Who, Exactly, Is Raising This Baby?

While The Spouse and I were traveling around in Peoria, IL. We were stopped at a light waiting to turn. I looked over to my right and this is what I saw:

Yes, you read that correctly.

I'm not saying that I haven't had moments when I was driving that I didn't have the same thought. I guess I just never thought to write it on my back windshield in yellow shoe polish. Silly me...

This raises all kinds of questions in my mind. You know, ridiculous questions like:

"Do you speak like this in front of your children?"

"Do you speak like this in front of your mother?"

"Were you raised by a mother or a biker gang?"

I must say that I'm rather pleased to see that there are no misused apostrophes or misspelled words. It's kinda refreshing.

I wonder what happened to make this person put that on their back windshield. Did someone ride their bumper to the point of road rage? Did someone rear-end them at some point? Are they just rude, crude and socially unacceptable people?

I'm amazed that this is considered acceptable. Drivers around me were taking pictures, too. That tells me it's not "normal", but still, no one seemed outraged or stunned by it. Even The Spouse and I laughed about it...a little.

I'm not a prude and I'm not into censorship. That being said, I am in to socially acceptable standards. I'm a bit worried that this has become socially acceptable. I don't want my kids seeing this and thinking that it's okay. It's not.

Do You or I Really Matter?

The Beautiful Spouse and I traveled through Peoria, IL recently.  I like Peoria.  I do some business there and I have always found the trip there to be nice.  I especially love the point on I-74 West where you round the curve, top a hill and you are looking at the Peoria skyline (such as it is).

I have a favorite hotel when I stay there.  It's called The Mark Twain Hotel and it is wonderful.  The rooms are old with just a touch of modern and industrial.  The service is wonderful, the rates are good and it places you smack in the middle of the downtown area. 

The hotel boasts a fabulous restaurant called Two25.  The pizza is absolutely incredible.  It's a paper thin crisp crust and all of the ingredients are fresh and delicious. 

I had a bit of businesss to do while there but we also found time for some shopping and I took my Hunny Bunny on a little tour of the schools I do business with.  We found a great little outdoor shopping area called The Shoppes at Grand Prairie.  It's quaint without being too cutesy.  The Spouse enjoyed the shops (or shoppes) and we both think someone should develop something like this in our town. 

I think the most suprising thing about this little shopping area was the Peoria Holocaust Memorial that is smack in the middle of it.  

The Memorial Marker that explains the project. It's very moving to think that the 6 million Jews and 5 million other "enemies" of Hitler are memorialized here. The Spouse and I both got a bit teary-eyed.

There are five of these triangular shaped glass cases that represent the 5 million "enemies" who were not Jewish but were murdered because of Hitler's hatred.

There are two rows of these glass cases.  Each case is in the form of the Star of David.  They contain 6,000,000 buttons.  Each button represents one Jew who died because of Hitler's evil.

Each button is different from the other, just as each of us is different from the other. 

Take a look at those pictures again.  Take a close look at the buttons.  Those are individual lives destroyed by the evil intentions and actions of one man.  One man did this to 11,000,000 people.  One man did this and much more to an entire civilized world.

The next time you begin to doubt whether you matter or whether you can make a difference in anything, go back and look at this. 

One man did this. 

You, as one person, are capable of doing so much good.  What if five of us banded together for a cause that we felt united in?  If one man can do this much evil, how much good could one man do?  Two? Three? 

You matter.  What you do has repercussions.  For good or for evil. 

What will you do?

Why I Don't Camp

I don't camp.  I loathe the very idea of camping.  Camping, for me, includes any instance where one sleeps in anything called a tent, camper, trailer, R.V., pop-up, pull-along or whatever name.  I do not consider it "camping" if I am in a cabin that includes: hot and cold running water, a private shower, beds with real mattresses, covers and blankets, a television with satellite or cable and a locking door.

Here's my favorite camping slogan:

The Girl Child recently experienced her first church camping experience.  She was excited and nervous about going.  I was fretting over Lyme's disease, Dysentery, Malaria, Cholera, eColi, Swamp Fever, Zombie Apocalypses and other such natural things.  The whole recent outbreak of face-eating zombies has me on edge anyway.  I certainly didn't want me sweet, delicate, beautiful Girl Child turning into a face-eating zombie!

