Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Cracking Up (Nick Lowe - 1979)
“If God had to give a woman wrinkles, he might at least have put them on the soles of her feet.” ~ Ninon de Lencios, French Courtesan (1620 -1705)
It was late in the afternoon on a sunny Spring day. Jessie was nearly 3-years-old and Lauren was 8. Jessie and I had been playing in a park next to Lauren's soccer practice, while she practiced. Afterwards, the three of us jumped in a loaner car, and headed to the dealership where our car was being serviced.
About fifteen minutes into the half-hour drive, Jessie began crying. “Daddy, we need to go home! I’m cracking! I’m cracking!”
Cracking? "What do you mean you're cracking?” I said.
“The mulch is making my feet crack,” cried Jessie. “The mulch! I’m cracking! We need to go home!”
The mulch Jessie referred to was the ground cover at the the park. Driving and unable to investigate, I called on my second in command. “Lauren, see what she's crying about.”
Jessie became more distressed by the second. “I’m cracking! I’m cracking! I'm cracking!” Tears flowed down her cheeks.
Lauren quickly examined Jessie’s foot. “Jessie, those lines are just wrinkles. We all have wrinkles.” She held up her own hands. "See?"
Jessie put her bawling on hold and quickly scanned Lauren's hands. A mere breath or two later, with her teary eyes wide, she screamed, “You’re cracking too!”
The wailing continued. Jessie was officially unglued.
Instantaneously, Jessie stopped crying. She sniffled, smiled, and calmly said, “Oh."
Jessie was again glued. We all cracked up laughing.
“Laugh a lot, and when you’re older, all your wrinkles will be in the right places” ~ Unknown
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Friday, July 3, 2009
Don't Quote Me: David
"You can really see the details . . . of his stuff." ~ Jessie
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Labels: David, Genitals, Michaelangelo
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
God, I'm an Idiot!: Silver Wedding Anniversary
Elizabeth mandated I wear a suit and tie. This meant one of three things: either I needed to make a good impression on the couple we were dining with, the restaurant we were eating at was stodgily fine, or a suit was the Friday night dress code at the Symphony Center. It didn’t matter, I was wearing a suit and trimming my nose hair — it was to be that kind of an evening.I would be meeting the couple we were "double dating" with for the first time. She is a friend of Elizabeth’s from a board they both serve on, and he is the head of a prominent real estate investment firm. Although not discussed, I knew I needed to be on my best behavior. This meant no politics, no college football, no bad jokes, and if at all possible, no poop stories — dog or otherwise.
The couple we would spend the next four hours with, were especially warm, interesting, and engaging. As expected, the meal and service were very good, and although I tried chewing slower, I was still hungry afterwards. More importantly, besides a small misunderstanding regarding a reference I made to the epic 1956 film, The Ten Commandments, when discussing Jewish Passover (she's Jewish . . . now that I think of it, add religion to my list of things not to talk about) — and the creepy fact that I coincidentally liked and therefore ordered the exact same menu items as my new guy friend — and, oh yeah, I almost forgot, I did toast with my water glass, not aware that my gin and tonic had been served and was sitting right in front of me — besides these few minor incidents, I’d say things were going pretty darn well.
That is until — Dangit! — our new BFFs shared with us that it was their silver wedding anniversary. Naturally, Elizabeth and I were quick to congratulate them. I should have left it at just that, but no can do. From across the table I asked my new guy the question of the night; a question that to this day pesters my memory and ridicules my intelligence.
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Labels: Anniversary, Idiot, Silver
Monday, June 29, 2009
Don't Quote Me: Squeeze Bottle
"Whoa, I've never seen that before!" ~ 12 year-old neighbor girl
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Labels: humor, Marshmallow Fluff, Squeeze Bottle
Friday, June 26, 2009
A Life of Illusion (Joe Walsh -1981)
WARNING: This post contains a graphic image of dog crap. Viewer discretion is advised.
One week ago today, my house could have been added to this list.
Having just completed a 41 minute run — without having a heart attack, or worse, urinating on myself — I emerged from a break in the tree line behind my house. It was a hot and humid night, one of the first of an unusually cold and rainy June. With perspiration and darkness upon me, exhausted, I staggered toward home.
Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I was struck by the idyllic picture before me. My house looked like something right out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Bright, overused lighting, illuminated every window; the glow providing an almost dreamlike quality, a beacon of earthly comforts. I was reminded of how lucky I am and — dammit — how we really needed to do a better job conserving energy.
The Foo Fighters kicked in on my iPod Nano with a cover of Joe Walsh's "A Life of Illusion" — I thought nothing of it at the time, although later it would prove ironic.
As I drew nearer to our patio, the picture of life inside the house came into better focus. I could see my Mother-in-Law in the kitchen window over the sink, joyfully scrubbing — what I could only assume was — a dish. Bless her soul.
Through the sliding glass doors I could see my 7 and 3-year-old daughters sitting at the kitchen table, cheerfully eating what was surely a bowl of ice cream — probably vanilla with Hershey's chocolate syrup. Bless their little hearts.
