Category Archives: Home Life

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.

 

 

Cheer Up! It’s Really Not That Bad. Seriously. At Least Not For Most of Us.

All About Me, Arts, Home Life, Music, Wives

The fall semester is over, finally. I’ve been looking forward to this forever (at least that’s how it feels). So yesterday, I decided to tackle a job I’ve been putting off; building sideboards for my truck. I need them, not so much for myself, as for hauling a load of clothes and other donations out to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. I’ve gotta say, I haven’t been looking forward to it, either building the sideboards or the long, long drive to S. Dakota the week before Christmas. On the other hand, at least I’ve got the time to do it. So I bit the bullet and got stuck into it. First, I had to take the stainless steel rail things off of my truck in order to get to the pockets for the sideboards. I thought, you know, how bad can that be? Four bolts and four screws, right? No big deal, ten, fifteen minutes, and I’d be set. Hahahahahahahahahah. Rust is some pretty incredible stuff.

Two hours later, I finally got the last bolt loose. I strained what muscles I have left in my arms and shoulders getting them off, but I did it. Mission accomplished! I’m still a man who can do stuff! Then of course, it was time to go to Lowe’s to get the plywood and hardware. I was extremely careful to make sure I got everything I needed. You guys know what I mean. None of us have ever managed to complete a project with less than two, and usually at least three or four, trips to the store. Well this time was going to be different! I was going to achieve the holy grail of modern American masculinity: I was going to come home with everything I needed to build those sideboards in one trip. I went over and over the plan in my head (because lists are for sissies, right guys?). I even moseyed up and down the aisles, browsing, just in case I noticed something I might need. Finally, I realized I really did have everything. I was going to be the first guy to ever accomplish this. I was gonna be a legend! People were going to point me out on the street to their sons and say, in a hushed and reverent voice, “Look, it’s HIM! He’s the ONE!” They were going to go bed at night, praying that their sons would grow up to be as manly as me.

I got home and got started building. Everything was going great, even better than I expected. I had to cut down the 2×4’s to fit the pockets of the truck – my cuts were perfect. They fit like a glove. It was all going so well. Then I hit a snag; the eyebolts I had bought were just a little bit too short. Okay, disappointing, but at least I’d remembered to buy them. Not only that, but I’d made sure to buy them the same size as the carriage bolts I was using, so I could go ahead and finish building them, and just stop off at Lowe’s the next time I was in the neighborhood and pick up longer eyebolts and just switch them out. I mean stopping by Lowe’s is not the same as having to make a special trip, right? Okay, so there might be a little less awe and reverence in those guy’s voices as they point me out to their kids, maybe I wouldn’t make the cover of American Manly Man magazine, but what the heck, right? As far as I was concerned, it still counts.

Then, out of the blue, disaster struck: I’d been so careful to make sure I had the right number of bolts, fender washers, lock washers. How did I manage to forget nuts? That’s just stupid. Who forgets nuts? My delusions of grandeur came crashing down around my ears. I was just an ordinary guy after all (and don’t say I told you so; especially you guys. You know you think the same thing every time you go to Lowe’s when you start a project).

It was all downhill after that. I managed to scrounge enough nuts by raiding my brother-in-law’s garage (thanks Ron!) to get one sideboard built. Then came the final blow; I couldn’t get the sideboard off the truck. When I was a kid, we had heavier sideboards than these, and I could just pop them out by myself no problem. Well not anymore. I fought and fought, but couldn’t get them out. Too short, too out of shape, too weak, too pitiful. Guys were going to be pointing me out to their sons with snickers, “Look, it’s HIM, heheheheh. He’s the ONE, hahahaha.” I felt so ashamed.

I had to wait until my wife, the lovely and tall Jess, came home from work so she could help me. My humiliation was complete.

Today wasn’t shaping up to be much better. When I got up, I was in fairly excruciating pain. Apparently, I strained every muscle I have, trying to get that stupid sideboard out. Everything hurts. I’m moving even more stiffly and robotically than normal. I am a tower of pain (okay, more of a well-rounded mound of pain, but you get the picture). I wanted to do some writing for fun, so I came to the computer and started checking out the Facebook, looking for inspiration. Nothing. just the usual round of political rants from both sides of the fence. It was really bumming me out.

I wanted to write something funny, something to brighten at least my own day, but couldn’t think of a thing. Everywhere I looked, just the usual depressing stuff; Terrorists, greedy capitalists, free-loading socialists, abortion, gun control, mass shootings, religious rants, etc. You know, Wednesday. There was nothing funny in the world. Everything sucked. Everybody sucked. I sucked.

In the midst of all this suckage, I gave up. I decided that I’d get some housework done. I managed to brush my teeth and take a shower without too much pain or self-loathing. I started in on the kitchen. Now I won’t say it’s clean, but I did manage to get the dishes done and all of the current bio-hazards taken care of. I started to do the laundry, but it turned out we’re out of softener. It’s no big deal to me, but the civilized and sophisticated Jess clings to a higher standard than I, so I just gave up until I could get some.

That left me with the computer. I remembered that we English geeks are having a white elephant gift exchange at the writing center tomorrow, so I decided to burn some cd’s for it. I know that technically it’s copyright infringement, and I’m against it, but I also figure that none of them have ever heard of these bands, and if one of these discs persuades someone to buy an album, then I’ve done the band a favor. So I started working on it. I put one or two songs from each album on a disc, enough to give a taste of each band’s oeuvre, without getting too carried away.

