SNAKE!!! SNAKE!!! (or, Sweet Lord I'm Going to Pee My Pants!)

I've put off writing about this for a while because it's taken me some time to come to grips with what happened.

It was a beautiful Saturday.  The Spouse was toiling away in the house doing laundry, ironing and general Saturday afternoon activities.  At some point, she came in the living room and said, "I'm tired of this.  I'm going outside and I'm going to landscape that area out back."

I gave some form of guttural grunt in reply.  She gave me "the look" but it didn't work on me.  I've become immune. 

You see, I am not your regular manly man.  I've got all the bits and pieces but somewhere along the way, I lost that genetic inclination to work outside and tell people that I enjoyed it.  I really, really hate working outside.

Since I was born, I have secreted sweat from my pores with the slightest exertion.  I sweat taking a walk.  I sweat getting dressed.  I sweat carrying groceries in from the car.  I sweat taking a shower.  Really, I do.  I'm in there.  The water's coming out of the shower head and I'm sweating along with it. 

Lest you begin to talk about me, I'll have you know that I can sweat all day long but I do not emit an odor.  I'm an odor-free sweater.  Really!  Ask The Spouse...she's long marvelled at my ability to be a "sweaty man" and not stink as a result of it.  I'm pretty convinced that it has to do with my brilliance and magnificence. 

So, I'm avoiding sweating on this beautiful Saturday by sitting on the couch reading.  Actually, I'm pretty sure I was lying down on the couch reading.  That's the best position for me to prevent unnecessary sweating. 

After a bit of time had passed, my guilt began to gnaw at me.  That was after I awoke from my non-sweat-inducing activity of napping.  Napping is another activity that I can enjoy without having to sweat. 

I wandered downstairs and walked out the back door to find my beautiful wife on her hands and knees laboring away at planting a rosebush in her newly landscaped area.  She'd done a remarkable job.  I distinctly remember sitting on the bench swing that's suspended from the deck rafters, looking at the results of her toil and marveling at the fact that she didn't appear to be sweating.  I'd broken a sweat by simply walking downstairs and settling on the swing. 

I may have made some remarks about her handiness or something.  As soon as the first words fell from my mouth, I realized I'd made a critical error.  She grasped onto that comment and followed it up with, "Why don't you come help me finish this up?"  Gads!  She had me! 

My task was to pin the landscaping fabric to the ground.  I got on my hands and knees and was busily pinning away when I heard The Spouse emit a noise that was part shriek, part howl, part scream, and part cuss.  Since I know my wife is genetically predisposed to bump into things with her head or feet, I kept my head down and continued pinning. 

It was upon hearing her make a shuddering noise and begin to say unintelligible gibberish that I finally turned around and looked.  I looked up at her as she was wielding her broom like Luke Skywalker fighting Darth Vader in that brutal death scene.  She looked back at me and said, "SNAKE!!!!"

People, you can pull my man card, you can call me any name you want to, but I am absolutely terrified by snakes.  It is only within the last year that I can tolerate looking at them on the television.  I've heard it all from well-meaning snake lovers.  (Note:  Always, always, always be suspicious of anyone who claims to "love" snakes.  Something ain't right.)

"That poor little snake is more afraid of you than you are of it."  Okay, I'm calling B.S. on that one!  No one has a means to measure a snake's fear but I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was absolutely more afraid of that snake than it was of me. 

For instance, I didn't notice the snake crying uncontrollably.  I didn't hear the snake cussing.  I didn't see the snake dancing around like Muhammad Ali preparing to annihilate his next opponent.  I didn't hear the snake calling on The Almighty and Ever-Loving Lord Jesus to strike him dead on that spot.

I didn't see or hear anything from that snake but I promise you The Spouse and the neighbors heard it all from me!

I looked at The Spouse and she had ended her Jedi moves with the broom.  The snake, probably about 8-10" long, remained right were he was.  This bad dude wasn't afraid of ANTHING!  You can't watch The Spouse use a broom like a light saber and not come away wondering if she truly is a Jedi in training.  You can't stand there and watch me go full-tilt bozo without taking a few steps back and preparing to run.  This snake did.  He just laid there.  Looking. 

In a moment that can only be defined as a "God Moment," I walked over to The Spouse, took the broom from her hands and attacked that snake!  My biggest fear was that it would somehow get into our house. 

I struck at the snake with the broom and IT STRUCK BACK!  Normally, I would have run in the opposite direction with a trail of pee following behind me.  But, because I was wrapped in the Shield of the Lord, I moved in a tad closer, brought the broom down behind the little bugger and swept him out toward the yard.

As I was doing that, I was yelling at The Spouse to get me a shovel!  I was going all out ninja on this snake and I was going to chop his little venomous head off!  Before she could head off to get the shovel, that little snake gathered his senses and took off like a shot.  It headed straight for the new landscaping!  I chased after it with broom poised for another attack.  I think I was emitting some form of primal scream as I ran after it. 

Like the spawn of Satan they are, that little devil slithered under a rock.  I hit the rock with the broom.  I stomped near it.  I did everything I could think of to get that dude to come out and fight like a snake. 

Nothing. 

I waited for quite a while. Watching.  Waiting.  And, still, nothing.  It had somehow escaped. 

Once the adrenaline began to subside, The Spouse walked up to me and said, "What got into you?!"  She had that proud look of a woman whose man had just fought off an attacker.  There was a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her face.  She was finally proud of me and, I think, she found me sexy.

I looked at her and said, "Hold on, I gotta go pee."

Fun on the Road

So, my "new" job has me traveling quite a bit.  Sometimes I put between 1,100 and 1,500 miles a week on my truck.  I don't mind the travel because most of it can be done in day trips and, when I do have to spend the night somewhere, my company is okay with me staying in a nice place. 

My territory is rather large and I live in the southern-most end of it.  My days sometimes begin between 4:00a.m. and 5:00a.m.  I get up, have my coffee, read the news online, post a status on FB, read what others have posted while I've been snoozing, shower, dress and head out the door between 5:30a.m. and 6:00a.m.  If I have time, I jump online and login to the company servers to check out the schools I'm seeing and to scout out any new business. 

I'm a morning person.  Sometimes getting up at 4:00a.m. is difficult.  Most of the time, it's not so bad once I get my cup of coffee in me. 

Every now and then (most days), I run into people who I like to classify as "different" or, if you want to pronounce it like I do..."difrnt."  We have a saying in our house.  It goes like this:  "Well, that's difrnt.  And difrnt ain't always better." 

For instance, The Boy Child will say something like, "I think my left pinky toenail look like Bryant Gumble." 

To which we would reply, "Well, that's difrnt. And difrnt ain't always better." 

Or, The Girl Child will say something like, "I got bit by a hobo today.  I've got hobo rabies!" 

To which we reply, "Well, that's difrnt. And difrnt ain't always better."  (Brief explanation:  Since early childhood, both of these heathen have been intrigued by and interested in "hobos".  The hobo lifestyle has been studied and they've found the secret hobo language.  This has evolved into the belief that all homeless people are hobos.  The Spouse and I have decided not to correct this assumption because:  1. they wouldn't believe us and 2. it's not really worth arguing over.  Cupcakes are worth arguing over.  Hobos and homeless are not.)

