Recently we filled the one vacant office we had in our office complex with a woman who does therapy and massage for crazy or sad people. One of her conditions of leasing with us was that all the doors have locks on them, presumably so that I don't accidentally stumble in during a confessional looking for rent money or a free massage or something, violating confidentiality of the patient, and HIPAA regulations and whatnot. So during all this, I realized I had no idea where the key to her office was. The last guy that rented that office never had a key because he had no secrets, and so I was very concerned that the key was just gone.
I eventually found the key, on my keychain, where it had been for the last four years, and I had no idea what it was or what it opened. This was fortunate because otherwise I would have had to go buy a new lock for the door, and take out the old lock, and I am about as mechanically inclined as your average retarded 6 year old. Basically I have 5 techniques for fixing things, and if these don't work then more or less the thing stays broken.
1.) Turn it off and turn it back on- This is my only option for computer type things. If turning off and then turning back on doesn't work, I give up and go take a nap.
2.) Whacking the side of it- This doesn't work very often, but i do get to take out some aggression and sometimes it actually makes the picture on the TV come back.
3.) Threatening it- There's nothing like swearing at the oven or a TV tray to let it know you aren't messing around and it had better figure itself out soon, because you mean business.
4.) Sticking your finger in there and swishing it around-This works more often than you might imagine, because sometimes dust and dead bugs are causing the problem, but it also sometimes leads to painful electric shocks. Those are just a hazard you have to live with when fixing things. My mom told me that one time she got a shock and it flung her backwards 5 feet. I've never seen something like that but I want to.
5.) Asking my wife- She can usually fix something in 3 minutes that it's taken me an hour to break worse.
I think the point is that things should never break around me.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
The Worst Therapy Dog Ever
One time when I was a kid there was this clown at this kid's birthday party. The clown was very overweight, he couldn't make balloon animals, he didn't have anything fun to say, and he started to sweat off his makeup about 15 minutes into the party so by the end he wound up looking more like the Joker from Batman, except instead of trying to poison the entire party via a large parade balloon, he just sat in a chair and smoked a cigar. He was pretty much the worst clown ever. Normally you don't get to meet the worst anything ever, so it was somewhat interesting that on our vacation up North, to Bay Lake, we met another "worst".
We were sitting in the lodge eating, when I heard a muffled barking sound. I went outside and there was a little weiner dog chained to the deck, with an enormous, canvas muzzle on that covered his whole beak, with just a little hole for his nose. It looked like a sideways ice cream cone with a dog in it. The dog looked angry. A person walked by and said, "That's Sigmund. The muzzle is to make him not be able to bark." I found this odd considering he was clearly barking during her whole sentence. Then she said, "He's training to be a therapy dog." I was really surprised by this, but I figured maybe Sigmund was just a little aggravated because he was chained to the deck, so I reached my hand over so he could sniff it through the bottom of the ice cream cone. Sigmund snarled and backed away. I thought to myself, "This therapy dog sucks ass," and I walked off. Sigmund continued to bark constantly even though he wasn't supposed to be able to.
Throughout the weekend I saw Sigmund frequently, since we were on an island he wasn't going anywhere. He was always looking angry and barking or snarling at people, and he began taking little runs at the kids, presumably determined to bite their toes off. I heard he actually nipped somebody. Over the course of the vacation, it became obvious that Sigmund was the worst therapy dog ever. If I was some poor little kid suffering a debilitating disease, and they sent Sigmund in to play with me, I would just figure that the forces of evil were conspiring against me, and quickly die so they wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing Sigmund bite my ventilator hose in two.
I am now of the belief the Sigmund was a "reverse therapy" dog, so if you were too happy all the time or something, you could send Sigmund in to bite your toes off and get you back on an even keel. Some people need a Sigmund I think.