Lastly, I could see my lovely wife through the family room windows, merrily walking toward the kitchen. My guess, to help her Mom, or join in the children’s ice cream festivities. I still can't believe she married me, God bless her soul.
I smiled, reflecting on the coziness of it all — and how easy it would be to sneak up to the kitchen window and scare the living hell out of my Mother-in-Law. I thought better of it, Thomas Kinkade would have nothing of it. Bless his soul.
I was captured by my home's apparent serenity and warmth. I imagine it's how John Walton must have felt coming home after a long day at the family lumber mill, or perhaps coming in from the outhouse, on a hot summer night on Walton's Mountain.
As I opened the sliding glass door, I took off my running headphones. The Foo Fighters still audible, but distant, I stepped into the kitchen. I was greeted by cool air and the bickering of my two youngest, Jessie and Lulu. They were sharing a kitchen chair and a leftover Portillo’s strawberry shake, and by the sound of it, not doing a very good job of it.
The girls focused only on their next spoonful, were oblivious to my sweaty presense. They continued to box each other out, arguing over who’s turn it was.
Elizabeth and I arrived in the kitchen at about the same time. "You won't believe what just happened." she said.
My Mother-in-Law was at the kitchen sink, wiping a brown patent leather flat with a paper towel. "Yeah Jack, you missed all the excitement!"
The girls interrupted their regularly scheduled argument to be bring me a special announcement. "Buck pooped!" screamed Lulu.
"Dad, you should have seen it!" yelled Jessie."You wouldn't have believed it," said Elizabeth. "Buck pooped in my shoe."
"Buck pooped in mommy's shoe!" repeated Jessie.
"In your shoe?" I said. Well, I guess that would explain the smell.
Piling on the poopetrator (sorry, I couldn't help myself), my 13-year-old yelled down from upstairs, "Buck also pee'd up here." Damn, that’s gonna get in the padding.
"Yes, in my shoe,” said Elizabeth. “It was so gross."
Okay, I had heard of shit on a shingle, and had witnessed first hand shit on a stick, but I ain't never seen shit in a shoe. This would definitely be a first for me, and for that matter, for Buck as well. He has crapped on carpet, rugs, hardwood floors, laundered clothes, the leather couch, a book, the front seat of my car, and even once on Lauren. But never, ever, in a shoe.
As the primary crap fixer, I inquired about the whereabouts of the poop as if it were a dead body. “So, where can I find it.” Please be on the hardwood floor. Please be on the hardwood floor. Please be on the hardwood floor . . .
“It was in the hallway, but I cleaned it up already.” said Elizabeth. Excellent! “I took a picture for you.” Bonus!
Appearances are often deceiving. You just never know . . .
And it comes with no warning
Continual crisis
~ Joe Walsh, A Life of Illusion
Foo Fighters - A Life of Illusion (Cover)
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Don't Quote Me: You and Me
"That's you and me, Daddy. The little one is me, and the big one is you." ~ Lulu
Monday, June 22, 2009
MUSICAL MUSING #17: Hair (The Cowsills -1969)
Gimme head with hair
Long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming,
Streaming, flaxen, waxen
I'm just a hairy guy
Oily, greasy, fleecy
Shining, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka-dotted
Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied!
Friday, June 19, 2009
Daddium Idiom #4
"Where there's smoke, Mom is cooking." ~ Me
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Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Don't Quote Me: Oprah
"I figured out why Oprah is called 'Oprah.' Isn't it because she's good at 'oprah'?" ~ Jessie
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Monday, June 15, 2009
Grace is Gone (Dave Matthews Band - 2002)
Lulu, Jessie, and I, were seated for dinner. With Elizabeth working late, and Lauren at dance class until eight, it was just the three of us."When we talk to God, we're praying. When God talks to us, we're schizophrenic." ~ Jane Wagner (Lily Tomlin), In Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe
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Friday, June 12, 2009
Say It Ain't So (The Thrills - 2003)
“A paranoiac, like a poet, is born, not made.” ~ Luis Buñuel Portolés
Lauren approached our waiting car, looking as if she had just thrown up in her mouth. I suspected the look had nothing to do with vomit.
As she threw herself and her backpack in the front passenger seat, I said, “Hi Sweetie, how was your day?”
Looking me squarely in the eyes, she said, “Dad, do you think I'm paranoid?”
Note: Lauren's question caught me by surprise. However, I'd be lying if I said, "Gee, I've never even considered this question before." Okay, I've concluded, Lauren is not “paranoid” — in the clinically psychotic definition of the word. However, I must say, the kid does have an overly abundant number of irrational fears and anxieties. Some of the very recent few include, but are not limited to: hookworm infections, sharp pretzels, parking in front of liquor stores, moths, and the imminent end of the world. 'Nough said.
“Why?” I asked almost defensively, as if it was some kind of trick question.
“Dad, do you think I'm paranoid.”
Sounding a flabber short of being gasted, I said, “Why, did somebody say you’re paranoid?”
“Yes. Do you think I am?”
