I’m a liar.
A filthy, no-good, low-down liar. And I don’t think it’s going to change.
I came to this realization the other night when I was having one of my wild and crazy evenings in which I make kids’ lunches for the next day while watching television. On the tube was “Everybody Loves Raymond,” and the episode dealt with Ray vowing no longer to lie to his kids. About anything. I didn’t finish watching the show, but I can only guess that his vow didn’t go far.
I started thinking, and I realized that I lie to my kids all the time. Of course, “lie” is such a harsh word. As a dad, I feel as though I have a bit of a license to, shall we say, embellish the bland reality. Some examples of some of the things my children believe:
1. I have a dragon. My son, Parker, who is four, thinks that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. And why does he think that? Probably because I told him that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. He was having a very tough time going to bed one night, and I told him that if he got really still I would tell him a story. A special story. It went like this:
PARKER: A story about what?
ME: Uh...a dragon.
PARKER: What’s its name?!?!?!?
ME: Uh...Dottie?
PARKER: Can you ride Dottie?
ME: Sure...why not.
PARKER: Do YOU ride Dottie?
ME: Uh...yeah...to work. And Dottie lives on the roof of work.
Unfortunately, that snowball continues to roll downhill and most every night means a story involving Dottie. (Now there is also a Black Knight and a castle. I can’t stop.)
2. Allie used to be a monkey. I am perfectly content with children knowing nothing about how children get here. Fortunately, my wife is part of the team, so she can bring some sense to that situation when the time is right. But to date, I have stuck to my guns, telling Allie, who is 6, that we got her at the zoo, shaved her and cut off her tail. (Parker? Alien drop-off.) Allie thinks I am just kidding her. I laugh and laugh and laugh when she says this. And tell her to go talk to her mother.
3. I have the true powers of magic. And they are often harnessed for such bargaining moments as negotiating bedtime. For example, the other day, a button had come off the pants I was wearing. Being the survivalist I am, I found a safety pin and went on with my day. That night, Parker was (again) not too keen on the idea of bedtime. I made him a deal: If I could make the button on my pants disappear, he would put on his PJs and go to bed. A few magic words and VOILA! I revealed that the button was gone. He was amazed. When I made it appear by his toothbrush, he was almost a little scared at my awesome powers.
4. It’ll fall off. No need to expand on that.
5. Mommy’s got a meeting. Whenever Mommy is leaving, Mommy has a meeting. She can be going shopping. She can be going out with friends. She can be doing pretty much anything on the planet, and Mommy’s got a meeting. Why? Because meetings do not sound fun, and no child wants to get dragged to a meeting.
6. There’s a shot for that. In what may shock and amaze you, my kids are not that fond of getting shots. Well guess what – there is a shot that will make you clean your room, a shot that helps you pick up dirty clothes, and a shot that cures potty mouths (even if they have only risen to the profane level of “stupidhead”). I am sure there are nurses out there who have a hard enough time getting children to sit still for shots that they don’t need us adding to the anxiety by using it as a threat, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
7. You’ll break it. That’s how you get kids to put things down. Everything is breakable. A broom. The dog. A blanket. You name it. But the trick is to make sure that you tell them it’s breakable in a very panicky tone and with your arms stretched out like you’re trying to negotiate a standoff, so they get a real sense of urgency: ‘WHOA WHOA WHOA PARKER!!! Put down the throw pillow – you’ll break it. Now hand it to me gentl....GENTLY!!!”
8. No, Allie is not watching TV. On occasion, we’ll let Allie take the TV for a spin in the evening, in particular when a special show is on (she just loves “The Sopranos”). So when it becomes Parker’s bedtime, he often gets suspicious that someone may be having fun that he is not privy to. “Is Allie watching TV?” he will ask. I tell him no, because apparently telling him “Allie moved” was not nice.
So there you have it. I’m a filthy liar simply for the conveniences of child rearing. I am sure one day they will begin to wise up to my lies, and I will have to come clean. Of course, if they start questioning too much, I will let them know that they are being a little too curious. And there’s a shot for that.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Farewell, pal
Good-bye, old friend.
After 14 long and dedicated years, Montgomery, my faithful dog and companion, has headed to the great big Frisbee-catching yard in the sky.
To say I am a little bummed would be a bit of an understatement.
I got Montgomery at a pound in Alabama when he was a puppy. My girlfriend and I had been a dating a month or so, and for some reason decided, “Hey, let’s get a dog!”
When we got him, it’s almost a wonder he hadn’t been put down. He had rickets. And worms. And someone had tried to trim his ears, leaving them scalloped and scarred. And he was only five weeks old.
When I brought him home, we took the steps necessary to patch him up. Everyone saw him as this disaster of an animal, destined for a lame life. Turns out, he just had a bumpy start.
After a few months, he was healthy as could be. Quick and spry, he always wanted to play. I lived in a fraternity house at the time, and I found that if I left him unattended in my room, he would continue playing without me, and I would come home to find my room redecorated. On one occasion, I found him sitting in the middle of the room chewing on a can of Cheese Whiz he had found, his face covered in cheese. When I walked in, he pushed the can to the side with his paw and refused to look at me. I was laughing so hard that it took me a while to figure out he had taken down a whole bookshelf to get to the cheese.
But don’t get it in your head that he was a bad dog. Quite the opposite. But he had so much energy that I quickly learned he had to run. And I mean “had to.” It was something that was required by his soul.
It also became very evident that he was a natural fetcher. I found this out by accident, when he began bringing things to me all the time. Things that I had thrown out or pitched aside in my room. In no time, a tennis ball was his best friend. Someone suggested I try a Frisbee. First try -- he snagged it.
We became regulars on The Quad at the University of Alabama, Montgomery sprinting underneath his orange Frisbee, leaping high into the air to make the catch every time. He would run to the point of exhaustion. My girlfriend and I would have to make him take a break, walking him to a nearby water spigot to hose him down. A few seconds under the water, a good shake, and time for more running. This, too, was in his soul.
One of his favorite places to go was a place called The Creek. It was some land my aunt and uncle owned outside of town, and Montgomery would spend hours swimming in the creek, chasing sticks and just floating around. He would not stop until we were ready to leave, and he would spend the car ride home exhausted, fast aleep in my girlfriend’s lap.
When I moved to Orlando, it was just Montgomery and me. And he was always there for me. We walked and played in the mornings, at lunch and at night. On weekends, we would just go for strolls, milling around, finding sticks to fetch and play with. And he was never on a leash. Sure, I kept one with me in case of emergency, but I never had to use it. Yes, I know I should have still used it. But Montgomery was different. He never would have strayed from me. Even if he had run after a stick, a whistle and a quick call and he would be right there for me.
When I left Florida, Montgomery came back with me. I was 23, trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, moving back in with parents. Real high point in my life. And there was Montgomery. Just happy to be by my side.
A while later, I got married. Oftentimes, my wife has remarked that Montgomery is the reason we are together today. You see, she was that girlfriend years ago who helped me pick out Montgomery, and there were many of times when she realized she was dating a complete and total moron. But she couldn’t leave Montgomery. Me? An admitted dolt. Montgomery? A dog that you just couldn’t help but be attached to.
As our kids came along, Montgomery was getting up there in years. He didn’t jump quite as high or run quite as fast, but you could still see it light up in his eyes when you threw a stick or a ball. He got a little extra spring in his step when he saw it was time to just be Montgomery.
About two years ago, the vet removed some tumors in his mouth that were determined to be cancerous. Without extensive surgery, the tumors would return, most likely in a few months. But I opted not to have more surgery done, as he had been through enough. It took almost two years for the tumors to return, well beyond what anyone expected. Again, I had the tumors removed so that he could eat. They asked me if I wanted tests done. I told them no. I knew what the tests would say.
A couple of weeks later, I noticed a decline. Steep. He wouldn’t eat. He was sluggish. I went out one night and tried to get him to come inside. He stood up slowly, and slinked under the deck. He didn’t want to come with me this time.
I got up the next morning and just knew. I walked outside and found him, peaceful and looking as if he were asleep. My wife opened the upstairs window. “Is he...” She didn’t finish the question. She knew.
The phrase “just a dog” has never been in our family’s speak, and never so much was it clear that morning. My brother-in-law once said, “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.” And that he was. My dog. My good, faithful dog. He was Montgomery. Run fast and jump high, Montgomery. You’ve earned it.
After 14 long and dedicated years, Montgomery, my faithful dog and companion, has headed to the great big Frisbee-catching yard in the sky.
To say I am a little bummed would be a bit of an understatement.
I got Montgomery at a pound in Alabama when he was a puppy. My girlfriend and I had been a dating a month or so, and for some reason decided, “Hey, let’s get a dog!”
When we got him, it’s almost a wonder he hadn’t been put down. He had rickets. And worms. And someone had tried to trim his ears, leaving them scalloped and scarred. And he was only five weeks old.
When I brought him home, we took the steps necessary to patch him up. Everyone saw him as this disaster of an animal, destined for a lame life. Turns out, he just had a bumpy start.
After a few months, he was healthy as could be. Quick and spry, he always wanted to play. I lived in a fraternity house at the time, and I found that if I left him unattended in my room, he would continue playing without me, and I would come home to find my room redecorated. On one occasion, I found him sitting in the middle of the room chewing on a can of Cheese Whiz he had found, his face covered in cheese. When I walked in, he pushed the can to the side with his paw and refused to look at me. I was laughing so hard that it took me a while to figure out he had taken down a whole bookshelf to get to the cheese.
But don’t get it in your head that he was a bad dog. Quite the opposite. But he had so much energy that I quickly learned he had to run. And I mean “had to.” It was something that was required by his soul.
It also became very evident that he was a natural fetcher. I found this out by accident, when he began bringing things to me all the time. Things that I had thrown out or pitched aside in my room. In no time, a tennis ball was his best friend. Someone suggested I try a Frisbee. First try -- he snagged it.
We became regulars on The Quad at the University of Alabama, Montgomery sprinting underneath his orange Frisbee, leaping high into the air to make the catch every time. He would run to the point of exhaustion. My girlfriend and I would have to make him take a break, walking him to a nearby water spigot to hose him down. A few seconds under the water, a good shake, and time for more running. This, too, was in his soul.
One of his favorite places to go was a place called The Creek. It was some land my aunt and uncle owned outside of town, and Montgomery would spend hours swimming in the creek, chasing sticks and just floating around. He would not stop until we were ready to leave, and he would spend the car ride home exhausted, fast aleep in my girlfriend’s lap.
When I moved to Orlando, it was just Montgomery and me. And he was always there for me. We walked and played in the mornings, at lunch and at night. On weekends, we would just go for strolls, milling around, finding sticks to fetch and play with. And he was never on a leash. Sure, I kept one with me in case of emergency, but I never had to use it. Yes, I know I should have still used it. But Montgomery was different. He never would have strayed from me. Even if he had run after a stick, a whistle and a quick call and he would be right there for me.
When I left Florida, Montgomery came back with me. I was 23, trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, moving back in with parents. Real high point in my life. And there was Montgomery. Just happy to be by my side.
A while later, I got married. Oftentimes, my wife has remarked that Montgomery is the reason we are together today. You see, she was that girlfriend years ago who helped me pick out Montgomery, and there were many of times when she realized she was dating a complete and total moron. But she couldn’t leave Montgomery. Me? An admitted dolt. Montgomery? A dog that you just couldn’t help but be attached to.
As our kids came along, Montgomery was getting up there in years. He didn’t jump quite as high or run quite as fast, but you could still see it light up in his eyes when you threw a stick or a ball. He got a little extra spring in his step when he saw it was time to just be Montgomery.
About two years ago, the vet removed some tumors in his mouth that were determined to be cancerous. Without extensive surgery, the tumors would return, most likely in a few months. But I opted not to have more surgery done, as he had been through enough. It took almost two years for the tumors to return, well beyond what anyone expected. Again, I had the tumors removed so that he could eat. They asked me if I wanted tests done. I told them no. I knew what the tests would say.
A couple of weeks later, I noticed a decline. Steep. He wouldn’t eat. He was sluggish. I went out one night and tried to get him to come inside. He stood up slowly, and slinked under the deck. He didn’t want to come with me this time.
I got up the next morning and just knew. I walked outside and found him, peaceful and looking as if he were asleep. My wife opened the upstairs window. “Is he...” She didn’t finish the question. She knew.
The phrase “just a dog” has never been in our family’s speak, and never so much was it clear that morning. My brother-in-law once said, “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.” And that he was. My dog. My good, faithful dog. He was Montgomery. Run fast and jump high, Montgomery. You’ve earned it.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Feeling squirrely
The squirrels have won this round.
OK, so the squirrels have won every round. And I don’t see that changing.
It started when I first moved into my house about six years ago. Like any home in the area, the house came with the requisite infestation of 42 billion squirrels.
Fine enough, I decided. Big fan of animals. Have several. I know lots of people don’t like squirrels. They want to shoot them, trap them, poison them — all kinds of unpleasant demises for the furry critters.
I am not one of those people. Sure, on occasion I motion to a neighbor’s tree, suggesting that it is by far the most comfortable tree in the subdivision, or even tie Payday candy bars into said tree, but for the most part, I just adopt a live-and-let-live approach.
And then they started destroying by bird feeders.
My wife got me several bird feeders recently, because I decided our backyard was not infested with enough wildlife. I already had a couple of feeders out and would also spread seed along the railing to the deck. My wife was not a big fan of this because it looked, well, like I had spread bird seed all around the railing of the deck. It was especially nice after a rain, when the seed would settle into a lovely bird seed paste.
So my wife felt that our backyard sanctuary could be a little more aesthetically pleasing. This could be accomplished, she decided, with several ornate bird feeders strategically placed around the yard. I argued to her that we already had several bird feeders. Big ones. She explained that it was her opinion that a deck should not be considered a bird feeder, and that her opinion on this issue was correct.
The bird feeders she got were very nice, indeed. One was a tall, skinny cylinder with perches all around it. Another was a short, rounded one that had a ring around the bottom for the birds to sit on. The third suctioned right up to the big kitchen window so that you could enjoy your breakfast right there with nature. You, a bird and your heaping plate of eggs. OK, perhaps that could be awkward. Here’s hoping they wouldn’t notice.
Now, before I continue, let me say that I was not trying to outsmart the squirrels. You can’t outsmart the squirrels. Squirrels are the smartest creatures ever. It is widely known that squirrels can solve complex calculus equations, can correctly identify every constellation in the sky, and can rewire your cable so that you only receive Spanish-language televisions. This was an attempt to augment an already robust backyard wildlife sanctuary, squirrels included. All of God’s creatures are welcome. Except catfish. They’re creepy looking.
After I put up the feeders, I waited in anticipation of the first bird to arrive. And waited. And waited. And finally my wife said, “It’s 11 at night, and you put them up about four minutes ago. Did you expect a flock to come swooping in?” She of little faith.
So I went to bed, pretty convinced I would miss a huge convergence upon my new feeders. The next morning I woke up and guess what I saw — you guessed it, an uninvited catfish.
Ha! Little bird feeder humor there. No, what I saw was nothing, because it apparently takes several days for word to get around the bird community that Mike’s Bird Cafe is open.
But after a few days, they began to trickle in. Robins, cardinals, blue jays, and a few others. Nothing massive. Just a bird here and there. And then the squirrels found it. It was like a horde of Vikings raided my backyard. They were swinging on the feeders, jumping from one to the other, chewing at them like crazy. My dogs very nobly tried to defend the yard by either chasing one up a nearby pine tree or barking at something in the complete opposite direction. But there were too many of them. The next day, I went outside to inspect my feeders. The cylindrical one was empty, its contents spread on the ground below. The round one was also empty, holes chewed in the plastic so that it would never function as a bird feeder again. The only one they avoided was the one on the window. I think that is because I had my guard Parker on duty, and I told him to smack his oatmeal-caked hand on the window if a squirrel approached.
So I was somewhat bummed about the way they had treated my feeders, even though I have to say I wasn’t surprised. I went ahead and refilled the cylindrical feeder and left the empty round one hanging up there for some reason that I have yet to identify.
The one upside to all of this is that a few days later, the birds discovered that the ground was covered in seeds. Squirrels are apparently too good to eat seeds off the ground. Also, my dogs seem to care very little for birds, so they let them come and go. The other morning, my kids and I counted seven species and more than 50 birds in my backyard, most of them hopping along the ground, enjoying a squirrel-delivered snack.
I guess I will accept that bird feeders are actually squirrel feeders and not try to have a serene sanctuary in my trees. I’ll continue to spread the seeds around on the deck and the ground and hope the birds continue to visit. I will enjoy the squirrels as they visit, too. Hopefully, though, they will soon catch wind of the Paydays hanging next door.
OK, so the squirrels have won every round. And I don’t see that changing.
It started when I first moved into my house about six years ago. Like any home in the area, the house came with the requisite infestation of 42 billion squirrels.
Fine enough, I decided. Big fan of animals. Have several. I know lots of people don’t like squirrels. They want to shoot them, trap them, poison them — all kinds of unpleasant demises for the furry critters.
I am not one of those people. Sure, on occasion I motion to a neighbor’s tree, suggesting that it is by far the most comfortable tree in the subdivision, or even tie Payday candy bars into said tree, but for the most part, I just adopt a live-and-let-live approach.
And then they started destroying by bird feeders.
My wife got me several bird feeders recently, because I decided our backyard was not infested with enough wildlife. I already had a couple of feeders out and would also spread seed along the railing to the deck. My wife was not a big fan of this because it looked, well, like I had spread bird seed all around the railing of the deck. It was especially nice after a rain, when the seed would settle into a lovely bird seed paste.
So my wife felt that our backyard sanctuary could be a little more aesthetically pleasing. This could be accomplished, she decided, with several ornate bird feeders strategically placed around the yard. I argued to her that we already had several bird feeders. Big ones. She explained that it was her opinion that a deck should not be considered a bird feeder, and that her opinion on this issue was correct.
The bird feeders she got were very nice, indeed. One was a tall, skinny cylinder with perches all around it. Another was a short, rounded one that had a ring around the bottom for the birds to sit on. The third suctioned right up to the big kitchen window so that you could enjoy your breakfast right there with nature. You, a bird and your heaping plate of eggs. OK, perhaps that could be awkward. Here’s hoping they wouldn’t notice.
