{The Where's Waldo Theory}

So, I'm back for round two. 

Like every other week in the last five months, this one has not been a disappointment when it comes to compelling grandpa stories. I wonder if he knows he's so funny...most likely, no.

Despite my many accomplishments in life {such as mastering the hula-hoop, being meticulously clean, dominating anyone in "the count-and-capture" game Mancala, and packing suitcases like a pro...I get that from my papa. In fact, Jordan says I get all my most notable habits {that's what I call them; Jordan calls them compulsions} from that man...} Anyways...I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. Despite my many accomplishments {see above} I made a pretty impressive discovery this week. What was so impressive? For the first time in my life I successfully implemented the Scientific Method to produce a terrifyingly accurate theory. And today, I choose to unveil the findings.

Do you remember Where’s Waldo? If not, it’s unfortunate for you because I think that thick-spectacled man in the striped turtleneck molded my childhood. When I was little, I had not one, but two Where’s Waldo books at my house. I could spend hours looking through each page of disgusting, white trash cartoon characters packed in obviously hilarious places such as, the airport. A beach. A museum. Or even, Waldo Land {where every one looks like Waldo, but only one is the real Waldo! It’s crazy…} Anyway, regardless of the fact that I had memorized the pages and knew exactly where Waldo was hiding/lost to the world, I could still spend hours examining the books.   

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How does this circle back to grandpa?” Well, in the last week, we’ve had a shortage of acquaintances in the hospital, so the “Where’s Jordan?” conundrum has taken its place as the No. 2 topic of conversation.

Here’s how it goes:

Every day grandpa says, “Where’s Jordan?”

And every day, I say, “Well, Grandpa, he’s in Utah…at work…he comes home on weekends.”

Then grandpa says, “He works a lot.”

I say, “Yep.”

Grandpa says, “He likes computers.”

“He sure does, grandpa.”

Then, grandpa throws a twist in the conversation by stating, “I guess Jordan will be home later tonight, then.”

"No-"

Wait. Are we still in the same conversation? I didn’t think we’d finished talking about the fact that Jordan doesn’t live in this house 90% of the time. Didn’t we just establish that Jordan “works a lot,” every weekday, “in Utah?” {I’m sourcing the above conversation, in case you’ve also already forgotten the exchange.}

No matter how many times we come to the conclusion that Jordan lives and works in another state, grandpa still loves the conversation. This is in direct relation to Where’s Waldo. No matter how many times you’ve found Waldo, it’s always fun to look again for that crazy athazagoraphobic {a person who fears being forgotten or ignored – I looked it up and that’s the closest thing I could find to describing Waldo…}.

So, after {1} Stating my hypothesis, {2} Testing my hypothesis and doing bunch of other things that I’m sure are part of the Scientific Method, I’ve concluded that grandpa has Where’s Waldo syndrome {along with cardiac arrhythmias, melanoma and an uncanny love for stale sweets}.

Though many events added to this week’s excitement, I decided my scientific discoveries were of the most importance. You’ve all missed out on a horde of racial slurs and the ex-convict {who has his own name tattooed above his bellybutton…I know this because he comes to visit only half dressed, but of course I promptly remind him, “No shoes, no shirt, no service”… side note: my dad says his tattoo helps him remember his name when his head is up his … umm … well, you know {I had to edited his full comment for content}. 

But, don’t worry, I’ll be sure to talk more about the ex-con and grandpa’s version of “Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe” in future posts. It’s inevitable. Perhaps we’ll get to explore those other politically incorrect topics next week.  

Until then, I’m going to track down those old Where’s Waldo books and attempt to explain the unexplainable to my perplexing, old friend.