Well folks, it's Christmas Eve. We finally finished up our shopping and just completed the monumental task of cleaning the house. Ryan is content in his 'man cave' and Sidney is quietly reading an online book. Kristi is scurrying around finishing up a few final touches to the gifts she will soon set under the tree, and I'm writing this blog while simultaneously eating a steaming bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup with a fork.
Two years or so ago, a strange and unsettling phenomenon crept over our house in the form of disappearing spoons. To say that this oddity is a tad on the strange side would be somewhat of an understatement. The problem began a couple of years ago when I noticed the little slot in the silverware drawer was devoid of teaspoons. I had taken note of their dwindling numbers weeks before, but I always assumed that they would eventually 'turn up'. They didn't. Soon after, the table spoons began to suffer the same fate. Eventually we were reduced to being forced slurp any liquid foods while stabbing what morsels we could with a fork.
"Dad, I'm telling you, I have NO idea where all the spoons have gone! Besides, why are you blaming me?" Ryan asked, after I had grilled him for ten minutes concerning the whereabouts of our missing silverware. "Ask Sidney, maybe she knows," he continued.
Sidney also gave the standard answer...she didn't have a clue.
On at least three different occasions in the last two years I have watched my wife tear open a new set of spoons, wash them and place them safely in their respective slots in the drawer. As usual, it only took a few months and 'poof', no spoons. We have searched the garbage, under furniture cushions and under everything in the house to no avail. This is an oddity of epic proportions.
I can only imagine that they are in this home somewhere. I can also imagine that years into the future a team of archaeologists will excavate in this area long after this house has succumbed to age and decay and will find a cache of spoons of various sizes and excitedly exclaim that they've unearthed something of true historical significance. The press conference that I envision would go something like this...
A harried and unkempt older fellow with wispy graying hair ambles to the microphone and begins to speak. "Good morning. I'm Dr. Digsalot, chairman of antiquities of the University of Finds a Bunch of Useless Stuff. What we have unearthed on New Hope Road just outside of Staunton is of what we feel is of tremendous historical significance."
"What is it that you've uncovered Doctor?" an eager young reporter asked with a smiling face and wide eyes.
"Well, we found a crapload of spoons. Now, it should be noted that these aren't just ordinary spoons, but spoons of all shapes and sizes. There's small spoons, large spoons, spoons with bent handles, spoons which appear to have been used as tools, possibly to open paint cans and others with strange markings that we've yet to decipher," the good doctor says. "We feel that given the sheer volume of spoons found in this one site, there must be some significance that we don't yet understand. But, what we have begun to conclude is that there must have been some sort of religious offering of spoons to appease the gods. Or, perhaps aliens visited this site and it's some sort of code letting us know that they too use spoons. We've even considered that the inscription found on several of the spoons could mean something prophetic," he continued.
"What was the inscription?" another reported asked.
The old Prof reaches onto the table beside the lectern and holds a tablespoon high for all to see. "It's barely legible, but it appears to have the letters 'O-N-E-I-D-A' etched into the underside of it. We're thinking this is some sort of alien code possibly." The crowd is hushed except for the occasional ohh, and ahh. "There's also a very strange emblem etched there as well. We're thinking it's a sketch of a star cluster in the Andromeda Galaxy. Yep, probably of alien origin. We are not alone. This is the smoking gun. Forget the religious stuff, this is pure alien."
For now, we will continue to watch our spoons vanish without a trace. We surely live in a Bermuda Triangle of sorts, except instead of vanishing ships and aircraft, we experience vanishing teaspoons and tablespoons. I'll keep on looking in vain trying to locate our lost utensils, and my wife will keep right on buying more.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to stab the last remaining carrot in my soup bowl. Then I will slurp the broth and continue to wonder what the heck is happening to our spoons.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Thursday, December 18, 2014
BELL RINGERS, LITTLE OLD LADIES AND GRUMPY MIDDLE AGED MEN
"Oh my gosh! They ARE NOT staring at you, and they don't give you a second thought when you walk past them. I swear, you're the grumpiest forty-four year old I've ever seen!" my wife said while unloading the dishwasher yesterday evening, "and those little old ladies would probably help you if you weren't so prideful and ask for their assistance."
I had just walked into the kitchen upon my return from the grocery store. Usually, during the Christmas season, I am tasked with running a few errands for Kristi which usually involves a mile long list of things needed to begin and complete her baking needs. As always the dreaded bell ringers are posted at every entrance to every store. When I say every, I mean every. Heck, I think I saw one standing outside the bathroom door the other day. It should be noted that the ringers provide a necessary service to their organization, but I feel a twinge of guilt every time I walk past and don't deposit a few dollars into their kettle. Anyway, immediately after Thanksgiving, the ringers begin to do their thing. As always, when I pass them, I dig into my wallet or pockets for a few dollars to deposit into their kettle. By mid-December I always feel like I've given my fair share and should be done. So, by that point I simply walk past, smile and give a cheery greeting, usually "Merry Christmas". It's then that the ominous stares begin.
"Dad, aren't you going to put some money into the kettle?" Sidney asked while looking up at me and speaking loudly enough for most of the county to hear.
"Not today. I've given plenty already."
"I think he's staring you down," she continued as the automatic doors to the store slid open.
"Oh, I doubt it. Maybe he likes my jacket or perhaps the way I've creatively combed what's left of my hair. Well, maybe he's staring a little bit," I said as we continued toward the baking isle.
We stood silently and studied the list which resembled a bill of materials for building an aircraft carrier. "How does she expect me to find all this stuff?" I asked, still slightly concerned about the staring bell ringer outside in the cold.
"Heck if I know, but maybe if you give me half the list and you take the other half we can finish faster," Sidney surmised while eyeballing a pack of Hershey's chocolate morsels.
"Good idea," I answered, as I ripped the list into two pieces. "You take this part and I'll take this one and with any luck we'll be out of here in no time." With that, my daughter disappeared into another section of the huge building.
I decided that I would most assuredly need a cart to haul all of the items on the list around the store. Marching with purpose back toward the front to where the carts were lined up, I could see the shivering bell ringer standing just outside of the automatic doors. With steam coming from his nostrils, he turned and stared at me, surely thinking, "there's el cheapo again getting ready to load up his cart and yet he can't even spare a dime for the needy!" I gave him a halfhearted smile and quickly galloped out of his sight.
Standing and staring at the seemingly endless varieties of sugar, I became suddenly aware of a little old lady standing directly behind me. "Oh no," I thought. "As if it's not enough that I've made the bell ringer mad, I'm holding up a militant old lady from getting her groceries." I began to sweat, and the more I perspired, the more irritated she became. My philosophy concerning little old ladies in the grocery store was formed years ago. Occasionally my wife would make a list and send me to the grocery store just as she had that day. There was always something on that list that I'd never heard of and would go from isle to isle looking in vain for the item. Invariably, some old lady would cross paths with me on each isle. The look was always the same. A scowl as if to say, "Beat it novice. You've got no business in my store. Get out of my way and quit holding me up. I ain't getting any younger you know?"
I gave up on the confectioner's sugar and headed for the pie crust section. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of Sidney speeding past with her cart almost half full. I still didn't have a single item. Still nervous about having to cross paths with the bell ringer upon our exit from the store, I stood once again studying the various pie crusts. Again, I became acutely aware of the eerie feeling that I was being watched. Directly behind me and breathing heavy, was the same little old lady from the sugar isle AND a friend. "Oh great, not only am I being followed by Granny Clampett, but now she's formed a coalition!," I thought, while becoming increasingly nervous. I cut and ran, speeding for distant isles and the safety that a hasty retreat would afford me.
Luckily, I didn't have anymore close encounters of the elderly kind, but we did pass on several occasions. Sidney finally found me and was able to complete my part of the list. We then ambled toward the checkout line.
"Dad, the bell ringer is staring at you," she said, while studying a candy bar that would surely wind up on the conveyor.
"No he's not. In fact there's someone totally different there now," I said while unloading our cart.
A slight smirk crept across the child's face and then she spoke once more, "Just kidding."
I was able to dodge the newest bell ringer and make a mad dash to the car. I wasn't about to look back and suffer the wrath of being stared at by two scorned bell ringers. Finally we made it home.
I bolted through the back door into the kitchen where I found my wife emptying the dishwasher. "Don't bother sending me to the grocery store again. I can't take the pressure of being stared down by a wayward bell ringer, and don't get me started with the militant old ladies who think I've invaded THEIR store,"...
I had just walked into the kitchen upon my return from the grocery store. Usually, during the Christmas season, I am tasked with running a few errands for Kristi which usually involves a mile long list of things needed to begin and complete her baking needs. As always the dreaded bell ringers are posted at every entrance to every store. When I say every, I mean every. Heck, I think I saw one standing outside the bathroom door the other day. It should be noted that the ringers provide a necessary service to their organization, but I feel a twinge of guilt every time I walk past and don't deposit a few dollars into their kettle. Anyway, immediately after Thanksgiving, the ringers begin to do their thing. As always, when I pass them, I dig into my wallet or pockets for a few dollars to deposit into their kettle. By mid-December I always feel like I've given my fair share and should be done. So, by that point I simply walk past, smile and give a cheery greeting, usually "Merry Christmas". It's then that the ominous stares begin.
"Dad, aren't you going to put some money into the kettle?" Sidney asked while looking up at me and speaking loudly enough for most of the county to hear.
"Not today. I've given plenty already."
"I think he's staring you down," she continued as the automatic doors to the store slid open.
"Oh, I doubt it. Maybe he likes my jacket or perhaps the way I've creatively combed what's left of my hair. Well, maybe he's staring a little bit," I said as we continued toward the baking isle.
We stood silently and studied the list which resembled a bill of materials for building an aircraft carrier. "How does she expect me to find all this stuff?" I asked, still slightly concerned about the staring bell ringer outside in the cold.
"Heck if I know, but maybe if you give me half the list and you take the other half we can finish faster," Sidney surmised while eyeballing a pack of Hershey's chocolate morsels.
"Good idea," I answered, as I ripped the list into two pieces. "You take this part and I'll take this one and with any luck we'll be out of here in no time." With that, my daughter disappeared into another section of the huge building.
I decided that I would most assuredly need a cart to haul all of the items on the list around the store. Marching with purpose back toward the front to where the carts were lined up, I could see the shivering bell ringer standing just outside of the automatic doors. With steam coming from his nostrils, he turned and stared at me, surely thinking, "there's el cheapo again getting ready to load up his cart and yet he can't even spare a dime for the needy!" I gave him a halfhearted smile and quickly galloped out of his sight.
Standing and staring at the seemingly endless varieties of sugar, I became suddenly aware of a little old lady standing directly behind me. "Oh no," I thought. "As if it's not enough that I've made the bell ringer mad, I'm holding up a militant old lady from getting her groceries." I began to sweat, and the more I perspired, the more irritated she became. My philosophy concerning little old ladies in the grocery store was formed years ago. Occasionally my wife would make a list and send me to the grocery store just as she had that day. There was always something on that list that I'd never heard of and would go from isle to isle looking in vain for the item. Invariably, some old lady would cross paths with me on each isle. The look was always the same. A scowl as if to say, "Beat it novice. You've got no business in my store. Get out of my way and quit holding me up. I ain't getting any younger you know?"
I gave up on the confectioner's sugar and headed for the pie crust section. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of Sidney speeding past with her cart almost half full. I still didn't have a single item. Still nervous about having to cross paths with the bell ringer upon our exit from the store, I stood once again studying the various pie crusts. Again, I became acutely aware of the eerie feeling that I was being watched. Directly behind me and breathing heavy, was the same little old lady from the sugar isle AND a friend. "Oh great, not only am I being followed by Granny Clampett, but now she's formed a coalition!," I thought, while becoming increasingly nervous. I cut and ran, speeding for distant isles and the safety that a hasty retreat would afford me.
Luckily, I didn't have anymore close encounters of the elderly kind, but we did pass on several occasions. Sidney finally found me and was able to complete my part of the list. We then ambled toward the checkout line.
"Dad, the bell ringer is staring at you," she said, while studying a candy bar that would surely wind up on the conveyor.
"No he's not. In fact there's someone totally different there now," I said while unloading our cart.
A slight smirk crept across the child's face and then she spoke once more, "Just kidding."
I was able to dodge the newest bell ringer and make a mad dash to the car. I wasn't about to look back and suffer the wrath of being stared at by two scorned bell ringers. Finally we made it home.
I bolted through the back door into the kitchen where I found my wife emptying the dishwasher. "Don't bother sending me to the grocery store again. I can't take the pressure of being stared down by a wayward bell ringer, and don't get me started with the militant old ladies who think I've invaded THEIR store,"...
Friday, November 28, 2014
CHRISTMAS IS FOR THE BIRDS...UP HOME
The days and weeks leading up to Christmas at my house during my childhood years pretty much consisted of the same routine. We'd always be involved in the church play, we would be busy trying to be on our best behavior for fear that Santa wouldn't bring us anything, my mother would be busy baking various goodies, and my father would make the trek to the woods in search of the perfect cedar Christmas tree. On Christmas eve, we would make the short drive to my grandma's house for a breif visit and then promptly return home.
My father always referred to Grandma's house as, "up home", which was much to my mother's chagrin. She always thought that dad's home was where he, she, and us kids resided. Grandma's house is where he grew up, which was no longer his home. I think he sensed that those two little words irked her, so he threw them around often.
"I'm taking the kids up home for a bit to see mom," dad would say to our mother, who was busy in the kitchen scurrying around trying to finish up whatever tasty treat she was creating at that moment.
"Ok. Fine. I'll be here when you get back," she would answer with an ominous scowl on her face.
Dad, Jarrett, Carla and I would pile into our old 1962 Ford Falcon and make the short drive to "up home." Grandma would greet us at the door with a huge smile and a gentle hug. We usually arrived at her house in the vicinity of four o'clock or so, due to the fact that she went to bed in the vicinity of five o'clock or so. "Oh, my. Just look at how these kids have grown! Jarrett is almost as big as you, and Neil isn't far behind. Carla's hair is so beautiful!" she'd say, as she had done every single year since my birth.
We would then take a seat in her living room and I would survey the place, always amazed at how CLEAN everything was. When I say clean, I mean you could eat a meal off the commode seat and never think another thing about it. She would enter soon after with a jug of cranberry juice and a pack of cookies. When everyone had a cookie and a cup of juice, the generic conversation would ensue.
"Yeah, the kids are really growing," dad would say.
"Yes they are," grandma would answer.
"Yep, they're growing up," dad would say.
"They sure are. Really growing," grandma would answer.
"It's amazing how much they've grown," dad would say.
"Truly amazing, they're growing like weeds," grandma would again answer.
"Do you think we'll get a while Christmas?" grandma would ask, changing the subject.
"Oh, you never know what this weather is going to do," dad would answer. They would continue for at least another ten minutes about the chances of a white Christmas. Finally, after grandma noticed that the time was getting dangerously close to her bedtime, she would scurry to the next room and return with a brown grocery bag which contained our gifts.
"Jarrett, I got you and Neil the same thing, only a different color," she said, handing each of us a trinket wrapped in white tissue paper. "Carla, this is yours. It's not like the boy's gifts. It's something special just for you. I just can't get over how you've grown, and maybe we'll have a white Christmas," she finished.
We sat quietly with our tissue paper wrapped gifts in our laps when dad spoke. "Well? aren't you going to open your gifts? Go on, what are you waiting for?"
We carefully removed the tissue paper from our gifts and to be honest, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Eleven and eight-year-old boys don't sit around dreaming of getting ceramic birds for Christmas. But, that's what we received that year. I got a fire engine red ceramic cardinal, and Jarrett got a rather frail looking ceramic blue jay. Jarrett turned and looked at me with a face that only God himself could love. He was hoping for a gun, or knife, or maybe something that pertained to the outdoors. But a ceramic blue jay? No way. I wasn't especially enthused with my ceramic cardinal either, but I was a bit more successful at hiding my disappointment. I observed that our father sensed our disapproval based on the ominous slits his eyes had become. "Carla, why don't you unwrap your gift?" dad said, while taking a sip of his cranberry juice and a bite of his cookie. Apparently he didn't like the cookie because he would nibble on the thing and then stare at it briefly while shaking his head. Carla was only five years old, so she hadn't been alive long enough to understand true disappointment. "Oh grandma, I just love it! What is it?!" the child chirped with bright eyes.
"Why it's an Elvis Pressley plate! Isn't is lovely?" grandma asked excitedly. It was an Elvis Pressley plate indeed. The edges of the plate were made up of words from his recent hit songs, while the middle of it was comprised of a huge Elvis head complete with gold rimmed sunglasses. I began to chuckle slightly, thinking of Carla eating Christmas dinner while having "the king" himself staring up at her through the mashed potatoes.
Jarrett had begun to squirm, surely ready to go. I was too, and finally we set off for home so grandma could get to bed before the sun set.
We arrived at our house to find mom still baking and scurrying around the kitchen. "Well!? How'd it go at grandma's house? Did you get something nice?" mom asked, with a slight grin creeping onto her face.
"A damn ceramic bird. I'm going to shoot mine with my bb gun," Jarrett said, while slumping low on the coach and trying to remove his bird from his coat pocket. "Wow, I broke his leg off," he continued. My mom suddenly went into some sort of fit. She began coughing and shaking violently and had to use a tissue to wipe tears from her cheeks. Jarrett and I stared at each other unsure of what was happening. I was shocked that mom had let my older brother's profanity pass, but she was in no shape to hand up discipline. I hoped she wasn't getting sick on Christmas eve.