Anyway, today I was on a major interstate and was on the lookout for a rest area.  (I have a real issue with the name "rest area."  There are no couches.  There are no beds.  There's nowhere to rest.  Before you say, "There's a place to stop and get out and use the restroom.  That's 'resting.'"  I'll say to you that it is impossible to "rest" while taking care of your toileting needs.  I defy you to tell me that's a restful experience.  It would be much better if they would simply call them P&P Areas (Pee and Picnic).

Anyway, I pulled in and parked, got out and began walking across the parking lot to the "P" area.  As I was walking a woman who had parked beside me got out of her car and began walking toward the building, too. 

Normally, I make it a point not to talk to people at rest areas.  It's a well known fact that serial killers, stalkers, creepers and hobos hang out at these places and will shank you in a heartbeat if you let your guard down.  I've imagined several different scenarios involving my untimely death, but getting shanked by some homicidal hobo-maniac at the rest area is NOT one of them.  I'm not going out like that. 

This lady looks at me and says, "I've never been to a rest area like this one before.  It just kind of snuck up on me."  I paused, turned and looked at her and replied, "Yeah...they have a tendency to do that."  And then, I sped up and made my way to the men's room. 

What the heck was I supposed to say to that comment?  Who makes comments like that at a rest area?  How did it sneak up on her?  I saw the signs from two miles back.  Evidently, she simply stopped there because she "wanted" to not because she "needed" to.  I stop because I have a NEED to stop.  This woman obviously took the "rest" part literally and was just stopping for a leisurely stroll through the picnic area. 

Those who know me know that I'm a germaphobe.  It has taken a LOT of courage and a lot of mental preparation for me to even be able to stop at these places and go in the building.  The germ factor is simply incalculable!  So, I always wash and dry my hands well, and, upon getting in my truck, pull out the antibacterial hand sanitizer and cleanse myself of the filth that has accumulated in my walk from the sink to the truck. 

As I told The Spouse about this she said, "Well, that's difrnt. And difrnt ain't always better."  That's why I love her.

The Big Count Down (AKA: My Kid is Completely Stressed Out!)

It's a little known fact, but there's actually a countdown that's more famous and more popular than the one that happens every New Year's Eve.  Like its New Year's Eve counterpart, there's a huge amount of planning and organizing involved.  Some folks dread it, others can't wait for it. 

Have you figured it out?  It's The Big Count Down!  Also known as, the end of the school year!

Unless your kids attend a year-round school, they are probably already counting down the remaining days of school for the year.  In most cases, so are the teachers and support staff. 

I always marveled at how quickly the year passed.  I never tired of seeing the new school year begin and I was always ready when it was drawing to a close.  In my current position, I get to speak with principals and teachers and I have found that most of them are counting the days with the kids.  Like other cycles in our lives, there's a beginning, middle and end.

The end of the school year is often filled with some anxiety for students, teachers and parents.  Serious students are gravely concerned about their grades and want to end the year with the best grade possible in each class.  They buckle down and work a little harder.  The sense of ending the year may cause extra stress on them.  I've seen some students struggle with the feeling that everything is coming due at the same time and there's not enough time to get it all done.  While their desire to finish on top is admirable, it needs to be tempered with some stress relief.  Overloaded and over-stressed often define these students. 

So, what can be done about it?  I have just a few suggestions for these Type A, Overachiever, OCD-like individuals.

1. Ask your child if he/she feels stressed out.  Sounds simple and it is.  However, in my experience, many parents fail to ask this essential question.  This question can lead to some very insightful conversations.  It can also give you the opportunity to connect with your child about similar experiences you've had.  Once the sharing is done, work together and come up with a plan to address the stressors. 

2. Develop a plan.  We've all heard the adage that most people don't plan to fail, they fail to plan.  It's true.  Plans don't have to be convoluted or terribly involved.  They can be a prioritized list of things that need to be done and their deadlines for completion beside them.  Your tech-savvy child probably has an app on his/her smartphone or tablet that will help him/her stay on track.  A printed list tacked up in a highly visible place can work as well.  Decide on what's most effective and make the plan.

3. Implement the plan.  It sounds silly to state it this way, but most plans remain plans until they are implemented.  One task at a time.  Focus.  Complete it. Mark it off. 

4. Celebrate.  Decide on a way to celebrate each item you complete in your plan.  It might be something as simple as spending time at the park, on a bike ride, eating ice cream, chatting with a friend, whatever.  (If you are a teenager, maybe the reward is sending 25 bazillion text messages in 15 minutes.) Small accomplishments should be celebrated with small rewards.  Larger accomplishments should be celebrated with larger rewards.  When the whole plan is completed, celebrate in a manner that is appropriate for you and your student.  The key here is that the rewards must be meaningful to the recipient and must be of enough value to motivate the student to accomplish the task.

In my own life, I sometimes neglect to deal with items in my work email inbox.  I answer the message but I don't move it to a folder or I don't mark it for follow-up.  I just leave it sitting there.  So, when it's overwhelming me, I finally plan an attack on it.  I disengage from everything else and have only my email up.  I start at the bottom of the stack and work my way through it.  If it's ridiculously full, I'll give myself a small goal of filing, deleting or dealing with 25 messages.  When those are dealt with appropriately, I might take a break and walk outside for 15 minutes.  Then, I come back and deal with another 25.  Once they are all dealt with, my reward might be minimizing my email and moving on to something else.  The sense of accomplishment is awesome. 

My point is, the plan is important, implementation is essential and the reward is the motivation.  Once they are set in motion, the stress begins to fade on its own.  The plan makes the stress manageable.  The implementation makes the stress lessen.  The reward replaces the stress with a good feeling and a sense of accomplishment. 

Finally, if the stress is overwhelming, it may be necessary to make an appointment to visit with your school's guidance counselor or principal.  Letting them know that your child is stressed and feeling overwhelmed is a big help.  Generally, most counselors and principals would want to know this and would want to help.  They may be able to help your child develop a plan of attack at school.  At the very least, you will have attempted to communicate with the school about your child and his/her situation.

Easter Thoughts

It's Easter at this house and that can only mean one thing...Celebration! We began the morning at 5:00a.m.  The Spouse woke up to her alarm so she could get ready for Mass at 8:00a.m.  The Boy Child shuffled out of his room at 5:30a.m. and The Girl Child followed shortly after. 

The Bunny left some gifts for them on the kitchen counter and then we headed out for our pre-dawn ritual of hunting eggs. 

We met The Spouse's mother at church and really enjoyed the service. The priest is from Kenya and he explained that in his home Easter Day is celebrated with loud shouts of joy, ululating, dancing and going to church. He demonstrated the act of ululating for us. I've seen it on television and never fully understood it. Today, I got it!  It's an expression of extreme joy.  I looked around our church and noticed that we would be be completely out of place in Kenya. We were dressed in Easter finery, but we weren't a particularly joyful or boisterous group. I contemplated imitating him just to see what happened. I wonder if anyone would have joined in. 

We took a picture outside of church just because.

The Spouse and I came home and furiously cleaned the house and got ready for 16 friends and family to come over. The Spouse and The Girl Child made an Easter Bunny bread thing. 

I'm not one for stating the obvious, but the levels of irony and cruelty here are just too many to pass up. For instance, isn't it wrong to have that bunny surrounded by celery and carrots that he can't eat?

We had lunch with some special friends. Kimberly Adelson (one of my heroes) and her Mother and Step-Father joined us.  Kimberly continues to battle her cancer. It's an insidious and hateful disease but we know she will defeat it again!

