Earlier this month The Wife and I celebrated our wedding anniversary. We've been married for six years. In some ways it seems like we've only been married for about a year and a half. (Admittedly, I wasn't the one who endured two long pregnancies, so I'm sure the time went faster for me.) And, in some ways it seems like we've been married for 20 years. (It certainly feels like I've changed 20 years worth of diapers!)
A lot has changed in the six years that we have been married. Six years ago no one had ever heard of Facebook, Barack Obama was a first term senator, Brett Favre was still playing for the Packers (and had only threatened retirement four times), and phones weren't "smart," but they did flip open like a communicator from Star Trek (which was AWESOME!!!)
The Wife and I celebrate things differently than we did when we were first married. For our six month anniversary, we got a room at the same bed and breakfast we stayed at on our honeymoon. For our six year anniversary, we took the kids out for pizza.
Actually, it was better than it sounds. We went to a place called "Planet Play." They had an all-you-can-eat pizza/dessert buffet, plus little rides and games for the kids, and games for the adults, too. (Basically, it was like Chuck E. Cheese on steroids.) (Or should I say it was the "Lance Armstrong-ed" version of Chuck E. Cheese?) We had a ball.
And, truth be told, our anniversary celebration really began earlier in the day. The Wife made me bacon for breakfast! Bacon!!! (It was a special treat.) That's not to say we never have bacon. We just don't have it very often. (The Wife told me she'd make me bacon on a more regular basis, but she actually wants me to be around for our several more anniversaries.)
And then, with the leftover bacon, we.... (Just kidding! There is no such thing as "leftover bacon." Leftover bacon belongs to the realm of make believe and fantasy, like unicorns, bigfoot, and honest politicians.)
To reciprocate for the bacon she made me, I made The Wife some french toast. (French toast is one of the few things that I'm pretty good at making. My french toast is well-regarded by people from at least two different states and several counties.) The Wife really likes my french toast. Of course, I've had her french toast, and it is easily as good as mine, if not better. (I think the reason she likes my french toast best is because she didn't have to make it.)
So, all told, I had a really good day. I got bacon, french toast, all the pizza I could eat, all the soda pop I could drink, and I got to have fun with The Wife and the kids. (Buzz discovered air hockey, Roni had fun riding the bouncy snail, and I "let" The Wife beat me at pop-a-shot basketball.) (For clarification, so I don't get myself in more trouble, the quotation marks around the "let" are there for sarcastic purposes. She beat me fair and square.)
It wasn't the traditional anniversary celebration. After it was over, I remembered that each anniversary is supposed to have a theme or a gift associated with it. (You know, like the 25th anniversary is the "silver" anniversary, and the 50th is the "golden" anniversary.) So, I looked it up on the interwebs and found out that the sixth anniversary is supposed to be the "iron" anniversary.
The "iron" anniversary? I'm not sure what that even means. Am I supposed to get her an iron for our anniversary? (I already got her one for Christmas a few years back.) (She was delighted.) Maybe an iron handrail for the front steps? I could give her my entire collection of Iron Man comic books. Or, better yet (from The Wife's perspective) I could sell all of my Iron Man comic books, clearing up room in the "comic book closet" for more of her scrapbooking stuff. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do for an "iron" anniversary.
All of these different anniversary "gifts" seem pretty weird to me. According to Wikipedia (which is NEVER wrong) only the "big" anniversaries had gifts associated with them until 1937, when the American National Retail Jewelers Association (not to be confused with the National American Association of Retail Jewelers) made up a list for the rest of the anniversaries. The list goes like this:
1st: Paper
2nd: Cotton
3rd: Leather
4th: Linen
5th: Wood
6th: Iron
7th: Wool
8th: Bronze
9th: Pottery
10th: Tin
11th: Steel
12th: Silk
13th: Lace
14th: Ivory
15th: Crystal
20th: China
25th: Silver
30th: Pearl
35th: Coral
40th: Ruby
45th: Sapphire
50th: Gold
This list seems rather silly to me. First off, I'm wondering how tin managed to snag such a good anniversary. You'd think the 10th anniversary would get something a bit more prestigious. I mean, really? Tin? (Nothing says "romance" like tin!) And some of the other things that made the list are a bit iffy, too. Pottery? Lace? Linen? I'll bet aluminum, ceramics, and macrame are feeling really left out.
Personally, there aren't many things on this list that I care much about. I think we should rebel. Let's forget what the American National Retail Jewelers Association (not to be confused with the Association of National Retail Jewelers of America) tried to shove down our throats. I think we should make our own list. I'm thinking food items would make a better list. (After all, wouldn't you rather have a baked potato than some ivory?) So, here we go:
1st: Ice cream
2nd: Muffins
3rd: Spaghetti
4th: Pudding
5th: Waffles
6th: Bacon
7th: Churros
8th: Potato Chips
9th: Meatloaf
10th: Cake
11th: Jam
12th: Bananas
13th: Cookies
14th: Baked Potatoes
15th: Pizza
20th: Pork
25th: Beef
30th: Chicken
35th: Turkey
40th: Cheeseburgers
45th: Salmon
50th: Steak and Lobster
Now isn't that a much better list? There's so much more to like here. (I'm really looking forward to next year's churros!)
So, to conclude, I'd like to thank The Wife for six wonderful years! (And the best Bacon Anniversary ever!!!)
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Monday, December 31, 2012
Shopping for Some Happy Holidays
It seemed simple enough. I needed to get out and do some last minute shopping on Christmas Eve. The Wife wanted me out of the house so she could wrap some presents. And, we needed to get a few things at the grocery store. No problem, right?
It started out pleasantly enough. I pulled in to Shopko and, although the parking lot was crowded, I was able to find a spot in the first lane that I turned down. (For those of you who don't know, Shopko is a middle-class department store chain around here.)(Classier than Kmart, but not as "prestigious" as Target.)
It was snowing, so I had to pick through the shopping carts to find one that wasn't wet. The main reason I went to Shopko that day was to get a calendar for The Wife's uncle, who was visiting from New York state. (As opposed to New York City.) The Wife's uncle and aunt have talked about moving to Utah from New York, so we thought it would be a good idea to get him a calendar with scenic pictures from Utah to help encourage them to move here. (We like them. Them's good peoples.) And I knew, from previous visits to Shopko, that they had two big racks full of calendars to choose from.
But, since I specifically wanted a scenic Utah calendar, the one thing they did not have was, of course, a scenic Utah calendar. Oh, they had calendars featuring butterflies, lighthouses, cute puppies, ladybugs, cows, and Justin Biebers, but no scenic Utah.
(Isn't it annoying when you are looking for a certain thing, and you know you've seen it at the stores, but when it comes time to buy it you can't find it anywhere? The worst such instance for me was the year my brother caught my Mom reading a romance novel titled The Cowboy Under the Christmas Tree. We teased and teased her about it. That Christmas, I thought it would be funny to get her a toy cowboy as a present, so she could have an actual cowboy under her Christmas tree. But, I could not find a toy cowboy for the life of me. The Wife and I looked at five or six different stores and couldn't find a single toy cowboy anywhere, not even those cheap little plastic cowboy and Indian sets that are like the little army men! Of course, as soon as that Christmas had passed we saw toy cowboys everywhere. They mocked us with their abundance.)
(I now fully expect to see scenic Utah calendars in every store I go to for the next several months.)
Having found about 15% of the things that I wanted to find at Shopko, I made my purchases and sloshed my way back to the car. I had one more stop: the grocery store. I could see as I approached the store that it was pretty busy. Usually when I pull up to a store, I'll drive past a few distant parking spots in hopes that there will be one closer to the store. On this Christmas Eve however, that was not my strategy. I immediately determined that I would pull into any spot I could find.
That determintaion didn't help me in the least. The first lane I pulled into was full, from the street to the store. The second lane I pulled down also offered no empty spots. I tried another lane; not only were there no parking spots, but I couldn't pull through because there was a Christmas tree lot at the end of it. (Why, at the one time they actually need all of their parking spots, do they fill twenty or thirty of them with Christmas trees?) (Really, on Christmas Eve those parking spots are about as valuable as gold, frankincense, and maybe even myrrh!)
