Mike's Life

You never know who's looking...

2011-02-23T06:49:00.001-08:00

Let me give you the moral of the story first: You never know who's looking. And you never know how much they look up to you.

This true-life fable started last Thursday, when my wife, daughter and father-in-law went out to a restaurant. (Parker and I went home to make sure the Wii still worked.) They had been there a few minutes when a bus pulled up. The bus was hauling the Chattahoochee Valley Community College softball team from Phenix City, Ala., in town for a weekend tournament.

My daughter felt a connection immediately as, to her, anyone from Alabama surely is a Bama fan (even if they're from down near Opelika). Plus, this was an honest-to-goodness softball team. With Allie's tryouts for the 10-year-old league only a few days away, this was, to her, like seeing the Atlanta Braves walk into the joint.

She mustered up the courage to go and speak with the team, asking for pointers on what she should do at her tryout. They were more than helpful, and Allie became an immediate fan of the CVCC Lady Pirates.

On Saturday, Allie said over and over that she wanted to head to Citizens Park to see CVCC play. That, she told us, was HER team now, and she had to root them on. We finally made our way over to the fields around 3:30 p.m. The team was practicing on one field as other games unfolded throughout the park. We stood behind the fence as two players practiced hitting, one of the women hitting several balls over the fence near us. Allie retrieved the balls and took them to the fence, where the players approached. "Hey, you're the girl from the restaurant!" one said. Allie beamed. They told us they were playing in the championship game at 4 p.m. When that hour arrived, we were there in the bleachers, waiting to cheer on CVCC.

We stood out, as a community college softball team from Alabama usually doesn't have a big local following when they play in South Carolina. One mother even approached my wife and asked, simply out of curiosity, why we were there cheering them on. My wife's explanation seemed to make her proud.

As we watched the game, we saw this team was something special. They had an amazing energy. Cheers, high-fives, chants, dances. This was a team Allie was born to follow. And emulate.

As the innings played on, we noticed the team, before taking the field, would huddle at a poster hung on the fence. I slipped onto the field to see what they were all touching together as a team. It was a poster of a cherubic faced teen named Mallory Garmon. It had the quote, "No one better than you right here." In the dugout, Mallory's No. 23 jersey hung. I then saw a pink T-shirt on the back of one of the fan's chairs - it had the No. 23, and the words "In Loving Memory of Mallory Garmon."

I quickly looked her up online on my phone. Mallory, the pride and joy of Elmore, Ala., was on a softball scholarship to CVCC when she died in a car crash in October 2010. They were playing this game - and every game - for her.

CVCC started out strong, putting seven runs on the board in the first inning. The game got tight as it went on, but the opposing team never could top the spirit of CVCC. CVCC won, 15-14.

At the end of the game, they did something that made a little girl forever have some big league idols. They gave Allie the game ball. And when they gathered for a team picture, they had Allie hold Mallory's jersey. "You've gotta be somebody special to hold Mallory's jersey," one of the players told Allie.

I don't know any of the young women on the CVCC team. I doubt I will ever cross paths with them again. But I hope they know the indelible mark they left on a 10-year-old girl in South Carolina. They taught a lesson of teamwork, of sportsmanship, of loyalty.

Allie said she wants the game ball to be her "practice ball," and I think that's a fine idea. When she takes the field for her first game, I hope she will carry the spirit of CVCC with her. And throughout her endeavors in life, I want her to always have fun and enjoy the journey, the way the CVCC team did. And I want her to always remember: She will one day be the woman some little girl looks up to.

The Mommy fix

2011-02-13T19:23:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, you just need a big ol' bowl of Mommy.

The other day, my son was not feeling well. He's 7, and one of the easy ways to tell that he's not feeling well is to note how frequently he gets frustrated.

On this day, it was a lot. And I mean a lot. Little things were frustrating him. A Lego couldn't be found. His pet fish was on the wrong side of the bowl. The Capri Sun straw went in just a bit off center. You know, major league day ruiners.

I was feeling pretty punky myself, so I decided the best cure for both of us would be to lounge on the bed and watch some television. That, as you can guess, frustrated Parker. He said he wanted to lie on the floor and play a game on my phone. Fine. Whatever.

This was about 5 p.m. After only a few minutes, I fell asleep. I woke up around 6:30 p.m., and by now it was dark outside. I glanced around the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I couldn't see anything. But I could hear the soft, rhythmic sounds of a tiny log being sawed. The Dude was crashed out, asleep on the floor.

I don't recall him taking a nap in years, so it was clear he needed some shut-eye. That said, I knew he hadn't eaten supper, so I decided I would get him up long enough to get something in his tummy and then get him back to sleep (probably just setting him back on the floor, because, hey, he looked comfy).

In retrospect, I probably should have just left him on the floor. He has averaged three meals a day for his entire life, so I am guessing skipping one dinner was not going to result in his demise.

But the damage had been done, and I had him up and was carrying him downstairs as he started to come to. "Do you want some mac and cheese?" I asked? "Uh-huh," he replied groggily.

I made him some mac and cheese, which takes a whopping 90 seconds. During that minute and a half, The Dude had retreated to the stairs and wedged himself on a step and fallen back asleep.

"Parker," I said, "your dinner is ready."

And cue the frustration.

"No." he said.

"Yes," I said, "it is."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. You said you wanted mac and cheese. It's ready."

"I ... don't ... want ... mac ... and ... cheese."

Now, mind you he was not being defiant just for giggles. He was half-asleep and already in a funk. I picked him up off the stairs, figuring the delicious aroma of warm mac and cheese would get him going.

He sat at the table. "I don't want mac and cheese. And will your turn on Curious George?" he asked. It all started making sense. Curious George is on PBS in the mornings before school. He was partially out of sorts because he thought it was morning and that, quite frankly, a big ol' bowl of mac and cheese for breakfast was kinda odd.

"Parker," I said, "it's not morning. It's still nighttime. You only took a nap."

"Yes, it is!" he insisted.

This was going to be a tough argument to win. OK, new strategy - carry on like it's morning, get some food in is tummy, and tell him he can sleep a few minutes before school.

"Hey, how about a bowl of oatmeal?"

He looked up at me. "How about a bowl of Mommy?"

That was not on the menu, as Mommy was at the store. He stuck to his guns, insisted a bowl of Mommy would make it all better. I assured myself he was speaking metaphorically.

When Mommy got home, it was as if she had returned from a four-year voyage. He was in bed soon (even having downed a bowl of oatmeal).

But two very important lessons were learned: (1) Sometimes it takes a bowl of Mommy to make things better, and (2) just let 'em keep sleeping on the floor.

Farewell, oatmeal

2011-01-12T08:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Quaker Oats,

It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I have decided to see other oatmeal.

No, no, don't cry. Stop. Listen to me.

We have been together for a long time, some 30 years, by my count.

I remember when I was little, and you came into my life. My mom would often make us regular oatmeal. Like most children, we would try and hurry through the regular oatmeal because, let's be honest - that container made an awesome drum.

But there were times when a quicker path to a nice warm breakfast was needed, and that is where you came into play, with your delicious Instant Oatmeal. (It was not instant, as you well know, as you still had to heat water, put it in a bowl, etc. But I suppose your marketing crews decided Really Quick Oatmeal or It Will Be Ready Before the Toast Oatmeal didn't have the same zing.)

As a child, I normally had three packets of your delicious maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal. Oftentimes, my mother would buy the variety pack. I would sometimes suffer through the cinnamon and spice or apples and cinnamon. Some mornings, I would pick up the box to see the only thing left in there were a couple of the regular packets. And there they would stay, as no one in the history of mankind has eaten the regular packets of oatmeal from the Variety Pack. They are like those packets of silica that comes in an electronics box.

But for the most part, I stuck with maple and brown sugar. You were my comfort food. Most mornings growing up, that was my breakfast. I took you to college with me. You came with me to my first apartment after college. I even passed my love of you onto my children. Yes, for three decades we started most every morning together, even though I have since throttled back to a mere two packs each morning.

Quaker, I would love to say the old cliche of "It's not you, it's me." But I gotta be honest with you here - it's you. You changed.

It started a year ago or so, when I served up my morning ritual bowl of oatmeal. I took a bite and immediately noticed it tasted different from my normal bowl. I went to check the box to make sure I had not inadvertently served up those silica packets.

Turns out, Quaker, you got yourself on a little health kick and are now producing a maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal with 50 percent less sugar. Hey, good for you for offering healthy alternatives, but I gotta tell you, to me - it was 50 percent less enjoyable.

But you still had the old standby instant oatmeal, so we could stay together, even if you did package the midlife crisis oatmeal in a box remarkably similar to my usual offering.

And then, Quaker, you have become someone I didn't even know any more. One morning, I took a bite of ... something different. On your website, you boast that you've added "bigger oats for a heartier texture." You even tell us, "We're making our oatmeal better, starting with some of your favorite flavors, so you can be amazing."

You know what was amazing? Thirty years of eating the same breakfast and looking forward to it every day. If I will consume around 10,000 bowls of something, here's a thought - maybe it doesn't need to be better. Maybe it was already pretty darn good.

But, alas, you have decided to turn yourself into something different. And so I must move on. I have tried a few other oatmeals, and none have quite hit the bullseye like you did for so many years. I will keep searching and maybe find a new morning staple.

It is sad to close this chapter in our life, as you were a good and faithful oatmeal. I hate to see you go. But you do what you have to do.

Love,

Mike

P.S. If you have a few dozen crates of the old stuff lying around, I'll take them off your hands.

Come fly with me

2010-12-10T07:57:00.001-08:00

I can only imagine the expression on my wife's face.

Here was the phone conversation:

ME: So Bill's flying into town and he's gonna take the kids and me up his plane!

HER: (Silence, and probably a not-so-nice look on her face.)

My godfather came into town recently, and he traveled the way he prefers - in his Grumman Tiger four-seat prop plane. He was going to fly into Aiken and let us ride with him to Augusta, where he would leave his plane. It made perfect sense to me. My wife? Not so much.

I explained to her that Bill was a seasoned pilot.

She knew that.

I explained to her that Bill and my father had flown to Alabama just a few weeks ago.

She knew that.

I explained to her that nothing would happen.

She told me I didn't know that.

Eventually, we came to this agreement: We would fly, and we would duly note that my wife thought I had the judgment of a peanut.

News flash: Peanuts have awesome judgment, as evidenced by the fact that I am safely on the ground writing this column.

When we arrived at the airport, my son was really excited about flying. My daughter told me that she was still considering her options.

Translation: Time to overcome some fear.

Eventually, my daughter braved up and decided she would fly. (Oh, and my sister told her she would take her shopping if she flew.)

Inside the plane, it was close quarters. We all had headsets on, so we could communicate with each other during the flight. Just before we took off, I reminded the kids that every time they spoke, their microphones came on, so some conversations were not necessary, such as:

ALLIE: Hey, Parker?

PARKER: Yeah?

ALLIE: My headset comes on when I talk!

PARKER: Mine, too!

ALLIE: Let's see if it does it again.

PARKER: Yeah.

ME: STOP IT!

We left the Aiken airport and banked over the city. Once I got my bearings in the sky, I started trying to identify various landmarks. The first one we were able to identify was the Aiken Standard, which I was able to locate by first finding Aiken High's stadium. The kids said they saw it, but I think they may have just been saying that to be nice. I also found our house and the mall, which the kids also pretended to see.

The flight itself was smooth as could be. We flew at about 2,500 feet, traveling around 125 mph. Every so often, I'd look back at the kids and see their noses to the window, trying to identify various things on the ground. Parker at one point said he saw a plot of land that looked like the Millennium Falcon. Bill caught only the last part and said, "You just saw the Millennium Falcon?" We all agreed that would have been really cool.

Before we knew it we were making our descent to Augusta. The kids loved the flight and never showed an ounce of fear in the plane. When we landed, I remarked to them that we were going to now do the most dangerous thing we would do all day: drive home.

Despite my wife's initial hesitation, she concedes that she is glad that we went. The kids had a memorable experience on their afternoon adventure. I can't imagine what her expression will be when I ask her about skydiving.

Light it up

2010-12-02T06:12:00.001-08:00

And the Christmas decorations are up.

I may actually have set a record for getting the lights up this year. For years, I have tried to make it so that shortly after Thanksgiving - boom - Clark Griswold-approved lighting.

My goal for our Christmas lights is to make our house look like a gingerbread house. I am pleased to report we are slowly closing in on that goal. We have a heaping helping of colored lights decorating our house, and my neighbors may, in fact, be embarrassed by me. And possibly need sunglasses at night.

The kids enjoy helping put up the lights - and certainly enjoy seeing the house all bright and colorful. Of course, their favorite part is actually getting the lights out of the attic. For some reason, climbing in the attic is one of the most awesome things for a kid. It's this unreachable trap door of mystery into the ceiling, and the chance to go up and explore is always exciting. Plus, there is the added element of danger when your mother repeatedly warns you that one misstep and you will come crashing through the ceiling.

Our light collection has grown over the years, as we try and pick up a few here and there after the holiday season. Go to any store after Christmas and wander into what is left of their Christmas wares. Oftentimes, a clerk will approach you and say, "Sir, I will give you $5 to take these net lights. Please. Get them out of here. I have been staring at them since August."

So, over time, we have built up enough lights to cover the bushes by our front door as well as the azaleas that stretch across the front of our yard. We have also started adding strands of lights along the roof line. While I hope to continue to pile lights around the yard, I will say that I have gone as high up as I plan to go. We have a two-story house, and I did put rope lights along the top roof line a few years back. And then my neighbor convinced me that I should never do that again. He did that by falling off his ladder and breaking his ankle. I was across the street watching when that happened, and before he had hit the ground, I said, "Hmm. I don't think I am going to hang lights up high anymore." I am sure he would have preferred my thought to have been, "Hmm. I should probably get help."

While we have grown our light stash, we have yet to start adding those great big inflatables, much to my children's disappointment. One house in our neighborhood has an estimated 43,000 of them. Every time we pass it, my children point out that they, clearly, love Christmas more than we do. Personally, I'd like to get some of those lighted candy canes to line the driveway, because it adds an element of gaudy that goes well with our current motif, but the inflatables would be nice, too.

So being done with the bulk of our outdoor decorating this early gives us plenty of time to enjoy our bright and flashy display of Christmas awesomeness. It helps you get into the Christmas mood to see all the bright colors and vibrant appeal. And even when Christmas is over, we can look forward to the next year. Maybe the stores will pay me to take some inflatables off their hands.

Talking turkey

2010-11-17T19:09:00.000-08:00

Today, I am turning over my column to some other writers - in particular, some of the great kids where my wife is a preschool teacher. They have taken on the annual tradition of writing down their recipes for the perfect Thanksgiving turkey. Each year, I stand in the halls laughing out loud at the wonderfully creative musings from some of our littlest chefs, thinking, "I really should use these in a column." So, to that end, out of the mouths (and Crayons) of babes...

How to make a Thanksgiving turkey:

1. Put pancakes and ring pops on top.

2. Spin the spoon around the turkey like my mom does.

3. Cook for three days.

-- Aaron

1. Stir the turkey up with blue cake, hot dogs, cheese and mustard.

2. Put it on the grill for 9 minutes.

-- Christian

1. Put it in a pan.

2. Put hamburger and cheese with mustard and ketchup.

3. Put it in the oven 30 minutes, then the grill for 30 minutes, then the microwave for 30 minutes.

4. Cut it in half.

-- Caleb

1. Put strawberries, bananas, macaroni and cheese, bbq chicken and cereal on top.

2. Put it in a pan.

3. Then put it outside where it is hot for 1 day.

-- Rylee

1. Put turkey in the oven.

2. Cook for one minute.

3. Cut up the turkey.

-- Maddie

1. Put chocolate M&Ms on top of the turkey.

2. Put it in a pot on the stove for 40 minutes.

3. Put it on a plate.

-- Lincoln

1. Put turkey on the grill for three minutes.

2. Sprinkle it with salt and pepper.

3. Put it on a plate.

-- Nicholas

1. Put cheese and apple sauce on top of turkey.

2. Put it in a pot of top of the stove.

3. Cook it for two minutes.

4. Set it on your plate.

5. Wash your hands.

-- Tori

1. Put carrots, beans and apples on top.

2. Stir it up.

3. Put it in the oven for five minutes.

-- Syan

1. Put chicken and sprinkled donuts on top of the turkey.

2. Put it in the microwave for five days.

3. Put it on a plate.

-- Nicholas

1. Put bananas on the turkey.

2. Put a chicken in the pan with the turkey.

3. Cook in the oven for five minutes.

4. Put cauliflower on the turkey.

5. Eat your turkey with donuts.

-- Jonas

1. Cover the turkey with salt.

2. Fry the turkey with fish, okra and corn

-- Danny

1. You put a spider on the turkey.

2. Take the turkey outside.

3. Color the turkey with crayons.

4. Bring the turkey inside and put it in the oven.

5. Cook for five hours.

6. Have a party with your turkey.

-- Haley

1. Make the oven hot.

2. Put sauce on the turkey.

3. Put a ham in the pan with the turkey.

4. Cook the turkey for 40 minutes.

5. Take turkey out and put bird sauce on it.

-- Luke

1. Put marshmallows on the turkey.

2. Put the turkey in the oven.

3. Cook the turkey for one minute.

4. Cover the sides of the turkey with chocolate candy.

-- Brendan

So there you go. Next week, when you're prepping for your Thanksgiving feast, use any of these recipes for a meal that is guaranteed to be memorable by everyone at the table.

Christmas list time

2010-11-11T12:10:00.001-08:00

So we have made our annual journey to the stores with the kids so that they can make their Christmas lists.

We do this every year, full well knowing that the kids' lists usually can be summed up by "one, maybe two, of everything." Eventually, we whittle some of that down to a list that would easily keep Santa's elves in overtime but is at least a starting point.

Another bonus of the annual trips: it turns into a nostalgic walk for my wife and me, as we take turns reminiscing about toys from our youth. (This year, I was pleased to be able to blurt out, "Barrel of Monkeys! Jenn - Barrel of Monkeys!")

It's usually a fun couple of hours to spend. Granted, the event itself is usually about four hours. But a couple of them are fun. I am sure the rest of the family would enjoy the entire time if I did not run out of shopping gas after hour two.

To make the lists, we hit the various hot spots. And "hot spot" is defined as "having toys." "Super hot spot" is defined as "having toys and Icees."

At one point, we were strolling through our journey when Parker and I had this conversation:

ME: So, if Santa were to put a gift card in your stocking, what store would you want it to be from?

PARKER: Hmmm...

ME: Any store, Parker. You name it...

PARKER: I guess a $300 gift card from Target.

Clearly, Parker believes Santa is firmly in the black this year.

ME: Parker, Santa isn't going to give you a $300 gift card.

PARKER: Fine. $200.

ME: I think we need to have a talk about money.

The big highlight of the trip for me came when we made our way to the Star Wars section. The brilliant marketing geniuses behind Star Wars toys have hit upon absolute gold. They have reintroduced a lot of the toys from when I was a kid, as sort of retro toys. So, as Parker is cruising through "Star Wars: Clone Wars" toys, I am showing my true geekiness by calling to my wife, "LUKE SKYWALKER IN BESPIN FATIGUES! HONEY! LUKE SKYWALKER! IN HIS BESPIN FATIGUES!"

By that point, my wife is about four aisles away, as she is trying to distance herself from me. Her 7-year-old screaming, "BOBA FETT HELMET!" Kinda cute. Her 38-year-old husband? Yeah, not as cute.

The brilliance of the marketing is in its simplicity. A host of 30-somethings grew up playing with these toys and, even as we have grown older, many of us still have a fondness for our Star Wars youth. Now we have kids and get to live vicariously through them. I, for one, am having my direct deposit changed so that part of my paycheck just goes directly to George Lucas. Let's just be honest about how this is going to play out and cut out the middle man.

Eventually, we managed to complete both the kids' lists, and I am pleased to see that both of my children have very expensive and comprehensive tastes. I haven't given it to her yet, but I hope to slip my list to my wife soon. What do you think the chances are I get a Barrel of Monkeys? I can play with them while I wear my Boba Fett helmet.

High hives

2010-11-04T19:23:00.002-07:00

If you find it enjoyable to have pain, discomfort, and a fairly certain belief that you have only days to live, I highly recommend hives.

I was fortunate enough to experience this, and most everyone I have come across who has shared the experience has the same reaction: shrieking back in horror and saying, "Oh, man..."

It started a few weeks ago. I was working in the yard, and the ring finger on my left knuckle began stinging and swelling up like crazy. I thought I had had a run-in with a wasp or ant, and chalked it up to battle wounds of a yard work warrior.

And then the next week, I was out with the family at an event and the same thing happened. I was barely able to get my wedding ring off as the finger swelled at the knuckle. Two Saturdays in a row, two animals bites, I concluded.

And then the next Saturday came along, and the same thing started happening, this time on a different finger. Pretty sure I was not just getting bitten every Saturday. Clearly, I was allergic to Saturdays with my family.

And then came Sunday morning. When I stepped out of bed, I noticed things felt a little weird, as the arches of my feet were touching the ground, whereas my toes and heels were, well, not. I don't know how your arches work, but mine normally work as, well, arches.

I also noticed that my sides had been essentially clawed apart during my sleep, where sleeping me decided to conquer the itching I was experiencing by peeling my skin off.

I weathered that day the best I could, with my most commonly uttered phrase being, "Yes, I will go to the doctor tomorrow." My wife is one of these types of people who believes medical issues should be addressed by competent medical professionals who have training and education. I agree that is a good alternative approach when my choice of medical care does not work. That choice, of course, is to pretend nothing is wrong and hope everything goes away on its own. The hardest part of this, of course, is keeping from my wife that something is wrong. And when you are walking around the house on the sides of your feet and constantly clawing at your side like a chimp that rolled in poison ivy, it's kinda tough to keep that under wraps.

My wife is very good at pre-diagnosis, and, along with the help of Dr. Google, had surmised that I had hives. When I had consulted with Dr. Google, I diagnosed myself with monkey pox, typhus, swimmer's ear and feline leukemia.

So I went to my dermatologist the next day, and she said that I did, in fact, have hives. (Although come to think of it, she never specifically ruled out swimmer's ear or feline leukemia.) She gave me some medicine that came with a warning that it may make me drowsy.

Hey, here's a fun fact: "May cause drowsiness" = "Mike's about to be in a coma!"

I slept for longer than I have slept in probably 20 years, and was pleased to wake up the next morning and have normal shaped feet. I also do not feel a need to ask people if they could locate a large metal garden rake with which to take off my skin.

Apparently, the cause of hives is often never determined. I haven't had changes in diet, chemicals I'm around, etc. It may just be one of these fluke things that happens. Hopefully, I can treat it and put it all behind me. Of course, if it continues to be a problem, we still haven't ruled out monkey pox.

Tree house security

2010-11-04T19:23:00.001-07:00

It's like getting top secret clearance.

You don't just let someone waltz into the Pentagon or Fort Knox. You have strict guidelines on who can enter. You check their credentials. You check their background. And you certainly check their stick sharpening skills.

Yes, of all the secure areas that exist on this planet, there is not one domain that requires more scrutiny of those seeking access than ... a tree house.

One of my kids' friends is building a tree house, and only a select few can gain entry. I say that he is building the tree house, but it is actually his father, who is constructing a shelter that will be, let's just say, sturdy. Based on the gigantic posts of the infrastructure, I suggested to him that, should a tornado get near his house, he and his family might want to seek shelter in the tree house.

It's my parents' neighbor. I am fortunate to live near my folks and have the added bonus of having neighborhood kids around, just like when I was a kid. Seeing kids crawling over the fence to play with my kids in the same yard I did the exact same thing 30 years ago? Kinda awesome.

So Brian's tree house is under construction, and he told my kids that there will only be a select few allowed in the tree house, which, let's all be honest, is good tree house security management. And so, Brian created a survey that every potential tree house visitor must complete. Here is the survey. Go ahead, take it. See if you would be granted clearance.

QUESTION 1: Are you my friend?

A sensible question. No one wants non-friends bringing the tree house down.

QUESTION 2: Do you like to carve?

Apparently, there will be woodworking in the tree house.

QUESTION 3: Do you promise not to tell Brandon secrets?

Ah, a very important question, as Brandon is the older brother. Loyalty first.

QUESTION 4: Will you help me build my fort and put traps in?

A potential trick question. The easy answer is, "Sure, I'll help you build it." But don't gloss over the second part. Anyone who has ever had a tree house knows traps to keep out the unworthy is one of the most important parts of a tree house defense.

QUESTION 5: Not so much a question. It reads: You will keep secrets if you want to be a member.

Methinks just a reminder on your answer in Question 3.

QUESTION 6: Are you my friend and would you help me build a tree house?

A repeat question, you say? WRONG! Checking to make sure you were honest and consistent on Questions 1 and 4. Your guard was thrown off without the part about traps.

QUESTION 7: Will you sharpen sticks with me?

Probably part of the traps. Or catching tigers.

QUESTION 8: Can you lift 20 pounds?

My guess is this involves potential future candidates for the tree house, kind of a tree house fraternity rush.

QUESTION 9: Are you my friend, and do you live close to me?

Just checking once more to see if you are, in fact, a friend. And proximity matters. (We have an inquiry into the Grandma's House Waiver.)

QUESTION 10: Do you take vacations often?

Tree house security does not take breaks.

QUESTION 11: Are you allowed to hold knives at home?

If you say you will carve and make sharp sticks, and then answer no to this one, consider yourself busted as a fraud.

QUESTION 12: Do you know how to build tables?

With any good tree house, there will be a central meeting place where the great tree house minds can get together, round table style, and discuss issues such as sharp sticks and traps.

I think this is a good and solid security questionnaire for one of the most serious things a kid can protect. If you can't have solid allies in your tree house, what is the point of having it? I look forward to the tree house becoming a reality, and my kids spending lots of fun time in it. Assuming they get clearance.

You'll shoot your eye out...

2010-10-20T06:36:00.001-07:00

I know folks like to complain about how Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier each year. Well, for me, Christmas often starts in October, as for the third time in five years, I'll be stepping back on stage for the Christmas production at Aiken Community Playhouse.

This year, I will be taking on the role of The Old Man in "A Christmas Story." Yes, that Christmas story - you'll shoot your eye out.

This is a great play, as it is true to the movie. For those of you are not familiar with the movie, let me be the first to say, congratulations on your emergence from the center of the earth. I mean this with no disrespect, but out of sheer amazement. Every year, TBS shows the movie for 24 hours straight. To travel through the world and not at least hear someone say, "You'll shoot your eye out," is virtually impossible.