Suddenly Carla burst into the kitchen with her Elvis plate and proudly held it up for mom to see. "Look mommy! I got a plate with some guy on it. Jarrett said he was a hound dog," the pitiful little girl squealed. Mom's tremors got worse. This time she covered her entire face with a dish rag and the convulsions continued. Yep, I was sure that she was having a medical emergency of some sort.
Dad entered with a block of wood for the fire and he too wondered if my mother was having a life altering problem. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, while discovering that Jarrett's bird was now a one legged blue jay. "I see that you've already torn your bird up. Fine with me, but don't think you're going to play with Neil's bird. You broke yours, so live with it."
I noticed that my mom was still facing away from us and shaking violently. "I'm not sure what's wrong with her. She's been doing that ever since she saw our birds and Carla's Elvis plate. Heck if I know," I said.
My mom finally regained her composure. She wasn't sick at all. We later surmised that the woman simply found it incredibly funny that two rambunctious boys received ceramic birds for Christmas and a five-year-old girl had received a plate dedicated to Elvis Pressley. We continued to go "up home" on Christmas eve, and we continued to receive gifts my grandma had found lying around her house. We also drank lots of cranberry juice and ate a few less than fresh cookies. To my knowledge, the birds disappeared shortly after Christmas and the Elvis plate also went the way of the birds.
My father always referred to Grandma's house as, "up home", which was much to my mother's chagrin. She always thought that dad's home was where he, she, and us kids resided. Grandma's house is where he grew up, which was no longer his home. I think he sensed that those two little words irked her, so he threw them around often.
"I'm taking the kids up home for a bit to see mom," dad would say to our mother, who was busy in the kitchen scurrying around trying to finish up whatever tasty treat she was creating at that moment.
"Ok. Fine. I'll be here when you get back," she would answer with an ominous scowl on her face.
Dad, Jarrett, Carla and I would pile into our old 1962 Ford Falcon and make the short drive to "up home." Grandma would greet us at the door with a huge smile and a gentle hug. We usually arrived at her house in the vicinity of four o'clock or so, due to the fact that she went to bed in the vicinity of five o'clock or so. "Oh, my. Just look at how these kids have grown! Jarrett is almost as big as you, and Neil isn't far behind. Carla's hair is so beautiful!" she'd say, as she had done every single year since my birth.
We would then take a seat in her living room and I would survey the place, always amazed at how CLEAN everything was. When I say clean, I mean you could eat a meal off the commode seat and never think another thing about it. She would enter soon after with a jug of cranberry juice and a pack of cookies. When everyone had a cookie and a cup of juice, the generic conversation would ensue.
"Yeah, the kids are really growing," dad would say.
"Yes they are," grandma would answer.
"Yep, they're growing up," dad would say.
"They sure are. Really growing," grandma would answer.
"It's amazing how much they've grown," dad would say.
"Truly amazing, they're growing like weeds," grandma would again answer.
"Do you think we'll get a while Christmas?" grandma would ask, changing the subject.
"Oh, you never know what this weather is going to do," dad would answer. They would continue for at least another ten minutes about the chances of a white Christmas. Finally, after grandma noticed that the time was getting dangerously close to her bedtime, she would scurry to the next room and return with a brown grocery bag which contained our gifts.
"Jarrett, I got you and Neil the same thing, only a different color," she said, handing each of us a trinket wrapped in white tissue paper. "Carla, this is yours. It's not like the boy's gifts. It's something special just for you. I just can't get over how you've grown, and maybe we'll have a white Christmas," she finished.
We sat quietly with our tissue paper wrapped gifts in our laps when dad spoke. "Well? aren't you going to open your gifts? Go on, what are you waiting for?"
We carefully removed the tissue paper from our gifts and to be honest, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Eleven and eight-year-old boys don't sit around dreaming of getting ceramic birds for Christmas. But, that's what we received that year. I got a fire engine red ceramic cardinal, and Jarrett got a rather frail looking ceramic blue jay. Jarrett turned and looked at me with a face that only God himself could love. He was hoping for a gun, or knife, or maybe something that pertained to the outdoors. But a ceramic blue jay? No way. I wasn't especially enthused with my ceramic cardinal either, but I was a bit more successful at hiding my disappointment. I observed that our father sensed our disapproval based on the ominous slits his eyes had become. "Carla, why don't you unwrap your gift?" dad said, while taking a sip of his cranberry juice and a bite of his cookie. Apparently he didn't like the cookie because he would nibble on the thing and then stare at it briefly while shaking his head. Carla was only five years old, so she hadn't been alive long enough to understand true disappointment. "Oh grandma, I just love it! What is it?!" the child chirped with bright eyes.
"Why it's an Elvis Pressley plate! Isn't is lovely?" grandma asked excitedly. It was an Elvis Pressley plate indeed. The edges of the plate were made up of words from his recent hit songs, while the middle of it was comprised of a huge Elvis head complete with gold rimmed sunglasses. I began to chuckle slightly, thinking of Carla eating Christmas dinner while having "the king" himself staring up at her through the mashed potatoes.
Jarrett had begun to squirm, surely ready to go. I was too, and finally we set off for home so grandma could get to bed before the sun set.
We arrived at our house to find mom still baking and scurrying around the kitchen. "Well!? How'd it go at grandma's house? Did you get something nice?" mom asked, with a slight grin creeping onto her face.
"A damn ceramic bird. I'm going to shoot mine with my bb gun," Jarrett said, while slumping low on the coach and trying to remove his bird from his coat pocket. "Wow, I broke his leg off," he continued. My mom suddenly went into some sort of fit. She began coughing and shaking violently and had to use a tissue to wipe tears from her cheeks. Jarrett and I stared at each other unsure of what was happening. I was shocked that mom had let my older brother's profanity pass, but she was in no shape to hand up discipline. I hoped she wasn't getting sick on Christmas eve.
Suddenly Carla burst into the kitchen with her Elvis plate and proudly held it up for mom to see. "Look mommy! I got a plate with some guy on it. Jarrett said he was a hound dog," the pitiful little girl squealed. Mom's tremors got worse. This time she covered her entire face with a dish rag and the convulsions continued. Yep, I was sure that she was having a medical emergency of some sort.
Dad entered with a block of wood for the fire and he too wondered if my mother was having a life altering problem. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, while discovering that Jarrett's bird was now a one legged blue jay. "I see that you've already torn your bird up. Fine with me, but don't think you're going to play with Neil's bird. You broke yours, so live with it."
I noticed that my mom was still facing away from us and shaking violently. "I'm not sure what's wrong with her. She's been doing that ever since she saw our birds and Carla's Elvis plate. Heck if I know," I said.
My mom finally regained her composure. She wasn't sick at all. We later surmised that the woman simply found it incredibly funny that two rambunctious boys received ceramic birds for Christmas and a five-year-old girl had received a plate dedicated to Elvis Pressley. We continued to go "up home" on Christmas eve, and we continued to receive gifts my grandma had found lying around her house. We also drank lots of cranberry juice and ate a few less than fresh cookies. To my knowledge, the birds disappeared shortly after Christmas and the Elvis plate also went the way of the birds.
Friday, November 21, 2014
COMPETITION MOMS
Usually, it's us dads that take the heat for being just a bit overly competitive when it comes to our kids. We get the icy stares from concerned mothers for questioning why our sons watched a third strike drift carelessly into the catcher's mitt. "Geez, why didn't he just swing the bat? It was right down the middle. He could have hit it with a curtain rod!" I've said many times since our son began playing baseball. Perhaps it was our daughter and basketball that caused the competitive flair to bubble to the surface. "She had an open lane to the basket and she passed it off! That would have been an EASY layup," I'd exclaim time and time again. My wife, who was always ready to pounce and take to defending her offspring, never failed to have a calm and collected reply.
"Oh, I guess you were Cal Ripken and Michael Jordan all rolled up into one!? Give 'em a break. Good Lord they're only kids! Now pipe down!" I piped down.
Despite all our shortcomings as fathers, mothers have us beat in the competition department when it comes to the important things in life.
Years ago, when I worked the evening shift, I was "lucky" enough to be Mr. Mom during the day with two toddlers in tow. Often, I would load the rambunctious children into the car and drive them to the playground at a nearby park. Without fail, there would be a myriad of moms chasing overly energetic children around, and then there would be the talkers who would sit for hours on end blabbering about their children and how advanced, athletic, smart, beautiful, funny, etc. they were.
I felt comfortable letting my kids play without me hovering over them, so one day I took a seat on an old wooden bench beside three of the blabbering mothers. "Hi, I'm Cheryl, this is Kim and this is Jennifer. Our kids are already potty trained. How about yours?" the blabberer nearest me said excitedly.
"Uh, no my daughter isn't even close and my son is more of a free ranger," I said without looking at the woman and keeping an eye on my kids.
"Tee, hee, you mean a free spirit, or a free thinker," she replied.
"No, a free ranger. Sort of like a chicken. He usually walks around the yard, then digs a hole and poops in it. He covers it up very nicely though. Thank goodness for that or else it'd be a little slippery when I mow," I continued. The women looked at me like I had just stepped off the mother ship and was surely going to reboard with my alien children soon. They stared for awhile longer and continued their conversation as though I wasn't there.
"Alexander is ALMOST reading. It's amazing! I mean the kid is only two and a half! We're thinking of getting him tested," Jennifer said with pride oozing from smiling face. "I mean seriously, how many kids that age can almost read?" I was puzzled. How do you almost read? I felt that would be akin to almost breathing. Either you were or you weren't.
"Oh that's nothing. My Tommy is nearly swimming, you should see him! We're already thinking Olympics possibly," Kim shot back with a more serious look on her face than I was comfortable with.
"Can your kids do anything extraordinary?" Jennifer said, gazing at me and sure that they couldn't. After all I had a free range chicken for a son.
"Well, they both love books, that's for sure. They can't read, or almost read for that matter, but they sure love books. Sidney, my daughter, seems to like ripping the pages out mostly. Heck, the other day, she ate part of one. She's kind of a human/silverfish hybrid I guess."
Once again, the women turned away surely agitated with my lack of pride in my children. It wasn't that I lacked pride in my kids, I just lacked the knowhow to compete with these blabbering, competition mothers.
We continued to sit, watching our kids play. I was silent and uncomfortable, and they blabbered, and blabbered, and blabbered. Finally, I broke my silence. "You know, I'm just happy that my kids are healthy. The rest will come, I'm sure of it," I said, hoping for a slice of sympathy from the mothers. My hopes were quickly dashed.
"Well, we're thankful for healthy kids too, but we're not going to celebrate mediocrity. I mean the world is full of middle of the road types," Kim said, having obviously formed the opinion that I was an unfit father and a true middle of the roader. No sooner that our exchange ended, Sidney ambled up to me and spit out a mouth full of pea gravel and promptly ran away.
The expression on the women's faces demanded a response. "Uh, I guess paper just isn't doing it for her. Pea, pea gravel. At least she's got a healthy appetite," I said, trying to invoke some humor into the unsettling situation. I got an icy stare.
"Did I tell you guys that Harold suggested that we take the youngest for violin lessons? The kid is musical, you can just see it. I played and so did Harold. It's a natural fit," Cheryl said proudly. The conversation continued and I suddenly realized that I was sitting in a park watching nearly half of the next generation of the Boston Symphony play on the sliding board. The closest my kids had come to making a musical sound was the incessant banging of pots and pans they'd ripped from the kitchen cabinets.
I gathered my two filthy, talent lacking children into the car and headed for home. I was thankful to leave and return to the safe confines of our home away and from the competition moms.
We continued to frequent the park and the playground. But, I was always careful to bring my own chair so I could sit alone, quietly observing my lackluster children play.
Ryan sure enough did learn to use the indoor plumbing, and Sidney hasn't eaten paper for years (or pea gravel that I know of). Both are fine athletes, and successful students. Occasionally, I'll ride past that playground and see a new crop of competition moms occupying the bench. Rarely, there will be the pitiful dad also. I smile when I think he's WAY overmatched and how sorry I feel for him. But alas, he will learn just as I did. There is no competing with the competition moms.
"
"Oh, I guess you were Cal Ripken and Michael Jordan all rolled up into one!? Give 'em a break. Good Lord they're only kids! Now pipe down!" I piped down.
Despite all our shortcomings as fathers, mothers have us beat in the competition department when it comes to the important things in life.
Years ago, when I worked the evening shift, I was "lucky" enough to be Mr. Mom during the day with two toddlers in tow. Often, I would load the rambunctious children into the car and drive them to the playground at a nearby park. Without fail, there would be a myriad of moms chasing overly energetic children around, and then there would be the talkers who would sit for hours on end blabbering about their children and how advanced, athletic, smart, beautiful, funny, etc. they were.
I felt comfortable letting my kids play without me hovering over them, so one day I took a seat on an old wooden bench beside three of the blabbering mothers. "Hi, I'm Cheryl, this is Kim and this is Jennifer. Our kids are already potty trained. How about yours?" the blabberer nearest me said excitedly.
"Uh, no my daughter isn't even close and my son is more of a free ranger," I said without looking at the woman and keeping an eye on my kids.
"Tee, hee, you mean a free spirit, or a free thinker," she replied.
"No, a free ranger. Sort of like a chicken. He usually walks around the yard, then digs a hole and poops in it. He covers it up very nicely though. Thank goodness for that or else it'd be a little slippery when I mow," I continued. The women looked at me like I had just stepped off the mother ship and was surely going to reboard with my alien children soon. They stared for awhile longer and continued their conversation as though I wasn't there.
"Alexander is ALMOST reading. It's amazing! I mean the kid is only two and a half! We're thinking of getting him tested," Jennifer said with pride oozing from smiling face. "I mean seriously, how many kids that age can almost read?" I was puzzled. How do you almost read? I felt that would be akin to almost breathing. Either you were or you weren't.
"Oh that's nothing. My Tommy is nearly swimming, you should see him! We're already thinking Olympics possibly," Kim shot back with a more serious look on her face than I was comfortable with.
"Can your kids do anything extraordinary?" Jennifer said, gazing at me and sure that they couldn't. After all I had a free range chicken for a son.
"Well, they both love books, that's for sure. They can't read, or almost read for that matter, but they sure love books. Sidney, my daughter, seems to like ripping the pages out mostly. Heck, the other day, she ate part of one. She's kind of a human/silverfish hybrid I guess."
Once again, the women turned away surely agitated with my lack of pride in my children. It wasn't that I lacked pride in my kids, I just lacked the knowhow to compete with these blabbering, competition mothers.
We continued to sit, watching our kids play. I was silent and uncomfortable, and they blabbered, and blabbered, and blabbered. Finally, I broke my silence. "You know, I'm just happy that my kids are healthy. The rest will come, I'm sure of it," I said, hoping for a slice of sympathy from the mothers. My hopes were quickly dashed.
"Well, we're thankful for healthy kids too, but we're not going to celebrate mediocrity. I mean the world is full of middle of the road types," Kim said, having obviously formed the opinion that I was an unfit father and a true middle of the roader. No sooner that our exchange ended, Sidney ambled up to me and spit out a mouth full of pea gravel and promptly ran away.
The expression on the women's faces demanded a response. "Uh, I guess paper just isn't doing it for her. Pea, pea gravel. At least she's got a healthy appetite," I said, trying to invoke some humor into the unsettling situation. I got an icy stare.
"Did I tell you guys that Harold suggested that we take the youngest for violin lessons? The kid is musical, you can just see it. I played and so did Harold. It's a natural fit," Cheryl said proudly. The conversation continued and I suddenly realized that I was sitting in a park watching nearly half of the next generation of the Boston Symphony play on the sliding board. The closest my kids had come to making a musical sound was the incessant banging of pots and pans they'd ripped from the kitchen cabinets.
I gathered my two filthy, talent lacking children into the car and headed for home. I was thankful to leave and return to the safe confines of our home away and from the competition moms.
We continued to frequent the park and the playground. But, I was always careful to bring my own chair so I could sit alone, quietly observing my lackluster children play.
Ryan sure enough did learn to use the indoor plumbing, and Sidney hasn't eaten paper for years (or pea gravel that I know of). Both are fine athletes, and successful students. Occasionally, I'll ride past that playground and see a new crop of competition moms occupying the bench. Rarely, there will be the pitiful dad also. I smile when I think he's WAY overmatched and how sorry I feel for him. But alas, he will learn just as I did. There is no competing with the competition moms.
"
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
MY KIDS, COMEDIANS
If you've been following my stories, you may remember that I've had an ongoing and very tumultuous relationship with an ornery neighbor named Walt Musselman. Do you remember? He's the guy who has the ability to degrade, put down, criticize, and belittle almost, correction, everything I do.
Since my original story about Walt, I'm happy to report that he has moved on. Thankfully, he got sick of the neighbors leaves blowing into his yard each fall and decided to move to an area with no trees. There is truly a God.
Approximately a year ago, the ornery old codger spied me trimming the shrubs in front of our home and naturally made a beeline down the road and across my lawn. I had given up trying to sneak around undetected because the man had some sort of superhuman radar that only seemed to alert when I stepped out of my house. "I'm moving, did you hear?" he said excitedly while simultaneously spraying me with a shower of spit. He was carefully eyeballing my trim job and was surely ready to launch a barrage of criticisms concerning the shoddy work.
"No, I didn't hear! Are you kidding? That's great! I mean good for you." I could hardly contain the emotion that was bubbling inside me. Finally, after years of torment, I would be free of this man. The feeling I had was not unlike having a hemorrhoid lanced. In fact, he had much in common with a hemorrhoid, only worse. Oh, the relief.