We were sitting in the lodge eating, when I heard a muffled barking sound. I went outside and there was a little weiner dog chained to the deck, with an enormous, canvas muzzle on that covered his whole beak, with just a little hole for his nose. It looked like a sideways ice cream cone with a dog in it. The dog looked angry. A person walked by and said, "That's Sigmund. The muzzle is to make him not be able to bark." I found this odd considering he was clearly barking during her whole sentence. Then she said, "He's training to be a therapy dog." I was really surprised by this, but I figured maybe Sigmund was just a little aggravated because he was chained to the deck, so I reached my hand over so he could sniff it through the bottom of the ice cream cone. Sigmund snarled and backed away. I thought to myself, "This therapy dog sucks ass," and I walked off. Sigmund continued to bark constantly even though he wasn't supposed to be able to.
Throughout the weekend I saw Sigmund frequently, since we were on an island he wasn't going anywhere. He was always looking angry and barking or snarling at people, and he began taking little runs at the kids, presumably determined to bite their toes off. I heard he actually nipped somebody. Over the course of the vacation, it became obvious that Sigmund was the worst therapy dog ever. If I was some poor little kid suffering a debilitating disease, and they sent Sigmund in to play with me, I would just figure that the forces of evil were conspiring against me, and quickly die so they wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing Sigmund bite my ventilator hose in two.
I am now of the belief the Sigmund was a "reverse therapy" dog, so if you were too happy all the time or something, you could send Sigmund in to bite your toes off and get you back on an even keel. Some people need a Sigmund I think.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Terrible Games
While we were up in Duluth last weekend, my son and I invented a really terrible game called "RockWeiner". Essentially the rules of RockWeiner are that you whip a Lake Superior rock at your opponent's weiner, and then he whips a rock at your weiner. This continues for an indeterminate number of turns, until you realize that getting hit in the weiner with a rock will hurt and you find something potentially less painful to do. It may be the worst game ever invented.
With that in mind, I'd like to review a list of things I played as a kid that I hope my kids never get thrust into.
1.) Shoot the Moose- A really horrible game invented by my across the street neighbor. One of you was the moose, and ran around the backyard aimlessly, and the other person was the hunter and that person stood someplace using his finger as a gun and made gun noises with his mouth to simulate shooting a moose. It always became contentious because it was difficult to prove that your invisible bullets had actually hit the moose, or if they had merely ricocheted off the moose's hoof. Nobody ever won.
2.) Find the Fart- A stupid game that ignored the obvious fact that fart smells vanish quickly. The object of this game was to fart, play a little Nintendo for a while, and then go roam the house trying to find where the fart had floated off to, so periodically you'd see me and somebody else walking around the dining room sniffing the air. One time I actually thought I found the fart, but alas, it was only a cat doo-doo in the corner (Side note: I didn't pick up the doo-doo)
3.) Potion Making- An obvious precursor to the concept of Potions class in the Harry Potter series, this dumb game involved taking every single ingredient in the kitchen, mixing it into a bowl filled with Diet Coke, or Milk or something, sniffing it and recoiling in horror, and then leaving the bowl sitting on the counter because you thought of something better to do, so your mom would find it, sniff it, and recoil in horror 3 hours later. Cinnamon, worcestershire sauce, cardamom seeds, salt, mustard, toothpaste, vodka, evaporated milk, cooking wine, pee, dish soap, toaster leavings, liquid smoke, cat food, ranch dressing, Ken Davis BBQ sauce, vanilla, pickle brine, and a dead fly all mixed together makes for an interesting bouillabaisse.
4.) Drink a glass of Hot Water- Fairly self explanatory, pretty stupid.
5.) Play in a Sandbox Full of Poop- This game didn't really get invented, it happened more by circumstance, again over at my neighbor's house. I think my parents used to send me over there as punishment or something. But we were playing in the sandbox, and I remarked that it smelled really bad, and he replied, rather nonchalantly, "Oh, that's because there's cat poop and dog poop and raccoon poop in it," and then just kept playing in it. It was troubling.
6.) Trampoline Wrestlemania- This game was more dangerous than stupid. My friend had the only trampoline in the neighborhood back in the day, and although his parents had concocted numerous safety rules that were posted on the door by the trampoline, apparently pitching 9 year olds off head first into a snowbank or the sidewalk was perfectly fine. It was convenient that there was a 9 year old in the neighborhood who was OK with being thrown off the tramp onto his head, but still I don't want my kids doing that.
