Exceptional Mediocrity

Pizza Delivery

2025-08-31T20:26:00.005-05:00

Several years ago, my eldest and I were picking up the house and having a conversation about video games. He wanted us to buy him a new Nintendo Switch game and I told him that he would need to save up some of his money.

With genuine confusion he retorted, “You don’t need money, you just hand that plastic card to the checkout person and they give you what you want.” This led to an impromptu discussion of capitalism and our nation's banking infrastructure.

I explained that the card was tied to an account with a finite amount of money in it. When the balance of that account drops below the cost of what you are buying, the clerk will no longer hand you what you want and the entire transaction becomes a misdemeanor at best.

As comprehension dawned on his face, he exclaimed “Once you are out of money, you can’t buy anymore stuff!” I briefly contemplated entering into a more in depth discussion concerning revolving lines of credit and title loans but realized that, despite my best intentions, the conversation would somehow devolve into me explaining why people walk funny if they are unable to make good on their financial obligations to the mob .

He inquired as to how one goes about refilling the account tied to the card and I told him that he would need to get a job and earn a paycheck. That paycheck could then be electronically deposited in his bank account (or cashed at any reputable liquor store). He was immediately onboard with the concept and asked if we could find him a job that very afternoon.

While his passion for immediate gainful employment was commendable, I told him that there were Federal child labor laws that precluded individuals in his demographic from officially entering the workforce. Dejected, he conceded that he would just have to save his allowance / birthday money to get the game.

While this conversation was taking place, my wife was upstairs arranging for a couple of pizzas to be delivered for dinner. So, with this exchange fresh in his mind, my son responded to our doorbell by looking through the sidelites to identify our visitor.

On this particular occasion, our delivery driver was a woman in a baseball cap who also happened to be a “little person.” It is important to note that while we had already completed many of the talks about unique physical traits (most notably when my son was 5 and loudly inquired about whether or not the man with a prosthetic leg had “not been paying attention” when his factory equipment fell off) we had not yet covered dwarfism.

Devoid of this information, the logical conclusion my son came to was as follows:

1. Pizza delivery was a job and jobs generated revenue and revenue assisted in the procurement of video games.

2. The individual standing at our door with our pizza was shorter than he was which must mean that they were younger than he was.

3. My father is filthy liar because clearly there is a veritable army of 3rd graders with W2s and folding money. This lucky kid probably had an investment portfolio.

With the level of volume one can only reach while in the throes of righteous indignation, he turned from the door and pointed accusingly at me before announcing, “You told me that kids can’t work but there is a little boy at our front door right now working for the pizza place! I bet he has all the video games he wants because his dad didn’t lie to him to keep him from being happy!!”

Looking up from my wallet where I was searching for cash to tip the driver, I realized that the individual my son had repeatedly referred to as a “little boy” was, in fact, a grown woman with a rare genetic condition. Furthermore, due to both his volume and proximity to the door, I knew she had heard every word.

My priority at that moment was to stop the bleeding. I furiously pantomimed for my son to lower his volume and move away from the door which only caused him to loudly exclaim, “Why do you keep telling me to be quiet!? I am pretty sure he knows he is a little boy! It’s not a secret!”

I could only assume that by now the pizza lady had opened the lid of our entree and was just seconds away from forcefully depositing the entirety of her post nasal drip onto it.

The more furiously I gesticulated for his silence the louder and more frequently the term “little boy” escaped his lips. Finally, I managed to divert him into the den by making some vague promise of asking the “young man” about a lateral-transfer initiative or apprenticeship.

Finally alone, I realized that all of my options were bad. I could breezily open the door and feign ignorance that my son’s rant had taken place. While initially tempting, I ultimately decided that this course of action would only serve to insult this woman’s intelligence after my son had already insulted her appearance.

I also weighed the idea of apologizing profusely and attempting to salvage the situation by reassuring her that she did not look like a little boy at all and that it was very clear she was a grown woman with a strong work ethic. I ultimately decided that this would either be construed as disingenuous flirtation or I would awkwardly utter a mildly-prosecutable phrase like, "I’ve always liked young boys holding food”

I reopened my wallet and added several large bills to the $5 I had originally selected before answering the door. The look on her face was indicative of a woman whose vision-board never consisted of weekend pizza delivery, much less being repeatedly identified as a pre-pubescent boy whilst doing so.

I apologized profusely before handing her all of the cash in our house and taking the boxes from her. I glanced down to reassure myself that the Covid-era tamper-seal was intact before wishing her a wonderful evening.

My wife descended the stairs bragging that she had cashed in all of her reward points on the app the get the pizzas for “practically nothing.” I had to tell her that not only had I handed the delivery driver the last of our liquid assets, but that we would probably need to make a sizable donation to skeletal dysplasia research if we ever wished to utilize their delivery service again. To this day, I will not have pizza delivered to our house from that establishment.

Roblox

2025-08-31T20:24:00.006-05:00

If you have children, the internet and the need for ten consecutive uninterrupted minutes to yourself; there is a good chance that you are familiar with Roblox. For the uninitiated, Roblox is an online gaming platform launched in 2004 with the sole purpose of separating parents from their money. The graphics are robust enough to support discernable customization while remaining blocky enough to allow most games to run on anything above a TI-36 graphing calculator.

