This year I learned a lot of things. I learned:
• That the grocery cart battle is not a futile one. Together, we can put up carts and shame others into it. And I learned how to keep my children from telling adults to put their carts up. Quickly.
• That adulthood begins at 9. That is the only explanation I can find for, “Dad, I’m not gonna order off the kids’ menu. I’m not a kid anymore.”
• That a major, overlooked milestone in a child’s life is the “OK, I’ll try it and see if I like it.”
• That no matter how much you yell at fleas, they do not go away. You have to unleash chemical warfare on them, combined WITH the yelling.
• That Snuba – the hybrid of scuba and snorkeling – is the way to go check out reefs 30 feet below the surface.
• That if you are a week out of knee surgery, and Santa delivers a trampoline to your backyard, move away for a month. It’s for your own good.
• That the coolest three words a 9-year-old girl can hear as someone shakes her hand are, “Hi, I’m Miley.”
• That there are still decent people out there. A few days before Christmas – and a few days after my knee surgery – I was hobbling out to my car, pushing my wife’s bike/Christmas present to the car. My son, bless his heart, was helping as he could. When I got to the car, a man walking by said, “Lemme help you” and helped me load the bike into the car.
• That those types of things don’t happen enough. I was at the grocery the other day and saw a woman straining to reach a bag of cat food on the top shelf. When I handed it to her, she said, “Oh, I thought you were going for the same thing.” I responded, “No, just taller than you and grabbing it for you.” Her response: “Wow, that doesn’t happen often.” That should happen more often.
• That an alligator’s tail can loosen a child’s tooth.
• That family time is not reserved for holidays. During an evening in September, my family was trying to work out details of Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’m 37 and the youngest of four kids, and we were all sitting there with my folks, my wife, my in-laws, my kids and my nephews. We were all trying to formalize plans to all get together. When we were all together. On a random Tuesday. And that is awesome.
• That life is better when Alabama football is ... well, Alabama football. At least, it is for me.
• That the Discovery Channel’s “Boom De Ya Da” commercial is audio hypnosis for small children.
• That loop roller coasters were put on this planet to remind you that man’s greatest achievements continue to be in the Field of Awesome Things.
• That pulling off the side of the road of a busy Florida highway so your kids can see a roadkill python is looked at strangely by other motorists.
• That the iPhone will be one of those change-the-world signature devices. I should have invented it.
• That Anne Frank died of typhus. I am not quite sure how that came up in conversation.
• That the best way to fix a burger is topped with a fried egg.
• That utility companies can go where they want, when they want and cut down your fence if it’s in the way.
• That my childhood can make some blockbuster movies. “Snorks: The Movie” cannot be far behind.
• That you can feel sorry for yourself if your last six weeks include a hospitalization, a family helping of swine flu, a broken HVAC unit and knee surgery. And then you can look around and realize there are plenty of people who would gladly trade for my troubles. As I often tell my kids, “You’re right. It’s not fair. And you don’t want the world to be fair, because it’s not fair in your favor.”
Happy 2010, everybody.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A warm gift
Call me a hopeless romantic. Try as I wanted, there was no way I was going to be able to hold off giving my wife her Christmas present early.
And she felt the same way. Our gifts simply could not wait until Dec. 25.
Plus, the downstairs was freezing, and we needed the heater working again.
Yes, my wife and I have given the mutual gift of a downstairs heating unit. It's "The Gift of the Magi" for boring married people.
We discovered it was broken back in October when a cool spell hit, and I went to turn on the downstairs unit.
We have mainly hardwood floors downstairs, and here's a little know trait of hardwoods - when temperatures dip below 75, hardwood turns to ice. It can be a springlike 72 outside, and my den is suitable to hang meat.
When I turned on the unit, it did nothing. But that was not unusual, as it would often take anywhere from 10 seconds to an hour to cut on. Several people told me that was not normal. I told them that if I can ignore it, so can they.
But this time there would be no cutting on. The closest it came was a clicking at the thermostat.
I called the heating repair folks, and they came out for what I hoped would be our usual drill. (That's where they come and look at the machine, tell me that I have to turn it to "heat" and then charge me a $60 dummy tax.)
Not this time. I was informed I had a cracked heat exchanger, which, in addition to making my unit inoperable, can apparently also pump scads of carbon monoxide into my home.
Wow, it's cold inside AND it's as if an idling Ford Pinto is parked in my den - double win!
I asked him how much it would be to fix the heater. He looked at me with one those, "Oh, you poor thing" looks.
I knew it was not good.
Granted, I was not surprised that the unit was going to have to be replaced. Best I can tell, the unit was actually constructed in the 1930s, and our house was built around it some 50 years later.
Trying to find a bright side, I noted that it was right around the time of my wife's birthday, so I could get her that for a present. Not so fast. My wife decided she had other plans for her birthday, namely getting sick and having to go into the hospital for a three-day stay. Nothing but high-ticket items for my gal.
So the heater went to the back burner (ha!). I used a couple of space heaters to keep the kitchen warm, and generally avoided the rest of the house. When the kids would complain that the den was cold, I would tell them that they are just like the pioneers, braving a sub-70 den to watch Tivo'd SpongeBob. It's that kind of fortitude that built this country. After about six weeks of not having a heater, I had experienced all of the fortitude I cared to. The heating folks came out with a new unit.
It's a Carrier, so named, I believe, because it is the size of an aircraft carrier. They also installed a fancy new digital thermostat that, I am fairly certain, was used as a prop on the latest "Star Trek" movie.
They showed my wife how to use it, and she showed me. We had this conversation:
HER: You can even set it for both heat and cool to come on.
ME: Why would you do that?
HER: In case the temperature fluctuates.
ME: Do you really think that's going to be a problem?
Fortunately, it also has a manual mode, in which I can push one of four delightful options: heat, cool, an up arrow and a down arrow.
Yes, I know I can set it to come on automatically and do all kinds of fancy tricks. I can also get up in the morning and cut it on. I feel confident it will heat up in short order. I'm not trying to warm up the Biltmore House.
So now that my wife and I have settled in with our cozy warm downstairs Christmas gift, we can enjoy the holidays in comfort. And then I will look forward to Valentine's Day. I'm thinking of getting her the matching upstairs unit.
And she felt the same way. Our gifts simply could not wait until Dec. 25.
Plus, the downstairs was freezing, and we needed the heater working again.
Yes, my wife and I have given the mutual gift of a downstairs heating unit. It's "The Gift of the Magi" for boring married people.
We discovered it was broken back in October when a cool spell hit, and I went to turn on the downstairs unit.
We have mainly hardwood floors downstairs, and here's a little know trait of hardwoods - when temperatures dip below 75, hardwood turns to ice. It can be a springlike 72 outside, and my den is suitable to hang meat.
When I turned on the unit, it did nothing. But that was not unusual, as it would often take anywhere from 10 seconds to an hour to cut on. Several people told me that was not normal. I told them that if I can ignore it, so can they.
But this time there would be no cutting on. The closest it came was a clicking at the thermostat.
I called the heating repair folks, and they came out for what I hoped would be our usual drill. (That's where they come and look at the machine, tell me that I have to turn it to "heat" and then charge me a $60 dummy tax.)
Not this time. I was informed I had a cracked heat exchanger, which, in addition to making my unit inoperable, can apparently also pump scads of carbon monoxide into my home.
Wow, it's cold inside AND it's as if an idling Ford Pinto is parked in my den - double win!
I asked him how much it would be to fix the heater. He looked at me with one those, "Oh, you poor thing" looks.
I knew it was not good.
Granted, I was not surprised that the unit was going to have to be replaced. Best I can tell, the unit was actually constructed in the 1930s, and our house was built around it some 50 years later.
Trying to find a bright side, I noted that it was right around the time of my wife's birthday, so I could get her that for a present. Not so fast. My wife decided she had other plans for her birthday, namely getting sick and having to go into the hospital for a three-day stay. Nothing but high-ticket items for my gal.
So the heater went to the back burner (ha!). I used a couple of space heaters to keep the kitchen warm, and generally avoided the rest of the house. When the kids would complain that the den was cold, I would tell them that they are just like the pioneers, braving a sub-70 den to watch Tivo'd SpongeBob. It's that kind of fortitude that built this country. After about six weeks of not having a heater, I had experienced all of the fortitude I cared to. The heating folks came out with a new unit.
It's a Carrier, so named, I believe, because it is the size of an aircraft carrier. They also installed a fancy new digital thermostat that, I am fairly certain, was used as a prop on the latest "Star Trek" movie.
They showed my wife how to use it, and she showed me. We had this conversation:
HER: You can even set it for both heat and cool to come on.
ME: Why would you do that?
HER: In case the temperature fluctuates.
ME: Do you really think that's going to be a problem?
Fortunately, it also has a manual mode, in which I can push one of four delightful options: heat, cool, an up arrow and a down arrow.
Yes, I know I can set it to come on automatically and do all kinds of fancy tricks. I can also get up in the morning and cut it on. I feel confident it will heat up in short order. I'm not trying to warm up the Biltmore House.
So now that my wife and I have settled in with our cozy warm downstairs Christmas gift, we can enjoy the holidays in comfort. And then I will look forward to Valentine's Day. I'm thinking of getting her the matching upstairs unit.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Mayor
Just call me Mayor. That's right. Mayor. Of Bedford Falls. Yes, that Bedford Falls. You see, I've been in the Aiken Community Playhouse performance of "It's a Wonderful Life: The Musical," for which we started rehearsing, by my recollection, some time around 1982.
The Mayor role is a small part, which is fine, since this is a musical, and those with big parts in musicals should be able to, oh, I don't know, maybe sing? My only singing role ever was in my senior class play, in which I was cast in the role of a camp counselor who could not sing on key. I apparently nailed the audition. There is also dancing in this play. Several years ago, my wife banned me from trying to do the electric slide at weddings. That's right - I cannot do a dance that the 90-year-old great-grandmother of the bride can do. I think we can go ahead and sit out the dance scenes, too.
As we head into our final week of performances, I thought I would share a few things I have discovered during the show's run:
* It's really cool to be in a play with both of your kids. You know why? Because they play two of the Bailey kids, so, as I tell them when we walk in the door, "Hey, don't come to me with your problems. Go find George Bailey. He's your dad now."
* Intermission. It's called intermission. People tend to look at you funny when you refer to the show's halftime. On a similar note - dressing room, not locker room.
* Some people think it takes courage to get on stage. You know what takes courage - to be one of the three or four folks - including my wife - in charge of wranglin' a children's cast of about 30 kids, sometimes until 11 at night. Medieval knights didn't have to exhibit that kind of bravery.
* It snows in this play. Every night. Now, if we can make it snow inside of a building, can it be that hard to make it snow every Christmas, at least in my yard?
* This play has done what I thought was the impossible: It has finally pushed several of the songs from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" from my head. Oh, wait. Shouldn't have done that. They're back. Dangit.
* It's nice that, when someone asks, I can tell them I have been doing this since the 1980s. So what if I fail to mention that little 20-year gap when I didn't get on stage. Our little secret.
* The Mayor of a New York town in the 1940s did not wear New Balance hiking boots. Fortunately, my wife was able to get home and get my other shoes before the curtain opening on that night.
* If an actor goes on stage with a cell phone in his pocket, and it goes off midscene and the ring tone is a chicken clucking, then know this: The time that ceases to be a source of jokes and ribbing is just after the Earth crashes into the sun.
* One of the best things about being in a play: Food. There is always food. Add bunches of kids and the Bag of Snacky Goodness, and lawdy it's good-eating time. Fast fact: The longest a pizza has survived a set-build: 11 seconds.
* Speaking of set-build, you will be pleased to know that, despite using several power tools over the course of the set construction, I still have 10 - count 'em , 10 - fingers. I would guess I have used up my power tool karma, and will now not pick up another one again until some time around 2018.
* The message of the show, I was gently reminded, is NOT: "If you have a forgetful relative, end it all."
* With a cast and crew of around 60 people, you never really know what you're getting into. While I wasn't expecting folks to split into rival gangs or anything, you never know the dynamics that will form when you get that many people together. The great part - it's a fantastic group of talented people who have fun, enjoy each others' company, pick each other up when they need it and are just a generally nice collection of folks.
I'm lucky to have spent this time with them. I just hope they re-elect me.
The Mayor role is a small part, which is fine, since this is a musical, and those with big parts in musicals should be able to, oh, I don't know, maybe sing? My only singing role ever was in my senior class play, in which I was cast in the role of a camp counselor who could not sing on key. I apparently nailed the audition. There is also dancing in this play. Several years ago, my wife banned me from trying to do the electric slide at weddings. That's right - I cannot do a dance that the 90-year-old great-grandmother of the bride can do. I think we can go ahead and sit out the dance scenes, too.
As we head into our final week of performances, I thought I would share a few things I have discovered during the show's run:
* It's really cool to be in a play with both of your kids. You know why? Because they play two of the Bailey kids, so, as I tell them when we walk in the door, "Hey, don't come to me with your problems. Go find George Bailey. He's your dad now."
* Intermission. It's called intermission. People tend to look at you funny when you refer to the show's halftime. On a similar note - dressing room, not locker room.
* Some people think it takes courage to get on stage. You know what takes courage - to be one of the three or four folks - including my wife - in charge of wranglin' a children's cast of about 30 kids, sometimes until 11 at night. Medieval knights didn't have to exhibit that kind of bravery.
* It snows in this play. Every night. Now, if we can make it snow inside of a building, can it be that hard to make it snow every Christmas, at least in my yard?
* This play has done what I thought was the impossible: It has finally pushed several of the songs from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" from my head. Oh, wait. Shouldn't have done that. They're back. Dangit.
* It's nice that, when someone asks, I can tell them I have been doing this since the 1980s. So what if I fail to mention that little 20-year gap when I didn't get on stage. Our little secret.
* The Mayor of a New York town in the 1940s did not wear New Balance hiking boots. Fortunately, my wife was able to get home and get my other shoes before the curtain opening on that night.
* If an actor goes on stage with a cell phone in his pocket, and it goes off midscene and the ring tone is a chicken clucking, then know this: The time that ceases to be a source of jokes and ribbing is just after the Earth crashes into the sun.
* One of the best things about being in a play: Food. There is always food. Add bunches of kids and the Bag of Snacky Goodness, and lawdy it's good-eating time. Fast fact: The longest a pizza has survived a set-build: 11 seconds.
* Speaking of set-build, you will be pleased to know that, despite using several power tools over the course of the set construction, I still have 10 - count 'em , 10 - fingers. I would guess I have used up my power tool karma, and will now not pick up another one again until some time around 2018.
* The message of the show, I was gently reminded, is NOT: "If you have a forgetful relative, end it all."
* With a cast and crew of around 60 people, you never really know what you're getting into. While I wasn't expecting folks to split into rival gangs or anything, you never know the dynamics that will form when you get that many people together. The great part - it's a fantastic group of talented people who have fun, enjoy each others' company, pick each other up when they need it and are just a generally nice collection of folks.
I'm lucky to have spent this time with them. I just hope they re-elect me.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Eye got it
While there are plenty of things that you never want to hear your children say, I've got one near the top: "I THINK I POKED MY EYEBALL OUT!"
Yes, nothing enlivens a day of fun like gouging out your eye.
It happened at my parents' house. The kids were playing in a neighbor's magnolia tree, which is possibly the finest climbing tree ever assembled. From the din of play, I heard Parker scream.
Parker is a tough dude, and he usually doesn't overreact when it comes to being hurt.
Quick side story: About a week ago, he was running through the yard when he tripped over a ladder that was lying on the ground. He took a pretty good tumble, so I went to check on him with two of my sisters trailing me.
When I got down there, I found Parker lying on his stomach, and saw his foot turned in an incredibly unnatural way away from his body. When I grabbed his leg, I saw his foot flop to the ground. "OHMIGOD!!!" I yelled, thinking my son had suffered a Joe Theisman wound. No, turns out his shoe had come off. No foot inside of it. Way to stay cool, Mike.
So back to the eye poke: I made my way over there quickly, really hoping I wasn't going to find his eyeball rolling around on the ground.
Fortunately, the eyeball was still in his head. But he had run into a stick, which had jabbed in the corner of his eye. When he would take his hand away from his face, I could see it was bleeding. Yech.
I rushed Parker inside. My wife knew it was serious, as I normally respond to injuries thusly: "You'll be fine." He kept saying that he thought his eyeball was out. We assured him it was there.
Once we got him to sit still for a little bit, we were able to flush out his eye and - brace yourself - get the splinter out of his eyeball. I am fairly certain that "eyeball splinter" ranks high on the unwanted scale.
My wife decided that, even though I am one of the finest eyeball splinter technicians in the world, he should probably have an actual doctor look at him.
For what it's worth, the doctor, with all of that fancy medical school training, also diagnosed that his eyeball was, in fact, still in his head.
Parker was given some antibiotic eye drops, which he takes without any problem.
I am not sure how he does this, as I am 37 and still have a hard time putting in eye drops. Sad when you realize your 6-year-old is tougher than you.
He said his eyesight is still a little fuzzy, which will hopefully clear up soon. And, in the evenings, when he gets really tired, he sometimes says his eye hurts.
Not sure if that is because of the evil stick attack, or because he's 6 and tired.
Because no matter how tough you are, when you're 6 and tired, it sometimes feels like your eyeball fell out.
Yes, nothing enlivens a day of fun like gouging out your eye.
It happened at my parents' house. The kids were playing in a neighbor's magnolia tree, which is possibly the finest climbing tree ever assembled. From the din of play, I heard Parker scream.
Parker is a tough dude, and he usually doesn't overreact when it comes to being hurt.
Quick side story: About a week ago, he was running through the yard when he tripped over a ladder that was lying on the ground. He took a pretty good tumble, so I went to check on him with two of my sisters trailing me.
When I got down there, I found Parker lying on his stomach, and saw his foot turned in an incredibly unnatural way away from his body. When I grabbed his leg, I saw his foot flop to the ground. "OHMIGOD!!!" I yelled, thinking my son had suffered a Joe Theisman wound. No, turns out his shoe had come off. No foot inside of it. Way to stay cool, Mike.
So back to the eye poke: I made my way over there quickly, really hoping I wasn't going to find his eyeball rolling around on the ground.
Fortunately, the eyeball was still in his head. But he had run into a stick, which had jabbed in the corner of his eye. When he would take his hand away from his face, I could see it was bleeding. Yech.
I rushed Parker inside. My wife knew it was serious, as I normally respond to injuries thusly: "You'll be fine." He kept saying that he thought his eyeball was out. We assured him it was there.
Once we got him to sit still for a little bit, we were able to flush out his eye and - brace yourself - get the splinter out of his eyeball. I am fairly certain that "eyeball splinter" ranks high on the unwanted scale.
My wife decided that, even though I am one of the finest eyeball splinter technicians in the world, he should probably have an actual doctor look at him.
For what it's worth, the doctor, with all of that fancy medical school training, also diagnosed that his eyeball was, in fact, still in his head.
Parker was given some antibiotic eye drops, which he takes without any problem.
I am not sure how he does this, as I am 37 and still have a hard time putting in eye drops. Sad when you realize your 6-year-old is tougher than you.
He said his eyesight is still a little fuzzy, which will hopefully clear up soon. And, in the evenings, when he gets really tired, he sometimes says his eye hurts.
Not sure if that is because of the evil stick attack, or because he's 6 and tired.
Because no matter how tough you are, when you're 6 and tired, it sometimes feels like your eyeball fell out.
