the how-not-to guide to parenting and marriage

BUCKLE UP FOR INSANITY!

2010-03-02T17:01:00.002-05:00

When you really think about it, who rides in the back seats of cars? I'll tell you who, children who are being driven by their parents, and teenagers who have too many other teenagers in the car with them to fit in the front seat. That's who rides in back seats. Of course grandma rides back there occasionally, but it's generally small children and teenagers. Knowing this, why wouldn't the car company's design the safety restraints to accommodate small children? Adults never ride back there, teenagers are too cool to care about seat belts, and grandma,. . . well she ain't gonna be around forever anyhow. But no, it requires several pounds of machinery and a PHD to safely restrain a child in the back seat.

Carseats are like a Rubik's cube for a young father. They are not in the slightest bit self-explanatory, and usually this is not apparent until the mother has already driven off with her friends to the "Pampered Chef" party while the young father is left standing with a child in one arm, and the carseat with it's seventeen buckles and straps in the other. This is where the fun begins.

My maiden voyage with the carseat, after being left holding it in one hand and Hannah in the other, had me scratching my head and swearing for no less than an hour. The first challenge being, getting the carseat secured in the car. I had no idea which way the stupid thing was supposed to be facing. Should the child be facing the front of the car or the back? Maybe they should be strapped in like an astronaut, looking at the roof of the car.

I tried to imagine different accident scenario's in hopes that I could then figure out the safest position for the seat. But there are too many different possibilities. A head on collision, a car hitting us from the side, a garbage truck hitting us from behind, a car hitting us from one side and a garbage truck hitting us from the other at the same time, a jetliner crash landing on top of the car, one of those giant worms from TREMORS bashing us from underneath. This line of reasoning was getting me nowhere and soon had me wondering if it wouldn't be easier to just place the child and seat together in the trunk.

I finally decided to strap the seat in facing forward, so I could at least see what the child was up to, and moved on to the more challenging next problem; strapping the child in the seat. For this process, I had straps, buckles, clasps, and something that looked like a noose coming from every corner of the seat. And again, it was not self explanatory as to how each binding should be attached to the child.

Growing impatient, the thought crossed my mind that it might be easiest to unstrap the seat, set the child down and then place the seat on top of the child with a bag of groceries placed in the seat as weight to keep it in place. At least this way, when the accident happened, and the child went hurling towards the windshield, the bag of groceries and the carseat should create a large enough hole in the glass to let the child pass through without getting scratched on the jagged edges. But surely, there would be some bleeding heart yelling accusations at me as I walked up the road to find my safely ejected child. Therefore, I decided against that method.

Feeling like I was running out of options, I decided that the best thing to do was to jump in feet first, and just start binding the child down like a pile of logs on my work truck. Within a few minutes, I had bound each arm and leg independently by buckling and tying it down with whatever lashing happened to be nearest the appendage, but there still remained three straps that had no home. I was able to use one as a chin strap. I then added a second binding to her left leg because my knot on the first strap looked suspect, and with the third and final strap, I did the old once around the whole seat and child for good measure. I guess it wasn't so hard once I had just gotten down to it.

Mastering the child seat is only a temporary fix to the problem of restraining children in vehicles, because it isn't long before they outgrow them. This is when a whole new set of challenges arise. The largest of which is the placement of the stupid shoulder strap, which inevitably ends up across the face of the child. At first, I would make the child keep the shoulder strap in place (I enjoyed the fact that it muffled their high pitched little voices), but again, this caused problems. Apparently their developing brains prevent them from realizing that they should not blow bubbles with their gum while the shoulder strap is blocking the area needed for bubble blowing. It takes at least a half an hour and a pair of scissors to undue the knots of gum, hair and seat belt. That fact, coupled with the whining soon made me realize that leaving the strap across the child's face wasn't going to work.

Thinking I had the perfect solution, I tried taking the shoulder strap and give it a good wrap around their neck, leaving it positioned perfectly out of the way of the child's face. However, my wife, rolling her eyes, told me that this idea "wasn't too bright", so I ended up safety pinning the strap to their shirts, and out of the way.

