Got Milk?

It has been 124 days since I lost my job, which amazingly enough is exactly the number of times I have pissed off my wife for being at home all day. I have tried to figure a way to hide, but it costs too much gas to ride around in the car all day, and the library has classified me as a loiterer. As it turns out, being unemployed is not nearly as enjoyable as I had remembered it. There is the obvious set of issues, like not having enough money to make the bills, not being able to afford basic necessities such as ice cream or decent coffee. There is the depression and fear. We have slashed our expenses to the bone. Still we struggle. 

A couple of weeks ago, a dairy farmer I know asked if I wanted to get out of the house for a couple of days and come visit him on the farm. It seemed like it would be interesting to learn how a dairy works, so I jumped at the chance. I went out to see the operation and as I was admiring the huge tractors, he offered to let me drive one! I was stoked. I had driven a little old tractor once, but these were much bigger and newer. I climbed up in the cab, got some instructions then went off to mow a field. It was quite large. One lap took about 20 minutes. However the sheer rush of being 10 feet in the air, choking on dust, smelling the exhaust of about 1700 head of cattle and feeling the roar of a big diesel engine beneath me was exhilarating. Before I knew it, I was singing songs. "Old MarkDonald mowed a farm...."followed by the theme song to "Green Acres." I felt like I was doing a decent job, and just as I started to regain some confidence that maybe could be a productive member of society again, THE TRACTOR BROKE! As I was turning the 8000 pound machine, it shuddered and the front tire popped off the rim. I called the farmer and he came out with another tractor and some tools and we took off the tire which turned out to just be old, so it was not really my fault. Just the same, I got sent home until it was fixed.

A day later I was summoned back to finish what I had started. Fortunately it went better this time round. The tractor did not have A/C and I had to endure the 130 degree cabin temperature. I was whining to myself about it when suddenly I had a vision, or maybe just a heat stroke induced hallucination of my uncle Kenneth laughing at me and ridiculing me about how when he was farming, the tractors did not have cabs, roofs, or windows, much less air conditioning, so I should shut my pie hole and man up.

I got the field mowed and asked if there was any other odd job I could do. The farmer was obliging and set me up with a tractor that had A/C and asked me to disc the field I had mowed earlier. This seemed like more fun, and I got to it. I started out in a section that had just had a few tons of manure, the green stuff spread all over it. I have heard it said that manure smells like money, so I must have been driving though a few million dollars. As I navigated the tractor through the bovine sewer, the cab got a lot darker. I looked out the back and side windows which were entirely coated by hundreds of thousands of flies. They were everywhere. I tried banging on the window but they were persistent. It was sort of creepy. I finished disc'ing that area and moved on. Still the flies clung to the glass. I do not know what came over me, but I lost all presence of mind and opened the door to try and wave them off with a rag. Boy howdy. Turns out the flies like air conditioning more than I do. I quickly closed the door but I now had 400 new friends who were content to hang on the ceiling and take turns flying up my nose. I got done for the day and went back home.

The next day I went to do more work in the fields. When I opened the tractor, about 200 of my friends were waiting for me, and wanting to know what I brought for breakfast. Turns out that they are big fans of continental breakfast, and they took over my zucchini muffin and tried to drink my coffee.

I  was doing a pretty good job, making good time, when suddenly the tractor lurched and seemed to get lighter. I looked out the window and saw that I had lost my disc apparatus about 50 yards back. I tried to get it reattached a pin had fallen out and it was soon apparent that I needed help. I called the farmer, who as it turns out had gone to town and he said I needed to get one of the other workers to help. Now, it might be important at this juncture to explain that possessing a working knowledge of the Spanish language is often very helpful on a farm in Colorado.  I found someone and tried to ask if he could help me. He gave me a blank stare, and so I tried to remember back to high school when I took a couple of years of Spanish.  I vaguely remembered this one word, "ayudame" which is pronounced something like 'ayeyoodahmay'. Unfortunately, I articulated it as 'eye YOU DAMN mee'. I do not know what I actually said, but the worker, looked at me and said "What da hell is wrong with you, gringo estúpido?" I did not have a good answer for him. He came and helped me get the disc attached again, then he told me he needed the tractor for a while, which I think is secret dairymen code for; "You have done enough damage for the day."

From Riches to Rags.

One week ago today, a coworker messaged me in the morning with the news that she had just been laid off. I felt badly for her and offered the standard lame encouragements; " In the long run you will be better off!" or "This place was not good enough for you anyway."
Well, no good intention goes unpunished. Half an hour before I was ready to go home for the day, a manager called me into their office and told me that due to poor quarterly earnings, I among many others were being released, effective immediately. I smiled and shook their hand and professionally and calmly said goodbye. And by professionally I mean I demanded a free corporate logo coffee mug from my boss in exchange for my company owned laptop. (Yes Nathali, I really did that.) I walked out of the building into sure oblivion, climbed into the car, and called home. My wife answered the phone rather testily and said; "WHAT do you want now?" Perceiving that she was having a bad day with the kids, I decided not to add to her troubles and just said that I loved her and even if I lost my job and we were dirt poor, that I was sure there would be some homeless shelter that would take her and the kids in. Then I hung up.

