Joe Fix-It Strikes (Out) Again

The stereotypical cliché is that the helpless woman marries the man so that he can take care of the house and fix all the things that break and need fixing. I’m sure this is the case with some people, or it wouldn’t be the stereotype. I am not one of those people.

Some guys are “Joe Fix-It.” I’m “Joe Ignore-It-And-Hope-It-Gets-Better-On-Its-Own.” It never does. Then I switch to “Joe Stand-There-While-The-Wife-Fixes-It” mode. I’m very good at being “Joe Stand-There-While-The-Wife-Fixes-It.” Sometimes you just have to find your niche and go with it.

I may not be "Joe Fix-It," but I do know the difference between a crescent wrench and a Croissan'wich.
(I would prefer a Croissan'wich.)

Case in point: A while back, I got out of the shower and noticed the faucet was dripping pretty badly. My immediate reaction? I must not have turned the shower off far enough, so I crank down on the knob as hard as I can. The drip gets worse. My next reaction? Like Tim “Tool Time” Taylor from "Home Improvement," I decide to go with “more power.” I crank down even harder on the knob. Of course, this only makes the drip worse yet again.

My next course of action? Reboot. (Hey, it works sometimes with the computer.) I turn the shower back on, then turn it off again. Since the faucet doesn’t run on any Microsoft systems, this strategy fails miserably.

Now I have nothing left in my arsenal except ignore-it-and-hope-it-gets-better-on-its-own. It’s a tried and true strategy that I’ve employed for years. And, surprisingly, it’s actually worked a few times, most notably with engines that have overheated or are flooded. But, I don’t think the “Ignore it” strategy has ever worked with a leaky faucet. That doesn’t stop me. I’m going to give it a try.

So, I went back to my daily grind of watching the kids and whatnot, and didn’t give any more concern to the faucet. Then The Wife came home from work at school (she’s a teacher), and went to the bathroom. Any thoughts about the faucet had completely left my mind (I’m good at “Ignore” mode) until the moment she yelled, “Joe!” I always hate it when reality strikes and I’m shaken out of “Ignore” mode.

(And to be clear, when The Wife yelled, “Joe!” it wasn’t a yell of “Joe, what did you do to the faucet!” It was more a yell of, “Joe, do you know anything about this faucet that is leaking?”)

What was The Wife’s first reaction to the leaky faucet? “Where are the tools?” The thought of using tools to fix the faucet hadn’t even occurred to me. (I am an idiot.) And soon enough I had reverted to my role as a 14 year-old on the farm: I was the tool gopher. Except that now instead of going for tools for my Dad, I was going for tools for my Wife.

Soon enough, she had the thing taken apart and the problem diagnosed. We needed a new shower handle knob. (My cranking down on it had, of course, made the problem worse.) So, we stopped at the hardware store to get a new one. (Ironically, The Wife likes to have me with her at the hardware store, because if she is by herself they treat her too condescendingly.) Before the evening was out, the faucet was fixed. (For good measure, while she was in the area, The Wife decided to change the shower head, too.) (Just because.)

I Am Goofy! (Or Possibly Celine Dion)

I'm Goofy.

I know that I'm goofy, and everyone that knows me knows that I'm goofy. Especially my daughter. (This is a good thing, because she loooooves Goofy.)

We took the kids to Disneyland in February. We went in February because The Girl was about a month away from turning three years old, and kids get in free at Disneyland if they are under three. Using this as a reason to go to Disneyland means we are:
a) smart
b) frugal
c) cheapskates
4) looking for any reason to go to Disneyland
e) any or all of the above.

She was very excited to see where Goofy lives. Why does she like Goofy so much? Probably because of me. As a big, clumsy doofus, Goofy is the obvious choice for me to identify with. Whenever I do something that showcases my clumsiness in front of The Girl (which is more often than you might think), I tell her, "Daddy is clumsy. He's almost as clumsy as Goofy."

That is a very Goofy man! (And hey, isn't that poo on that building behind me?)

In my record collection I have an album from the 70s that has disco songs about and by the Disney characters. I put the song "Watch Out for Goofy," which is about how clumsy Goofy is on the dance floor, into heavy rotation in The Girl's night-night music. She loves it.