As a result, I spent about two hours just listening to music. Not just music though. Great music. Lucero, Todd Snider, Jay Farrar, and many others. Before I knew it, I felt so much better. Not physically of course, it still hurts to move anything but my fingers, but spiritually. The music reminded me of how blessed I am. I’ve got a beautiful and fantastic wife, the lovely and loving Jess, and great friends and family. I’ve got what’s left of my health, and my brain still functions pretty well. I’ve got a warm house, dependable transportation, and plenty of food. I’m not wealthy (financially anyway), but I’m doing okay. I don’t want for anything (other than a pain- and diet-free way to lose weight). I’m a lucky, no – check that – blessed guy.

I think about all the people, both in this country and out of it, who can’t say the same. People who live in no-shit real poverty. People whose neighborhoods are war zones, literally. People who actually have to worry about freezing to death in the winter, every winter. People who can’t feed their children. People who look at me and those like me like we’re Donald Trump (wealthy, I mean, not assholes). I think about that, and I’m glad I’ve got the time to take coats and gloves and stuff to S. Dakota, that I’ve got friends who can donate that stuff. I’m glad I’ve got a dependable truck and funds to make that drive. I’m glad I live in a country that people still want to come to because they believe it’ll make their lives better to be Americans (and I do believe that’s why 99.9 percent of them come).

Sometimes I just need a minute and a good song to remind me that things really aren’t as bad as I think; at least not for me. The trick is to keep trying to take what I’ve been blessed with to make somebody else’s life better too.

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.

Tips For Happy Living: Don’t Worry About A Thing

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics, Politics & Culture, Religion, Wives

” ‘Cause every little thing

Gonna be all right”

That Bob Marley was a smart guy.

Happy living is an elusive bird. We all want it, but it seems like no one wants us to have it. It’s kind of aggravating.

Lately, I’ve been kind of worked up about things. It seems like the world is just spinning out of control. Confederate flags, gay marriage, dozens of people shot over the July 4th weekend in Chicago, violence of every sort run amok, churches burning, terrorists, conspiracy theorists screaming that Obama’s invading Texas, it’s just nuts. And everywhere you look, somebody’s got the answer: Take down that flag, leave it alone, give the gays equal rights, gay marriage will destroy traditional marriage, ban guns, make everyone carry a gun, stricter laws, we need better prisons, we need worse prisons, seal the borders, do what I say, I’m the one with all the right answers. It doesn’t matter where you look, FOX, MSNBC, CNN, NPR, the Facebook, Twitter. Everyone’s got the answer, or knows someone who does. Just watch this video . . .

It’s kept me stirred up for several weeks now. I’ve started several posts presenting powerful arguments capable of crushing all opposition to my viewpoints. Being predisposed toward irascibility and somewhat pugnacious in temperament, I just can’t seem to help myself. I seem lately to just be looking for things to make me angry. I read articles that I know are biased, and often blatantly false, and then, just in case I’m not angry enough, I read the comments too. Sometimes I think there is something very, very wrong with me (and those of you who know me will probably agree). Unfortunately, rage is the one emotional I am truly comfortable with. Also unfortunately, I’m not alone in this. Everyone seems to be angry about something, or several somethings, usually at least one or two from the list above, or something that someone else said about something from the list above.

In fact, anger is a growth industry right now. There’s gold in them thar internet flame wars. Frankly, that’s one of the things that makes me angry. Vast fortunes are being made by making people angry, and I can’t seem to get a piece of the action. My last post was, I thought, at least fairly controversial. I even went so far as to actively solicit responses. I did everything but beg people to comment. Now I’ll admit that my intentions were good, and I genuinely wanted to hear what people thought, but still, I thought I’d at least get some hot interweb troll action. I mean, if there’s one thing I’m usually pretty good at (besides telling fart stories), it’s pissing people off.

I have to say that the response was pretty disappointing, overall. First of all, there really weren’t many comments at all, and those that I did get were uniformly civil, well-thought out (even the ones that disagreed with me), and even loving. Even the woman I had offended (the basis of the post), messaged me on the Facebook, a very civil, kind, and generous response. It was really kind of disappointing (admittedly in a sick and twisted way).

On the other hand, it did confirm what I had always suspected; that the vast majority of people are generally kind, generous, and decent. Even those with whom I vehemently disagree. I hate to admit it, but I think Anne Frank was right: “Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.”

It troubles me that I see and hear so many swearing that we are in the End Times. That God has abandoned us because we have abandoned Him. The sentiment that, because of gay marriage, “persecution” of WASPS by minorities, and the fact that, okay, maybe you should think about what that Rebel flag bumper sticker on your truck really stands for, the world just can’t get any worse. It’s just not true. The world can get worse. It has been much worse. Yes, there are still a lot of things that are wrong. There are still a lot of things that need to be fixed. But my feeling is (and I know I’m no kind of religious expert) that if God didn’t abandon us because of 400 years of genocide, 300 or 400 years of slavery, 150 years (give or take) of institutionalized racism (complete with lynchings, rape, and murder), along with a number of land grabs, imperialism, and war profiteering, all committed frequently in His name, or according to His will (or rather our interpretation of it), then letting a few gays get married is probably not going to put him off of us, either.