I drove home and tried to assure myself that I would find something soon, when a friend who runs a contracting company called me. He had heard that I was let go, and he proceeded to tell me how hard it was for people our age to find work again. Because that was really going to help. I told him another call was coming in and asked if he could hold. Then I hung up.

Everything would be fine. I would use this time to regroup, re-baseline, re-envision, and realign. This was a positive thing. I just knew it. In my heart of hearts, I KNEW it. KNEW IT! That is until 3:13 a.m. when I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming and holding two clumps of hair that I had just pulled off the sides of my head. I did not know what to do. There I was, heart pounding, alone in the dark, with no hope or sense of direction, crying out to the heavens for an answer. Suddenly there was a blinding light, and I felt a blanket of coldness all over me. Dessy had flipped on the light, poured a glass of ice water on my head and told me to chill out before the neighbors called the cops.

I got out of bed and started to look for jobs online. I filled out all the unemployment forms. I made plans. First, I would take this time to research a new career. I would lose a ton of weight (which I would need to do if I expected to fit into my good clothes for interviews). I would do more with the kids. I mentally calculated what amenities needed to be cut out so we would not lose the house. - (all of them!) I made a pot of coffee and tried to get some perspective. I drank it from my new mug.

As it turns out, once you fill out all the preliminary forms, you have a waiting period of a week or so where there really is not much you can do except clean out the house, the cars, the lawn, and the bank account. Nothing to do at all. Just wait, and try to not to get bored. So I have decided to do what I do best. Torture any poor soul who has the utter misfortune of crossing my path. Unfortunately this means my kids will suffer the most. They will bear the brunt of my boredom. They will be subject to the vast majority of my sarcasm.

Take Josh for example. He is actually getting very good at recognizing sarcasm and is starting to be a pro at delivering retorts. The first day of Daddy staying at home, he asked why I did not have a job? I told him that it was because I was a useless drain on society. He fired back, " Daddy, when will you die?"
Tonight, he was eating a slice of watermelon and mentioned that he had eaten a seed and he did not like the taste. I told him that if he ate a seed, it would grow in his belly and the leaves and vines would grow out his backside. He said; "Oh, I cannot wait for show and tell at school Friday!"
You cannot help but be proud.

As proud as I am, I am a terrible influence on him. the other day, as I drove him to school he told me that one of his favorite girl friends did not like him anymore. She was telling him he could not sit next to her. "Josh", I says, "The secret to getting a woman to like you is to ignore them. If you act like you do not know they are alive, the will chase you to the end of the earth. Don't be mean, just don't be nice." After class, Josh gets in the van and said that my plan did not work, the girl still did not sit next to him. I thought a moment, and said; "Maybe you should take up smoking Camel straights, chicks love a bad boy. Two days later, I get a call from his teacher on what constitutes appropriate parental guidance.

As I embrace this new phase of my life, I am looking forward to having lots of exciting stories to tell.

Preamble to Disaster, a Holiday Tale. Part Two.

Over the years I have struggled with the Holiday season. I keep trying to find the lost magic that I felt as a child. Perhaps the my memories are contorted from multiple head injuries, but there are soft focused visions of snowy Currier and Ives-like scenes with warm and fantastic Christmas parties complete with twinkling Christmas lights in the background and everyone there is smiling, looking splendid in their L.L. Bean sweaters, enjoying the crackling fire beneath the perfectly adorned hearth while sipping fine champagne.

In reality the holidays are very stressful to me, because I have the battle of reality vs. fanatasy. I am responsible for engineering and orchestrating this controlled yuletide train wreck and heaven forbid I screw it up and subject my kids to the reality that this is nothing more than building the foundation of deep seated feelings of sullen inadequacy and years of expensive psychotherapy.

So here we go.

Twas the night before Thanksgiving..... and at 9 oclock at night, I was standing in checkout line at Wal-mart with all the last minute supplies needed to for our dinner off to a great start. And by "dinner" I mean, the scene of the crash. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. put on a pot of coffee, and started to prepare the dinner. As fate would have it, I was forced to make another trip to the store. Let me tell you, Walmart at 5:50 in the morning is a much more pleasant place to shop than usual, because they have not started up the "Slovenly Fat Guy in Sweat Pants Parade™." yet, and most of the other undesirables you would normally encounter are still sleeping off their hangovers or have not bailed out from jail yet.

