Category Archives: Kids & Grandkids

Adventures of a House-Husband: Christmas Edition

All About Me, Arts, Books and Literature, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Pets, Religion, Uncategorized, Wives

Merry Christmas everybody! Right now, I’m sitting here feeling sorry for anybody who isn’t me. Last night, in an effort to minimize the cooking over the next couple of days, I whipped up another huge batch of Slopbucket; arguably the greatest and deadliest meal known to man (the recipe is in another post entitled “Adventures of a House-Husband: Home Cooking Edition”). It was, in a word, AWESOME!!!!! That knocking you heard last night? That was the sound of my arteries (and possibly my colon as well: there’s a LOT of Velveeta in this stuff), slamming shut and reverberating around the world. That weird and ominous thundery yet kinda gurgly noise you heard this morning?  It was probably just weird and ominous gurgly thunder (but there are a LOT of peppers and chili seasoning in this stuff too).

Even more awesome is the fact that there’s enough left over for supper tonight, and it just gets better with age, like wine, whisky, and my wife, the lovely and gustatorily adventurous Jess (although she’s still just 27, as far as I’m concerned). I haven’t looked forward to supper this much since . . . well, last night, I guess. Still, I’m really looking forward to it. A lot. You might want to sleep with your earplugs in though. But enough about that.

I decided to try something different this year; cooking dessert stuff. Every year, my wife, the ever-more-awesome and eternally lovely Jess, makes Christmas candy, primarily Buckeyes, Peanut Clusters, and what she calls Moose Balls (don’t knock ’em ’til you try ’em). They’re basically Buckeyes, only instead of peanut butter, it’s cream cheese and crushed Oreo cookies rolled into balls and dipped in chocolate. They’re awesome, and I love ’em, but I got to thinking that she might enjoy something new. Plus people keep posting videos of how to make all this stuff on the Facebook, and it looks so simple. Seriously, watch the videos: it’s almost like the stuff makes itself.

Chocolate Lasagna

I mean it combines two of my favorite meals; Chocolate and Lasagna. What could go wrong?

And then there was this: Cinnamon Roll French Toast Bake. The sweet-toothed and just plain sweet Jess loves her some Cinnamon Rolls. I figured she’d enjoy this for breakfast Christmas morning (Sorry, I can’t figure out how to link the video, but here’s one to the recipe).

The Chocolate Lasagna looked to be the most complex, so this morning, I started with that. It went pretty well, although the first step was to mix some stuff up and set it aside. I did that, but then it was really kind of unclear as to what to do with it. I also learned that using a mixer is a skill. A skill I do not possess, apparently. Those little whirligigs can really fling the heavy whipping cream. You’d think that something like that would come with some kind of cover, or they’d make mixing bowls with deeper sides, or something.

Fortunately, I had Dude, Mattie, and Molly, a highly efficient and enthusiastic cleanup crew. They had my back. And my chest and legs, as well as the walls, countertops, etc (yeah, it got a little freaky in the ol’ kitchen this morning). Anyway, I got everything mixed up and ready. I put down the first layer of Graham crackers, and started smearing the cream cheese mixture over it. Now in the video, it smeared right along, with no problem at all. Not in my kitchen though. In my kitchen, it was like trying to get rid of snot. That stuff stuck to everything, and wouldn’t spread out at all. I ended up with the Graham crackers piling up and shattering into pieces which I then had to try to put back into something resembling a layer, like a frustrating (but delicious) jigsaw puzzle.

Finally, I referred to the recipe. Yep, I was doing just what it said. Oh wait . . . remember that bowl of stuff I’d mixed up and then set aside? Yeah, neither did I. There was a sentence in the middle of a paragraph that said to “fold” it into the cream cheese mixture. Now, I don’t have any idea how to fold a liquid, so I “dumped” it in, mixed it up, and everything went fine after that. It really makes me wonder about who wrote that recipe though. I mean, you just don’t stick something like that in the middle of a paragraph. There should have been a separate step in there. Were they pressed for space? Were they limited to a certain number of steps? Or, were they just expecting the people who used that recipe to know what they were doing? If that was the case, then they were wrong. Very, very wrong.

At any rate, I got that done and put in the fridge, and tackled the Cinnamon Roll French Toast Bake. Now that one really looked easy. Twenty minutes later, I was still trying to get that first can of cinnamon rolls open. Poppin’ fresh, my ass. They might be fresh, but there was very little poppin’ going on. I’ll admit, I was a little worried. The instructions warned me to make sure I pointed the ends of the can away from myself to prevent injury. Apparently those things are under a lot of pressure. I could not get that thing open to save my life. I even read the instructions. They said, “Push spoon against seam. Unroll tube.” I tried a spoon. No luck. I tried a butter knife. Still no luck. Finally, I resorted to a steak knife. That did the trick. Apparently (happily) the Pillsbury people are laboring under an extreme misunderstanding about how much pressure that cardboard tube contains. There was no pop, not even when I stabbed it with the steak knife. A little oozing maybe, but certainly not the explosive blast I was led to expect. I’ve got to say, I felt a little silly (and kind of disappointed, too).

Anyway, I got it done, and both dishes turned out great. Well, at least they look great. We have yet to try them. Still, I’m feeling pretty optimistic about it.

Of course, Christmas isn’t just about food. It’s also about presents.

Now I don’t know about you, but in my family, traditionally, it’s the grandparents who give the worst gifts. Don’t get me wrong, when I was a kid, I always looked forward to going to my grandparent’s houses for Christmas, but it was because I looked forward to seeing them and all my cousins (plus, my Dad’s folks lived in Florida, and Pa had a huge collection of Louis L’amour and Max Brand westerns). It was not for the gifts, which were normally underwear and socks, or their equivalent.

