I See (If I Squint Hard Enough)

I'm getting older. We all are. (Yes, even you.) It's inevitable. It's like the song says, "You're older than you've ever been. And now, you're even older. And now, you're even older. And now, you're older still." ("Older" by They Might Be Giants.)

The saying goes that you are as young as you feel. That's great, but there are certain old age checkpoints that we all eventually pass. I recently reached a big one. What are some of these checkpoints? Here are a few:

*You find yourself complaining about "those kids today and their music."  (Bieber? Really??? BIEBER!!!???) [CHECK.]

*You have lived through at least three changes in music-listening formats. (For me, 8-track to cassette to CD to MP3 to...cell phones or The Cloud or Pandora or however the heck these kids today are listening to their Bieber.) [CHECK.]

*Television shows that began airing after you graduated from high school are now airing as reruns on Nick At Nite, and have been for several years. (Full House, Doogie Howser, Friends.) [CHECK.]

*You are told you have to wear bifocals. [CHECK.]

New bifocals for an old man

Yes, a couple of weeks ago I made the switch from regular glasses to bifocals. What's scary about that is I used to be the one in the family with good eyesight.

My brother and my sister were both pretty impaired without their glasses from a very early age. I didn't get my first pair of glasses until I was in high school, and even then I only wore them part of the time (to see things far away and to watch television.)

In fact, I made it all the way into my mid-40s before I needed my glasses to pass the eye test for my driver's license renewal. Even though I've always worn my glasses when I drive, I didn't want it put on my driver's license that I had to wear my glasses while driving. It was a point of pride that I could legally still drive without them.

So, every time I went in to renew my license I'd spend an hour or two without my glasses on, to acclimate my eyes. Then I'd walk in, put my face in their eye-testing machine, and play a nice little game of "Squint and Guess." I'm telling you, I could squint with the best of them! (Clint Eastwood's got nothing on me!) And I've always been good at guessing multiple choice answers. Once I'd squint that letter down to where I knew it was either an "R" or a "K," my guessing prowess would take over. And I would ace it every time!

Yes, I was the king of "Squint and Guess." Until four years ago. That's when old age started to catch up to me. I put my face in the eye-testing machine and I squinted, and I squinted, and I squinted until it felt like my eyeballs were going to pop out the side of my ears. And then I guessed. And I guessed wrong.

The test administrator gave me a look of disapproval and asked if I had any glasses. (He asked it in a tone that said, "For your sake I hope you have glasses, 'cause you ain't even close.") (I don't think it was his first time thwarting someone at the game of "Squint and Guess.")

So, I pulled my glasses out of my pocket, put them on, and...wow! It was amazing how much easier it was to read all those letters without having to squint so much!

That was four years ago. In the interim, my eyesight has gotten worse.

So now, I have bifocals. Because my eyesight is bad two ways. The idea behind bifocals is that the top two-thirds of the glasses have a subscription prescription that helps you see things that are far away, while the bottom third has a subscription prescription that helps you read things that are close.

It used to be that bifocals had a very distinct line in them where anyone could tell where the see-things-far-away part ended and the read-things-that-are-close part starts. Well, not anymore! The bifocals that "these kids today" (Hey! That's me!) are wearing have no discernible line between the sections of the two different subscriptions prescriptions. They do this because bifocal wearers don't want people to think they are old because they have to wear bifocals.

I've been wearing my bifocals for three or four weeks now, and I'm still not used to them. Sometimes I wish they did have a line so I could tell if I was looking out the far-away or the up-close sections.

One of the biggest problems I have with the bifocals is when I'm trying to look down to see things that are far away. Usually, things that are far away are things that you have to look up or look out for. It's very rare that someone has to look down at things that are far away. Unless, say, there happens to be a big, long flight of stairs that you have to walk down several times a day.

Yes, at my work there is a long, dark stairway that I have to go up and down 10 to 12 times a day. I have no problems going up the stairs with my bifocals. But, it's a bit different when I try to go down the stairs.