We made it through Thanksgiving without any episodes salmonella poisoning from undercooked bird. We did not eat to excess, and managed to not totally frighten or otherwise scar the minds of our two exchange students. Oh, had I forgotten to mention that? With the arrival of the new school year, we decided to join the university program that pairs families with foreign students, to allow them to have a family to adopt while they are so far from home. I think the idea is to foster a safe environment for cultural exchange, and to allow the homesick kids to have surrogate families who will love on them. There was a an application process and a background check but when we were awarded a couple of students anyway, I knew their vetting process was horrifically flawed.

For me, the Christmas season kicks off as soon as the dishes are cleaned up after the Thanksgiving dinner. I am not a fan of the "Black Friday" thng myself, mostly because the images of people fighting over a big screen TV, or pepper spraying each other to get the very last discounted Xbox, just muddies up the whole "Peace on Earth, Goodwill to all Men" concept. That being said, my wife is still bragging about how she loves her brand new Ipad. I hear the Octegenarian she sacked will get their broken hip replaced by New Years Day.

Each year I have specific rituals that I like to do, one is to watch the shows I have cherished since childhood, another is to read stories to the kids about the Nativity, as well as teach thm about other ways that people celebrate the holidays. My favorite activity is to go see the big Christmas light displays all over the region. We loaded up the van and headed down to Denver to see the biggest display, which I have missed in the past few years due to poor planning, illness, bad weather, and the like. On the way we detoured to see another famous display, and arrived at dusk, and sure enough, it was not on. We waited, drove around, came back and still no joy. Finally we saw the owner walking outside and I rolled down the car window to inquire about the time of the show only to be told that we were two weeks too early. As we drove away I am sure he heard my annoyed family asking why I did not check the website for show times.

Josh, the 4 year old has been getting very excited about the main event. He has been talking about Santa, and asking me daily if I know what is going to happen on Christmas eve. You can hear the excitement in his voice, because he loves the season. He sings holiday songs all the time, and I realized that I may have failed in the explaining of the Christmas holiday to my kids because Josh keeps alternatively singing "The Dreidl Song" and "Joy To The World!"

Inasmuch as Josh is really excited about Santa, he seems to have a certain sixth sense about who is and is not really Santa. The two of us were shopping for a Christmas tree the other night and as we walked into the store, there was an elderly man who did not appear to be in good health, sporting a shaggy greyish white beard, sitting in a wheel chair ringing a bell for a charity. He looked at Josh and in a feeble raspy voice wheezed, "I hear you have been a very good boy this year! Ho Ho heaghhh..." Then he touched his red and white Santa hat which lit up and played a greeting card quality digital version of "Jingle Bells." Josh Looked at me and whispered something that I did not discern. I asked him to repeat it and in a slightly louder than required tone he said, "Daddy, I smell pee pee. Can't we just go into the store now?" It seemed like a good time to usher Josh away and sheepishly mutter that we might be close to the stockyards, but we all knew that saving face was a ship that had sailed at this point. We found the fresh tree section and picked out a fine specimen that would grace our living room and provide fond memories for years to come. Yea, about that. I am a touch color blind and largely cannot discern greens from shades of brown. Apparently I picked out a tree that could best be described as in it's twilight years.

The tree was put up and we invited our host students over to have night of decorating and traditional holiday treats. Unfortunately, at least in our household of mixed cultures, this does not always shake out to be eggnog and sugar cookies. I need to put voice to an observation here. Indonesian food is neither festive nor Christmassy. I do not care what you think, serving up sambal terasi made out of blazing hot chilis and dried shrimp paste, with a side of plain white rice, is going to send Santa and all his reindeer packing for the north pole.

The kids decorated the tree, and all was good. Good that is, until one week before Christmas. That was when the tree up and died. It is dropping needles faster than faster than a heroin addict in a police raid. It is like a match waiting to give birth to a fireworks display. I want to take the thing down now but everyone says I should play the odds and see if we can hold out until Boxing day. It has me a bit rattled. We only have about a day and a half to go so maybe we won't become holiday news story.

With the big event only hours away, Christmas eve service in 4 hours, company arriving in this evening, the kids channeling their excitement into shrill squeals of delight, roast in the oven and about 6000 more cookies to bake before midnight, I want to wish you all a very warm and Merry Christmas, and I urge you all to sit back and think of the real reason for the season, and if that is not possible, imagine me, struggling to make the holiday brighter for my neighbors by adding a special touch to my driveway.

Preamble to Disaster, a Holiday Tale. Part one

Once again the holiday season is upon us. I know it is here, not so much due to the appearance of actual festive decorations at the stores,  (The Wal-mart had Christmas sales going 3 days before Halloween) but rather, because I have received my annual "Just In Time For Christmas" furlough notice from work. Well, this wouldn't have been so bad if I had more than 50 cents in my bank account, but with the upcoming holiday demandments causing my wallet to constantly hemorrhage cash, I have been wondering if my checking account will eventually bleed out.
Now, were it that sarcasm had any monetary value, it is conceivable that I would be a multi-millionaire, based purely on the sheer volume of venom that tends to flow from my lips. Unfortunately I have not seen many people lining up to compensate me for that unique talent. So I am destined to another month and a half of laying awake at night, worrying that on Christmas morning my poor children will give me the "Santa screwed us over and it is Daddy's fault" look.