The hassle and stress that seat belts have caused me, has without a doubt, taken time off the end of my life, and it won't take many more "DADDY'S NOT WEARING HIS SEATBELT"'s, before I consider shortening the life of my children. It makes you start to wonder if the mangulation of a wreck isn't worth not having the seat belt insanity. I suppose not, but it's a close call.

The Last Laugh

2010-02-22T23:50:00.000-05:00

My wife has returned to school in order to get the nursing degree that she has long wanted. She is a truly super woman. However, her superness is not the subject of my writing today. In the process of becoming a nurse, she is attending many different classes, one of which requires her to possess what I call, "The Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases".

One night, being the intellectual sort, I began looking through "The Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases", and became alarmed by all the pictures of the different diseases. There were no less than four hundred and seventy two pages of awaiting death. I decided right then and there that I was going to begin a pro-active approach to my health. . . a disease watch.

I made a nightly routine of taking "The Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases", and comparing each and every picture of diseased body parts to my own body parts. I then go through my entire list of all nine hundred forty five "Horrifying Disease" symptoms that are mentioned within the book. This routine has made me the victim of my wives ridicule and has even left me branded with the title of hypochondriac. But I shall not relent my vigil. Admittedly, it takes a bit of time, but in the short while I've been doing it, I have already had a few close calls.

The first incident occurred on my way home from work. As I was driving along, I realized that I had lost nearly all the hearing in my right ear. Upon arriving at home, I flew into the house to check my list of symptoms, and sure enough, there it was on the symptom list; hearing loss.

My heart pounding, and sweating profusely, I rushed myself to the nearby clinic to find out what horrible fate that my hearing loss was a symptom of. As it turns out, I was suffering from a simple case of what the doctor called Idiocy. This is the condition that is the direct result of someone forgetting to pull out one of their ear plugs after work. I was quite surprised that they had actually come up with a name for such a thing, but there you have it, I had a case of Idiocy.

I also learned from "The Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases" that many diseases are a result of our genetics. I immediately contacted my mother and found out that there had been a few cases of Cervical Cancer in our ancestry. Upon further investigating in "The Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases", I found out that Cervical Cancer could be detected by something called a Pap Test.

Leaving nothing to chance, I made an appointment, and went to see my doctor the very next day. I told him of my family history and requested a Pap Test as soon as possible. He apparently thought I was over-reacting because he began laughing so hard that I could not understand what he was saying. A little annoyed at his mockery, I waited for him to calm down enough that he could communicate a little more clearly. I was then relieved to find out that I had no Cervix. So relieved, in fact, that I forgot to ask him how he knew that I didn't have one. I assume that it must have been removed when I was quite young, and he had read it in my chart, or something. At least now I could fill out medical history questionnaires more accurately now, by knowing that my Cervix had been removed.

My nightly routine has also attracted the attention and curiosity of my daughters as well (that is, the parts of my picture and symptom comparing that does not require privacy and a mirror), and has resulted in them becoming more aware of their own health. Last night, Natalie came down and fearfully showed me that one of her thumbs was larger than the other. Quite concerned, I consulted the list of symptoms, but could not find "enlarged thumb" on it anywhere. My wife, Miss Future Nurse Know-It-All, said that both I and Natalie were probably suffering from Idiocy, but a quick check for ear plugs quickly led me to conclude that she was once again wrong. Neither Natalie or myself had any signs of Idiocy.

I am taking no chances. I've made Natalie an appointment tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe I have discovered a new symptom; enlarged thumb, and it will be given a name in my honor, something like "Jonification".

So let the foolish laugh and call names. I know that my routine is not a waste of time, and that I'm not being a hypochondriac. If my wife suddenly comes down with a bad case of Leprosy, I hope she doesn't think that I'm going to help clean up any of her body parts that fall off! I'm not going to lift a finger! (a little medical humor. . . lift a finger. . get it?). It won't be so funny then, I bet. We'll just see who has the last laugh!

Showering can cause weight gain.