What I should see is this:

Stairs!

What I actually see out of the lower part of my bifocals is more like this:

Stairs! (As seen through bifocals.)

But that's not all. I also have problems reading. The bifocals were especially supposed to help with reading, and they do...most of the time. If I'm sitting at a desk or in a chair and reading, they help just fine. 

For Father's Day, The Wife got me a book titled Dad Is Fat. (She swears it's not a statement about my weight.)  (It's actually a very funny book by comedian Jim Gaffigan.) So, the other day I took my new book (and my new bifocals) to a place where a lot of people do a lot of reading. (No, not the toilet.) I took my new book to bed, where I hoped to get a good bit of reading done. 

Well, once I got myself propped up on my pillow, I attempted to read. But, I was having a hard time finding the right spot in the bifocals to read through. I tilted my head back. That didn't help. I tilted my head forward. That didn't help. I slid my glasses to the end of my nose. That didn't help. I tilted my head to the side. That really didn't help.

And then, I took my glasses off. And that did help! Sure, I had to squint a little bit. And guess what the words were every so often. But hey, I always have been pretty good at "Squint and Guess!"

Things I Learned On My Yellowstone Vacation

Vacations are supposed to be fun. But, they can also be learning experiences.

We went on a family vacation last weekend to Island Park, Idaho (at Buffalo Run Campground) and Yellowstone National Park. We had a lot of fun. But, we also learned a few things. What did we learn? I'm glad you asked:

1. Don't forget bug spray! On our first night in Island Park we decided to go see Upper Mesa Falls. This, in and of itself, was not a bad decision. Upper Mesa Falls is a very beautiful and powerful waterfall, and I would encourage everyone to see it. However, I would not recommend going to view it  at dusk in early June.

Upper Mesa Falls (Photo taken on a not-so-mosquito-ish day)

Why not? A) Mosquitoes thrive near water. And b) Mosquitoes are most prevalent around dusk.

We didn't think of those things. We just loaded up the mini-van to maximum capacity (five adults and two children) and went to see the falls. We didn't bring any bug spray.

As soon as we opened the van doors, the swarm descended upon us. It was like something out of a Stephen King story. Or an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Or a bad episode of Who's the Boss.

We made the short hike to the falls, slapping and swatting at ourselves the whole time. We glanced at the waterfall (because that's why we were there), then we darted back to the "safety" of the van. (I put "safety" in quotation marks because in the time it took us to open the doors of the mini-van and load our herd back in, enough mosquitoes entered the vehicle that if they had chosen to work together as a team they could have all flown to the inside roof and lifted the entire van off of the ground.)

Amazingly enough, five year-old Roni, who is often afraid of the most mundane things (like toilets that are too loud when they flush) was not in the least bit afraid of the attacking, never-ending swarm of blood-sucking skeeters. In fact, just the opposite: she thought it was hilarious!

After we shut ourselves back in the van, we all began swatting, slapping, and shooing away at the multitudinous horde that had followed us into the vehicle. People were slapping themselves, slapping each other, and slapping the walls, windows, and seats of the van. Roni deemed this a "Slap Party," and began to giggle uncontrollably. Her infectious giggling lightened the mood for all of us.

Eventually, with windows down and the van in motion outside of the "Mosquito Zone," we were able to slap, swat, and shoo the majority of the bugs out of the car. (So that only several hundred remained.) Roni had so much fun with it that over the course of the trip she requested a couple of times that we have another "Slap Party." We didn't. (We did, however, have a "Scratch Party" or two because of all the bug bites.)

I don't know if bug spray would have helped. But, it certainly wouldn't have hurt.

