I turned on the Word Verification for the comments section because of the comment Spam I have been getting. It sucks to get the Comment Spam. Hopefully this will stop it for a little while. The one good thing to come from it was a phone call from the Lawn Whisperer,
"What the hell?. I am not a rocket scientist. All the sudden I got to figure out a fucking crossword puzzle to leave a comment."
That made me laugh.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Why I Should Not Speak
Last night I was out walking the dog down by the park when my neighbor pulled into the parking lot to drop off some kids. My neighbor is V. the mother of K, the girl who watched my cats while we were on vacation (I posted THIS the other day how when she came over to get paid we were searching the house for Maxfield).
There was some small talk. V asked about our vacation. I asked her if K had any problems and thanked V for allowing her daughter to Cat-Sit for us. She responded that K enjoyed it and was happy to do it and would be willing to do it again in the future. I chuckled and then I said.
“Did she tell you we lost our son?”
The look on her face was one of horror. Her mouth dropped open and she covered it with her hand, “Oh Gosh” she muttered.
I then realized what I said and had to explain the whole story to her. “No. I mean we found him….it’s just that…Okay that was bad choice of words. I meant he was playing hide and seek with us when she came over and….No. Max is okay. We were just embarrassed that we lost him in front of the babysitter…I mean we couldn’t find him. She waited while we were searching for him. Your daughter probably thinks we are nuts.”
She looked relieved and said, “Oh. Okay. For a second there I thought…well you seemed too happy for something like that to have happened.”
“Sorry for that. I should have used a better choice of words. Uhhh. Good night.”
Now the mother thinks we are nuts.
There was some small talk. V asked about our vacation. I asked her if K had any problems and thanked V for allowing her daughter to Cat-Sit for us. She responded that K enjoyed it and was happy to do it and would be willing to do it again in the future. I chuckled and then I said.
“Did she tell you we lost our son?”
The look on her face was one of horror. Her mouth dropped open and she covered it with her hand, “Oh Gosh” she muttered.
I then realized what I said and had to explain the whole story to her. “No. I mean we found him….it’s just that…Okay that was bad choice of words. I meant he was playing hide and seek with us when she came over and….No. Max is okay. We were just embarrassed that we lost him in front of the babysitter…I mean we couldn’t find him. She waited while we were searching for him. Your daughter probably thinks we are nuts.”
She looked relieved and said, “Oh. Okay. For a second there I thought…well you seemed too happy for something like that to have happened.”
“Sorry for that. I should have used a better choice of words. Uhhh. Good night.”
Now the mother thinks we are nuts.
Monday, August 29, 2005
ER
It started with a thump.
Then a cry.
Then Lauren yelling from the other room. “Bill, BILL!”
I stood up from my parent’s kitchen table, where my father and I were talking politics and history, and hurried to the living room. Lauren was already coming towards me with Maxfield in her arms. He was crying. A lot.
He was bleeding. A lot.
Scarlet was dripping from above his left eye. It covered his forehead, and his eye and his cheek.
“What happened?” I said as I pulled them towards the kitchen sink.
“He ran into the coffee table.” Lauren replied as blood seeped over her shoulder.
We wiped his head with paper towel and saw the cut.
Small but deep. Bleeding. Max wanted nothing to do with the direct pressure. It continued to ooze.
I took him from Lauren. “We should take him to the hospital. I will try to clean him up. Go get the car started.”
The running water from the faucet seemed to calm him for a brief moment. Holding him outstretched towards my dad so he could take a look I asked, “Do you think he needs stitches?”
He squinted, “Yea.”
My mom entered “What happened?” She saw Max’s face, “Good lord.”
“Do you think he needs stitches?” I said.
“Maybe one or two. Do you want me to come with you?”, she asked.
“No that’s okay. I gotta go.”
Now my parent’s are seasoned professionals when it comes to parenting. If they think he needs stitches, he probably needs stitches.
The bleeding slowed down a few minutes later as we entered the emergency room.
We waited for 45 minutes (which equals forever when your kid is hurt) when we were called into the triage area. The nurse tried to take his "pulse-ox" by taping a band-aid like strap with a red light to his finger. You would think a kid would like the red light. But not Max. He put up a good fight. His screams echoed through the ER. They couldn’t get the reading. They tried taking his temperature under his arm. Max fought some more. No reading. They weighed me holding him, then they weighed me with out him (I need to lose some weight).
The nurses tried the "pulse-ox" and the thermometer a few more times. Finally they wore him out enough to get “close enough” readings.
We were giving our own treatment room so his cires would not disturb other patients. Max was still upset but not crying as much, more of a whimper. Lauren and I knew he would be okay but the feeling of helplessness started to overwhelm us.
The doctor entered and Max knew it was not going to be fun and started crying. The doctor explained that he would need stitches and that they would need to tie him down. He also said that it is not a pleasant experience for parents to witness.
He was so right.
The doctor and a nurse took a sheet and wrapped Max’s arms behind his back and then wrapped the rest of the sheet around his body. It was like a straightjacket swaddling. He could no longer fight. He was screaming. I do not think I have ever been that sad in my entire life.
They covered him with another sheet and taped his body to the table. The nurse held his head like a vice. Lauren and I held him down and did our best to calm him. We sang to him. The Alphabet Song, which is the only song I know all the words to.
They gave him a local anesthetic. Scrubbed the wound and placed a cover over his face. The only part of his body that was exposed was the wound and his left eye. The eye was darting back and forth from Lauren to me to the doctor. He was whimpering. I could see the fear in his eye. It was killing me. His left eye, full of tears was saying, “What the hell are you guys doing to me? You are my parents for crying out loud. Why are you letting this man hurt me?”
