So, most of you know where I work. I can't actually say it here because somebody will freak I'm sure. But needless to say, I get to see a LOT of things waaaay before the general public sees them. Some of them good, some that need a little refinement, and some that never make it to the public.
I saw something this morning, that although I'm probably not supposed to mention, I'm sure it's already out in the marketplace or sure enough it's coming soon. It's not the product per se that's interesting to me, but rather the application of it. I was going to take a picture and post it, but then I get into all these legal ramifications etc, so I thought it best to just describe it.
This morning, I saw a child's car seat. Nothing new to the car seat at all, except the fabric. It was COMPLETELY camouflaged. I understand the desire for camo as a fashion fabric, it's cool in some circles, I get it. What astounded me is to know that IF this actually hits the market some time soon, you KNOW there is going to be some guy saying, "I know you got the kids this weekend Bubba, but I bet we can take that car seat and strap it in the deer stand since it's camouflaged and kill two birds with one stone."
That's all I'm saying .... and you didn't hear it from me.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
My Favorite Lists
From time to time, some idiot will send me one of those email lists wanting to know what my favorite bar of soap is, and who I think the coolest BEEGEE was, or stuff like that. Truly, what they are saying is “HERE is MY favorite BEEGEE, and I want you to know that, but instead of being a completely self absorbed jerk, I’m going to pretend that I care what YOUR favorite BEEGEE is too.”
As you can imagine, I think these things are pretty worthless … except the ones that come from my wife which are absolutely AWESOME.
But Anyway, here is my version of my favorite things … and I pretty much don’t care what yours are.
As you can imagine, I think these things are pretty worthless … except the ones that come from my wife which are absolutely AWESOME.
But Anyway, here is my version of my favorite things … and I pretty much don’t care what yours are.
#1 – What is your favorite color?
I like the color of my television on Saturday afternoon when the sunlight reflects off my drink and adds a hint of chartreuse from my hamburger.
#2 – What is your favorite flower?
I like the kind that gets me a smile when I give it to my wife.
#3 – What is your favorite movie?
The one where the producer is about to call me and pay me $10,000,000 for a cameo appearance.
#4 – What is your favorite song?
“Congratulations on winning the $50 million sweepstakes” sung in person by members of Publisher’s Clearing House … or YMCA
#5 – Who is your favorite movie star?
I would really like a bowl of ice cream right about now.
#6 – Who is your favorite author?
White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle would be good.
#7 – What is your favorite car?
With sprinkles.
#8 – Where is your favorite place to vacation?
And marshmallows.
#9 – Who is your favorite politician?
Shut up, I like marshmallows, I’m not sharing anyway.
#10 – Who would you like to drag behind your car for a few miles?
The person that came up with these pe
rsonality quizzes.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Christmas Breath
As a kid, there is no day more anticipated than Christmas morning. Who among us has not tossed and turned the night away Christmas Eve wondering what bounty awaited us in the next room, or if that sound we heard might be Santa, and why the heck mom and dad were up past midnight – what did they want to do, see if they could scare off the fat man? They were really toying with fate then, and I for one did NOT appreciate their flippant attitude toward the rules (Santa only comes when everyone’s asleep ya know).
One year, I specifically remember getting a Ken “Barbie Doll” for Christmas. There is no way I will actually admit to asking for a Ken doll for Christmas … even though my sister wouldn’t let me play with her because I didn’t have any Barbie Dolls, so I’m pretty sure that the error in my gift was a direct result of Santa being hurried at my house because my parents were up REALLY late, probably cooking broccoli or something.
As the years went on, and I got that inevitable question, “What do you want for Christmas?” my tastes changed. Early on of course, you can’t WAIT for someone to ask you that.
Aunt: “Honey, what do you want f…”
Me: “I want a Hot Wheels smash’em set with the super launcher sky ramp and ultra cool realistic fire simulation lights”
Aunt: “… for Breakfast?”
Me: “I want a Hot Wheels smash’em set with the super launcher sky ramp and ultra cool realistic fire simulation lights”
Aunt: “… for Breakfast?”
The younger years the answers were predicable and repetitive. “I wanna tractor and a baseball glove!” No matter who asked me, the answer was always “I wanna tractor and a baseball glove!”
Although very amusing for our parents who would use this phrase as a cue for a nightly act that they were producing in our living room. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry that happened to walk in the door was followed by “Ask him what he wants for Christmas … isn’t it cute!? ”
We as kids soon figured out there must be a better way. We got more than 2 presents every year, and most of them were clothes. If we could just figure out how to replace “clothes” (which was an OBVIOUS replacement gift) with “toys” then we could be into some serious loot.
Once elementary school rolled around, I began an ingenious list system. From Aunt Theresa I would ask for the GI Joe Jeep, from Grandma the Transfomers Car, From SANTA I would go for the gold … the Big Wheel! This was a foolproof task – spreading out the wealth, hedging my bets, making sure my bases were covered. Flawless.
Christmas day rolled around and I discovered that Aunt Theresa must have been forgetful, Grandma couldn’t hear very well, and Santa “didn’t have room on his sleigh”. Bunch of Reindeer poop, that’s what that is.
I needed to start refining my system. I began to spend my Sunday afternoons going through the newspapers. My parents found this quite amusing, their son was interested in current events. Occasionally I would take something back to my room and put it in my drawer. How cute. But by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, or as I liked to refer to it “The Asking Season” I rolled out an elaborate, illustrated, and thoroughly mapped out decision tree for anyone I thought should be obligated to buy me a present .. which included everyone from Mom to the Mailman. I had cut, pasted, and itemized lists of everything I wanted along with handouts to the respective purchasers. There were diagrams, alternate purchases, current inventory lists of local stores, and on at least one occasion a hastily edited VHS tape of commercials dedicated solely to the Atari gaming system.
