Daisy Duck vs. Daisy Duke

A few months ago, our kids were playing with a set of Disney character figurines. (Let it not be said that we are not cogs in the giant Disney Consumer Products Machine.) This set contained the six main characters from the cartoon Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, featuring Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Goofy, Pluto, Donald Duck, and Daisy Duck. For some reason, two-year-old Buzz kept gravitating toward the Daisy Duck figurine. (Figurine? Action figure? Doll?) He would play with Daisy above all the other characters, even going so far as to try to say her name. ("Duh-seeee.")

I found it odd that Buzz would pick Daisy. (When Roni was that age, Goofy was unquestionably her favorite. Now that she is older and more "sophisticated," she might choose Minnie over Goofy.)  It got me thinking about Daisy. Who are her fans? Why is she there? What does she contribute to the stories? Is she the favorite of anybody?

At Disneyland, all of the other main characters have their own house. Mickey has a house. Minnie has a house. Goofy has a house. Donald has a boat. Even Pluto has a restaurant called "Pluto's Dog House." But, nothing for Daisy.

It got me wondering why Daisy even exists. I can think of two main reasons: 1) So Donald has a girlfriend; and B) So Minnie has a girl friend.

I wanted to learn a little more about Daisy, so I started to google "Daisy Duck." (Yes, that is the state of my life now. I actually attempted to google Daisy Duck!) But, before I could get there, auto-correct took me instead to "Daisy Duke." Up to that point in my life, I had never associated Daisy Duck and Daisy Duke. I didn't realize how close their names are to each other. I mean, the first seven of the nine letters in their names are exactly the same! (Wait. Did I say "seven of nine?" Yes, you know I am a nerd guy when I can't type "seven of nine" without pausing to affectionately remember my favorite character from Star Trek: Voyager.)(......Okay, I'm back.)

So, I thought I'd do a little compare and contrast between Daisy Duck and Daisy Duke to see their similarities and their differences.

Relationships: Daisy Duck and Minnie Mouse are best friends. Possibly because they have a lot in common and genuinely enjoy each other's company. Or, possibly because they are about the only two non-princess females in the Disney world.

I wasn't sure, but apparently Donald and Daisy have never been married. They've just been dating for over 70 years. (Talk about fear of commitment! Hey Donald, put a ring on that thing!) (Or should it be: put a ring on that wing?)

Meanwhile, Daisy Duke has no siblings or parents, just cousins and an uncle. Daisy is cousins with Bo. Daisy is cousins with Luke. Bo and Luke are not brothers, they are cousins. Even the lame replacement refs cousins, Coy and Vance, aren't siblings with each other or anyone else. They are all cousins. And, Uncle Jesse is not the father of any of these people. I find this all rather odd. In my experience, hillbillies have a lot of kids. But here we seem to have five different one-child, parentless hillbilly families! It's all very confusing.

And, as far as romantic relationships go, Daisy Duke does not seem to be very lucky. On the rare occasions she actually is dating someone, that someone usually turns out to be a grifter in cahoots with Boss Hogg. (I'm not sure which is worse, 70 years of a non-committal duck with anger management issues, or a rotating band of ne'er do wells and hooligans?)

Fashion Sense: Yes, Daisy Duke has a kind of shorts named after her. That is very impressive. But, Daisy Duck doesn't even wear pants! (This one's too close to call.)

Appeal: As stated earlier, other than Buzz, I'm not sure who Daisy Duck's fans are. Most girls like Minnie better. Most fans of angry birds like Donald better. I'm sure there are some people who like Daisy best, but these people are definitely in the minority. (These are probably the same people for whom George Harrison is their favorite Beatle, Marlon is their favorite member of the Jackson 5, and someone not named "Kim" is their favorite Kardashian.)

On the other hand, almost every man is a fan of Daisy Duke. (At least all of the heterosexual ones.) I don't know what women think of her, but I don't get the sense of intense jealousy/hatred of Daisy Duke like I sense for others, such as Jessica Alba or Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Usefulness: From the episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse that I've seen (which is more than you might think), Daisy Duck doesn't really do much. Mostly, she justs hangs out with Minnie.

In contrast, Daisy Duke often contributes to the Duke family shenanigans. She frequently rides around in her jeep distracting Roscoe, Enos, or Cletus. Or she has to rescue Bo and Luke. The point is, she does things that help.

Bottom line: Is there really any surprise how I think this is turning out? I am a heterosexual male. Of course I think Daisy Duke wins over Daisy Duck! I'm not sure why Buzz has latched on to Daisy Duck. Probably because he hasn't seen Daisy Duke yet.

Travel Tips

Vacations are awesome!!! Mostly.

There are highs and lows when it comes to traveling with a family. The vacation spots can be incredible. The driving to get there can be tedious and tiresome. And living in a motel room for a week can be an interesting mix of relaxing and infuriating.