I see and hear a lot of Christians hollering, “Please Jesus, come back soon,” and I can understand the sentiment, but if I’m honest, I’m not really in that big a rush for it. When he does come back, we’ll have eternity, but for now, I’m not through with this life yet. There are way too many books I haven’t read, too many fart stories I haven’t written. I haven’t told my wife, the lovely and all-round best woman ever, Jess, how much I love her enough times yet. I haven’t lain awake at night listening to her snore enough. I haven’t hugged my grandkids enough. There are too many places I haven’t been, too many things I haven’t seen. I haven’t written enough, or worked enough, or played enough yet. Maybe I’m wrong for feeling this way, but God gave me this life for a reason. He gave us this world with all its wonders for a reason, and I don’t think it was to just mark time until he came back.

Anyway, I know that you probably only read this blog for the fart stories (don’t worry, I’ll get back to ’em), and I didn’t mean to get all heavy with my half-assed theology. Sorry. This is all just stuff that I needed to get off my chest. The thing about being angry all the time is, it’s exhausting. It saps your energy, your will to live. I don’t know about you, but it wears me out, and really makes it hard to write the fart stories, which are, frankly, much more fun.

So last night, I was in bed (calm down ladies), reading The Ball and the Cross, by G.K. Chesterton, and I read a passage that really brought it all home to me; “The whole peace of the world was pent up painfully in his heart. The new and childlike world which he had seen so suddenly, men had not seen at all. Here they were, still at their old bewildering, pardonable, useless quarrels, with so much to be said on both sides, and so little that need be said at all.” That seems like a pretty apt description of today, with the fear-mongering 24-hour news networks blaring out their prophecies of doom, and alleged “satire” news websites promulgating panic-inducing videos, and ourselves buying into it all, and joining in by smearing our fears and petty hatreds across the Facebook, insisting that “everyone needs to see this”. Well, guess what. We don’t. Neither do you. Give it a rest. Give yourself a break. And trust me, I know I’m just as guilty of this as you are, but I’m working on it.

I think that’s why I never finished any of those argumentative posts I wrote about earlier. Deep down, I knew it was pointless, and that it would just add to the problem. It would be a better world if everyone quit arguing, and spent some time actually thinking, because, believe it or not, not everyone who has a Rebel flag bumper sticker is a racist. Liberals who point at the south and jeer them as racist rednecks should listen to Randy Newman’s “Rednecks” (a word of caution, it contains offensive language, but it’s contextually necessary, not gratuitous. Also, you have to actually LISTEN to ALL THE LYRICS in order to get the point he’s getting at.). Also, if you are a proud displayer of the Rebel flag, you probably should spend some time thinking about what that flag really means, what it is telling people about you, and whether it’s true.

Christians, not every gay person wants to ruin our marriages (admit it, we were doing that just fine without any help from them). Gays, not every Christian belongs to Westboro Baptist Church. We don’t all hate you or want you to go to hell (Sorry, I don’t have a song for this one).

The point is; well, I guess the point is that we all have a point, and we’d be better off thinking carefully about them before taking our hats off and showing them to the world. Get off the Facebook, and read an actual book. Concentrate on the things you love more than the things you hate. In the words of Ray Wylie Hubbard, “the days when I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations . . . well I have really good days.”

Be grateful: Happy living tip #1.

Further Adventures of a House-Husband: Cooking and Laundry Edition

All About Me, Home Life, Pets, Wives

I’ve gotta say; this house-husband thing isn’t working out the way I had thought it would. I came into this expecting hours and hours of Oprah Winfrey and bonbons. Since I’m not really much of an Oprah fan, I thought I could substitute John Wayne or Clint Eastwood movies (I figured that whole Oprah thing was probably more of a guideline than a rule).

Well, I’m two weeks into this, and not only have I not had time to watch a single moment of Duke-based entertainment, I still don’t even know what a freaking bonbon is, or where to get ’em. Obviously, I’m doing something terribly wrong. I mean besides the things that I know I’m doing wrong.

Take today for example. It started out pretty good. I drove my truck into town and filled up all the gas cans for the lawn mower. Came home and filled up the mower. I even checked the oil and hydraulic fluid. I was feeling pretty darn manly, I don’t mind telling you (Did I mention that our mower is a Dixie Chopper? Advertised as the World’s Fastest Mower. How manly is that?). You could almost hear the testosterone coursing through my veins, like a bullet-train through a tunnel in Manly Mountain. For two or three glorious hours, I mowed the crap outa this place (in many places, literally. We have a lot of dogs). But like all good things, it came to an end, and I had to return to the house to fulfill my domestic responsibilities.

Now, at the risk of being called a girly-man, I’ll admit I don’t really mind doing some of the household chores. When you think about it, even the word household is really kind of manly. Household. To hold the house. It conjures up visions of defending your castle, even if your castle is a split-level 3 bedroom with 2 1/2 baths and an attached garage, and you’re only holding it against dirty dishes and dust bunnies (hey, allergies kill, ya know?). You just have to use a feudal mind-set.

Anyway, I like to crank up some Stones, or Rush, or Lucero, and rock out while I do the dishes or whatever. But today was laundry. I freaking hate laundry. But, my wife, the hard-working and diligent Jess, is out there bringing home the bacon, so fair’s fair, right? WRONG! I was taught to work by my Dad, who taught me that if you do things right, then you make things easier later, a philosophy that I have been unable to impress on the partially hyper-efficient light-of-my-life, Jess.