7.) Burn stuff on the Space Heater- A stupid idea to begin with, this game eventually devolved into "Pee on the Space Heater and See What Happens". What happens is that the odor of boiling hot urine is so strong you can't even go downstairs for 3 days and you have to throw away the space heater and your parents are really mad at you, so you try to blame the cat but it doesn't work.
8.) Toilet Baseball Cards- A poorly thought out way to kill the value of your 1987 Topps Baseball Card set. You would sit in the den and flip baseball cards towards the bathroom. If you curved them just perfectly they might even land right in the toilet which meant they never had to play again. It was like getting into the Hall of Fame. But actually making it into the bathroom was pretty good too, along with landing someplace weird like in someone's shoe, in the sink or the shower, or getting stuck in the baseboards. The really irritating part about this game was picking up all the cards afterward, so that rarely happened.
9.) Kill Darts- The object of this ill conceived game is to throw heavy, metal tipped darts from close range as hard as you can at your sister's dolls. If the dart hits the doll squarely in the forehead and sticks there, it's a kill dart. If you miss and poke a bunch of holes in your thinly sheetrocked bedroom, well that's pretty awesome too.
10.) The Old Lady Basketball Association (OLBA)- A remarkably dumb idea I invented using all the bad things I knew about old ladies, and a Nerf Hoop. The teams had names like "The Dehydrated Boobs", "The Raisin Pusses", and "The Soggy Depends", and most games somebody would die running down the court because they were so old, so each team always needed at least one sub because of all the frequent death involved. Other than that, it was just your ordinary 1 person playing alone competitive basketball game.
So yeah, I'm really, really hoping my kids find something better to do with their time, because otherwise they might end up like me, and that would be pretty stupid too.
With that in mind, I'd like to review a list of things I played as a kid that I hope my kids never get thrust into.
1.) Shoot the Moose- A really horrible game invented by my across the street neighbor. One of you was the moose, and ran around the backyard aimlessly, and the other person was the hunter and that person stood someplace using his finger as a gun and made gun noises with his mouth to simulate shooting a moose. It always became contentious because it was difficult to prove that your invisible bullets had actually hit the moose, or if they had merely ricocheted off the moose's hoof. Nobody ever won.
2.) Find the Fart- A stupid game that ignored the obvious fact that fart smells vanish quickly. The object of this game was to fart, play a little Nintendo for a while, and then go roam the house trying to find where the fart had floated off to, so periodically you'd see me and somebody else walking around the dining room sniffing the air. One time I actually thought I found the fart, but alas, it was only a cat doo-doo in the corner (Side note: I didn't pick up the doo-doo)
3.) Potion Making- An obvious precursor to the concept of Potions class in the Harry Potter series, this dumb game involved taking every single ingredient in the kitchen, mixing it into a bowl filled with Diet Coke, or Milk or something, sniffing it and recoiling in horror, and then leaving the bowl sitting on the counter because you thought of something better to do, so your mom would find it, sniff it, and recoil in horror 3 hours later. Cinnamon, worcestershire sauce, cardamom seeds, salt, mustard, toothpaste, vodka, evaporated milk, cooking wine, pee, dish soap, toaster leavings, liquid smoke, cat food, ranch dressing, Ken Davis BBQ sauce, vanilla, pickle brine, and a dead fly all mixed together makes for an interesting bouillabaisse.
4.) Drink a glass of Hot Water- Fairly self explanatory, pretty stupid.
5.) Play in a Sandbox Full of Poop- This game didn't really get invented, it happened more by circumstance, again over at my neighbor's house. I think my parents used to send me over there as punishment or something. But we were playing in the sandbox, and I remarked that it smelled really bad, and he replied, rather nonchalantly, "Oh, that's because there's cat poop and dog poop and raccoon poop in it," and then just kept playing in it. It was troubling.