Giving Thanks
So tomorrow we all sit down for turkey and stuffing and football and such. Thus, it is time to unveil my federally required thankful column. So, I am thankful:
* for the fact that one column per year requires no thinking whatsoever, unlike those other 51, which were clearly the product of a team of geniuses working around the clock to produce brilliant commentary on things such as how I got stuck on the roof and how you can take a play fort down with an ax in under a half hour.
* that cleaning up the house can involve the phrase, "Just put the crayons in the sombrero."
* that my kids have a sense of humor. For example, when my son, Parker, was sick with the flu, we went to put on his shoes. In his shoe, he found a small plastic pig. His comment: "Why is there a pig inside of my shoe? Oooh, maybe because I have the pig flu." Allie, meanwhile, often comes up with creative ways to, say, give away her brother.
* that my car still runs, and I fixed the last mechanical glitch, which could have cost me $1,500, with a couple of quarts of oil. Did it make the problem go away? No. Did it make the sound reminding me of the problem go away? Yes. Yes it did.
* that at least a few times a month, I have this feeling rush over me that says, "You know, it doesn't actually matter if the shoes get put up in the closet."
* that every few months the shoes actually get put up.
* that the good folks at Krazy Glue figured out that they could sell four one-time-use tubes instead of one big tube that would get used once and then become a rock-solid chunk of unusable metal and glue that you would find the next time you needed Krazy Glue.
* that my dogs want more than anything to go upstairs and climb on the bed. Even if they aren't allowed up there (and even though Maggie the Attack Basset couldn't do it given the chance), it's nice to know you're in demand.
* that my kids still like being around me, although I am sensing that the window may be short with a certain fourth-grader who has already informed me that she cannot order from the kids menu anymore because, as she said, "Dad, I'm not a kid."
* that I have become so brutally organized with Christmas decorations that I can get them put up in no time whatsoever, and can flip a switch on Friday to have them shining bright.
* that I have learned to be patient and say, "Yes, dear" as my wife has me redo all of the Christmas decorations for the bulk of Saturday.
* for Rich Rodriguez, who decided not to coach Alabama.
* that my wife and I took the kids on a Christmas wish-list trip to Toys "R" Us. Granted, it turned into us channeling our wish lists from 1982 ("Oooh, put this on your list!"), but why shouldn't they know the joy of light sabers and My Little Pony?
* that I have a wife who gets mad only if I don't give an honest opinion, even if that opinion is, "I really don't care which shirt you wear. They both look the same to me."
* that I have an evil cat who hates everyone but me. Not thankful that she is evil and hates everyone else. Just glad she likes me.
* that Carl Kasell, while retiring from Morning Edition, will still be on "Wait, Wait. Don't Tell Me," as I would gamble that there is not a funnier 75-year-old man doing impersonations of Sarah Palin, Bill Clinton or Kim Jong Il.
* that I have been fortunate enough to write this column each week for 13 years. If nothing else, it's kept my team of geniuses employed.
Happy Thanksgiving!
* for the fact that one column per year requires no thinking whatsoever, unlike those other 51, which were clearly the product of a team of geniuses working around the clock to produce brilliant commentary on things such as how I got stuck on the roof and how you can take a play fort down with an ax in under a half hour.
* that cleaning up the house can involve the phrase, "Just put the crayons in the sombrero."
* that my kids have a sense of humor. For example, when my son, Parker, was sick with the flu, we went to put on his shoes. In his shoe, he found a small plastic pig. His comment: "Why is there a pig inside of my shoe? Oooh, maybe because I have the pig flu." Allie, meanwhile, often comes up with creative ways to, say, give away her brother.
* that my car still runs, and I fixed the last mechanical glitch, which could have cost me $1,500, with a couple of quarts of oil. Did it make the problem go away? No. Did it make the sound reminding me of the problem go away? Yes. Yes it did.
* that at least a few times a month, I have this feeling rush over me that says, "You know, it doesn't actually matter if the shoes get put up in the closet."
* that every few months the shoes actually get put up.
* that the good folks at Krazy Glue figured out that they could sell four one-time-use tubes instead of one big tube that would get used once and then become a rock-solid chunk of unusable metal and glue that you would find the next time you needed Krazy Glue.
* that my dogs want more than anything to go upstairs and climb on the bed. Even if they aren't allowed up there (and even though Maggie the Attack Basset couldn't do it given the chance), it's nice to know you're in demand.
* that my kids still like being around me, although I am sensing that the window may be short with a certain fourth-grader who has already informed me that she cannot order from the kids menu anymore because, as she said, "Dad, I'm not a kid."
* that I have become so brutally organized with Christmas decorations that I can get them put up in no time whatsoever, and can flip a switch on Friday to have them shining bright.
* that I have learned to be patient and say, "Yes, dear" as my wife has me redo all of the Christmas decorations for the bulk of Saturday.
* for Rich Rodriguez, who decided not to coach Alabama.
* that my wife and I took the kids on a Christmas wish-list trip to Toys "R" Us. Granted, it turned into us channeling our wish lists from 1982 ("Oooh, put this on your list!"), but why shouldn't they know the joy of light sabers and My Little Pony?
* that I have a wife who gets mad only if I don't give an honest opinion, even if that opinion is, "I really don't care which shirt you wear. They both look the same to me."
* that I have an evil cat who hates everyone but me. Not thankful that she is evil and hates everyone else. Just glad she likes me.
* that Carl Kasell, while retiring from Morning Edition, will still be on "Wait, Wait. Don't Tell Me," as I would gamble that there is not a funnier 75-year-old man doing impersonations of Sarah Palin, Bill Clinton or Kim Jong Il.
* that I have been fortunate enough to write this column each week for 13 years. If nothing else, it's kept my team of geniuses employed.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Oh, deer
I am sure you’ve been asked the question a thousand times: “Dad, is this the place where the deer ate my hair?”
And I am sure you answered as I did: “Yes, and your popcorn.”
My family and I took a weekend trip to visit family in Atlanta, and one of the stops on the journey was the scene of the aforementioned deer hair/popcorn incident. But more on that later.
Our first stop in Atlanta was at a Red Robin restaurant. I had never eaten at one, but had been told good things. I consider myself the world’s foremost expert on hamburgers – even more so than the Hamburglar – and know a good burger. I told my wife that I was somewhat concerned when we drove past a Fuddrucker’s and a Steak ’n Shake to get to Red Robin. I tell you that because I think I have come up with Red Robin’s new slogan: “You will drive past a Fuddrucker’s and a Steak ’n Shake to get to a Red Robin.” And I don’t mean that as a slight to those two places, which are outstanding burger places. But at Red Robin, I ordered the Royal Red Robin – a burger topped with a fried egg and bacon. It’s like eating a delicious barnyard. Any place that offers an onion ring tower is OK by me.
The next day, we started our morning by heading to Ikea. I am sure most of your are familiar with the Swedish furniture company. But unless you have been to the store, you cannot fathom the awesomeness that encompasses an Ikea store. Sure there are tons of cool stuff for relatively cheap. But here’s the key part of an Ikea store – they have a place to check your kids.
Seriously. You just give ’em your kids, and they take them. No questions asked (not even “Do they bite?”)
Now I know some of you would be concerned with dropping off your children at a Swedish department store, but I assure you there is nothing to worry about, as the Swedish have a long and storied history of caring for children while people shop. I assume.
Once the kids’ allotted time in the care of the Ikea folks, I suggested that my father-in-law and I break away with the kids for some Atlanta adventurin’. Surprisingly, my wife and mother-in-law agreed to this, and they quickly disappeared into the Swedish landscape.
We decided that we would go to Yellow River Game Ranch, where Parker became lunch for a deer about four years ago. Yellow River is an animal reserve near Atlanta where you can mill about among deer, peacocks, rabbits, goats, etc. There are also bears, buffalo, cougars and foxes, but they have wisely opted not to have those mingle with the visitors.
On our previous visit, Parker was in a stroller. As we sat and oohed and awed at his adorable sister (“Awww – she said ‘wabbit!!!’” we shared with everyone around who kindly didn’t throw apples at us for extreme parental cuteness and fuzzy wuzziness.), Parker was not very verbal at that point, save for a series of grunts and squawks. After about two minutes of trying to get our attention, we turned to see a deer that had finished off his popcorn and had moved on to his hair. Now that he’s older, and quite the animal fanatic, we decided it was Parker’s turn. It was Yellow River II: Parker’s Reckoning. Parker didn’t actually have a memory of the game ranch, but rather had heard us tell the story on occasion, mainly every time we would see a deer and scream, “PARKER, COVER YOUR HAIR – THE DEER’S COMING TO FINISH THE JOB!!!” And then we’d laugh. Except for Parker.
Ha! I kid, I kid. Parker loves animals, and was in hog heaven milling about among the beasties. Even his sister, who is normally quite fine with watching animals from afar, enjoyed getting to pet the friendly deer. I was pleased that we were able to take back new memories of the animals and their interactions. And, as with any good interaction with animals, it’s always a bonus to be able to show the kids – up close and personal – all the things that were on your burger the night before.
And I am sure you answered as I did: “Yes, and your popcorn.”
My family and I took a weekend trip to visit family in Atlanta, and one of the stops on the journey was the scene of the aforementioned deer hair/popcorn incident. But more on that later.
Our first stop in Atlanta was at a Red Robin restaurant. I had never eaten at one, but had been told good things. I consider myself the world’s foremost expert on hamburgers – even more so than the Hamburglar – and know a good burger. I told my wife that I was somewhat concerned when we drove past a Fuddrucker’s and a Steak ’n Shake to get to Red Robin. I tell you that because I think I have come up with Red Robin’s new slogan: “You will drive past a Fuddrucker’s and a Steak ’n Shake to get to a Red Robin.” And I don’t mean that as a slight to those two places, which are outstanding burger places. But at Red Robin, I ordered the Royal Red Robin – a burger topped with a fried egg and bacon. It’s like eating a delicious barnyard. Any place that offers an onion ring tower is OK by me.
The next day, we started our morning by heading to Ikea. I am sure most of your are familiar with the Swedish furniture company. But unless you have been to the store, you cannot fathom the awesomeness that encompasses an Ikea store. Sure there are tons of cool stuff for relatively cheap. But here’s the key part of an Ikea store – they have a place to check your kids.
Seriously. You just give ’em your kids, and they take them. No questions asked (not even “Do they bite?”)
Now I know some of you would be concerned with dropping off your children at a Swedish department store, but I assure you there is nothing to worry about, as the Swedish have a long and storied history of caring for children while people shop. I assume.
Once the kids’ allotted time in the care of the Ikea folks, I suggested that my father-in-law and I break away with the kids for some Atlanta adventurin’. Surprisingly, my wife and mother-in-law agreed to this, and they quickly disappeared into the Swedish landscape.
We decided that we would go to Yellow River Game Ranch, where Parker became lunch for a deer about four years ago. Yellow River is an animal reserve near Atlanta where you can mill about among deer, peacocks, rabbits, goats, etc. There are also bears, buffalo, cougars and foxes, but they have wisely opted not to have those mingle with the visitors.
On our previous visit, Parker was in a stroller. As we sat and oohed and awed at his adorable sister (“Awww – she said ‘wabbit!!!’” we shared with everyone around who kindly didn’t throw apples at us for extreme parental cuteness and fuzzy wuzziness.), Parker was not very verbal at that point, save for a series of grunts and squawks. After about two minutes of trying to get our attention, we turned to see a deer that had finished off his popcorn and had moved on to his hair. Now that he’s older, and quite the animal fanatic, we decided it was Parker’s turn. It was Yellow River II: Parker’s Reckoning. Parker didn’t actually have a memory of the game ranch, but rather had heard us tell the story on occasion, mainly every time we would see a deer and scream, “PARKER, COVER YOUR HAIR – THE DEER’S COMING TO FINISH THE JOB!!!” And then we’d laugh. Except for Parker.
Ha! I kid, I kid. Parker loves animals, and was in hog heaven milling about among the beasties. Even his sister, who is normally quite fine with watching animals from afar, enjoyed getting to pet the friendly deer. I was pleased that we were able to take back new memories of the animals and their interactions. And, as with any good interaction with animals, it’s always a bonus to be able to show the kids – up close and personal – all the things that were on your burger the night before.
The Efficient
I try not to be nasty. I really do.
So that’s why with today’s column, I am not going to call out people for their inability to return a shopping cart or their complete disregard for the item count at the grocery express lane or their purchasing 11 meals – all paid separately – at a drive through window.
No, instead, we focus on the promise of a new tomorrow. A bright tomorrow. A tomorrow of … efficiency.
It is time we as a nation focus on the one critical oversight of attention that we need to work on: Rewarding The Efficient.
The Efficient are what keep the country humming along. The Efficient are the ones that make your life easier, because they are so … what’s the word … I’m gonna go with efficient.
I am proud to be a member of The Efficient. And I have decided that, rather than gnashing my teeth and having a four-digit blood pressure when trapped behind The Inefficient, it is time we as a nation step up and develop a federally mandated Efficiency Lane.
These lanes would be installed at countless institutions around the country. Those who have passed the federally mandated efficiency test are the only ones who would be allowed to use them. We’d even have a snappy – and dare I say efficient – ID card. Among the perks of being a card holder:
• An exclusive grocery store line, wherein you have proven that, not only do you have fewer than 15 items, you can check out without the help of the cashier, and you know the four-digit code for onions and bananas.
• A pharmacy drop-off window where you simply are dropping off your prescription. Date of birth? Oh, The Efficient have already written it on there for you.
• A convenience store line where you have sworn, via blood-oath, that you will not scratch off your lottery ticket in line or fish through your pockets to try to find that lone penny for the $4.01 purchase. The Efficient? Penny in hand, my friend.
• A fast-food lane for people who want the regular ol’ No. 1 or No. 3, with just a Coke and the usual fries. No pickles, extra mustard, a medium Sprite with half-ice? Oooh, sorry …
• A reward system in which you get 10 percent off of your purchase if you pull into the first parking place you come to, rather than circle the block and hold up traffic while you wait for a parking place a whopping 20 feet closer.
• A special lane at all schools when you can jettison your children – backpacks attached – by merely slowing down. No long goodbyes. No struggling to undo seat belts. Adios, amigos. See you this afternoon.
Now I am sure many of you are saying, “Mike, why so uptight?” To which I say, “Are you the one who had an overflowing cart of grocery items – enough to feed the Denver Broncos for two weeks – at the self check-out line, creating a backlog of poor members of The Efficient just wanting to roll through the line with a single pack of cheese?
Or perhaps the one who debated the cost of your prescription – and yelled at the clerk about the cost of the medicine, the clerk who is about as far away from setting those costs as Yogi Berra?
Ooh, wait, are you the one who arrived at the front of a McDonald’s line and seemed somewhat overwhelmed by the menu and even asked what’s on a Quarter Pounder?”
If you answered no to any of these questions, I suppose an apology is in order. But if you answered yes, sorry – out of The Efficient line.
The point is, I am The Efficient. It’s the closest thing to a superpower I have. I can breeze through a checkout line, if I am unencumbered by The Inefficient. I am lightning at a fast-food restaurant.
I am practically Rain Man when it comes to figuring out that giving the clerk $5.11 for a $4.61 purchase will net me 50 cents in change, rather than that cumbersome 39 cents of a simple, inefficient fiver.
Perhaps someday, The Efficient will be recognized for our contributions. That will be a good day.
I think I’ll reward myself, with a No. 1 with a Coke.
So that’s why with today’s column, I am not going to call out people for their inability to return a shopping cart or their complete disregard for the item count at the grocery express lane or their purchasing 11 meals – all paid separately – at a drive through window.
No, instead, we focus on the promise of a new tomorrow. A bright tomorrow. A tomorrow of … efficiency.
It is time we as a nation focus on the one critical oversight of attention that we need to work on: Rewarding The Efficient.
The Efficient are what keep the country humming along. The Efficient are the ones that make your life easier, because they are so … what’s the word … I’m gonna go with efficient.
I am proud to be a member of The Efficient. And I have decided that, rather than gnashing my teeth and having a four-digit blood pressure when trapped behind The Inefficient, it is time we as a nation step up and develop a federally mandated Efficiency Lane.
These lanes would be installed at countless institutions around the country. Those who have passed the federally mandated efficiency test are the only ones who would be allowed to use them. We’d even have a snappy – and dare I say efficient – ID card. Among the perks of being a card holder:
• An exclusive grocery store line, wherein you have proven that, not only do you have fewer than 15 items, you can check out without the help of the cashier, and you know the four-digit code for onions and bananas.
• A pharmacy drop-off window where you simply are dropping off your prescription. Date of birth? Oh, The Efficient have already written it on there for you.
• A convenience store line where you have sworn, via blood-oath, that you will not scratch off your lottery ticket in line or fish through your pockets to try to find that lone penny for the $4.01 purchase. The Efficient? Penny in hand, my friend.
• A fast-food lane for people who want the regular ol’ No. 1 or No. 3, with just a Coke and the usual fries. No pickles, extra mustard, a medium Sprite with half-ice? Oooh, sorry …
• A reward system in which you get 10 percent off of your purchase if you pull into the first parking place you come to, rather than circle the block and hold up traffic while you wait for a parking place a whopping 20 feet closer.
• A special lane at all schools when you can jettison your children – backpacks attached – by merely slowing down. No long goodbyes. No struggling to undo seat belts. Adios, amigos. See you this afternoon.
Now I am sure many of you are saying, “Mike, why so uptight?” To which I say, “Are you the one who had an overflowing cart of grocery items – enough to feed the Denver Broncos for two weeks – at the self check-out line, creating a backlog of poor members of The Efficient just wanting to roll through the line with a single pack of cheese?
Or perhaps the one who debated the cost of your prescription – and yelled at the clerk about the cost of the medicine, the clerk who is about as far away from setting those costs as Yogi Berra?
Ooh, wait, are you the one who arrived at the front of a McDonald’s line and seemed somewhat overwhelmed by the menu and even asked what’s on a Quarter Pounder?”
If you answered no to any of these questions, I suppose an apology is in order. But if you answered yes, sorry – out of The Efficient line.
The point is, I am The Efficient. It’s the closest thing to a superpower I have. I can breeze through a checkout line, if I am unencumbered by The Inefficient. I am lightning at a fast-food restaurant.
I am practically Rain Man when it comes to figuring out that giving the clerk $5.11 for a $4.61 purchase will net me 50 cents in change, rather than that cumbersome 39 cents of a simple, inefficient fiver.
Perhaps someday, The Efficient will be recognized for our contributions. That will be a good day.
I think I’ll reward myself, with a No. 1 with a Coke.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Everybody was Kung Fu fighting
Sometimes I like to reflect on the good old days.
You know, the times when bedtime didn’t involve the phrase, “NO KUNG FU!”
When my son was little, his bedtime was this:
1. Wait until 7 p.m.
2. Note that he had fallen asleep wherever he happened to be.
3. Put him in his bed.
4. Wait until morning.
This lasted until a few months ago.
For some reason, he decided that bedtime should now be part chase, part mixed martial arts exhibition.
Here’s how it now goes:
1. Tell Parker it’s time for bed.
2. Have him say, “NOOOOO!!!” and sprint from the room.
3. Stalk him from room to room until you eventually run him into the other parent.
4. See a detailed kung fu demonstration, complete with loud “HI-YAs.”
5. Dive into the kung fu storm, grabbing him and throwing him over shoulder.
6. Put him in bed.
7. Read 206 books.
8. Get water.
9. Read 145 books.
10. Tell him that if he does not go to bed Gus the Fish gets it.
Now, I know what many of you are saying – you are saying, “He’s 6 – you can take him in kung fu!”