And then, there's the voice. Now, I'm no Rich Little/Frank Caliendo/Scott Bakula, but if I do say so myself (and I'm about to), I do a pretty good Goofy impersonation. Unfortunately, it's a limited impersonation. I can do the Goofy laugh ("Uh-huh-huh-huh,") and the words "Sorry" and "Gosh." (The key to a good Goofy "gosh" is to pronounce it "gawrsh.")

The bad thing about being so good with the Goofy voice is that The Girl requests it ALL the time. When she says, "You're Goofy," she's not commenting on my mental or physical nature, she's ordering, "Daddy, do the Goofy voice again!"


In that regard, I feel an awful lot like Celine Dion. Celine Dion, you ask? Well, no, I'm not French, or Canadian, or French-Canadian. I'm not skinny, can't hit the high notes, and I've never performed in Vegas (although my wife has). I've never been called a chanteuse. (Or a chantuer.) (I know, "chantuer" isn't a word, but if a male masseuse is a masseur, shouldn't a male chanteuse be a "chanteur?")

Wait, so why am I like Celine Dion? Well, aside from the fact that I've taken to randomly whacking myself in the chest while I'm singing, I'm like her because we both have to endure constant requests to perform the same thing over and over and over and over again. You know she is constantly getting requests from people to sing "that Titanic song." She's had other hits, but "My Heart Will Go On" is the only thing she ever hears about.

The Girl is constantly demanding I be Goofy. It wouldn't be so bad if my range weren't so limited. But, if I try to stray much beyond the "Gawrsh" while doing the Goofy voice, I end up sounding like a cross between Mater from the "Cars" movies and Elvis Presley. It's pretty pathetic to hear, but she doesn't know any better, and she still loves it. And that's why I still do the Goofy voice: it makes her happy.

On our first morning at Disneyland, as we got through the gate, Goofy was right there near the entrance. It was almost like he was there waiting just for her. She got to hug Goofy and pose for pictures with him. It was the happiest moment of her life! ,,,Until she got on the carousel. Then the Dumbo ride. Then met Cinderella. Then had an ice cream. That's the great thing about being around a three year old: EVERY moment has the potential to be the happiest moment of her life!

The Girl getting her first hug from Goofy! (You should see the smile on her face!)

And if I can bring about that next "happiest" moment by trying to laugh like her favorite cartoon character, then by gawrsh, I'm going to do it!

"Uh-huh-huh-huh-huh!"

Before I Became a Dad....