One of the things that I previously admired and valued in her was her ability to get naked faster than any other human being in history. Even in winter, when she, as a firm believer in dressing in layers who hates to be cold, can divest herself of approximately 12 layers of clothes in about 3 seconds. Time to go to bed? FFFTHOOP! She’s naked, in less time than it takes to type the sound effect. As I said before, I always thought of it as one of her most endearing qualities. Until I had to start doing the laundry. Now I’m faced with trying to separate all these layers into individual pieces of clothing so I can get ’em in with the correct load (and before you accuse me of being overly fussy and not nearly manly enough about the laundry, let me just say that, inconvenient as it is, I feel like I need to do my best for her. After all, she’s always done her best for me.). The point is, her method of undressing significantly increases the time and effort required to do the laundry correctly.

Of course, once the laundry is done, it’s time to fold the laundry. Now, when I was single, I never bothered folding laundry. I figured, screw it, it’s clean, that’s the important thing. Worrying about wrinkles just seemed silly and vain when there are so many really important issues in the world. However, once we were married, the lovely and sometimes terrifyingly persuasive Jess pointed out to me the error of my thinking. Honestly, I was okay with it (as I said before, it’s always best to defer to her anyway), but that was when she was doing the laundry. Now, I’m doing the folding, and I gotta say, I’m not crazy about it. Once again, her method of undressing comes into play. Not only does she get undressed incredibly quickly, she also manages to turn nearly every piece of clothing inside out, although, as an added challenge to me, she does like to leave a shirt or two right side out, and the occasional pair of pants 1/2 inside out. This usually causes multiple efforts on my part, because I just naturally turn all of her stuff inside out as it comes out of the dryer, in order to get it right side out. It is far more confusing and stressful than folding laundry should be.

Then, there’s the sheer quantity of laundry, almost all of it hers. I, myself, take the philosophy that if I didn’t do something today to get my clothes dirty, then there’s really no need to change them. Her viewpoint is different. It’s amazing the amount of clothes, even underwear, she goes through in a week. I mean, it’s like she changes them every day or something! She is an amazing woman.

Anyway, I finally get the laundry done. She gets home, and decides to go take a nap while I fix supper. Meatloaf, one of our favorite meals:

2 pounds of hamburger

2 big onions

2 eggs

1.5 tubes of Ritz crackers

Italian seasoning (how ever much seems appropriate)

1 fistfull of ketchup.

Mix it up, mold it into a loaf, stick it in the over for 1.5 hours at 350 or 400 degrees, or just remove before it starts smoking.

Since the dogs went with her to take a nap, I know there’s very little chance of her actually getting to sleep. It’s much more likely that they’ll use her as a trampoline until she takes them outside to play ball, so I figure I’ll do something, give her a little extra thrill. She has said that nothing turns her on like the sight of a man doing housework. I figure, if that turns her on, then just think how excited she’ll be if she comes out of the bedroom to find me cooking dinner . . . wait for it . . . naked! I mean, she works hard, she deserves an extra treat now and then. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t mind coming home and finding her cooking naked. Or vacuuming naked, or watching t.v. naked, or really just doing anything or even nothing at all, as long as she’s naked. Granted, it never happened, but she reads these blogs too, so . . . (hint, hint, please!, hint).

Okay now, before you get all freaked out, I’m not completely insensitive to the need for culinary sanitation, I mean after all, when you find a hair in your food, it’s nice to know that it (probably) came from the cook’s head (another reason to always be nice to restaurant staff), even if you were the cook. So, I nipped into the other room, and slipped into my culinary-themed banana hammock; the one with “kiss the cook” printed on it. And yes, it is in fine print. So what?(I tried the naked-with-an-apron thing once, but I just looked ridiculous).

Anyway, it all turned out to be pointless, since once the dogs figured out I was fixing food, they all came to investigate, and it was kind of disturbing trying to fix supper with a giant black lab licking my leg, and then I got cold because of the air conditioning, and besides, with the dogs harassing me, the hard-working and exhausted Jess actually went to sleep, so I just put my clothes back on. All in all, it was disappointing and disturbing on multiple levels.

The meatloaf was awesome though.

Being a conscientious and thoughtful house-husband is no easy thing.

The Dude, playing ball. Another reason cooking naked is not a great plan for me.
The Dude, playing ball. Another reason cooking naked is not a great plan for me.

P.S. Good luck getting that visual of me cooking in a thong out of your head. You know you pictured it. You’re welcome!

Adventures of a House-Husband: Home Cooking Edition

All About Me, Home Life, Wives
The lovely and talented Jess. The strongest woman I know.
The lovely and talented Jess. The strongest woman I know.

So I was going through the Facebook the other day, and saw a post that Jim Wright, the author of the Stonekettle Station blog and very funny guy shared. Apparently some men’s rights activists are calling for a boycott of Mad Max: Fury Road. I won’t go into all the reasons why; I’ll just say that they’re pretty ridiculous. We went to see it (I’m so lucky that my wife, the lovely and discerning Jess, would rather see an action movie than a chick-flick any day), and all I can say is that yes, there are some outstanding, strong female characters, and the movie is what all action movies should want to be when they grow up. Remember how good The Road Warrior was? Mad Max: Fury Road is better. Way better.

Anyway, reading that post and seeing that movie got me to thinking about what it means to be a man in today’s society. Last week, my wife, the lovely and hard-working Jess, started a new job, and, since my plans for employment fell through, I have (inadvertently) become a house-husband. It’s not working out like I thought it would. I mean sure, I’m home all day, so I can get the chainsaw out and go cut up trees, or get my tools out and build something, or try to fix something (emphasis on the try), but it turns out there’s a whole lot of other stuff that I hadn’t really considered. Like cooking.