Earlier this month we went to Disneyland with The Wife's family. We had six adults and four children. We drove from Utah in two vehicles. We stayed in California in three motel rooms. Through our travels and travails we learned a few things. I'm going to pass some of that knowledge on to you now:

*Plan travel time around children's sleep time. This is a great idea. Except when it doesn't work. We decided to leave at 3:30 AM. The thinking was that we would get the kids out of bed, throw them in their car seats, and then they would sleep half of the way to Disneyland. It was a nice theory. But, the kids slept about a half an hour each the whole way down. (Luckily, they were very well behaved.)

*Have plenty of new toys and snacks for the kids while driving. This is a great idea. And, it actually worked! The Wife and her family have a tradition on long drives called "The 100 Mile Toy." Every 100 miles (or so) each kid gets to unwrap a new toy. This may sound expensive, or seem like we are spoiling the kids, but that's not the case. The "100 Mile Toy" is usually something small and cheap from the dollar store. And they only get the toy if they are being good. This worked quite well with our kids on this trip, with the exception that many times when we reached a 100 mile milestone, the only ones awake were me (the driver) and the kids (who refused sleep for fear they might miss some sagebrush scenery.) So we would have to wait until one of the adult passengers would wake up for the kids to get their toys. (But, it was okay because my kids are little enough they can't/don't keep track of every 100 miles.)

*Be sure to have an abundance of "stay awake" foods and beverages for the long drive. Those sugar-coated candy orange slices? Reprehensible at all other times, but indespensible on a long drive! Also necessary: a big bag of licorice to gnaw on. (The gnawing is essential for "stay awake" purposes.)  Of course, some kind of chips are then needed for textural change of pace from all the sugary stuff. And don't forget the caffeinated beverages. My preference is Mountain Dew LiveWire, although I will settle for Vanilla Coke, Cherry Coke, regular Coke, or, basically, anything fizzy.

*Let the music play! The driver on a long trip gets to control the music. When we're driving around locally, I'm often forced to play kid music to placate the kids. Or the soundtrack to Wicked to placate The Wife. (The Wife, her sisters, and her mother went to see the play Wicked this summer. Ever since, the soundtrack has been in heavy rotation in the van.) (You could say it's been "Popular.") (Lar.) But, when I'm driving on a long trip, I get to choose the music! Singing along is a great "stay awake" tool. And, if anyone complains about my choice in music, or about my singing, I tell them it's better than me falling asleep and driving off the road. (They usually agree.)

*Have luggage with wheels. I know this is pretty redundant at this point in time. All luggage has wheels, right? Well, it didn't used to be that way. I don't know how the people of the 1960s and 1970s lugged all that wheelless luggage up to their third floor motel room. I can understand why that Samsonite suitcase had to be tough enough to withstand the monkey-in-a-cage test. Without wheels, I'd be tempted to slide the suitcase down the stairs, or just throw it over the ledge down to the car.

*Don't fill your cooler with ice from the ice machine. Don't be that guy. Just don't.

*Make sure your motel has good, working WiFi. Becasue no one ever has trouble getting connected to the motel-provided WiFi. (By the way, that's sarcasm.) I took my laptop, and every time I tried to log on to catch some scores on ESPN, or see the latest Zynga Slingo request  posted by my Facebook friends, it would be a 25 minute fight to get connected. (I bristle when I think of how many "cute kitty photos with bad grammar captions" I missed out on while on vacation.) At least I didn't have any problems connecting my phone to the internet. That's because my phone doesn't connect to the internet. It's not what you'd call a "smart" phone. It's what you'd call a "flip" phone. (On the plus side, all I need is a tricorder and a phaser and I'll be ready for an away mission with Bones and Spock.)

*Take advanrage of the continental breakfast. There are times when I think they call it "continental" breakfast because half of the continent is trying to cram into the small room provided to get their "free" stale danishes and watered-down apple juice. It's amazing that, for a motel with over 300 rooms, they provide eight tables for breakfast, three of which will actually seat more than two people. Sometimes they market it as a "warm" continental breakfast, then provide a waffle maker. That's all good and well, but usually there are 11 people in line for the waffle maker, three of whom actually know how to use it. (I should mention that we recently stayed at a motel with a "warm" continental breakfast that provided a bowl full of bacon! Yes, a bowl full of bacon! (Or was it a bowlful of bacon?) Unlimited bacon!!! Needless to say, I will be staying at that motel the next time I am in that town. Or anywhere near that town.)

* Have fun at the pool! The swimming pool is a nice relaxing diversion at the motel. The kids can splash out some of that pent up energy from the long ride. And the adults can take a nice soak in the whirlpool. If they can get to it. There always seems to be that one group of people who seems to think the whirlpool (or hot tub, or spa) is their own private club, and they monopolize it. I've found that one of the best ways to clear out the whirlpool is to bring your two-year-old over, talk loudly about how he "hasn't pooped all day," then dip his toes in, with the threat of putting his whole body into the pool. The whirlpool hoarders will usually get out and find another place to loiter.

*If you go to the beach, you might get wet. And, there will be sand. Seems pretty obvious, doesn't it. But, having lived my whole life in land-locked Idaho and Utah, I was stupid enough to wear jeans and tennis shoes to the beach. Needless to say, I got wet. And, there was sand. (Lots and lots of sand.)