Of course times change, and so do tastes. My requests took on different looks, from toys, to video games, to sports equipment, car stereos, and eventually back to clothes.
The number of people I have requested things from has also changed, from 2039, to 82, 5 and eventually 1 or 2. The past few years though, my request has always been the same.
Mom: “What do you want for Christmas?”
Me: “An extra 2 hours of sleep.”
And yet, I still get the Christmas morning wakeup call at 5am wondering where I am. I drag myself out of bed, grab my keys, and drive over to mom’s house. Don’t bother to shower, put on anything other than PJ’s, and drive zombie like across town.
I guess Mom gets a lot of these lists each year for Christmas presents. The lists may not include “sleep” per se, but something that she can’t really purchase for us, you know, like “world peace”, a television that doesn’t play political hate ads, or “Berkshire Hathaway”. So with her limited ideas, Mom tends to make things up that she thinks we will like. Scarves (which are particularly nice since it’s about 98 degrees at Christmas in Mobile), Brazil nuts (that can’t be cracked with a vice grip and a pound of napalm), and Altoids.
I know, who doesn’t like Altoids. She gives Altoids to everyone, and eventually, don’t ask me how, everyone finds a way to hide them in the boxes that go home with me. Because no one has a need for multiple boxes of altoids at home, the wife makes sure that they go to work with me.
So here is a picture of my desk at work showing what the culmination of my Christmas present prowess has brought to me. Obviously the not showering, and probably not brushing my teeth in my half sleeping stupor has given me Christmas breath and my family is giving me the hint.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Better Uses for WD-40
Recently I was sent and email with some interesting facts/uses for WD-40. These included tips like “Removes tar from clothing” and “takes rust stains off of bathroom sinks”. Although these were really neat and practical uses for the stuff, I think over the years my team of Goombah’s have found some better ones, and here I submit them for your benefit.
1. To really tick off someone trying to open their bathroom door. (This works particularly well during “emergencies” when the hand eye coordination is not as keen)
2. Turns a slip and slide into a slip and launch
3. Removing “JERK” from the side of an automobile (or insert inappropriate phrase here)
4. Pug Bowling
5. Lighting 144 bottle rockets at once
6. Launching a potato 300 yards
7. Blowing a hole in the side of a potato gun that has been stuffed with too large of a potato.
8. Teaching a cat not to scratch
9. The best shooting range target EVER
10. Raising the opposing team’s strike out percentage
11. Playing pinball with someone in your back seat
12. Making beauty pageant fashion shows a lot more interesting
13. Un-sticking a tongue from a frozen flagpole
14. To make an interesting toilet seat “landing”
15. Gym treadmills – need I say more
16. Spray in a random line on the neighbors yard and watch stray dogs follow the smell
17. Spraying jack-o-lanterns is FUN (not as much fun with battery powered lights)
18. Great for watching cat reactions to usual landing locations (such as when fuzzy jumps down on the table from the buffet)
19. Cooking pan seared fish for people you don’t particularly like
Fell free to submit your own!
1. To really tick off someone trying to open their bathroom door. (This works particularly well during “emergencies” when the hand eye coordination is not as keen)
2. Turns a slip and slide into a slip and launch
3. Removing “JERK” from the side of an automobile (or insert inappropriate phrase here)
4. Pug Bowling
5. Lighting 144 bottle rockets at once
6. Launching a potato 300 yards
7. Blowing a hole in the side of a potato gun that has been stuffed with too large of a potato.
8. Teaching a cat not to scratch
9. The best shooting range target EVER
10. Raising the opposing team’s strike out percentage
11. Playing pinball with someone in your back seat
12. Making beauty pageant fashion shows a lot more interesting
13. Un-sticking a tongue from a frozen flagpole
14. To make an interesting toilet seat “landing”
15. Gym treadmills – need I say more
16. Spray in a random line on the neighbors yard and watch stray dogs follow the smell
17. Spraying jack-o-lanterns is FUN (not as much fun with battery powered lights)
18. Great for watching cat reactions to usual landing locations (such as when fuzzy jumps down on the table from the buffet)
19. Cooking pan seared fish for people you don’t particularly like
Fell free to submit your own!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Building a better mouse trap
As some of you may know from my frequent references, or by the web address, or the pictures on the side of the screen, I’ve got a few bulldogs. 27 last time I counted.
Since our traumatic brain injury, and subsequent puppy loot last year, we’ve been coming to terms with what our house looks like and our ability to cope with the situation. For instance, when we got married and threw away all of the furniture in the house that was acquired by anyone who had a Y chromosome, we set some strict rules.
1. No dogs on the furniture
2. Floors will be cleaned weekly at minimum
3. Dogs will have the freedom of the house since they are part of the family
Now that we have been brow beaten by lack of sleep and canine coaxing, our rules have bent a little.
1. No one should sit on Samson’s recliner (unless they want a butt full of dog hair)
2. Floors will be cleaned (hopefully) by the housekeeper bi-weekly unless the wife is totally grossed out and guilt trips me into cleaning them which takes about 30 minutes of badgering, 20 minutes of arguing, a 15 minute temper tantrum by me, and about 2 minutes to actually clean them.
3. All dogs but the old blind dog will be relegated to the laundry room where I have constructed an elaborate barrier system modeled after a ingenious combination between a maximum security prison and Fort Knox.
4. Dogs can go play outside when it’s pretty.
Like I said, we’re coping.
The other day we returned from an outing to find bouncy dog running around the kitchen with a ball in his mouth as if to say, “look what I found, look what I found, look what I found”. The wife gives me a look that says “Did you forget to put someone up?” and then she says “Did you forget to put someone up?” Being the alpha male in the house, I give her a stern look and say “ahhhhh, I guess so.”