Eating with friends and family on occasions like this is a good reminder of they way things used to be. Gathering at the table to break some bread and share some wine are among the simplest of pleasures but they hold the most powerful of meanings. We gather to reminisce, to remember and to plan for the future. We gather together at a table because it is there that we share in the communion of our kindred spirit. We gather together at a table so that we remember the paschal feast. Jesus sat with his friends and family and broke the bread and shared the wine. He asked that we do this in remembrance of Him. It's hard to believe that over 2,000 years have passed and we continue to hold this most sacred ritual. 

Maybe we should stop for a bit and remember that sitting at the table and sharing food and drink are sacred events. Maybe they've become so commonplace that we've forgotten their sacredness. Maybe, we shouldn't forget this any more. 

I'm grateful for the time we had with our family and friends today. I will try to be more mindful of Christ's promise that where two or more are gathered in his name He will be among us. 

I saw Him today in the face of Kimberly.

I saw Him today in the face of her Mother and Step-Father.

I saw Him in the face of my in-laws. 

I saw Him in the face of my friends from our old neighborhood. 

I saw Him in the face of my Mother and sister. 

I saw Him in the face of my Father and Step-Mother. 

I saw Him in the face of my children. 

I saw Him in the beautiful face of my wife.

I am most gratified and humbled that I saw Him today!

Physical Therapy Should Not Resemble Torture

There's a common belief among those of us with frequent and infrequent neck and back pain that "physical therapy" does not have to resemble torture of the Middle Ages variety.  I think we all believe that a little pain is necessary for the gain, but less pain is more desirable.  The researcher/therapist/inventor dude or dudette who creates a pain free way to alleviate a painful back or neck or leg or arm injury, will be a gazillionaire and I will personally erect a shrine in his/her honor. (Hint, hint!)

After I finished ruminating on the line-art man's posterior area and how I might attain such a bootylicious figure for myself, my PT had me get up on this table/bed thingy that looked like something I've seen when Ghost Hunters or Ghost Adventures visits a deserted insane asylum.

The one he put me on resembles this.

He then told me how he was going to "...stretch your neck a bit to help relieve the compression on the nerve bundle."  I gave him a "WhatchutalkinboutWillis?!" look.  He then told me that I would put my head between these two "head stabilizer thingy's," strap my head down, then turn on the machine that would apply 25-30 lbs of weight to pull my neck back and, thereby, remove the stress on the nerve bundle. 

I've wanted to do some crazy things in my life, and, truth be told, I have tried to do some of them.  However, stretching my neck has not been one of those things.  I watched a documentary on NatGeo about some tribal people who elongate their necks by putting rings around their necks and causing the neck to stretch and grow elongated.  I will admit that I was watching the show primarily to see if the tribal women still walk around with no top on, but the neck stretching thing interested me.  I have a desire to get a few tattoos and to have my ears pierced, but I have absolutely no desire to look like this...

She's pretty but I've never wanted to compete with giraffes for my food.

I did as I was instructed and he strapped me in.  He handed me a cord with a red button on the end.  He said, "Push this button if you start to feel dizzy, nauseated, pregnant or anything unusual."  I looked at the button for a minute.  It reminded me of the Nurse Call buttons they give you in the hospital.  If this thing worked as well as those do, I was in for a lot of disappointment if things started going wrong.

As he walked out, he said, "Now, just lay there and relax.  I'll turn the lights off and you can try to sleep." 

REALLY?  REALLY?  I think he was serious.  All I could think about was those slasher movies like SAW.  I've never seen those because the previews scare the crap out of me, but I have heard people say that there's a lot of torture and being tied down in those movies.  So, I lay there really still with my iPhone in my hand, waiting for some creepy slasher dude to come in and begin to try to experiment on me.  Sleeping in a dark room while strapped to a table with a machine pulling on your neck is just not an option for me.

The "treatment" went pretty well.  No slasher guy appeared.  I didn't end up looking like that lady above and I did experience some relief from my pain.

As I was getting ready to leave, he told me that he had a portable device that did the same thing.  He said he would let me take it home and use it so I could get relief from the pain when I needed it.  He gave me the micro-version of the neck elongation device with some instructions and then wished me well.  He told me to call him in a few days and let him know how I was.

Last night, I decided that the pain was returning and that I might try the portable neck stretcher device.  I had The Spouse help me get strapped in.  I lay there, on the bedroom floor, with my neck stretching and everyone leaving me alone.  Until the phone rang...

'Cause that's how I roll!"

More later...it's Saturday morning and I haven't stretched my neck yet.

The Pain in my Back Has Caused Envy in my Heart

Who knew you could jack your back up just from sleeping? 

Evidently, my doctor and my physical therapist new it could happen. 

It seems that on Wednesday evening, as I lay supine on my couch watching mindless television, I fell asleep in a poor position and somehow jacked my back up pretty bad. 

The doctor said something about brachial blah, blah, blah, then I heard, bulging disc, and some other words that made sense to him.  I looked at him, grimaced and nodded appropriately, then left with a prescription for some steroids and a referral for physical therapy. 

I called a friend who is a physical therapist and he told me to come on over and he would work me in. 

I filled out the necessary paperwork and went back to the treatment area.  The first level of treatment was to put some nice hot packs on my back and neck.  That felt really, really good.  Then, as he was telling about the upcoming treatment, he called me in to a little room with a table/bed thingy and a poster of the entire backside of some naked dude with all of his skin peeled away.  The naked dude was just a line drawing, not some real naked dude with his skin peeled off.

I know it's sad, but as he started explaining to me what I'd done to my back and neck, I couldn't help but look at that guy and think, "I wish my ass looked like that.  I wonder what I would have to do to have an ass like that."  My friend, the therapist, was talking about cervical and brachial thingys and discs and muscles.  I nodded, grimaced, shook my head (only a little) and pretended to understand everything he said.  In reality, I was growing envious of this line drawing's physique. 

Take a look at the picture below and tell me you aren't just a touch envious.

More on my back and the therapy that followed my envious ogling of the line-art man later.  For now, I'm going to start thinking about the gym and working with a trainer to get my backside looking like that.  (After my back heals, of course.)

A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool. - Shakespeare

Remember when we used to say, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me!” That’s a lie.

We said that because it was like a magic incantation that would take away the sting of the words that were thrown at us. We pretended like we believed it. The truth is, we didn’t really believe it. Those words hurt as much and maybe more than the sticks and stones would have.

So, a week or so ago, my son came home with a paragraph that he had to write five times for some misbehavior. As a former Communication Arts teacher, the use of writing as a punishment is the ultimate sin. It didn't help matters that the paragraph had numerous grammatical, spelling and punctuation errors in it.

I fell into a state of righteous indignation. There were mitigating factors that led to this state, but the bottom line is, I fell right into it.

Shamefully, my response was to post the paragraph to my Facebook page and ask for input. I received over 30 comments; all in favor of me "getting" this teacher for daring to assign writing as a punishment and for her errors. They, too, disagreed with writing as a punishment. They, too, felt sympathy toward my son.

I would like to say that they, too, felt a bit superior to the teacher who'd committed this sin. I don't know that they felt that way, but I did. It's not something I'm proud of and it's not something I would ever want to make a habit.

I did all the wrong things in handling this. Yes, I'm still 100% certain that using writing as a punishment is harmful. Yes, I'm still in favor of good grammar, spelling and punctuation. Yes, I still have feelings of sympathy toward my son. Still, my handling of the situation was wrong and did not change a thing. As a matter of fact, the only thing it did was cause me more guilt and possibly cause some humiliation for that teacher.

