The last time it happened was December 2000, but it stuck with me enough to know exactly what was going on.
I motioned my wife over to me. "Listen," I said, pointing at my chest.
She, too, remembered. “It’s gurgling. We need to go.”
The gurgling she referred to was my ticker, which had just gone into what is known as atrial fibrillation, an incredibly annoying condition in which your heart beats all goofy, and it feels like there is a squirrel trying to escape from your chest.
Well, I say that it’s annoying, but I suppose other words could be used, since, left untreated, it can lead to stroke, which most would categorize as slightly beyond a simple annoyance.
I told my wife that I wanted to give it a little bit of time to see if it would get in line on its own. She did not think this was a wise course of action. I reminded her that the last time it happened, I waited all day, and even drove myself to the emergency room, so I would appreciate it if she would describe the decision as “less dumb than less last time.”
After a few hours, my heartbeat was way too irregular for my liking, so I conceded it was time to go.
When we walked into the emergency room, I could not believe my eyes ¬-- total number of people in the waiting room: zero. I have never seen a bored triage unit in my life.
I walked in and said, “Hi, I’m in atrial fibrillation, and I’d like not to be.” Certainly no doubt in their mind why I was there.
When I got to the back, I was hooked up to a machine and, indeed, very clearly in a-fib. My heart pattern on the computer looked as though my 3-year-old had drawn it.
The first course of action was an IV-drip of the medicine that was used last time. In 2000, I had been admitted to the cardio ward, and spent the night in the hospital. From the get-go, I made it very clear that I would appreciate it if they knocked this out, unplugged me and let me go, thus avoiding the whole admitted thing. “I am not a captive,” I told my nurse.
“Well, when you check into ER with a heart condition, you’re my captive,” she said.
The first dose of medicine slowed my heart rate down some, but it was still irregular. Apparently, an irregular heartbeat makes for great television, because I had a steady stream of people stopping in to check out my monitor. Eventually, I stopped watching, because it’s awful trying to figure out what it means when someone raises their eyebrows and says, “Hmmmmm.”
A second round of medicine was administered to try and get the heartbeat regular. After about 15 minutes, it was clear that it was not going to work. By this time, the cardiologist had come in, and it sounded an awful lot like he was planning on admitting me for the night. He told me we could try one more dose of medicine, and, as a last resort before admitting, he said, “We can shock you.”
Getting shocked, it turns out, would be exactly what I thought it would be. They would sedate me and stick two paddles on my chest, and shoot me full of electricity, supposedly getting my heart back on a normal rhythm. I asked him if it would be like on TV. He told me that I would jump a little -- and maybe get a couple of burn marks on my chest -- but that I wouldn’t flop off the bed like on TV. Bummer.
Much to my wife’s surprise, I told him that, if the last round of medicine didn’t work -- shock away. (In 2000, when the idea of shocking was presented, I was only calmed with the help of our good friends in the pharmaceutical industry.) But for some reason, I was ready to rock. Let’s do it.
The doctor said he would give the medicine 15 minutes to work, and then it was shock time. The doctor, nurse and my wife stood and watched the monitor. I watched the clock. At the 13-minute mark, the look on the doctor’s face changed. He turned to me. “I don’t think I’m gonna get to shock you,” he said, almost seeming a little sad. My heart had gotten back into gear, and I would be checking out soon.
The doctor has named caffeine as the main culprit. And I can see that. I love some coffee. As it is now, I am on day three without caffeine, and it’s actually not that bad. The last time this happened, I adjusted a few things here and there (such as NOT drinking four pots of coffee a day and extending my hourly sleep to at least four hours) and was on the mend in no time. I like to think of this as an isolated incident, and hopefully it won’t happen again. For one thing, no matter how tough I tried to act, I REALLY don’t want to get shocked.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Beach bums
It was only a two day trip to the beach, but it was jam-packed with a good time. I relaxed. I played. I let my children touch a jellyfish. What more could you want?
When we first got down to the beach, we went on the river in a boat. My dad drove the boat, with Allie perched on the seat with him. Parker, my wife and mother sat on a bench in the front. I perched over the front railing and repeatedly pretended not to hear my wife when she told me to sit down.