2010-02-15T18:30:00.000-05:00

My wife has turned our bathroom into a buffet of flavors and odors. In our shower, we have coconut shampoo, papaya shampoo, mint conditioner and even grape. . . yes, grape body wash. Our toothpaste is bubblegum flavored, and our hand soap is vanilla smelling.

Taking a shower and brushing my teeth now causes me to crave food, and is usually followed by a trip to the refrigerator. I even have to fight the urge to start munching on my own arm and hair, due to them smelling like some sort of food.

I don't know why personal hygiene products need to smell like food, and I am even more puzzled at why my wife buys them. I'm thinking of starting my own line of shampoos, conditioners and toothpastes that are scented more for us manly men. I would have scents like, lumber or grass clippings, maybe even something that smelled like a freshly caught bass.

WHO'S TRAINING WHO?

2010-02-07T06:05:00.000-05:00

When you have children, one of two things is always happening. Either you are training them on how to act like mature, responsible adults, or they are training you to act more and more like a child.

This revelation came to me just the other day when my two daughters and I had just finished watching "Sunny With A Chance", the show that my youngest, Natalie, had chosen. Before that, we had watched "Hannah Montana", the show that my other daughter, Hannah, had picked.

I now figured that it was my turn to pick the show. But this was apparently not agreeable to my darling children. An arguement quickly broke out and soon escalated into violence and chaos. Fists were flying, teeth were gnashing and hair was being ripped from the roots.

Finally, I'd had it, so I pronounced in a loud authoritave voice, "I've had it!" and with that, I left to go tell mom, I mean my wife, that they wouldn't let me watch my show, and that Hannah had kicked me, and that if Natalie came and told that I pulled her hair, that she had hit me first....that's when I realized," Hey! I'm the adult here!". So back to the living room I marched and said, "I am your father and you have to do what I say and I don't need to go tell Mom, I mean my wife, I mean your mother!" and with that being said, I pulled Natalies hair, bit Hannah on the arm and sent them both to their rooms to think about resolving conflict in a responsible manner. I was then able to sit down and watch "Sponge-Bob" in peace like a mature adult.

That makes me ANGRY.

2009-05-16T10:30:00.002-04:00

I have once again decided that it is time to quit smoking. And for some reason, the subject of quitting smoking seems to go hand in hand with the subject of things that make me mad. I haven't quite figured out why this is, but here I am, quitting smoking and writing about things that make me mad.

Some things just really make me mad. Like when you go into the bathroom and bend over to turn on the tub faucet, and someone has left the middle knob with the arrow on it pointing up, which means that the freezing cold water is going to come blasting out of the shower and hit me square on the top of my head.

This makes me mad.

It makes me want to rip off the stupid middle knob with the arrow on it and flush it down the toilet. I instead calm myself with a puff of the nicotine inhaler that my doctor had given me, and go about my business.

But it doesn't take very long before they (the others who live here) find another way to make me angry. As I walk into the kitchen, I see sitting on the counter, a huge, monstrosity of a glass of milk that someone has poured themselves, and then left on the counter to rot after taking only two sips.

This makes me very mad.

I take the luke-warm glass of milk straight into the living room where THEY are watching some tv show that would just make me mad if I weren't already mad about the glass of milk, and I stand on the coffee table obstructing their view and demand,

"WHOSE ridiculously large glass of milk is this? WHO is the person who will be drinking water from the cat's bowl all of next week? WHOO...."

Before I could finish my sentence, my wife removed the backing from a nicotine "patch" and slapped it onto my forehead, which I believe was more for the excuse of being able to slap me than anything else. She then told me to "chill". The patch, although just an excuse to slap me, seemed to help ease the tension a bit. So off I went, my socks sloshing in the milk that I had spilled when I was waving the glass of milk above my head for emphasis.

Perhaps a little fresh air would put some distance between me and THEY, who would relish in making me furious. Outside I went. As I walk out the door, I nearly trip and kill myself on one of those "beany" stuffed animals that has been left right in the middle of the porch. A "beany" cat, which would have been enough to anger me simply because the stupid cat's name is "Frisco", and is clearly printed on the tag which is sewn onto it's butt, had I not already been livid that the vile creature was sitting, and smiling, in the middle of MY....MY PORCH.