The first step is to create a platform-wide avatar which follows you throughout the various gaming experiences. The default version of this avatar is referred to as a “bacon hair” and is a dead giveaway for being a “noob.” From there you can customize your character to your heart (and wallet’s) content.

Since the game concepts and design are essentially crowd-sourced, they vary wildly in content, function and quality. Roblox also bills itself as a “free” gaming experience but this is misleading at best.

Most experiences require you to spend in-game currency called “Robux” to produce an outcome other than instantaneous failure and community ridicule.

The purchase of “Robux” is a process whereby you hand a corporation the legal tender of a sovereign nation and they, in turn, issue you a platform-wide digital currency you can use for “game enhancements.” The current exchange rate is $1 US Dollar = 100 Robux and- I cannot stress this enough- you will never see that money again. It cannot be refunded, exchanged, refurbished, transferred to another account or used to fund international terrorism. It is the equivalent of an online money-laundering machine where nothing comes out the other side.

Speaking of laundry, there is literally a game called “Laundry Simulator” whereby you walk around with a basket and gather dirty clothes to be laundered. As you progress, you are able to purchase larger and more efficient washing machines and, if you are fortunate, you might come across some “golden underwear” for bonus points. I was made aware of this game’s existence one Saturday when telling my kids to put up their actual laundry.

They asked for five more minutes so that they could get the “upgraded laundry basket” in the game and I could not help but feel like the moment was some sort of cosmic joke. As if that title was not insulting enough, there are multiple “Room Cleaning Simulators” your child can play in lieu of cleaning their actual room.

The themes are not limited to household chores. My daughter was visibly distraught one evening and, upon cross-examination, we discovered the source of her distress was the unrelenting pressure of managing a fictitious Roblox pizza restaurant during lunch rush. With an incredulous look on her face, she declared, “You know this is my busy time!!” I feared that after a few more days she would need to utilize the pretend employee assistance program.

For the more discerning gamer, there is an impressive selection of “pooping simulators” Some bill themselves as community pursuits (Pooping with Friends and its unironically-named sequel Pooping with Friends 2) while other offerings simply position the player’s avatar over the toilet and one is expected to tap the screen in order to produce larger excrement. As with all titles, spending Robux “enhances” your gaming experience which, in this case, would be something akin to IBS.

Disturbingly, all of my children really enjoyed the game where they ran a private prison complex. The goal was to generate revenue while keeping “inmate satisfaction” at a high level to prevent riots and a subsequent PR disaster. I was discouraged to discover that the inmate satisfaction rating was tied to the number of snack machines per capita rather than a reduction in the recidivism rate.

While I do not wish to disparage anyone who has dedicated their career to “excellence in the incarceration arts”, but who gets home after a long day and unwinds by tossing the mattresses in Cell Block C?

I cannot wait for:

• Black Market Human Organ Tycoon

• Ultimate IRS Audit

• Chronic Childhood Anemia Simulator

• Verizon Signal Hide and Seek

• Weaponized Anthrax Role-Play

• Health Insurance Billing Obby

• Witness for the Prosecution Avatar

• Survive the PTO Creeper

• 5 Nights at Fairfield Inn (Mattress-Stain Expansion Pass)

• Legislative Deadlock Mini-Games

• Septic Tank Water Polo

• College Benefactor Tower Defense

We're All Going to Die!

2025-08-31T20:23:00.003-05:00

While I am generally in favor of legislative alliteration, President Trump’s “Big, Beautiful Bill” has some worrying provisions. In addition to adding trillions to the national debt, it would make drastic cuts to programs like SNAP and Medicare which millions of vulnerable Americans depend on.

This led to an interesting exchange between Republican US Senator Joni Ernst and her constituency at an Iowa town hall meeting she held at 7:30 AM on a Friday. A retired healthcare provider named Karen Franczyk voiced her concern that the bill would cut the main source of revenue for hospitals in rural areas. During the larger discussion on the cuts, another attendee shouted “People are going to die!” to which the senator dismissively retorted, “We are all going to die”.

This led to enough backlash that Senator Ernst quickly posted a sarcastic apology video of her walking through a cemetery while invoking the Easter bunny before ending with an alter call to accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior. This undoubtedly wrapped up any lingering concerns her constituents had about their ability to access meals and medicine.

While many have angrily categorized her comments and apology as calloused – especially coming from someone who enjoys some of the best tax-payer funded healthcare in the world – I am of the opinion that she has stumbled upon the ultimate response to literally any question.

Will you go to prom with me? I can’t because we are all going to die.

Has the jury reached a verdict? – We have your honor. We’re all going to die.

Mommy can I have a cell phone? Well, I would go ahead and add another line to our family plan, but the activation fee is steep and, oh yes, we are all going to die!!

No matter the subject or context, you can always extricate yourself from an uncomfortable line of inquiry by reminding everyone around you of humanity’s shared, inevitable march toward grim death. It is as if we all chipped in to give existential dread an expense account and .gov email presence.