But to those who have managed to avoid it, the story tells of Ralphie Parker, a 9-year-old in Indiana, circa 1938. His Christmas quest: acquiring a BB gun, in particular a "legendary official Red Ryder 200-shot carbine action range model air rifle."

While I can only hope to channel my best Darren McGavin while on stage, my real joy from this play is being on stage with one of my kids. I have been on stage with just my daughter (in 2007) in "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever," and on stage with both Allie and Parker last year for "It's A Wonderful Life: The Musical." And this year Parker and I take the turn, with him in the role of the little brother, Randy. (Oh, and remember his stage last name? Parker. So he is Parker Parker.)

In "Best Christmas," I played the role of the dad. In "Wonderful Life," I played the Mayor, who I can only assume was also a dad. And now I play ... a dad. Nice to know if I ever needed to throw together an acting resume, it would be brief: "Dad in Christmas show, just pick a year."

The rehearsals have been a blast. We have a small cast, both in number and in height. Much of the cast would not be able to ride roller coasters. That makes for fun evenings at the Playhouse, as my behavior can simply blend in with the other kids. (I am not so sure our director agrees completely with that sentiment.)

As with previous plays, the cast is getting to know each other and starting to feed off of each other's lines. With a script as funny as this, we certainly have our share of outtakes. And an occasional ad-lib keeps the rehearsals fun and light, and time flies by.

Parker has had a lot of fun playing his part. Granted, we have had to tell him to step OUT of character on occasion. One of Parker's recurring lines is, "I gotta go wee-wee." In the context of the play, it is quite funny. In the context of walking up to someone at church or in a store, you are greeted with a variety of responses, from "Um, bathroom's that way..." to "Well, perhaps that's something you should share with your parents." When we have heard him say it, my wife and I are quick to fill in the omitted details of his play part. My concern is the times when we haven't heard it.

We are a little over a month from opening night, which means our rehearsals will get more intense and make for some long nights. But that is really when being in a play starts getting the most exciting, as the adrenaline starts pumping and you get ready to hit the stage in front of a full audience. It's why we do it, and it's the big payoff in the end.

Hopefully, you'll be able to make it to see the show. And, if we cross paths before then, please remember - Parker doesn't have to go. It's just his line in the play...

Daddy-daughter

2010-10-14T10:56:00.001-07:00

The other night, the kids were in bed. I was heading downstairs to check some e-mails, do the dishes, etc., when I heard a call from behind a closed door. "Daddy...".

I opened my daughter's door, and she was in bed, snuggled up under the covers. "Yes, Allie," I said.

"Come here," she said.

I walked to her bed, and she said, "When can we have another daddy-daughter date?"

To which I replied, "Do you want a pony? Because you can have one."

Yes, my little girl is growing up way too fast, but I am trying hard to remind myself that I still have a few fleeting moments where I am still "Daddy."

I have seen those changes coming for a while. Last year, I went on a field trip with my daughter's class. When I saw my daughter, I said the usual refrain I use when I see her: "Hey, Allie-bear!" Normally, that is greeted with a big smile and a hug. In front of a gaggle of classmates? A stern, "Dad! DON'T. CALL. ME. THAT."

Fair enough. Truth be told, I have probably violated one of the daddy-daughter tenets by even mentioning that in a column. My wife has actually shelved a couple of columns that I thought were delightful romps through a young girls' follies. My wife, however, has been an elementary school girl, and said, "Uh, yeah, no."

It was nothing scandalous or horrible. Singing extra loud to a Jonas Brothers YouTube is hardly the stuff of Congressional investigations. It's the same stuff her classmates do, too. But now is the time they are really developing their identity of who they are and, more importantly, how they can identify potentially mockable things in fellow classmates. So best to leave things alone.

I actually can sort of relate. I have three older sisters, so I got to see the evolution of the female creature on quite a personal level. And it's a sight to behold.

So now I sit at a crossroads. My little girl is slowly evolving into, well, not my little girl any more.

Oh, don't get me wrong. She will always be my little girl. When she gets her diploma? My little girl. When I walk her down the aisle? My little girl. It better not be for another two decades, but I can't imagine the feeling of what it will be to hold my little girl's child.

But let's not get too far ahead. Here's what I have in front of me: That rare dual-purpose window of parental functionality. Behind closed doors, I can be Daddy, the one who can still get a charge out of his daughter with the world's greatest game, Bumrush!, which involves me coming into a room where the kids are sitting and doing a flying tackle onto the couch while screaming, "BUMRUSH!" while the laughter fills the room.

And I can be the one in public who pretends, to her friends, that I have no clue about the game Bumrush!, as that is far better for her social endeavors. The fact that I have entered the point in time where the phrase "Dad, you're embarrassing me!" is kind of reassuring.

So to that end, I vow this to my daughter:

-- I will not intentionally embarrass you in front of your friends, unless it is absolutely necessary;

-- I will not call you Allie-bear in front of your classmates;

-- I will not share stories with your friends about when you were little, but can make no promises about them finding columns I wrote years ago about you;

-- I will not mention you in columns without prior approval from your mother. After this one.

Now, about that daddy-daugher date....

Texting while clerking

2010-09-08T10:46:00.001-07:00

So I went into a drug store the other day to purchase some sundries.
No one was at the register, so I looked around to find a clerk. She was in the aisle, stocking shelves. Having worked in a drug store in high school, I am well versed in what you do when you have down time: Front the shelves. Fronting the shelves means you make sure all of the products are pulled to the very front. I gave a pass to the clerk, as I’ve been there in that exciting endeavor.
I gave a friendly wave and said that I needed to check out. She looked up and told me that she was on her way. Customer service in charge!
Yeah, not so much.
I stood at the register for a good 30 seconds, and she didn’t come. I took a few steps over and looked down the aisle. And there she was: Texting away.
“Yeah, hi, uh, I’m ready to check out...” I said.
While my mouth said that, my brain was screaming, “Are you serious!?!?!?! I am trying to pay money to you – money that pays your paycheck – and you have to text one of your friends with some thought that I am just guessing will never end up in ‘Bartlett’s’!?!?!?!?”
She eventually made her way to the counter. She rang up my purchase, and I went to pay. But I had to wait a second. Can you guess what I had to wait for? Was she administering CPR to a fallen co-worker? Was she thwarting a robbery? Was she saving a wounded dog from limping into traffic?
I think we all know she was texting. Again.
As I was heading out of the store, I took my receipt and glanced at the top. Store phone number – right there. I am not the kind of person who nickels and dimes store managers about things, but for some reason this really chapped my hide. I sat in my car and called the number. A guy answered, and I asked to speak to a manager. He informed me he was the manager. I told him that I am not the complaining type. I told him that I am not the kind of person to punish a store for the actions of one employee. And I told him that I was fuming hot about being delayed by a clerk who was texting. He listened patiently.
And then he told me that (a) he was sorry and (b) he had already spoken to the employee about texting on the job, and she would not be doing that again.
Apparently, he had observed the whole thing play out. He did three things perfect: He addressed the issue with his employee. He apologized to an upset customer. And, most importantly, in my book, he didn’t publicly dress down an employee.
I know that our inner bloodlust would have liked for him to storm the aisle, vocally rip the employee, and send a message to the whole store who was boss. But he didn’t. And he shouldn’t have. Plus one to him for the way he handled it.
But the crux of the issue – what in the world possesses people to make them think that, while on the job, they should text away? Probably the same thing that makes people think they can text and drive. And I have the solution. These days, phones are quite clever creatures. (My iPhone? This morning it made my coffee, got the kids ready for school and told me my socks were mismatched.) Surely we can figure out a way for your phone to realize when you are being a complete and total dolt when it comes to texting. And, if your super smart phone realizes you are texting while you are ignoring a customer or driving a car, you are automatically billed a surcharge, something in the neighborhood of $20 million. In lieu of paying the charge, you also have the option of eating your phone.
It’s just a simple courtesy that seems straightforward enough. Granted, people still smack gum, so some things I guess will never go out of style.

Ear ye, ear ye

2010-08-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

I see no reason to poke a couple of holes in perfectly good flesh.

My daughter, and apparently the rest of the planet, disagrees.

She just turned 10, and she decided she really, really, really, really - no really - wanted her ears pierced. I have been against this since day one, as I am a father, and it should be in my nature to be against anyone poking holes in my children.

My wife and I had discussed the ear piercing timeline on numerous occasions. My wife said she was comfortable somewhere around 10ish. I said I was comfortable some time around when the earth crashed into the sun. Don't get me wrong: I'm not anti-piercing. I'm just anti-piercing when it comes to my daughter.

So on her 10th birthday, we had this conversation:

ALLIE: Daddy, I'm going to do something today that is going to make you mad.

ME: You're going to cheer for Auburn?

ALLIE: Daddy, I'm getting my ears pierced today.

ME: Roll Tide. And no.

She stared at me for a second, contemplating whether to go with sad-daddy's-little-girl eyes or foot-stomping abject defiance. She went with the prior. "It's up to your mother," I said.

A short while later, we were in Claire's, which is the single greatest store in the history of 10-year-old-kind. If they were to make a Claire's equivalent for me, it would be called The Bama Football, Bacon, Beer and Baywatch Store.

Despite her resoluteness in wanting her ears pierced, she showed some signs of nervousness. And by signs of nervousness, I mean she said, "OK, I don't want my ears pierced." Then a split second later, "OK, I do." I, of course, helped by saying things such as, "They should be done heating up the rusty pen they use to poke your ear."

Ha! Of course I didn't say that. I would never have done that. My wife was in earshot.

Allie climbed into the chair, and the woman came over to prep her ears. She had picked out a lovely little set of earrings in her birthstone, which is whatever August's birthstone is. The woman cleaned Allie's ears with a little alcohol wipe, and then marked each ear with a purple dot.

"It's to help her aim when she gets a running start," I assured Allie.

The woman then took a little white gunlike thing and told Allie that she just had to check one more thing on her ear and to hold still while she just looked and CLICK!

Allie had a startled look. "Wait, what..."

The woman said, "Hang on..."

Other ear. CLICK!

"Wait, did you... Ow!!!"

And, just like that, ears were pierced. Allie looked at the woman, who handed her a mirror. "See?" she said. And there they were - pierced ears. She said it hurt a little bit, but the look on her face when she stared at her earrings showed that it was worth it.

She is now taking part in a detailed ear care regimen that involves cleaning and turning the earrings and commenting every 11 minutes that her ears are pierced. She also has found out that, when you have newly pierced ears that you are very proud of, your little brother will repeatedly say, "Allie, your earrings fell out." And every time she takes the bait.

So despite my reluctance to let her get her ears pierced, it makes me happy to see how happy it makes her. She is so proud of them, and it does make her feel quite grown up. In hindsight, I'm glad she got them pierced. And, as I look forward, I think I'm good with additional piercings. As soon as the earth crashes into the sun.

Big Ten

2010-08-04T07:44:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, 9-11 was just the number you called in an emergency.

Ten years ago, there had only been one Bush presidency.

Ten years ago, Mel Gibson was everyone's favorite, fun-loving, good-guy actor starring in "What Women Want."

And 10 years ago, I became a father.

Wow, what a difference a decade makes.

Allison Nicole came into this world on Aug. 6, shortly after 2 in the morning. She entered the world in a manner which would be consistent with how she would carry herself in life: late.

She was supposed to be here in July. My wife went to the hospital to be induced and 24 hours later, no baby. This was not how it was supposed to work, my wife said in a tone that cannot, by any objective standard, be considered nice. We were sent home to wait. And wait. And find excuses to go to the store, lest I be reminded whose fault this was and how it was hot and how AN INDUCTION MEANS A BABY COMES OUT OF YOU!!!

But eventually she made her debut, and we even have a picture that I would certainly consider a rarity: A baby 20 minutes old, her parents, and all six of her grandparents.

As for this birthday, there is some debate in our house if Aug. 6 is the actual start of double digits. If you asked her, she has been 10 for several months. I noticed this a while back when someone asked her age.

ALLIE: I'm 10.

ME: No, you're not.

ALLIE: I am, too, practically...

And then she did a little hair flip for emphasis.

Yes, my little girl is quickly steamrolling toward teenager. And, as someone who has three older sisters and got to witness all three of them as teens, I say to you: Help me.

Ha, I kid. Of course I look forward to my daughter's continuing maturation and growing independence. Why, I can practically feel the celebration bubbling inside of me just thinking about her dating and driving and going to college and, that does it, she gets locked in her room.

OK, deep breaths. Still a ways off from that. Let's just focus on being 10 for now. I know I have a lot to look forward to, as she still somewhat likes being around me. Granted, she has developed the "Dad, you're embarrassing me" look when we're in public. It's that look where she purses her lips, wrinkles her brow, tilts her head and, through clenched teeth, mouths "DAD!" Just one example of when I have seen the face: When I used the cute little nickname I have called her all of her life - Alliebear - on a school field trip.

I also have to be cautious about what I write in my columns. My daughter on occasion will read my column (hey, somebody has to), and I will see her slowly lower the paper. "Daaaaa-aaaaaad," she will say in a low tone. "Why did you write that?"

So I try to be sensitive to the concerns of a tween. I don't want to make her unnecessarily embarrassed. Granted, there is necessary embarrassment, which will include such gems as me singing to a Hannah Montana song when her friends are in the car or suggesting that I will show up to the next school dance to put on a break dancing demonstration. Always nice to be offering these suggestions and glance in the rearview mirror to see the head tilt, the teeth clench...

And while a decade is under the belt, I always look at my kids' birthdays not with longing for the past or lamenting the stages that are behind us. Rather, I see each birthday as another step to an important life stage. There are so many wonderful moments awaiting her in life, and I want to be there to share them, to congratulate her, to cheer her on, or just to have her know that I'm there. And, because this is life, there are bad times coming. I certainly hope they are few and far between, but I want to be there to console her, to cheer her up, to stand strong for her and beside her, and just to have her know that I'm there. She's only 10 now, but she's still my little girl. And she'll always be my Alliebear. Just don't tell her I told you...

Gardening shmardening...

2010-07-27T19:43:00.001-07:00

Back in April, I shared with you the story of the garden the kids and I made.

I shared with you then how previous attempts at gardens had resulted in the exact opposite of a garden, as gardens have fruits and vegetables and living things in them.

But this garden was to be different. It would thrive because:

1. We were doing a raised bed, because everyone knows that elevating your soil four inches off the ground makes for scrumptious food.

2. I added garden timbers, because everyone knows surrounding your elevated soil with wood makes food more healthy.

3. I planted a diverse selection - broccoli, watermelon, green beans and cucumbers - because diversity is key to any garden, as any farmer will tell you. If you ask him to tell you that.

Well, here we are, in the heart of the harvest season, while vegetable gardens are churning out baskets full of bounty from the soil. And in my basket you will find...

...wait. Before we get to that, let me remind you that it is has been very hot. And we were gone for a week back in June. And one of the timbers did fall, and was later co-opted to be part of a fort. And elevated soil is incredibly comfortable if you are an excitable Dachshund looking for a nice, shady napping spot. I'm just saying we need to keep these things in mind.

OK, so we got nothing. If we were frontiersmen, we would have had to become the Donner Party to survive. I mean not squat. The only thing that even remotely hinted at growing were the green beans, which popped out as these pathetic looking little weeds, two of which sprouted these embarrassing little green nubs that looked more like Mike and Ike candies than green beans. They withered away after a few days. Even the squirrels and birds didn't bother to poach them. Upside of my garden - think of all the time, money and effort I save on not having to worry about anything stealing my stuff. No sense putting fences or screens up for something that's not there. As a courtesy, I suppose I could direct the critters to my neighbors' successful gardens, which includes anti-critter investments.

The kids were disappointed in the outcome of the garden. My wife told me that the location was the main reason why, as it was in the back corner of the yard and didn't get watered enough. I explained that I did water it some, but any time that I didn't water it was not the fault of location. I can lug a hose the extra 20 feet. The real problem, as I explained to her, was angering the Gardening Gods, who punished us by withholding nourishments for our crops. I can only assume it was past indiscretions against fruit and vegetable seeds.

So the kids are now looking to the fall harvest. I have explained to them that (a) it's not the best time to plant and (b) we're pretty terrible at it. But they are convinced the next time they plant will be the time the harvest springs forth. Bless their little optimistic hearts...

I am hoping I can distract them from their desire to plant another garden. I think the message has been received. Gardening just isn't my thing. And, hey, I'm not alone. Groceries and produce stands have long existed for those of us without the desire or ability to grow our own food. I think I'll just be content getting my food the traditional way. And I certainly know how I'm getting my fall harvest. And it's not gonna be frontier style...

Stinging situation

2010-07-27T19:42:00.001-07:00

What did we learn this week?

We learned that my car can go far beyond the empty fuel line, with room to spare.

We learned that a miniature space shuttle, if placed in the appropriate place in the hallway, can bring down a grown man in the middle of the night.

But most importantly, we learned to look inside the waders before you put them on.

I learned the latter lesson on a biology field trip over the weekend. We were going to check some traps in a pond, hoping to find some turtles, fish, etc.

There are some waders by the pond, hanging upside down on some pegs in order to keep critters from crawling inside. This is a good idea. Critters cannot, in fact, climb inside. They can, it turns out, fly inside.

I was the one tasked with putting on the waders. Someone remarked that there could be critters inside the waders. Pshaw, I remarked, as the waders are upside down.

I grabbed the first pair, and realized they were hip waders designed to fit the feet of, by my estimate, a newborn. I tried the second pair of hip waders, and realized these were slightly larger, designed to shod a three-year-old.

I turned to the other waders and found a pair that appeared to be my size. These were thigh waders, with a fancy little strap that would hold them securely to your leg.

I kicked off my tennis shoe and stuck my left leg into the wader, sliding my foot into place. And I then set the world record for fastest time ever to remove a wader when I felt an incredible stinging pain in my calf and the bottom of my foot. As I was jumping around and doing a one-legged hop to a nearby bench, everyone was asking me what was wrong. "ACK!" I believe was the reply.

When I got to the bench, I pulled off my sock. I looked down at my calf and saw a small red welt, and then saw a similar one on my foot. Someone picked up the wader, turned it upside down and began shaking it. Out flew one wasp. And then another. And then another. I did not like those wasps.

After the entire wasp family had exited the wader, we turned it over and looked inside. There, about halfway down in absolutely clear sight, was a wasp's nest about the size of my fist. I feel fairly confident that had I looked, I would have seen the nest. Granted, a wasp might have flown out and stung me in my in the face, so perhaps I was better off.

For the rest of the day, my foot and calf were quite sore. They both developed large red spots around them, but they were really never more than an annoyance. Or, as I told my wife, the worst pain anyone has ever suffered. Ever.

The worse of the two stings was definitely the one on the bottom of my foot. If you have an enemy who is in dire need of physical harm, I highly recommend a wasp sting to the arch of the foot. It will send a message. That message: "I hate you. A lot."

I was able to make it through the rest of the field trip, stopping on occasion to lean up against a tree and quietly groan in agony. But that was mainly when my wife was around, just to remind her how bad the pain was.

When we got home, my wife boldly took on the job of looking at my foot - which had been tromping around the swamp on a hot summer day - and examining it. I have no idea if the wasp that stung me is the kind that leaves its stinger in you, but when she poked around for a few minutes with some tweezers, it did suddenly feel better.

So I did learn a valuable lesson, and I will never again think waders are secure just because ground dwelling critters can't get in them. You can have nasty bugs that want to hurt you. Of course, it could be worse. It could have been a miniature space shuttle.

Terminator Mom

2010-07-07T12:36:00.001-07:00

My son learned a valuable lesson this weekend: Don't call your mother's bluff.

This particular bluff: He was acting up in the pool, as his mother sat deckside, fully dressed. "You won't come in the pool," he said. "You've got clothes on."

Wrong call, dude.

The event happened at a recent party we were having. We had some friends and family over, and everyone was having a fine time. Parker was in the pool with some of the other kids as my wife and a friend sat poolside. Parker had a toy that shoots water. Now, we have some standard rules in the pool: No running, no jumping close to the edge, no teaching the cat to swim, etc. Another rule is that you do not splash people who are not in pool attire. This rule grew from my summer ritual of coming home from work and sitting by the pool while the kids swim. It was originally called the "YOU GOT MY CROSSWORD WET!!!" rule, but my wife and I have since expanded it to anyone sitting poolside wearing street clothes.

So Parker thought he would break the rule, and started shooting water at our friend.

"Parker," my wife said, "do not spray her with water."

He got a devilish smile. Water again. "Parker..." The tone was changing.

Splash, again. "Parker, do it again and I will come in there. And you will NOT like it if I come in there."

And then he made the mistake. He called her out. He gave her a "no you won't" line of defiance.

My wife calmly stood up, took her shoes and sunglasses off, and proceeded to the steps of the pool. And down she went. She marched into the pool and went across the shallow end. Parker stood frozen. She approached him, took the water cannon, and proceed to fling it out of the pool. She then marched out of the pool, as Parker began to melt into a combination of fear, sorrow and a smidge of awe. As one partygoer described it: "He was so freaked out that the Terminator Mom wasn't thwarted by the pool as a barrier."

My wife emerged from the pool, dripping wet, casually grabbed a beach towel from the fence, and calmly strolled toward the house. As she walked in, she looked over at me. "Deal with him." And in she went.

I went to the edge of the pool. "Come. Here. Now."

He was there quickly. His lip was quivering, and we was about to start crying. "What is going on?" I asked.

"Am I grounded?"

"What?" I asked.

"Mom said I was grounded. Is it true?"

The look in his eyes told me this - he had no clue what grounded meant. But he was awfully scared of it.

I told him he needed to get out of the pool, go upstairs and apologize to his mother. "I'm not going to get to go swimming again, am I?" he said. Tears were welling up, and he was pretty much painting a scenario that was about 10 times worse than worse case.

"Just get out of the pool," I said.

He went and sat in a chair, his towel wrapped around him, his lips quivering, and looking to the ground. "Parker," I said, "you need to go inside and talk to your mother." He looked at me with one of the best looks a child looking to get out of trouble has ever given.

Shortly thereafter, he decided to head inside, and had even decided on his own sentence. When we got upstairs, he gave a tearful apology, and he offered up a self-imposed swimming ban. In his apology, it became clear that the splashing in the pool was meant as a fun little game. And he now realizes that when Mom says "Game over," it's game over.

After his exile was concluded, he was a bit of a momma's boy for the rest of the evening, trying to curry favor with the woman he had wronged. It was no harm in the long run, and he learned the most important lesson of all. Mom can swim. And she'll come after you...

Talk talk talk talk talk talk

2010-06-30T06:44:00.000-07:00

So my nephew, Samuel, was in town the other day, and he clearly had a severe case of what specialists call Chatterboxitus.

Chatterboxing is a serious medical condition that afflicts small children and causes them to talk. Constantly. Without stopping for breaths. Its only known cure is leaving the patient with grandparents while the parents go out for dinner. And probably drinks.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel obliged to confess this: Both of my children are recovering chatterboxes.

For those of you not familiar with small children, here is a simple test to determine if a child is chatterboxing: Did he or she wake up around 4 in the morning and talk nonstop for the next 12 hours?

It is quite an amazing stream of consciousness. When we arrived at the house on Saturday morning, I saw Samuel standing in the middle of the den. He was dancing. And singing. And attempting to juggle. And talking to the cat. And having a conversation with the "Astroboy" movie that was on TV.

I looked over at my sister, who sighed. Parents of chatterboxes do that a lot. We sigh. Because we have tried EVERYTHING. And it only leads to more chatterboxing. "Why are you breathing like that? I want to breathe like that. It's kind of like a yawn. I like yawns. But not sleeping. My bed has Batman sheets."

My folks had tried a little diversion earlier in the day. They had taken him for a walk that morning, and he offered this commentary: "Is that a tree? Is it a pineapple tree? We could have pineapples. Are there coconut trees? We could get a coconut. Is that a tree? Look there. Another tree." Repeat this type of conversation for about two blocks.

Now, before you go judging Samuel (or, worse, his wonderful uncle), let me clarify that he was doing what most kids do - getting riled up and excited and having a blast. He's not even 3, and add to that mix going to Grandma and Grandpa's, where there are aunts and uncles and cousins and popsicles - LOTS of popsicles. Pretty easy to get on the riled up side. Trust me, I know. As I said, my kids are recovering chatterboxes.

I remember a time when my daughter was about that age. I asked my wife, "Why won't she stop talking?" This was on the last leg of a trip to Atlanta. My son was diagnosed when a friend of ours took him for the day. She called us during a car ride and asked, "Does he ever stop talking?"

The conversations of chatterboxes are truly amazing. Like Samuel's infatuation with trees, they often focus on the current interest of the child, and then spawn into run-on thoughts. Example:

"Do you like pirates? I like pirates. Do they fight vikings? Who would win between a Viking and pirate? Would the loser go to jail? Would it be Viking jail or pirate jail? And can police officers arrest a Viking? How about a pirate? Police officers have big belts. They keep guns on them. Vikings don't have guns. Do they have belts? If a pirate had a belt, could he have a gun?"

My response was usually something like: "AHHHHHH!!!! STOP STOP STOP STOP!!!!!"

Of course, now that my kids have outgrown the chatterbox stage, I find myself not being as bothered by the bouts. For example, when I first saw my nephew going nuts, was my reaction to call for him to stop? To try and find him an outlet? To seek a distraction? Or, possibly, was is it to encourage my dad to get his iPhone, which has a video camera on it, so that he could film that awesomeness of Samuel doing a cat impersonation?

I'm gonna go with the latter.

Let's be honest - chatterboxing is something some kids do when they need to channel some energy and don't quite know how to do it. They'll learn eventually that there are better ways to harness that energy. Such as finding a coconut tree. And a pineapple tree. With a pirate. And a Viking.

DC comical

2010-06-23T13:21:00.000-07:00

So my family and I just spent five days in Washington, D.C. Let's go to the highlight reel:

* I am clueless on what to tip when unless it's a restaurant. When it comes to valet parking (which was required at the hotel we were at), I was glad I listened to my sister's advice: Keep a bunch of $1s and $5s handy. Of course, I showed my true level of unsophistication when, needing a bag out of the van, I told the guy he just needed to show me a way into the garage, not bring the car around.

* If you have ever taken a 7-year-old into an art gallery, you know the most common comment from everyone else in the gallery is, "Why did they bring a 7-year-old into an art gallery?" My wife solved that problem by having our son count the number of animals he found in paintings. Always nice to walk into a quiet room full of masterpieces and hear, "Lion. Peacock. Dog. Dog. Up to 22."