The Spouse and her father took The Girl Child to the camp.  It is literally in the middle of nowhere.  You can't get there from here and, if you do, you can't leave.  It's one of those places.  It reminds me of a place where Jason, Freddy and Chuckie would gather for a reunion.  The Spouse came back home visibly shaken at having left her baby at this place.  She never mentioned the zombies or cholera but I'm sure they were going through her mind. 

There was no means of communication.  We had to trust and believe that she was okay...for five days.

I took off work to go get her.  The Spouse and I picked up a friend whose daughter was there and we headed off to Zombie Apocalypse Park (AKA:  Church Camp) to retrieve our baby girls. 

Here's what I found when I got there:

Yes, that's The Girl Child in front of her "cabin".  Yes, that's bird poop on the window eaves.  Are those eaves?  I think that's what they are called.  Because there's no glass or screens, you put those down when it's raining or when you want to "secure" the building.  Oh yeah, nothing's getting in there if you just latch down those bird poop stained window coverings. 

The Girl Child did not appear to be suffering from any Zombie-like afflictions and she made no sudden movements toward my face or other fleshy parts.

I asked her if I could see inside her "cabin".  She took me in and this is what I saw:

Sweet Baby Jesus!  My baby girl slept on plywood box springs and a mattress that would have been better used as a home for wayward ticks and chiggers.  Notice the beautiful "curtains" that cover the windows.  Note the "natural" wood floors and walls. 

That's my sweet baby girl showing me her plan for an escape in case of Zombie invasion or whatever.  I got a little teary-eyed with pride over her planning.  She's a survivor, that's for sure!

I love my church and I love my faith.  However, I've got to wonder what type of indoctrination happened here?  This is straight up some Jim Jones Kool-Aid Farm living. 

It's been a couple of weeks and I've been watching her for signs of Zombieism, Dysentery, Cholera, Malaria, etc.  Nothing to report...so far. 

If she decides to go back next year, I'm buying her a shankin' knife to take with her.

Beware The Spouse...She'll Shank You If She Has To! (With an Update)

So, it's been a while since I last posted.  I will only tell you that things have been very busy with work and family.  There's a really long story in there but it's not exciting or funny. 

Moving on...The Spouse and I had the opportunity to be riding in the same vehicle without The Boy Child and The Girl Child recently.  That's always an awkward time for us.  We tend to sit in silence for a bit and try to remember why we're not telling the godless heathen to be quiet, stop picking at each other, quit kicking the back of the seat, and saying things like, "No, you can't see my iPhone to check the weather.  You've checked the radar 14 times in the last 10 minutes.  Nothing's changed!"

We were having a wonderful time together just driving along.  We had just spent some quality time together.  She was shopping, I was complaining.  It's really the little things in life that make marriage most enjoyable. 

As we were driving around St. Louis, MO to our next destination, The Spouse said to me:  "Would you hand me my little knife.  I want to cut this tag off."

I turned my head to look at her and said, "What knife?  You have a knife in here?"

The Spouse looked at me with the look that says "My God you really are a blithering idiot!" and said, "Ummm...yes, I have a pocket knife in the little cubby under the door handle."

So, I felt in the little cubby (sheesh, it's not a cubby, it's a compartment) and picked up the knife.  As I reached across to hand it to her, she said, and I swear this is the gospel truth, "Not that one!  That's my shankin' knife!  I need the cute little Swiss Army knife with the scissors on it."

As I regained control of the vehicle, I turned to her and said, "What the hell do you mean "that's my shankin' knife?!  Why do you have a shankin' knife?  Why do you need a shankin' knife?!" 

This time, I received the look that says, "Do I really have to explain this to you?  Isn't this self-evident?"  Instead of saying that, she said, "That's my shankin' knife.  You know...in case I'm alone and someone tries to attack me.  I'll shank 'em and get away." 

"I can see you've thought this through pretty thoroughly.  I just see a few flaws in your plan.  If someone attacks you, they probably aren't going to do it while you are in the car.  I'm fairly certain the attacker isn't going to be some very understanding attacker who will allow you to take a break from the attack so you can unlock your door, open it and reach in to find the shankin' knife.  Call me crazy, but I think you're pretty defenseless outside of the car."

