My children and I have different definitions of “clean.”
My definition is a fairly standard one. It’s, well, it’s clean. I actually don’t feel a need to define it. It’s like if someone says, “Hey, throw me the ball.” You know what a ball is. You shouldn’t have to say, “Hey, throw me the ball, and by ‘ball’ I mean that round thing on the ground. No, not that -- that’s a mushroom. The other thing. White. With stitches. There you go.”
My kids are 5 and 8, and I think they have pretty good vocabularies, certainly ones that should house “clean.” But a recent study of their room cleaning habits leads me to think this is one word that somehow got skipped.
Let’s start with Allie. I am fairly certain that if she is ever taken prisoner in combat, the way to get her to spill national secrets will be by putting her in a room and asking her to make a bed, complete with Princess comforter. Apparently, the 10-second act of pulling a sheet and a bed spread onto the mattress is only slightly less painful than a shark attack. At one point, she tried to use the old argument of “But I’m just going to sleep in it again tonight.” Quick solution: Pull out a dirty plate when you’re getting ready to make her dinner.
HER: Daddy, what are you doing?
ME: Using the plate we used last night. I figured no point in cleaning it, since we’ll just be using it again.
HER: Ewww.
ME: Victory is mine.
(Quick word of caution: Allie does not even like her food touching, so this was a suitable bluff tactic. Be careful if your son is like Parker, and would merely shrug and see what from last night’s meal he could scrape off for flavor.)
Clothes are a tricky one for Allie, too. She is perfectly content with a laundry basket in her room, rather than moving the clothes to the dresser or closet. She will be a perfect hotel traveler one day. Now, I know you may ask why I don’t command and demand that she put that laundry up NOW! Well, mainly because I don’t live in her room, and as long as it doesn’t get to the point where raccoons are taking up residence in there, it doesn’t occupy a huge portion of the “things that actually affect my world” portion of my brain.
Parker, too, has an aversion to cleaning, but his is less from a pain threshold stance and more from the fact that he is the most elaborate player I have ever seen. Case in point: The other day, I walked past his room and noticed it was prime raccoon roosting territory. Things were EVERYWHERE. Jack Sparrows and plastic lions and race cars covered every inch of his room. I found Parker in the depths of his room, and told him that he needed to clean it up
PARKER: But I’m still playing with stuff.
ME: Well, pick up the stuff you’re NOT playing with. You can’t even walk through your room.
PARKER. OK.
Fast forward about 11 seconds, and he’s proclaiming his doneness.
ME: I thought I said to clean up what you’re not playing with.
PARKER: I did. It was just a shirt. Everything else I’m playing with.
Clearly, I was not going to accept that, in a room that looked like an exploded Toys R Us, only a shirt needed picking up. And then Parker showed me his “zoo,” which is approximately the same size as most metropolitan zoos. He had a quite full parking lot. He had stuffed rabbits greeting visitors at the door. He had Woody and Buzz Lightyear training zebras. The works. Indeed, he was still playing with them. All 8 billion of them. That night, I did have to convince him that we had to at least put a walking path through the zoo, lest Daddy end up stepping on Superman in the middle of the night and screaming out an un-Daddy-like word.
Eventually, when the kids were not home, I ended up putting up Allie’s clothes and disassembling Parker’s zoo. Sure, you can chide me for not making a 5-year-old and an 8-year-old do their chores. I will make sure I line up some extra wood chopping for them this winter so they don’t grow up soft. In the meantime, toss me that...round thing over there.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Fence in
I finally got my fence fixed, which was damaged by that doozy of a storm, which sent a large tree branch crashing onto it, creating a lovely V-shape.
I am sure you recall the storm. “Sure, Mike – I remember the rain, the lightning but mostly the wind!” To which I say, yes, that was a doozy. But I am a ridiculous procrastinator when it comes to home improvement projects, and the storm I am referring to was kinda, sorta, uh … well, it was the 2004 ice storm.
OK, so four years to repair a single fence panel MAY be a little much. I am going to argue that the trauma of the storm kept be from doing it. After all, I was one of the many in town who lost power. When I was coming home from work, my wife called and said the power had gone out. By the time I got home about 10 minutes later, the power had been restored. But it was harrowing nonetheless. (My folks, who lost power for 10 days, fail to see the humor in this.)
But a big branch had dropped on the fence that goes around the pool. The fence is aluminum, but made to look like wrought iron. I priced wrought iron and found that I would have been able to afford to a lovely two- or three-foot fence. So I opted for aluminum, which looks black and shiny, but doesn’t do well against a large pine branch.