Preparing To Be Thankful.
It is well known to those even moderately acquainted with me how I am a cheapskate of biblical proportions. I love the pre-Thanksgiving sales where you can get a 20 pound turkey for nine bucks. I fill the freezer with a few of them so we can have them throughout the year, much to the dismay of my family. I had a budget for about four birds this year and was about to make my move when an unexpected wrench was thrown into the works.

Someone at church had a flock of fresh hormone and preservative free, locust fed, all natural free range turkeys that they were selling. Dessy was all over this concept of having a chemical free Thanksgiving, and sent me to work out the details. I came prepared with questions like; "How do you pluck them?" and "Are they still alive?" I was imagining the horrified look on my kids faces as I tried to dispatch the turkey in the back yard with an axe then chase the headless blood spurting bird down the alley. I was assured that the bird was cleaned and ready to cook. It may have been prudent of me to do a little more research before making the purchase. By the time I got there, only one turkey was left. So I bought it. All 36 pounds of it.(That is about 16 kilos to you metric system adherents.) It was huge. I brought it home and put it right in the freezer.

We were set. Right?

It was three more days until Thanksgiving, and Dessy told me we should probably thaw the turkey. There are several ways to thaw a turkey, like soaking it in cool water, or thawing it in the refrigerator. I prefer the cool water method because it is faster. Dessy pointed out that the turkey looked too big for the sink, so I said that the next option was to soak it in the bath tub. We could combine it with the kids bath time to save water. I am assuming that the agitation provided by the children splashing around would help to thaw the bird faster. Once again, Dessy had to be the voice of reason here, and she declared that the thawing would be done in the refrigerator.

I took the turkey out of the freezer, and realized that maybe it was bigger than we had originally thought. It occurred to me that we may have some unforeseen issues here, not the least of which may be that we do not have the right equipment to make a bird this big. Dessy got out our large roasting pan, and of course it was overflowing on all sides. I tried to set the pan and bird combination on the lowest rack of the oven and it nearly touched the upper broiler element. We may have to do some creative thinking to successfully roast this bird, like having to set the oven to the "Clean" setting in order cook it all the way through.

To get the turkey to fit in the refrigerator, we actually had to take out a shelf. I Googled the proper way to thaw a bird and discovered that the standard rate of thaw is one day per 4 pounds which means that technically I should have put the bird in the fridge 7 days ago. So to help it along I ran an extension cord to the fridge, put my wife's curling iron in the cavity of the bird, plugged it in, then closed the door. Our dinner guests will be none the wiser except that my wife’s hair will smell like turkey guts and the stuffing will have overtones of burnt Asian hair.

Next comes the brining. The way I figure it, we do not have enough time to sequentially thaw, then brine the bird, so I need to combine the process. It occurred to me that we will need a lot of salt to brine something this big. I have a bag of ice melt out in the garage, but Dessy said to save it for the front walk when it snows again.  It also came to mind that if you add salt to water, it draws the heat out of the object in the water, much like making ice cream in a hand crank mixer. The wheels in my brain started cranking, and I came up with a plan. My folks still have a 300 gallon stock tank out in their barn. I can put the turkey in the tank, fill is with relatively clean well water, add a couple of the salt licks left over from when they owned a horse 20 years ago, and then plug in the tank heater to keep the water at a nice simmer. Drop in some potatoes and carrots a few hours before dinner and you are good to go. My plan makes for easy clean up too, we just hose  out the horse stall when we are done.

Happy Thanksgiving....Now on to Black Friday!

The Sins Of The Father.

No one I know thinks that I am a role model. I do not get invited to a lot of events because of my propensity to blurt out something horrible. So it is no wonder that my kids are at a disadvantage when it comes to appropriate speech. Even at church, people approach me warily and tell me how wonderful my kids are then I catch the look from them that implies that it is just a matter of time til I ruin any hope of them becoming pillars of the community.

My wife has some growing concerns and decided to approach me over the words that Johnnie the 23 month old has been articulating. Dessy was mortified that he has begun to voice terrible words and of course blames me. Fortunately I had good news for her, "Die die" is Johnnies way of saying "Tante Ari" and I explained that he was was not actually saying "Dumba$$ but rather talking about "Thomas," like in Thomas The Train which is one of his favorite shows.

Yesterday at church, I was approached 3 separate times by women who have been involved with the teaching of my son Josh. All 3 had glowing reports on what a wonderful child I have, how intelligent he is and how he remembers everything that is taught in class. I could not be more proud, right?