They stitched him up. Four stitches. That is all, just four. A few minutes later he was fine.
It ended with a thump, as my heart finally slowed down.
Then a cry, as I thought about Max’s fear.
We left the hospital and Lauren tried to comfort Max by saying, “Don’t worry Max, chicks dig scars.”
Little did she know she comforted me as well with that statement.
Then a cry.
Then Lauren yelling from the other room. “Bill, BILL!”
I stood up from my parent’s kitchen table, where my father and I were talking politics and history, and hurried to the living room. Lauren was already coming towards me with Maxfield in her arms. He was crying. A lot.
He was bleeding. A lot.
Scarlet was dripping from above his left eye. It covered his forehead, and his eye and his cheek.
“What happened?” I said as I pulled them towards the kitchen sink.
“He ran into the coffee table.” Lauren replied as blood seeped over her shoulder.
We wiped his head with paper towel and saw the cut.
Small but deep. Bleeding. Max wanted nothing to do with the direct pressure. It continued to ooze.
I took him from Lauren. “We should take him to the hospital. I will try to clean him up. Go get the car started.”
The running water from the faucet seemed to calm him for a brief moment. Holding him outstretched towards my dad so he could take a look I asked, “Do you think he needs stitches?”
He squinted, “Yea.”
My mom entered “What happened?” She saw Max’s face, “Good lord.”
“Do you think he needs stitches?” I said.
“Maybe one or two. Do you want me to come with you?”, she asked.
“No that’s okay. I gotta go.”
Now my parent’s are seasoned professionals when it comes to parenting. If they think he needs stitches, he probably needs stitches.
The bleeding slowed down a few minutes later as we entered the emergency room.
We waited for 45 minutes (which equals forever when your kid is hurt) when we were called into the triage area. The nurse tried to take his "pulse-ox" by taping a band-aid like strap with a red light to his finger. You would think a kid would like the red light. But not Max. He put up a good fight. His screams echoed through the ER. They couldn’t get the reading. They tried taking his temperature under his arm. Max fought some more. No reading. They weighed me holding him, then they weighed me with out him (I need to lose some weight).
The nurses tried the "pulse-ox" and the thermometer a few more times. Finally they wore him out enough to get “close enough” readings.
We were giving our own treatment room so his cires would not disturb other patients. Max was still upset but not crying as much, more of a whimper. Lauren and I knew he would be okay but the feeling of helplessness started to overwhelm us.
The doctor entered and Max knew it was not going to be fun and started crying. The doctor explained that he would need stitches and that they would need to tie him down. He also said that it is not a pleasant experience for parents to witness.
He was so right.
The doctor and a nurse took a sheet and wrapped Max’s arms behind his back and then wrapped the rest of the sheet around his body. It was like a straightjacket swaddling. He could no longer fight. He was screaming. I do not think I have ever been that sad in my entire life.
They covered him with another sheet and taped his body to the table. The nurse held his head like a vice. Lauren and I held him down and did our best to calm him. We sang to him. The Alphabet Song, which is the only song I know all the words to.
They gave him a local anesthetic. Scrubbed the wound and placed a cover over his face. The only part of his body that was exposed was the wound and his left eye. The eye was darting back and forth from Lauren to me to the doctor. He was whimpering. I could see the fear in his eye. It was killing me. His left eye, full of tears was saying, “What the hell are you guys doing to me? You are my parents for crying out loud. Why are you letting this man hurt me?”
They stitched him up. Four stitches. That is all, just four. A few minutes later he was fine.
It ended with a thump, as my heart finally slowed down.
Then a cry, as I thought about Max’s fear.
We left the hospital and Lauren tried to comfort Max by saying, “Don’t worry Max, chicks dig scars.”
Little did she know she comforted me as well with that statement.
Back In Action
We got home from our vacation yesterday. (We were in Pennsylvania for a week seeing family and friends. The vacation provided plenty of material for Poop and Boogies to be posted later). We were only home for a few hours when the vacation vibes started to wear off.
Max started whining and grunting. I could tell from the sound that he was in a pain. He spent the last two days in a car, being one of the best passengers, ever, to travel 17 hours through 8 states. I knew he was having some problems with the plumbing.
I laid him down and took off his diaper. I will not write the details because I was grossed out and I do not want to gross out anyone else, but I had to manually remove that which could not make a proper exit. It was disturbing.
Max was feeling much better and we were playing (trying to get him some much needed exercise). The way our house is laid out on the first floor every room has at least two entrances including the master bedroom. Max likes to run circles through the rooms and through the house. He was making one of his passes through the bedroom, then the kitchen than the living room, and started running down the hall, which, connects the rooms again. There was a knock on the door. It was the girl who occasionally baby-sits Max and who fed our cats while we were away. I went to answer the door, and noticed that Max did not make his second lap. I yelled to Lauren to see if she had him, but no she did not.
I invited the girl into the house so I could get her money. Lauren was circling the house looking for Max. She could not find him. I asked the cat sitter to wait a second because we lost our son. Seriously we lost him. Lauren and I are running around the house calling out his name and we could not find him. It was so embarrassing because there we are, panicking, in front of the 13-year girl we pay to watch our son, who is now missing. She looked at us like we were nuts.
We found Max under the bed. Apparently he was chasing the cat. Lauren pulled him out and he was covered in cat hair and dust bunnies. But unharmed.
Max also figured out he can fit through the cat door that leads to the garage. This made me think two things. 1. I now have to childproof the garage. 2. We have very large cats.
Max started whining and grunting. I could tell from the sound that he was in a pain. He spent the last two days in a car, being one of the best passengers, ever, to travel 17 hours through 8 states. I knew he was having some problems with the plumbing.