Note: If you are one of my grandkids, you should stop reading now, unless you’re just into preemptive disappointment. Seriously. Plus, what are you doing reading this blog? I’m pretty sure there’s some at least mildly inappropriate stuff on here. There’s certainly supposed to be. Go read something good for you!!!!!

Now my wife, the cool and generous Jess, and I have always tried to get the grandkids something pretty cool for Christmas, but this year, I decided it was time to go traditional. I do, of course, remember the expected disappointment of opening deceptively festively wrapped packages of underwear and socks, so I decided to go a different route. We got them books. Now, when I was a kid, I would have been thrilled to get books (yes, I was a weird kid), but I’m not sure my grandkids will be equally excited. Still, they’re good books, and they’re smart kids, so who knows?

I got the oldest boy Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. It’s a great book, and full of stuff that he’s almost certainly not going to learn about in school. Plus, he’s gone with me to the Rez a few times now, and I feel like to understand the present situation out there, you have to have some understanding of the history.

I got the oldest girl My Name is Malala, the story of an Afghan girl, Malala Yousafzai, who was shot in the head for insisting on going to school, survived that to face her attackers, and won the Nobel Peace Prize by the age of 16. I figure in a world full of Kardashians, Britney Spears’es (she’s still a thing, right?), Miley Ray Cyrus’es and various other assorted females who seem to be mostly famous to for their ability to vibrate their posteriors faster than the speed of sound, as well as the scarcity of their clothes, she could do worse than learn about a girl only slightly older than herself who stands for something good, does it fearlessly (or maybe in spite of fear), and is trying to make the world a better place. I also figure that if nothing else, it would be good for her to learn that not all Muslims are psychopathically religious headcases who want to kill her.

Jess got the younger boy The Indian in the Cupboard. Hopefully, it will induce a love of reading like Jess and I have. I don’t think it’s particularly heavy or inspirational, but we both started out reading fantastic adventures, and we figure it’s a good way to get him started.

At the very least, it should be less disappointing than socks and underwear.

Of course, gifts aren’t even what Christmas is really about, they’re just symbolic.

The Real Meaning of Christmas

If you really want to know what Christmas is all about, you’re looking in the wrong place. This is a silly place (mostly), for silly ramblings. The real meaning of Christmas is beautiful, and deadly serious. Look around you. All those people of different races, creeds, colors, lifestyles, etc.? They’re what Christmas is all about. They’re why He came. Well, them, and you, and me (that’s what I believe. You, of course, are welcome to believe what you believe as well). If you need more information than that, go to church tonight.

At any rate, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy Kwanzaa to all.

 

 

World’s Worst Grandpa Tells All!

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids

I may be the world’s worst Grandpa, and at this point, I’m okay with that.

So, for somewhere between the last two days and 300 years, I’ve been babysitting my two youngest grand-daughters, Charlotte, age five, and Sharon, age four. Two of the sweetest, most well-behaved little girls in the world, two of the brightest lights of my life . . . and I can’t wait for them to go home. I’m exhausted, and they’re exhausting. See, it’s VBS (Vacation Bible School) week at our church, and they both wanted to go. Since all their parents work nights, we figured it would just be easier if they stayed with us.

It was true, but I have to ask now, “Easier for who?” Certainly not me! I’ll admit it; I like the peace and quiet. I like not having to talk to anyone all day, and not having anyone talk to me all day. I like doing things at my own pace, when I want (usually in a last-minute fluff-and-stuff scramble just before Jess gets home from work so that she thinks I did more than stare at the Facebook and play Spider Solitaire all day). I’ve found that you can’t do that with little girls running around like Visigoths plundering the Coliseum (a more apt comparison than you might think. If you doubt me, ask any parents with small kids.).

Two of the sweetest little savages that ever completely wrecked a Grandpa.
Two of the sweetest little savages that ever completely wrecked a Grandpa.

No, no, no. You’ve got to do everything on THEIR schedule (you can forget about ever being one step ahead of them). Nope, from the time their giggling little voices giving orders to the dogs in the living room wakes you up, to the third time you tell them to GET BACK INTO BED, THERE’S NO WAY YOU CAN HAVE TO PEE AGAIN ALREADY!, you’re just scrambling to keep up. At this point, I’m just grateful that my wife, the wise and blissfully employed Jess, told them they have to stay in bed until it’s at least daylight out.

Now you know me, I like to get up around the crack of noon (I don’t get to do it as often as I’d like, but it is something I shoot for every day possible). This morning, the giggling and peeking in the door started at 6:45 a.m. I’d forgotten that God even turned the air on that early. So I get up, and stagger to the bathroom. I’m still on the can when it starts: “Grandpa, whatcha doin’? Grandpa, can we watch TV? Grandpa, are you pooping or peeing? Grandpa, what’s that smell? Grandpa, what are we doing today? Grandpa, where’s my pants?” I mean, I haven’t even found my own pants yet, I’m still trying to get my eyes to focus. I don’t need this kind of pressure this early in the morning. I’ve reached a point in my life where the pressure in my bladder first thing in the morning is almost more than I can handle. Also, it’s just unnerving to be sitting there on the can, face in your hands, drawers around your ankles, trying to brace yourself for the day, and suddenly hear an angelic pair of voices right in you ear saying “Grandpa, we brushed our teeth already,” and pry your bleary eyes open to see two little girls staring at you from about six inches away, their pajamas covered from neck to waist in sparkly kids toothpaste.

And then there’s the hurt look in their little faces when you tell them, “You need to get out of here. Grandpa doesn’t need any help.” Like they think they’re going to miss something. OOOOOH, Grandpa doesn’t love us! He won’t even let us watch him wipe his butt!!!” These kids really need to learn some things about the need for privacy and personal space. I suppose it could be that they’ve never had any themselves, but still.