It seems that I'd forgotten what it was like to be publicly vilified. I used to become enraged when people would write their anonymous comments about me in SpeakOut. Even though the vast majority of those comments didn't contain a shred of truth to them, I felt shame and embarrassment. I was convinced that everyone in town was looking at me and judging me.

I imagine that's how I made this teacher feel. I did to her the very thing I hated most. And, I regret it.

I posted a simple apology on my Facebook page and I’ve emailed the teacher, the principal and a few others as a first step in atonement. This is the next step in the act of contrition that I feel compelled to perform.

If at all possible, I will learn from this experience. I know better than to use public humiliation as a response. I simply let my ego get in the way of my rational self. I hope others will read this and learn from it too.

Sticks and stones can be thrown aside and destroyed. Words linger and are not so
easily removed. The sting of them comes back days, months and even years after they’ve been said and they come back from out of the blue.

I truly hope those whom I’ve offended in word and deed can find it in their hearts to forgive me.

The Doctor Visit

I made it home and I made it to the doctor. By the time I was put in a room, I was running a 102.2 fever and I had serious thoughts about just staying in that little room for the rest of the day and night.

The thought of leaving was exhausting and I was extremely tired and worn out. It happens that the nurse of our doctor is a friend. She immediately said, "Hmmm, I bet you have the flu." She smiled at me for a moment and then told me to go down the hall to get a "flu swab."

I thought I'd had them before and I KNEW they were uncomfortable. Evidently, all the other flu swabs I'd had before were incorrectly and inefficiently done. This lab tech person, now after referred to as Satan's Mistress, took that fourteen foot long Q-tip from its sterile package. She told me to "have a seat" in one of the bench seats with the seatbelts and the arms that come down around you. I complied and even said, "I hope I don't infect you." She smiled and said, "I don't think you will. Now, hold real still." I swear I saw a bit of red flame behind her eyes as she said that and I KNOW I smelled sulfur.

She grabbed that Q-tip and began the ascent up my nasal cavity. The first half of a second was "uncomfortable," the next few howeverlongitwas was one of the most painful things I've ever had happen to me.

God as my witness, that Q-tip poked the back side of my left eyeball! I watched, cross-eyed, as she kept shoving that thing up further and further into my brain. Right at the point I thought I would pass out, she slowly withdrew her arm from inside my left nostril and removed the rest of that fourteen foot long Q-tip. "All done," she quipped, handing me a single-ply tissue from the standard sandpaper tissue box that sits in every doctor's office.

I looked at her, then down at the tissue. I wanted to cuss her out, but I decided instead to take my single-ply tissue and dab at my nose with it. I couldn't have punched her because she'd temporarily blinded me by applying pressure on the optic nerve with that damn Q-tip!

There's a time and a place for revenge. When you have a 102.2 fever, are blinded in one eye, and left holding a single-ply tissue while the person across from you has red flames licking up behind her eyes and has a fourteen foot long Q-tip with your mucus on it, that is not the right place or time!

I remember giving her "the look" that The Spouse gives me when she's not happy and wants me to know it without saying anything. Then I walked back to my room with my tissue in hand. It was me and that tissue against the world at that moment. I was squinting my left eye, praying to God that my vision would return, squeezing that tissue like it was the neck of the lab tech and I was muttering curses on her and her whole family all the way back to my room.

I sat in that little room waiting for the doctor to return. Slowly, my vision came back. By the time he came in the room, I'd texted no less than 85 people telling them that I'd been blinded by a maniac wielding a fourteen foot long Q-tip in the lab at my doctor's office. I was amassing my army in case I had to go back in there.

The doctor came in and said, "Well, the good news is you tested negative for the flu! I could have sworn you would be positive but you aren't."

I looked at him and I was P-I-S-S-E-D O-F-F! I had just been attacked and blinded by Satan's Mistress in the lab and BY GOD I DESERVED TO HAVE THE FLU!!!

He must have thought the fever was having an effect on me because he just ignored the look I gave him and began telling me that I had "the crud." That's my official diagnosis. I have "the crud." I sat there, not saying a thing. I had my tissue clutched in my hand and I just sat there looking at him. He looked at me a bit longer and then said, "Here are some prescriptions for you to help you get over this. That cough medicine is new and it may make you groggy. Call me if you aren't better in a few days." I gathered up my iPad, iPhone, my keys, my prescriptions and my tissue and I shuffled out the door and down the hallway.

One day, one day very soon, I will return to that place and I will have my revenge on that lab tech. Until then, I'll clutch that tissue and remember!

The World's Worst Patient

I am probably the world's worst patient. I have very little tolerance for illness and the side effects thereof. I began feeling cruddy on a Wednesday afternoon. I moaned and posted about my impending doom on Facebook repeatedly that evening. I begged for "chickie noodle soup" and I accused my family of ignoring me while I lanquished away. (I know for a fact The Spouse tuned me out because I mentioned money several different times and she didn't even respond. She ALWAYS responds when I mention money!)

I felt better later that evening and even attended our first homeowner's association meeting. (There's enough fodder from that meeting for multiple posts.)

On Thursday morning, I awoke feeling "yucky" but not bad enough to cancel my two appointments. So, I drank my coffee, dropped the kids off at school, hit the Starbucks and jumped on the interstate. I made it about 60 miles up the road before I pulled over at the rest area. I was starting to feel pretty crappy. As I sat in my truck, it struck me that I was getting worse by the minute. I was exhausted just from driving 60 miles and I really just wanted to recline my seat and go to sleep.

You know you are truly ill when you begin to believe that sleeping at the rest area south of St. Louis, MO is a really good idea. I think approximately 200,000 people have been assaulted, murdered, mugged, beaten or otherwise abused there in the past few years.

Instead of caving and trying to nap in Hell's Parking Lot, I called my doctor's office and asked about an appointment. They could get me in at 1:20p.m. Next, I called my two appointments and cancelled. Then, I drove to the next exit and jumped onto the southbound lanes. As with the rest of my life, the most common and mundane of tasks had to be all jacked up.

As I headed south, I saw the dark clouds ahead and watched as streaks of thick lightening shot from the sky and blasted the earth. The roar of the thunder ahead was loud enough to make me have to turn up the radio. As I drew closer to the storm, the lightening strikes got bigger, more frequent, and very, very close. The skies opened up and torrential rain fell. No natural calamity would be complete without some wind. And, as if according to plan, the wind began to blow so hard that I had a difficult time keeping my truck on the road. Finally, just to make things exciting, I drove into a hail storm.

It was at this point that I said a few things that would have made an entire Navy fleet blush. I refused to surrender and I dang sure wasn't going to stop. I was determined to drive through this and get home as quickly as possible.

I made it home, safe and sound. The trip to the doctor was an adventure in and of itself. I'll post about it soon. I promise!

When Easter Eggs and Turkeys Fall from the Sky

In news unrelated to anything...I'm ready for vacation. Not just any vacation, though. A vacation away from my children.

The Boy Child, he who is all of 12 years old, seems to know more than The Spouse and I in just about every realm of knowledge. He's evidently quite an expert on everything and The Spouse and I are not.

For instance, The Spouse told him that our neighbor's pastor is going to drop 3,000 eggs from an airplane on Easter Sunday into a field. The Boy Child begins to expostulate on the possible dangers and inaccuracy of such an endeavor. He explains that it would be "impossible" to be accurate in the drop because of the physics involved.