So I spend the next 10 minutes chasing him around the kitchen islander while I’m cursing under my breath and he’s thinking we’re playing “get the ball.” …. Side note, it’s right here that I realize that although Kitchen Islanders are useful pieces if equipment, I have now created doggie speedway international, and there is no way to catch that little pain the tookis.
I consider myself lucky because there is no telling what kind of damage he could have done to our kitchen cabinets, fortunately he’s the stupidest dog in the house and probably immediately saw the ball, picked it up, and spent the next three hours looking for it again while it was still in his mouth.
I put the little ball hound back in the laundry room and head to give the kid a bath for the night. We have a good routine, the wife bathes the kid, I go get the PJ’s, grab some milk, and come back to dry him off, dress him, and get him down for the night while the wife spends a relaxing 30 seconds in the bathtub before we start whining for her. After I pick up the PJ’s and head to the kitchen to get the milk, I am greeted by 60 pounds of bounciness standing beside the islander. I think to myself, “What in the world?” so I go to check the laundry room, and everything is PERFECTLY FINE. Gate is closed, barrier boards in place, 15 garbage cans piled up in front of the gate as backup are still unmoved, but somehow, this short runt is standing in my kitchen … looking for the ball that’s in his mouth.
It’s been a long day, I did something wrong, let’s deal with it later and put everybody to bed.
The next day I get up early to check the laundry room prison. Everything is in place, nothing is askew, there isn’t a hole “Houdini” can climb through, everything is fine.
I figured that if the dog’s going to get out, I kind of need to make sure I know how he does it, so I lock him in the laundry room and wait. He sits there and stares at me. I walk around the kitchen and sneak back over, he’s sitting there with his tongue wagging. I make myself breakfast, then sneak a peak. He’s laying there. I sit at the table and eat my breakfast. Quick glance, snoring dog.
I decide that whatever it was, it’s over and I head to the store. I forget my phone so I run back inside to grab it and the STUPID MUTT IS STARING AT ME IN THE FACE. I’ve been gone 30 freaking seconds, and this dog is in my kitchen! The fence is un-moved – there’s a dog staring out at me from behind it saying “I want to come out there too daddy!” I am flabbergasted. I put him BACK in the laundry room and g
ive him a bone to keep him busy for a while until I can get back from the store.
When I return, and step on the bone now in my kitchen, I start to get worried. I decide to have a stake out. I put the dog back in the laundry room and pretend to leave the kitchen. That’s when I heard it. A scoot, or a creak, something is happening. As I lean over to try and get a peak, I notice the dog is at my feet. I quickly glance around the corner at the laundry room … and NOTHING HAS MOVED! I swear this dog has learned to open, THEN SHUT the gate behind him. I have trouble opening that gate. I HATE THIS DOG!!
So I wait a while, then try my stakeout again … and I finally catch him.
As it turns out, the fence that I have in the laundry room is like the shape of a V and a U combined. It fits nicely in the room, and I figured if it’s pushed to the doorway, it will only wedge itself in place. Well this mutt has not only figured out how to escape, but to cover his tracks. He discovered that if he pushes in exactly the right place, the fence will rotate. He can then back up and go around the fence in the hole he has now created. Finally, now this is the genius part, before going all the way through, he stops just far enough out where it encourages the other dog to try and follow him, but he’s blocking her path. So she starts pushing on the fence next to him, which in effect, seals the hole behind him. He’s free, she’s not, and the fence is back in place.
… maybe he’s not too dumb after all.
Since our traumatic brain injury, and subsequent puppy loot last year, we’ve been coming to terms with what our house looks like and our ability to cope with the situation. For instance, when we got married and threw away all of the furniture in the house that was acquired by anyone who had a Y chromosome, we set some strict rules.
1. No dogs on the furniture
2. Floors will be cleaned weekly at minimum
3. Dogs will have the freedom of the house since they are part of the family
Now that we have been brow beaten by lack of sleep and canine coaxing, our rules have bent a little.
1. No one should sit on Samson’s recliner (unless they want a butt full of dog hair)
2. Floors will be cleaned (hopefully) by the housekeeper bi-weekly unless the wife is totally grossed out and guilt trips me into cleaning them which takes about 30 minutes of badgering, 20 minutes of arguing, a 15 minute temper tantrum by me, and about 2 minutes to actually clean them.
3. All dogs but the old blind dog will be relegated to the laundry room where I have constructed an elaborate barrier system modeled after a ingenious combination between a maximum security prison and Fort Knox.
4. Dogs can go play outside when it’s pretty.
Like I said, we’re coping.
The other day we returned from an outing to find bouncy dog running around the kitchen with a ball in his mouth as if to say, “look what I found, look what I found, look what I found”. The wife gives me a look that says “Did you forget to put someone up?” and then she says “Did you forget to put someone up?” Being the alpha male in the house, I give her a stern look and say “ahhhhh, I guess so.”
So I spend the next 10 minutes chasing him around the kitchen islander while I’m cursing under my breath and he’s thinking we’re playing “get the ball.” …. Side note, it’s right here that I realize that although Kitchen Islanders are useful pieces if equipment, I have now created doggie speedway international, and there is no way to catch that little pain the tookis.
I consider myself lucky because there is no telling what kind of damage he could have done to our kitchen cabinets, fortunately he’s the stupidest dog in the house and probably immediately saw the ball, picked it up, and spent the next three hours looking for it again while it was still in his mouth.