But others of you are saying, “You should put him in his room, tell him it’s bedtime, and be done with it.” Some of you even added, “Harrumph.” Yes, that would be nice. Let me know what massive sedatives that requires.
We have tried that approach.
Just a hunch, our neighbors are not fans, as they get to hear him scream “LET. ME. OUT.” over and over and over.
Once we can get him settled in the bed, we usually can get him headed toward sleepyville.
My wife has developed an effective technique with him.
He will set rather unreasonable bedtime demands, and she counters with brutal bargaining tactics and his lack of a concept of time.
PARKER: I. WANT. A. ROCKET. SHIP.
MY WIFE: Parker, you can’t have a rocket ship until you sit still and be quiet for four minutes.
PARKER: Two minutes.
MY WIFE: 42 minutes.
PARKER: OK, four.
He will then sit still for a few minutes, and most often, being zapped from his air kung fu, will crash.
On occasion, he will exceed the set time allotment.
He will ask if it has been four minutes.
Answer? Always no.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good kid. But he has been diagnosed with being 6 years old, a chronic ailment that inflicts 10 out of every 10 children his age.
Fortunately, there is a cure for it.
I have to remind myself there is a cure when I am watching my son stand on the dresser announcing that he is not, in fact, going to get down until he has ice cream (not some of the ice cream, but all of the ice cream).
Until that time, we will simply endure the nightly ritual.
We went through this with our daughter, and she eventually got over it. I am guessing he will, too.
I mean, if he is doing pretend kung fu the night before his SATs, we’ve got a lot of bigger fish to fry than bedtime.
He’s only 6 once. And how bad can it really be, when bedtime only lasts four minutes?
You know, the times when bedtime didn’t involve the phrase, “NO KUNG FU!”
When my son was little, his bedtime was this:
1. Wait until 7 p.m.
2. Note that he had fallen asleep wherever he happened to be.
3. Put him in his bed.
4. Wait until morning.
This lasted until a few months ago.
For some reason, he decided that bedtime should now be part chase, part mixed martial arts exhibition.
Here’s how it now goes:
1. Tell Parker it’s time for bed.
2. Have him say, “NOOOOO!!!” and sprint from the room.
3. Stalk him from room to room until you eventually run him into the other parent.
4. See a detailed kung fu demonstration, complete with loud “HI-YAs.”
5. Dive into the kung fu storm, grabbing him and throwing him over shoulder.
6. Put him in bed.
7. Read 206 books.
8. Get water.
9. Read 145 books.
10. Tell him that if he does not go to bed Gus the Fish gets it.
Now, I know what many of you are saying – you are saying, “He’s 6 – you can take him in kung fu!”
But others of you are saying, “You should put him in his room, tell him it’s bedtime, and be done with it.” Some of you even added, “Harrumph.” Yes, that would be nice. Let me know what massive sedatives that requires.
We have tried that approach.
Just a hunch, our neighbors are not fans, as they get to hear him scream “LET. ME. OUT.” over and over and over.
Once we can get him settled in the bed, we usually can get him headed toward sleepyville.
My wife has developed an effective technique with him.
He will set rather unreasonable bedtime demands, and she counters with brutal bargaining tactics and his lack of a concept of time.
PARKER: I. WANT. A. ROCKET. SHIP.
MY WIFE: Parker, you can’t have a rocket ship until you sit still and be quiet for four minutes.
PARKER: Two minutes.
MY WIFE: 42 minutes.
PARKER: OK, four.
He will then sit still for a few minutes, and most often, being zapped from his air kung fu, will crash.
On occasion, he will exceed the set time allotment.
He will ask if it has been four minutes.
Answer? Always no.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good kid. But he has been diagnosed with being 6 years old, a chronic ailment that inflicts 10 out of every 10 children his age.
Fortunately, there is a cure for it.
I have to remind myself there is a cure when I am watching my son stand on the dresser announcing that he is not, in fact, going to get down until he has ice cream (not some of the ice cream, but all of the ice cream).
Until that time, we will simply endure the nightly ritual.
We went through this with our daughter, and she eventually got over it. I am guessing he will, too.
I mean, if he is doing pretend kung fu the night before his SATs, we’ve got a lot of bigger fish to fry than bedtime.
He’s only 6 once. And how bad can it really be, when bedtime only lasts four minutes?
Garage redux
The phone call was brief:
MY WIFE: What are you doing?
ME: About to go into an interview.
MY WIFE: OK, call me when you can. The garage door exploded.
And click.
I don’t know about you, but I do not have a standard response for an exploding garage door.
Eventually, I finished with the interview and made contact with my wife. She informed me that the door had fallen off of the track and kindly dropped a huge pane of glass on the garage floor.
Fortunately, my wife was out of the garage when this happened. Unfortunately, it happened.
When I got home, I saw the damage. The top half of the garage door was just hanging there, looking like the world’s largest and ugliest accordion. Broken glass started in my garage and extended roughly to Minneapolis. If you have shards of broken glass in your yard, my apologies.
My first step was to see if I could get the door back down. The bottom was about 4 feet off the ground. Of course, as my wife pointed out, it was hardly a safety concern, as the enormous spread of broken glass would serve as a deterrent to anyone looking to enter our garage. It would certainly keep away the dreaded Barefoot Burglar, assuming he exists.
I began to sweep up the glass that was spread all over the place. I noticed that there were still large chunks of glass stuck in the window. Apparently, the jarring dislocation broke the pane of glass first, sending the bulk of it to the concrete. The rest stayed in the door, hanging over me in a way that said, “If you were smart, you wouldn’t keep standing there.”
Once the bulk of the glass was removed from the door, I went on to the next task, which was to fix the door. I grabbed my tools and went to work.
Ha! Anyone who knows me knows that had I done that, I would not be writing this column, but rather one titled, “How I became trapped in a garage door spring.”
I called a garage door repair company, who sent someone out. I was under the assumption that he would be coming out to give me estimates for a new door, as our current door looked very much unlike a garage door, and I was not sure that it could be repackaged in such a manner. Oh, me of little faith.
The man told me the door was in need of some TLC. He then said, “You realize you’re missing a bunch of screws in the door, right? That’s why it wobbles and shakes and falls off the track.”
Now before you shake your head in condemnation, I have to ask, when is the last time you went out and did a screw head count on your garage door? You may have a garage door just waiting to crash down on you. So there.
He replaced a bunch of screws and a wheel here and a part there. It went up and down, and, while still a little wobbly, it was better than the collapsed, spraying-glass version of recent.
Apparently, the TLC wore off after about two weeks, when the garage went back into accordion mode. Because I am a slacker, I had not gotten around to replacing the glass. Thus, the Barefoot Bandit could have snuck in.
The company came back out, and the guy repairing it did some things with the track itself, and tightened this bolt and that screw and what not. It seemed to work better than it had in some time.
I have no clue how long the current repair will last. I suppose we should start a household garage replacement fund, should the TLC approach no longer be effective.
Of course, should it break again, at least I can be almost certain of one thing – I probably won’t have gotten around to replacing the glass, so I can at least avoid that.
MY WIFE: What are you doing?
ME: About to go into an interview.
MY WIFE: OK, call me when you can. The garage door exploded.
And click.
I don’t know about you, but I do not have a standard response for an exploding garage door.
Eventually, I finished with the interview and made contact with my wife. She informed me that the door had fallen off of the track and kindly dropped a huge pane of glass on the garage floor.
Fortunately, my wife was out of the garage when this happened. Unfortunately, it happened.
When I got home, I saw the damage. The top half of the garage door was just hanging there, looking like the world’s largest and ugliest accordion. Broken glass started in my garage and extended roughly to Minneapolis. If you have shards of broken glass in your yard, my apologies.
My first step was to see if I could get the door back down. The bottom was about 4 feet off the ground. Of course, as my wife pointed out, it was hardly a safety concern, as the enormous spread of broken glass would serve as a deterrent to anyone looking to enter our garage. It would certainly keep away the dreaded Barefoot Burglar, assuming he exists.
I began to sweep up the glass that was spread all over the place. I noticed that there were still large chunks of glass stuck in the window. Apparently, the jarring dislocation broke the pane of glass first, sending the bulk of it to the concrete. The rest stayed in the door, hanging over me in a way that said, “If you were smart, you wouldn’t keep standing there.”
Once the bulk of the glass was removed from the door, I went on to the next task, which was to fix the door. I grabbed my tools and went to work.
Ha! Anyone who knows me knows that had I done that, I would not be writing this column, but rather one titled, “How I became trapped in a garage door spring.”
I called a garage door repair company, who sent someone out. I was under the assumption that he would be coming out to give me estimates for a new door, as our current door looked very much unlike a garage door, and I was not sure that it could be repackaged in such a manner. Oh, me of little faith.
The man told me the door was in need of some TLC. He then said, “You realize you’re missing a bunch of screws in the door, right? That’s why it wobbles and shakes and falls off the track.”
Now before you shake your head in condemnation, I have to ask, when is the last time you went out and did a screw head count on your garage door? You may have a garage door just waiting to crash down on you. So there.
He replaced a bunch of screws and a wheel here and a part there. It went up and down, and, while still a little wobbly, it was better than the collapsed, spraying-glass version of recent.
Apparently, the TLC wore off after about two weeks, when the garage went back into accordion mode. Because I am a slacker, I had not gotten around to replacing the glass. Thus, the Barefoot Bandit could have snuck in.
The company came back out, and the guy repairing it did some things with the track itself, and tightened this bolt and that screw and what not. It seemed to work better than it had in some time.
I have no clue how long the current repair will last. I suppose we should start a household garage replacement fund, should the TLC approach no longer be effective.
Of course, should it break again, at least I can be almost certain of one thing – I probably won’t have gotten around to replacing the glass, so I can at least avoid that.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Kneed to know
Gotta say – not a fan of walking with a limp.
I have been doing so for about a week, after I injured my knee doing ... well ... I woke up last week and noticed an intense pain in my knee. I considered my previous activities and how I could have hurt it. My recent physical activity:
1. Lie in bed for about five days with the flu.
2. That is all.
OK, so not the most strenuous calendar.
My wife told me I needed to go to a doctor, mainly because she was tired of me falling to the ground and moaning every few steps. I have had sore knees like most anyone, but this was different, so I conceded I should probably have someone check it out.
When I arrived at the orthopedist’s office, I had to fill out my paperwork. One of the questions asked me how I had treated my injury. I answered “Limping, complaining.” I don’t think they were impressed.
I was sent for X-rays on my knees, which came with the added bonus of getting to take off my pants and don an awesome paper gown. I asked the nurse if I could just pull up my pants leg. She told me no. I asked her if this was just a little game to see how goofy they could make me look. On the second X-ray, would they say, “OK, we’re gonna need you to put on this Cher wig, too.” She admitted nothing, but I am on to her.
When the doctor came in, he told me the X-rays were fine. He asked me what physical activity I had done recently, and I told him about my aggressive bed lying. He did not think that was a common cause of knee injuries.
More than likely, he said, I have a torn meniscus, albeit a minor one. For those of you who are not doctors, a meniscus is part of your knee that, when torn, turns into a large buck knife that stabs the inside of your leg every time you move it.
In some ways, I was a little disappointed that there was nothing hugely obvious to see on the X-ray. I kinda wanted him to come in and say, “Clearly, you have been mauled by wolverines. How are you still alive? This is the most serious knee injury ever. I would like to submit your case to the medical journal ‘I Survived an Unsurvivable Knee Injury, Possibly from Wolverine Attack.’”
The doctor gave me a prescription and some exercises to do. The prescription is, I am told, a steroid, so I expect to lift a car and throw it angrily at someone any day now.
After the first couple of days of taking the medicine and doing the exercises, I did notice an improvement in my knee. And then I found an awesome way of setting back any progress I had made. On day three, my knee was feeling better than it had felt before the wolverine attack. I was making sure that I was treating it gingerly and not putting any undue strain on it. And then the rains came. When I was walking to my car, there was a nice puddle in the parking lot. I could have walked around it. I could have stepped in it and gotten my shoe wet. I could have gone back inside and waited until the rain eased up. No, those are sane responses.
Instead, I went into uber-guy mode. I leaped. Gotta clear the puddle. Somewhere about midjump, my brain said, “Hey, remember how you can hardly walk up stairs right now? And you’re about to land on that leg. Good call, genius.”
And so my leap started to end, with my left leg planting on the asphalt. My knee and my brain had a quick conversation. “Ouch,” my knee said, adding, “I quit.” And so my knee began to buckle, and it appeared I had only two choices: 1) Limp and scream and wail at the pain or 2) fall onto the wet asphalt and scream and wail.
Finding neither of those preferable, I opted for the wildcard option, which was to limp to my car, drive home and complain to my wife. She asked me what happened. I told her I jumped a puddle. She sighed.
So it’s clear that my knee needs some TLC to get better, and I will have to make an effort to ensure that happens. I am tired of limping everywhere and tired of having a hard time getting up stairs and such. (Although this does help my case for installation of a fire pole at home.) Hopefully, this will all be healed up soon. Of course, if it’s not, I can always rely on the time-honored medical tradition of limping. And complaining.
I have been doing so for about a week, after I injured my knee doing ... well ... I woke up last week and noticed an intense pain in my knee. I considered my previous activities and how I could have hurt it. My recent physical activity:
1. Lie in bed for about five days with the flu.
2. That is all.
OK, so not the most strenuous calendar.
My wife told me I needed to go to a doctor, mainly because she was tired of me falling to the ground and moaning every few steps. I have had sore knees like most anyone, but this was different, so I conceded I should probably have someone check it out.
When I arrived at the orthopedist’s office, I had to fill out my paperwork. One of the questions asked me how I had treated my injury. I answered “Limping, complaining.” I don’t think they were impressed.
I was sent for X-rays on my knees, which came with the added bonus of getting to take off my pants and don an awesome paper gown. I asked the nurse if I could just pull up my pants leg. She told me no. I asked her if this was just a little game to see how goofy they could make me look. On the second X-ray, would they say, “OK, we’re gonna need you to put on this Cher wig, too.” She admitted nothing, but I am on to her.
When the doctor came in, he told me the X-rays were fine. He asked me what physical activity I had done recently, and I told him about my aggressive bed lying. He did not think that was a common cause of knee injuries.
More than likely, he said, I have a torn meniscus, albeit a minor one. For those of you who are not doctors, a meniscus is part of your knee that, when torn, turns into a large buck knife that stabs the inside of your leg every time you move it.
In some ways, I was a little disappointed that there was nothing hugely obvious to see on the X-ray. I kinda wanted him to come in and say, “Clearly, you have been mauled by wolverines. How are you still alive? This is the most serious knee injury ever. I would like to submit your case to the medical journal ‘I Survived an Unsurvivable Knee Injury, Possibly from Wolverine Attack.’”
The doctor gave me a prescription and some exercises to do. The prescription is, I am told, a steroid, so I expect to lift a car and throw it angrily at someone any day now.
After the first couple of days of taking the medicine and doing the exercises, I did notice an improvement in my knee. And then I found an awesome way of setting back any progress I had made. On day three, my knee was feeling better than it had felt before the wolverine attack. I was making sure that I was treating it gingerly and not putting any undue strain on it. And then the rains came. When I was walking to my car, there was a nice puddle in the parking lot. I could have walked around it. I could have stepped in it and gotten my shoe wet. I could have gone back inside and waited until the rain eased up. No, those are sane responses.
Instead, I went into uber-guy mode. I leaped. Gotta clear the puddle. Somewhere about midjump, my brain said, “Hey, remember how you can hardly walk up stairs right now? And you’re about to land on that leg. Good call, genius.”
And so my leap started to end, with my left leg planting on the asphalt. My knee and my brain had a quick conversation. “Ouch,” my knee said, adding, “I quit.” And so my knee began to buckle, and it appeared I had only two choices: 1) Limp and scream and wail at the pain or 2) fall onto the wet asphalt and scream and wail.
Finding neither of those preferable, I opted for the wildcard option, which was to limp to my car, drive home and complain to my wife. She asked me what happened. I told her I jumped a puddle. She sighed.
So it’s clear that my knee needs some TLC to get better, and I will have to make an effort to ensure that happens. I am tired of limping everywhere and tired of having a hard time getting up stairs and such. (Although this does help my case for installation of a fire pole at home.) Hopefully, this will all be healed up soon. Of course, if it’s not, I can always rely on the time-honored medical tradition of limping. And complaining.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
A real chore
So I'm working on a chore list.
My kids are 6 and 9, and my wife and I decided it was time for them to take an active role in the upkeep of the house.
We have always had expectations that our kids would take a part in the household upkeep.
We might as well have had expectations that they would turn into aardvarks because it was as likely to happen.
It's not that my kids don't help. It's that kids don't see a messy house the same way adults do.
For example, when I walk through the house in the evenings, I will often say things such as:
* "Why is there a shoe in the den and another one in the microwave?"
* "Who eats cereal in the bathroom!?!?!?!?"
* "Why are there dinosaurs in the dishwasher?"
So my kids aren't the best housekeepers. But we sat them down the other day and explained to them that we were going to start having chore lists. They expressed their excitement for this by, in unison, saying, "NOOOOO!!!!!"
I told them that we all have to take a part in keeping the house up because we all live here. They responded, "NOOOOO!!!!!"
Not the best cheerleaders for Team House Clean.
I explained to them that taking care of your house showed respect for your house and that everyone in the family played an integral part in making sure that we lived in an environment we could be proud of, one that we wanted to invite others to be a part of. Their blank stares were an inspiration to blank stares everywhere.
My wife saved the moment. "We'll give you an allowance," she said.
Amazingly, they were suddenly on board.
So the first thing to do was to come up with the chores that would comprise the list.
The kids began offering up their suggestions of how they could best be utilized in the new chore list/allowance world they lived in.
Allie said that she would really like to be in charge of the den. "Uh, Allie," I said, "is that because that's the room where the TV is?"
She began a detailed explanation of how, while TV was in fact in that room, that would actually help her clean BETTER.
Parker opted to clean the driveway. On his scooter.
Clearly, my wife and I needed to drive this bus.
We decided that we will come up with a handful of standard to-dos - make beds, put dirty clothes in hamper, get cereal bowl out of bathroom. The other chores would rotate.
The kids asked us what kind of chores these would be.
The first I offered up was rounding up all of the toys each day and making sure they were put in their proper places.
"But what if they're Parker's toys?" Allie asked.
It was at that point that I launched into my well-rehearsed soliloquy about how there was NOTHING downstairs that was mine, yet I clean it up, and how I was pretty sure that I had not worn ANYONE'S Barbie tennis shoes, yet they still find homes, and how I don't recall wearing Star Wars pajamas, yet I put them in the hamper...
And then my wife stepped in, moved me to the side, and, possibly, slipped me some medication.
My wife, who as you can see is the sane parent, explained to the kids that there would be a rotating list of chores that we would all take part in, and some days you may take your brother's shoes upstairs and some days you make take your sister's books upstairs, but in the end, we would all be a better household because we were all working together. I stood by and twitched a little bit.
Hopefully, our chore plan will go smoothly, and the kids will, in no time, feel that they are an important part of keeping a house running.
In the long run, our house and our kids will all be better for it. And maybe we can keep the dinosaurs out of the dishwasher.
My kids are 6 and 9, and my wife and I decided it was time for them to take an active role in the upkeep of the house.