As I grew more and more frustrated with circling through the parking lot (along with twenty or so of my fellow parking spot seekers, some of whom had started to stalk shoppers heading back to their cars, hovering over their soon-to-be-vacant spots like vultures,) I decided to think outside the box. Based on my experience from delivering to grocery stores in the past, I knew that sometimes there were a few spaces behind the store where I might park. So, I worked my way over and found a spot behind the sporting goods store next to the grocery store. Sure it was a good, long slosh through the slush to get to the front of the store, but at least I had found someplace to park!
I was actually surprised to find a row of about fifteen shopping carts still available when I walked in the store. (When I left the store there were none. Outgoing shoppers were handing their used carts to incoming shoppers like Olympians handing the baton at a relay race.) The store was very crowded. I got the bread I needed without incident, but it was a bit of a fight to get the baker's chocolate that The Wife had on the list. Mostly because the brand she suggested I buy was sold out, so I had to check the labels of the stuff that was on the shelf. And the traffic clog of shopping carts trying to get down the aisle wasn't very patient with me and my slow label-reading skills. (Sometimes that fine print is very fine.)
I got what I needed and headed for checkout. (I looked for a scenic Utah calendar there, too. I'm sure I'll see several on next week's grocery trip.) On a normal day I sometimes wonder why they have so many checkstands. I was not wondering that on this day. All 16 checkout lanes were open. And all 16 checkout lanes had about ten people waiting in line at each one. Each checkout line worked its way down into one of the shopping aisles. It was a long wait to get to the register. And it was full of several exchanges like this:
Dumb guy (trying to get his shopping cart in front of mine): "Is this the line?"
Me (pointing towards the back of the store): "No. That is the line."
Eventually I made it to the register and purchased my foodstuffs. I got back to my car and drove home in the snow. And you know, it's great to have snow on Christmas Eve so you can have a "White Christmas." Until you have to go out and shovel it. (If Bing Crosby were still alive I just might punch him in the nose.)
Still, I made it through my Christmas Eve shopping experience, and we managed to have a very good Christmas! And I hope you all had some happy holidays, too!
Yes. I said "Happy Holidays." I've said it before and I'll say it again.
The term "Happy Holidays" has gotten a bit of a bad rap (or is it a bad "wrap?") lately. Some people think you should only say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" so you don't offend people who don't celebrate Christmas. Meanwhile, other people think that if you ever utter the phrase "Happy Holidays" it means you are buckling under to the politcally correct, and you are somehow trying to take the "Christ" out of "Christmas."
I'm sorry, but I'm going to say "Happy Holidays" whenever I darn well feel like it! (I'm also going to say "Merry Christmas" whenever I feel like it, too.) If you get offended, I'm sorry. Maybe you need to get some thicker skin. I'm not a mother, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Mother's Day." I'm not a president, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy President's Day." I'm not a tree, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Arbor Day." (Just for the record, no one has ever wished me a "Happy Arbor Day.") (Maybe this year.)
Back in the day (before the politically correct police and before the politically correct police backlash) "Happy Holidays" was a term that often was used as shorthand for "Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." You see, the "Holidays" in "Happy Holidays" is plural. (There's even an "s" on the end and everything!) Sometimes, people would even use "Happy Holidays" to refer to the entire season between Thanksgiving and New Year's. And that's okay.
So, just because someone says "Happy Holidays," it doesn't mean they are a left-leaning pinko commie. And just because someone says "Merry Christmas," it doesn't mean they are right-wing, gun-toting redneck. What it probably means, in either instance, is that they are wishing you well. So, don't be offended. Because it's better that they are wishing you well than meaning you harm.
That said, my suggestion is that if you truly want to have "Happy Holidays," you might want to get your shopping done before Christmas Eve.
It started out pleasantly enough. I pulled in to Shopko and, although the parking lot was crowded, I was able to find a spot in the first lane that I turned down. (For those of you who don't know, Shopko is a middle-class department store chain around here.)(Classier than Kmart, but not as "prestigious" as Target.)
It was snowing, so I had to pick through the shopping carts to find one that wasn't wet. The main reason I went to Shopko that day was to get a calendar for The Wife's uncle, who was visiting from New York state. (As opposed to New York City.) The Wife's uncle and aunt have talked about moving to Utah from New York, so we thought it would be a good idea to get him a calendar with scenic pictures from Utah to help encourage them to move here. (We like them. Them's good peoples.) And I knew, from previous visits to Shopko, that they had two big racks full of calendars to choose from.
But, since I specifically wanted a scenic Utah calendar, the one thing they did not have was, of course, a scenic Utah calendar. Oh, they had calendars featuring butterflies, lighthouses, cute puppies, ladybugs, cows, and Justin Biebers, but no scenic Utah.
(Isn't it annoying when you are looking for a certain thing, and you know you've seen it at the stores, but when it comes time to buy it you can't find it anywhere? The worst such instance for me was the year my brother caught my Mom reading a romance novel titled The Cowboy Under the Christmas Tree. We teased and teased her about it. That Christmas, I thought it would be funny to get her a toy cowboy as a present, so she could have an actual cowboy under her Christmas tree. But, I could not find a toy cowboy for the life of me. The Wife and I looked at five or six different stores and couldn't find a single toy cowboy anywhere, not even those cheap little plastic cowboy and Indian sets that are like the little army men! Of course, as soon as that Christmas had passed we saw toy cowboys everywhere. They mocked us with their abundance.)
(I now fully expect to see scenic Utah calendars in every store I go to for the next several months.)
 |
| Merry Christmas! Please buy some useless stuff! |
Having found about 15% of the things that I wanted to find at Shopko, I made my purchases and sloshed my way back to the car. I had one more stop: the grocery store. I could see as I approached the store that it was pretty busy. Usually when I pull up to a store, I'll drive past a few distant parking spots in hopes that there will be one closer to the store. On this Christmas Eve however, that was not my strategy. I immediately determined that I would pull into any spot I could find.
That determintaion didn't help me in the least. The first lane I pulled into was full, from the street to the store. The second lane I pulled down also offered no empty spots. I tried another lane; not only were there no parking spots, but I couldn't pull through because there was a Christmas tree lot at the end of it. (Why, at the one time they actually need all of their parking spots, do they fill twenty or thirty of them with Christmas trees?) (Really, on Christmas Eve those parking spots are about as valuable as gold, frankincense, and maybe even myrrh!)
As I grew more and more frustrated with circling through the parking lot (along with twenty or so of my fellow parking spot seekers, some of whom had started to stalk shoppers heading back to their cars, hovering over their soon-to-be-vacant spots like vultures,) I decided to think outside the box. Based on my experience from delivering to grocery stores in the past, I knew that sometimes there were a few spaces behind the store where I might park. So, I worked my way over and found a spot behind the sporting goods store next to the grocery store. Sure it was a good, long slosh through the slush to get to the front of the store, but at least I had found someplace to park!
I was actually surprised to find a row of about fifteen shopping carts still available when I walked in the store. (When I left the store there were none. Outgoing shoppers were handing their used carts to incoming shoppers like Olympians handing the baton at a relay race.) The store was very crowded. I got the bread I needed without incident, but it was a bit of a fight to get the baker's chocolate that The Wife had on the list. Mostly because the brand she suggested I buy was sold out, so I had to check the labels of the stuff that was on the shelf. And the traffic clog of shopping carts trying to get down the aisle wasn't very patient with me and my slow label-reading skills. (Sometimes that fine print is very fine.)
I got what I needed and headed for checkout. (I looked for a scenic Utah calendar there, too. I'm sure I'll see several on next week's grocery trip.) On a normal day I sometimes wonder why they have so many checkstands. I was not wondering that on this day. All 16 checkout lanes were open. And all 16 checkout lanes had about ten people waiting in line at each one. Each checkout line worked its way down into one of the shopping aisles. It was a long wait to get to the register. And it was full of several exchanges like this:
Dumb guy (trying to get his shopping cart in front of mine): "Is this the line?"
Me (pointing towards the back of the store): "No. That is the line."
Eventually I made it to the register and purchased my foodstuffs. I got back to my car and drove home in the snow. And you know, it's great to have snow on Christmas Eve so you can have a "White Christmas." Until you have to go out and shovel it. (If Bing Crosby were still alive I just might punch him in the nose.)
Still, I made it through my Christmas Eve shopping experience, and we managed to have a very good Christmas! And I hope you all had some happy holidays, too!
Yes. I said "Happy Holidays." I've said it before and I'll say it again.