The Spouse responds by saying that she's sure the pastor has checked it all out with the pilot, the city and other experts. Not being one to give in so easily, he responds, "Who knows more about airplanes than anyone else in this family?"

You see, The Boy Child plays Microsoft Flight Simulator X daily. He's watched numerous YouTube videos on model plane flying and he's watched several shows on Discovery and the Science Channel. All of these experiences make him an expert on airplane physics and dynamics.

Meanwhile, The Spouse and I waste our nights watching The Big Bang Theory, MASH reruns, Once Upon a Time, American Pickers, Dog The Bounty Hunter and Glee episodes. You can see how he would find himself superior to us in both intellect and attitude.

What could two adults who've lived for over 40 years, have both completed B.S. and M.A. degrees, have worked for untold years, have given life to two children and have been gainfully employed since the age of 14 possibly know about a pastor who wants to drop 3,000 Easter Eggs on a field?

On a side note, I was immediately reminded of the episode of WKRP in Cincinnati where Les Nessman reports on live turkeys being dropped from a helicopter on Thanksgiving. I'm hoping this "egg drop" is at least vaguely similar to that.

How to Effectively Use Your Windshield Time

My current job allows me the opportunity to travel quite a bit. Some weeks, I put as many as 1200 miles on my truck. That's a lot of windshield time!

In order to make the time pass, I listen to a lot of talk radio along with stations that suit my mood at the time. My boss would rather I spend the 1200 miles per week thinking about how I'm going to make my next sale or increase my business. She's kinda kooky like that. I do spend some time thinking about those things, but 1200 miles of thinking like that might make you go crazy. That may be how she ended up the way she is. Which is INCREDIBLY AWESOME AND SUPER-D-DUPERTY TERRIFIC! (I may be crazy but I ain't stupid!)

Those of you who travel as much as or more than I do will probably relate to this. Otherwise, I'm kinda crazy and may need to increase my medication.

So, as I motor up and down the interstate and state highways and county roads and city streets, I have a lot of random thoughts. I thought I'd share some with you:

1. Why do dolphins have such cute faces? Is it to fool us into a false sense of security? I've heard that they attack people at times. Maybe they plan on taking over the world. I need to start a "Watch the Dolphins" campaign.

2. If I had to define my work as a shape, what shape would it be? I haven't settled this one yet. I'm thinking along the lines of a rhombus, though.

3. Why is it that the black sheep has to give up his wool while all the white sheep get to keep theirs? He has three bags full and has to give one to "the master," one to "the dame" and one to "the little boy who lives down the lane." How come the white sheep aren't giving anything up? I'm smelling some nasty racism here. It's troubling!

4. Why does Illinois have 2-3 state employees manning a rest area when the state is almost bankrupt? I love their rest areas. They are beautiful and very clean but does it really take 2-3 people to maintain each one? Missouri rest areas seldom have one person in them. (They are also pretty nasty.)

5. Has anyone ever figured out how much wood a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

6. Do Muslim people say WWAD, or do Buddhists say WWBD, like Christians say WWJD?

7. Has Starbucks secretly mixed something in their coffee to make people addicted? I'm thinking so. I find it hard to enter a town with one and not stop by.

8. Why isn't every gas station along a major interstate or highway equipped with pay-at-the-pump pumps? Really, in this era, shouldn't that be a requirement for operating a gas station along an interstate or major highway?

9. Do my children REALLY miss me or do they just lead me along when I call because they see me as elderly and frail and in need of some positive reinforcement?

There, I'll stop with nine. Most people would go to 10 but I'm fighting my OCD tendencies this week and I'm stopping with 9. I also think a lot about my OCD tendencies when I'm driving. That statement doesn't really count as number ten because I didn't put the number in front of it. See, I'm beating this OCD thing already!

I hope this post has given you a glimpse into my life as a road warrior. I'm off to start another week of selling in Missouri and Illinois. I'll be thinking about you and a host of other things as I make my way up and down the road!

Baptismal Show and Tell

The Girl Child has a school project that requires her to bring in something from her baptism and to talk about it. She can bring in her baptismal gown, photos, the candle or anything that will help her tell about her baptism. Of course, her response was, "How can I talk about my baptism? I was a baby. I don't remember that! Duh!"

In order to "refresh" her memory, The Spouse had her get the photo album with her baptismal pictures in it. As we were flipping through it and talking about the who, what, when and where, we came upon several pictures that she felt the need to comment on.

The first picture is one of her as an infant in a carseat. The car seat is sitting on the front lawn of our first home. She and The Boy Child were looking at it and I heard her whisper, "See, I told you I was adopted! Someone left me in their front yard!" Then, they both began giggling hysterically.

I told her she was NOT adopted because I was in the surgery room when the doctor gutted her mother and yanked her out of her belly. That shut her up! (I'm cruel like that at times.)

Another picture they looked at showed The Boy Child at about age two. He's in the background and is holding a big pair of yellow and blue Fisher-Price binoculars to his face. The binoculars are HUGE compared to his little face and he looks like a freaky robot walking toward the sweet baby. They both laughed hysterically at the picture.

The Girl Child announced she was going to take that photo to school to show as she talked about her baptism. I told her it had nothing to do with her baptism. She said, "I know, but it's funny!" It's all about the priorities with her. Humor over substance.

A Conversation That Explains Why I NEED My Lexapro!

The following conversations are pretty much verbatim from the car ride home from school today. I think this explains a lot...especially why I may have posted a picture or two of my Big Rig boxers.

Me: How was your day TGC?
Her: Okay. We had to sing at a funeral.
Me: You did? Why?
Her: Different classes get picked to sing at funerals. We had to go today.
Me: Whose funeral was it?
Her: I don't know. Some old dude named Leo. He was like 68.
Me: Some old dude named Leo, huh?
The Boy Child: 68! That's actually not all that old.
Her: Well, let me tell you, there was a LOT of crying at that funeral.
Me: I bet. People were probably sad because he passed away.
Her: Yeah, those people, too, but I'm talking about in my class!
Me: Your class? Kids were crying?
Her: Heck yeah! Jebediah (not his real name) was crying because his dog died.
Me: Recently?
Her: No, a long time ago. And, he was crying because some relative died.
Me: Recently?
Her: No, I don't think so. I'm not sure. But he started crying, then other people started crying and more people started crying.
Me: Did you cry?
Her: Heck yeah! All those people crying made me sad and I cried too!
Me: Well, I'm sorry about that. That sounds tough.
Her: Yeah. What's for supper tonight?

And another conversation:
The Girl Child: Do you know who Lulu (not the child's real name) is?
Me: I'm not sure. Why?
Her: She's adopted.
Me: She is?
Her: Yep. She's from Taiwan.
The Boy Child: How do you know about Taiwan?
Her: Duh, because Lulu is from there!
Me: Wow. She's fortunate to have been adopted by a nice American family.
Her: Yeah. I think her parents are rich or something.
Me: Really. That's lucky for her.
Her: Elizabeth Ann (not the child's real name) is adopted, too.
Me: Yes, she is.
TBC: How do you know? Did this come from other kids or from her?
Her: It came from Elizabeth Ann.
Me: She is adopted TBC. Her parents talk about it openly and she knows it.
TBC: So...Elizabeth Ann is from Taiwan?
Me: NO! She is from the United States.
Her: And, her family is RICH!
Me: I don't know about that. Her family does very well and she's very lucky to have been adopted by them.
TBC: I think they're rich and she is lucky. She could have been adopted by someone who made her a slave.
Me: What?
Him: Well, you know, a lot of kids are adopted out and the people who adopt them make them into slaves. You know, to work around the house, on the farms, in factories and stuff like that.
Me: I don't think that happens here in the United States. Maybe in other countries.
Him: No, I'm pretty sure it happens here too. A lot of kids are adopted and turned into slaves.
Me: Okay. Whatever. Too bad you kids weren't adopted out.