The Spouse paused for a moment, let out a deep breath of exasperation, and said, "I'll use it if I'm like at an intersection and someone tries to carjack me or attacks me while I'm waiting for the light to change."

She completely ignored the whole argument about being attacked outside of the car. 

"That's a great plan.  However, and feel free to call me stupid here, you are going to have to fumble around and spend some time reaching for your shankin' knife, opening the blade and then cutting someone.  Not to mention, the blade on this thing is about two inches long.  Most likely you are just going to piss the dude off if you "shank" him with it.  And, what happens if you grab the "cute little Swiss Army Knife" instead?  Are you going to put it back because it's not your "shankin'" knife?"

Again with one of her looks that speaks without using words, "As I shank or cut him, I'm going to gun my accelerator and he'll fall away.  Or, he'll hang on and then I'll make swervy motions and try to get him to fall off and/or run over him."

I thought for a moment about continuing the conversation.  Sometimes, however, things are better left alone.  So, I simply said, "Well, that's one way to deal with it."

Lest you shake your head in disbelief...

UPDATE:  The Spouse read this and just said, "Two inches is all you need to cut the jugular or the carotid!"  Who am I living with?

It's A Married Thing

It's been a while since I posted.  My job is keeping me very busy right now.  Last minute orders, following up on proposals, checking on orders already place, and drinking until I fall asleep.  (Usually, I don't even get the first drink down before I fall asleep, though.  It's a nice way to say that I'm not an alcoholic.  How can you be an alcoholic if you don't even get to finish the first drink?  Such is my life.)

So, The Spouse and I celebrated 16 years of wedded bliss.  We met, dated for a year, married and have been pluggin' right along.  Unfortunately, 16 years is actually something to celebrate.  It seems that the average marriage lasts a bit longer than Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphreys but not by much.  My niece married a very nice young man back in October.  He recently came back home when my niece's grandmother died.  We were both pallbearers.  And, as we were in the pall bearer van going to the cemetary, some of the other guys were talking about their marriages.  I looked at my new nephew and said, "Look, it's not really that complicated.  You just need to understand a few simple things:
1. You can be right or you can be married.  It's not often that you can be both.
2. If it's not immoral, unethical, illegal, life-threatening or likely to cause you to meet financial ruin, don't argue about it.  Just nod your head and move on.
3. Never answer a question that begins, "How do you think (this makes me look, I look, etc.)..."  Refuse to answer.  Reach your finger down your throat and go vomit in the bathroom.  Pretending to be sick will get you out of a lot of stuff.  Use it judiciously, though.  You don't want to ruin a good thing.
4. Watch Duck Dynasty and listen very closely to everything Phil says.  Follow his advice.
5. It's okay to argue and even fight.  Just be sure to apologize, solve the problem and go to bed together that night holding hands. 
6.  Never, never, never lie to your spouse.  I helped raise her.  She's extremely intelligent and will see through a line of B.S. faster than Superman could leap a tall building.  Tell her the truth or avoid the topic.  (Saying things like, "Honey, let's have a baby" will throw her for a loop and will redirect the entire uncomfortable conversation.  Timing is everything, though.  You have to know when to use things like that.  If you are stupid about it, you'll end up having a kid earlier than anticipated.)"

I've lived by most of those rules for 16 years.  They've served me well. 

I Know You Mean Well, But...

Might I take a moment of your time to discuss with you those well-meaning folks who seem to have lost their tact? 

Let's talk about Funeral Home Etiquette. 

It's perfectly fine for you to walk up to the casket and to spend a moment silently gazing upon the deceased.  It's also perfectly fine if you wish to speak words of consolation to the family.  It is not fine for you to ask a close relative of the deceased, "Is this how she really looked or did the funeral home go overboard?  Sometimes they can get the makeup all wrong." 

If you don't know the person, why are you there?  Are you casing the place to see how they handle the makeup of the deceased so you will know whether you want them doing yours?  Trust me, honey, if they'd gotten the makeup wrong, there are enough people in the family to bring it to some one's attention before you got there. 