It may come as a surprise to some of you, but I’m not really much of a cook. I can brown hamburger, and I make a mean peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, and I’m great at picking up carry-out, but Jess is working hard all day and deserves the best I can offer. I mean, she’s got to get up at 5:00 a.m. IN THE MORNING. That’s just ridiculous. What’s even worse, is that now I’ve got to get up when the dogs start whining to be let out, usually around 9-10:00 a.m. Still in the morning.

I’m a night person. I tend to stay up late reading (something intellectual and sophisticated, of course), sometimes until well after midnight. If I have my druthers, I like to get up around the crack of noon. To get up at 9:30 or so, and have to face our pack of ravening beasties is almost more than a sensitive constitution like mine can take. But I digress.

So, once I decided that Jess deserved the best I could offer, as far as comestibles are concerned, there was really only one choice. My specialty. Possibly the greatest manly meal it is possible for a manly man to cook. Oh sure, you’ve got your barbecue experts fussing around with ingredients and formulas and whatever it’s called when you soak your meat in something overnight (okay, that just sounds wrong. Fun, but wrong), but really that’s all just fussy chemistry and slavish devotion to recipes and stuff which, when you get right down to it, how manly can it really be? All they’ve done is trade a lab coat for a “Kiss the Cook” apron, and a chemistry set for a grill and mixing bowl. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just not real manly if you think about it. A manly man doesn’t baste his meat. A manly man stabs his steak with a stick, holds it in a fire until it’s charred to his liking, and eats it with his hands. That’s how a manly man does barbecue (mind you, we don’t do much barbecuing at our house for some reason).

Manly cooking is like all the other manly pursuits. It’s rough. It’s tough. It’s dangerous and experimental and fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants. It is the culinary expression of all the manly attributes of endurance, improvisation, daring, and courage. There’s only one meal I know of that combines all of those things: Slopbucket. A manly mess of gooey, spicy, cheesy deliciocity that, like Frankenstein’s Monster, shows an unnerving tendency to turn on its creator. It’s a meal that my family has enjoyed since before I was born, and was named by my brother Wayne. Of course, my mother’s recipe was not nearly as daring (or deadly) as my own version.

And so, after braving the horrors of grocery shopping, I had assembled all the necessary ingredients:

1 pound of hamburger

2 big onions

2 big green peppers

1 pound of macaroni

1 big jar of spaghetti sauce

1 pound of velveeta (the manliest cheese. Seriously. It’s the only one that I know of that’s entirely man-made, with no natural ingredients. Now that’s manly)

1 package of chili seasoning

1 jar of jalapenos

1 large jar of Tums (for dessert)

Step 1: Chop up the onions and peppers. Dump in a big skillet with the hamburger. Brown it all up.

Step 2: While browning the hamburger, go to the cabinet where your wife keeps all the spices and stuff. You know what I mean; all those little bottles of colored flakes and powders with weird names. Open them up. Smell them. If it smells good, dump some in. DO NOT MEASURE!!!!! Measuring is for cowards. Men aren’t afraid to make mistakes, and they’re willing to live with them. Be brave. Be bold. Dump it in. I personally always go with Crushed Red Pepper, Oregano, Basil, Garlic Powder (I prefer Garlic Salt, but unfortunately, that’s no longer an option. My wife, the lovely and caring Jess, seems to want me to live forever), and whatever else smells good. At this point, you can either mix the jalapenos in, or save them to add later.

Step 3. Stir it all up, and continue until it’s browned.

Step 4: Start heating water to a boil (In a separate pan of course).

Step 5: Once the burger is browned, drain the grease, then dump in the Chili seasoning and a little bit of water. Stir it all up, and heat it back up until all the water has boiled away.

Step 6: Boil the macaroni (in the other pan of course)

Step 7: Once all the water has boiled away, add the Spaghetti sauce. Stir continuously (more or less) and heat.

Step 8: Once the macaroni is ready, drain the water. Dump both macaroni and meat mixture (I’m not really sure to call it at this point) into a big pan and mix over heat.

Step 9: Slice up Velveeta.

Step 10: In a big dish (like a casserole dish or something), dump in a layer of meat and macaroni. Then add a layer of Velveeta. Then another layer of meat & mac., then Velveeta. Continue until it’s all in. Top off with one last layer of Velveeta. Stick it in the oven. Turn oven on to, I don’t know, 350, 450, whatever it takes. It really just depends on how big a hurry you’re in. Check it periodically. I recommend putting it in, playing a game of Solitaire, checking it, playing some more Solitaire, checking it, until it’s done. I usually figure it’s done once the top layer of Velveeta starts turning black.

Step 11: Dish it up, add jalapenos if you haven’t already, cover with Parmesan cheese, and brace yourself for at least 1 full day of digestive adventure, although it really depends on the size of your family. A batch this size will last us at least 3 days. Enjoy.

Now that is how a real man cooks. A real man doesn’t care that all the ladies at the grocery store are laughing at him because he’s wandering the aisles like Mad Max wandering the wasteland, trying to figure out where in hell they’d put the jalapenos. A real man doesn’t even mind giving up and asking one of those same ladies for help, because a real man has better things to do than wander around the grocery store. He wants to get in, get his stuff, and get out. A real man approaches grocery shopping with the same attitude that a bank robber has. In fact, in his mind, he’s probably got the Mission: Impossible theme playing in a loop while he shops, just to add the proper air of intensity.