The term "Happy Holidays" has gotten a bit of a bad rap (or is it a bad "wrap?") lately. Some people think you should only say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" so you don't offend people who don't celebrate Christmas. Meanwhile, other people think that if you ever utter the phrase "Happy Holidays" it means you are buckling under to the politcally correct, and you are somehow trying to take the "Christ" out of "Christmas."
I'm sorry, but I'm going to say "Happy Holidays" whenever I darn well feel like it! (I'm also going to say "Merry Christmas" whenever I feel like it, too.) If you get offended, I'm sorry. Maybe you need to get some thicker skin. I'm not a mother, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Mother's Day." I'm not a president, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy President's Day." I'm not a tree, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Arbor Day." (Just for the record, no one has ever wished me a "Happy Arbor Day.") (Maybe this year.)
Back in the day (before the politically correct police and before the politically correct police backlash) "Happy Holidays" was a term that often was used as shorthand for "Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." You see, the "Holidays" in "Happy Holidays" is plural. (There's even an "s" on the end and everything!) Sometimes, people would even use "Happy Holidays" to refer to the entire season between Thanksgiving and New Year's. And that's okay.
So, just because someone says "Happy Holidays," it doesn't mean they are a left-leaning pinko commie. And just because someone says "Merry Christmas," it doesn't mean they are right-wing, gun-toting redneck. What it probably means, in either instance, is that they are wishing you well. So, don't be offended. Because it's better that they are wishing you well than meaning you harm.
That said, my suggestion is that if you truly want to have "Happy Holidays," you might want to get your shopping done before Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
My Crack Problem
I have a problem with crack.
And once you have a problem with crack, you will always have a problem with crack. It won't go away. It's just a matter of how well you can cover it up.
Some people have no idea they have a crack problem. They go through the course of their life as if nothing is wrong. But, if you truly have a crack problem, that's all anyone else will see. They won't see you as a person, they'll just see you for the crack. So, one of the first steps in successfully dealing with a crack problem is admitting that you have a crack problem.
I know I have a crack problem. My wife has been great in helping me with my crack problem. She has stood by me, not been judgemental, and offered to help in any way she can. And, she has come up with the best solution I have yet found for dealing with my crack problem: Really long shirts.
(I am, of course, talking about my butt crack problem.)
I've always thought of myself as a normal-ish looking guy. As I've said before, if you took 50 guys at random, I would not be one of the ten handsomest, nor would I be one of the ten ugliest. I would be one of the 30 guys covering the middle ground. I'm a fairly big guy, standing at 6' 2" and 240 pounds. Those numbers would be pretty good for an NFL linebacker or running back. (Unfortunately, my belly fat-to-muscle ratio numbers would not be anywhere near good enough for the NFL.) (Besides, as someone once said, "you gotta be fast to play linebacker.")
I never thought of myself as having an unusually long torso. But then, I met my wife. I'm a full four inches taller than her. (Which is a good thing, because standing at 5' 10" she made the decision that she would not date anyone shorter than her. I know it sounds a bit discriminatory, but I'm okay with it because it meant she was still available when I came around.) (Sorry, short guys.)
Even though I'm four inches taller than her, our legs are the same length. This is great for driving, because we never have to adjust the seat in the car. As opposed to when I was young and got in the car after my mom had been driving. I don't know how many times I whacked my knees against the dash and steering wheel because I didn't pre-adjust the seat. (My mom is 5' 2".) (Although some of those poofy 1970's hairdos bumped her up to as much as 5' 5".) So, I don't have to adjust the seat, but, because of my unusually long torso, I do have to adjust the mirrors, because when I get in after my wife has driven they seem to be pointing straight into the ground.
At first I thought that my wife and I having legs the same length was because she had unusually long legs. But then I thought it might be my unusually long torso. (It's probably a little of both.)
It took me a while to admit that I had a crack problem. Sure, I would feel that occasional breeze hit me between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants when I would bend over or sit down, but everyone gets that sometimes, right? I would think that my shirt wasn't reaching my pants in the back because of my oversized gut in the front. Maybe it was because my pants weren't tall enough. (The Wife actually thinks this is part of the problem. She thinks I wear my pants too low. It's a fair criticism, but I really doubt she would like it if I went full Urkel on her.) (No one wants to hear, as my aunt once said to my grandpa, "Hey, are those pants a little tight on your armpits?")
So, before I fully came to terms with my crack problem, The Wife was trying to fix it. She started buying me longer shirts. My regular shirt size is "extra-large." (XL) You would think if they made a shirt that was "extra" larger than regular large, that some of that "extra-ness" might go to the length of the shirt. No. All of that "extra-ness" is used to get around the belly and the chest. Adding another "X" (as in XXL, XXXL) doesn't help the length of the shirt. (Besides the fact that those bigger sizes seem like names for future Super Bowls.) (Maybe the Vikings can finally get a win in Super Bowl XXXL.)
The Wife was able to find a shirt size called "XLT," which stands for "extra large tall." These shirts were a godsend. I started wearing them and suddenly I wasn't noticing that butt-crack breeze as much. I could sit in a vinyl chair without having to peel my lower back off of it like a piece of fruit leather. It didn't take long for me to notice the difference between the "XLT" shirts and the "XL" shirts, and start seeking out the "XLTs." I think that is when I finally started to come to terms with my crack problem.
Unfortunately, the "XLTs" are pretty hard to find. Most stores don't offer them. The Wife usually has to scour the interwebs to find them. And even then, not all "XLT" shirts are created equal. Some "XLTs" still aren't long enough for my unusually long torso, especially after a few washings. And some of the "XLTs" are actually a little too long, seeming almost more like a tunic or a muumuu than a shirt. (But, and I think this goes to show how much I am determined to beat my crack problem, I would rather wear a tunic than expose my butt crack anymore.)
There are a lot of people who could benefit from "XLT" shirts. (I work in the truck driver industry. Believe me, there are a lot of people who could benefit.)(And not just the ones who wear the shirts.) I'm surprised an enterprising "XLT" shirt manufacturer doesn't set up shop at a plumber's convention. "XLT" shirts could also find huge sales if marketed as "tramp stamp" covers, especially as the bodies of those women who fell for the "tramp stamp" fad begin to age and sag. (Sorry for that image.)
So, yes, I have a crack problem. I know it, and I'm working on correcting it. It's going to be a lifelong problem. I'm going to have to be diligent about it for as long as I live. Because no one wants to see my butt crack. Not even (maybe even especially) my wife.
And once you have a problem with crack, you will always have a problem with crack. It won't go away. It's just a matter of how well you can cover it up.
Some people have no idea they have a crack problem. They go through the course of their life as if nothing is wrong. But, if you truly have a crack problem, that's all anyone else will see. They won't see you as a person, they'll just see you for the crack. So, one of the first steps in successfully dealing with a crack problem is admitting that you have a crack problem.
I know I have a crack problem. My wife has been great in helping me with my crack problem. She has stood by me, not been judgemental, and offered to help in any way she can. And, she has come up with the best solution I have yet found for dealing with my crack problem: Really long shirts.
(I am, of course, talking about my butt crack problem.)
I've always thought of myself as a normal-ish looking guy. As I've said before, if you took 50 guys at random, I would not be one of the ten handsomest, nor would I be one of the ten ugliest. I would be one of the 30 guys covering the middle ground. I'm a fairly big guy, standing at 6' 2" and 240 pounds. Those numbers would be pretty good for an NFL linebacker or running back. (Unfortunately, my belly fat-to-muscle ratio numbers would not be anywhere near good enough for the NFL.) (Besides, as someone once said, "you gotta be fast to play linebacker.")
I never thought of myself as having an unusually long torso. But then, I met my wife. I'm a full four inches taller than her. (Which is a good thing, because standing at 5' 10" she made the decision that she would not date anyone shorter than her. I know it sounds a bit discriminatory, but I'm okay with it because it meant she was still available when I came around.) (Sorry, short guys.)
Even though I'm four inches taller than her, our legs are the same length. This is great for driving, because we never have to adjust the seat in the car. As opposed to when I was young and got in the car after my mom had been driving. I don't know how many times I whacked my knees against the dash and steering wheel because I didn't pre-adjust the seat. (My mom is 5' 2".) (Although some of those poofy 1970's hairdos bumped her up to as much as 5' 5".) So, I don't have to adjust the seat, but, because of my unusually long torso, I do have to adjust the mirrors, because when I get in after my wife has driven they seem to be pointing straight into the ground.