"Yeah, I'm building another house. 'Bout five miles from here. I'm sick of raking other people's leaves. Some of them are probably yours" he said.
"Nah, I doubt it. Your house is a quarter mile from me. Besides, the prevailing winds blow from your direction. You're not getting any of my leaves."
"Well, you're a better weather man than a shrub trimmer. That one there looks like someone did it with a weed eater" came the retort, and another spray of spittle.
I briefly looked at the shrub but didn't let his comment get the best of me that time because I could hardly contain my overwhelming joy and couldn't wait to share the news with Kristi, who still thought it was I who was the problem. "Nice talking to you Walt. I need to run, enjoy the rest of your evening." Without hesitation, I bolted into the house and broke the wonderful news to my wife.
Sure enough, within a few months, Walt moved and that miserable chapter in my life had come to a close. Almost.
Last week, I grabbed my wallet and keys and headed for the door in route to pick up our son, Ryan, from football practice. Kristi wasn't home, so I yelled for our daughter, Sidney, and asked if she wanted to go for the ride. "Sure" came the reply from somewhere upstairs.
As usual, Ryan climbed into the car and the first words out of his mouth were, "what's for dinner?"
"Uh, mom made fish and broccoli. Maybe some other stuff."
"I'm starving, can we go to Wendy's instead" the boy replied, with somewhat of a beggars tone.
"Yeah, sure."
I wheeled the car into Wendy's parking lot and stopped. "We're going in. Your mom fully expects you to eat what she prepared, so we're not bringing any evidence of eating here home with us. Got it?" I learned long ago to never, ever leave any evidence lying around that would suggest that I'd rather eat a Baconator than her fish and broccoli.
"Yeah, we got it," came the reply in unison.
We ordered and made our way to a table nearest our car. We made small talk about the school day and football practice and how we MUST eat a few bites of fish and broccoli when we got home. Suddenly, without warning, he appeared like a ghost from my past. Walt! I hadn't seen the guy for months and yet, there he stood. "Oh crap, there's Walt. Don't turn around, he might see us. I'm still healing from twelve years of pure torture..." I whispered, before being cut off by my merciless son.
"Mr. Musselman! Hey Mr. Musselman!" Ryan chirped, while waving like he was heading off for a six month Navy cruise.
Walt immediately turned to see who was yelling his name. Ryan had done the unthinkable. Sidney was snickering into a napkin, barely able to contain herself. Directly, I began to wonder how much prison time killing my son with a Wendy's tray would carry. "What is wrong with you? Now he's going to come over..."
"Sit with us Mr. Musselman," Sidney squealed. I began to wonder if I'd get the electric chair for killing both offspring. For years, both kids had taken delight in my pain. Sometimes they'd say that Walt was heading for our house, causing me to run for cover. Usually it was a mean spirited and hateful joke aimed at me.
The old man sauntered over and plopped down directly across the table from me. "I can't believe you're eating that crap. You don't realize it, but that's going to cause your heart attack one day," he said. A simple hello would have been grand. "Me? I'm a salad man.'
"I can see that. Well, I'm usually a very healthy eater, but the occasional hamburger won't hurt I guess," I said, fully annoyed and still unsure of what method I would use to kill my children.
"Mr. Musselman, I wish you'd stop by sometimes. Dad said that he misses you and wished you would come by once in a while," Sidney said, with a very sinister smile creeping across her face. "He gets lonely during the day when we're in school and he's home by himself," she continued, to my dismay. Ryan excused himself and was heading for the restroom and briefly glanced in my direction. That smile would definitely be wiped from his face later.
We hastily finished our meal, but not before 'ol Walt launched a barrage of putdowns, and criticisms my way. He claimed that I was over mowing my lawn and thus killing the grass. He also, said that our home still appeared to be leaning to one side. He was very complimentary of the kids though.
We excused ourselves and left Walt alone with his salad. I climbed into the driver's seat of my car and sat, silently, staring out the window. "Dad, we just couldn't resist. It's just so funny. Sorry," Ryan said, grinning ear to ear.
As I steered the car onto the road, I smiled. "My kids, comedians" I said.
Since my original story about Walt, I'm happy to report that he has moved on. Thankfully, he got sick of the neighbors leaves blowing into his yard each fall and decided to move to an area with no trees. There is truly a God.
Approximately a year ago, the ornery old codger spied me trimming the shrubs in front of our home and naturally made a beeline down the road and across my lawn. I had given up trying to sneak around undetected because the man had some sort of superhuman radar that only seemed to alert when I stepped out of my house. "I'm moving, did you hear?" he said excitedly while simultaneously spraying me with a shower of spit. He was carefully eyeballing my trim job and was surely ready to launch a barrage of criticisms concerning the shoddy work.
"No, I didn't hear! Are you kidding? That's great! I mean good for you." I could hardly contain the emotion that was bubbling inside me. Finally, after years of torment, I would be free of this man. The feeling I had was not unlike having a hemorrhoid lanced. In fact, he had much in common with a hemorrhoid, only worse. Oh, the relief.
"Yeah, I'm building another house. 'Bout five miles from here. I'm sick of raking other people's leaves. Some of them are probably yours" he said.
"Nah, I doubt it. Your house is a quarter mile from me. Besides, the prevailing winds blow from your direction. You're not getting any of my leaves."
"Well, you're a better weather man than a shrub trimmer. That one there looks like someone did it with a weed eater" came the retort, and another spray of spittle.
I briefly looked at the shrub but didn't let his comment get the best of me that time because I could hardly contain my overwhelming joy and couldn't wait to share the news with Kristi, who still thought it was I who was the problem. "Nice talking to you Walt. I need to run, enjoy the rest of your evening." Without hesitation, I bolted into the house and broke the wonderful news to my wife.
Sure enough, within a few months, Walt moved and that miserable chapter in my life had come to a close. Almost.
Last week, I grabbed my wallet and keys and headed for the door in route to pick up our son, Ryan, from football practice. Kristi wasn't home, so I yelled for our daughter, Sidney, and asked if she wanted to go for the ride. "Sure" came the reply from somewhere upstairs.
As usual, Ryan climbed into the car and the first words out of his mouth were, "what's for dinner?"
"Uh, mom made fish and broccoli. Maybe some other stuff."
"I'm starving, can we go to Wendy's instead" the boy replied, with somewhat of a beggars tone.
"Yeah, sure."
I wheeled the car into Wendy's parking lot and stopped. "We're going in. Your mom fully expects you to eat what she prepared, so we're not bringing any evidence of eating here home with us. Got it?" I learned long ago to never, ever leave any evidence lying around that would suggest that I'd rather eat a Baconator than her fish and broccoli.
"Yeah, we got it," came the reply in unison.
We ordered and made our way to a table nearest our car. We made small talk about the school day and football practice and how we MUST eat a few bites of fish and broccoli when we got home. Suddenly, without warning, he appeared like a ghost from my past. Walt! I hadn't seen the guy for months and yet, there he stood. "Oh crap, there's Walt. Don't turn around, he might see us. I'm still healing from twelve years of pure torture..." I whispered, before being cut off by my merciless son.
"Mr. Musselman! Hey Mr. Musselman!" Ryan chirped, while waving like he was heading off for a six month Navy cruise.
Walt immediately turned to see who was yelling his name. Ryan had done the unthinkable. Sidney was snickering into a napkin, barely able to contain herself. Directly, I began to wonder how much prison time killing my son with a Wendy's tray would carry. "What is wrong with you? Now he's going to come over..."
"Sit with us Mr. Musselman," Sidney squealed. I began to wonder if I'd get the electric chair for killing both offspring. For years, both kids had taken delight in my pain. Sometimes they'd say that Walt was heading for our house, causing me to run for cover. Usually it was a mean spirited and hateful joke aimed at me.
The old man sauntered over and plopped down directly across the table from me. "I can't believe you're eating that crap. You don't realize it, but that's going to cause your heart attack one day," he said. A simple hello would have been grand. "Me? I'm a salad man.'
"I can see that. Well, I'm usually a very healthy eater, but the occasional hamburger won't hurt I guess," I said, fully annoyed and still unsure of what method I would use to kill my children.
"Mr. Musselman, I wish you'd stop by sometimes. Dad said that he misses you and wished you would come by once in a while," Sidney said, with a very sinister smile creeping across her face. "He gets lonely during the day when we're in school and he's home by himself," she continued, to my dismay. Ryan excused himself and was heading for the restroom and briefly glanced in my direction. That smile would definitely be wiped from his face later.
We hastily finished our meal, but not before 'ol Walt launched a barrage of putdowns, and criticisms my way. He claimed that I was over mowing my lawn and thus killing the grass. He also, said that our home still appeared to be leaning to one side. He was very complimentary of the kids though.
We excused ourselves and left Walt alone with his salad. I climbed into the driver's seat of my car and sat, silently, staring out the window. "Dad, we just couldn't resist. It's just so funny. Sorry," Ryan said, grinning ear to ear.
As I steered the car onto the road, I smiled. "My kids, comedians" I said.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
THE FAMILY PESSIMIST
I'm a pessimist. I can't help it. I try to stay positive, but somehow my good attitude always seems to be derailed like a runaway train.
A few times a year though, I have a calm and pleasant feeling that sweeps over me, which briefly causes the pessimism to dissipate. Usually during those fleeting times, the house is clean, I don't have to work the next day, I'm well fed, my wife and I have seen eye to eye on everything in recent memory, the kids aren't fighting, the finances are in good order and water isn't dripping from an overhead light fixture and onto my forehead.
Recently, for example, I was able to enjoy that good vibe that rarely visits me. Temporarily. I had come in from a long day at work and was pleasantly surprised to find that the house was spotless (it's tough with two messy kids around) and warm. The pleasant aroma of my wife's lasagna wafted past my nose as I entered the kitchen door, and even more to my delight, was the envelope on the counter that contained a check from the hospital stating that we had overpaid when our son was treated for a broken arm. I didn't have work the next day either. I was feeling blessed.
After a hearty meal of lasagna, I retreated to the upstairs part of the house for a long, hot shower. "Life is grand" I thought, as the water splashed off my face and chest.
Finally, after my shower, I poked my head into each of our kid's bedrooms to say hello, and found each lying comfortably and quietly on their beds fixated on whatever the iPhones and Ipods had to offer at that time. "Hi dad" Sidney said, before rolling over and becoming enamored with whatever she was watching once again. Ryan simply waved, never making eye contact with me.
Slowly and cautiously, with a pang of pessimism ricocheting inside my skull, I made my way back downstairs to find my wife curled up in the recliner reading a book. "Do you mind if I watch the ball game?" I asked, while pushing the power button on the remote.
"No" came the answer.
Easing my tired body down onto the couch, I once again felt at ease that all was right with the world at that very moment. I also felt the cold sensation of water bouncing off my forehead on onto my eyeglasses. "What the..." I barked.
Kristi slowly turned her head in my direction and simply asked, "What?"
"There's water dripping from the light above my head! That's what!" I replied, already sitting up and staring at the dripping light fixture.
"Oh, I almost forgot. One of the kids, Sidney I think, overflowed the bathtub earlier and it ran down through the ceiling" she said, never removing her eyes from the pages of her book.
"Don't you think it's important that I am made aware of something like our house being flooded by an overflowing bathtub?"
"Number one, it wasn't a flood. Number two, it will dry. Stop worrying, relax" she said, finally looking away from her book.
Truly, she was right. The water would dry, eventually. I did have to shift my spot on the couch slightly due the occasional drip from above, but thankfully it wasn't more serious.
Once again, I began to focus on the baseball game and began to wonder if the Kansas City Royals could possibly win the World Series. Suddenly, things got a bit fuzzier and my focus began to fade.
It should be noted that our daughter is a completion cheerleader, which means that when she's not stationary, she's upside down, flipping through the house or bouncing off something. Mostly bouncing off something.
Suddenly, somewhere during the third inning, a thunderous crash rocked the house. "What the hell was that!!!" I screamed, trying desperately to quell a possible heart attack and at the same time find my footing to make a beeline to the upstairs.
"It sounded like something fell upstairs to me" she quipped. At least she did take her eyes away from the book long enough to look concerned.
"Something fell?! It sounded like a bomb went of up there" I said, already on the third stair and heading higher.
I bounded down the hall to find Sidney lying in a heap of drawers, clothes, a broken lamp, and an overturned chest of drawers. "Dad, guess what!" the child squealed. "I finally got my standing back handspring! MOM! I got my standing back handspring!"
At that point I had to try my level best not to smother my child's glee at her latest accomplishment, but I also needed to point out that she had nearly destroyed one end of our home doing it. "That's great, but for heaven's sake..."
"That's great Sid!" my wife chirped, interrupting my Mike Brady moment, while hugging the child with both arms wrapped around her. "Do it downstairs, I want to video it."
Just like that, they both disappeared down the steps and away from the rubble, leaving me standing, dumbfounded.
Briefly, I peered into Ryan's room to find him still deeply engrossed in the dark world Iphones and Beats headphones. "What?" he said, sliding one headphone slightly to the side.
"Did you not hear the crash on the other side of the wall?"
"There was a crash? No, didn't hear it." He slid the headphone back on and rolled over.
I finally cleaned up the mess and set the chest upright and reinserted the drawers. I took the mangled lamp to the garbage bin in the garage. Once again, I returned to my spot on the couch to catch the last couple of innings of the ball game, and my wife had returned to her chair, having completed the filming of Sidney's standing back handspring. "Finally, maybe I can watch what's left of the game in peace" I said, as a cool drop of water landed on my head and ran down onto my cheek.
"Maybe, good luck" she said, never glancing my way.
A few times a year though, I have a calm and pleasant feeling that sweeps over me, which briefly causes the pessimism to dissipate. Usually during those fleeting times, the house is clean, I don't have to work the next day, I'm well fed, my wife and I have seen eye to eye on everything in recent memory, the kids aren't fighting, the finances are in good order and water isn't dripping from an overhead light fixture and onto my forehead.
Recently, for example, I was able to enjoy that good vibe that rarely visits me. Temporarily. I had come in from a long day at work and was pleasantly surprised to find that the house was spotless (it's tough with two messy kids around) and warm. The pleasant aroma of my wife's lasagna wafted past my nose as I entered the kitchen door, and even more to my delight, was the envelope on the counter that contained a check from the hospital stating that we had overpaid when our son was treated for a broken arm. I didn't have work the next day either. I was feeling blessed.
After a hearty meal of lasagna, I retreated to the upstairs part of the house for a long, hot shower. "Life is grand" I thought, as the water splashed off my face and chest.
Finally, after my shower, I poked my head into each of our kid's bedrooms to say hello, and found each lying comfortably and quietly on their beds fixated on whatever the iPhones and Ipods had to offer at that time. "Hi dad" Sidney said, before rolling over and becoming enamored with whatever she was watching once again. Ryan simply waved, never making eye contact with me.
Slowly and cautiously, with a pang of pessimism ricocheting inside my skull, I made my way back downstairs to find my wife curled up in the recliner reading a book. "Do you mind if I watch the ball game?" I asked, while pushing the power button on the remote.
"No" came the answer.
Easing my tired body down onto the couch, I once again felt at ease that all was right with the world at that very moment. I also felt the cold sensation of water bouncing off my forehead on onto my eyeglasses. "What the..." I barked.
Kristi slowly turned her head in my direction and simply asked, "What?"
"There's water dripping from the light above my head! That's what!" I replied, already sitting up and staring at the dripping light fixture.
"Oh, I almost forgot. One of the kids, Sidney I think, overflowed the bathtub earlier and it ran down through the ceiling" she said, never removing her eyes from the pages of her book.
"Don't you think it's important that I am made aware of something like our house being flooded by an overflowing bathtub?"
"Number one, it wasn't a flood. Number two, it will dry. Stop worrying, relax" she said, finally looking away from her book.
Truly, she was right. The water would dry, eventually. I did have to shift my spot on the couch slightly due the occasional drip from above, but thankfully it wasn't more serious.
Once again, I began to focus on the baseball game and began to wonder if the Kansas City Royals could possibly win the World Series. Suddenly, things got a bit fuzzier and my focus began to fade.
It should be noted that our daughter is a completion cheerleader, which means that when she's not stationary, she's upside down, flipping through the house or bouncing off something. Mostly bouncing off something.
Suddenly, somewhere during the third inning, a thunderous crash rocked the house. "What the hell was that!!!" I screamed, trying desperately to quell a possible heart attack and at the same time find my footing to make a beeline to the upstairs.
"It sounded like something fell upstairs to me" she quipped. At least she did take her eyes away from the book long enough to look concerned.
"Something fell?! It sounded like a bomb went of up there" I said, already on the third stair and heading higher.
I bounded down the hall to find Sidney lying in a heap of drawers, clothes, a broken lamp, and an overturned chest of drawers. "Dad, guess what!" the child squealed. "I finally got my standing back handspring! MOM! I got my standing back handspring!"
At that point I had to try my level best not to smother my child's glee at her latest accomplishment, but I also needed to point out that she had nearly destroyed one end of our home doing it. "That's great, but for heaven's sake..."
"That's great Sid!" my wife chirped, interrupting my Mike Brady moment, while hugging the child with both arms wrapped around her. "Do it downstairs, I want to video it."
Just like that, they both disappeared down the steps and away from the rubble, leaving me standing, dumbfounded.
