The Church Nursery: Daycare or Terrorist Training Center

I try to not write about my religious views too much.  Politics and religion don't mix well when socializing with my friends

Except all of my friends are the people that I go to church with.  And most of them have the same political view.

Elect Mitt Romney.  Plain and simple.

This is not about Mitt Romney.  It's about the church nursery.  And what comes out of it.

Why is is that the church nursery is the only place that you can't randomly pop into.  What goes on behind Door #1?  For that matter, what happens behind Doors 2 and 3.  Fort Knox could take a few lessons on security from the church nursery.

Occasionally I walk past the nursery door.  Childproof doorknobs, windows that distort the view.  In our church it is the hangout for 18-month to three-year old children.  By age four the graduates of the nursery have moved into the "Primary" room.  You have to be twelve to get out of the Primary room but it also means you don't have to participate in the Primary Program.  If you are a boy that day can't come soon enough, the girls shed a few tears.

I used to think that the greatest service that I could offer up my church was to work in the nursery.  Play some games, hold a baby (18-Months), have a few fishy crackers and cups of water in the smallest Dixie Cup ever made.

And then I had my own kids.  And the dream died.  Kids were hard.  Kids tried my patience.   Why would I ever want to work in the nursery when I barely could handle my own kids..

Don't get me wrong, kids are adorable.  Just not when they are in the nursery or visiting my house.

In pictures, videos, singing to the congregation at the front of the church, okay.  But in real life they are little terrorists who turn into teenagers and stay that way through their teens.

And that's my kids I'm referring to.

Snot nosed little Munchkins who are trained by some of the best parents in the world see, hear, and smell the fear of a guy like me.  It doesn't help that I'm a grandfather, that I have experience in calming, soothing, kissing boo boo's and the like.  They just know that I'm not their mom and I'm certainly not their dad.

And if I try to be they will let the world know.

When they throw a fit seismic instruments at the university hit 19 on the Richter scale.  And diaper blowouts?  I'm not cleaning that mess up.  Gingerly pick up the kid and take it their parents.  Two sleep deprived adults start playing Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine who takes care of the latest explosion from Mt. Bottom.

And who brings a sick kid to the nursery.  Turns out most people.  At least a diaper contains the one blowout, throwing up is kinda of random and directed at random people.  Well, random adults at least.

And nursery is the best kind of sleeper cell for these little terrorist.  They don't actually sleep.  It's just their mischievous side that goes to sleep.

And they go into a coma like slumber.  And one day they wake up...

And turn into teenagers.

Survey Says

When I was a kid I was prone to not turn in my homework.  Truth is that it was a challenge to get me to do my homework, not turning it in was just part of the process.  I was and continue to be a goofball.  I wouldn't turn in my homework and then I would get in trouble.  And I thought that unfair.

My logic was that I shouldn't get in trouble for something I didn't do.

I'm less about study and more about logic.

So imagine my reaction when I read in the online version of one of my daily newspapers the following:

"When Wives Sleep Poorly, Marriages Suffer"

Uh..... duh.

If mommy ain't happy, daddy's not happy.

The article specifically says; "When a marriage is happy, men sleep less. But when women sleep less, the marriage is not apt to be so happy."

Our marriage must be one of incredible bliss.  I get 7-8 hours a night and she's going for an Olympic record. 

And that's not fair to say about her.  All of our kids would gladly miss most of the day if they could.  We just have a bunch of sleepers in the house. 

When my oldest son was a teenager he once slept to 5:00, PM.  He completely missed the daylight.

So my wife is incredibly happy and I'm just happy to be here.  With the kind of reasoning this study provides it is clear that I need to sleep less and encourage my wife to sleep more. 

Maybe the reason that there is more happiness in the marriage is because if she' sleeping longer there is less interaction and less of a chance of the guy saying something stupid and inappropriate.  Or write about the subject in a blog.

It also means that if my wife was in a coma I'd more than likely be translated.

Does a study like this qualify for duh?

I look around and I see guys doing stupid things all of the time and I just file it away in the little gray cells to not do that stupid thing.  I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed but I'm certainly not stuck on stupid.  I have a theory that over 40% of homeless men are just good guys that said or did something stupid to/at/for their wives and then walked out of the house after the argument.

Without their keys.  We walk a fine line as men.

As for the study that men are happier when they sleep less and women aren't happy if they don't get more sleep I have to report that the test included only 32 couples.  I don't know how many couples there are in the world but the potential, if every man, woman, and child were in a relationship is over three billion.  32 couples is equivelent to only, well not very many couples compared to three billion couples.  There was a +/- error of say 2.5 billion.

My own warped theory is that her happiness and mine are totally unrelated to sleep.  I think it's simpler than that.

For instance, she's happier in the morning when I've had the courtesy to turn on the light and lift the seat on the toilet rather than blindly take a potty break at 3am.

She's happy that I'm employed and actually get up and go to my job.

It's possible, but not probable, that I finished a project that I had been working on for say 3-5 years.  What women wouldn't be?

Maybe I decided to save some of my 10,000 words for the day and actually used a couple of hundred on her when I got home.

Maybe she's happy because telemarketers or the random child didn't call her and wake her up from blissful sleep?

Or maybe the last quote at the end of the article hit the nail on the head.

 "Couples that have more positive interactions during the day may be engaging in other activities in bed at night."

Duh.

The Flu: A 12-Step Process

The Flu.

 I don't know of anyone who wouldn't rather have a good back hair wax than the flu.

We've been hit in our house with not a shot of the flu but a volley of it. Started with reports of food poisoning and moved speedily (at last count) to over a dozen members of our family and friends.  While I have had the time for the past two days to lay around the house and do absolutely nothing, other than confirm that daytime TV totally sucks, I did reflect on the various stages of the flu along with some personal observations.

• Stage I - Complacency ~ This is the stage of pure euphoria that you have prior to getting the flu. It's basically your life. Complacency, at least for a guy, has many components; forgetting to wash your hands after using the bathroom, drinking your milk straight from the carton, wearing the same pair of jeans for a week, drying with the same towel for a month, eating a protein rich diet. But you did get your annual flu shot.
• Stage II – Hints of Things to Come ~ In our case it was just a comment about how someone was sick "the other day" from "food poisoning". We all thought about how horrible he must have felt. Food poisoning, what a way to go. The CDC will soon be on the job.
  
• Stage III – It's in the House ~ The problem with smart people is that they don't put puzzles together very well. Morning comes and one of the baby's in the house for the holidays has thrown-up. No let's just say it, PUKED during the night. But nothing major, it's part of having babies, they puke in the night at random times. And on unsuspecting family.
  
• Stage IV – This Parties Not Big Enough ~ Let's admit it, if you're going to get a lot of people sick you need a lot of people. Have a family dinner, invite all of your children and their children. Make sure that there is a lot of love going around, kiss that baby, let them eat off your plate, share a fishy kiss, hug and kiss everyone, within reason. And don't forget to go to the store and infect the masses, why should your family have all the fun?
  
• Stage V – The Watson Stage ~ Sherlock Holmes would put the puzzle together and exclaim, "I've got it Watson" or something intelligent. The Watson Stage is where Sherlock would have already put it together and minimized the impact. We're more like Watson, we still haven't connected the dots. At church we get notice of our fallen comrades, grandpa, two sons, one son-in-law. All sick and unable to attend. Let's see, 1+1+2+1 equals we're dumb as dirt.
  
• Stage VI – Spreading the Joy ~ Another family gathering, more hugs, loves, kisses, kids eating other kids food, adults sharing food with kids. It's an epidemic in hibernation.
  