The other side of that statement might be taken to mean that you think the makeup is excessive or not "right."  I'm sure you are perfectly nice person, but rest assured that my family is Southern in nature.  They will not tolerate a slight like that.  Someone from my family will just pop in to the funeral home when you are being prepared for the viewing and will convince them that whatever they've done to your face is not enough.  You will look like Bozo the Clown and Tammy Faye Baker rolled into one.  That's not a threat, I'm just telling you what could happen.

A more appropriate thing to say is, "I'm so sorry for your loss.  Please let me know if I can do anything for you or the rest of the family."

While we're still on the topic of funeral home etiquette, please dress appropriately.  Funeral homes are either freezing cold or sweltering hot.  There is no "comfortable" temperature in a funeral home.  You should probably consider dressing in layers. 

In the South, we tend to run on the freezing cold side.  We see you over there.  We know your lips are turning as blue as your hair.  Bring a sweater, a shawl, a jacket, a blanket, or whatever you need to be comfortable.  We won't turn the air down, though.  Here in the more Southern climate, we like to tell people that we've got to get the temperature down low early on so "...we can stay ahead of the heat."  The truth is, it's hotter than blue flaming pits of Hell outside and we've been running around and in and out all day long and the heat was getting to us. 

We also know that if you get cold enough and we don't do anything about it, you'll leave earlier and you won't be as inclined to take extra cookies and put them in your purse. 

If it's hot in a Southern funeral home, it's because somebody failed to get ahead of the heat.  If you dress in layers, you will be ready for that, too.  Just get ready to take the layers off and to fan yourself. 

Finally, please explain to your child (adult, too) that shirts that expose your bellybutton piercing are probably not the best choice for funeral home attire.  Here, in Southern Missouri, we will talk about you unmercifully.

I'm just saying...

On the Sacredness of Dying

As I type, a dear, sweet woman is slowly dying.  As with many deaths, hers will be one that will bring many, myself included, to tears. 

My sister and brother-in-law, whom I've written about here, along with their daughter and other family members, are waiting.  They are waiting for the inevitable and, I'm sure, it seems as though it will never come.  They are waiting because there is nothing else to do.

It's not that any of them want death to come.  It's just that they all know that the time is here, now.  The long and painful journey of declining health has taken its toll on the dear, sweet woman and on her family.  The pain of illness has been unimaginable.  I know it has been so, because the various and increasing doses of powerful pain-killers and narcotics have done little to relieve her suffering.

In spite of her suffering, she has remained an unwavering example of dignity.  Upon entering the nursing home, it was made clear to all that she wished to leave this earth on her terms.  She left it to her two loving sons to make decisions for her when the time came and they have.  My brother-in-law, being physically closer to his mother's home, has been the primary caregiver.  He, in consultation with his brother, has made some very difficult decisions.  All of them have been based on the idea that they must honor their mother's wishes.  It has been her life and it should be her death.

So often, in movies and on television shows, the act of dying is treated nonchalantly.  It is often portrayed in such graphic and violent detail that we, the watchers, become desensitized to it.  We forget that dying is a sacred act.  It is an act as sacred, if not more so, than birth.  In birth, we leave the heavenly realm and come to earth.  In death, we return to that heavenly realm to live without pain, suffering, agony.  It is the promise of Christ.  It is the reason for the death and resurrection that I believe in. 

The sacredness of dying requires that we, the observers of the dying, must simply watch and wait.  There is nothing we can do.  We are powerless to stop it and we cannot, in good conscience, speed it up.  I believe we have forgotten that it is the role of the living to honor the dying by waiting.  We live in such a fast-paced world and waiting is not tolerated.  It's not acceptable.  So, death, in its own way, forces us to wait.  It forces us to learn that dying should be sacred and should be honored. 

So, tonight, before I go to bed, I will pray.  I will pray that the dear, sweet woman be granted the gift of a soft and gentle passing.  I will pray that my brother-in-law and his brother and my niece will accept the waiting and honor the sacredness of her passing.  I will pray that we all remember that dying is a sacred event and should be treated as such.

I hope you'll join me.

Update:  I received a call from my mother late last night telling me that the dear, sweet woman had passed.  I know that my brother-in-law and his brother and their families are devastated.  The wait is over.