Someday, somebody's gonna ask you

Even though I often feel I don't know jack, I recently learned that the Boy(s), at least the Elder Boy, think I'm a veritable answer man. You see, Dear Reader, the other night, Boy #1 pissed his bed. I was jarred from my night night around 4am by the sound of his voice calling to me from the dark hallway. As I groggily pulled his wet pajama bottoms off in our main bathroom, my first instinct was to point out that he more than likely pissed his bed because he was to lazy to try and pee before he went night night the previous night. Surprisingly I held my tongue, figuring he already felt bad enough, and the last thing he needed was his Dad doing the, I told you so, thing. Plus, I am supposed to be the one in charge of him using the bathroom before bed, and well, I suck, and was getting the payback I deserved.

I didn't have time to beat myself up about it though, you see, I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the Boy and his wet bed. I had recently watched Big Daddy, and thought I could do the newspaper trick, only we don't take the paper. I was considering paper towels when my Lovely Bride threw me a life line from our warm bed by telling me to put the Boy on his trundle bed.

Good idea, but even so, I didn't tell My Lovely Bride, I just grunted in her direction, as if that was the obvious choice and what I was planning to do all along. Truth be told, if My Lovely Bride hadn't offered her expert advice the Boy would have had to sleep on a bed of Brawny. Since I'm being all honest, I might as well tell you truth be told 2, you see, My Lovely Bride actually would get most of the payback that I deserved since she washed all the Boy's bedding. See, I do suck.

Fast forward a few minutes and we're both sleeping low (which is Ethanese for sleeping on the trundle bed.) I was about to return to my own bed when the Boy started to go into an elaborate story on why he peed in his bed. The Boy is shrewd. I'm sure there was some truth to the story, which had to do with ghosts and dinosaurs. There was also something about window blinds, but the main point was he had a bad dream. A nightmare. Scary enough to pee the bed? Who knows. The story he was telling me though, was his way of trying to keep me in his room without simply asking me to stay. So, I cut to the chase and said, if he wanted me to stay awhile, I would, just ask. He did. I said yes, and then we shook on it (a curious habit of ours, all about trust, and my obsession with walking my talk.)

This seemed to please the Boy enough to abandon his epic why I peed the bed story and just be quiet for a few moments. But, then, out of the blue, he asked my why he had nightmares? And then added, why do people have nightmares? Damn. Good question.

Not really sure, and under prepared to go into a lengthy discourse at 4am on brain cycles during sleep and REM and all that - I decided to shock the Boy with a revelation that would serve as a diversion and get us away from his question. I told him, that I also have bad dreams and get scared. That everyone does. His reply to this shocking news - Why? Damn, the Boy is Mr. Question (more payback I hear, as my Pop - the Boy(s) Pops - tells me I was the same way.) Again, under prepared to answer such a question at such a late (or early) hour, I told him he needed to go to sleep, we could talk about it more in the morning.

So, there we were, both sleeping low, him drifting off to night night and me with my monkey brain thinking about why people dream and get scared, and why the Boy asked so many questions. Why did I ask so many questions? My thinking why I'm always asking why got me onto something, albeit goofy, that I've been absolutely puzzled about for the past few weeks. Tomorrow being Cinco de Mayo, I figure it is as good of time as any to throw it out there.

Q: Why are there so many water stores and kiosks (where you can fill up 5 gallon water jug) in hispanic communities?

I live in an area where there are a lot of hispanic folk, and these places are everywhere. Hell, they even have one in the parking lot of a grocery store and it is shaped like a windmill. Seriously. You can drive up and fill up your 5 gallon water bottle. I'm fairly certain that this windmill (and the other strip mall shops that do this) are selling tap water? The same water the people would get at home, assuming they have running water, which I'm sure they do? A lot of the people in this area live in apartments, which I think include water as part of the rent? I don't think there is some magical spring under the windmill? Still, these good hard working people, often walk a long way lugging these heavy 5 gallon jugs to these water shops and then pay for water? Curious? What gives?

Oh, and while we're on the subject of water and latinos, another thing that perplexes me. Why do hispanic people like to put ice in their milk?

Right about now (funk show brother), you might think I'm trying to be all Jerry Seinfeld pointing out the obvious funny. Or you might think I'm a racially insensitive gringo ass. You can think what you want, just answer these two questions, cause all kidding aside, I'm sincerely curious and have spent entirely to much time considering both questions.

Until I BLOG again...Why?