Now, before I continue, let me say that I was not trying to outsmart the squirrels. You can’t outsmart the squirrels. Squirrels are the smartest creatures ever. It is widely known that squirrels can solve complex calculus equations, can correctly identify every constellation in the sky, and can rewire your cable so that you only receive Spanish-language televisions. This was an attempt to augment an already robust backyard wildlife sanctuary, squirrels included. All of God’s creatures are welcome. Except catfish. They’re creepy looking.
After I put up the feeders, I waited in anticipation of the first bird to arrive. And waited. And waited. And finally my wife said, “It’s 11 at night, and you put them up about four minutes ago. Did you expect a flock to come swooping in?” She of little faith.
So I went to bed, pretty convinced I would miss a huge convergence upon my new feeders. The next morning I woke up and guess what I saw — you guessed it, an uninvited catfish.
Ha! Little bird feeder humor there. No, what I saw was nothing, because it apparently takes several days for word to get around the bird community that Mike’s Bird Cafe is open.
But after a few days, they began to trickle in. Robins, cardinals, blue jays, and a few others. Nothing massive. Just a bird here and there. And then the squirrels found it. It was like a horde of Vikings raided my backyard. They were swinging on the feeders, jumping from one to the other, chewing at them like crazy. My dogs very nobly tried to defend the yard by either chasing one up a nearby pine tree or barking at something in the complete opposite direction. But there were too many of them. The next day, I went outside to inspect my feeders. The cylindrical one was empty, its contents spread on the ground below. The round one was also empty, holes chewed in the plastic so that it would never function as a bird feeder again. The only one they avoided was the one on the window. I think that is because I had my guard Parker on duty, and I told him to smack his oatmeal-caked hand on the window if a squirrel approached.
So I was somewhat bummed about the way they had treated my feeders, even though I have to say I wasn’t surprised. I went ahead and refilled the cylindrical feeder and left the empty round one hanging up there for some reason that I have yet to identify.
The one upside to all of this is that a few days later, the birds discovered that the ground was covered in seeds. Squirrels are apparently too good to eat seeds off the ground. Also, my dogs seem to care very little for birds, so they let them come and go. The other morning, my kids and I counted seven species and more than 50 birds in my backyard, most of them hopping along the ground, enjoying a squirrel-delivered snack.
I guess I will accept that bird feeders are actually squirrel feeders and not try to have a serene sanctuary in my trees. I’ll continue to spread the seeds around on the deck and the ground and hope the birds continue to visit. I will enjoy the squirrels as they visit, too. Hopefully, though, they will soon catch wind of the Paydays hanging next door.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Bin there, done that
So there I was, stomping around the house doing my usual mini-tantrum that my wife has grown to love so much.
Whenever things start to bug me at the house, I do this without even realizing it. Most of the time, the things that bug me are so insignificant that I know I will not get anyone agreeing with me that it is an issue of comparable importance to curing diseases. The main example of this: shoes.
To me, shoes belong in the closet. Paired neatly together. Perhaps even on a little shoe shelf. And the laces should be removed and braided together and then twisted into a dreamcatcher that will hang in the closet. OK, maybe not that far.
But I think it is completely reasonable to suggest that the shoes go in the closet so that every morning I do not have to go on a hunt for three different pairs of shoes (mine, of course, were easy to retrieve since they were right there in the closet). And I also would not have to justify my accidentally bringing my son to school wearing two different kinds of shoes by saying, “Well, he wanted to wear a left Thomas the Tank shoe and a right Buzz Lightyear shoe. He has a matching pair at home.”
So every so often I start on my little shoe crusade. A shoesade, if you will. I usually start with Allie. “Allie, if you just put your shoes in your closet each night, you’ll know where to find them,” I explain. “But, Daddy,” she says, “you always find my shoes in the morning.”
“Yeah, but,” I explain, “I don’t WANT to find your shoes in the morning. I want to drink coffee and read the paper and watch the Today show and wonder if all those millions of dollars make Katie Couric’s career splat worth it.”
“Katie who?” she says.
It’s a lost cause.
I know my wife and I won’t sway each other’s opinions on this matter, as we are on fundamentally different ends of the shoe spectrum. I never go around barefoot. It’s not some sort of neurotic issue or anything. I just prefer keeping my shoes on. (I actually shower wearing hiking boots.) My wife, meanwhile, thinks the upstairs is no place for shoes. “I can’t STAND wearing shoes upstairs,” she tells me.
But we agreed to compromise a while back in an effort to reduce my mini-tantrums. At the door where we usually enter the house, there would be a basket. The shoe bin. That’s where the shoes would live when they entered and peeled off their shoes so they could go upstairs.
The idea sounded like it might have merit. At the very least, each morning I would not have to go sprinting from room to room. Rather, I could focus my shoe hunt in the bin o’ shoes. I am sorry to report that the shoe basket, while established with the best of intentions, now ranks right behind the stomach flu on my list of things I most enjoy. I often say awful, intentionally hurtful things to the shoe bin.
The shoe bin has turned into this shoe burial ground, where dozens of shoes — many of which I have never seen — end up in a final resting place. I have yet to retrieve a shoe from there that my kids could actually wear to school. I know you are probably asking why I don’t just throw out the shoes. The reason? Because I have an idea whose shoes they are. They could be dress-up play shoes. They could have been from a friend who left them over. They could be shoes that the kids will grow into. I simply do not know.
And where, meanwhile, are the kids’ shoes they need for school? Let’s see — under the couch, on the ceiling fan, behind the TV. Pretty much anywhere that is not a closet. My wife, meanwhile, offers such helpful suggestions as, “Did you check the shoe bin?”
So the fact is the addition of the shoe bin not only did not correct the problem but made it worse, as the original problem still existed, but now we had a clearinghouse for mystery shoes. My wife suggested we get a shoe bin for the shoe bin. I think she was just doing this to be mean.
Perhaps I simply need to come to grips with the fact that the shoe war will never be won by me. When it comes to being obsessive about putting shoes in the same place, I lose 3-1 every time. More power to them, I guess, for not stressing over something as insignificant as where your shoes sit. Perhaps I should just take a deep breath and cast aside my worries about where I put my shoes. I mean, do I REALLY have to have my shoes in the same place all the time?
Yes. Yes, I do. And don’t move my shower boots.
Whenever things start to bug me at the house, I do this without even realizing it. Most of the time, the things that bug me are so insignificant that I know I will not get anyone agreeing with me that it is an issue of comparable importance to curing diseases. The main example of this: shoes.
To me, shoes belong in the closet. Paired neatly together. Perhaps even on a little shoe shelf. And the laces should be removed and braided together and then twisted into a dreamcatcher that will hang in the closet. OK, maybe not that far.
But I think it is completely reasonable to suggest that the shoes go in the closet so that every morning I do not have to go on a hunt for three different pairs of shoes (mine, of course, were easy to retrieve since they were right there in the closet). And I also would not have to justify my accidentally bringing my son to school wearing two different kinds of shoes by saying, “Well, he wanted to wear a left Thomas the Tank shoe and a right Buzz Lightyear shoe. He has a matching pair at home.”
So every so often I start on my little shoe crusade. A shoesade, if you will. I usually start with Allie. “Allie, if you just put your shoes in your closet each night, you’ll know where to find them,” I explain. “But, Daddy,” she says, “you always find my shoes in the morning.”
“Yeah, but,” I explain, “I don’t WANT to find your shoes in the morning. I want to drink coffee and read the paper and watch the Today show and wonder if all those millions of dollars make Katie Couric’s career splat worth it.”
“Katie who?” she says.
It’s a lost cause.
I know my wife and I won’t sway each other’s opinions on this matter, as we are on fundamentally different ends of the shoe spectrum. I never go around barefoot. It’s not some sort of neurotic issue or anything. I just prefer keeping my shoes on. (I actually shower wearing hiking boots.) My wife, meanwhile, thinks the upstairs is no place for shoes. “I can’t STAND wearing shoes upstairs,” she tells me.
But we agreed to compromise a while back in an effort to reduce my mini-tantrums. At the door where we usually enter the house, there would be a basket. The shoe bin. That’s where the shoes would live when they entered and peeled off their shoes so they could go upstairs.
The idea sounded like it might have merit. At the very least, each morning I would not have to go sprinting from room to room. Rather, I could focus my shoe hunt in the bin o’ shoes. I am sorry to report that the shoe basket, while established with the best of intentions, now ranks right behind the stomach flu on my list of things I most enjoy. I often say awful, intentionally hurtful things to the shoe bin.
The shoe bin has turned into this shoe burial ground, where dozens of shoes — many of which I have never seen — end up in a final resting place. I have yet to retrieve a shoe from there that my kids could actually wear to school. I know you are probably asking why I don’t just throw out the shoes. The reason? Because I have an idea whose shoes they are. They could be dress-up play shoes. They could have been from a friend who left them over. They could be shoes that the kids will grow into. I simply do not know.
And where, meanwhile, are the kids’ shoes they need for school? Let’s see — under the couch, on the ceiling fan, behind the TV. Pretty much anywhere that is not a closet. My wife, meanwhile, offers such helpful suggestions as, “Did you check the shoe bin?”
So the fact is the addition of the shoe bin not only did not correct the problem but made it worse, as the original problem still existed, but now we had a clearinghouse for mystery shoes. My wife suggested we get a shoe bin for the shoe bin. I think she was just doing this to be mean.
Perhaps I simply need to come to grips with the fact that the shoe war will never be won by me. When it comes to being obsessive about putting shoes in the same place, I lose 3-1 every time. More power to them, I guess, for not stressing over something as insignificant as where your shoes sit. Perhaps I should just take a deep breath and cast aside my worries about where I put my shoes. I mean, do I REALLY have to have my shoes in the same place all the time?
Yes. Yes, I do. And don’t move my shower boots.
Friday, February 23, 2007
The plane truth
I’m sure most of you read a few weeks back about the Massachusetts couple that was kicked off of an airplane because their toddler was throwing a tantrum before takeoff, delaying the pilots from getting the plane in the air.
I wasn’t on the plane, so I couldn’t tell you a thing about the parents. But I was quite amused at some of the reactions I encountered. First, a friend of mine (whose wife is expecting their first child), offered this:
“If they had spent the prep time necessary to explain to their child what was required when they set foot on the airplane, none of this would have happened.”
I will now pause for everyone who has ever parented a toddler to let the laughter subside and then catch your breath.
Yes, you can sit down and reason with your toddler. You can explain to them what is expected of them. And they will have this moment where they look up at your, make eye contact, and stick a Cheez-It in their nose. That is how small children operate. The logic function is not fully developed, and therefore reasoning with them is akin to reasoning with your dog or your sofa. In fact, it’s a well-documented scientific fact that the reasoning part of the brain does not begin working until well into a person’s 20s.
I know what my friend is thinking, as I was guilty of it, too. Most everyone goes through this right before they become parents. You thought, “Well, my child will never...” and “I will NOT allow...” And you get a little agitated when your parent friends snicker and giggle and say, “OK, whatever... ”
And meanwhile you, not quite a parent but ready for the challenge, know that they are idiots. Bad parents. Unable to discipline. And then, a few years later, there you are, giggling away as a friend guarantees you that his baby will NEVER go around the house with nothing but a diaper. On his head.
Another comment I read was in an online sports column. The author said: “Not everyone in the restaurant thinks it’s cute when little Tommy bangs on the table because you haven’t taught him the word ‘no.’”
Clearly, this person either does not have kids or does not ever venture to a restaurant with them.
Now I know that some of you out there are tsk-tsking me, saying that kids today just don’t behave like they should, and parents let children get away with murder – sometimes ACTUAL murder, right there at the buffet line. Well, you may be right, on some occasions. Some people are about as good at being a parent as they are being a mockingbird (which, I think we can all agree, is not something many people are good at being).
But next time you are in a restaurant and said Tommy is banging away on the table, do me a favor: Take your laser beam glare off the toddler for just a second and cut the eyes over to the parents. Sure, some will be ignoring or even laughing. But more often than not, you will see a father trying desperately to distract the kid with the salsa dip puppet show, or mom shushing over and over to the point you can actually see a migraine forming in her head. Try as parents might, there is just no way to determine when the Intense Toddler Mode switch will get triggered.
Look, I know that it’s not a delight to be trapped on a plane or in a restaurant with a misbehaving kid. The one time I was on a plane with my kids, the plane was struck by lightning while still on the tarmac, and we were stranded on the plane for several hours. My son, who was two at the time, hung in there for awhile. But there was just so much he could take. I could tell by the looks I was getting that several of the people on the plane thought I had as much business parenting as I did flying the plane. What they did not know was that I would have loved nothing more than to have my son NOT be ragingly upset and simply relaxed and calm. A flight attendant came back to where we were, and I thought at first she was going to suggest Parker and I step out of the plane into the torrential thunderstorm. Instead, she told me she was checking on me and seeing if I was OK. I told her that I was fine, and very sorry about my unhappy son, as it was clearly bothering the other passengers. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They can buy headphones.” She is and will also be the world’s greatest flight attendant.
As I stated before, I was not on the plane when the couple got booted, so they may have been high-fiving, taking pictures, sharing with other passengers stories about their children’s first bathroom experience, etc. It may have been for their own safety that they were removed from the plane. But there is also a distinct possibility that the parents were doing everything within their power to make their child behave, but that it’s sometimes just out of the realm of possibility. I’m not saying you have to like it. I’m just saying sometimes, you buy a pair of headsets and drown out their horror.
Of course, if that doesn’t work, you can always sit back, relax and enjoy the salsa puppet show.
I wasn’t on the plane, so I couldn’t tell you a thing about the parents. But I was quite amused at some of the reactions I encountered. First, a friend of mine (whose wife is expecting their first child), offered this:
“If they had spent the prep time necessary to explain to their child what was required when they set foot on the airplane, none of this would have happened.”
I will now pause for everyone who has ever parented a toddler to let the laughter subside and then catch your breath.
Yes, you can sit down and reason with your toddler. You can explain to them what is expected of them. And they will have this moment where they look up at your, make eye contact, and stick a Cheez-It in their nose. That is how small children operate. The logic function is not fully developed, and therefore reasoning with them is akin to reasoning with your dog or your sofa. In fact, it’s a well-documented scientific fact that the reasoning part of the brain does not begin working until well into a person’s 20s.
I know what my friend is thinking, as I was guilty of it, too. Most everyone goes through this right before they become parents. You thought, “Well, my child will never...” and “I will NOT allow...” And you get a little agitated when your parent friends snicker and giggle and say, “OK, whatever... ”
And meanwhile you, not quite a parent but ready for the challenge, know that they are idiots. Bad parents. Unable to discipline. And then, a few years later, there you are, giggling away as a friend guarantees you that his baby will NEVER go around the house with nothing but a diaper. On his head.
Another comment I read was in an online sports column. The author said: “Not everyone in the restaurant thinks it’s cute when little Tommy bangs on the table because you haven’t taught him the word ‘no.’”
Clearly, this person either does not have kids or does not ever venture to a restaurant with them.
Now I know that some of you out there are tsk-tsking me, saying that kids today just don’t behave like they should, and parents let children get away with murder – sometimes ACTUAL murder, right there at the buffet line. Well, you may be right, on some occasions. Some people are about as good at being a parent as they are being a mockingbird (which, I think we can all agree, is not something many people are good at being).
But next time you are in a restaurant and said Tommy is banging away on the table, do me a favor: Take your laser beam glare off the toddler for just a second and cut the eyes over to the parents. Sure, some will be ignoring or even laughing. But more often than not, you will see a father trying desperately to distract the kid with the salsa dip puppet show, or mom shushing over and over to the point you can actually see a migraine forming in her head. Try as parents might, there is just no way to determine when the Intense Toddler Mode switch will get triggered.
Look, I know that it’s not a delight to be trapped on a plane or in a restaurant with a misbehaving kid. The one time I was on a plane with my kids, the plane was struck by lightning while still on the tarmac, and we were stranded on the plane for several hours. My son, who was two at the time, hung in there for awhile. But there was just so much he could take. I could tell by the looks I was getting that several of the people on the plane thought I had as much business parenting as I did flying the plane. What they did not know was that I would have loved nothing more than to have my son NOT be ragingly upset and simply relaxed and calm. A flight attendant came back to where we were, and I thought at first she was going to suggest Parker and I step out of the plane into the torrential thunderstorm. Instead, she told me she was checking on me and seeing if I was OK. I told her that I was fine, and very sorry about my unhappy son, as it was clearly bothering the other passengers. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They can buy headphones.” She is and will also be the world’s greatest flight attendant.
As I stated before, I was not on the plane when the couple got booted, so they may have been high-fiving, taking pictures, sharing with other passengers stories about their children’s first bathroom experience, etc. It may have been for their own safety that they were removed from the plane. But there is also a distinct possibility that the parents were doing everything within their power to make their child behave, but that it’s sometimes just out of the realm of possibility. I’m not saying you have to like it. I’m just saying sometimes, you buy a pair of headsets and drown out their horror.
Of course, if that doesn’t work, you can always sit back, relax and enjoy the salsa puppet show.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Payback time
It’s payback time.
For six years I have endured it. I have held back. I have not fought it. But I don’t have to wait any longer.
I have two brand new nephews, and you know what that means – It’s time to buy drum sets.
Yes, my three sisters have enjoyed vying for the title of “fun aunt” since my children have been born. Candy for dinner? Sure! Bounce on the couch? Why not! Impromptu dog saddle? Let’s try it!
Oh, but it is now my turn. Samuel was born Nov. 17, and Nicholas joined us on Feb. 1. I am wringing my hands over the tough decisions an uncle has – who gets the bugle and who gets the fire truck with realistic sirens that you cannot turn off?
I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking I’m being petty and spiteful and looking to get back at my sisters for years of spoiling my kids. To that I say: You are correct.
But it’s not just the revenge factor that it is so appealing. I am excited about finally getting to be fun uncle. I have fun with my kids, sure, but at the end of the day, I still have to do the dad stuff. I have to do bath time, make lunches, ask Parker to let the dog out of the trash can, etc.
The kids are very excited as well. As a 6-year-old, Allie is very caring and nurturing. She really wants to hold the babies and help feed them and such. (She has made it plainly clear that Samuel and Nicholas’ mommies can tend to the diaper part.)
Parker also likes to hold the babies, although he gets a different look in his eye. It is the look of, “Oh, the things I will try to pin on you. And the things I will dare you to do.” In short, I think he believes we are supplying soldiers for Gen. Parker’s Army of Destruction.