Briefly, I peered into Ryan's room to find him still deeply engrossed in the dark world Iphones and Beats headphones. "What?" he said, sliding one headphone slightly to the side.
"Did you not hear the crash on the other side of the wall?"
"There was a crash? No, didn't hear it." He slid the headphone back on and rolled over.
I finally cleaned up the mess and set the chest upright and reinserted the drawers. I took the mangled lamp to the garbage bin in the garage. Once again, I returned to my spot on the couch to catch the last couple of innings of the ball game, and my wife had returned to her chair, having completed the filming of Sidney's standing back handspring. "Finally, maybe I can watch what's left of the game in peace" I said, as a cool drop of water landed on my head and ran down onto my cheek.
"Maybe, good luck" she said, never glancing my way.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
I DO
Yesterday evening, my family and I attended my cousin's wedding in Richmond. The ceremony was wonderful and the reception was simply amazing. We had a blast. I'm truly happy for the newly married couple and I'm sure that they will enjoy a lifetime of good fortune, health and blessings from the Lord.
Weddings are joyous occasions which bring people together to share in the happiness of the newly weds. We got to see relatives that we usually don't see on a regular basis, and to say that I enjoyed that would be somewhat of an understatement.
Driving home late into the night, with a car full of sleeping family members, my mind drifted back to the early days of my own wedding and the months before.
It occurred to me that you truly don't know a person until you quietly utter the words, "I do". Well, that's not exactly true, but it should be noted that when people are trying to land a lifelong mate, other half, better half, etc., they are on their absolute best behavior at all times. Heck, I had known my wife for almost two years before I could actually verify that she did on occasion take a poop. "What do you mean she doesn't go number two?" my best friend asked, confused.
"I mean, I have been dating the woman for almost two years and there's not one shred of evidence to support any rational belief that she takes a dump!" I answered, while looking at my friend who was now grinning like a possum.
"Well, you're getting married in a few days. Trust me, she poops. She's still trying to impress you, and maybe she thinks you'll cut and run if she wrecks your bathroom. But after you're married it'll be open season on the old porcelain crapper. You just wait, you'll see."
He did have a point. He also had three years of marriage under his belt, so I surmised that he knew very well what he was talking about. It also occurred to me that I too, was somewhat reserved around my wife before we were married. I remember one incident specifically that is still carved into my memory banks that will likely be there until I die.
Kristi and I had enjoyed a fine meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant, when she suddenly had the bright idea that the night was young and we should see a movie. Immediately, the red flags of caution begin to fly inside my head. I love Mexican food, but it doesn't love me, in fact it hates my guts. Literally. That particular type of food has sent me racing like Dale Earnhardt across town, blowing red lights, swerving around slower traffic and cursing under my breath, all while standing up driving and squeezing for all I'm worth. That particular occasion was different. It was different in that there was no way that I would ever let on to her that I could possibly mess my pants in the movie theater.
"Sure, that sounds like a great idea! I'd love to see a movie," I lied, with little beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead as I steered the car out of the restaurant parking lot. I began to wonder if the bathrooms at the cinema were clean and if I should have snagged a few napkins from our table since the teenagers employed at the theater couldn't be trusted to keep a fresh supply of toilet paper in each bathroom stall.
We arrived at the cinema, paid for our tickets, and I excused myself before sheepishly entering the restroom. Apparently, I had gone into the wrong room, as the one I was standing in more closely resembled Grand Central Station than a movie theater bathroom. There was a line to the lone urinal in the corner and I could clearly see the shoes and ankles of a poor soul who was perched atop the toilet, which was surrounded by a partition which apparently also served as a local telephone directory. Oh well, the place will clear out soon and I would try again in a few minutes, I thought.
After the opening credits began to roll, I once again excused my self and raced to the men's room. To my amazement, the place was still packed with people and the same shoes and ankles STILL occupied the toilet stall. "Damn, is that guy dead in there?" I thought. I loitered for a few more minutes and once again returned to my seat beside Kristi.
"Are you OK?" she whispered.
"Yeah sure, why do you ask?" I answered, barely audible. My answer was barely audible not because I was trying to be quiet, but because if I allowed to much air to escape from my lungs at once, surely I would loose my grip and all would be lost.
"Your face is blood red and you're sweating profusely."
"Nonsense, I'm fine. Watch the movie," I said, while once again standing and bolting for the men's room. By that time the other patrons had begun staring at me in wonderment obviously curious as to why I found it necessary to keep racing in and out of the theater. Once again, I was greeted by a room full of other men and as usual, the SAME guy was still on the pot. In desperation, I knocked gently on the stall door.
"Hey buddy, you ok in there?" I asked.
"You talking to me?" he answered, with his voice echoing off the tiled walls.
"Yeah, how much longer are you going to be?" I replied, amazed that I was having a conversation with a stranger on the toilet in a movie theater bathroom.
"It's gonna be a while. I'm plugged up. Ate at that Mexican restaurant down the road. You ever been there?"
I didn't answer and was dumbfounded that the food had the opposite effect on the poor soul in the stall, but I did notice that he and I were then the only men in the room at the time. Briefly, I considered the possibility of using the trashcan, or perhaps the urinal, but thought better of it. I decided that pooping my pants with my future wife in tow would be less embarrassing that being caught crapping in a urinal, but not by much.
Finally in sheer agony and panic, I grabbed my wife and ushered her outside and laid it on the line. "We've got to go! I'm dying here! I've got to go to the bathroom something terrible and there's a constipated guy in the men's room who's been sitting there for over an hour. We've got to double time it or it's going to get BAD!" I barked as we raced to my car.
I did make it home in time, and thankfully there were no police officers nearby when I ran through several red lights and passed slower cars at a very high rate of speed. Kristi laughed uncontrollably during the whole ride to my house. For a fleeting moment, I rethought our engagement. Who want's a wife that takes pleasure at my pain. There was nothing funny about what had transpired. It was her fault anyway. If she hadn't wanted to see a movie, I could have made it home with plenty of time to spare. Oh well, I forgave her and married her anyway.
Just as my friend said, my wife sure enough does have bowel movements, she was just super sneaky about it during the 'good impression days'. Over the last fifteen plus years, we've thrown caution to the wind and have become very comfortable around each other. It's much easier now, she married me, and I married her. No need to impress. But occasionally, she still delights in my misfortune. Oh, the joys of Holy Matrimony. Finally, I've often wondered what happened to that poor, plugged up soul in the theater bathroom. Maybe the next time I'm out that way, I'll swing by and check to see if he's still there. I'll be sure not to eat Mexican food before, just in case he is.
Weddings are joyous occasions which bring people together to share in the happiness of the newly weds. We got to see relatives that we usually don't see on a regular basis, and to say that I enjoyed that would be somewhat of an understatement.
Driving home late into the night, with a car full of sleeping family members, my mind drifted back to the early days of my own wedding and the months before.
It occurred to me that you truly don't know a person until you quietly utter the words, "I do". Well, that's not exactly true, but it should be noted that when people are trying to land a lifelong mate, other half, better half, etc., they are on their absolute best behavior at all times. Heck, I had known my wife for almost two years before I could actually verify that she did on occasion take a poop. "What do you mean she doesn't go number two?" my best friend asked, confused.
"I mean, I have been dating the woman for almost two years and there's not one shred of evidence to support any rational belief that she takes a dump!" I answered, while looking at my friend who was now grinning like a possum.
"Well, you're getting married in a few days. Trust me, she poops. She's still trying to impress you, and maybe she thinks you'll cut and run if she wrecks your bathroom. But after you're married it'll be open season on the old porcelain crapper. You just wait, you'll see."
He did have a point. He also had three years of marriage under his belt, so I surmised that he knew very well what he was talking about. It also occurred to me that I too, was somewhat reserved around my wife before we were married. I remember one incident specifically that is still carved into my memory banks that will likely be there until I die.
Kristi and I had enjoyed a fine meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant, when she suddenly had the bright idea that the night was young and we should see a movie. Immediately, the red flags of caution begin to fly inside my head. I love Mexican food, but it doesn't love me, in fact it hates my guts. Literally. That particular type of food has sent me racing like Dale Earnhardt across town, blowing red lights, swerving around slower traffic and cursing under my breath, all while standing up driving and squeezing for all I'm worth. That particular occasion was different. It was different in that there was no way that I would ever let on to her that I could possibly mess my pants in the movie theater.
"Sure, that sounds like a great idea! I'd love to see a movie," I lied, with little beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead as I steered the car out of the restaurant parking lot. I began to wonder if the bathrooms at the cinema were clean and if I should have snagged a few napkins from our table since the teenagers employed at the theater couldn't be trusted to keep a fresh supply of toilet paper in each bathroom stall.
We arrived at the cinema, paid for our tickets, and I excused myself before sheepishly entering the restroom. Apparently, I had gone into the wrong room, as the one I was standing in more closely resembled Grand Central Station than a movie theater bathroom. There was a line to the lone urinal in the corner and I could clearly see the shoes and ankles of a poor soul who was perched atop the toilet, which was surrounded by a partition which apparently also served as a local telephone directory. Oh well, the place will clear out soon and I would try again in a few minutes, I thought.
After the opening credits began to roll, I once again excused my self and raced to the men's room. To my amazement, the place was still packed with people and the same shoes and ankles STILL occupied the toilet stall. "Damn, is that guy dead in there?" I thought. I loitered for a few more minutes and once again returned to my seat beside Kristi.
"Are you OK?" she whispered.
"Yeah sure, why do you ask?" I answered, barely audible. My answer was barely audible not because I was trying to be quiet, but because if I allowed to much air to escape from my lungs at once, surely I would loose my grip and all would be lost.
"Your face is blood red and you're sweating profusely."
"Nonsense, I'm fine. Watch the movie," I said, while once again standing and bolting for the men's room. By that time the other patrons had begun staring at me in wonderment obviously curious as to why I found it necessary to keep racing in and out of the theater. Once again, I was greeted by a room full of other men and as usual, the SAME guy was still on the pot. In desperation, I knocked gently on the stall door.
"Hey buddy, you ok in there?" I asked.
"You talking to me?" he answered, with his voice echoing off the tiled walls.
"Yeah, how much longer are you going to be?" I replied, amazed that I was having a conversation with a stranger on the toilet in a movie theater bathroom.
"It's gonna be a while. I'm plugged up. Ate at that Mexican restaurant down the road. You ever been there?"
I didn't answer and was dumbfounded that the food had the opposite effect on the poor soul in the stall, but I did notice that he and I were then the only men in the room at the time. Briefly, I considered the possibility of using the trashcan, or perhaps the urinal, but thought better of it. I decided that pooping my pants with my future wife in tow would be less embarrassing that being caught crapping in a urinal, but not by much.
Finally in sheer agony and panic, I grabbed my wife and ushered her outside and laid it on the line. "We've got to go! I'm dying here! I've got to go to the bathroom something terrible and there's a constipated guy in the men's room who's been sitting there for over an hour. We've got to double time it or it's going to get BAD!" I barked as we raced to my car.
I did make it home in time, and thankfully there were no police officers nearby when I ran through several red lights and passed slower cars at a very high rate of speed. Kristi laughed uncontrollably during the whole ride to my house. For a fleeting moment, I rethought our engagement. Who want's a wife that takes pleasure at my pain. There was nothing funny about what had transpired. It was her fault anyway. If she hadn't wanted to see a movie, I could have made it home with plenty of time to spare. Oh well, I forgave her and married her anyway.
Just as my friend said, my wife sure enough does have bowel movements, she was just super sneaky about it during the 'good impression days'. Over the last fifteen plus years, we've thrown caution to the wind and have become very comfortable around each other. It's much easier now, she married me, and I married her. No need to impress. But occasionally, she still delights in my misfortune. Oh, the joys of Holy Matrimony. Finally, I've often wondered what happened to that poor, plugged up soul in the theater bathroom. Maybe the next time I'm out that way, I'll swing by and check to see if he's still there. I'll be sure not to eat Mexican food before, just in case he is.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
WORDS TO LIVE BY
In my travels, I have been fortunate to come in contact with a wide variety of people. Some were highly educated, some weren't. Some held high paying jobs, while others appeared to flounder in every way. Some I knew well, while others were merely acquaintances. But nonetheless, all of them had something to add to my life in some way.
One of the ways that some of the people that I've crossed paths with have enhanced my life is through something very simple. Some folks have an uncanny ability to mispronounce almost every word they utter. They are the ones who have impacted my life the most. After all, who remembers someone they encountered that had a perfect command of the English language and their diction was flawless? Do you get my point?
This post will highlight some of the more comical pronunciations of normal, everyday words that have been uttered in my presence.
Years ago, my family was friends with a family that lived close by. They were very good people in every way, but for some reason, they simply couldn't grasp simple spoken words. They provided many hours of entertainment for us by simply mangling the English language. The following will most certainly drive spellcheck crazy.
Drivewalk: "Neil, you just can't beat this kind of service. I brought you right up to your drivewalk." The term "drivewalk" was an attempt at reminding me that I had been brought home from baseball practice and delivered to my home's sidewalk.
Draggers: "Man, be careful when you come through these bushes, they're full of draggers." Draggers and briars are one in the same and should be avoided when squirrel hunting.
Lungpipe: After an especially hard hit taken by the youngest son during a game of backyard football, he lay on the ground wheezing and moaned, "Why'd you hit me so hard? I think you crushed my lungpipe!"
Pumption: During a game of pickup basketball, we noticed the ball seemed to be losing air. Upon attempting to reinflate the ball with a simple garage variety pump, and having no luck, the oldest son simply stated, "I keep pushing and pushing but the ball won't blow up. I guess this thing has lost it's pumption."
Bon: Years ago, there was a very nice gentleman who was league director of the baseball league that I played in. His name was Vaughn. My friend's father who also served as my coach never learned the man's name as far as I know. "I don't know what our schedule is, but I can ask Bon."
Bastardville: The youngest son and I went all the way through school together. One day in eighth grade English class, we were to stand before the class and give oral book reports. The boy confidently stood before his peers and proclaimed, "today, I will give my report on The Hound of Bastardville." Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would be proud.
BM Goodwrench: The youngest son strikes again. The summer after we graduated from high school, he and I worked for a time at the same place. Often, we ride shared to save on gas. One morning, I exited my house when he drove up and noticed that he had new tires on his old Ford Bronco. "Do you like my tires? I went with the BM Goodwrenches this time." BM Goodwrench tires should not be confused with BF Goodrich tires.
Innergestion: The whole family used this one. Innergestion is usually associated with eating spicy foods, or could possibly be the result of a chronic condition concerning with the digestive tract. Occasionally people refer to this condition as indigestion.
In my forty-four years on planet Earth, I have held various jobs and of course was exposed to many people from various backgrounds. On one particular job, I worked with an older gentleman who had a vocabulary all his own.
Brown Retussie: We were cleaning out our shop early one morning when I noticed the man jump back and exclaim, "Giant spider! I think it's a Brown Retussie! Those things can kill you if they get a hold on you!" It's possible that the spider in question was a long lost cousin of the Brown Recluse.
Cellar Phone: During the time we worked together, portable electronic phones were just beginning to catch on. One morning, my old friend entered our shop and proudly held up his new device. "Do you guys know what this is? Well, it's a cellar phone." I assumed that it was similar to a cellular phone.
Abarabadack Chair: It is widely known that I enjoy woodworking in my wood shop at home when I can find the time to do so. The gentleman that I worked with also shared my hobby. One day, I was trying to decide on a type of lawn chair I was considering making. "Why don't you build a couple of Abarabadack Chairs? I already have the plans and would be glad to let you borrow them." I think those particular chairs originated in the Adirondack Mountains of New York but apparently the spelling and pronunciation has changed over the years.
On the same job, there was a very nice lady who also seemed to have a language all her own.
Trofical: "I'm going to get me a huge fish tank with all them colorful trofical fish."
Interpretation: One day while standing at a window and looking into the parking lot, the lady declared that one day she would own a car just like the one parked directly outside. "One day I'm going to own one of those Dodge Interpretations." The Dodge Interpretation should not be confused with the Dodge Intrepid.
Geritol Warts: The company I work for made an announcement that they were going to begin manufacturing a new drug. The lady burst into our work area and announced the great news. "Did you hear the news? We're going to be making a new medicine for women! It prevents geritol warts!" Maybe it could help with genital warts also.
Crevice Cancer: The new drug I mentioned above prevents geritol warts, and according to my co-worker, also prevents the possibility of crevice cancer. Hopefully it will help with cervical cancer as well.
Last but not least, is the old fellow my brother often quotes from his days in the workplace. At present only one mispronunciation comes to mind, but it is a rather comical one.
Ruminum scrloop: Apparently, on that particular job, passing out cups of ice was one of the many requirements. One of the workers had the knack of mangling almost every word he uttered. But, one in particular stands out. My brother and several workers were in the same area when the radio crackled and the old man spoke. "I'm up here ready to hand out ice. Anyone know where I can find a ruminum scrloop?" Although all of the guys had worked with the man in question and had learned to speak his language, everyone looked dumbfounded his request. They called back and asked him to repeat his request. "Ruminum scrloop, I need a ruminum scrloop! What's wrong with you guys? Don't you understand English!?" Finally, they deduced that the man was requesting an aluminum scoop for the ice he was trying to remove from the ice machine. Funny stuff.
There are many more examples of words that have been mispronounced, mangled or simply invented by some poor soul who is simply trying to get their point across. So at a later time, maybe I will compile another list. Heck, for all I know, I'm the topic of someone's blog. I have, in my time, also had some difficulty in with certain words and blurted out what I thought sounded right. Surely, someone noticed and was polite enough to laugh at me behind my back.