* Speaking of art, my son did offer one piece of art critique. We went into a Mark Rothko exhibit, which featured as series of large black rectangles, on which were painted smaller black rectangles. His comment: "This is considered art?" Now I am sure some of you can give me sheer volumes on why it was, in fact, art. But we didn't stick around to study it. We went on to see dinosaur bones. They were awesome.

* We were amazed by the traffic and pedestrians. Everyone just marched along, waiting for their red/green light or walk/don't walk signal. Clearly, the execution of jaywalkers has sent the desired message.

* At our visit to the National Zoo, we were fortunate to experience not only an octopus feeding, but also a display of the adult female Homo sapiens, and how they can band together against one who has gone against tribe culture. During the set 3 p.m. octopus feeding, a woman with a small child sidled up to the tank and blocked pretty much everyone's view, while holding her child up to the glass. The child alternated between disinterest and sleep. When a woman next to me asked the woman to step back so that others could see, Mrs. Glass Hog responded that she had earned her spot there and would not move. At that point, the females behind her banded together. They began finding as many kids who were blocked out and essentially wedged them in front of her. The woman next to me (no, not my wife) leaned in and whispered something to the woman, and ended with a comment to her about how she was a big baby.

* There are three - THREE - floors to the Air and Space Museum's gift shop. I may actually still be there.

* My wife and I often remark that it does not do much for our appearance of being small town folks when our kids, say, marvel at escalators. They took it a notch higher in D.C. "Daddy, why is that woman in the dress collecting things from the trash can?" Nothing to see here, sweetie. Nothing to see.

* Speaking of being small town folks, my wife is from Atlanta, which is, I am sure you have noticed, NOT a small town. My wife was raised with this mentality of a big city: It is bad and here to kill you. So, when we were heading home one evening and the President's motorcade was leaving a charity event, she was thrilled that we were in, what I believe, was the safest place on the planet. From the guys on the street to the guys on the buildings to the guys in dark SUVs everywhere you looked, we were plenty confident that this big city was under control. We got to see the President's car leave, and, I am fairly certain, saw his silhouette in one of the limos. Of course, he might have also left an hour prior in a 2002 Nissan Maxima that no one paid attention to.

* Lines schmines. We had a White House tour set up for 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning. We arrived about 8:45 a.m., and saw a line that stretched roughly to Baltimore. I approached the guard there, hoping to find out those people were actually in line for a Treasury Department tour or something. "Uh, is this the..." She cut me off. "For the White House tour, yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?" I told her we had a 9 a.m. appointment. "Oh, right here," she said, motioning me to a second line that consisted of a whopping four people. "What is the last line?" I asked. "The 8:30 tour," she said. Note to self: Half-hour tours are for suckers.

* The best meal I ate the whole time: The one the kids were most anticipating: A hot dog on the Mall. Mmm, mmm, patriotism.

* Two of the biggest WOW! moments came at the American History Museum. The look on Parker's face when he saw C-3PO, and the look on Allie's face when she saw Dorothy's ruby slippers. My wife had her WOW! moment seeing Julia Child's kitchen. Did I mention we saw C-3PO? WOW!

It was a great trip, and I know I have only scratched the surface of adventure. It is definitely a town we could visit over and over. I just need to find out where the Presidential motorcade will be so we can be safe.

Ax man

2010-05-27T06:49:00.000-07:00

Is there a more useful tool than an ax?

Answer: No.

A few months ago, I shared with you my tale of deconstructing my children's play fort. Several frustrating minutes into trying to take it down peacefully with a screwdriver, I resorted to the far more satisfying mode of beating it to death with an ax. Thirty minutes, tops. Play fort leveled, any pent-up frustration, anger, etc. - gone.

So fast forward to the other day when my brother-in-law and I were moving a couch out of my house. We are in the midst of a great furniture swap, which means we currently have about twice the amount of furniture we need. I suggested we move out all of the old furniture first. My wife suggested I not suggest.

So what has resulted is several rooms and our garage turning into what look like storage sheds. Furniture is stacked on top of furniture, and on top of that is, say, a bin of winter clothes that will go into storage once the closet is no longer blocked by two mattresses that, I am told, are going somewhere. Some time.

Anywho, one of the biggest pieces we needed to get rid of was a sleeper sofa. I have vague recollections of moving this sofa up into our playroom. It involved me, a neighbor, several words not appropriate for a family newspaper and the repeated line of, "I'M NOT TRYING TO SCRATCH THE WALL!!! BUT WE CAN PAINT IT ... AHHHH ... MY HAND!!!"

So, needless to say, I never was in great love with this couch. Add to the fact that the sleeper part of it was crooked, so if you did make it out into a bed, your feet would be about a foot lower than your head. You always felt like you were just about to start sliding downhill.

FAST FACT 1: Did you know you can store roughly the entire contents of a Toys "R" Us in the compartment up under a sleeper bed?

FAST FACT 2: Did you know sleeper sofas weigh slightly more than most concrete mixing trucks?

My brother-in-law was helping with the moving. He and I are the most effective, efficient moving team ever assembled. We have been involved in several moves, and we have learned a few important things:

1. When you ask us to help you move, please know that "move" and "pack" are two different things.

2. If you are constantly saying, "Sorry ...," you are probably in the way. Please go sit by the truck.

3. Play-by-play and commentary? Yeah, we're good, thanks.

So Keith and I settled in by the couch and began to move it toward the door. It was obvious it was going to be a tight squeeze, so we took the door off the hinges and cleared the best path possible. As we turned and wiggled and twisted and rocked the couch, we got it almost all the way through the door. One arm was still catching, and it was going to take some serious craftiness to work it out.

"Or we could take an ax to it," I said. Keith jokingly said that was probably a good choice.

"Go ahead," I heard my wife say. "I hate that couch." Now THAT'S input I can get behind.

In no time, I was standing in my playroom, taking an ax to the couch. I am fairly certain that is the first and only time I will ever swing an ax at a couch in my house. And it was delightful.

Once I took the side of the couch off, it was amazing how easy it was to get the remains of the couch outside. It was also amazing how stress-free I felt.

That was by far the most difficult part of the furniture swap. We've got most of the furniture at least close to where it will eventually live. Should be just a matter of a few tweaks here and there. I'll keep my ax handy just in case.

Playing possum

2010-05-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

It's just your routine Saturday night: A water line breaks, you can't figure out how to shut the water off and your dog corners a possum.

It all started when I made the mistake of trying to diagnose a home improvement problem using the Internet.

For months, water had been pooling up in the bottom of my refrigerator. I solved this problem by, every few days, lugging in a Shop-Vac and getting all of the water out. I am not sure why, but I decided I would take a few laps on the Google track and see what I could find out about water pooling up in a fridge.

It turns out you can find a lot. There were gobs of home improvement sites with different diagnoses of what was wrong. Time to do some exploratory surgery.

Step one: Move fridge.

Step two: Scream, "JENN!!! THE WATER LINE BROKE!!! HELP!!!"

So the exploration took a side track. The copper pipe coming from the floor and heading into the back of the fridge had broken, and water was spraying straight up, flooding our kitchen and dining room.

My wife made it downstairs in a flash, towels in hand. She asked me if I planned on shutting off the water or just waiting until it all ran out.

I figured there was a shutoff for that particular line but had no clue where. So, I did the sensible thing and ran outside and shut all the water off to the house. I came back inside, pleased as punch at my quick thinking.

"It's still leaking," my wife said. I am still not sure how that is possible.

After about an hour of searching (including a delightful crawl underneath my house), I found the shutoff for this particular line, which was cleverly tucked back behind the garbage disposal so that it was only easy to find and shut off it you had (a) X-ray vision and (b) exceptionally tiny hands.

We were now in full-on cleanup mode.

And then we heard Murphy the Excitable Dachshund going nuts in the backyard. And this was a special kind of nuts, the kind that makes Maggie the Attack Basset slightly lift her head to see what the commotion is about.

I grabbed a flashlight and headed outside. Murphy was in the shed and was going after something like crazy.

I flashed the light and saw the most terrified looking possum trying its level best to, well, not be eaten. I pulled Murphy back and scooped up the possum. I went inside and showed my wife.

"LOOK!" I said with child-like enthusiasm as I held the possum out.

My wife, who was sitting in an inch of water and spreading out towels everywhere, simply said, "Seriously?"

We kept the possum overnight because I knew the kids would want to see it. They were very excited to see the little critter they quickly dubbed Dandelion.

Parker especially became very attached to Dandelion. And my wife finally realized where her life had ended up when she had this conversation:

PARKER: Mom, can I do my homework on the trampoline?

HER: You can't do homework while on a trampoline.

PARKER: I want to sit out there so the possum can do homework with me. And since it's enclosed she can't get out. I promise I won't jump, just sit.

HER: OK, as long as you get your homework done.

Ah, the fairy tale ending she no doubt dreamed of as a young girl...

Alas, I have told the kids that Dandelion will not be able to live with us. I think our collection of two dogs, a cat, two snakes, a tortoise, a fish and two frogs is quite sufficient.

Dandelion is going to be part of an environmental outreach program, where she will hopefully be able to meet lots of kids and maybe even do homework with them.

As for the broken pipe, I did the sensible thing and called someone to fix it. And next time a home improvement project comes up, I need to remember that path.

I should stick to what I'm good at it. Which is apparently finding wildlife at exactly the wrong time.

A message 2 U, txter

2010-05-12T09:35:00.000-07:00

It's not often I yell at my fellow motorists. I don't do this because my wife is from Atlanta, and she has convinced me that every other motorist is armed and has a short fuse and an itchy trigger finger.

I normally take a different approach when someone upsets me while driving. I squeeze the steering wheel as tight as I can and check the rearview mirror to see if my kids are in the backseat, at which point I then select my words for my commentary that makes me feel better but that stays in the car with me.

But not the other day. I had to. I couldn't take it. I rolled down my window and shouted, loudly, "Quit texting. You have a kid in your car!!!"

As I see too often, someone was cruising down the road, two hands happily typing away a message, one no doubt layered in misspellings, typos or idiotic abbreviations about a topic that is one of the most time sensitive and globally important of all time ("Goin 2Nite? Me 2. LOL!!!")

But this woman upped the ante by having a small child strapped in a car seat in the backseat. And it made me mad. So I yelled. And she sped up. I figured she just didn't hear me, so I pulled up and again told her to quit texting. She gave me a look that implied her next text would be about me and what she thought of me.

So, dear ma'am, I say to you this: I don't know you. I don't know if that was your kid or your nephew or what. But I do know that you had one single goal when you were operating that vehicle, and it was not to send some message via cell phone. It was to drive safely. And I am willing to bet you my house that were you not texting someone directions on the next step of a life-saving surgery. And if you were, pull over.

I'm not trying to sound like some old fuddy duddy. I have an iPhone, and it's the single greatest invention I have ever owned (and I own a Chill Wizard, which can make a warm beer ice cold in under a minute - it's THAT awesome).

And my iPhone is a great companion on the road. I actually find myself rooting for red lights, as it gives me a chance to do very important things such as getting on Facebook to see what "Sex and the City" character someone most resembles. And I am plenty versed in texting. And I also know how to drive. And the two can exist separately, and the world continues to exist. Amazing.

The argument is often made that it's distracted driving in general that is a problem, not just texting. But texting is in a unique category. If you're say, eating a hamburger, you're physically occupied. But you can still have your eyes on the road.

If you're texting, your eyes are off the road, your brain is off the road and your hands are off the steering wheel. You are asking to plow into the back of someone or over someone.

I am sure plenty of you out there are going to tell me that you are the exception. You're special. You can text no problem. And to that I say, you're not special, you're not the exception, because unless you have a second set of arms and eyes, when you are texting, you are not even on the map of safe driving.

I remember one time when I saw someone reading a book when he was driving. Pretty much everyone except for that person said, "Wow, bad idea, dude." Yet texting seems to be this driving pastime that's just accepted by some folks. Well, quit accepting it.

I know folks get grumbly when you talk about adding new laws on top of things. But I personally would love to see a texting-while-driving law. And it would read: "If you text and drive, you never get to use your phone or car again. Ever. And if there is a child in the car, it's ever times four."

Seriously, folks - there are enough stop lights in the world to send your inane little comments about pointless things when you're standing still. Text away until your thumbs are falling off. Just do it when you're not rolling down the street. Trust me, your friend can wait a few minutes to find out where you are Goin 2Nite.

The Smartest

2010-04-29T06:45:00.000-07:00

I am sure you never doubted this, but I am the smartest person on the planet. Clearly, no one can be smarter than me, as I know - EVERYTHING.

How do I know this? (I mean other than because I know everything.) Because a 3-year-old said I did.

My sister called me the other day to tell me that my nephew had a question that she could not answer. He said to call me. "Mike knows everything," Nicholas said.

So wise, the children.

His question was regarding Robin of Batman fame. Nicholas wanted to know where he came from. My sister called me not so much to ask the question but, as she said, to give me a little ego boost. But I was not going to leave it as an ego boost. "He was a child acrobat," I said.

My sister laughed and said that I was just making stuff up so that I could keep my title of World's Smartest Human as Decided By Someone Who Wears Spider-Man Shoes. "No, seriously. He was an acrobat."

There was a silence on the other end of the line. My sister then commented that it appeared I did, in fact, know everything, or at least everything important to a 3-year-old.

I became the Sage One several weeks ago when Nicholas asked me this question: "Why did Darth Vader become bad?"

I looked at my sister and brother-in-law, who both shrugged. "We told him to ask you," my sister said.

At that point, I took Nicholas upon my knee and told him a story about bad influences and peer pressure and doing things that are not right but ultimately meaning you cross paths with Boba Fett. Seemed to suffice, and he anointed me as brilliant.

I guess it's just that I am full up on information that's important to kids. Among some of the amazing facts that I keep handy that thus make me an Einstein to the under 4-foot crowd:

* I know the best technique for the most effective double bounce on a trampoline.

* I can submerge something under water and manage to keep it dry using nothing but an ordinary household bucket.

* I know why Transformers are here.

* I can juggle (requires more brains than you think).

* I can spin a basketball on my finger (much like juggling, more of a thinking-man's game than you realize).

* I can quickly and correctly identify Smurfs, droids, Fraggles and most any animal.

* I rule at Wii.

Sadly, though, the ability to detect my brilliance does seem to diminish with age. For example, my daughter, who is 9, now routinely questions things that I say, which as you well know implies that somehow I might not be correct, which, as Nicholas will tell you, is not even in the realm of possibility.

One way I can certainly illustrate that for you: Onion cutting.

You see, my daughter likes to help me cook, and I certainly enjoy putting her through the rigors of the Mike Gibbons Cooking School (Motto: "Please do not cook Mike Gibbons"). One of her favorite things to do is help me chop the vegetables. Being the responsible dad I am, I plug in the electric carving knife and say, "Ten dollars says you can't cut the tomato in five seconds!!!"

Ha, I kid! Because that's what the unsettlingly brilliant do. (For what it's worth, one of the big parts of my cooking school is knife safety: How to properly slice without cutting yourself, how to make sure you hit the spinning wheel, but not the lady attached to said wheel. That kind of thing.)

So I have a very distinct way of slicing an onion. It involves removing the skin, slicing in half, turning it over, slicing into sections and then dicing it. My daughter had the audacity to slice it a different way. I told her that's not how you slice an onion. Her response, "But it ended up the way you wanted it, right?"

THAT'S NOT THE POINT!

So who knows. Maybe in a few years, Nicholas will begin to question some of my brilliance. But I'll know, deep in my heart, that I still know everything. And I can juggle.

All growing well

2010-04-21T12:27:00.000-07:00

So once again this year, the kids told me they wanted to do a garden.

They've wanted to do gardens before, and we've had mixed results. And by mixed I mean bad. The last one was an ill-fated herb garden attempt.

The only remnants we have of that are an out-of-control rosemary bush, which is apparently just shy of kudzu in its spreading ability.

But this year I vowed it would different. First off, we were planting fruits and vegetables. We will harvest our crops and live off the land. Granted, I know that unless we harvest chicken nuggets, I will not supply the bulk of my kids' diets. But this is a start, nonetheless.

We decided to do a raised bed this time, mainly because the soil at my house is a combination of rocks, clay and titanium, I think, based on the few times I have tried to dig in it.

I bought a few garden timbers (two I had to cut in half, which means I had to use a power saw. Fingers? Still 10, baby!) and a bunch of soil. The last thing to get was the seeds for our crops.

I took the kids to the seed section and told them they could each pick out one.

Parker told me he wanted to grow cherries. I told him we'd have to get a tree. "So let's get tree seeds," he said.

I explained to him that it would take a while for a tree to grow. "OK, oranges." Back to the cherry tale. "Fine," he said. "Broccoli."

"Broccoli?" I asked. What kid asks to grow broccoli? Mine, I guess.

Next up was my daughter's turn. She thought for a moment. "Dad, what are you going to pick?"

I was pretty sure I knew where this was going. Children are pretty simple when it comes down to picking between two choices.

The main goal: Figure out how to get both. "Hmmm. Well, I guess I was going back and forth between watermelons and cucumbers," I said, making a pretty safe bet that I had her choices covered.

"Fine. You take watermelon. I'll take cucumbers. And I'm pretty sure Mom wants green beans." Triple score. Well played, Allie. Well played.

We got home and it was time to roll up our sleeves and do the hard work. Sweat equity, I told them. They stared at me.

We hauled all of the stuff to the backyard and set the lumber out. We then hauled all of the soil to the backyard. (Oh as for the hauling: little red wagon, is there anything you CAN'T do? I mean, besides be successfully or legally towed behind a car.)

At that point, I could see the kids were working up a sweat and getting into the project.

After helping with the first couple of bags of soil, they both retreated inside. Probably going for a nice tall glass of refreshing water, I thought. Probably bringing one for the foreman. Those kids...

And the next thing out of my mouth was, "Why are you wearing bathing suits?"

"Can we go swimming now?"

"I thought we were going to do the garden!?!?!?"

They stared at me. "Can we go swimming now?" Always a good ploy: Just pretend I didn't say anything and I will just assume I went into a time vortex.

I was about to put my foot down. Time to earn your keep. Get to tilling. They asked, "Can we go swimming now?"

Truth of the matter, it's an 8-foot by 4-foot garden. I think I can swing it from here. "Hop in."

When they were done swimming, they planted the four rows of produce, and we dutifully watered our new garden.

The kids have been checking most every day, and I am pleased to report that each of the rows has shown some sprouts of green.

We'll be filling our table with our own food in no time. Well, that and some chicken nuggets.

Dry, Dry, my darling

2010-04-14T08:12:00.001-07:00

I killed my dryer.

I didn't mean to. I thought I was helping it out. I thought I was easing the burden on the old gal, who had logged nearly 15 years of service. Apparently, though, my actions drove her off the deep end.

For years, I've wanted a clothes line. Mainly, I wanted one for sheets. I love the smell of sheets fresh off a clothes line, and there is also the added chance that, as your sheets are flowing in the wind, a company shooting laundry commercials might happen by and ask to use your clothes line.

I finally got around to getting one, a retractable thingee that stretches out about 20 feet when in use, but does not serve as a hazard to oblivious sprinting children in the backyard when not in use. After I put my first set of sheets on the line, I came upstairs to where my wife and the dryer were. "I got the clothes line set up!"

"YOU WHAT?" screamed the dryer and jumped out the window. Either that or it just stopped heating the next time I fired it up. But I think we all know it felt cheated on.

I went online and starting doing some research on repairing dryers. I then said, "Oh, who am I kidding?" and told my wife we needed to go get a new dryer.

This had the potential of a conflict, as my wife and I have slightly different shopping styles. Her style involves research and price shopping and comparisons and speaking to people. Mine involves entering the store, picking out something in less time it takes to put on socks and hoping that, when they deliver it, the item (a) fits (b) works and (c) is a dryer and not, say, a table saw.

So needless to say, we did research, price shopped, talked to people. The first thing we found in the research is that you can spend a whole heaping helping of money on a dryer, and it can have some super-fancy things on it, including 56 - 56!!! - cycles, menu options in three languages and "theater lighting," whatever that is.

OK, here's my criteria for a dryer:

1. White

2. Kinda cube shaped.

3. Dries clothes

That's about as complicated as I wanted that stage of my laundry to get. I don't even need one language. I've pretty much mastered the two basic knobs that get it cranked up.

The one area we had to discuss somewhat was the size. Our old dryer was 5.8 cubic feet, which meant absolutely nothing to me until I saw a little conversion chart at the store that showed a 5.8 cubic foot dryer could dry four towels at a time, which explains why 10-12 towels often took several cycles to dry. Turns out, we needed to upgrade to the 7.0 cubic foot, which the chart said can dry 12 towels at a time, which means I can now try to dry 36 towels at once.

So we now have the new dryer installed and working like a champ. I have joined the refrain of others who have upgraded from an old dryer, having realized what an actual, effective dryer is like. One cycle? Really? That's all it takes? I had no idea how small and ineffective our old dryer was until now. The new one - so roomy. So warm. So ... effective. Hopefully, we'll get a good 15 years from this one as well. Just don't tell it I have a clothes line.

Dead bat fun

2010-03-25T20:32:00.001-07:00

You know what summed up my Saturday? "Hey, Dad - dead bat."

Now most people would say, "Yeah, I'm gonna chalk up any day that includes the phrase 'dead bat' as a bad one." But not me. No, sir. My reaction was, "Awesome! And we almost all walked past it!"

You see, my kids and I went out with my dad to some land he has, and we put the icing on the cake with finding a dead bat at the end of the trip. Score!

I know what you're saying, "Uh, a dead bat made your day?" To which I say, "Yes, good sir, yes it did!!!"

We headed out in the woods the way most folks do - with a pink fishing rod, a magnifying glass and a machete. My daughter had the fishing rod, which we quickly realized would be rather ineffective with a broken bobber, so we stashed it. The magnifying glass was brought so that we could lose it later. The machete was on hand because, well, it's awesome to use a machete.

While most people like walking the woods on a nice, orderly path, I find that the woods are far more exciting off the path. And under a log. And occasionally ankle deep in mud.

Our first stop was up on a ridge where some beavers had been doing a little tree trimming. It was up on the ridge when my daughter made the first squeal of pain of the day. We turned around (machete ready, just in case). A branch had caught her shirt. "And how are we going to know if you are actually hurt?" my dad asked. She thought for a moment. Apparently this kind of sunk in because when she got whacked in the face with a branch a while later, she let out a tiny muffled groan but kept on trekking.

Part of our process was to find where the property line is so, as we were hiking over hill and over dale, we were constantly on the lookout for bright yellow flagging. I am sure it is how Lewis and Clark did it. The kids were troopers. And I was able to keep them motivated by my brilliant decision to wear shorts.

You see, we were tromping through plenty of briar-laden woods; a short while into it, my legs looked as though someone had taken a Weed Whacker to them. So when a little whining started up, I could simply say, "Look at my legs! Do you see me whining?" I'm sure they appreciated that.

By the time we reached the end of the property, the kids estimated that they had walked 113 miles over approximately 42 days.

As we made our way back to our starting point, my son did start to lag a little. And by "lag a little" I mean sit down and say he was going to take a nap. Or we could carry him. My dad and I had a good laugh over that one. I asked my son whether complaining was going to help him walk faster. He did not find that amusing.

We eventually got him motivated by finding a few boards to turn over, even catching a couple of salamanders under one. Before they knew it, we were back to the road where the car was, ready to make our woods exit.

We had parked right by a bridge, and as we were crossing the bridge, that's when my son saw the bat. And as good stewards of nature, we told my son he must become one with the bat and eat it.

Ha! Little rabies humor there. We used this as an opportunity to explain to the kids about rabies and tell them that, if they were good, we'd show them the heartwarming tale of "Old Yeller."

In all, it was a great woods walk, and I was impressed how the kids were gamers with only a hint of whining or complaining. I'm looking forward to the next time. When I'll be wearing jeans.

All grown up

2010-03-03T12:13:00.000-08:00

So we were on our way to dinner when my daughter chimed in from the back seat.

"I want an adult menu," she said.

I went into my usual spiel, which was that the items on kids' menu were cheaper than those from the adults', and that she was probably going to order chicken nuggets anyway, which don't exist on most adult menus. She would have none of this. I was being patently unfair, and she was incredibly close to becoming the epicenter of schoolyard ridicule, as she is the last fourth grader on the planet to have to suffer the indignity of ordering from a kids' menu.

She made her final statement on the issue: "It's time you started treating me like an adult. I'm NINE-AND-A-HALF YEARS OLD!"

It was a good thing my wife was driving, as she has way more composure than I do. I immediately went hunched over laughing. (I was quickly informed from the back seat that this was not, in fact, funny, but very serious.)

So there we are. Nine. And a half. And an adult. I tried to offer her the full option of being an adult: A job, a mortgage, having to pretend you don't want to go down the slide at the park. (That's not just me, right?)

She told me that was not the point. I asked her what the point was. She told me the point was an adult menu. I again countered that she was going to just get chicken nuggets, which live solely on the kids' menu at the restaurant we were going to. She made this frustrated little grunt of exasperation that I am sure, to her, say, "That foolish man just did not get the perfectly sensible and logical nature of my request."

My daughter is a lot like her mother. My father-in-law has affirmed this to me. If there is a finite amount of sighs in a human body, I am guessing my father-in-law used them up between my wife's ninth and 21st birthdays. Which leads me to believe that my stubborn child will one day emerge to be ... a stubborn adult.

I understand that this is part of the process children go through. I am sure somewhere out there is the world's most compliant and reasonable child who breezes through the teen years with nothing but clear thinking and parental respect. I hope that child is in a museum some day. Let's be honest - most children that age can, within a 10-second span, go from being the most wonderful, kind, loving creatures to something quite possibly possessed by demonic spirits and/or aliens.

They also can be an All-A honor roll student one second, to the next second being asked, "Why would you put the cushions on the couch on TOP of the mail?" I actually asked that question recently, and was answered with, "Oh, I thought it was old mail." You know, like the old mail you periodically shove under the couch cushion.

Oh, and back to the kids' menu for a minute - when we got to the restaurant and she did get a kids' menu, you know what her big issue was? Parker got more Crayons with his. Because way at the top of the list of adult concerns - far higher than an IRS audit or a colonoscopy - is Crayon equity.

My wife keeps preaching patience to me. Kids being kids, she says. I tell her I want results, and I want them now. I remind her that I, too, was once a kid, and while paying attention, sitting still and not talking were not exactly my strong suits, I assure her that I was very good at one thing: I was bribeable. My Matchbox collection was built predominately on fulfillment of good behavior in church. But my daughter collects American Girl dolls, and it's too pricey to bribe her with those every day. Hmmm ...