But back to the ways I plan on spoiling them. I think as their uncle, it is my duty to ensure that they learn a few things. So, from this day forward, I vow to Samuel and Nicholas that I will:
1. Dig deep into my memory banks and find that one little thing I used to do most pester their mothers, so as they get older, their mother’s little brother will always be there.
2. Have a complete and separate set of standards for them versus my children. When my children complain, I will remind them that they didn’t seem to mind when their aunts were doing the same thing, and then order them back into the coal mines.
3. Stockpile awesome candy at the house. We’re not candy folks, and really don’t keep a lot of sweets around the house. Oh, that is about to change. I will find what they crave most, make sure their parents don’t keep it at home, and keep it loaded up, so every time they come over, the first thing they do is sprint to the special spot in the cabinet for the gallon-sized jar of Fun Dip.
4. Teach the art of body noises. Every uncle worth his salt teaches his nephew how to make armpit music.
5. Search the shelves for the loudest, brightest, most un-turn-offable toys around. I did not know companies made toys that you could not turn off until I had kids. And it always seems that these gifts were coming from my sisters. Don’t think I didn’t notice.
6. Encourage my children to form lasting bonds with their cousins. These bonds include the no-snitching bond, the pink-belly bond, the double-dog-dare bond, and, of course, the occasional bet-you-won’t-eat-that bond.
7. Give them tattoos. No, not real tattoos. But it seems like my children often come away from their aunts’ presence with those press-on tattoos. And while I know that my sisters would never get my 6- and 3-year-old ACTUAL tattoos, it does say something that I always drag my finger over it JUST to make sure.
8. Offer to cut their hair. This is not really related to being an uncle, but the one time I tried to cut Allie’s hair was such a disaster, I would enjoy seeing the looks on my sisters’ faces when I made the offer.
9. Demand they come spend the night on occasion. Gen. Parker insists on it. There is a good chance Allie will ask for a sleepover at Grandma’s that night.
10. Find ridiculous and unnecessary clothing accessories that their parents would never buy, but they will feel somewhat obligated to dress their kids in when I come around. Here I’m thinking things like sombreros and elf shoes. I have no idea why. It just seems like the thing to do.
Before you come down too hard on me for being an irresponsible adult around my nephews, let me remind you that I am responsible all kinds of times during the day.
Ha! I kid because I care. Truth of the matter is that I am incredibly excited about having two baby nephews. I will strive to be fun uncle and little brother at the same time, a mission that I can easily accomplish.
Now, who gets the trumpet and how gets the parrot?
For six years I have endured it. I have held back. I have not fought it. But I don’t have to wait any longer.
I have two brand new nephews, and you know what that means – It’s time to buy drum sets.
Yes, my three sisters have enjoyed vying for the title of “fun aunt” since my children have been born. Candy for dinner? Sure! Bounce on the couch? Why not! Impromptu dog saddle? Let’s try it!
Oh, but it is now my turn. Samuel was born Nov. 17, and Nicholas joined us on Feb. 1. I am wringing my hands over the tough decisions an uncle has – who gets the bugle and who gets the fire truck with realistic sirens that you cannot turn off?
I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking I’m being petty and spiteful and looking to get back at my sisters for years of spoiling my kids. To that I say: You are correct.
But it’s not just the revenge factor that it is so appealing. I am excited about finally getting to be fun uncle. I have fun with my kids, sure, but at the end of the day, I still have to do the dad stuff. I have to do bath time, make lunches, ask Parker to let the dog out of the trash can, etc.
The kids are very excited as well. As a 6-year-old, Allie is very caring and nurturing. She really wants to hold the babies and help feed them and such. (She has made it plainly clear that Samuel and Nicholas’ mommies can tend to the diaper part.)
Parker also likes to hold the babies, although he gets a different look in his eye. It is the look of, “Oh, the things I will try to pin on you. And the things I will dare you to do.” In short, I think he believes we are supplying soldiers for Gen. Parker’s Army of Destruction.
But back to the ways I plan on spoiling them. I think as their uncle, it is my duty to ensure that they learn a few things. So, from this day forward, I vow to Samuel and Nicholas that I will:
1. Dig deep into my memory banks and find that one little thing I used to do most pester their mothers, so as they get older, their mother’s little brother will always be there.
2. Have a complete and separate set of standards for them versus my children. When my children complain, I will remind them that they didn’t seem to mind when their aunts were doing the same thing, and then order them back into the coal mines.
3. Stockpile awesome candy at the house. We’re not candy folks, and really don’t keep a lot of sweets around the house. Oh, that is about to change. I will find what they crave most, make sure their parents don’t keep it at home, and keep it loaded up, so every time they come over, the first thing they do is sprint to the special spot in the cabinet for the gallon-sized jar of Fun Dip.
4. Teach the art of body noises. Every uncle worth his salt teaches his nephew how to make armpit music.
5. Search the shelves for the loudest, brightest, most un-turn-offable toys around. I did not know companies made toys that you could not turn off until I had kids. And it always seems that these gifts were coming from my sisters. Don’t think I didn’t notice.
6. Encourage my children to form lasting bonds with their cousins. These bonds include the no-snitching bond, the pink-belly bond, the double-dog-dare bond, and, of course, the occasional bet-you-won’t-eat-that bond.
7. Give them tattoos. No, not real tattoos. But it seems like my children often come away from their aunts’ presence with those press-on tattoos. And while I know that my sisters would never get my 6- and 3-year-old ACTUAL tattoos, it does say something that I always drag my finger over it JUST to make sure.
8. Offer to cut their hair. This is not really related to being an uncle, but the one time I tried to cut Allie’s hair was such a disaster, I would enjoy seeing the looks on my sisters’ faces when I made the offer.
9. Demand they come spend the night on occasion. Gen. Parker insists on it. There is a good chance Allie will ask for a sleepover at Grandma’s that night.
10. Find ridiculous and unnecessary clothing accessories that their parents would never buy, but they will feel somewhat obligated to dress their kids in when I come around. Here I’m thinking things like sombreros and elf shoes. I have no idea why. It just seems like the thing to do.
Before you come down too hard on me for being an irresponsible adult around my nephews, let me remind you that I am responsible all kinds of times during the day.
Ha! I kid because I care. Truth of the matter is that I am incredibly excited about having two baby nephews. I will strive to be fun uncle and little brother at the same time, a mission that I can easily accomplish.
Now, who gets the trumpet and how gets the parrot?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Sick days
You know what’s fun? Arguing with a sick 3-year-old whether or not you have pancakes.
The other night, Parker woke up around 10 and we had this conversation:
PARKER: I want pancakes.
ME: We don’t have any more pancakes.
PARKER: YES...WE...DO!!!
ME: No, you ate the last of them this morning.
PARKER: NO...I...DIDN’T!!!
ME: Yes you did.
PARKER: I want pancakes.
Repeat 8 billion times. Guess what? We still have no pancakes.
I picked up The Dude and immediately found out why he was in such a disagreeable mood. You would be, too, if your forehead were hot enough to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on.
I always hate it when my kids get fevers, which I suppose goes without saying, lest I be labeled the cruelest dad ever. But it also really worries me because on the rare occasions when I get a fever, I do it in spectacular fashion. I don’t ever get a nice, low-grade 100ish fever that brings discomfort. I opt for the 140-degree face meltings that, at the same time, somehow convinces your body that you are immersed in a snow bank. So in addition to the searing pain in my eyes, I have shivering and teeth chattering. I highly recommend you try it, assuming you hate your life and embrace suffering.
So whenever my kids start getting that warm feeling, I am afraid their temperature is going to try and overload the thermometer. I could tell by Parker’s head he was trying to be like good ol’ dad.
When we went to take his temperature, I asked him to lift up his shirt. He told me he did not want to have his temperature taken under his arm. I told him he would not like the other option. He looked at me for a minute, perhaps had a flashback from when he was a baby, and reluctantly lifted his arm. 103.
That night was a fun night. It has been a while since our kids were babies, so we forgot the joy of sleepless nights. We gave him some medicine to help break the fever, and we apparently washed it down with Jolt cola and a couple of double shot espressos.
First, he decided he was ready to go bed, but he would do it under a table for his trains. “It will be a tent,” he said exceptionally quickly. Fine, whatever. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed to his sleeping quarters. “Come with me, Daddy!!!!” he said even faster. Daddy does not fit under train tables.
Not that that mattered, since after about three minutes, he was on to his next project. At one point, I made the mistake of using the bathroom around midnight. When I returned to the hallway, I saw him standing there, pushing his half-asleep sister down the hall. She looked at me and said, “Daddy, will you please make him stop?” I distracted him (”Hey, something shiny!!”) and she slipped back to her room.
Around 1:30, I threw in the towel. Parker decided he wanted to play in the playroom (can’t remember what; he could have opted for woodworking and I would have conceded at that point). That’s when I made the command decision that was, at the same time, a colossally stupid decision.
I came into the bedroom where my wife was lying (not sleeping, since she has this crazy habit of staying awake when her children are up trying to convert tables into tents, etc.) and said, “I’m done. He’s yours. I have to work tomorrow.” I then hopped in bed and shut my eyes, ready for a deep sleep.
Truth be told, I kept my eyes shut as tightly as possible, because I did not want to see what could possibly be about to happen, such as the mattress being folded up tightly and forced out a window.
My wife decided to tend to other pressing matters, such as seeing why our son was suddenly screaming his ABCs.
So around 5:30 that morning, I was woken up, and not with the kindest of tones, I might add. “He’s asleep,” said my wife, who for SOME reason was taking a rather curt tone with me. She then told me that he had continued to be wild. “At 4 a.m., he decided to do a puppet show,” she said. A few seconds later, I learned that this was not, in fact, funny.
Although Parker had a bit of a rough day the next day, we finally got him back on a normal schedule the next night, and after a few days he was on the mend. Turns out he had the flu, which he was kind enough to share with his sister. She, on the other hand, was kind enough to respond to it by simply curling up on the couch to watch movies. There would be no puppet shows.
After a few days, when it appeared the kids were on the mend and my wife was amenable to speaking to me again, I suggested that perhaps my delivery several nights before was not the most tactful, and certainly did not accurately reflect what I was trying to say. There were far better ways to pass the sick-kid baton, and I did not opt for any of those. For that, I assured her, I was sorry. The look on her face told me she was still a wee bit angry, so I said the one thing that would make it all better: “Honey, how about a puppet show?”
The other night, Parker woke up around 10 and we had this conversation:
PARKER: I want pancakes.
ME: We don’t have any more pancakes.
PARKER: YES...WE...DO!!!
ME: No, you ate the last of them this morning.
PARKER: NO...I...DIDN’T!!!
ME: Yes you did.
PARKER: I want pancakes.
Repeat 8 billion times. Guess what? We still have no pancakes.
I picked up The Dude and immediately found out why he was in such a disagreeable mood. You would be, too, if your forehead were hot enough to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on.
I always hate it when my kids get fevers, which I suppose goes without saying, lest I be labeled the cruelest dad ever. But it also really worries me because on the rare occasions when I get a fever, I do it in spectacular fashion. I don’t ever get a nice, low-grade 100ish fever that brings discomfort. I opt for the 140-degree face meltings that, at the same time, somehow convinces your body that you are immersed in a snow bank. So in addition to the searing pain in my eyes, I have shivering and teeth chattering. I highly recommend you try it, assuming you hate your life and embrace suffering.
So whenever my kids start getting that warm feeling, I am afraid their temperature is going to try and overload the thermometer. I could tell by Parker’s head he was trying to be like good ol’ dad.
When we went to take his temperature, I asked him to lift up his shirt. He told me he did not want to have his temperature taken under his arm. I told him he would not like the other option. He looked at me for a minute, perhaps had a flashback from when he was a baby, and reluctantly lifted his arm. 103.
That night was a fun night. It has been a while since our kids were babies, so we forgot the joy of sleepless nights. We gave him some medicine to help break the fever, and we apparently washed it down with Jolt cola and a couple of double shot espressos.
First, he decided he was ready to go bed, but he would do it under a table for his trains. “It will be a tent,” he said exceptionally quickly. Fine, whatever. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed to his sleeping quarters. “Come with me, Daddy!!!!” he said even faster. Daddy does not fit under train tables.
Not that that mattered, since after about three minutes, he was on to his next project. At one point, I made the mistake of using the bathroom around midnight. When I returned to the hallway, I saw him standing there, pushing his half-asleep sister down the hall. She looked at me and said, “Daddy, will you please make him stop?” I distracted him (”Hey, something shiny!!”) and she slipped back to her room.
Around 1:30, I threw in the towel. Parker decided he wanted to play in the playroom (can’t remember what; he could have opted for woodworking and I would have conceded at that point). That’s when I made the command decision that was, at the same time, a colossally stupid decision.
I came into the bedroom where my wife was lying (not sleeping, since she has this crazy habit of staying awake when her children are up trying to convert tables into tents, etc.) and said, “I’m done. He’s yours. I have to work tomorrow.” I then hopped in bed and shut my eyes, ready for a deep sleep.
Truth be told, I kept my eyes shut as tightly as possible, because I did not want to see what could possibly be about to happen, such as the mattress being folded up tightly and forced out a window.
My wife decided to tend to other pressing matters, such as seeing why our son was suddenly screaming his ABCs.
So around 5:30 that morning, I was woken up, and not with the kindest of tones, I might add. “He’s asleep,” said my wife, who for SOME reason was taking a rather curt tone with me. She then told me that he had continued to be wild. “At 4 a.m., he decided to do a puppet show,” she said. A few seconds later, I learned that this was not, in fact, funny.
Although Parker had a bit of a rough day the next day, we finally got him back on a normal schedule the next night, and after a few days he was on the mend. Turns out he had the flu, which he was kind enough to share with his sister. She, on the other hand, was kind enough to respond to it by simply curling up on the couch to watch movies. There would be no puppet shows.
After a few days, when it appeared the kids were on the mend and my wife was amenable to speaking to me again, I suggested that perhaps my delivery several nights before was not the most tactful, and certainly did not accurately reflect what I was trying to say. There were far better ways to pass the sick-kid baton, and I did not opt for any of those. For that, I assured her, I was sorry. The look on her face told me she was still a wee bit angry, so I said the one thing that would make it all better: “Honey, how about a puppet show?”
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Cart games
So I was leaving the grocery store the other day, pushing my cart toward my car. A large gust of wind came through, sending a rogue grocery cart out into the middle of the lot. Two guys in front of me, walking toward their car, deftly sidestepped the cart and continued to their vehicle.
Common courtesy, I decided, was dying again. While you may not think grocery carts are the great social barometer, I think they are. And if you doubt me, think of this: If it were not true, why would it be in print in a newspaper? Game, set, match, checkmate.
But allow me to explain. You see, grocery cart courtesy is one of the most basic things you can do. You get a cart, you use a cart, you return a cart. Seems simple. But when common courtesy begins to break down, the process, too, starts to crumble, mainly in the third step: the return.
And let me just spell it right out for you: If you find me a legitimate reason to voluntarily abandon your cart in the unoccupied parking place next to your car, I will give you $1 million. (Editor’s note: No, he won’t.) And the reason I am making such a bold offer is that there is NEVER a reason to voluntarily leave your cart in the parking space next to yours, only to either block someone trying to park or dare someone to try and gently nudge it out of the way with their bumper, which is a bad idea all around, but yet people still feel the need to try, never mind they have zero ability to steer and will undoubtedly send the cart crashing into the Nissan Sentra parked nearby. (I will now allow for everyone to catch their breath from that sentence.)
Some of you may think this is not that big of a deal. Guess what? You’re wrong. It’s a huge deal. Because it symbolizes something: Abandoning your cart shows that you don’t give a lick about what inconveniences other people. You don’t care about the car that may get dinged when a wind gust sends the rogue cart reeling. You don’t care about the driver who has to keep circling the lot because your abandoned cart is taking up a parking place. You don’t care about the kid out there having to go to all ends of the parking lot because you can’t wheel the cart over to the corral. In short, it’s just plain rude.
And when you see a cart go rolling to the middle of the road, blocking cars and creating a hazard, when you merely step around it, well, you’re all the things the person who abandoned it are and then a little more.
I know you probably think I am being a wee bit sensitive about this. After all, you are probably saying, aren’t there other things you could worry about? To which I say this: Won’t you think of the children? I am not sure how carts affect children, but I am sure there is a link, and I will not sit idly by while you allow a generation to disintegrate.
So anyhow, back to the parking lot the other day. Because I am not a big fan of being beaten up in a parking lot, I did not say anything to the two guys who walked around the cart. (For what it’s worth, I have never been beaten up in a parking lot, but I pretty well guess I wouldn’t like it. I’ve never been gored by a bull, but I feel confident saying I am not a fan of it.) Instead, I took the wayward cart and pushed it along with mine, forming a mini-herd. I noticed one of the guys looked over his shoulder and saw me grab the cart. While it is possible that he had a twinge of guilt over not having moved the cart, I think it is far more likely that he was thinking, “Say something, sweater-boy. We haven’t beaten someone in a parking lot in days.”
I find myself doing this on occasion. (Not the nearly getting beaten up in a parking lot part.) Whenever I am at the store, if someone has left a cart sitting in an open space, in the middle of the road, on top of another car, etc., I bring it back in. And, whenever I take a cart out to the car, I make sure it’s put in the corral. If I have the kids and a race car cart, I make a point of getting it back inside the store, lest an unexpected rain come up and some poor unsuspecting parent, thinking they had reached the home base of the race car cart, plop their kid in, only to hear a splash. Then, one of two things will happen: (1) The child will be very unhappy with your decision to place him in a puddle and loudly pronounce your unsatisfactory parenting or (2) he will be thrilled and, before you can get him out, he will have played patty-cake with the puddle, splashing everything within a 10-foot radius.
But again, I digress. Truth be told, for the most part, folks do fall on the courteous side. I guess I shouldn’t let these two guys sour my view on the world. I mean, if you think about it, there are usually way more carts in the proper place than out roaming free in the parking lot. Why focus on the few who don’t play by the rules? I should acknowledge the people who do the right thing. And I should do it for the children.
Common courtesy, I decided, was dying again. While you may not think grocery carts are the great social barometer, I think they are. And if you doubt me, think of this: If it were not true, why would it be in print in a newspaper? Game, set, match, checkmate.
But allow me to explain. You see, grocery cart courtesy is one of the most basic things you can do. You get a cart, you use a cart, you return a cart. Seems simple. But when common courtesy begins to break down, the process, too, starts to crumble, mainly in the third step: the return.