At first I thought that my wife and I having legs the same length was because she had unusually long legs. But then I thought it might be my unusually long torso. (It's probably a little of both.)
It took me a while to admit that I had a crack problem. Sure, I would feel that occasional breeze hit me between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants when I would bend over or sit down, but everyone gets that sometimes, right? I would think that my shirt wasn't reaching my pants in the back because of my oversized gut in the front. Maybe it was because my pants weren't tall enough. (The Wife actually thinks this is part of the problem. She thinks I wear my pants too low. It's a fair criticism, but I really doubt she would like it if I went full Urkel on her.) (No one wants to hear, as my aunt once said to my grandpa, "Hey, are those pants a little tight on your armpits?")
So, before I fully came to terms with my crack problem, The Wife was trying to fix it. She started buying me longer shirts. My regular shirt size is "extra-large." (XL) You would think if they made a shirt that was "extra" larger than regular large, that some of that "extra-ness" might go to the length of the shirt. No. All of that "extra-ness" is used to get around the belly and the chest. Adding another "X" (as in XXL, XXXL) doesn't help the length of the shirt. (Besides the fact that those bigger sizes seem like names for future Super Bowls.) (Maybe the Vikings can finally get a win in Super Bowl XXXL.)
The Wife was able to find a shirt size called "XLT," which stands for "extra large tall." These shirts were a godsend. I started wearing them and suddenly I wasn't noticing that butt-crack breeze as much. I could sit in a vinyl chair without having to peel my lower back off of it like a piece of fruit leather. It didn't take long for me to notice the difference between the "XLT" shirts and the "XL" shirts, and start seeking out the "XLTs." I think that is when I finally started to come to terms with my crack problem.
Unfortunately, the "XLTs" are pretty hard to find. Most stores don't offer them. The Wife usually has to scour the interwebs to find them. And even then, not all "XLT" shirts are created equal. Some "XLTs" still aren't long enough for my unusually long torso, especially after a few washings. And some of the "XLTs" are actually a little too long, seeming almost more like a tunic or a muumuu than a shirt. (But, and I think this goes to show how much I am determined to beat my crack problem, I would rather wear a tunic than expose my butt crack anymore.)
There are a lot of people who could benefit from "XLT" shirts. (I work in the truck driver industry. Believe me, there are a lot of people who could benefit.)(And not just the ones who wear the shirts.) I'm surprised an enterprising "XLT" shirt manufacturer doesn't set up shop at a plumber's convention. "XLT" shirts could also find huge sales if marketed as "tramp stamp" covers, especially as the bodies of those women who fell for the "tramp stamp" fad begin to age and sag. (Sorry for that image.)
So, yes, I have a crack problem. I know it, and I'm working on correcting it. It's going to be a lifelong problem. I'm going to have to be diligent about it for as long as I live. Because no one wants to see my butt crack. Not even (maybe even especially) my wife.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
I'm NOT Loving It: Finding a Foreign Object In My McDonald's Burger
First of all, let's get one thing straight: The arches are yellow. They are NOT golden. Anyone who ever had a 64-count Crayola set knows that "yellow" and "gold" are two different colors. Those arches are yellow.
Over the years I've learned a lot of things from McDonald's. As a kid, I learned that's it's okay to put cheese on a fish sandwich. (The lesson? Cheese makes everything better.) I learned, as a very young boy, that my Grandma could eat two Big Macs in one sitting. (The lesson? Grandma was AWESOME!!!) I learned that it is possible to have "too much of a good thing." (The lesson? I shouldn't have had that third triple cheeseburger.)
As a guy who was single until he was 40, I frequented McDonald's frequently. And now, as a father of a two year old and a four year old, I still frequent McDonald's (just not quite as frequently.) As a concerned parent, giving consumers the choice of apple slices or french fries in Happy Meals was very smart. Then, deciding to include both apple slices and french fries was brilliant.
Not all of McDonald's moves have been smart, though. I remember when they tried to introduce "McPizza." It was like a slab of school lunch cafeteria pizza, only not as good. Then there was the "McDLT," which promised to keep the "hot side hot and the cool side cool." Instead, it was killed by this unspoken motto: "Same amount of burger; twice as much styrofoam."
And then there is the "McRib," a limited-time sandwich with a cult-like international following, which proves the old axiom: "People Is Stupid." The "McRib" is Horrible On a Bun. It is a pre-formed slice of meat-like substance (which looks and tastes like a bathroom sponge,) covered in sauce. (They say it is barbecue sauce. I disagree. It tastes like some sort of mixture of barbecue sauce and dish soap.) Every five years or so, I try a "McRib" again to see if they improved it or if my assessment of it was wrong, and every five years or so I am again completely disgusted. (I have a friend who gets the dry heaves at the mere mention of the "McRib.")
What makes the success of the "McRib" so infuriating is that around the time it came out, McDonald's offered another limited-time sandwich that was actually worthy of a cult-like international following. It was called the "Cheddar Melt," and it was fantastic! It was a quarter-pound burger on a rye bun with sauteed onions and cheddar cheese sauce (similar to the cheese sauce from Arby's Beef N Cheddar.) Unfortunately, the "Cheddar Melt" was only given a couple of limited-time runs, and then it was never heard from again.
So, that's why I was so excited when I saw that McDonald's was offering the "CBO," a new limited-time burger with some similarities to the old "Cheddar Melt." The "CBO" stands for "cheddar," "bacon" and "onions."
(Just for clarification, McDonald's "CBO" should not be confused with the Star Wars droid C3PO.)
(Also, for the record, C3PO is golden. The arches are yellow.)
Let's break the "CBO" down. Cheddar: I like cheese. Melted cheese makes everything taste better. We have a saying around our house: "Cheese is for heroes!" (I think it's a quote from Chuck Norris.)
Bacon: I'm a big fan of bacon, and everyone who knows me knows this. So much so, that when anyone sees anything related to bacon, they post it on my Facebook wall. In fact, my Facebook wall is almost literally wallpapered with pictures of bacon. (I'm just not sure if it should be a "bowlful of bacon" or a "bowl full of bacon.") (Either way....bacon!!!)
Onions: I used to not like onions. Then I figured out what I didn't like were raw onions. Cook those onions up and they are delicious!
So, one late Saturday evening I was quite happy to ditch my regular dollar menu fare and splurge on a "CBO." We had gone as a family to a wedding reception. It was late, and we were hungry, so we stopped at McDonald's. (Parenting tip: If you want your kids to be able to play in the Playplace without having to deal with all those other unwashed, misbehaving kids around, take them there at 9:00 PM or later. Most other parents are responsible enough to have their little heathen tykes home and in bed at that hour. Even in Redneckia, Utah.)
And then, I bit into it. I was immediately disappointed. The burger was dry. (It would have moistened it up a bit if the cheese had been in sauce form.) I didn't know anyone could ruin bacon, but they did. It was overcooked past the point of "crispy." It was hard and dry and more resembled the bacon-ish dog food "Beggin' Strips" than any bacon I had ever eaten. And the onions were chopped up so small that they looked like slugs or boogers.
I was not enjoying my burger. And then, it got worse. It's never good when you have to stop what you are eating and say, "Wait, what is this thing?" I had just taken a bite when I noticed a piece of clear plastic roughly the size of a 50-cent piece. I didn't know exactly what to do. So I showed it to The Wife. "This was in my sandwich," I said to her, pointing at the plastic.
I then debated what to do next. Should I finish my burger? Of course not. (Although I did wonder for a few seconds because I was hungry.) I thought about just putting the burger down and saying nothing, but The Wife (rightly) said I needed to bring it to their attention, if for no other reason as to make sure it didn't happen to someone else. Also, I wanted to find out what exactly it was that was in my sandwich.
You always hear about people finding foreign objects in their food. Usually it's either a finger or a mouse. My foreign object was a piece of plastic. (Of course, I'm not sure if my foreign substance was actually foreign or not. It may have been domestic.)