Well, that same evening I am sitting on the porch watching the boys play with the next door neighbor kids. As always the boys start roll playing and soon have their assigned roles as motorcycle daredevil and pit stop mechanic, or some other imaginative game. I was absorbed in my own thoughts when suddenly I heard the kids arguing over the roles. "I am the cop, You are the bad guy" or " I want to be the cop!" This went on for a few seconds then the kids kicked it up both in volume and intensity. The neighbor kid yells, "Imma COP." Josh yells back, "I'm the good guy, you're a bastard!" At first, I did not believe my ears, but I called Josh over and asked what he said and he confirmed it.

 I was trying to be stern when I told him we do not use those words, but I was not able to hold a straight face at all. As it turns out, he learned it from the neighbor kid, so I was off the hook for being the bad influence, at least this time anyway.

Things I probably should not have said at work this week.

It is only Tuesday, but already it has been a stressful week at work. Most of the people at my office are feeling the strain. Everyone has a different way of dealing with it. Some take lots of cigarette breaks. Others eat their way to inner peace. Some have a few drinks after work. Me, I do not like to let stress build up inside until it boils over. I prefer to let it out in the form of subtle passive-aggressive commentary.

So I give you, the printable version of things I have said at work so far this week.

1. "I am sorry, but it is difficult to take your suggestion seriously because it looks like your mommy dressed you this morning."
2. "I am sorry, am I making you nervous? No? Would you like me to?
3. "Hey Mark, have you taken a look at this problem Metric?" (Me) - "You're a problem metric!"
4. "If it were not for the fact that you would actually be better off, I would try to have you  fired."
5. "Wow. And you said that with such a straight face. OMG, you actually thought that was the solution!"
6. "Did you learn that at the Community College of Dumas?" (I made sure the 'S' was not silent.)
7. "I found a book on Amazon.com for you, "How to Pretend U iz Smart, For Dummies."
8. "The boss in 'Dilbert" was not meant to be a role model."
9 "I am sorry that you feel  that I do not respect you as a person or your work. But you are right, I don't."
10. "I don't want your thanks. If I needed accolades and positive affirmations I would still be working in the chorus line at the Moulon Rouge."

The Need For Restraint.

Hey Folks, I have added some new features to the blog. Hope you like the changes!

One of the reasons I am on the several govermental and neighborhood watchlists could be related to my propensity to blurt my thoughts. It gets me in trouble in everything from work meetings, to family life, to church and beyond.

Here is a partial list.

Earlier this week, Josh heard the Cicada's buzzing and asked why they do that. I told him they are calling their girlfriends in their special Cicada language. He replies, " Can I make that sound too?" I blurted, "Sure kid, why don't you go stand out front and holler up a prom date?"

Right before bed Josh tells me,"Daddy, I want to grow up when I am 4 and have a baby." Me: "Uhm,  maybe you should wait til you turn 6 and I will already be your grandpa."

Josh asked me why it is called Fathers Day. "Because today we go to the mall so he can pick out a new father."
One night just before bedtime Josh was in the bathroom and is squawking loudly. I actually heard myself bark out; " JOSH! Shut you mouth and brush your teeth!"

Laying in bed early morning I leaned over and kissed my wife Dessy. The older kid stumbles in and announces he cannot get the television to work. Candidate for Father of the Year reply? "Whaddya want from me, I can't even get your mother turned on!

Unfortunately, my 4 and a half year old Josh is a quick study. He has some snappy retorts of his own. A few nights ago, I pulled Josh up close and told him how much I love him.His reply- "Yeah but I wish you would make me a tortilla sandwich with some meat in it."

Two weeks ago, Josh was talking on the phone to his 3 year old cousin who was telling Josh about her day; "Amanda, if you keep talking long, I will have to do my blood pressure!"



Josh also has the ability to blurt with subliminal meanings. This morning I was showering and apparently started to sing some words from LMFAO, - the Party Rock song. Josh heard me and asked what I was talking about. I explained it and he said "O.K." but his inflection turned that simple acknowledgement to a totally different meaning. He really meant " Daddy, you are an overstuffed dork, and you need to stop singing songs that were meant for someone 1/4th of your age."


Now, sometimes my thoughts go beyond the normal vocalization and become actions. I am not sure which is worse, the action or the spoken word.

Case in point, I was asked by my wife to make hamburger meat on a stick for the boys. I mixed the meat, some spices, egg and Worcestershire sauce, then rolled them out, skewered them and put them in the oven to bake. The end result was less than appetizing and I hoped that the boys would polish them off. Two days later, one landed in my lunch and I was not interested in it at all and as a matter of fact I was disgusted by it. It needed to be out of the way, as I was on a conference call, and  I unthinkingly stuck it in my Christmas cactus on my desk then promptly forgot all about it.

A couple of more days pass, and I begin to smell something odd at my desk. It was not horrible, but strange enough to justify looking around for what was wrong. I found it.

I defy anyone to convince me that this does not look like anything but poo on a stick. Now I have a moral dilemma. Oh I could just toss this in the trash and be done with it. OR,
I could leave it in a conspicuous place in the elevator at work and have a HazMat team deployed. I guess that I need to make a decision soon because the stench is starting to make me want to say something. And we all know how that ends up.