So I guess I will have to think of another option. I know that the examples my wife and I set will go a long way to teaching them how to act as adults. And I know that there will be some times in life where we just ignore behavior that we would never find ourselves exhibiting. It's all part of the process of growing up. Granted, we could avoid some of the headache if they'd just add chicken nuggets to the adult menu.

Totally totaled

2010-02-24T14:45:00.001-08:00

It happened in a flash. I was on my way to meet my wife for lunch. I approached an intersection, with my light green. As I entered, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. A flash of red. And it was heading my way. Fast.

"Hey," I thought, "that car sure is going fa..." BOOM!

The collision was loud. And jarring. My air bags went off, and my car was spun around 180 degrees. When it stopped, I sat there, in a haze of airbag dust, trying to figure out what happened.

I opened my car door and stepped into the middle of the road. Our news director, Tim O'Briant, was in the car behind me and saw the whole thing happen. He pulled his vehicle into the intersection to block off the traffic, which was probably a good idea since I was walking around with jelly legs, doing the requisite stagger and stare at my car, saying, "Wha---what happened?"

I went over to the sidewalk and pulled my phone from my pocket and called my wife. I then looked at my hands and saw they were shaking like I had just ingested 68 espressos. I handed the phone to Tim, and said, "Here. Tell Jenn." In retrospect, I was kinda putting him on the spot.

The paramedics came over to check me and the other driver out. Miraculously, neither of us was seriously hurt. I was wobbly and still hacking up airbag dust but actually didn't feel any extreme pain. Amazingly, I wasn't even sore. I kept anticipating the pain, which fortunately never came, leaving me no choice but to every few hours remind my wife, "You know, I was in a wreck." She said I can do that for one week.

My car was totaled. Even I could have diagnosed that. (Clue 1: When the front of the car no longer exists, and the engine no longer appears to be connected to the vehicle, you are heading toward Totaled Town.) So, now, I begin the process of looking for a new car.

I keep cars for a long time (this one we had for 10 years; my previous car I drove for 12). With my daughter being 9, I am most likely buying her first car, which is possibly the most frightening thought I have had since it occurred to me that she will, at some point, date.

As I stood in the paint and body shop, retrieving the items from my vehicle, I was kinda surprised to find myself feeling a little, well, sad. My wife and I got this car before our daughter was born. We traded in her Mustang for the family cruiser. This was our "grown-up" car. (Ironically, the car that hit me was a Mustang. I guess it has exacted its revenge at last.) This was the car that we brought both of our children home in. This is the car I learned to sing "Chick-chicka-boom-boom" in. This is the car I drove from Florida to South Carolina with a 6-month-old screaming the entire way. (Didn't even take a breath.) This is the car in which I changed a diaper in a grocery store parking lot during a thunderstorm. This is the car where I first said the words, "STOP EATING THE SEAT BELT!"

So we are beginning the quest for a replacement. Fortunately, I have the advantage of expert opinions of most everyone I come in contact with, which includes "definitely buy a new car," "definitely buy a used car," "definitely lease," "definitely don't lease," "definitely get a truck," "definitely don't get a truck," "definitely get a horse and buggy," etc.

Truthfully, I don't know what I am going to do. The settlement is for what it would take to replace my 2000 Ford Explorer that had more than 100,000 miles on it with ... a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it. Of all of the expert opinions, the one that has not been served up is to buy a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it.

I am trying to look on the positives of this whole thing. For example, the potential of a new car led me to clean out the other half of the garage, where I can hopefully put a car, rather than what was a collection of basketballs, bicycles, bags of clothes to be donated and, for some reason, a box of plastic cowboy hats.

So here's hoping my next car, whatever it is, will be the foundation for a new series of memories. Wow, to think this could be the car my daughter takes on her first date. I'll remember it well. Because I'll be in the car, too.

Snow yeah!

2010-02-19T10:56:00.001-08:00

It. Will. Not. Snow.

That is what I definitively told my wife last week, as she combed through a half a dozen weather forecasts, trying to figure out which one would give us the best chance for a snowball fight.

She asked me why I would say that. After all, she pointed out, I am a big fan of winter weather. I am almost as bad as the kids when it comes to anticipating the white stuff. The answer was simple: I was sick and tired of being disappointed. For probably six years, whenever it looked as if it might snow or ice, I got on the bandwagon - stockpile the pantry, get out the winter accessories, gas up the snowmobile. OK, we don't have a snowmobile. But if we did, rest assured it would be gassed up.

And each time we awoke with blue skies and temperatures in the mid 70s. It didn't matter what the forecast the day before was. There would be no snow, no ice, no nothing, save for me disappointed and having to explain to the kids that sleeping with their pajamas inside out didn't work because, well, they didn't want it enough.

So this time, when it became painfully clear that we were going to get some snow, I took the hard line stance. (I even had the headline ready should the snow not have happened: "Oh, snow, you didn't."

And I am fairly certain my contrarian position is what made it snow. So you're welcome.

To that point, some highlights of my snow day:

* Gravity can doom a snowman. By the time I got home, the kids had begun several snowmen in the backyard. My neighbor had crafted one that eventually stood around seven feet tall. It took three of us to get the midsection up. After about an hour, another neighbor and I noticed the snowman was leaning slightly. "How long do you give it?" he asked. "Thirty minutes?" I said. "Boom," said the snowman as it fell to the ground. "Guess not," my neighbor said.

* Some kids learn quicker than others. My neighborhood was crawling with adolescents looking for new and exciting ways to annihilate others with snow. I felt it necessary to refine their trades, teaching them the art of the lob-one-pelt-a-second-snowball tactic, as well as the shake-the-snowy-tree-branch. I was pleased to see one of the young students later bait a child under a tree and then send a large snowball into the branches above, raining a mini-avalanche down on him.

* Ice is good for a surgically repaired knee. At least this is what I told the two critics who said it was a bad idea to get on my knees and put Parker on my shoulders for a chicken snow fight against his buddy Haze. The initial ruling on the field was that Parker and I lost, but that decision is being appealed to the International Snow Chicken Congress.

* Don't go take a hot bath. I did not make this mistake this time, because I still vividly remember some time around 1980 when we got snow. I played outside in it for hours, and then, in an effort to warm up, ran inside, cranked up a hot bath, and jumped in. And immediately jumped out. Screaming. "Kids," I told them, "never risk a bath." "Kids," their mother told them, "never listen to your father. Warm up. And then get a bath. You're filthy."

* My neighbor learned this lesson: If you want to be hit with a snowball, step out of your car with four 12-year-old boys standing around and say, "DO NOT HIT ME WITH SNOWBALLS!" (OK, four 12-year-old boys and a 37-year-old neighbor. As I told my wife, "What? She can't ground me.")

The kids were a little bummed that the snow was gone by Sunday, but as I told them, it's more fun to have the snow come in quickly, enjoy a day of it and then move on rather than be chocked down for weeks on end with snow. I told them that once a year was a good frequency of wintry weather. So let's look forward to next year, when I guarantee - It. Will. Not. Snow.

Label up

2010-01-20T12:53:00.003-08:00

Labels: They’re the answer to our problems.
My wife and I have embarked on a decluttering/organization mission, and my wife has decided that labels will solve the problems. This is how the conversation went:
ME: So a lack of labels is why things get shoved in a drawer or left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: Will we label the hamper “Dirty clothes” so they won’t be left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: And that will work?
HER: Hey, I know what I could put on a label for you ...
ME: The children can hear you.
So we have begun pulling everything from every nook, cranny, closet, drawer and shelf. My wife is normally a very laid back, go-with-the-flow person, and a little disorder doesn’t affect her. It affects me to the point where I will walk around and make loud, rambling commentary which, based on a recent poll, is considered annoying by 75 percent of those in my household. But she decided we needed to take on the old “A place for everything and everything in its place” approach.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like we live in a house you’d see on “Hoarders.” Our house is a home. We live in it. And by “live in it” I mean there is the occasional dish on a coffee table or toy tied to the ceiling fan or shoe in a plant.
But then the label idea came around. She knew I was skeptical. But she told me to have faith. And by “have faith” I mean “zip it.”
She started in the bathroom, cleaning out a closet. This closet is home to medicine, cosmetics, towels, cleaning supplies, etc. First step? Everything came out. Everything. I did the sensible thing, which was to go to a different room. It was clear my wife was in a zone, and if I tried to help, I might find myself in the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom.
When I returned a while later (several days, I think), I was amazed at what I saw. If there was a magazine called “Insanely Organized Closets,” this could have been the cover shot. Everything was neat and orderly. And everything had a label on its shelf. Towels? Label. Cold medicine? Label and handy bin. Lotions? Labeled and arranged by height. For what it’s worth, I am amazed at how much lotion we own. If the entire populace of Toledo, Ohio, shows up with dry skin, I can help them out. (Side note: My label that read “Anal retentive closet” was rejected by the label commission.)
Next up was our bedroom. I was excited about this part because it gave me the chance to loudly proclaim, “If it is yours and in my room, get it out now, or I throw it out.” When the kids came in and saw the look on their mother’s face, Big Black Trash Bag of Doom in hand, toys got moving to their rooms. In fairness to the kids, I can’t really think of any time when they play in our room, so I am fairly certain the toys are coming in on their own.
After our room came the kids’ rooms, where we learned the valuable lesson: Don’t let the kids help. To them, nothing should be thrown out. Ever. A wheelless motorcycle? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!! Headless Incredibles toy from a fast-food restaurant? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!! Piece of cardboard smeared with ... something? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!
Oh, and the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom? “No, no, no, this is a DIFFERENT trash bag. We’re just holding things in there for the time being. That’s the Big Black Bag of Reconsideration and Toy Healing. So stop taking things out of it.”
As we continue to go through the house, I am amazed at how much stuff we have been able to get rid of and how much better the world is, in fact, with labels. A place for everything, and everything in its place. I guess she was right. Labels make the world a better place. Bring on Toledo.

It's electric(ity)

2010-01-20T12:53:00.001-08:00

My love affair with electricity died about 12 years ago.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m a big fan of what it can do, in particular when it comes to popcorn poppers and the Wii. But I just don’t care to be up close and personal with it.
It happened when I went to change a light fixture more than a decade ago. I did all the right things – I turned off the breaker, I stood on top of the washing machine, I kicked one leg against a well to balance myself. You know, just like OSHA wants you to do.
And then I went to remove the light fixture, at which point I quickly found out that the breaker I had turned off had absolutely nothing to do with that light fixture.
From that point on, I pretty much vowed that if it was electric, it was either going to have to fix itself or stay broken. I was in no mood to get shocked again, and, more than likely, my neighbors were not interested in hearing my post-shock commentary again.
But, alas, all good things must come to an end, and it was clear that my good run of not being able to be shocked was about to be over when an electrical issue presented itself. And two things were very clear: (1) It was not going to fix itself and (2) with a little encouragement, a chimp could fix the problem, seeing as how it was simply fixing a broken light switch.
The light switch became inoperable when it came in contact with a 6-year-old. I am not sure exactly what happened, but I am finding that things that come in contact with 6-year-olds often end up in the broken category, yet without an explanation. If you pulled the switch out and wiggled it, you could get the light to come on. However, in order to get it to stay on, you would have to wedge something back behind the switch to keep the light on. I have operated a light switch or two. Pretty confident in my assessment of broken.
So I went to the home improvement store and went to the light switch aisle. There were two employees standing there. “I need a plain old light switch for a hall light.” They pointed to a box of plain old light switches. Easy as that.
I got home and decided to tackle the project. I wedged the broken switch on so that I could tell when the breaker was tripped. Using my cell phone, I called the house phone. I handed the phone to my daughter and told her to tell me when the light went off. After flipping several breakers, I was told the light was off. Upon entering the house, it became clear I should have pointed out a specific light.
Once that problem was solved, I went to work with my trusty screwdriver. In no time, I had the wall plate off and the light switch free. I had my son touch the wire to make sure the power was off.
Ha! Kidding. Once I got the switch out of the wall, I unscrewed the four wires. This was gonna be a snap. I pulled the new light switch out and noticed three screws. I had this conversation with myself:
ME: I guess I just wire two of the wires to one screw.
MY BRAIN: Seriously? You’re seriously thinking of that?
ME: Ye ... No.
I stared at the switch and then back at the wall a few times. Nothing changed.
So I headed back to the store. When I walked in, I explained to the employee my four wire/three screw dilemma. “Is it a three-way switch?” she asked.
“No,” I responded confidently. I then asked, “Wait, what do you mean?”
She asked me if more than one light switch controlled this light. I told her that, in fact, three switches controlled it. She looked at me with equal parts pity and disgust.
In no time, she had a three-way switch (which I think should be renamed four-screw switch, as that seems far more literal). When I got home, I wired it up in no time and before I knew it – voila – working light switch again.
I know it may not seem like that big of a deal, but trust me – when you loathe home improvement projects as much as I do, it’s a major accomplishment to begin a project, much less finish one, all without electrocuting myself. Now, time to tell my 6-year-old to stay away from anything electrical until he turns 7.

A year of learning

2009-12-31T08:36:00.000-08:00

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.

A warm gift

2009-12-22T19:49:00.001-08:00

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.

The Mayor

2009-12-11T21:43:00.001-08:00

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.

Eye got it

2009-12-02T08:47:00.001-08:00

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.

Giving Thanks

2009-12-02T08:46:00.001-08:00

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!

Oh, deer

2009-11-18T07:15:00.003-08:00

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.

The Efficient

2009-11-18T07:15:00.001-08:00

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.

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting

2009-11-09T13:47:00.001-08:00

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?

Garage redux

2009-11-09T13:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Kneed to know

2009-10-15T13:11:00.001-07:00

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.

A real chore

2009-10-07T21:15:00.001-07:00

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.

The flu

2009-09-30T11:06:00.001-07:00

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?

Chronic nice

2009-09-23T14:34:00.001-07:00

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.

New addition

2009-09-17T09:44:00.001-07:00

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.

Build a fort

2009-09-09T11:38:00.001-07:00

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.

Rain out

2009-08-25T05:04:00.000-07:00

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.

To the nines

2009-08-05T06:19:00.001-07:00

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.

An earth shattering kaboom

2009-07-31T12:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Bee cool

2009-07-24T14:57:00.001-07:00

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.

The many labors

2009-07-16T11:50:00.001-07:00

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.

Fly away

2009-07-08T14:19:00.001-07:00

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?

Vacation by the numbers

2009-06-30T06:23:00.001-07:00

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.

Under pressure

2009-06-18T10:11:00.001-07:00

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.

Granny Ann

2009-06-18T10:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Snap to it

2009-06-03T07:33:00.001-07:00

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.

End of an era

2009-05-27T11:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Possums and bunnies

2009-05-22T07:14:00.001-07:00

One thing that I can say for certain is this: Sometimes in life, you miss the possums and bunnies. And it will be OK.
I base this on two recent events that occurred with my son. The first happened last Friday night, around 10:30. We were driving home (late night at the dog track with the kids. Or perhaps Relay For Life), cruising down South Boundary at a rip-roaring 20 or so mph. From the left side of the road, I saw a small gray furball scurry onto the roadway.
I slammed on the brakes, trying to give the little possum time to get across the road. Representing the possum community with extreme intellect, the little guy stopped, looked at my van and made a sharp left turn, so he was now traveling down South Boundary rather than crossing it.
I nudged the van forward a little, hoping to encourage the critter off the road. Eventually, he made a right turn, heading off the road, scurrying in between two piles of grass clippings. Now, keep in mind, this all happened in a matter of seconds. My daughter was in the middle of the van and was able to see the possum. My son, however, was in the back and was fairly close to being asleep so he was a little slow on the draw. By the time he had shifted and rearranged, the possum was out of sight.
And cue the upset 6-year-old.
“I...wanted...to...see...the...possum...” he said, choking back tears. It was quite evident this was the single most tragic event ever to happen on this planet.
He was still repeating the possum-seeing desire when we got home. Despite my efforts, I could not convince him that it would be OK. I even made one last-ditch Hail Mary that my wife said was not helping matters. You decide: I simply said, “Parker, you want to see the possum next time? Because the only way to make it stay in the road is to hit it. Fine, I’ll run it over next time. Dead or not seen – your choice.” OK, maybe in retrospect I could have posed that scenario differently.
Eventually, he settled for a few Internet pictures of possums, a book that had pictures of possums and a story involving King Parker of the Land of Possumia. Although he would have given it all up for seeing the possum.
The second instance involved my daughter seeing a bunny. My wife and daughter were heading off to school when it occurred to my daughter that she had left her retainer at home. Easy rule of thumb for locating my daughter’s retainer: Find where she is. Look elsewhere.
Anywho, my son and I were eating breakfast when Allie came bopping in. “We just saw a bunny!!!”
And cue the upset 6-year-old.
“I...wanted...to...see...the...bunny...” he said, choking back tears. It was quite evident THIS was now the single most tragic event ever to happen on this planet.
After several minutes of bunny discussion, I sat Parker down for a calm and reasoned discussion. I then realized he’s 6 and in a tizzy, and I would have as good of a chance of having a calm and reasoned discussion with an angry badger.
When his inner badger receded somewhat, we sat down again. I explained to him that we would not always be able to see everything everyone else did. I reminded him of all the cool things he got to see and how much fun it is to share those stories with other folks. I also told them that unless he could cry tears made of possums and bunnies, it served no purpose. He gave me a look that was clearly on loan from his mother.
When we headed off to school, Parker decided he would make up for the missed animals by finding 20 animals. As we pulled into school, he found a mockingbird for No. 20. (Other contributors to the count: horses, dogs, squirrels, a cat and a crow).
As we were pulling in, I said to Parker, “Remember, sometimes in life, you miss the possums and bunnies. And it will be OK.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” As he got ready to get out of the car, he turned back to me. “But I’d still rather see the possum and the bunny.”

Tonsil town

2009-05-06T13:15:00.001-07:00

The door to the waiting room opened. “Gibbons?” the nurse said to us.
My wife and I nodded and began to walk to the door. “She’s not very happy,” the nurse said.
In fairness to our daughter, if you had a big chunk of your throat carved out, you’d be a little peeved, too.
Yes, Allie had her tonsils removed, and first and foremost – save her the ice cream spiel. She feels all the talk of ice cream was cruel bait to lure her into this trap.
Her tonsils had been a problem for a long time. Poor thing looked like she had swallowed two golf balls.
She was nervous about the surgery but was also looking forward to getting a good night’s sleep and going more than a week without a sore throat.
My wife and I have gone through this several times with both kids – tubes, adenoids, hernia surgeries, tubes removed – so letting go of our children as they are wheeled back into an OR doesn’t have quite the sting it did the first time.
Sure, you still worry, but once you acknowledge that (a) it’s a relatively minor and routine procedure and (b) she is in very capable and caring hands, you realize there is really no reason NOT to finish your Sudoku.
When we got back to her room, we found that “not happy” was being gentle.
She had decided hand-to-hand combat would be a nice way to express her discomfort to the nurse. “WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?” she yelled at the nurse, who, of the four in the room, was really the least to blame.
The nurse, bless her heart, stayed cool and calm, trying to get my daughter to calm down.
My wife and I tried to soothe her (Allie, that is), but she was having none of it. It was a combination of anesthesia and extreme throat pain. And it manifested itself in abject nastiness.
“Allison,” the nurse said, “you’ll feel better if you just take a deep breath ...”
“I’LL FEEL BETTER IF I LEAVE!!!”
Her disorientation aside, it was clear she was in pain. Her head, she said, was pounding. The nurse said she was going to give her some medicine. And that’s when Mr. Syringe met Mr. IV, and a delightful and peaceful sleep fell over the land.
After a few minutes, Allie had calmed down and drifted off to sleep. I leaned back in a chair and did the same thing. (Gotta show solidarity.)
After a quick power nap, I stood by my daughter’s bed. I watched her sleep the most peaceful sleep I had seen in years.
My wife and I both remarked that we heard – nothing. No labored breathing. No snores. No coughing in her sleep.
A drug-induced one-time hit? Or a tonsillectomy silver bullet. I sure hope the latter.
She woke up a short time later, smiling, reaching out for a hug. We informed the nurse that Allie’s evil twin had left the building.
Allie seemed to somewhat recall – yet not completely believe – the “not happy” response. But all better now.
Allie is now home for the next week, where we have a huge pile of rented movies, a bunch of books, her handheld video game and a huge helping of ice cream and popsicles.
I also hope to read the first Harry Potter book with her during this time, as I think she is finally at the age where the story of a child forced to live in a closet under the stairs won’t scare her.
(In case you are wondering, Parker does not mind that Allie is getting all of the attention right now. Why, you ask? Because he got to have a sleepover at Grandma’s AND was taken to school by his aunt and cousin. As he said, “It was a big day.”)
I’m just glad the surgery is over. While it may be routine, it’s a good milestone to pass. So I guess Allie was right about one thing – we did feel better when we left.

How baby toads and ponies are made

2009-04-29T10:33:00.001-07:00

I am not prepared to talk about the birds and the bees. I certainly wasn’t prepared to talk about the toads.
My kids are 8 and 6, and I would like to think that I will never have to have that talk with them. Mainly, that is because my wife is in charge of all things technical and clinical.
When I am tasked with real-world issues, in particular ones that deal with the human body, I often try and come up with explanations that simply allow the conversation to end. For example:
CHILD: Daddy, what would happen if we didn’t make it to the bathroom.
ME: God would stop making ponies.
But on occasion, I am thrust into the real-world, real-time job of having actual heartfelt discussions on matters such as these with my kids. Such was the other day during the Earth Day even at Hopelands.
As we were walking around the pond, we heard the distinctive high-pitched sound of Southern toads, calling out amorously toward one another around the bay. Whenever we hear animals calling, my kids and I will stand very still and try to find the animal. This is easy with, say, a cow. But toads and frogs can get tricky.
We went into “listen for it” mode, in which for some reason you bend your knees slightly, put your hands out to your side and cock your head. I have no idea why people do this.
But you know that if you went into the stance in the middle of a crowded mall, most everyone would stop to see if they were missing some important sound.
So we wait for the sounds to pop up again. Immediately, Allie spots our target. “Daddy, in the water!” Parker sprints over to see where she is pointing.
And then he says, “Hey, they’re all riding piggy back.”
At that point, a couple walking a few steps ahead of us stop in their tracks. I am sure they are thinking, “Oh, we’ve gotta see how this one plays out.”
Parker turns to me and says, “So what are they doing, Daddy? Are they playing?”
The gentleman looks at me, waiting for my answer. He is clearly enjoying this.
“Well, son, they’re...”
A small voiced chimed. “Mating. Breeding. They’re making new toads, Parker.” Clearly, Allie had this under control.
“That’s right,” I said, “they’re making baby toads. So let’s leave them alone to... do... their... thing.”
Parker was not ready to move. First, he took some of the duck food he had and set it in front of each of the pairs. The gentleman and I surmised one might enjoy a sandwich or something of that ilk at that moment. Who knows.
And then Parker decided to get a closer look, in particular how exactly the toads were stuck together. After a brief discussion on how we should never do that again, we watched for a while as the recently detached male called out loudly for his lady toad friend.
We watched his throat swell out each time he called, and saw him navigating through the reeds in his quest. We eventually moseyed on down the trail, but I would like to think they were reunited.
My kids were very excited about the find, and told plenty of folks for the rest of the day about it. Nothing like livening up a grocery store trip with a hearty, “WE SAW TOADS MATING!!!” to ring through the aisles.
The fact of the matter is that it is just life, and I always want my kids to learn about the way the world works without mystery or intrigue where it serves only to confuse matters. It’s OK that they know how baby toads gets made. And why God makes ponies.

For the birds

2009-04-22T06:20:00.000-07:00

So I get out of a meeting the other day and head back to my office. There, on my keyboard, is a note: “Call your wife – there’s a bird in the house!”
I then noticed I had a text message on my phone: It read “There is a bird in the house! HELP!!!!!!!”
Have you gotten the idea that my wife is less than fond of birds?
I called her, and, taking breaks between laughs, I asked her what the bird status was.
“I have no clue. I left.”
She did not see the humor in the situation that I did. And partly, I think, she was a little miffed at me for having allowed the bird invasion to begin.
It started a few months ago, when a wren began building a nest in our garage.
When the first few pieces of pine straw came in through a cracked window, my wife suggested I close the window and redirect the nest construction project.
I responded by saying, “Look, kids – a bird is making a nest in the garage!!!”
Needless to say, you can’t really stop the nest process once interested kids are involved. Not exactly fair play on my part.
And then about a week ago, we heard the tiny little chirps of baby birds.
The kids were excited that they were going to get to see them leave the nest, and my wife was excited that she was not going to have birds swooping in and out of the garage every time she went to her van.
At that point, our birds showed an uncanny knack for survival.
When they left the nest, there were two ways they could leave the garage: Through the window at the back of the garage, or through the garage door.
Simply hopping out of the garage door seems the easiest, most direct route.
It’s also the quickest path to an army of neighborhood cats that had begun circling my garage.
So the window was the survivor’s approach. Only problem – the window was rather high for baby birds.
It was going to take a few days of learning to fly before they were able to get up there.
So they took dominion over our garage.
The adults were swooping in and out of the window, I assume trying to teach the little ones how to fly, how to not get eaten by a cat, etc.
And this is where I am guessing the security breach occurred.
As best I can tell, someone left the door from the kitchen to the garage ajar, and one of the adults, tired of swooping out the window, decided to investigate. In doing so, the tiny, harmless wren created an evacuation normally reserved for hazardous chemical spills.
In short order, I had arrived to save the day.
My son was eager to assist me. My daughter? She was fine staying back with Mom.
We entered the house slowly, mainly because I was still stopping every two steps to double over laughing.
When we entered the house, I saw the bird flitting about in our sunroom.
Parker and I planned our strategy, and it was one of the more complex in the history of such missions.
It involved:
1. Go to sunroom
2. Open door
3. Watch bird fly out
And there you go. Practically Navy SEAL stuff, huh?
My wife reluctantly admitted that she PROBABLY could have handled that task, and that a wren was probably not going to take her down.
Eventually, the baby birds did learn how to get up to the open window, and all of the birds have vacated the garage, which means there is just one thing left to do: Shut that window.

Oh, the pain

2009-04-18T07:21:00.000-07:00

It started about 6 a.m. I awoke, thinking that the tingling in my stomach was the excitement of knowing it was almost time for the kids to get their Eater baskets. Ever since my daughter was a little girl, the Easter Bunny has left the baskets outside, because, quite sensibly, she did not want a giant rabbit sneaking in her room as she slept.