Which brings me back to those idiots crying because there are strong women in Mad Max: Fury Road. Being around a strong woman doesn’t make a real man any less of a man. Strong women allow a man to be even stronger. Not even Mad Max can drive the car, and be in the back fighting bad guys at the same time. Strong men and women lift each other up, and help each other to accomplish much, much more than either could do on their own. Real men know this.

P.S. If you should decide to try out the recipe above, while you’re at the store, it would probably be a good idea to pick up some extra toilet paper, and a plunger. It’s very likely you’ll need them. Bon Appetit!

The Tao of Poo, or: Why I’m Not A Philosophy Major

All About Me, Home Life, Pets, Wives
The Dude at Christmas
The Dude, our youngest self-propelled poo machine on Christmas morning. It’s no wonder he’s hyper-regular, with all that fiber in his diet!

Ever have one of those days when the things you dread the most turn out to be the things that give you the greatest joy? I’m having one of those today. Don’t get me wrong, the day didn’t start out too bad, it just didn’t start out too good. My wife, the lovely and understanding Jess let me sleep in a few minutes, braving the feeding of the beasts all by herself. Anyway, I got up, and while I was getting ready for school, she asked me to go to the bank and grocery after class.

Man, I hate going to the bank. I hate going to the grocery even more than I hate going to the bank, and I hate that even more when we’re on a diet, which we currently are (more or less). But, since the industrious and selfless Jess is working 12 hour days, I told her I’d do it, and said it with a smile (fake) on my face.

Then, I take the dogs out one last time. I try to keep them out extra long, because I was going to be at school most of the day and didn’t want to come home to any accidents. Since it was 16 degrees outside, it was a little difficult forcing myself to stay outside long enough to make sure they got all their business done (if I go back inside without them, they just stand at the door like, “What the hell dad?). To kill time and give myself something to do, I decided that I’d clean up the dog poo in the yard. Since we’ve got 5 dogs, this is a never-ending task. Of course, Ralph, our chief stray, refuses to poop in the yard. In fact, he pretty much refuses to enter the yard at all. He seems to think that a fenced yard is for house dogs, not real dogs like him, and so, is beneath his dignity* (of course, he’s not above coming inside and spending the day sleeping on our bed when it’s cold or raining. He’s got a kind of selective dignity). Still, the other 4 keep us busy (and we have to keep on it because one of them really loves a good poopcicle. Disgusting but true. If you ever come to our house, you want to be real careful about which dog you let lick your face).

I get the poop scoop and rake and start to work, only to find out that it’s all frozen solid to the ground. I’d need a jackhammer to work that stuff loose, so I decide the heck with it. I get all the dogs stowed in their respective spots, and head off to school. First up, Geology. Let me just say, I hate science. I hate all things sciencey. Frankly, I find science depressing and scary. My first semester of school, I had to take Environmental Science. It seemed to pretty much be a class all about, “This is how the planet works. And this is how we’re wrecking it.” Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t some kind of left-wing, ultra-liberal panic-mongering thing, it really just seemed to be pretty much common sense. I mean really, if the chicken poo from these industrial farms is so toxic with chemicals and hormones and what-have-you that the farmers can’t use it for fertilizer, then it seems like a bad idea to put it in storage facilities along the major waterways (and, if it’s not so toxic, then why don’t they use it for fertilizer? Who in their right mind would want to keep it?)

Anyway, if Environmental Science was all about how we’re killing the planet, Geology seems to be the flip side of the coin, i.e. it’s all about the many, many ways in which the planet is trying to kill us. I suppose it’s all a matter of how you look at it really. If you take the short view, then we’re definitely winning. If you take the long view however, the planet is going to win. The depressing part is that win, lose, or draw, we all end up dead. So I find science kind of a bummer. However, I like the instructor. I’d guess he’s in his mid 70’s, and very funny. His mannerisms and way of talking kind of remind me of David Letterman, so he’s pretty entertaining. I guess it could be worse.

In the afternoon, I have Victorian Literature (and I can just hear you all groaning with jealousy). I like the subject well enough, but today I seemed to get myself branded the classes’ token sexist, just because I suggested that a book (Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell) might have been written the way it was, because it was written by a woman. You see, I think the professor is scared to death of what I’m going to say, so every time I start to say anything, she tends to cut me off. So she cut me off before I could present my very cogent, insightful, and not-derogatory-in-any-way explanation for my thoughts. Thus, all I got to say was, “It was written that way because it was written by a woman.” Naturally, the class being Victorian Literature, it is about 75% female (’cause the chicks dig that stuff. hahaha). You can imagine how my truncated remark went over. I was lucky to escape with my life.

It was after school that my day finally took an upturn. I didn’t have to wait in line at the bank, which was nice and, in my experience, unprecedented. When I got to the grocery, I walked inside, got a cart, and promptly forgot what the heck I was supposed to get. I could remember several other things that we could use, such as yoghurt for the dogs (cuts down on gas. Seriously), but not what we needed. However, as I was headed back to the dairy aisle, I walked past the cleaners and remembered what I was supposed to get. Fabric softener! Then, there was no line at the checkout, another pleasant surprise.