And let me just spell it right out for you: If you find me a legitimate reason to voluntarily abandon your cart in the unoccupied parking place next to your car, I will give you $1 million. (Editor’s note: No, he won’t.) And the reason I am making such a bold offer is that there is NEVER a reason to voluntarily leave your cart in the parking space next to yours, only to either block someone trying to park or dare someone to try and gently nudge it out of the way with their bumper, which is a bad idea all around, but yet people still feel the need to try, never mind they have zero ability to steer and will undoubtedly send the cart crashing into the Nissan Sentra parked nearby. (I will now allow for everyone to catch their breath from that sentence.)
Some of you may think this is not that big of a deal. Guess what? You’re wrong. It’s a huge deal. Because it symbolizes something: Abandoning your cart shows that you don’t give a lick about what inconveniences other people. You don’t care about the car that may get dinged when a wind gust sends the rogue cart reeling. You don’t care about the driver who has to keep circling the lot because your abandoned cart is taking up a parking place. You don’t care about the kid out there having to go to all ends of the parking lot because you can’t wheel the cart over to the corral. In short, it’s just plain rude.
And when you see a cart go rolling to the middle of the road, blocking cars and creating a hazard, when you merely step around it, well, you’re all the things the person who abandoned it are and then a little more.
I know you probably think I am being a wee bit sensitive about this. After all, you are probably saying, aren’t there other things you could worry about? To which I say this: Won’t you think of the children? I am not sure how carts affect children, but I am sure there is a link, and I will not sit idly by while you allow a generation to disintegrate.
So anyhow, back to the parking lot the other day. Because I am not a big fan of being beaten up in a parking lot, I did not say anything to the two guys who walked around the cart. (For what it’s worth, I have never been beaten up in a parking lot, but I pretty well guess I wouldn’t like it. I’ve never been gored by a bull, but I feel confident saying I am not a fan of it.) Instead, I took the wayward cart and pushed it along with mine, forming a mini-herd. I noticed one of the guys looked over his shoulder and saw me grab the cart. While it is possible that he had a twinge of guilt over not having moved the cart, I think it is far more likely that he was thinking, “Say something, sweater-boy. We haven’t beaten someone in a parking lot in days.”
I find myself doing this on occasion. (Not the nearly getting beaten up in a parking lot part.) Whenever I am at the store, if someone has left a cart sitting in an open space, in the middle of the road, on top of another car, etc., I bring it back in. And, whenever I take a cart out to the car, I make sure it’s put in the corral. If I have the kids and a race car cart, I make a point of getting it back inside the store, lest an unexpected rain come up and some poor unsuspecting parent, thinking they had reached the home base of the race car cart, plop their kid in, only to hear a splash. Then, one of two things will happen: (1) The child will be very unhappy with your decision to place him in a puddle and loudly pronounce your unsatisfactory parenting or (2) he will be thrilled and, before you can get him out, he will have played patty-cake with the puddle, splashing everything within a 10-foot radius.
But again, I digress. Truth be told, for the most part, folks do fall on the courteous side. I guess I shouldn’t let these two guys sour my view on the world. I mean, if you think about it, there are usually way more carts in the proper place than out roaming free in the parking lot. Why focus on the few who don’t play by the rules? I should acknowledge the people who do the right thing. And I should do it for the children.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Stick it to it
Once again, we have suffered a problem with our heating unit. We often have problems with our heating/air conditioning, because the unit was manufactured in 1642, and the mules used to power it are difficult to replace.
This time, the unit had decided to form a nice bank of ice all around the bottom of it. And, when I peered down in the unit, just beneath the fan, I saw a nice thick sheet of ice. Several people told me that ice will often form on heating units during the winter. I informed them that while that may be true, rarely did entire ice ages descend on the units.
In addition to the ice, I noticed that if you stood about three feet from the unit, you could feel the ground vibrating. A lot. When I asked a neighbor to come check it out, he looked at me and said, “That’s not normal.”
Clearly, bad things were happening. My first thought was that at any moment, this thing could explode. I find it interesting how rarely things in the world explode, yet how we are always living in fear of that. Perhaps a little too much TV.
Anyhow, so I did what any sensible human would do, which was to head to the Internet. And no, I did not go to the Internet looking for home repair advice. The Internet, in all its usefulness, is also chock full of things that are designed to either terrorize or injure. If you look for medical advice, you will self-diagnose yourself with every disease known. If you use it for home repair, you will electrocute yourself. And then imagine the vicious cycle if you use the Internet to cure your electrocution.
But I digress.
I used the Internet to find the phone number of a college buddy, Lee, who works with HVAC units and can tell me quick-fix solutions (“OK, have you turned the unit ON?”)
I told him the deal, and he immediately showed why he is the ace when it comes to high-tech repairs. “See if you can turn the fan with a stick.”
Apparently, despite all of the super cool tools and gadgets they may have, the first go-to tool they employ is ... a stick.
Somewhat concerned I was being set up for some hilarious hidden camera show — “Coming up next on Fox’s ‘Wildest Limb Separations’...” I slowly moved the stick over toward the fan. I did a double take over my shoulder to see if I could catch a glimpse of the Fox camera guy. No luck.
I stuck the stick in and gave the fan a shove. Nothing.
“OK, it didn’t do anything. Including cut off my arm at the elbow.”
There was a brief, understandable pause. He then explained to me that a heating unit does in fact often freeze up, and that there was a defrosting mode that ... you know what — never mind. It was broken. Let’s just leave it at that.
I went in and told my wife what the problem was. Without hesitation, I gave her a breakdown of how a unit works, and what our problem was. She stared at me with the most precious look. It was like her little illiterate child had finally learned to read. I think a tear actually welled up in her eye. I then added, “It’s not like I figured any of this out. I called Lee. He told me what the problem was.”
So I called our home warranty folks, because if there is one thing you want on top of the headache of dealing with heating on the fritz, it’s the headache of dealing with the home warranty company. When I reached their recording, which uses voice recognition to select menu times, I used my usual three-prong approach.
1. Say “OPERATOR” at the first chance you get. If that doesn’t work...
2. Say “Transfer.” If that doesn’t work...
3. Say “Mr. Peabody.” Or “Grape Ape.” Or “Quick Draw McGraw.” Really most any cartoon character will work. The point is if “operator” or “transfer” aren’t programmed to lead you to a human (or at least the closest thing they could hire to work that shift), random words often cause the system to say, “You know what? Let the working stiff handle it. I’m going to go process some numbers or something.” (NOTE: If there is a Mr. Peabody working for the company, this could backfire, so be prepared to bail.)
With this particular company, I know to skip right to number 2. In a few seconds, I was talking to a real human. I know this because there are few cyborgs or lower primates that smack gum on the phone. Despite that, she was able to get a work order opened in the system quite quickly.
The next morning, the heating repair guy came out. He looked at the unit, knelt down beside it and immediately reached for — you guessed it — a stick. I glanced around for cameramen. Nothing. Guess it is, in fact, a legitimate HVAC repair tool.
In short order, using his magic stick, he determined that the fan motor was dead, and that was the reason for the freezing. He replaced the motor, and in no time had it purring away.
I am sure that it will just be a matter of time until our unit does something else to need repair. At least the next time something goes wrong, I’ll know exactly what to do — I’ll poke it with a stick.
This time, the unit had decided to form a nice bank of ice all around the bottom of it. And, when I peered down in the unit, just beneath the fan, I saw a nice thick sheet of ice. Several people told me that ice will often form on heating units during the winter. I informed them that while that may be true, rarely did entire ice ages descend on the units.
In addition to the ice, I noticed that if you stood about three feet from the unit, you could feel the ground vibrating. A lot. When I asked a neighbor to come check it out, he looked at me and said, “That’s not normal.”
Clearly, bad things were happening. My first thought was that at any moment, this thing could explode. I find it interesting how rarely things in the world explode, yet how we are always living in fear of that. Perhaps a little too much TV.
Anyhow, so I did what any sensible human would do, which was to head to the Internet. And no, I did not go to the Internet looking for home repair advice. The Internet, in all its usefulness, is also chock full of things that are designed to either terrorize or injure. If you look for medical advice, you will self-diagnose yourself with every disease known. If you use it for home repair, you will electrocute yourself. And then imagine the vicious cycle if you use the Internet to cure your electrocution.
But I digress.
I used the Internet to find the phone number of a college buddy, Lee, who works with HVAC units and can tell me quick-fix solutions (“OK, have you turned the unit ON?”)
I told him the deal, and he immediately showed why he is the ace when it comes to high-tech repairs. “See if you can turn the fan with a stick.”
Apparently, despite all of the super cool tools and gadgets they may have, the first go-to tool they employ is ... a stick.
Somewhat concerned I was being set up for some hilarious hidden camera show — “Coming up next on Fox’s ‘Wildest Limb Separations’...” I slowly moved the stick over toward the fan. I did a double take over my shoulder to see if I could catch a glimpse of the Fox camera guy. No luck.
I stuck the stick in and gave the fan a shove. Nothing.
“OK, it didn’t do anything. Including cut off my arm at the elbow.”
There was a brief, understandable pause. He then explained to me that a heating unit does in fact often freeze up, and that there was a defrosting mode that ... you know what — never mind. It was broken. Let’s just leave it at that.
I went in and told my wife what the problem was. Without hesitation, I gave her a breakdown of how a unit works, and what our problem was. She stared at me with the most precious look. It was like her little illiterate child had finally learned to read. I think a tear actually welled up in her eye. I then added, “It’s not like I figured any of this out. I called Lee. He told me what the problem was.”
So I called our home warranty folks, because if there is one thing you want on top of the headache of dealing with heating on the fritz, it’s the headache of dealing with the home warranty company. When I reached their recording, which uses voice recognition to select menu times, I used my usual three-prong approach.
1. Say “OPERATOR” at the first chance you get. If that doesn’t work...
2. Say “Transfer.” If that doesn’t work...
3. Say “Mr. Peabody.” Or “Grape Ape.” Or “Quick Draw McGraw.” Really most any cartoon character will work. The point is if “operator” or “transfer” aren’t programmed to lead you to a human (or at least the closest thing they could hire to work that shift), random words often cause the system to say, “You know what? Let the working stiff handle it. I’m going to go process some numbers or something.” (NOTE: If there is a Mr. Peabody working for the company, this could backfire, so be prepared to bail.)
With this particular company, I know to skip right to number 2. In a few seconds, I was talking to a real human. I know this because there are few cyborgs or lower primates that smack gum on the phone. Despite that, she was able to get a work order opened in the system quite quickly.
The next morning, the heating repair guy came out. He looked at the unit, knelt down beside it and immediately reached for — you guessed it — a stick. I glanced around for cameramen. Nothing. Guess it is, in fact, a legitimate HVAC repair tool.
In short order, using his magic stick, he determined that the fan motor was dead, and that was the reason for the freezing. He replaced the motor, and in no time had it purring away.
I am sure that it will just be a matter of time until our unit does something else to need repair. At least the next time something goes wrong, I’ll know exactly what to do — I’ll poke it with a stick.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Pane pain
So I was snoozing quite fine when I was awakened by a 6-year-old saying, “Daddy, come quick. It’s awful.”
Now, I did not immediately panic, because a 6-year-old’s version of “awful” can be far different than mine. “Awful” could mean that the red marker is out of ink. “How awful?” I asked, expecting her to tell me about how the Barbie’s arms had been removed.
“Parker kicked out a window and cut his foot.”
Oh, THAT awful. Gotcha. Time to get up.
Turns out, Parker had decided he was not going to sit in the back of the police car and ... oh, wait. That’s not it.
We were at my in-laws’ house in Atlanta, and for some reason I had gotten the good fortune of getting to sleep in that morning. The kids were playing on the ground, and Parker swung around, planting his bare foot squarely in the middle of a window, breaking the pane and putting a nice slice down the back of his foot.
When I came to see him, Parker came sprinting to me. “DADDY!!! LOOK!!!” Wounds are very cool to him.
My wife had already dealt with the bloody foot and cordoned off the crime scene. Fortunately, the cut was more of a scrape, which was a pretty impressive accomplishment seeing as how he had just roundhoused a pane of glass. Glass was everywhere, and I began the process of carefully removing the shards from the pane and cleaning up the glass that was all over the carpet.
After assessing the damage, my father-in-law and I decided that we could easily fix this ourselves. Actually, he decided that. I nodded and kinda laughed nervously, thinking back to the time when the two of us tried to fix a faucet at their house and managed to shut off all water to the house for about eight hours.
But I am not one to turn away a challenge, especially when the challenge is in the form of a gaping hole courtesy of my offspring. My father-in-law took us to a hardware store near his house. It was far from the mega-home improvement stores. It was a large store, but in more of the old fashioned style. My grandfather used to own a hardware store, and I loved to spend time roaming the aisles, finding different oddball items they stocked. While Lowe’s and Home Improvement may bring a sense of quick and easy order, there is something special (and nostalgic, for some of us) about roaming the aisles of a good old fashioned hardware store.
We made our way back to the cutting area, where pretty much any type of material you needed cut was for sale. We gave the guy the measurements, and I then produced a broken shard of glass. “And it’s this thick,” I said, holding up the glass like it was a prison shiv.
“Uh, it’s a window pane, right?” he asked.
“Yes...” I responded.
“Then it’s window-pane thickness. You don’t need that.”
Very good, then.
When the glass was cut, we headed back home with some window glaze and a putty knife, ready to tackle the job. The first order of business was for everyone to assume their positions. Parker – look for bugs. Father-in-law – Guard Parker. Women – head out shopping.
Now before you assume that I am being a chauvinist, let me assure that (a) they had been planning on going shopping before the window incident and (b) encouraging them to go ahead and take part in their trip was a good idea, because they would not be there to lecture me when I announced, “I broke the glass.” (I actually announced it with a few more words than that, words I’m not proud of, but I think most of you can understand.)
Turns out, we had measured just a smidge off, and the glass didn’t QUITE fit into the space allotted. Using a chisel, I tried to knock off a little of the window sill, and had gotten it almost securely in place, save for one little spot. It was at that point that my brain went out for a coffee break because, rather than chiseling away a little more, I decided I would see if glass was bendy. Guess what – it’s not.
The good news was that I was wearing gloves and the glass didn’t shatter, but was rather in two large pieces. I told my father-in-law to continue guarding Parker, while I made another run to the hardware store. When I walked in, the guy who had cut the glass the first time saw me standing there and shook his head. “I think I need about 1/16” less this time.” He asked me if he had cut it wrong. I assured him he had, in fact, cut it exactly how we had asked. A few moments later, he handed me a second pane. On it was a note that he told me to show to the cashier: “No charge.”
I looked at him and started to protest, as I had been the idiot who broke the glass. “Ah, I can get some more pieces out of the broken one. Just don’t break this one.”
Sure enough, this one fit snug as could be. I applied the glaze, and in no time, the window was secure. The whole thing was an unfortunate accident, and I am thankful that Parker was not seriously hurt. The whole thing did scare the tar out of him, which is probably a good thing. In retrospect, the whole incident serves as a valuable lesson – don’t sleep in. It will be awful.
Now, I did not immediately panic, because a 6-year-old’s version of “awful” can be far different than mine. “Awful” could mean that the red marker is out of ink. “How awful?” I asked, expecting her to tell me about how the Barbie’s arms had been removed.
“Parker kicked out a window and cut his foot.”
Oh, THAT awful. Gotcha. Time to get up.
Turns out, Parker had decided he was not going to sit in the back of the police car and ... oh, wait. That’s not it.
We were at my in-laws’ house in Atlanta, and for some reason I had gotten the good fortune of getting to sleep in that morning. The kids were playing on the ground, and Parker swung around, planting his bare foot squarely in the middle of a window, breaking the pane and putting a nice slice down the back of his foot.
When I came to see him, Parker came sprinting to me. “DADDY!!! LOOK!!!” Wounds are very cool to him.
My wife had already dealt with the bloody foot and cordoned off the crime scene. Fortunately, the cut was more of a scrape, which was a pretty impressive accomplishment seeing as how he had just roundhoused a pane of glass. Glass was everywhere, and I began the process of carefully removing the shards from the pane and cleaning up the glass that was all over the carpet.
After assessing the damage, my father-in-law and I decided that we could easily fix this ourselves. Actually, he decided that. I nodded and kinda laughed nervously, thinking back to the time when the two of us tried to fix a faucet at their house and managed to shut off all water to the house for about eight hours.
But I am not one to turn away a challenge, especially when the challenge is in the form of a gaping hole courtesy of my offspring. My father-in-law took us to a hardware store near his house. It was far from the mega-home improvement stores. It was a large store, but in more of the old fashioned style. My grandfather used to own a hardware store, and I loved to spend time roaming the aisles, finding different oddball items they stocked. While Lowe’s and Home Improvement may bring a sense of quick and easy order, there is something special (and nostalgic, for some of us) about roaming the aisles of a good old fashioned hardware store.
We made our way back to the cutting area, where pretty much any type of material you needed cut was for sale. We gave the guy the measurements, and I then produced a broken shard of glass. “And it’s this thick,” I said, holding up the glass like it was a prison shiv.
“Uh, it’s a window pane, right?” he asked.
“Yes...” I responded.
“Then it’s window-pane thickness. You don’t need that.”
Very good, then.
When the glass was cut, we headed back home with some window glaze and a putty knife, ready to tackle the job. The first order of business was for everyone to assume their positions. Parker – look for bugs. Father-in-law – Guard Parker. Women – head out shopping.
Now before you assume that I am being a chauvinist, let me assure that (a) they had been planning on going shopping before the window incident and (b) encouraging them to go ahead and take part in their trip was a good idea, because they would not be there to lecture me when I announced, “I broke the glass.” (I actually announced it with a few more words than that, words I’m not proud of, but I think most of you can understand.)
Turns out, we had measured just a smidge off, and the glass didn’t QUITE fit into the space allotted. Using a chisel, I tried to knock off a little of the window sill, and had gotten it almost securely in place, save for one little spot. It was at that point that my brain went out for a coffee break because, rather than chiseling away a little more, I decided I would see if glass was bendy. Guess what – it’s not.
The good news was that I was wearing gloves and the glass didn’t shatter, but was rather in two large pieces. I told my father-in-law to continue guarding Parker, while I made another run to the hardware store. When I walked in, the guy who had cut the glass the first time saw me standing there and shook his head. “I think I need about 1/16” less this time.” He asked me if he had cut it wrong. I assured him he had, in fact, cut it exactly how we had asked. A few moments later, he handed me a second pane. On it was a note that he told me to show to the cashier: “No charge.”