This makes me so mad that I am relieved of all rational train of thought.

It makes me want to grab the stupid cat, dowse it in gasoline, and then IGNITE IT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD SO ALL THE NEIGHBORS CAN SEE, WHILE I REPEATEDLY RUN IT'S FLAMING CARCASS OVER WITH THE LAWN MOWER!!!!!!!!!

But instead I settle for chewing on the nicotine patch while sniffing the ash tray from my truck and singing "You are my sunshine". My darling wife, knowing how the quitting smoking can make me a little edgy, brings me a cup of some green tea crap that would probably just make me angry if I wasn't so tired from being angry, and says, "Why don't you go to bed, honey, and tomorrow the 'quit smoking' fight will be one day easier." Thinking she might be right, I headed off to bed, where after a short anger flare up over the idiocy of the English language, particularly the word 'yogurt', I was finally able to rest in peace.

The Bacon Trading Floor.

2009-04-12T21:43:00.001-04:00

In our house, bacon is treasured above all other food. My daughters and I are hopelessly addicted to its’ smoky hoggilicious flavor, and because of this, bacon has become a commodity, a currency by which deals are made, goods are purchased, and crimes are committed.

The bacon preparation is an event in itself. The three of us stand in silent awe, watching the sizzling pieces of heaven as they cook. Then each piece is placed on the awaiting paper towel platter where it cools until it’s time for the “weigh in”.
The “weigh in” is a system that was established as a result of the whining, wailing, fighting and gnashing of teeth over who’s bacon share was bigger and better. Each piece is weighed, measured for length and width, and then judged for overall quality. If it happens to peppered bacon, each speck of pepper must be counted and recorded.

Once the shares have been divided and all are satisfied, the bell rings sounding the opening the bacon trading floor.
I start the session by putting a “get out of ‘time out’ free” card on the table for one piece of bacon. Hannah counters with the “get out of ‘time out’ free” card and a fifty percent reduction on her next grounding. A hard bargain, but I accept. I am now up one piece of bacon. Natalie then offers up one of her Barbie dolls for one and a half pieces.

“Brown or blonde hair?” I ask.

“ Blonde”

“ With or without clothes” was my next question.

“ With clothes” she answered.

“ I’ll pass.”

By now, Hannah had already devoured the remains of her share and was on the prowl for more. She slaps down a wad of Silly Putty. Ohhh, she’s got me where she wants me. I love Silly Putty. “One piece” I bid.

“Two” she says.

“Fine! Two pieces you little miser.”

Now with all this hoarding and fighting over bacon, you might wonder why we don’t just buy more and increase the shares. I’ll tell you why. One time when my wife was out of town for the weekend, I decided that the kids and I were going to have bacon fest. I bought three pounds of bacon. That’s one pound of bacon each....well, it sounded like a good idea. Apparently you can have too much of a good thing.

Teaching our pets to be more self sufficient

2008-11-12T14:52:00.005-05:00

As the man of our household, and an intellectual type person, I am always on the lookout for ways to further streamline our daily lives, and make things around our home as efficient as possible. This type of thinking has led to many revolutionary ideas such as showering with clothing on (laundry and personal hygiene with the same water) and my attempt at delegating to my daughters, the duties of spanking each other when discipline was in order (admittedly, this was not a great idea, as it tended to look more like a fist fight than discipline).

As I sat down to watch television one night, I was immediately solicited by our dog, Chip, for petting and affection. I then realized that for the entire history of our owning family pets, one could not sit down on the couch without a cat, dog, or some matter of beast, immediately jumping up on my lap and demanding attention.

This is when I began to wonder if there wasn't a better system that would eliminate myself from the whole animal petting social structure. After all, I didn't require the affirmation of the animals petting me! Why should I even be in the mix? Was it not enough that I provided them with a home, food, and a new carpet to poop upon?