2. If a buffalo wants to be in the road, a buffalo will be in the road. This one is pretty self-explanatory. If you drive through Yellowstone National Park, you are probably going to see some buffalo. Buffalo are large animals. If they want to be in the road, there is not much you can do about it. The buffalo does not care about traffic. He doesn't care about how many vehicles are brought to a standstill because he decided to go for a stroll. The buffalo is large and in charge.

Some of the traffic waiting for the buffalo to roam.

Shuffling Buffalo

After this buffalo finally sauntered by, Grammy told Roni that she'd probably never see a buffalo so close in the road like that for the rest of her life. (Hold on to that thought.)

3. If a police car turns on its sirens, it's best to pull over to the side of the road. Unless the reason it turned on the sirens was to make sure you don't pull over to the side of the road. Confused? So were we.

First of all, it wasn't exactly a police car. It was a park ranger car. But, the car looked like a police car. And the sirens looked like police sirens. And, in a place like Yellowstone National Park, you should probably treat park rangers with the same respect you would treat police officers if you were outside of the park.

We were pulling along a large herd of buffalo that was near the side of the road. Cars in both directions were slowing down to look and take pictures. Here is one of the pictures I took from my window while driving:

Roadside Buffalo

The park ranger car was coming from the opposite direction. As soon as I took this picture, the park ranger turned on his sirens and flipped a U-turn so that he was behind the car that was behind mine. (The car that was now between the ranger and my van was driven by my sister-in-law Kimmie, who was following us on our way to Old Faithful.)

I wasn't sure what to do. Was he pulling me over for taking pictures while driving? (Admittedly, it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but since we were coasting at a rate of about one mile per hour I took that risk.) I decided to keep on driving, figuring if he was trying to pull me over he would wave his arms in the universal "pull over to the side of the road" motion. 

Kimmie, meanwhile, tried to do the right thing and pull over to the side of the road to let the "police" car with flashing lights go by. As she did this, the ranger pulled up along side of her and, through his window, yelled at her to not pull over to the side of the road. It was all very confusing.

Apparently, the reason he was flashing his lights was because he didn't want people stopping to take pictures of the buffalo. But, in doing so, he was actually getting more people to pull over because of our training to pull over to the side of the road when we see a police car with lights a-flashing.

(Perhaps a bullhorn yelling, "Keep it moving. Keep it moving. Move along," would have been a better choice.)

4. When approaching a crowded parking lot, it is best to take the first available parking spot. As we made our approach to the parking lot of the Midway Geyser Basin, we could see that the lot was pretty full. I saw that the third spot in the lot (which was quite a distance from the trailhead) was open, so I immediately pulled right into it. It was a good choice, because most, if not all, of the closer spots were already full.

We hiked up the boardwalk and saw the sights, which were breathtaking. (Sometimes literally.) (It can be quite windy on the boardwalk. We chuckled at the humorless park ranger who came along the trail carrying a long pole. His job was to use the pole to retrieve hats that had blown off unsuspecting heads into the wet bacteria mat that surrounds the boardwalk.)

Midway Geyser Basin (with no hats at the moment)

Anyway, as we finished our hike and approached the van, a vehicle who was just entering the crowded parking lot saw us. He decided he wanted our parking spot, so he backed up and waited for us to load and leave. Well, he had a bit of a wait. We weren't all yet back to the van. We had four adults and two children to load. That meant the taking off of backpacks, loading packs back into the van, getting treats and drinks, and getting two kids into car seats, among other things. He had quite a wait to get his coveted parking spot. (Which was not a very good parking spot at all.)

We saw him waiting, but we were in no hurry. (I did feel a bit bad for the people who were lining up behind him who would have liked the opportunity to try their luck for a different, closer parking spot.) We eventually got everyone loaded and finally pulled out. Our stalker immediately zipped into our vacated spot. But, sure enough, as we pulled around the lot there were several open and available parking spots, all much closer to the trailhead, that our Lurky-lurk could have had if he had just followed the rule of taking the first available parking spot.