I looked at him and started to protest, as I had been the idiot who broke the glass. “Ah, I can get some more pieces out of the broken one. Just don’t break this one.”
Sure enough, this one fit snug as could be. I applied the glaze, and in no time, the window was secure. The whole thing was an unfortunate accident, and I am thankful that Parker was not seriously hurt. The whole thing did scare the tar out of him, which is probably a good thing. In retrospect, the whole incident serves as a valuable lesson – don’t sleep in. It will be awful.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Cell out
So I got a call yesterday from someone who was concerned about an issue that has upset people for years – people talking on cell phones.
As a business owner, she was telling me how on numerous occasions, she would think she was having a conversation with a customer, only to realize that the person was, in fact, talking on a cell phone – usually one of those cyborg-looking earpieces that blinks blue and scares children. Those conversations are never fun and usually go something like this:
HER: Hi, can I help you find anything?
CYBORG: And some spaghetti sauce.
HER: Uh, we don’t sell that here.
CYBORG: Detention? For what?
HER: Uh, I...uh...didn’t...give you detention.
CYBORG: OK, love you too.
After a while, it became clear that the issue is not cell phones. It’s people who don’t know the proper way to use cell phones. A lot of folks get upset whenever someone is using a cell phone. That’s silly. Cell phones are quite functional, and if you can adhere to a few basic issues of courtesy and behavior not reserved for feral cats, I think we can all agree that cell phones can be used in a positive manner. So let me put forth what is acceptable and unacceptable with cell phones:
ACCEPTABLE:
Using them in a grocery store to call home and clarify what to get. For some reason, this really annoys some people. You know what I find annoying? Driving BACK to the store because I got baking powder instead of baking soda.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Using them in a grocery store to have a fight with your boyfriend, set up a doctor’s appointment, yell at your housekeeper, tell your friend about your other friend’s recent diagnosis, etc.
ACCEPTABLE:
Having a conversation when you are dining alone.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Having a conversation when you are dining alone that is louder than an Aerosmith concert.
ACCEPTABLE:
Using a phone in your car, if you are using a hands-free device or are pulled off on the side of the road.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Using your phone in your car while also shaving, ironing your shirt and making waffles on your cigarette-lighter powered waffle maker (which was a bad idea to start with).
ACCEPTABLE:
Taking a call at the ballgame from a friend who just saw you on TV.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Taking a call at the ballgame from your bookie, and then explaining that you just need a few more days and that keeping your knees intact would be very helpful in collecting the needed money.
ACCEPTABLE:
Calling your wife to let her know you are on your way home from work.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Calling your wife to let her know that Happy Hour has been extended and that you hoped the twins’ viral infection was clearing up.
ACCEPTABLE:
Placing a call to emergency responders when you have had car trouble.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Placing a call to emergency responders because your phone’s address book contains a grand total of zero names, and sometimes you just need someone to talk to, and the nice bagboy at the grocery store said he really had to get back to work.
ACCEPTABLE:
Having your phone set on vibrate and excusing yourself from a movie theater to take an important call.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Confusing “important call” with “call from your friend who just HAS to tell you that the funny episode of ‘Seinfeld’ – you know the one with the rye bread – is on, and that TOTALLY is how Todd would have acted, too!”
ACCEPTABLE:
Having a distinctive ring tone.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Having a ring tone that sounds like a cat clawing glass.
I hope we can all agree that these guidelines will restore civility in our cell phone world. Cell phones are here to stay, so we might as well make their inclusion in our world as headache-free as possible. Let’s use these devices as what they are: functional, helpful units that allow us to communicate in times of need, in times of importance. But most of all, in times of grocery store crises.
As a business owner, she was telling me how on numerous occasions, she would think she was having a conversation with a customer, only to realize that the person was, in fact, talking on a cell phone – usually one of those cyborg-looking earpieces that blinks blue and scares children. Those conversations are never fun and usually go something like this:
HER: Hi, can I help you find anything?
CYBORG: And some spaghetti sauce.
HER: Uh, we don’t sell that here.
CYBORG: Detention? For what?
HER: Uh, I...uh...didn’t...give you detention.
CYBORG: OK, love you too.
After a while, it became clear that the issue is not cell phones. It’s people who don’t know the proper way to use cell phones. A lot of folks get upset whenever someone is using a cell phone. That’s silly. Cell phones are quite functional, and if you can adhere to a few basic issues of courtesy and behavior not reserved for feral cats, I think we can all agree that cell phones can be used in a positive manner. So let me put forth what is acceptable and unacceptable with cell phones:
ACCEPTABLE:
Using them in a grocery store to call home and clarify what to get. For some reason, this really annoys some people. You know what I find annoying? Driving BACK to the store because I got baking powder instead of baking soda.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Using them in a grocery store to have a fight with your boyfriend, set up a doctor’s appointment, yell at your housekeeper, tell your friend about your other friend’s recent diagnosis, etc.
ACCEPTABLE:
Having a conversation when you are dining alone.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Having a conversation when you are dining alone that is louder than an Aerosmith concert.
ACCEPTABLE:
Using a phone in your car, if you are using a hands-free device or are pulled off on the side of the road.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Using your phone in your car while also shaving, ironing your shirt and making waffles on your cigarette-lighter powered waffle maker (which was a bad idea to start with).
ACCEPTABLE:
Taking a call at the ballgame from a friend who just saw you on TV.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Taking a call at the ballgame from your bookie, and then explaining that you just need a few more days and that keeping your knees intact would be very helpful in collecting the needed money.
ACCEPTABLE:
Calling your wife to let her know you are on your way home from work.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Calling your wife to let her know that Happy Hour has been extended and that you hoped the twins’ viral infection was clearing up.
ACCEPTABLE:
Placing a call to emergency responders when you have had car trouble.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Placing a call to emergency responders because your phone’s address book contains a grand total of zero names, and sometimes you just need someone to talk to, and the nice bagboy at the grocery store said he really had to get back to work.
ACCEPTABLE:
Having your phone set on vibrate and excusing yourself from a movie theater to take an important call.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Confusing “important call” with “call from your friend who just HAS to tell you that the funny episode of ‘Seinfeld’ – you know the one with the rye bread – is on, and that TOTALLY is how Todd would have acted, too!”
ACCEPTABLE:
Having a distinctive ring tone.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Having a ring tone that sounds like a cat clawing glass.
I hope we can all agree that these guidelines will restore civility in our cell phone world. Cell phones are here to stay, so we might as well make their inclusion in our world as headache-free as possible. Let’s use these devices as what they are: functional, helpful units that allow us to communicate in times of need, in times of importance. But most of all, in times of grocery store crises.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Bring the pain
My sister summed it up best: “Well, he has spent the better part of his life with a black eye.”
Ah, the joy of having a son.
Parker is once again littered with the marks of being a little boy, namely cuts, scratches, bruises and bumps that make him look like he’s was on the receiving end of a Kid Battle Royal. I was standing on my mother’s porch with my sister, and we were commenting on the numerous badges of honor The Dude was sporting.
Among his current marks:
– A cut on his chin. He got this when he was pretending to be a lion and tried to get in the dog’s crate. No, it was not from the dog. For one thing, it was the crate of Murphy the Dachshund, and the most damage he could possible do to you would be if someone threw him at your very hard. Rather, Parker was pretending to be a lion, and his sister, who decided to take part in the animal games, told him that lions belonged in cages. My wife intervened before an actual crating occurred, but as Parker the Lion was being kept from captivity, he was able to scrape his chin on the open gate.
– A nasty purple bruise on his ear. This one I blame on pancakes. I decided to let my wife have some snooze time the other day and took the kids out for breakfast. Upon leaving, Parker, apparently woozy from five pancakes and about 14 gallons of syrup, tripped and fell into the van, turning his head just in time to he didn’t go face first. Since he is 3, Parker is by far the most independent creature on the planet and does not at all need assistance getting in his car seat. (Sure, I have to help him on occasion pull up Spider-Man underpants, but get in a van? WAY too grown up for that.) Anyhow, he went to climb into the car, lost his balance and went into the van door. I tried to catch him and did they big empty two-handed grab while shouting, “NOOOOO!!!!” in that slow-mo movie scream. He cried for a second, but as soon as he saw Allie was holding his stuffed dinosaur, the pain was not the issue. Dinosaur was the issue.
– A spot on his temple that looks like a little bump but has on occasion oozed out some nasty stuff. My mother has decided it was a splinter. I think that it is a distinct possibility, because Parker loves to walk through the woods. Note that I said he likes to walk “through” the woods. He will not be inconvenienced by moving branches out of his way.
- A rash that has made his fingernails pink and glittery. My wife says it is nail polish. I tell her that is absurd, and that clearly he has developed a wicked fungus that is very sparkly.
When Allie was little, she had her fair share of standard bumps and bruises. I remember when she first started walking and we took her to the doctor for a check-up. The front of her legs were all bruised up, and my wife and I were terrified that people would think we had somehow inflicted the bruises on her. The pediatrician assured us that he has, in fact, seen a child or two in his day, and that any child who walks will have bruises on their legs, because they walk with of the delicacy of a boulder rolling down a hill.
But she never got the repeated and visible injuries that Parker keeps getting. Sure, I worried at first what people would say the first couple of times he got black eyes courtesy of a coffee table or my knee. Relax, it was not intentional; I reached, he tripped, and Mr. Face met Mr. Knee. The terrified reaction I had was probably more painful than the actual shot to the noggin.
My mom says that Parker is a lot like me when I was as a child, so it stands to reason that injuries will be more commonplace. I broke a thumb playing one-on-one football. I broke an elbow when I got kicked in soccer (by my own teammate, no less). I broke three ribs playing flag football, which by all accounts is non-contact. We’re just hard-wired to be rough and tumble.
The good news is that I have not had a serious injury in some time. Sure I occasionally get a pinched nerve at this one spot in my back and I have to walk around for a couple of days with my head cocked at an awkward angle. And, if I sit at a desk for too long and stand up, my knee will sometimes buckle when I go to take a step, and I do this marionette-looking stumble until I regain my balance. But as I have gotten older, the daredevil-inspired wounds (read: stupid) have been reduced. I can only assume that in three or so decades, Parker will be doing the same thing. And hopefully by then, that rash on his fingernails will have cleared up.
Ah, the joy of having a son.
Parker is once again littered with the marks of being a little boy, namely cuts, scratches, bruises and bumps that make him look like he’s was on the receiving end of a Kid Battle Royal. I was standing on my mother’s porch with my sister, and we were commenting on the numerous badges of honor The Dude was sporting.
Among his current marks:
– A cut on his chin. He got this when he was pretending to be a lion and tried to get in the dog’s crate. No, it was not from the dog. For one thing, it was the crate of Murphy the Dachshund, and the most damage he could possible do to you would be if someone threw him at your very hard. Rather, Parker was pretending to be a lion, and his sister, who decided to take part in the animal games, told him that lions belonged in cages. My wife intervened before an actual crating occurred, but as Parker the Lion was being kept from captivity, he was able to scrape his chin on the open gate.
– A nasty purple bruise on his ear. This one I blame on pancakes. I decided to let my wife have some snooze time the other day and took the kids out for breakfast. Upon leaving, Parker, apparently woozy from five pancakes and about 14 gallons of syrup, tripped and fell into the van, turning his head just in time to he didn’t go face first. Since he is 3, Parker is by far the most independent creature on the planet and does not at all need assistance getting in his car seat. (Sure, I have to help him on occasion pull up Spider-Man underpants, but get in a van? WAY too grown up for that.) Anyhow, he went to climb into the car, lost his balance and went into the van door. I tried to catch him and did they big empty two-handed grab while shouting, “NOOOOO!!!!” in that slow-mo movie scream. He cried for a second, but as soon as he saw Allie was holding his stuffed dinosaur, the pain was not the issue. Dinosaur was the issue.
– A spot on his temple that looks like a little bump but has on occasion oozed out some nasty stuff. My mother has decided it was a splinter. I think that it is a distinct possibility, because Parker loves to walk through the woods. Note that I said he likes to walk “through” the woods. He will not be inconvenienced by moving branches out of his way.
- A rash that has made his fingernails pink and glittery. My wife says it is nail polish. I tell her that is absurd, and that clearly he has developed a wicked fungus that is very sparkly.
When Allie was little, she had her fair share of standard bumps and bruises. I remember when she first started walking and we took her to the doctor for a check-up. The front of her legs were all bruised up, and my wife and I were terrified that people would think we had somehow inflicted the bruises on her. The pediatrician assured us that he has, in fact, seen a child or two in his day, and that any child who walks will have bruises on their legs, because they walk with of the delicacy of a boulder rolling down a hill.
But she never got the repeated and visible injuries that Parker keeps getting. Sure, I worried at first what people would say the first couple of times he got black eyes courtesy of a coffee table or my knee. Relax, it was not intentional; I reached, he tripped, and Mr. Face met Mr. Knee. The terrified reaction I had was probably more painful than the actual shot to the noggin.
My mom says that Parker is a lot like me when I was as a child, so it stands to reason that injuries will be more commonplace. I broke a thumb playing one-on-one football. I broke an elbow when I got kicked in soccer (by my own teammate, no less). I broke three ribs playing flag football, which by all accounts is non-contact. We’re just hard-wired to be rough and tumble.
The good news is that I have not had a serious injury in some time. Sure I occasionally get a pinched nerve at this one spot in my back and I have to walk around for a couple of days with my head cocked at an awkward angle. And, if I sit at a desk for too long and stand up, my knee will sometimes buckle when I go to take a step, and I do this marionette-looking stumble until I regain my balance. But as I have gotten older, the daredevil-inspired wounds (read: stupid) have been reduced. I can only assume that in three or so decades, Parker will be doing the same thing. And hopefully by then, that rash on his fingernails will have cleared up.
Friday, December 29, 2006
You say you want a resolution...
Seems like most every year I write about my disdain for New Year’s resolutions. You set yourself up for failure, I say. But you know what? I think it’s about time that attitude changes. I mean, personal improvement is a fine goal, and there is no time like the dawning of a new year to kick things off. So while I have passed on New Year’s resolutions in the past, I will make up for the past and make a whole slew of them this year. Of the 10 resolutions below, if I only keep four of them, I will be in Ted Williamsesque rare air.
1. I resolve not to use awkward silence as a response to my wife. It turns out that when my wife offers up a 10-minute discussion of something that happened while she was in line at the drug store, the correct response is, “Wow, how about that?” or something of that ilk. Staring at her – or, even worse, saying, “What’s your point?” – will go bye-bye in 2007.
2. I resolve to accept the fact that children have a force field around them that makes it difficult for sound waves to penetrate their ears. Thus, when I say, “Go make your bed,” I will have a good understanding why the child instead continues trying to fill Mr. Potato Head with Play-Doh.
3. I resolve to purge my dresser of clothes that I have not worn in several years. Perhaps I need to come to grips with the fact that if I am embarrassed to wear a fraternity party T-shirt out in public because of its racy content, it should probably be purged from the stock.
4. I resolve to continue my ever-continuing goal of convincing myself that it’s just sports, life goes on, the sun will rise tomorrow. As a Falcons/Braves/Bama fan, I am thankful for their assistance in this matter through repeated lessons of “life goes on.”
5. I resolve to stick to the grocery list. I will go to the grocery store to pick up milk and will instead come home with, essentially, Kroger. I am not sure how it happens. I just wind through the aisles and stuff just starts appearing in my cart. I am so tired of getting home and having my wife look at the bags and say, “Uh, why did you get four turkeys?” and not have an answer. I don’t know why. So now I will stick to the list. And if “four turkeys” is on the list, I will call my wife and verify that one.
6. I resolve to open the grill before pre-heating it. This may seem like a no-brainer. And I thought I would never have to make such a evolution until last week. I heated the grill up and came out to throw some steaks on. As I approached the grill, I noticed an awkward smell. Definitely not a delicious pre-heated grill smell. When I opened up the grill, I found that the smell was coming from the melting plastic and metal from the grill utensils sitting on the grill getting roasted a balmy 400 degrees. For what it’s worth, I was able to clean the grill so that the steaks were not marinated in melted plastic.
7. I resolve to fix the towel rack once and for all. There are two towel racks in our bathroom, and one has been targeted for destruction by, I can only assume, my children. Every time I put it up, I walk in moments later to find it on the ground. On occasion, I find it being incorporated into a sword fight, which I immediately stop the moment my wife appears or someone draws blood. But I am going to put the rack back up, and I will anchor it to a wall stud and put video surveillance on it and, if I have to, stake Murphy the Attack Dachshund to protect it.
8. I resolve to figure out how to sell things on eBay. Fact of the matter is I am not going to listen to a CD of some band I absolutely loved in college but can’t even stand at this point, so there is no reason to keep an enormous box of CDs hanging around. I admit it. I’m old. And I might as well make a coin or two for someone who is just dying to learn about the Icelandic sensation “The Sugarcubes.”
9. I resolve to clean my garage and keep it clean. Hey, sometimes you make resolutions you have no plan on keeping. I feel obliged to include one as well.
10. I resolve to stick with decaf. I love my coffee. But when I had to give up caffeine last year, I had to kick my old friend to the curb. I have finally found some decaf I can like, and am even starting to look forward to my morning cup. I miss my old friend caffeine, but at least the coffee is back.
So I wish you well on your resolutions in 2007. I recommend that you, too, make as many resolutions as you can so that you are all but guaranteed some success in the New Year. It’s not about the six you won’t keep, but the four that you will.
Happy New Year!
1. I resolve not to use awkward silence as a response to my wife. It turns out that when my wife offers up a 10-minute discussion of something that happened while she was in line at the drug store, the correct response is, “Wow, how about that?” or something of that ilk. Staring at her – or, even worse, saying, “What’s your point?” – will go bye-bye in 2007.
2. I resolve to accept the fact that children have a force field around them that makes it difficult for sound waves to penetrate their ears. Thus, when I say, “Go make your bed,” I will have a good understanding why the child instead continues trying to fill Mr. Potato Head with Play-Doh.
3. I resolve to purge my dresser of clothes that I have not worn in several years. Perhaps I need to come to grips with the fact that if I am embarrassed to wear a fraternity party T-shirt out in public because of its racy content, it should probably be purged from the stock.
4. I resolve to continue my ever-continuing goal of convincing myself that it’s just sports, life goes on, the sun will rise tomorrow. As a Falcons/Braves/Bama fan, I am thankful for their assistance in this matter through repeated lessons of “life goes on.”