The Scare

Wanna know how to get my blood pressure to set off alarms? Ask my wife, she has

perfected the process until it is nearly an art form. Last night I came home to

find her on the couch resting and complaining of having a headache, some nausea

then she went to bed early. This morning Dessy walks up to me right before I get

into the car, hands me some money and just before she starts to cry, asks me to

purchase a pregnancy test kit on the way home.

Time suddenly came to a screeching halt. The air became thick and I could smell

the acrid smell of urine and suddenly my socks were warm and wet. The only

sounds I could hear were the sounds of heartbeat increasing, and the tick, tock,

tick, tock from the clock on the wall. In the back of my mind I could hear a

faint cry of the infant to be.

After a minute or so I became aware that I was not breathing and had to force myself to inhale and mentally come back to the scene of this train wreck I call life.

I am in shock. I was willing to stay home with Dessy, but she did not want me to be late to work, so away I went, spending the entire hour long drive in deep thought.

I first thought about how I would be 70 years old when the little girl graduated high school. (Yeah, I imagined that it was a girl). Next I realized that I would have to take all the baby furniture that I had in the garage ready to sell back in the house. I started to worry about how I would need to stay awake for another year and a half. I calculated that I would now be paying an additional $4000 in diapers and wipes over the next two years.

I said goodbye to my dream of having a wide screen television and matching surround sound system.

But mostly I felt bad for my wife, who would be trapped for another 4 years before getting to really get to be free from 24 hour a day child care.

I was a nervous wreck at work. I tried to not be too conspicuous about my panic.

But as it turns out, other men know the smell of fear and down deep in some dark crevasse of innate knowledge they perceived what was going on. Then they all start grunting and offering advice. The least useful and most offensive tidbit offered was when one individual pulled a huge rusty set of scissors out of his desk and sneered, "Snip snip!"

The conversation then devolved into a discussion of everyone else's vasectomies and how hideously painful they were. After hearing the part about the cauterizing torch welding some poor guys bollocks to the operating table I decided to just head on over to the local farm supply store and get the ACME Goat Neutering device and do it myself. I figure it will be less pain and I can do it over the weekend in the back yard.

After sitting and sweating and worrying for a couple of hours my office phone rings. Dessy is calling, and I panic.  I wheeze out, "OH MY GOD are you in LABOR???" She said, “Don't worry hon, everything is fine. I just miscounted the days on my calendar.” I was dumbstruck. Relieved, but still. This was all because of a mistake in addition? My heart was still pounding. Dessy then said to me, "Is your heart racing? I bet that is the closest you have been to doing aerobics in years! Byeeee!" and she hung up.

Well, Dessy may not be pregnant, but I think I just had a cow.

Door to Door Solicitors.

You probably will find this hard to believe about me, but I do not have a welcome mat at my front door. If I could get away with having a moat filled with solicitor-eating alligators and piranhas, I would put it around my house in an instant.
It is not that I against having people visit our home, it is just that I have a "Zero Tolerance" attitude towards high pressure sales pitches. I do not always walk away with all my money intact, but I have the satisfaction that I have made them sing for their supper so to speak. 

I have been known to badger the heck out of politicians, religious zealots, vacuum cleaner salesman and magazine sales people. It really doesn't matter what the reason they show up on my step, if someone interrupts my solitude by ringing the doorbell, I get nasty. If they are selling something I demand to
see their vendor permit. If they are telling me I need to go to church I impudently dissect their particular theological standpoint to the point that they are willing to promise to switch to my religion, if I would just shut up and let then go home.
On that last point I can tell you, I know enough about religious practice that I can ask all the wrong questions.

Case in point; a month ago a teen shows up selling a Denver newspaper. I was in the back room when I heard the bell ring. By the time I made it to the door, my wife had already heard most of his sales pitch. I size up the kid, a skinny high school senior boy with glasses and all the confidence of mouse in a snake pit. Dessy turns to me and before she can tell me what she wants, I ask the kid why he is talking to my wife. "Are you asking her out on a DATE boy?" He sputtered out a weak "No Sir." and it was game on.

He started to explain that if we bought the paper we would get free tickets to a professional baseball game. I looked at him and told him that my religion prohibits participation in sports. He looked shocked and apologized. He then told me he was a member of a local church and that he was going on a mission trip to Africa this summer. I glare at him and bark out, "What do you plan to do? Go Westernize the feral’s? Aren't you afraid the dingo will eat your baybay" The kid looks a little scared and it is clear he does not know
the difference between Australia and Africa. So I ask the kid what his actual denomination was, be it Catholic, Hasidic or Hindu. The kid is starting to shake at this point. He hedges and says he believes in God and his church is non denominational. Me; "Which denomination is non denominational? Do you believe in like Jesus or something?" The kid: "Well we believe in god. A Christian god. Sir, would you like to buy a paper or not?"
Me: "What do you believe about your god? Is he in a building or in your heart?" The kid blurts out "NO, NO, God is in Everything!" I swoop in for the kill and said, "God is in everything? SO you ARE a Hindu!" At this point I think he pee'd a little and he said he heard God telling him to go home. So I paid for the subscription and released him back to the mean streets, which as it turns out were a lot safer than my front porch.