I took my burger and its protruding plastic up to the counter and asked for the manager. Through a bit of detective work it was determined that the plastic in my burger was from the wrapping around the cheese slices. She asked if I wanted a new burger. I pondered for a second, then said yes. (I really was hungry.) She also offered me a shake. I wasn't sure I wanted one until she mentioned that one of the flavors was egg nog. I love egg nog. The Wife, however, hates egg nog, so I wouldn't get to share my shake with her. (Or wouldn't have to share it with her, depending on your point of view.)
I took my new, free burger back to my booth and ate it. I didn't enjoy it. It was as dry and uninviting as the first one was, except it didn't have any plastic in it. (That I know of.) (Although the chance of it being laced with the spit of McDonald's employees was significantly higher.) I probably should have asked for a different sandwich (a Filet-O-Fish or something) or insisted the whole meal be comped or something.
Maybe, like with the "McRib," I'll try the "CBO" again in five years or so and hope for a better experience. But, for now, I think I'll avoid the yellow arches for a while. My last expereince there was far from golden.
Over the years I've learned a lot of things from McDonald's. As a kid, I learned that's it's okay to put cheese on a fish sandwich. (The lesson? Cheese makes everything better.) I learned, as a very young boy, that my Grandma could eat two Big Macs in one sitting. (The lesson? Grandma was AWESOME!!!) I learned that it is possible to have "too much of a good thing." (The lesson? I shouldn't have had that third triple cheeseburger.)
As a guy who was single until he was 40, I frequented McDonald's frequently. And now, as a father of a two year old and a four year old, I still frequent McDonald's (just not quite as frequently.) As a concerned parent, giving consumers the choice of apple slices or french fries in Happy Meals was very smart. Then, deciding to include both apple slices and french fries was brilliant.
Not all of McDonald's moves have been smart, though. I remember when they tried to introduce "McPizza." It was like a slab of school lunch cafeteria pizza, only not as good. Then there was the "McDLT," which promised to keep the "hot side hot and the cool side cool." Instead, it was killed by this unspoken motto: "Same amount of burger; twice as much styrofoam."
And then there is the "McRib," a limited-time sandwich with a cult-like international following, which proves the old axiom: "People Is Stupid." The "McRib" is Horrible On a Bun. It is a pre-formed slice of meat-like substance (which looks and tastes like a bathroom sponge,) covered in sauce. (They say it is barbecue sauce. I disagree. It tastes like some sort of mixture of barbecue sauce and dish soap.) Every five years or so, I try a "McRib" again to see if they improved it or if my assessment of it was wrong, and every five years or so I am again completely disgusted. (I have a friend who gets the dry heaves at the mere mention of the "McRib.")
What makes the success of the "McRib" so infuriating is that around the time it came out, McDonald's offered another limited-time sandwich that was actually worthy of a cult-like international following. It was called the "Cheddar Melt," and it was fantastic! It was a quarter-pound burger on a rye bun with sauteed onions and cheddar cheese sauce (similar to the cheese sauce from Arby's Beef N Cheddar.) Unfortunately, the "Cheddar Melt" was only given a couple of limited-time runs, and then it was never heard from again.
So, that's why I was so excited when I saw that McDonald's was offering the "CBO," a new limited-time burger with some similarities to the old "Cheddar Melt." The "CBO" stands for "cheddar," "bacon" and "onions."
(Just for clarification, McDonald's "CBO" should not be confused with the Star Wars droid C3PO.)
(Also, for the record, C3PO is golden. The arches are yellow.)
Let's break the "CBO" down. Cheddar: I like cheese. Melted cheese makes everything taste better. We have a saying around our house: "Cheese is for heroes!" (I think it's a quote from Chuck Norris.)
Bacon: I'm a big fan of bacon, and everyone who knows me knows this. So much so, that when anyone sees anything related to bacon, they post it on my Facebook wall. In fact, my Facebook wall is almost literally wallpapered with pictures of bacon. (I'm just not sure if it should be a "bowlful of bacon" or a "bowl full of bacon.") (Either way....bacon!!!)
Onions: I used to not like onions. Then I figured out what I didn't like were raw onions. Cook those onions up and they are delicious!
So, one late Saturday evening I was quite happy to ditch my regular dollar menu fare and splurge on a "CBO." We had gone as a family to a wedding reception. It was late, and we were hungry, so we stopped at McDonald's. (Parenting tip: If you want your kids to be able to play in the Playplace without having to deal with all those other unwashed, misbehaving kids around, take them there at 9:00 PM or later. Most other parents are responsible enough to have their little heathen tykes home and in bed at that hour. Even in Redneckia, Utah.)
And then, I bit into it. I was immediately disappointed. The burger was dry. (It would have moistened it up a bit if the cheese had been in sauce form.) I didn't know anyone could ruin bacon, but they did. It was overcooked past the point of "crispy." It was hard and dry and more resembled the bacon-ish dog food "Beggin' Strips" than any bacon I had ever eaten. And the onions were chopped up so small that they looked like slugs or boogers.
I was not enjoying my burger. And then, it got worse. It's never good when you have to stop what you are eating and say, "Wait, what is this thing?" I had just taken a bite when I noticed a piece of clear plastic roughly the size of a 50-cent piece. I didn't know exactly what to do. So I showed it to The Wife. "This was in my sandwich," I said to her, pointing at the plastic.
I then debated what to do next. Should I finish my burger? Of course not. (Although I did wonder for a few seconds because I was hungry.) I thought about just putting the burger down and saying nothing, but The Wife (rightly) said I needed to bring it to their attention, if for no other reason as to make sure it didn't happen to someone else. Also, I wanted to find out what exactly it was that was in my sandwich.
You always hear about people finding foreign objects in their food. Usually it's either a finger or a mouse. My foreign object was a piece of plastic. (Of course, I'm not sure if my foreign substance was actually foreign or not. It may have been domestic.)
I took my burger and its protruding plastic up to the counter and asked for the manager. Through a bit of detective work it was determined that the plastic in my burger was from the wrapping around the cheese slices. She asked if I wanted a new burger. I pondered for a second, then said yes. (I really was hungry.) She also offered me a shake. I wasn't sure I wanted one until she mentioned that one of the flavors was egg nog. I love egg nog. The Wife, however, hates egg nog, so I wouldn't get to share my shake with her. (Or wouldn't have to share it with her, depending on your point of view.)
I took my new, free burger back to my booth and ate it. I didn't enjoy it. It was as dry and uninviting as the first one was, except it didn't have any plastic in it. (That I know of.) (Although the chance of it being laced with the spit of McDonald's employees was significantly higher.) I probably should have asked for a different sandwich (a Filet-O-Fish or something) or insisted the whole meal be comped or something.
Maybe, like with the "McRib," I'll try the "CBO" again in five years or so and hope for a better experience. But, for now, I think I'll avoid the yellow arches for a while. My last expereince there was far from golden.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thanks or No Thanks
I'm thankful that Thanksgiving comes around every year to give me a reason to be thankful.
I'm not thankful that I'm too stupid to appreciate all the things I'm thankful for that I need a holiday with the word "Thanks" in its title to bash me over the head. (I should also be more grateful for flags on days other than Flag Day.)
I'm thankful for my wonderful wife and my two cute kids.
I'm not thankful for idiot drivers. (And it's amazing that pretty much every other driver on the road is an idiot. If they drive slower than me they are a "Grandpa Gomer." If they drive faster than me they are a dangerous, reckless lawbreaker. And if they drive the same speed as me they need to give me a little space.)
I'm thankful for all the people who serve in the military, putting their lives on the line to protect our country and the world. (People like my nephew Cody and my brother-in-law Jordan.) (One of the benefits of Veteran's Day being so close to Thanksgiving is that by the time turkey day rolls around I still have our soldiers and their sacrifices on my mind.)
I'm not thankful for the idiots, morons, and despots who start wars and make it necessary for our soldiers to put their lives in jeopardy.
I'm thankful I won't be going out for the "Black Friday" sales. (We did that last year, and it was a "once.")
I'm not thankful for "Black Friday Creep." "Black Friday Creep" is either the fact that the "Black Friday" sales are starting earlier and earlier on Thursday evening, or it's that guy with the mullet, tank top, and back hair that crowded in front of us at Target last year. Either way, it's not pretty.
I'm thankful the Detroit Lions play football every Thanksgiving. Why? Because if I miss the game while I'm eating or visiting with family it's no big deal. After all, it's just the Detroit Lions. (Only two things have been entertaining about the Detroit Lions in the last 30 years: a) Barry Sanders and b) Eric Hipple's beard.)