I laid him down and took off his diaper. I will not write the details because I was grossed out and I do not want to gross out anyone else, but I had to manually remove that which could not make a proper exit. It was disturbing.
Max was feeling much better and we were playing (trying to get him some much needed exercise). The way our house is laid out on the first floor every room has at least two entrances including the master bedroom. Max likes to run circles through the rooms and through the house. He was making one of his passes through the bedroom, then the kitchen than the living room, and started running down the hall, which, connects the rooms again. There was a knock on the door. It was the girl who occasionally baby-sits Max and who fed our cats while we were away. I went to answer the door, and noticed that Max did not make his second lap. I yelled to Lauren to see if she had him, but no she did not.
I invited the girl into the house so I could get her money. Lauren was circling the house looking for Max. She could not find him. I asked the cat sitter to wait a second because we lost our son. Seriously we lost him. Lauren and I are running around the house calling out his name and we could not find him. It was so embarrassing because there we are, panicking, in front of the 13-year girl we pay to watch our son, who is now missing. She looked at us like we were nuts.
We found Max under the bed. Apparently he was chasing the cat. Lauren pulled him out and he was covered in cat hair and dust bunnies. But unharmed.
Max also figured out he can fit through the cat door that leads to the garage. This made me think two things. 1. I now have to childproof the garage. 2. We have very large cats.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Blogger Break
I will be taking a short break from blogging. For those who visit on a regular basis, Thank you. Please visit the links below to read some other fun blogs while I am gone. I will be back soon so please stop back.
Circus Life
KLOG
What Was I Thinking
Madden Round the Land
Random and Odd
Chattababy
Home Fires
Raising Liam
Suburban Misfit
There are others that I will try to add in a few days. So If I missed some of you I am sorry.
Oh, and go to Shaun's site to buy some cool shirts and some Poop and Boogies T shirts and Mugs. (Any one in my family should buy one just for shits and giggles. )
Circus Life
KLOG
What Was I Thinking
Madden Round the Land
Random and Odd
Chattababy
Home Fires
Raising Liam
Suburban Misfit
There are others that I will try to add in a few days. So If I missed some of you I am sorry.
Oh, and go to Shaun's site to buy some cool shirts and some Poop and Boogies T shirts and Mugs. (Any one in my family should buy one just for shits and giggles. )
Idle Thoughts
Last Friday we went out to eat dinner at Don Pablo’s (a wonderful Irish cuisine place*joke*).
Maxfield is now at the age (17 months) where he is feeling his independence and wants to walk everywhere. He enters every store and public place we go like he owns the place. It is his personal playground. So we enter Don Pablo’s and Max darts off towards the bar (because I have been training him well). Lauren chases him down. I am left standing at the vacant hostess station holding a stuffed Elmo doll.
The hostess approaches and says “How many tonight?”
I look at her, look at Elmo and say “Just the two of us. Elmo and myself.”
She looked a little frightened. “I’m just kidding. Two plus a high chair please.” I said as another hostess approached the podium. The first girl must have been in training because the second girl started explaining the seating chart and what not. I probably freaked the girl out on her first night on the job.
We were seated and as most parents do, we started pulling out all the toys out of the diaper bag for Max to play with, because “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop”. The “Devil’s workshop” usually likes to:
1.Grab silverware
2.Throw the children’s Menu
3.Scream
4.Whine
5.Bang the table with a sippy cup
6.Arch back nearly knocking over high chair.
7. Eat crayon's (given with childrens menu)
The Devil’s workshop is busy.
Anyway, we ordered our food. Mexican food, no matter what you order is pretty much the same thing just in a different presentation. As we were waiting our waitress came over and handed a ball of dough to Max. They do this for all kids at this restaurant. Max was quite delighted in his new pseudo-edible toy. The Devil’s workshop closed for the night. The waitress also informed us that every Monday they have a kid’s night. They have clowns and games and stuff so the kids can have fun while their parents eat Chimichangas. We will have to back for this.
Fast forward to after the meal. We are sitting chatting when a lady, dressed in normal everyday clothes walks up and asks us how are meal was.
I looked at her and said, “It was very good some strange lady.” I called her just that. “Some strange lady.” I knew she was the manager just checking on tables. But she was not wearing the Don Pablo’s staff shirt. She did not introduce herself. She did not say “excuse me’. She just walked up and asked how our food was. She could have been another customer inquiring about our dishes, which, I find strange.
The manager kind of half chuckled and took my empty plate. I immediately felt bad that I called her strange, but I was trying to make a point. I was trying to be funny. But then I felt bad, because, like most people, the manager did not get my sense of humor.
I turned to Lauren and said, “I feel bad I called her strange, but she just walks up to us and asks us about our dinner, no intro, no “I’m the manager”, just “how was your meal?”. She could have been anyone. Calling her strange just slipped out. I hate when I do that sometimes.”
Lauren laughed, “You know, Bill, when we first started dating, I always wondered if you even had in your brain an internal self editing switch. I always thought there is no relay, he just thinks something than says it. No hesitation. But it has gotten a lot better.”
I used to think that I thought too much about what I was going to say. Now I think I "think" too little. But by thinking about what I am going to say, but not saying what I am thinking is really confusing. I think.
At least I am getting better.
Maxfield is now at the age (17 months) where he is feeling his independence and wants to walk everywhere. He enters every store and public place we go like he owns the place. It is his personal playground. So we enter Don Pablo’s and Max darts off towards the bar (because I have been training him well). Lauren chases him down. I am left standing at the vacant hostess station holding a stuffed Elmo doll.
The hostess approaches and says “How many tonight?”