Looking away from Lauren’s desperate gaze, I pulled away from the curb to begin what I thought could be a long drive home.
“My friends Colleen and Jen,” Lauren said. “So do you?”
“They didn't mean it meanly? Dad, do you think I'm paranoid?”
Taking a deep breath, I jumped. “Yeah, I can see why they might say that.”
“Paranoid? Paranoid!?” she said, slightly raising her voice.
“Okay, of course you're not clinically paranoid," I said. "Perhaps just overly concerned about . . .”
“Dad? Oh my gosh, you think I'm paranoid?”
“No, no, just a bit overly sensitive . . . ”
Again interrupting, more desperate, and speaking rapidly she said, “Paranoid means that I think everything is out to get me. Dad, I don't think everyone is out to get me. Do you think I think that? Do you really think I think that?”
“No, I don't . . ."
“Oh no! That's bad!"
Oh my. Maybe, on second thought . . .
“Paranoia is knowing all the facts.” ~ Woody Allen
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Labels: Butch Cassidy, humor, Paranoia, Vomit
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Teen Wisdom: School Parties
"It's better to have an end of the [school] year party, instead of a beginning of the [school] year party. Everybody is in a better mood." ~ Lauren
Monday, June 8, 2009
Don't Let the World Get In Your Way (The Jayhawks - 2003)
“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” ~ Dorothy Gale (Judy Garland), The Wizard of Oz (1939)
Elizabeth and I left the white-picket fences of suburbia to attended a cocktail party in the city Saturday evening.My experience has been that the downtown party scene is quite different than in the Western Suburbs (or “Iowa,” as they're affectionately referred to by our urban dwelling friends). In a macadamia nutshell, the city crowd is a bit more cosmopolitan — and I'm not referring to Carrie Bradshaw's drink of choice on Sex and the City — and a lot more Martha Stewart.
The difference is only amplified when the party is hosted and attended by board members of a prominent Chicago non-profit organization and their spouses, as was this gathering. I found myself surrounded by highly motivated, successful, martini drinking, goody-do-gooders. (I would include my wife in this description, except she prefers red wine over martinis.)
It was a beautiful warm Spring night, and as expected we had a wonderful time. But as is usually the case after spending time with this demographic, I am left feeling like a social sluggard — like Al Bundy (from the television series Married. . . with Children) but with a little better hygiene.
Why the self loathing?
It may have started when listening to a discussion about city road projects led by a gentleman who in retirement leads a non-profit institution for children, managing about 100 staffers and a $6 million operating budget. The other gentleman in the three-man circle — of which I was a ghost member — was also remarkably well versed on Chicago road projects and its politics, and I learned had spent his day at his children's baseball and soccer games.
I stood silently, force sipping a martini, unaware of any city road construction and thinking better of asking if either of them watched the NFL Draft that day (as I did — skipping my daughter's soccer game to do so).
Or perhaps it was my captivation with the commercial real estate lawyer who spun fascinating tales about his practice and Jewish-mob ancestry. Whom I later learned is nationally recognized for his leadership roles in hunger-relief, serving as Chairman of the Board for the nation's largest charitable hunger relief organization, and Chairman Emeritus of the Board for Chicago's food bank.
I never did ask what he thought about quarterback Brady Quinn dropping to the twenty-second overall pick in the draft that day.
Or just maybe it was speaking with a couple who spent the day volunteering their time, painting the Lincoln Park Homeless Shelter - of which he is a Board Member. (Not to mention his time spent as a Council Member of the Chicago Ronald McDonald House.)
Nursing the same tired martini, I quickly surmised that neither of them watched the draft that day either — you know, painting the Homeless Shelter and all.
In fairness to myself, I did have my shining moment. Not to be out done, I was able to interject into a conversation about my own contribution to the greater good.
“Yes, well, I volunteer as a ‘sound parent’ in my daughter's preschool class.” I heard myself humbly saying to a lovely middle-aged couple.
Yes-siree that's the kind of guy I am: a guy who volunteers his time every other Tuesday for one hour — a little less when running late — and drops this tidbit into a conversation with a couple I met just minutes earlier.
"A what?" the woman asked.
"A sound parent," I replied.
"A what parent?" she asked again.
Trying my best to enunciate I said again, "A sound parent."
"A sound parent?" she repeated.
Okay, I don't have this problem in Iowa. Maybe she was having trouble with my suburban accent. But it was too late to turn back.
Using the skills I learned in sound parent training class, I spoke more slowly and loudly, "Yes, a soouunndd par-ent."
(Note: Speaking slowly and loudly is also how I speak to non-English speaking fast-food cashiers and the hombres who cut my lawn. At times I will also unconsciously add a pseudo-Spanish accent. As if speaking like Cheech Marin wearing headphones, is going to help them understand "I ordered this with no jalapeno sauce," or "Please don't dump the grass clippings in the woods.")
What I didn't realize is that she understood what I was saying, but not what a “sound parent” did. Not only was the light in my head out, but the bulb was burnt, and the light switch was in the "off" position.