Did I mention how much I love peace and quiet? Oh yeah, those are long gone. I had forgotten how incredibly loud little girls are. These kids don’t have indoors voices and outdoor voices. They have stranger voices and familiar voices. When they’re talking to strangers, like the VBS teachers, they’ve got these cute, adorable, and above all quiet, little-girl voices (often with a lithp that just puts them off the chart, adorably speaking) that make them sound just oh-so-darling. When they’re with Their people, they’ve got voices that can break glass, and everything they say is at full volume. IT’S LIKE THEY CAN ONLY SPEAK IN ALL CAPS OR SOMETHING! Unless, of course, they’re in trouble, like when they feed the dog their breakfast despite being told specifically not to, just 30 seconds before, in which their voice turns into an unintelligible mumble of denial. The adorable lisp turns into a four-star speech impediment. It makes asking them, “What did I tell you!?” just another source of frustration, because the standard reply sounds something like, “idinmeantodudetookitold’mnottos’notmyfault.” and usually ends with something that sounds remarkably like “bullshit” just after they turn their head away so you can’t see their lips.

Take my advice. Don’t fall for it. It’s a trap. You think you heard “bullshit”, so naturally, you respond, “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?” They, of course, look you right in the eye, and say perfectly clearly, “Nothing,” and all of a sudden, you’re the bad guy. Not only have you had a hand in raising this foul-mouthed little villain, you know there’s a better-than-even chance that they learned both the word, and the behavior from you (don’t believe me, take a step back and watch yourself next time you find yourself on the losing side of an argument with your spouse).

Then there’s the fact that they are only capable of movement if their operating at full volume. If they don’t have anything in particular to say, they’re happy with a simple, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Who knew such little lungs could have such high capacity?

OOOH, and let’s not forget the incessant singing. It doesn’t matter that they don’t know the words (or even the tune), they’ll sing it anyway. Everything they sing sounds like a drunk 50-year-old singing “Louie, Louie” at a Karaoke bar while refusing to read the screen because, “They don’t got the words right. I’ve been listening to this song all my life! I don’t need no stinking bouncing ball!”

Of course, if no song springs to their tiny, still-forming mind, they’re perfectly content to just sing whatever you just told them, which is how, this morning, I was trying to get all the kids and dogs inside for breakfast, and ended up with Sharon doing some kind of Mick Jagger-style strut singing tunelessly (and out of tune) “EHHHVAAA-BOTTTTTY, GET INNNN-SIIIIIIDE!” over and over again. Trust me, it did not help. I listen to a lot of Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Beatles, Lucero, Tom Petty, Todd Snider, and Stone Coyotes, so our dogs know what good music sounds like, and they were not going anywhere near something that sounded like that. It was really quite painful, and there’s just no way to tell a four-year-old that she can’t carry a tune in a bucket without hurting her feelings (I’m a terrible Grandpa, but I’m not a jerk.)

A couple quick notes on the care and feeding of little girls. I know when I was a kid, any kid (boy or girl) who ate creamy peanut butter and insisted on having the crust cut off was immediately deemed a sissy,  and strongly suspected of severe Kootification. Now, apparently, it’s de rigueur. Apparently, so is the complete refusal to eat anything with any type of flavor, substance, or any of the things that make food worth eating. I kind of think that Charlotte would happily eat nothing but drywall, as long as I fixed it with creamy drywall mud.

And then of course there’s the whole trying to live up to the adult feminine expectations. As my wife, the reasonably-but-not-overly appearance conscious Jess, was hastily ripping a brush through the tangled hair of the fruit-of-my-loins-once-removed, she asked, “Did you brush their hair this morning?” Of course not. I didn’t brush mine either. That’s why I have a hat. I would have thought that she’d be happy that they weren’t still in their pj’s (as a result of that last minute fluff and stuff, of course).

Also, little girls need to be entertained. When I was a kid, an adult entertained children by telling them, “Go outside!”, and bang, their work was done. Not so much any more. Now it’s all, “Play a game with me, push me on the swing, pull me up the slide, catch me sliding down the pole.” There’s no freaking end to it. It’s like they’re little, easily-bored black holes of attention. And God help you if it looks like the other one might be getting more. They’re worse than IRS auditors, scrupulously making sure that each of them gets exactly the same number of swing pushes, slide pulls, pole catches, etc. and at exactly the same level of push-pull-catchitude.

Finally, I let them drive the golf cart. Since Sharon lives right next door and has lots of chances to drive it, she decided to let Charlotte do all the driving (I did mention that they were both very sweet, right?), and drive it, Charlotte did. Actually, she did very well for a five-year-old who’d never done it before. I was pretty proud of her. Fortunately, we have about 20 acres that are reasonably golf cart friendly, so we weren’t just driving in a circle (well, we were, but it was a really big circle). I also quickly figured out that Sharon wasn’t motivated purely by altruism. She cleverly realized that, with Charlotte doing all the hard part (like not driving into trees), she herself was free to stand on the back of the cart and shriek shrilly into my ear every time we hit a bump, which out here is approximately every three-and-a-half seconds, no matter where you’re at. It made for a phenomenally spine-jarring, ear-splitting few hours. They, of course, loved every bump, bounce, and screechalicious minute. We rode that thing for three days yesterday. Thank God the battery finally wound down today.

Now, I’ve been trying to keep them away from the TV as much as I can, but finally, today, I threw in the towel. We watched Penguins of Madagascar (which was actually pretty funny), and then I put on Sherman and Mr. Peabody (or something like that. Let’s face it, it could have been Pulp Fiction, as long as it kept them entertained), and came in here to write. Okay, full disclosure, I’m not writing so much as hiding at this point.

P.S. The movie ended a little bit ago, and the neighbor kid (another five-year-old girl) came over to kill time ’til we all go to VBS. They’re all in the spare bedroom playing dress-up. Either that or trying to break Pink Floyd’s decibel record. Possibly both.

Grandkids. I love ’em dearly, I’d do anything for ’em, and I’m sooooo glad they go home tonight.