So I woke up and headed out to my car, where the Easter Bunny leaves the baskets each year and relocated them to the front porch. I was heading back to bed when I noticed that the tingle was growing. Easter excitement!

About halfway up the stairs, someone, from somewhere, punched me in the stomach. I did not see the person, but it was a well-placed punch that dropped me to a knee. Clutching the bannister, I steadied myself and made my way up two more steps when I was punched again. Note to self: Ask pest control company to spray for phantom gut punchers.

Eventually, I made it back to bed. I figured the best cure for such an ailment was to curl in the fetal position and moan. This failed to wake my wife. Or, more appropriately, failed to wake her enough to roll over and tell me that I was the sickest anyone had ever been.

Eventually, I was able to drift back to sleep, despite having the worst pains anyone on the planet had ever endured. After a short while, my kids came in and decided to jump on the bed and announce that it was Easter. This was enough to wake my wife. She looked over and said, "Uh, are you OK?" I am not positive, but I think she might have been tipped off that I was slightly ill because I was clutching my stomach, rocking back and forth making growling noises.

I composed myself long enough to tell my wife - the woman who spent roughly 4,000 hours giving birth to our children - that I was experiencing the Worst. Pain. Ever. She responded by taking the kids downstairs, which would have been a really callous response had an alien shot out of my stomach a short while later. Which it didn't. Of course had it shot out of my gut, I am sure she would have felt guilty. Or, just to one-up me, she would have said something snarky like, "Oh, yeah? Come see me when TWO creatures come out of you." Always a competition.

After a little bit longer in bed, I noticed that the stomach cramps seemed to be subsiding. Hey, I thought. Maybe this was a temporary thing! Maybe I'm getting better! Hey, why are the cramps moving ... up ... up ...

Let's skip to the part where I am underneath a bath mat, sweating profusely, feebly hitting my hand on the ground in hopes that my wife will hear me and come find out that I actually am somewhat sick. As an added touch, I whispered, "Jeeeeeeennnnn ... " and reached my hand in the air. Quite dramatic.

Eventually, my daughter came into the room, presumably to use the bathroom and not to save me. "Daddy, why are you under the rug?" "Get ... Mommy ... " was all I could muster.

My wife came in and agreed that I had seen better days. We had several big Easter plans for the day, including Easter lunch at my parents' house and a neighborhood cookout that evening. I told my wife that I would be OK and that I would fight through it and grace everyone with my presence. I was a gamer.

"Uh, don't take this personally," she said, "but no one is going to want be around you."

I took it kind of personally.

By the end of the day, the breakout of my day was:

-- 49 percent: on bathroom floor, quivering, groaning

-- 49 percent: in bed, quivering, groaning

-- 2 percent: Walking downstairs to make sure anyone who was there knew I was quivering, groaning

When I woke Monday morning, I was pleased to find that I had healed. The only pain was from lying down for the majority of the previous 30 hours, which sounds like it would be fun until you do it. My wife asked me how I felt, and I told her that I was fortunately feeling much better. "I guess it was just a one-day thing," I told her. It's nice when the pain goes away quickly. Like after you give birth, right?

Radiator springs

2009-03-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

So, I was pulling into my parents’ driveway when I smelled what I thought was antifreeze.
Weird, I thought.
I reasoned it this way: I had cut my air conditioner on for the first time this year. That must be what caused it.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking – what does your air conditioner have to do with antifreeze? To which I answer – I have no clue. But I needed cause and effect.
I got out of the car and went to the front. The smell was stronger. And my engine was steaming. And hissing. And there was a small puddle developing under the car.
Most likely not the air conditioner, I brilliantly concluded.
I went on inside and was talking to my dad. “I think my car’s broken,” I said. He asked what was wrong.
I told him it was steaming and dripping from the radiator.
He stared at me much in the same way you would stare at someone who had just intentionally stuffed a fork in his own eye.
It was evident that this was not the kind of thing you merely walk away from, shrug and hope it fixes itself.
I went back outside and popped the hood.
Normally, with car repair, I might as well open the back door and look for the problem because I have no idea what to look for.
The only way I would have been able to fix it is if there was a large button that read “PUSH TO MAKE RADIATOR STOP LEAKING.”
Surprisingly, I was able to notice something that was amiss. There is a large container under the hood, with the phrase “Radiator coolant” on it.
It was right next to the windshield wiper fluid reservoir, so I was well versed in opening this complex device.
I popped it open and noticed that it was bone dry. I went back inside and told my dad it was dry.
“Should I put water in it?” He said yes, but I feel certain his brain was screaming, “No, genius, fill it with mustard.”
When I got home, I called a neighbor over to take a look.
He knows way more about cars than I do, and even has those ramp thingees that you drive your car up on so that you can climb under it for some reason.
I popped the hood and handed him a flashlight. He asked me if I had checked the radiator fluid.
At that point, I realized that there was another place to put water directly in the radiator, in addition to the reservoir.
I opened it up and noticed it, too, was quite dry.
I filled it up with water and cranked the car.
Based on the spewing water and the developing puddle underneath my car, one might surmise that the leak had not magically fixed itself.
At that point, I called my brother-in-law, who is a mechanic. I explained to him what was wrong.
“You need a new radiator.” I asked him if I could fix the leak. “No, you need a new radiator.”
After about the 11th question, I think he was growing tired of saying, “No, you need a new radiator.”
The next day, I called around several places to get estimates.
Apparently, installing a radiator is the mechanical equivalent of tying a shoe.
Everyone I spoke to told me that they could do it, that it would only take a few hours, and that they would most likely do it during a nap break since it was such a breeze.
Sure enough, in a couple of hours (and a few hundred dollars later), my car was fixed, and there was no longer a smelly puddle underneath my car every time I stopped.
While I would rather not have had to spend the money, it was nice to know it could be fixed with relative ease. Next time something like this happens, maybe I should try to fix it myself.
I could even borrow those ramp thingees. For some reason.

St. Parker's Day, 6

2009-03-18T11:54:00.001-07:00

The Dude is now 6.
Yesterday, we celebrated St. Parker’s Day, the famed celebration of the Patron Saint of Being Born on St. Patrick’s Day.
So, I offer these few Parker tidbits:
• We had our annual breakfast tradition of Waffle House before school. There is no better way to start the day than a waffle and a Cherry Coke.
• His favorite song in the world is the “Boom De Ya Da” commercial for Discovery Channel. If you have not seen it, YouTube it. I challenge you not to feel a little better after seeing it.
• His second favorite song is a commercial for a video game, a song that offers the chorus of, “Oh Know You Didn’t!” My sister finds it less than delightful that Parker has taught his 2-year-old cousin to sing this. In the middle of Wal-Mart.
• Parker blazes his own fashion trail. At this age, I see no problem letting kids dress themselves and set their own style, as there is little chance of being labeled “That Kid” for the way you dress. Of course, I may be labeled “That Parent,” in particular “That Parent Without A Hairbrush for His Child.”
• He’s the bug-huntingest dude you will ever meet. Case in point: The other day, at my parents’ house, he asked for me to come up with a scavenger hunt list for him. One of the things I put on the list was a bessie bug. It took him roughly eight seconds to produce one. He would have rocked on “Let’s Make a Deal.”
• He is very much a little brother. I try to explain this to his sister. At one point, I said, “Allie, ask your aunts what I was like when I was a kid. I was the same way.” She seemed shocked by this. “You were ... mean to them?” I explained to her that “mean” was a kind term for what little brothers can be, and that the best defense is a locked door.
• But he also looks up to his big sister. One of the best sounds in the world is on a Saturday morning when the kids wake up, and Parker heads into Allie’s room with a book, asking her to read to him. (The following sounds are then either additionally sweet or tragically screeching, based on her decision on whether to read.)
• He’s a momma’s boy sometimes, and that’s OK. Sometimes, when you skin a knee or someone hurts your feelings, you need your momma.
• But he’s a tough dude, too. The other day, he came home from school with a note explaining the enormous knot on his head (he and a classmate bonked; she won). For the next few days, Parker made sure his hair did not cover up the nasty bruise on his forehead. Always show off the cool stuff.
• Gotta love his imagination. The other day, we were playing pirate in the den. He had brought his pirate ship downstairs, along with a few toys. How did it end? Jack Sparrow drove Clark Kent’s Daily Planet truck onto the ship and then used a lightsaber to catch a pterodactyl. Top that ending, Disney!
• He clearly differentiates between good and evil. Whenever he sees a Star Wars character, he asks, “Daddy, is he a good guy or bad guy?” He is not grasping the gray area of “bad but awesome,” known as the Boba Fett exception.
• I still get a chuckle when he shares his favorite snack with Grandpa – pickled herring. Not many kids knock back a jar of pickled herring on a regular basis. At least not non-Viking children.

I’m looking forward to year 7, which will include milestones such as starting first grade, losing teeth, painting the dog (just a hunch). I certainly hope it will be a good year, and it will be exciting to see him grow up. Of course, you always hope a part of him stays a kid. After all, somebody’s gotta catch the pterodactyls.

Locked in and out

2009-03-12T11:20:00.001-07:00

Had I been considering a career in burglary or safecracking, I would have to think again.
It all started a few weeks ago when I went to leave the house. We have dead bolts on our doors, and you need a key to open them. We had them installed when we moved into the house some eight years ago. While keeping bad guys out is one perk, the main reason we got them was to keep little ones in. I have heard the story of, when I was 3, having pushed a chair up to our front door, unlocking the chain and moseying out into traffic. Next time you drive past Blockbuster, think of me circa 1975, quite a few unpleasant motorists backed up on Silver Bluff Road and my mother in a dead sprint toward me, possibly saying something that started with “You little ...”
So anywho, back to the keys. I went to our usual spot where they live. Nothing there. No surprise. They often migrate away, to coat pockets, counter tops, inside of a kangaroo puppet’s pouch. Usual stuff.
Eventually, I was able to find a key to open the locks, which is good because you don’t really want to have to take your child into school late and sign them in with the reason “locked self inside house.” But one set of keys did not emerge during the quest. And, unfortunately, this was the set that had a key to the lock on the pool gate. I searched and searched, to no avail. So, I did what any sane person would do, and, in a bit of a huff, dragged a drill out at 9:30 at night and tried to break into my own pool gate.
I know what you’re thinking – Mike, why not just call a locksmith? Or find some bolt cutters? Or ... simply not do that? And the answer is simple: because my wife was not home.
The reason I opted for the drill is because I had successfully employed that method a few years back. I remember it being quick and easy. I think my memory is skewed. Donning some work gloves (safety first!) I began to drill out the lock. I recalled that the last time, I simply put the drill bit where the key would go, gunned the drill and click – open sesame. Apparently, however, this lock was made with some otherworldy metal that’s impervious to regular drills.
I assumed that the drill bit I had was simply the wrong size, so I switched it out with a smaller one, thinking maybe I just needed to needle my way in there. Sure enough, putting some muscle into it, I was able to start grinding out the center of the lock. In no time, I figured, this sucker would be open. After about 10 minutes, I saw the drill bit crawl out of the top of the lock. I backed the bit out of the lock and gave it a tug. Still locked. Grrr.
Clearly, another bit was necessary. I went into my tool chest and found a masonry bit. If it’s good enough for concrete, it good enough for a lock. (Tremendous logic, huh?) After about five minutes, I had proceeded to make the hole in the lock slightly bigger, the masonry bit slightly bent and the lock still completely locked.
Because it was getting late (and well past most communities’ outdoor drilling-into-metal ordinances), I opted to hang it up for the night. The next day, I went around the neighborhood asking for bolt cutters. Surprisingly, no one had any. I tried several other approaches, one in which involved ruining a perfectly good pair of hedge trimmers. I also tried using a hacksaw. I am pretty sure the lock actually chuckled at that attempt. I tried to pry it off, when it occurred to me that would more than likely pry off the gate hinge, not the lock.
As a last-ditch effort, I decided to get the largest drill bit I could find. At the very least, I would carve out more of the lock, potentially removing some of its clearly dark soul.
I grabbed the lock, put the drill bit to the bottom and squeezed the drill’s trigger. Click. Lock open. Uncle. Mercy. Call it what you will. I call it victory. And I think we can all take away a very important lesson from this: If I ask to borrow your hedge trimmers, say no.

Twitter tweet

2009-03-06T06:41:00.000-08:00

I’m having Twitter issues.
Namely, I can’t figure out what in the world Twitter is.
I have heard the term Twitter used on occasion, but just assumed it was something that I could continue to ignore and be fine, much like oil changes for my car.
Then I learned you could Twitter the Aiken Standard website. Or it was being Twittered. Or something involving Twittering, whatever that is.
Following the links, I was escorted to a page where I could sign up for Twitter. After entering a few fields I was signed up. For something I don’t understand. And can’t figure out how to use. Yea, me!
I asked several people to explain Twitter. No one could do it. I was directed to a “Daily Show” segment on it, which was funny, but still shed no actual light. So I went to the one source for accurate information on internet issues: Wikipedia.
The beauty of Wikipedia is that it is correct because it was put on the Internet by someone who claims to have knowledge of something. Good enough for me.
So Wikipedia says this of Twitter:
Twitter is a social networking and micro-blogging service that allows its users to send and read other users’ updates (known as tweets), which are text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length.
So there you go. It is an avenue for me to say things. Short things. How long is 140 characters you ask? Exactly this many, as I determined by typing it into the Twitter site, which counts down the number of characters you have left to post:
Exactly how many characters are made up in a 140-character post on Twitter? The answer may surprise you. Also, my Master Card number is 3340
Oooh. So close.
So basically Twitter is currently a character countdown machine. I type, and a little “140” on the screen counts down as long as I type. I suspect there is more intended by this.
Apparently, there are “followings” and “followers” on Twitter. I think I am supposed to follow the Twitterings of other people, and they are encouraged to follow me. I am a rather self-involved person, so I think I will focus more along the follower route.
But alas, how do you find people to Twitter with? Supposedly there are millions of people using Twitter. Surely I will know some of them, right? After all, my entire high school is on Facebook, which I still barely understand, so this can’t be too different, right?
Shocker – I found no one. I even went to the part of their site where they will automatically search your e-mail address book to see if any of your contacts are on Twitter. And I willingly entered in my e-mail address and password and sat there dumbly as it searched.
I think it’s a brilliant idea just to randomly go entering your e-mail passwords on websites. After all, I use the high-tech security program known as “hoping for the best.”
I later received a rather exasperated tutorial from a couple of newsroom Twitter experts. They explained to me that it could give me a constant news feed, from any site I choose, be it aikenstandard.com or cnn.com or espn.com or ... well, you get the picture. From any Twitter-friendly site.
“Can’t I just go to those sites?” I asked.
Based on the sighs and shaking of the heads, that is not the point. The point is...something. I think that it’s a NEW way to get an aggregation of news fed onto my computer screen (and apparently my phone, should I so choose).
If you care to see how it plays out, follow along with my tweets (look for StandardMike) and find out just how exciting my day can be. I plan to log a solid day of tweets today. I know you can’t wait to experience it. I look forward to your thoughts about it. All 140 characters of them.

Have a seat

2009-02-27T11:00:00.000-08:00

At what age do children actually learn to sit in chairs and on couches as nature intended?
I ask this question because it is clear that my kids – 5 and 8 – have no concept of how to actually use what seem like fairly basic devices. These are kids who can use a Wii. They can TiVo their favorite Disney shows (which is necessary because if you are not careful, you may miss one of the Hannah Montana shows that is only shown 54,000 times a day). They can somehow figure out how to construct an elaborate enough combination of sticks and ropes so as to get one of them stuck in a tree. But sitting? Well, for my kids, that’s just practically like doing the math in “Good Will Hunting.”
For example, we have an island in our kitchen. You get used to swimming around after awhile.
Ha! Get it? Island ... Oh, never mind.
Anyway, there are two high-back bar chairs that sit at the island. My wife and I often enjoy our dinner here, after children have gone to bed. “Why,” you are no doubt asking, “don’t you eat at 5:30 p.m. with your family, after walking in, putting your coat and hat on the hall tree and calling. ‘Honey, I’m home!’” And the answer is no, because I do not live in a 1950s television show.
My kids usually eat before I get home, and my wife and I enjoy a nice – albeit late – dinner together, where we can sit and chat and compare notes over who had the longer day.
When my wife and I eat, we have the whole chair thing down pat – we sit. And that is all. My kids, however, see these chairs as the most awesome, spinning, merry-go-rounds right there in the kitchen. I am fairly sure that, when my kids reflect on their childhood, one recurring memory will be of their father bellowing, “FOUR ON THE FLOOR!!!”
Of course, when they are in the chairs, even balanced on one leg, that is at least a step in the right direction. I am still working to keep them from sitting on the counter. We have a small TV in the kitchen because we cannot risk going from the den to the playroom and missing some Hannah Montana. On occasion, I will find the kids sitting on the counter right by the TV, often having helped themselves to a snack. So I get to offer up such gems as:
— “I make your lunch there. You seriously want to sit there?”
— “Five seconds. See if you can go just that long without staring at a TV.”
— “Where did you find a bag of potato chips that big? You’re sitting in it for crying out loud!”
But the worst infractions occur on the couch. We have two big comfy couches in the den. These couches are perfect for sitting on and even occasionally kicking off your shoes and relaxing for a baseball nap. (A baseball nap, for what it’s worth, is a nap that take about two to three innings. They are best done on a summer Saturday afternoon, between the third and fifth innings. Baseball is a great sport because you can nap during it and not really miss anything. That said, you do not have to actually have a baseball game on to take this kind of nap. It’s just that Hockey Nap sounds odd.)
But my kids do not treat the couches as couches. For starters, it’s like a pillow fire sale – every pillow must go! Some are stacked as new, makeshift chairs. Some are used as fort walls. Some are merely flung, discus style, in an attempt to knock over a big sister.
Second, there is not actual sitting on the couch part. The arm? Sure. The back? You bet. Halfway on, halfway on the floor? Why not? Underneath? As far as they can fit. When I tell them not to sit on the couch in that manner, they act as though I have just asked them to lift a Subaru and commence the most labored grunting and groaning as they move toward the normal, human sitting mode.
Like most everything else with kids, I guess this will just take time. At some point in time, they will learn how to sit in a chair. Or on a couch. Or not on a counter. Until then, I think I’ll make the lunches somewhere else.

Superman falls

2009-02-23T12:54:00.000-08:00

Last week, I informed you I am invincible. This week, I would like to repeat that I am still invincible, much in the way Superman is invincible, even when he lost all his powers for a brief spell.
If you recall, I told you of how my family had succumbed to weakness and gotten sick for a two-week stretch. It started with my wife, who passed it on to our son, who shared it with his sister. I, of course, am too awesome to get sick. At least with their pitiful strain of sickness.
Clearly, the sickness that overtook me the very same day that column was published was from a different strain – one most likely created in a lab for use as chemical warfare but deemed far too cruel for use on actual humans. That is the only explanation as to how I got sick. Or, as I was quick to remind my wife, sicker than anyone on the planet had ever been.
It started with a bit of a tickle in the throat. Just something in the air, I assumed. Nothing that a constant, vocal, annoying clearing of my throat wouldn’t cure. Because this was an aggressive and angry version of sickness, the tickle quickly moved to a full-blown hacking, disgusting cough, one of those uncontrollable, full-body seizing coughs that causes you to lunge forward and your eyes to water and creates a general full-body quake that makes you look like you’re doing a Joe Cocker impersonation, to the point where your wife then says, “Seriously? The interpretive dance part? A little much.”
While it would have probably been in the best interest to have myself immediately admitted into the finest medical facility in the world so that I could offer medical specialists an opportunity to study the world’s most ferocious sickness, my wife suggested I instead take some NyQuil and go to bed. I reminded her that my sickness was nothing like the ones she and the kids had experienced.
I did not sleep well that night, mainly because I had convinced myself that my sickness would turn to a flesh-eating virus any time now. By morning, I decided I would get up long enough to take our son to school, and then I would come home and wail and moan loudly until I realized no one was there to hear it.
My wife called and asked me how I was feeling.
“Auuuggghhh,” was my response.
She asked me if I was running a fever, as she and the kids had all topped 102 during their pedestrian sick time. I told her that I did have a fever and that 98.8 was a far worse fever because it is so close to NOT having a fever that it lulls you into thinking you’re not sick. At that point, something must have happened with the phone line, as it went dead suddenly. Perhaps my sickness ate through it.
That night, as I was packing a bag for my inevitable medical experiment ship-off, my wife again suggested I take some NyQuil. And the sooner the better. She told me she was tired of hearing about it, which, as you know, means that it was taxing on her to constantly hear the horrors of my sickness, much like hearing the anguished cries of a loved one having their flesh attacked by piranhas. (I have not actually heard someone be attacked by piranhas, but I would imagine the cries are quite anguished.)
By the next day, I was feeling much better, which shows that my sickness was clearly not related to theirs, as the three of them stretched it out for two weeks. Fortunately, like Superman, I was able to overcome and defeat it and was soon back in top form. I know my wife was glad to see that I was better, as it had to be painful witnessing the horror that I had endured and to know that I had taken on the insidious sickness to spare my family. The things I do for these people.
I know some of you are relishing in what you perceive as me having jinxed myself. To which I say, “Pshaw.” Clearly, I did not have the same illness. Mine, like kryptonite, was probably not of this world. But, like, Superman, I fought valiantly and am once again invincible. Except for this little tickle that’s back in my throat ...

Strong like bull

2009-02-11T08:59:00.000-08:00

One thing that is clearly evident after the last two weeks: I am invincible.
I base this on the fact that the rest of my family contracted some vicious alien illness that rendered my house a sick bay.
It started with my wife. She went to bed on a Saturday night, saying she wasn’t feeling that great. Might have a bit of a cold, she thought. She decided to invite our good friend NyQuil over and see how it goes. When she finally got out of bed about three days later, she still felt lousy. It was tough on me, too. I had to feed the kids, get them dressed, help them with homework and the like. You know, the things she does every day. Hardly fair to me.
But she was kind enough to get up long enough to get our son Parker sick. He took the funk baton from her and ran with it. Most kids, when they get sick, like to curl up on the couch, maybe take in a movie, snuggle up with Mommy or Daddy. Not Parker. The more the fever ticked up, the more wired he got.
100 – Sprinting through the den, singing Diego theme song.
101 – Sprinting up and down the stairs, screaming Diego theme song.
102 – Swinging from ceiling fan, emitting a hum that, I think, may have been a rapidly condensed Diego theme song.
Bedtime was a treat, too. Normally, Parker goes to bed quite well. Bath, teeth brushed, swig of NyQuil Jr. (OK, there is no such thing as NyQuil Jr. I checked.) But when he was fired up with fever, there would be no bedtime. I would sit with him, and he would get stiff as a board and say, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.” So Mommy would come in. “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.” We both would come in. “Diego. Diego. Diego. Diego.”
After a few days, his fever was down, and he was on the mend, meaning that his sister had her turn. She had been somewhat jealous of all of the attention her brother got. About two days into her illness, she confessed that she had kinda wanted to be sick, but now that she had headed down that path, she would like to pass on it. No can do, you who tested positive for flu. She was miserable, with a fever comparable to Parker’s. Her difference is that she opted for lying in bed, watching the Disney channel, on occasionally moaning loud enough so that we could hear her. There were three mains moans: “Water”; “Take my temperature”; “Get Parker out of here.”
But through it all, one thing remained constant: My refusal to get sick. Some would chalk it up to having gotten a flu shot. Other might call it dumb luck. Clearly, that is insane, as the only sensible answer is that I have an unparalleled strength, and I refused to allow sickness to win.
I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking it’s only a matter of time until I get sick, especially having said that. To which I say: Pshaw. I do not believe in jinxes. But I believe in submersing myself in a tub of Purel for hours on end.
So I will consider myself victorious in the battle that claimed three in my household. I am the last man standing. For I am strong. Although I do feel a tickle in my throat...

Down memory lane

2009-02-03T09:02:00.000-08:00

My kids have taken a curious interest in what things were like when I was a kid. This started a while back when I pointed out the house I lived in until I was 4, which was on Silver Bluff Road. They were fascinated to learn that the BI-LO shopping center was a neighborhood and that a parachutist landed there once. I am not sure why a parachutist chose a neighborhood to land in, but I am fairly certain it was a mistake. Perhaps he was aiming for the large field, across the street, which I refer to as the Kroger shopping center, only to have to say, “No, wait, the old ... oldish ... Krog ... Old Navy shopping center.”
We moved from that house when I was 4, but I still have some memories, in particular of my sisters teaching me how to climb a large magnolia in our neighbors’ yard. They did not, however, teach me the art of climbing DOWN a magnolia tree. I also have another oh-so-fond memory of the time my sisters told me we were going to play Peter Pan. There was a rope with a clip on the end that was hanging from a tree branch. They clipped the end of it to my back belt loop, leaving me hanging in the flying position. They told me to close me eyes, and they would spin me. When I opened my eyes, I would fly!
OK, anyone wanna guess what happened when I opened my eyes? I am still not 100 percent sure how I got down, but I do think my sisters stayed in hiding for a while.
So after sharing these stories, the kids have been asking about various buildings. Among the places we have talked about:
1. The current Aiken County Complex — I was paying a tax bill there, and I explained to Parker that I was born there. He looked up and down the halls. It did not appear to be the best place to give birth. I told him it probably looked a little different then.
2. Mitchell Shopping Center — We were in the Post Office inside Unique Expressions, which used to be, I told him, Woodruff’s Drug, and how I could ride by bike from Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house. That shopping center also used to house an Edwards department store, where I remember shopping one year and finding a gigantic stack of Tupperware containers that I absolutely had to get for my mom’s birthday. I was so excited, I gave it to her about two weeks before her birthday. To my mother, of course, it was the most perfect and fantastic setup of containers EVER. There was also a candy store there, where we used to get either candied apples or popcorn balls, depending on whether you ask me or my sister. Also, where the billiards place is now, was a Brindle’s and a Service Merchandise at various times, one of which is where my Millennium Falcon was purchased.
3. Zaxby’s — While Zaxby’s is a fine place for chicken fingers, my children are in awe of the stories of the former occupant, the greatest pizza establishment ever, Mr. Gatti’s. I have no idea how good the pizza actually was. I just know that it was buffet style and had unlimited soft drinks and video game machines. Combine that with being located across the street from the soccer field, and it was the place to go after a game. For what it’s worth, across the street from Mr. Gatti’s, in what is now Hardee’s, was a Burger King. In high school, my friend Chris and I would go there and both load up – he would get two Whoppers and I would eat two chicken sandwiches. The thought of eating two chicken sandwiches – in particular as a between-meal snack – makes my stomach hurt.
4. Moe’s — From Krystal to Gary’s Hamburgers to Kentucky Fried Chicken, that corner has seen a lot of action. (I am thinking a Dairy Queen was there for a while, too.) The main thing I remember – it used to take roughly nine hours to get a bucket of chicken. I guess they had not fully bought into the fast-food model back then.
5. Heritage Square — What many people call the Home Depot shopping center was home to a Food Lion, which was actually a Food Town first. I remember the TV commercials when they changed the name, with a cartoon lion singing “It’s not Food Town, it’s Food Lion!!!” Guess who hated that jingle? My sisters. And wanna guess who sang it constantly? The shopping center was also home to Wal-Mart, and beside it was a Revco drug store, which was my personal favorite place to get baseball cards, with the obvious exception of ...
6. The building next to Porky Bradberry’s Jewelry — That was home to Donnie’s, a baseball card store. Donnie “hired” me when I was 13, but because you couldn’t technically work when you were that age, he let me hang out in his store and organize cards and such. He paid me each week with store credit. It was the greatest job a kid could ever have. Sometimes, I would spend my credit on a single card, while other times I would go buy a whole box of cards, some of which I still have, unopened. I am guessing 25-year-old gum is delicious.
There are plenty of other places that have changed, some of which I may touch on in a future column. And I am sure my memory could be slightly off on some of these, as many of these recollections were formed on the back of my bike in the 1970s and 1980s. It is fun to stroll your hometown, though, and share your childhood memories as your kids form their own. Maybe some of their memories will be similar to mine. Maybe one day their aunts can teach them how to fly.