5. I resolve to stick to the grocery list. I will go to the grocery store to pick up milk and will instead come home with, essentially, Kroger. I am not sure how it happens. I just wind through the aisles and stuff just starts appearing in my cart. I am so tired of getting home and having my wife look at the bags and say, “Uh, why did you get four turkeys?” and not have an answer. I don’t know why. So now I will stick to the list. And if “four turkeys” is on the list, I will call my wife and verify that one.
6. I resolve to open the grill before pre-heating it. This may seem like a no-brainer. And I thought I would never have to make such a evolution until last week. I heated the grill up and came out to throw some steaks on. As I approached the grill, I noticed an awkward smell. Definitely not a delicious pre-heated grill smell. When I opened up the grill, I found that the smell was coming from the melting plastic and metal from the grill utensils sitting on the grill getting roasted a balmy 400 degrees. For what it’s worth, I was able to clean the grill so that the steaks were not marinated in melted plastic.
7. I resolve to fix the towel rack once and for all. There are two towel racks in our bathroom, and one has been targeted for destruction by, I can only assume, my children. Every time I put it up, I walk in moments later to find it on the ground. On occasion, I find it being incorporated into a sword fight, which I immediately stop the moment my wife appears or someone draws blood. But I am going to put the rack back up, and I will anchor it to a wall stud and put video surveillance on it and, if I have to, stake Murphy the Attack Dachshund to protect it.
8. I resolve to figure out how to sell things on eBay. Fact of the matter is I am not going to listen to a CD of some band I absolutely loved in college but can’t even stand at this point, so there is no reason to keep an enormous box of CDs hanging around. I admit it. I’m old. And I might as well make a coin or two for someone who is just dying to learn about the Icelandic sensation “The Sugarcubes.”
9. I resolve to clean my garage and keep it clean. Hey, sometimes you make resolutions you have no plan on keeping. I feel obliged to include one as well.
10. I resolve to stick with decaf. I love my coffee. But when I had to give up caffeine last year, I had to kick my old friend to the curb. I have finally found some decaf I can like, and am even starting to look forward to my morning cup. I miss my old friend caffeine, but at least the coffee is back.
So I wish you well on your resolutions in 2007. I recommend that you, too, make as many resolutions as you can so that you are all but guaranteed some success in the New Year. It’s not about the six you won’t keep, but the four that you will.
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Millennium Falcon moment
When was your Millennium Falcon moment?
I was talking with some college buddies the other day, and we were recounting the single greatest Christmas moments of our youth. By my count, 140 percent of the respondents said getting a Millennium Falcon. For guys my age, getting Han Solo’s super cool space ship toy is the ultimate Christmas memory. It is the item we reflect back on that sums up the excitement, the anticipation, the magic of Christmas. (Most of us put the Death Star as a close second.)
I asked my wife what her Millennium Falcon moment was, and she told me that every year, her mother would give her a porcelain doll, and she could not wait to find out which one she would get for her collection. Porcelain dolls are fine and all, but it is nowhere near as cool as the Millennium Falcon. Does a porcelain doll have a trap door to hide Han, Chewbacca and Luke Skywalker? I didn’t think so.
Anyway it is with eager anticipation that I gear up for Christmas, hoping to find what my kids’ Millennium Falcon Moment will be. Parker is 3, so he doesn’t have a singular thing he is geared up for Santa to bring him. Ask him from day to day what he wants, and it will change. Often, he says he wants Superman. And I don’t think he wants an action figure. I think he actually wants us to bring him Superman. He’s either a big fan or Lex Luther.
He’s really into bugs, so I am sure lots of his Christmas presents will center around that. Given his druthers, Parker would rather be outside, turning over logs and finding things to put in his bug house. Odd side note: The other day, he was carrying around a dead beetle in his pocket. (Not a dead Beatle. That would be weird). Anywho, I asked him the beetle’s name. Without so much as a pause, he said, “Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus.” Figuring he was just stringing together words, I asked him about an hour later what the beetle’s name was. Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. We are two days removed, and he still answers unequivocally, Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. I have no clue what to make of the name. Just figured I’d share.
The other thing he really loves is riding his Big Wheel, so the next logical step will be to from three wheels to two. Or, four, I guess, since it’s not very nice to put a kid on two wheels and just let him fall over.
Regardless of what Parker finds under the tree Christmas morning, it’s a safe bet that he will not have that Millennium Falcon moment. He’s still young, and he still gets excited regardless of the manner of presentation when he gets gifts. To a 3-year-old, Christmas and birthdays are not reserved for gift giving. Rather, it’s that every day should be for that, and they really don’t totally understand why EVERY day isn’t a day in which Matchbox cars magically appear.
Allie, however, could be approaching her Millennium Falcon moment. If it’s not this year, it will probably be in the next couple. She is uber-excited about Christmas, and is counting down the days.
Her Christmas list is growing quite lengthy, and I am to blame for much of that. I made the mistake a few weekends ago of letting her turn the television on one Saturday morning. Normally, this is not a problem, because she usually watches Disney or PBS, meaning no commercials. Network Saturday morning? Not so much. It did not take her long to come sprinting to me, almost out of breath. “DADDY – I have GOT to get Barbie: 12 Dancing Princesses and a Makeover Magic Camera and ...” At that point, it became all white noise. For what seemed like about 11 days, she rattled off toy after toy after toy, complete with a description of just HOW AWESOME!!! it really is and how she has GOT TO HAVE IT!!!!
Finally, I stopped her. “Allie. You need to take a breath. It’s been all exhale.”
I managed to remember 40-50 of the things that she told me about, which I relayed to her mother, who is our household’s Chief Santa Liaison (CSL). I was CSL for my daughter’s first Christmas. When a football and a baseball mitt came down the chimney, I was stripped of my title.
It’s probably better that my wife handles the CSL duties at this stage, since I get a little overwhelmed when shopping for her. If you have never shopped for gifts for a 6-year-old girl, I will let you know this: Roughly 85 percent of the world’s commercial products are geared for this demographic. There will never be a time when someone can honestly say, “I just couldn’t find a thing for a 6-year-old girl.” There could, however, be a time when someone says, “I just kept adding and adding and adding until the cart was piled 42-feet high, and in a flash I was covered in an avalanche of Barbie and My Little Pony.”
Regardless of what Christmas morning brings, I know this much to be true: My children’s eyes will light up at the wonders under the tree, and that’s a Millennium Falcon moment for me.
I was talking with some college buddies the other day, and we were recounting the single greatest Christmas moments of our youth. By my count, 140 percent of the respondents said getting a Millennium Falcon. For guys my age, getting Han Solo’s super cool space ship toy is the ultimate Christmas memory. It is the item we reflect back on that sums up the excitement, the anticipation, the magic of Christmas. (Most of us put the Death Star as a close second.)
I asked my wife what her Millennium Falcon moment was, and she told me that every year, her mother would give her a porcelain doll, and she could not wait to find out which one she would get for her collection. Porcelain dolls are fine and all, but it is nowhere near as cool as the Millennium Falcon. Does a porcelain doll have a trap door to hide Han, Chewbacca and Luke Skywalker? I didn’t think so.
Anyway it is with eager anticipation that I gear up for Christmas, hoping to find what my kids’ Millennium Falcon Moment will be. Parker is 3, so he doesn’t have a singular thing he is geared up for Santa to bring him. Ask him from day to day what he wants, and it will change. Often, he says he wants Superman. And I don’t think he wants an action figure. I think he actually wants us to bring him Superman. He’s either a big fan or Lex Luther.
He’s really into bugs, so I am sure lots of his Christmas presents will center around that. Given his druthers, Parker would rather be outside, turning over logs and finding things to put in his bug house. Odd side note: The other day, he was carrying around a dead beetle in his pocket. (Not a dead Beatle. That would be weird). Anywho, I asked him the beetle’s name. Without so much as a pause, he said, “Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus.” Figuring he was just stringing together words, I asked him about an hour later what the beetle’s name was. Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. We are two days removed, and he still answers unequivocally, Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. I have no clue what to make of the name. Just figured I’d share.
The other thing he really loves is riding his Big Wheel, so the next logical step will be to from three wheels to two. Or, four, I guess, since it’s not very nice to put a kid on two wheels and just let him fall over.
Regardless of what Parker finds under the tree Christmas morning, it’s a safe bet that he will not have that Millennium Falcon moment. He’s still young, and he still gets excited regardless of the manner of presentation when he gets gifts. To a 3-year-old, Christmas and birthdays are not reserved for gift giving. Rather, it’s that every day should be for that, and they really don’t totally understand why EVERY day isn’t a day in which Matchbox cars magically appear.
Allie, however, could be approaching her Millennium Falcon moment. If it’s not this year, it will probably be in the next couple. She is uber-excited about Christmas, and is counting down the days.
Her Christmas list is growing quite lengthy, and I am to blame for much of that. I made the mistake a few weekends ago of letting her turn the television on one Saturday morning. Normally, this is not a problem, because she usually watches Disney or PBS, meaning no commercials. Network Saturday morning? Not so much. It did not take her long to come sprinting to me, almost out of breath. “DADDY – I have GOT to get Barbie: 12 Dancing Princesses and a Makeover Magic Camera and ...” At that point, it became all white noise. For what seemed like about 11 days, she rattled off toy after toy after toy, complete with a description of just HOW AWESOME!!! it really is and how she has GOT TO HAVE IT!!!!
Finally, I stopped her. “Allie. You need to take a breath. It’s been all exhale.”
I managed to remember 40-50 of the things that she told me about, which I relayed to her mother, who is our household’s Chief Santa Liaison (CSL). I was CSL for my daughter’s first Christmas. When a football and a baseball mitt came down the chimney, I was stripped of my title.
It’s probably better that my wife handles the CSL duties at this stage, since I get a little overwhelmed when shopping for her. If you have never shopped for gifts for a 6-year-old girl, I will let you know this: Roughly 85 percent of the world’s commercial products are geared for this demographic. There will never be a time when someone can honestly say, “I just couldn’t find a thing for a 6-year-old girl.” There could, however, be a time when someone says, “I just kept adding and adding and adding until the cart was piled 42-feet high, and in a flash I was covered in an avalanche of Barbie and My Little Pony.”
Regardless of what Christmas morning brings, I know this much to be true: My children’s eyes will light up at the wonders under the tree, and that’s a Millennium Falcon moment for me.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Makeup Wakeup
I can honestly say it is the first time I have said to my wife, “Does my eyeliner look OK?”
But if I am going to do my Streisand show, by-gum I’m gonna do it right!
Ha! A little humor there to deflect my innate discomfort at wearing makeup! Just ol’ guy’s guy Mike joking with you!
Sigh. Yes, I am finally getting used to wearing makeup, as it is required for the play I am in. I was told that if I did not wear make-up, the stage lights would make my face look like a big white blob with two black dots. I was not sold. My wife then told me, “You have no choice.” Sold.
Truth of the matter is I didn’t so much have an issue with wearing it. The problem I had is that I have the artistic ability of a goat. Putting on make-up is, essentially, the equivalent of painting your face, and I am never going to win a “color inside the lines” contest.
I decided I would give it a go, though, because I am a trooper. That, and no one offered to help. I was told that I needed to put on base or powder or something like that on my face. “Get rid of the shine,” I was told. Also, I had to apply eyeliner around my eyes, which seems like a ridiculous thing to do. I have used pencils all my life and NEVER found a good reason to stick one right up under my eyeball.
When I emerged from my first makeup application attempt, I could tell by the reactions that I had not done a very good job. Most people kinda cocked their heads to the side and said “Awwww...” like they were looking at a 2-year-old who was trying to dress himself but was instead wearing a lamp shade and a pillow case.
Apparently, my big mistakes were (a) applying the base stuff WAY too thick and (b) putting on the eyeliner much the same way an athlete applies the black steaks under his eyes, except all the way around my eyes. I kinda resembled the love child of a raccoon and a half-baked gingerbread man.
It didn’t take long for someone to take pity on me. Several women, my wife included, decided to take on my makeup application. I’m not saying this was my plan all along, but I do note that on the times I have shopped for clothes for my wife, I have gotten a similar reaction. I walk up to a sales clerk, hold up, say, a shoe-shine kit, and say, “Do you think my wife will like this?” Bam – instant personal shopper.
So my wife was in charge of applying the base and powder, while the mother of a cast member took on the eyeliner task. When people asked why I had two people working on my makeup, I explained that as important as I am, I needed a makeup team. My makeup team would respond, “We’re not his team. He’s incompetent.”
On a couple of occasions, several other cast members would let me know that the base and eyeliner was not enough. “You need cheeks,” they would tell me. I was fairly certain I had cheeks, but they were not convinced, and before I knew what was going on, someone was coming at me with a brush and something they called “fig.”
Another fun little joke they would play on me was to tell me I needed lipstick. Yes, lipstick. “We can’t see your lips,” they would say. I think this is complete and total nonsense, and I was not going to be tricked into putting on lipstick. Never. Ever. At least not the stuff with glitter.
One of the toughest things about having to put on stage makeup was facing my friends afterwards. After one performance, I got home, scrubbed my face with Easy-Off and a Brillo pad, and decided to head over to my neighbors’ house, where several friends were enjoying a cold beverage. I walked into his garage bar, where guys were sitting around, playing poker, throwing darts. It’s our clubhouse, if you will. Our inner sanctum. And then someone looks at me and says, “Uh, you missed a little eyeliner there, beautiful.” Yes, nothing collapses the time-honored tradition of guys being guys like one of said guys coming in wearing eyeliner. I might as well have walked in made up like Tammy Faye Baker. I suspect I will be living that one down, oh, right about the time the earth crashes into the sun.
Truth be told, I know that it is a necessity of being on stage to wear makeup. The grief that I take comes with the territory of being a guy. And if there is one thing I know, it’s that I have given out my fair share of grief to my friends, so I really have to take it.
As the performances continue, I have the routine fairly down pat, and I am flinching far less when the eyeliner is being applied. While not something I will ever be completely accustomed to, I know it’s a necessity for being in a play. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some Christmas shopping to do. I am thinking my wife would love a shoe-shine kit...
But if I am going to do my Streisand show, by-gum I’m gonna do it right!
Ha! A little humor there to deflect my innate discomfort at wearing makeup! Just ol’ guy’s guy Mike joking with you!
Sigh. Yes, I am finally getting used to wearing makeup, as it is required for the play I am in. I was told that if I did not wear make-up, the stage lights would make my face look like a big white blob with two black dots. I was not sold. My wife then told me, “You have no choice.” Sold.
Truth of the matter is I didn’t so much have an issue with wearing it. The problem I had is that I have the artistic ability of a goat. Putting on make-up is, essentially, the equivalent of painting your face, and I am never going to win a “color inside the lines” contest.
I decided I would give it a go, though, because I am a trooper. That, and no one offered to help. I was told that I needed to put on base or powder or something like that on my face. “Get rid of the shine,” I was told. Also, I had to apply eyeliner around my eyes, which seems like a ridiculous thing to do. I have used pencils all my life and NEVER found a good reason to stick one right up under my eyeball.
When I emerged from my first makeup application attempt, I could tell by the reactions that I had not done a very good job. Most people kinda cocked their heads to the side and said “Awwww...” like they were looking at a 2-year-old who was trying to dress himself but was instead wearing a lamp shade and a pillow case.
Apparently, my big mistakes were (a) applying the base stuff WAY too thick and (b) putting on the eyeliner much the same way an athlete applies the black steaks under his eyes, except all the way around my eyes. I kinda resembled the love child of a raccoon and a half-baked gingerbread man.
It didn’t take long for someone to take pity on me. Several women, my wife included, decided to take on my makeup application. I’m not saying this was my plan all along, but I do note that on the times I have shopped for clothes for my wife, I have gotten a similar reaction. I walk up to a sales clerk, hold up, say, a shoe-shine kit, and say, “Do you think my wife will like this?” Bam – instant personal shopper.
So my wife was in charge of applying the base and powder, while the mother of a cast member took on the eyeliner task. When people asked why I had two people working on my makeup, I explained that as important as I am, I needed a makeup team. My makeup team would respond, “We’re not his team. He’s incompetent.”
On a couple of occasions, several other cast members would let me know that the base and eyeliner was not enough. “You need cheeks,” they would tell me. I was fairly certain I had cheeks, but they were not convinced, and before I knew what was going on, someone was coming at me with a brush and something they called “fig.”
Another fun little joke they would play on me was to tell me I needed lipstick. Yes, lipstick. “We can’t see your lips,” they would say. I think this is complete and total nonsense, and I was not going to be tricked into putting on lipstick. Never. Ever. At least not the stuff with glitter.
One of the toughest things about having to put on stage makeup was facing my friends afterwards. After one performance, I got home, scrubbed my face with Easy-Off and a Brillo pad, and decided to head over to my neighbors’ house, where several friends were enjoying a cold beverage. I walked into his garage bar, where guys were sitting around, playing poker, throwing darts. It’s our clubhouse, if you will. Our inner sanctum. And then someone looks at me and says, “Uh, you missed a little eyeliner there, beautiful.” Yes, nothing collapses the time-honored tradition of guys being guys like one of said guys coming in wearing eyeliner. I might as well have walked in made up like Tammy Faye Baker. I suspect I will be living that one down, oh, right about the time the earth crashes into the sun.
Truth be told, I know that it is a necessity of being on stage to wear makeup. The grief that I take comes with the territory of being a guy. And if there is one thing I know, it’s that I have given out my fair share of grief to my friends, so I really have to take it.
As the performances continue, I have the routine fairly down pat, and I am flinching far less when the eyeliner is being applied. While not something I will ever be completely accustomed to, I know it’s a necessity for being in a play. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some Christmas shopping to do. I am thinking my wife would love a shoe-shine kit...
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Light it up
So there I was, perched atop the ladder, when I looked out over my neighborhood and saw three other neighbors on their ladders. And all I could think to myself was, “We’re idiots.”
Yes, every year we trot out the ladders and the lights to decorate our homes for Christmas. We live in a cul-de-sac, so you can’t be the one house in the neighborhood that doesn’t decorate, lest you look like this enormous anti-Christmas black hole.
Several neighbors trimmed their roof lines with lights, something I did a couple of years ago. I no longer do this for a couple of reasons: (1) I have not developed the ability to hover and (2) I saw a neighbor fall off his ladder two years ago and break his ankle.
