A word on spam

So, I'm a brand new blogger. Whoo hoo. Except my blog is blocked. Because it could be spam. Only it isn't. There's some algorithm for determining what is and isn't the s- word. (I figure repeating a word is one of the ways the bots decide what's a real post and what's (you-know-what). So, I did something the bot-thingys did not like that triggered an alert.
So much of life is clutter these days that even the useful - or potentially useful - stuff is now being screened out.
At one point in life I gave up on network television shows because of the volume of the commercials that run during them. I get sucked in now and then when someone else is watching one - read my lovely wife.
Although I sometimes DVR a show and feel good about fast forwarding through the commercials, I'm just consuming them at a quicker pace without the sound.
I hate billboards that detract from a lovely drive in the country. The worst are billboards that advertise the use of billboards to advertise products. Whenever I read a billboard touting the great benefits of using billboards to get the word out, I want to puke. How do I get those two seconds I just lost back.
On the other hand, when I play the ABC driving game with my son and we're trying to take letters from billboards to get from A to Z I suddenly realize the problem with billboards isn't that there's too many of them.
There's simply not enough with qs and zs.

Welcome Mat, love bugs, sand burrs and autism

We started a new life in a new place in September. My family moved from a subtropical climate subject to hurricanes and love bugs - Ocala, Florida. We moved to a subtropical climate subject to hurricanes and sand burrs - Carolina Beach, NC.
Don't get me wrong. I am loving everything about Carolina Beach.
The love bugs were a pure pestilence. Little strange black insects that were always conjoined. Perhaps they were mating. A perpetual embrace. They died together on your car windshield and the front grill of your car and could not be scraped off using conventional methods. They required special chemicals.
I merely pick the sand burrs out of the fat tires of my beach bike. I must remember to carry tweezers with me for this. Because there's nowhere to grab a burr without a little pain.
The best thing about Carolina Beach is the ability to ride a bicycle around with my ten-year-old. He just learned to ride. It's a huge thing for him because he's autistic, and his mastery of skills proceeds along a somewhat tortured route.
His much delayed First Times that are rife with suspense and angst and joy.
You hold your breath. Will he tie his own shoes? Waiting...waiting...no, that's a knot that resembles a bow...okay, that's the first part....ok...now you've got it.
So, within a few weeks of being here we took the training wheels off his bicycle. He learned to ride. Learned to stop. Now he goes back and forth to school on his own, legs pumping quickly.
Now that Avery is becoming more independent, I'm looking for work.
I pick out sand burrs. Some are more difficult to dig out than others.
But life is good. I am embracing the moment. If the sand follows us from the beach and gets into the bedsheets at night, that's okay.
The tide comes in. The tide goes out. Every day something new and shiny is left behind. I stoop and pick it up.
Sometimes, it's something completely different.