It was right at high tide, so we could scoot about in the marshes and see the turtles, birds, fish, etc. The kids were having a blast, and we decided it was a good time to follow the river out to where it meets the ocean. We were cruising along at a fairly good clip when, rather unpleasantly, we were not cruising at all. (Parker, who had fallen asleep in my mom’s lap, gently rolled off her lap and went upside down on a pile of boat cushions. He was completely unfazed by the whole thing.)
My dad and I knew we had to act quickly, since the tide was going out. We hopped out and began to push the boat back to deeper water. We would have had better luck trying to throw the boat to deep water.
We stopped for a moment to contemplate our options when my dad said, “Hey! A jellyfish! Grab it!”
You sunbathe and build castles, we beach a boat and snag jellyfish. To each his own. This particular jellyfish was a cannonball jellyfish, which my dad assured us did not sting. He assured the kids that it was fine to touch it by telling them, “Loggerhead sea turtles eat them.” I am not sure why, but that made them comfortable. So after pawing at the jellyfish for a while (and noticing a crab was scurrying about inside of it), we decided we should get back to freeing the boat. We pushed. We pulled. We grunted. We groaned. At that point, my wife suggested we rock the boat. Pshaw. You stay up there with the kids while the menfolk save the day.
More pushing. More pulling. More “Seriously, just rock it.”
After about six rounds of this, it was clear my mother and wife would have to get out and help. “We should rock it,” my dad said.
“Brilliant!” I said.
“Morons,” my wife and mother said.
After a few minutes of rocking and pushing, rocking and pushing, we eventually eased the boat into deeper waters. At that point, we were back on the river, where we learned something interesting about Parker: He can sleep standing up in a boat at full throttle. Despite the wind, the motor, and the bouncing on the waves, he leaned against my wife and just knocked out. That’s a great trick to learn.
Day two led us down to the beach, where Allie rode her bike, by my estimate, 600 miles. I am not sure how little 5-year-old legs can churn that much, but I know that I occasionally had to say, “Say, Allie, let’s stop for a minute and look for...a...uh...the Little Mermaid.” I can safely say that the pain in my...er...bike seat is proof that she did not, in fact, stop to search for Ariel. And it doesn’t help one’s ego, “Oh, come on, Dad! We can’t stop NOW!!!”
While Allie and I were on our bike ride, Parker found that he cannot, despite his efforts, catch a seagull with a bucket.
When we got back near the house, my dad, Parker and I were on walking on the road back to the house when Parker spied a large bug on the street. “Cicada?” I asked.
My dad quickly informed me that large bug on the road was, in fact, a giant water bug, a nasty dispositioned critter with a large beak it used to stab people who crouched over it on the street (or possibly to catch prey). (Note: It is always helpful to bring a biologist with you on trips.) As I eased in to get a closer look, the bug began to fly toward me, and I was not in the mood to be stabbed, so I did a nice moonwalk backwards to avoid him. As he got about 20 feet high in the air, the three of us watched when – SWOOSH!!! -- in came a grackle for dinnertime. It dropped the bug on the road, and another grackle came in and stole it. The look on Parker’s face was great. He said, “Uh....” We asked Parker what he thought the bird was doing. “He ated it!?!?!?” Fortunately, he thought it was cool, rather than being horrified.
Although it was only two days, it was a fantastic trip. It was boat riding, tree climbing, bike riding and swimming. It was everything a relaxing trip to the beach should be. Including the not-getting-stabbed-by-a-water-bug part.
When we first got down to the beach, we went on the river in a boat. My dad drove the boat, with Allie perched on the seat with him. Parker, my wife and mother sat on a bench in the front. I perched over the front railing and repeatedly pretended not to hear my wife when she told me to sit down.
It was right at high tide, so we could scoot about in the marshes and see the turtles, birds, fish, etc. The kids were having a blast, and we decided it was a good time to follow the river out to where it meets the ocean. We were cruising along at a fairly good clip when, rather unpleasantly, we were not cruising at all. (Parker, who had fallen asleep in my mom’s lap, gently rolled off her lap and went upside down on a pile of boat cushions. He was completely unfazed by the whole thing.)