• Stage VII – Joy in Mudville ~ If you are the host of the party it's the highlight of the night when the party is over. It took hours but finally, everyone returned to their own homes. And we three settled down for a long winter night. Who knew?
  
• Stage VIII – Say Hello to My Little Friend ~ It hit the wife first. She comes downstairs with a bowl in her hand, I thought that making cookies this late was a little quirky but HEY, I'm not arguing with fresh baked cookies. She announces that she is puking and that as an added gift this particular strain of the flu is choosing two external paths to wreak its havoc upon her body. I'm a guy so the fact that she is going to sleep in the guest room means I'll still be rested for work in the morning. I did offer to go to the store and buy 7-Up and Saltine crackers but was politely turned down.
  
• Stage IX – My Eyes Are Open Now ~ By 11:15pm the cloud of death hanging over my house woke me up and told me it was my time to visit the bathroom. The victim of Stage VIII had politely asked me to use the downstairs bathroom and I relocated myself in a somewhat hurried manner to that room. I will admit that I now fully realized what was about to happen. It's like knowing the end of a murder mystery long before anyone else does. No matter how much you try to create an alternate ending in your head it doesn't change the outcome. I realized that the wife and I were both down. In retrospect I don't know if popping my head into my son's room and telling him that his mother and I were sick was just in case he had compassion or a forewarning. What I do know is that a half hour later I could hear him making noises in his room that sounded like the tune I'd been singing earlier. It was now official, this was a serial flu bug.
  
• Stage X – The Negotiation ~ Now everyone in our house has the flu. Weakness had begun to set in and I was beginning to make deals with the big man upstairs. They say that there are no atheists in foxholes. I can tell you that there aren't any atheists with the flu either. The whole time you are kneeling down and praying to the porcelain prince you are also promising to do things that you would never do in your right mind. I promised him that I would pray more often, be nicer to my family, start eating right, watch Oprah, actually listen to my wife, finish projects around the house and lose the weight that I need to lose. I also personally committed to ending world hunger, find a cure for cancer and quit shooting, in the butt (with an air-soft gun), the defenseless squirrel that continues to live in my porch roof despite my efforts to evict him. My ace was to become friends with my wife's ex-husband but I'm saving that prayer for when or if my wife wants me to go to the opera with her.
  
• Stage XI – The Aftermath ~ This is a strange period of time. I remember calling my boss and telling him I wouldn't be at work. That's about it. The Aftermath is a good time. During the Aftermath you aren't puking, not eating, and drinking water is to a minimum. Having the flu is like being a leper. You only have to tell one person and your social calendar frees up completely. No visitor's also means no one is going to see your messy house, therefore, no cleaning. Also, no dishwasher running, no washer/dryer in use, no vacuuming, and no showers. If you don't take a shower you're not changing clothes, underwear, brushing your hair, etc. You have little contact with society and know what it's like to be a zombie. You sleep away most of your day and nothing, and I mean nothing. You're entire life is based on your proximity to the bathroom. We got to the point where my son called me on his cell phone to ask if we had juice in the fridge. HE WAS UPSTAIRS! And closer to the fridge. But slowly, over a 48-hour period, we all have started to make a comeback. Which leads to:
  
• Stage XII – Complacency ~ This is the stage of pure euphoria that you have after you've survived the flu. This is where you go back to all of your bad habits that you promised God you would leave behind. It's basically your life; forgetting to wash your hands after using the bathroom, drinking your milk straight from the carton, wearing the same pair of jeans for a week, drying with the same towel for a month, eating a protein rich diet.

And, remembering that you got your annual flu shot.

The Greatest Invention Since…

Ever since I was a young boy I have heard people make reference to a new invention as "The greatest invention since sliced bread". Obviously the invention in 1928 of a mechanical machine to slice bread was a big deal to people in the 20^th century. What took them so long to invent a machine with such a simple use is beyond me but I also can spend 2 hours staring at the TV wondering if I want to turn it on and watch it. Before the invention of this machine people, (gasp), had to slice bread with a bread knife one slice at a time. The inhumanity of it all!

History shows that Otto Frederick Rohwedder, originally of Des Moines, Iowa introduced a machine to slice bread on July 7, 1928, a date which also happened to be his 48^th birthday. He first came up with the idea in 1912 but apparently just sat in his workshop for the next 16 years trying to find a faster, more efficient way to slice the bread for his daily peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Now Otto, Ot to his friends, wasn't a rocket scientist, primarily because they hadn't invented rockets yet, but he was from Iowa. Now Iowa is a major wheat producing state and I can only assume that there was a plethora of unsliced bread sitting on the shelf at the local general store just begging for this invention. I have a picture in my mind of unruly crowds in the streets of Des Moines protesting the governments inaction in coming up with a better way to cut a slice of bread off of the end of the loaf. Especially since slicing bread required that they make an effort.

Slicing bread wasn't new, the concept of the entire loaf of bread sliced at one time and prepackaged was. My struggle with sliced bread as the greatest invention since 1928 is that it is also a slap in the face to a lot of inventors before and after 1928. If the invention of the automatic bread slicer was the highpoint of inventing then inventing before and after 1928 must have been demoralizing.

Alexander Graham Bell invents the phone, Thomas Edison and his 1,063 patents, the building of the first a-bomb, Al Gore inventing the internet, they all pale in comparison to the invention of mechanically sliced bread.

Mr. Edison, "We have harnessed the power of electricity and directed its flow into this contraption of glass and fiber and have produced artificial light. The world will never be the same."

Assistant, "Unless we could find a way to slice a whole loaf of bread in one go. Now that would be something."

Edison, "Damn you!"

To be fair, Otto did try to multi-task in producing the first bread slicer. Up until 1928 bread wasn't available in a package either. So he had some pressure on him to produce. Not only did he have to slice bread in one go but also come up with the idea of a package for it. As mentioned, Otto came up with the idea in 1912 but apparently just thought about it for the next four years until 1916 when he actually decided to design it. I understand that as sometimes it would take my kids that long to clean up their room after I tell them to.

By 1916 Otto had a factory and a plan and he was really thinking he had something. Sadly and typical of the early 1900's his factory in Illinois caught fire in 1917 and burned to the ground. I think a cow started the fire. Of course the blueprints and his prototype bread slicer were now ashes and molten metal. The thought of starting over, World War I, and the fact that he was making his sandwiches out of hoagie rolls now put the dream of sliced bread out of his mind. In 1926 something happened that would change Otto's place in history.

Someone had previously invented toast but in 1926 Toastmaster invented the pop-up toaster. In 1927, seizing upon an opportunity and using his life savings, Otto pulled himself up by the jock strap, girded his loins, fresh courage took, and invented, patented, and introduced the first mechanical bread slicer and wrapper. It was such a hit that by 1930 Wonder Bread began selling pre-packaged sliced bread and all the bakers in the world copied them. Sliced bread was such a big deal that the sale of toasters skyrocketed. All because Otto's machine allowed for a standard size of bread. How visionary. I'm in awe.

Let's pause out of respect for Otto.

Of course, during the depression and before TV people were amused by the simplest things.

The industrial revolution, based on the invention of the mechanical slicer, peaked in 1928. Now, every new invention is compared to the invention of mechanical sliced bread. Everything invented before sliced bread barely garners recognition. Things that were the best invention prior to sliced bread include; fire, the wheel, dynamite, the light bulb, the flush toilet, waiting in line, two-seat outhouses, locomotives, airplanes, ships, and running water, just to name a few, don't have the appeal to the public of mechanically sliced bread in a plastic bag. And since 1928, TV, cell phones, rocket ships, computers, jet airplanes, Slinky's, the internet, Spam, Twinkies, and the remote control, have all been disappointing failures in comparison.