I'm not thankful the Dallas Cowboys play every Thanksgiving. Unless they lose. (I still have fond memories of Randy Moss toasting the Cowboys on Thanksgiving.) (This year? Go Redskins!)
I'm thankful for the Detroit Lions, Cleveland Browns, and Kansas City Chiefs. Because whenever I think life as a Minnesota Vikings fan is tough, I look at those teams and realize things could be worse. (Much, much, much worse.)
I'm not thankful for "reality" television.
I'm thankful for a four year old girl who says funny things that make me laugh. (Like this fall when the wind was blowing a bunch of leaves across the road and she said, "Are those leaves having fun? It looks like those leaves are having fun!")
I'm not thankful for gout. (I really could do without.)
I'm thankful for a two year old boy who has a smile that lights up a room, and who loves to have me read him books. (Except for when he starts whacking me in the stomach with a book in order to get me to read it to him.)
I'm not thankful falling asleep to a television show, then waking up in the middle of the night to a loud and annoying show on the same station. (Reruns of The Nanny are especially egregious at 3:00 AM.)
I'm thankful that instead of getting-married-for-the-sake-of-getting-married when I was younger, I waited around for someone who was right for me. (My wife is amazing, incredible, and fantastic!)
I'm not thankful for....Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just reaching for things to not be thankful for. I've got so many things to be thankful for, and so little reasons to be grumpy!
I'm thankful for my family. My wife. My kids. My brother and his family. My sister and her family. My Mom and Dad. My wife's family. My friends.
I'm thankful for chocolate chip pancakes on Thanksgiving morning. (Possibly a new holiday tradition?)
In fact, I'm so thankful for everything, I should be walking around with the goofiest smile on my face at all times. If you ever see me not smiling, please tell me to smile.
I'll proabably thank you.
I'm not thankful that I'm too stupid to appreciate all the things I'm thankful for that I need a holiday with the word "Thanks" in its title to bash me over the head. (I should also be more grateful for flags on days other than Flag Day.)
I'm thankful for my wonderful wife and my two cute kids.
I'm not thankful for idiot drivers. (And it's amazing that pretty much every other driver on the road is an idiot. If they drive slower than me they are a "Grandpa Gomer." If they drive faster than me they are a dangerous, reckless lawbreaker. And if they drive the same speed as me they need to give me a little space.)
I'm thankful for all the people who serve in the military, putting their lives on the line to protect our country and the world. (People like my nephew Cody and my brother-in-law Jordan.) (One of the benefits of Veteran's Day being so close to Thanksgiving is that by the time turkey day rolls around I still have our soldiers and their sacrifices on my mind.)
I'm not thankful for the idiots, morons, and despots who start wars and make it necessary for our soldiers to put their lives in jeopardy.
I'm thankful I won't be going out for the "Black Friday" sales. (We did that last year, and it was a "once.")
I'm not thankful for "Black Friday Creep." "Black Friday Creep" is either the fact that the "Black Friday" sales are starting earlier and earlier on Thursday evening, or it's that guy with the mullet, tank top, and back hair that crowded in front of us at Target last year. Either way, it's not pretty.
I'm thankful the Detroit Lions play football every Thanksgiving. Why? Because if I miss the game while I'm eating or visiting with family it's no big deal. After all, it's just the Detroit Lions. (Only two things have been entertaining about the Detroit Lions in the last 30 years: a) Barry Sanders and b) Eric Hipple's beard.)
I'm not thankful the Dallas Cowboys play every Thanksgiving. Unless they lose. (I still have fond memories of Randy Moss toasting the Cowboys on Thanksgiving.) (This year? Go Redskins!)
I'm thankful for the Detroit Lions, Cleveland Browns, and Kansas City Chiefs. Because whenever I think life as a Minnesota Vikings fan is tough, I look at those teams and realize things could be worse. (Much, much, much worse.)
I'm not thankful for "reality" television.
I'm thankful for a four year old girl who says funny things that make me laugh. (Like this fall when the wind was blowing a bunch of leaves across the road and she said, "Are those leaves having fun? It looks like those leaves are having fun!")
I'm not thankful for gout. (I really could do without.)
I'm thankful for a two year old boy who has a smile that lights up a room, and who loves to have me read him books. (Except for when he starts whacking me in the stomach with a book in order to get me to read it to him.)
I'm not thankful falling asleep to a television show, then waking up in the middle of the night to a loud and annoying show on the same station. (Reruns of The Nanny are especially egregious at 3:00 AM.)
I'm thankful that instead of getting-married-for-the-sake-of-getting-married when I was younger, I waited around for someone who was right for me. (My wife is amazing, incredible, and fantastic!)
I'm not thankful for....Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just reaching for things to not be thankful for. I've got so many things to be thankful for, and so little reasons to be grumpy!
I'm thankful for my family. My wife. My kids. My brother and his family. My sister and her family. My Mom and Dad. My wife's family. My friends.
I'm thankful for chocolate chip pancakes on Thanksgiving morning. (Possibly a new holiday tradition?)
In fact, I'm so thankful for everything, I should be walking around with the goofiest smile on my face at all times. If you ever see me not smiling, please tell me to smile.
I'll proabably thank you.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
The Politics of Stealing Candy on Halloween
I try to be a good parent, but sometimes I fall asleep on the job. Literally.
I know I shouldn't, but it does happen occasionally. Take today, for instance. Two nights a week, including last night, I get off work at 2:00 AM. That's an ungodly hour of the night. (On the plus side, I was actually able to leave on time last night. Many nights it takes me fifteen minutes to an hour extra to get finished up so I can leave.)
So, I got home at 2:30, and found my way to a corner of the bed around 2:45. I say "corner of the bed" because that's what I usually end up with. We have a king size bed. It is very big. And yet The Wife usually finds a way to angle herself across three-quarters of the bed. As a math teacher, I'm sure The Wife could figure out an equation to determine how one small object (The Wife) could take up as much space as possible on one large object (the king size bed.) I don't need an equation, because I see it in practice all the time. (It's okay, though. I love her very much, and I'd still rather share a corner of the bed with her than try the couch.)
Anyway, I got to bed around 2:45. The Wife's alarm goes off at 5:45. (Sometimes I hear it, sometimes I don't.) (Of course, sometimes she hears it, and sometimes she doesn't.) Even if I do hear it, I usually go back to sleep until about 7:15, when The Wife leaves for work. The kids usually wake up a few minutes after The Wife leaves, so I have to get up to tend to them.
In other words, the two times a week I work the night shift, I usually end up getting between two and five hours of sleep. So, as the day progresses, sometimes I fall asleep while watching the kids.
That's what happened today. After breakfast I sat in my chair and got out the computer, checking out espn.com and such. And I dozed off for a few minutes. When I opened my eyes, The Boy was eating a Tootsie Pop from his Halloween stash.
A quick aside: It's Halloween morning, and yet the kids already have a "Halloween stash." Why? Because Halloween has become a week-long party. First, the kids had a "trunk-or-treat" in Grammy's neighborhood on Saturday. Then they got dressed up again and got more candy at The Boy's playgroup on Monday. On Tuesday, it was The Girl's pre-school's Halloween party. So, by the time they go out tonight for actual Halloween, it will be the fourth time they get into their costumes to beg for candy! (Back when I was a kid, Halloween was one night of the year! And we didn't go car-to-car in a parking lot for our candy, we had to walk the entire town and knock on every door!) (One of the good things about growing up in a town as small as Arimo is that we literally could and did knock on every door in town!)
An aside to the aside: The kids costumes are awesome! They are going out as Minnie and Mickey Mouse this year. The Wife made and put together the costumes herself, and she did an amazing job! (Okay, she didn't make the mouse ears. We got them at Disneyland. But still, she did an outstanding job with their costumes!) I am going dressed as Goofy. I was very proud of coming up with the costume by myself last year, without any help from The Wife. I figured I could get several years of mileage out of it. But, The Wife says this, the second year, will be the last year I get to wear it. She doesn't want me to turn into my brother. (We love him, but my brother John, a Green Bay Packer fan, has been a "Cheesehead" on Halloween for 20 straight years.)