5. Retired English teachers still know a lot about English. My mother-in-law (also known as "Grammy,") retired last year after teaching high school English for thirty years. As we were viewing the Fountain Paint Pots, Roni read a sign that said, "Don't throw rocks in the pool." This made Grammy cringe. Apparently, it should say, "Don't throw rocks into the pool." Saying "Don't throw rocks in the pool" literally means that you shouldn't throw rocks that are already in the pool. (Which, I guess, is also good advice. But, it's a lot less likely for foolish tourists to do than throwing rocks into the pool.)

To be fair, despite her English-teaching background, Grammy actually doesn't make corrections like this very often. And I'm very grateful for that. If she did, I'd probably be getting weekly critiques of the grammar problems in my blog posts. (Because I know I have problems with knowing "how" and "when" to use quotation marks, parenthesis, and semi-colons; and also with prepositions, which, even though I know I'm not supposed to, sometimes I end sentences with.)

6. Sometimes it's okay to let the buffalo set the pace. Remember how Grammy had told Roni that our experience with the buffalo in the middle of the road was "once in a lifetime?" Well, sure enough, a few hours later there was another buffalo in the middle of the road. This time, we were in a more remote area of the Park, and we were the first ones to come upon it.

Waiting for a passing lane to pass the buffalo.

The buffalo was moving very, very slowly. I wanted to pass it. But, we were on a corner. I knew it probably wasn't a good idea to try to pass the buffalo with a solid double-yellow line. I was afraid that someone might come barreling around the corner from the other direction. So, I decided it would be best to just let the buffalo set the pace. It's a good thing I did, because a car did come around the corner at the moment when I would have been in the wrong lane trying to pass the buffalo. And I don't think even Roni would think a "Crash Party" would be very fun.

So, to sum up, we had a great vacation. We slapped ourselves and each other. We pulled over to the side of the road, and we didn't pull over to the side of the road. We learned a thing or two about grammar and parking. (Like when it's a good time to pull in.) And, we learned that sometimes it's best to just take the buffalo's pace.

The Scarlet Nurple

Today, some random thoughts:

Do nurples ever come in a color other than purple? Has there ever been such a thing as a green nurple?

Take a look at this picture:

What is wrong with this picture?

This is a picture of a shirt I bought in Morgantown, West Virginia (home of the West Virginia University Mountaineers) in 1997. (I had served in the area as a Mormon missionary in 1985-1987.) I had the shirt for about ten years before The Wife pointed out what was wrong with the shirt to me. See if you can figure out what it is.

Has anyone ever actually broken their neck from going "breakneck" speed? I'm sure it's happened after people have hit something. But, unless you are on a rocket ship, I don't think any kind of speed is going to break your neck.

A yellow nurple?

Okay, comic book nerds, how do you pronounce "Namor, the Sub-Mariner?" Is it "sub-ma-reen-er," like "submarine" with an "er" on the end? Or is it "sub-mair-en-er," like the Seattle Mariners with a "sub" on the front? I really don't know. (And I have always wondered.)

While we're here, is Namor pronounced "nay-more," or "nam-or," or "nuh-more?" (I've always thought "nay-more," but what do I know?)

I bring this up because the other day I heard comedian Patton Oswalt pronounce the Marvel Comics villain Thanos (the bad guy revealed at the end of The Avengers movie) as "than-ohs," with the "than" rhyming with "man" and the "th" being soft, like in the word "thin." I always thought it was pronounced "thay-nohs," (again with the soft "th.") I still think I'm right, but who am I to question Patton Oswalt?

Have you figured out what's wrong with the shirt yet? No, it's not that the shirt needs to be ironed. That is not going to happen. (If you think I'm going to iron any shirt, let alone a sixteen year old t-shirt, you are certifiably crazy.)

I don't think anyone who is actually hoity-toity would ever use the phrase "hoity-toity."



Here's a picture of a truck that came through my work a while back:

Despite what you might have thought at first glance, that second letter is a "K," not an "N."