6.) Trampoline Wrestlemania- This game was more dangerous than stupid. My friend had the only trampoline in the neighborhood back in the day, and although his parents had concocted numerous safety rules that were posted on the door by the trampoline, apparently pitching 9 year olds off head first into a snowbank or the sidewalk was perfectly fine. It was convenient that there was a 9 year old in the neighborhood who was OK with being thrown off the tramp onto his head, but still I don't want my kids doing that.
7.) Burn stuff on the Space Heater- A stupid idea to begin with, this game eventually devolved into "Pee on the Space Heater and See What Happens". What happens is that the odor of boiling hot urine is so strong you can't even go downstairs for 3 days and you have to throw away the space heater and your parents are really mad at you, so you try to blame the cat but it doesn't work.
8.) Toilet Baseball Cards- A poorly thought out way to kill the value of your 1987 Topps Baseball Card set. You would sit in the den and flip baseball cards towards the bathroom. If you curved them just perfectly they might even land right in the toilet which meant they never had to play again. It was like getting into the Hall of Fame. But actually making it into the bathroom was pretty good too, along with landing someplace weird like in someone's shoe, in the sink or the shower, or getting stuck in the baseboards. The really irritating part about this game was picking up all the cards afterward, so that rarely happened.
9.) Kill Darts- The object of this ill conceived game is to throw heavy, metal tipped darts from close range as hard as you can at your sister's dolls. If the dart hits the doll squarely in the forehead and sticks there, it's a kill dart. If you miss and poke a bunch of holes in your thinly sheetrocked bedroom, well that's pretty awesome too.
10.) The Old Lady Basketball Association (OLBA)- A remarkably dumb idea I invented using all the bad things I knew about old ladies, and a Nerf Hoop. The teams had names like "The Dehydrated Boobs", "The Raisin Pusses", and "The Soggy Depends", and most games somebody would die running down the court because they were so old, so each team always needed at least one sub because of all the frequent death involved. Other than that, it was just your ordinary 1 person playing alone competitive basketball game.
So yeah, I'm really, really hoping my kids find something better to do with their time, because otherwise they might end up like me, and that would be pretty stupid too.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Brian the Plumber.
The other day I was sitting around at work picking my nose, hand picking Russian mail order brides off the internet, and occasionally working. I was doing this all in sock feet by the way, because shoes are jerks.
Anyway, as I was doing all these semi-important things, an angry looking woman walks down the stairs into our offices, stares at me suspiciously, enters our bathroom, and proceeds to take what must have been a painful, complicated dookie, because she was in there for about 20 minutes, and when she came out she was sweating and her hair looked like Nick Nolte's mugshot. She then eyed me suspiciously again, ran her hands through her hair, and walked back up the stairs. This surprised me, because as far as I know, our restroom is not open to the public.
After verifying with the mortgage guy who offices with us that she was not a client of his, I began to get concerned that homeless people had found our bathroom and were now going to try to live in there, and I have shy kidneys so it wouldn't be practical. While I was thinking about where else I could pee from now on, I heard a loud dripping noise coming from the bathroom recently vacated by the woman of unknown origin. When I walked in to check it out I saw that there was a fairly heavy stream of yellowish water cascading down from the ceiling vent onto the floor, like a uriney waterfall. This was not normal, so I stood there and scratched my head, to at least give the impression that I was trying to figure out what was going on. I decided to walk upstairs to see if I could find the source.
Our upstairs tenants are a bunch of counselors, and from what I could tell they were all in session because al of their respective doors were closed. Strangely, the bathroom was also closed. I knew this because someone had taped a rudimentary sign to the door which said, "Closed". I knocked on the door to make sure some counselor was counseling a weirdo about how to urinate efficiently or something. When I was sure there was nobody in there, I opened the door. What I saw was not promising, and by not promising I mean the toilet was overflowing all over the floor and there was standing pee-water everywhere. I was pleased that I had located the source, but also irritated that somebody would plug the toilet, and not have the common decency to plunge it before a flood happened, especially considering there was a plunger located 3 inches away from the toilet. Instead, they thought the best recourse would be to shut the door and pretend it didn't exist. So I sloshed over (in socks mind you) and shut off the toilet valve, and then I ran back downstairs to see if this would slow the waterfall, which it did. So then I went back upstairs.