I put the little ball hound back in the laundry room and head to give the kid a bath for the night. We have a good routine, the wife bathes the kid, I go get the PJ’s, grab some milk, and come back to dry him off, dress him, and get him down for the night while the wife spends a relaxing 30 seconds in the bathtub before we start whining for her. After I pick up the PJ’s and head to the kitchen to get the milk, I am greeted by 60 pounds of bounciness standing beside the islander. I think to myself, “What in the world?” so I go to check the laundry room, and everything is PERFECTLY FINE. Gate is closed, barrier boards in place, 15 garbage cans piled up in front of the gate as backup are still unmoved, but somehow, this short runt is standing in my kitchen … looking for the ball that’s in his mouth.
It’s been a long day, I did something wrong, let’s deal with it later and put everybody to bed.
The next day I get up early to check the laundry room prison. Everything is in place, nothing is askew, there isn’t a hole “Houdini” can climb through, everything is fine.
I figured that if the dog’s going to get out, I kind of need to make sure I know how he does it, so I lock him in the laundry room and wait. He sits there and stares at me. I walk around the kitchen and sneak back over, he’s sitting there with his tongue wagging. I make myself breakfast, then sneak a peak. He’s laying there. I sit at the table and eat my breakfast. Quick glance, snoring dog.
I decide that whatever it was, it’s over and I head to the store. I forget my phone so I run back inside to grab it and the STUPID MUTT IS STARING AT ME IN THE FACE. I’ve been gone 30 freaking seconds, and this dog is in my kitchen! The fence is un-moved – there’s a dog staring out at me from behind it saying “I want to come out there too daddy!” I am flabbergasted. I put him BACK in the laundry room and g
ive him a bone to keep him busy for a while until I can get back from the store.When I return, and step on the bone now in my kitchen, I start to get worried. I decide to have a stake out. I put the dog back in the laundry room and pretend to leave the kitchen. That’s when I heard it. A scoot, or a creak, something is happening. As I lean over to try and get a peak, I notice the dog is at my feet. I quickly glance around the corner at the laundry room … and NOTHING HAS MOVED! I swear this dog has learned to open, THEN SHUT the gate behind him. I have trouble opening that gate. I HATE THIS DOG!!
So I wait a while, then try my stakeout again … and I finally catch him.
As it turns out, the fence that I have in the laundry room is like the shape of a V and a U combined. It fits nicely in the room, and I figured if it’s pushed to the doorway, it will only wedge itself in place. Well this mutt has not only figured out how to escape, but to cover his tracks. He discovered that if he pushes in exactly the right place, the fence will rotate. He can then back up and go around the fence in the hole he has now created. Finally, now this is the genius part, before going all the way through, he stops just far enough out where it encourages the other dog to try and follow him, but he’s blocking her path. So she starts pushing on the fence next to him, which in effect, seals the hole behind him. He’s free, she’s not, and the fence is back in place.
… maybe he’s not too dumb after all.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
I took a trip this week to say farewell to a good friend. Although it would be appropriate for me to write something serious and solemn about her, she would kick my rear for doing so.
Let me start by saying that I have never met someone before in my life that was both a joy and directly responsible for as many expenses and work for me as Barna. She had the COOLEST ideas for interior decorating, entertaining, cooking, and just living a great life. EVERY time H visited her, she came back with a list of projects for me to do. Barna, I love you, I can’t stand you. One time I volunteered to pay for a fully furnished and sparsely decorated apartment for her family to live in when my wife came to visit. I didn’t care what they did with the place the rest of the time, she just couldn’t decorate it and had to refer to it as “home” when H came around.
Our family got to spend a few days being part of her family as we remembered her and all the smiles she brought to our lives. Even after her death I could feel her reach as my wife pondered what Barna would do for a flower arrangement for the service.
We had a wonderful time with the family as they continued to accept us one of their own, just as they always have. We could not have asked for more loving friends to sit and cry and laugh about the fun times we have had and will continue to have together as she stays with us in spirit.
After the service, we said our goodbye’s and loaded up the family for the long journey home.
This being a rural community, I got the entertainment of rural radio on the way out of town. I am used to the standard Midwestern dialect being spoken on virtually every radio station in America (country music morning shows being the exception of course). However on the way out of town I had a treat. Apparently I came across one of those radio stations (normally residing on the AM side of the dial) where the “DJ” was also the weather man and the commercial guy. I came upon this station in the middle of the weather, and the segment went something like this:
“An own thirsty, spec thurdy pissin chantsuh thunnah sterms. Ewe got trens mission probems, ewe need ta bringer own ovir ta paw’s trens mission. Jiss caw 543-9045 fer diagnostics.”
Yes, he gave the phone number for “Diagnostics”. I could only imagine some of the phone calls that have ensued.
“Paw’s Trens Mission, Haw cen Ah Hep Ya?”
“Sumpn’s wrong with ma Truck”
“Well Hode da phone up ta tha injun ayund lemme hear it”
Pause
“Yep, it’s da trens mission. Bringer own in and al fixerup fer ya.”
I kind of wondered if they should do that for doctor’s offices too?
“Doctor Fred’s Office?”
“Yeah, I got some BAD gas.”
“Well hold the phone up to …” nevermind.
“Yeah, I got some BAD gas.”
“Well hold the phone up to …” nevermind.
Goodbye GiGi, although we’re happy you are now home, you left a space in our heart that can’t be filled.
Monday, August 16, 2010
It’s been a busy summer
So for those of you that care (thanks mom) and the rest of you who really don’t (it’s me against the world … I’m rooting for the world) here’s a brief update to keep me in the will:
Visited the aquairium.
Took the Blonde to see a Bon Jovi Concert. Apparently there were 20,000 female backup singers as well.
Visited some friends in Dallas who have 4 young boys. Asked them to get their head examined.
Family comes to visit and runs screaming away.
Fell in Love with the pool.