The name of the company is "AKAL TRUCKING," but on first glance, (and second glance) I was sure it said "ANAL TRUCKING." The choice of the font they used is rather unfortunate. (It reminds me of another truck I saw once that was from "TRUD INC." It took me several minutes to realize it wasn't "TURD INC.") (Apparently I have difficulty keeping my mind off of the potty humor.)

I always get confused when I try to do the "L" on the forehead. Which direction should it be? If I turn it so that I can see the "L," it looks like a "J" to everyone else. But, if I turn so it looks like an "L" to everyone else, it looks like a "J" to me. I'm not sure what to do. (I think this makes me a loser.) (Or maybe a joser.)

Did you figure out the problem with the shirt? It is supposed to say "WVU Mountaineers." Instead, it says "WVU Mountainers." It's missing an "e" on the end. I find this amazing for two reasons: A) I had the shirt for almost ten years without noticing the missing "e," and 2) I can't believe those swindlers in Morgantown sold me a defective shirt!

You know, come to think of it, I believe there was one time when I was on the receiving end of a scarlet nurple.

My Lawn? It's Just Dandy

Here's a question for you lawn care enthusiasts: Do they make a product called "Feed the Weed?"

I ask this because a couple of weeks ago I bought a product that I thought was called "Weed and Feed." It's supposed to have a two-fold purpose: A) kill the "Weed" and 2) "Feed" the grass.

So, I looked at and followed the directions on the bag and spread the stuff all over my yard. And then I waited for the weeds to die. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

They didn't die. Not only didn't they die, they seemed to flourish. They may have even started to multiply. There were seemingly more weeds after I applied the "Weed and Feed" than there were before. That's why I wonder if I used the wrong stuff. Everything would make more sense if I had somehow purchased a bag of "Feed the Weed" by mistake.

[Just to be clear, when I say "weed" I am mostly referring to dandelions. (I am not referring to marijuana. There has never been marijuana growing in my yard.) (That I know of.)]

There always seems to be at least one yard in the neighborhood where the dandelions are out of control. In our neighborhood, that yard is mine. Before you judge me too harshly, let's first consider the reasons it's good to have dandelions in the yard:

1) If it weren't for the dandelions, what would the kids pick when they want to make a bouquet for me or their Momma? Would they pick the real flowers? Or the neighbors' flowers? It's a good thing to have those dandelions around.

2) Blowing the white, fluffy seeds off of the dandelion has been a favorite pastime of kids for generations. Who am I to stand in the way of generations of childhood fun?

C) They add some much-needed color to the yard. (Sometimes a good green yard can be a little too green.)

D) After reading The Lorax by Dr. Suess, and then seeing the movie, I'm afraid to hurt the dandelions because they remind me too much of the Truffula trees. (And no one wants to live in a world without Truffula trees!)

E) The bees need them for pollen. And bees are good, right?

Okay, okay, so the real reason I have so many dandelions is because I don't really like to work in the yard, and I'm not very good at it. Some people really like to work in their yard. They enjoy it. I tell those people they are welcome to come work in my yard any time they feel like it. They usually look at me like I'm crazy. (I probably am.)

But hey, I'm trying. I bought the "Weed and Feed," and I used it. (Unless, of course, it was "Feed the Weed.") It was supposed to kill them. It didn't. No matter what I do, they seem to come back. They're unstoppable, like the Terminator.

Really, I've only found one thing that is able to stop the return and growth of the dandelions: Winter! So, check back with me in December. I promise you there'll be no more dandelions. (For a while, at least.)

This Is NOT a Sitcom

Very early on in our relationship, The Wife and I realized we agreed on a lot of things. One of those things was the inanity of how married couples are portrayed on television sitcoms. You know the dynamic: the husband is a dunderheaded buffoon who would like nothing more than to get away from all of his responsibilities so he can go golf or do something with "the guys;" meanwhile, the wife is always right, usually harried, and often a nagging shrew.