The fence is comprised of panels, so it was going to be fairly easy to simply pop another one in. Of course, each time I went to do it, something came up. (Say, winter. Or summer.) I was able to bend the fence back up enough to where it still served its original fence purpose. It just did it with a less horizontal approach.
For some reason the procrastination bug died and I decided to move forward. I went to the home improvement store where I originally bought the fence. I told them I wanted to buy a single panel. He told me they didn’t do that. I assured him they did. He told me I had to buy a whole fence. I told him I already had. I encouraged him to call the company and see what we could make happen. He told me the person who does the ordering was out, having had surgery, on “either his heart or his knee.” Seriously.
I was a little frustrated, but, hey, sometimes heart/knee surgeries happen. I went back a few days later and tried to order it again. I would have had as much luck ordering a pastrami sandwich. I told my wife the fence was fine the way it was, and we would continue to live with it. She told me to calm down, as it was not worth a heart/knee attack.
A few weeks later, I got a call from the store. They told me I had an open order for a fence panel, and asked if I wanted to get it rolling. I told them I would very much love to, and did several times before. They assured me that the system was well-oiled at this point, and they would get it done.
Indeed, they had figured out how to get me my panel, and it arrived a few weeks later. I decided this would be a good Saturday morning father-son experience, so I wrangled Parker out the door along with a few tools. The bent panel came out quite easily – just a few zaps with the electric screwdriver and the panel was free. Parker’s job was to hold the screws. He delegated this job to a nearby chair, which was fine. When it came time to reattach the brackets that held the panel in place, I called Parker and asked for his assistance. I told him I needed him to hold the fence panel very still for me. After I attached four of the six brackets, Parker looked at me and said, “Daddy, can I stop now? I’m tired and I want to go fishing.”
Now, I’m not sure about your backyard, but I do know that mine isn’t great for fishing. But I figured he had a plan, so I relieved him of duty. He went and picked a willow branch off the ground, went to the diving board, and began “casting” into the pool. Based on his mannerisms, he reeled in quite a few big ones.
The panel was soon secured in place, and the fence looks nice and even and unbent. Since most of the trees that were damaged in the ice storm have been removed, there is very little chance another branch will fall on it. But should it happen, I will make sure I get right on the case this time. I’ll wait two years, tops.
I am sure you recall the storm. “Sure, Mike – I remember the rain, the lightning but mostly the wind!” To which I say, yes, that was a doozy. But I am a ridiculous procrastinator when it comes to home improvement projects, and the storm I am referring to was kinda, sorta, uh … well, it was the 2004 ice storm.
OK, so four years to repair a single fence panel MAY be a little much. I am going to argue that the trauma of the storm kept be from doing it. After all, I was one of the many in town who lost power. When I was coming home from work, my wife called and said the power had gone out. By the time I got home about 10 minutes later, the power had been restored. But it was harrowing nonetheless. (My folks, who lost power for 10 days, fail to see the humor in this.)
But a big branch had dropped on the fence that goes around the pool. The fence is aluminum, but made to look like wrought iron. I priced wrought iron and found that I would have been able to afford to a lovely two- or three-foot fence. So I opted for aluminum, which looks black and shiny, but doesn’t do well against a large pine branch.
The fence is comprised of panels, so it was going to be fairly easy to simply pop another one in. Of course, each time I went to do it, something came up. (Say, winter. Or summer.) I was able to bend the fence back up enough to where it still served its original fence purpose. It just did it with a less horizontal approach.
For some reason the procrastination bug died and I decided to move forward. I went to the home improvement store where I originally bought the fence. I told them I wanted to buy a single panel. He told me they didn’t do that. I assured him they did. He told me I had to buy a whole fence. I told him I already had. I encouraged him to call the company and see what we could make happen. He told me the person who does the ordering was out, having had surgery, on “either his heart or his knee.” Seriously.
I was a little frustrated, but, hey, sometimes heart/knee surgeries happen. I went back a few days later and tried to order it again. I would have had as much luck ordering a pastrami sandwich. I told my wife the fence was fine the way it was, and we would continue to live with it. She told me to calm down, as it was not worth a heart/knee attack.
A few weeks later, I got a call from the store. They told me I had an open order for a fence panel, and asked if I wanted to get it rolling. I told them I would very much love to, and did several times before. They assured me that the system was well-oiled at this point, and they would get it done.