Went to Chicago. The wee man saw his first fireworks show. Instead of freaking out, he
loved the big explosions.Dad worried.
Went to the Zoo.
Learned that although Alabama only has one civil engineer in the whole state, he designs the interstate system as well as Talladega International Speedway, that the interstates between us and Chicago could use this guy. You can’t take a turn at 35mph much lest 70!
A friend got married – we are all overjoyed. Love you Aunt Roo and Uncle Boo! (neither one pictured here ... Diesel Dog - one of the extended family members)
Friends from Dallas with four boys come to visit us. We take them to an amusement park when it’s 110 degrees outside. They ask us to get our head examined.
Dad blames the heat for everything including the reason he hasn’t updated the blog. It’s too hot to write ... let's eat donuts instead!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
I Probably Deserved It
I haven’t updated the blog for a while for several reasons. First among them is that the wee man caught Pneumonia and we’ve been dealing with getting him better while not sleeping through any of it.
This is the topic that my story for today centers around.
Like I said, the wee man has been pretty sick and not sleeping any at night. Because of this, the wife hasn’t been sleeping any at night either. She’s pretty much been up around the clock trying to pacify him at night, while trying to get things accomplished around the house during the day. To say the least, I would be a Zombie if I were her.
I had to get out at lunch the other day and pick something up, so I thought the least I could do was bring home lunch for everyone and try to watch the kid for a few minutes while she sat in peace to eat it.
I picked up what I needed, grabbed a few burgers for the wife and me and headed home.
For those of you who don’t know her, H can not stand condiments. They make her nauseated to be around them. I have adjusted and typically order all of our sandwiches plain, just to make sure there isn’t a problem. On this day, however, Sonic had a super duper nasty burger with everything but the kitchen sink on it … well, if you know me, you know I just HAD to try it.
I got home and unloaded the car, and in the process, got a little dirty. I ran in the house, put the food down, put the kid in the high chair and started divvying up the food so that H didn’t get the wrong sandwich.
The wee man was still in his feel bad mood, so he was very winey. He wouldn’t hold his bottle, he wanted some food, just generally in a bad place. I was determined to make H sit down and eat and I would take care of the kid and myself. I ran around the kitchen, grabbed my burger and something for him, washed my hands really quick from the nastiness that I had gotten into, and ran back to the high chair to try and placate the weeman.
H was sitting next to the high chair at the table trying to stay awake while she ate her sandwich. I was holding a bottle up for the kid in one hand while I was munching away at my burger in the other. To say I was determined to make this work just doesn’t describe it. You know when you get in those go go go moods and just want to take care of the dozen things that keep popping up which are obstacles to your goal, well that’s where I was.
Kid screaming – no sit down honey, I got it – grab the bottle – tear off some burger for him – take a bite – wipe off the kids mouth – remove the bottle – pick up this – what time is it – got 5 more minutes – tear off more burger – grab the bottle …. You get the picture.
A few minutes into this fast paced routine, I noticed a glob of mayonnaise that must have gotten on my palm between the hustle and bustle, and the last thing I needed was my poor wife getting sick because I had mayonnaise rub off on her or something. I did what any guy would do in that situation, just licked it off as fast as I can and kept on going.
Well … it wasn’t mayonnaise. Yes, in my haste, I just lapped up a HUGE ol’ glob of … handsoap.
I know the tales of little kids having their mouth washed out with a bar of soap, and I can assure you that in this day and age, liquid handsoap is a MUCH more efficient method of getting the entire mouth coated extremely quickly and efficiently. No longer do you need to stick the bar of soap into a foul mouthed kids pie hole and have them rake it off their tongue, the liquid variety immediately melds with your bodies own natural saliva and finds its way instantly to every nook and cranny of your mouth. And if you get the moisturizing kind that my wife likes to buy me, not only are you clean on the inside, there’s a velvety smooth layer of goodness that lasts and lasts.
Yes, I am sure that for something or other, I deserved to have my mouth washed out with soap. I just hope that I remember what it is so that I can learn my lesson.
This is the topic that my story for today centers around.
Like I said, the wee man has been pretty sick and not sleeping any at night. Because of this, the wife hasn’t been sleeping any at night either. She’s pretty much been up around the clock trying to pacify him at night, while trying to get things accomplished around the house during the day. To say the least, I would be a Zombie if I were her.
I had to get out at lunch the other day and pick something up, so I thought the least I could do was bring home lunch for everyone and try to watch the kid for a few minutes while she sat in peace to eat it.
I picked up what I needed, grabbed a few burgers for the wife and me and headed home.
For those of you who don’t know her, H can not stand condiments. They make her nauseated to be around them. I have adjusted and typically order all of our sandwiches plain, just to make sure there isn’t a problem. On this day, however, Sonic had a super duper nasty burger with everything but the kitchen sink on it … well, if you know me, you know I just HAD to try it.
I got home and unloaded the car, and in the process, got a little dirty. I ran in the house, put the food down, put the kid in the high chair and started divvying up the food so that H didn’t get the wrong sandwich.
The wee man was still in his feel bad mood, so he was very winey. He wouldn’t hold his bottle, he wanted some food, just generally in a bad place. I was determined to make H sit down and eat and I would take care of the kid and myself. I ran around the kitchen, grabbed my burger and something for him, washed my hands really quick from the nastiness that I had gotten into, and ran back to the high chair to try and placate the weeman.
H was sitting next to the high chair at the table trying to stay awake while she ate her sandwich. I was holding a bottle up for the kid in one hand while I was munching away at my burger in the other. To say I was determined to make this work just doesn’t describe it. You know when you get in those go go go moods and just want to take care of the dozen things that keep popping up which are obstacles to your goal, well that’s where I was.