When I got back up, I noticed the door was shut again, which was weird because I hadn't shut it. I knocked again, and an elderly voice said, "I'm in here! I'm using the bathroom even though it says closed. You may need to plunge!" I said, "What the fuck are you doing using a broken potty you dumb old idiot. Get out of there now before I strangle you with your own Depends!!" Actually I only thought that, what I said was "OK." So I go stand in the lobby and pretend to read mail, because this is all making me uncomfortable. After a couple minutes, she shuffles out and says, "Hello? Maintenance?" I assume she means me. I step around the corner, staring at her critically. She is at least 140 years old, is using a walker with tennis balls on the bottom, and is wearing a fur coat, complete with stole, even though it is like 92 degrees and humid outside. She looks at me and reiterates, "You're going to need to plunge." I kill her, throw her in the woods, and pawn her fur coat for crack (OK not true).
I walk back in to the bathroom and am overcome with an odor of dead skunks, parfum de couer, and metamucil, with a little pestilence mixed in for good measures. This decaying old woman has pooped in the broken toilet. This complicates things. I am now forced to plunge not only water and urine, but also the semi-solid droppings of an octogenarian's mom. I am not pleased. I flush the toilet and begin plunging. I am not pleased. A giant hunk of toilet paper pops out. Not pleased. Poopy wizz water splashes on my arm. Not pleased. The water all goes down after about six plunges. Really not pleased. I spend 15 minutes sopping up the water on the floor. I am wet. This is bad.
As it turns out our bathroom ceiling has a little discoloration on it
but nothing major so that's fortunate. But Good Lord, if you're going to flood the toilet, fix it, and please don't crap in it even if you are extremely old and wearing fur. Yuck!
Anyway, as I was doing all these semi-important things, an angry looking woman walks down the stairs into our offices, stares at me suspiciously, enters our bathroom, and proceeds to take what must have been a painful, complicated dookie, because she was in there for about 20 minutes, and when she came out she was sweating and her hair looked like Nick Nolte's mugshot. She then eyed me suspiciously again, ran her hands through her hair, and walked back up the stairs. This surprised me, because as far as I know, our restroom is not open to the public.
After verifying with the mortgage guy who offices with us that she was not a client of his, I began to get concerned that homeless people had found our bathroom and were now going to try to live in there, and I have shy kidneys so it wouldn't be practical. While I was thinking about where else I could pee from now on, I heard a loud dripping noise coming from the bathroom recently vacated by the woman of unknown origin. When I walked in to check it out I saw that there was a fairly heavy stream of yellowish water cascading down from the ceiling vent onto the floor, like a uriney waterfall. This was not normal, so I stood there and scratched my head, to at least give the impression that I was trying to figure out what was going on. I decided to walk upstairs to see if I could find the source.
Our upstairs tenants are a bunch of counselors, and from what I could tell they were all in session because al of their respective doors were closed. Strangely, the bathroom was also closed. I knew this because someone had taped a rudimentary sign to the door which said, "Closed". I knocked on the door to make sure some counselor was counseling a weirdo about how to urinate efficiently or something. When I was sure there was nobody in there, I opened the door. What I saw was not promising, and by not promising I mean the toilet was overflowing all over the floor and there was standing pee-water everywhere. I was pleased that I had located the source, but also irritated that somebody would plug the toilet, and not have the common decency to plunge it before a flood happened, especially considering there was a plunger located 3 inches away from the toilet. Instead, they thought the best recourse would be to shut the door and pretend it didn't exist. So I sloshed over (in socks mind you) and shut off the toilet valve, and then I ran back downstairs to see if this would slow the waterfall, which it did. So then I went back upstairs.
