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.
    
    
    
    
    
   
     "

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.
    
    
    

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.

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.
    
   
    
    

    
                                                                                                                                           

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.



   

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.
    
    

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.