Kid screaming – no sit down honey, I got it – grab the bottle – tear off some burger for him – take a bite – wipe off the kids mouth – remove the bottle – pick up this – what time is it – got 5 more minutes – tear off more burger – grab the bottle …. You get the picture.
A few minutes into this fast paced routine, I noticed a glob of mayonnaise that must have gotten on my palm between the hustle and bustle, and the last thing I needed was my poor wife getting sick because I had mayonnaise rub off on her or something. I did what any guy would do in that situation, just licked it off as fast as I can and kept on going.
Well … it wasn’t mayonnaise. Yes, in my haste, I just lapped up a HUGE ol’ glob of … handsoap.
I know the tales of little kids having their mouth washed out with a bar of soap, and I can assure you that in this day and age, liquid handsoap is a MUCH more efficient method of getting the entire mouth coated extremely quickly and efficiently. No longer do you need to stick the bar of soap into a foul mouthed kids pie hole and have them rake it off their tongue, the liquid variety immediately melds with your bodies own natural saliva and finds its way instantly to every nook and cranny of your mouth. And if you get the moisturizing kind that my wife likes to buy me, not only are you clean on the inside, there’s a velvety smooth layer of goodness that lasts and lasts.
Yes, I am sure that for something or other, I deserved to have my mouth washed out with soap. I just hope that I remember what it is so that I can learn my lesson.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
An Interesting Dinner
Some time ago, my wife and I were looking around a small town trying to find a place to eat. We were in the “old downtown” of a little town, which was probably the “new downtown” as well and had limited choices.
We decided to try a little restaurant that sounded Italian, partly because Italian sounded good, and partly because it was the only place we could find.
We walked in and the place absolutely dead. We should have walked out, but we attributed it to something irrelevant and probably leaned a little too heavy on our optimistic side (what, I don’t sound chipper and upbeat?)
We sat down and I think our waitress was as surprised to see us as we were for sitting down and staying. She came over to take our drink order and get our family history back to the 18th Century. She was, to say, a little talkative.
As she left, H and I started looking around the place, something just didn’t fit. The pictures on the walls we something more akin to your Great Aunt Esther’s living room more than they were a restaurant. The layout was quite unusual also. It seemed we were sitting in a lobby or something, there were rooms divided in the back (that we could see) an out of place staircase to something on the second floor, nothing seemed to say “WELCOME! SIT, EAT, DRINK, BE PART OF OUR FAMILY!” At least that’s how I imagine Italians talk.
Chatty Kathy returned with our drinks and a couple of rocks painted to look like bread. She kept on talking as we paged through our rather formal menus. It wasn’t the content that was formal, but rather the binders. Not your typical restaurant covers, more hard backed portfolios meant for something besides menus.
We ordered something we thought would be safe t eat, and Verbal Veronica retired to the kitchen area to place our order. H and I laughed about the surroundings, noticing more odd things; the ceiling fans seemed more industrial, old fluorescent lighting had the bulbs removed and track lighting put up beside it, the chairs seemed to be a little rugged for a restaurant.
Our order came out reasonably quickly and we dug in. The food wasn’t very good, but we ate it anyway as it was late and we were hungry. About halfway through the meal, Talkative Tracy came back to our table to check on us and just shoot the breeze. I was halfway ignoring her, a trick I often do in order to feign interest in the conversation until I have a good excuse to leave. I caught about every third word, “Slow, Weather, Yesterday …” that was until I happened to hear a full sentence all too clearly, “It’s hard to believe this place actually was the morgue.”
What the?!
She didn’t just say that did she? And now she just walked away. H, did I just hear what I thought I heard?
H had stopped eating with the fork halfway out of her mouth. Her eyes as big as watermelons, not knowing whether or not to swallow the food she had just placed in her mouth.
I looked around for a camera. This had to be Candid Camera. I’m sure Allen Funt was just around the corner somewhere snickering. I took a quick inventory of my surroundings. There was no camera, no one was coming out telling me this was just a joke. Lippy Linda was now in the back re-filling the ice tea pitchers for all the customers that weren’t coming in tonight. This was real, and it wasn’t real funny.
H was still frozen in place, I don’t think she blinked for five minutes. Now that I looked around, it all seemed to make sense. Some idiot had bought the old town morgue and decided, “You know, I bet that I can re-use most of the same equipment they have in there to make me a restaurant.” The industrial fans, the fluorescent lighting, the creepy pictures on the wall (OK, I still can’t exactly explain that, but I’m including it anyway).
My meal was over. It was probably psychosomatic, but I swear I could now taste the formaldehyde.
I immediately asked for the check, and as we rushed out the door and around the corner to our car, we noticed a side entrance they were using for deliveries. It was easy to mistake it for a loading dock, but how many restaurants do you know that have a loading dock? It was the Ambulance / Hearse unloading area!
To say the least, we have never had quite an experience like that before, and I don’t think we plan another trip. I’ll be happy to pass along the address though.
We decided to try a little restaurant that sounded Italian, partly because Italian sounded good, and partly because it was the only place we could find.
We walked in and the place absolutely dead. We should have walked out, but we attributed it to something irrelevant and probably leaned a little too heavy on our optimistic side (what, I don’t sound chipper and upbeat?)
We sat down and I think our waitress was as surprised to see us as we were for sitting down and staying. She came over to take our drink order and get our family history back to the 18th Century. She was, to say, a little talkative.
As she left, H and I started looking around the place, something just didn’t fit. The pictures on the walls we something more akin to your Great Aunt Esther’s living room more than they were a restaurant. The layout was quite unusual also. It seemed we were sitting in a lobby or something, there were rooms divided in the back (that we could see) an out of place staircase to something on the second floor, nothing seemed to say “WELCOME! SIT, EAT, DRINK, BE PART OF OUR FAMILY!” At least that’s how I imagine Italians talk.