I realize that some may think that, in light of recent events, this picture is in poor taste, but I felt that refusing to use it would be letting the big-game hunting dental douchebag from Minnesota win. Comedy Lives!
I realize that some may think that, in light of recent events, this picture is in poor taste, but I felt that refusing to use it would be letting the big-game hunting dental douchebag from Minnesota win. Comedy Lives!

 

Judge Smails Rides Again! And Nobody Realized It.

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Wives

So I’ve been trying to write a new post for weeks now, without success. I’ve started I don’t know how many, and I just kept either getting angry, which is bad, or getting depressed, which is worse, about every one. Part of the problem was mostly, I was writing about politics. I’m having a hard time writing satirically about politics right now, mostly because the whole political system is already seeming like a “Spinal Tap”-style mockumentary.

But we just had a really good weekend here at Casa de Moon (see, those two semesters of college Spanish finally paid off), so I thought I’d just tell you about that instead. Like all weekends, it had its ups and downs, but for the most part, it was the best weekend I’ve had in quite a while.

It all started with my little brother David and his wife and kids coming up from Florida for his son, Jonathon’s wedding. They got here on Wednesday, and in honor of their visit, we had the whole family in (or at least all those who could make it) for Pizza King and cards. We had a great time, and a lot of laughs. It was totally worth all the housework I had to do to get ready. See that’s one of the problems with being a house-husband; my wife, the lovely and estimable Jess, still went into her pre-family gathering cleaning frenzy, but since she was working, I was the one who had to do the actual cleaning, and I’ll be honest, I’m not good at it. It all just seems so pointless. I look at it from a guy’s point of view; if company can visit without the fear of actually sticking to anything, then it’s clean enough (you guys know what I’m talking about). Jess, God bless ‘er, feels differently, so it turned into about a week of her leaving me a daily “honey-do” list, and me trying to figure out what she wanted done (define “dusting”, does she want a “guy” dusting, which is basically sweeping a hand across the front of the shelf, or does she want the full-on “Pledge and a dust-rag, take stuff off the shelf, instead of dusting around the stuff, even if it can’t be seen” kind? Guess which one she wanted. It only took me two tries to guess correctly.)

I felt she really got carried away with it. Every day, she’d put “put away dishes” on the list. Now I ask you, what’s the point of that? We used those plates last night, we’ll use them again tonight, and tomorrow night too, probably. It’s so much more convenient to just grab them out of the dish drainer than out of the cupboard. She even wanted me to vacuum the kitchen floor. Now what, I ask you, is the point of that? We have dogs (the poor man’s Roomba). But I digress.

So everybody got here, and we had a great time. Lots of laughs, everybody enjoyed themselves, and I almost won one game of “Up and Down the River”, our family game. It may be the bloodiest, most cut-throat non-gambling card games ever invented, and we play it every time we get more than 4 of us get together. One of these days, I’ll write up the rules for you, so that you too can enjoy the frustration and hilarity of having your throat cut by your 84 year old aunt.

Then came Friday, and the English geek bonfire. Another great time. Kind of a small showing, but a really good time. It was really good to have folks around who enjoy talking about books and writers and writing. It was, in some ways, an evening of discovery. For example, I discovered that I have regained my amateur standing as regards drinking. I was standing there, mumbling some inane story (my apologies to all those who were present), when it hit me; I’ve gotta pee. So I excused myself and wandered over to the trees to take care of business. While I stood there, leaning against the tree, talking to myself, it occurred to me, “I’m a lot drunker than I ought to be.” Then, as if to confirm the fact, it also occurred to me, “I think I need to puke.”

Some of the best English geeks ever!
Some of the best English geeks ever!

I was right. A couple of times. On the up side, I didn’t get any on me, or simultaneously soil myself in any other way, so I have not lost all my skills, but still, it was kind of disappointing. I haven’t drunk ’til I puked in years. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I did, so this came as a complete surprise. Shortly thereafter, the party broke up (it was pretty late, so I don’t think the two were necessarily related). At any rate, the painfully honest and beautiful but merciless Jess assured me that I was not being a jerk, so that was nice.

So we get back to the house and got ready for bed, and we realize that we’d forgotten to take our pills, so it’s back to the kitchen for that. Unfortunately, I missed my mouth with one of the pills. Naturally, it was one of the little, white ones, so even though we heard it hit the floor, it blended right in with the linoleum. Of course, that’s the problem with the poor man’s Roomba, they’ll eat anything, which is how we ended up crawling around on the floor, butt naked, at three o’clock in the morning, laughing like idiots. Especially when we figured out that we couldn’t find it because when I got down to look for it, it got stuck to my knee, and it was just moving around the floor with me.

So that was a pretty good night.

So Saturday morning, I wake up with a low-grade hangover (something else I haven’t had in years), and a wedding to go to. My nephew Jonathon, a great kid, was getting married to a very pretty and sweet girl named Jessica (which contributed to the Wednesday night hilarity greatly, trying to figure out how to differentiate between Jon’s Jess and my own lovely Jess. The first suggestion “new Jess and old Jess” was quickly shot down, as was “little Jess and big Jess”. I think we settled on “new Jess and classic Jess”), at the Indianapolis Yacht Club, which is hilarious in and of itself, kind of like the Florida Alpine Club.

As it happens though, David and I are also both fans of the comedy classic, Caddyshack. We grew up watching it over and over again. So it seemed a shame to miss the opportunity to pay homage to one of our primary formative influences. For the ceremony, itself, I went with the plain old suit and tie, out of respect, but for the reception, I ditched the tie for a Captain’s hat and cravat, going for the Judge Smails yacht-club boat christening look.

Alright, I'm no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.
Alright, I’m no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.