My dad and I knew we had to act quickly, since the tide was going out. We hopped out and began to push the boat back to deeper water. We would have had better luck trying to throw the boat to deep water.
We stopped for a moment to contemplate our options when my dad said, “Hey! A jellyfish! Grab it!”
You sunbathe and build castles, we beach a boat and snag jellyfish. To each his own. This particular jellyfish was a cannonball jellyfish, which my dad assured us did not sting. He assured the kids that it was fine to touch it by telling them, “Loggerhead sea turtles eat them.” I am not sure why, but that made them comfortable. So after pawing at the jellyfish for a while (and noticing a crab was scurrying about inside of it), we decided we should get back to freeing the boat. We pushed. We pulled. We grunted. We groaned. At that point, my wife suggested we rock the boat. Pshaw. You stay up there with the kids while the menfolk save the day.
More pushing. More pulling. More “Seriously, just rock it.”
After about six rounds of this, it was clear my mother and wife would have to get out and help. “We should rock it,” my dad said.
“Brilliant!” I said.
“Morons,” my wife and mother said.
After a few minutes of rocking and pushing, rocking and pushing, we eventually eased the boat into deeper waters. At that point, we were back on the river, where we learned something interesting about Parker: He can sleep standing up in a boat at full throttle. Despite the wind, the motor, and the bouncing on the waves, he leaned against my wife and just knocked out. That’s a great trick to learn.
Day two led us down to the beach, where Allie rode her bike, by my estimate, 600 miles. I am not sure how little 5-year-old legs can churn that much, but I know that I occasionally had to say, “Say, Allie, let’s stop for a minute and look for...a...uh...the Little Mermaid.” I can safely say that the pain in my...er...bike seat is proof that she did not, in fact, stop to search for Ariel. And it doesn’t help one’s ego, “Oh, come on, Dad! We can’t stop NOW!!!”
While Allie and I were on our bike ride, Parker found that he cannot, despite his efforts, catch a seagull with a bucket.
When we got back near the house, my dad, Parker and I were on walking on the road back to the house when Parker spied a large bug on the street. “Cicada?” I asked.
My dad quickly informed me that large bug on the road was, in fact, a giant water bug, a nasty dispositioned critter with a large beak it used to stab people who crouched over it on the street (or possibly to catch prey). (Note: It is always helpful to bring a biologist with you on trips.) As I eased in to get a closer look, the bug began to fly toward me, and I was not in the mood to be stabbed, so I did a nice moonwalk backwards to avoid him. As he got about 20 feet high in the air, the three of us watched when – SWOOSH!!! -- in came a grackle for dinnertime. It dropped the bug on the road, and another grackle came in and stole it. The look on Parker’s face was great. He said, “Uh....” We asked Parker what he thought the bird was doing. “He ated it!?!?!?” Fortunately, he thought it was cool, rather than being horrified.
Although it was only two days, it was a fantastic trip. It was boat riding, tree climbing, bike riding and swimming. It was everything a relaxing trip to the beach should be. Including the not-getting-stabbed-by-a-water-bug part.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Oh, the horror
By MIKE GIBBONS
So a while back, I mentioned in a column that my 5-year-old daughter gets scared during movies. This weekend could be another test for her movie viewing mettle, when we take her to see “See No Evil.”
Ha! Kidding of course. I would never take her to see “See No Evil.” And I know that you’re thinking that is because “See No Evil” is an R-rated horror movie, and a child does not belong there. Sure, I suppose that’s one reason. But I can tell you another very good reason: Because you won’t catch me anywhere near a horror movie.
I confess, I cannot do horror movies. And it’s not because they’re bad movies. I love bad movies. But I just don’t do horror movies. Why? Because they terrify me and, I am embarrassed to say, I will have nightmares.
Yes, chuckle all you want. Enjoy it. I first realized that nightmares don’t mix well with me in the early 1980s, when I was about 10 and we received one of those free weekends for Cinemax. Whereas HBO kept the R-rated stuff on in the evenings, Cinemax was wide open all the time. And so one lazy Saturday afternoon, I flipped on the TV for some free Cinemax, and settled in for a quaint little family picture know as “The Shining.”