And Finally...
TGC: How much longer before we get home?
Me: Not long (thank GOD!).
TGC: Good! I'VE GOT A POO CRAMP!!!!

And people wonder why I'm on Lexapro?!

It's Time For You To See My Big Rig Undies!

It's time for us to get personal. I'm sharing something very near and dear to my heart with you.

See those pictures to the left, those are pictures of my Big Rig boxers. The first picture is a close-up so you can see the cool trucks. Some of them are upside down and some are right-side up and take a look at the cool steering wheel motif that is repeated throughout.

By now, you are probably insanely jealous and wanting to know where you can get some. The answer is...I don't know.

These were a gift to me. I know, I know. You're all sitting there thinking what an awesome gift this is! I'm sure I had the same thought at the time.

The Spouse gave me these one year for Christmas, I think. Maybe it was a birthday. She's a great gift-giver!

For the most part, I'm a practical person when it comes to buying me gifts. I will ask for things like new socks, dress shirts, ties, even underwear when I need it. I must have made that request that year. This year, I got an iPad for my birthday. That wasn't practical but I turned 45 and I think she felt sorry for me.

Anyway, you can imagine my surprise when I saw these. I was probably pretty speechless. Sometimes, I still am when I look at them.

Just the other day, I pulled them from the drawer and was headed into the bathroom to take a shower. The Spouse made some snide comment about my Big Rig undies. I ignored her. She bought them for me, after all.

What's Kickin' Chicken!

Actually, that's a metal rooster. The Spouse (that's her up above in case you were wondering) and I have developed a fondness for big metal roosters and chickens. It's all because of that crazy Bloggess and her posts about this big metal chicken she bought and wrote about. You can read about it at http://www.thebloggess.com/ (Warning: She uses the "F" word and all of its known and unknown variations A LOT!)

So, we were at our local fair Saturday with the kids. In between riding rides and waiting out the rain, we visited the animal barns. We saw lots and lots of chickens, roosters, turkeys, ducks, guinea pigs, rabbits, horses, cows, cows, cows and donkeys.

Sometimes, I get all wistful (not really but I'd like to think I could) and wonder what it would be like to live on a farm and have all of those animals around. They seem so cute and sweet. My little walk through the show barns cured me of that yesterday. It may also have infected me. I'm not sure but I'm watching for signs of bovine fever! (If you remember from an earlier post, I studied medicine at one point. For like 25 minutes. So, that pretty much makes me an expert on some medical things.) The smell was horrendous and the worst part is, most of those animals had been scrubbed and shined to within an inch of their lives! How can anything be clean and smell that foul? I am NOT cut out for farm living.

Like most fairs, ours has its share of people selling homemade things. The dude who made this rooster had them in small, medium and large sizes. He also had some cute little piggies. I wanted to buy this rooster but The Spouse (aka The Money Nazi) thought it would be a waste of money. How could buying that be a waste of money?! That thing's magnificent. You can see that my kids love it and even The Spouse was enamored of it.

She's relentless on the money issue, though. She was all like: "You just broke your arm. We have medical bills that will start coming in. We've already got some medical bills from when I had my procedure earlier this year. We can't afford to waste money on that!"

So, I was like: "Well, maybe you could get a better job that paid more money and I could buy stuff like that! You're so selfish!"

And then she said, "Come again?!"

And I said, "Nothing. Can I at least have some cotton candy?"

I was going to write about how the fair always makes the weirdos come out and I took some pictures of people who were like "dressed up" for the fair. One lady had this huge velvety shirt on with gigantic roses all over it. She had on purple velour pants and these white fur-trimmed boots, too. She was decked out! It was something to see.

Then, I saw this really heavy set girl in her 20's. She had thick, long blonde hair down her back and she was wearing these light blue jeans that were ripped on the right leg from near the bottom hem up to the top pocket. All of her white fatty flesh was showing and that cut piece was flapping back and forth like a sail in the breeze (there was A LOT of fabric!). She had on a top that showed her ginormous boobs and her fat roll, too. I couldn't take a picture of her, though. She kept looking my direction every time I raised my phone. I was afraid she'd beat the crap out of me. She had that mean, pitbull look about her.

I was going to post pictures of those people and more, but I just looked at the middle picture above and noticed that my son got all dressed up. He's wearing my old water shoes. They are like three sizes too big for him. Then, there's The Girl Child. Take a look at that mismatched ensemble. She looks like a rainbow vomited on her. The Spouse looks good and I had on nice jeans, a white shirt and tennis shoes. So, looking at those heathen made me realize that my kids looked like everyone else at the fair! The Spouse and I were completely out of our element! I bet some carnie or somebody is posting pictures of us on their blog right now.

And that top picture, the one with The Girl Child...remember how I told you earlier that she's the Thelma of Thelma and Louise fame? Do you doubt me now? She was totally supporting me in my attempt to get The Money Nazi to loosen her money belt and fork out the cash for that rooster.

Alas, we came home without the rooster and I didn't get any cotton candy. That's okay though, the kids had a good time and that's all that mattered.

People Are Jealous of Me

People are totally jealous of me! And, by people, I mostly mean my wife.

My previous post about "The Talk" with The Boy Child mentioned her minor role in the whole affair (wonka, wonka).

She emails me after I posted it: "Funniest post yet! However, if any part of that talk about me is true, you will suffer!"

I responded, "If you love me, you won't even care."

She replied, "If you said any of that to him about me...I will send flying monkeys after you!"

I emailed back, "You wouldn't dare!"

I got this back, "You totally know I would!". And, I do know that she would. She's scary sometimes. You would think she'd be appreciative of the comments. Some people are over-sensitive though. And, by some people, I mean The Spouse, mostly.

That's just cold-blooded. She knows I can't watch "The Wizard of Oz" because of the Munchkins and those damned flying monkeys! Who in their right mind even imagines evil flying monkeys? I know it's just an old movie and I know that the flying monkeys aren't real. However, that won't stop the flying monkey nightmares from coming!

They are the predecessor to the Evil Clown! Clowns got evil in like the 1970's. I don't know what tipped them over but it happened. Look at some 70's movies and if you see a clown, you'll see the beginning of the creepiness. Before then, it was flying monkeys, the Blob, The Creature, some crazy Aliens trying to take over the world and a swamp thing or two. Bozo was pretty much the end of the "friendly" clowns. I think he took it pretty hard that clowns had turned evil. He was probably just getting all boozed up toward the end of the series. That's what would have happened to me.

Back to the threat...she knows how I feel about those things. That's a serious threat. So, I have to have a quick talk with The Boy Child to make sure nothing I said about The Spouse gets repeated. I'm thinking a $15 iTunes gift card will do the trick.

Having "The Talk" With The Boy Child

I recently had "The Talk" with The Boy Child.

Let me give you a little background on this male off-spring of mine.

• First, he's male.