We have always had expectations that our kids would take a part in the household upkeep.
We might as well have had expectations that they would turn into aardvarks because it was as likely to happen.
It's not that my kids don't help. It's that kids don't see a messy house the same way adults do.
For example, when I walk through the house in the evenings, I will often say things such as:
* "Why is there a shoe in the den and another one in the microwave?"
* "Who eats cereal in the bathroom!?!?!?!?"
* "Why are there dinosaurs in the dishwasher?"
So my kids aren't the best housekeepers. But we sat them down the other day and explained to them that we were going to start having chore lists. They expressed their excitement for this by, in unison, saying, "NOOOOO!!!!!"
I told them that we all have to take a part in keeping the house up because we all live here. They responded, "NOOOOO!!!!!"
Not the best cheerleaders for Team House Clean.
I explained to them that taking care of your house showed respect for your house and that everyone in the family played an integral part in making sure that we lived in an environment we could be proud of, one that we wanted to invite others to be a part of. Their blank stares were an inspiration to blank stares everywhere.
My wife saved the moment. "We'll give you an allowance," she said.
Amazingly, they were suddenly on board.
So the first thing to do was to come up with the chores that would comprise the list.
The kids began offering up their suggestions of how they could best be utilized in the new chore list/allowance world they lived in.
Allie said that she would really like to be in charge of the den. "Uh, Allie," I said, "is that because that's the room where the TV is?"
She began a detailed explanation of how, while TV was in fact in that room, that would actually help her clean BETTER.
Parker opted to clean the driveway. On his scooter.
Clearly, my wife and I needed to drive this bus.
We decided that we will come up with a handful of standard to-dos - make beds, put dirty clothes in hamper, get cereal bowl out of bathroom. The other chores would rotate.
The kids asked us what kind of chores these would be.
The first I offered up was rounding up all of the toys each day and making sure they were put in their proper places.
"But what if they're Parker's toys?" Allie asked.
It was at that point that I launched into my well-rehearsed soliloquy about how there was NOTHING downstairs that was mine, yet I clean it up, and how I was pretty sure that I had not worn ANYONE'S Barbie tennis shoes, yet they still find homes, and how I don't recall wearing Star Wars pajamas, yet I put them in the hamper...
And then my wife stepped in, moved me to the side, and, possibly, slipped me some medication.
My wife, who as you can see is the sane parent, explained to the kids that there would be a rotating list of chores that we would all take part in, and some days you may take your brother's shoes upstairs and some days you make take your sister's books upstairs, but in the end, we would all be a better household because we were all working together. I stood by and twitched a little bit.
Hopefully, our chore plan will go smoothly, and the kids will, in no time, feel that they are an important part of keeping a house running.
In the long run, our house and our kids will all be better for it. And maybe we can keep the dinosaurs out of the dishwasher.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The flu
I'm sick.
I know what you're saying. Oh, hangnail? Sniffles? Blister?
No, I can tell you that I am actually sick this time, and prove it to you: I am not complaining, and I've stayed home from work for two days.
As I am sure you have read over the years, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to the minor ailments in life. I moan and groan and act like a giant baby, which my wife just simply loves.
But this time is different. I am sick, sick, sick. There is no complaining. Can't complain when you are unconscious for 54 of a consecutive 60 hours. I have the flu or a flu-like virus.
Doesn't really matter because it has laid me out with a major league haymaker.
It's kinda like the guy who is standing there in front of the pile of rubble that used to be his house, and the reporter asks, "Do you think it was a tornado?" Does it matter?
I went to bed Saturday night, not realizing what was in store for me. I woke up around 5 a.m. and noticed I was soaking wet. I mean soaking.
I reached up to my forehead and felt sweat just streaming off my face. I was sweating like Louie Anderson in a cranked-up sauna. Not my typical Sunday morning.
I stood up at the side of the bed, sweat dripping down my face. I took a step. Wow, who knew someone was waiting to hit me in the left hip with a baseball bat.
Took another step. Right hip. I sat on the edge of the bed and decided to pass the time by coughing for the next hour, occasionally holding onto the dresser so that I did not hurl myself out of the window.
My wife woke up. "Are you OK?" she asked. "I'm finACKACKACKACKACK." I said.
I changed clothes and climbed back into bed. I slept off and on for a few more hours. Soon, the kids were up, and they apparently want breakfast every morning.
I opted to get up, hoping that being vertical would help.
It didn't.
I downed some medicine and headed back to bed. I woke up a few hours later, soaking wet again. This wasn't going to be good.
I decided to take my temperature. I don't remember the exact number, but it was somewhere around 120.
The rest of Sunday was pretty much the same - cough, sleep, sweat, medicate, repeat. It was the least enjoyable afternoon of Sunday football I can recall.
By late Sunday, I tried to eat something. Four saltines and I was stuffed. Back to sleep.
Sunday night/Monday morning was one of my more exhilarating night's sleep, because time had become a swirling warpzone of reality and NyQuil-based visions.
Several times I woke my wife up to ask her if various scenarios were taking place. ("Hey, did I just see Chevy Chase head to our kitchen to cook us eggs?")
Monday morning played out much the same way that Sunday did - sweaty, coughy, fevery and drowsy. It's like I was four rejected dwarfs.
One thing I noticed: I was told by a doctor to stay away from crowds, including work.
He told me the kids could stay at the house because, as he said, "You don't have bubonic plague."
But he said to avoid contact with them until I was better.
Turns out, when you sweat your clothes soaking wet four or five straight times, it's quite easy to have people avoid contact with you.
My wife, being as kind as possible, said on a few occasions, "So wouldn't a shower feel nice?" "Why not go take a hot shower?" She finally dropped subtleties. "Hey, you kinda smell like Peyton Manning's shoulder pads. Into the shower, stinky."
So I'm told that this thing can go anywhere from three to seven days. Seeing as how I am writing this on day three, I would greatly prefer it to be on this side of the estimate.
I'm going to continue trying to do this without complaining, because I need to be a soldier and brave my way through this.
Besides, I can't use up all my complaining. What happens if I get a hangnail?
I know what you're saying. Oh, hangnail? Sniffles? Blister?
No, I can tell you that I am actually sick this time, and prove it to you: I am not complaining, and I've stayed home from work for two days.
As I am sure you have read over the years, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to the minor ailments in life. I moan and groan and act like a giant baby, which my wife just simply loves.
But this time is different. I am sick, sick, sick. There is no complaining. Can't complain when you are unconscious for 54 of a consecutive 60 hours. I have the flu or a flu-like virus.
Doesn't really matter because it has laid me out with a major league haymaker.
It's kinda like the guy who is standing there in front of the pile of rubble that used to be his house, and the reporter asks, "Do you think it was a tornado?" Does it matter?
I went to bed Saturday night, not realizing what was in store for me. I woke up around 5 a.m. and noticed I was soaking wet. I mean soaking.
I reached up to my forehead and felt sweat just streaming off my face. I was sweating like Louie Anderson in a cranked-up sauna. Not my typical Sunday morning.
I stood up at the side of the bed, sweat dripping down my face. I took a step. Wow, who knew someone was waiting to hit me in the left hip with a baseball bat.
Took another step. Right hip. I sat on the edge of the bed and decided to pass the time by coughing for the next hour, occasionally holding onto the dresser so that I did not hurl myself out of the window.
My wife woke up. "Are you OK?" she asked. "I'm finACKACKACKACKACK." I said.
I changed clothes and climbed back into bed. I slept off and on for a few more hours. Soon, the kids were up, and they apparently want breakfast every morning.
I opted to get up, hoping that being vertical would help.
It didn't.
I downed some medicine and headed back to bed. I woke up a few hours later, soaking wet again. This wasn't going to be good.
I decided to take my temperature. I don't remember the exact number, but it was somewhere around 120.
The rest of Sunday was pretty much the same - cough, sleep, sweat, medicate, repeat. It was the least enjoyable afternoon of Sunday football I can recall.
By late Sunday, I tried to eat something. Four saltines and I was stuffed. Back to sleep.
Sunday night/Monday morning was one of my more exhilarating night's sleep, because time had become a swirling warpzone of reality and NyQuil-based visions.
Several times I woke my wife up to ask her if various scenarios were taking place. ("Hey, did I just see Chevy Chase head to our kitchen to cook us eggs?")
Monday morning played out much the same way that Sunday did - sweaty, coughy, fevery and drowsy. It's like I was four rejected dwarfs.
One thing I noticed: I was told by a doctor to stay away from crowds, including work.
He told me the kids could stay at the house because, as he said, "You don't have bubonic plague."
But he said to avoid contact with them until I was better.
Turns out, when you sweat your clothes soaking wet four or five straight times, it's quite easy to have people avoid contact with you.
My wife, being as kind as possible, said on a few occasions, "So wouldn't a shower feel nice?" "Why not go take a hot shower?" She finally dropped subtleties. "Hey, you kinda smell like Peyton Manning's shoulder pads. Into the shower, stinky."
So I'm told that this thing can go anywhere from three to seven days. Seeing as how I am writing this on day three, I would greatly prefer it to be on this side of the estimate.
I'm going to continue trying to do this without complaining, because I need to be a soldier and brave my way through this.
Besides, I can't use up all my complaining. What happens if I get a hangnail?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Chronic nice
I often spend time in my column complaining about people who commit major societal infractions.
While not criminal acts (unfortunately), they are acts that are violations of the laws of civility, such as not returning a grocery cart to the proper spot or taking too many items to the express checkout or not waving a courtesy thanks when you someone lets you in traffic or conducting a 6-hour bank transaction at the ATM. That kind of thing.
So I feel I should give credit when credit is due, and it is certainly due after my trip through my kids’ school car pick-up line.
The kids get out of school at 2:15 p.m., and there is usually a pretty good line waiting to pick up kids by about 2 p.m.
I was midway back in the pack, having arrived for line about 2:05 p.m. (Side note: On Fridays, I help out in Parker’s class. I usually get there about 1ish, and there are often quite a few cars lined up, waiting for school to let out at 2:15 p.m. Personally, I think if you are going to get in line before 1:45 p.m., park the car, head to the office and say these words, “How can I help?” Just a hunch there is probably a volunteer task or two at the school that could be assigned. I’m just saying ...)
Anywho, I was in line around 2:05 p.m. and was using my time productively.
Because I was going to be sitting still for 10 minutes or so, I opted to work on cleaning my car. There was a substantial amount of trash in the backseat.
The reason for this is simple: I have kids, and clearly they fill their backpacks with refuse so that they can hide it on my floorboard when I am not looking. Of course, I could not go about my car cleaning task without some entertainment, so I cut the car off to where the engine was not running, but I could still play the radio. And it was kind of warm out, so I went ahead and cranked up the air to get some circulation going. I think you see where this is heading.
As I saw the first batch of cars heading out of school, I hopped in the driver’s seat and cranked the key. My car responded, “click click click click click click click click click click click.”
I said a word under my breath so that no one at the elementary school would hear. I shut off the air and the radio, as if this would somehow magically charge my battery. “Click click click click click click click click.”
I rolled up my back windows and tried again. “Click click click click click click.”
Admittedly, I have no idea what that was supposed to do. I could have tried it, say, with my shoes off. Same correlation to a dead battery.
At this point, time was of the essence. I had a matter of moments until the line started moving, and there was going to be a big block of an SUV sitting dead in the middle of the road, stalling the flow of the car line. I figured I would try and push the car out of the road so at least the line could keep going. I hopped out, and Nice Person No. 1 appeared.
The woman behind me saw what was happening. She began backing up as much as she could to give me room to back my car up. I pushed my car back a few feet so that I could get clearance to push it forward. When I started pushing forward, I made a stunning realization: SUVs are heavy.
Then, Nice Person No., 2 appeared. I caught the attention of a guy walking across the street. “Hey, can you give me a hand?” I called.
He jogged across the street and helped me push the car out of the way. He then offered to help me jump start the car, since his car was parked right there. Wow, two nices in one.
In a matter of seconds, our cars were hooked up by jumper cables. I gave one turn of the key, and my car started right up.
Of course, I was now out of the car line, set back a good 10 minutes from where I had originally been. I backed up the car, and enter Nice Person No. 3.
As I sat perched at an awkward angle on the edge of the road, the driver made a kind of pointing motion, asking if I would like to cut in front of her. I am guessing she saw me with my hood up moments prior and could deduce I was not just gaming the system.
When I pulled back into car line, I made sure to extend my arm and give a great big thank you wave, just to make sure she saw.
It was pretty amazing to have one of those daily headache experiences and still come away actually feeling pretty good about the day.
Some nice folks helped out and showed a little kindness to their common man.
Hopefully, someone will do something nice for them. Like take their grocery cart back for them.
While not criminal acts (unfortunately), they are acts that are violations of the laws of civility, such as not returning a grocery cart to the proper spot or taking too many items to the express checkout or not waving a courtesy thanks when you someone lets you in traffic or conducting a 6-hour bank transaction at the ATM. That kind of thing.
So I feel I should give credit when credit is due, and it is certainly due after my trip through my kids’ school car pick-up line.
The kids get out of school at 2:15 p.m., and there is usually a pretty good line waiting to pick up kids by about 2 p.m.
I was midway back in the pack, having arrived for line about 2:05 p.m. (Side note: On Fridays, I help out in Parker’s class. I usually get there about 1ish, and there are often quite a few cars lined up, waiting for school to let out at 2:15 p.m. Personally, I think if you are going to get in line before 1:45 p.m., park the car, head to the office and say these words, “How can I help?” Just a hunch there is probably a volunteer task or two at the school that could be assigned. I’m just saying ...)
Anywho, I was in line around 2:05 p.m. and was using my time productively.
Because I was going to be sitting still for 10 minutes or so, I opted to work on cleaning my car. There was a substantial amount of trash in the backseat.
The reason for this is simple: I have kids, and clearly they fill their backpacks with refuse so that they can hide it on my floorboard when I am not looking. Of course, I could not go about my car cleaning task without some entertainment, so I cut the car off to where the engine was not running, but I could still play the radio. And it was kind of warm out, so I went ahead and cranked up the air to get some circulation going. I think you see where this is heading.
As I saw the first batch of cars heading out of school, I hopped in the driver’s seat and cranked the key. My car responded, “click click click click click click click click click click click.”
I said a word under my breath so that no one at the elementary school would hear. I shut off the air and the radio, as if this would somehow magically charge my battery. “Click click click click click click click click.”
I rolled up my back windows and tried again. “Click click click click click click.”
Admittedly, I have no idea what that was supposed to do. I could have tried it, say, with my shoes off. Same correlation to a dead battery.
At this point, time was of the essence. I had a matter of moments until the line started moving, and there was going to be a big block of an SUV sitting dead in the middle of the road, stalling the flow of the car line. I figured I would try and push the car out of the road so at least the line could keep going. I hopped out, and Nice Person No. 1 appeared.
The woman behind me saw what was happening. She began backing up as much as she could to give me room to back my car up. I pushed my car back a few feet so that I could get clearance to push it forward. When I started pushing forward, I made a stunning realization: SUVs are heavy.
Then, Nice Person No., 2 appeared. I caught the attention of a guy walking across the street. “Hey, can you give me a hand?” I called.
He jogged across the street and helped me push the car out of the way. He then offered to help me jump start the car, since his car was parked right there. Wow, two nices in one.
In a matter of seconds, our cars were hooked up by jumper cables. I gave one turn of the key, and my car started right up.
Of course, I was now out of the car line, set back a good 10 minutes from where I had originally been. I backed up the car, and enter Nice Person No. 3.
As I sat perched at an awkward angle on the edge of the road, the driver made a kind of pointing motion, asking if I would like to cut in front of her. I am guessing she saw me with my hood up moments prior and could deduce I was not just gaming the system.
When I pulled back into car line, I made sure to extend my arm and give a great big thank you wave, just to make sure she saw.
It was pretty amazing to have one of those daily headache experiences and still come away actually feeling pretty good about the day.
Some nice folks helped out and showed a little kindness to their common man.
Hopefully, someone will do something nice for them. Like take their grocery cart back for them.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
New addition
It’s a girl!
Yes, the Gibbons family has a new addition, and she weighs in at ... I am guessing about the same weight as a golf ball.
Our newest addition is a red-footed tortoise that my parents gave my daughter for her birthday.
While her brother is the go-gettingest animal kid around, Allie has always been more reserved around animals, usually content to watch them from 10 to 12 rooms away.
So you can imagine our surprise when Allie came in contact with a small tortoise a while back (they met on the Internet), and she developed an intense love for tortoises.
The appeal of tortoises versus other reptiles is pretty easy to see.
For one thing, tortoises move at a speed comparable to that of a rock. Plus, they have these looks on their faces that say, “Hey, I’ve got no beef with you. Let’s just chill out and eat lettuce.”
When the tortoise arrived, Allie was immediately smitten. Her face lit up as she held the tortoise, examining her all over. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?” Uh, sure ...
The next step was to name the new tortoise.
After all, you can’t have a family member without a name. (Just ask our son, You There.)
Without hesitation, Allie said, “Her name is Glissa.”
Glissa, as you know, is the Icelandic goddess of merriment, who, in ancient lore, did battle with Frogoff and came to victory with the use of a lightning bolt made from a ram’s horn. Or it was a name my daughter pulled out of the air. I can’t remember.
One of the first things we had to do was find a suitable home for Glissa.
Allie suggested we construct an elaborate pen out back for her, as she would need room to roam. I reminded Allie that Glissa could roam three feet and it would be a long journey, so an aquarium would suffice for now.
Once we got Glissa set up in her new home, we had to find a suitable place to put it.
Allie wanted her on her dresser, but that was somewhat high up.
As I explained to her, she would not be able to feed her and visit with her up there.
Thus, Glissa lived in our kitchen for her first few weeks as a member of the Gibbons household. Rather fitting for our family, I suppose. “Hey, come on over for dinner. You’ll be seated next to the tortoise.”
I am pleased to report that Glissa has since made it to the dining room table. I anticipate her being on the den coffee table by Thanksgiving.
Glissa is an interesting creature.
I told my wife that Glissa has a personality akin to Maggie the Attack Basset. She is low-key, yet interested in those around her.
Glissa will come and check you out, and is certainly interested if you are bringing food. (I recommend grapes.)
She also has a habit of climbing up on her little house, making an about face and rolling off. I am guessing that accounts for excitement in a tortoise’s world.
So Glissa has settled in quite nicely.
Both of the kids – Allie and You There – like to get her out and let her roam around and explore.
One nice thing about having a tortoise – you REALLY have to be asleep at the switch to let one get away.
They are in no hurry to get anywhere. I have had bath towels conduct more aggressive escape maneuvers.
We are told that Glissa could live 50 years, and that she will eventually grow to more than a foot long. It’s kinda cool to think that my grandkids could have the opportunity to grow up with Glissa being part of their lives.
And if Glissa has always been part of their world, they will no doubt have a love of animals from the start. Just like Uncle You There.
Yes, the Gibbons family has a new addition, and she weighs in at ... I am guessing about the same weight as a golf ball.
Our newest addition is a red-footed tortoise that my parents gave my daughter for her birthday.
While her brother is the go-gettingest animal kid around, Allie has always been more reserved around animals, usually content to watch them from 10 to 12 rooms away.
So you can imagine our surprise when Allie came in contact with a small tortoise a while back (they met on the Internet), and she developed an intense love for tortoises.
The appeal of tortoises versus other reptiles is pretty easy to see.