I look at her, look at Elmo and say “Just the two of us. Elmo and myself.”
She looked a little frightened. “I’m just kidding. Two plus a high chair please.” I said as another hostess approached the podium. The first girl must have been in training because the second girl started explaining the seating chart and what not. I probably freaked the girl out on her first night on the job.
We were seated and as most parents do, we started pulling out all the toys out of the diaper bag for Max to play with, because “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop”. The “Devil’s workshop” usually likes to:
1.Grab silverware
2.Throw the children’s Menu
3.Scream
4.Whine
5.Bang the table with a sippy cup
6.Arch back nearly knocking over high chair.
7. Eat crayon's (given with childrens menu)
The Devil’s workshop is busy.
Anyway, we ordered our food. Mexican food, no matter what you order is pretty much the same thing just in a different presentation. As we were waiting our waitress came over and handed a ball of dough to Max. They do this for all kids at this restaurant. Max was quite delighted in his new pseudo-edible toy. The Devil’s workshop closed for the night. The waitress also informed us that every Monday they have a kid’s night. They have clowns and games and stuff so the kids can have fun while their parents eat Chimichangas. We will have to back for this.
Fast forward to after the meal. We are sitting chatting when a lady, dressed in normal everyday clothes walks up and asks us how are meal was.
I looked at her and said, “It was very good some strange lady.” I called her just that. “Some strange lady.” I knew she was the manager just checking on tables. But she was not wearing the Don Pablo’s staff shirt. She did not introduce herself. She did not say “excuse me’. She just walked up and asked how our food was. She could have been another customer inquiring about our dishes, which, I find strange.
The manager kind of half chuckled and took my empty plate. I immediately felt bad that I called her strange, but I was trying to make a point. I was trying to be funny. But then I felt bad, because, like most people, the manager did not get my sense of humor.
I turned to Lauren and said, “I feel bad I called her strange, but she just walks up to us and asks us about our dinner, no intro, no “I’m the manager”, just “how was your meal?”. She could have been anyone. Calling her strange just slipped out. I hate when I do that sometimes.”
Lauren laughed, “You know, Bill, when we first started dating, I always wondered if you even had in your brain an internal self editing switch. I always thought there is no relay, he just thinks something than says it. No hesitation. But it has gotten a lot better.”
I used to think that I thought too much about what I was going to say. Now I think I "think" too little. But by thinking about what I am going to say, but not saying what I am thinking is really confusing. I think.
At least I am getting better.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Candy Law
Occasionally I run out to the store to pick a few things up on my way home from work. (milk, diapers, a needed ingredient for a recipe, etc.) Most times I will grab myself a little snack or treat. Recently, I picked up a couple of Milky Way Midnights, one for me and one for the wife. I usually eat my snack that night as I did with the candy bar.
Two nights later, I opened the fridge and saw the one I bought for Lauren sitting there with all it’s dark chocolate, creamy nougat and golden caramel, goodness staring up at me.
So I ate it.
Lauren was a little annoyed. I couldn’t understand why. I thought she did not want it. I did buy it two days ago. She claims there is no statute of limitations on candy sitting in the fridge. I claim there is. I believe an accurate time for something like that to be sitting un-eaten is 24 hours.
Did I buy it for her? Yes.
But did she eat it that night? No.
I believe at that point it is fair game.
What is the statute of limitation on uneaten candy?
Two nights later, I opened the fridge and saw the one I bought for Lauren sitting there with all it’s dark chocolate, creamy nougat and golden caramel, goodness staring up at me.
So I ate it.
Lauren was a little annoyed. I couldn’t understand why. I thought she did not want it. I did buy it two days ago. She claims there is no statute of limitations on candy sitting in the fridge. I claim there is. I believe an accurate time for something like that to be sitting un-eaten is 24 hours.
Did I buy it for her? Yes.
But did she eat it that night? No.
I believe at that point it is fair game.
What is the statute of limitation on uneaten candy?
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
Bits
“What do you want for lunch today?”
“I don’t know. What do we have?”
“Well we could make chicken salad or BLT’s”
“We have bacon?”
“Yea."
"We have bacon?"
"You got it last week.”
“We have bacon? I didn’t know we had bacon. (Imitating a chorus of angels singing) Ahhhooooohh. Bacon!”
“You know what? From now on, Bill, anytime I need to get you gift, birthday, Christmas, whatever, I am getting you food. You get more excited over food than anything else.”
“That’s not true."
"Yes it is. I never see you get so excited over anything but food."
"I still get excited over YOU. (wink wink nudge nudge).”
“ Yea, but not as much as bacon.”
“I don’t know. What do we have?”
“Well we could make chicken salad or BLT’s”
“We have bacon?”
“Yea."
"We have bacon?"
"You got it last week.”
“We have bacon? I didn’t know we had bacon. (Imitating a chorus of angels singing) Ahhhooooohh. Bacon!”
“You know what? From now on, Bill, anytime I need to get you gift, birthday, Christmas, whatever, I am getting you food. You get more excited over food than anything else.”
“That’s not true."
"Yes it is. I never see you get so excited over anything but food."
"I still get excited over YOU. (wink wink nudge nudge).”
“ Yea, but not as much as bacon.”
Sunday, August 14, 2005
How to make your weekend seem longer.
1.Go out with your wife while she is shopping for shorts.
2.Suggest she buy some "Daisy Dukes".
3.When she says "Yea right." Reply to her, "What they don't make them that big?".
4.Follow up with "I was joking. You KNOW I was joking."
5. Wait for her to say, "Oh I hope it was worth it."
2.Suggest she buy some "Daisy Dukes".
3.When she says "Yea right." Reply to her, "What they don't make them that big?".