Apparently, Caddyshack is nowhere near as popular as it used to be. I was called Mr. Howell several times, as well as Skipper, and there were quite a few who apparently thought I was actually part of the Yacht Club, there to keep an eye on things. The funniest part was when they said that the table captain would be around to explain to each table the method of serving dinner, and everybody in the place looked at me. Still, a good time was had by all. It was a lovely ceremony, and everyone seemed to enjoy the reception a lot. I got to see some old friends that I haven’t seen outside of a funeral in years, which was nice. My granddaughter, little Sharon, really enjoyed line dancing with the bride, and I enjoyed watching.

Also, my oldest daughter Kim made it to the wedding, which was a surprise, as was her bright blue hair. When I was getting ready for the reception, she said, “Hey, I’ve got a captain’s hat in my car too!”

The nut didn't fall far from the tree here. Great diseased minds think alike! I've never been so proud.
The nut didn’t fall far from the tree here. Great diseased minds think alike! I’ve never been so proud.

It also helped that my nephew is also a Caddyshack fan, and his lovely bride Jess has a great sense of humor.

Jon and new Jess, and the family's designated weird, flaky uncle.
Jon and new Jess, and the family’s designated weird, flaky uncle.

All things considered, it was a great weekend, despite the fact that I had to keep explaining the whole Caddyshack thing. Looking back at the pictures from that evening, though, I can see how people might be inclined to think of the Skipper or Mr. Howell. What do you think?

Judge Smails, aka Ted Knight
Judge Smails, aka Ted Knight
The Skipper aka Alan Hale
The Skipper aka Alan Hale
Mr. Howell, aka Jim Backus
Mr. Howell, aka Jim Backus

 

Alright, I'm no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.
Alright, I’m no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.

 

At any rate, it’s an honor to be compared to any of these comedy giants!

So that’s pretty much it; a great weekend. My deep thanks (and apologies where necessary) to my family, friends, and fellow English geeks. I needed that.

Grandkids, Knowing Your Limitations, and the Wayne County Fair Carnival of Death

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids
Me in one of my preferred recreational activities
Me in one of my preferred recreational activities

I’ve always prided myself on being kind of a tough guy. Not particularly strong or courageous, but tough, in the sense that I could absorb a lot of punishment and keep going. Lately, I find myself forced to rethink that. It seems that the older I get, the less tough I get, and to add insult to injury, I don’t seem to be getting any smarter in order to compensate for it.

Last friday, my wife, the fun-loving and adventurous Jess and I took our grandson, Austin, age 12, and granddaughter Sharon, age 3 1/2, to the Wayne county fair. It had already been a long day for me, covering the livestock auction for our local paper, where I’m currently employed as the world’s oldest unpaid intern. I got home that evening soaked with sweat and covered with bug bites.

We loaded the kids up and headed into town. We stopped at Clara’s Pizza King for supper, because neither Jess nor I had had anything to eat all day. This was my first tragic error in judgement for the night. Not that there was anything wrong with the food or the service, both were excellent, but it showed an astonishing lack of foresight on my part.

In choosing pizza, we failed to take into consideration my complete inability to know when to stop (and frankly, I blame Jess for this particular failure), as well as the heat at the fair, which was hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell.

Then we went to the fair. When I was a kid, I loved all the rides. The wilder the better, as far as I was concerned. Nothing ever bothered me. I saw no reason to suspect that anything had changed. We started off with Jess taking Sharon on the “Crazy Bus” kiddie ride, just to see how she would do on the rides. Austin and I got quite a few laughs, watching Jess trapped in that tiny bus with about 50 screaming little kids, going up and down in circles. Jess survived, Sharon loved it, and I had no idea how quickly I’d be getting my comeuppance.

Austin wanted to ride the “Sizzler”, one of those old classics where you’re locked into a seat and flung around in circles. Sharon was really disappointed that she wasn’t tall enough to ride. Austin still wanted to ride it, and I remembered that those rides are not nearly as much fun by yourself. When I was a kid, my little brother David and I always rode them together, and since we didn’t have any other kids with us, I decided to be a good Grandpa and ride it with him. Tragic error in judgement #2.

Like I said before, I wasn’t worried. When I was a kid, I loved those freakin’ things. David and I would ride them over and over again, waiving our hands in the air, and trying to find ways to make them even worse. I thought, “Sure I’m older and fatter, but so what? Gravity hasn’t changed. Besides, in the Air Force, I learned techniques for dealing with G-forces. I’ll just put that training to good use, and show this kid that the old man can still be a fun guy.” I wasn’t even fazed by the fact that it was a tight fit (embarrassingly so, actually). I just figured that it would just hold me in place even better, so I could just sit back and enjoy the ride while Austin’s skinny little body would be skidding all over the place.

Wrong.

The ride started up, and I really enjoyed it. For about the 1st 30 seconds or so. The next 2 1/2 hours of the 3 minute ride, not so much. Rarely ever, in a lifetime of being wrong, have I ever been so completely wrong about anything. Austin didn’t skid around, he was mashed securely and fairly comfortably right up against me, laughing like an idiot.

Gravity hadn’t changed since I was a kid, but I had neglected to consider how the changes in me would allow the same old gravity to affect me. I had absolutely failed to realize that the more of me there is, the more of me there is to be affected by gravity (and believe me, there’s a lot more of me now than there was back in my daredevil heyday). My Air Force training was all for nothing. I had thought that the safety rail crushing into me would kind of act like a G-suit, giving me something to push against. It didn’t. In fact, it seemed completely useless. I was wedged into the corner of the seat so tightly that no force on earth could have forced me out, even without the safety bar.