Finally, politely she asked, "What is a sound parent?"
Ah, the light went on.
"Oh, I basically go into my daughter's class and work with the students on their sounds."
"Their sounds?" she asked again, still with no idea what on earth I was talking about.
At this point I wanted to say, "Yes . . . sounds. I work with the kids on their animal sounds — Oink. Meow. Cock-a-doodle-doo. We just finished barnyard animals and start on whales and dolphins next week."
"Yes, their sounds. The 'letter' sounds, like . . ."
I was about to be the first person in cocktail party history to ever demonstrate a short "a" sound, when thankfully she interrupted me. Speaking slowly and more loudly she said, "Ohhhhh, you mean phon-ics."
"Yes, phonics. Sounds,” I said. “I'm a phonics parent for my daughter's preschool class." Hel-lo? That's what I've been saying.
(Writers Note: From that moment forward I've referred to myself as a "phonics parent.")
Although now apparently speaking the same language, I decided against telling the couple about my important volunteer work as a "Cookie Dad" for my eldest daughter's Girl Scout Troop. I could just hear that conversation . . .
"A what?"
"A cookie Dad."
"A cookie Dad?"
"Yes. A cookie Dad."
"What's a cookie Dad?"
"Oh, I manage the sales of the troop's cookies. You know? Thin Mints, Samoas, Do-Si-Do's."
"Oh, you mean a hand-held flour-based sweet cake Dad."
"Yeah, that's it . . . "
Emotionally and mentally exhausted, I quickly changed the topic of conversation, "Enough about me. Hey, by any chance did either of you happen to watch any of the draft today?"
"Any of the what?" he asked.
It was time to lose my martini, get Elizabeth, and go home.
"I never should have switched from Scotch to Martinis." ~ Humphrey Bogart (his last words)
Friday, June 5, 2009
Don't Quote Me: Bumps
"All these bumps mess up my hair!" ~ Lulu
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Labels: Hair, humor, Quote, Road Bumps
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
MUSICAL MUSING #52: Black Betty (Ram Jam -1977)
Lately, this sense has been stirred by my children's recognition and appreciation of music. Not just any music. The music that matters — my music.Last Tuesday, I was never prouder of my seven-year-old.
Already ten minutes late, we were about a minute short of the dance studio where we were to pick up my 13-year-old. Driving, my thoughts were interrupted by a song intro that was as familiar as the front of my hand — I recognized it, but didn't immediately know it. A cymbal crash and a steady pedal base drum, punctuated about eight beats in by a classic guitar riff. I thought, "Good tune, but what the hell is it?" (It was like when you see somebody you know, but don’t know from where you know them — and their name you know you know, but hasn't yet come to you. That’s where I was with this song.)
No sooner had this thought entered my mind, and before a single lyric was sung, from behind I heard Jessie say, “Oh, Black Betty.”
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Holy shit. She was right. It was “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam. The rockin’, redneck soundin’ hit single from somewhere in the 1970s. Jessie identified the song title as if Black Betty was an old kindergarten friend she had just spotted in the toy section at Target.
Black Betty had a child
bam-ba-lam
The damn thing gone wild
bam-ba-lam
I was stunned, “Wow. You’re right Jessie! How do you know this song? Did you dance to it before?”
Said it weren't none of mine
bam-ba-lam
Damn thing gone blind
bam-ba-lam
“No, it’s on my iPod,” Jessie said as a matter-of-fact.
I said Oh, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Jessie has a hand-me-down 2nd Generation 20GB iPod containing a wide variety of music from her older sister and me. Apparently, somewhere in her “1970s” playlist is “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam.
(Note: It is impossible for me to say or write “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam, without following it with “bam-ba-lam.”)
Oh, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Shaking my head in disbelief I said, “Wow. Great call Jessie!” By my reaction you would have thought she just named all nine justices of the U.S. Supreme Court.
She really gets me high
bam-ba-lam
You know that's no lie
bam-ba-lam
She's so rock steady
bam-ba-lam
And she's always ready
bam-ba-lam
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Who sings this? Man, who does sing this? My God, I couldn’t recall who sang “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam. I was blowing it. My musical prodigy was thirsting for useless Seventies trivia and I was having a brain fart. Disappointed in myself I answered, “I’m sorry Kid, I can’t remember. It’s a one-hit wonder with a weird name — but I can’t recall it right now.”
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Jessie didn't know what a "one-hit wonder" was, so I had a brief father-daughter talk about musical flashes in the pan and fleeting fame, as "Black Betty" played itself out and we waited for Lauren.
She's from Birmingham
bam-ba-lam
Way down in Alabam'
bam-ba-lam
Well, she's shakin' that thing
bam-ba-lam
Boy, she makes me sing
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
BAM-BA-LAM
On the way home, Jessie continue to flex her 70s music muscle by identifying on the radio Queen's 1974 breakthrough hit “Killer Queen.” This one was easy, hell, the name of the band is in the song title, and . . . vice versa. She couldn't duplicate the shining moment presented by Black Betty, bam-ba-lam — the musical call of her young lifetime. Instead of head shaking praise, she got only a wink and a smile, being told to "Stop trying to show off."