Wheeling it

2009-01-14T07:58:00.000-08:00

It was a disaster of epic proportions. I heard my wife call over to me from across the street. I turned and saw my son face down in the grass. His bike was overturned. He was less than happy.
Now, you may think I am setting the stage from some brutal bike crash, but I assure you that is not the case.
My son is the master of the slow fall, where the bike starts to lean and he just gradually walks it over on its side. So I was not quite sure why he was lying down. And pounding the grass.
Hmm, I thought. And continued playing basketball.
“MICHAEL!” said my wife, speaking in all caps to show how important my attention to the matter was. I stopped in the middle of an incredibly important game of horse, one in which I had already dispatched two neighbors and was working on a third. “I’m kinda busy here ...” I said, letting her know just how exasperated I was to be interrupted when I had someone at h-o-r-s.
“His bike is broken,” my wife said, somehow thinking I was suddenly a bicycle repairman.
“Horse,” I said, pointing at the basketball goal. She said nothing. And that spoke volumes that I best high tail it over to the broken bike.
When I got there, I saw that the training wheel on the right side had snapped off, splitting the plastic. I looked at it, and said, “Yeah, it’s broken.” I figured I could get back to playing horse.
My wife asked what I was going to do. I told her that I could not fix it, and we would simply have to buy a replacement. Parker found this answer unsatisfactory.
“But you can fix it, Daddy!”
It is really nice to know that my son still believes I can fix anything. Even shattered plastic.
So we walked the bike back to the driveway. I thought about the various ways I could try and reattach the wheel – nails, duct tape, super glue, chewing gum ... Hmmm. No viable options. I told Parker we might have to go to the store to get a new wheel. “But I want to ride now!”
“Well,” I told him, “then you’ll have to ride on two wheels.” Call that bluff, tough guy.
“OK. Take off the training wheels.”
Gulp.
So in short time I had the training wheels off. I told him we would try to go a short distance in the yard, so that when he fell it wouldn’t hurt. I put him on the bike and steadied him. We started moving slowly, and I told him he needed to keep steady, to keep the pedals moving, to look forward.
Apparently he didn’t want to hear anymore direction because he simply pedaled away from me.
Of course, I ran behind him, waiting for him to fall. And I ran. And I ran. And I ran. And he kept going.
He rode over toward a crowd of neighbors nearby. They all braced to catch him.
He veered toward a yard, slammed on the brakes and dismounted.
“There,” I said. “I fixed the training wheel problem.” Remember the scene in “American Beauty” when Lester Burnham gets his Firebird? And he shoots the fist up and says, “I rule!”? Yeah, that was me.
I turned to walk off when a neighbor said, “Uh, you can’t just give him one push and call it done!”
Oh, yeah? I set him on the bike again. And off he went. “Oh, apparently I can.” Fist.
So he is now up and running on two wheels, and I have to say it was the easiest transition in the history of mankind. It would not have been that easy had he suddenly sprouted wheels. Glad it was that easy. And glad he still thinks I can fix ANYTHING.

Intruder alert!

2009-01-08T10:05:00.001-08:00

I was heading into the garage, as I am sure you often do, to get some sour cream.
To that you are no doubt saying, “The garage? For sour cream? Well, that makes perfect sense.” And then you vow never to eat chip dip at my house.
Actually, I was getting sour cream out from my garage refrigerator, which is needed to house the overflow food that does not fit in my main refrigerator, whose sole job is to house 500 to 600 pounds of leftovers at a time, which cannot be moved until it is time to throw them out, only to remark to my wife, “Look at how much we throw out!?!?! This is nuts!!!” At that point, she reminds me that my contribution to leftover consumption was zero, and the kids roll their eyes and leave the room, lest the conversation degrade into one about how it’s not that hard to change a toilet paper roll. You know – the kind of things married couples argue about when they have run out of real things to argue about.
So anyway, I was in the garage when I heard my wife call my name. And she did not sound happy. In fact, she sounded terrified, as if a giant squid was reaching through the upstairs window and attacking her. (I have no experience with squid attacks, but I feel certain that should one attack my wife, she might sound that kind of panicky.)
I bolted upstairs and found my wife standing in the playroom, her hands pressing against a closet door. “IT’S TRYING TO GET OUT!!!” she said as I bounded in the room.
“The squid?” I asked.
She looked at me funny.
“What is trying to get out?”
“I don’t know. I was sitting at the computer, I heard the door open, and it banged at the door and tried to get out. It’s a squirrel. Or a mouse. Or a possum. I don’t know. It’s something coming at the door.”
Immediately, I sprung into supreme protector mode. I put my hand on the door. “Dinner is on the stove,” I said. “Go take care of that. I’ll take it from here.” I looked around for something heavy, knowing that the squirrel/possum/squid might be quite powerful.
Once the door was secure, I went into the garage and grabbed a pair of heavy work gloves and a flashlight. My plan was simple: I would swing the door open, shine the light inside the closet, stunning whatever was there. I would then grab it with my gloves and let it go back in the woods/sea.
When I got upstairs, I donned my gloves. I readied the flashlight. I cued up the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” in my head to make me feel like an action hero.
One.
Two.
Three.
And with a deep breath, I flung the door open, crouched down with the flashlight and scanned for my nemesis. And I scanned. And I scanned. And I scanned. And I kicked a box to make it show itself. And I scanned. And I pushed another box. And I caught a suitcase that almost fell on me.
For a good minute I probed the closet, trying to find the offending creature. No sounds. No signs of life. Nothing.
I called down to my wife. “Are you sure you heard something?”
She was very sure. She stood at the bottom of the stairs assuring me how sure she was. While at the stairs, she noticed that I had left the door to the garage open. She was also sure that I could close a door. She gave the door a swift shove.
At that point, the closet door that was I standing next to also slammed shut. A metal container hanging on the doorknob rattled on the handle. In fact, it rattled in a way quite similar to, say, a possum scratching the door.
I came downstairs to test my theory. I began opening and closing the door quickly. Each time, I could hear the upstairs closet door open and close, the metal thingie rattling all the way. This told me one of two things: The possum/squid was an excellent choreographer, or the opening and closing was creating some kind of air current that was making it appear that something was trying to bust its way out of the closet.
When I explained my theory to my wife, she seemed a little embarrassed, even if not totally sold on my theory. I told her that it did, indeed, sound like something was trying to get out of the room, and that we at least had good experience, having done a dry run. At the very least, we are prepared. Bring on the squid.

Christmas time

2008-12-17T08:18:00.001-08:00

Wow, just about a week left. No time like the present (Ha! Get it? Present!) for some random Christmas thoughts:
• Familiar with the Elf on a Shelf? Concept seems pretty neat to me: It’s a small elf that Santa sits down to keep an eye on everyone in the house. Each night, he flies back to the North Pole to report on everyone’s behavior and then flies back to a different spot, which the kids then search for each morning. I asked the kids if they wanted an Elf on a Shelf. Parker said yes. Allie said, “Uh, I don’t think we need that.” This is the child who, one night before Easter, asked us if the Easter Bunny could leave her basket on the porch, as she really did not want a giant bunny coming in her room. I think I need to stop reading her Stephen King bedtime stories.
• All of the lights are up, and I have sworn off adding any more. My neighborhood gets pretty well decorated, and my cul-de-sac is especially festively bright. How bright, you ask? I replaced my outdoor flood lights the other night when I thought they had both burned out. Turns out, the Christmas lights were bright enough to fool the sensor. Awesome.
• We continued our tradition of getting a real tree this year. By my count, we are one of 11 families in the country that still gets a real tree, which makes it all the more curious as to why it took us four stops to find the right one. I always want to go for the real one because I absolutely love the smell and the feel of a real one. Plus, the chance for a repeat of the cat versus Christmas tree battle from several years ago is worth it.
• You know what I love most about Christmas shopping? The fact that several years ago, my wife told me that a standing birthday present for me would be to have the Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving. That, my friends, is the gift that never stops giving.
• Do you know what happens when you step on a plastic Smurfette on your way to the bathroom at 4 in the morning? You say things that will get you on the naughty list. And apparently, that crime is worse than the crime of leaving said Smurfette on the floor. At the very least, the Elf could have helped her up before he went to the North Pole.
• I heard on the radio an environmentally friendly way to wrap presents, and that is not to wrap them at all. Instead, the person said, hide the presents all around the house and have kids go find them. While that may be well and good, this brings the distinct possibility of uncovering a Transformer stashed under an end table about 11 years later. Additionally, without wrapping paper, I would not be able to periodically shout, “NO WRAPPING PAPER IN THE FIRE!!!” a time-honored tradition handed down from my father. I cannot wait until Parker can yell it at his own house.
• Now is the time of year when people start asking me what I am getting my wife. I think I am just going to start coming up with insanely off-the-wall things so that people will leave me alone. In the past, I have responded, “Well, we usually give each other a few small items, and some years go in on something for ourselves, such as a TV or a trip or something.” To that, people often respond, “Oh, she SAYS that she doesn’t want a big gift, but she REALLY wants a diamond/gold bracelet/date with Brad Pitt.” And like birthdays and anniversaries and all other gift-giving holidays, I have to say, “No, I know my wife well, and we have our gifting system rather defined and blah blah blah.” So, to avoid that, let’s go ahead and get it out there: This year, for Christmas, I am getting my wife a gold and diamond encrusted date with Brad Pitt.
• That is all for now. (Guess I will ... wait for it ... wrap it up! Ha! OK, I’ll stop.) Hope your final week of Christmas preparation is merry and fun. And never forget what this season is all about – keeping wrapping paper out of the fire.

Free ride

2008-12-11T12:36:00.001-08:00

I don’t know much about cars. But I know that when my car can be heard from 11 blocks away, it might be time to get it looked at.
I learned this lesson in college. I had the most sporting 1984 Toyota Corolla that you could imagine. It was my grandmother’s car before my possession, so you know it was practically a muscle car. Toward the end of its noble life, the Corolla could limp to a whopping top speed of about 35 mph. Also, the driver’s side window was permanently stuck halfway down (or halfway up, if you’re an optimist). But the most delightful part of my four-wheeled stud machine was the loud grinding sound that came from the engine. To give you an idea of how loud it was, my wife and I were dating at the time, and if I was going to pick her up at her apartment, she could simply keep a window open. When she heard my car coming, she would start getting ready. By the time I arrived, she had already snuck out of her apartment and headed out with her car, so that no one would pair her with my awful contraption.
I definitively knew something was wrong with my Corolla many moons ago. And for the several months I drove it like that, I confirmed to most people that, yes, I did realize it sounded like an incredibly loud blender was under my hood. When I finally had someone check out my car, I was informed that I had a cracked mount. When I was told this, I said, “Hmmmm. A mount, huh? And it’s cracked, you say?” I still have no idea what that means, but I have decided it is bad.
So using the knowledge I gained in college, I had a fairly good inkling that something might be wrong when my current car started sounding like a very loud creaking box spring. I have several friends who know more about cars than I do (for example, they know what spark plugs do). I asked them what they thought was wrong. Someone suggested it was the bushings. “Hmmmm,” I said. “The bushings, huh? Do you think they’re cracked?”
Eventually, I took my car in for repairs. The bushings were somehow involved, but the needed work included replacing arms. I assume my car has these.
The repairs, unfortunately, were not free that day, so I opted to park the Creakymobile in the driveway and borrow my mother-in-law’s car. The car is a fine car, a large luxury sedan. And, apparently, I don’t belong in a large, luxury sedan. Every time I step out of her car, I get strange looks from people, as though I have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat.
People I know have even remarked things such as, “What’s with the car?” and “Did you get a new car?” and “Do you have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat?” (My responses: Loaner; No; You saw nothing.)
Driving the great big boat of a car reminds me of when I got my driver’s license when I was 15, which is the single worst law ever put into effect anywhere. I base this on the scientific study of having been a 15-year-old. It would have been safer for me to unicycle over a Grand Canyon tight rope. For me personally, I had several things going against me:
1. I was not even 5 feet tall.
2. I looked like I was 8 years old, causing other drivers to be distracted as to why a third-grader was cruising around town.
3. My mother’s car was a Mercury Grand Marquis, which was about the size of a Taco Bell.
I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about my current ride. I mean, at least I have a car to get me from point A to point B. And, as soon as I get my car fixed, I will be able to park the Grand Marquis, V 2.0. Besides, I don’t want to drive it too much. Something might crack.

Cinderella meets her match

2008-12-05T11:46:00.000-08:00

We walked out of the tent and into the cold winter air. My 5-year-old son did not even notice the chill. He grabbed my coat sleeve and tugged. I looked down and saw the grin was still on his face. “Daddy,” he said, “she’s beautiful.”
And so began my son’s fascination with the Stone Mountain Snow Angel, a lovely young woman with whom children can have their picture taken. In fact, he was so fond of the Snow Angel that she has dethroned Cinderella as his No. 1 crush, a spot she held for two years. (Cinderella ascended to the top spot at Disney two years ago when, during a photo op, Parker and his perma-grin decided he would be quite content staying there hugging the princess.
We went to Stone Mountain for Thanksgiving to visit my inlaws. On the Wednesday before, we decided to head to the big ol’ hunk of granite to take in its Christmas display, which includes roughly 48 trillion lights and gobs of Christmas-related entertainment. Some would argue that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is not, in fact, Christmas season, and would then go on to make the never-before made point that “Christmas season just keeps starting earlier and earlier each year,” and then spin the memories back to a simpler time – a time when Christmas apparently began around 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve.
For me, Christmas can be year-round. I’m a big Christmas nerd, and can’t wait for the season to start each year. Even when stuff starts going up in the stores around October, I find it not a reason to harumph the early start, but rather to chastise the other holidays for not being nearly interesting enough to hold their own month. And you call yourself a holiday, Halloween!?!?!? (Yes, I know that I wrote a while back that Christmas music cannot be sung until after Thanksgiving. That still holds true, but the decorations can stay up all the time. Hypocrite? Yes. Yes, I am.)
When we arrived at the park, it was clear they had the place dressed to the nines with lights. It was like a little winter Vegas. Lights. Everywhere. To show you what a Christmas nerd I am, as I stood in front of the illuminated entrance, I realized that I had pretty much left my entire family several rows back in the parking lot. Hey, Christmas might start without me.
Eventually, I took a deep breath and vowed not to abandon my family any more. Inside the park are restaurants and shops, and the pathways were all light-lined. We strolled a little ways in, trying to figure out which of the myriad of activities to take on first. And when you’re in a decision making pinch, there is one tried and true solution: Ask Mrs. Claus.
As we stood there looking at a map and generally appearing lost, Mrs. Claus just happened to be strolling by. The kids stared at her and back at us. Mrs. Claus greeted the kids and paused for a quick picture. She then said, “You probably want to head that way,” pointing to a side path, “and see Santa and the Snow Angel.” She leaned into my wife and whispered where the best spot to watch the fireworks was. Insider trading from Mrs. Claus. Nice.
Indeed, Mrs. Claus had guided us wisely, as we were in no time visiting with the Snow Angel, and then with the big man himself. When my daughter informed him that she would like the whole family to get a Nintendo Wii, Santa said that he had received that request quite a bit, and that his elves were having to put in a lot of time in the electronics workshop to fill all of those requests.
Toward the end of our visit, we prepared for the fireworks show, staking out a spot just where Mrs. Claus had directed us. The Snow Angel was going to make another appearance, we were told, which made the fact that Parker was two hours past his bedtime irrelevant, as there would be no fussing as long as the Snow Angel was coming back out.
Parker was perched on my shoulders when a bright light appeared above one of the buildings. And there she came. Flying. Yes, the Snow Angel can fly. Or, as Parker said, “And she can fly!?!?!?!” Not only did she fly, but she made it snow, too. Snow Angel – she’s practically a superhero?
As the Snow Angel wrapped up her snow-producing flight, the fireworks show began. Everyone turned their eyes to the mountain and the huge bursts of color. Well, everyone but Parker. His eyes were on the Snow Angel. He saw her zip to the other end of the park, and then descend down behind a fence, I guess heading off to her snow castle. Cinderella, you might want to start flying lessons.

Idontwanna hear Iwanna

2008-11-30T09:13:00.001-08:00

I have banned the “Iwannas.”
No, not the want-ad magazines. You are free to shop for a used car. But you are not allowed to tell me over and over and over how much you want an Iwanna, which would amount to saying “Iwanna Iwanna” over and over. Follow me? No?
The problem has arisen because my children have taken to adding “Iwanna” as major parts of their vocabulary.
Case study No. 1: The Zaxby’s incident. We were heading home the other day, and I asked the kids what they wanted for lunch. Allie said, “Iwanna go to Zaxby’s.” I told her that we were going to eat at home, as our last 423 meals had been at Chick-fil-A and Zaxby’s, and I was fairly certain we were about to turn into chickens. For the duration of the car ride home, I was informed that a Zaxby’s destination was desired. Again. And again. And again.
At this point, there are a couple of options:
1. Announce that not only are we not going to Zaxby’s, we are never going to Zaxby’s again, and in fact, we are not even allowed to have Z words in the house anymore, so your brother has to get rid of his plastic zebras.
2. Clench the steering wheel tightly, lean forward, staring intently at the road, until you pull in the garage, get out of the van, walk inside, find your wife and say, “Yours.”
I opted for No. 2, which I am sure made her consider packing up the kids and going to Zaxby’s, just for chuckles.
Later that day, when the dust settled, I sat down with my children and informed them that the Iwannas were going to have to go. I then had them watch “Apocalypse Now” for perspective on how good their lives really are.
Ha! Little war movie humor. I would never have them watch that. It was “Full Metal Jacket.”
Just as bad, of course, are the “Idontwannas.”
Case study No. 2: I was getting ready to take Parker to school the other day. I told him to get his lunch box out of the fridge. He slumped his head, groaned and said, “Ohhh ... Idontwanna ...”
Now, keep in mind the laborious efforts that go into getting a lunch:
1. Opening the fridge
2. Grabbing a Transformers lunch box
3. Closing the fridge
And that effort gives you lunch, with a Fruit Roll-Up, thank you very much. Seems a small amount of effort for lunch. But the instinctive “Idontwanna” kicks in, and he doesn’t even stop to think, “Wow, I am spending more energy with this little display than I would actually getting my lunch.”
Don’t get me wrong. My kids are good kids, and they are, fortunately, not chronic whiners. Sure, they have their moments, but my wife says that I do, too, which I think is completely untrue, but I allow her to say it because it makes her feel better. I have never, ever shown a bad mood or whiny nature, and if I did, could it possibly, just possibly, be because I was tired? Or hungry? Or just generally fussy? Can’t a guy have a bad day!?!?!
Oh, wait, got sidetracked.
So we are going to work on the Iwannas and Idontwannas, especially as we head into the holiday season. It is very important for my children to grow up appreciative of what they have. It’s not that we live like kings, but I do want my children to be thankful for what they have and understand that you won’t get everything you want in life, and that’s not only OK, but pretty much a law of nature. I think each day, I need to remind them how important it is that they value things. I think I will follow them around saying “Idontwanna hear any more Iwannas.”
Michael Gibbons is the managing editor of the Aiken Standard.

Sell sell sell!

2008-11-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

Admit it. You’ve been there.
You look out your window see a neighbor walking with child in tow.
The child is carrying a sheet of paper as they head to a house a few doors down.
Returning a borrowed magazine, perhaps? Maybe dropping off a few pages of a recently penned manifesto?
The door opens, and the little hand raises up the sheet of paper and a pen. Uh-oh. It’s fund-raising season.
FAST FACT: One provision of the No Child Left Behind Act is that every American child must participate in at least 11 fund-raisers each week.
Back to our story. You now have only a moment to decide your course of action. No one NEEDS wrapping paper, a pizza kit, cookie dough, etc.
You think about making an emergency grocery store run. You consider the “No speaka the English” routine that you tried on the telemarketer.
You even think about saying, “Sorry, Timmy. Burglars stole all of my money.”
And then you turn and see your kids. Immediately flashing before you is the memory of all the times you stood at a neighbors door, hawking wares.
And you remember how your neighbors never once told you they didn’t speaka the English, but instead dutifully bought a make-your-own pretzel kit that, no doubt, still sits in their freezer.
FAST FACT: No American has every actually eaten an entire box of oranges – and lived to tell about it.
The latest sales pitch that came around was a 2-year-old from across the street. (His mom even turned his ball cap around backwards to make it extra hard to resist. Well played, Mom. Well played.)
Seeing that helped me remember the first time we had to make the rounds with our kids to shake down the neighbors.
I don’t even recall what we were selling, but I took an almost embarrassed and sheepish approach as I went to each house.
Of course, neighbors with older kids understand you are simply going through your initiation.
FAST FACT: Of the cookie dough we bought, I will eat roughly 2/3 of it raw, only stopping because I am caught in mid-act, scooping it out with my hand.
At least the stuff that they sell these days is getting better.
I remember when I was a kid playing T-ball, and we had our door-to-door fund-raiser.
And what is the best thing to have little boys go around selling? Why shampoo, of course.
My parents ended up buying this industrial sized keg of strawberry shampoo that lasted for about 11 years.
Throughout my childhood, the only thing I remember using that shampoo for was to wash the dog, because what German Shepherd DOESN’T want to smell like strawberries?
FAST FACT: It is estimated that 90 percent of a child’s exercise comes from walking house to house selling things for fund-raisers.
But, so it goes when you have kids or when you live in a neighborhood with them. It’s just part of the rent.
If it makes you feel better, use this simple formula: Add up the number of children within a two-block radius. Multiply that by 12. Set that dollar amount aside at the beginning of each year, and your wrapping paper, cookie dough and pizza kit funds will be covered.
FAST FACT: $12 is a magical number required on all school fund-raisers.
So, the next time the doorbell rings, and you see neighborhood kid with paper in hand, don’t plot your exit strategy and grab the checkbook.
Just do your duty.
And you’ll know if it’s my kids selling stuff. They’ll be the ones with their hats turned backward.

2008-11-05T12:54:00.001-08:00

Carpet country

2008-10-30T07:12:00.000-07:00

It’s carpet season, and we are on the hunt for the finest carpet in the land.
Our current carpet was originally installed when we first moved in, when our daughter was a baby. She’s 8 now, and she has a 5-year-old brother. Combine three dogs and one cat (7 years, 8 years, 3 years and 8 years, respectively, in the house), and that adds up to 39 years of carpet nastiness.
Now, don’t get me wrong. We have tried to keep our carpet clean. We vacuum it. We have had it professionally cleaned. We even encouraged the kids NOT to grind Pop-Tarts into it.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that the first rule should be NO FOOD UPSTAIRS! And I agree. Because that rule is there. Food is not allowed upstairs. Or in the van.
Slight problem: You have to actually enforce the rules. And the kids don’t even have to try to weasel around the rules. It goes like this:
MONDAY: The week always starts off easy. Lunches were made the night before, and school clothes were set out. The kids ask to have some Corn Pops upstairs. “Oh, kids, you know there’s no food upstairs!” And the whole family chuckles together. I am pretty sure this scene is shot in black and white.
TUESDAY: The wheels have come off. While trying to find a matching hair band and the other shoe as well as figure out how someone could lose a bright yellow Transformers lunch box – IT’S BRIGHT YELLOW! – you and your spouse are busy running laps past each other saying things like, “Well, you drove the car home, so the keys HAVE to be here somewhere” and “I thought YOU were taking her to the orthodontist.” At that point, one of the kids asks if they can have Corn Pops upstairs. They could have asked if they could use the power drill on the computer, as the answer would have still been, “Whatever, where are the keys/hair band/lunch box?”
And so the food rule is broken. Same thing happens in the van. You are on your way to school – awesomely on time for a change – when you put your child in the car and hear, “Daddy, I’m hungry.” Then it occurs to you that, as a parent, breakfast would be a nice addition for your child. So you convince yourself that Pop-Tarts are practically fruit salad, whip one in the back seat, and pick out the crunchy remnants a week later.
So over time, carpets can get nasty. Ours has reached that point. My wife decided that she would embark on the carpet quest alone, as she knew I would be zero help.
HER: Do you like this style?
ME: Sure.
HER: How about this one?
ME: Sure.
HER: This one?
ME: Sure.
HER: I just showed you a baloney sandwich.
ME: Sure.
Fortunately, she knows that, when I tell her I really don’t care, I do mean I really will be OK with whatever her pick is. I also am worthless with colors. It’s not that I’m colorblind. But I am definitely color indifferent. Case in point: I am still pretty sure our first house was gray. My wife has shown me pictures in which it is very clearly tan. Yet I still remember it as gray. So when she brought home a selection of different color samples, you can guess how helpful I was. It was especially confusing since they all appeared tan to me, meaning I had to wonder if my wife was getting gray carpet, since they are apparently interchangeable.
As we move forward with the carpet process, we are in the one phase that is actually a part I am liking: The purging. This is where you go through every room, and put every thing in it in a big black trash bag to throw out. Then, you wait until your wife comes in and says, “Uh, we are not starting from scratch, and also I am pretty sure that one bag has the cat in it.”
But we are going room to room and seeing what things can be relocated to a different home (namely a landfill home). We are also finding some things that we have not seen in ages. I am not sure why one of my favorite T-shirts was wedged behind a Harry Potter book in the playroom, but it’s great to have Ol’ Blue back in play.
So in a few weeks, the process will be complete. It will be nice to have clean, crisp new flooring, and I am sure we will work hard to keep the food downstairs. After all, we want to preserve its original color of tan. Or gray.