After careful consideration, I decided to teach the animals, (two cats and one dog) to pet each other. As with any genius who is far advanced beyond his time, I was instantly confronted with skepticism.

"Remember what happened when you tried to make the kids spank each other!" my wife reminded me for the hundredth time, "do you really want the police here again?".

"This is totally different", I replied, "and besides, the police were here because one of the rocks that the girls were throwing at each other, hit the neighbors windshield! Not because they were using the rocks to discipline each other.

Realizing that I would get no support from my wife, I went forward with my plan. My first attempt was rather straight forward. As I sat down on the couch, and Chip hopped up on my lap, I grabbed the cat who was sitting beside me, and put them together. Both animals stared at me with what might be described as 'confused looks'. Taking the cue, I grabbed Chip's paw, and began petting the cat with it. Lydia (the cat) hissed and made an attempt to escape that involved the brandishing of all four sets of claws. In an attempt to keep the cat on my lap with Chip, I grabbed her tail at the same instant that Chip lunged, sinking one of his fangs into the cat's tail, and the other into my thumb. Chaos ensued.

"Should I call the police now?", my wife said mockingly.

"If you're not going to be supportive, can you at least help by vacuuming up the fur?" I grumbled as I set off to find a non-ripped pair of pants and some bandaids.

Not being one who easily gives up, I planned my next attempt, convinced that the end result would justify the time and effort.

Perhaps pets don't have the dexterity to actually pet each other. Maybe I would be better off teaching them to lick each other since they seem to have no problem licking themselves.

This plan seemed simple enough to implement, I would start by teaching Chip to lick the cats by smearing a touch of bacon grease onto the backs of both cats. Having greased both cats, I set one down in front of Chip. Chip, instantly smelled the bacon grease and gazed up at me with a look that instantly enlightened me to the error in my plan. He looked at me as if to say, "You want me to eat the cat?".

At the same instant, Chip and I lunged for the cat. Chaos once again ensued, but with a noticeably higher degree of intensity than occured with the first incident.

Things eventually calmed down, and as I set off to find another pair of pants, a shirt and band aids, I decided that maybe the end result might not be worth the effort.

I am not a quitter, however, I have decided to postpone my efforts until such time that a safer and more sound method of training the animals to pet each other can be found. I welcome the suggestions of any who see the genius in my vision. Any remarks suggesting that the police be called, need not be made. My wife has a more than ample supply of those.

I HAVE TO YELL AT SOMEONE (a post from the past)

2008-11-07T00:54:00.001-05:00

Does the intention of doing something good excuse a child from the parental wrath when the ending result is something very bad? How bad must bad be before the good intentions no longer pardon the crime?

This question was pushed to it's absolute limit just a few days ago in our household. I had been working long hours for the past few weeks. My wife was not only working, but attending school as well. This leaving much of the housework undone. Our children were made acutely aware of how their lack of picking up after themselves compounded the problem. This awareness and the goodness of their hearts led them to the decision that they would, as a surprise, help out without being asked.

As I entered the kitchen, weary from my day, I am greeted by the sight of my darling seven year old daughter standing on a chair in front of an extremely large mountain of suds in the sink.

"Whacha doin, girlie?", I ask.

"Helping you and mommy by doing the dishes", she answered, beaming with pride.

It was at that very moment that I caught sight of the dish drainer filled with not only unrinsed, and still food covered dishes, but also the TV remote and my daughters hamster, which was as wet as the dishes and trapped inside a Tupperware.

"Natalie is cleaning the floor for you", was her next statement.

I turned to see Natalie, my five year old squeezing the last drops of what was nearly a full bottle of dish soap onto the kitchen floor.

Horrified by what I was seeing, I lunged into action. "WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE . . . ", but that was all I managed to get out. For as I lunged into action, I took a giant step forward and immediately fell victim to the bottle of dish soap that had been evenly spread across the vinyl floor.