When I got back up, I noticed the door was shut again, which was weird because I hadn't shut it. I knocked again, and an elderly voice said, "I'm in here! I'm using the bathroom even though it says closed. You may need to plunge!" I said, "What the fuck are you doing using a broken potty you dumb old idiot. Get out of there now before I strangle you with your own Depends!!" Actually I only thought that, what I said was "OK." So I go stand in the lobby and pretend to read mail, because this is all making me uncomfortable. After a couple minutes, she shuffles out and says, "Hello? Maintenance?" I assume she means me. I step around the corner, staring at her critically. She is at least 140 years old, is using a walker with tennis balls on the bottom, and is wearing a fur coat, complete with stole, even though it is like 92 degrees and humid outside. She looks at me and reiterates, "You're going to need to plunge." I kill her, throw her in the woods, and pawn her fur coat for crack (OK not true).
I walk back in to the bathroom and am overcome with an odor of dead skunks, parfum de couer, and metamucil, with a little pestilence mixed in for good measures. This decaying old woman has pooped in the broken toilet. This complicates things. I am now forced to plunge not only water and urine, but also the semi-solid droppings of an octogenarian's mom. I am not pleased. I flush the toilet and begin plunging. I am not pleased. A giant hunk of toilet paper pops out. Not pleased. Poopy wizz water splashes on my arm. Not pleased. The water all goes down after about six plunges. Really not pleased. I spend 15 minutes sopping up the water on the floor. I am wet. This is bad.
As it turns out our bathroom ceiling has a little discoloration on it
Friday, June 28, 2013
Long Power Outages Would Make Me Die
- Complaining how hot it was constantly, and consequently trying to figure out a way to live in the refrigerator until my wife told me not to do that anymore.
- Getting lost in the darkness of my own living room (although this merits an explanation. I was sitting playing Candy Crush on the love seat when I felt what appeared to be a large, probably venomous insect crawling on my shoulder, although it might have been a dog hair or something since I couldn't see it. So I got scared, brushed off my shoulder, and hopped over to the couch. Then after a while, I turned off the IPad and started off to bed, except I had forgotten that I had switched furniture. Since it was pitch dark, and since I believed I was on the love seat, which faces the hall towards my bedroom, I figured I'd just go straight and eventually get there. But since I was actually on the couch, which was perpendicular to the love seat, what I wound up doing is walking directly into a wall, penis first. This perplexed me, as I did not remember a wall being on the way to my bedroom, and so I panicked a little, and in panicking a little, I walked into the wall again, penis first. So then I really got scared, and scrambled back to where I was sitting before, possibly stepping on a cat or other medium sized animal in the process. I had to turn my IPad back on and use it as a defacto flashlight to find my bed.)
- Fed the children old candy collected from the Farmington Dew Days Parade + Halloween and Easter for breakfast because we had no milk and no way to cook anything.
- Pushed the garage door opener 300 times before I realized that it wouldn't work without power
- Started searching the house for burlap or any other type of rugged fabric I might use to make clothes in case everything else was dirty at some point.
- Started plotting which pet we'd have to eat first if food ran out.
- Trying to remember what Tom Hanks did to survive on that island, besides having a pet volleyball.
- Pushed the garage door opener several more times again.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Styrofoam Airplanes and Fist Fights
Over the past couple of months, our childrens' relationship with each other has gotten a little tenuous to say the least. I understand they are growing older, and becoming more independent and whatnot, but really it's a much different time now compared to when my daughter was acting as a translator for my son, who is 16 months younger.
Then:
Her (announcing to the cashier at the gas station): This is my brother Miles. He says "Ball" and "Hi". C'mon buddy let's go.
Him: Da ba.
Now:
Me: Well, both your teachers said you were doing an excellent job at school!
Him: But I'm doing better. She stinks at math. She doesn't even know what 12000 X 5 is.
Her: No, I'm doing better. He can't even read very good. He's in level E.
Me: Um, you guys are in different grades working on different things. It's not a competition. I'm just saying that I'm proud because both your teachers said you were doing well.
Him: But I'm much better. She's stupid.