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Labels: Black Betty, Music, Queen, Ram Jam
Monday, June 1, 2009
Don't Quote Me: Stickers
"Dad, I have stickers on me!" ~ Lulu
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Labels: humor, Postal Stamps, Quote, Stickers
Friday, May 29, 2009
Words You Used To Say (Dean & Britta - 2007)
“History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
I was the unwilling and sole contestant in the 1st Annual Offensive Slang Pronunciation Bee. The event was held last week at my very own dinner table.
Jessie, my seven-year-old daughter, was the moderator. My first — and what would be my only — word was the always inappropriate noun, fag.
“Dad, what does f-a-g spell?”
Thrust center stage, I was surprised and unprepared for this word, but remained cool and collected under the gaze of my curious daughter. There was no need to repeat the letters, ask for a definition, or to use the spelling of the word in a sentence — surely all permissible questions under the rules of a Pronunciation Bee. However, before answering, I did need to know the origin of this unsettling question, coming from my 1st Grader.
"Who told you that . . . spelling?" I asked.
Jessie cast her eyes downward and slowly chewed her hot dog as I eagerly awaited her admission. Somehow I didn’t think she got it from a British cigarette advertisement. (“Have you got a fag, mate?”)
A wily smile came over her face. Swallowing, she looked straight into my mind penetrating laser shooting eyeballs before answering matter-of-factly, "It was Mr. Angeleno."
Mr. Angeleno? What the . . . ? Mr. Angeleno — one of my BFFs — and his family were at our house the previous weekend. Now that she mentioned it . . .
Jessie continued, “Remember when we dressed Mr. Angeleno in the pink feathery thing and pink hat? He said, ‘This looks more more like f-a-g than f-a-b.’" She asked again, "What's f-a-g?”
(Holy crap, the kid was right. The girls had Mr. Angeleno and I each choose a small piece of paper from a hat. In early elementary school chicken scratch, mine read “rock star,” and Mr. Angeleno’s read “fab.” I was "required" to wear a Cat-in-the-Hat-Thing-1-or-2 looking blue haired wig, while Mr. Angeleno was adorned with a hot pink feather boa and sun hat. Joking, and with goodwill towards all men, Mr. Angeleno in a low voice said just what Jessie had said he said, clearly underestimating my daughter's hearing and memory — but unfortunately, not her phonics ability. Little did anyone expect that, in less than a week, his spelling would be used in the 1st Annual Offensive Slang Pronunciation Bee.)
With Jessie apparently secure in the pronunciation and spelling of this offensive word, and I the Pronunciation Bee champion, I expected this was the last I would here of this word for a long while . . .
I was wrong.
The following Monday while reviewing Jessie’s schoolwork from the previous week, I noticed that she got a word marked wrong on her spelling test.
Upon closer examination, I recognized the word she misspelled was “flagpole.”
Shockingly, what she wrote was "fagpole." F-a-g-p-o-l-e, fagpole.
"When it doubt, sound it out." ~ Unknown
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Labels: Fab, Fag, Flagpole, Spelling Bee
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Daddy Proverb #31
"A day is lost if one has not watched Sportscenter." ~ Me
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Monday, May 25, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: Bathroom Problems
"Mom, all of our bathrooms have a problem. The bathroom downstairs doesn't have any toilet paper. [Pointing] This bathroom doesn't have a towel. And the other bathroom doesn't have any soap. We have problems!" ~ Jessie
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Labels: Bathroom, humor, Quote, Toilet Paper
Friday, May 22, 2009
I Say A Little Prayer (Dionne Warwick - 1967)
“The Creator, if He exists, has a special preference for beetles.”~ J.B.S. Haldane, British-born geneticist and evolutionary biologist
Beetles can be found in almost any habitat, however, my experience is they're usually found clinging to screen windows and doors, or mysteriously dead underneath.
The latter is how Elizabeth likes her insects — dead underneath, and deader on top. It doesn't matter — dead, medium dead or well dead, just dead. At least, those insects that have the misfortune of entering our house. Her compassion extends only beyond our front door for these multi-legged, antennaed, bug-eyed creatures. (This goes for spiders as well. Unless the spider's name is Charlotte and she has a pig-friend named Wilbur. Otherwise, in our house, the best spider is a lifeless curled-up spider.)
So you can imagine Elizabeth’s joy when she and our three-year-old discovered a beetle by the sliding screen door in our kitchen.
As family exterminator, coroner, pathologist and mortician for all foreign bodies in our home or yard, I listened with interest from another room as mother and daughter first sighted the intruder.
"Spider!" yelled an excited Lulu.
This was followed by a repulsed, "Eewww, don’t touch it." It was Elizabeth, “Jack! Can you come . . . Lulu, I said, don't touch it! Jack, can you come here? There’s a huge bug by the screen door."
"Daddy, Spider! Hurry!" added Lulu.