4.Follow up with "I was joking. You KNOW I was joking."
5. Wait for her to say, "Oh I hope it was worth it."
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Misc.
Here are two conversations I have had in the past few weeks that I found funny.
Lauren and I were watching some news show where they were debating whether a woman who was once a man (he had the operation and everything) should be allowed to play in a woman’s golf tournament.
Lauren: I don’t think that is fair. I mean genetically speaking she is still a man.
Bill: Yea I know. It doesn’t make sense.
Lauren: I mean men are naturally stronger then women.
Bill: And smarter…
Lauren: Shut up
Bill: …and faster..
Lauren: No
Bill: and more stamina…
Lauren: That’s not true.
Bill: ..and better looking….
Lauren: So you think men are better looking than women.?
Bill: Oh. Uh….That’s, not, what, I ..meant. That came out wrong.
Lauren: Oh and you’re smarter huh?
This is something my brother said to me.
“ I played 17 games of Hungry Hungry Hippos last night. 17 games. My kids were mad because I kept winning. I can’t help it that I am better then them at Hungry Hungry Hippos. If I have to play 17 times I am going to win some. They will need to step up their game if they want to beat me. And don’t get me started about Chutes and Ladders. They cheat. You only supposed to go UP the ladders but they go Up the chutes. The chutes are supposed to send you down. Not up. So I feel okay about beating them at Hungry Hungry Hippos. “
Happy Anniversary Bob and Kris and Lawn Whisperer and Vick
Lauren and I were watching some news show where they were debating whether a woman who was once a man (he had the operation and everything) should be allowed to play in a woman’s golf tournament.
Lauren: I don’t think that is fair. I mean genetically speaking she is still a man.
Bill: Yea I know. It doesn’t make sense.
Lauren: I mean men are naturally stronger then women.
Bill: And smarter…
Lauren: Shut up
Bill: …and faster..
Lauren: No
Bill: and more stamina…
Lauren: That’s not true.
Bill: ..and better looking….
Lauren: So you think men are better looking than women.?
Bill: Oh. Uh….That’s, not, what, I ..meant. That came out wrong.
Lauren: Oh and you’re smarter huh?
This is something my brother said to me.
“ I played 17 games of Hungry Hungry Hippos last night. 17 games. My kids were mad because I kept winning. I can’t help it that I am better then them at Hungry Hungry Hippos. If I have to play 17 times I am going to win some. They will need to step up their game if they want to beat me. And don’t get me started about Chutes and Ladders. They cheat. You only supposed to go UP the ladders but they go Up the chutes. The chutes are supposed to send you down. Not up. So I feel okay about beating them at Hungry Hungry Hippos. “
Happy Anniversary Bob and Kris and Lawn Whisperer and Vick
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Shhhh....
The Lawn Whisperer's anniversary is today. He has been Married 8 years. It is the only one of my siblings anniversary that I remember because It was one of the first times my wife met the extended family. It was at this wedding that I dropped Lauren in the middle of the dance floor. Flat on her back. In front of everybody.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Oldest Priority/Oldest In Charge
Growing up riding in the car was always an event. Anytime Dad and Mom went somewhere they rarely went without one of the kids. Well, actually some of the kids. This caused some bellyaching and whining due to the fact that every one wanted to sit up front. Dad had a basic rule. There was no calling “shot gun”. The rule was “Oldest Priority”. The oldest chose their preferred seat in the car. If you happened to be the oldest one going to the grocery store with Dad, you got to sit wherever you wanted. This usually meant the front seat. The next oldest would choose their seat (usually by the window) and so on down the line. This prevented many arguments over who got to sit where.
If you were the youngest of the 6 children going on a ride in the car you didn’t even bother to pick a seat. You were stuck on the hump. The middle. Where the drive shaft ran through the car. Not only did this make the 20-minute car ride to Granny’s uncomfortable but you also knew that you were of the lowest class of child at that point. A caste system working at it’s full potential.
Mom utilized this rule as well. The difference when you were in the car with Barb was that the oldest usually chose the back seat directly behind the driver seat. By invoking “Oldest Priority” and picking this location you accomplished two things. One, you were in the best position not to be backhanded or slapped while in the car. Barb had a good reach but not that good. And two, you never received the instant bone crushing, automatic seatbelt of Mom’s right arm when she had to stop short. In the time before baby seats and seatbelt laws, Mom’s arm was the strongest force known to man to prevent anyone from hitting the dashboard.
In the rare event that Mom and Dad would go out with out the children the rule was “Oldest in Charge”. This meant that the oldest sibling home at the time was in charge of all the rest of the kids. Instant babysitter. The OIC was responsible. If someone got out of line, the oldest could punish them. “Oldest In Charge” got to decide what was on the television. The OIC would dictate who got snacks. The downside to this rule was that if the house burnt down, the oldest was the one held responsible.
If Mom and Dad had to go to a wedding or something, they would tell (for sake of this story) Kevin* that he was in charge (being the oldest in the house at that time, Kevin is the 3 rd oldest). Kevin* would make the younger ones do the chores and would rule the house with an iron fist. After an hour or so if Dennis or Sharon (both older than Kevin) showed up they instantly became the boss. Many miniature dictatorships were overthrown by the fact that Dennis’ baseball practice was rained out or that Sharon needed to come home to get more cigarettes. Every now and then a Coup D’eta would backfire on the little ones when they would cheer the arrival of their favorite Napoleon wannabe just to have that same Napoleon leave after 15 minutes.
Then it was back to chores and asking the reinstated king for forgiveness.
*I used Kevin in this example, but I cannot recall if Kevin ever ruled with an iron fist or not.