Many incredibly successful television shows have been built on this kind of relationship. Shows like Home Improvement, King of Queens, even, at times, The Cosby Show. The worst offender was probably Everybody Loves Raymond. A lot of people liked and watched these shows. I watched much of them myself. And I enjoyed them...to a point. And then their portrayal of the married relationship got on my nerves. If being married meant living like that, why would I ever bother get married?

That's why I was glad Amber and I agreed about those type of show.

Why am I bringing this up? Well, last week, in an "attempt" to be funny, I wrote a column that made the relationship between Amber and I seem a lot like those television couples. In it, I came across as a helpless, incompetent slug, unable to make a decision or do anything on my own without the help, guidance, or direction of My Wife. Meanwhile, Amber came across as either existing only to take care of my every whim (cooking my food, doing my taxes, picking out my clothes, etc.), or as bossing me around to keep me on the straight and narrow.

These characterizations are not accurate. Not even close.

Hey, I like self-deprecating humor as much as the next guy. (Okay, probably more than the next guy.)  But, if I was as incompetent and lame as I often portray myself to be, why would Amber stay with me? I do have some skills. There are some things I actually do around the house. I do the dishes and help with the laundry. I attempt to do some cleaning, and I take care of the garbage.

And, I like to think I'm a pretty good father. I play with the kids. I read to them (A lot.) I take them to the library and to the park. Could I do better? Of course. But, I'm trying. And I genuinely enjoy being around them. (I'd much rather hang with the kids than go golfing with "the guys.") (And I would prefer to be with Amber than with any other person in the world.)

If I'm a better person than I was before I got married, it's not because Amber "put me on the straight and narrow," or "fixed" me in some way. It's because when I'm around Amber and the kids, I want to be a better person. I want to be more responsible and actually act like a grown up. I want to be a good example.

Meanwhile, Amber works very, very hard around the house. She does a lot to help our family flourish. Does she do this to cater to my every whim? Of course not. She works to take care of us because she loves her kids and she loves her husband, and she does whatever is in her power to make sure that our family is taken care of.

(That's not to say that she never caters to any of my whims. She very often will surprise me by doing something she knows will bring a smile to my face, like planning a vacation to someplace I'd always talked about going, or buying a basketball standard for Buzz's birthday because she knew both Buzz and I would love it.) [Reminder to myself: I need to cater to some of Amber's whims a bit more often. Because I love to see her smile.]


But hey, if you read last week's post and laughed, that's okay, too. A large number of people used to laugh at Everybody Loves Raymond every week. Just know that what I wrote last week is not representative of my relationship with my wife. It was full of cartoony exaggerations and generalizations. Much like those sitcoms Amber and I dislike.


I'd like to think that the relationship that Amber and I have bares little resemblance to those sitcom marriages. I'd like to think that our relationship is built on mutual respect, mutual responsibility, and mutual admiration. (I do, after all, love her very, very much!)

My Life Without My Wife

Mother's Day is coming up this weekend. My thoughts turn to the two most important mothers in my life.

My Mom did a great job with her kids. (Obviously. Because I'm so awesome.) I will always be grateful for everything she has done for me.

And then there is My Wife. Not only is she an amazing, incredible mother to our children, she is also my best friend, personal chef, tax accountant, home repair person, wardrobe advisor, travel agent, moral compass, and so, so much more!

I shudder to think what my life would be like without My Wife. (Shudder. Shudder.) It's scary to think where I'd be.

For example, where would I be without My Wife as my tax accountant? I haven't done our taxes since we got married. If I didn't pay taxes for six years, someone would probably notice. I'd get a visit from some IRS agents. There would be an audit involved. I'd go to jail. My life would be miserable.

Where would I be without My Wife as my personal wardrobe advisor? Well, she's the one who found me my extra-tall shirts. So, without her I'd be walking around with my butt crack showing. That would not just be bad for me, that would be bad for society in general.