(In Lulu’s eyes, any surface-dwelling “bug” is automatically a “thpider.” If airborne, it’s usually identified as a bee, although a “skeeto" is also a word option.)
Within seconds I was in the kitchen looking at a rotund clay colored beetle, resting motionless on it’s back. (Okay, calling the beetle “rotund” was a little mean. I’m sorry, let’s just say it was “big boned,” or, excuse me, I think the correct term would be "big exoskeletoned.” Beetles don’t have bones.) With Lulu at my side, I examined our visitor more closely, instantly determining that unless it was a heavy sleeper, passed out, or a good faker-outer, this Beetle Bailey was dead.
Upon learning the beetle was likely deceased, Elizabeth was relieved but grossed out just the same. For Lulu, this only added to her excitement; not only did we have in captivity a wild beetle, but it was dead too.
I felt bad for the poor lifeless little guy. I wondered, did he flip on his back and die (the tragic "I've fallen and I can't get up" death . . . if only he had LifeCall), or did he die and (like in the cartoons) then flip on his back (with "x" eyes and a tiny tongue hanging out)? Either way, the time on earth of one of God's small creatures was over, and it momentarily saddened me.
I unceremoniously picked up the beetle carcass, opened the sliding screen door, and flipped it into the bushes. Closing the door, I said to Lulu, tongue-partially-in-cheek, "Say a prayer for the beetle."
As I walked toward the kichen sink to wash my hands, I heard Lulu praying:
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen.
Blesses, O Lord, and these thy gifts,
which we’re ‘bout to receive,
from thy bounty
through Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen.
Elizabeth looked at each other and smiled; Lulu had recited her rendition of our family’s dinner prayer. With a chuckle and a wash of the hands, I was quickly over our world’s loss.
"Little bug morticians arrive and turn them over, and if you look veeerrry closely you can see little tiny Lillie's on their chests." ~ Droopy Dog, @ Yahoo! Answers. Answer given to the question, “Why do bugs end up on their backs when they die?”
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Labels: Beetles, Death, Dionne Warwick, Insects
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: President Obama
"Girls! Be quiet. I'm on the phone with Barack Obama." ~ Me
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Labels: Car, Cell Phone, President Obama, Quiet
Monday, May 18, 2009
MUSICAL MUSING #11: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (Gordon Lightfoot -1976)
I was on my way upstairs to take a shower when from my TV I heard Gordon Lightfoot's uplifting 1976 hit, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." The ballad is about the tragic sinking of the freighter S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald on Lake Superior the year before the song's release. Having heard this song hundreds of times, in my best Lightfoot-baritone, I let the first few lines drone from my lips:
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never . . .
I stopped mid-lyric, choosing to sing the second line again:
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
I enjoyed this line so much, I sang it again, and again, always with special emphasis on "Gitch-e Gu-mee."
Of the big lake they call Gitch-e Gu-mee. . .
Of the big lake they call Gitch-e Gu-mee. . .
Of the big lake they call Gitch-e Gu-mee. . .
I soon realized it wasn't the line itself I found so entertaining, it was the words "Gitche Gumee." Before hitting the shower I dropped "Of the big lake they call" and with great vigor and vocal variety, sang only "Gitch-e Gu-mee."
I had reduced Gordon Lightfoot's (5 minute and 57 second) hit single to an intoxicating two words. Words, I concluded, did not belong in such a gloomy song. They deserved their own song, like Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti", Cinderella's "Bibbidi-Boppidi-Boo", or even Iron Butterfly's monotonous "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida."
By the end of my shower, like a cat tiring of a ball of yarn, I had enough of Gitche and Gumee. But they did get me thinking: who in the world calls Lake Superior "Gitche Gumee"?
I first heard this depressing song a little under 33 years ago, and I've never heard anyone besides Mr. Lightfoot, refer to the largest of the Great Lakes as Gitche Gumee. Gitche Gumee sounds like a fungal condition or the names of a couple Pokémon characters, not a mass of water. Definitely not a great lake.
Okay, so the name is taken from the Ojibwe Indian word Gichigami, meaning “big water.” And, yes, of course I knew Henry "Waddy" Longfellow wrote about “Gitche Gumee” in his epic mid-19th Century poem The Song of Hiawatha. (As I said, I've never heard of anyone besides Mr. Lightfoot and Mr. Longfellow, refer to the largest of the Great Lakes as Gitche Gumee.)
(Speaking of the Ojibwe, wasn't Ojibwe one of Jabba the Hutt's enslaved dancers eaten by the rancor creature? . . . Never mind, that was Oola. My bad.)
So, if like that Lightfellow and Longfoot, I spent any time by the shores of the lake that, it is said, never gives up her dead (which I ass-u-me they did), I would probably find at least a Chippewa or two referring to Lake Superior as Gitche Gumee. If not, I expect the proprietors of The Gitche Gumee Inn or Gitche Gumee Campground and RV Park say Gitche Gumee all the time.
By the time I was showered and dressed, I decided from that day forward, I would refer to Lake Superior as Gitche Gumee.