When I got home, things continued to improve. I managed to get inside the house without losing any of the dogs (there’s no fence at the back of the house, and our dogs are all far too stupid to be allowed to roam loose. If left free outdoors, they would have the life expectancy of a mayfly – except for Ralph of course. His disdain for the other dogs is not unwarranted). I got up the stairs without tripping over any of them, got the 3 basement dogs past Elsie (the Ripper), a 13-year-old English Springer Spaniel, who crouches at the top of the stairs like a leopard waiting to pounce on the first one through the door (she has a passionate and psychotic hatred of all things 4-legged, and affects a mere hostile indifference to all other living beings except Jess. Jess is her God.).

I got them outside, and decided to give the poo-picking-up another try. It had turned out to be a perfect day for the task. Cold enough to keep it intact and rollable, but warm enough that it wasn’t stuck to the ground like cement. The dogs were all being good, and the 2 youngest, Dude, a 7-month old Black Lab, and Mattie, a 1-year-old Beagle were running, wrestling, and wearing themselves out, which boded well for a peaceful evening.

So all-in-all, it’s been a pretty good day, and the high spots were all the things that I had spent the day, if not dreading, at least not looking forward to at all. Plus, I came up with this post which, regardless of how much or how little you enjoyed reading, I have thoroughly enjoyed writing. Writing it has also given me something to do that was so much more fun than studying for tomorrow’s Spanish test, which is really what I should be doing.

Anyway, to finish this off, let me leave you with this thought. Every day and every life has its ups and downs. It’s how you deal with the poo, even when it’s not yours (or maybe especially when it’s not yours but you still have to deal with it) that makes or breaks your day. Call it the Tao of Poo.**

Have a lovely day. Or evening. Or whatever.

 

*Actually, now that I think of it, I don’t know where he poops. He’s lived here on the compound for 8 or 9 years, and I’ve never seen him go, or seen any evidence that he does. All I can figure is either he goes way back to the woods to do his business, or he’s got a freakishly highly-evolved and efficient digestive system. Probably the former, but even that’s kind of weird, ya know?

**This is why I’m not a Philosophy major.

Things I Don’t Understand #4: Advertising

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture
DSC00574
Okay, so no one can escape the insidious and pervasive siren call of merchandising completely. Me and my Guinness hat on the shore of Loch Ness

I don’t get out much. Let’s just get that out there first thing. However, I do watch TV, and I leave the house to go to school every day, so, while it would not be accurate to say that I’ve got my finger on popular culture’s pulse, neither do I live under a rock. That said, I’m having more trouble every day understanding what passes for popular culture these days.

Take advertisements, for example. Have the American people gotten even more gullible than we used to be (how is that even possible?), or have the advertising wonks just abandoned any pretext of respect for us? I keep seeing advertisements for some new Nordic Stairelyptictreadmaster exercise machine thing. It starts out something like, “What’s the number one factor that prevents people from working out?”

Now I, like most of you, am sitting there watching this during my second or third hour of nightly TV watching, with a Diet Coke at my side, a party-size bag of Doritos in my lap, wishing it wasn’t so cold so I could go outside and have a cigarette, and this guy says, “Time. People just don’t have enough time.” Yeah, I think, as I shovel another handful of Doritos into my mouth, that’s why I don’t work out (well, time and allergies, since if I was to try to use any of the exercise equipment in my basement, it would raise such a cloud of dust that I’d probably sneeze myself into a heart attack long before the stress and shock of physical exertion did).

I mean, seriously, is there anybody on earth stupid enough to believe an ad like that? Anyway, this machine is going to solve the time problem for us because it’s been specially engineered to give you the same results as a regular 30 minute stair master or elliptical or treadmill workout in only 15 minutes or so. AND it’s so much more FUN!!! Okay, so I’ll probably buy one. At least then I’ll only have to feel guilty half as long when I walk past it on my way to the garage.

Even more mystifying to me is the advertising gimmicks that cigarette companies get up to. I’m so tired of opening up a pack of smokes and there’s some kind of “Marlboro Dollar” or “Camel Buck” that I’ve got to get past to get to my preciousssssss. I guess the deal is that I can save these stupid things up and trade them in for merchandise. They’ve got all kind of cool(?) stuff. Marlboro hats, shirts, lighters, posters, insulated cooler bags (I guess those are for carrying my beer around), etc., all so that I can proudly show the world that I’m using their product to kill myself. I would have thought that the bad breath, stinky hair and clothes, smoker’s cough, perpetual wheezing, and gasping for air after climbing three steps would have been enough advertising for them. Maybe they just want to make sure that everyone knows that their cigarettes are responsible for my bad breath, stinky hair and clothes, etc. Honestly, it seems kind of counterproductive to me.

It does however, lead me to the next part of advertising that I don’t understand: Why we seem compelled to turn ourselves into walking advertisements. When I was in the Air Force, myself and another guy had to travel to Canada for an exercise. He turned up at the airport wearing this jacket covered with Home Depot logos, so I figured that he must moonlight there. I also though, man, they really give their people some nice jackets. He was also a rabid NASCAR fan, and I had to listen to him go on and on about Tony Stewart. Everything I never wanted to know about Tony Stewart. His stats, his best times, his enemies, his wife’s name, his personal and professional philosophies (which seemed to consist of; drive fast, turn left, drive very fast), and so on. For three days, in cars, on planes, in restaurants, hotel rooms, and airports, I had to listen to it. By the time we got to our destination, I knew more about Tony Stewart than I did about my companion, and I’d worked with him for three years. It wasn’t until some time later that I finally realized that it was not a Home Depot jacket, it was a Tony Stewart jacket. Of course, the fact that it had Tony Stewart’s autograph and number on it probably should have clued me in sooner, but still.