Also, without My Wife to guide me, I'd probably wear my green suit more often. (It's pretty scary.) Not only that, but I'd also be wearing all of my super-skinny ties that I got back in the 1980s. And, I'd probably have some weird, experimental facial hair, like a goatee or a soul patch or possibly some kind of lame attempt at muttonchop sideburns. (And yes, I might even have a mullet. It's happened before.)

Without My Wife, this Mullet Man might be unleashed again on an unsuspecting world.

Without My Wife as my home repair person, there would be a lot of things around the house that didn't work. Most notably, the shower wouldn't work. (It broke. She fixed it.) Without a working shower, I'd be pretty stinky. I'd be a stinky guy with a mullet and some patchy muttonchops with his butt crack showing from beneath his shirt.

Without My Wife as my travel agent, there are a lot of places I would never have gone. I would never have summered at Cape Cod. (And by "summered" I mean spent the better part of a week.) I would never have gone to Disneyland again. (And it is, after all, the happiest place on earth!) There are places that I'd always talked about going, but never got around to back when I was single and had all that free, single-guy time. Places like the summit of Mount Timpanogas, Timpanogas Cave, Calf Creek Falls, and the Mirror Lake Highway. But, thanks to My Wife, I've now been to all of those places!

Without My Wife as my moral compass, I'd probably go back to not going to church very often. I'd have seen a lot more "R" rated movies. I would have spent a lot, lot, lot more time watching mindless television. I would have spent thousands of dollars on comic books and DVDs of television shows that would have just sat on my shelves. (Would I have needed The Man From UNCLE, the Complete Series, that comes in the cool attache case? No. Would I have purchased it anyway? Yes. Would I have ever watched it? Probably not.)

(Of course, without My Wife I would have never seen a single episode of Jon and Kate Plus 8, so I guess not everything is a positive.)

Without My Wife as my personal chef, I would still probably be eating out five to ten times a week. Digesting that much greasy fast food for so long would not have been good for my health. I probably would have had a heart attack by now. Or be up over 300 pounds. Or both.

Without My Wife, I wouldn't know the joy of eating good, healthy food. I wouldn't eat whole wheat bread. I would never have tried things like kale, artichokes, eggplant, persimmons and mangoes. Now, I know I often use sarcasm as a tool. But, I am actually not being sarcastic when I say these things. I mean, who would have thought this beef-eating farm boy from Idaho would actually look forward to the chance to eat some eggplant, or something called "spinach pie?"

My Wife was a very good cook when we got married, but, amazingly, she keeps getting better and better and better at it. (And, like I said, her starting off point was pretty good.) Now, she is a phenomenal cook! Homemade, fresh-baked bread! Homemade jam! Oatmeal bake for breakfast! (It's like oatmeal cookies in cake form, except it's good for you!) And it's not all "health-nut" healthy. There's pizza! And chocolate cake! Muffins and cupcakes! Waffles, pancakes, and french toast! She even makes me bacon every once in a while! (And, since she knows I loathe green peppers, she saves those for those for the nights when I am away at work.)

Without My Wife I wouldn't have my kids. I wouldn't have the funny stories like the Gobstopper story or birthday cake for Jesus on Christmas. I wouldn't get so happy every time I see a bus, because I know my son loves buses so much. I wouldn't have any of the love and happiness I get from them if not for My Wife. She brought them here, she helps me keep them alive and happy and healthy and clothed and educated. She does everything for those kids.

Without My Wife as my best friend, I'd be pretty lonely. I wouldn't have anyone to talk with or listen to. I wouldn't have anyone to complain about my workday with. I wouldn't have anyone to smile, laugh, or share my happiness with. She is the bestest!