About four days later, I finally went to sleep. I remember my mother commenting that it was a valuable lesson learned. I remember thinking, “Lesson!?!?! I am afraid that if I shut my eyes, two creepy little twins are going to flood my room with blood! This is not a lesson! It’s a syndrome!”
So I carried that with me for years, avoiding at all costs horror movies. In high school and college, there were times when we got together to watch horror movies. Not wanting to tip my hand that I could not handle them,. I always managed to find something that had to be tended to elsewhere (”Yeah, I can hear it, just gotta finish alphabetizing the pantry.”) Basically, I tried to stay close enough to give the perception that I was watching the movie, even though I knew even catching a little bit of it would translate into nightmares.
Then, around 1996 or so, I decided that it was high time I kicked this irrational fear out the door. I am a grown man, and I am certainly not a chicken. I was at a friend’s apartment, and we watched the movie “Scream.” If you’re not familiar with ”Scream,” it is an intentionally campy slasher flick, paying homage to the horror flicks that came before it, with tons of surprise moments and references to earlier flicks. Enjoyable movie, I thought.
And then I woke up at about 3 in the morning, having just had a vivid dream involving an ax-wielding freak. And I can tell myself all I want that it was just a dream, but that doesn’t change the fact that my heart rate is racing and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat.
The whole thing really goes against my nature. I am not a scaredy-cat type. I have Bungee jumped and parasailed. I have caught alligators and venomous snakes. I have left an Atlanta Falcons game and walked back to the car at night. I know fear, and it doesn’t bother me. But when I watch someone on screen pretending to gut someone, something off-kilter in my warped little craw gets clicked, and it waits until I am asleep to ambush me.
The last movie that Allie had to leave was “Chicken Little.” My first inclination was to tell her that she was being ridiculous and then to toughen up. (Yes, I know – something for the Father of the Year application.) Then two things occurred to me: (1) She’s five and (2) I suppose being scared that the earth was about to be destroyed is on par with a fear that Drew Barrymore will be butchered and left in your tree.
I was talking about my horror movie issue with a neighbor, and he was trying to figure out what my threshold was. I told him that I like thrillers, such as “Silence of the Lambs.” But it’s the cheesy slasher flicks that do me in. I know there is no rational reason for it. It probably started with “The Shining.” Or possible the time I was at camp and all of my fellow campers were murdered with chain saws. (Ha! Kidding of course. It was an ax.)
So I guess I have to be more understanding when my daughter gets scared, and know that, from a simple genetic standpoint, the absurd notion of being scared at movies comes honestly. Maybe we’ll go to see “Over the Hedge” and help her tackle her fears, so she doesn’t have to be an adult carrying around a duffle bag of issues like her old man. Or maybe we’ll both go see “See No Evil” and work on this issue together.
So a while back, I mentioned in a column that my 5-year-old daughter gets scared during movies. This weekend could be another test for her movie viewing mettle, when we take her to see “See No Evil.”
Ha! Kidding of course. I would never take her to see “See No Evil.” And I know that you’re thinking that is because “See No Evil” is an R-rated horror movie, and a child does not belong there. Sure, I suppose that’s one reason. But I can tell you another very good reason: Because you won’t catch me anywhere near a horror movie.
I confess, I cannot do horror movies. And it’s not because they’re bad movies. I love bad movies. But I just don’t do horror movies. Why? Because they terrify me and, I am embarrassed to say, I will have nightmares.
Yes, chuckle all you want. Enjoy it. I first realized that nightmares don’t mix well with me in the early 1980s, when I was about 10 and we received one of those free weekends for Cinemax. Whereas HBO kept the R-rated stuff on in the evenings, Cinemax was wide open all the time. And so one lazy Saturday afternoon, I flipped on the TV for some free Cinemax, and settled in for a quaint little family picture know as “The Shining.”
About four days later, I finally went to sleep. I remember my mother commenting that it was a valuable lesson learned. I remember thinking, “Lesson!?!?! I am afraid that if I shut my eyes, two creepy little twins are going to flood my room with blood! This is not a lesson! It’s a syndrome!”