(A loud, screaming fistfight ensues)
It's gotten a little ridiculous at times:
Him (after the revelation that Bella needs glasses): Bella is worse because she can't see good. She's blind like an old lady. I see great, so I'm better.
(A loud, screaming fistfight ensues)
So with that in mind, on a beautiful Sunday Father's Day morning, the children came up to give me some presents. All went well until we got to the jug of red flavored Kool-Aid mix for my Sodastream. I had my eyes closed so I couldn't really see the action, but from what I gathered, both of them had staked a claim on giving me the juice mix, and a loud, screaming fistfight ensued when they could not come to an amicable solution and a large jug of Kool-Aid mix got unceremoniously chucked onto my foot, which hurt a lot, because I wasn't expecting anything to get chucked onto my foot.
After a few swear words (by me) and a harsh lecture (by my wife), soon things were back to being somewhat civil. Being idiots, we figured things would remain that way, so we decided to head off to a park to test out another present they got me; one of those big styrofoam airplanes that you can throw, and that will occasionally catch an updraft and fly on top of a building. This was a recipe for problems, but we were too naive to notice.
We got to the park and everyone was all excited about the prospect of a big giant airplane flying around. Being talented, I made the first throw, and the airplane sailed through the air and made a perfect landing about 50 yards away. This instilled false confidence in the children that they could do the same even though I am much taller and much more coordinated. My daughter's first throw went about 2 feet and crashed into the grass. This prompted some mocking from the 7 year old peanut gallery ("HAHA Bella, you stink!"), and a reminder from the big people to say something "positive". (Side note: Since we've been making a big deal about saying positive things, the most positive thing my son has been able to come up with in speaking about his sister is "You're sometimes OK". Quite the compliment there.)
Anyhow, then it was my son's turn, and he threw the airplane and somehow clipped his own head while doing so. This caused the plane to pitch awkwardly left and it came down, snout first, into the ground with such force that the wings popped off. For those of you in the know, having the wings pop off is the most structurally catastrophic thing that can happen to a styrofoam plane, because unlike chipping off the nose or a wing, which can be taped, having the wings pop off slowly makes the wingholes get larger, until finally the wings won't even stick in there anymore and just plop out. It's sort of like a hooker in that respect. Then you have to just give up and get rid of it, also sort of like a hooker.
So after a bunch of grounders and nosedives, my son lost a turn when he tried unsuccessfully to throw the plane back to my wife whose turn it was, and in the process nosedived it and made the wings pop off. This made him pout so he turned around and starting walking away, arms crossed and frowning. My wife made a low throw, and just as my son turned around, the airplane hit him directly in the face. He looked at her incredulously at first, but then he grabbed the plane, full of rage, and sprinted towards her, apparently with the intent of hitting her in the face, and not softly either. But being that he still hadn't figured out how to control the plane, he clipped his own ear and the plane crashed into the ground and the wings popped out. Then he ran away screaming. And then, Airplane Fun Time was over. After we lured him into the van with honey sticks, he and my daughter got into another loud, screaming fist fight about I'm not sure what. And that was that. Happy Father's Day to me!!
Then:
Her (announcing to the cashier at the gas station): This is my brother Miles. He says "Ball" and "Hi". C'mon buddy let's go.
Him: Da ba.
Now:
Me: Well, both your teachers said you were doing an excellent job at school!
Him: But I'm doing better. She stinks at math. She doesn't even know what 12000 X 5 is.
Her: No, I'm doing better. He can't even read very good. He's in level E.
Me: Um, you guys are in different grades working on different things. It's not a competition. I'm just saying that I'm proud because both your teachers said you were doing well.
Him: But I'm much better. She's stupid.
(A loud, screaming fistfight ensues)
It's gotten a little ridiculous at times:
Him (after the revelation that Bella needs glasses): Bella is worse because she can't see good. She's blind like an old lady. I see great, so I'm better.