In Iowa Otto Rohwedder became something of a celebrity. Who can resist the man who invented the mass slicing of bread? But the attention of an adoring public and the paparazzi over his invention eventually drove Otto to take up residence in Michigan where people believed that the best invention before and since sliced bread was something called the automobile. Otto died in 1960 in Concord, Michigan without so much as a mention in the local paper.

I read that his coffin was in the shape of a loaf of bread with a big plastic bag around it and a giant twisty tie.

R.I.P. Otto, we shall never forget you.

50 Ways To Kill Your Lover

Every once in a while my wife and I get into "bizarre" conversations that have nothing to do with reality but delve into the "what if" pretty deeply.  Most of the subjects that we cover are speculative and harmless. 

We've discussed what we would do if we were to win the lottery.  The amounts that we win increase with each conversation.  Of course you would have to play the lottery to win it, which is what makes it bizarre.  But rest assured that if we ever do win the lottery, even though we don't play it, that members of our family will be well taken care of.

As long as they subject themselves to a periodic drug test.

We'll also own a lot of cars.  My wife will have an old truck, a Porsche, and SUV and some odd makes.  Mine will be all British, mostly MG's and Jag's.

If we played the lottery.  But we don't.

I was driving I-90 by myself recently and I recalled a conversation that my little granddaughter and I had regarding my wife.  Katii and I were discussing how much she loved me and we were imitating some Sandra Bullock dialogue from an exchange with Benjamin Bratt in Miss Congeneality.  She didn't know it was Sandra Bullock but I did.  You know it well:

Me: "You love me?"

Katii: "Yes."

Me: "You think I'm handsome?"

Katii: "Yes." (with great dramatic intensity)

Me: "You want to marry me?"  (pouring the sugar on)

Katii: "Yes!"

Me: "Well you can't!  I'm married to Grandma."  (Bursting her bubble).

And then I added, "unless her brake lines get cut and she dies in a horrible accident."

Katii then rushes upstairs to our bedroom and announces to Grandma that she is going to marry Papa when her brake lines are cut.

Which is why my wife and I had this bizarre conversation about how we would kill each other, an event that I would more than likely experience if I tried to change sides of the bed, her if she continues to try to pass off ground turkey as "tasty and healthy".

The problem with people that kill their spouse is that they get selfish and kill them in a moment of passion.  The problem with passion is that it makes logical people do illogical things.

Not following?

Let me give you an example.  It all comes down to motive.  It my wife wants to get away with murder she needs to convince me to cancel my insurance policy.  That way she would have nothing to gain if I'm dead.  See, no motive, no suspicion.

And if I want to get rid of her I would have to continue to ignore her and not listen.  If I suddenly started to listen to her that would throw suspicion on me.

"I don't know officer, he just started spending extraordinary amounts of time with her."  Yeah, dead give away.

How they died is another mistake often made by a killer spouse.  My wife can't die of drowning or from a high place.  In fact, she's pretty well exempt from being murdered as she has a very healthy fear of water, including the kitchen sink, and anyone that knows her is aware that anything above a step stool is an extreme height.  Falling off the edge of a cliff or having a malfunctioning parachute when she's skydiving will immediately throw suspicion on me.

My murder has fewer limitations upon it.

Here are a number of scenarios in which I could die an accidental death and not throw suspicion upon my wife.  Death by:

• Skydiving
• Bungee Jumping
• Car Accident
• Power Tools
• Excessive TV Viewing
• At work late
• At work early
• Cut brake lines
• Overdose by Almond Joy
• Choking on my food
• Popcorn overdose
• Falling off of ladders/roofs/stairs/scaffolds/bunk beds, etc.

You get it.  I don't have many ways that I can die and arouse suspicion.

I'm not saying that there aren't conditions that wouldn't bring suspicion, like:

• Dying in my sleep between 6:30am to 9:30pm, seven days a week.
• While driving my MG (none of them run)
• Ironing my shirts and getting electrocuted
• Death by cleaning chemicals
• While vacuuming
• While completing a project (I'm told that I don't)
• Choking on peas

The wife and I have had this discussion not because we're not currently planning each others death, it seems to be a healthy dialogue.  In a bizarre, sick, and psycho way.

So.........

Kill him while you cook Brooke

Hit her with the grill Bill

Four-Letter Words Coming Out of My Mouth

Nearly three weeks ago I drove my wife out of our house. Literally, in our car.

I've seen her in the past couple of weeks, just not at my house. The hottie has been 280 miles away helping out around the house as my eldest son brought a new child into the world. Okay, he drove his wife to the hospital, other than that his assistance ended at conception.

I'm usually not a fan of inducing labor but considering the last child was born in their car, I can understand it. Besides, it was plain luck that my son just happened to be in the right place at the right time to catch the baby and they can't afford another car right now.

While my wife has been gone, I found some four-letter words in my speech that I haven't used since my mom would wash my mouth out with soap for saying such four-letter words. Four-letter words like: wash, iron, cook, fold, load, clean, and vacuum. I know that clean and vacuum aren't four-letter words but they make me want to say some others much worse.

I'm doing it all wrong too. I just finished folding clothes in the family room. Standing, in my underwear, folding underwear, watching Top Gear. My wife would at least have a robe on. And it's not that I'm doing this in my underwear, I know that I'm not folding things right. The towels don't look right, the cloth napkins don't have fold marks in the right place and my underwear shows the remnants of the skid marks.


My wife would never fold clothes like me. She's a pro.

The truth is I might have let a few things go over the past couple of weeks with regards to the cleanliness of the house. I'm losing the battle. I tried to leave the toilet seat up a few times but I felt so guilty that after a couple of minutes I ran back upstairs and put both the seat and the lid down. I've vacuumed the family room a number of times but it tends to be where I live at night and I've been losing the battle against the wasps that have built a nest in the wall of my house. A vacuum, by the way, is a handy little tool that can also be used to suck a wasp to death.

I've ironed a shirt or two, and not just the parts of the shirt that are going to show. I ironed the entire shirt. I've sewed on buttons, cooked dinner, breakfast, kind of made the bed, definitely put a pillow case on two pillows for the grandson to use, poured chocolate milk out of the jug into the glass, loaded the dishwasher a gazillion times, unloaded it a zillion, which means that it's full right now.

Now I've committed the unpardonable sin.

I actually did the laundry.

Which I am forbidden to do.

Because… I tend to turn the whites into colors.

One little mistake and I live with it for life.

The good news is that everything came out the right color. The bad news, as previously mentioned, is that I have no concept of how to fold clothes or where the towels go.

And I have one stray sock without a partner, white, ankle length.

As for cooking, I can cook. But I miss chili Tuesday, her meatloaf, our passion for brussel sprouts, trying to force me to eat Romaine lettuce because it's healthier and besides, iceberg doesn't have any nutritional value or taste. She says.

I feel bad leaving the house in the morning and I haven't loaded the dishwasher.

I'm a baaaaaad man!

But mostly I just miss her. When she's here the world is right.

And the skid marks don't show.

Sperm Count

Based on my thorough internet Google search (first site that came up) "the United States entered 2010 with a population of more than 308.4 million" people, this "according to a U.S. Census Bureau estimate." More specifically the report placed the estimate at 308,400,408. They're a very exacting group.

That means that currently residing on this earth are 308,400,408 former sperm. 308,400,408 winner swimmers.

The world population is projected at 6,875,944,032, the world population clock is constantly running so it's much more at the moment you're reading this.