So I carried that with me for years, avoiding at all costs horror movies. In high school and college, there were times when we got together to watch horror movies. Not wanting to tip my hand that I could not handle them,. I always managed to find something that had to be tended to elsewhere (”Yeah, I can hear it, just gotta finish alphabetizing the pantry.”) Basically, I tried to stay close enough to give the perception that I was watching the movie, even though I knew even catching a little bit of it would translate into nightmares.
Then, around 1996 or so, I decided that it was high time I kicked this irrational fear out the door. I am a grown man, and I am certainly not a chicken. I was at a friend’s apartment, and we watched the movie “Scream.” If you’re not familiar with ”Scream,” it is an intentionally campy slasher flick, paying homage to the horror flicks that came before it, with tons of surprise moments and references to earlier flicks. Enjoyable movie, I thought.
And then I woke up at about 3 in the morning, having just had a vivid dream involving an ax-wielding freak. And I can tell myself all I want that it was just a dream, but that doesn’t change the fact that my heart rate is racing and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat.
The whole thing really goes against my nature. I am not a scaredy-cat type. I have Bungee jumped and parasailed. I have caught alligators and venomous snakes. I have left an Atlanta Falcons game and walked back to the car at night. I know fear, and it doesn’t bother me. But when I watch someone on screen pretending to gut someone, something off-kilter in my warped little craw gets clicked, and it waits until I am asleep to ambush me.
The last movie that Allie had to leave was “Chicken Little.” My first inclination was to tell her that she was being ridiculous and then to toughen up. (Yes, I know – something for the Father of the Year application.) Then two things occurred to me: (1) She’s five and (2) I suppose being scared that the earth was about to be destroyed is on par with a fear that Drew Barrymore will be butchered and left in your tree.
I was talking about my horror movie issue with a neighbor, and he was trying to figure out what my threshold was. I told him that I like thrillers, such as “Silence of the Lambs.” But it’s the cheesy slasher flicks that do me in. I know there is no rational reason for it. It probably started with “The Shining.” Or possible the time I was at camp and all of my fellow campers were murdered with chain saws. (Ha! Kidding of course. It was an ax.)
So I guess I have to be more understanding when my daughter gets scared, and know that, from a simple genetic standpoint, the absurd notion of being scared at movies comes honestly. Maybe we’ll go to see “Over the Hedge” and help her tackle her fears, so she doesn’t have to be an adult carrying around a duffle bag of issues like her old man. Or maybe we’ll both go see “See No Evil” and work on this issue together.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Van-tastic!
Minivans have become the gold standard of clichés when it comes to becoming a real, certified grown-up. It’s in the category of “Why don’t men ask for directions?” and “Why do women take so long to get ready?” We got it. You drive a minivan. Bye-bye youth.
Well, let me step right up and say that I have no problems asking for directions, and my wife can get ready in about four seconds. And that’s where the cliché-busting ends, seeing as how we now have a minivan. But it’s so easy to fall back on the minivan. There are so very many more signs that signify your true indoctrination into adulthood. Among them:
1. New hazards – If I walk through a room with the lights off, I will either step on a Matchbox car, trip over a doll, or get tangled in a jump rope. I know you’re asking, “Well, Mike, why don’t you simply pick up the toys?” Silly non-child having people. Have you not seen the documentaries “Toy Story” and “Child’s Play”? Put them up all you want. They will then scurry about as they please. And some will try and kill you.
2. New phrases – Six years ago, I never dreamed of uttering the following phrases:
“Get off the coffee table. And pick up your sandwich.”
“No, you can’t have peanut butter and toothpaste.”
“If you keep chewing your hair, I’m going to shave your head.”
“Where is the lampshade?”
“Yes, that IS very nice. Now flush.”
“Because it’s your sister’s. And you’re a boy. And even so, your hair is too short for a hair band.”
3. New rituals – Waking up used to be a leisurely stroll through the morning. Now, it is an obstacle course of kid-wrangling, breakfast-making and bed-making. By the time my wife and kids head out the door, I often find myself standing there in my pajamas, banana smeared on my shirt, the coffee still untouched, and me wondering, “What...just...happened?”