Anyway, (asides aside) when I woke up, The Boy was eating a Tootsie Pop. Now, if he had wanted to sneak a candy and not get caught, this is the worst choice he could have made. Why? Because: a) it takes him 30 minutes to eat one; and 2) even if I had still been asleep when he finished, the sticky evidence would be stuck on his face. No, The Boy didn't have a care at all if he were caught or not, he just wanted the candy.
The Girl, on the other hand, is a completely different animal. She knows what is right and wrong, and doesn't like it when she gets caught doing wrong. So, she tries to put a spin on it. She is very good at this. With her ability to deflect questions and give vague answers, I think she might have a future in politics. Our conversation went like this:
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy?"
The Girl: "Maybe."
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy?"
The Girl: "My brother wanted me to have some." (I like how she still hasn't admitted that she had any, and tries to pass the blame to him.)
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy?"
The Girl: "I was going to ask you, but you were asleep." (Still hasn't admitted, now trying to blame me.)
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy? YES or NO?" (I was going with the parental approach of asking the same question until you get the answer you want, raising my voice a little each time I asked. She was being so evasive that this time I added the "Yes or no?" and did so with about as stern a voice as I could.)
The Girl: (Finally and sheepishly) Yes.
Her answers were so good and so "slippery," that The Girl would be right at home at one of the presidential debates. Obama and Romney could both learn a few things from her about plausible deniability and shifting the blame. I'm not sure if I should be proud of her, amused by her, or frightened by her. (Probably a little of all three.)
All I know is that, as a parent, I better not fall asleep on the job anymore.
I know I shouldn't, but it does happen occasionally. Take today, for instance. Two nights a week, including last night, I get off work at 2:00 AM. That's an ungodly hour of the night. (On the plus side, I was actually able to leave on time last night. Many nights it takes me fifteen minutes to an hour extra to get finished up so I can leave.)
So, I got home at 2:30, and found my way to a corner of the bed around 2:45. I say "corner of the bed" because that's what I usually end up with. We have a king size bed. It is very big. And yet The Wife usually finds a way to angle herself across three-quarters of the bed. As a math teacher, I'm sure The Wife could figure out an equation to determine how one small object (The Wife) could take up as much space as possible on one large object (the king size bed.) I don't need an equation, because I see it in practice all the time. (It's okay, though. I love her very much, and I'd still rather share a corner of the bed with her than try the couch.)
Anyway, I got to bed around 2:45. The Wife's alarm goes off at 5:45. (Sometimes I hear it, sometimes I don't.) (Of course, sometimes she hears it, and sometimes she doesn't.) Even if I do hear it, I usually go back to sleep until about 7:15, when The Wife leaves for work. The kids usually wake up a few minutes after The Wife leaves, so I have to get up to tend to them.
In other words, the two times a week I work the night shift, I usually end up getting between two and five hours of sleep. So, as the day progresses, sometimes I fall asleep while watching the kids.
That's what happened today. After breakfast I sat in my chair and got out the computer, checking out espn.com and such. And I dozed off for a few minutes. When I opened my eyes, The Boy was eating a Tootsie Pop from his Halloween stash.
A quick aside: It's Halloween morning, and yet the kids already have a "Halloween stash." Why? Because Halloween has become a week-long party. First, the kids had a "trunk-or-treat" in Grammy's neighborhood on Saturday. Then they got dressed up again and got more candy at The Boy's playgroup on Monday. On Tuesday, it was The Girl's pre-school's Halloween party. So, by the time they go out tonight for actual Halloween, it will be the fourth time they get into their costumes to beg for candy! (Back when I was a kid, Halloween was one night of the year! And we didn't go car-to-car in a parking lot for our candy, we had to walk the entire town and knock on every door!) (One of the good things about growing up in a town as small as Arimo is that we literally could and did knock on every door in town!)
An aside to the aside: The kids costumes are awesome! They are going out as Minnie and Mickey Mouse this year. The Wife made and put together the costumes herself, and she did an amazing job! (Okay, she didn't make the mouse ears. We got them at Disneyland. But still, she did an outstanding job with their costumes!) I am going dressed as Goofy. I was very proud of coming up with the costume by myself last year, without any help from The Wife. I figured I could get several years of mileage out of it. But, The Wife says this, the second year, will be the last year I get to wear it. She doesn't want me to turn into my brother. (We love him, but my brother John, a Green Bay Packer fan, has been a "Cheesehead" on Halloween for 20 straight years.)
 |
| Minnie and Mickey |
The Girl, on the other hand, is a completely different animal. She knows what is right and wrong, and doesn't like it when she gets caught doing wrong. So, she tries to put a spin on it. She is very good at this. With her ability to deflect questions and give vague answers, I think she might have a future in politics. Our conversation went like this:
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy?"
The Girl: "Maybe."
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy?"
The Girl: "My brother wanted me to have some." (I like how she still hasn't admitted that she had any, and tries to pass the blame to him.)
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy?"
The Girl: "I was going to ask you, but you were asleep." (Still hasn't admitted, now trying to blame me.)
Me: "Did you have a piece of candy? YES or NO?" (I was going with the parental approach of asking the same question until you get the answer you want, raising my voice a little each time I asked. She was being so evasive that this time I added the "Yes or no?" and did so with about as stern a voice as I could.)
The Girl: (Finally and sheepishly) Yes.
Her answers were so good and so "slippery," that The Girl would be right at home at one of the presidential debates. Obama and Romney could both learn a few things from her about plausible deniability and shifting the blame. I'm not sure if I should be proud of her, amused by her, or frightened by her. (Probably a little of all three.)
All I know is that, as a parent, I better not fall asleep on the job anymore.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
May Contain Immature Language
[Warning: This story contains mature language. Language so mature that it may cause junior high school boys to snicker uncontrollably.]
A while ago, my wife was trying out a new recipe she found on Pinterest. (As a guy, I have no personal interest in Pinterest. I don't even know what it is exactly. Is it a website? An app? An online store? A social media site? I really don't know, and I really don't care. However, I am very glad that The Wife has an interest in Pinterest. Why? Because more than once she has made something that tastes delicious and then said, "I got that recipe off of Pinterest." So, on second thought, maybe I have more of a interest in Pinterest than I thought.) (Whatever "Pinterest" may be.)
Anyway, the recipe The Wife was making involves those Pillsbury-type rolls, you know, the ones that come in a cardboard can. (The "easy opening" cans that act like a demented, dough-filled jack-in-the-box when they finally ....POP open.) (Yes, I jump every time.) (And I say "Pillsbury-type" because we buy the store brand instead. They are cheaper, and I am nothing if not cheap.) The recipe involves flattening out the rolls, putting a couple of slices of pepperoni and some cheese in them, then rolling the dough back around the pepperoni to form a ball, so that you end up with a little roll stuffed with pizza.
The Wife started to call them "pizza balls," but then she stopped herself and said, "Oh, wait, I can't call them that." Why? Well, The Wife has been a junior high math teacher for several years, and so she has a built-in instinct as to what she should not say because it will make junior high boys laugh inappropriately. Her instinct told her that "Pizza Balls" would fall into that category. So, she had to think of another name for them. I think she settled on either "Pizza Rounds" or "Pizza Rolls."
(Should I be offended that, since no junior high boys were around, I was the reason she felt she couldn't call them "Pizza Balls?" No. After all, I still laugh every time I hear the name "Winnie the Pooh." I'm not exactly the model of maturity.) (See: slowjoe40.blogspot.com/2011/01/pooh-happens.html)
That got me thinking about what other simple words or phrases she has to avoid for fear of inapproriate giggling. So, I asked The Wife and her mother (The Mother-In-Law was a high school English teacher for many, many years) what other words they needed to be careful with. And then I gleaned some of my own memories as a snickering junior high boy, and I came up with this list of words and phrases that might make immature schoolboys laugh, chuckle, or guffaw for no apparent reason. (Of course, this list is far from comprehensive, because sometimes junior high boys can find innuendo in the most innocuous of words.) (Probably even the word "innocuous.")
* pee--Urine, like most bodily functions, is very humorous. And, if you say it twice in a row (pee-pee), even the junior high girls will think it is funny.
* P--The Wife says she can't even use the letter "P" as a variable in a math equation. (You know, stuff like: 4a + 3c = P) That's how funny pee (or P) (or pee-pee) is.