For one thing, tortoises move at a speed comparable to that of a rock. Plus, they have these looks on their faces that say, “Hey, I’ve got no beef with you. Let’s just chill out and eat lettuce.”
When the tortoise arrived, Allie was immediately smitten. Her face lit up as she held the tortoise, examining her all over. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?” Uh, sure ...
The next step was to name the new tortoise.
After all, you can’t have a family member without a name. (Just ask our son, You There.)
Without hesitation, Allie said, “Her name is Glissa.”
Glissa, as you know, is the Icelandic goddess of merriment, who, in ancient lore, did battle with Frogoff and came to victory with the use of a lightning bolt made from a ram’s horn. Or it was a name my daughter pulled out of the air. I can’t remember.
One of the first things we had to do was find a suitable home for Glissa.
Allie suggested we construct an elaborate pen out back for her, as she would need room to roam. I reminded Allie that Glissa could roam three feet and it would be a long journey, so an aquarium would suffice for now.
Once we got Glissa set up in her new home, we had to find a suitable place to put it.
Allie wanted her on her dresser, but that was somewhat high up.
As I explained to her, she would not be able to feed her and visit with her up there.
Thus, Glissa lived in our kitchen for her first few weeks as a member of the Gibbons household. Rather fitting for our family, I suppose. “Hey, come on over for dinner. You’ll be seated next to the tortoise.”
I am pleased to report that Glissa has since made it to the dining room table. I anticipate her being on the den coffee table by Thanksgiving.
Glissa is an interesting creature.
I told my wife that Glissa has a personality akin to Maggie the Attack Basset. She is low-key, yet interested in those around her.
Glissa will come and check you out, and is certainly interested if you are bringing food. (I recommend grapes.)
She also has a habit of climbing up on her little house, making an about face and rolling off. I am guessing that accounts for excitement in a tortoise’s world.
So Glissa has settled in quite nicely.
Both of the kids – Allie and You There – like to get her out and let her roam around and explore.
One nice thing about having a tortoise – you REALLY have to be asleep at the switch to let one get away.
They are in no hurry to get anywhere. I have had bath towels conduct more aggressive escape maneuvers.
We are told that Glissa could live 50 years, and that she will eventually grow to more than a foot long. It’s kinda cool to think that my grandkids could have the opportunity to grow up with Glissa being part of their lives.
And if Glissa has always been part of their world, they will no doubt have a love of animals from the start. Just like Uncle You There.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Build a fort
Here’s something interesting I learned this weekend: It takes about 30 minutes to level a playground set with an ax.
And hours to explain to police why you did that in your neighbor’s yard.
Ha! Kidding. Took down one in my own yard. Fort Frontier is no longer. Fort Frontier was erected over several weekends in 2003. It took several weekends because the directions were written in English, translated into German, then translated into Japanese, then translated into some sort of Incan code, and then churned out back into English, giving you such direction as, “With counter flange No. B, secure last beam cross to plank.”
The fort served the kids well during its tenure. Its stability was never its strong point, though, and it was starting to lean more and more and wobble more and more when the kids would swing on it. Further inspection revealed some wood rot. Even further inspection revealed a wasp nest, which resulted in me being stung, which resulted in my really wanting to take an ax to it.
So Parker and I headed into the backyard to take it down. I explained to both of the kids that I was going to tear down the fort, and they were fine with it, mainly because they saw this as a fine avenue to lobby for a trampoline. Or a roller coaster. One is possible. The other would be cool, but I feel certain would probably be against some City ordinance.
I took my first swing with the ax and was pleased with the result. A splintering CRACK! resonated through the backyard, and one of the main supports crippled from the power of my awesome ax swing. Then Parker said, “Daddy, you’re using the wrong end.” That’s when I explained to him the dual uses of an ax head – wood splitting fineness and blunt force trauma. He nodded and stared at the ax, as though it had just turned into a far more useful tool.
After about 10 minutes of smashing up Fort Frontier, I stopped so that I could (a) catch my breath and (b) regain the feeling in my arms. It had also suddenly become, by my estimate, 305 degrees with 600 percent humidity. “Daddy, can I pull some of the wood out of the pile?” I told him that was a good call, and I would just ... sit here ... for a sec ... and watch ....
In no time, my mini heat stroke/double shoulder annihilation was over, and I was ready to get back to the task at hand. For the remainder of the destruction, I would opt for a more refined attack rather than the maniacal swinging that I tried at first. Some prying here. A well-aimed whack there. Before I knew it, Fort Frontier was on the ground in a pile of tornadoish rubble.
“So what are we going to do with the wood?” my son asked. I told him that we were going to throw it out. “But we can use it. To build a fort,” he said.
Uh, pretty sure we just un-forted the wood.
But Parker would not be denied. And his sister soon joined. There would be a fort, and it would be glorious!!!
I told them I would help them fashion a fort out of some of the lumber. I am fairly certain you are not allowed to claim to have had a childhood if you didn’t build a fort out of scrap lumber and tree limbs.
We got up the next day bright and early, ready to construct. And the best way to jump start your day – drop what used to be the roof of Fort Frontier on your toe. Better than coffee!!! The roof would be repurposed as two of the walls, touching a willow tree and our fence. Some boards would serve as the roof, and the kids installed what they insist was the most comfortable hardwood floor ever. Willow branches covered the front and roof, and the old slide was attached to the tree. It looked like something people live in after a hurricane hits El Salvador. And my kids’ thought on it? “THIS IS THE BEST FORT EVER!!!”
They played for the rest of the day in Fort Refugee. And it was the most cool fort for them. They even had a neighbor come over, and she concurred that it was, for lack of a better term, awesome.
It made me smile to see them so happy. It was nice to see them get so much joy from what was a very simple thing. Perhaps we grown-ups should take a little from that. We need to manage our expectations and embrace the little joys of life. In essence, sometimes we need to build a fort.
And hours to explain to police why you did that in your neighbor’s yard.
Ha! Kidding. Took down one in my own yard. Fort Frontier is no longer. Fort Frontier was erected over several weekends in 2003. It took several weekends because the directions were written in English, translated into German, then translated into Japanese, then translated into some sort of Incan code, and then churned out back into English, giving you such direction as, “With counter flange No. B, secure last beam cross to plank.”
The fort served the kids well during its tenure. Its stability was never its strong point, though, and it was starting to lean more and more and wobble more and more when the kids would swing on it. Further inspection revealed some wood rot. Even further inspection revealed a wasp nest, which resulted in me being stung, which resulted in my really wanting to take an ax to it.
So Parker and I headed into the backyard to take it down. I explained to both of the kids that I was going to tear down the fort, and they were fine with it, mainly because they saw this as a fine avenue to lobby for a trampoline. Or a roller coaster. One is possible. The other would be cool, but I feel certain would probably be against some City ordinance.
I took my first swing with the ax and was pleased with the result. A splintering CRACK! resonated through the backyard, and one of the main supports crippled from the power of my awesome ax swing. Then Parker said, “Daddy, you’re using the wrong end.” That’s when I explained to him the dual uses of an ax head – wood splitting fineness and blunt force trauma. He nodded and stared at the ax, as though it had just turned into a far more useful tool.
After about 10 minutes of smashing up Fort Frontier, I stopped so that I could (a) catch my breath and (b) regain the feeling in my arms. It had also suddenly become, by my estimate, 305 degrees with 600 percent humidity. “Daddy, can I pull some of the wood out of the pile?” I told him that was a good call, and I would just ... sit here ... for a sec ... and watch ....
In no time, my mini heat stroke/double shoulder annihilation was over, and I was ready to get back to the task at hand. For the remainder of the destruction, I would opt for a more refined attack rather than the maniacal swinging that I tried at first. Some prying here. A well-aimed whack there. Before I knew it, Fort Frontier was on the ground in a pile of tornadoish rubble.
“So what are we going to do with the wood?” my son asked. I told him that we were going to throw it out. “But we can use it. To build a fort,” he said.
Uh, pretty sure we just un-forted the wood.
But Parker would not be denied. And his sister soon joined. There would be a fort, and it would be glorious!!!
I told them I would help them fashion a fort out of some of the lumber. I am fairly certain you are not allowed to claim to have had a childhood if you didn’t build a fort out of scrap lumber and tree limbs.
We got up the next day bright and early, ready to construct. And the best way to jump start your day – drop what used to be the roof of Fort Frontier on your toe. Better than coffee!!! The roof would be repurposed as two of the walls, touching a willow tree and our fence. Some boards would serve as the roof, and the kids installed what they insist was the most comfortable hardwood floor ever. Willow branches covered the front and roof, and the old slide was attached to the tree. It looked like something people live in after a hurricane hits El Salvador. And my kids’ thought on it? “THIS IS THE BEST FORT EVER!!!”
They played for the rest of the day in Fort Refugee. And it was the most cool fort for them. They even had a neighbor come over, and she concurred that it was, for lack of a better term, awesome.
It made me smile to see them so happy. It was nice to see them get so much joy from what was a very simple thing. Perhaps we grown-ups should take a little from that. We need to manage our expectations and embrace the little joys of life. In essence, sometimes we need to build a fort.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Rain out
I am appreciative of the recent rains. Sure, I like the rain for the cleansing properties, the life-giving nourishment and all that stuff. But it also provides this: An opportunity to show my kids why self-centered people who are devoid of any concept of other individuals are loathsome and why my kids should make an effort not to be those people.
Let me back up. My kids are at a good teaching age. They’re 6 and 9, so they are still in the genesis stage of what they will be as adults. I work hard to teach them that there is a reaction to every action. For example, when you are in a grocery store, acknowledge that there are other people on the planet. That will help you not blindly walk into the poor shopper carrying a handful of items, who, trying to get out of your way, spins and slips and drops everything, sending Duke’s mayonnaise onto the Kroger floor. Simple rule: Be aware of other people. (They are also well versed in my philosophy that failing to wave to someone who has let you in traffic should be a federal offense that can take away your voting rights.)
So the recent rains brought out a fantastic opportunity for me to demonstrate to my kids that self-centered behavior has consequences on others.
The first: The kids and I went to the grocery store to pick up a few items. When we were checking out, the heavens opened up. Torrential rains. The car was about five spots away, so I told the kids to stay with the groceries by the door while I pulled the car up. They were game for this. Guard the groceries. Easy task.
I ran to the car, pulled out, and began to head to the overhang where they stood with our stuff. At that point, a woman in an SUV pulled up, blocking the entire breezeway, turned off her car, hopped out and ran inside. She, clearly, did not want to be bothered by the rain. Only problem: Where she parked for her convenience blocked the only spot where people who were loading up groceries could pull in and be protected by an overhang. So I had to park a ways down from there and get soaking wet – as did the kids – while throwing groceries in like mad. I am sure she had but one or two items to pick up. And that was enough reason for her to (a) not play by the rules and (b) park where everyone else who was playing by the rules would get soaking wet.
As we were driving off, I said to the kids, “You know how I tell you how you need to be in tune with how your actions affect other people?” They acknowledged. “That is why that woman will have boils on her feet.”
OK, I didn’t, but the dark part of me kinda hopes for that. It’s a very easy grocery store process: When it’s raining, if you leave someone by the curb, you can ride up, load them in quickly and stay dry. It’s grocery store car line. But you DO NOT have the authority to commandeer that spot. It’s a crime against humanity.
The second: During the next day’s rain storm, my wife was coming out of a different grocery store. (We grocery shop a lot.) As she was being pelted by rain, four people walked by with their umbrellas, passing her in the rain. My wife did not have an umbrella. Poor planning? Perhaps. But I have spent time on many a rainy afternoon holding my umbrella over a fellow patron who was trying to unload groceries without becoming a frog. “Chivalry,” my wife said, “is extra dead.” I mean, is it so hard to be aware of your fellow citizen that you can’t stop for two seconds and say, “Gee, perhaps she would not want the rain pelting her as she loads bags into the minivan?”
The bottom line – stop and look around you once in a while. Hey, waddya know – other people are around! And if everyone just tried to play by the rules and offer an occasional helping hand, the world would be a better place. And my family would be a lot drier.
Let me back up. My kids are at a good teaching age. They’re 6 and 9, so they are still in the genesis stage of what they will be as adults. I work hard to teach them that there is a reaction to every action. For example, when you are in a grocery store, acknowledge that there are other people on the planet. That will help you not blindly walk into the poor shopper carrying a handful of items, who, trying to get out of your way, spins and slips and drops everything, sending Duke’s mayonnaise onto the Kroger floor. Simple rule: Be aware of other people. (They are also well versed in my philosophy that failing to wave to someone who has let you in traffic should be a federal offense that can take away your voting rights.)
So the recent rains brought out a fantastic opportunity for me to demonstrate to my kids that self-centered behavior has consequences on others.
The first: The kids and I went to the grocery store to pick up a few items. When we were checking out, the heavens opened up. Torrential rains. The car was about five spots away, so I told the kids to stay with the groceries by the door while I pulled the car up. They were game for this. Guard the groceries. Easy task.
I ran to the car, pulled out, and began to head to the overhang where they stood with our stuff. At that point, a woman in an SUV pulled up, blocking the entire breezeway, turned off her car, hopped out and ran inside. She, clearly, did not want to be bothered by the rain. Only problem: Where she parked for her convenience blocked the only spot where people who were loading up groceries could pull in and be protected by an overhang. So I had to park a ways down from there and get soaking wet – as did the kids – while throwing groceries in like mad. I am sure she had but one or two items to pick up. And that was enough reason for her to (a) not play by the rules and (b) park where everyone else who was playing by the rules would get soaking wet.
As we were driving off, I said to the kids, “You know how I tell you how you need to be in tune with how your actions affect other people?” They acknowledged. “That is why that woman will have boils on her feet.”
OK, I didn’t, but the dark part of me kinda hopes for that. It’s a very easy grocery store process: When it’s raining, if you leave someone by the curb, you can ride up, load them in quickly and stay dry. It’s grocery store car line. But you DO NOT have the authority to commandeer that spot. It’s a crime against humanity.
The second: During the next day’s rain storm, my wife was coming out of a different grocery store. (We grocery shop a lot.) As she was being pelted by rain, four people walked by with their umbrellas, passing her in the rain. My wife did not have an umbrella. Poor planning? Perhaps. But I have spent time on many a rainy afternoon holding my umbrella over a fellow patron who was trying to unload groceries without becoming a frog. “Chivalry,” my wife said, “is extra dead.” I mean, is it so hard to be aware of your fellow citizen that you can’t stop for two seconds and say, “Gee, perhaps she would not want the rain pelting her as she loads bags into the minivan?”
The bottom line – stop and look around you once in a while. Hey, waddya know – other people are around! And if everyone just tried to play by the rules and offer an occasional helping hand, the world would be a better place. And my family would be a lot drier.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
To the nines
Nine years old. Wow. What a difference close to a decade makes.
Allie was born into a far different world that she dwells in now, but I don’t want to focus on that. As she turns 9 on Thursday, I want to think about the things that won’t be in her adult world. We’ve all seen the myriad lists about things our children won’t know about – rotary phones, flash bulbs, Jay Leno, etc.
But what about the things that will have changed over her lifetime? What about the things that were here when she was a kid, and she can tell her children that they existed when she was young?
Such as:
• The excruciating squeal of dial-up modems. For the first two years of her life, she slept for about nine minutes total.
My wife and I would take turns doing a spirited dance around the living room until she fell asleep in our arms.
The only problem was she was terribly allergic to her crib, and would turn stiff as a board and wail and scream if you tried to put her in it.
She would be still in your arms, so we would get her to sleep and go to the computer and fire up the Internet to kick around on AOL for a few hours before the relief squad came in.
Only problem was that high-pitched modem squeal, which was like a great big brain poke to her, so you would have to sign on to AOL, spring from the room singing “The Rainbow Connection” and hope to avoid waking her up.
• Fiddling with the TV antenna.
Up until the FCC decided rabbit ears were not for us, we had a little TV in our kitchen. Allie became well versed in twisting the antenna this way and that way, holding onto the sink, connecting a fork, etc., to get the best “Dragon Tales” reception. Sadly, it now has cable, and I think she may have lost that gift.
• Cable TV. Poor kid only has 100 or so channels to choose from.
Of course, she still has that, because Daddy hasn’t gotten satellite or digital, because, let’s face it – we only watch about five of the channels as it is now.
• Having to hear a song from your off-key father. Now, with YouTube, any time she wants to hear a song, fire it up. And hear your off-key father sing along with it.
• Car seats. Seeing as how car seats changed from when I was a kid to when I had kids, I can only imagine that my grandkids will have some floating protective bubble sphere that will keep them safe.
• Headphones. One of Allie’s aunts got her a set of headphones when she was about 3 years old.
They were relatively small by pre-iPod earbud standards, but I am sure that by the time she has kids, it will be like she was wearing Cinnabons on her head.
• Cars that didn’t fly. I’m still holding out for those any day. Those and personal jet-packs.
• Coins. Just can’t see those lasting. Think about it – last time you dropped less than a quarter, did you stop and pick it up? No. No, you didn’t.
• Checks. As one of the last 11 people on the planet to write checks, I have a feeling that checks, like coins, will be gone.
But at least my kids will remember the days in which they went with me to a grocery store without my license and I convinced the store clerk that I was good for it, since I could remember my license number.
• CDs. Kids don’t just invest the way they used to. (Wait for that one to sink in.)
• Smart phones. Allie will be able to tell her kids, “When I was a kid, we couldn’t play games and take pictures and surf the Internet. Well, at least until I was 5.”
• VHS tapes. The next, next generation will not know the joy of watching Cinderella on VHS, each viewing getting fuzzier and fuzzier, meanwhile making an awesome fort out of the 600 Barney tapes you have since outgrown.
I am sure that there are plenty of other things that will be archaic by the time she grows up.
Perhaps she can write about them one day when she’s older. For now, I’m just going to enjoy her being 9. Maybe we should listen to some YouTube.
Allie was born into a far different world that she dwells in now, but I don’t want to focus on that. As she turns 9 on Thursday, I want to think about the things that won’t be in her adult world. We’ve all seen the myriad lists about things our children won’t know about – rotary phones, flash bulbs, Jay Leno, etc.
But what about the things that will have changed over her lifetime? What about the things that were here when she was a kid, and she can tell her children that they existed when she was young?
Such as:
• The excruciating squeal of dial-up modems. For the first two years of her life, she slept for about nine minutes total.
My wife and I would take turns doing a spirited dance around the living room until she fell asleep in our arms.
The only problem was she was terribly allergic to her crib, and would turn stiff as a board and wail and scream if you tried to put her in it.
She would be still in your arms, so we would get her to sleep and go to the computer and fire up the Internet to kick around on AOL for a few hours before the relief squad came in.
Only problem was that high-pitched modem squeal, which was like a great big brain poke to her, so you would have to sign on to AOL, spring from the room singing “The Rainbow Connection” and hope to avoid waking her up.
• Fiddling with the TV antenna.
Up until the FCC decided rabbit ears were not for us, we had a little TV in our kitchen. Allie became well versed in twisting the antenna this way and that way, holding onto the sink, connecting a fork, etc., to get the best “Dragon Tales” reception. Sadly, it now has cable, and I think she may have lost that gift.
• Cable TV. Poor kid only has 100 or so channels to choose from.
Of course, she still has that, because Daddy hasn’t gotten satellite or digital, because, let’s face it – we only watch about five of the channels as it is now.
• Having to hear a song from your off-key father. Now, with YouTube, any time she wants to hear a song, fire it up. And hear your off-key father sing along with it.
