Oblivious

“I didn’t do it!”

Sounds like something a seven year old child would say when caught in the act of perpetrating a misdeed doesn’t it? Well, you’re close it was my 80 year old mother-in-law when she stained our brand new living room carpet. The word OBLIVIOUS explodes in my mind; lacking remembrance, memory, or mindful attention. I’m trying to be civil. But with absolute certainty, it’s lack of mindful attention!

You see each year my mother-in-law invites herself for the wonderful Thanksgiving dinner Lori so lovingly prepares. Then proceeds to stay until after January of the new year, anyway . . .

This whole episode started in late October, our aquarium leaked and ruined what was left of our carpet. It was a slow leak and wasn’t noticed for a couple weeks. What a mildew mess. So now we have no choice but to replace it. Without hesitation we shopped around and found just the perfect carpet, at a great price, in hopes of having it replaced before Thanksgiving. Sadly it was not to be. The Monday after Thanksgiving the carpet installers show up and do a beautiful installation.

You’ve all experienced it, the pride of ownership. Our home had a facelift, no stains from previous pet accidents, no threadbare tracks from the mother-in-law’s walker, no ugly paths from the living room to the kitchen. We were so proud.

Then the disgusting tracks from the walker began to appear.

“Don’t worry,” said Lori it’s just the nap from the carpet. “This carpet is thicker and once vacuumed it will return to its new look.”

“Ok, if you say so,” I said.

A few days passed. Our new living room looked like a train had passed over the carpet from multiple directions. It was time to vacuum. I’d seen enough.

I fired up the Dyson. If you’ve never used a Dyson before let me just say this, it has the power to suck ground squirrels from their burrows. Well, not really, but you get the idea. To my astonishment the tracks from the walker were lifted. The carpet regained it’s plush, even appearance except for . . . The grease stains left in the pile.

“What! Grease stains!” I ejaculated.

Immediately came the infamous words, “I didn’t do it.”

“Then who did?” I asked. “The cat?” Oblivious . . .

I immediately tipped the walker up to examine its wheels. And what to my wondering eyes did appear but a big wad of despicable, greasy gum stuck to the wheels.

“Did you check your walker after going shopping?” I asked.

“No. I’m very careful not to run over anything,” she said.

“Then where did this wad of grease come from?” I was fuming. I just shook my head, shut my mouth, and cleaned the mess - Oblivious . . .

All I can say is when faced with the ultimate in selfish stupidity it’s best to go for a long walk to calm your nerves. Did the grease come off? Thankfully, it did.

Once again, the unexpected joy of family and the holidays - enjoy yours!

Oblivious . . .

Comments

Confidently Wrong: The Art of the AI Tall Tale

In this episode, A chat with Adamas the Chef on hidden recipes causing digital hallucinations. Pull up a chair and pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee—and please, for your own sake, taste it first. We need to have a quiet chat about why your computer sometimes decides to reinvent reality with the confidence of a five-star chef who has clearly lost his mind. In the world of technology, we call it a hallucination . It sounds pretty dramatic, doesn’t it? As if the computer decided to ignore your instructions altogether in favor of a vivid, technicolor imagination that simply hasn’t met reality yet. But in truth, an AI hallucination isn’t a breakdown; it’s just a very confident, very polite mistake. Think of it like our friend Adamas , the Chef. Adamas is a master of the kitchen, but he is also a bit of a romantic who refuses to say “I don’t know.” When you ask him for a classic recipe he hasn’t made in years, he doesn’t stop to consult a cookbook—that’s far too pedestrian. Instead, ...

Opening Day Magic 2026 . . .

It’s back. Baseball—yes, baseball ! If you’re someone who finds themselves inexplicably drawn to this peculiar ritual, let’s be honest with each other: it’s a bit odd, right? I mean, 162 games. That’s a lot of hot dogs, a lot of standing around, and a lot of grown men in oddly tailored trousers spitting with remarkable precision. And yet, here we are, poised on the precipice of another season. Thursday, March 26, 2026, to be precise—Opening Day. It’s a curious thing, this Opening Day. You walk into a stadium, or turn on the TV, and suddenly, everyone is infected with a highly contagious strain of . . . Optimism . It’s a spectacular form of collective amnesia. All of last year’s fumbles, the endless losing streaks, the existential dread of watching your bullpen implode in the eighth inning—poof. Gone. It’s entirely replaced by a wide-eyed, childlike belief that this year, finally, the baseball gods will smile upon us. The Cycle of Hope and Despair As a Cubs fan, I know this cycle intim...

Ode To Gemology

For over 80 years, students of gemology have struggled with spectrums, bewildered by birefringence, and simply plagued by pleochroism. The following sonnet is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face, a glow to your heart, and a simple reminder that students of life and gemology rediscover nature's gifts every day. Ode to Gemology , by a GIA on-campus student. Dispersion, fire, adventurescence. Orient, sheen, or iridescence. Refractive index, high or low. The luster should indicate that, you know. Polarization, double or single. What to do now, they intermingle. Pleochroic colors you really should see. Was that only two, or actually three? Birefringence should help you a lot. Use your polarizer and watch the spot. Now, did it jump most on low or high? Sure, you can get it if you really try! Your liquids should be an aid, I think. Does it float, suspend, or slowly sink? Just use your imagination now. (He doesn't see me wiping my brow.) Solid inclusions or only bubbles? Huh, th...

The Cowardice of Corporate Jargon

Picture this: an email lands in your inbox. A colleague—maybe even a friend—needs a favor, a second set of eyes, a moment of your time. You sigh, stare at the glow of your monitor, and type: “I’d love to help, but I just don’t have the bandwidth right now.” Hit send. Problem solved. Conscience clear. Except it shouldn’t be. Most of us have said or sent that line at least once, hoping it would land gently. On the surface, it’s perfect—efficient, polite, even self-aware. And that’s exactly the problem. It lets you decline without ever quite telling the truth. You didn’t just say no; you softened the discomfort of being human until it barely felt like a feeling at all. Instead of admitting, I’m overwhelmed , or I don’t have the energy , you reach for the sterile vocabulary of a server room. You turn a feeling into a metric. A boundary into a system limitation. Apologies, my data transfer rate is capped. Please submit a ticket to my emotional help desk. It’s a clever little trick—and an un...

On The Fly

Search This Blog