My feet were swept out from underneath me with blistering speed. In an instant, I was suspended, upside-down, above the kitchen floor. Time slowed to the speed of a frame-by-frame football replay. I could see my shoes silhouetted by the brightness of the kitchen light, and I noticed a spot on the ceiling that had been missed during painting. I had time to think about which child was going to get it first, and how severe the sentence would be. As my head passed by the oven window, I could see that an object was baking inside, and I had time to wonder. . no, fret over what it might be that my children were cooking.

My head hit the floor with a sickening and painful thud. My back and legs then followed, leaving me lying on the soap slickened floor looking up at my daughter standing on the chair. With a gasp of surprise, she let loose of the pan she was holding, our largest, witches cauldron sized pan, which then fell and hit me squarely on the forehead. The lights went out......

I opened my eyes to see my wife leaning over me with a look of great concern. My youngest daughter had begun scrubbing my left leg with her rag and dish soap, as if my body lying on the floor was something that needed to be cleaned, much like a blob of jelly or ketchup.

"Help me up", I said to my wife.

"I think maybe you should just lay still for a minute", she replied.

"No no, I've got to be standing when I yell at them or it's not nearly as intimidating. Help me up!"

"You can't yell at them" she said, much to my shock and awe.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? WHY ON EARTH CAN'T I YELL AT THEM?"

"They were trying to help out. I'm telling you that you cannot yell at them", she said with a note of finality in her voice.

I couldn't imagine. I didn't know. I thought that as the parent, it was a free for all on the yelling, but apparently I was wrong.

"I HAVE TO YELL AT SOMEONE!!", I pleaded.

"Then go outside", was her final word.

Bursting out the door, I unloaded on the first person, or thing in this case, that I could find, the lawn mower. I gave it the verbal thrashing of it's life, shaking my finger at it for emphasis, and grounding it for a week.

Later that night, after calming down, I had time to really ponder the day's events, which then brought me to my question. Does the intention of doing something good excuse a child from the backlash of a terrible end result? Is there a line? What if my oldest daughter tried to help us save money by selling her sister to the Gypsies? I'm quidte sure I will get a flood of sensible answers to this question from many parents who are wiser than I, but then again, if I had all the answers, I guess I wouldn't have anything to write about.

Mr. Fix It

2008-07-06T20:12:00.012-04:00

Having been gone for nearly a year and a half with only sporadic weekend visits home, One of my first tasks was to take stock in any maintenance issues that may have arisen in my absence. I didn't have to look far, in fact, I didn't have to look at all. My daughters had already compiled a list of things that they thought should be fixed.

Hannah's list was topped with her curling iron, which she claimed no longer curled the hair on the left side of her head as well as the right side. This didn't seem logical to me, but not knowing anything about curling irons, or even curling hair, I took it out to my shed to have a look.

After checking the "barrel" for straightness, and confirming that it heated up enough to remove the fingerprint from my right index finger, I took it back to her and told her I had fixed it "good as new". "Just needed a little curling grease." This seemed to pacify her, and so on to the next item I went.

Natalie's first item was also Hannah's fourth item. The thought of eliminating two items for the price of one, made me feel efficient and a bit excited. The item to which I am referring was the toaster. The toaster is especially important to Natalie in that, one of the few things the child will eat with any consistency is mayonnaise and mustard toast.

"What's wrong with the toaster?" I asked.

"I don't know" replied Natalie in a tone that made me suspect that she did know what was wrong with it.

"It shoots out fire" Hannah offered.

"That's ridiculous, Hannah" I said as I pushed down the button.

---

Twenty minutes later, after cleaning up the fire extinguisher dust in the kitchen, and apologizing to Hannah, I marched the toaster out to my shed. Apparently, my darling youngest had decided that her toast was not quite toasted enough, and put it back into the toaster. Unfortunately, mustard and mayonnaise had already been applied to the toast prior to the second toasting.

With some slight disassembling, I was able to expose the zig-zaggy toaster coils, and let the mayonnaise-mustard sludge burn off with the only casualty being a zig-zaggy branding to my right middle finger.

Within the day, I had pretty much satisfied both of my daughters fix-it lists, and was readying to move on to my own. This is when my wife approached me, carrying in her hand what appeared a list of her own.