I figured that the word would spread and people would steer clear of my house. It was not to be.

Two weeks back my wife tells me that a representative from the internet provider showed up and informed her that we were paying too much for our internet and he could get her a deal where we got free cable tv for the same price. Now Dessy, she has been missing some of her favorite channels since we gave up cable 3 years ago. She loves the home and garden and cooking channels.
Last Friday, I get home from work n the table was a work order to have the service changed. Dessy said she was tired of the spotty reception we get with the rabbit ears antenna, and she wanted free cable. Yesterday a package was delivered and it held the cable tv box. I opened it up, and set about installing it. Just as I get started, Dessy decided I need to rearrange my home network and phone system. I pull out wires, replace cords, all that. It takes me about three hours and it is all reconnected and the tv set up. We sit back and turn on the tv. Nothing. Big blank Screen. I call the cable company and they ask me how I installed it. I told them in detail. The tech asks "Sir, did you take off such and such wire off the back of the converter?" Me; "Of course I did, what do you think I am, an idiot?"
Silence.
"No sir, you are not an idiot. Can you put that wire back where you found it?" I did, and it turned right on.

I sit back on the couch and with great satisfaction look at my adorable wife and ask her if she is happy to have more channels. Her response; "I don't really care as long as we get CBS." I was incredulous.
We got that just fine WITH THE ANTENNA!!!

Pain, Panic and the Preposterous

I like the cold. Love it actually. Winter is the best time of the year for me. I just get too excited whenever it starts to snow. I want to play. Sometimes the overwhelming compulsion of my zeal for silliness outweighs common sense. Late last December we had a nice little snowstorm in Colorado and in the course of watching the snow come down I had the most brilliant idea of running outside in bare feet and shorts to make snow angels in the back yard. Of course as soon as my bare feet hit the icy steps I tumbled down and cracked my knee pretty hard on the concrete stair below. It serves me right.

2 months later and I am still limping around, and the pain is getting intolerable. I have been avoiding medical attention because I have been hoping it will heal on its own. But my coworkers are now laughing at me because I walk like an old man, and I have realized that it is time to attend to the injury. The teasing had not gotten to me until my little boy Johnnie started imitating my lumbering around too.

My first attempt to get help, I called a family doctor and made an appointment. I showed up, obviously injured, and made my way to the front desk. The receptionist looked less than interested in my plight as she looked down her pointy nose at me. "Can I help you?" she said in a sarcastic and surprisingly nasal voice. I gave my name and said I had hurt my knee and needed to have it looked at. The receptionist rolled her eyes and looked at the clock. "Fill out this clipboard full of papers and bring them back to the front." I started to fill them out and she sort of made an "Ahem" sound and informed me I needed to leave and bring them back at a later time. When I mentioned that I really needed help right away, I got the evil eye look, like I was somehow cutting in on her personal reflection time or something. I handed back the completed paper work and was told they would call me in a couple of weeks with an appointment! I was a little flabbergasted and asked why I could not be seen sooner and was told that if I wanted help now I should go to urgent care. Well then. I looked at her and smiled and said, "Thank you very little." And away I went.

I found the Urgent Care and they immediately got me in line for an X-ray. They scheduled me for an MRI and that is where the fun begins.

The MRI was scheduled at the hospital. I pulled up to the parking lot and out ran a kid saying, "Give me the keys mister." I got pretty defensive, not being prepared for this attempted car jacking. I was about to beat the daylights out of the kid reaching for my car keys when I saw the sign offering complimentary valet service for hospital visitors. I smiled weakly at the kid and proceeded to clear off the layer of fast food wrappers from the front seat of my old Honda. I gave him the keys and in my snootiest voice, told him to try and use a little finesse with this finely tuned machine. "Yah, what ever Grandpa!" he snorted as he raced off squealing the tires the whole way.

They get me checked in and moved to a room deep in the basement of the hospital. I was ordered to remove all metal from my pockets and surrender my personal effects to a locker. I was led into a dark room, made to lay on a narrow plank and they strapped my leg down so I could not move. I was given a set of headphones and asked what sort of music I wanted. Up on the ceiling there were pretty pictures of grassy fields and waterfalls. I felt like I was in that scene from Soylent green where I was about to be euthanized in the most peaceful way possible.