And here's a couple of Disneyland-specific tips:

*Bring lots of ice and water. As the day goes on, you will get thirsty. Fortunately, Disneyland provides lots and lots of water fountains. Unfortunately, all Disneyland water fountains have two problems: 1) high temperature, and B) low volume. I don't know about you, but when I go to get a drink from a water fountain, I like the water to be cold, or at least cold-ish. Also, no one wants to have to bend down so far that their lips have to touch the actual fountain in order to get to the water. Who knows whose lips have touched that fountain before? Why would all of Disneyland's water fountains be so high temperature/low volume? It wouldn't be that they want to sell those $4 bottles of water, would it? So, bring plenty of ice and water. (Or, if you are Mr. Moneybags, just fork out the big bucks for the bottles.)

*Eat plenty of churros. At Disneyland, there are churro carts around every corner. In the real world, there are not churro carts around every corner. There should be. The world would be a better place if there were churro carts around every corner. So, when you are at Disneyland, enjoy the churro flow while you have access to it.


In the end, the vacation was definitely worth it. We survived the drive down, we had lots and lots of fun, and we survived the drive back! But, it's good to be back. It's nice to be at my own home, where there isn't a line for the waffle machine and I have easy access to all the "cute kitty photos with bad grammar captions" that I could possibly want.

So, You DON'T Want Me To Listen To Your Radio Station?

Ah, radio...it's the newspaper of the airwaves. (And no, that's not a compliment. I can only remember perusing through a newspaper once in the last year or two, and that was in a motel lobby while waiting for the rest of my family to wake up.) (And this is coming from a guy who basically got his college degree in newspaper writing.) (Which is why I drive truck for a living.)

Newspapers are going the way of the dodo. (I'm talking about the "extinct bird" use of the word "dodo," not the "stupid people" use of the word "dodo.") And radio may not be far behind.

With iPods and iPads and iTunes and Spotify and Pandora and Sirius and computers and the internets and smart phones and even phones of average intelligence, people have a wide variety of places to get their music and information besides traditional radio stations. Even ancient technology like the 6-CD changer has driven folks away from the radio. (I remember when I moved up from cassette deck to 6-CD changer almost six years ago! It was a glorious and wonderful thing!) Now, more than ever, radio stations need to do things to keep people listening to them, and yet they continue to do the same stupid things that make people want to change the station or turn it off completely.

I still listen to the radio (I am an old guy, after all), but I only listen to it four days a week. I usually listen to sports talk radio on my way to and from work. And then, when I'm at work, I flip between three or four music stations. When I'm not at work I don't listen to the radio at all because I have an iPod and a computer and, who am I kidding? I've got two kids under the age of five, so I spend much of my days watching PBS Kids and Disney, and playing with dolls and trucks.

With their fragmented and dwindling listenership, it's amazing that radio stations continue to do the annoying things that drive people away. I call these the "So, you don't want me to listen to your radio station" moments. One of the best things about car radios is the station preset buttons. So, when a station pulls out one of its "So, you don't want me to listen" moments, I can quickly push a button and I'm magically transported to another station. Until that station drives me away and I'm forced to hit another button. It's a never ending cycle.

Here are some of my (least) favorite "So, you don't want me to listen to your radio station" moments:

*The Radio Remote. This is when the radio station sends its DJs out on location at one of its advertiser's places of business, often a car dealership. The station then inundates its airwaves with pleas to visit the location instead of actually playing music. (And, by the way, you don't want to actually visit these locations, because you most certainly do not want to see your favorite radio personality. There is a reason these people are on the radio and not the television.) (They ain't pretty.)

*"Let's go to the callers." I'm usually okay with listening to professional radio personalities because they are actually professionals. It's what they get paid to do. I do not want to listen to the idiotic ramblings of some buffoon who thinks the world needs to hear what he has to say because he's witty or clever. Just because you can dial a phone doesn't mean I want to hear your opinion. Besides, when they go to "Bart from Ogden," any or all of the following things can happen: a) Bart has already hung up, leaving the DJ saying, "Bart? Bart? We seem to have lost Bart." b) Bart has his radio too loud, leading to annoying feedback. c) Bart is on speakerphone, so he sounds like he's calling from inside a tuna fish can. d) Bart has absolutely nothing of importance or interest to say, because he has nothing better to do than sit around all day and call radio stations.

*DJs singing over the music. In much the same way that I don't want to hear non-professional talkers talking on the radio, I also don't want to hear non-professional singers singing on the radio. Remember, you're a disc jockey, not Rick Astley. (Unless Rick Astley is now working as a DJ. In that case, I'd gladly listen to him singing over the songs.)

*DJs talking over the music. I know DJs are trained to talk over a song right up to the start of the singing, but sometimes the intro music is the best part of the song. I would much rather hear the jarring guitar at the beginning of "Just What I Needed" by the Cars, or the "Hey!" and hand-claps at the start of "What I Like About You" by the Romantics than any ramblings about traffic or the weather by some random DJ. Let the music play.