"What's this?" I asked.

"It's my list." she replied as I began looking over the items.

The list seemed very familiar.

"Wait a minute! These are the same items that were on the list you gave me a year and a half ago before I left to work in. . . . ACTUALLY, This is the exact same piece of paper you gave me a year and a half ago! I recognize that bacon grease stain."

"What difference does that make?" she asked.

"I'm working on things that broke while I was gone, not things that I've been putting off".

"Fine! There is one new item on the list", she huffed and stomped off.

On the bottom of the list, written in ink that was not nearly as faded as all the rest, was item number thirty seven; mower won't cut grass. "This I can handle" I said to myself as I headed for the shed.

I started the mower and drove it out to test it on the grass, which desperately needed mowing anyway. With the push of a lever, the mower deck howled to life, and off I went.

At first, all seemed normal. Maybe just a little bit louder than I remembered. I also noticed a slight vibration that didn't seem familiar. The vibration grew in intensity to the point that it was hard to grip the wheel, and my teeth chattering caused me to bite my tongue.

As I pressed on, I began to notice remnants of toys, sprinklers, half a basketball, and the limbs of some unfortunate rodent that had apparently fallen victim to the mower of death. My back yard looked like the "Island of Misfit Toys" that Rudolf and that elf (that wanted to be a dentist) visited. Only the toys in my back yard weren't misfit, they were horribly dismembered by a crazy lady on a mower.

Behind me, in the area that I had just mowed, was a strip of tall grass that looked like it had been gently bent over by a broom. There was nothing "cut" about it.

I could only imagine how wet-noodle dull my mower blades were, as I shut off the mower, and headed for the shed in disgust. I then glanced down and saw that the large rock that had always stuck six inches out of my lawn, was now only sticking five inches out of my lawn. And the top of it was flat like it had been . . . . MOWED OFF!

My eyes widened. My ears tingled and felt hot. I was losing it.

In the shed I found the old real estate sign that we had used for garage sales. I grabbed it, and the can of red paint I had bought to paint the clothes dryer with. I drove the sign into the ground directly in front of the rock, and changed it to read:

MY DEAREST LOVE, PLEASE DON'T MOW THE * * * *ING ROCK!

(only the stars were replaced with four other letters)

A few hours later, after calming down in my shed, I began to feel guilty about loosing my temper. I was also concerned about the colorful language that I had put on the sign, so I went back and scribbled out the expletive. I was pretty sure that no one had gotten the chance to read it in the few short hours it was there.

"I noticed a sign in the back yard" my wife said to me later that night.

"Um, Yess, there is a new sign in the back yard. Just a friendly little reminder" I replied nervously.

"Looks like you misspelled something on it" she added.

"Yess, misspelled something . . uh, you know what a bad speller I am".

I waited with baited breath to see if she was going to add anything more to the conversation. I began to think I was in the clear on the F bomb.

Until she said with a look that nearly cut me in half like a laser, "Oh, and by the way, could you explain to Natalie, who the Foo King is, and why you don't want me to mow his rock.

RETIRED

2008-07-02T12:37:00.000-04:00

I am finally done working on the road. My wife is now 'my wife, RN'.

I left Pittsburgh for the last time on Saturday. As I drove the five hours it takes to get home, I had visions of laying on my couch, wrapped up in my favorite fuzzy blanket, and watching endless hours of meaningless TV.

For a year and a half now, I have been without a couch. I was either camping or living in a flea bag motel. But now, finally, I was going home to my couch. . . . . and my wife and kids, of course.

Upon my arrival home, I was greeted with a massacre of hugs and kisses from kids, a wife and all variety of domestic animal. A welcome that could not have been any better if I had planned it myself.

The excitement gradually began to fade a bit, so I made my way from the entry-way towards the living room. I could hear my couch wispering my name, calling me towards it's fluffy, warm, form-fitting goodness.

I rounded the hallway corner and finally came face to face with. . . . . . no couch. I'm not just talking about my couch in a different place than I'm used too, or even a different couch all together. I'm talking about a complete absence of any couch, and anything remotely couch-like.