Indeed, they had figured out how to get me my panel, and it arrived a few weeks later. I decided this would be a good Saturday morning father-son experience, so I wrangled Parker out the door along with a few tools. The bent panel came out quite easily – just a few zaps with the electric screwdriver and the panel was free. Parker’s job was to hold the screws. He delegated this job to a nearby chair, which was fine. When it came time to reattach the brackets that held the panel in place, I called Parker and asked for his assistance. I told him I needed him to hold the fence panel very still for me. After I attached four of the six brackets, Parker looked at me and said, “Daddy, can I stop now? I’m tired and I want to go fishing.”
Now, I’m not sure about your backyard, but I do know that mine isn’t great for fishing. But I figured he had a plan, so I relieved him of duty. He went and picked a willow branch off the ground, went to the diving board, and began “casting” into the pool. Based on his mannerisms, he reeled in quite a few big ones.
The panel was soon secured in place, and the fence looks nice and even and unbent. Since most of the trees that were damaged in the ice storm have been removed, there is very little chance another branch will fall on it. But should it happen, I will make sure I get right on the case this time. I’ll wait two years, tops.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Zoo creatures
Another trip to the zoo, another chance to treat the people there as their own zoo-wide exhibit.
I love going to the zoo, and every time I go, I spend as much time watching the people as I do the exhibits. I have written several columns over the years about some of the curious behavior of the people-beasts that inhabit the outsides of cages. I figured it was high time I began to classify some of them, so that someone who has an interest in Latin can begin assigning them scientific names:
The Animal Hater
This person would rather be anywhere but at a zoo. The Animal Hater we saw uttered this memorable phrase at a meerkat exhibit: “Who wants to see a &*$% rodent?” I hadn’t the heart to tell him they weren’t rodents. You know who would? This person:
The Animal Lover
The Animal Lovers don’t just appreciate wildlife. They’ve got a rather odd attachment to them. It really comes out in the reptile house, when the AL will stand, face pressed against the glass, waxing eloquent about the beauty of the animal. But it gets almost to the creepy point, where you feel there is a really strong possibility, were the cage open, they would reach in and try to bond with their new animal soul mate. And be subsequently bitten by a Gila monster.
The Lounger
The Lounger is most often a teen male. He is far too cool to be at a zoo. He must sit with his back to an exhibit, texting his friends expressing how uncool the zoo is. His texts will consist of such insights such as “Sup” and “dude z00 lame.” Oftentimes, he will sit at a key viewing point, not even realizing he is blocking people’s views, causing them to try and will the grizzly bear to just make one honest try.
The Jockey
This person has got to see that exhibit. If they do not get in there right then, they will miss the sea turtle that only swims by every 40 seconds or so. In order to jockey for position, this person will utilize various contortions and twists to slide around people and will also commit what should be a felony – placing a hand on my shoulder to balance themselves while stepping in front on me, muttering, “skyoozmee-skyoozmee.” Hi, welcome to Mike – thank you for not touching.
The Over Educator
I suppose I get lumped into this category on occasion. “Look, kids, a Scolopendra!” I say gleefully. “Daddy, that’s a big centipede.” “Yes! A Scolopendra!” They politely resist the urge to chant “nerd.”
The Speed Freak
This person is looking to get through the exhibit in about 11 minutes. And you are a mere speed bump on their path to a new world record in the 100-Meter Monkey House Dash. He will duck, spin, peer over you or even skip an exhibit to keep moving. It is possible that the Speed Freak is part shark and must keep moving to survive.
The Escaped Exhibit
These are only found in their juvenile state. Their parents fall into one of two subspecies: The Exasperated Wit’s Enders or the Oblivious Don’t Cares. I noticed one Escaped Exhibit showing a fantastic display of what happens when you are not allowed to get your own ketchup. He was wearing one of those backpack/leash things, which it turns out can turn into a dragging rope. I was informed that you are not supposed to laugh at a kid flailing his arms and legs as he is towed across a restaurant floor by his monkey backpack.
The Statue
This is usually some Brad Garrett-sized behemoth who finds an exhibit he likes and just turns to stone. You may want to see the tiger. But you will do it when he is done. And he will not be done for a long time. He is not intentionally doing this to hurt you. But you try moving along when you’re made of stone.
I am sure there are many more species (and countless subspecies). I look forward to going back and finding them. And then over-educating my kids about it.