• Car seats. Seeing as how car seats changed from when I was a kid to when I had kids, I can only imagine that my grandkids will have some floating protective bubble sphere that will keep them safe.
• Headphones. One of Allie’s aunts got her a set of headphones when she was about 3 years old.
They were relatively small by pre-iPod earbud standards, but I am sure that by the time she has kids, it will be like she was wearing Cinnabons on her head.
• Cars that didn’t fly. I’m still holding out for those any day. Those and personal jet-packs.
• Coins. Just can’t see those lasting. Think about it – last time you dropped less than a quarter, did you stop and pick it up? No. No, you didn’t.
• Checks. As one of the last 11 people on the planet to write checks, I have a feeling that checks, like coins, will be gone.
But at least my kids will remember the days in which they went with me to a grocery store without my license and I convinced the store clerk that I was good for it, since I could remember my license number.
• CDs. Kids don’t just invest the way they used to. (Wait for that one to sink in.)
• Smart phones. Allie will be able to tell her kids, “When I was a kid, we couldn’t play games and take pictures and surf the Internet. Well, at least until I was 5.”
• VHS tapes. The next, next generation will not know the joy of watching Cinderella on VHS, each viewing getting fuzzier and fuzzier, meanwhile making an awesome fort out of the 600 Barney tapes you have since outgrown.
I am sure that there are plenty of other things that will be archaic by the time she grows up.
Perhaps she can write about them one day when she’s older. For now, I’m just going to enjoy her being 9. Maybe we should listen to some YouTube.
Friday, July 31, 2009
An earth shattering kaboom
So when that thunderstorm rolled in early the other morning, I did what I usually do when I am awoken by a storm:
1. Get out of bed.
2. Open window.
3. Lie back in bed enjoying sound of the storm.
4. Wait until there is a flash of lightning and scream because I see two creepy silhouettes standing by the bed.
My children are not big fans of thunderstorms. This started when my daughter was 3. There was a big storm, and I was explaining to her why I love storms – the soothing sounds, the cleansing wash of the rain, the chance to have your computer exploded. You know, the usual things.
She told me that she really didn’t like “the booms.” I took that to mean thunder, since a dislike of a boom mic seemed out there.
Using somewhat flawed logic, I told her that when you hear the thunder, it means the lightning has already passed, so you can’t be hurt. In retrospect I probably should have couched that a little bit better, perhaps adding that you can’t be hurt by THAT lightning, but its many friends that follow will do the trick.
Continuing on my ill-fated trip of thunderstorm acceptance, I opened the front door. I was holding her in my arms, telling her about the rain and showing her the trees blowing in the wind.
At that point the largest lightning bolt in the history of the universe zapped down right across the street and served up a simultaneous KABOOM!!!! that rattled the windows, dimmed the lights and, most memorably, made my daughter cry. A lot.
From that point forward, she wanted nothing to do with thunderstorms. Can’t say I blame her. Her brother is the same way. I think the thunder clap was loud enough to affect him, and he wasn’t even born.
So when the storms come, so does the horde. But of late, they have added a third amigo: Murphy the Excitable Dachshund.
Murphy, like most dogs, has never been a big fan of loud noises. (I recall in 1993, when I first got the late, great Montgomery, I made the brilliant choice to take him to a fireworks show on the University of Alabama quad. When the first one went off, I was joined by about 20 other people being dragged by their dogs’ leashes in a terrified sprint away from the show.)
Murphy used to find a nice little quiet space up under a desk where he could curl up and shake uncontrollably for the storm’s duration. Maggie the Attack Basset responds to storms and fireworks the same way: She sniffs to see if there is food and then rolls on her back and groans. Actually that’s how she responds to everything.
So anywho, Murphy has decided the desk coverage is no longer adequate and has taken to waging an all-out war on the gate going up the stairs until he can burst through and come to my bed to curl up and shake uncontrollably for the storm’s duration.
During this latest storm, I heard the ruckus and assumed it was someone breaking into the house or something, so I went back to sleep. A few seconds later, 12 pounds of meatloaf-shaped terror came flying on top of me. I am not sure where he got a catapult, but that is the only explanation for how he was delivered to me.
I was not pleased with this, so I picked Murphy up and took him back downstairs. I secured the gate and started back up the stairs. About halfway up – KABOOM!!!
And off goes Murphy. He bit the gate. He scratched the gate. He barked at the gate. He head butted the gate. He stopped only long enough to look up at me with his big brown eyes, which looked especially weird because he was shaking so much.
“Fine,” I said, opening the gate. Murphy sprinted to his spot, which, according to him, is on my pillow. Maggie responded by groaning.
I guess for now I will just have to know that when the storms come I may have a lot of company coming to join me. Next storm, I think I may go sleep on the couch.
1. Get out of bed.
2. Open window.
3. Lie back in bed enjoying sound of the storm.
4. Wait until there is a flash of lightning and scream because I see two creepy silhouettes standing by the bed.
My children are not big fans of thunderstorms. This started when my daughter was 3. There was a big storm, and I was explaining to her why I love storms – the soothing sounds, the cleansing wash of the rain, the chance to have your computer exploded. You know, the usual things.
She told me that she really didn’t like “the booms.” I took that to mean thunder, since a dislike of a boom mic seemed out there.
Using somewhat flawed logic, I told her that when you hear the thunder, it means the lightning has already passed, so you can’t be hurt. In retrospect I probably should have couched that a little bit better, perhaps adding that you can’t be hurt by THAT lightning, but its many friends that follow will do the trick.
Continuing on my ill-fated trip of thunderstorm acceptance, I opened the front door. I was holding her in my arms, telling her about the rain and showing her the trees blowing in the wind.
At that point the largest lightning bolt in the history of the universe zapped down right across the street and served up a simultaneous KABOOM!!!! that rattled the windows, dimmed the lights and, most memorably, made my daughter cry. A lot.
From that point forward, she wanted nothing to do with thunderstorms. Can’t say I blame her. Her brother is the same way. I think the thunder clap was loud enough to affect him, and he wasn’t even born.
So when the storms come, so does the horde. But of late, they have added a third amigo: Murphy the Excitable Dachshund.
Murphy, like most dogs, has never been a big fan of loud noises. (I recall in 1993, when I first got the late, great Montgomery, I made the brilliant choice to take him to a fireworks show on the University of Alabama quad. When the first one went off, I was joined by about 20 other people being dragged by their dogs’ leashes in a terrified sprint away from the show.)
Murphy used to find a nice little quiet space up under a desk where he could curl up and shake uncontrollably for the storm’s duration. Maggie the Attack Basset responds to storms and fireworks the same way: She sniffs to see if there is food and then rolls on her back and groans. Actually that’s how she responds to everything.
So anywho, Murphy has decided the desk coverage is no longer adequate and has taken to waging an all-out war on the gate going up the stairs until he can burst through and come to my bed to curl up and shake uncontrollably for the storm’s duration.
During this latest storm, I heard the ruckus and assumed it was someone breaking into the house or something, so I went back to sleep. A few seconds later, 12 pounds of meatloaf-shaped terror came flying on top of me. I am not sure where he got a catapult, but that is the only explanation for how he was delivered to me.
I was not pleased with this, so I picked Murphy up and took him back downstairs. I secured the gate and started back up the stairs. About halfway up – KABOOM!!!
And off goes Murphy. He bit the gate. He scratched the gate. He barked at the gate. He head butted the gate. He stopped only long enough to look up at me with his big brown eyes, which looked especially weird because he was shaking so much.
“Fine,” I said, opening the gate. Murphy sprinted to his spot, which, according to him, is on my pillow. Maggie responded by groaning.
I guess for now I will just have to know that when the storms come I may have a lot of company coming to join me. Next storm, I think I may go sleep on the couch.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Bee cool
I am a great uncle. And by “great uncle” I mean “still a little brother.”
I have two 2-year-old nephews, Nick and Sam, and I have somehow become one of their chief corruptors. “Well, Mike,” you are probably saying, “surely this is just payback for the horrible, awful way your sisters treated you and then spoiled your kids, right?” To which I say, “Ha!” No, my sisters – I have three older ones – were always quite nice to me. Even protective, despite the fact that, when they had friends over, I rarely wore clothes. (That’s the kind of kid I was.) And as for the way they have been to my kids? Well, they have always been kind, sweet, caring aunts. They are far more popular than I am. So why would I act in such a manner? Simple – it’s really, really funny. To me.
It’s not like it’s really anything bad that I’m doing. I’m not taking them to the dog track or having them shoplift from liquor stores. It’s just the fun, routine, annoy-your-big-sister type stuff that apparently little brothers can never shake.
Case in point: The buzz game. I developed this game at my wife’s expense. She’s a preschool teacher, and on occasion I will stop by to see how the day is going and to juggle. The kids love juggling, and that immediately makes me WAAAAY more popular than the woman who makes them clean up after playtime, not lick scissors, etc. And, when I am leaving, I will hush the class so that all eyes are on me. “OK, kids – for the rest of the day, you’re bees! Buzz like bees for Mrs. Gibbons!” And then I duck out of the room before a copy of “Where the Wild Things Are” gets flung at me.
So the other day, I called my sister. While on the phone, Nick asked to talk to me. He is at the stage where he wants to talk to anyone on the phone. And, regardless of who it is, he usually has these questions: “Where are you?” “What are you doing?” “Can I eat this?”
My sister put me on the phone with Nick, and we had this conversation:
NICK: Where are you?
ME: I’m at work.
NICK: What are you doing?
ME: I’m wrestling dragons.
NICK: Can I eat this?
Me: Sure. And wanna play the bee game? Pretend you’re a bee and buzz for the rest of the ….
MY SISTER: YOU’RE ON SPEAKER PHONE!!!
Me: Oops.
When I saw my sister later, she rolled her eyes at my behavior, expecting that kind of stuff from that idiot little 8-year-old brother of hers. I told her I was just being funny. Very funny, indeed, she confirmed.
Fortunately, I did have one ally, my oldest sister, Laura. While I am vying for Awesome Uncle status, Laura has already cemented herself with Awesome Aunt status, namely because the answer to most requests from her nieces and nephews is “Sure, why not?”
To be fair, Laura is a great protector of the kids. But if you want a Pop-Tart, Coke or Popsicle? You know where to go. Want to pile the cushions on the floor and do couch dives? Game on. Wanna see how many Peeps you can fit in your mouth? Let’s rock.
Laura, who was there when I tried to get Nick to do the bee game, thought it was funny. And, as in previous times, I am willing to bet that she had the common courtesy to turn away while laughing.
Sam is going to be in town today, and I should have the opportunity to spend time with both Nick and Sam. When they take breaks from their junior ultimate fighting competitions, I plan on spending some QT with my nephews, showing them just what an awesome uncle I can be (ever played Backward Rabbit Hop? Awesome game).
At least I know one of my sisters will laugh.
I have two 2-year-old nephews, Nick and Sam, and I have somehow become one of their chief corruptors. “Well, Mike,” you are probably saying, “surely this is just payback for the horrible, awful way your sisters treated you and then spoiled your kids, right?” To which I say, “Ha!” No, my sisters – I have three older ones – were always quite nice to me. Even protective, despite the fact that, when they had friends over, I rarely wore clothes. (That’s the kind of kid I was.) And as for the way they have been to my kids? Well, they have always been kind, sweet, caring aunts. They are far more popular than I am. So why would I act in such a manner? Simple – it’s really, really funny. To me.
It’s not like it’s really anything bad that I’m doing. I’m not taking them to the dog track or having them shoplift from liquor stores. It’s just the fun, routine, annoy-your-big-sister type stuff that apparently little brothers can never shake.
Case in point: The buzz game. I developed this game at my wife’s expense. She’s a preschool teacher, and on occasion I will stop by to see how the day is going and to juggle. The kids love juggling, and that immediately makes me WAAAAY more popular than the woman who makes them clean up after playtime, not lick scissors, etc. And, when I am leaving, I will hush the class so that all eyes are on me. “OK, kids – for the rest of the day, you’re bees! Buzz like bees for Mrs. Gibbons!” And then I duck out of the room before a copy of “Where the Wild Things Are” gets flung at me.
So the other day, I called my sister. While on the phone, Nick asked to talk to me. He is at the stage where he wants to talk to anyone on the phone. And, regardless of who it is, he usually has these questions: “Where are you?” “What are you doing?” “Can I eat this?”
My sister put me on the phone with Nick, and we had this conversation:
NICK: Where are you?
ME: I’m at work.
NICK: What are you doing?
ME: I’m wrestling dragons.
NICK: Can I eat this?
Me: Sure. And wanna play the bee game? Pretend you’re a bee and buzz for the rest of the ….
MY SISTER: YOU’RE ON SPEAKER PHONE!!!
Me: Oops.
When I saw my sister later, she rolled her eyes at my behavior, expecting that kind of stuff from that idiot little 8-year-old brother of hers. I told her I was just being funny. Very funny, indeed, she confirmed.
Fortunately, I did have one ally, my oldest sister, Laura. While I am vying for Awesome Uncle status, Laura has already cemented herself with Awesome Aunt status, namely because the answer to most requests from her nieces and nephews is “Sure, why not?”
To be fair, Laura is a great protector of the kids. But if you want a Pop-Tart, Coke or Popsicle? You know where to go. Want to pile the cushions on the floor and do couch dives? Game on. Wanna see how many Peeps you can fit in your mouth? Let’s rock.
Laura, who was there when I tried to get Nick to do the bee game, thought it was funny. And, as in previous times, I am willing to bet that she had the common courtesy to turn away while laughing.
Sam is going to be in town today, and I should have the opportunity to spend time with both Nick and Sam. When they take breaks from their junior ultimate fighting competitions, I plan on spending some QT with my nephews, showing them just what an awesome uncle I can be (ever played Backward Rabbit Hop? Awesome game).
At least I know one of my sisters will laugh.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The many labors
Of all the labors of Hercules, none was as daunting as the brutal tasks I routinely put my children through, in particular the one in which I burden them with – brace yourself – taking something up to their rooms.
My kids have this amazing ability to shed things when they enter a room – clothes, shoes, toys, live animals. They simply walk through a room and it immediately looks like a small tornado zoomed through a kids’ consignment store.
Often, I take this approach to cleaning: I wait until they are fast asleep and clean the house, enjoying the cleanliness that will last until approximately eight seconds after they wake up, at which point they begin shedding again.
But, on occasion, they do have to help pick up. And the amount of energy they expend trying to avoid the task at hand is easily 8 billion times the amount of energy it would take to actually do the chore. A prime example for this is the couch cushions. Couch cushions, as their name would suggest, belong on a couch. No, no, no. Not in my house. They are designed to be rocks on the lava. Or walls. Or toadstools. Pretty much anything BUT couch cushions. That’s fine, because kids should be able to have fun and use their imagination. But there are times when the lava rocks need to be transformed back into cushions. And then we have this delightful back and forth:
ME: OK, put the cushions back on the couch.
CHILD: But it’s our rock/wall/toadstool!!!
ME: Yeah, but we’ve got company coming over, and the cushions need to be put back on the couch.
CHILD: (lying on the cushionless couch, arms flailing backward) Nooooooo!!!!!!
ME: Very dramatic. Now put the cushions on the couch.
CHILD: It’s too haaaaaard!!!!
That’s one of their favorites: It’s amazing how difficult certain things become for my children. They can construct a mini-Bastille out of couch cushions but will claim it is too complicated to reverse engineer that into their original function.
Eventually, we will come to a resolution, usually one involving me saying, “THE CUSHIONS GO ON THE COUCH OR I GET RID OF A PET!!!”
Same thing happens with clothes that need to be taken to appropriate rooms. A while back, I was getting ready to take the kids to see a movie, which I think is a pretty darn swell dad thing to do and thereby something certainly worth the effort of a minor task or two. As we were heading out the door, I noticed that both of the kids had several items of clothes on the floor, which, to them, is practically the same as the clothes being folded and put in a dresser.
This is what I said: “Before we go, you both need to run those clothes up to your room.”
Based on their reaction, this is what I said, “Before we go, both of you must lift the van over your head.”
After about 30 seconds of resistance, I asked them the question I always ask, “You do realize that had you just done it when I asked, you’d be done, right?” That, of course, is not true, because what I asked them to do is the most difficult burden ever put upon a child.
In all fairness, they will go through spurts of helpfulness (read: they can be bribed). When their motivation is ramped up, they will do a serviceable job of helping out. I am sure this will continue to improve as they get older, and one day, they can pass down this knowledge of orderliness to their children. Or they can threaten to get rid of a pet.
My kids have this amazing ability to shed things when they enter a room – clothes, shoes, toys, live animals. They simply walk through a room and it immediately looks like a small tornado zoomed through a kids’ consignment store.
Often, I take this approach to cleaning: I wait until they are fast asleep and clean the house, enjoying the cleanliness that will last until approximately eight seconds after they wake up, at which point they begin shedding again.
But, on occasion, they do have to help pick up. And the amount of energy they expend trying to avoid the task at hand is easily 8 billion times the amount of energy it would take to actually do the chore. A prime example for this is the couch cushions. Couch cushions, as their name would suggest, belong on a couch. No, no, no. Not in my house. They are designed to be rocks on the lava. Or walls. Or toadstools. Pretty much anything BUT couch cushions. That’s fine, because kids should be able to have fun and use their imagination. But there are times when the lava rocks need to be transformed back into cushions. And then we have this delightful back and forth:
ME: OK, put the cushions back on the couch.
CHILD: But it’s our rock/wall/toadstool!!!
ME: Yeah, but we’ve got company coming over, and the cushions need to be put back on the couch.
CHILD: (lying on the cushionless couch, arms flailing backward) Nooooooo!!!!!!
ME: Very dramatic. Now put the cushions on the couch.
CHILD: It’s too haaaaaard!!!!
That’s one of their favorites: It’s amazing how difficult certain things become for my children. They can construct a mini-Bastille out of couch cushions but will claim it is too complicated to reverse engineer that into their original function.
Eventually, we will come to a resolution, usually one involving me saying, “THE CUSHIONS GO ON THE COUCH OR I GET RID OF A PET!!!”
Same thing happens with clothes that need to be taken to appropriate rooms. A while back, I was getting ready to take the kids to see a movie, which I think is a pretty darn swell dad thing to do and thereby something certainly worth the effort of a minor task or two. As we were heading out the door, I noticed that both of the kids had several items of clothes on the floor, which, to them, is practically the same as the clothes being folded and put in a dresser.
This is what I said: “Before we go, you both need to run those clothes up to your room.”
Based on their reaction, this is what I said, “Before we go, both of you must lift the van over your head.”
After about 30 seconds of resistance, I asked them the question I always ask, “You do realize that had you just done it when I asked, you’d be done, right?” That, of course, is not true, because what I asked them to do is the most difficult burden ever put upon a child.
In all fairness, they will go through spurts of helpfulness (read: they can be bribed). When their motivation is ramped up, they will do a serviceable job of helping out. I am sure this will continue to improve as they get older, and one day, they can pass down this knowledge of orderliness to their children. Or they can threaten to get rid of a pet.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Fly away
So we went to the grocery store and I bought my daughter a fly swatter, as any good dad would.
OK, so it’s not your traditional family pastime, but the Gibbons family loves some fly swattin’. Let’s not pretend you’re better than that. You love it, too.
But we were at the store and Allie saw a beaut of a swatter: dark blue, and shaped like a hand. Her eyes lit up, as any little girl’s eyes would when she sees that special fly swatter.
