Get your motor running, head out on the highway. Looking for adventure, or whatever comes our way….

A number of years back, my brother and his family were visiting us here in Denver. We went out someplace for pizza. I remember very little about that particular restaurant visit, except that instead of having our usual sausage pizza, we tried the all-meat pizza. You know, the one with ground beef, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ham, buffalo, beef liver, ground turkey, whole chicken thighs, rattlesnake, pork chops, barbecued brisket, and any other kind of meat you can think of. Bill liked it; I didn’t particularly care for it.

After dinner, Bill – who knows exactly how to get on my very last nerve like an Exasperator Ninja Master – said to me, “Wasn’t that so good, Kris? That’s going to be our new pizza. Yes, indeed. Our neeeeeew pizza.”

And I was sucked in like he was an industrial-sized Hoover vacuum cleaner.

“No, it’s not,” I said. “I didn’t really like it that much. It’s not something I want to order again.”

“Yep,” Bill said, smiling happily. “It’s our neeeeeew pizza.”

And he said it about twice an hour for about two days. And each time he said it, I would get mad. Until my brother – who loves Bill as much as anyone – said to me, “Kris, he’s trying to get to you. Don’t engage.”

From that point on, whenever Bill is being a brat and trying to get me to engage in his tomfoolery, I just say to him, “You don’t mean it. That’s just our new pizza.” I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing his pranks.

The other day, however, we were eating breakfast with our son Allen and his girlfriend Emma, and began talking about scooters. Out of the blue, Bill told Allen, “I think Kris and I might sell both of our scooters. You know, we’ll probably get a good price for them as a pair.”

I nearly had a heart attack. You see, I love my scooter. In fact, I absolutely adore my scooter. It’s my favorite thing about summer. My happiest day when we get home from AZ is the day I see all of my kids and grandkids. But the second happiest day is when Bill gets my scooter started for the summer.

I spoke up quickly, saying that I wasn’t interested in selling my scooter because I ride it almost daily. The subject was dropped, but I, being me, didn’t forget it. As soon as we were alone, I asked him, “What on earth are you thinking? I am absolutely NOT, under any circumstance, going to sell my scooter. No way, no how.”

And what did he say in reply? “I know you’re not. It’s just our new pizza.”

Will I never learn?

But back to my scooter. I have owned it for something in the neighborhood of 13 or 14 years. When I was younger and braver, I rode it everywhere in the summer, including downtown to work. I would start riding it to work early enough in the spring that I would have to wear a jacket and gloves in the morning. Late afternoon, when I would ride home, it was warm enough to go jacketless and feel the sun on my arms and back. Pure heaven.

One of the first times I rode my scooter (I bought it in early summer), I was riding past a swim club and the scent of sunscreen hit my nostrals. I was in heaven! I loved the wind in my face and the sounds and sights around me in clear sight. I still do.

While Maggie Faith has never been a passenger, she joined me on my scooter a few years ago.

Nowadays, I don’t take it quite that far. As I’ve aged, I’ve become a bit more cautious. I have never laid it down, and I never plan to do so. But I have a goal for the summer. I want to learn to ride with a passenger. Even after all of these years, I have never had a passenger. I would love to be able to give my grandkids a ride on Nana’s scooter. I think I will start small (maybe Mylee or Maggie Faith) and work my way up to Adelaide.

This post linked to Grammy’s Grid.

The other day, I was driving home from having breakfast with Court, when my cell phone rang. It was my sister Bec calling to just say hello – or so I thought. She, in fact, had something astounding to tell me.

As background, recall that Bec lived 30 or so years of her life in northern Virginia in a suburb just outside of Washington D.C. When you live in our nation’s capital, your local news is the national news. She was used to hearing her local newscasters talk about the national deficit or what the president had signed into law that day. So, she is adjusting to Local News:  Arizona Style, where you are liable to hear stories about exorcisms, cats stuck on top of saguaro cacti, or rattlesnake activities.

But the morning news had offered a news story so bizarre that it resulted in her telephoning me to do a reality check. You know, just an opportunity to make sure that I too thought this particular news story was, well, odd. I did.

It seems a man in Arizona was threatening a lawsuit because the Arizona Department of Transportation wouldn’t allow him to wear a spaghetti strainer on his head in his driver’s license photo. The questionable headgear is apparently an essential element of his religion. He is a Pastafarian, a religious sect that calls itself the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. He believes he is being discriminated against based on his religion.

Heck, his religion is probably no stranger than those that encourage the handling of poisonous snakes. The reality is, more than likely, they (the Pastafarians, that is) likely have their tongues firmly placed in their cheeks when they talk about the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Still, it begs the bigger question: No matter your beliefs, who wants to wear a spaghetti strainer on your head? It’s simply not a good look on anybody, perhaps me least of all…..

It would, perhaps, come in handy in some situations. Like if you are cooking a spaghetti and meatball dinner for your family. I always have to scrounge around in my bottom cupboard looking for my spaghetti strainer. If I was a Pastafarian, I wouldn’t have to scrounge. I would just reach up and, voila! And the strainers these days come in all sorts of bright colors, so you could change up with your outfit for the day…..

If the rules aren’t too strict, you might even choose one with a perky-looking handle on the side……

This particular man chose a strainer that has a handle under the chin, thereby lessening the chance that he would lose it in one of Arizona’s famous haboobs.

I’m sure that the Pastafarians are trying to make a point that is important, at least to them. However, whatever that point is might be beside the point for me. Because the story made Bec and I laugh to the point of tears, and that’s always a good thing.

And, by the way, do you suppose there is a religion that would require the wearing of a dead animal skin on one’s head? If so, I have it covered….