(A loud, screaming fistfight ensues)
So with that in mind, on a beautiful Sunday Father's Day morning, the children came up to give me some presents. All went well until we got to the jug of red flavored Kool-Aid mix for my Sodastream. I had my eyes closed so I couldn't really see the action, but from what I gathered, both of them had staked a claim on giving me the juice mix, and a loud, screaming fistfight ensued when they could not come to an amicable solution and a large jug of Kool-Aid mix got unceremoniously chucked onto my foot, which hurt a lot, because I wasn't expecting anything to get chucked onto my foot.
After a few swear words (by me) and a harsh lecture (by my wife), soon things were back to being somewhat civil. Being idiots, we figured things would remain that way, so we decided to head off to a park to test out another present they got me; one of those big styrofoam airplanes that you can throw, and that will occasionally catch an updraft and fly on top of a building. This was a recipe for problems, but we were too naive to notice.
We got to the park and everyone was all excited about the prospect of a big giant airplane flying around. Being talented, I made the first throw, and the airplane sailed through the air and made a perfect landing about 50 yards away. This instilled false confidence in the children that they could do the same even though I am much taller and much more coordinated. My daughter's first throw went about 2 feet and crashed into the grass. This prompted some mocking from the 7 year old peanut gallery ("HAHA Bella, you stink!"), and a reminder from the big people to say something "positive". (Side note: Since we've been making a big deal about saying positive things, the most positive thing my son has been able to come up with in speaking about his sister is "You're sometimes OK". Quite the compliment there.)
Anyhow, then it was my son's turn, and he threw the airplane and somehow clipped his own head while doing so. This caused the plane to pitch awkwardly left and it came down, snout first, into the ground with such force that the wings popped off. For those of you in the know, having the wings pop off is the most structurally catastrophic thing that can happen to a styrofoam plane, because unlike chipping off the nose or a wing, which can be taped, having the wings pop off slowly makes the wingholes get larger, until finally the wings won't even stick in there anymore and just plop out. It's sort of like a hooker in that respect. Then you have to just give up and get rid of it, also sort of like a hooker.
So after a bunch of grounders and nosedives, my son lost a turn when he tried unsuccessfully to throw the plane back to my wife whose turn it was, and in the process nosedived it and made the wings pop off. This made him pout so he turned around and starting walking away, arms crossed and frowning. My wife made a low throw, and just as my son turned around, the airplane hit him directly in the face. He looked at her incredulously at first, but then he grabbed the plane, full of rage, and sprinted towards her, apparently with the intent of hitting her in the face, and not softly either. But being that he still hadn't figured out how to control the plane, he clipped his own ear and the plane crashed into the ground and the wings popped out. Then he ran away screaming. And then, Airplane Fun Time was over. After we lured him into the van with honey sticks, he and my daughter got into another loud, screaming fist fight about I'm not sure what. And that was that. Happy Father's Day to me!!
Friday, May 31, 2013
Raspberries and Slugs
You see, my grandmother was fairly indiscriminate about which berries she chose, and she couldn't see all that well, so consequently along with berries we got raspberry slugs that crawled around on the bushes too. I always made sure to pick off my slugs and throw them back in the patch because, and I can't really emphasize this enough, I didn't want to eat slugs. Not even a little.
My grandmother held no such reservations. I'm not sure it was her intent to eat slugs, but given her laissez-faire attitude towards things like this, I don't believe that even if she could have seen them that she would have bothered to flick them off. Too much work. She always told me, "You have to eat a pound of dirt in your life," so fuck it, why not eat a pound of slugs too?
So we'd go inside, wash our berries (and slugs), pour some half and half on them, and go to town. Raspberries and cream are a pretty tasty treat, but I will always have this disturbing image of sitting by my grandmother and watching her eat. She had this contented look on her face, seemingly at peace with all life around her, with a big toothy grin full of slugs. Specifically I remember staring directly at her mouth and watching slugs getting ground up into a nice raspberry, creamy, sluggy slurry. It never occurred to me to do what would logically be the polite thing to do and go, "Hey uh, you know you're eating a bunch of slugs right?" I don't know why. Didn't want to disturb the balance I guess.
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