On the way home, Allie was holding her new swatter, no doubt hoping to see some kids from her class so she could show off her awesome new purchase. I looked in the rear view mirror and there I saw Allie, gently waving the fly swatter in her brother’s direction.
Now let me tell you something about my kids. They are brother and sister. And by brother and sister I mean feuding varmints. They pick. They needle. They antagonize. Every fourth day or so, they play nicely together for 15-20 seconds. Don’t get me wrong – they’re good kids for the most part. But they get together and start this showdown of wills. I base this on the time I sat them down and told them we only have enough love for one of them. Now fight for it!
Ha! Little bad parenting humor there!
Anywho, we have been working very hard on avoiding the situations that lead to throwdowns. For example, say you are sitting on a couch. And say a little brother is kicking you. There are three options: (1) Get off of the couch and out of leg’s reach, and let Mommy and Daddy handle it (2) Kick back or (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Obviously, option 1 is not even to be considered.
Another example: Say you are in the swimming pool, and a big sister keeps swimming by you and splashing you. The three options: (1) Swim away (2) Treat her like a bear treats a salmon (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Again, option 1? Not popular. Now, I know what you are saying: “Mike, why are you allowing the kicking or the splashing or other behavior?” To which I say to you: Congratulations on growing up an only child. I am a little brother. There are certain things that are going to happen. The sun will rise. The leaves will fall. And siblings will scrap. It’s nature. And I am sure there are some of you out there whose children never go at it. Congratulations, although I hope that aggression isn’t being pent up for a later date.
But back to the fly swatter. When I saw her waving it, I said, “What are you doing?”
She replied, “Oh, I’m fanning him. I think he’d like it.”
Based on the reddening face, I don’t think he liked it. I went back to the discussion of how we can avoid problems before they even start. “Allie, you know how this is going to play out. Why antagonize? You know how this will end.”
“You mean with him thanking me for fanning him?”
At that point, the chance of me wrecking the car due to excessive laughter was great. “You don’t seriously believe that.”
“Sure I do.”
At that point, it was clear I needed to get her to a doctor immediately, because she had to have a very high fever that was causing delusional thoughts.
Once I composed myself, I used my cat-like reflexes to whip my arm to the back seat and snatch the fly swatter, which would stay up front with me for the rest of the trip, a trip that would be filled with my speech on how if you simply don’t push buttons, you generally don’t start major wars.
I am not sure the message got through, since they were busy arguing over whose fault it was that I took the fly swatter.
The upside is, of course, that they will grow out of it. They will grow out of it, right?
OK, so it’s not your traditional family pastime, but the Gibbons family loves some fly swattin’. Let’s not pretend you’re better than that. You love it, too.
But we were at the store and Allie saw a beaut of a swatter: dark blue, and shaped like a hand. Her eyes lit up, as any little girl’s eyes would when she sees that special fly swatter.
On the way home, Allie was holding her new swatter, no doubt hoping to see some kids from her class so she could show off her awesome new purchase. I looked in the rear view mirror and there I saw Allie, gently waving the fly swatter in her brother’s direction.
Now let me tell you something about my kids. They are brother and sister. And by brother and sister I mean feuding varmints. They pick. They needle. They antagonize. Every fourth day or so, they play nicely together for 15-20 seconds. Don’t get me wrong – they’re good kids for the most part. But they get together and start this showdown of wills. I base this on the time I sat them down and told them we only have enough love for one of them. Now fight for it!
Ha! Little bad parenting humor there!
Anywho, we have been working very hard on avoiding the situations that lead to throwdowns. For example, say you are sitting on a couch. And say a little brother is kicking you. There are three options: (1) Get off of the couch and out of leg’s reach, and let Mommy and Daddy handle it (2) Kick back or (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Obviously, option 1 is not even to be considered.
Another example: Say you are in the swimming pool, and a big sister keeps swimming by you and splashing you. The three options: (1) Swim away (2) Treat her like a bear treats a salmon (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Again, option 1? Not popular. Now, I know what you are saying: “Mike, why are you allowing the kicking or the splashing or other behavior?” To which I say to you: Congratulations on growing up an only child. I am a little brother. There are certain things that are going to happen. The sun will rise. The leaves will fall. And siblings will scrap. It’s nature. And I am sure there are some of you out there whose children never go at it. Congratulations, although I hope that aggression isn’t being pent up for a later date.
But back to the fly swatter. When I saw her waving it, I said, “What are you doing?”
She replied, “Oh, I’m fanning him. I think he’d like it.”
Based on the reddening face, I don’t think he liked it. I went back to the discussion of how we can avoid problems before they even start. “Allie, you know how this is going to play out. Why antagonize? You know how this will end.”
“You mean with him thanking me for fanning him?”
At that point, the chance of me wrecking the car due to excessive laughter was great. “You don’t seriously believe that.”
“Sure I do.”
At that point, it was clear I needed to get her to a doctor immediately, because she had to have a very high fever that was causing delusional thoughts.
Once I composed myself, I used my cat-like reflexes to whip my arm to the back seat and snatch the fly swatter, which would stay up front with me for the rest of the trip, a trip that would be filled with my speech on how if you simply don’t push buttons, you generally don’t start major wars.
I am not sure the message got through, since they were busy arguing over whose fault it was that I took the fly swatter.
The upside is, of course, that they will grow out of it. They will grow out of it, right?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Vacation by the numbers
The Great Florida Adventure 2009 has come to a close.
Yes, Team Gibbons has completed its summer sojourn, putting behind us much of the state of Florida during our road trip down to the Keys, across the Everglades, up to Sarasota and Tampa and a stopover in Orlando.
My wife made the plans for the trip, and I am pleased to say that we even managed to do some of it without actual plans, which cut into the very core of my soul.
I like order. Structure. Definitive schedules. (And I wonder why my 8-year-old is obsessed with what time it is.)
But I tried to go a little carefree, put the wind at our back and sail wherever it took us. But that’s irresponsible on an interstate.
So we set the cruise control, headed in a general direction and off we went for a fun-filled week-plus adventure. Here is the trip, by the numbers.
0 – Number of public city parks I would rank ahead of Sugar Sand Park in Boca Raton. Any playground in which kids can see if they can run faster than skunks is OK by me. The only downside – it was not actual, live skunks.
2 – Number of dead Burmese pythons we saw on the road in Florida. When I swerved the van off the road to get one to show to the kids, my wife said, “What...why...but...” And then she shrugged and said, “Kids, get out and see the dead snake.”
3 – The number of sea turtles that hung out by the bridge where we went fishing one day at Duck Key. It was good that they were there to entertain us, because of the two fish we caught, it was hard to distinguish them from the bait.
3.5 – The average length, in feet, of the iguanas we saw in the Keys. Since my last visit to the Keys three years ago, the population seems to have grown. By my estimate, there is roughly one iguana per square foot of Key.
4 – Number of otters we saw. Three were in an aquarium in Tampa. One owned a house in Ft. Lauderdale where we spent one night. Always good for fraternity nicknames to stick 20 years later.
5 – The longest time I waited in a line for a roller coaster at Busch Gardens, making Busch Gardens the greatest amusement park in the history of mankind. Oh, and speaking of roller coasters, both my kids rode their first loop roller coaster, The Scorpion. They were not able to ride Sheikra, the newest attraction, which is one of the scarier (read: better) roller coasters I have ridden. When you step off a roller coaster and your legs feel as though you have been on a boat for 12 hours – good times.
7 – The length in feet, I guesstimated, of the spotted eagle ray I snorkeled next to for a few seconds. It was a fantastic site, and as I swam next to it, I thought, “Hey, I have no clue if they have barbs or not, but I don’t want to be stabbed in the chest.” Bye-bye, Mr. Ray.
9 – Total number of days we spent on the trip, my longest trip since ... well, a college summer off. The last full week I took for a vacation trip was my honeymoon a decade ago.
10 and 75 – Years of the two birthday celebrants during the trip, my niece and father-in-law.
20 – Feet below the surface Allie and I went SNUBA diving. Yes, SNUBA. Tune in next week for more on what SNUBA is.
25 – Total number of friends and family members we saw along our journey, including stays at several kind friends’ homes.
27 – Length in feet of the giant squid preserved at the Mote Aquarium in Sarasota. My wife found out that standing alone looking at a giant squid enclosed in glass combined with a recent viewing of “Night at the Museum” is not a good combination. She is fairly sure it started to attack.
56 – Number of times my wife scolded me for commenting on the poor driving abilities of everyone else on the planet, most of whom who have no concept of what the left lane is for (answer: For me.)
400 – Average temperature at SeaWorld in Orlando last week.
1,800 – Miles we logged during the trip.
2,500 – Miles my parents logged during a trip to Maine during the same time period, which made our 1,800 less impressive.
So it was a great trip, and I certainly am glad that we did it. My wife and I have already started planning the next one. She said it will be an exciting summer of 2011. Apparently it will take a couple of years to get me ready to go again.
Yes, Team Gibbons has completed its summer sojourn, putting behind us much of the state of Florida during our road trip down to the Keys, across the Everglades, up to Sarasota and Tampa and a stopover in Orlando.
My wife made the plans for the trip, and I am pleased to say that we even managed to do some of it without actual plans, which cut into the very core of my soul.
I like order. Structure. Definitive schedules. (And I wonder why my 8-year-old is obsessed with what time it is.)
But I tried to go a little carefree, put the wind at our back and sail wherever it took us. But that’s irresponsible on an interstate.
So we set the cruise control, headed in a general direction and off we went for a fun-filled week-plus adventure. Here is the trip, by the numbers.
0 – Number of public city parks I would rank ahead of Sugar Sand Park in Boca Raton. Any playground in which kids can see if they can run faster than skunks is OK by me. The only downside – it was not actual, live skunks.
2 – Number of dead Burmese pythons we saw on the road in Florida. When I swerved the van off the road to get one to show to the kids, my wife said, “What...why...but...” And then she shrugged and said, “Kids, get out and see the dead snake.”
3 – The number of sea turtles that hung out by the bridge where we went fishing one day at Duck Key. It was good that they were there to entertain us, because of the two fish we caught, it was hard to distinguish them from the bait.
3.5 – The average length, in feet, of the iguanas we saw in the Keys. Since my last visit to the Keys three years ago, the population seems to have grown. By my estimate, there is roughly one iguana per square foot of Key.
4 – Number of otters we saw. Three were in an aquarium in Tampa. One owned a house in Ft. Lauderdale where we spent one night. Always good for fraternity nicknames to stick 20 years later.
5 – The longest time I waited in a line for a roller coaster at Busch Gardens, making Busch Gardens the greatest amusement park in the history of mankind. Oh, and speaking of roller coasters, both my kids rode their first loop roller coaster, The Scorpion. They were not able to ride Sheikra, the newest attraction, which is one of the scarier (read: better) roller coasters I have ridden. When you step off a roller coaster and your legs feel as though you have been on a boat for 12 hours – good times.
7 – The length in feet, I guesstimated, of the spotted eagle ray I snorkeled next to for a few seconds. It was a fantastic site, and as I swam next to it, I thought, “Hey, I have no clue if they have barbs or not, but I don’t want to be stabbed in the chest.” Bye-bye, Mr. Ray.
9 – Total number of days we spent on the trip, my longest trip since ... well, a college summer off. The last full week I took for a vacation trip was my honeymoon a decade ago.
10 and 75 – Years of the two birthday celebrants during the trip, my niece and father-in-law.
20 – Feet below the surface Allie and I went SNUBA diving. Yes, SNUBA. Tune in next week for more on what SNUBA is.
25 – Total number of friends and family members we saw along our journey, including stays at several kind friends’ homes.
27 – Length in feet of the giant squid preserved at the Mote Aquarium in Sarasota. My wife found out that standing alone looking at a giant squid enclosed in glass combined with a recent viewing of “Night at the Museum” is not a good combination. She is fairly sure it started to attack.
56 – Number of times my wife scolded me for commenting on the poor driving abilities of everyone else on the planet, most of whom who have no concept of what the left lane is for (answer: For me.)
400 – Average temperature at SeaWorld in Orlando last week.
1,800 – Miles we logged during the trip.
2,500 – Miles my parents logged during a trip to Maine during the same time period, which made our 1,800 less impressive.
So it was a great trip, and I certainly am glad that we did it. My wife and I have already started planning the next one. She said it will be an exciting summer of 2011. Apparently it will take a couple of years to get me ready to go again.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Under pressure
Over the years, I have told you of the single greatest invention on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, because I get quite excited about many things, the single greatest invention has been replaced every, oh, four days. Among the few anointed ones: the Dial-A-Dumpster program (They bring a Dumpster to your house! For free!!!!); the Chill Wizard (It chills a warm canned beverage! In under a minute!!!); The race car shopping cart (Kids can ride in a race car! And you can get shopping done!!!); and the Roomba (It vacuums and terrifies the cat! And I don’t have to be there!!!).
So today I am not going to tell you that the gas-powered pressure washer is the greatest invention ever. But it does join the Hall of Fame that the aforementioned have notably entered.
I base this on a lifetime of experiences with pressure washers, including my latest encounter with one.
For those of you not familiar with gas-powered pressure washers, the concept is simple: Combine an incredibly loud lawnmower engine with a water hose, and you get a water ray gun of death, one with equal parts of awesome cleaning power and destructive foot shredding capability. I have used them in the past, which means I have learned from my past mistakes ONLY to use them when I am good and ready to start cleaning. Most first-time pressure washers have made that mistake. For example, let’s say you want to clean your sidewalk. You get your pressure washer set up, you fire it up, and you point the hose at the ground. Sploooosh!!!!! The stream of water barrels out and blasts the funk off of your sidewalk. Pretty cool, you think. And it doesn’t take much time for you to come to the following conclusion: “I could write my name with this.”
But the sidewalk certainly isn’t a big enough place to write your whole name in pressure washer script. No, you need a much bigger canvas. And before you know it, you have written a big cursive “MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS” in your driveway. (OK, that would be weird if you wrote MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS in your driveway. I would hope you would have written your own name.) Anywho, looking at the big pressure-washed signature, you’re mighty proud. And then you realize that when you start pressure washing, you have to finish. It would be like ironing the sleeve of a shirt while the rest is hideously wrinkled. And if you have ever pressure washed an entire driveway, you know that it takes about 11 days to complete. So the key for the experienced pressure washer is only to start the jobs you are ready to finish. Don’t get cute. Don’t get fancy. Don’t write your name. Don’t do what you think are funny wisecracking pictures that only your neighbors can see from their second stories. If you don’t want to pressure wash something in its entirety, don’t get the pressure washer anywhere near it.
My latest pressure washing adventure came after my wife made the comment that the brick walk at the front of our house was no longer brick. “We have a moss and dirt sidewalk,” she told me. Pshaw, I told her. That’s brick. Weathered. Aged. Has a story to tell. And then I looked at it. Actually, not a lot of discernible brick there. It was very much like we had a dirt path leading up to our house. Well, a dirt path with some moss growing on it. The story it had to tell: “I need to be pressure washed.”
So I borrowed my brother-in-law’s pressure washer. I knew he had one because I was over at my sister’s house and saw him out back using it. He had made the mistake of letting the pressure washer touch a single square inch of his back patio, which means he was then relegated to spending the next two weeks of his life finishing that project.
When I got the washer, I was careful to make sure that only the brick walk was touched by the pressure washer. And the best way to ensure that? Do not allow children within one mile of the pressure washer. Sure, a pressure washer is a good fun toy for kids. But you’ve got to keep focused.
As I blasted off the walk, I was amazed at the gunk coming off of the sidewalk. Slowly, an actual brick sidewalk began to emerge. By the time I finished, it was amazing to stand back and see what looked like a brand new brick sidewalk.
I still have the pressure washer, and there are a still a few odds and ends I want to knock out with it. For example, I’d like to clean off the shutters and maybe clean off the eaves. Of course, there is part of me that really wants to sign my name in the driveway.
So today I am not going to tell you that the gas-powered pressure washer is the greatest invention ever. But it does join the Hall of Fame that the aforementioned have notably entered.
I base this on a lifetime of experiences with pressure washers, including my latest encounter with one.
For those of you not familiar with gas-powered pressure washers, the concept is simple: Combine an incredibly loud lawnmower engine with a water hose, and you get a water ray gun of death, one with equal parts of awesome cleaning power and destructive foot shredding capability. I have used them in the past, which means I have learned from my past mistakes ONLY to use them when I am good and ready to start cleaning. Most first-time pressure washers have made that mistake. For example, let’s say you want to clean your sidewalk. You get your pressure washer set up, you fire it up, and you point the hose at the ground. Sploooosh!!!!! The stream of water barrels out and blasts the funk off of your sidewalk. Pretty cool, you think. And it doesn’t take much time for you to come to the following conclusion: “I could write my name with this.”
But the sidewalk certainly isn’t a big enough place to write your whole name in pressure washer script. No, you need a much bigger canvas. And before you know it, you have written a big cursive “MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS” in your driveway. (OK, that would be weird if you wrote MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS in your driveway. I would hope you would have written your own name.) Anywho, looking at the big pressure-washed signature, you’re mighty proud. And then you realize that when you start pressure washing, you have to finish. It would be like ironing the sleeve of a shirt while the rest is hideously wrinkled. And if you have ever pressure washed an entire driveway, you know that it takes about 11 days to complete. So the key for the experienced pressure washer is only to start the jobs you are ready to finish. Don’t get cute. Don’t get fancy. Don’t write your name. Don’t do what you think are funny wisecracking pictures that only your neighbors can see from their second stories. If you don’t want to pressure wash something in its entirety, don’t get the pressure washer anywhere near it.
My latest pressure washing adventure came after my wife made the comment that the brick walk at the front of our house was no longer brick. “We have a moss and dirt sidewalk,” she told me. Pshaw, I told her. That’s brick. Weathered. Aged. Has a story to tell. And then I looked at it. Actually, not a lot of discernible brick there. It was very much like we had a dirt path leading up to our house. Well, a dirt path with some moss growing on it. The story it had to tell: “I need to be pressure washed.”
So I borrowed my brother-in-law’s pressure washer. I knew he had one because I was over at my sister’s house and saw him out back using it. He had made the mistake of letting the pressure washer touch a single square inch of his back patio, which means he was then relegated to spending the next two weeks of his life finishing that project.
When I got the washer, I was careful to make sure that only the brick walk was touched by the pressure washer. And the best way to ensure that? Do not allow children within one mile of the pressure washer. Sure, a pressure washer is a good fun toy for kids. But you’ve got to keep focused.
As I blasted off the walk, I was amazed at the gunk coming off of the sidewalk. Slowly, an actual brick sidewalk began to emerge. By the time I finished, it was amazing to stand back and see what looked like a brand new brick sidewalk.
I still have the pressure washer, and there are a still a few odds and ends I want to knock out with it. For example, I’d like to clean off the shutters and maybe clean off the eaves. Of course, there is part of me that really wants to sign my name in the driveway.
Granny Ann
God bless Granny Ann.
Or Granny Anne. Or Granny Annie. Truth be told, I’m not totally sure of her name, since her introduction was not to me, but to her theater seatmate, my son, Parker.
We met Granny Ann during the Sunday matinee performance at the Aiken Community Playhouse’s production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”
Parker and I were going to see his mother and sister, who were both in the fantastic performance. It is not because my gals were in this performance that I say it was fantastic. It was one of the most outstanding performances I have seen in a long time, although I would kindly ask that several of the songs get out of my head. I like them. I really do. But I can’t go to sleep these days without, “There’s one more angel in heaven ...” playing on loop in my head.