• Second, he's 11, soon to be 12, which means he thinks he's like 30 something and already knows everything...except about this topic.


• Third, he's very, very, very bright. (The Spouse claims this is from her genetic contribution.) We had his I.Q. tested and he scored 141. This Boy would just as soon watch "Into the Worm Hole" (I have to giggle every time I say or write that) on the Science Channel as he would any episode of Spongebob. So, I figured, he's probably got it all down and I'll just have to give him a refresher course. You know, like the first few weeks of school...when you relearn in about three weeks everything it took you nine months to learn the year before.


• He's very analytical-minded and very serious about any topic involving science, physics, architecture, cars and video games.


• He sometimes lacks the attention span of a fly in a barn full of manure. (He calls it "short-term memory loss" because he's smart and he watched something on one of those medical channels.)


• He lacks common sense on many occassions. The Spouse says that was my contribution to the genetic makeup.

So, one evening a few weeks ago, I decided it was finally time to have "The Talk". He had asked me earlier in the Spring when we would be having it. I can only gather that the Catholic school I'm paying my hard-earned cash to doesn't check the bathroom graffiti regularly. Thus, the questionable drawings and or comments must have spurred this.

The Girl Child was spending the night with her friend. I'll call her Louise. As in, Thelma and Louise. That's another post for another day, but my daughter would be Thelma in this friendship. The Girl Child is 9. I'm pretty sure she already knows all about sex because she gave me some pointers one time.

I sent The Spouse to another part of the house. This was man-talk and I didn't need her putting in her crazy notions on the topic. The Boy Child and I gathered in the living room. He on one couch and I on the other. I muted the television and began the conversation:

Me: So, what do you know about sex? (I swear I didn't giggle when I said "sex"!)

TBC: Nothing, really.

Me: Surely you know something. Haven't the other boys in your school said anything, talked about it, made jokes?

TBC: No. I'm a nerd. They don't talk to me much.

Me: You're not a nerd. You're just smarter than those idiots and it scares them. They fear that which they don't understand. You could totally dominate them some day. Especially if you could build some type of mind-control device. That would be freaking awesome...

TBC: Dad. THE TALK!

Me: Okay, but don't let that mind-control device idea get away. So...where to begin? Do you know about the changes your body will go through?

TBC: Yes, we had an anatomy discussion last year in one of our classes.

Me: So, you know about the extra hair and all the changes you'll go through. The hair part is the scariest. If you're lucky, you'll be like me and have a manly pelt on your chest and stomach. It drives the ladies crazy when they see you. It's how I wooed your mother. I totally rocked out my manly fur and she flipped!

TBC: Uh-huh. You and Mom met in a nursing home and you asked her out. She's already told me the story. I'm not sure why she fell for you though. Could you please go on? I want to watch something on the Civil War on The History Channel.

Me: Whatever. Your Mom lied to protect you. So, you know that a girl's body changes as well. She gets boobs and she will eventually start to menstruate. I'll explain all of that later. There's so much to that. I'll tell you this now...it's NOT just one week per month that you have to tread lightly and be careful about what you do and say! That's a lie perpetuated by the feminazis!

TBC: Look, if you don't want to discuss this, I can look it up online. I'm sure Wikipedia will have it covered.

Me: Wikipedia?! Really?! I need to look at that. I wonder if they have pictures and everything. Would that be porn?

TBC: Hello?! I'm right here!

Me: Okay, so here's the deal. When a guy likes a girl, things start to happen. The guy gets all amped up and starts thinking that he "loves" the girl. The girl, if she's into the guy, starts to get all amped up too. They might start out kissing...

I explained it as best as I could from there. I know I left some things out. Especially that crazy stuff my wife tries to talk me into! Sheesh! Wacko!

Me: Okay. So that's what "having sex" is. Do you have any questions?

TBC: No.

Me: Okay, so, there's also gay sex. Do you want me to cover that with you as well?

TBC: No. After this, I don't think I'm ready to know about that.

Me: Alright. When you are ready, just ask. I'll tell you all about it.

TBC: It'll be a while. Now, can I watch my show on the Civil War?

Me: Sure. Let me know if they have any parts about the soldiers having sex with the women in the towns they march through. I could probably clear up any misinformation.

TBC: (He gave me the same look his mother does when it's time for me to find something else to do.)

I found The Spouse folding laundry in our love nest.

TS: How'd it go?

Me: Great!

TS: You told him everything?

Me: I think so. Do you want me to recap for you?

TS: No! I just hope you helped him understand that it's not something he should do just because it feels good or because he's pressured into it.

Me: I totally told him how you are a freak in the bed.

TS: I will totally kill you and collect every penny of life insurance! Accidents happen, you know! You better be lying to me!

Me: Ease up Godzilla! I'm just kidding. I told him what he needs to know and I think I freaked him out a bit.

TS: Why? How? (She gave me that look that says, "If you jacked up our kid I'll take you out!")

Me: It's just a feeling I got. He just sat there...nodding his head...saying, "Hmmmm" the whole time. It was weird. I almost felt like he was making sure that I knew all about it.

I think I'm going to go look something up on that Wikipedia.

I Will Not Harm the Boy Child

Everyone please repeat after me: I WILL NOT HARM THE BOY CHILD! I WILL NOT HARM THE BOY CHILD! I WILL NOT HARM THE BOY CHILD!

Today (Tuesday) has not been the best day for The Boy Child. I received a call from his school letting me know that he'd neglected to do his math homework and that he would need to stay today or tomorrow after school to complete it. The call was not that big of a surprise, really. He's notorious for "forgetting" bits and pieces of his homework.

Not being a fool, he claims that he "has short-term memory loss".

I told the office that I would prefer that he stay today so he could get the work done and, hopefully, learn his lesson.

When I picked him up, he walked out of school with his head hanging low and a quiver on his lip. He was certain that The Spouse and I would be furious with him.

Instead, I greeted him with a smile and told him to get in the car. As I drove away, he asked if I was mad at him. I told him that his mother and I were not mad and that we understood that things happen once in a while. I also explained that we did not want this to become a habit and that we felt he would probably learn his lesson from this. (Just so you understand, I was trying to play mind games with the little bugger. It's best if you keep them confused and guessing. If you fall into a predictable pattern, they will learn it and use it against you in their darkest hours!)

Before I pulled away from the curb I specifically asked him if he had any homework. He assured me he only had a Literature worksheet. Foolishly, I pulled away from the building. (I should have continued to use some warped form of psychology but I dropped my b.s. radar in a moment of weakness.)

Fastforward to 7:00p.m....The Boy Child, forced to open his backpack because I took the iPad away from him and told him he HAD to work on his Literature, announces in a quaking and wavering squeaky little voice, "Oh no! I had Math homework and didn't bring home my math book!"

It's a good thing I watched my wife go through labor. I learned the breathing technique and, in a pinch, it helps. I practiced the breathing method that one should do as they are trying to pass a 10lb living child through a straw. I was seething. I'm not going to say for sure, but I'm pretty sure a volcano erupted inside my head. I promise I didn't cuss...out loud...but I assure you I let my feelings be known.

At one point, I think I stripped him of every privilege except breathing. If I could have kept him alive and done that, I would have! (If I can figure that out, I'll do a detailed post later.)

Once the dust settled, we called a friend and I had the sweet child read the word problems to me on the phone and I typed them out. The sweet child's mother, a dear friend who shall be rewarded richly with multiple Diet Dr. Peppers, even took pictures of the last few problems and texted them to me because they were longer and a bit more complicated.