So take notice. Listen carefully to people and their diction, pronunciation, and invented words. It's great entertainment, but be careful to deliver all your spoken words just as Webster would have you do, because someone is listening and you just might become the topic of an internet blog.
One of the ways that some of the people that I've crossed paths with have enhanced my life is through something very simple. Some folks have an uncanny ability to mispronounce almost every word they utter. They are the ones who have impacted my life the most. After all, who remembers someone they encountered that had a perfect command of the English language and their diction was flawless? Do you get my point?
This post will highlight some of the more comical pronunciations of normal, everyday words that have been uttered in my presence.
Years ago, my family was friends with a family that lived close by. They were very good people in every way, but for some reason, they simply couldn't grasp simple spoken words. They provided many hours of entertainment for us by simply mangling the English language. The following will most certainly drive spellcheck crazy.
Drivewalk: "Neil, you just can't beat this kind of service. I brought you right up to your drivewalk." The term "drivewalk" was an attempt at reminding me that I had been brought home from baseball practice and delivered to my home's sidewalk.
Draggers: "Man, be careful when you come through these bushes, they're full of draggers." Draggers and briars are one in the same and should be avoided when squirrel hunting.
Lungpipe: After an especially hard hit taken by the youngest son during a game of backyard football, he lay on the ground wheezing and moaned, "Why'd you hit me so hard? I think you crushed my lungpipe!"
Pumption: During a game of pickup basketball, we noticed the ball seemed to be losing air. Upon attempting to reinflate the ball with a simple garage variety pump, and having no luck, the oldest son simply stated, "I keep pushing and pushing but the ball won't blow up. I guess this thing has lost it's pumption."
Bon: Years ago, there was a very nice gentleman who was league director of the baseball league that I played in. His name was Vaughn. My friend's father who also served as my coach never learned the man's name as far as I know. "I don't know what our schedule is, but I can ask Bon."
Bastardville: The youngest son and I went all the way through school together. One day in eighth grade English class, we were to stand before the class and give oral book reports. The boy confidently stood before his peers and proclaimed, "today, I will give my report on The Hound of Bastardville." Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would be proud.
BM Goodwrench: The youngest son strikes again. The summer after we graduated from high school, he and I worked for a time at the same place. Often, we ride shared to save on gas. One morning, I exited my house when he drove up and noticed that he had new tires on his old Ford Bronco. "Do you like my tires? I went with the BM Goodwrenches this time." BM Goodwrench tires should not be confused with BF Goodrich tires.
Innergestion: The whole family used this one. Innergestion is usually associated with eating spicy foods, or could possibly be the result of a chronic condition concerning with the digestive tract. Occasionally people refer to this condition as indigestion.
In my forty-four years on planet Earth, I have held various jobs and of course was exposed to many people from various backgrounds. On one particular job, I worked with an older gentleman who had a vocabulary all his own.
Brown Retussie: We were cleaning out our shop early one morning when I noticed the man jump back and exclaim, "Giant spider! I think it's a Brown Retussie! Those things can kill you if they get a hold on you!" It's possible that the spider in question was a long lost cousin of the Brown Recluse.
Cellar Phone: During the time we worked together, portable electronic phones were just beginning to catch on. One morning, my old friend entered our shop and proudly held up his new device. "Do you guys know what this is? Well, it's a cellar phone." I assumed that it was similar to a cellular phone.
Abarabadack Chair: It is widely known that I enjoy woodworking in my wood shop at home when I can find the time to do so. The gentleman that I worked with also shared my hobby. One day, I was trying to decide on a type of lawn chair I was considering making. "Why don't you build a couple of Abarabadack Chairs? I already have the plans and would be glad to let you borrow them." I think those particular chairs originated in the Adirondack Mountains of New York but apparently the spelling and pronunciation has changed over the years.
On the same job, there was a very nice lady who also seemed to have a language all her own.
Trofical: "I'm going to get me a huge fish tank with all them colorful trofical fish."
Interpretation: One day while standing at a window and looking into the parking lot, the lady declared that one day she would own a car just like the one parked directly outside. "One day I'm going to own one of those Dodge Interpretations." The Dodge Interpretation should not be confused with the Dodge Intrepid.
Geritol Warts: The company I work for made an announcement that they were going to begin manufacturing a new drug. The lady burst into our work area and announced the great news. "Did you hear the news? We're going to be making a new medicine for women! It prevents geritol warts!" Maybe it could help with genital warts also.
Crevice Cancer: The new drug I mentioned above prevents geritol warts, and according to my co-worker, also prevents the possibility of crevice cancer. Hopefully it will help with cervical cancer as well.
Last but not least, is the old fellow my brother often quotes from his days in the workplace. At present only one mispronunciation comes to mind, but it is a rather comical one.
Ruminum scrloop: Apparently, on that particular job, passing out cups of ice was one of the many requirements. One of the workers had the knack of mangling almost every word he uttered. But, one in particular stands out. My brother and several workers were in the same area when the radio crackled and the old man spoke. "I'm up here ready to hand out ice. Anyone know where I can find a ruminum scrloop?" Although all of the guys had worked with the man in question and had learned to speak his language, everyone looked dumbfounded his request. They called back and asked him to repeat his request. "Ruminum scrloop, I need a ruminum scrloop! What's wrong with you guys? Don't you understand English!?" Finally, they deduced that the man was requesting an aluminum scoop for the ice he was trying to remove from the ice machine. Funny stuff.
There are many more examples of words that have been mispronounced, mangled or simply invented by some poor soul who is simply trying to get their point across. So at a later time, maybe I will compile another list. Heck, for all I know, I'm the topic of someone's blog. I have, in my time, also had some difficulty in with certain words and blurted out what I thought sounded right. Surely, someone noticed and was polite enough to laugh at me behind my back.
So take notice. Listen carefully to people and their diction, pronunciation, and invented words. It's great entertainment, but be careful to deliver all your spoken words just as Webster would have you do, because someone is listening and you just might become the topic of an internet blog.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
I AM MY DAD
A strange and unsettling phenomenon has been taking place in my life for quite some time now. I'm turning into my dad. I'm turning into the man who drove too slow, the man that didn't have a clue about much of anything (at least to a teenager), the man that looked at me in during those teen years with an expression that clearly showed a mixture of bewilderment, anger and confusion. I'm also taking on some of his physical characteristics. My hair has gone southward from my head to my back, and my once honed abs have turned into something resembling a sack of Idaho potatoes. I tuned forty-four years old in June, and suddenly I caught myself using one of my father's often used expressions.
"They say that doing squats is one of the most surefire ways for a young athlete to ruin his back," I said to my thirteen-year-old son. He had just returned home from working out with the high school football team and was giving me the rundown of the things they did during an especially grueling workout.
"Who is they?" he said, while studying his phone for who knows what. I remember my father and I having a similar conversation, only it involved me not thoroughly rinsing the soap off the dishes I was washing.
"They say that residual soap can kill a person over time," he said, while studying the few remaining suds sliding off a frying pan that I had just washed.
"Who is they?" I said, without ever making eye contact. I later surmised that the man simply didn't like the taste of soap suds.
The 'they' is of no concern to the younger party in either conversation. 'They', simply means don't do too many squats, and please rinse the frying pan thoroughly.
Apparently, I drive too slow for my two blabbering kids in the back seat. Recently the family took a vacation the the Florida Keys for a week of snorkeling, swimming and general relaxation. We flew into Fort Lauderdale airport, rented a car, and drove South to the Keys. This meant driving around the Miami metropolitan area before we could finish our journey. Now, it should be noted that driving in my hometown area and driving around Miami, is akin to fishing in a bathtub and crabbing in the Bering Sea. There are many lanes of very fast moving traffic, along with a myriad of ramps, exits, loops, etc. going in every direction. Add in one driver who's unfamiliar with his surroundings, and a tropical downpour, and poof, the birds begin to fly. No, not birds of the tropical kind, But, birds of the finger kind.
"Dad, you just got flipped off again," Sidney, our eleven-year-old daughter chirped from the comfort of the back seat. "Oh man, another guy just did it!"
"What the heck is wrong with these people down here? I mean why would they be giving me the bird?" I asked, while briefly looking at my pale, white fingers, which gripped the steering wheel tightly, and apparently didn't have any blood circulating through them.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because you just ran that guy into the median. Beats me," Ryan growled. "Dad, you're going to kill us! You're going too slow! If you don't kill us, then I think that guy beside us hanging out of the window yelling is!" the boy yelled.
"Look son, I'm in unfamiliar territory and I need to go a little slower so I don't miss our exit," I said, as I whizzed past our exit.
Kristi, my wife, was unusually quiet. I gave her a quick glace and noticed that her eyeballs seemed much larger than I had remembered. The air conditioning was blasting, but she had little rivers of sweat running down her cheeks. Or, were those tears? Either way, she looked a little out of sorts and her complexion resembled my white knuckles.
"What's wrong with you?" I inquired nervously.
"Oh nothing. I'm just worried about that lady behind us who keeps flashing her lights and laying on the horn. I think she wants to kill us."
"Dad, the streak is alive and well. You've been flipped off in Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Maryland, Virginia..." Ryan said, with his head phones perched atop his head.
We finally made it to our destination, and we obviously didn't get killed or kill anyone else for that matter. We had a very enjoyable week and returned home without incident.
Now, as I sit and ponder my life to this point, I can't help but wonder how I have evolved to the point that I have become my old man in a younger body. He was often given the bird while driving in unfamiliar places and could never figure out why. We kids slumped deeper into the back seat to save face. He, of course could never figure out why people treated him so harshly for driving 20 miles per hour slower than everyone else. I used to know the answer to that question, but for some reason, it escapes me now. Oh well, I'm sure my kids will remind me.
"They say that doing squats is one of the most surefire ways for a young athlete to ruin his back," I said to my thirteen-year-old son. He had just returned home from working out with the high school football team and was giving me the rundown of the things they did during an especially grueling workout.
"Who is they?" he said, while studying his phone for who knows what. I remember my father and I having a similar conversation, only it involved me not thoroughly rinsing the soap off the dishes I was washing.
"They say that residual soap can kill a person over time," he said, while studying the few remaining suds sliding off a frying pan that I had just washed.
"Who is they?" I said, without ever making eye contact. I later surmised that the man simply didn't like the taste of soap suds.
The 'they' is of no concern to the younger party in either conversation. 'They', simply means don't do too many squats, and please rinse the frying pan thoroughly.
Apparently, I drive too slow for my two blabbering kids in the back seat. Recently the family took a vacation the the Florida Keys for a week of snorkeling, swimming and general relaxation. We flew into Fort Lauderdale airport, rented a car, and drove South to the Keys. This meant driving around the Miami metropolitan area before we could finish our journey. Now, it should be noted that driving in my hometown area and driving around Miami, is akin to fishing in a bathtub and crabbing in the Bering Sea. There are many lanes of very fast moving traffic, along with a myriad of ramps, exits, loops, etc. going in every direction. Add in one driver who's unfamiliar with his surroundings, and a tropical downpour, and poof, the birds begin to fly. No, not birds of the tropical kind, But, birds of the finger kind.
"Dad, you just got flipped off again," Sidney, our eleven-year-old daughter chirped from the comfort of the back seat. "Oh man, another guy just did it!"
"What the heck is wrong with these people down here? I mean why would they be giving me the bird?" I asked, while briefly looking at my pale, white fingers, which gripped the steering wheel tightly, and apparently didn't have any blood circulating through them.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because you just ran that guy into the median. Beats me," Ryan growled. "Dad, you're going to kill us! You're going too slow! If you don't kill us, then I think that guy beside us hanging out of the window yelling is!" the boy yelled.
"Look son, I'm in unfamiliar territory and I need to go a little slower so I don't miss our exit," I said, as I whizzed past our exit.
Kristi, my wife, was unusually quiet. I gave her a quick glace and noticed that her eyeballs seemed much larger than I had remembered. The air conditioning was blasting, but she had little rivers of sweat running down her cheeks. Or, were those tears? Either way, she looked a little out of sorts and her complexion resembled my white knuckles.
"What's wrong with you?" I inquired nervously.
"Oh nothing. I'm just worried about that lady behind us who keeps flashing her lights and laying on the horn. I think she wants to kill us."
"Dad, the streak is alive and well. You've been flipped off in Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Maryland, Virginia..." Ryan said, with his head phones perched atop his head.
We finally made it to our destination, and we obviously didn't get killed or kill anyone else for that matter. We had a very enjoyable week and returned home without incident.
Now, as I sit and ponder my life to this point, I can't help but wonder how I have evolved to the point that I have become my old man in a younger body. He was often given the bird while driving in unfamiliar places and could never figure out why. We kids slumped deeper into the back seat to save face. He, of course could never figure out why people treated him so harshly for driving 20 miles per hour slower than everyone else. I used to know the answer to that question, but for some reason, it escapes me now. Oh well, I'm sure my kids will remind me.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
AND...HE GREW
The other day, as I was cleaning up the disaster that is my son’s room, I came across an old photo of he and I at the beach. I was holding his tiny hand as we walked by the shore, while the waves lapped at our feet. He was timid during that time, not wanting much to do with the crashing water of the Atlantic Ocean. I remember that trip. He had a cold and was only around age two. My baby boy. As much as we want to see our children grow up and become successful adults, we still sometimes long for the days gone by.
Somehow, the past twelve years have flown past like a jet plane and have turned my son into something that hardly resembles the timid toddler in the photo. Now, at thirteen-years-old, he stands five feet, eight inches tall and weighs in at around one hundred thirty pounds or so, depending on whether or not he’d consumed all the food in the house that day. There are no signs of him slowing down either. I occasionally long for the days when I could twirl him above my head and he would squeal for more. But alas, with him, it’s all sports all the time.
Fathers far and wide have experienced what I’m about to delve into. Losing to their sons. I’m not talking about losing sometimes, I mean LOSING…Badly, all the time.
“Dad, lets play a little one on one,” Ryan said, holding the basketball to his side and staring at me with a confidence that I hadn’t seen before.
“Sure,” you go ahead and take ball first, I replied, sure of the need for me to go easy on him to spare hurt feelings.
“OK, if you say so.”
I checked the ball, and immediately, he dribbled past me nearly knocking me to the pavement, and scored with the greatest of ease. It should be duly noted that at forty-four years old, I have accumulated a few extra pounds and my knees don’t seem to be working in concert with the rest of my joints from the waist down.
Since we play ‘make it, take it’ he once again had the ball. This time he faked the play he’d first scored on, which caused me to lurch forward like a dump truck with no brakes, and he promptly faded away for a jumper, which swished effortlessly through the nylon net. Of course he still had the ball.
On the next play, I guarded him closer, which forced him to pull yet another trick play from his arsenal. As I stood my ground, I was careful to keep him at arms length, when suddenly he bounced the ball between my legs and raced around me to catch his own pass and gently lay the ball into the hoop. The score was now Ryan 3, dad 0. I hadn’t even touched the ball. As is the case with most 13 year-olds, he simply can’t humbly whip his dad. There is always the old “Ohhhh, you stink. What’s the matter old man? Maybe you should sit down, I don’t want you to have a heart attack.” The realization that my son had eclipsed me in basketball was a terrible blow to my ego.
“Let’s practice football. Besides you seem pretty winded. I’ll grab the practice dummy,” the egotistical boy said, while heading for the garage to fetch his latest football gadget.
“Here, you hold it steady and I’m going to run a route, hit the dummy and pretend to catch a pass.”
“Ok, I can handle that,” I said, bracing my body against the round dummy and pushing my hands into the straps on either side. At that point I began to wonder if he was referring to the dummy as the dummy or his dad as the dummy.
“Are you ready dad?”
“Sure, let’s see what you’ve got!”
Suddenly, the boy raced to the right of me, turned and barreled with a full head of steam straight toward me with menacing eyes and what appeared steam coming from his nostrils. Directly, he lowered his shoulders and plowed into the foam dummy knocking me backward. I slammed to the hard ground with the dummy on top of me as Ryan raced another few feet and caught his imaginary pass.
It’s been years since I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, but the memory came flooding back as if it was only yesterday. I gasped for air, and noticed that my right shoulder was numb. I had grass stuck to the back of my head, and my tailbone seemed to be telling me that it was curled under my rump and additional two inches. I’d never seen so many stars out in the middle of the day, and found it interesting that they were moving in a circular pattern around my head.
“Dad! Are you alright?” the boy said as he sauntered in my direction. He kneeled beside me and waited for a response. The response was delayed due to the fact that I needed air in my lungs to vibrate my voice box, and currently the air that used to be in my lungs was now floating around our front yard.
“Yeah, help me up,” I muttered the barely audible words. “I think I broke my back,” I continued at a whisper.
I could see that Ryan wanted to laugh something fierce, but he did at least hold it in, unsure if a life flight helicopter would be needed.
Finally, with his help, I managed to get to my feet. I was able to inflate my lungs and although my tailbone hurt terribly, I managed to hobble to the deck to sit in a padded chair.
“What on Earth happened to you?” my wife said as she exited the house with our daughter in tow.
“Ryan pummeled me, that’s what happened,” I whined, as Ryan stood nearby tossing his football into the air and catching it.
“Dad, you have grass caked to the back of your head!” Sidney, our daughter said, giggling uncontrollably. At least she did brush the blades from the back of my head amid the laughter.