I was comfortable and listening to music when the table started to move. I was being loaded into a huge donut like tube and the paranoid thought started to churn. "What if something goes wrong and the magnet gets too strong, will it make all my molecules disassociate? Will the magnetron blow up and cut off my legs?" I started to squirm at the thought and over the headphone I hear, "HEY, Hold still!" I tried to calm down then they turned on the machine. It was loud. REAL loud. I was trying not to panic. The noise reminded me of the tree branch shredders you see after a big windstorm. Again I wondered if I was about to be a victim of complete morselization. Then the machine, in addition to making the loud whirring started to make a clapping noise. I tried to think happy thoughts. Cute little kitty cats, serene waterfalls. Water babbling on the brook. Dripping, bubbling soothing water. Dammit, now I have to pee. The voice over the headphones comes back on. "Are you doing OK there? Only 20 more minutes and we will be done." Yea, right. In ten minutes I am going to be legless and covered in urine.

The whirring gets a little louder and more intense. I remember a science fiction movie where there was a fat guy got too much radiation and it changed him into a mutant super hero. I try to imagine what my super power will be. I even think of a catchy super hero name. I will be... Captain Lederhosen. My superpower is that I can eat all the sausages and bratwurst in the meat case at the Sam’s Club. Nah, that sucks. Maybe I will be "Sparkman, Defender of Justice." As I was deciding on a super power, the room suddenly got quiet. I realized I must have been thinking out loud as the machine spun to a halt. The attendant asked if I needed anything. I sheepishly said was alright and I lay there without speaking as they continued the testing for a few more minutes. 

The testing finally was over, and I was allowed to get dressed. The attendant took me to the exit, and the valet was alerted that I was coming. Apparently news travels fast in a hospital, because as I was given my car keys back, the valet ducked back into his office. Just before he slammed the door shut I heard him laugh out loud and he said, "Thanks for saving the world from keilbasa there, Captain Sparkman!"

It's gonna be hard to live that one down.

Another Milestone.

It is no secret that my older boy, about to turn 4 is a smart kid. He knew his ABC's visually and orally, and could count to 10 in two languages at the tender age of 18 months. I was so proud of him.

Josh excelled at everything we threw at him be it language, motor skills, reasoning, dressing himself, you name it. Except for one thing, pooping on the potty. Josh learned right away how to go pee pee and was good at it. Lesson learned, end of story. I was quite pleased. But he would not for the life of me go to the toilet to do number 2. I would have him sit on the pot and coax, threaten,  and ultimately bribe him to go. No way, no how. He would sit there and look at me and whine that he could not. I would ignore his protest and chant, "Poop, poop, poop!" like it was a mantra. I could not believe my little prodigy could not "make" like the other little urchins who had it mastered a year before.

I read articles I talked to other parents. They said that he would  follow his own schedule and not to worry. Well I worried. I encouraged, I argued. I let him know that if he cannot go like the other kids he would not be allowed in preschool, something he wants pretty bad now. I tried explaining that if I had to buy less diapers it might increase his chances of getting a cool toy. I tried reasoning with him about long term consequences such as how his prom tux wont fit right over his pull ups. He was not giving in. I finally surrendered.

A few months passed and I decided to have another talk with the boy. I asked him to try again. He decided to give it a go and sat down. He asked me to give him privacy and a few minutes later YAHTZEE!!! He was grinning ear to ear, and I was ecstatic. I told him how proud I was, and we made a big deal over it. I hugged him and gave him a treat, and would have taken a picture, but his mommy drew the line at that. I guess she did not want me Face Booking that sort of image. Oh and I would have too. Some of you may remember how I announced the pregnancy with Josh as a single picture of the positive E.P.T. device. no words, just the picture.

Since then he has done great. I keep making sure to tell him how proud he makes me cause he can poop in the toilet now. 

Life moved on.

A few weeks have gone by. I have been stricken with the local crud that is going around. What is it about mid January anyway? The holidays came and went with no real illness. The new year arrives and everything looks great. Then the whole office get sick. It always starts with one person too. The one that refuses to work at home when they are sick, because it somehow seems reasonable to come and infect the whole office. I hate those people, mostly cause they always insist they are not contagious, then the next day everyone else gets the flu. A couple of days pass by and I am really feeling poorly. I am running to the bathroom a lot, sneezing, achy, and runny nose. I finally took a day off from work just to sleep. I made it to the bed, but as it turns out, I would have gotten more peace and quiet at the office. Every time I started to drift off to sleep one of the kids would come in the room wanting me to read a story, or buy them a pet elephant or get them some ice cream from Dairy Queen. Never mind that every time I got up, I ended up racing to the bathroom to puke or have another bout of diarrhea. I finally closed the door and lay down. As soon as I drifted off, bam, Bam, BAM! on the door. I moaned, "What NOW?" Josh barked back through the door, "Daddy, I want to tell you sumpthin." I slowly get up and limp to the door. " What is it boy?" Josh is standing there with a loving look, and says "Daddy, I am so proud of you for pooping in the toilet!" Me; "Don't be so sure kid."

Well, what was I supposed to say?