I love going to the zoo, and every time I go, I spend as much time watching the people as I do the exhibits. I have written several columns over the years about some of the curious behavior of the people-beasts that inhabit the outsides of cages. I figured it was high time I began to classify some of them, so that someone who has an interest in Latin can begin assigning them scientific names:
The Animal Hater
This person would rather be anywhere but at a zoo. The Animal Hater we saw uttered this memorable phrase at a meerkat exhibit: “Who wants to see a &*$% rodent?” I hadn’t the heart to tell him they weren’t rodents. You know who would? This person:
The Animal Lover
The Animal Lovers don’t just appreciate wildlife. They’ve got a rather odd attachment to them. It really comes out in the reptile house, when the AL will stand, face pressed against the glass, waxing eloquent about the beauty of the animal. But it gets almost to the creepy point, where you feel there is a really strong possibility, were the cage open, they would reach in and try to bond with their new animal soul mate. And be subsequently bitten by a Gila monster.
The Lounger
The Lounger is most often a teen male. He is far too cool to be at a zoo. He must sit with his back to an exhibit, texting his friends expressing how uncool the zoo is. His texts will consist of such insights such as “Sup” and “dude z00 lame.” Oftentimes, he will sit at a key viewing point, not even realizing he is blocking people’s views, causing them to try and will the grizzly bear to just make one honest try.
The Jockey
This person has got to see that exhibit. If they do not get in there right then, they will miss the sea turtle that only swims by every 40 seconds or so. In order to jockey for position, this person will utilize various contortions and twists to slide around people and will also commit what should be a felony – placing a hand on my shoulder to balance themselves while stepping in front on me, muttering, “skyoozmee-skyoozmee.” Hi, welcome to Mike – thank you for not touching.
The Over Educator
I suppose I get lumped into this category on occasion. “Look, kids, a Scolopendra!” I say gleefully. “Daddy, that’s a big centipede.” “Yes! A Scolopendra!” They politely resist the urge to chant “nerd.”
The Speed Freak
This person is looking to get through the exhibit in about 11 minutes. And you are a mere speed bump on their path to a new world record in the 100-Meter Monkey House Dash. He will duck, spin, peer over you or even skip an exhibit to keep moving. It is possible that the Speed Freak is part shark and must keep moving to survive.
The Escaped Exhibit
These are only found in their juvenile state. Their parents fall into one of two subspecies: The Exasperated Wit’s Enders or the Oblivious Don’t Cares. I noticed one Escaped Exhibit showing a fantastic display of what happens when you are not allowed to get your own ketchup. He was wearing one of those backpack/leash things, which it turns out can turn into a dragging rope. I was informed that you are not supposed to laugh at a kid flailing his arms and legs as he is towed across a restaurant floor by his monkey backpack.
The Statue
This is usually some Brad Garrett-sized behemoth who finds an exhibit he likes and just turns to stone. You may want to see the tiger. But you will do it when he is done. And he will not be done for a long time. He is not intentionally doing this to hurt you. But you try moving along when you’re made of stone.
I am sure there are many more species (and countless subspecies). I look forward to going back and finding them. And then over-educating my kids about it.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Crape of wrath
A few months back, I shared my confession with you. I was a murderer.
A crape murderer, to be exact.
I had chopped down an enormous crape myrtle in my backyard, something that drew ire from some of the plant lovers of the community.
I tried to assure them that this was self-defense. The tree had grown so large, I had carved out a tunnel that you could drive a small car through.
OK, so not that big, but WAY bigger than a crape myrtle needs to be. (Oh, and a quick sidenote: It’s “crape,” not “crepe.” I had some spirited debate with some folks last time, some even pointing out that there is a Crepe Myrtle Court. So be it. But the tree I murdered was a crape. The pastry I just finished? A crepe. And delicious.)
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Oh, tree attacks, that’s right. Anyway, this thing got so big and unruly that when it rained it would droop down and cover my back door. Some of the branches would also scratch against my daughter’s window, making it sound like something was clawing at the screen, which is a fantastic lullaby. (I did offer to let her watch a movie to drown out the sound, but apparently “The Shining” just didn’t do it for her.)
So I murdered the tree one morning when my wife was gone and could not stop me. I managed to do so without losing any fingers or breaking any windows. I was left with a gigantic stump in the backyard, which I had planned to get to eventually. I asked some people who remove trees what’s the best way to get stumps out of the ground. Apparently it involves chains and the occasional backhoe. I have neither. And I can safely bet that should I try to get a backhoe into my backyard, it would not matter where my wife was. Her idiotdar would start beeping like crazy and she would be home in no time, standing in front of it like a Tiananmen Square recreation. (The idiotdar has previously gone off when I was stuck on the roof; when I tried to give our daughter a haircut; and when I decided to drive to a hurricane.)