“Maybe you should just pass the ball with him and leave the hitting to the other kids on the team. I mean, I’m afraid he’s going to hurt you,” Kristi said while wiping tears away from her eyes due to her own disgusting laughter.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you dad. I tried to go easy on you,” the boy said, who was now smiling as if someone had wedged a coat hanger in his mouth.
“Nonsense. He just caught me off guard.”
I haven’t played Ryan in basketball since that fateful day, and I haven’t practiced football other than to pass the ball around a little bit. It hasn’t been because I’m scared of being beaten or overly concerned about concussions, it’s just that I’ve been busy.
Occasionally, I long for the days that I would let the boy win. I long for the little boy at the beach, who was deathly afraid of the waves. But mostly I long for my tailbone to return to it’s natural position.
Somehow, the past twelve years have flown past like a jet plane and have turned my son into something that hardly resembles the timid toddler in the photo. Now, at thirteen-years-old, he stands five feet, eight inches tall and weighs in at around one hundred thirty pounds or so, depending on whether or not he’d consumed all the food in the house that day. There are no signs of him slowing down either. I occasionally long for the days when I could twirl him above my head and he would squeal for more. But alas, with him, it’s all sports all the time.
Fathers far and wide have experienced what I’m about to delve into. Losing to their sons. I’m not talking about losing sometimes, I mean LOSING…Badly, all the time.
“Dad, lets play a little one on one,” Ryan said, holding the basketball to his side and staring at me with a confidence that I hadn’t seen before.
“Sure,” you go ahead and take ball first, I replied, sure of the need for me to go easy on him to spare hurt feelings.
“OK, if you say so.”
I checked the ball, and immediately, he dribbled past me nearly knocking me to the pavement, and scored with the greatest of ease. It should be duly noted that at forty-four years old, I have accumulated a few extra pounds and my knees don’t seem to be working in concert with the rest of my joints from the waist down.
Since we play ‘make it, take it’ he once again had the ball. This time he faked the play he’d first scored on, which caused me to lurch forward like a dump truck with no brakes, and he promptly faded away for a jumper, which swished effortlessly through the nylon net. Of course he still had the ball.
On the next play, I guarded him closer, which forced him to pull yet another trick play from his arsenal. As I stood my ground, I was careful to keep him at arms length, when suddenly he bounced the ball between my legs and raced around me to catch his own pass and gently lay the ball into the hoop. The score was now Ryan 3, dad 0. I hadn’t even touched the ball. As is the case with most 13 year-olds, he simply can’t humbly whip his dad. There is always the old “Ohhhh, you stink. What’s the matter old man? Maybe you should sit down, I don’t want you to have a heart attack.” The realization that my son had eclipsed me in basketball was a terrible blow to my ego.
“Let’s practice football. Besides you seem pretty winded. I’ll grab the practice dummy,” the egotistical boy said, while heading for the garage to fetch his latest football gadget.
“Here, you hold it steady and I’m going to run a route, hit the dummy and pretend to catch a pass.”
“Ok, I can handle that,” I said, bracing my body against the round dummy and pushing my hands into the straps on either side. At that point I began to wonder if he was referring to the dummy as the dummy or his dad as the dummy.
“Are you ready dad?”
“Sure, let’s see what you’ve got!”
Suddenly, the boy raced to the right of me, turned and barreled with a full head of steam straight toward me with menacing eyes and what appeared steam coming from his nostrils. Directly, he lowered his shoulders and plowed into the foam dummy knocking me backward. I slammed to the hard ground with the dummy on top of me as Ryan raced another few feet and caught his imaginary pass.
It’s been years since I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, but the memory came flooding back as if it was only yesterday. I gasped for air, and noticed that my right shoulder was numb. I had grass stuck to the back of my head, and my tailbone seemed to be telling me that it was curled under my rump and additional two inches. I’d never seen so many stars out in the middle of the day, and found it interesting that they were moving in a circular pattern around my head.
“Dad! Are you alright?” the boy said as he sauntered in my direction. He kneeled beside me and waited for a response. The response was delayed due to the fact that I needed air in my lungs to vibrate my voice box, and currently the air that used to be in my lungs was now floating around our front yard.
“Yeah, help me up,” I muttered the barely audible words. “I think I broke my back,” I continued at a whisper.
I could see that Ryan wanted to laugh something fierce, but he did at least hold it in, unsure if a life flight helicopter would be needed.
Finally, with his help, I managed to get to my feet. I was able to inflate my lungs and although my tailbone hurt terribly, I managed to hobble to the deck to sit in a padded chair.
“What on Earth happened to you?” my wife said as she exited the house with our daughter in tow.
“Ryan pummeled me, that’s what happened,” I whined, as Ryan stood nearby tossing his football into the air and catching it.
“Dad, you have grass caked to the back of your head!” Sidney, our daughter said, giggling uncontrollably. At least she did brush the blades from the back of my head amid the laughter.
“Maybe you should just pass the ball with him and leave the hitting to the other kids on the team. I mean, I’m afraid he’s going to hurt you,” Kristi said while wiping tears away from her eyes due to her own disgusting laughter.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you dad. I tried to go easy on you,” the boy said, who was now smiling as if someone had wedged a coat hanger in his mouth.
“Nonsense. He just caught me off guard.”
I haven’t played Ryan in basketball since that fateful day, and I haven’t practiced football other than to pass the ball around a little bit. It hasn’t been because I’m scared of being beaten or overly concerned about concussions, it’s just that I’ve been busy.
Occasionally, I long for the days that I would let the boy win. I long for the little boy at the beach, who was deathly afraid of the waves. But mostly I long for my tailbone to return to it’s natural position.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
CLICK
Several years ago, the Washington Nationals were the constant door mat of the National League East, and it wasn’t unusual for me to either change the channel before the game was over and possibly roll over and stare at my wife and mutter these words-- “Man, I sure wish the Nats would get their act together! You want to have a little fun tonight?” I would make my request with wide eyes and a sly grim, hoping that she would see my invitation as something more exciting than the book she was reading which could have been about the Roman Empire or perhaps the migratory patterns of Caribou in the frozen north. She’s an avid reader, and her interests cover a wide array of topics. Oh, I’m off topic. Back to the proposition.
Anyway, I always got the standard reply to such requests. “Are the kids asleep yet? I just can’t enjoy things with the kids pounding on the door,” she’d say, never looking up from the pages of her book.
“Yeah, they’re asleep. I haven’t heard anything from them for some time,” I would say, having absolutely no idea if they were asleep or not.
Finally, she’d dog ear the page she was working on and make the usual proclamation, “I’ll check just to be sure.”
Upon quietly returning to our bedroom, she mostly would say, “yeah, they’re asleep. I had better lock the door just in case.” Gently and ever so quietly, she would tiptoe back to the door and place the pads of her fingers on the locking mechanism and ‘click’, the door was locked.
Approximately three milliseconds after the click, a miniature stampede could be heard rumbling down the hall finishing up at our bedroom door. “MOM! Why did you lock the door? I’m scared! Open the door!” and the screaming would be accompanied by incessant pounding on the door. Occasionally, it sounded as though the hinges would simply give up and allow the door to slam to the floor.
“Just sit quietly, they’ll get bored and go away,” I would whisper, hoping that the mood hadn’t been smothered by the continuous yelling and pounding.
“They’re five and three years old! Are you kidding me? Sit quietly and they’ll go away!? What’s wrong with you? They’re scared, besides, I’m tired,” Kristi would respond, while rising from the bed and heading toward the door to rescue her frightened offspring. I would simply turn the television back on to continue watching the Nationals lose, all the while frustrated that our two little sex radar having children had spoiled yet another intimate encounter. To be clear, there was nothing wrong with me, other than the fact that I’m a man and can conduct business in any situation, under any circumstances. Men and Navy SEALs operate in much the same way. Women? Not so much. The planets have to be perfectly aligned, the lighting must be just right, and there can’t be children pounding on the bedroom door.
Ryan, our oldest child has always had a very analytical mind. He simply wouldn’t take the standard answer as to where he came from. “From mommy’s tummy,” I’d say, while he peered up at me while dreaming up another question.
“I know, but HOW did I get into mommy’s tummy?” he’d ask, not satisfied with my answer.
“God put you there.”
“It makes no sense. I know God put me there, but how? Did he do it in the night when she was sleeping?”
“Yeah, sort of. He put you there in the night, when mommy would have rather been sleeping. That’s for sure,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t get my joke.
Finally, one day, I decided to level with my 8-year-old son. “Ryan, I’m going to tell you EXACTLY how you got here,” I said. We were in my workshop, where he had most of my tools scattered around and was covered in sawdust from drilling holes in scrap boards and crawling around among the shelves of lumber. “Here, have a seat,” I said, as I pulled each of us a stool from the corner to sit on. He sat, and eagerly stared at me waiting anxiously for the story of how Ryan Gregory Fix came into existence.
“You see son, when a man and a woman fall in love and get married, they often decide that they want a child. In order to have a child, well, you’re part me and part mom. So what they do is… uh, they get together and… are you sure you want to hear this?” I stammered, nervously trying to find the right words.
“Yep, I want to hear it.,” the boy said, leaning closer to me.
At that point, I threw caution to the wind and gave him the whole play by play. I used clinical terms and occasionally a word that he could understand, while his face continued to display horror at what his old man was telling him. By the end of his first lesson on making babies, his faced resembled a shriveled orange left over from Christmas. His eyes were mere slits, and his cheeks were red, while his little forehead showed wrinkles that came from the contracting muscles in his face and neck. His mouth was agape, showing the spots where his baby teeth had fallen out. Finally, I finished my lesson on procreation. “Any questions?” I asked to the now squirming child.
“Do you just do it once, or twice, or just when you want to have a baby?” he inquired.
“Well, it’s not only for making babies, it’s an act of love between a husband and wife. It’s enjoyable.”
“You mean you KEEP doing it, just to do it!?” he barked.
“Well…yeah.”
“Now I get it!” he exclaimed. “THAT’S why mommy keeps locking the bedroom door! Is that what you two are doing in there?” he finished, with an ominous frown drawing the corners of his mouth down. “That is the sickest thing I’ve ever heard! If you ever wanted grandkids, you can forget it! It’s gross, nasty, ewww! I need to puke," he bellowed, while sticking his pointer finger into his mouth. “Oh, you’ll come around.”
Our daughter got the same talk, only my wife and I both broke the news to her. Also, just as expected, she felt the same way as her older brother did. No grandkids for us.
Things have changed over the years. The kids are older, and no longer bang on the door when the little ‘click’ of the lock echoes down the hall. The Nationals are consistently in the pennant race, and my wife is still reading. We now hold out hope that we sure enough will be grandparents one day. And, as I finish up this story, I can hear the game from the other room. The Nats are losing tonight. Heck, I’m going to wrap this thing up and maybe I can make the lock go ‘click’, and with any luck, the planets are lined up perfectly.
Anyway, I always got the standard reply to such requests. “Are the kids asleep yet? I just can’t enjoy things with the kids pounding on the door,” she’d say, never looking up from the pages of her book.
“Yeah, they’re asleep. I haven’t heard anything from them for some time,” I would say, having absolutely no idea if they were asleep or not.
Finally, she’d dog ear the page she was working on and make the usual proclamation, “I’ll check just to be sure.”
Upon quietly returning to our bedroom, she mostly would say, “yeah, they’re asleep. I had better lock the door just in case.” Gently and ever so quietly, she would tiptoe back to the door and place the pads of her fingers on the locking mechanism and ‘click’, the door was locked.
Approximately three milliseconds after the click, a miniature stampede could be heard rumbling down the hall finishing up at our bedroom door. “MOM! Why did you lock the door? I’m scared! Open the door!” and the screaming would be accompanied by incessant pounding on the door. Occasionally, it sounded as though the hinges would simply give up and allow the door to slam to the floor.
“Just sit quietly, they’ll get bored and go away,” I would whisper, hoping that the mood hadn’t been smothered by the continuous yelling and pounding.
“They’re five and three years old! Are you kidding me? Sit quietly and they’ll go away!? What’s wrong with you? They’re scared, besides, I’m tired,” Kristi would respond, while rising from the bed and heading toward the door to rescue her frightened offspring. I would simply turn the television back on to continue watching the Nationals lose, all the while frustrated that our two little sex radar having children had spoiled yet another intimate encounter. To be clear, there was nothing wrong with me, other than the fact that I’m a man and can conduct business in any situation, under any circumstances. Men and Navy SEALs operate in much the same way. Women? Not so much. The planets have to be perfectly aligned, the lighting must be just right, and there can’t be children pounding on the bedroom door.
Ryan, our oldest child has always had a very analytical mind. He simply wouldn’t take the standard answer as to where he came from. “From mommy’s tummy,” I’d say, while he peered up at me while dreaming up another question.
“I know, but HOW did I get into mommy’s tummy?” he’d ask, not satisfied with my answer.
“God put you there.”
“It makes no sense. I know God put me there, but how? Did he do it in the night when she was sleeping?”
“Yeah, sort of. He put you there in the night, when mommy would have rather been sleeping. That’s for sure,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t get my joke.
Finally, one day, I decided to level with my 8-year-old son. “Ryan, I’m going to tell you EXACTLY how you got here,” I said. We were in my workshop, where he had most of my tools scattered around and was covered in sawdust from drilling holes in scrap boards and crawling around among the shelves of lumber. “Here, have a seat,” I said, as I pulled each of us a stool from the corner to sit on. He sat, and eagerly stared at me waiting anxiously for the story of how Ryan Gregory Fix came into existence.
“You see son, when a man and a woman fall in love and get married, they often decide that they want a child. In order to have a child, well, you’re part me and part mom. So what they do is… uh, they get together and… are you sure you want to hear this?” I stammered, nervously trying to find the right words.
“Yep, I want to hear it.,” the boy said, leaning closer to me.
At that point, I threw caution to the wind and gave him the whole play by play. I used clinical terms and occasionally a word that he could understand, while his face continued to display horror at what his old man was telling him. By the end of his first lesson on making babies, his faced resembled a shriveled orange left over from Christmas. His eyes were mere slits, and his cheeks were red, while his little forehead showed wrinkles that came from the contracting muscles in his face and neck. His mouth was agape, showing the spots where his baby teeth had fallen out. Finally, I finished my lesson on procreation. “Any questions?” I asked to the now squirming child.
“Do you just do it once, or twice, or just when you want to have a baby?” he inquired.
“Well, it’s not only for making babies, it’s an act of love between a husband and wife. It’s enjoyable.”
“You mean you KEEP doing it, just to do it!?” he barked.
“Well…yeah.”
“Now I get it!” he exclaimed. “THAT’S why mommy keeps locking the bedroom door! Is that what you two are doing in there?” he finished, with an ominous frown drawing the corners of his mouth down. “That is the sickest thing I’ve ever heard! If you ever wanted grandkids, you can forget it! It’s gross, nasty, ewww! I need to puke," he bellowed, while sticking his pointer finger into his mouth. “Oh, you’ll come around.”
Our daughter got the same talk, only my wife and I both broke the news to her. Also, just as expected, she felt the same way as her older brother did. No grandkids for us.
Things have changed over the years. The kids are older, and no longer bang on the door when the little ‘click’ of the lock echoes down the hall. The Nationals are consistently in the pennant race, and my wife is still reading. We now hold out hope that we sure enough will be grandparents one day. And, as I finish up this story, I can hear the game from the other room. The Nats are losing tonight. Heck, I’m going to wrap this thing up and maybe I can make the lock go ‘click’, and with any luck, the planets are lined up perfectly.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
BROKEN
There are things that our parents said during our childhood, that are forever etched into our minds like letters chiseled into a fine granite slab. One of those phrases was one that my mother seemed to scream at us with superior regularity. “We just can’t have nice things!” she would bark, usually after an unfortunate turn of events, which saw one of her favorite lamps turned to a mangled heap on the floor. Or, perhaps a rounded indention in the drywall, which strangely enough, had the same shape as my or my brother’s forehead, which would cause our exasperated mother to bellow that we couldn’t even have a nice home. Apparently, history is repeating itself.
Last week, after a day spent in the yard cleaning up debris from an especially hard winter, I decided that a short nap was in order. I quickly entered the house and glanced at my watch, which told me that if a much needed snooze was in my future, I would need to hurry, as the troops would soon be home. I tossed my dirty boots out onto the porch and positioned the pillows on the couch to my liking. Finally, I gently and slowly lowered my weary body onto the awaiting cushions, only to sink like a rock in water all the way to the floor. I laid still for a moment with my legs and chest nearly touching. I felt somewhat like an accordion to be sure. In the blink of an eye, I had been transformed from a happy nap taking soul into a pitiful old man stuck in an obviously broken couch. After a bit of flailing, I was able to roll off onto the floor, and noticed that the cross brace, which spanned the width of the couch was broken and lying in two pieces amid the dust and debris which had collected in the darkness of the underside of the now broken piece of furniture. “We just can’t have nice things!” I muttered to myself. The rest of the evening was spent repairing the couch and interrogating the kids in a feeble attempt to find out who the perpetrator of such nonsense was. Of course, the ghost that’s been breaking things in our home for years was at fault.