• Before I became a dad, I never sniffed anyone else's butt in public. (Or in private, for that matter.)
• Before I became a dad, I used to think shows like "The Simpsons" and "Malcolm In the Middle" were funny. Not so much now, because I don't want my kids to get any ideas from them.
• Before I became a dad, I never thought of a stairway as the Scary Jagged Incline of Pain and Terror.
• Before I became a dad, I never knew I could get so much enjoyment from a simple game of "Peekaboo."
• Before I became a dad, I never carried around a bag filled with items specifically designed to take care of the situation if someone were to poop their pants.
• Before I became a dad, I used to think shows like "Friends" and "How I Met Your Mother" were funny. Not so much now, too much promiscuity. (Where's "Little House On the Prarie" when you need it? Heck, at this point I might even sit through that snorefest "The Waltons!"*) (*I think that might be the first time "The Waltons" has ever been followed by an exclamation point.) (Good night, John Boy, indeed.)
• Before I became a dad, I never knew car seats were so hard to install.
• Before I became a dad, I never knew the Dumbo ride at Disneyland could be so much fun.
• Before I became a dad, I never fed anyone else with a spoon, or used a spoon to scoop up the food that didn't make it into the mouth the first time and tried to shove it back in again.
• Before I became a dad, I never knew there were such things as a "left" sock and a "right" sock. (Apparently, sometimes girls socks need to go on specific feet in order for the bow to be on the correct side. Who knew?) (Not me.)
• Before I became a dad, I never uttered the phrase, "First go into the bathroom, then take off your pants."
• Before I became a dad, I never knew Dora the Explorer could find anything with just a little help from Boots the Monkey, her Backpack, and some random friend who speaks only Spanish.
• Before I became a dad, I never had much interest in anyone else's bowel movements.
• Before I became a dad, I never knew the names of every single Disney princess. (Or the entire lyrics to the "Bibbidi-Bobbid-Boo" song.)
• Before I became a dad, I never knew nap time was such a wonderful thing! (Okay, I did kinda know this one.)
• Before I became a dad, I never knew I could move so fast when someone uttered the simple phrase, "I gotta go potty." (If I could channel that speed into some sort of race, I just might make the Olympic team.)
• Before I became a dad, I did know that spaghetti should not be used for styling someone's hair. I just never met anyone crazy enough to try it.
• Before I became a dad, I never worried about every little crumb on the floor possibly going into someone's mouth.
• (The Wife suggested: Before I became a dad, I never said the word "poop" more than four times a day. Obviously, she doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does. (Poop is a funny word.))
• Before I became a dad, I never tried to fold a stroller. (It's not as easy as it looks.)
• Before I became a dad, I never got so excited when someone pulled himself up to standing.
• Before I became a dad, I had never heard of a "breastsicle." (Frozen breast milk.)
• Before I became a dad, I had never eaten that many raisins and Cheerios in church.
• Before I became a dad, I never worried about the pain and suffering I might cause to my children by passing on to them my love of the Minnesota Vikings.
• Before I became a dad, I never worried so much about anyone pooping in the tub.
• Before I became a dad, I never thought I'd eat any food that someone else had already slobbered on. (Why does she have to take one bite out of every chicken nugget? Can't she just eat two whole nuggets and leave the rest slobber-free for me?)
• Before I became a dad, I never read the same book, from cover to cover, 23 times in the same day.
• Before I became a dad, I never picked anyone else's nose. (The old saying goes: "You can pick your nose. You can pick your friends. But you can't pick your friend's nose." It make no mention of your children's noses.)
• Before I became a dad, I never knew I could love two little people soooo much!!!

Disneyland: Getting There Is One-Eighth the Fun

I'm going to Disneyland!

That's what I was saying a couple of weeks ago. "I'm going to Disneyland!" Sounds like fun, doesn't it? It was. But that doesn't mean it was easy. Taking a vacation can be hard work.

The week before the trip was full of a lot of prep time. There was shopping and packing and laundry and more packing. (Here's a laundry tip: Before washing the children's clothes, make sure there are no diapers or Pull-Ups mixed in with the clothes. Not fun.)

The Wife's parents, Grammy and PopPop, were going on the trip with us, which was great because when wrangling two kids, the more adults the better. They met us at a little after 5:00 AM on Friday morning to drive down in tandem with us. Unfortunately, that morning Grammy discovered that the hotel reservations they thought they had did not, in fact exist. It didn't matter at that point, because they were coming hell or high water. (And it turns out there was actually some high water.)

We took off and drove to our first stop, St. George, Utah for some fuel. And some caffeine. (Between my weird work schedule and getting ready for the trip, I had gotten less than four hours of sleep the previous two nights.) My caffeine of choice is Mountain Dew Live Wire, an orange-flavored soda. Unfortunately, it is a limited flavor that I can only find in southern Utah. So I loaded up. (And while in St. George, Grammy was frantically on the phone and was able to get reservations at a hotel a half a mile away from ours.)

The next stop was Las Vegas. Except we didn't stop there. I'm not a "Vegas" guy. I don't like to gamble. I get as much entertainment out of flinging change at random strangers as I do shoving it into a slot machine. So, we saw no need to stop in Vegas.

The thing that interested me most about Vegas (besides the large, gold-plated buildings) was the billboards. There were a lot of billboards, and they were mostly divided into two categories: sleazy strip club/casinos or sleazy personal injury lawyers. And while it's true the sleazy strip club ads showed more skin and cleavage, it doesn't mean that the lawyers were any less sleazy. Who knew they needed that many personal injury lawyers in Vegas? Maybe they're working together. People stare at the strip club billboards, get in wrecks, and need to call the personal injury lawyers. (It's possible.)

And why is it personal injury lawyers feel the need to have rhyming slogans? Here in Utah we have "One call, that's all." The one from Vegas was, "Enough said, call Ed." I guess I answered my own question: the rhyming ones are the ones I remember.