If you were the youngest of the 6 children going on a ride in the car you didn’t even bother to pick a seat. You were stuck on the hump. The middle. Where the drive shaft ran through the car. Not only did this make the 20-minute car ride to Granny’s uncomfortable but you also knew that you were of the lowest class of child at that point. A caste system working at it’s full potential.
Mom utilized this rule as well. The difference when you were in the car with Barb was that the oldest usually chose the back seat directly behind the driver seat. By invoking “Oldest Priority” and picking this location you accomplished two things. One, you were in the best position not to be backhanded or slapped while in the car. Barb had a good reach but not that good. And two, you never received the instant bone crushing, automatic seatbelt of Mom’s right arm when she had to stop short. In the time before baby seats and seatbelt laws, Mom’s arm was the strongest force known to man to prevent anyone from hitting the dashboard.
In the rare event that Mom and Dad would go out with out the children the rule was “Oldest in Charge”. This meant that the oldest sibling home at the time was in charge of all the rest of the kids. Instant babysitter. The OIC was responsible. If someone got out of line, the oldest could punish them. “Oldest In Charge” got to decide what was on the television. The OIC would dictate who got snacks. The downside to this rule was that if the house burnt down, the oldest was the one held responsible.
If Mom and Dad had to go to a wedding or something, they would tell (for sake of this story) Kevin* that he was in charge (being the oldest in the house at that time, Kevin is the 3 rd oldest). Kevin* would make the younger ones do the chores and would rule the house with an iron fist. After an hour or so if Dennis or Sharon (both older than Kevin) showed up they instantly became the boss. Many miniature dictatorships were overthrown by the fact that Dennis’ baseball practice was rained out or that Sharon needed to come home to get more cigarettes. Every now and then a Coup D’eta would backfire on the little ones when they would cheer the arrival of their favorite Napoleon wannabe just to have that same Napoleon leave after 15 minutes.
Then it was back to chores and asking the reinstated king for forgiveness.
*I used Kevin in this example, but I cannot recall if Kevin ever ruled with an iron fist or not.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Wife Peeves
Oh I sure as hell have pet peeves. Like having to walk the dog three times a day. Or the fact that the male orange cat knocks everything off the counter. Or that Winniefred the female cat whines all the time. But I need to post about the Wife Peeves.
I love Lauren I really do. She is the best thing to ever happened to me. Best thing that ever happened to anything, really, but since this is about wife peeves I do not want to give her too much credit.
Anyway, the first wife peeve I have is an old one but still exists. This is it. "Can I have a Sip?" This is,by far, thee top of my list wife peeve. It goes like this.
"Lauren I am going to get something to drink. Do you want anything?"
"No. I'm okay."
I return a few minutes later with a beverage. What does she say?
"Can I have a sip?"
Now I wrote a one act play about this very phrase. It was produced by Action Arts Theater Company in Pennsylvania. Not that it was that good or anything but people could relate.
Number 2 wife peeve.
We have a rule in our house. It is , the person who cooks, does not have to do the dishes.
I like to cook except for the fact that I am somewhat anal when it comes to cooking and dishes. If I use a pan or pot or utensil, I wash it a soon as I am done (saving Lauren from actually washing such a utensil). My wife however, thinks it is okay to stick that type of stuff into the dishwasher. I hate, hate, hate that. Cooking utensils (pots and pans and wisks and spatulas) are supposed to be hand washed after you use them. The reason for this is so that when you cook the next day, you do not have to take the stuff out of the half full dishwasher, that has not been run yet, and hand wash it, to use it to cook with at that time.
Anyway, I went away for a few days for work, when i got back I was trying to cook dinner and I said something like, "Lauren where is the collander? Wait let me guess you used it today and did not wash it."
She said, "No I am using it for somthing else. But by the way I put a spatlua in the dishwasher."
She knew this would hurt me. She knew this would cut to the core.
The 3rd Wife peeve that I have is this. Max and I go food shopping and leave Lauren at home so she can make some stuff. (Like a baby gift, a wedding gift and some stuff for Kristine at Random and Odd). When we get home she says " Did you get some FA shIZZLE?"
I replied, "If the Fa shizzle is referring to Bryers Ice cream , Yes I got Two."
"No, I was talking about club soda."
"Oh Sorry, I was not sure what FA shIZZLE you were referring to BiOTCH."
"What? I am not going to repsond to you calling me that name." , she said.
"Uhh, ehhh well yea but that is because you just said Fa shizzins,. I am just trying talk the language."
"What the Language of your peeps?"
The last wife Peeve I have is that I am writing this, and telling her I am badmouthing her on my blog she say, "Fine, I have just as many people that like ME on your blog, that like YOU."
D'oh!.
I love Lauren I really do. She is the best thing to ever happened to me. Best thing that ever happened to anything, really, but since this is about wife peeves I do not want to give her too much credit.
Anyway, the first wife peeve I have is an old one but still exists. This is it. "Can I have a Sip?" This is,by far, thee top of my list wife peeve. It goes like this.
"Lauren I am going to get something to drink. Do you want anything?"
"No. I'm okay."
I return a few minutes later with a beverage. What does she say?
"Can I have a sip?"
Now I wrote a one act play about this very phrase. It was produced by Action Arts Theater Company in Pennsylvania. Not that it was that good or anything but people could relate.
Number 2 wife peeve.
We have a rule in our house. It is , the person who cooks, does not have to do the dishes.