Anywho, I am always hesitant about taking little ones to shows, mainly because I don’t want to be the one leaving the show where everyone is motioning to me saying, “Yeah, that’s the one whose kid crawled under the seats, onto the stage and bit an actor.”
Parker and I talked extensively about expectations. Among the rules:
• You cannot point out when Mommy or Sissy is on stage. For two hours, they are someone else.
• You cannot have snacks. This is not the movie theaters, where we sneak in Skittles.
• You cannot go to the bathroom. There’s an intermission. You can hold it.
When we sat down, I was worried about who would be seated next to us. I know that people go to a play to enjoy the show and not be pestered by a little critter next to them, fidgeting, wiggling, singing the theme song to “Diego,” etc. Despite my preplay prep work, I was less than assured that Parker would be a perfect angel. He’s a good kid, but a play is still tough work for a 6-year-old boy who would REALLY like to be out hunting bugs.
I approached our seats. They were the two seats on the aisle. There, three seats in, was a woman with several friends. At first, I went to sit in the inside seat, thinking Parker could be safely wedged between the aisle and me. Our theater mate said that she would welcome Parker sitting there, which possibly could mean she simply didn’t want to sit next to me. I suppose that would not be the first time.
Well, after about four seconds, I knew we had hit seating gold. In no time, Parker had very little interest in my conversation, as he and Granny Ann were having a detailed conversation about bugs, grandkids, people he knew in the play, etc.
Parker, to his credit, was golden during the performance. He had a couple of times where he had to lean over to me and whisper, “That’s MOMMY!!!” But he and Granny Ann had a big time together, and at the end of the play, she told him that the next time she went to a play, she would look for him so they could sit together. He beamed a huge smile, and several times later that day, he reminded me that, essentially, he had a standing play date, as he was VERY good at the play, and Granny Ann even wanted to sit with him again.
When I was telling my wife about Granny Ann, she recounted another gift grandma we had. Several years ago, on a flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Atlanta, our plane was struck by lightning while still on the ground. The plane was unflyable, and we were bumped from flight after flight, finally getting on one about 10 hours later. Parker was 3, and Allie was 5. You can imagine how delightful they were after 10 hours stuck in an airport. When we finally boarded a plane, we were told there were two seats together in the very back, one right in front of those, and one at the front of the plane. Being the team player I am, I opted for the seat in the front of the plane. I am still working off those demerits.
But my wife and Parker sat in the back, and Allie sat in the row in front of them. There, next to her, was a Jamaican woman who chatted with Allie and sang songs to her and generally kept her calm and happy during the flight and became the Patron Saint of Flying with Kids.
So Granny Ann – or Anne or Annie – has joined to ranks of Jamaican Grandma on the list of people who have played special parts in our kids’ lives – and our lives – and may never know it. She is the Patron Saint of Sitting Next to Wiggly Kids at the Theater. Granny Ann, if you’re reading this, thanks for making a little boy’s day. He can’t wait for the next one. But remember – no wiggling and no Skittles.
Or Granny Anne. Or Granny Annie. Truth be told, I’m not totally sure of her name, since her introduction was not to me, but to her theater seatmate, my son, Parker.
We met Granny Ann during the Sunday matinee performance at the Aiken Community Playhouse’s production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”
Parker and I were going to see his mother and sister, who were both in the fantastic performance. It is not because my gals were in this performance that I say it was fantastic. It was one of the most outstanding performances I have seen in a long time, although I would kindly ask that several of the songs get out of my head. I like them. I really do. But I can’t go to sleep these days without, “There’s one more angel in heaven ...” playing on loop in my head.
Anywho, I am always hesitant about taking little ones to shows, mainly because I don’t want to be the one leaving the show where everyone is motioning to me saying, “Yeah, that’s the one whose kid crawled under the seats, onto the stage and bit an actor.”
Parker and I talked extensively about expectations. Among the rules:
• You cannot point out when Mommy or Sissy is on stage. For two hours, they are someone else.
• You cannot have snacks. This is not the movie theaters, where we sneak in Skittles.
• You cannot go to the bathroom. There’s an intermission. You can hold it.
When we sat down, I was worried about who would be seated next to us. I know that people go to a play to enjoy the show and not be pestered by a little critter next to them, fidgeting, wiggling, singing the theme song to “Diego,” etc. Despite my preplay prep work, I was less than assured that Parker would be a perfect angel. He’s a good kid, but a play is still tough work for a 6-year-old boy who would REALLY like to be out hunting bugs.
I approached our seats. They were the two seats on the aisle. There, three seats in, was a woman with several friends. At first, I went to sit in the inside seat, thinking Parker could be safely wedged between the aisle and me. Our theater mate said that she would welcome Parker sitting there, which possibly could mean she simply didn’t want to sit next to me. I suppose that would not be the first time.
Well, after about four seconds, I knew we had hit seating gold. In no time, Parker had very little interest in my conversation, as he and Granny Ann were having a detailed conversation about bugs, grandkids, people he knew in the play, etc.
Parker, to his credit, was golden during the performance. He had a couple of times where he had to lean over to me and whisper, “That’s MOMMY!!!” But he and Granny Ann had a big time together, and at the end of the play, she told him that the next time she went to a play, she would look for him so they could sit together. He beamed a huge smile, and several times later that day, he reminded me that, essentially, he had a standing play date, as he was VERY good at the play, and Granny Ann even wanted to sit with him again.
When I was telling my wife about Granny Ann, she recounted another gift grandma we had. Several years ago, on a flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Atlanta, our plane was struck by lightning while still on the ground. The plane was unflyable, and we were bumped from flight after flight, finally getting on one about 10 hours later. Parker was 3, and Allie was 5. You can imagine how delightful they were after 10 hours stuck in an airport. When we finally boarded a plane, we were told there were two seats together in the very back, one right in front of those, and one at the front of the plane. Being the team player I am, I opted for the seat in the front of the plane. I am still working off those demerits.
But my wife and Parker sat in the back, and Allie sat in the row in front of them. There, next to her, was a Jamaican woman who chatted with Allie and sang songs to her and generally kept her calm and happy during the flight and became the Patron Saint of Flying with Kids.
So Granny Ann – or Anne or Annie – has joined to ranks of Jamaican Grandma on the list of people who have played special parts in our kids’ lives – and our lives – and may never know it. She is the Patron Saint of Sitting Next to Wiggly Kids at the Theater. Granny Ann, if you’re reading this, thanks for making a little boy’s day. He can’t wait for the next one. But remember – no wiggling and no Skittles.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Snap to it
Bullwhips.
That’s the easiest solution.
This idea came to me the other day when I was in the grocery store. There I was, preparing to self checkout. I had two items. The limit at the self checkout is 15. I was golden.
I noticed that all four spots were full. Fair enough. That happens sometimes. As long as these folks met all the requirements of entering the realm of self checkout, no problem. The requirements are simple:
1. Absolutely, positively no violation of the 15-item limit. And no getting cute. You can’t have 17 boxes of Lucky Charms and chalk that up as one cereal. It’s items, not categories. Also, you cannot have two orders of 15 items each. That is 30. Thus, no self checkout.
2. You must know your produce and how to spin the produce wheel. If you do not know what the produce wheel is, you are not ready to self checkout your squash.
3. Coupons may only be used if they just happened to come attached to a product you were already buying. I’m all for saving. But this line is for saving time, not money.
So when I noticed the backup, I scanned the four spots to see what was blocking me.
• Spot one: Woman with basket, maybe six items. It appeared she was preparing for breakfast, based on the eggs, biscuits and bacon. She passed.
• Spot two: Twenty-something guy. Case of beer. Cash in hand. Perfect candidate.
• Spot three: Woman fumbling through her purse. Possibly looking for discount card, which could be a violation. Hold off judgment.
• Spot four: Bingo. There he was, a cart with roughly eight of every item in the store. And he appeared to be examining every single product before he scanned it, as if somehow his Kraft cheese would have evolved into a different type of food during his visit.
I locked eyes with the clerk who was manning the self-checkout aisle.
She gave me this look of helplessness, an almost shrug of disappointment.
I glanced up at the sign above me. “Fifteen?” I asked.
She shook her head, again sending the message that there was nothing she could do.
She motioned to the guy with the case of beer. “He should be done in a second,” she said.
“Good, because that guy won’t,” I said. He did not hear me, as he was busy intently studying a bottle of Cran-Grape.
In a matter of about 11 seconds, I was done with my self checkout transaction, because I am easily a pro, and most likely a first ballot hall of famer of self checker-outers.
When I left, the clerk gave a look of quasi-apology, I think a little frustrated that she could not enforce the rules of self checkout.
Which is when it hit me. The resounding crack of a bullwhip over someone’s head will surely get your attention.
The clerk does not have to be rude. She does not have to be pushy.
She just has to serve up a CRACK!!! over someone’s head, who will no doubt cower down and turn his head, to which she can politely say, “Sir, this aisle is reserved for 15 items or fewer,” as she rolls her whip back up and hangs it on her belt.
Find me the man who would continue checking out.
Now, understand, there would have to be Bullwhip Certification School, and no making contact with the customer without a majority vote of the people waiting behind him. I think that’s only reasonable.
The unfortunate part of it is that clerks are pretty helpless in enforcing the law of the grocery store.
I mean, let’s be honest – collectively, we can be a pretty nasty bunch of consumers on occasion.
We have morphed “The customer is always right” into “The customer can stomp on clerks and take advantage of the system and still complain about the way THEY’VE been treated.”
Sure, some clerks are inattentive and ineffective. But I have found that for the most part, the people at a checkout line are hard working folks trying to get you and your groceries headed out the door.
They respond in kind to a kind word and share an appreciation for being treated with respect. Nothing wrong with that.
And nothing brings respect like the sound barrier breaking snap of a bullwhip over your rule-breaking head.
So be nice to clerks. And obey the rules.
That’s the easiest solution.
This idea came to me the other day when I was in the grocery store. There I was, preparing to self checkout. I had two items. The limit at the self checkout is 15. I was golden.
I noticed that all four spots were full. Fair enough. That happens sometimes. As long as these folks met all the requirements of entering the realm of self checkout, no problem. The requirements are simple:
1. Absolutely, positively no violation of the 15-item limit. And no getting cute. You can’t have 17 boxes of Lucky Charms and chalk that up as one cereal. It’s items, not categories. Also, you cannot have two orders of 15 items each. That is 30. Thus, no self checkout.
2. You must know your produce and how to spin the produce wheel. If you do not know what the produce wheel is, you are not ready to self checkout your squash.
3. Coupons may only be used if they just happened to come attached to a product you were already buying. I’m all for saving. But this line is for saving time, not money.
So when I noticed the backup, I scanned the four spots to see what was blocking me.
• Spot one: Woman with basket, maybe six items. It appeared she was preparing for breakfast, based on the eggs, biscuits and bacon. She passed.
• Spot two: Twenty-something guy. Case of beer. Cash in hand. Perfect candidate.
• Spot three: Woman fumbling through her purse. Possibly looking for discount card, which could be a violation. Hold off judgment.
• Spot four: Bingo. There he was, a cart with roughly eight of every item in the store. And he appeared to be examining every single product before he scanned it, as if somehow his Kraft cheese would have evolved into a different type of food during his visit.
I locked eyes with the clerk who was manning the self-checkout aisle.
She gave me this look of helplessness, an almost shrug of disappointment.
I glanced up at the sign above me. “Fifteen?” I asked.
She shook her head, again sending the message that there was nothing she could do.
She motioned to the guy with the case of beer. “He should be done in a second,” she said.
“Good, because that guy won’t,” I said. He did not hear me, as he was busy intently studying a bottle of Cran-Grape.
In a matter of about 11 seconds, I was done with my self checkout transaction, because I am easily a pro, and most likely a first ballot hall of famer of self checker-outers.
When I left, the clerk gave a look of quasi-apology, I think a little frustrated that she could not enforce the rules of self checkout.
Which is when it hit me. The resounding crack of a bullwhip over someone’s head will surely get your attention.
The clerk does not have to be rude. She does not have to be pushy.
She just has to serve up a CRACK!!! over someone’s head, who will no doubt cower down and turn his head, to which she can politely say, “Sir, this aisle is reserved for 15 items or fewer,” as she rolls her whip back up and hangs it on her belt.
Find me the man who would continue checking out.
Now, understand, there would have to be Bullwhip Certification School, and no making contact with the customer without a majority vote of the people waiting behind him. I think that’s only reasonable.
The unfortunate part of it is that clerks are pretty helpless in enforcing the law of the grocery store.
I mean, let’s be honest – collectively, we can be a pretty nasty bunch of consumers on occasion.
We have morphed “The customer is always right” into “The customer can stomp on clerks and take advantage of the system and still complain about the way THEY’VE been treated.”
Sure, some clerks are inattentive and ineffective. But I have found that for the most part, the people at a checkout line are hard working folks trying to get you and your groceries headed out the door.
They respond in kind to a kind word and share an appreciation for being treated with respect. Nothing wrong with that.
And nothing brings respect like the sound barrier breaking snap of a bullwhip over your rule-breaking head.
So be nice to clerks. And obey the rules.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
End of an era
It is the end of an era.
I no longer have kids in kindergarten.
Yes, Parker graduated and is heading on to the wide-open world of first grade. As I sat in the church sanctuary beaming with pride, I looked over at my wife, who apparently had just watched “Schindler’s List” or something, as she was just a boo-hooing.
Not that she was alone. Having attended quite a few graduation ceremonies over the years, I have seen plenty of moms get weepy when the moment comes. And it’s a chain reaction-type thing.
One mom starts to get a glisten in the eye. Another sees it and gets a little more teary. And then the tear dominoes begin tumbling, and before you know it, it’s the sobbingest place this side of an onion cutting competition. (Yes, I did just manufacture an onion cutting competition. But I think you can agree it would (a) bring lots of tears and (b) be kinda fun to watch from a distance.)
In fairness to them, I did feel a little (OK, a lot) of sentimental rumblings inside when I saw Parker walk up on stage at his graduation. He’s our little guy, and to see how much he has grown – physically and emotionally – this year is amazing.
He has developed a love of reading and math – and schoolwork in general – but has kept that sense of wonder I wish we all could keep forever.
As he heads to first grade, I thought I would reflect on a few things looking back and forward:
— I may never have to make a school lunch again. Parker will eat anything – anything – and he is pretty sure that getting to go through lunch line will be only the coolest thing ever.
— He will be at school with his sister, who will be in fourth grade. I have told her that there is one thing an older sister has to keep in mind – you can’t do that to her brother. Only she can do that to her brother.
— I will miss the drop-ins. During kindergarten, it’s easy for parents to just drop in and see the class. Not so much once you get into elementary school. Well, I suppose you COULD just drop in, but I think the stigma of having your dad be the root-cause of a school lockdown would be a heavy burden for a kid.
— The Dude is going to have to vastly change his sleeping habits. He has always gone to bed pretty well. But starting next fall he is going to have to get up WAAAAAAY earlier than he is used to. And I have seen him when he wakes up early. He’s an angry little critter when you force him up early. In fairness, he’s just not ready to face the day without 8-10 cups of coffee.
— This is the time where the Keep-It Box deposits get fewer and fewer. The Keep-It Box is a big plastic bin we keep under our bed. Whenever the kids have something we want to hold onto (drawings, tests, the late Bubbles the fish), we put it in that box. Kindergarten is really the peak of take-home stuff that will make you wispy for the good ol’ days in about 10 years when you are arguing with him over why he cannot go on a 12-day road-trip with his friends to Argentina, and how his friends’ parents clearly love and trust them more.
— He’s about to head full-on into the big time, with bigger classes and a wide diversity of folks he will interact with each day. And that’s the best thing possible. The world he’s heading into? A big place with a wide diversity of folks. Same can get boring.
— This will probably be the year he starts into sports. We have offered him the opportunity several times. The closest he got was a few practices of basketball. He said he would rather hunt bugs. Maybe he’ll play this year, maybe not. There are only two rules going forward: (a) If you commit to doing it, see it all the way through and (b) dinner’s for winners. Oh, wait, scratch (b). I believe that’s supposed to be “Have fun.”
So we’ve a big year ahead of us. Of course, before he does any of the first grade stuff, it’s summertime. Let’s not worry about all that other stuff yet. Let’s go hunt some bugs.
I no longer have kids in kindergarten.
Yes, Parker graduated and is heading on to the wide-open world of first grade. As I sat in the church sanctuary beaming with pride, I looked over at my wife, who apparently had just watched “Schindler’s List” or something, as she was just a boo-hooing.
Not that she was alone. Having attended quite a few graduation ceremonies over the years, I have seen plenty of moms get weepy when the moment comes. And it’s a chain reaction-type thing.
One mom starts to get a glisten in the eye. Another sees it and gets a little more teary. And then the tear dominoes begin tumbling, and before you know it, it’s the sobbingest place this side of an onion cutting competition. (Yes, I did just manufacture an onion cutting competition. But I think you can agree it would (a) bring lots of tears and (b) be kinda fun to watch from a distance.)
In fairness to them, I did feel a little (OK, a lot) of sentimental rumblings inside when I saw Parker walk up on stage at his graduation. He’s our little guy, and to see how much he has grown – physically and emotionally – this year is amazing.
He has developed a love of reading and math – and schoolwork in general – but has kept that sense of wonder I wish we all could keep forever.
As he heads to first grade, I thought I would reflect on a few things looking back and forward:
— I may never have to make a school lunch again. Parker will eat anything – anything – and he is pretty sure that getting to go through lunch line will be only the coolest thing ever.
— He will be at school with his sister, who will be in fourth grade. I have told her that there is one thing an older sister has to keep in mind – you can’t do that to her brother. Only she can do that to her brother.
— I will miss the drop-ins. During kindergarten, it’s easy for parents to just drop in and see the class. Not so much once you get into elementary school. Well, I suppose you COULD just drop in, but I think the stigma of having your dad be the root-cause of a school lockdown would be a heavy burden for a kid.
— The Dude is going to have to vastly change his sleeping habits. He has always gone to bed pretty well. But starting next fall he is going to have to get up WAAAAAAY earlier than he is used to. And I have seen him when he wakes up early. He’s an angry little critter when you force him up early. In fairness, he’s just not ready to face the day without 8-10 cups of coffee.
— This is the time where the Keep-It Box deposits get fewer and fewer. The Keep-It Box is a big plastic bin we keep under our bed. Whenever the kids have something we want to hold onto (drawings, tests, the late Bubbles the fish), we put it in that box. Kindergarten is really the peak of take-home stuff that will make you wispy for the good ol’ days in about 10 years when you are arguing with him over why he cannot go on a 12-day road-trip with his friends to Argentina, and how his friends’ parents clearly love and trust them more.
— He’s about to head full-on into the big time, with bigger classes and a wide diversity of folks he will interact with each day. And that’s the best thing possible. The world he’s heading into? A big place with a wide diversity of folks. Same can get boring.
— This will probably be the year he starts into sports. We have offered him the opportunity several times. The closest he got was a few practices of basketball. He said he would rather hunt bugs. Maybe he’ll play this year, maybe not. There are only two rules going forward: (a) If you commit to doing it, see it all the way through and (b) dinner’s for winners. Oh, wait, scratch (b). I believe that’s supposed to be “Have fun.”
So we’ve a big year ahead of us. Of course, before he does any of the first grade stuff, it’s summertime. Let’s not worry about all that other stuff yet. Let’s go hunt some bugs.
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