Anyway, I was able to keep my eyes on the road just enough and made it through Vegas without the need to call Ed.

We decided we could make it all the way to Barstow, California before we needed to stop for fuel and food again. The freeway between Vegas and Barstow is a bit troubling. It is mostly two lanes and sagebrush. And there is a lot of traffic. I cannot for the life of me understand why they don't make it three lanes. (I guess we have to score one in the victory column for the Sagebrush Presevation Society.)

The only real town between the California border and Barstow is Baker. Baker promotes itself as the gateway to Death Valley. It gets hot in the summer. Now, our van does not have a GPS, so it had no way of knowing where we were. But, I kid you not, the air-conditioner automatically turned on as soon as we hit Baker city limits, even though it was the middle of February. Somehow it knew.

The road between Baker and Barstow is the location for some kind of temporal disturbance. How else to explain how traveling a distance of 60 miles at 80 miles per hour can seemingly take two and a half hours? (I've seen enough Star Trek to know a temporal disturbance when I see one.)

As if the road between Baker and Barstow wasn't bad enough, ten miles out of Barstow the good people of California have put up a Fruit Inspection stop. They force all cars to pull over and inspect any fruit you might be bringing with you to California. At least, that's what they do in theory. They had the road down to two lanes. In one lane they were letting everybody through without stopping them. Of course, this was not the lane I was in. Most of the cars in my lane were getting through without getting stopped, too. Except, of course, for me.

I pulled up and they asked if I had any fruit in the car. I said yes. So, I had to stop, go around to the back of the van, find the fruit and show it to him. He "inspected" it for about half a second, then sent me on my way. Grammy and PopPop, in the vehicle directly behind me, had the same problem. Except that when Grammy went to the back of her vehicle to retreive her fruit, it was buried behind all of their suitcases. Upon seeing this, the "inspector" decided it was too much hassle and sent her on her way. So, obviously, their inspections must not be too serious. Why bother at all?

I guess it could have been worse. It could have been a Fruit of the Loom inspection stop.

We finally arrived in Barstow and stopped for lunch at McDonald's. Next door to McDonald's was a place called Tom's which featured on its sign a cartoon of a Mayor McCheese-like hamburger headed man, except the only thing this burger man was wearing was a snug Speedo swimsuit. There's something to be said for the comfort of McDonald's.

While in Barstow, it was warm and sunny. More than one person in our party commented on how absurd the forecast for rain in Anaheim seemed. We laughed at the possibility of rain. (You can see where this is going, can't you?)

We then needed to fuel up, but couldn't immediately see a Chevron. (My wife and her family will only fuel up at Chevron stations. They belong to the Cult of Techron.) So, Grammy said she would find one using her GPS. I was to follow her. She immediately made a left turn and had us heading back north on the freeway. Luckily we were able to get off and turn around before making it back to the Fruit Inspection station. Meanwhile, we found where the Barstow Swap Meet and drive-in theater are, information that could come in handy, well, never.

We finally found a Chevron, fueled up, and made our way to Anaheim. And hey, there's nothing like driving on an unknown freeway in a big city during rush hour in a heavy downpour of rain. (Sunny in Barstow and rainy in Anaheim! Who'd a thunk it?)

We made it! We found our hotels, checked in, and got ready to attack Disneyland in the morning. The only thing left to do was find the guy who sang that song "It Never Rains In California" and go punch him in the face.

Sharp Dressed Man?

As the song says, "Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man." And yet, The Wife married me anyway. (Just one more reason why I am very lucky. Possibly even the luckiest.)

Don't get me wrong, I've got style. It's just not good style. And what little style I do have is from around 1985.

Have you ever noticed how a lot of people (espcially guys) lock into what was "cool" in their youth, and get stuck in that style for the rest of their lives? You'll still see some guys sporting the Miami Vice jacket-over-t-shirt, no socks look. Or women at the gym wearing Flashdance-era leg wamers.

Sometimes, people get locked in to styles that were never cool. There is a truck driver I see occasionally at work who is still sporting the John Denver look, with the straight bowl haircut and the round little glasses. I have to suppress a laugh whenever I see him, and usually end up singing Thank God I'm a Country Boy for the rest of the day.

