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.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
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.
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