I bring this up because I was sitting in a co-workers office today, politely waiting for him to take care of my every technological need. On his TV was the Maury Povich show, the subject, surprisingly, was something like "are you my baby's father". Maury was certainly enjoying the lighthearted exchange of dialogue, as was the clinic that performed the paternity test, turns out that this guy was possibly the father of three kids by three different girls. And he, the potential pop, was laughing at one of the girls accusing him of being the dad. Later in the show, one of the mom's started shouting at her son calling him "a slut". My mother has called me a few names in my life but never that.

With a US population somewhere in excess of 308 million people I was wondering what percentage of the population is willing to go onto Maury Povich or the show of one of his brethren, and air their dirty laundry.

Let's say there is an average of 10 TV shows that sensationalize this kind of stuff, they each tape 5 shows a week, 48 weeks a year, and there are an average of 3 dysfunctional families on each show. Now I am also assuming that the earliest age that you get national media for being dysfunctional is 12 and that they live until say 84. That would 518,400 dysfunctional families over a 72 year span. That's 0.00016% of the US population that on average is willing to air their laundry to everyone with cable.

Now I'm not crazy, and maybe my attitude is related to my getting older, but…. I have trouble farting out loud let alone showing everyone the skid marks in my underwear. I mean we all have them but it doesn't mean that we want to see them.

And I am also not saying that my family is not dysfunctional, for instance, my mom's stepbrother used to be her stepsister. I know, you don't have a response for that. There isn't one. I never found out which bathroom she/him/shim used. That alone is got to be confusing.

Which brings me to sperm count. The average sperm count in a healthy male, except for my mom's stepbrother, is supposed to be 15 million per milliliter. That means that upon conception 14,999,999 sperm entered a swim meet with high hopes and lost. Registration for that event must have taken awhile. And that is only if they conceive on the first try. I don't even want to estimate the collateral sperm loss of trying to get pregnant.

So, as I was sitting there watching Maury Povich, viewing this not-very-entertaining-airing-of-their-dirty-family-laundry to millions of viewers, I was thinking of the 14,999,999 sperm that were in the race and lost. And I looked at the kid on the TV and thought, "This is the sperm that got through?"

Which is now the same question that I'm going to ask myself when I have my annual birthday self-analysis.  

Dead Skunk (Possum) In The Middle Of The Road

I drove home from work the other day and drove over a dead possum.  I didn't hit the poor beast and cause his death, that was left to some other driver.  More than likely some teenage-guy-in-a-rice-burner-moving-too-fast-late-at-night-trying-to-get-home-before-he-misses-his-curfew-and-gets-grounded.

And I'm not sure, but I believe that the lowly possum will not be found on any endangered species list.  Around my neighborhood possums are the predominant wild animal, way ahead of the raccoon.

And possum's are the ultimate fun animal, because they are always playing... possum.

Possums, not one of God's cuter creatures.

And driving over this possum reminded me of my childhood.  Growing up I had only heard of possum's.  Skunks, well, we knew plenty about skunks.  I missed more school days because of skunks than I ever lost for being sick.  We never got sprayed but the smell that they carry with them permeates throughout the house, even more once they get their hairs raised.  I knew a couple of kids at school that carried their smell with them too.

From 4th grade through 9th grade we had encounters on at least seven occasions with Pepé Le Pew and his family.  The most memorable one was when my step dad removed the paneling from the master bedroom and found a skunk condo in the wall of the house.  The whole fam damily gathered around to watch the entire Le Pew family parade into our house late that night.  The invention of cable TV was anti climatic in comparison to watching a family of skunks living in our walls.   It was only later that I found out that not everyone had skunks in their walls.

                        

Well he is right about being too attractive.

Once one fell into the garbage can outside the back porch, an empty one.  My Mom shot that one dead with a .22.  The man of the house was at work and I wasn't yet a man.  Mom wasn't afraid of a little skunk.   (Except for the time she thought that a black and white balloon that had lost its floatability was a skunk.  Even the cops she called were hesitant to be men at that moment.)

Who can forget the skunk that ate the rat poison and fell asleep in the kitchen utensil drawer.  The trip from the kitchen to the front yard with the skunk in the drawer took longer than hauling a Saturn 5 rocket from the Assembly Building to the launch pad.  (It takes a long time.)  The poor thing never did wake up.  It might have had something to do with the .22 diameter slug rolling around in the area that was supposed to be holding its brain.

"Who's the little stinker?"

And skunks stink.  You don't have to get sprayed to get contaminated.  We couldn't afford tomato juice to clean the smell off, it was mostly baths and waiting it out. We were generally avoided those first few days back at school.

Possums are not cute, neither are skunks.  Possums are pretty one dimensional.  They play possum.  Obnoxious little creatures, I found one in the hatchback of one of my cars, yes, a non-running car, and it was not happy when I decided it had played enough.  They're grumpy when you find out they're playing possum.

We had a neighbor that liked the bottle.  He'd come home late at night, driving drunk, and find his way into the driveway.  Some nights he'd take out the mailbox, some nights a light pole, and other times the garden.  He came home one night around 3am and upon getting inside his house made it as far as his easy chair.  He told us that it was the most uncomfortable night of sleep that he'd ever experienced.  Once he sobered up in the morning he found that he'd been sharing the easy chair with a possum.

Hi, I'm Bob and I'll be sharing your bed, I mean chair, tonight.

Not only is drinking and driving a bad thing but drinking and sleeping can be hazardous too.

And I've never hit and killed an animal with a vehicle... until the week before this past Labor Day.

We, the hottie and I, were in Spokane with visiting one of our children and hanging out with Bud & Myrtle Shingledorfer, close personal friends of ours. 

I was driving a U-Haul van that I had rented to haul off some garbage and recycling for my son.  An hour before, I had signed away my life to U-Haul, ignoring their pleas to add insurance at their ridiculous rates.  I was just going to the dump.  What can happen on the way to the dump?

15 minutes after I missed my important turn to the dump I found myself on a quiet country road in NE Washington.  So quiet that wild animals roamed freely without a care in the world.  

And there was no sign.  You know, the sign that shows the deer leaping in the air. 

And then a flash of brown and all of a sudden Bambi shoots in front of the van.  Bambi is dead on impact and I'm the bad guy.  

And the dead possum reminded me of skunks and a song.

SING IT WITH ME!

"Crossin' the highway late last night

He shoulda looked left and he shoulda looked right

He didn't see the station wagon car

The skunk got squashed and there you are!

You got yer

Dead skunk in the middle of the road

Dead skunk in the middle of the road

You got yer dead skunk in the middle of the road

Stinkin' to high Heaven!"

Thanks for bringing back the memories Loudon.

Meet The Shingledorfers!

The wife and I are on vacation. We're in the warm, tropical sunshine of Spokane Washington, spending a week, spending time with the grandkids and their parents.

We are hoping to relax, but with two toddlers in the house I don't think we are expecting to relax.

We, that is, the wife and I, have a dream. It's not a big dream, but we are at the point of thinking about our retirement plans and our dreams are to move to a small town in Eastern Washington called Ritzville, population 1,736. About 45 miles west of Spokane. I know, what in the world does Ritzville have to offer us. There are no chain grocery stores, no big box stores, there are a couple of hotels, a Zip's Drive-In Restaurant, a McDonalds, and farmers. There is a movie theater, local pharmacy, a golf course, small airport, and farmers.

Contrary to popular rumor Ritzville has nothing to do with Ritz crackers even though they farm wheat. Other than farmer's, Ritzville owes its current small town status to the fact that the I-90 runs right past it on the south and anyone going from Seattle to Spokane, or other more interesting places will find that it is the fastest route east or west. No freeway and the town is probably dead.

And yet, we are even more interested in moving there after today.

We went to church in Ritzville.

Incognito.

You know, without revealing our true identities.