I have adopted the motto, “If it ain’t broke, it ain’t ours.” Nearly everything we own is either only partly working or broken in some fashion. Recently, I noticed a large pile of clean clothes sitting in a basket in the laundry room. Knowing how busy my wife can be in the evenings, I decided to fold and put away the heaping pile. First, I lugged the clothing upstairs and then sorted it according to which room it belonged. After the sorting, I grabbed the clothing that belonged in our daughters closet and galloped into her room, laid the clothes on her bed and opened the closet door. There is a sinking feeling associated with having a bi-fold door, that upon the slightest touch , falls to the floor in a thunderous crash, all while the hapless victim tries to scramble out of the way and catch the door at the same time. No such luck. “We just can’t have nice things!” I mumbled, from beneath the door, as the dog slinked away and out of sight down the hallway. The laundry suddenly took a backseat to the repair job that was required to reinstall the door. Naturally, the ghost had struck again. Sidney, our daughter, had no knowledge of how the door came to be ripped from its track and nearly causing her pitiful father head trauma.
My job often requires me to rise VERY early in the morning to make the long journey to work. I have a routine. My clothing is laid out the night before, lunch packed, wallet and car keys positioned on the kitchen counter, and I’m up and gone in less than fifteen minutes. As you can tell, I’m a mild type-A person. Once in a while, my routine gets turned on it’s head. This past winter, I, as usual, arose from my bed, threw on my clothes, did my business in the bathroom, raced down the stairs, grabbed my wallet and keys and ran outside to my car. Upon my arrival at the car, I opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, only to realize that someone had been in the seat since I had. Suddenly, my upper torso was hunched over the steering wheel and my knees pressed uncomfortably into the dashboard. Not only was the seat up as far as it could possibly go, but the elevation of the seat was set in a fashion that would have dumped me faced first into the windshield had it not been for the steering wheel. “No problem,” I said into the stillness of the morning, while reaching down to find the button to readjust the seat. I pushed the button. Nothing. I pushed again. Nothing. I then pushed harder. Nothing. I began pounding on the innocent button. Nothing. Finally, I slid out from my sardine like predicament and noticed that the button and its surroundings were ominously rearranged. “We just can’t have nice things!” I whined. I drove to work, and back, with outstretched elbows and knees pressed into the dashboard, while each turn of the steering wheel meant holding my breath to prevent the untimely careening into rivers, ravines, and other vehicles. As usual, the ghost had struck again. “Who’s been playing in my car!” I barked as I walked into the kitchen that evening.
“Not me!” came the kid’s reply, in unison, almost as if they’d been practicing.
I could easily go on for hours, but I won’t. You get the picture. If it ain’t broke, it ain’t ours. So, as a result of my own destructive ways from my childhood, I will continue to be plagued with broken doors, malfunctioning car seats, damaged furniture and a myriad of other items that have been converted into something that doesn’t exactly perform the same function that it was intended to do. But alas, the children, ahem, ghost, is growing up and someday they will surely experience the same frustration as their pitiful old man. I can hear them now, “We just can’t have nice things!”
Last week, after a day spent in the yard cleaning up debris from an especially hard winter, I decided that a short nap was in order. I quickly entered the house and glanced at my watch, which told me that if a much needed snooze was in my future, I would need to hurry, as the troops would soon be home. I tossed my dirty boots out onto the porch and positioned the pillows on the couch to my liking. Finally, I gently and slowly lowered my weary body onto the awaiting cushions, only to sink like a rock in water all the way to the floor. I laid still for a moment with my legs and chest nearly touching. I felt somewhat like an accordion to be sure. In the blink of an eye, I had been transformed from a happy nap taking soul into a pitiful old man stuck in an obviously broken couch. After a bit of flailing, I was able to roll off onto the floor, and noticed that the cross brace, which spanned the width of the couch was broken and lying in two pieces amid the dust and debris which had collected in the darkness of the underside of the now broken piece of furniture. “We just can’t have nice things!” I muttered to myself. The rest of the evening was spent repairing the couch and interrogating the kids in a feeble attempt to find out who the perpetrator of such nonsense was. Of course, the ghost that’s been breaking things in our home for years was at fault.
I have adopted the motto, “If it ain’t broke, it ain’t ours.” Nearly everything we own is either only partly working or broken in some fashion. Recently, I noticed a large pile of clean clothes sitting in a basket in the laundry room. Knowing how busy my wife can be in the evenings, I decided to fold and put away the heaping pile. First, I lugged the clothing upstairs and then sorted it according to which room it belonged. After the sorting, I grabbed the clothing that belonged in our daughters closet and galloped into her room, laid the clothes on her bed and opened the closet door. There is a sinking feeling associated with having a bi-fold door, that upon the slightest touch , falls to the floor in a thunderous crash, all while the hapless victim tries to scramble out of the way and catch the door at the same time. No such luck. “We just can’t have nice things!” I mumbled, from beneath the door, as the dog slinked away and out of sight down the hallway. The laundry suddenly took a backseat to the repair job that was required to reinstall the door. Naturally, the ghost had struck again. Sidney, our daughter, had no knowledge of how the door came to be ripped from its track and nearly causing her pitiful father head trauma.
My job often requires me to rise VERY early in the morning to make the long journey to work. I have a routine. My clothing is laid out the night before, lunch packed, wallet and car keys positioned on the kitchen counter, and I’m up and gone in less than fifteen minutes. As you can tell, I’m a mild type-A person. Once in a while, my routine gets turned on it’s head. This past winter, I, as usual, arose from my bed, threw on my clothes, did my business in the bathroom, raced down the stairs, grabbed my wallet and keys and ran outside to my car. Upon my arrival at the car, I opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, only to realize that someone had been in the seat since I had. Suddenly, my upper torso was hunched over the steering wheel and my knees pressed uncomfortably into the dashboard. Not only was the seat up as far as it could possibly go, but the elevation of the seat was set in a fashion that would have dumped me faced first into the windshield had it not been for the steering wheel. “No problem,” I said into the stillness of the morning, while reaching down to find the button to readjust the seat. I pushed the button. Nothing. I pushed again. Nothing. I then pushed harder. Nothing. I began pounding on the innocent button. Nothing. Finally, I slid out from my sardine like predicament and noticed that the button and its surroundings were ominously rearranged. “We just can’t have nice things!” I whined. I drove to work, and back, with outstretched elbows and knees pressed into the dashboard, while each turn of the steering wheel meant holding my breath to prevent the untimely careening into rivers, ravines, and other vehicles. As usual, the ghost had struck again. “Who’s been playing in my car!” I barked as I walked into the kitchen that evening.
“Not me!” came the kid’s reply, in unison, almost as if they’d been practicing.
I could easily go on for hours, but I won’t. You get the picture. If it ain’t broke, it ain’t ours. So, as a result of my own destructive ways from my childhood, I will continue to be plagued with broken doors, malfunctioning car seats, damaged furniture and a myriad of other items that have been converted into something that doesn’t exactly perform the same function that it was intended to do. But alas, the children, ahem, ghost, is growing up and someday they will surely experience the same frustration as their pitiful old man. I can hear them now, “We just can’t have nice things!”
Friday, March 7, 2014
THE BIG VACATION
When I was growing up, my family seldom went on vacation. The word seldom, could easily be replaced with never. Our lack of travel in my youth was an inconvenient consequence of two things. My mom’s hair, and my dad’s desire to ‘stay right here in these mountains’, which inhibited my brother, sister and I from ever venturing very far from the old family homestead. Mom always claimed that she would absolutely love to travel, but we knew that travel meant she would need to craft her flawless hairdo on the run, in hotel bathrooms, and without the luxury of being able to check the ‘do’ in her own bathroom throughout the day.
To be completely candid, we did take many short trips to destinations in the local area, but we kids yearned for a trip to the beach, or maybe Disney World. Often, during the summer months, we would pile onto my dad’s old truck and head across the mountain behind our house to a spot on the river to swim, fish, and cook hamburgers and hot dogs on a tiny charcoal grill.
“I’ll take this for mine, these people that travel off to all these far flung places don’t realize that we’re having just as much fun as they are. It’s cheaper too!” dad would say time and time again. “Isn’t that right Neil?”
No, it wasn’t right. Maybe the cheaper part was right, but I personally had a deep yearning to travel to someplace and make the comparison for myself on which destination was more fun. I always suspected the folks at the beach were having more fun than us.
“Mom, why don’t we ever go on vacation?” I asked, as my mom stood over the stove preparing our dinner one evening.
“Well, you know how your father is. He’s a homebody and prefers to hang around here. You know that I would pack up and be gone in a minute if he was willing,” she answered, while staring at her reflection in the kitchen window and carefully touching each side of her hairdo with the palms of her hands.
Dad was outside, sitting on the front porch reading the newspaper, so I thought that would be a good time to broach the subject of going on vacation. I stepped out the front door and onto the porch and plopped down beside him. “Dad? Can we go on vacation this year?” I asked in my most pitiful voice.
“Now son, you know why we don’t go on vacation. It’s all about your mother’s hair. Besides, we’d rather be right here in these mountains. Wouldn’t we?” he said, never looking up from reading the newspaper.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said, before I got up and moped back into the house.
Mom was finishing up making dinner when I sat down at the table and rested my chin in the palm of my hand. “You know, I bet if we incorporated baseball into a vacation, he’d go,” I said to my mom, who had returned to her spot in front of the window to check her hairdo once again.
“Maybe,” she quipped.
At that moment, I had begun to devise a master vacation plan. We would make baseball the focal point of my scheme to do some traveling. My father was and is an ardent baseball fan. He’d played the game for years, and seldom missed a game on television. He loved baseball more than anyone I’d ever known.
Later, I pulled out my latest copy of baseball digest and began to look at the schedules of teams that weren’t too far away, but at the same time, I looked at teams that played in cities that would require us to at least spend a couple of nights. I settled on Cincinnati.
“Dad, why don’t we take a little trip to Cincinnati? The Giants are in town in July and it would be a great series to watch. The Reds and the Giants are neck and neck in the National League West, so that would make it even better,” I said, as my dad’s ears perked up and he stared at me with a look that made me think that he was at least considering my plan. “We could do a few other things during the day to keep mom and Carla happy, and then we could head to the ballpark in the evening.”
“You know, that sounds pretty good. Let me see the schedule.”
And just like that, we were going on vacation. Sort of.
I did most of the planning. I found all of the information concerning the game tickets, and even mapped out the itinerary, which would take us through West Virginia and Kentucky, finally ending up in Ohio. There was one little step that was taken rather lightly though…lodging. We assumed that since Cincinnati was such a large city, hotels and motels would certainly be plentiful. Our assumption would prove to be wrong.
Finally, the day came for mom, dad, Carla and I to pile into dad’s long, dark green 1969 Ford Galaxy and hit the road. Jarrett, our older brother, had finished school and was working, so he didn’t have an interest in making the trip. That particular July day was a balmy 90 degrees and of course the old Galaxy didn’t have air conditioning. So, we simply rolled the windows down and enjoyed the wind rushing past and around us inside the car. “Roll those windows up! There’s too much air on Carla and I,” mom barked from the back seat. Dad and I rolled our windows up and within a minutes we felt as though we were being cooked from the inside out.
“Look, we’ve got to crack these windows. We’re roasting up here!” dad chirped, as he lowered his window slightly. I did the same. Soon though, the crack became a bit larger and before we knew it, the windows had been rolled all the way down again and the winds once again swept around the car like a tornado.
“Who’s hungry?” dad asked as he wheeled to car off the interstate in the direction of several restaurants. We were all starving, and he couldn’t have picked a better time for us to eat. That particular stop would prove to be a pivotal point in our trip.
It’s important to note that my dad and I were in conversation about our baseball vacation up until that point, while mom and Carla sat quietly in the back seat for most of the way. There had been no reason for us to look to the rear of the car. If we had, we surely could have predicted the conniption that was about to ensue. I stepped out of the car and onto the pavement, all the while bending to release the seat so my mom could exit the vehicle which was equipped with only two doors. Briefly, I thought that somehow my mother had been kidnapped and replaced with someone I didn’t know. The woman who occupied the seat where mom had been bore no resemblance to her whatsoever. The woman I was looking at in amazement had a head of hair that only God himself could create. It was similar to what cotton candy looks like before it’s spun onto a roll. Her hair was a mixture of several hairstyles. There appeared to be a Mohawk running down the center of her head, while the sides appeared to making themselves into a rather large Afro. Her bangs drooped to the edges of her eyebrows and one clump of hair stuck out from the side all alone. Apparently the clump on the side was the last remnant of her Aqua Net hair helmet.
“Whoa! What happened to you!?” I said, trying my best to keep the laughter bubbling inside me contained.
“Those blasted windows! That’s what happened! I knew this trip was a bad idea,” the poor soul moaned, while staring at her reflection in a tiny mirror she’d taken from her purse.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” I said, attempting to quell the situation before a complete meltdown occurred. Actually, it looked terrible. She looked as though she’d just made a cross country motorcycle ride with no helmet.
“Whew wee! Mom, I’ve never seen your hair look so…full,” Carla said, while hiding all of her face except for her eyes below the roof of the car. “Dad, open the trunk so she can get her makeup bag. You can fix it in the bathroom.”
Mom did indeed fix her hair, as best she could in a McDonald’s restroom, and that seemed to lift her spirits some. But, within a few miles her head would be once again transformed into a swirling mess of hair that resembled that of a poor unfortunate soul who had somehow grabbed hold of a high voltage electrical line.
So, this incident would be an ominous foreboding concerning the rest of our trip. It was as though a dark cloud of doom floated over us at all times. The car began to act up, resulting in a stop at a service station that consumed a few hours of our time. After the car was repaired, dad decided to let me take the wheel and I promptly drove into a pothole that would have swallowed smaller cars. The four of us bounced violently in our seats, while I stared straight ahead, careful to avoid eye contact with dad. I could feel his eyes on me for a period of time, when I turned to him and asked, “What?”
“Why don’t you turn around and see if you can hit that pothole again! If you try hard enough maybe you can tear the wheels off this time! Damn, did you not see it?” he barked. Carla began giggling uncontrollably, and even my haggard looking mother cracked a smile.
“What pothole?” I asked, occasionally glancing in the direction of my father who had been staring at me for several miles.
“What do you mean, WHAT POTHOLE? Forget it! Just drive!” and drive I did.
Finally, there it was, Cincinnati, and all it’s high rise buildings, the Ohio River and it’s massive steel bridges and most wonderfully, Riverfront Stadium. I could feel the excitement welling up inside me. “Look mom, look Carla, there it is!” I squealed.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we see it,” Carla moaned with her eyes closed and her head wedged between seat and he roof support.
“Now we need to find a place to stay,” dad said, as we crossed the river and headed toward downtown. “Stop here, on the street. We’ll walk and find a place to stay. There should be plenty of places available.” With that, we unloaded our suitcases and trudged down the sidewalk like a team of pack mules on the Oregon trail. Dad sported blue jean shorts, which at one time were blue jean pants. He also wore brown church shoes, and black socks pulled nearly to his knees. His untucked plaid shirt flapped in the breeze. My mom, complete with her light socket hairdo, wore matching green terry knit shorts and top. The shorts were slightly lighter that the top. Carla and I stood and looked at each other with scowling faces. Thankfully we didn’t know anyone and they didn’t know us.
Dad was right. There were plenty of places to stay. Nice Places. I stared up at the collection of skyscrapers looming over us and noted that none of them resembled a hotel that would suit our needs. For some reason my mom and dad were surprised that none of the buildings were labeled Motel 6 Tower, Econo Lodge Suites, or perhaps Super 8 Plaza. “Let’s try this one, it looks very nice, maybe they have a room available,” mom said, as she began to dig in her purse.
“What are you looking for?” Carla asked, confused.
“I might have a coupon for this hotel,” mom said, brushing her bangs away from her eyes.
“Uh, I don’t think you have a coupon for the Cincinnati Westin,” I said quietly, careful not to be overheard by the bellhop standing at the door.
“Well, lets see if they have a room anyway,” dad said.
We sauntered into the expansive lobby, and made our way to the front desk, where a nicely dressed man peered at us like we’d just arrived from another galaxy. I stared up at the glass elevator, which was ferrying folks up and down, and also noticed that we appeared to be slightly underdressed compared to the other people standing around. I didn’t hear what the man at the desk told my mother, but it must have been something she didn’t like. She kept mumbling something about her arm and her leg. With that, we headed back to the street to continue our search.
“There, lets ask that guy,” dad said, while pointing to a man pushing a shopping cart across the street.
“That’s a street person!” my mom groaned.
“I know, if anyone knows of a reasonable place to stay, it’s him,” dad answered, while heading toward the man and his cart. After a brief conversation with the man, dad walked back toward us and directed us to follow him. “I told you he’d know of a place. He said there’s a great hotel just a few blocks down, and the rates are very reasonable.”
We walked and walked and walked some more. The shiny glass and granite buildings slowly gave way to brick and mortar and eventually those buildings gave way to structures that only a wrecking ball could fix. The people changed too. Gone were men in business suits, and nice shoes. They were replaced with men in more leisurely attire, to put it nicely. “There it is!” dad exclaimed. “The Dennison Hotel. It looks pretty nice! Lets check it out!” he continued.
My mom stood, staring at the dilapidated building, which had curtains flapping in the breeze from the windows and several people sitting on the window ledges peering down at us. There was a huge sign that had been painted on the building which read, Dennison Hotel 120 Rooms With 60 Baths, Great Rates.
“I’m not staying here!” mom bellowed. “Don’t you see that sign? I’m not sharing a bathtub with a stranger! Forget it!”
“Uh, dad, I don’t think this is the place for us,” I said. “Oh, and mom almost got mugged just now.” Apparently, for some reason, we looked out of place and my mothers large purse looked a bit tempting to a man who took a half hearted grab at it.
“Yeah, maybe we should find something else,” dad said, ignoring the statement about mom nearly getting mugged. “Let’s park at the stadium and we’ll surely find something after the game.”