So, to sum up, without My Wife I'd be a sad, lonely, overweight, stinky guy with a mullet and some bad facial hair, and my butt crack would be showing while I sat around watching television and eating chips all day, probably in jail for tax evasion. (Unless I was already dead from a heart attack.)

Thanks for saving the world from that guy, Amber! And have a Happy Mother's Day!



[Note: I know that in these columns I usually refer to her as "The Wife." I asked Amber if that was okay, and she said she was fine with it, because she knows I do it for comedic effect. But, for today, at least, I'm going to refer to her as "My Wife." Why? I guess I'm just feeling a little possessive and extra lucky to have her in my life. I'm happy and lucky that she's mine.]

Please Do Not Hang Up the Phone

Last week I was all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. (See:"Smiling Is My Favorite") This week? Not so much. I've been fighting off a cold for the last few days, so I am grumpy, sleepy, sneezy, and coughy. ("Coughy" is a member of the little-known Second Seven Dwarves, along with Dizzy, Weezy, Stealthy, Stinky, Clumsy, and Burt.)

So, since I'm already in a bad mood, I thought I'd vent a little about one of my pet peeves. (First of all, why do they have to be "pet" peeves? Having a pet is generally a good thing. A pet should be an animal that brings a smile to your face. Peeves do not. I'm a little peeved by the term "pet peeve.")

Anyway, see if this scenario sounds a bit familiar. You are in the middle of doing something. Maybe you're changing a diaper. Maybe you are doing the dishes and your hands are wet. Maybe you are playing a video game and are a few seconds away from getting your high score. Then, it happens. The phone rings.

Should you answer it? Of course you should. You must answer it! Why? Because you never know who it could be. It just might be that call from the Utah Jazz, looking to sign a slow, portly, aging shooting guard. Or maybe it's that call from Spielberg saying he wants to direct that script that you haven't quite written yet. You have to answer the phone. You are compelled to do so.

(And when I say "you," I mean "me." The Wife has no such compulsion to answer the phone. She figures if it's important they'll leave a message or call back. We are wired differently that way.)

So, you pick up the phone and answer it, excited at the possibilities of who might be calling you. And, of course, it is a telemarketer. Not just a telemarketer, but a telemarketing recording. And not just a recording, but a recording that immediately says, "Please do not hang up your phone."

"Please do not hang up your phone."

Really? I don't think there is any recorded message that would make me more likely to hang up the phone than, "Please do not hang up your phone." There would be a better chance of me staying on the line and listening if the recorded voice said, "Please hang up your phone and do not listen to this message." At least then I'd be a little intrigued.

Sometimes the recorded message will say, "This is a very important call." I don't think so. If it really was a very important call, there would be an actual person on the other end of the line, not a pre-recorded message.

You called me. If your message isn't important enough for you to have a real person tell it to me, then it isn't important enough to me to listen to it.

Of course, there are times when it is an actual person presenting the telemarketing message. These phone calls usually start with the complete manglement of my name. I realize that some people might not know how to pronounce my last name, and I'm fine with that. But those people really shouldn't be calling me to try to sell me insurance.

Another favorite is when I pick up the phone and say "Hello," and no one answers. And then I say "Hello," again, and still no one answers. And then, when I'm just about to hang up, someone finally comes on the line. It's like they were calling me, but not paying attention to the call they were making. Once again, you are calling me. That means you should, at the very least, be a real person and give me at least a modicum of your attention.

Yes, I do realize that there are real, actual people at the other end of these calls. People who are just trying to make a living. People who probably hate their telemarketing job. That's why I try not to be too rude to them. I've heard some people who say they yell or scream at the telemarketer. Or blow a whistle directly into the phone. Or do something else to "teach those telemarketers a lesson."I don't think there's really a need for that.

I will generally give them one "I'm not interested." And if they continue their spiel, I'll give them one more "I'm not interested," as I am hanging up the phone.

Sometimes the calls come so often that I wonder why I even have a phone at all. (I wonder if Spielberg could reach me via e-mail?)