4. New joys in life – My weekends used to be very different. Happiness is now seeing a kid learning how to swing or climb a tree. Or seeing a 3-year-old boy learn that, with a running start, he can drop his older sister and take her basketball, only to find out she can return the beatdown, all the while I gently rest my arm on my wife’s shoulder and say, “There, there. There, there. They’ll work it out.” At which point she gives me a look as though I just drank the shampoo and says, “Have you lost your mind?” To which I say, “There, there. There, there.” And then my wife handles it.
5. New places to visit – And I’m not talking about Disney and the like. I’m talking about the top of the fast-food playground, where I have helped back down several kids (some not even mine). I’m talking about beneath a church pew, where you have to delicately try and retrieve a crayon, and not hit the ankle of the nice woman in front of you, hoping to avoid that awkward moment where you scoot out under the pew like you’re a mechanic and hold up the crayon to show that you have a valid reason to be there. I’m talking about the back of an SUV during a thunderstorm trying to change a diaper.
6. New fashion sense – While anyone who knows me can tell you I often look like I just hopped off the cover “Just Woke Up From a Nap” magazine, the choice of clothing is now dependent on the day’s tasks. Going to a birthday party? Go with lighter colors, as more than likely, the cake’s icing will be light. Going to a movie theater? Wear a coat, even if you know you don’t need it, because you will be giving it away to the little munchkin who insists she won’t need one. Going on a trip? Wear something loose, to allow for the menacing finger-wagging/arm shake to the back seat.
7. A new way of speaking – And I think you know which manner of speaking I refer to. Even the most sophisticated person will want to blurt things when they crack their knee on a coffee table. As parents, we come up with nonsensical ways to express anger, pain, etc. “Son of a Doodlebop!!!”
8. New fears – See No. 7. And if you are not familiar with the Doodlebops, a quick Google search will let you join the growing number of people who lie awake at night afraid Rooney Doodle may show up at your house.
And while there are countless other reasons, I think you get my drift. Sure, a minivan is still the ultimate “Aren’t you a grown-up!” symbol, but that’s really just the tip of the iceberg. Now, where is the lampshade?
Well, let me step right up and say that I have no problems asking for directions, and my wife can get ready in about four seconds. And that’s where the cliché-busting ends, seeing as how we now have a minivan. But it’s so easy to fall back on the minivan. There are so very many more signs that signify your true indoctrination into adulthood. Among them:
1. New hazards – If I walk through a room with the lights off, I will either step on a Matchbox car, trip over a doll, or get tangled in a jump rope. I know you’re asking, “Well, Mike, why don’t you simply pick up the toys?” Silly non-child having people. Have you not seen the documentaries “Toy Story” and “Child’s Play”? Put them up all you want. They will then scurry about as they please. And some will try and kill you.
2. New phrases – Six years ago, I never dreamed of uttering the following phrases:
“Get off the coffee table. And pick up your sandwich.”
“No, you can’t have peanut butter and toothpaste.”
“If you keep chewing your hair, I’m going to shave your head.”
“Where is the lampshade?”
“Yes, that IS very nice. Now flush.”
“Because it’s your sister’s. And you’re a boy. And even so, your hair is too short for a hair band.”
3. New rituals – Waking up used to be a leisurely stroll through the morning. Now, it is an obstacle course of kid-wrangling, breakfast-making and bed-making. By the time my wife and kids head out the door, I often find myself standing there in my pajamas, banana smeared on my shirt, the coffee still untouched, and me wondering, “What...just...happened?”
4. New joys in life – My weekends used to be very different. Happiness is now seeing a kid learning how to swing or climb a tree. Or seeing a 3-year-old boy learn that, with a running start, he can drop his older sister and take her basketball, only to find out she can return the beatdown, all the while I gently rest my arm on my wife’s shoulder and say, “There, there. There, there. They’ll work it out.” At which point she gives me a look as though I just drank the shampoo and says, “Have you lost your mind?” To which I say, “There, there. There, there.” And then my wife handles it.