I like to cook except for the fact that I am somewhat anal when it comes to cooking and dishes. If I use a pan or pot or utensil, I wash it a soon as I am done (saving Lauren from actually washing such a utensil). My wife however, thinks it is okay to stick that type of stuff into the dishwasher. I hate, hate, hate that. Cooking utensils (pots and pans and wisks and spatulas) are supposed to be hand washed after you use them. The reason for this is so that when you cook the next day, you do not have to take the stuff out of the half full dishwasher, that has not been run yet, and hand wash it, to use it to cook with at that time.
Anyway, I went away for a few days for work, when i got back I was trying to cook dinner and I said something like, "Lauren where is the collander? Wait let me guess you used it today and did not wash it."
She said, "No I am using it for somthing else. But by the way I put a spatlua in the dishwasher."
She knew this would hurt me. She knew this would cut to the core.
The 3rd Wife peeve that I have is this. Max and I go food shopping and leave Lauren at home so she can make some stuff. (Like a baby gift, a wedding gift and some stuff for Kristine at Random and Odd). When we get home she says " Did you get some FA shIZZLE?"
I replied, "If the Fa shizzle is referring to Bryers Ice cream , Yes I got Two."
"No, I was talking about club soda."
"Oh Sorry, I was not sure what FA shIZZLE you were referring to BiOTCH."
"What? I am not going to repsond to you calling me that name." , she said.
"Uhh, ehhh well yea but that is because you just said Fa shizzins,. I am just trying talk the language."
"What the Language of your peeps?"
The last wife Peeve I have is that I am writing this, and telling her I am badmouthing her on my blog she say, "Fine, I have just as many people that like ME on your blog, that like YOU."
D'oh!.
In Strictest Confidence
I have not told a story about my parent's in a while. Part of this blog is supposed to be about them and how I was raised.
Growing up if I had a secret to share, or I needed to rat someone out but did not want to be considered the rat, or had an embarrassing situation that I needed help with, I told my mom. I think everyone in my family did.
Mom was not a gossip. She did not tell the neighbors secret information. Sure sometimes she would tell her sisters (she has 9) but that was to be expected. I of course would be mad if she disclosed information. “Mom I can’t believe you told Aunt Z. that I told you that I thought her kids were brats.”
“Well when you told me,” she would say, “you didn’t say it was in strictest confidence.”,
So if you ever wanted her sworn secrecy, you had to preface your confession, secret, dirty laundry or what not with “This is in Strictest Confidence”. It was the code for “Please, please, please swear to god, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye, that you will not tell another living soul.”
Most of the secrets were silly things about girlfriends or friends or brothers. Sometimes they were more serious situations like, “Mom, I am quitting my job to work in theater.” Or “This in strictest confidence, but I am living with my girlfriend.”
Usually I would tell her things so she could act like a buffer when I had to tell my dad. She sometimes would lecture. Sometimes offer counsel or advice. But as far as I know she always kept the secret.
To this day I use the "In strictest confidence" code with my brothers. Sometimes I use it with friends and I forget they are not "in" on the code, that "In strictest confidence" is not a universal code for secrecy. It gets me into trouble form time to time.
This is NOT in strictest confidence. I love you Mom.
I expect a ton of comments from my brothers about me sucking up to mom.
Growing up if I had a secret to share, or I needed to rat someone out but did not want to be considered the rat, or had an embarrassing situation that I needed help with, I told my mom. I think everyone in my family did.
Mom was not a gossip. She did not tell the neighbors secret information. Sure sometimes she would tell her sisters (she has 9) but that was to be expected. I of course would be mad if she disclosed information. “Mom I can’t believe you told Aunt Z. that I told you that I thought her kids were brats.”
“Well when you told me,” she would say, “you didn’t say it was in strictest confidence.”,
So if you ever wanted her sworn secrecy, you had to preface your confession, secret, dirty laundry or what not with “This is in Strictest Confidence”. It was the code for “Please, please, please swear to god, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye, that you will not tell another living soul.”
Most of the secrets were silly things about girlfriends or friends or brothers. Sometimes they were more serious situations like, “Mom, I am quitting my job to work in theater.” Or “This in strictest confidence, but I am living with my girlfriend.”
Usually I would tell her things so she could act like a buffer when I had to tell my dad. She sometimes would lecture. Sometimes offer counsel or advice. But as far as I know she always kept the secret.
To this day I use the "In strictest confidence" code with my brothers. Sometimes I use it with friends and I forget they are not "in" on the code, that "In strictest confidence" is not a universal code for secrecy. It gets me into trouble form time to time.
This is NOT in strictest confidence. I love you Mom.
I expect a ton of comments from my brothers about me sucking up to mom.
Monday, August 01, 2005
A Play
A Play
Written by: William
Time : 8 pm on a warm summer evening
Place: The stage is set to look like a middle class living room. Center stage is a brown, micro-fiber, 3-cushion sofa. The front armrests are slightly damaged by what appears to be cat claws. Next to the sofa, stage right is a square end table. Upon the table is a lamp, coasters and half a dozen books. Stage right of the end table is a wicker back chair with a soft, green, one-piece cushion that fits both the seat and the back. The cushion is hanging off at the top seam where the glint of staples can be seen.
Down stage center is a coffee table, which matches the end table. A television remote control and a few Lego blocks are scattered across the shiny wood grained surface.
Entering stage right is a man in his mid thirties. He is of normal build with dark hair and a salt and pepper (more pepper than salt) goatee beard. He is devilishy handsome. He sorts through the books on the end table and decides on a thick tome. He sits on the couch to the far stage right. He props his right elbow on the armrest and sets the book on his lap. He grabs the remote and clicks on the television, which is down center stage, and relaxes back into the comfort of the corner of the couch. The side pillow props him up. He flips through the pages of the book.