It was one of the surreal moments. Another neighbor and I were standing in our respective yards and heard that horrible sound of a ladder sliding against the roof. Anyone who has ever been on a ladder knows the sound. Even if the ladder shifts a millionth of an inch, it gives the little grating noise that immediately jump-starts your brain to thinking. ‘WE’RE GONNA FALL!!!!” (Same thing happens when you’re on the roof, take a step, and a little of the roof grit gives way.)
So we heard the sound and looked up just in time to see him go splat. We both sprinted over to him (we were both holding out kids, who were 1 at the time, so it was more of a brisk walk) to see if he was OK. I am not sure how much help we thought we could have been since we were both holding babies. Perhaps drool has a magical curing ability.
Several neighbors opted for a new approach this year, which required some ladder use, but not full-out extension ladder/plummet-to-your-death potential. Using a really long pole, they extended the lights up to roof and inserted a special clip under the shingle. While it took some effort to navigate a 30-foot pole, it seemed to beat the alternative, which was walking with a limp. Of course, you do have to be careful that the extension cord you use to test the lights doesn’t tug on the recently strung roof lights, lest your two hours of work come crashing down on you. I was not there when it happened, so when I heard about it my initial inclination was to laugh hysterically. But to the witnesses who saw it happen, there was nothing funny at all. No jokes were made. No eye contact was made. Everyone just kinda backed away. I talked to my neighbor about it later, and it sounded like he was moments away from actually tearing his house down just so he could stomp on his roof line.
Eventually, he got his lights back up, and I highly recommend the lights stay up, lest they get a Hulk-style smashing. Ah, Christmas joy!
As for our house, since we’re not doing the roof line thing, we do it pretty simple. I only had to get on the ladder to hang a wreath over the porch, so my time off the ground was minimal.
The main thing we do is to cover the bushes with net lights, which are one of the greatest inventions of all time. Each year after Christmas, I try and pick up a couple of them on the cheap. Eventually, I want my yard to look like a giant lighted safety net.
I always let the kids help me when I decorate, and it follows a fairly familiar script: (1) I pull all of the boxes out of the attic, and the kids get all excited about decorating, and (2) I turn around to close up the attic, and turn back around to see that, in four seconds, they have removed the contents of all of the boxes and spread the contents around the house. This year was no different, and after I corralled the lights and tried unsuccessfully to argue with Parker on some of his decorating choices (“Fine, the snowman cookie jar goes on the couch”), I headed outside.
While net lights offer a convenience that traditional strands of light do not (namely, you don’t have to deal with tangles and ultimately end up saying things that your children shouldn’t hear), there is one drawback. The first part in net lights is “net,” and when little hands and feet are involved, the net aspect works quite well. About a third of the decorating time was spent freeing children from the nets. It’s like trying to put up lights with salmon jumping at you.
After not too much time, my modest little attempt at lighting the house for Christmas was completed. Sure, it doesn’t compete with the grand displays of some of my neighbors. But, since my house is lighted to some degree, at least the cul-de-sac on the whole looks complete. And I didn’t get a limp in the process, so I’d say all is right with the season.
Yes, every year we trot out the ladders and the lights to decorate our homes for Christmas. We live in a cul-de-sac, so you can’t be the one house in the neighborhood that doesn’t decorate, lest you look like this enormous anti-Christmas black hole.
Several neighbors trimmed their roof lines with lights, something I did a couple of years ago. I no longer do this for a couple of reasons: (1) I have not developed the ability to hover and (2) I saw a neighbor fall off his ladder two years ago and break his ankle.
It was one of the surreal moments. Another neighbor and I were standing in our respective yards and heard that horrible sound of a ladder sliding against the roof. Anyone who has ever been on a ladder knows the sound. Even if the ladder shifts a millionth of an inch, it gives the little grating noise that immediately jump-starts your brain to thinking. ‘WE’RE GONNA FALL!!!!” (Same thing happens when you’re on the roof, take a step, and a little of the roof grit gives way.)
So we heard the sound and looked up just in time to see him go splat. We both sprinted over to him (we were both holding out kids, who were 1 at the time, so it was more of a brisk walk) to see if he was OK. I am not sure how much help we thought we could have been since we were both holding babies. Perhaps drool has a magical curing ability.
Several neighbors opted for a new approach this year, which required some ladder use, but not full-out extension ladder/plummet-to-your-death potential. Using a really long pole, they extended the lights up to roof and inserted a special clip under the shingle. While it took some effort to navigate a 30-foot pole, it seemed to beat the alternative, which was walking with a limp. Of course, you do have to be careful that the extension cord you use to test the lights doesn’t tug on the recently strung roof lights, lest your two hours of work come crashing down on you. I was not there when it happened, so when I heard about it my initial inclination was to laugh hysterically. But to the witnesses who saw it happen, there was nothing funny at all. No jokes were made. No eye contact was made. Everyone just kinda backed away. I talked to my neighbor about it later, and it sounded like he was moments away from actually tearing his house down just so he could stomp on his roof line.
Eventually, he got his lights back up, and I highly recommend the lights stay up, lest they get a Hulk-style smashing. Ah, Christmas joy!
As for our house, since we’re not doing the roof line thing, we do it pretty simple. I only had to get on the ladder to hang a wreath over the porch, so my time off the ground was minimal.
The main thing we do is to cover the bushes with net lights, which are one of the greatest inventions of all time. Each year after Christmas, I try and pick up a couple of them on the cheap. Eventually, I want my yard to look like a giant lighted safety net.
I always let the kids help me when I decorate, and it follows a fairly familiar script: (1) I pull all of the boxes out of the attic, and the kids get all excited about decorating, and (2) I turn around to close up the attic, and turn back around to see that, in four seconds, they have removed the contents of all of the boxes and spread the contents around the house. This year was no different, and after I corralled the lights and tried unsuccessfully to argue with Parker on some of his decorating choices (“Fine, the snowman cookie jar goes on the couch”), I headed outside.
While net lights offer a convenience that traditional strands of light do not (namely, you don’t have to deal with tangles and ultimately end up saying things that your children shouldn’t hear), there is one drawback. The first part in net lights is “net,” and when little hands and feet are involved, the net aspect works quite well. About a third of the decorating time was spent freeing children from the nets. It’s like trying to put up lights with salmon jumping at you.
After not too much time, my modest little attempt at lighting the house for Christmas was completed. Sure, it doesn’t compete with the grand displays of some of my neighbors. But, since my house is lighted to some degree, at least the cul-de-sac on the whole looks complete. And I didn’t get a limp in the process, so I’d say all is right with the season.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Act now
Prepare for my triumphant return to the stage.
You see, the curtain is about to be lifted on my moving performance as Jean Valjean in the Broadway production of “Les Miserables.”
Or I’m the dad in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” I get confused.
It all started a few months ago when my daughter decided she wanted to audition for a play. She was in a play last year and had a really good time doing it. When she mentioned wanting to do it again, I told her that would be a great idea, since she and her brother have until their teen years to financially support their parents. It doesn’t matter the career path you take, so why not try acting?
Tryouts were over two nights, and after the first night, Allie came home and asked me if I would try out for the play, too. “You could be the daddy!” she said excitedly. I explained to her that I would not be typecast, and that, thank you very much, I would try out for the role of the mother or perhaps a baby angel.
So fast forward to my getting the part of dad (Allie stole my baby angel role). I will be stepping on-stage for the first time in nearly 20 years, as my last performance was in 1989, in the Aiken Community Playhouse production of “A Merry Medieval Christmas.” The main thing I remember from that was that I played the part of God and got to sit atop a ladder and eat popcorn.
But I have not acted in years. Well, not actually acted. I was an extra on a television show when I lived in Orlando. But 20 hours sitting around in full alien makeup so that you can walk in front of Peter Deluise on “SeaQuest” does not an acting gig make.
For those of you not familiar with “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” it is the story of the Herdman family, the rough and tough bad kids of town, who take over the church Christmas pageant. It’s a great story and a great family play. It’s a huge cast, with nearly 40 people in it, most of them much, much shorter than I. I think it goes without saying that if you go see one play this year – check that, if you decide to venture out of your house just one time this year – go see this play. (Editor’s note: Not even putting a thin veil on that shameless plug, huh?)
At the first rehearsal I was really impressed with how well most of the kids knew their lines. I was sitting with a fellow actor, watching the kids sling their lines left and right. We looked at each other and gave an “Uh-oh, we REALLY need to be studying our lines more” exchange of glances.
On a few occasions, I would rehearse my lines at home with Allie. She doesn’t have a speaking part in the play, but certainly was eager to feed some lines to me. This was both good and bad. On the one hand, I had a good rehearsal buddy I could practice with. On the other hand, she apparently has a glue strip for a brain and has now memorized all of my lines, and, after each rehearsal, has a laundry list of where I missed a word here or a word there. She’ll turn to me and say, “Daddy, during the dinner scene, you said ‘two days.’ You’re supposed to say, ‘three days.’” This is from the little girl who can’t remember where she left her shoes. Don’t have room in your craw for where you keep the basic necessities in life, but plenty of space for my play lines? Yeah, that makes sense.
One of the things about memorizing lines that you learn quite quickly is that you don’t just memorize your lines. Kinda helps to know what lines yours come after. I know that seems like a no brainer, but there would be times during rehearsal where I would be sitting there thinking to myself, “OK, I know my line perfectly. Uh-oh, when do I say it?” Randomly blurting out a line for no reason is not only bad acting, it makes people think you might have a medical condition.
As opening night approaches, we are still working on our timing and costumes and props, etc. Each time we rehearse, the play gets a little more crisp and things come together a little more. I am sure by opening night we will be clicking on all cylinders, and it will go off without a hitch. There will be zero flubbed lines, no missed entrances and flawless prop transitions. It will be, quite frankly, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.”
If it’s not, just pretend it was. You, too, can act.
You see, the curtain is about to be lifted on my moving performance as Jean Valjean in the Broadway production of “Les Miserables.”
Or I’m the dad in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” I get confused.
It all started a few months ago when my daughter decided she wanted to audition for a play. She was in a play last year and had a really good time doing it. When she mentioned wanting to do it again, I told her that would be a great idea, since she and her brother have until their teen years to financially support their parents. It doesn’t matter the career path you take, so why not try acting?
Tryouts were over two nights, and after the first night, Allie came home and asked me if I would try out for the play, too. “You could be the daddy!” she said excitedly. I explained to her that I would not be typecast, and that, thank you very much, I would try out for the role of the mother or perhaps a baby angel.
So fast forward to my getting the part of dad (Allie stole my baby angel role). I will be stepping on-stage for the first time in nearly 20 years, as my last performance was in 1989, in the Aiken Community Playhouse production of “A Merry Medieval Christmas.” The main thing I remember from that was that I played the part of God and got to sit atop a ladder and eat popcorn.
But I have not acted in years. Well, not actually acted. I was an extra on a television show when I lived in Orlando. But 20 hours sitting around in full alien makeup so that you can walk in front of Peter Deluise on “SeaQuest” does not an acting gig make.
For those of you not familiar with “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” it is the story of the Herdman family, the rough and tough bad kids of town, who take over the church Christmas pageant. It’s a great story and a great family play. It’s a huge cast, with nearly 40 people in it, most of them much, much shorter than I. I think it goes without saying that if you go see one play this year – check that, if you decide to venture out of your house just one time this year – go see this play. (Editor’s note: Not even putting a thin veil on that shameless plug, huh?)
At the first rehearsal I was really impressed with how well most of the kids knew their lines. I was sitting with a fellow actor, watching the kids sling their lines left and right. We looked at each other and gave an “Uh-oh, we REALLY need to be studying our lines more” exchange of glances.
On a few occasions, I would rehearse my lines at home with Allie. She doesn’t have a speaking part in the play, but certainly was eager to feed some lines to me. This was both good and bad. On the one hand, I had a good rehearsal buddy I could practice with. On the other hand, she apparently has a glue strip for a brain and has now memorized all of my lines, and, after each rehearsal, has a laundry list of where I missed a word here or a word there. She’ll turn to me and say, “Daddy, during the dinner scene, you said ‘two days.’ You’re supposed to say, ‘three days.’” This is from the little girl who can’t remember where she left her shoes. Don’t have room in your craw for where you keep the basic necessities in life, but plenty of space for my play lines? Yeah, that makes sense.
One of the things about memorizing lines that you learn quite quickly is that you don’t just memorize your lines. Kinda helps to know what lines yours come after. I know that seems like a no brainer, but there would be times during rehearsal where I would be sitting there thinking to myself, “OK, I know my line perfectly. Uh-oh, when do I say it?” Randomly blurting out a line for no reason is not only bad acting, it makes people think you might have a medical condition.
As opening night approaches, we are still working on our timing and costumes and props, etc. Each time we rehearse, the play gets a little more crisp and things come together a little more. I am sure by opening night we will be clicking on all cylinders, and it will go off without a hitch. There will be zero flubbed lines, no missed entrances and flawless prop transitions. It will be, quite frankly, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.”
If it’s not, just pretend it was. You, too, can act.
Friday, November 24, 2006
The buzz on fireplaces
Ah, the first fire of the season — the embracing warmth, the comforting glow, the shrieks as your wife sprints away from wasps.
Yes, the first fire made for good times, as we discovered that a family of nasty little buggers had taken up root in our chimney. And, we found, they either really hated smoke or really loved what we were watching on TV.
Before you get an idea that it was like some B-movie with a six-foot swath of hornets streaming out, let me assure you — it was far worse. I am clearly the bravest man you have ever encountered.
OK, so maybe they kinda trickled out one or two at a time, but regardless, it was no joy.
It started he other night when my wife and I decided to sit down and watch one of our shows together. We don’t watch a lot of TV, but we do have a couple of shows we make a point of watching. This night was “Grey’s Anatomy.” The other show we watch is “Desper...Uh...Monday Night Football.” Yes, that is it.
My wife was in the den and I had just started the fire. It was a cold night, and what better way to top it than by a warm fire, a good TV show, and a big bowl of chili? As I was bringing dinner out, I saw a flash go by me. Trying to figure out what was going on, I turned to see my wife sprinting out the door and scaling the back fence.
Perhaps I am being a wee little bit overdramatic. Truth is, she came at a rather brisk pace and said, “MICHAEL!!! A WASP JUST CAME OUT OF THE CHIMNEY!!” And she said “MICHAEL!!!” in a way that implied it was somehow my fault, as though I had trained it to come out at just the right time.
So I put down my chili and went in to assess the situation. I turned to her and said, “Are you nuts? I don’t see anything. Are you sure you’re not hallucinating or going crazy or something?” Poetic justice would have been had the wasp stung me at that point, but instead I just got my wife coming in and pointing to where the wasp was on the ceiling.
I made several requests to the wasp to return outside, and he showed defiance at each request. Finally, I said, “Look, this is your final chance. Go outside, or I beat you to death with a rolled-up Sports Illustrated.” He just stared at me with his waspy eyes. Unacceptable. WHAP!
So after I dispatched the first intruder, we sat down and started dinner. When my wife climbed over the couch and threw the Sports Illustrated at me, I sensed something might be wrong. Indeed, another wasp had made an entrance. I didn’t make small talk with this one. My show was on and my chili was getting cold.
After about the 20th time this happened, I was pretty much at a loss. My first thought was, hey, why don’t I close the chimney flue? My second thought was, hey, why don’t I NOT fill my house with smoke since there is a fire going and it is kind of essential to have said chimney open?
The easiest course of action was to let the fire slowly burn out and send the death WHAPS! to any wasps that decided to head out in the meantime. Once the fire was out, I closed the flue to keep any more of them from coming out.
The next day, my wife asked me what I was going to do about it. We had this conversation:
HER: So should we call the pest control company or a chimney sweep?
ME: (rubbing my chin, looking thoughtfully at the fireplace): Hmmmm.
HER: Hmmm what?
ME: (turning to her, still rubbing my chin): I think I need to get a flashlight and take a look..
HER: And what happens if you see a big wasp’s nest?
ME: Hmmmm.
HER: ARRRG!!!!
For what it’s worth, this is not the first chimney animal encounter I have experienced. A few years ago at my parents’ house, my dad was preparing the first fire of the season when we saw him lurch back. Then we saw why — he was dodging an owl that flew out of the chimney. It flew right up past his face and proceeded to land on my mother’s china cabinet. We eventually used a butterfly net to get the owl out.
A second time, I was at my parents’ house when I stuck my foot in to jostle a log. I don’t know if I had super great timing or what, but just as I put my foot in, something plopped down on it. “Uh, Dad,” I said, pulling my foot out of the fire and extending it toward him, “there’s a mockingbird on my foot.” Sure enough, this thing fell right on my foot, and was apparently dazed enough from the smoke to just kind of hang on my shoe for a few minutes. I was able to get him outside before he flew off.
So I am sure you are wondering what my final decision is. Well, guess what — so is my wife. I have not done a thing, because, quite frankly, I’ve been busy. Maybe if I give it enough time, an owl or a mockingbird will take care of it.
Yes, the first fire made for good times, as we discovered that a family of nasty little buggers had taken up root in our chimney. And, we found, they either really hated smoke or really loved what we were watching on TV.
Before you get an idea that it was like some B-movie with a six-foot swath of hornets streaming out, let me assure you — it was far worse. I am clearly the bravest man you have ever encountered.
OK, so maybe they kinda trickled out one or two at a time, but regardless, it was no joy.
It started he other night when my wife and I decided to sit down and watch one of our shows together. We don’t watch a lot of TV, but we do have a couple of shows we make a point of watching. This night was “Grey’s Anatomy.” The other show we watch is “Desper...Uh...Monday Night Football.” Yes, that is it.
My wife was in the den and I had just started the fire. It was a cold night, and what better way to top it than by a warm fire, a good TV show, and a big bowl of chili? As I was bringing dinner out, I saw a flash go by me. Trying to figure out what was going on, I turned to see my wife sprinting out the door and scaling the back fence.
Perhaps I am being a wee little bit overdramatic. Truth is, she came at a rather brisk pace and said, “MICHAEL!!! A WASP JUST CAME OUT OF THE CHIMNEY!!” And she said “MICHAEL!!!” in a way that implied it was somehow my fault, as though I had trained it to come out at just the right time.
So I put down my chili and went in to assess the situation. I turned to her and said, “Are you nuts? I don’t see anything. Are you sure you’re not hallucinating or going crazy or something?” Poetic justice would have been had the wasp stung me at that point, but instead I just got my wife coming in and pointing to where the wasp was on the ceiling.