The stump became a bigger issue when I noticed that the crape myrtle was growing back. Fast. All around the giant stump were these shoots that started spiking up. At one point, they were taller than my 5-year-old, and he used them as a super cool hiding place, which made me all the more the bad guy when he saw me bringing the hedge trimmers out.
After I leveled the first resurgence of branches, I began to seek other ways to get rid of the stump. I went to a home improvement store and asked a guy if he had chemicals that could kill a stump once and for all. He looked over both shoulders, then leaned in to me, “You didn’t hear this from me,” he said, and proceeded to detail a complicated, fiery plan to dispatch the stump. The idiotdar would have gone nuts.
I opted instead for a chemical that you pour into the stump and then pour hot water on top. It also says to light charcoal briquets on top. Seriously. I think they may just be seeing how much crazy stuff they can get you to do.
Now, before you get on to me about my abuse of this tree, you have to remember: (a) it’s out of control with growth, (b) it never should have been planted where it was and (c) it angered me by rapidly growing back to the point where I actually tried to mow the tree.
To complete the lethal injection, I had to drill a hole four inches deep into the stump. When I went to do this, I learned that crape myrtle stumps are actually made of solid lead, and no drill bit on the planet can bore into them.
So that’s where we stand. The stinking thing is still there, routinely sprouting up new branches just to mock me, the deadly chemicals sitting ineffectively on the sideline.
I have no idea how I am going to get the stump out of there. But if you hear a loud beeping, you can bet I got a backhoe.
A crape murderer, to be exact.
I had chopped down an enormous crape myrtle in my backyard, something that drew ire from some of the plant lovers of the community.
I tried to assure them that this was self-defense. The tree had grown so large, I had carved out a tunnel that you could drive a small car through.
OK, so not that big, but WAY bigger than a crape myrtle needs to be. (Oh, and a quick sidenote: It’s “crape,” not “crepe.” I had some spirited debate with some folks last time, some even pointing out that there is a Crepe Myrtle Court. So be it. But the tree I murdered was a crape. The pastry I just finished? A crepe. And delicious.)
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Oh, tree attacks, that’s right. Anyway, this thing got so big and unruly that when it rained it would droop down and cover my back door. Some of the branches would also scratch against my daughter’s window, making it sound like something was clawing at the screen, which is a fantastic lullaby. (I did offer to let her watch a movie to drown out the sound, but apparently “The Shining” just didn’t do it for her.)
So I murdered the tree one morning when my wife was gone and could not stop me. I managed to do so without losing any fingers or breaking any windows. I was left with a gigantic stump in the backyard, which I had planned to get to eventually. I asked some people who remove trees what’s the best way to get stumps out of the ground. Apparently it involves chains and the occasional backhoe. I have neither. And I can safely bet that should I try to get a backhoe into my backyard, it would not matter where my wife was. Her idiotdar would start beeping like crazy and she would be home in no time, standing in front of it like a Tiananmen Square recreation. (The idiotdar has previously gone off when I was stuck on the roof; when I tried to give our daughter a haircut; and when I decided to drive to a hurricane.)
The stump became a bigger issue when I noticed that the crape myrtle was growing back. Fast. All around the giant stump were these shoots that started spiking up. At one point, they were taller than my 5-year-old, and he used them as a super cool hiding place, which made me all the more the bad guy when he saw me bringing the hedge trimmers out.
After I leveled the first resurgence of branches, I began to seek other ways to get rid of the stump. I went to a home improvement store and asked a guy if he had chemicals that could kill a stump once and for all. He looked over both shoulders, then leaned in to me, “You didn’t hear this from me,” he said, and proceeded to detail a complicated, fiery plan to dispatch the stump. The idiotdar would have gone nuts.
I opted instead for a chemical that you pour into the stump and then pour hot water on top. It also says to light charcoal briquets on top. Seriously. I think they may just be seeing how much crazy stuff they can get you to do.
Now, before you get on to me about my abuse of this tree, you have to remember: (a) it’s out of control with growth, (b) it never should have been planted where it was and (c) it angered me by rapidly growing back to the point where I actually tried to mow the tree.
To complete the lethal injection, I had to drill a hole four inches deep into the stump. When I went to do this, I learned that crape myrtle stumps are actually made of solid lead, and no drill bit on the planet can bore into them.
So that’s where we stand. The stinking thing is still there, routinely sprouting up new branches just to mock me, the deadly chemicals sitting ineffectively on the sideline.
I have no idea how I am going to get the stump out of there. But if you hear a loud beeping, you can bet I got a backhoe.
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