We didn't mean to misrepresent ourselves, or at least it didn't start out that way. In every marriage there are roles. My wife's role is the level headed, down to earth, hottie. Mine is the bizarre, warped, goofball. I come up with these bizarre roles and she brings me down to earth by revealing my true identity.

Here's the scenario. We leave Spokane at 8:45am hoping to make the first meeting, which, according to the internet starts at 10:00am. They have just added to the building, it's a branch, and our goal is to check out the local LDS church and make sure that we aren't moving into a congregation with, well, freaks and weirdo's, and rednecks.

Halfway to Ritzville I hatch a plan to conceal our identities. I suggest the fictional "Buck and Elma Shingledorfer". I don't know how I came up with the names, I just pulled them out of the air. And then we reconsidered. "Buck" is one of those names that can lead to a mistake and my wife didn't want to be called "Elma".

We were good with "Shingledorfer", that's a good name. And since my wife's grandmother had wanted her to be named Myrtle she became Myrtle and I became "Bud". Bud and Myrtle Shingledorfer.

The amazing thing is that she, Kim, agreed to be Myrtle and went along with the plan, as long as I did the introductions. She does admit that she was having trouble remembering how to say "Shingledorfer".

We arrived at the church a few minutes early, which means that we showed up just in time to hear the final speaker. Not only was it their first time in the newly remodeled building, but they had taken a vote of the congregation and moved the starting time to 9:00am. We were an hour late.

First part of the plan foiled.

We walked into the Assembly Room, I guess that is the name for a combination chapel, multi-purpose room. After sitting down I noticed that a number of people were staring at us. Pretty soon this older, gray-haired brother gets up and walks purposely towards us. He extends his hand to shake and then the lies begin. I stand and take the lead.

"Good morning, I'm Bud Shingledorfer and this is my wife Myrtle."

I can't believe that Myrtle, I mean Kim, didn't bust out laughing right then. We both played our roles with a straight face.

And the poor guy that we introduced ourselves to, his wife comes up and I did it again. "Hi, we're Bud and Myrtle Shingledorfer."

We're in deep now.

And the funny thing is that they don't even try to repeat our name. Brother G, I'm leaving his last name out, finds out that we are interested in moving to Ritzville in the future and when he finds out that we're thinking of building a house he takes me outside to show me some land that he's got available right near the church. Turns out that he is the founding member of the branch, and the senior High Councilor for the stake. We're in our early 50's, who names their kids Bud and Myrtle in the late 50's.

We walk back into the church and Myrtle is almost running toward me. Turns out Sunday School is starting and she doesn't want to have to introduce herself as she couldn't pronounce or remember "Shingledorfer" was our new last name. She was good on the "Myrtle" part.

We had a great time! No one was bizarre, rednecked, hick, dressed weird, and displaying multiple personalities, etc. About halfway through Sunday School Myrtle turns to me and feeling guilty announces that we are leaving right after Sunday School. She can't hold up the scam any longer. It turns out that we like these people. Big city meets small town and the small town kicks the big city tushy.

And so in Ritzville, Washington, the mysterious visitors, Bud & Myrtle Shingledorfer, have left the building. One of us is feeling guilty. One of us is proud of Myrtle for pulling off an Oscar winning performance.

And one day, the mysterious Bud and Myrtle Shingledorfer will return in our true identities to officially meet the faithful saints of the Ritzville Branch.

Until then, this is Bud signing off.

Bye ya all.

There’s A Nap For That!

I have been busy for the past few months, involved in a project at work that has not only deprived me of most of my summer but also my beauty sleep.

I am not much of a sleeper, never have been. I don't mind going to bed, I would rather just live in a world where I can stay awake all of the time. Sleep is way over rated, that is unless you are just downright, dog tired.

My mother says that I've been this way all of my life. I used to get up for school without an alarm, even in high school. I never slept in on Saturday or Sunday. Not even during the summer. My venture into all-nighters consisted of staying up until I was tired and then I went to bed. 7-8 hours has been all I've needed, I get up at the same time nearly every day of my life. 5:25am finds me staring at the clock until 5:30 so that I can see how fast it takes me to turn the alarm off and not tick off the person on the other side of the bed.

There was a period of time when I slept for outrageous amounts of time. About 14 years ago I found myself sleeping for 16 hours at a time. Not that I wanted to. I would just wake up, call into work sick, go back to bed for another 8 hours. I finally went back to my doctor to sort that situation out. Turns out that I was going to a doctor who used his clinic as a place to teach new doctors. I was getting a new doctor each year that never got the diagnosis right. There is a reason that they call it a "practice".

On one occasion I went to see this doctor, or his resident, because I had fell on the ice a number of months earlier and busted some part of my elbow. The pieces of bone that broke off just kind of floated around inside my skin. Whenever I leaned on that elbow it hurt like the dickens. I told the doctor about it and she, I prefer woman doctors, suggested that I not lean on that elbow.

Wow! Why didn't I think of that! That was certainly worth the $15.00 co-pay.

Sleep apnea turned out to be my 16-hour sleep issue. A little additional weight, okay, a lot of additional weight, I started snoring at 84 decibels, so bad that my wife left the room. I was issued a CPAP machine which I have used faithfully since they gave it to me. If you've seen these machines they involve noise that reminds you of Darth Vader breathing. It's a little obnoxious to wear each night but it has spiced up our sex life.

Cue the heavy breathing…. "Leia, come to the dark side." And that is when I get hit by the remote control.

My point to all this is that sleep is way overrated.

And then there are naps.

I love a good nap. Naps are simultaneously energy lifts and time wasting. How beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards.

You've heard "there's and app for that"? Well, I have a nap for that.

Just finished mowing and edging the yard? There's a nap for that. Mine's in the hammock.

Driving by yourself down the freeway on a road trip and start to drive in every lane but yours. There's a nap for that. A nice 30 minute stop at a rest area.

11-12 hour day at work, coming home dog tired? There's a nap for that. Kick back in the recliner, position the pillow just right, mute the TV, next thing you know, you're in a coma for a good hour and ready to take on dinner. Besides, it's very attractive to the wife to see you napping in the family room, drool flowing out the side of your mouth, just having slayed the dragon.

Tired of playing with the grandkids? Other than playing dead, which doesn't work because my grandkids give wet willy's, a tired grandkiddy is a great reason to take a nap. They need one and you get one. There's a nap for that.

Is your flight longer than an hour? There's a nap for that! Window seats are perfect and there is no interruption worth it. For instance, the peanuts and soda.

Work beating you down, long day already and a long day ahead? There's a nap for that! 15 minutes after lunch with my feet up on the desk or the car seat reclined.

And then there is the king of all naps. Sunday. Yes, there's a nap for that!

As I mentioned earlier, I'm up every day by 5:30 and Sunday is no exception. By the time my Sunday responsibilities end I am ready to check out. I come home from church, grab something to eat, turn on the TV, mute it, and then go catatonic for about 3 hours. The house could be burning down and I wouldn't care. Phone rings, I don't care. Knock on my door, no one's home.

The greatest thing about a nap is that it is free and you can do it almost anywhere, although I don't recommend taking one during sex. It isn't very complimentary to your spouse.

After? There's a nap for that!

Durable Goods

Washing dishes, or dish washing, was created shortly after primitive man invented utensils.  Up to that point man foraged for berries, hunted for meat, or threw a line in the water to catch fish.  He didn't need dishes, he had hands.  Primitive man, once he discovered fire, created BBQ's and rotisserie's.  My personal belief is that the desire to come up with fire to cook was due to someones dislike of sushi and tartar. 