So, we lugged our baggage back up the street to where the car was parked. We were amazed that the Cincinnati police didn’t find any humor in where I had decided to park our old bomb. I had felt that there was plenty of room for access to the fire hydrant in the event of an emergency. Obviously, the police felt differently. My dad removed the flapping piece of paper from under the windshield wiper, studied it for a moment, folded it and slid it safely in his shirt pocket.
Dad carefully guided the old car into the stadium parking garage, which sat adjacent to the ballpark. Finally, he found a spot and stopped. “Who’s ready for some baseball!?” he exclaimed, while opening the car door.
“Where are our seats? I hope you didn’t get seats in the nosebleed section,” mom inquired. By that time, not only was her hair a mess, but her makeup had given up and wasn’t in the same spot it had been when our journey began. She looked sort of like a blonde Ozzy Osborne.
“Oh no, these seats are low. Well, pretty low,” I said. This was a huge series, and tickets were limited, so upper deck seats were all that were available. But, there were a few rows above us, so my comment about the seats was accurate in comparison to the people at the very top. I should also point out that my mom is terrified of heights.
We made our way to the concourse, and began the slow zig zagged walk up, and up, and up, and up some more. Finally, we exited the tunnel and the view in front of me was nothing short of breathtaking. I could see the players warming up on the turf field, and an ocean of red seats circled the place. Anxious fans made their way to their seats with concessions in hand, ready for the first pitch. My mom evidently liked the view also, as her eyes resembled those of a person who’d just seen a ghost. “How do you like it mom?” Carla asked. There was no reply. She had a death grip on the railing and stood frozen, locked, unable to move. Dad and pried her hands from the railing, and slowly guided her to where our seats were, and gently sat her down.
“Are you OK mom?” I asked, meekly
“I’m fine.”
Throughout the game, we would periodically look at poor old mom, clutching her armrests and staring wide eyed at the field below. Suddenly, without warning, the heavens opened up and began pelting us heavy raindrops. Grounds keepers scrambled to cover the field, and fans raced to the concourse area, and my mom sat. She sat, frozen like a statue, with rain running down all sides of her face and body. She was but a dot in an ocean of seats. She didn‘t look like Ozzy anymore, and I was amazed at how long her hair was when not in helmet form. “Son, go get your mother,” dad simply said.
Mom and Carla spent the rest of that game in the car, while dad and I enjoyed the remainder of the game.
“Now, lets see if we can find a place to stay,” my father said, happily, still thinking about the game. “Neil, you drive. It’ll be good experience for you in this heavy traffic.” Good experience, maybe, but it meant that he didn’t have to try to navigate the car in an unfamiliar city among thousands of other vehicles.
At long last, we made it out of the city and back onto the interstate. We drove, and drove, until we noticed a highway sign stating that the Indiana state line was close. “Why are we going to Indiana?” Carla inquired from the depths of the back seat. We didn’t answer, and I simply exited the interstate and drove in the direction from which we’d come. We finally found a more suitable place to stay, and luckily they even had a decent swimming pool, which would come in handy for Carla, since she and my mom’s ball game experience was now complete.
We stayed for two more days. Dad and I would go to the games, and mom and Carla would go to the pool. Carla swam, and swam and swam. “I’m sick of the pool! I’m waterlog! Let’s go home, this stinks! It’s no fun for us!” she barked.
We did finally go home. Dad and I enjoyed our vacation very much. Mom and Carla, not so much. My mom’s humor did eventually return, along with her flawless hairdo. Dad, as always, said, “You know, it’s nice to go places, but I’ll take these old mountains any day.” And with that, our vacation came to an end.
To be completely candid, we did take many short trips to destinations in the local area, but we kids yearned for a trip to the beach, or maybe Disney World. Often, during the summer months, we would pile onto my dad’s old truck and head across the mountain behind our house to a spot on the river to swim, fish, and cook hamburgers and hot dogs on a tiny charcoal grill.
“I’ll take this for mine, these people that travel off to all these far flung places don’t realize that we’re having just as much fun as they are. It’s cheaper too!” dad would say time and time again. “Isn’t that right Neil?”
No, it wasn’t right. Maybe the cheaper part was right, but I personally had a deep yearning to travel to someplace and make the comparison for myself on which destination was more fun. I always suspected the folks at the beach were having more fun than us.
“Mom, why don’t we ever go on vacation?” I asked, as my mom stood over the stove preparing our dinner one evening.
“Well, you know how your father is. He’s a homebody and prefers to hang around here. You know that I would pack up and be gone in a minute if he was willing,” she answered, while staring at her reflection in the kitchen window and carefully touching each side of her hairdo with the palms of her hands.
Dad was outside, sitting on the front porch reading the newspaper, so I thought that would be a good time to broach the subject of going on vacation. I stepped out the front door and onto the porch and plopped down beside him. “Dad? Can we go on vacation this year?” I asked in my most pitiful voice.
“Now son, you know why we don’t go on vacation. It’s all about your mother’s hair. Besides, we’d rather be right here in these mountains. Wouldn’t we?” he said, never looking up from reading the newspaper.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said, before I got up and moped back into the house.
Mom was finishing up making dinner when I sat down at the table and rested my chin in the palm of my hand. “You know, I bet if we incorporated baseball into a vacation, he’d go,” I said to my mom, who had returned to her spot in front of the window to check her hairdo once again.
“Maybe,” she quipped.
At that moment, I had begun to devise a master vacation plan. We would make baseball the focal point of my scheme to do some traveling. My father was and is an ardent baseball fan. He’d played the game for years, and seldom missed a game on television. He loved baseball more than anyone I’d ever known.
Later, I pulled out my latest copy of baseball digest and began to look at the schedules of teams that weren’t too far away, but at the same time, I looked at teams that played in cities that would require us to at least spend a couple of nights. I settled on Cincinnati.
“Dad, why don’t we take a little trip to Cincinnati? The Giants are in town in July and it would be a great series to watch. The Reds and the Giants are neck and neck in the National League West, so that would make it even better,” I said, as my dad’s ears perked up and he stared at me with a look that made me think that he was at least considering my plan. “We could do a few other things during the day to keep mom and Carla happy, and then we could head to the ballpark in the evening.”
“You know, that sounds pretty good. Let me see the schedule.”
And just like that, we were going on vacation. Sort of.
I did most of the planning. I found all of the information concerning the game tickets, and even mapped out the itinerary, which would take us through West Virginia and Kentucky, finally ending up in Ohio. There was one little step that was taken rather lightly though…lodging. We assumed that since Cincinnati was such a large city, hotels and motels would certainly be plentiful. Our assumption would prove to be wrong.
Finally, the day came for mom, dad, Carla and I to pile into dad’s long, dark green 1969 Ford Galaxy and hit the road. Jarrett, our older brother, had finished school and was working, so he didn’t have an interest in making the trip. That particular July day was a balmy 90 degrees and of course the old Galaxy didn’t have air conditioning. So, we simply rolled the windows down and enjoyed the wind rushing past and around us inside the car. “Roll those windows up! There’s too much air on Carla and I,” mom barked from the back seat. Dad and I rolled our windows up and within a minutes we felt as though we were being cooked from the inside out.
“Look, we’ve got to crack these windows. We’re roasting up here!” dad chirped, as he lowered his window slightly. I did the same. Soon though, the crack became a bit larger and before we knew it, the windows had been rolled all the way down again and the winds once again swept around the car like a tornado.
“Who’s hungry?” dad asked as he wheeled to car off the interstate in the direction of several restaurants. We were all starving, and he couldn’t have picked a better time for us to eat. That particular stop would prove to be a pivotal point in our trip.
It’s important to note that my dad and I were in conversation about our baseball vacation up until that point, while mom and Carla sat quietly in the back seat for most of the way. There had been no reason for us to look to the rear of the car. If we had, we surely could have predicted the conniption that was about to ensue. I stepped out of the car and onto the pavement, all the while bending to release the seat so my mom could exit the vehicle which was equipped with only two doors. Briefly, I thought that somehow my mother had been kidnapped and replaced with someone I didn’t know. The woman who occupied the seat where mom had been bore no resemblance to her whatsoever. The woman I was looking at in amazement had a head of hair that only God himself could create. It was similar to what cotton candy looks like before it’s spun onto a roll. Her hair was a mixture of several hairstyles. There appeared to be a Mohawk running down the center of her head, while the sides appeared to making themselves into a rather large Afro. Her bangs drooped to the edges of her eyebrows and one clump of hair stuck out from the side all alone. Apparently the clump on the side was the last remnant of her Aqua Net hair helmet.
“Whoa! What happened to you!?” I said, trying my best to keep the laughter bubbling inside me contained.
“Those blasted windows! That’s what happened! I knew this trip was a bad idea,” the poor soul moaned, while staring at her reflection in a tiny mirror she’d taken from her purse.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” I said, attempting to quell the situation before a complete meltdown occurred. Actually, it looked terrible. She looked as though she’d just made a cross country motorcycle ride with no helmet.
“Whew wee! Mom, I’ve never seen your hair look so…full,” Carla said, while hiding all of her face except for her eyes below the roof of the car. “Dad, open the trunk so she can get her makeup bag. You can fix it in the bathroom.”
Mom did indeed fix her hair, as best she could in a McDonald’s restroom, and that seemed to lift her spirits some. But, within a few miles her head would be once again transformed into a swirling mess of hair that resembled that of a poor unfortunate soul who had somehow grabbed hold of a high voltage electrical line.
So, this incident would be an ominous foreboding concerning the rest of our trip. It was as though a dark cloud of doom floated over us at all times. The car began to act up, resulting in a stop at a service station that consumed a few hours of our time. After the car was repaired, dad decided to let me take the wheel and I promptly drove into a pothole that would have swallowed smaller cars. The four of us bounced violently in our seats, while I stared straight ahead, careful to avoid eye contact with dad. I could feel his eyes on me for a period of time, when I turned to him and asked, “What?”
“Why don’t you turn around and see if you can hit that pothole again! If you try hard enough maybe you can tear the wheels off this time! Damn, did you not see it?” he barked. Carla began giggling uncontrollably, and even my haggard looking mother cracked a smile.
“What pothole?” I asked, occasionally glancing in the direction of my father who had been staring at me for several miles.
“What do you mean, WHAT POTHOLE? Forget it! Just drive!” and drive I did.
Finally, there it was, Cincinnati, and all it’s high rise buildings, the Ohio River and it’s massive steel bridges and most wonderfully, Riverfront Stadium. I could feel the excitement welling up inside me. “Look mom, look Carla, there it is!” I squealed.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we see it,” Carla moaned with her eyes closed and her head wedged between seat and he roof support.
“Now we need to find a place to stay,” dad said, as we crossed the river and headed toward downtown. “Stop here, on the street. We’ll walk and find a place to stay. There should be plenty of places available.” With that, we unloaded our suitcases and trudged down the sidewalk like a team of pack mules on the Oregon trail. Dad sported blue jean shorts, which at one time were blue jean pants. He also wore brown church shoes, and black socks pulled nearly to his knees. His untucked plaid shirt flapped in the breeze. My mom, complete with her light socket hairdo, wore matching green terry knit shorts and top. The shorts were slightly lighter that the top. Carla and I stood and looked at each other with scowling faces. Thankfully we didn’t know anyone and they didn’t know us.
Dad was right. There were plenty of places to stay. Nice Places. I stared up at the collection of skyscrapers looming over us and noted that none of them resembled a hotel that would suit our needs. For some reason my mom and dad were surprised that none of the buildings were labeled Motel 6 Tower, Econo Lodge Suites, or perhaps Super 8 Plaza. “Let’s try this one, it looks very nice, maybe they have a room available,” mom said, as she began to dig in her purse.
“What are you looking for?” Carla asked, confused.
“I might have a coupon for this hotel,” mom said, brushing her bangs away from her eyes.
“Uh, I don’t think you have a coupon for the Cincinnati Westin,” I said quietly, careful not to be overheard by the bellhop standing at the door.
“Well, lets see if they have a room anyway,” dad said.
We sauntered into the expansive lobby, and made our way to the front desk, where a nicely dressed man peered at us like we’d just arrived from another galaxy. I stared up at the glass elevator, which was ferrying folks up and down, and also noticed that we appeared to be slightly underdressed compared to the other people standing around. I didn’t hear what the man at the desk told my mother, but it must have been something she didn’t like. She kept mumbling something about her arm and her leg. With that, we headed back to the street to continue our search.
“There, lets ask that guy,” dad said, while pointing to a man pushing a shopping cart across the street.
“That’s a street person!” my mom groaned.
“I know, if anyone knows of a reasonable place to stay, it’s him,” dad answered, while heading toward the man and his cart. After a brief conversation with the man, dad walked back toward us and directed us to follow him. “I told you he’d know of a place. He said there’s a great hotel just a few blocks down, and the rates are very reasonable.”
We walked and walked and walked some more. The shiny glass and granite buildings slowly gave way to brick and mortar and eventually those buildings gave way to structures that only a wrecking ball could fix. The people changed too. Gone were men in business suits, and nice shoes. They were replaced with men in more leisurely attire, to put it nicely. “There it is!” dad exclaimed. “The Dennison Hotel. It looks pretty nice! Lets check it out!” he continued.
My mom stood, staring at the dilapidated building, which had curtains flapping in the breeze from the windows and several people sitting on the window ledges peering down at us. There was a huge sign that had been painted on the building which read, Dennison Hotel 120 Rooms With 60 Baths, Great Rates.
“I’m not staying here!” mom bellowed. “Don’t you see that sign? I’m not sharing a bathtub with a stranger! Forget it!”
“Uh, dad, I don’t think this is the place for us,” I said. “Oh, and mom almost got mugged just now.” Apparently, for some reason, we looked out of place and my mothers large purse looked a bit tempting to a man who took a half hearted grab at it.
“Yeah, maybe we should find something else,” dad said, ignoring the statement about mom nearly getting mugged. “Let’s park at the stadium and we’ll surely find something after the game.”
So, we lugged our baggage back up the street to where the car was parked. We were amazed that the Cincinnati police didn’t find any humor in where I had decided to park our old bomb. I had felt that there was plenty of room for access to the fire hydrant in the event of an emergency. Obviously, the police felt differently. My dad removed the flapping piece of paper from under the windshield wiper, studied it for a moment, folded it and slid it safely in his shirt pocket.
Dad carefully guided the old car into the stadium parking garage, which sat adjacent to the ballpark. Finally, he found a spot and stopped. “Who’s ready for some baseball!?” he exclaimed, while opening the car door.
“Where are our seats? I hope you didn’t get seats in the nosebleed section,” mom inquired. By that time, not only was her hair a mess, but her makeup had given up and wasn’t in the same spot it had been when our journey began. She looked sort of like a blonde Ozzy Osborne.
“Oh no, these seats are low. Well, pretty low,” I said. This was a huge series, and tickets were limited, so upper deck seats were all that were available. But, there were a few rows above us, so my comment about the seats was accurate in comparison to the people at the very top. I should also point out that my mom is terrified of heights.
We made our way to the concourse, and began the slow zig zagged walk up, and up, and up, and up some more. Finally, we exited the tunnel and the view in front of me was nothing short of breathtaking. I could see the players warming up on the turf field, and an ocean of red seats circled the place. Anxious fans made their way to their seats with concessions in hand, ready for the first pitch. My mom evidently liked the view also, as her eyes resembled those of a person who’d just seen a ghost. “How do you like it mom?” Carla asked. There was no reply. She had a death grip on the railing and stood frozen, locked, unable to move. Dad and pried her hands from the railing, and slowly guided her to where our seats were, and gently sat her down.
“Are you OK mom?” I asked, meekly
“I’m fine.”
Throughout the game, we would periodically look at poor old mom, clutching her armrests and staring wide eyed at the field below. Suddenly, without warning, the heavens opened up and began pelting us heavy raindrops. Grounds keepers scrambled to cover the field, and fans raced to the concourse area, and my mom sat. She sat, frozen like a statue, with rain running down all sides of her face and body. She was but a dot in an ocean of seats. She didn‘t look like Ozzy anymore, and I was amazed at how long her hair was when not in helmet form. “Son, go get your mother,” dad simply said.
Mom and Carla spent the rest of that game in the car, while dad and I enjoyed the remainder of the game.
“Now, lets see if we can find a place to stay,” my father said, happily, still thinking about the game. “Neil, you drive. It’ll be good experience for you in this heavy traffic.” Good experience, maybe, but it meant that he didn’t have to try to navigate the car in an unfamiliar city among thousands of other vehicles.
At long last, we made it out of the city and back onto the interstate. We drove, and drove, until we noticed a highway sign stating that the Indiana state line was close. “Why are we going to Indiana?” Carla inquired from the depths of the back seat. We didn’t answer, and I simply exited the interstate and drove in the direction from which we’d come. We finally found a more suitable place to stay, and luckily they even had a decent swimming pool, which would come in handy for Carla, since she and my mom’s ball game experience was now complete.
We stayed for two more days. Dad and I would go to the games, and mom and Carla would go to the pool. Carla swam, and swam and swam. “I’m sick of the pool! I’m waterlog! Let’s go home, this stinks! It’s no fun for us!” she barked.
We did finally go home. Dad and I enjoyed our vacation very much. Mom and Carla, not so much. My mom’s humor did eventually return, along with her flawless hairdo. Dad, as always, said, “You know, it’s nice to go places, but I’ll take these old mountains any day.” And with that, our vacation came to an end.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)