Through many tears, gnashing of teeth, wailing, crying, screaming, and head-banging moments, we worked and worked. I even phoned a couple who are both Math Teachers (one is a former Math teacher and is now a principal) and asked for assistance on solving two problems. They, too, shall be rewarded, only they will receive some form of liquor because I know they will like that much better than Diet Dr. Peppers.

Right before bedtime, The Boy Child announces that he has completed his math homework. We all breathed a sigh of relief and scurried him and his sister off to bed. Of course, we kissed them both, prayed with them (and, I'll admit I prayed OVER him with a hand on his forehead, and asked for the Holy Spirit to come down and remove this "short-term memory loss" issue from the child. I've always been intrigued by the "laying on of hands". If it works, I'll let you know and I'm going to hire myself out to parents in my area. I could make a killing!)

Shortly after the kids were in bed I received a text message. It seems that the sweet child who helped us out with the Math problems had forgotten his Literature homework. I'm contacting his Diet Dr. Pepper drinking Momma if that laying on of hands thing works! She'll be my first "client".

I think there's a moral to this story somewhere in here. Maybe it's something like: "Turn adversity into opportunity." or "When in need, phone a friend." or "Laying on of hands and praying over the child will prevent you from harming him/her and will keep you out of trouble with Child Services." I think it's that last one...

What a Weekend!

Where to begin? Let's start with the trip to the Lake. We got up at the butt-crack of dawn on Saturday morning. The Spouse rolled over as the alarm went off and said, "I don't feel so well." At first, in my bleary confusion, I thought James Earl Jones had somehow come to my bed in the night. Slowly, I opened my eyes, praying that I wouldn't see a naked James Earl Jones beside me. For a moment, it was sketchy, the sleep in my eyes and the darkness of the bedroom caused me to catch my breath.

Once I realized, it was only The Spouse with a nasty sinus infection, I rolled over and said, "Uhhh...that's not good." She croaked something in response. I'm not sure what it was but it gave me pause and made me squint my eyes to make sure JEJ was not in my bed. She crawled out of bed and went into the bathroom without another sound. I took that as my cue to get up and get moving.

I started the coffee and took the dog out. When I came back in, The Spouse was already making the bed and getting ready to start packing. The goal was to be on the road by 8:00a.m. I began rousing The Heathen at that point. The Boy Child leapt out of bed and was ready to go. The Girl Child was less than happy but stumbled into the living room.

Once the coffee finished brewing and I had my obligatory two cups, we made the mad and frenzied dash to pack up and get on the road. The Spouse declined the opportunity to go to an immediate health care and opted for a drug run at the local Wally World.

The 2 and a half hour drive passed pretty quickly. We found the lake house with no trouble and began unloading my SUV. As The Spouse came out of the house to get another load of crapola from the the truck, she raked her foot across a rebar stub that was sticking out of the ground. I'm not exactly clear on what she said but I think it involved some naughty words that would have made JEJ blush. She then turned to me and said, "do you think I'll get the lock jaw?" This is how she speaks sometimes..."the lock jaw." I may have muttered something like, "It would be a blessing if you did." I didn't say it too loud but the look I got reminded me that I have a larger life insurance policy than she does and that one simple "accident" on the lake could make her and those heathen very wealthy. I made up my mind to have witnesses around all weekend.

After the unload was done, we loaded up in my cousin's truck, hitched up the boat, and headed off to the marina. We unloaded the boat without incident. The Cousin asked me to pull his truck and trailer up the ramp and park it for him. I tried. Turns out, his trailer had a sudden love interest in another trailer. As a result, the other trailer had a broken taillight. I won't go into details, but there was a note on the windshield asking my cousin to contact the sherriff's office. (More on that after the issue is settled.)

We headed for their favorite spot on the lake. Boats were lined up, tied off and the fun was underway as we pulled up. Kids were pulled on tubes, dads drank a little beer while floating on noodles. (Note: the inventor of the floating noodle is a genius and should have a huge shrine erected in his/her honor). I was a bit worried about having my man card pulled for straddling a noodle but all of the really manly men were doing it too.

Eventually, another boat pulled up and wanted to tie onto ours. The Cousin attempted to help on the front end but ended up falling between the boats. Flesh was ripped off from his calf up his thigh. Luckily, he'd had a little liquid anesthesia so the pain was not intolerable.

We continued to float and sip from our cups of nectar. More tube rides were given and all was well. Then, a little rain came. Most of the women got out of the water and the men stayed in. I'm no sociologist but I think there's a doctoral thesis in this somewhere. We chided the lady folk and they, rather rudely, called us idiots. We, in turn, asked them to pass out more beer. Again, I'm thinking there's a sociological doctoral thesis in here.

The rain subsided, jet-skis pulled away with kids on tubes and everything went back to normal. For about 15 minutes. A second line of rain came in with some strong winds. Women got out of the water and men stayed in. Until...it began hailing! At that point, the men folk reverted to their primal need to protect the women and we all got out of the water and into the boats. It was NOT because of fear!

Everyone untied and began to make their ways back to the marinas. It was, after all, close to dinner time.

At the boat dock, The Cousin's boat died and wouldn't restart. He walked up, got in his truck, found the aforementioned note from the sheriff, and backed down the ramp. His Boy Child and I maneuvered the boat over to the trailer. At one point, I got out of the water, walked across the wooden deck and down the boat ramp. As I was nearing the water, The Cousin hollered out, "Be careful! It's slicker than owl shit out here!". As the words, "Okay!" came from my mouth, my feet slid out from under me. I landed with my right hand out and down. As I slid down the ramp, I was contemplating whether my wife and children had possibly snuck up on me and pushed.

I got up, helped get the boat on the trailer and we headed back to the house. The throbbing and swelling of my wrist was of little concern to me. I had a bottle of Tanqueray Gin, two limes and several small tonic water bottles.

Sunday morning, I ached a bit and The Spouse thought the wrist might be broken. I scoffed at her, took two ibuprofen, ate some breakfast and asked what we were doing that day.

The rest of the weekend was fairly uneventful. We arrived home on Monday mid-day and my arm was much better. The Spouse kept insisting that I get my arm checked out, though. I think she was worried that my earning potential would be affected. So, on Tuesday, I contacted a friend who is a Physical Therapist. He took some measurements, made me squeeze a handle, should his head, muttered to himself and said, "Dude, I think your arm is jacked. You need to get an x-ray and see an orthopedic doctor." This is professional therapist lingo for, "I believe you may have broken your radius and you probably need surgery."

Today, I went to see the doctor. I swear this guy was like 17 and looked like he had just come in from a GQ photo shoot. He walked in and said, "What did you do to your arm???!" The tone of voice was the same one my mother uses when she's pissed at me. I told him a shortened version and he said, "Well, it's broken and nothing in there looks like it ought to." He then began speaking in a foreign language or maybe I checked out for a minute or two.

I've had a surgery on this arm before and have a six inch titanium plate in there. The plate is broken in two and it appears that the bone is broken at the previous incision site. So, I'm in a cast up to my elbow, I can't drive and I think I'm sinking into a depression that only copious amounts of gin and ice cream can fix.

I'll post a picture later. At least I can still use my iPad to post on here and The Spouse and The Heathen can't profit off of me yet!

(Please forgive typos and errors. I tried to correct them but who knows if I got them!)