5. New places to visit – And I’m not talking about Disney and the like. I’m talking about the top of the fast-food playground, where I have helped back down several kids (some not even mine). I’m talking about beneath a church pew, where you have to delicately try and retrieve a crayon, and not hit the ankle of the nice woman in front of you, hoping to avoid that awkward moment where you scoot out under the pew like you’re a mechanic and hold up the crayon to show that you have a valid reason to be there. I’m talking about the back of an SUV during a thunderstorm trying to change a diaper.
6. New fashion sense – While anyone who knows me can tell you I often look like I just hopped off the cover “Just Woke Up From a Nap” magazine, the choice of clothing is now dependent on the day’s tasks. Going to a birthday party? Go with lighter colors, as more than likely, the cake’s icing will be light. Going to a movie theater? Wear a coat, even if you know you don’t need it, because you will be giving it away to the little munchkin who insists she won’t need one. Going on a trip? Wear something loose, to allow for the menacing finger-wagging/arm shake to the back seat.
7. A new way of speaking – And I think you know which manner of speaking I refer to. Even the most sophisticated person will want to blurt things when they crack their knee on a coffee table. As parents, we come up with nonsensical ways to express anger, pain, etc. “Son of a Doodlebop!!!”
8. New fears – See No. 7. And if you are not familiar with the Doodlebops, a quick Google search will let you join the growing number of people who lie awake at night afraid Rooney Doodle may show up at your house.
And while there are countless other reasons, I think you get my drift. Sure, a minivan is still the ultimate “Aren’t you a grown-up!” symbol, but that’s really just the tip of the iceberg. Now, where is the lampshade?
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Musings from Mike
No particular theme to today’s column. (Like the others are such masterpieces of cohesion.) But I thought I would simply offer up some musings that have popped into my head of late:
1. My children continue to amaze me at the bizarre way they injure themselves. Clearly, it is genetic, since I have done such things as (a) fallen off a picnic bench and gashed my leg open (b) taken a chunk out of finger when I got it closed in a shotgun and (c) banged up my shoulder trying to asphalt-ski during some rain. (Perhaps lack of judgment led to (a) and (b).) My daughter managed to join the ranks the other day. She was carrying her pink plastic watering can, swinging it as she strolled, when she swung it too far and it smacked her in the face, bloodying her lip. My neighbor was standing with me at the time, and I had to assure him that his initial reaction to laugh was OK.
2. Once again, I have abandoned my feeble attempt at growing a beard. This time lasted all of about four days. I don’t know why I occasional consider the thought. For one thing, I can’t grow a beard. I have proven that. I grow a permanent 5:00 shadow. Plus, I can’t stand the feeling. And each time, my wife and I have this conversation:
ME: I’m thinking of growing a beard. Should I?
HER: No.
ME: But your dad has a beard.
HER: Yeah, but he can grow one.
ME: Well, so can I.
HER: No you can’t.
3. Had the house pressure washed recently, and it’s amazing what blasting the funk off of your house can do. They had to do it in installments, since I wouldn’t let them do the front porch with the rest of the house. We had a nest of birds, and I could not explain to my children that we had turned high pressure water hoses on the little baby birds that we had followed since they were eggs.
4. Yesterday was my 8th anniversary. (Also, my wife’s, as it turns out.) I applaud her efforts of putting up with me for this long, and can only hope that she never wakes up from what must be a mind-altering haze and realizes her husband has the emotional IQ of an 11-year-old.
5. While watching the NFL draft on Saturday, it occurred to me: I have no life. I decided I needed to take the kids outside to play. When I turned on the radio in the car so that I could hear it, I realized I may be in need of help. (For what’s it’s worth, the Titans made a monumental mistake in not selecting Matt Leinart.)
6. I have grill envy. My neighbor just got a new one, and I feel I have no choice but to sneak into his garage and liberate it. I wonder if he will notice. I cooked bratwurst on it and didn’t have a single flare-up. When I cook brat on mine, it looks like someone is down in my grill welding.
7. With the recent controversy regarding immigration, I feel it is time for me to weigh in on the subject: And my overriding thought right at this moment is this: Vince Young is a great athlete and may one day be a great NFL QB, but Leinart could step in and run Norm Chow’s system TODAY!