I just wish I adopted this name years earlier. The name would have come in handy in my childhood geography classes.
Mrs. Peluso (my Sixth Grade teacher): Class, can anyone tell me the names of the five Great Lakes? [Noticing me with my arm raised high] Jack?
Jack (me): They are . . . Lake Michigan . . . Lake Erie . . . Lake Ontairio . . . Lake Huron . . . and . . . Gitche Gumee.
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Labels: Gitche Gumee, Lightfoot, Longfellow, Musical Musings
Friday, May 15, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: Parked Car
"Yeah, we were sitting behind a parked car for like five minutes." ~ Jessie
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Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I'm Your Boogie Man (KC & The Sunshine Band - 1977)
It was the summer of 2003. The summer Carrie, my wife's 21 year-old cousin, stayed with us. My daughter Lauren was seven-years old and my daughter Jessie was just shy of two. As is customary on Sunday, we attended 10:30 mass at our church.Like an animal sensing an impending natural disaster, I knew something wasn't right.
There was a moment of silence. A moment when time seemed to stop. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was coming, and I couldn't stop it.
And then without proper warning it happened. Jessie pointed at my nose and yelled, "Boo-gey!"
(Oh my God! I was like Nancy Bellicec at the end of the 1978 science fiction film Invasion of the Body Snatchers, being pointed out as human by Matthew Bennell and his bloodcurdling pod scream.)
I was in on-the-spot shock, instantaneously sitting in a warm pile of mortification. Jessie continued pointing at my nose yelling, "Boo-gey! Boo-gey! Boo-gey!" I tried to smother her cries with my hand, while the word "bogey" reverberated throughout the church. Those seated around me snickered and I could hear hushed giggles and whispers. I began to perspire.
I looked to my family for support, but was denied three times. Elizabeth, Lauren, and Carrie turned away, struggling to hold in their own laughter, refusing to make eye contact with the boogeyman. (I could have sworn I heard a cock crow in the distance.)
After what seemed like an eternity, but was only seconds, I was able to "shush" Jessie.
But the question remained, did I have anything in my nose? If so, what nostril? Tissue was not an option and a pick or push was out of the question. How about a quick wipe with the hand? Or should I simply do nothing and hope those around believe it was the false accusations of a sugar-cereal crazed little girl. I sat frozen.
Elizabeth was the first to finally look at me. Pointing to my nose, I gestured for an immediate visual report on my nostrils. The report came back negative, all was clear. But the damage was done.
What, if anything, Jessie saw in my nose that day we'll never know. However, a valuable lesson was learned: never yell "bogey" in a crowded church. Someone could get their pride hurt.
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11:25 AM
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Labels: Body Snatchers, Bogey, Boogey, humor
Monday, May 11, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: Garnished Savings
"I told Lulu her chicken tenders cost four dollars and if she didn't eat her lunch I was taking it out of her piggy bank." ~ Elizabeth
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Labels: Chicken Tenders, Lunch, Piggy Bank
Friday, May 8, 2009
Almost Forgot Myself (Doves - 2005)
This past winter, Jessie had a Kenny McCormick-thing going on. Kenny is the orange parka wearin' character on the animated television series South Park who (prior to season six) was horribly killed in about every episode.
In shopping plazas and grocery stores, adults and children alike stopped and stared as my buttoned-up seven-year-old trailed behind, speaking in what linguists could only classify as jabberwocky — unintelligible to anyone not located in the mysterious world within Jessie's hood.
"Umphehohmebohemubehdehwah."
"What Jessie?"
"Umph ehuh meboh emu behdehwah."
"Jessie, I can't understand you. Take your hood off."
"Whumph?"
"Take your hood off. I don't understand you."
"Em uhwum hebmowa?"
"What? I can't . . . Yeah sure. Okay."
"Hebmowa?"
"Jessie, I have no idea what you're saying . . ."
This wouldn't have been a problem if we could have gotten her to take off her hood once in a while. Unfortunate for us, indoor or out, Jessie was perfectly content staying in her cozy little muted world.
Relatively early in the Kenny season I started to worry that perhaps this was an early sign of something more serious — okay, I'll say it, an early sign of geekiness. Let's face it, communication challenges aside, Jessie’s preference to wear her jacket indoors, hood up and buttoned, was . . . a little . . . geeksterish. I could be overheard on more than one occasion saying to inquiring adults, “Yeah, that’s my daughter over there in the powder blue jacket . . . yes, the one with the hood . . . I know you’d think she’d be hot . . . Yeah, I have no idea what she's saying.”
I vaguely recalled an article about French Researchers recognizing early signs of geekism in children as young as six months.
Were there warning signs? I began to think through some of the possible red flags -- my daughter’s beloved "high-water" jeans, her fascination with Star Wars, the microscope for Christmas, and now this Kenny-thing. Damn! I knew that "Darth Tater" t-shirt her grandparents bought her in Idaho last summer was a bad idea.