*Loud laughing "zoo crews." Radio stations often have a "zoo crew" for their morning shows consisting of two, three, four, or even five people. The problem is, all these people think they are so funny that they spend all their time laughing so loudly at each other that you can't hear or understand what they are laughing about. Unfortunately, this phenomenon isn't limited to morning zoo crews. Late night sports guys get this way, too. (I'm talking to you, Fox Sports Radio.)

*The "We don't talk" syndrome. Some stations promise things like "One hour of uniterrupted music!" Then, between every song, they interrupt the music to tell you that you are in the middle of "one hour of uniterrupted music!" Self-promotion is still advertising. I don't want to hear you talk about how little you talk!

*Chopping up the songs. If you bill yourself as a "classic" rock station but still play the chopped-up, hacked-up, shortened-for-time versions of great songs like "Piano Man" by Billy Joel or "Come Sail Away" by Styx, well, you have earned yourself my disdain and scorn. (And a good scowl, too.)

*Annoying advertising. Everyone has ads that drive them crazy. Here in the Utah area, there is one ad campaign that has been running for several years that forces me to turn the station whenever it airs. It is for a heating/air conditioning company, and features a superhero spokesman and his talking dog sidekick. The ads themselves are seldom about the company, but more often about the supposed fame and ego of the superhero and his talking dog. The person doing the voices for the superhero and the dog does so in a "funny," over-exaggerated way. (And by "funny" I mean funny's cousin, "Not Funny.") I'm guessing the ads are effective, because they've been running them for so long. But, I also know that if I had heating or air conditioning problems, that is the very last business I would go to. (I've sometimes wondered if I had a business and was looking to advertise if I could request to make sure my ad did not follow a certain other ad. "Yes, I'll advertise on your station, but only if my ads don't air in the fifteen minutes following an Action Man and Action Dog commercial.")

*"Don't touch that dial!" Any advertisement that demands that I don't change the station pretty much guarantees that I'm going to change the station. It's like a double-dog dare.

*Siren commercials.  I find any commercial featuring a blaring siren to go beyond annoying into the realm of being irresponsible. When I hear a siren in a commercial, my first instinct is to pull over to let the emergency vehicle go by. How many times do people not pull over for actual sirens because they think it's a stupid radio commercial?

*Playing songs I don't like. Here's where I'm going to get into trouble. I'm going to offend someone by listing a song that they love as one that I hate. But it's all so subjective. A while back a writer on Grantland.com said he had pretty much dismissed all of Billy Joel's work because he didn't like the fact that he rhymed "Davy" with "Navy." (What was he supposed to rhyme it with? Gravy?) (On second thought, that would be pretty cool! "He's talking with Davy who likes to eat gravy.") The point is, we all come up with reasons, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes credible, as to why we hate songs. Here are a few that make me immediately turn the station:

"Run To You" by Bryan Adams. It's a cheating song. I don't like cheating songs. (See also "Tempted" by Squeeze and pretty much all non-"Ghostbusters" songs by Ray Parker, Jr.)

"Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin. Because if I want to hear Robert Plant having sex, I'd.... (I decided to not finish that sentence, because I will never want to hear Robert Plant having sex.)

"Cocaine" by Eric Clapton. I'd prefer my rock and roll songs about drugs to be a little more subtle. (I used to like "Dream On" by Aerosmith until I "cracked" the cocaine-use code on the whole "lines in the mirror" lyrics.)

"Layla" by Eric Clapton. I really don't have anything against Clapton. I like many of his songs. But I just don't like the way the ending repeats itself and drags on seemingly forever. (And yet I like those same qualities about "Hey Jude." Like I said, it's all subjective.)

All songs by Madonna, with the exception of "La Isla Bonita." Why do I like "La Isla Bonita?" Because the title is one of the funnest things to say in an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice. (You are trying it right now, aren't you?)

Any song by Aerosmith, with the exceptions of "Come Together," which is a great song no matter who sings it; "Love In an Elevator," because it reminds me of something (No, not that! Get your mind out of the gutter!); and "Dude Looks Like a Lady," just because occasionally it is fun to hear someone scream "Cow-cow-cow-chikka-chikka-chikka-cow-cow!!!"

"Imagine" by John Lennon. I know this one is going to get me in trouble with a lot of people. There are many who think this is the best rock song of all time. But, I don't like the song's anti-religion, anti-government stance. I like to call this song "The Anarchy Song," and imagine further lyrics, if they were to exist, to say things like, "imagine there's no traffic lights," or "imagine there's no guard rails." (I know I'm in the minority here. Oh well.)

"Man, I Feel Like a Woman" by Shania Twain and "I'm Just a Girl" by No Doubt. It's not because these aren't catchy, fun songs. It's because they are catchy fun songs. They get stuck in my head, and then I get singing them at inopportune times.

There are many other songs that make me want to change the radio station. And there are probably other annoying things radio stations and DJs do that make me want to change the station. What about you? Are there songs or other things that make YOU immediately turn the station? I'd really like to have some feedback, either at the bottom of the page here, or on Facebook.

(And yes, I realize I just pulled a "Let's Go To the Callers," but I figure if you don't like it, the worst you can do is switch to another humor column.)