Everywhere I look, people are walking around advertising everything from bands to booze to snack foods, and everything in between, often wearing multiple brand’s merchandise at the same time. And what about sports apparel? Why would anybody wear that? Does a guy built like Homer Simpson think he’s fooling anybody just because he’s wearing a Lakers jersey? Or does he just think that LeBron James (and I’m pretty sure that LeBron James doesn’t actually play for the Lakers, I just don’t care enough to look up who he does play for) needs that little bit extra publicity? Is he afraid that the $63 billion dollars that LeBron gets paid won’t be enough to keep LeBron motivated? That’s a lot of responsibility for a middle-aged, working-class guy.

Okay, so some athletic clothing is kind of cool. I myself used to wear a football jersey as a shirt. Of course, it was my jersey, that I wore for four years playing high school football for Northeastern High School (which is a whole other blog post). Granted, for the first year or so, I looked ridiculous. As a freshman, I got last dibs on the jerseys, so I, an extra-small freshman (4’11”, 98 lbs. seriously) got stuck with an extra-large jersey. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it was #69. It was so big, that when I tucked it in, it looked like #r0, and that was wearing it over the shoulder pads. Untucked, it hung to my knees. I wore that thing for years. I was proud of that jersey. I took some of the worst ass-kickings of my life in that jersey, but I always got back up and back on the line. That jersey meant something to me.

What could a fake Peyton Manning or LeBron James jersey mean to anybody? I mean, other than, “Hi there, my life is so pointless and uninteresting that I’m going around with someone else’s name on my back, hoping that will inspire someone to talk to me.” I guess I can understand it from the point of view of kids, but what kind of grown man does that?

Sometimes the stuff people wear is just disturbing. I’ve seen a lot of young women running around with “Juicy” emblazoned across their posteriors. Now, I don’t know what that’s all about, and there are a lot of adjectives that can apply to the posteriors of young women, but to me, “juicy” doesn’t make the list. When I think of juicy, I think of flying fluid, and that’s just not a visual I personally would want associated with my backside. I sometimes wonder what people are thinking.

Advertising is everywhere. There’s no escaping it. I guess to me the scariest thing is how easy it is for it to seep into your subconscious and make you think, “You know, if I could do it in 15 minutes a day, I would work out.”

Humor Is Hard: Living With A Humorist Is Harder

All About Me, Home Life, Wives

Ok, here’s a quick one:

It’s not easy trying to be funny all the time. In fact, sometimes it seems like the harder I try to be funny, the less funny I become. Comedy, I think in a lot of ways, just happens. Oh sure, you can work on it, polish it up, make it even funnier with word choice or presentation, but if that original grain of comedy isn’t there to begin with, it just ain’t gonna be funny. That’s why there are so few Holocaust jokes.

Let me give you an example: The other night, we’re getting ready to call it a night. I get up and take some dishes to the kitchen, and behind me I hear my wife, the lovely and understanding Jess say she needed to go to the bathroom before we took the dogs out one last time. Now, we’ve been dieting (sort of), and eating a lot of salads, which means there’s a lot more fiber and roughage in my diet than normal, with all the drawbacks that accompany that sort of dietary change. So I’m thinking, great, she’ll be in the bathroom, so here’s a perfect opportunity to vent a little internal pressure while she’s not around. So I did. You wouldn’t think that the human digestive system could withstand that kind of pressure, you know? Just another one of God’s engineering marvels, I guess.

So, naturally, as soon as I’d released enough natural gas to propel a small car across the continental United States, the loving and apparently potassium-deprived Jess got up and immediately started shrieking about a cramp in her foot. Unfortunately, instead of sitting back down where she was, she staggered across the house and into the kitchen, where she proceeded to brace herself against the counter right next to me while she gasped in pain. Now, I’m not totally insensitive, so I asked her if there was anything I could do for her, hoping that, while I hate to see her in pain, maybe it would be enough to distract her from the air’s newly aromatic qualities. It didn’t.

She replied, “You mean besides not farting?”, and then proceeded to alternate between crying with pain, and telling me I need to see a doctor because there’s something seriously wrong with me, and complaining, “Oh God, it’s gotten in my mouth!”

I pointed out to her that it was not my fault because: 1) She wasn’t even supposed to be in the kitchen, she was supposed to be in the bathroom, far away from my fetid glory, 2) I had vented before I knew she was coming into the kitchen, and 3) The diet and all the salads were her idea. Unfortunately, my protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears. She wasn’t having any of it.

Fortunately, once her cramp faded and she was able to escape outside to the fresh air, she soon began to see the funny side of it, and was even able (eventually) to laugh about it.

Anyway, so that’s an example of a funny story that just happened. It is, I hope, made even funnier by my own inimitable style of storytelling (of course, if I can’t make a fart story funny, I should just give up). But it’s not always that easy. This is about the fourth blog post I’ve started this week. Each one started out pretty funny, but then got less and less funny until, by the time I’d gotten to the point, I was really just kind of griping, and/or preaching, and not funny at all. Let’s face it, you’re not reading this blog looking for depth of thought, insight, or analysis (unless there’s seriously wrong with you), you’re here just looking for a good laugh.

I hope this gave you one.