* thong--Back in my day (which admittedly was a long, long time ago in a land far, far away,) a thong was a kind of slip-on shoe, like a flip-flop or a sandal, which stayed on your foot because of a little strap that came down between your big toe and the toe next to it. (The index toe?) The word "thong" used to be quite tame,butt but then a certain style of skimpy underwear and swimsuit became more and more popular. If you say the word "thong" today, junior high boys will immediately think of butt cheeks. And they will giggle.
* balls--I know I mentioned this earlier. I just thought I'd point out that "Pizza Balls" does sound like a nickname some unfortunate kid might get while in junior high.
* nuts--Very similar to the usage of "balls." (Although, now that I am writing this, I don't think I'll think of a squirrel "gathering his nuts" in quite the same way ever again.)
* #1 and/or #2--The numbers 1 or 2 by themselves will not bring about snickers. It's when you combine them with the actual word "number" that the laughter ensues. (As in "number one" or "number two.")(Yes, bodily functions are hilarious.)
* __?_--I was going to put a word here, but since I try to keep this a family-friendly humor column, it just didn't look right, even though it is a common word. The word has several meanings, including pulling the hammer back on a gun, raising an eyebrow or turning your head in a particular manner, or even a male bird of any kind, particularly a rooster. But, I would suggest you avoid using it around teenage boys. (And don't even think about saying something "warms the cockles of your heart.")
* 69--I've got to admit, I didn't know the number "69" was a "thing" until I was well into my mid-thirties. I was on a party bus going to a mandatory office party in Wendover, Nevada. (For those who don't know, Wendover is 100 miles due west of Salt Lake City, and it is a frequent destination of Utahns who want to leave the state to experience the wilder side of life that the state of Nevada offers.) I didn't really feel the need to let my wild "Nevada" side out, but this particular office party was mandatory if I wanted to get my Christmas bonus that year. (It's the only reason I was on the party bus.) To pass the time on the 100 mile ride, my coworkers engaged in a game of drunken bingo. (I think the driver and I were the only sober ones on the bus.) And whenever the number "69" was called out, everyone giggled like junior high boys.
* pianist--For heaven's sake, just say "piano player" instead.
* tool--The other day we were watching an episode of Castle, and the female police officer pulled her gun on a guy who was using a grinder to try to break through a safe. She told the guy, "take your hand off your tool." The male cops who were with her started to snicker. (So did I.) I then asked The Wife if her junior high boys would laugh at that, too. She said the 9th grade boys probably would, but the 7th grade boys probably wouldn't get it.
* wiener--If you say "wiener" instead of "hot dog" at this point in time, you're pretty much just asking for trouble. ("Beanie-weenies" are pretty dangerous, too.) (In more ways than one.) (Yes, that was a fart joke.)
So, there you have it. Like I said, this list is far from complete, because, in the right frame of mind, junior high boys can turn just about anything into some sort of innuendo. (Probably even the word "innuendo.")
And now that I'm done writing this, I think I'll go make me some Pizza Balls! (Mmm.....Pizza Balls!)
A while ago, my wife was trying out a new recipe she found on Pinterest. (As a guy, I have no personal interest in Pinterest. I don't even know what it is exactly. Is it a website? An app? An online store? A social media site? I really don't know, and I really don't care. However, I am very glad that The Wife has an interest in Pinterest. Why? Because more than once she has made something that tastes delicious and then said, "I got that recipe off of Pinterest." So, on second thought, maybe I have more of a interest in Pinterest than I thought.) (Whatever "Pinterest" may be.)
Anyway, the recipe The Wife was making involves those Pillsbury-type rolls, you know, the ones that come in a cardboard can. (The "easy opening" cans that act like a demented, dough-filled jack-in-the-box when they finally ....POP open.) (Yes, I jump every time.) (And I say "Pillsbury-type" because we buy the store brand instead. They are cheaper, and I am nothing if not cheap.) The recipe involves flattening out the rolls, putting a couple of slices of pepperoni and some cheese in them, then rolling the dough back around the pepperoni to form a ball, so that you end up with a little roll stuffed with pizza.
The Wife started to call them "pizza balls," but then she stopped herself and said, "Oh, wait, I can't call them that." Why? Well, The Wife has been a junior high math teacher for several years, and so she has a built-in instinct as to what she should not say because it will make junior high boys laugh inappropriately. Her instinct told her that "Pizza Balls" would fall into that category. So, she had to think of another name for them. I think she settled on either "Pizza Rounds" or "Pizza Rolls."
(Should I be offended that, since no junior high boys were around, I was the reason she felt she couldn't call them "Pizza Balls?" No. After all, I still laugh every time I hear the name "Winnie the Pooh." I'm not exactly the model of maturity.) (See: slowjoe40.blogspot.com/2011/01/pooh-happens.html)
That got me thinking about what other simple words or phrases she has to avoid for fear of inapproriate giggling. So, I asked The Wife and her mother (The Mother-In-Law was a high school English teacher for many, many years) what other words they needed to be careful with. And then I gleaned some of my own memories as a snickering junior high boy, and I came up with this list of words and phrases that might make immature schoolboys laugh, chuckle, or guffaw for no apparent reason. (Of course, this list is far from comprehensive, because sometimes junior high boys can find innuendo in the most innocuous of words.) (Probably even the word "innocuous.")
* pee--Urine, like most bodily functions, is very humorous. And, if you say it twice in a row (pee-pee), even the junior high girls will think it is funny.
* P--The Wife says she can't even use the letter "P" as a variable in a math equation. (You know, stuff like: 4a + 3c = P) That's how funny pee (or P) (or pee-pee) is.
* thong--Back in my day (which admittedly was a long, long time ago in a land far, far away,) a thong was a kind of slip-on shoe, like a flip-flop or a sandal, which stayed on your foot because of a little strap that came down between your big toe and the toe next to it. (The index toe?) The word "thong" used to be quite tame,
* balls--I know I mentioned this earlier. I just thought I'd point out that "Pizza Balls" does sound like a nickname some unfortunate kid might get while in junior high.
* nuts--Very similar to the usage of "balls." (Although, now that I am writing this, I don't think I'll think of a squirrel "gathering his nuts" in quite the same way ever again.)
* #1 and/or #2--The numbers 1 or 2 by themselves will not bring about snickers. It's when you combine them with the actual word "number" that the laughter ensues. (As in "number one" or "number two.")(Yes, bodily functions are hilarious.)
* __?_--I was going to put a word here, but since I try to keep this a family-friendly humor column, it just didn't look right, even though it is a common word. The word has several meanings, including pulling the hammer back on a gun, raising an eyebrow or turning your head in a particular manner, or even a male bird of any kind, particularly a rooster. But, I would suggest you avoid using it around teenage boys. (And don't even think about saying something "warms the cockles of your heart.")
* 69--I've got to admit, I didn't know the number "69" was a "thing" until I was well into my mid-thirties. I was on a party bus going to a mandatory office party in Wendover, Nevada. (For those who don't know, Wendover is 100 miles due west of Salt Lake City, and it is a frequent destination of Utahns who want to leave the state to experience the wilder side of life that the state of Nevada offers.) I didn't really feel the need to let my wild "Nevada" side out, but this particular office party was mandatory if I wanted to get my Christmas bonus that year. (It's the only reason I was on the party bus.) To pass the time on the 100 mile ride, my coworkers engaged in a game of drunken bingo. (I think the driver and I were the only sober ones on the bus.) And whenever the number "69" was called out, everyone giggled like junior high boys.
* pianist--For heaven's sake, just say "piano player" instead.
* tool--The other day we were watching an episode of Castle, and the female police officer pulled her gun on a guy who was using a grinder to try to break through a safe. She told the guy, "take your hand off your tool." The male cops who were with her started to snicker. (So did I.) I then asked The Wife if her junior high boys would laugh at that, too. She said the 9th grade boys probably would, but the 7th grade boys probably wouldn't get it.
* wiener--If you say "wiener" instead of "hot dog" at this point in time, you're pretty much just asking for trouble. ("Beanie-weenies" are pretty dangerous, too.) (In more ways than one.) (Yes, that was a fart joke.)
So, there you have it. Like I said, this list is far from complete, because, in the right frame of mind, junior high boys can turn just about anything into some sort of innuendo. (Probably even the word "innuendo.")
And now that I'm done writing this, I think I'll go make me some Pizza Balls! (Mmm.....Pizza Balls!)
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