Was I overanalyzing this, or was this a forerunner of geeky things to come? The hood-thing today, band camp tomorrow? This couldn't be. Elizabeth is very cool. Lord knows, I’m certainly cool. There is no history of geekism in our families . . .
I jokingly shared the story of Jessie’s Kenny-thing with my older brother. After a good chuckle, he maintained that when I was around Jessie’s age I had a geek tendency or two myself. He reminded me of my Johnny West “dolls,” and Circle X Ranch I had setup in my bedroom. I reminded him, in no uncertain terms, that they were not dolls, they were action figures. I also reminded him that just a couple years later, I used the same action figures, including the Jane and Josie West action figures, to play football games against each other. (Let me tell you, Geronimo was a beast coming off the edge).
In all fairness, my brother had forgotten something I did that was much more geeky than Jessie's Kenny-thing.
When I was about her age . . . I pretended like I was Sinbad Junior, the valiant son of Sinbad the legendary sailor.
I fashioned my dress and play after the 1960s cartoon, Sinbad Jr. and his Magic Belt. The show consisted of the 5-minute adventures of Sinbad Jr. and his first mate Salty the Parrot. By pulling tight his magic belt, Sinbad Jr. would gain the ability to fly and superhuman strength (reportedly equivalent to fifty men, I presume of average to a little above average strength).
Okay, so, a kid pretending to be a cartoon hero — normal. Walking around with my shirt untucked, a “magic” belt around my stomach (think Errol Flynn in Robin Hood), and a nail file as my trusty sword (tucked under my belt when not swashbuckling) — geek-ster.
"This information cannot leave this room. Ok? It would devastate my reputation as a dude." ~ The Geek (Anthony Michael Hall), Sixteen Candles (1984)
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Labels: Geek, Johnny West, Kenny, South Park
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
A Child's Wisdom: When You're Wet
"It's hard to put your underwear on when you're wet." ~ Lulu
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Monday, May 4, 2009
She Knows (Thin Lizzy - 1974)
"At school, we had to wear this hat for Spring Sing, and it said 'made in China' on it, and I said to the person next to me, 'Uh oh,' and said, 'I know you will probably not do this but whatever you do, do not put this in your mouth." ~ Jessie, my seven-year-old daughter

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9:51 AM
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Labels: China, Global Economy, humor, Piggy Bank
Friday, May 1, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: Baby Girl
"Was Patrick a girl baby or a boy baby? I was a girl baby." ~ Lulu
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9:07 AM
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Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Inside of Me (Starlight Mints - 2006)
"There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes." ~ The Doctor, Dr. Who (Television Series)
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9:12 AM
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Labels: Belly Button, humor, Jokes, Lint
Monday, April 27, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: Baby Picture
"We've got to get more pictures. She's getting old enough to figure it out." ~ Elizabeth
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3:08 PM
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Labels: Baby Picture, humor
Friday, April 24, 2009
Island In The Sun (Weezer - 2001)
"There is probably no more obnoxious class of citizen, taken end for end, than the returning vacationist." ~ Robert Benchley
Thursday, April 23, 2009
#10 The Flight There and Back is a Bitch

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Wednesday, April 22, 2009
#9 Maui is Damn Windy (Chicago Has Nothing on This Place)

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4:16 PM
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Tuesday, April 21, 2009
#8 The Time Change Messes With Your Body and Mind

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Monday, April 20, 2009
#7 I've Never Seen So Many Danger Signs

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10:17 PM
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Friday, April 17, 2009
#6 If I See Another "Hawaiian" Shirt I'll Puke

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8:59 AM
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Thursday, April 16, 2009
#5 Food is Very, Very Expensive
Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

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Wednesday, April 15, 2009
#4 If You See Poi, Run Away!

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7:24 AM
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Tuesday, April 14, 2009
#3 Hawaiian Music Becomes Tiresome

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7:22 AM
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Labels: Hawaiian Music, humor, Iz, Maui
Monday, April 13, 2009
#2 Hawaiian Speak is for the . . . Kama'aina
Top 1o things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

Friday, April 10, 2009
#1 I Can't Wait to Go Back Next Year

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11:27 AM
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Wednesday, April 8, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: Sniffles
"No, I have sniffles. Not a cold." ~ Jessie
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3:17 PM
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Labels: Athlete's Foot, Quote, Sniffles
Monday, April 6, 2009
Misunderstanding (Genesis - 1980)
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10:29 AM
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Labels: Gymnastics, Makeup, Misunderstanding
Friday, March 27, 2009
BLOG VACATION: March 28 - April 5, 2009
THE VACATION FILES: Wai'anapanapa State Park, Maui (2004)
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12:45 AM
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Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Virtue and Vice (The Black Crowes - 1999)

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9:26 AM
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Friday, March 20, 2009
CONFESSION #67: I Sometimes Use Smiley Faces In My E-Mails
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7:21 PM
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Labels: E-mail, Emoticon, Smiley Face, Typographical
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
DON'T QUOTE ME: Jesus' Last Name
Monday, March 16, 2009
Heaven Knows (Donna Summer - 1978)

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4:03 PM
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