Me, I'm stuck in 1985. That was the year I left home for two years to be a Mormon missionary. Mormon missionaries usually leave home with two sturdy, dull, bland suits, and three or four dull, bland ties. When I got there I found that one of the popular activities for missionaries on their one day off a week would be to go to thrift stores to try to find good-looking used suits and stylish ties. (When you wear a suit and tie every day, it's nice to have a little bit of choice.)

What everyone was looking for were zoot suits with narrow lapels, and pants with pleats and cuffs. And the ties needed to be skinny. The skinnier the better. That's what was cool when I was 19 years old. So that's what I still think looks good. Much to The Wife's dismay.

Now that is a sharp-dressed man!

She doesn't like my skinny ties. She thinks they look silly. Over the years I've gotten rid of most of them, but I kept four or five of my favorites. Last summer when The Wife was off visiting her sister, I wore one of my skinny ties to church. And nobody openly mocked me. At least not to my face. (I'm sure the snickering was for some other reason.)

I try to tell her that skinny ties are coming back into fashion. I tell her that the guy on the television program Bones wears skinny ties. She replies that if I were as good looking as the guy from Bones, I could get away with wearing skinny ties, too.

The Wife also thinks my pants with the pleats in the front make me look fat. I disagree. I think it's my fat in the front that makes me look fat.

But, The Wife is a lot more tolerant than most women would be. Back when I was single I bought a green suit. I think it's a pretty good looking suit, so it probably isn't. But it's green. Very, very green. (And if even I think it's too green, you can be sure that it is way too green.) I wore the green suit, even though my Aunt Maxie strongly warned against it, back when The Wife was still just The Girlfriend. And yet, she still married me anyway.

She may not like my "style," but she lets me wear whatever I want, with only an occasional eye roll or exasperated sigh. She's wonderful.

She's also lucky, because it could have been worse. I could have gotten locked into the tight-white-suit John Travolta look. Or the dirty sixties hippy look. Or the MC Hammer shiny baggy pants look. Or that silly John Denver look. Thank God I'm not that country boy!

Shields Up!

I always wondered on Star Trek why they had to keep saying, "Shields up." Shouldn't the shields always be up? I mean, they're traveling through the unknowns of space, never knowing when a Klingon might de-cloak, a nefarious nebula might appear out of nowhere, or some robe-wearing near-omnipotent species might decide to toy with them. Shouldn't they expect the unexpected and always be prepared by having their shields up?

Why am I thinking about this? Because I let my shields down. Twice. Each of the last two nights I've taken a crippling shot to the groin from my two-year-old daughter, once from her knee and once from her big toy microphone.

I thought I had my shields up. I've been around kids long enough, both as a father and as an uncle, to know that when kids are climbing around I need to keep that certain area guarded. Especially when they are using me as a jungle gym.

But, it doesn't matter how guarded you think you are, they are going to get a shot or two past the defenses. It's like they have superhuman speed like The Flash, Superman, Quicksilver, or Dash from The Incredibles. Or something.

Given time, one of those feet will connect with that crotch to inflict pain, unless the shields are up.

And it's not just the speed. It's the targeting. I think they know the exact spot that will cause the most damage. It's like that climactic scene from the first Star Wars movie. (You know, the first movie that is really the fourth movie, even though they made it first, not fourth.) Anyway, the movie where Luke Skywalker has to use the Force to shoot his shot in the one tiny little place in order to blow up the Death Star. It's like these kids use the Force to find the one spot that will inflict the most crotchatic pain.

The other night The Girl's knee struck with a speed and precision that I thought were a once in a lifetime shot. Until the next night, when the toy microphone struck just as quickly and just as precisely.

Now, my guard is constantly up. I'm expecting crotch shots at every instant. The Girl is halfway across the room, but if she were to move, I'd flinch. This is no way to live. I can't walk around the rest of my life with one hand covering my private parts. People would talk. (And they wouldn't be saying nice things.)

I guess that's why the Enterprise roamed the stars without their shields up. Yes, it's good to be on alert, but you still have to live your life. It's impossible to be on full prevent mode all of the time. I just have to try to put what's happened behind me and move forward from here.

But, the next time she climbs onto my lap to have me read her a book, you can be sure that the Nard Guard will be on full alert.