Can it

2008-10-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

Do you know how hard it is to find a cool trash can?
Based on the blank stare, you do not, in fact, even have a good idea as to what a cool trash can is. You and the entire retail world.
My quest for a cool trash can came the other day when I was helping Parker clean his room. And by “help” I mean “clean,” as a 5-year-old set off to clean often gets distracted by Matchbox cars, toy dinosaurs, air, etc.
I noticed some trash behind his door. I held it up to Parker and we had this exchange:
ME: Why didn’t you put this in the trash can?
PARKER: I don’t have a trash can.
ME: OK, but there are plenty of trash cans in the house.
PARKER: But I don’t have one in my room. And the trash was there.
ME: But ...
PARKER: If I had a trash can, I’d put it in there.
ME: Let’s got get a trash can.
So we set off on a quest for a trash can. I asked Parker what kind he wanted, and, as I have rather obviously foreshadowed, he said “a cool one.” I, of course, knew exactly what this meant, as I am clearly one of the four coolest people in my house. We were looking for a trash can adorned with Alabama football, Spider-Man, or, ideally, Spider-Man playing football for Alabama.
The first store we went to was very lean on cool trash cans, unless you consider white or silver to be cool. I asked an employee if they had cool trash cans. She stared at me blankly. I said, “Cool to him,” pointing at Parker. She said, “Oh, for kids!” and directed me to a nearby aisle. There I found a trash can sporting Troy from “High School Musical.” There are several reasons why this was not a cool choice.
The next store we went to is a store that specializes in items for your bed, your bath and even places beyond that. I asked a salesperson if they had cool trash cans. She told me they had quite a few cool trash cans and began to walk me toward the section. I added, “You know, like Spider-Man kinda-cool.” A very apologetic look came across her face. Unfortunately, the “beyond” did not reach cool-for-kids trash cans.
We hit several more stores, each time striking out. (We did ease the pain with an ICEE at one store, but I have to say that while the blue ICEE is a fine ICEE of which I have no major issues, the absence of Coke ICEEs is a sad state of America. I want my children to grow up in a world where the ICEE machine churns Coke ICEE.) I finally decided to head to the mall, figuring we could strike out much quicker with the stores closely grouped.
We went into a sporting goods store, and I asked the employee if they had trash cans. She quite politely extended her hand and said, “I can take it for you.” I told her that I was actually looking to buy a trash can. She looked at me as if I were odd. No, they did not have those.
Our final stop was Sears, where we did not find any trash cans, cool or otherwise. I did buy a new telephone system, since the battery on our current phone has a life span of about four seconds. Plus, one of the handsets has mysteriously disappeared, which I am sure was the result of cosmic forces. The clerk was ringing me up, and when I told her that I was using a debit card, she kindly told me that her register did not ring up debit cards and directed me toward a different register. When I got there, the clerk suggested I pay for the phones at the register I had just returned from, as there was apparently commission involved. I appreciate (a) the first clerk not making the commission an issue and (b) the second clerk trying to help a co-worker out. I walked out to my car to get my checkbook so that I could pay at the commission register. Nothing to do with a cool trash can. Just thought I’d share.
After several hours of shopping, I told Parker that it did not look like we were going to find a cool trash can. He was a little disappointed, but he handled it in a very mature fashion. “Maybe they have them at PetSmart.” I told him they do not have cool trash cans at PetSmart. He countered with, “Yes, but they have cool animals at PetSmart.” Hard to beat that logic.
My wife and I have decided that the best solution is probably to buy a white trash can and decorate it with a big sticker. Hopefully, I can find a sticker of Spider-Man. Playing football. For Alabama.

A new way to travel

2008-10-15T07:31:00.001-07:00

I am learning the Heckman way of travel. And it’s not easy.
Heckman is my wife’s maiden name (yes, you now may steal my children’s identity in a decade), and when she was growing up, Team Heckman would travel in a way that goes WAY against my style of travel.
To me, the travel part of a trip is a burden. The destination is the goal, and the faster you can get there the better. No bathroom breaks. Eat in the car. Everyone lean forward to make sure we get there at the first possible moment. Onward!
When you travel Heckman-style, there is a considerable amount of moseying. She has told me tales of getting up on a summer morning and piling in the car. She’d asked her father where they were going, and the response would be a shrug. And off they would go. I am not quite sure how you are supposed to figure your trip-completion percentage when you do not know your destination.
And they would take side trips. See something interesting on a billboard? Let’s pull off. Again, that completely throws off the 60-mph average goal. We keep these stats for a reason, people!
Our most recent trip was to North Carolina to take the kids on the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad. They have a “Great Pumpkin” theme right now, so we took a fantastic ride to a Peanuts-themed pumpkin patch. The kids had a great time, and I was especially impressed with the apple bobbing station. I personally find it less than desirable to dunk your head in water with other people and trying to bite an apple they may have just been nibbling. At the patch, they had these long tubes that you swiveled around in the water, trying to scoop the apples up. No bite swapping required.
We also learned an important grandparenting tip by watching another family on the train: If a two-year-old has had a looooooong day on a train and at a pumpkin patch, and she has done it wearing a fairy princess Halloween costume, and she is walking behind her grandfather with her hands up, tears strolling down here face, screaming, “Car....reeeee....me..... Car....reeeee....me..... Car....reeeee....me.....” please, Gramps – pick her up. At one point, we were standing near the tired tot when I turned to my wife and said, “Should I just go and pick her up?” My wife agreed that would definitely be odd, and possibly criminal. Amazing factoid: Once off the train, when Gramps picked her up, guess what she did? That’s right, she poked him in the eye.
Ha! Kidding! She quit crying, of course. Why? BECAUSE SHE’S TWO!
So anyway, wailing princesses aside, the trip was a great time. When I was really tested was the next morning. We woke up bright and early. Glancing at my watch, I estimated that, by the time we threw on some clothes and ran through a drive-through, we’d be up to our 60-mph average in no time. Then my wife said, “So what do you want to do today?”
Resisting every urge in my soul, I said, “We should find a nice local place to eat breakfast...right?” Baby steps.
Indeed, we found a great place (try the egg sandwich at Jimmy Mac’s in Bryson City). As we finished breakfast, I had to fight the call of the interstate. It was clear that our day was just beginning. We were Heckmaning it.
We ended up taking a drive up into the mountains and found a trail to hike up to a waterfall. The trail was only 3/10 of a mile and the waterfall resembled more of a leaky spigot, but for two kids, I consider that ample. After winding on a narrow dirt road up to the top of one of the mountains, we soon found ourselves back on one of the highways leading into town. My wife said we should probably start heading back, and that we would stop if we saw something interesting. I jumped at this opportunity, as nothing is interesting at 75 mph on the interstate, right? Homeward bound.
I will just say this: I was as surprised as anyone when I found myself pulling off the interstate in Hendersonville, flagging down a sheriff’s deputy, and saying, “Can you point me toward an apple orchard?”
You could tell my wife had a little sense of pride in seeing the king of anti-spontaneity do anything that broke from the schedule. It’s not that I am rigid and uptight. I prefer goal oriented. While pulling off an exit to pick apples may not seem that radical to you, keep in mind that I have eaten oatmeal for breakfast almost every weekday since I was a kid. Change does not come easy for me.
All in all, I will admit that it was a little liberating and refreshing just to pull off into uncharted territory and see what you see. We may have to do it again next time we travel. I should start planning it in great detail right now.

Brace yourself

2008-10-08T14:13:00.001-07:00

If there is one thing I can say with certainty, it is that I do not want to have someone stick a metal key in my mouth and crank a device that makes my mouth wider.
But go ahead and do it to my daughter twice daily.
Yes, she is in the beginning stages of braces, and I have been immersed in a world I know nothing about. And it’s not a world I like very much.
I was fortunate in that I never needed braces. All of my sisters had them, and plenty of my friends donned the mouth metal, too. But I never got up close and personal with them. Sure, I saw what happens when a basketball hits a braced mouth. Yes, I saw people climbing through Dumpsters trying to find a retainer that was left on a lunch tray. And I took great joy in watching my sister wear a gigantic headgear that looked like a patio umbrella without the fabric.
But that was as close as I had to get. I never got to experience personally what seemed like a nightmare. Now I get to go up close.
We knew Allie was going to need braces, but I was not aware that they put them on as early as third grade.
And it’s a multi-step process, designed to incorporate many acts into this exciting play.
The first step of the process was the spacers. These were little green rubber bands placed in between her teeth so that every time she smiled she looked like she had a mouthful of spinach. Those were in there for a couple of weeks in an effort to, well, I guess space things out.
That was pretty tame compared to her current addition, her “appliance.” My wife had one of these when she was a kid, and relayed some really fond memories. She said that the appliance fits snugly into the roof of the mouth. Twice a day, you stick a key into a little hole in the appliance and turn it, slowly widening the mouth.
The night before getting the appliance, I took Allie on an Internet adventure to show her what she would be getting. After showing her pictures of Hannibal Lecter, the man in the iron mask, and the James Bond villain, Jaws, my wife informed me that I was not funny. Brilliant social commentary is clearly dead.
So the next day she got the appliance, and the first thing I noticed is that this did not sound like my little girl. Rather, she sounded like the babysitter from “The Incredibles.” (If you have not seen “The Incredibles,” you may be excused from this column to go and do so.) It is starting to get a little more normal as she adjusts to having the roof of her mouth covered. (In case you are curious, she refuses to say “Sufferin’ succotash!”)
When it came time to turn the key, I will say that I was not the most helpful person in the room. For starters, I was expecting my wife to pull out this great big gothic key that we would put in her mouth and turn, the sound of cracking bones filling the room. When she opened a small envelope and pulled out something about the size of a sewing needle, it was clear that I was perhaps in need of a reality check. “But the sound ...” My wife told me that this was not a brutal pry bar that forced her jaw open, but rather a gradual and quite painless way to prep the teeth for braces.
Allie and I conferred and decided we did not believe her. While I tried to be encouraging, I think I subconsciously sabotaged the turning process so that I would not have to be part: “OK, Allie, here goes – your mother is going to turn the key. I feel confident she will not turn the key too many times, thereby shooting your teeth through your cheeks.”
After several attempts, we decided there would be no turning. She had an orthodontist appointment the next day, and he explained to her the need for the painless turns of the appliance, and, I am guessing that for this life event, ignore her father.
So it appears we have cleared the hurdle; and the month-long road of having an appliance is being traveled. Next will be braces, and then I guess a retainer (and possible trip into a Dumpster). Of course, she could have had it a whole lot easier had she just taken my approach and not needed them in the first place.

Game on

2008-10-01T12:59:00.001-07:00

Over the years, I have written numerous times about the various injuries I have suffered at the hands of sports.
I have always been active and played sports, but my brain sometimes forgets to fast-forward the calendar, and I sometimes try to play with the same intensity and zeal that I did when I was a teenager. The difference, of course, is that when you are a teen, you can simply stare for a few moments at the big patch of raw skin where your shin used to be and just watch it heal before your eyes. For some reason, that ability tends to fade some time around your mid-20s.
But I continued on, logging injury miles with basketball, soccer, softball and flag football. The recovery periods became longer and longer, and the walks up the stairs became slower and slower. Eventually, I told my wife I had no choice but to retire from sports. She told me she had no choice but to do a happy dance, as she would no longer have to hear my whine and watch me limp.
So I took about a year off from playing sports, and then heard the siren-like call of competition. With great fanfare, I announced my un-retirement. I am much like Brett Favre and Michael Jordan. Only without the talent, money, fame, etc. But Jordan and I do have the same first name.
I ended up playing flag football last season and suffered only a few minor dings. I was especially pleased that I had finally slain the “play through the pain” component of my brain. There was a time when I would gladly limp up to home plate and try to bat using my freshly severed leg. Last year, I felt a pull in my hamstring and said, “You know what, I think I’ll sit this one out.” It’s not that I don’t want to play. It’s that I want to be able to walk over the next week.
So this year, when the option for playing flag football again arose, I initially said yes. As the first few practices approached, various scheduling conflicts arose, and it was becoming more and more complicated to try and work yet one more activity into the rather full family calendar. I made the decision that I would pass on this season. Then, last week, a friend of mine asked if I could come out and scrimmage on Sunday. They were a few people down, and said they needed one more to have a full squad. Fine, I said. My afternoon was open, and I could use a little physical activity.
I was feeling pretty good about the game. I had a touchdown catch and an interception, and can now honestly say that I was playing against people half my age and holding my own. (That was less impressive when I was 20.) And then came the play. I went out for a pass, and the quarterback threw what amounted to a jump ball between the cornerback and me. Somewhere in my ascent, I took an unintentional cleat to my calf, and also got hit so that I was horizontal to the ground. I am not sure how high up I was, but I do know it was high enough for my brain to process the thought, “We’re falling more than we normally do. This could hur...THUD!”
Fortunately, I didn’t get the wind knocked out of me. Unfortunately, when I went to take a step, my right leg buckled like a wet spaghetti noodle. I had the mother of all charley horses, and my leg was taking great pleasure at making me walk around like a newborn colt.
When I got home, my wife was less than surprised to see me hobbling in. I went and got an ice pack and opted for sitting on the couch watching football, which seemed safer. After about 15 minutes of ice, I switched over to a heating pad, because I once heard someone say you should do that, and that’s good enough medical advice for me.
That evening, I went to bed with some more heat and a few Motrin. My calf was still hurting and navigating the stairs was less than pleasurable. I was gearing myself up for the morning, when I would wake up, forget about my leg, step out of bed and fall to the ground, possibly making a shrieking yelp on my way down to the floor.
Morning came, and, in a medical event more shocking than anything you will see on “House,” I stepped out of bed and was able to walk relatively normally. It still ached a little bit, but I could even use the stairs without baby steps or whimpers. While some may credit my post-game injury treatment regimen as the reason for my fast recovery, I think the real reason is clear: I am again invincible. Let’s play. Nothing bad can come from this.

Clean up

2008-09-25T11:13:00.000-07:00

My children and I have different definitions of “clean.”
My definition is a fairly standard one. It’s, well, it’s clean. I actually don’t feel a need to define it. It’s like if someone says, “Hey, throw me the ball.” You know what a ball is. You shouldn’t have to say, “Hey, throw me the ball, and by ‘ball’ I mean that round thing on the ground. No, not that -- that’s a mushroom. The other thing. White. With stitches. There you go.”
My kids are 5 and 8, and I think they have pretty good vocabularies, certainly ones that should house “clean.” But a recent study of their room cleaning habits leads me to think this is one word that somehow got skipped.
Let’s start with Allie. I am fairly certain that if she is ever taken prisoner in combat, the way to get her to spill national secrets will be by putting her in a room and asking her to make a bed, complete with Princess comforter. Apparently, the 10-second act of pulling a sheet and a bed spread onto the mattress is only slightly less painful than a shark attack. At one point, she tried to use the old argument of “But I’m just going to sleep in it again tonight.” Quick solution: Pull out a dirty plate when you’re getting ready to make her dinner.
HER: Daddy, what are you doing?
ME: Using the plate we used last night. I figured no point in cleaning it, since we’ll just be using it again.
HER: Ewww.
ME: Victory is mine.
(Quick word of caution: Allie does not even like her food touching, so this was a suitable bluff tactic. Be careful if your son is like Parker, and would merely shrug and see what from last night’s meal he could scrape off for flavor.)
Clothes are a tricky one for Allie, too. She is perfectly content with a laundry basket in her room, rather than moving the clothes to the dresser or closet. She will be a perfect hotel traveler one day. Now, I know you may ask why I don’t command and demand that she put that laundry up NOW! Well, mainly because I don’t live in her room, and as long as it doesn’t get to the point where raccoons are taking up residence in there, it doesn’t occupy a huge portion of the “things that actually affect my world” portion of my brain.
Parker, too, has an aversion to cleaning, but his is less from a pain threshold stance and more from the fact that he is the most elaborate player I have ever seen. Case in point: The other day, I walked past his room and noticed it was prime raccoon roosting territory. Things were EVERYWHERE. Jack Sparrows and plastic lions and race cars covered every inch of his room. I found Parker in the depths of his room, and told him that he needed to clean it up
PARKER: But I’m still playing with stuff.
ME: Well, pick up the stuff you’re NOT playing with. You can’t even walk through your room.
PARKER. OK.
Fast forward about 11 seconds, and he’s proclaiming his doneness.
ME: I thought I said to clean up what you’re not playing with.
PARKER: I did. It was just a shirt. Everything else I’m playing with.
Clearly, I was not going to accept that, in a room that looked like an exploded Toys R Us, only a shirt needed picking up. And then Parker showed me his “zoo,” which is approximately the same size as most metropolitan zoos. He had a quite full parking lot. He had stuffed rabbits greeting visitors at the door. He had Woody and Buzz Lightyear training zebras. The works. Indeed, he was still playing with them. All 8 billion of them. That night, I did have to convince him that we had to at least put a walking path through the zoo, lest Daddy end up stepping on Superman in the middle of the night and screaming out an un-Daddy-like word.
Eventually, when the kids were not home, I ended up putting up Allie’s clothes and disassembling Parker’s zoo. Sure, you can chide me for not making a 5-year-old and an 8-year-old do their chores. I will make sure I line up some extra wood chopping for them this winter so they don’t grow up soft. In the meantime, toss me that...round thing over there.

Fence in

2008-09-17T14:13:00.001-07:00

I finally got my fence fixed, which was damaged by that doozy of a storm, which sent a large tree branch crashing onto it, creating a lovely V-shape.
I am sure you recall the storm. “Sure, Mike – I remember the rain, the lightning but mostly the wind!” To which I say, yes, that was a doozy. But I am a ridiculous procrastinator when it comes to home improvement projects, and the storm I am referring to was kinda, sorta, uh … well, it was the 2004 ice storm.
OK, so four years to repair a single fence panel MAY be a little much. I am going to argue that the trauma of the storm kept be from doing it. After all, I was one of the many in town who lost power. When I was coming home from work, my wife called and said the power had gone out. By the time I got home about 10 minutes later, the power had been restored. But it was harrowing nonetheless. (My folks, who lost power for 10 days, fail to see the humor in this.)
But a big branch had dropped on the fence that goes around the pool. The fence is aluminum, but made to look like wrought iron. I priced wrought iron and found that I would have been able to afford to a lovely two- or three-foot fence. So I opted for aluminum, which looks black and shiny, but doesn’t do well against a large pine branch.
The fence is comprised of panels, so it was going to be fairly easy to simply pop another one in. Of course, each time I went to do it, something came up. (Say, winter. Or summer.) I was able to bend the fence back up enough to where it still served its original fence purpose. It just did it with a less horizontal approach.
For some reason the procrastination bug died and I decided to move forward. I went to the home improvement store where I originally bought the fence. I told them I wanted to buy a single panel. He told me they didn’t do that. I assured him they did. He told me I had to buy a whole fence. I told him I already had. I encouraged him to call the company and see what we could make happen. He told me the person who does the ordering was out, having had surgery, on “either his heart or his knee.” Seriously.
I was a little frustrated, but, hey, sometimes heart/knee surgeries happen. I went back a few days later and tried to order it again. I would have had as much luck ordering a pastrami sandwich. I told my wife the fence was fine the way it was, and we would continue to live with it. She told me to calm down, as it was not worth a heart/knee attack.
A few weeks later, I got a call from the store. They told me I had an open order for a fence panel, and asked if I wanted to get it rolling. I told them I would very much love to, and did several times before. They assured me that the system was well-oiled at this point, and they would get it done.
Indeed, they had figured out how to get me my panel, and it arrived a few weeks later. I decided this would be a good Saturday morning father-son experience, so I wrangled Parker out the door along with a few tools. The bent panel came out quite easily – just a few zaps with the electric screwdriver and the panel was free. Parker’s job was to hold the screws. He delegated this job to a nearby chair, which was fine. When it came time to reattach the brackets that held the panel in place, I called Parker and asked for his assistance. I told him I needed him to hold the fence panel very still for me. After I attached four of the six brackets, Parker looked at me and said, “Daddy, can I stop now? I’m tired and I want to go fishing.”
Now, I’m not sure about your backyard, but I do know that mine isn’t great for fishing. But I figured he had a plan, so I relieved him of duty. He went and picked a willow branch off the ground, went to the diving board, and began “casting” into the pool. Based on his mannerisms, he reeled in quite a few big ones.
The panel was soon secured in place, and the fence looks nice and even and unbent. Since most of the trees that were damaged in the ice storm have been removed, there is very little chance another branch will fall on it. But should it happen, I will make sure I get right on the case this time. I’ll wait two years, tops.

Zoo creatures

2008-09-10T07:35:00.000-07:00

Another trip to the zoo, another chance to treat the people there as their own zoo-wide exhibit.
I love going to the zoo, and every time I go, I spend as much time watching the people as I do the exhibits. I have written several columns over the years about some of the curious behavior of the people-beasts that inhabit the outsides of cages. I figured it was high time I began to classify some of them, so that someone who has an interest in Latin can begin assigning them scientific names:

The Animal Hater
This person would rather be anywhere but at a zoo. The Animal Hater we saw uttered this memorable phrase at a meerkat exhibit: “Who wants to see a &*$% rodent?” I hadn’t the heart to tell him they weren’t rodents. You know who would? This person:

The Animal Lover
The Animal Lovers don’t just appreciate wildlife. They’ve got a rather odd attachment to them. It really comes out in the reptile house, when the AL will stand, face pressed against the glass, waxing eloquent about the beauty of the animal. But it gets almost to the creepy point, where you feel there is a really strong possibility, were the cage open, they would reach in and try to bond with their new animal soul mate. And be subsequently bitten by a Gila monster.

The Lounger
The Lounger is most often a teen male. He is far too cool to be at a zoo. He must sit with his back to an exhibit, texting his friends expressing how uncool the zoo is. His texts will consist of such insights such as “Sup” and “dude z00 lame.” Oftentimes, he will sit at a key viewing point, not even realizing he is blocking people’s views, causing them to try and will the grizzly bear to just make one honest try.

The Jockey
This person has got to see that exhibit. If they do not get in there right then, they will miss the sea turtle that only swims by every 40 seconds or so. In order to jockey for position, this person will utilize various contortions and twists to slide around people and will also commit what should be a felony – placing a hand on my shoulder to balance themselves while stepping in front on me, muttering, “skyoozmee-skyoozmee.” Hi, welcome to Mike – thank you for not touching.

The Over Educator
I suppose I get lumped into this category on occasion. “Look, kids, a Scolopendra!” I say gleefully. “Daddy, that’s a big centipede.” “Yes! A Scolopendra!” They politely resist the urge to chant “nerd.”

The Speed Freak
This person is looking to get through the exhibit in about 11 minutes. And you are a mere speed bump on their path to a new world record in the 100-Meter Monkey House Dash. He will duck, spin, peer over you or even skip an exhibit to keep moving. It is possible that the Speed Freak is part shark and must keep moving to survive.

The Escaped Exhibit
These are only found in their juvenile state. Their parents fall into one of two subspecies: The Exasperated Wit’s Enders or the Oblivious Don’t Cares. I noticed one Escaped Exhibit showing a fantastic display of what happens when you are not allowed to get your own ketchup. He was wearing one of those backpack/leash things, which it turns out can turn into a dragging rope. I was informed that you are not supposed to laugh at a kid flailing his arms and legs as he is towed across a restaurant floor by his monkey backpack.

The Statue
This is usually some Brad Garrett-sized behemoth who finds an exhibit he likes and just turns to stone. You may want to see the tiger. But you will do it when he is done. And he will not be done for a long time. He is not intentionally doing this to hurt you. But you try moving along when you’re made of stone.

I am sure there are many more species (and countless subspecies). I look forward to going back and finding them. And then over-educating my kids about it.

Crape of wrath

2008-09-03T11:33:00.000-07:00

A few months back, I shared my confession with you. I was a murderer.
A crape murderer, to be exact.
I had chopped down an enormous crape myrtle in my backyard, something that drew ire from some of the plant lovers of the community.
I tried to assure them that this was self-defense. The tree had grown so large, I had carved out a tunnel that you could drive a small car through.
OK, so not that big, but WAY bigger than a crape myrtle needs to be. (Oh, and a quick sidenote: It’s “crape,” not “crepe.” I had some spirited debate with some folks last time, some even pointing out that there is a Crepe Myrtle Court. So be it. But the tree I murdered was a crape. The pastry I just finished? A crepe. And delicious.)
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Oh, tree attacks, that’s right. Anyway, this thing got so big and unruly that when it rained it would droop down and cover my back door. Some of the branches would also scratch against my daughter’s window, making it sound like something was clawing at the screen, which is a fantastic lullaby. (I did offer to let her watch a movie to drown out the sound, but apparently “The Shining” just didn’t do it for her.)
So I murdered the tree one morning when my wife was gone and could not stop me. I managed to do so without losing any fingers or breaking any windows. I was left with a gigantic stump in the backyard, which I had planned to get to eventually. I asked some people who remove trees what’s the best way to get stumps out of the ground. Apparently it involves chains and the occasional backhoe. I have neither. And I can safely bet that should I try to get a backhoe into my backyard, it would not matter where my wife was. Her idiotdar would start beeping like crazy and she would be home in no time, standing in front of it like a Tiananmen Square recreation. (The idiotdar has previously gone off when I was stuck on the roof; when I tried to give our daughter a haircut; and when I decided to drive to a hurricane.)
The stump became a bigger issue when I noticed that the crape myrtle was growing back. Fast. All around the giant stump were these shoots that started spiking up. At one point, they were taller than my 5-year-old, and he used them as a super cool hiding place, which made me all the more the bad guy when he saw me bringing the hedge trimmers out.
After I leveled the first resurgence of branches, I began to seek other ways to get rid of the stump. I went to a home improvement store and asked a guy if he had chemicals that could kill a stump once and for all. He looked over both shoulders, then leaned in to me, “You didn’t hear this from me,” he said, and proceeded to detail a complicated, fiery plan to dispatch the stump. The idiotdar would have gone nuts.
I opted instead for a chemical that you pour into the stump and then pour hot water on top. It also says to light charcoal briquets on top. Seriously. I think they may just be seeing how much crazy stuff they can get you to do.
Now, before you get on to me about my abuse of this tree, you have to remember: (a) it’s out of control with growth, (b) it never should have been planted where it was and (c) it angered me by rapidly growing back to the point where I actually tried to mow the tree.
To complete the lethal injection, I had to drill a hole four inches deep into the stump. When I went to do this, I learned that crape myrtle stumps are actually made of solid lead, and no drill bit on the planet can bore into them.
So that’s where we stand. The stinking thing is still there, routinely sprouting up new branches just to mock me, the deadly chemicals sitting ineffectively on the sideline.
I have no idea how I am going to get the stump out of there. But if you hear a loud beeping, you can bet I got a backhoe.