Dishes were a pretty neat invention, plates, cups, forks, and spoons.  Pretty soon we had pots, pans, Cutco and Ginsu knives, and George Foreman grills.  Later, God invented Ron Popeil and life got really exciting.  "Set it and forget it" became the rallying cry.  It was pretty expensive to throw those items out so the natural course was for someone to invent dish washing.  More than likely it was a parent that grounded a child and needed something to occupy them.  No video games yet.

It used to be, and still is for some societies, that in order to wash your clothes you would beat them against a rock down at the river or lake.  Somehow, despite the fact that banging clothes randomly against a rock reduced the durability of the material, the clothes got cleaned.

That didn't translate over very well to washing dishes.  Banging dishes against rocks had an immediate result; you needed to replace dishes more frequently.  Besides, Corelle hadn't been invented yet. 

We have been living as primitive man in our house.  While I've been out hunting and foraging, figuratively, my wife has been thrust into working in conditions similar to pioneers.

Our dishwasher died a couple of weeks ago, the one we plug in.  Since then we've been forced to wash our dishes by hand.  It's been a real bummer, especially for my wife.  But all is not lost, I finally found the time to buy and install a new dishwasher today.

I fondly remember my first dishwasher.  Her name was Mom.  I remember her assistant's, my sisters.  I just don't remember washing dishes until I turned 18.  We were one of those traditional families where the girls did the work in the house and the boys did work outside.  Looking back it felt more like slavery.

The first mechanical dishwasher we owned was one of those models where you rolled it from one side of the kitchen to the sink, hooked up a hose to the faucet, plugged it into the wall, turned it on and walked away.  Make the wrong connection on the faucet and there was water everywhere.  We eventually moved up to built-in pot scrubbing models, complete with a miniature garbage disposal; just shove the dishes in, add detergent and walk away.  It even took on the drying of dishes.

Yet still, I am required to rinse my dishes.  Right after I scrub the food bugger's off.  I still haven't come to terms with the idea that I have to wash my dishes before I wash my dishes.

When I lived in England I never knew anyone with a dishwasher.  And washing dishes was a different process than here on this side of the "pond".  You washed your dishes, set them out to dry, completely skipping the rinse process.  That is until you needed the dish.  You rinsed the dish just before using it.  Hmm, nothing wrong with that.

I paid a lot more for the new dishwasher than I wanted to.  I'm so cheap that anything more $100 to me is an extravagance.  The process for buying a durable good, something that is supposed to last more than 10 years, is intense.  You get on the Internet and read reviews, pick up magazines, go online to Consumer Reports and check out the ratings.

In the end you walk into the big-box-hardware store, avoid the really cheap and really expensive dishwashers and find something in the middle.  By the time you make your purchase the entire decision has come down to what matches your kitchen and how much is in your checking account.  All those hours of research for nothing.  And yet it works.  Just like my ex-stepdads process for buying a car.  If he liked the dashboard he'd buy the car.

Installing is fairly straightforward.  Remove the old by disconnecting the water line, the drain, and unplug it, and unscrew it from the counter.  As they say in car manuals, installation of the new dishwasher is the reverse of removal.

Not really.  A dishwasher is connected to water and a drain and that means at least one trip to the hardware store.  I got lucky, found the part that I needed in the first bin I looked at, it fit when I got home, did my reverse of removal installation, and we're christening it tonight.  My wife loaded the first dish.  It was a Kodak moment.

The best part is that now we can turn off the BBQ, start using our pots and pans again, and live off of something other than Hot Pockets and microwave popcorn. 

We should be good for another 10 years.  Which is good, I can't do dishpan hands.

I Fought The Squirrel (And The Squirrel Won)

The problem with your life flashing before your eyes is usually the duration of the movie.  For example, if you jump out of an airplane at say, 10,000 feet up, and, your chute and reserve chute doesn't open, you have a minute or two to experience a short film about your life.  When you fall off a ladder from about 8 feet up you barely get to see the opening credits.

This is how most people picture squirrels, cute and furry.

The title of this short film of my life could be: "Gravity: It Still Hurts."  I'm thinking it's an Oscar worthy performance.

Now, there are two stories going around about my little fall last Saturday.  One full of truth, one full of perception.  Mine has the truth, my wife's has the perception of truth.  I'm not saying she's wrong, I'm just saying that perception is different from truth.

This story also has a disclaimer.  I have been known to and have taught to my children and grandchildren, the power of deception, or "faking it".  I can fake being asleep, tripping, falling down stairs, and I can even fake interest when you are talking to me.  You know that glazed over look that you get when your children are talking to you about something, and it goes on, and on, and on, and... well, you know the look.  I can fake it so well that I don't have that look.  They still think I'm listening.  Perception is the key to faking it.  Faking it is also closely associated with "crying wolf".

Saturday morning, I had just finished an assignment cleaning the Church building.  I rode my bike into the driveway and thought that I should deal with a little unfinished business on the house.

It is true that had I finished my rebuilding of the porch completely that none of this would have happened.  I freely admit that my putting off, finishing closing off, the eves of the rebuilt porch might have been a mistake.  And I also confess that had I finished off the eves a really big squirrel would not have taken up residence in our roof.  I confess!

But I didn't.  Besides, I'm a man, it's springtime, and I had a ladder.  Now, I've been climbing ladders since about 1968.  My stepdad was a roofer by trade, I learned to climb ladders and move around freely on a roof with ease.  Prior to Saturday I've never fallen off a roof or a ladder my entire life.  

I placed my ladder on the side of the house, raised it to the proper height, moved it to just the right position and angle so as to secure it properly and ensure my safety.  I had the materials that I needed to close off the access holes.  What else did I need (besides insurance)?

I needed defensive armor.  As I went up the ladder the first time it occured to me that the little rodent might be home.  It occured to me that if there was a confrontation with the squirrel that I was defenseless and I would lose.  I pictured myself running around the yard trying to tear a squirrel off of my face as it clawed and chewed it's way to my brain.

I went back down the ladder and gathered my weapons.  A five foot long wooden pole and a garbage can lid from a galvanized can.  The pole I would use to prode the openings, think of it as a doorbell for the squirrel, the garbage can lid to protect my face and body if it turned out to be a flying squirrel or one with rabies.

This is the point where I'm pretty sure that any neighbor that was looking into my yard was running for their video camera and having their wife sign into YouTube.  None of my actions to this point looked safe or sane.  Only bad could happen.  I was oblivious.  Kind of like the time my son and his buddy decided to pour kerosene down a pipe and light it.  When it didn't light, or so they assumed, they blew down the pipe like they were blowing out the candles on a birthday cake.  We didn't know they were playing with kerosene until later when we asked why their eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair were singed or gone.

Fully prepared to evict our little, but good sized, friend, I climbed the ladder.  Balancing myself on the ladder I raised the sheild in my left hand to a defensive position, with the pole I started to probe the access hole on the right.  Nothing.  I moved to the access hole on the left.  Nothing.  The likelyhood of the squirrel being in the middle of the eves was slim.  It was a small hole and I could see the wood that I had installed as a fire block.  I thought it prudent to check anyway.

Now I don't know what goes through the mind of a squirrel when they get startled awake but I do know what I was thinking just a nano second prior to probing his little hiney with the pole.  No one's home.  Having not found him in the two previous openings I was totally surprised when he came out of the third one.  And to say that he was a little angry might be an understatement.

This is what I saw, not so cute and furry!  They are evil!

Did I mention that I had balanced myself on the ladder?  Now when I say balance I mean I was standing on it.  You may remember two paragraphs up that in my left hand I held a garbage can lid and in my right a pole.  My hands were a little busy when that squirrel got angry, and, that is when God reminded me about gravity.

