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Posts Tagged ‘serious wednesdays’

#725.

“What we’re really doing is turning him into a drug addict.”

That is my favorite sentence from a recent article about an escaped monkey loose in Tampa, Florida. Apparently, every time animal control hits this monkey with tranquilizer darts he just shrugs them off and keeps running around down town. He’s become a bit of a local celebrity and has his own facebook page, which lists one of his hobbies as “Messin’ with the popo.”

Boomerangs.

Mar 3rd by Jon
#721.

I only shaved a vanilla Ice inspired “rap stripe” in my eyebrow once.

I only almost killed myself skateboarding once.

I only got busted by the police for shoplifting once.

If I think about it, there are a handful of mistakes I have only made once. But for the most part, if I am honest, I tend to boomerang a lot of my sins. I’d like them to be “one and done,” an action that’s undertaken one time and then forever forsaken, but often I come back for a second go round.

Mice in our couches.

Feb 24th by Jon
#716.

“We found a family of mice that nested inside the cushions of your couch, so we need to throw it away.”

That was what a woman on a recent television show said to a homeowner. This is the moment where the homeowner says, “Wow, I had no idea. Gross, a whole family? Ugh, let’s throw that out.” But because the show I was watching is called “Hoarders,” that wasn’t the response she gave. Instead, the old woman whose home was on the borders of being condemned said simply,

Throwing up.

Feb 17th by Jon
#711.

Last Sunday was one of the worst days of my life.

I can say with very little Kent Brockman hyperbole that Sunday, February 14th will live forever on my top ten list of worst days ever.

Why?

Worrying about talent.

Feb 10th by Jon
#706.

Chances are, we’ve never met. We’ve never hung out or read comic books together or played racquetball. (Which Brian Regan calls the only sport in which you can be looking at the ball and get hit in the back of the head at exactly the same moment.)

But despite that, I do know at least one thing about you. I know that at some point, you’ve doubted that you had the talent to do whatever it is you feel called to do. Even if you don’t have a shadow of a doubt that you’re supposed to be doing what ever your “it” is, doubt creeps in. And so you don’t feel talented enough to be the one doing it.

Hope.

Feb 3rd by Jon
#701.

“Promise me if you go on the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, you’ll take me so I can sit in the audience.”

This is my father’s only request when it comes to the book release of Stuff Christians Like. I’ve never been on television. Two people attended the only meet and greet I’ve held. I’ve been assured by one of the biggest publishers in the world that Christian humor books simply do not sell. But I think that parents are required by DNA to hope. To believe that anything is possible if not down right probable.

Regret.

Jan 27th by Jon
#696.

“Can I talk to you for a minute in a conference room?”

A co-worker asked me that a few weeks ago. My first thought was of course, “I’m about to get fired.” Even though this was a peer and not a superior, I still thought that maybe I was about to get the ax. Call me paranoid, I just assume that when a girlfriend says, “We need to talk,” they’re about to dump you and when someone at work asks to “talk to you for a minute,” they’re about to fire you. I admit, it’s a very sweaty existence I lead.

But when we went into the conference room, the one that smells like dry erase markers and disappointment, he turned to me and said something I wasn’t expecting, “I watched someone die yesterday.”

#691.

In the 8th grade, the other wrestling team burst into laughter when I got on the scale in the locker room in my tighty whiteys because I was so skinny.

In the 9th grade, I shaved stripes into my eyebrows so that I would look more like Vanilla Ice.

In the 11th grade, I got dumped by a girl in a coat closet of a dance at the Polish American club in Worcester, Massachusetts.

In college, every frat rejected me.

I’m no stranger to failure and it’s many flavors, but what about you?

What if you fail?

What if that thing you want to do, just bombs? What if you get embarrassed? What if you leave a safe job for a new adventure and it’s all a big mistake and you regret every stupid minute that you thought you could do it and you end up gaining a lot of weight because you’re unemployed and eat macaroni and cheese for breakfast? (My summer of 2001.)

What if?

We worry about and that makes sense. I know right now, that if you’re like me, you wonder if you’re really doing what you were designed to do. You wait for the weekend and wonder if there’s a job where that wouldn’t happen. You wonder if there’s a mission or a goal or a journey you’re supposed to be on right now because such a small percentage of who you are, who you really are deep down is getting used at your day job.

And you think about trying something new, but that voice comes back in and you wonder,

“What if I fail?”

I wonder that too. The Stuff Christians Like book comes out in April and I sit down at night with my wife and talk about it not selling. At all. People have said that. Smart people with pleated pants and straight teeth have told me Christian humor books never sell. And I worry about that, about failing.

But I think as Christians, we have a duty, a responsibility, a call from on high to look at failure differently. So in the last few weeks I’ve come up with 3 new ways to answer the question, “What if you fail?”

#687.

“Are you OK?”

That’s my wife’s polite way of saying, “Why are you being such a distant, distracted jerk right now?”

She said that to me about a week ago and she was right. I was distant. I was distracted. I was a jerk. Above all, I was surprised.

Struggling with new.

Dec 30th by Jon
#678.

Please don’t be offended, but the Acuff family leaves vacations like bankrobbers fleeing the scene of a crime.

When we go on long trips or short weekend visits, we like to get up ridiculously early on the last day and beat the traffic home. I blame my upbringing. My family hit rest stops like a NASCAR pit crew. We timed our average miles per hour speed when we road tripped to Sunset Beach, North Carolina from Hudson, Massachusetts and sometimes I don’t think my dad even brought the car to a complete stop. My brothers and I would just tuck our shoulder and roll out into grassy medians like Hungarian circus performers, sprinting to the bathroom while my dad circled the parking lot.

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