Me and My Sister Wives

Yes, I am a Mormon. Yes, I live in Utah. But no, I do not have more than one wife.

It just seems that way.

The Mormon church quit practicing polygamy a long time ago. (1890, to be exact.) That's over 120 years ago. And yet, when some people hear the word "Mormon," they feel compelled to say, "So, how many wives you got?" (And then they stand there with a smug look on their face like they just uttered the funniest sentence in the history of the human race.) (They didn't.) (I'm not sure what the funniest sentence uttered in the history of the human race is, but I'm pretty sure it involves the word "poop.") (Or maybe "horticulture.")

As Mormons, we try to educate the world that we are normal-ish, one-wife-loving people. The 2002 Winter Olympics were a great opportunity to get that message out. There are occasionally profiles about the church on television shows like 60 Minutes, or magazines like Time or Newsweek. Or sometimes we'll trot out Steve Young as our example of Mormonhood. (Isn't it sad that we're still using Steve Young for this? He retired over 12 years ago, after the 1999 season. Shouldn't we have had another talented, handsome BYU quarterback to hold up as an example by now? John Beck and Max Hall, you've really dropped the ball!) (Often literally.)

But, every time we make some progress along those lines, Hollywood comes along and puts out a show like Big Love or Sister Wives. (Yes, I'm blaming Hollywood for all of our problems.) (That last parenthetical notation was sarcasm, by the way.) (Hollywood is really responsible for only 64% of our problems.)

I've never seen any episodes of Big Love because I am too cheap to pay for HBO, Showtime, or whatever station used to air that show. And, despite what my DVR might tell you, I haven't seen more than three minutes of Sister Wives. My wife, her mother, and her sisters all like to watch that show. If I walk into the room and it is on, I'll find myself something more entertaining to do, like maybe the dishes.

They say they like Sister Wives for the "train wreck" aspect of it. Me, if I want to see a train wreck, I'll watch an actual train wreck. Or a Minnesota Vikings playoff game.

Personally, I can't fathom being married to more than one woman. It took me forever to find one woman crazy enough to marry me, let alone several. And yet, sometimes it seems like I have several wives.

A couple of weeks ago I took my family to the zoo. It ended up looking like a trip with a polygamist clan. Besides me, there was my wife and two kids; my wife's sister and her two kids (her husband is in the army and is currently deployed); my wife's sister's friend and two of her kids (separated from her husband); my wife's mother (her husband at work); and my wife's mother's friend (her husband at work.)

So, for those of you counting at home, that's one man, five women, and six kids. My very own "Sister Wives" troop! (And, for those of you wondering about the generation gap, because of the "scandalous" age difference between my wife and I, I'm actually slightly closer in age to her mother than to my wife, so the whole thing is somewhat feasible.)

I find myself in these "Sister Wife" situations frequently. Partly because of my work schedule. (I work two day shifts and two evening shifts per week, giving me either five days or five evenings a week to go out with my troop.) And partly because my wife's family is so female-centric. (She is one of three sisters, with no brothers. The only man in the family, her father, works a standard five-day work week, and is often busy on the weekends doing volunteer communications work for local search and rescue.)

The funny thing is, the zoo trip didn't include probably my most frequent "Sister Wife," my wife's other sister, the single one who lives in our basement apartment. Other occasional members of my clan include my wife's aunt, when she visits from New York; my sister, when she visits from Idaho; and my adult niece when she visits from Washington.

Do I like being surrounded by attractive, intelligent women? Of course I do! Would I want to be married to them all? Oh heck no!!! One wife is a-plenty for me!

Because there are so many women in my life, I often find myself in very feminine-istic situations. The other day I went with some of them to a place where we painted ceramics. Yes, I was painting ceramics. Even tonight my wife and one of her sisters are upstairs playing Barbies with their daughters. I had to take Buzz and escape downstairs to finish this column and maintain a little hint of my masculinity.

My "Sister Wives" are great and all, but there are times when I wish I had some more "Bro Dudes" to hang out with to watch some games and belch and fart with. Who knows, maybe the Vikings will make the playoffs this year so me and my "Bro Dudes" could watch a train wreck of our very own.

Slow Joe, the Marathon Man

I was watching the Olympics, and it got me thinking about my own athletic prowess. And then, after that daydream ended, I thought about my actual athletic achievements. Such as they were.

My first attempt at organized athletics came when I tried out for the 7th grade basketball team. I thought I had a pretty good chance of making the team. I was fairly tall, and...well, that was about my best qualification. 

When it came time for the actual tryout, I had a rude awakening. When the coach had us run "killers" (from end line to foul line and back, then to half court and back, then far foul line and back, and finally to the other end line and back) I finished second to last, just barely ahead of the fat kid. (And everyone else was moving on to the next drill before the two of us finished.) I was not athletic. And I didn't make it past the first cut.

There's a reason they call me "Slow Joe from Arimo."

When 9th grade rolled around, I thought I'd try out for the football team. Unfortunately, tryouts started two weeks before school did, and I did not know this. But, in a way, it was a good thing I missed tryouts, because that's when I learned about the cross country team. Desperate for runners, the cross country coach (also the high school basketball coach) asked the few who weren't on the football team if they would be interested in running. I was.