I did a little dance on the steps of the ladder, still trying to put my sheild up, dropped the pole, and let gravity do the rest.  I only fell about eight feet but luckily I met the backyard fence at about four feet above the ground.  Unluckily I met the top of the fence with the side of my body.  Luckily, I had only another four feet to fall.  Unluckily, the ground was landscaped with river rock.

Who's da squirrel!  I'm sure my squirrel was dancing with delight.

I don't recall what happened to the squirrel.  I do recall getting up off the ground in a lot of pain and limping to the front door of the house.  The last thing that I wanted to do was have the chainsaw carrying psycho who lives next door try and jump my fence and think I needed mouth to mouth resuscitation.

In the seventy feet to my front door I was also thinking of having a good cry.  I was hurting.

I opened the door to the house and kind of fell in, past the wife (who wanted to know what the noise was all about), down the stairs and into the family room, where I fell onto the floor into a fetal position.  I remember telling my wife that I had fallen off the ladder. 

And this is where truth meets perception.  Based on my earlier confession of "faking it" a few times in my life, she assumed that I might have been joking about falling off the ladder.  She said, and this was her peception, that I kind of had a half smile on my face.  And she might have been right.  During my seventy foot walk back inside the house I did have a moment to think about how this was going to play out in the tabloids.  "Man Get's His A** Kicked By Squirrel", film at eleven.

My arm hurt, my side hurt, my back hurt.  The wife asks what broke my fall.  I told her I was lucky, the fence and the ground broke my fall.  My right wrist was already starting to swell, I had a nice fence rash on my right bicep.  She asked me if I hurt anywhere else, I said I think so and raised my shirt to show the start of the bruising on my right side.  She encouraged me to go to emergency care which I declined.

I recovered enough to go back out and finish the job I'd started.  The squirrel, who I'm sure is going to have nightmares about this, was gone.  I boarded up his temporary residence and put everything away.

Within an hour I was limited on what I could actually do.  While my arm and my side were only slightly bruised my wrist continued to swell.  I was going on injured reserve for the day.

There is a positive ending to this story.  The sprain of my wrist caused me a great amount of pain whenever I put pressure on it.  A little later in the day I shared the story of my squirrel encounter with my youngest (22 year old) son, who hates squirrels.  I asked him to mow the lawn since it was hard for me to push the mower and he agreed to immediately.  Couple of hours later, with no prodding, he came outside and mowed the lawn.

Next week I'm thinking about spraining my ankle.

Bumbles Bounce, But So Do Grandchildren

I feel that I need to set the record straight regarding an event that took place over seven years ago. Different versions of the event have been bantered about by some parties and I think that I should tell the story behind the event as it really happened. Once and for all the truth, as truth does, will come out.

I did not "throw" my grandson out the second floor window of our house on the morning of Sunday, July 14^th, 2002, as has been told in various venues and pulpits.

Okay, he did drop out of the window and fall twelve feet. But it wasn't my fault.

Here is the story behind the lies that have been told regarding this incident.

On July 13, 2002, one of my four granddaughter's was born. The "Girlie". Sugar and spice, everything nice. Since Mom was still in the hospital and Grandma chose to stay the night with her, I was asked to tend to the needs of my 21-month old grandson, the "Chanman". All boy, with a bit of slugs and snails, and puppy dog tails. We had a sleepover.

The other characters in this little play were my three sons, ages 19, 16, and 14. For most of this event they were asleep. Not that unusual, they were always sleeping.

Many of you have had the same type of morning that I had on July 14^th. Lazy Sunday, coming off of a very natural high, the birth of a child. I got to cut the cord. First time, big thrill. A little girl to spoil.

The Chanman and I were having the only kind of fun that a Papa and his grandson could have. We slept in, woke up and watched cartoons, goofing off, there was tickling involved, lots of laughter. There was a point when everyone, that is, everyone that was awake, got hungry. I informed the Chanman that I was going to the kitchen to fix us some breakfast. Later in the day we were going to the hospital to see the Girlie, after that we were going to my companies picnic at Wild Waves, the local water park.

I went to the kitchen, started working on something to eat that the kid would eat. After a few minutes I heard him calling my name. Since I was at a point that I could break away from cooking I went in to see what he wanted. He was hiding. Well, at least that is what I thought he was doing. His voice was faint, he must be in the closet?

Nope.

Under the bed?

Wrong.

That is when I noticed that the window screen was gone. Our bed was situated next to the window.

There is a moment in time, the moment in a good or a bad situation, where you suddenly "get it". For some it's the moment between the proposal and the realization that it's a proposal. For others, the glow in her face, the moment that realize that you're going to be a father.

For me, it was the moment that I realized that he'd gone out the window, from 12' up. And he was calling my name. "Papa, Papa!"

It is just a theory but I'm betting that you have never in your life seen a man move so fast and scream so loud, simultaneously in your lifetime. I screamed so loud that I woke up the three boys who were sleeping. I flew down the stairs, ripped open the front door and bolted out of the house into the front yard. I rushed into the side yard and there he was, toddling toward me, wearing only a diaper, crying, holding out his arms to me. I grabbed him, held him close and brought him into the house.

I don't know how long I held him, comforting him. I do know this. I had never before, and never since, felt as bad as I did at that moment.

We had plans to go up and meet his little sister. I left the Chanman in the care of his uncles while I went to take a shower. After all, it was a miracle. He had some dirt on his diaper, he completely missed the lava rock landscaping that I had installed to keep the weeds away. The best I could figure was that the screen had dropped down, set at an angle, and then he bounced off of it into the grass.

It was while I was in the shower that I had another moment.

Internal injuries.

I moved quickly from the shower to getting dressed and took him to the hospital. I called my wife in advance and explained what was going on. I was taking him to the emergency room, he appeared fine, I wanted to be sure. I can only imagine her trying to explain this to my daughter, that I had nearly killed her firstborn.

After we went to the emergency room and found that he was fine and needed no medical attention, I needed plenty, we went up to the maternity ward and the Chanman met his new sister. My daughter asked if I wanted to hold my new granddaughter.

I suggested that I needed to tell her a little story first and then see if she still wanted me to hold the Girlie.

The Chanman says that angels saved him. I've never discouraged him from thinking that. It was a miracle. And I didn't kill him, even by accident

But I know never to tempt fate.

I moved the bed from the window the same day.

A Contest? Why Not.

I am not big on contests. But then again, I'm not that big anymore.

Someone suggested that I have a contest regarding how much weight I've lost since October 3^rd of last year.

Why not. It might be a silly contest but I'm willing to sponsor silly.

Whoever can guess my weight on April 19^th (my next doctor's appointment), to the nearest 10^th of a pound, wins. In the event of a tie, you also need to provide a guess the number for my A1C. The range is from 4.0 to 6.0.

For the winner? An autographed copy of my book "The Gospel According To Daniel: As Far As I'm Translated Correctly", a paperback first edition, that is a collection of my first 39 blogs (a Christmas gift from my family, edited by and the idea for the book provided by my son Tristan). And since some of you will think that that is not reason enough to enter the contest, I'll throw in a $20 Subway gift card.

There's going to have to be some rules. Some of you know me personally, some of you know how much weight I've lost. It wouldn't be fair to let you guess, since, well, you know, you know. Therefore, if you know, don't let me disqualify you. And another rule. If you do know, don't share in comments or e-mail with someone else. I'm not a violent person but if you ruin the one and only contest that I will ever sponsor, well, let's just say that I'm going to hunt you down and give you a nuclear noogie.

Send your guess to my e-mail to: haynsy@comcast.net

Deadline for submission: Midnight, April 11^th.

Good Luck!

 

But I Don't Look Fat!