Frankly, it seemed to me that the only purpose it served was to put so much pressure on my midsection that I wasn’t sure which way I was going to lose my pizza, up or down (although if I was a betting man, and I am, my money would have been on both, simultaneously). After about 45 seconds, my neck muscles locked into place from the strain of keeping my massive skull from being ripped off my shoulders (it takes a huge cranium to store all these apparently dead brain cells) by the centrifugal forces, so I couldn’t turn my head. All I could do was sit there with a grimace of pain etched on my face (it’s finally starting to relax), and try to accomplish the near-impossible task of pushing against the G-forces while simultaneously trying to keep all possible exits from my body clamped tightly shut. At one point, I’m pretty sure I lost a partially digested breadstick through my right ear.

Eventually, the giant portable instrument of torture slowed to a stop, and the bar unlocked. I sat there and let Austin get out first. I’ll admit it, I was only pretending to be polite. I just couldn’t move. Austin jumped up and bounded out of the diabolical machine like it had never moved. It took a minute for me to even begin to be able to move. Finally, I mustered all the strength and determination I had left and climbed out, thanking God that the carny had stopped it when our car was over the platform. If it had been over the ground, I’d have never made it down without ending up flat on my face. As it was, my shoe came off, and it took me three tries to get it back on.

The carny came up and asked me if I was ok. “I’ve never seen someone in such a hurry to get off this thing that they walked out of their shoes,” he said. I tried to bluff my way through, muttering something about being fine, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fooling anyone.

After that, I sicced Austin on the naive and good-natured Jess. Let her entertain the fearless, grandpa-killing little brute. I told her I’d take Sharon over to ride the kiddie train. As Jess and Austin went tra-la-la-ing on their way to the bumper cars, I slowly walked with Sharon over to the train. At this point, I was feeling nauseous, weak in the knees, and was soaked in flop-sweat. Not the usual flop-sweat that entertainers and comedians get when their act is dying, but the kind of flop-sweat you get when you’re in fear of actually flopping over dead. I was not a happy guy.

While we waited for the next train ride to start, Sharon started kind of dancing around. It wasn’t, as I had hoped, the I’m-so-happy excitement dance, but the dreaded pee-pee dance. Of course the only facilities nearby were Port-a-Johns. We had to wait for one of the handicapped ones to open up, because there’s no way we were going to both fit into a regular sized one without me knocking her into the hole. Finally one opened up, and in we went. Now I’ve had to use the bathroom in a lot of unpleasant circumstances, but even I balked at this. Sharon took one look at it, then looked at me and said, “Grandpa, I don’t have to potty.” She’s young, but she’s not stupid.

So back to the midway we went. Minutes later, of course, she’s doing the pee-pee dance again, so off we go, as fast as I could stagger, to try to find someplace where she could take care of business with a minimal risk of contamination. We finally found a clean bathroom in a building about a quarter mile away, where the goats, chickens, and rabbits were kept. Then, it was back to the midway to try to find Jess and Austin.

After searching high and low, all over the midway, we finally found them, about 20 feet from the entrance. Austin had talked Jess into several wild rides, so she was ready to turn him back over to me. That’s when he decided he wanted to ride the loop-de-loop roller coaster. That’s all it is, just a big loop. I said alright, and took him over so he could ride it.

While we’re standing in line, I tell him to have fun, and he says, “You’re coming with me aren’t you?” At this point, I abandoned all pretense at tough-guyness. I said, “Look kid, I’m old, I’m fat, I’m tired, I’ve already had one heart attack, and that last ride almost killed me. You’re on your own.”

Then he looks at me with those big, 12-year-old puppy dog eyes, filled with all the sadness of a child whose hero has fallen and says, “But I’m scared to ride it by myself.”

Well, shit. I’m not made of stone, dammit. Manipulative little jerk.

So a couple minutes later, I’m strapped into this mechanized instrument of death, telling myself, it’s okay, at least this one only goes two directions, forward and backward, and it has to stop before it can change directions. I’m telling Austin, “If I puke, I’m puking on you.”

And then, we were off. Once again, I quite enjoyed the first few seconds, but that quickly faded into a repeat of the “Sizzler” experience.

At last, I was right about something. It did stop to change directions. Repeatedly. At the top. Where we were hanging upside down.

I’ve heard a lot of people say, “Those things aren’t safe. Nothing that does that that gets put up in 30 minutes can be safe.” Those people are wrong. I know, because I spent the entire ride praying, “Please God, make it stop, or make it crash, or just take me now, but just please God, MAKE IT STOP!!!!!”

God must have been busy in the middle-east or something, because he was certainly taking no interest in my suffering at that moment. Eventually, the carny took pity on me, or time ran out, but finally it stopped. Once again, it took a few moments for me to collect myself before I could get down from it.

Even Austin had started to get worried about me. After it was all over, I heard him tell Jess, “I didn’t know someone’s head could turn that purple.” Then they laughed and laughed. Maybe he wasn’t all that worried after all.

The rest of the evening is just a blur of staggering from ride to ride, looking for a place to sit and sweat while the kids and Jess enjoyed the rides.

Frederick Nietzsche once said, “What does not kill us, only makes us stronger.”

I feel quite strongly that Herr Nietzsche was full of what I almost sprayed all over the midway. A more accurate saying, I believe, would be, “What does not kill us softens us up so that the next thing that comes along has a better chance.”

Clint Eastwood said, in one of his movies, “A man’s gotta know his limitations.” Never forget, loyal readers, those limitations are on a sliding scale, and slip lower as we get older.

I’m still here! More stupid stories to come!

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Uncategorized, Wives

Just in case you’ve been wondering why I haven’t been posting anything recently (all 34 of you), it’s not because I’ve run out of things to say, or stupid stories. I just started an internship at the Palladium-Item for the summer, so it’s keeping me pretty busy. It’s a completely different type of writing for me, and to be honest, not nearly as much fun. It is however, great experience (for me anyway, I’m not so sure about for the Pal-Item). Anyway, I’m going to try to keep posting something up here every week, so don’t give up on me. To all of you who’ve been reading my blog, thanks. It’s nice to know there are still some people out there with good taste. Actually, since I think there are only about 30 of you out there who read this regularly, I guess that kind of indicates that there are roughly a little over 7,000,000,000 people out there with good taste. Thank God for the rest of you!