Chatty Kathy returned with our drinks and a couple of rocks painted to look like bread. She kept on talking as we paged through our rather formal menus. It wasn’t the content that was formal, but rather the binders. Not your typical restaurant covers, more hard backed portfolios meant for something besides menus.
We ordered something we thought would be safe t eat, and Verbal Veronica retired to the kitchen area to place our order. H and I laughed about the surroundings, noticing more odd things; the ceiling fans seemed more industrial, old fluorescent lighting had the bulbs removed and track lighting put up beside it, the chairs seemed to be a little rugged for a restaurant.
Our order came out reasonably quickly and we dug in. The food wasn’t very good, but we ate it anyway as it was late and we were hungry. About halfway through the meal, Talkative Tracy came back to our table to check on us and just shoot the breeze. I was halfway ignoring her, a trick I often do in order to feign interest in the conversation until I have a good excuse to leave. I caught about every third word, “Slow, Weather, Yesterday …” that was until I happened to hear a full sentence all too clearly, “It’s hard to believe this place actually was the morgue.”
What the?!
She didn’t just say that did she? And now she just walked away. H, did I just hear what I thought I heard?
H had stopped eating with the fork halfway out of her mouth. Her eyes as big as watermelons, not knowing whether or not to swallow the food she had just placed in her mouth.
I looked around for a camera. This had to be Candid Camera. I’m sure Allen Funt was just around the corner somewhere snickering. I took a quick inventory of my surroundings. There was no camera, no one was coming out telling me this was just a joke. Lippy Linda was now in the back re-filling the ice tea pitchers for all the customers that weren’t coming in tonight. This was real, and it wasn’t real funny.
H was still frozen in place, I don’t think she blinked for five minutes. Now that I looked around, it all seemed to make sense. Some idiot had bought the old town morgue and decided, “You know, I bet that I can re-use most of the same equipment they have in there to make me a restaurant.” The industrial fans, the fluorescent lighting, the creepy pictures on the wall (OK, I still can’t exactly explain that, but I’m including it anyway).
My meal was over. It was probably psychosomatic, but I swear I could now taste the formaldehyde.
I immediately asked for the check, and as we rushed out the door and around the corner to our car, we noticed a side entrance they were using for deliveries. It was easy to mistake it for a loading dock, but how many restaurants do you know that have a loading dock? It was the Ambulance / Hearse unloading area!
To say the least, we have never had quite an experience like that before, and I don’t think we plan another trip. I’ll be happy to pass along the address though.
Friday, March 26, 2010
“Easter Egg” Hunt
I don’t talk a lot about the rest of my family because, well, they ask me not to. I did however have a great idea that I think my Dad should consider, so I thought I would share it because let’s face it, who among us wouldn’t like to try this.
Let me start with a little history. My Dad likes to golf. When he was looking at some land a few years ago, he realized that although it was a very nice place to build his new house, it was about an hour from the golf course he frequents. There was a lot of land, and he was about to retire, so what they hay, he decided to turn it into his private little golf course. I’m not talking 200 acres with pristinely manicured lawns and a water hazard or anything, but in my opinion, having your own tee boxes, fairways and greens is pretty cool.
A few years ago, my Dad and Stepmom decided to start an annual Easter Egg hunt at their house (which I have affectionately named “the Hacienda”). Since they have 9 grandkids, I thought it was a great idea – have all the kids over for lunch, and let the grandchildren run around the golf course that surrounds the Hacienda hunting Easter Eggs. It just sounds so quaint and relaxing, that is of course until they told me that they hid over 800 Easter Eggs. Let me repeat that .. OVER EIGHT HUNDRED EASTER EGGS!!!!!!!!
So I thought about that for a little bit and came up with my own idea:
Instead of hiding Easter Eggs, my Dad should color a ton of GOLF BALLS and then just hit them all over the golf course. Then, on Saturday, he can just go outside, put a couple of buckets by his lawn chair, and have all the grandkids go out and find the golf balls and bring them back and drop them in the buckets. I said that he could bring a few bags of Easter candy, and for every ball the kids bring back, they get a piece of candy.
Dad gets some practice, the kids find “Easter Eggs”, and everyone gets candy.
Now THAT’S how you should have an Easter Egg Hunt.
Let me start with a little history. My Dad likes to golf. When he was looking at some land a few years ago, he realized that although it was a very nice place to build his new house, it was about an hour from the golf course he frequents. There was a lot of land, and he was about to retire, so what they hay, he decided to turn it into his private little golf course. I’m not talking 200 acres with pristinely manicured lawns and a water hazard or anything, but in my opinion, having your own tee boxes, fairways and greens is pretty cool.
A few years ago, my Dad and Stepmom decided to start an annual Easter Egg hunt at their house (which I have affectionately named “the Hacienda”). Since they have 9 grandkids, I thought it was a great idea – have all the kids over for lunch, and let the grandchildren run around the golf course that surrounds the Hacienda hunting Easter Eggs. It just sounds so quaint and relaxing, that is of course until they told me that they hid over 800 Easter Eggs. Let me repeat that .. OVER EIGHT HUNDRED EASTER EGGS!!!!!!!!
So I thought about that for a little bit and came up with my own idea:
Instead of hiding Easter Eggs, my Dad should color a ton of GOLF BALLS and then just hit them all over the golf course. Then, on Saturday, he can just go outside, put a couple of buckets by his lawn chair, and have all the grandkids go out and find the golf balls and bring them back and drop them in the buckets. I said that he could bring a few bags of Easter candy, and for every ball the kids bring back, they get a piece of candy.