I was definitely the tortoise from the tortoise and the hare. At basketball tryouts they needed fast rabbits, but for the three-mile cross country course, the slow and steady turtle could win the race. Not that I actually won any races. But, I did finish 10th in the Junior Varsity district finals, which, for me, was pretty good. Maybe, by the time I was a senior I could be good at this.

But then the cross country team was dropped after my freshman year due to budget concerns and lack of interest.

That left the track team my only option for athletic achievement in high school. My old joke about being on the track team went like this:

Me: I'm on the track team.
Other person: Oh, really? What do you run?
Me: Slow.

The longer the race, the more I could hide my lack of speed. But, the longest events at track were the mile and two-mile races. I was too slow to be any good at them. And that was the extent of my athletic career.

Until ten years ago. That's when I thought it would be a good idea to try to run a marathon.

At the time, I was pushing 36 years of age. I had just gotten on an exercising kick. I lost about 40 pounds and was working out regularly on an elliptical trainer. I went to visit some friends, and they were going to run a 5K race that day. I figured I was in the best shape I had been in since high school, so I told them I would run with them. After all, 5K is just a little more than three miles, and with all the work I'd been doing on the elliptical, that shouldn't be a problem at all.

I quickly learned that there is a big difference between working out on an elliptical and actually running. But, I did manage to finish the race. My friend then told me he was planning on running a marathon in September. (The 5K run happened in March.) I decided, what the heck, I'd run the marathon with him.

So, over the next several months, I ran to train for the marathon. I would usually run five miles at a time, and I would do this about three times a week. (I later learned that to actually train for an actual marathon, this was not nearly enough.)

And then, it was time for the marathon. The marathon my friend (Daren) and I chose to run in was the Top of Utah Marathon in Logan, Utah. The race starts 13 miles up a country road, so we parked in the city and they took us by bus to where the race was to start.

It was a bit surreal before the race started, because all I can remember are buses and port-a-potties. There were the dozens of school buses that brought all the participants to the starting area, and then there were about 40 port-a-potties. And each of those port-a-potties had a line of about twenty people waiting to get into them. It's not something I would have thought of beforehand, but when you have over 1100 people who are about to run for over 26 miles, all of those people are going to want to go to the bathroom right before the race.

I had never seen so many port-a-potties at the same time. And there weren't nearly enough of them.

The race started, and I didn't feel very good. I was even more slower and sluggish than normal. Finally, about three miles into the race, I was able to get into a bit of a groove. Daren ran with me. It was his second marathon, and even though he could have easily gone at a faster pace, he chose to stay with me at my pace to keep me company.

It's a good thing he did. When I got to about mile 17, my body was done. I was ready to quit. But, Daren stayed with me. He kept telling me, "Let's just walk to the next mile marker, and then you can decide if you want to keep going." And, when we reached that mile marker, he would talk me in to walking to the next one. Finally, when we got to mile 20, I knew I had come too far to give up, and that I was going to finish the race.

At that point, 60 year old women were passing me, and 8 year old kids were passing me. I didn't care as long as I reached the finish line.

That's me on the right, looking like someone who has ran 18 miles and doesn't care to run any more.

But then, it became a race against time. At six hours they take down all the barricades and such off of the roads and most of the marathon volunteers leave their posts. So, we had to push it to get to the finish line before the six hour cutoff.

I finally managed to cross the finish line five hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-two seconds from when I started. I finished in 1,078th place (out of 1,130 finishers.) 633 men finished ahead of me, and 444 women finished ahead of me (many of them over the age of 60.) But, I don't care because I finished.

That's me on the left, bolting across the finish line in record time! (A record for me, anyway.)

I can now and forever say that I ran a marathon! (Okay, I ran and walked a marathon.) Regardless of how I did it, I did do it. The results are on the internet and everything! (And the internet is forever.)

Here I am with Daren after receiving our "finisher's medal." (I'm the red-faced one who looks like he might die. Daren is the smiling one who looks like he's ready to go for another jog.)

After finishing my marathon, I thought that maybe in a few years I'd try it again. But do better. Ten years have since gone by, and I now realize that it's never going to happen. I'm too old. (Yes, I know that people older than 46 run marathons all the time. Believe me I know, because I saw all those 60 year old women pass me on the course.) But, my feet are too wooggity at this point. And I'm too fat. And my knees get creaky climbing up a flight of stairs.

So, no more marathons for me. I'm officially through showing off my athletic prowess. (Except on the basketball court. I'm still holding out hope that some NBA team is in need of an old, slow, fat guy who can shoot 18% from the three-point line.)(On a good day.)(If nobody is guarding me.)

Tubby Time for Tough Guys

I like to take long soaks in the bathtub. This does not make me less of a man. Really, it doesn't. Tough guys can take tubby time, too.

When my wife's sister heard that I like to take baths, she made fun of me, called me a "girl," and compared me to Chandler Bing, the character from the show Friends. (For the record, I'm not quite like Chandler Bing. I'm more like a cross between Chandler Bing and Ned Flanders.) (Hi-duhlee-ho, neighbor-eeno!)