Enter stage right is a woman who, although in her early thirties appears no older than 25. Her long brown hair cascades off her shoulders. Her skin is flawless except for a few Sunkist freckles across her nose. She is wearing dark shorts and a yellow tank top. The left strap of the tank top has fallen slightly off her shoulder revealing a well toned, perfectly formed shoulder. She smiles at the man. The smile reaches her eyes, which disappear in the squint of her smile. She has a relaxed way about her. She stretches, relieving all tension in her neck and back. The man’s eyes rise from the book to take in her beauty.
She glances at the man and smiles again, a knowing smile, and she sits in the wicker chair. She sighs. She speaks.
Woman: OH God! My hands smell like the poop from Max’s diaper. Oohh. Gross.
She exits.
THE END.
Written by: William
Time : 8 pm on a warm summer evening
Place: The stage is set to look like a middle class living room. Center stage is a brown, micro-fiber, 3-cushion sofa. The front armrests are slightly damaged by what appears to be cat claws. Next to the sofa, stage right is a square end table. Upon the table is a lamp, coasters and half a dozen books. Stage right of the end table is a wicker back chair with a soft, green, one-piece cushion that fits both the seat and the back. The cushion is hanging off at the top seam where the glint of staples can be seen.
Down stage center is a coffee table, which matches the end table. A television remote control and a few Lego blocks are scattered across the shiny wood grained surface.
Entering stage right is a man in his mid thirties. He is of normal build with dark hair and a salt and pepper (more pepper than salt) goatee beard. He is devilishy handsome. He sorts through the books on the end table and decides on a thick tome. He sits on the couch to the far stage right. He props his right elbow on the armrest and sets the book on his lap. He grabs the remote and clicks on the television, which is down center stage, and relaxes back into the comfort of the corner of the couch. The side pillow props him up. He flips through the pages of the book.
Enter stage right is a woman who, although in her early thirties appears no older than 25. Her long brown hair cascades off her shoulders. Her skin is flawless except for a few Sunkist freckles across her nose. She is wearing dark shorts and a yellow tank top. The left strap of the tank top has fallen slightly off her shoulder revealing a well toned, perfectly formed shoulder. She smiles at the man. The smile reaches her eyes, which disappear in the squint of her smile. She has a relaxed way about her. She stretches, relieving all tension in her neck and back. The man’s eyes rise from the book to take in her beauty.
She glances at the man and smiles again, a knowing smile, and she sits in the wicker chair. She sighs. She speaks.
Woman: OH God! My hands smell like the poop from Max’s diaper. Oohh. Gross.
She exits.
THE END.
Sunday Munch
Yesterday, Lauren, Max and I went for a morning walk at about 9am. We walked down the block when we saw one of neighbors with her beagle. Max finds it very difficult to walk by a dog without trying to grab a handful of hair as a keepsake. We said hello, and Max ran over to the beagle and sat down on the grass to pet it.
I looked at where Max was sitting and realized he plopped his ass right on top of an anthill. I scooped him up with my left arm under his butt. I started to feel a tingly sensation on my forearm. I looked and saw that Max was covered in ants. Frantically I started to smack them off of his shorts. The neighbor lady said something like “well they don’t look like the red fire ants.”
The tingly sensation was now becoming a prickly sensation on my arm and on my left leg. I looked down and there were about 100 ants crawling up my ankle and calf. These buggers were biting me. They were biting hard. It felt like needles. If they were biting me, they were biting Max.
Within seconds I started getting welts on my forearm and leg. I am holding Max with my left arm, smacking ants on Max with my right arm, meanwhile the ants are treating my leg like it is a buffet. Lauren is assisting me with the herd of ants on Max and says we should take off his shorts, which we did. The neighbor lady says something like “Good Luck” and leaves. Lauren took Max. Now that I had hands free I started to smack my legs and kill the fuckers that were feasting on my ankle. They got into my sock and shoe so I had to take them off.
We decided to head home to give Max a bath and check his bites. I am sure it was a funny sight to see. The three of us walking up the street, Max with no pants, me with one shoe on and one shoe off, and each of us randomly smacking our bodies because of the phantom ants that feel like they are crawling on us.
Max had about 10 welts on his ankle and 2 on his back. I had 15 bites on my arm and too many to count on my leg. It was not a good start to our Sunday.
I can still feel them crawling on me. (shudder).
I looked at where Max was sitting and realized he plopped his ass right on top of an anthill. I scooped him up with my left arm under his butt. I started to feel a tingly sensation on my forearm. I looked and saw that Max was covered in ants. Frantically I started to smack them off of his shorts. The neighbor lady said something like “well they don’t look like the red fire ants.”
The tingly sensation was now becoming a prickly sensation on my arm and on my left leg. I looked down and there were about 100 ants crawling up my ankle and calf. These buggers were biting me. They were biting hard. It felt like needles. If they were biting me, they were biting Max.
Within seconds I started getting welts on my forearm and leg. I am holding Max with my left arm, smacking ants on Max with my right arm, meanwhile the ants are treating my leg like it is a buffet. Lauren is assisting me with the herd of ants on Max and says we should take off his shorts, which we did. The neighbor lady says something like “Good Luck” and leaves. Lauren took Max. Now that I had hands free I started to smack my legs and kill the fuckers that were feasting on my ankle. They got into my sock and shoe so I had to take them off.
We decided to head home to give Max a bath and check his bites. I am sure it was a funny sight to see. The three of us walking up the street, Max with no pants, me with one shoe on and one shoe off, and each of us randomly smacking our bodies because of the phantom ants that feel like they are crawling on us.
Max had about 10 welts on his ankle and 2 on his back. I had 15 bites on my arm and too many to count on my leg. It was not a good start to our Sunday.
I can still feel them crawling on me. (shudder).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