Dad gets some practice, the kids find “Easter Eggs”, and everyone gets candy.
Now THAT’S how you should have an Easter Egg Hunt.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Addiction
I know it’s not something that’s very comfortable to talk about, but it’s something nonetheless that we have had to deal with the pat few weeks and I thought some light should be shed on it.
Unbeknownst to me, I married an addict.
I’m sure you can say that I couldn’t have known, that there was no way to tell, but as I look back, all the warning signs were there. The continuous references to it, the fantasy of flying around the world to satisfy the soul – paying the exorbitant prices they ask for them – and if you can’t get it legally there, turning to the streets, where prices are higher and the chances that you won’t get what you want.
I am of course talking about the Olympics.
Yes, I know, I would expect this from a guy, but from my WIFE? Now that it’s over, it’s a little easier to talk about, but I know she’s just planning for 2012. I thought she was just in love with London … but let’s get real, who can be in love with a country that’s usually cold and drives on the wrong side of the road? She’s just aching for the Olympics.
We have 3 TV’s in the house now – coincidence that 3 networks were showing different games simultaneously, I think not. She’s a careful planner she is. I think I saw her crafting the Wee Man’s walker into a Bobsled and pushing him down the hallway. And I wear after Shawn White was on the half pipe, I found a long red hair in the bathroom sink.
I came home one evening and caught her freebasing the biathlon.
As soon as they announced that Rio won the Olympic bid – she applied for a Visa.
Now that they are over, I think we’ll get a little sleep.
I know that one day we’ll kick this habit … but in the mean time, keep us in your prayers.
Unbeknownst to me, I married an addict.
I’m sure you can say that I couldn’t have known, that there was no way to tell, but as I look back, all the warning signs were there. The continuous references to it, the fantasy of flying around the world to satisfy the soul – paying the exorbitant prices they ask for them – and if you can’t get it legally there, turning to the streets, where prices are higher and the chances that you won’t get what you want.
I am of course talking about the Olympics.
Yes, I know, I would expect this from a guy, but from my WIFE? Now that it’s over, it’s a little easier to talk about, but I know she’s just planning for 2012. I thought she was just in love with London … but let’s get real, who can be in love with a country that’s usually cold and drives on the wrong side of the road? She’s just aching for the Olympics.
We have 3 TV’s in the house now – coincidence that 3 networks were showing different games simultaneously, I think not. She’s a careful planner she is. I think I saw her crafting the Wee Man’s walker into a Bobsled and pushing him down the hallway. And I wear after Shawn White was on the half pipe, I found a long red hair in the bathroom sink.
I came home one evening and caught her freebasing the biathlon.
As soon as they announced that Rio won the Olympic bid – she applied for a Visa.
Now that they are over, I think we’ll get a little sleep.
I know that one day we’ll kick this habit … but in the mean time, keep us in your prayers.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Baby it's cold outside
Not a lot to say but it's stinking cold outside. The only ones that seem to be having fun are the puppies.
Here's some evidence.
However, Samson has my kind of adventuresome spirit.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
I’m Thirsty and Ticked
Am I the only person in the world that has noticed that, in order to save a penny (actually probably less than that) some soft drink makers have apparently cut the size of their bottle caps in HALF.
OK, maybe in theory this worked, let’s reduce the cost of the bottle, use less petroleum based plastic, add less to landfills, makes perfect sense. However, with the surface area of a gnat, I can’t get the freaking bottle cap off! I have, sitting on my desk, the most wonderful assortment of bottled soft drinks that I have NO idea how to open. Short of a plasma cutter and a 5000 lb wench, I see no open bottles in the near future.
A friend of mine came to me with a bottle top like that about a month ago. I thought it was an anomaly, relegated to one brand of drink, and a malfunctioning cutter on the manufacturing line or something like that. I actually got into the bottle after 15 minutes with a flat head screwdriver (no kidding). I told her that the next time she had a problem like that, to drive across the street to the quickie mart and exchange it – it would be faster. Never did I imagine that this would be a foreshadowing of the thirst hell that would become my life.
You know the bottle opener key chains that were so popular a few years back, I think I can make a vice grip keychain that would serve the purpose and make me millions, what do you think? I imagine next they will just start packing soda in those plastic blister packs that they use for electronics. Not only are they just as hard to get into, but they’re also sharp, so you have about as much of a chance of cutting into it as it does of cutting into you.
Let’s all revolt and stop buying those stupid bottles. In the mean time, I’ve got to go to the water fountain.
OK, maybe in theory this worked, let’s reduce the cost of the bottle, use less petroleum based plastic, add less to landfills, makes perfect sense. However, with the surface area of a gnat, I can’t get the freaking bottle cap off! I have, sitting on my desk, the most wonderful assortment of bottled soft drinks that I have NO idea how to open. Short of a plasma cutter and a 5000 lb wench, I see no open bottles in the near future.
A friend of mine came to me with a bottle top like that about a month ago. I thought it was an anomaly, relegated to one brand of drink, and a malfunctioning cutter on the manufacturing line or something like that. I actually got into the bottle after 15 minutes with a flat head screwdriver (no kidding). I told her that the next time she had a problem like that, to drive across the street to the quickie mart and exchange it – it would be faster. Never did I imagine that this would be a foreshadowing of the thirst hell that would become my life.
You know the bottle opener key chains that were so popular a few years back, I think I can make a vice grip keychain that would serve the purpose and make me millions, what do you think? I imagine next they will just start packing soda in those plastic blister packs that they use for electronics. Not only are they just as hard to get into, but they’re also sharp, so you have about as much of a chance of cutting into it as it does of cutting into you.
Let’s all revolt and stop buying those stupid bottles. In the mean time, I’ve got to go to the water fountain.
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