difference in some situations, but I still have trouble in even moderately noisy environments. My wife, Trish, on the other hand, can hear a whisper from another room. During a thunderstorm. With the TV on. While wearing headphones. It's incredible!
Sometimes, she'll hear some noise. A whistling, a swishing, a thumping, whatever. She'll hear it, then command the house to Shush. Everyone stands frozen, paused in the middle of whatever was going on before The Shush. The television instantly mutes. One of the kids is standing on one foot, leaning precariously into their next step. A ball is hanging in mid air, defying gravity so as not to defy The Shush. Even the traffic in the street comes to a standstill. There we all are, as silent as the vaccuum of space, heads cocked to the side like curious puppies, listening intently for A Sound. "Listen!" We all listen. None of us hear. Mom is crazy. "There!" Still none of us hear. "Do you hear that?!" Nope. Nothing. Not a peep. "It sounds like..." She gets up from the chair and walks slowly down the hallway. She listens. We all listen. Nothing. But she turns into the bathroom, guided by something none of us perceive. A moment later, "Come here!". I come. "Listen." I listen. "The faucet is on." It is. Trickling slowly down the drain. Now I hear.
She has the nose of a bloodhound, too. She wrinkles up her face. "What is that?!" "What?" "That smell!" We all start sniffing, 4 pairs of nostrils flaring. It's usually one of the kids' feet. I get up close. Nothing. Closer. Nothing. I pick up a foot. It jerks back, untrusting. "I'm not trying to tickle you!" I grab the foot again. I bring the thing closer to my face. Then it hits me like a hammer. I recoil with disgust. "That thing attached to your leg! Its dying! Put it out of its misery!" My children are animals.
I have trouble discerning whether I am seriously lacking in the sensory department, or Trish is superhuman. Maybe both. The gap is that large. Seriously. Still, put her nose and ears in a match with anyone, my money's on Trish. If they had matches like that, I'd be rich! I mean, we'd be rich.
Now I'm picturing two floating 4' noses in the ring. I guess maybe they'd just bang up against each other? Or maybe their nose hairs will extend and bunch up to form boxing gloves to punch each other with. I swear, my brain broadcasts these cartoons to me all day long! It wasn't until now that I finally realized I have a way to broadcast them to others! This blog is my own Whatever This Is Cartoon Network! I'll have to make a catchier name than that, obviously. And I can't draw it for you with pencils, paint, or CGI. I describe it, you paint the picture. Less overhead on my end. Which is good, because in real life, these nose matches don't exist, I'm not rich, and I can't draw like that anyway.
While I'm digressing out of control, I should give credit to my daughter for some of the art you see attached to this blog. She's a pretty amazing painter. I'm a very proud dad. I enjoy expression through art, and I am happy that she got that gene. Some of the photography in here is mine, but most of it comes from Unsplash, a site that gives permission to use a collection of photographers' art. Great stuff in there! Trish, is also quite the photographer. She's had her work published in a local paper. Don't be surprised if her work also appears in the blog at times.
I'll wrap it all up and get back to the point (as if there ever really is one). If there is a burglar in the night, I will, guaranteed, sleep right through the robbery. If you need me to verify the smell of smoke because you suspect the house is on fire, I'm, again, not your guy. But if you want me to write up some ridiculous nonsense about the ordeal, making shit up along the way about toys defying gravity at mommy's command, and go off on various tangents that may or may not have anything to do with the original topic at all...
I'm your guy.
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