The sting

2008-08-27T09:43:00.001-07:00

Hey, did you know that yellow jackets can fly almost as fast as a grown man sprinting around a swing set? I do. Now.
It all started last week when I was having a fence installed in my backyard. The existing one did not resemble wood so much as it did thick cardboard. General rule: If a 10-pound dog scratches at a fence board and it comes apart like shredded wheat, it may be time to get some new fencing.
I considered doing the fence myself, but then it occurred to me that I did not want the top to look like an EKG line, so I should hire professionals.
As they were preparing to rip down the current fence, I glanced out the window and saw them standing about 15 feet from the fence. One was on a cell phone. This didn’t seem like the best way to put up a fence, so I went outside to see what was going on. Turns out, they had found a yellow jacket nest right near one of the fence posts. Angry yellow jackets. Angry yellow jackets who were quite content with the fence where it was. Both of the guys had already been stung. Not a lot of joy in the backyard.
I went and retrieved some wasp spray from the garage. It’s one of those ones that shoots a stream of chemicals about a quarter mile, so you can stand safely away and attack. “Fellas, your problem is about to be solved.” I located where the nest was and proceeded to empty the can. Take that, you winged devils!
Pitching the can aside, I began to stride inside, a little cowboy swagger in me, knowing I had just ruled this duel.
I headed on to work, confident that my picture may very possibly go up at the fence company’s HQ, under a banner that read “Our Hero.”
A little while later, I swung by the house to check on the status. Both men were getting in the truck. They told me they were going to the store to get some stuff to kill the yellow jackets. I reminded them that I had bravely launched a chemical attack on them. That, it turns out, only made the yellow jackets angry. Or, angrier, as it were.
Fast forward to lunch. I stopped by to check again. They had tripled my attack efforts, and made them triply mad. I peered over at the fence and could see a small cloud of yellow jackets. I told one of the guys that it was clear the nest was in a leaf pile, and if I could just dig some of that out, we’d be fine. He looked at me in much the same way as my wife when I say to her, “You know what would be awesome? A pinball machine in the kitchen.”
I decided it was time to armor up and take the fight to the ground. I went inside and put on a heavy winter coat. In the garage, I found a pair of work gloves and safety goggles. I donned the coat’s hood and pulled the draw string tight, leaving no skin exposed. When I walked out, pitchfork in hand, I glanced at the fence guy. I was expecting a slow clap for my bravery. I even considered walking in slow motion, like I was heading to the space shuttle or something. “They stung through blue jeans,” he said. I think the implication was that I was somehow not in the ideal protective gear.
Never mind. This was clearly foolproof. I went around the fence and approached the nest. There was still an angry posse hovering above the ground. I figured a quick thrust and pitch would open up the nest’s mouth, thereby clearing the path for an easy and final assault.
I drove the pitchfork into the ground and went to heave a huge chunk of leaves and dirt. I have no idea where the leaves and dirt went, as a giant plume of yellow jackets came billowing from the ground, an incredibly loud buzzing soundtrack accompanying it. Instinct took over, and before I knew what was going on, I was sprinting the other direction.
“THEY’RE ON YOUR COAT!!!” I heard him shout.
So there I was, sprinting across my backyard, trying to knock yellow jackets off my back with a pitchfork. (Haven’t we all been there?) Eventually, I dropped the pitchfork and shed my coat and goggles, still shooing away some that are still in pursuit.
Eventually, I made it clear of them, and the fence guys pretty much decided I had ended that day’s work. I ended up going to a professional, who wisely assessed the situation wearing a beekeeper’s outfit. When he went to treat it, he hit the nest a little, and the yellow jackets – who are in serious need of some psychological treatment – began to swarm again, leaving plenty of stingers in his outfit. He had to wait for about an hour for them to settle down before he could complete the mission. When he finally dug the nest out, he found it was four layers deep, and contained, by my estimate, every yellow jacket on the planet.
When the fence guys returned the next day, they were pleased to see that the nest was gone, and they could complete the job without risk of death by a billion stings. While I did have to call in some backup, I’d like to think my picture will still go on the wall.

Troll attack

2008-08-20T06:07:00.000-07:00

Curious thing, the Internet.
Perhaps most curious is the notion that every single thing on it must be for every single person’s interest and entertainment, and if somehow it does not appeal to you, you should lash out with unfettered anger and criticism, the likes of which you would dare not do if someone knew who you were or, much less, was within arm’s length.
I base this on a few comments I have read of late, in particular some directed at me. Now, first let me tell you this: I have incredibly thick skin. You don’t get into this business and stay for long if criticism is your kryptonite. But it still struck me as odd when someone decided to line me up in his sights. For a couple of weeks, someone who is a clearly big fan of the newspaper and me has posted some commentary on our website regarding my column. I can’t print the quotes in their entirety, as SOMEBODY uses words not fit for a family newspaper. But I will address the main point: I don’t recall my column ever running on the front page, nor do I recall asking the reporters to stop gathering news so we could gather ’round the campfire and hear Uncle Mike spin a yarn or two ’bout the young’uns.
Another comment was on a YouTube posting of my kids on Christmas morning. The post read: “Y do I wanna watch ya’ll on christmas day.”
Now, I am not sure who asked this. However, I am fairly certain it is not Grandma, Grandpa, Nana, Pop, Gran or Granddaddy, for whom the video was intended. The main reason I am sure of that is my parents and in-laws know spelling and capitalization and crazy things such as that. (You + all = Y’all. Proper apostrophe placement is key. Otherwise, it appears you are doing a contraction of “Yay” and “Ill,” which I guess means you are celebrating someone’s poor health.)
The grandparents liked being able to see their grandkids, at the time ages 4 and 7, open what Santa brought them. I should hope you would not want to watch this if you do not know them. There are no doubt thousands of Christmas morning videos online, and I can safely say I have watched one: my own. Should I come across someone else’s Christmas morning video, I will simply, gee, I don’t know – maybe not watch it? I certainly won’t take the time to comment on it. A quick keyword search on YouTube reveals plenty of videos I will neither watch nor comment on:
-- How to make butter
-- Paint drying
-- Jerry Lewis impersonations
-- Eating Ramen noodles
-- Bea Arthur singing in the Star Wars Holiday Special from 1977. (OK, that one is worth watching.)
The amazing thing is each of those videos have plenty of comments from people who sat and watched them and then shared their very personal feelings. What in the world is it about the Internet that drives someone to watch or read something they don’t like and then make their feelings so known? I have a few theories:
1. It’s finally a chance to throw out a controversial opinion, when you know that in real life offering up silly (or profane) commentary would get you publicly rebuked, privately chastised or, most likely, sensibly ostracized.
2. You haven’t the courage of your convictions. Otherwise, you’d have no problem attaching your name to something.
3. You’ve been on the receiving end of countless wedgies, nerples, swirlies and noogies, and you are finally channeling some of that anger in a new and unhealthy avenue.
Whatever the reason, it sure seems like people could do better things with their time than watch or read things they don’t like. I could sure think of something better to do. Such as watch Bea Arthur sing.

Cart conversion

2008-08-12T15:12:00.001-07:00

It was a shameful confession. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. A friend of mine, head bowed, said that she was “that person.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. Vampire? Cannibal? Auburn fan? No, far more shameful. She admitted that, on occasion, she was one of those people who leaves the grocery cart sitting in the middle of the shopping center parking lot.
She decided to plead her case. Sometimes you’re juggling kids and the weather looks rough and it’s just a harried day and you have to just get in the car and get rolling, leaving collateral cart damage behind.
Donning my powdered wig (what, you don’t have one?) I ruled swiftly: GUILTY!
She again tried the argument, which had been previously struck down in the Court of Mike: The argument that returning the cart would be next to impossible, as the children were acting like jackrabbits on speed. It seems valid at first. One child is busy trying to take off a diaper while the other one is trying to eat through your recently purchased loaf of bread.
The weather is clouding up, and the heavens are going to open up any second now. You’ve got a small window to tether your children and throw the groceries in the back. No time for marching all the way over to the cart corral, right?
However, the reason this argument does not allow for cart abandonment is that you should have strategically parked from the get-go. Immediately upon entering the car lot, pull right up beside a cart corral. That way, when you leave, your cart is already home.
You can even give it a cool little hip bump to send it the final few feet, just to show what kind of happenin’ person you are.
And I know the counter arguments to this:
1. “What if it’s raining? Don’t you want to park as close as possible?” Answer: If you are a parent, you are most likely covered in drool, Cheez-It crumbs or the remnants of the melted Nerds you just sat in, so a hardy downpour might do you some good.
2. “What if it’s hot? That’s a long walk.” Answer: Let’s be honest – if we were to find the largest parking lot at a grocery store and park at the very end, it would never be considered a long walk. Consider it your daily cardio.
3. “But what if I am pregnant and want to park in that parking space with the little stork sign that reads, ‘Expectant Mothers only’?” Answer: I have never had that problem.
4. “I am special. Little people will gather the carts for me.” Answer: No you’re not. Put your cart back.
I know that I harp on this one issue a lot, but I have to be honest with you: This affects each and every one of us far more than something like social security or a natural disaster in a country we are not entirely sure how to pronounce.
But, Mike, you say, how is that? To which I answer: Stress. It is estimated by me just now that 95 percent of all deaths in the U.S. are stress related. And think about the number of times you go to pull into that prime parking space, only to have to slam on the breaks when you see the lone cart (or, even worse, several of them, huddling together in a “Lord of the Flies” grocery cart commune).
And think about what you mutter under your breath. (Nice language, by the way.) I don’t want you to become a statistic. Imagine a world in which every prime parking spot is just that – a wide open swath of asphalt, just waiting for your SUV to ease into. What’s that? Bluebirds chirping? Sounds like serenity to me ...
Alas, I will conclude with some good news. Shortly after my friend’s confession, I received an e-mail from her. It read “At least for today, I am not ‘that person.’ I strategically parked and returned my cart to the corral!!!”
One convert. A billion to go.

A few random thoughts

2008-07-30T13:03:00.000-07:00

Not so much a regular column today but rather just a few musings I felt like sharing. I know, I know – and break from the usual coherent stream of logic?

— I think my crusade for making people return their shopping carts to the proper locale is gaining steam. The other day, I was able to eye someone across a parking lot who was clearly considering abandoning it in a perfectly good spot. Sensing my stare-down, she went and ahead and took the cart the extra 20 feet to the corral. Success through stinkeye.
— I read a column by P.J. O’Rourke recently, and one part resonated with me. In regard to the world being fair, O’Rourke wrote: “I’ve got a 10-year-old at home. She’s always saying, ‘That’s not fair.’ When she says this, I say, ‘Honey, you’re cute. That’s not fair. Your family is pretty well off. That’s not fair. You were born in America. That’s not fair. Darling, you had better pray to God that things don’t start getting fair for you.’”
If you are a parent, prepare to paraphrase that 43 billion times a week.
— Yes, it is hot. It’s the summer. We live in the South. And I have bad news for you: My grandmother, who lived through eight decades in the South, once confided in me a secret: You never get used to it. Ever. That’s why God invented air conditioning.
— A neti pot is one of the grossest things I have ever seen. And, I have to admit, one of the most awesome. For those of you not familiar, Google it. As someone who has some of the worst sinuses on the planet, I’m willing to try anything. While it’s not something I suggest breaking out at the dinner table during a first date, if you’ve considered using one, take the plunge. After the date, of course.
— My son added to his bite list. When a carpenter ant got hold of him the other day, he was quite proud. Between bites and stings, he has been tagged by a yellow jacket, a hornet, a wolf spider, four snakes, a lizard, a dog, an alligator and an Allie. (The spider and Allie bites were in self-defense.) I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry: Only the lizard and alligator were voluntary.
— My children are at the age where they hear EVERYTHING Mommy and Daddy say. We certainly try to set a good example but, as I argued to my wife, I maintain that I was perfectly justified the other day in the car when I said, “Yes, ‘stupid’ is not a nice word. But sometimes, grown-ups have no choice but to ask out loud, ‘What are you, stupid?’ This is often said to someone who stops for a green light.” My wife says I am teaching them road rage. I don’t think she meant that as a compliment.
— Wendy’s should be the model of setting up a fast-food line. Building on the brilliance of Disney’s line-standing strategies, Wendy’s has queue lines. I cannot stand when there is just a chaotic blob of people milling around, hoping to dart into the next available spot. And you always have that one person who is acting like Rickey Henderson, looking to spring into the first available spot before anyone notices. Queue lines cure the Ricky Hendersons.
— My daughter was being pestered by her brother the other day and complained to me about it. I told her to go into a different room. She said that he was being the pest, so why did she have to leave? I explained to her that he was a little brother and that’s what little brothers do. They annoy big sisters. The best defense mechanism is to lock yourself in a little brother-proof room. Trust me, I said, I know – I have three older sisters. Allie said, “But Daddy, you didn’t do that to my aunts when you were a kid, did you?” My sisters and I had a good chuckle over that one.
— Quite a few readers have remarked on the frozen T-shirt column from a few weeks back. And the verdict is split on whether I cheated in the competition. Since it was not unanimous, clearly there was a reasonable doubt, and I therefore declare myself not guilty.
Well, I guess that is all for today. And remember to enjoy your life. It’s quite unfair. Fortunately.

Check it out

2008-07-24T06:31:00.000-07:00

By my estimate, there were two of us who should have been in line. Everyone else should have been … elsewhere.
It was a Sunday at 1:40 p.m., and I ran to the store to pick up a few items. When I entered, I was amazed to see every open register line 10 deep with people. Apparently, the store was having a super-duper sale on some stuff, and everyone had flooded the place to get a hold of great deals.
I grabbed my two items and found the line that was the least brutal looking. There was a guy in front of me, looking as exasperated as I felt. “I’m not really sure why all of these people had to be here RIGHT at 1:30 p.m.,” I said.
“The sale,” he said, holding up a flyer.
I looked around the store. There were still plenty of sale items left. The 1-cent folders? Enough to crush a buffalo. The erasers? You could make a life raft out of what was left. There was no need to have clogged the arteries of the store.
He turned to me and asked a fair question: “So why are you here then?”
I gave him my answer: Kit Kittredge. He stared at me and probably considered moving to a different line. I explained that I was getting a printer cartridge for something my wife had to print that afternoon. My wife was taking my daughter to see “Kit Kittredge: An American Girl,” and it started at 2:45 p.m. I had to get the cartridge ASAP.
He nodded, giving his approval for my being there. “What about you?” I asked.
“I’m not from here. I’ve been waiting since 10:30 a.m.” Ah, a blue law casualty. (Granted, he could have killed the time by going to a grocery store, grabbing a six-pack, a lottery ticket and a carton of smokes. That should have kept him busy until he was able to buy … a stapler.)
Anywho, as we surveyed the crowd, we both came to the conclusion that we were probably some of the few shoppers who had a justifiable reason to be there at that time. I was working on a deadline, and he had just been paroled from blue law prison. Everyone else? Just snapping up a Trapper Keeper.
That’s when we decided stores should have the Expedited Shopping Lanes. First, you go to a store mediator and present your case as to whether or not you should get to go to a speed line. It’s sort of the carpool line of checkouts. For example:
MEDIATOR: State your case.
SHOPPER 1: My daughter’s hair bow just broke, and her dance recital is in 15 minutes.
MEDIATOR: Approved. Next.
SHOPPER 2: I figured I’d stock up on these 10 for $10 jars of relish, since I was out and about.
MEDIATOR: DENIED! To the long line.
Now, to any of you who were in that line the other day, I am doing this for your own health. There is no need to stampede a store right when it opens just to get a good deal on school supplies. (A) They aren’t going to run out. (B) If they do, and you have to pay about a dollar more, ask yourself what your time is worth. Personally, I’ll gladly pay a little extra to avoid having to stand in a long line or lock horns with a mom over the last Spider-Man backpack. On a similar note, I remember years ago when my wife took me out people-watching on the day after Thanksgiving. We were in a mall in Florida, and we walked passed a toy store having sales of up to 25 percent off. A line snaked around the store and out into the mall. There, at the back of the line, probably an hour away from checking out, was a woman holding a Monopoly game. I don’t know about you, but I’m not standing in line for an hour to save $4, especially to buy a game that is federally required to be in every game cabinet in America.
While the day may never come when my brilliant idea is embraced by the masses, I will keep a glimmer of hope alive. Until that day comes, however, I know one thing is certain: I’ll just avoid Sunday matinees.

I sawed that

2008-07-14T08:00:00.001-07:00

It’s the same predicament you’ve all been in – standing on the top of the roof, chain saw-on-a-stick in hand, when you pull the extension cord and knock over the gas can right where the kids are drawing with their chalk.
Really? Just me? Hmm.
It happened the other day when I decided to break my sworn vow to stay away from ladders and chain saws. But I had noticed that a few limbs had grown to the point where they reached the roof-line and, in some instances, were leaning against Parker’s window, meaning when the wind would blow it sounded like badgers were trying to get in.
So I decided to cut them down. I retrieved my chain saw-on-a-stick, affectionately known around the neighborhood as the “bad idea on a stick.” Some of you may recall that I swore off chain saws and ladders last year after nearly killing myself by cutting the tree that my ladder was leaning against. I am skilled that way.
But, a year later, I guess I assumed I was somehow immune to that kind of foolishness. Also my wife was inside and couldn’t see what I was doing and therefore could not stop me.
So I put the ladder up on the tree and headed on up. I was about 12 feet up, and the pole extended out about six feet. At this height, if I jumped I might be able to trim a little of the branch before I crashed to the ground. Even I knew that was a bad idea.
I surveyed my options. The easiest way to get to the limbs would be to get on the rooftop. While I am not scared of heights, I am very much afraid of falling off my second-story roof, which has a pitch at about 80 degrees by my estimate. The next best option would be the roof over the front porch. I would be able to climb up there and extend the saw to my side, trimming the limbs. No sweat.
I perched the ladder up against the house and began my ascent. My wife’s special “My Husband’s an Idiot” sense kicked in and she came outside. I got to the top of the roof and was standing there, straddling the peak. I extended the chain saw and fired it up. It breezed through the first branch, which crashed into the bushes below. Awesome. Perfection. For a second.
The next branch was a little farther away, and I figured I needed a little more extension cord. I gave the cord a quick tug. Little did I know the cord was behind the gas can, which I had failed to put up after gassing up the mower. The cord hit the can, tipping it over, spilling some gas on the driveway. My wife said, “MICHAEL!!!!” And she has mastered numerous inflections to my name, where all she has to say is “MICHAEL!!!” and I will immediately say, “Gas? Where?” (Other “MICHAEL!!!!” calls result in such diverse responses as “I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at … something behind her” and “But he needs to learn how to use an ax at some point!”)
I looked down and saw the can on its side. It then occurred to me – I am standing on a roof with a chain saw-on-a-stick. I am not really in first responder mode. “Uh, I don’t really think I’m in a position to help right now.”
My wife agreed that she would have two big messes to clean up if I tried to hustle down to our little chemical spill, and instead opted to stand the can upright and move the kids to a different slab of concrete. There wasn’t much spilled, so she and a neighbor were able to serve as warning tape until it evaporated.
Eventually, I was able to finish my trimming without causing any more hazardous situations, on the ground or the roof. I even managed to get off the roof without a hitch. In fact, aside from the gasoline spill, I’d say it was one of the more successful chain saw-on-a-stick plus ladder days I’ve ever had. I should do them more often.
I have a hunch my wife’s special sense just kicked on.

WALL-E to WALL-E fun

2008-07-03T11:48:00.001-07:00

It’s always nice to have something of a reward to hang over the kids in exchange for good behavior. My latest was a trip to see the new Pixar movie, WALL-E. (Rewards such as “dinner” and “getting to sleep inside” no longer have the shine.) So the kids were golden throughout the day, as they were jazzed to see the movie. And I know some of you say that being good should be its own reward, and that children should not be bribed for good behavior. To that I say: HA! Good stuff, there.
Anyway, we bought tickets online, which was a first for me. I lag behind lots of things in terms of online convenience. Back when I was in charge of household finances, I wrote checks for every bill, some of them even on time. My wife saw this as a less than ideal way to manage your budget/keep the electricity on, so she opted to do most of our banking online. Should my wife decide to run off to Tahiti, it will be only a matter of time until creditors descend on me, as I will have no clue when/how/where to pay any bills.
When we got to the theater, I was glad that I had ventured into the online world, as I saw person after person being turned away at the box office. I overheard this conversation:
PATRON: Two tickets to WALL-E.
BOX OFFICE: It’s sold out.
PATRON: Sold out?
BOX OFFICE: Sold out.
PATRON: Completely?
At this point, I mentally awarded the Medal of Restraint to the box office worker who simply nodded, rather than saying, “No, it’s sold out, but not completely sold out. It’s just a ruse to trick those who are not clever enough to ask.”
When we got in the theater, I had to do some serious strategic planning. There were quite a few issues at play:
-- The movie was sold out, meaning we had to scramble to find three seats together
-- Concessions were a must
-- Parker was doing an interesting little dance/hop, which meant somebody needed to get to the bathroom quickly.
Fortunately, both kids are at the age where they are a little more independent and responsible. It’s nice to get to the point where you don’t have to actually stand in the stall when your child is going to the restroom, doing that over-the-top conversation that lets other people know that you are a perfectly normal adult standing in a stall talking about potty time. It also helps to know that you can have your eyes off of your kids for three seconds and know that they will not, say, eat a rock.
Because of these two developmental milestones, I was able to put Allie at our seats while Parker went to the restroom and I stood in line at the concession stand. I am still somewhat paranoid, and did make a point of standing where I could see our seats and the bathroom door. I probably looked like someone with a nervous tic, or perhaps someone watching a tennis match, as I swiveled my head back and forth to keep an eye on things.
When Parker was done, he came to assist me at the concession stand. After explaining to him where his college fund went (“You HAD to add Skittles...”), we settled into our seats. Parker, showing the gentle sensitivity of a child, announced, “That man’s head is big. Can I sit in your lap?”
After moving away from Mr. Big Head, we were settled in. One nice thing about going to a Saturday matinee of a G-rated movie is that you are surrounded by families, and people understand that it is not exactly a quiet zone. While you don’t want it to turn into a Chuck E Cheez, some chattering will go on. Actually, truth of the matter is, the most common thing you hear during a movie is the parents talking to their kids, saying “SHHH!!!!” and “Stop talking!!!” and “You have to pee again!?!!?”
The movie itself was fantastic. I rank it was my new favorite Pixar movie (booting the first-place tie between Finding Nemo and Monsters, Inc.) and one of the best films I have seen in a long time. While kids can certainly enjoy it, it’s just a beautifully done movie that any fan of film will enjoy. In fact, I found it so entertaining, I may take the kids to see it again. If they behave.

Gauging your clerks

2008-06-27T10:40:00.001-07:00

There were a mere three things on my shopping list: Outdoor thermometer, rain gauge, bug spray.
Seeing as how I am the most awesomely efficient shopper in the history of mankind, this would be a task almost too easy for someone of my caliber.
I needed the rain gauge and thermometer to replace my outdoor weather station, which never quite worked the way it was supposed to. And by “the way it was supposed to,” I mean “at all.”
Part of the unit was a canister that sat outside, supposedly taking weather readings. It then relayed them inside to a digital display. Of course, the display never quite worked, and would give me temperature readouts of, say, the letter B and an upside down seven.
I think it has something to do with the energy sphere over my house. I call it that, as that is the only sci-fi kind of name I can figure out for the way wireless devices tend to act (or rather, not act) at my house.
Several years ago, my wife got my inner child a gift, the most awesome Dukes of Hazzard remote control car ever. And I could never get it to work. I returned it, got a new General Lee, and had the same result.
After about four remote control cars, I sat my inner child down and told him it wasn’t meant to be. He was disappointed, but it will make him stronger and more able to handle inner bullies when he’s an inner teen.
Anywho, since the energy sphere appeared to affect my weather station, too, I was going to go low tech and get a plain old rain gauge and a plain old thermometer.
The bug spray was because I am simply the most delicious person on the planet, and mosquitoes come from miles around to taste me. They also feast on my son, yet have never bitten my daughter. I told her that is because (a) she is sour and (b) they don’t like monkey meat. She finds neither of these very funny.
So back to my shoptasticness. I loaded up the kids and headed to the store, pretty sure I would be so efficient that I may actually go back in time. I went into the first store and quickly found the bug spray and a thermometer. I figured the rain gauges would be nearby, but saw nothing.
After a few minutes, I opted to ask a clerk for help.
“Rain gauges are over by the thermometers,” I was told, the clerk motioning to where I had just come from.
I went back, scoured the shelves, and found nothing. I returned to the clerk and told her I could not find the rain gauges.
“Oh, we’re out of them. But that’s where they would be.” I stared at her for a second, I guess waiting for her “Gotcha!” moment. No. No Gotcha! moment.
She had honestly just told me where a product I was shopping for would be if they had it, even though they didn’t, as if routine product placement tests were being done by shoppers.
Resisting the urge to delve into this one, I put the thermometer and bug spray back and headed out to the next store.
Much like the previous store, I quickly found the bug spray and a thermometer. I spied a clerk and asked him where the rain gauges would be.
“Rain gauges are over by the thermometers,” he said. I stared at him for a second, thinking there was no possible way this could happen again.
I went back to the thermometers. Nothing. I returned to the clerk. “Oh, we’re out of them. But that’s where they would be.” Seriously. At that point, my daughter asked why people didn’t just tell us they were out of them. From the mouth of babes…
Beaten down, I headed to a third store. I vowed that I would speak to no one. I would not be led astray again.
I found the thermometers tucked away in a corner. Knowing full well that if rain gauges existed they would be here, I scanned the shelf. And there it was, tucked away in a corner, a small orange plastic gauge, all $2.49 of it begging to go home with me, a thermometer and some bug spray.
I am glad that I finally found the items I needed, but can’t believe it took me as long as it did. On the upside, if I ever need a rain gauge again, I know where they’re kept. If they have them.