In it's place sat our love seat. A love seat that was about three feet short of being a couch. A love seat that had an arm rest with a drink holder in the middle of it that made trying to lay on it as comfortable as trying to lay on the back seat floor boards of one of those older cars that had a big hump in the middle.

My voice stammered a bit as I turned to my wife, the RN, and began to ask, "Where. . . . . . ?"

She cut me off and spoke very rapidly as if she knew I was on the verge of tears, "Oh, the couch? Uncle Jim gave us his couch and mom and dad were supposed to bring it down last week when they came to visit, but it wouldn't fit in their van, but unfortunately I had already gotten rid of our old couchsorryhun."

I was glad to be home, and glad to see my beautiful wife and children, so for this reason, I took all my irritation, rage, and utter contempt for life, and mentally flushed it down the toilet. I was just glad to be home.

Willing to make the best of things I turned towards the mutant love-seat. At that same moment, My two darling daughters swooped in like hawks attacking their prey, and snatched up both spots on the love seat.

Flushing the rage once again, I turned to my wife who was seated in the recliner, the only remaining place to sit in the living room. She gave me a pleasant smile and returned to her crossword.

With a third, and final flush, I decided to just hang out and be glad that I was with my family. I stood between the entertainment center and the floor lamp, and listened to the latest episode of Hannah Montana until my knees gave out. Wandering a bit bought me a little more time with my knees, but seemed to disturb my daughters' television watching.

Something had to be done. This was not tolerable. So being the intellectual type, I was able to create my own couch out of four folding chairs and part of the coffee table. It's not exactly comfortable and tends to creak alot when I move, but it's a couch, and I'm glad to be home

You are my coffee, a poem for my wife

2008-05-26T21:39:00.002-04:00

You are my coffee
You smell good

You are my coffee-
even though you are not black

Without you, It's like I am wandering aimlessly in my pajamas, cursing burnt toast and scratching my butt

Without you, I would get head aches
You are my coffee

The Bad Idea Network.

2008-04-30T20:41:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, I like to update my fellow men on some of the little things I've learned as my life unfolds. As men, I don't think we do enough of this, and as a result, millions of men across the world will spend tonight on the couch for doing something like trying to put deodorant on the dog's armpits to see if it will keep it from smelling so much like a dog, but then the dog licks off all the deodorant causing it to vomit and have diarrhea all over the house while great aunt Mildred's funeral dinner is taking place.

Now had this happened to a woman, the alert would have gone out within minutes by telephone; "Hi Cindy, it's me Sally, just called to let you know that it is not a good idea to put deodorant on the dog. I'll call and explain later. Bye!"And by nightfall, the word would have traveled through the network until every woman across North America knew not to put deodorant on the dog.

Of course, this network wouldn't work nearly as well for men in that we need details. My wife is satisfied that it is not a good idea to put deodorant on the dog simply because Sally said so. Men need to know WHY? The very fact that someone might suggest not to do something, and then not give a reason, is motivation to do it immediately. "I'll put deodorant on my dog if I want to, and I'll make him gargle with mouthwash for good measure!"

At any rate, I shall make a few contributions to the MEN'S BAD IDEA INFORMATION NETWORK :

A little advice on the old Anniversary-birthday-Valentine Day thing. If the Florist near you is going out of business, you can not buy half of their remaining stock and then give them all to your wife, thinking that you're covered for the next ten years. You will just end up back on the couch.

I've always heard of people burning their leaves, but growing up in he middle of nowhere, it was easier to just ignore them. Living a little closer to other humans now, I thought it sounded like an easy way to get rid of them, and indeed it was. Being the practical man that I am though, I have a suggestion for other men who may attempt this. You can save on gas and bad relationships with your neighbors if you rake them all into a pile first. Sheesh! Talk about hellfire! I won't have to mow for a year!

Men, we need more communication. We need to trust the advice of other's who have bungled before us. The more we, as men, share these little hints and helps, the less we will be sleeping on the couch.