I don't know what kind of fan I am but, I love to watch NBC's The Biggest Loser.  Would it be fair to say that I'm not a dedicated fan, because, I don't watch the entire two hours.  That is way too long for me to watch a show about a bunch of people who have spent most of their life eating and sitting on the couch.  If I wanted to see that show I'd install a mirror on the wall opposite my easy chair.  I watch only for the weigh-in.

My life, since I was in high school, might be best described in my second favorite phrase; "You look like you've been through a famine, I looked like I caused it."  I am the "I".

My favorite quotation is "How beautiful it is to do nothing, and then rest afterwards."  I guess that that motto created the environment for the famine quote.

I weighed 160lbs when I graduated from high school.  Height, 5'10".  My pant size was 31".  Shirt size, 15 and a 1/2. 

I ran six miles a day, just for fun.  I didn't grow up on video games, TV, and computers, primarily because there was only TV and that was just a few channels.  The only good show on TV was JP Patches, so getting hooked on TV was no big deal.  I worked as a salesman for a big and tall mens' clothing store.  I was too small to fit the clothes.

Fast forward, October 3, 2010.  It's a Saturday.  I didn't intend to get to this position in life but I have.

51 years old, 5'11" tall, weight, 297lbs., 44" waist, shirt size 19".  I'm not working in the big and tall store anymore, I'm the customer.  And I've heard all the justifications for nearly 30 years.

"You don't look that big" or "You have a big frame", "You carry it well".  The only thing that anybody said that was true was that I look good regardless of my weight.  Which was true.

I'm humble too.

But 297 is so close to 300 that I really started thinking that I was 300.  But I looked good.

And at 6am, early on that Saturday, October 3rd, I thought about my grandmother, the only one that I grew up knowing.  She died in August of 1981, complications from diabetes.  She was 61.  Her doctor's told her what to do all her life to control her diabetes.

For the past two years my doctor, a brilliant doctor named Rachael Gonzalez, has been treating me as "pre-diabetic".  Which means I'm just one step away from having Type II Diabetes.  My "A1C", one of the most important numbers that you can know, was 5.9.  6.0 would make me a diabetic.  I was on blood pressure medicine, diabetic medication, I have sleep apnea (I snored at 84 decibals!) and I have used a CPAP machine for about 13 years.  But at 297lbs. people said I looked good.

Liars.

Saturday, October 3rd I woke up and realized that I was my grandma.  Well, not literally.  That would be a silly thought.  I couldn't pull off the blue hair.  No, I was 51 and she died at 61.  I woke up and realized that I was going to die in 10 years.

And I love my wife, and my children, and my grandchildren.  I want to know my great-grandchildren.  Maybe even their children.  But guy's with my lifestyle don't live to do that.

Of course, I could end up as a flaming ball of fire on the freeway on any given day. 

But I can't control that.  Saturday, October 3rd I decided that I can do something about me.

I've tried over the years.  Every fad diet, countless exercise machines, ephedra, the Atkins Diet, and the South Beach Diet.  I've lost 25lbs, gained 50.  Lost the 50, gained 60.

I woke up and realized that I was dead in 10 years, if I was lucky to live that long.

So I got up and did something about it.  I went for a walk around the block.  It was a long block.  3.7 miles to be exact.  And I started doing that every day but Sunday.

A few days later I was watching Dr. Oz on TV. I really like his message and his straight talk. He laid out the five things that you can do to shorten your life. Interesting topic. I might have been guilty of doing a few of the things that would shorten my life.


Rather than take up smoking and make it five-for-five I decided to continue walking. And I have since October 3rd.

It’s different this time. I want to live a long, long, long, time. I just don’t want to die.

I’m thinking 125… years.

And since October 3rd I've lost...

But Can You Get Cable? aka Part 2

My first real job out of high school, ("real job" meaning that it had benefits), was a sales job in a big & tall men's clothing store. At the time I weighed 160 lbs and was 5' 10" tall. Size 10 ½ shoe size. I remember applying for the job and asking the manager if I needed to be big and tall to get the job. I didn't, and I got the job. For the next year and a half I sold shirts and suits to some very tall and some very big men.

It was during that formative year and a half that I learned something very important that I have carried with me through life… I hate shopping.

When I go shopping I am going for one of two reasons; I either know what I want or I'm being less selfish, meaning my wife is with me. I'm slowly converting over to internet shopping but I've got limits to what I'll buy over the internet. For instance, shopping for car parts for my MG, internet, groceries, the local store, t-shirts, cheaper at Wal-Mart, movies and music, depends on what's burning a hole in which pocket.

I don't know if I am supposed to reveal this little tidbit of information, but occasionally the Victoria's Secret catalog arrives in our mailbox. I don't spend a lot of time gazing through the catalog but it is a slow walk from the mail box to the house when it arrives. Which brings us to the question?

What does any of this have to do with my 25^th Wedding Anniversary? I mean this is Part 2.

When we left for the B&B outside of Leavenworth, Washington, one of the items that I had to load into the car was a bag from Victoria's Secret. I didn't dare look but as I mentioned, I might have occasionally perused the pages of the catalog, and, I have an active imagination. I was pretty sure that things were not going to be left to my imagination later that evening. I was expecting to get "lucky".

Let's be clear on one thing. My wife is hot, but I had no idea what she would be revealing to me that night. I carefully loaded the little bag of secrets into the car, unloaded it into our room at the B&B, and I never peeked, not once. I didn't want to spoil the surprise. She "slipped" into the bathroom to "freshen up". And then she came out and pleaded with me to open the bag from Vicki.

Strange turn of events.

It was my wife's present to me. She figured that I wouldn't peek in the bag so it was a safe hiding space.

And if I hadn't thought she was sexy before, she certainly kicked it up a notch.

SHE BOUGHT ME A KINDLE!

Last week I went to the Supermall to buy new dress shoes. Remember, I hate shopping, but I hate shopping for shoes more than anything. My trip took me to the Nordstrom Rack. Shoes that people didn't want, closeouts, discontinued, etc, etc. There are two prices on the shoes; regular price and the Rack sale price. And I have a question about shoes.

DO PEOPLE REALLY PAY THE REGULAR PRICE FOR SHOES?

The regular price for some of these shoes was in the low to mid $200 range. Seriously! I'm just covering my feet, what is so special about the materials that make up my shoes? Why is it that of all the clothing that is not made by slave labor and children in developing countries it had to be shoes?

Three paragraphs ago I mentioned that my wife bought me a Kindle. And they're pretty much the same, price. I thought about the differences for awhile, and I compared shoes and the Kindle.

For instance.

The Kindle can wirelessly deliver me a book. The shoes can cover my feet.

With the Kindle I can make the font smaller or bigger, depends on my needs. Shoes, they cover my feet.

My Kindle can stay charged for up to 7 days before recharging. My shoes… cover my feet. I should be fair and say that they do cover the top, bottom, front, and sides of my feet. Still, they cover my feet.

I can make notes on my Kindle, set bookmarks on my Kindle, my Kindle can hold up to 1,500 books, play music in the background, and I can change the reading orientation. I can make notes on my shoes, which would make them look silly, I can make marks with shoes, and if I change the orientation of my shoes I can apply for a handicap sticker.

A Kindle has thousands of free books available, classic books that would cost me thousands of dollars to buy. The download is free. My shoes just cover my feet. And I have to keep them shined.

I'm questioning the value associated with shoes. I will confess something, they not only cover my feet but they do provide some level of comfort. But are they worth $200 plus? I'm not there yet. I'm sure it's a girl thing.

And I want to publicly tell my wife that she did a good thing by buying me the Kindle. You've got me figured out. There is something I haven't figured out though.

When do I get to see what was in the bag originally? My imagination is running wild.