Eating "Brinner" with a "Spork"

The best thing about the English language is that it is constantly growing and changing. If you want to, you can make up a new word. If enough people like it and use it, it will actually become a new word, in the dictionary and everything. Awesome!

The worst thing about the English language is that it is constantly growing and changing. Any idiot can spout some nonsense gibberish, pretend it is a word, and if enough other idiots agree, it actually will become a word. Ridiculous!

(I'm guilty myself. In my last post I "created" the word undressedness. I don't think it is going to catch on. I am an idiot.)

What got me thinking about this is a constant barrage of Subway Sandwich commercials on the radio. They continually claim that their sandwiches are freshtastic. Freshtastic is not a word. It sounds kind of stupid to me. If the sandwiches are fresh and fantastic, just say so, don't try to make up a new word, because I'm not buying it.

This got me thinking about some of the other "words" that people have tried to create by smashing two words together. Some have been successful, some haven't. One of the best and most accepted "smashed" words is brunch. Everyone knows that brunch is a combination of breakfast and lunch. And most people like brunch. (Anything that has the possibility of bacon is going to be well received by the general populace.)

The television show Scrubs introduced me to the similar word brinner, which is when you have breakfast food for dinner. And again, anything that encourages my consumption of french toast and syrup gets my full approval.

This brings me to spork, which leaves me somewhat torn. I like the word spork. It is fun to say. I like the concept of the spork, combining the best features of a spoon and a fork. But, in practice, the spork doesn't really work. The fork tines of the spork are just not long enough to actually do much good. It ends up simply being a spoon with a jagged edge. Nice try.

A homemade Spork! (Don't worry, it works about as well as the ones they give you at KFC.)

There are some "smashed" words that I have nothing but pure contempt for. Whenever anyone refers to the largest city in Georgia as Hotlanta, I literally want to punch them in the face. I don't know why it bothers me so much, but it does. (I get angry just typing it: Hotlanta. I better walk away and cool down for a minute.)

(Okay, I'm back.) Similarly, I will never, never, never, never buy a truck during a sales promotion referred to as Trucktober. True, I've never bought a truck and probably never will (at this point I'm more of a mini-van kind of guy), but that doesn't mean I can't hold grudges against dealerships with Trucktober promotions.

Oddly enough, despite my disdain for Trucktober, I'm okay with the similar sounding Rocktober. I'm not sure why. Maybe I just like the rock and roll music so much that anything that promotes it is all right with me. (Because, as rock and roll legend Bryan Adams once sang, "everywhere you go, kids wanna rock!")

[Note: My editors have just informed me that Bryan Adams is not a "rock and roll legend." Rather he is, in fact, a "Canadian pop singer." Sorry for the confusion.]

Pillsbury is trying to make funfetti into a word by marketing cake and frosting with little bits of candy sprinkles (funfetti) mixed in. And once again, because it involves tasty sweet food, I'm inclined to like it.

The word "fantastic" is a popular base for "smashed" words. Besides Subway's freshtastic, there are funtastic, and craptastic, among others. And then there is fantabulous, which uses the other end of fantastic. I'm fine with all of these because I don't think any of them were created for an ad campaign. (I'm not quite as fond of scrumpdillyicious. It's trying a little too hard.)

Things might be getting a little out of control. I recently heard a snow storm referred to as a snowpocalypse. (It wasn't. Most everyone survived.)

My favorite "smashed" word, though, was something that was made up specifically for The Wife and I. When we were dating and engaged, we were very, very happy; both of us walking around with goofy grins on our faces most of the time. We were also very sappy, with lots of public displays of affection; a general sap level so sweet that even Aunt Jemima wouldn't dare bottle it. So, they started calling us shappy. And it fit perfectly, because we were shappy!

We're not as shappy anymore. We're still very happy, but four years of marriage, two kids, dirty diapers, potty-training accidents, and general lack of sleep have sapped most of the sap out of our shappiness. It's okay, though. The kids have pushed the happiness up to levels I never thought it could reach. And, every once in a while we'll tap into a vein of sap and be even shappier than we ever were before. (I get shappy just thinking about it!)


Okay, now it's your turn. Are there any "smashed" words that drive you crazy or that you really like? Let's get some comments going. Thanks!