I made several requests to the wasp to return outside, and he showed defiance at each request. Finally, I said, “Look, this is your final chance. Go outside, or I beat you to death with a rolled-up Sports Illustrated.” He just stared at me with his waspy eyes. Unacceptable. WHAP!
So after I dispatched the first intruder, we sat down and started dinner. When my wife climbed over the couch and threw the Sports Illustrated at me, I sensed something might be wrong. Indeed, another wasp had made an entrance. I didn’t make small talk with this one. My show was on and my chili was getting cold.
After about the 20th time this happened, I was pretty much at a loss. My first thought was, hey, why don’t I close the chimney flue? My second thought was, hey, why don’t I NOT fill my house with smoke since there is a fire going and it is kind of essential to have said chimney open?
The easiest course of action was to let the fire slowly burn out and send the death WHAPS! to any wasps that decided to head out in the meantime. Once the fire was out, I closed the flue to keep any more of them from coming out.
The next day, my wife asked me what I was going to do about it. We had this conversation:
HER: So should we call the pest control company or a chimney sweep?
ME: (rubbing my chin, looking thoughtfully at the fireplace): Hmmmm.
HER: Hmmm what?
ME: (turning to her, still rubbing my chin): I think I need to get a flashlight and take a look..
HER: And what happens if you see a big wasp’s nest?
ME: Hmmmm.
HER: ARRRG!!!!
For what it’s worth, this is not the first chimney animal encounter I have experienced. A few years ago at my parents’ house, my dad was preparing the first fire of the season when we saw him lurch back. Then we saw why — he was dodging an owl that flew out of the chimney. It flew right up past his face and proceeded to land on my mother’s china cabinet. We eventually used a butterfly net to get the owl out.
A second time, I was at my parents’ house when I stuck my foot in to jostle a log. I don’t know if I had super great timing or what, but just as I put my foot in, something plopped down on it. “Uh, Dad,” I said, pulling my foot out of the fire and extending it toward him, “there’s a mockingbird on my foot.” Sure enough, this thing fell right on my foot, and was apparently dazed enough from the smoke to just kind of hang on my shoe for a few minutes. I was able to get him outside before he flew off.
So I am sure you are wondering what my final decision is. Well, guess what — so is my wife. I have not done a thing, because, quite frankly, I’ve been busy. Maybe if I give it enough time, an owl or a mockingbird will take care of it.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Toys R Me
It was me versus the toys. And I finally won.
For years, I have waged this war with the toys. They multiply. They spread out around the house. They attack you in the middle of the night (I am CERTAIN that a Buzz Lightyear was not in the middle of the hallway when I went to bed).
I often complain about the toys, and I often do it in one of the most annoying ways possible for a spouse. I mumble under my breath and start talking about the toys and kinda stomping around occasionally raising my voice enough so that my wife will hear me say, “...might as well just flush money down the toilet...” The first few times I did this, my wife would engage me in a conversation about the toys and what we could do to corral them. These conversations never went well, because it always culminated with my suggestion that we remove every toy from the house, along with ever other non-essential item in the house. We each get a bowl, a fork and a cup. And one towel each. Pick out a shirt you like, because THAT IS IT. (When you’ve got a Buzz Lightyear stuck to your foot, you tend to go for drastic measures.)
My wife ends these conversations by making this noise that, I think, might have been what small dinosaurs sounded like. Whatever it is, it is definitely the sound of exasperation. She will sometimes roll not just her eyes, but her whole head, and leave the room.
So the other night, my entire family was asleep. I’m a bit of a night owl, so I am often the last one up in the house. And there I was, standing in the playroom, looking at toys and toy pieces and thinking, “...might as well just flush...” when it occurred to me -- hey, everyone is asleep. No one can stop me. It’s me versus the toys, and they have NO ONE here to protect them.
After about 30 minutes, I had thrown every single toy that my kids had in the trash. Gone.
I will now pause to allow for you to offer me an apology for the nasty thing you just said about me. Of course I didn’t throw out my kids’ toys.
In our playroom, we have a closet with some shelves and also a large cabinet that holds a bunch of other toys. Over time, these storage areas have become less than organized, much the way homes become less than organized after a tornado tears through them. So the first order of business was to pull all of the toys out of both areas. After a few minutes, the room was knee-deep in toys. I am not sure where some of these toys came from. I know some were gifts, some were bought and some were hand-me-downs. But the only other explanation for some of them was that they randomly formed over time. Despite the debate that rages in the toy community over toyvolution, it is an undeniable fact. There is simply no way to explain how, in a closet cut off from the rest of the world, two-thirds of a train set that I have never seen in my life can suddenly appear.
As I surveyed the room, it occurred to me that I might have bitten off WAY more than I could chew. However, I knew it would be very bad form to go wake my wife up and say, “Uh, yeah, I pulled every single toy the kids have into the middle of the room for some reason. Could you clean them up?”
I decided the best approach to try and dig out of this mess was to start organizing things in piles. I had a pile for dress-up clothes, a pile for trucks, a pile for dolls, and a pile for puzzles. The final -- and largest -- pile was a pile for everything else. I quickly learned that this approach was not going to work, as the pile for everything else was taking up the better part of the room.
I shifted gears for a different approach. First up -- hang all the dress-up clothes up. If you have a daughter and cannot find a princess dress for her, I apologize, as it is clear that we own them all. My daughter could dress up as a different princess every 15 minutes and would MAYBE be done by the time she’s 40.
The next step was to tackle the trucks and trains. My son loves to play with trucks and trains, but he clearly likes tearing them apart more than driving them around. I weeded out the ones that were no longer functioning toys but rather awkwardly shaped stabbing devices and found we now had a much more manageable group that fit nicely on a shelf.
I continued to tackle individual section of the toy populace, and after a few hours, I noticed that the room was actually coming together. When I came to bed at nearly 2 a.m., my wife awoke and asked why I was coming to bed so late. I told her it wasn’t late, and that she’s dreaming. I was too tired to have to defend my toy tackling.
I awoke the next morning to my wife getting ready. “Hey, go check out the playroom,” I said. She looked at me with concern, as she immediately knew I had done something that could be very bad.
A few minutes later, she came back into the room. “Uh, do I want to know what you did with all of the toys?” I assured her that I had not thrown out anything that was not comparable to a homemade weapon, and gave her the grand tour of the new and improved organization system. She seemed pleased, as did the kids, who were able to find their toys and put them back where they belonged. I am sure this will only last a short while, and things will collapse back into toy chaos soon enough. But that’s OK, because I now know what I need to do. I’ll just throw everything out.
For years, I have waged this war with the toys. They multiply. They spread out around the house. They attack you in the middle of the night (I am CERTAIN that a Buzz Lightyear was not in the middle of the hallway when I went to bed).
I often complain about the toys, and I often do it in one of the most annoying ways possible for a spouse. I mumble under my breath and start talking about the toys and kinda stomping around occasionally raising my voice enough so that my wife will hear me say, “...might as well just flush money down the toilet...” The first few times I did this, my wife would engage me in a conversation about the toys and what we could do to corral them. These conversations never went well, because it always culminated with my suggestion that we remove every toy from the house, along with ever other non-essential item in the house. We each get a bowl, a fork and a cup. And one towel each. Pick out a shirt you like, because THAT IS IT. (When you’ve got a Buzz Lightyear stuck to your foot, you tend to go for drastic measures.)
My wife ends these conversations by making this noise that, I think, might have been what small dinosaurs sounded like. Whatever it is, it is definitely the sound of exasperation. She will sometimes roll not just her eyes, but her whole head, and leave the room.
So the other night, my entire family was asleep. I’m a bit of a night owl, so I am often the last one up in the house. And there I was, standing in the playroom, looking at toys and toy pieces and thinking, “...might as well just flush...” when it occurred to me -- hey, everyone is asleep. No one can stop me. It’s me versus the toys, and they have NO ONE here to protect them.
After about 30 minutes, I had thrown every single toy that my kids had in the trash. Gone.
I will now pause to allow for you to offer me an apology for the nasty thing you just said about me. Of course I didn’t throw out my kids’ toys.
In our playroom, we have a closet with some shelves and also a large cabinet that holds a bunch of other toys. Over time, these storage areas have become less than organized, much the way homes become less than organized after a tornado tears through them. So the first order of business was to pull all of the toys out of both areas. After a few minutes, the room was knee-deep in toys. I am not sure where some of these toys came from. I know some were gifts, some were bought and some were hand-me-downs. But the only other explanation for some of them was that they randomly formed over time. Despite the debate that rages in the toy community over toyvolution, it is an undeniable fact. There is simply no way to explain how, in a closet cut off from the rest of the world, two-thirds of a train set that I have never seen in my life can suddenly appear.
As I surveyed the room, it occurred to me that I might have bitten off WAY more than I could chew. However, I knew it would be very bad form to go wake my wife up and say, “Uh, yeah, I pulled every single toy the kids have into the middle of the room for some reason. Could you clean them up?”
I decided the best approach to try and dig out of this mess was to start organizing things in piles. I had a pile for dress-up clothes, a pile for trucks, a pile for dolls, and a pile for puzzles. The final -- and largest -- pile was a pile for everything else. I quickly learned that this approach was not going to work, as the pile for everything else was taking up the better part of the room.
I shifted gears for a different approach. First up -- hang all the dress-up clothes up. If you have a daughter and cannot find a princess dress for her, I apologize, as it is clear that we own them all. My daughter could dress up as a different princess every 15 minutes and would MAYBE be done by the time she’s 40.
The next step was to tackle the trucks and trains. My son loves to play with trucks and trains, but he clearly likes tearing them apart more than driving them around. I weeded out the ones that were no longer functioning toys but rather awkwardly shaped stabbing devices and found we now had a much more manageable group that fit nicely on a shelf.
I continued to tackle individual section of the toy populace, and after a few hours, I noticed that the room was actually coming together. When I came to bed at nearly 2 a.m., my wife awoke and asked why I was coming to bed so late. I told her it wasn’t late, and that she’s dreaming. I was too tired to have to defend my toy tackling.
I awoke the next morning to my wife getting ready. “Hey, go check out the playroom,” I said. She looked at me with concern, as she immediately knew I had done something that could be very bad.
A few minutes later, she came back into the room. “Uh, do I want to know what you did with all of the toys?” I assured her that I had not thrown out anything that was not comparable to a homemade weapon, and gave her the grand tour of the new and improved organization system. She seemed pleased, as did the kids, who were able to find their toys and put them back where they belonged. I am sure this will only last a short while, and things will collapse back into toy chaos soon enough. But that’s OK, because I now know what I need to do. I’ll just throw everything out.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Safety last
So with the turn of the screwdriver, I left behind a stage in my life.
Yes, just one turn, and I closed the chapter known as the “OMIGOSH DON’T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!!!” You see, I recently removed all of the safety latches from our cabinet hardware.
When I grew up, I am pretty sure the kid safety market consisted of those Yuckmouth stickers on bottles of things that you weren’t supposed to drink. Of course, having three older sisters, I thought it was far more entertaining to try and stealthily place one on their backs and run through the house shrieking “YOU’RE A YUCKMOUTH!!!” Hmmm. Wonder why my sisters would often tell me that Han Solo was outside and then lock the door when I went out to find him...
Anyway, the safety market today is a billion-dollar industry, based on a statistic I guess could be true. There are safety products for safety products. My wife and I stuck with the basics – cabinet locks, door knob locks and outlet caps. My mother once tried to get me to get the padding that goes around coffee tables. I told her that the kids live in a world with corners. Time to adjust. And I also asked her why she was so suddenly concerned with kids’ safety. Where were the corner pads when I was a kid? She responded by telling me Han Solo was outside.
The doorknob locks are these plastic caps that fit over the knobs, and you had to squeeze them to get the door open. Both kids mastered these around age 2. When Allie was little, she got around those by standing at the door and knocking over and over and over, saying, “LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT.” Pretty sure that after about 10 minutes of that, the neighbors might start to think you have caged your child, so you let them out of their room.
Parker, meanwhile, took the more guy approach. He just broke them apart. He would grab them and pull on them, hang on them, hit them with a book ... whatever it took. He would bash his way out, and then come out holding the two pieces, grinning, as if he was very pleased that he had solved the puzzle we had put forth.
The outlet caps always served a good purpose, namely countering that innate human inclination to see what happens when Mr. Fork meets Mr. Outlet. Be totally honest with yourself – you’re either very curious about it or already know what happens. There is something hardwired in us that makes us really want to do it. It’s like touching a hot plate or touching an electric fence. And it kinda makes you wonder how we managed to scramble to the top of the food chain. Eventually, you learn to control the urge. Even though most of our outlets still have the caps, we have pretty much convinced the children to stay away from them. My wife opted for the calm, discussion approach, explaining that you could really hurt yourself, etc. She rejected my plan, which started off with “Here, take this fork...”
So the last protection item in my house were the cabinet locks. The stated intent is to keep kids away from harmful products such as cleaners, which is noble. We, however, keep our cleaning supplies in a cabinet above the sink, so this is really not an issue. But the safety latches did serve two very valuable purposes:
1. They kept kids out of the food.
2. They kept kids out of the cabinet with the pots and pans.
The first issue was the food. We don’t keep a lot of junk in the house, because our children need something to complain about when they get older. (“We had the most horrific upbringing – not a Twinkie to be found...”) But, on occasion, we do allow for the occasional fruit snack or bag of Skittles. But let me tell you – those little critters are like raccoons when it comes to going through food. On the off chance there are fruit snacks or Skittles or something else in the pantry, you can believe they will find it. There is nothing like coming into the kitchen and seeing bread and peanut butter jars and canned goods strewn on the floor while a 3-year-old sits on a shelf and tries to gnaw through a Skittles bag.
As for pots and pans, those locks were used to keep the pots and pans safely stowed, rather than as part of a band ensemble. We are all for getting loud and having fun and throwing an impromptu parade, when the time is right. But it’s no fun to have to delay dinner because you have to go search behind the couch, under the bed, in the shower, etc. for the pots and pans. Also, those who suffer from migraines will tell you, pot-and-pan parades are only a notch above boxing on the desirability scale during a headache.
But alas, Parker has now mastered entry into the cabinets, meaning the locks serve little more purpose than to frustrate me when I try to open them. So, off they came.
Hopefully, the kids are now getting old enough that we don’t have to worry about pots and pans being spread about, or food being torn through as if they were starving bears. My wife and I will just have to remain diligent in making sure we teach them that they are not to enter the cabinets whenever they want, and that they need to ask Mommy or Daddy before getting something. And, if that doesn’t work, I’ll just tell them Han Solo is outside to see them.
Yes, just one turn, and I closed the chapter known as the “OMIGOSH DON’T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!!!” You see, I recently removed all of the safety latches from our cabinet hardware.
When I grew up, I am pretty sure the kid safety market consisted of those Yuckmouth stickers on bottles of things that you weren’t supposed to drink. Of course, having three older sisters, I thought it was far more entertaining to try and stealthily place one on their backs and run through the house shrieking “YOU’RE A YUCKMOUTH!!!” Hmmm. Wonder why my sisters would often tell me that Han Solo was outside and then lock the door when I went out to find him...
Anyway, the safety market today is a billion-dollar industry, based on a statistic I guess could be true. There are safety products for safety products. My wife and I stuck with the basics – cabinet locks, door knob locks and outlet caps. My mother once tried to get me to get the padding that goes around coffee tables. I told her that the kids live in a world with corners. Time to adjust. And I also asked her why she was so suddenly concerned with kids’ safety. Where were the corner pads when I was a kid? She responded by telling me Han Solo was outside.
The doorknob locks are these plastic caps that fit over the knobs, and you had to squeeze them to get the door open. Both kids mastered these around age 2. When Allie was little, she got around those by standing at the door and knocking over and over and over, saying, “LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT.” Pretty sure that after about 10 minutes of that, the neighbors might start to think you have caged your child, so you let them out of their room.
Parker, meanwhile, took the more guy approach. He just broke them apart. He would grab them and pull on them, hang on them, hit them with a book ... whatever it took. He would bash his way out, and then come out holding the two pieces, grinning, as if he was very pleased that he had solved the puzzle we had put forth.
The outlet caps always served a good purpose, namely countering that innate human inclination to see what happens when Mr. Fork meets Mr. Outlet. Be totally honest with yourself – you’re either very curious about it or already know what happens. There is something hardwired in us that makes us really want to do it. It’s like touching a hot plate or touching an electric fence. And it kinda makes you wonder how we managed to scramble to the top of the food chain. Eventually, you learn to control the urge. Even though most of our outlets still have the caps, we have pretty much convinced the children to stay away from them. My wife opted for the calm, discussion approach, explaining that you could really hurt yourself, etc. She rejected my plan, which started off with “Here, take this fork...”
So the last protection item in my house were the cabinet locks. The stated intent is to keep kids away from harmful products such as cleaners, which is noble. We, however, keep our cleaning supplies in a cabinet above the sink, so this is really not an issue. But the safety latches did serve two very valuable purposes:
1. They kept kids out of the food.
2. They kept kids out of the cabinet with the pots and pans.
The first issue was the food. We don’t keep a lot of junk in the house, because our children need something to complain about when they get older. (“We had the most horrific upbringing – not a Twinkie to be found...”) But, on occasion, we do allow for the occasional fruit snack or bag of Skittles. But let me tell you – those little critters are like raccoons when it comes to going through food. On the off chance there are fruit snacks or Skittles or something else in the pantry, you can believe they will find it. There is nothing like coming into the kitchen and seeing bread and peanut butter jars and canned goods strewn on the floor while a 3-year-old sits on a shelf and tries to gnaw through a Skittles bag.
As for pots and pans, those locks were used to keep the pots and pans safely stowed, rather than as part of a band ensemble. We are all for getting loud and having fun and throwing an impromptu parade, when the time is right. But it’s no fun to have to delay dinner because you have to go search behind the couch, under the bed, in the shower, etc. for the pots and pans. Also, those who suffer from migraines will tell you, pot-and-pan parades are only a notch above boxing on the desirability scale during a headache.
But alas, Parker has now mastered entry into the cabinets, meaning the locks serve little more purpose than to frustrate me when I try to open them. So, off they came.
Hopefully, the kids are now getting old enough that we don’t have to worry about pots and pans being spread about, or food being torn through as if they were starving bears. My wife and I will just have to remain diligent in making sure we teach them that they are not to enter the cabinets whenever they want, and that they need to ask Mommy or Daddy before getting something. And, if that doesn’t work, I’ll just tell them Han Solo is outside to see them.
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