She then quoted from the Friends episode where Chandler discovers he really likes to take bubble baths. (My sister-in-law has a Friends quote for every occasion, sort of like I used to have a M*A*S*H* quote for every occasion. It's kind of a generational thing.)

I guess that's the image that comes to mind when you hear a guy likes to take baths: Chandler Bing soaking in a bubble bath, desperately clinging to his manhood in the form of a toy boat.

Yes, that's me as a baby, taking a bath.
(I am very grateful for the strategically placed red donut!)

But, that's not how I take baths. I haven't taken a bubble bath since I was a kid. The only bubbles in my bath are from the jetted tub and/or the periodic farts. And, I don't have any toy boats. (Although maybe I should get one.) My baths are therapeutic.

Liking to bathe is a relatively new phenomenon for me. When I was single, I hardly ever took a bath. (For the record, I did shower every day.) (Well, at least every day that I ventured out of my Fortress of Solitude to face the real world.) About the only time I ever soaked back then was when I was battling kidney stones. (And when you are battling kidney stones, you'll try anything to take the edge off.)

Shortly after I got married, I switched jobs to the one I currently have. For reasons known only to a crazed architect (who I'd like to punch in the face), the offices are up a long flight of 34 stairs. I have to go up and down these stairs more than a dozen times a day. Truck drivers seeing me on the stairs will often say, "These stairs must keep you in shape." I point to my gut and reply, "You'd think so, but no. All they do is beat the heck out of my knees." And that's the truth.

I'd been at the job for three or four months, and my knees were killing me. Then, serendipity helped me out. For the six-month anniversary of our wedding, The Wife and I went back to the bed and breakfast where we spent our wedding night. (We don't celebrate our six-month anniversaries anymore now that we're no longer in the "shappy" phase of the relationship. [Shappy=sappy+happy] In fact, our six-month anniversary just passed a few days ago without either of us noticing. Still, we had a good evening doing the things we like to do these days: watching a couple of episodes of Castle and hope-hope-hoping that the kids actually go to sleep and stay asleep.)

Anyway, one of the amenities of our room (along with a really cool Scooby-Doo-ish "hidden" wall door!) was a two-person jetted tub. We liked and enjoyed the tub.

I was back at work the next day. As I walked up the stairs I noticed that my knees didn't hurt anymore! It was the Miracle of the Jetted Tub!

At first, I wondered how a little soak in hot bath could help my knees so much, but then I remembered the television crime dramas that I grew up watching in the 1970s. Shows like MacMillan & Wife, Barnaby Jones, and Charlie's Angels would occasionally have a plot that involved murder and intrigue inside the rough and tumble world of professional football. These episodes would usually showcase real-life tough guy football players as guest stars. Tough guys like Joe Namath. (Wait. He was known for wearing panty hose and fur coats. Not a tough guy.) Tough guys like Rosie Greer. (Wait. He was known for his love of needlepoint, not the activity of a tough guy.) Tough guys like Deacon Jones and Ben Davidson. (Okay, now these are a couple of real tough guys who would head-slap their own mothers if it meant they could get to the quarterback.)

These shows would invariably show a locker room scene in which, after a rough game or practice, one of the tough guys would be soaking in a hot tub. These tubs were called "whirlpools" or "spas," and no one questioned the toughness of the guys soaking in them. It wasn't girly, it was therapeutic.

So, after that, every two or three weeks (or whenever my knees demanded it) I would take a soak in the tub. It was easy to find time to do this before we had kids. Even after The Girl came along I could synchronize my tub time with her naps, putting the baby monitor near the tub so I could listen for her.

A few months later, when we moved from a condo to our house, the large jetted tub in the master suite was a definite selling point. I guess we could have looked for a house with a hot tub on the back deck. It's interesting how different the perception of me would be if my soaks were in a hot tub on the deck instead of a jetted tub in the bathroom:

     Bathroom tub=girly man
     Hot tub on deck=horndog

But, I don't want a hot tub on the deck, at least not now. There are three reasons: 1) I can't afford to put a hot tub on the deck. 2) While the kids are little, there would be safety concerns about a hot tub. And c) in a few years, when the kids are teenagers, I wouldn't want it to attract the horndogs and the hoochie-mamas.

I would love to have one of these at the house, but I'm afraid it would attract the horndogs and the hoochie-mamas.

So, we don't have a hot tub, just the jetted tub in the bathroom. Unfortunately, now that we have the two kids it is becoming more and more difficult to find the time to take my therapeutic soaks. "Nap time" is often more of an abstract concept than an actual reality. Also, The Girl has learned to move stealthily enough that I can't always hear her in the baby monitor. Plus, both kids have mastered the art of doorknob operation. (Things were so much easier when they couldn't open doors!) Any time I try to bathe now, I'm always on edge. And my knees are suffering for it.