For those of you who want to be notified when I post something, down at the bottom of the page, where you can post comments, just under the comments block are a couple of boxes that you can check that will send you an e-mail when I post something.

By the way, thanks to those of you who have commented on some of my posts. It’s nice to get some feedback from readers. I’m a little surprised that I haven’t apparently angered anyone yet. Guess I’ll have to try harder. At any rate, I’ve enjoyed reading your comments.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to attract more readers to my blog. I noticed that the one post I published with Rich Mullins’ name in the title got like 1,000 views. I think the next most popular post has had maybe 100. Oddly enough, that post was about me running around without pants to keep the relatives away. I think we can all tell which post resonates most strongly with my regular readers (you sick, sick people). So anyway, for a while there I thought, “I’ll just put the name Rich Mullins in the title of every post!” Then I realized that was at least a little bit cynical, even for me. If any of you have any suggestions for me on how to lure more suckers readers into my world of stupidity, please let me know.

Anyway, I’d better close for now. It’s a little hard to concentrate on entertaining you all with my wife, the sensible and right 99.9% of the time Jess, arguing with my grand-daughter about whether she farted or not (the grand-daughter, not Jess. Jess knows when she farts, there’s really no denying it.).

Also, I have to start work on my next public apology to the not-nearly-as-forgiving-as-she-used-to-be but still wonderful Jess.

Winter Is Over! The Return of No Pants Fridays

 

The delightful and smokin' hot Jess and me at the Abbey Ruins in Cong, Ireland
The delightful and smokin’ hot Jess and me at the Abbey Ruins in Cong, Ireland

It has been a long winter, a “Game of Thrones” kind of winter. A vile, nasty, brutal, enough to make me think about moving to Florida and you know how much I hate Florida (a lot, in case you didn’t), kind of winter. It has not, however, been all bad. At least when the weather is that bad, people tend to stay at home and hibernate, which means less company for my wife, the privacy loving and likes-people-but-let’s-not-get-carried-away-with-it Jess and I. Not that we don’t like company, but when you live in the midst (literally) of a large and socially-inclined family, there is always somebody who just “drops by”. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. For years now, I’ve drawn it on Friday night. For the 1st few years that we lived on “the compound” everybody avoided our house on Friday nights for fear of walking in in the middle of our carnal exploits, a fear I intentionally fostered through off-color stories about what we got up to, and dropping hints about aberrant behavior and deviant proclivities. Unfortunately, as the years went by, my allusions to deviance seemed to lose their effectiveness, or maybe they just remembered that I’m not quite as wicked as I say (or maybe I just don’t have the energy that I used to).

I next tried just warning them off. I told them all that unless they were bleeding or on fire, to stay away. This may sound callous, but nothing screws up an evening of whisky, woman, and song (along with maybe a good game of strip cribbage) faster than being invaded by a horde of kids and grandkids. It really throws your groove off. It’s not that I don’t love my kids and grandkids, I do, but, (as most of you have probably noticed as you’ve gotten older) that old, romantic groove comes along a lot less frequently than it used to. At any rate, a straight-up warning was even less efficacious than hints and innuendo. People just kept dropping by on Friday nights.

Adding insult to injury was the fact that pretty much every time they did, Jess and I weren’t really up to anything more scandalous than eating pizza with too many jalapenos on it, and that’s just embarrassing. Not the jalapeno pizza part, the not doing anything scandalous part. The embarrassment of being caught repeatedly with my pants up, so to speak, was just more than I wanted to face. Not to mention that I really do feel that we should be engaging in the “Carnal Olympics”, as I like to think of it, in order to amuse ourselves, and not to horrify my progeny. It’s really just too much pressure for a man of my age, dignity (?), and blood pressure.

So, I have devised a new ploy, one that requires virtually no change on our part, and guarantees a horrific experience for any untimely visitors. I call it “No Pants Fridays”, kind of the home version of casual Fridays. I told my family that they were welcome to visit any time, but if they come by on a Friday evening, Jess and I will not be wearing any pants, and we aren’t putting any on if they show up. It works like a charm, especially since I told them that I have a pair of mesh bikini briefs that I save just for Friday nights (good luck getting that visual out of your mind). There is no pressure on Jess or I to get up to anything we don’t want to, seeing the voluptuous and alluring Jess walking around sans trousers certainly puts me in a good mood, and the knowledge that I’m sitting around in my drawers certainly keeps the visitors at bay. I have to say, it’s a very effective way of deterring visitors.The only down-side is that it doesn’t work during cold weather, especially since we don’t smoke in the house, and everyone knows that we’re not going to go all night without going outside for a smoke. Therefore, I’m doubly happy that warm weather is back.

This post is not intended to imply that we are anti-social or misanthropic in any way. We’re not. We genuinely enjoy company, and have no problem with people visiting, even unannounced, so feel free to just drop by. Just not on Friday after about 4:00. Unless you think I’m kidding.

A Solemn and Heartfelt Farewell To My Legion of Adoring Fans

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Wives

I must say “Farewell” to you good people, for this morning, I committed the cardinal sin against my wife, the no longer long-suffering and understanding Jess. As a result, I have absolutely no confidence in my chances for surviving the day. I thought I’d take this opportunity to say goodbye while she is distracted by my granddaughter because, from the looks she’s been giving me for the last couple of hours, it will only take 1 more stupid mistake to push her completely over the edge. Those of you who know me will understand that the odds of my going even 2 or 3 hours without doing something stupid are virtually non-existent. Those of you who don’t know me will understand, after reading this. So, just in case she smothers me with a pillow in my sleep tonight, goodbye.