8. For the first time in my pool owning history, I have the cleanest, clearest pool I have ever had. There may be pools as clear as mine. But there are none clearer. And the reason for this? No water.
9. I successfully completed a home improvement project by myself, which is grounds for celebration. For about two years, a gate on a fence had been hung upside down (don’t ask), and I managed to attach it the right way so it didn’t fall off every time you opened it. And, I did it without any wounds that would require stitches, which is a major victory for me. On the heels of this success, I think I will rewire my house. I am unstoppable.
10. One of the symptoms of the kid funk know as croup is a cough that sounds like a seal’s bark. That is by far the most accurate medical description in the history of the world. I think I will see if Parker can balance a beach ball on his nose.
So that is all I have today. Next week, I will return with a normal column. And it may be about how you can simply look at the success Carson Palmer has had! How could you not pick Leinart!?!?!?
1. My children continue to amaze me at the bizarre way they injure themselves. Clearly, it is genetic, since I have done such things as (a) fallen off a picnic bench and gashed my leg open (b) taken a chunk out of finger when I got it closed in a shotgun and (c) banged up my shoulder trying to asphalt-ski during some rain. (Perhaps lack of judgment led to (a) and (b).) My daughter managed to join the ranks the other day. She was carrying her pink plastic watering can, swinging it as she strolled, when she swung it too far and it smacked her in the face, bloodying her lip. My neighbor was standing with me at the time, and I had to assure him that his initial reaction to laugh was OK.
2. Once again, I have abandoned my feeble attempt at growing a beard. This time lasted all of about four days. I don’t know why I occasional consider the thought. For one thing, I can’t grow a beard. I have proven that. I grow a permanent 5:00 shadow. Plus, I can’t stand the feeling. And each time, my wife and I have this conversation:
ME: I’m thinking of growing a beard. Should I?
HER: No.
ME: But your dad has a beard.
HER: Yeah, but he can grow one.
ME: Well, so can I.
HER: No you can’t.
3. Had the house pressure washed recently, and it’s amazing what blasting the funk off of your house can do. They had to do it in installments, since I wouldn’t let them do the front porch with the rest of the house. We had a nest of birds, and I could not explain to my children that we had turned high pressure water hoses on the little baby birds that we had followed since they were eggs.
4. Yesterday was my 8th anniversary. (Also, my wife’s, as it turns out.) I applaud her efforts of putting up with me for this long, and can only hope that she never wakes up from what must be a mind-altering haze and realizes her husband has the emotional IQ of an 11-year-old.
5. While watching the NFL draft on Saturday, it occurred to me: I have no life. I decided I needed to take the kids outside to play. When I turned on the radio in the car so that I could hear it, I realized I may be in need of help. (For what’s it’s worth, the Titans made a monumental mistake in not selecting Matt Leinart.)
6. I have grill envy. My neighbor just got a new one, and I feel I have no choice but to sneak into his garage and liberate it. I wonder if he will notice. I cooked bratwurst on it and didn’t have a single flare-up. When I cook brat on mine, it looks like someone is down in my grill welding.
7. With the recent controversy regarding immigration, I feel it is time for me to weigh in on the subject: And my overriding thought right at this moment is this: Vince Young is a great athlete and may one day be a great NFL QB, but Leinart could step in and run Norm Chow’s system TODAY!
8. For the first time in my pool owning history, I have the cleanest, clearest pool I have ever had. There may be pools as clear as mine. But there are none clearer. And the reason for this? No water.
9. I successfully completed a home improvement project by myself, which is grounds for celebration. For about two years, a gate on a fence had been hung upside down (don’t ask), and I managed to attach it the right way so it didn’t fall off every time you opened it. And, I did it without any wounds that would require stitches, which is a major victory for me. On the heels of this success, I think I will rewire my house. I am unstoppable.
10. One of the symptoms of the kid funk know as croup is a cough that sounds like a seal’s bark. That is by far the most accurate medical description in the history of the world. I think I will see if Parker can balance a beach ball on his nose.
So that is all I have today. Next week, I will return with a normal column. And it may be about how you can simply look at the success Carson Palmer has had! How could you not pick Leinart!?!?!?
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