Last week I finally had a perfect opportunity for a good bath. The kids were down for naps, and were both actually sleeping! The Wife was home, working on some schoolwork, and said she would take care of them if they woke up. So, I drew a bath. [Rant Alert: "Drew a bath?" What kind of stupid expression is that? What, do I suddenly have to become an artist to be able to get water in the tub? That may be the dumbest phrase I have ever heard! End rant]

I got in the tub, filled it with water, and started to soak. I had the bedroom door closed, but the door from the bathroom to the bedroom open to keep some air circulating. I had just started to relax when I heard it. "MMROWULLL!" I had shut the cat in the bedroom. "MMROWULLL!" She wanted out. When our cat "talks," she sounds like someone is putting a fork through her foot. (This confuses The Boy, our 2-year-old. He is learning from books that cats say "meow," but his real-world experience is that they say "MMROWULLL!")

Instead of a nice, relaxing bath, I got to spend the next ten minutes listening to our caterwauling cat.

I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get another uninterrupted soak. Maybe there is some way I could make it into the NFL so I can use their "whirlpools" and "spas." I can be a tough guy. (I wonder if they'll let me bring my toy boat.)

On Being a Father

PART 1: BARF
I woke up on Father's Day to the sound of my wife yelling at me.

Well, she wasn't actually yelling at me. She was yelling for me. They had let me sleep in, and The Wife was sitting on the love seat, playing on the laptop computer. And then, four-year-old Roni walked up to her, gave a little cough, and puked all over her, the laptop, the love seat, and the floor.

That's when the yelling started. I came stumbling around the corner, half asleep. The Wife gave me a choice: I could take Roni and clean her up, or I could clean up the laptop, the love seat, and the floor. Not being stupid, I chose Roni. I wiped a little bit of barf off of her nightgown, then threw her into the tub. Meanwhile, The Wife was stuck cleaning the vomit off of herself and everything else. (Unfortunately, we have since found that laptop computers don't take well to high volumes of vomit in their keyboards.)

The Wife then spent much of the rest of the day apologizing to me for making me clean Roni up on Father's Day. ("It's Father's Day. You shouldn't have to do that.") The Wife is sweet. First of all, she did the vast majority of the cleanup. Second of all, I wasn't the one who was vomited on. And thirdly, what kind of father would I be if I didn't help clean up my daughter's barf, Father's Day or not?

PART 2: DUCK
Being a father certainly has its ups and downs. For every new word learned or unexpected hug, there is a puke clean up or diaper poop-through. The key is that the highs are definitely worth wading through the lows.

I find myself really enjoying the times the kids surprise me. Years ago, my brother started a little family tradition. When riding in a car with my sister's kids, he would tell them they needed to duck whenever they went under a bridge so they wouldn't hit their head. Being naive, gullible children of the 80s, they believed him, and would duck whenever they went under a bridge.

A few years later, my brother had his own kids. They were hardened, cynical children of the 90s, and when they were told to duck when going under a bridge, they balked and (rightfully) said they were in no danger of hitting their heads.

So, the other day, I decided to pass this little family tradition on to my own kids. As I was taking the kids to the library for story time, we had to go under the freeway. I said, "We're going under a bridge. You have to duck so you won't hit your head." My kids, being free thinking kids of the 21st Century, heard the word "duck" and started to quack.

"Quack, quack, quack!" they said.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
Roni answered, "There's a duck under the bridge. Quack! Quack!" Buzz then joined in with several "quacks" of his own.

And since that day, whenever we go under a bridge, either one of them might just start randomly quacking. And every time they do, I shake my head and smile. (I love it when they make me smile.)

PART 3: HAIR
I like to think I'm a good father. I do at least some of everything that needs to be done for the kids. I feed them. I change diapers. I bathe them. I do their laundry. I take them to story time at the library. (I'm usually the only father there.) I read to them. I read with them. I play toys with them. I clean up after them. Could I do all of those things better? Of course I could. But I try hard, and do a pretty good job.

But, there's one thing I don't do. I can't do my daughter's hair. Oh, I'll bathe her, wash her hair, and comb her hair, but I just can't seem to fix her hair. The problem is, doing a little girl's hair involves putting rubber bands into her hair.

I've been shown how to do this several times by The Wife and her sister. They make it look easy. All you have to do is twist the rubber band around three or four times and put Roni's hair through it. It sounds simple. It looks simple. Unfortunately, the little rubber band starts at about a quarter of the size of a dime. (That's very small.) And then I'm expected to twist this little thing over around on itself three or four times with my large, sausage fingers? I don't think so!

And even if I manage to get the rubber band twisted, I still have to put it in her hair. I'm sorry, but I always try to not hurt my daughter. Pulling her hair to put a rubber band in it just seems mean. So, it's pretty easy to tell the days that I am in charge. They are the days that Roni looks like a ragamuffin. (It makes me appreciate Buzz that much more. Boy hair is easy.)


In conclusion, I wouldn't give up being a dad for anything in the world. It's never going to be easy. There are always going to be surprises, whether they be bad (puke on a laptop) or good (quacking under a bridge). I just have to keep trying my best to do all I can to help them grow to become good people. (And hope that someday Roni will forgive me when she looks back at pictures from this time-frame and sees that I let her out of the house with her hair looking like that.)