I wish to say that I in no way blame her. She has been the best of wives, loving, patient, and kind up to now, and God knows, it can’t have been easy for her. I also want to say that my mistake was a mistake of omission, not intention. Perhaps I should explain. We’re having a special event at church next weekend, and I volunteered her (strike 1) to contact people about it. Jess, while a charming and personable woman, is possibly the only person on earth who hates talking on the phone more than I do. However, she soldiered on uncomplaining, making calls, and leaving messages when necessary. Then we realized that there were several people who’s numbers had changed, or were not in our church directory, which is several years out of date. We (I) then decided that the best way to contact them would be through the Facebook (DUN DUN DUNNNNN. strike 2.) This morning I thought I’d help her out, since she never uses the Facebook. I went through the Friends list, and set up the messaging thing so that all she’d have to do was type in her message and send it. I got her going on it, and then went to take care of some personal business. Mere seconds after I’d set down to business, I heard her yell for me. Then my granddaughter took up the call. Now, those of you who know me will know that I was in no position (literally) to jump up and run immediately to her assistance, but as soon as I heard her yell, I realized that she had hit “enter” at the end of her first line (strike 3). As soon as I could, I went to see what was wrong and discovered that I was right, she had hit “enter”, and sent the message “Hi Guys” to 27 people. She was not happy. I explained to her what happened, that hitting “enter” sends the message, and then apologized for forgetting to tell her that beforehand. Then I told her to just go ahead and type her message and hit “enter”. Now, what I heard her say was, “I’ve already typed it, but was afraid to touch anything because I didn’t want to screw it up again.” Trying to be helpful, I said, “Oh, Okay,” and hit “enter” (strike 4). You would have thought I’d hit the nuclear launch button in the White House. She just exploded. Apparently what she had said was, “I’ve already started typing it…,” a small, but key difference. It took me a while to figure out just what I’d done, since I couldn’t really understand anything she was saying as she stormed out of the den and through the house, roaring. The effect was added to when my granddaughter chimed in on her side, since I can rarely understand anything that kid says anyway. However, when Jess is upset, having Little Sharon around is like having our own tiny, incomprehensible Greek chorus. It’s kind of funny, but only adds to the confusion.

Eventually, she calmed down enough to speak coherently, and explained that, thanks to me, now she looked stupid to those 27 people, and that she didn’t appreciate it at all. Unfortunately, lulled by her normal good nature, I thought she was kidding, and laughed (strike 5). Big mistake, perhaps my biggest of the day. It set her off on an entirely new tirade, as incomprehensible as the previous one. After she had calmed down (again), I told her not to worry about it, that it happened to me all the time. This did not serve to make her feel any better. She pointed out to me (again) that she didn’t appreciate being made to look stupid, that’s what she’s got me around for. I mounted a counter-attack, based on her inference that I’m supposed to look stupid so that she doesn’t have to, but my heart wasn’t really in it, due to the unassailable logic of her position. I am obviously much better at stupid than she is, so I didn’t push it. She, of course, was not amused by my pretended ire (strike 6).

I told her not to worry about it, that I’d take care of it when I got home from class, and she agreed vehemently that that would be best. When I got home however, she, being the dutiful and persistent woman that she is, had done it herself. Schmuck that I am, I noticed a mistake in the times she had listed, and, after I had corrected it, told her about it (strike 7. Some people just never learn), reigniting the flame of her displeasure (it burns rarely, but when it does, it burns hot). At this point, it was not looking good for the home team, so I decided to go ahead and say goodbye to you good people, in case I never have a another chance, so again, Goodbye. Of course, when I started to write this, I had told her that I was going to work on a paper for school. She came in to ask me about something, and saw what I was really doing. Again, she was not amused. I tried to assuage her anger by telling her that, as far as anyone knows, I’m the idiot, since the Facebook message is in my name and nowhere did she identify herself. I really thought that would do it, right up to the point where she pointed out that they would only think that until I posted this (strike 8). So now I’m doomed, hoist by my own petard, because of my loyalty and obligation to your entertainment and edification. Mom always said I was my own worst enemy, and she was right, at least up to now. I hope you’re happy. If you don’t see me again, think kindly of me for, after all, this is really all your fault.

 

I need a 12-year old! – OK, that just sounds wrong

Home Life, Kids & Grandkids

So, I’m messing with this blog thing. All the stuff I’ve read about blogging talks about how easy it is. I disagree vehemently. Maybe it’s easy if you know what you’re doing, but most things are that way. The dashboard for this thing has more buttons and indicators than my car, and I can barely remember how to turn the lights on. Remember the good old days, when there was a knob? It was easy. Want the lights on? Pull the knob. Want them off? Push the knob in. Now, every time I try to turn the lights on, instead of illumination, I get windshield wipers. I want the wipers on, suddenly I’m driving in the dark. I want to hook something new to my TV to make my life more enjoyable, I’ve got to get my kids or grandkids over to make it work. It’s not like I’m old either. I mean, OK, I’m no spring chicken, but still. And the technology just keeps advancing faster and faster. I remember when my family got our first TV with a remote. It was the “clicker” type, you’d push a lever and it would click and change the channel, or the other lever would change the volume. It was all based on tone. My brother and I had lots of fun tormenting my dad, once we figured out that if you tapped a spoon against a plate just right, you could change the channel. We’d hide in the stairwell when Dad was watching a race or game, and change the channel on him. He would just lose his mind, because you couldn’t just go to the channel you wanted, you had to go through all of them.

I guess now I’m paying the price for that fun, because I can’t seem to make anything work. I’m beginning to think there’s a profitable business in renting out kids to follow technology-impaired adults like me around, turning on lights, making computers work, etc. Any entrepeneurially minded teenagers out there might want to think about that. Of course, teenagers would also do well not to laugh at us too much. At the rate technology is advancing, they’re going to have to hire a whole team of kids by the time they’re my age.