Senator Ernst is exhibiting what is sometimes known as “lifeboat evangelism” which operates under the assumption that the primary objective of Christian discipleship is to secure the eternity of as many people as possible. Sure, she may have actively played a role in dismantling the only thing standing between impoverished children and life-saving medical treatment, but don’t worry little Timmy, your premature demise will be inconsequential once you hear your name when the roll is called up yonder. I am just glad that Senator Sunshine’s career path did not veer into commercial aviation or pediatric oncology.

The idea that our highest calling as followers of Jesus is to secure the afterlife of those whom we encounter is not a new one (or a difficult one to sell). My issue is that it is impossible to reconcile with the words and actions of Jesus during his earthly ministry. That is not to say that he did not address death or what follows it. He simply didn’t prioritize it over alleviating the suffering that preceded it.

Time and time again- sometimes to the chagrin of his own disciples – he interrupted his perceived priorities to address the anguish and misery of those he encountered. The blind, paralytics, lepers, the disabled and even the servant of a centurion were all recipients of his healing. If his only objective was to secure their future glory, why did he spend so much time alleviating their present misery?

One answer would be that he healed them so that people would believe in him which would lead to his ultimate objective. There are a few problems with that idea, not the least of which is that while faith may produce miracles, miracles do not necessarily produce faith. After all, many of those who actively worked against the earthly ministry of Jesus were present for some his most spectacular interventions.

This would also undermine the profound empathy displayed by Jesus toward the wounded. I do not believe that he viewed them as marketing tools, but as human beings. When asked how to pray, Jesus responded with "Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

This would be a curious prayer for someone who believed that his father’s creation and image-bearers were beyond redemption. If there is no disease, poverty, inequality and suffering to be found in Heaven, why do we tolerate (and sometimes legislate) its proliferation on earth?

Senator Ernst's official Facebook account recently posted a photo of her visit to the Washington Nationals baseball stadium. She made the grievous error of posting a photo of herself wearing a batting helmet. The current most popular comment? "Why bother with the helmet? We are all going to die, Joni!"

The Willfully Childless

2025-08-31T20:15:00.003-05:00

On June 10th the Southern Baptist Convention, representing the largest group of Protestant Christians in the United States, ratified a statement named, “On Restoring Moral Clarity through God’s Design for Gender, Marriage, and the Family.”

Among the many topics it covered, the most surprising to me was the amount of time they spent addressing procreation. The proclamation sets the stage for what is to come early on:

WHEREAS, God has ordained the family as the foundational institution of human society, prior to the state, with a divine mandate to “be fruitful and multiply” (Genesis 1:28)

This, and what follows, echoes the mission statement of the “Quiverfull Movement” a subset of conservative Christians who interpret the Bible to advocate for having as many children as possible, rejecting contraception and other forms of birth control. The name is derived from Psalm 127, which describes children as "arrows in the hands of a warrior".

The implication, of course, is that the primary purpose of any family is to produce as many offspring as possible. According to the proclamation, this is to be done without the aid of IVF or other infertility treatments:

WHEREAS, Commercial surrogacy often treats children as products and women as a means to an end, and may entail the destruction of embryonic life, violating the dignity of human life and distorting God’s design for procreation within marriage

The resolution is addressing what the convention referred to as “willful childlessness” on the part of married, heterosexual Christian couples. According to the document, these couples are violating God’s mandate and design by utilizing birth control and choosing to delay parenthood or forgo it altogether. What was once known as pragmatic responsibility has somehow transformed into religious apostacy.

As a heterosexual married father of 3 amazing children, I firmly believe that nothing is more likely to proliferate societal misery and increase divorce rates than utilizing religion to guilt unprepared couples into becoming parents.

Becoming a parent is the hardest job you will ever love, and even when my wife and I agreed we were ready, we still were not entirely ready. If you and your spouse do not want to be parents, you should absolutely not become parents. If you are not mentally, spiritually, financially, emotionally and digestively prepared to place your children’s needs above you own, then the most moral, responsible and “Christian” thing you can do is wait.

I know several couples who agreed that they did not wish to become parents. Such a decision is not “sinful” or in violation of God’s will. They are no less “Christian” than those whose tax deduction forms require multiple addendums. There are blended families faithfully raising multiple children from prior relationships who have chosen not procreate within their current one. There are single and/or teenage parents working hard to provide for their unplanned child. There are non-heterosexual couples who have stepped up to foster and/or adopt one or more of the 400,000 children currently residing in the foster care system in our country. There are couples whose children only exist because of IVF and other fertility treatments. Does that make them any less a parent or their children any less a blessing? I don’t believe so.

This document creates a theological domestic maze that few could emerge from unscathed. Within this framework, God’s will concerning familial bonds is limited to the following:

Christian heterosexual married couples who reject any and every form of birth control and see procreation as one of the primary reasons their relationship exists.

As the enthusiastic recipient of a vasectomy, my relationship lies decidedly outside of that paradigm and I do not believe that God sits upon his throne lamenting that fact that I did not unleash any more of my DNA upon His glorious creation.

Little Caesars

2025-08-31T20:12:00.001-05:00

Several years ago, I walked into a Little Caesars to pick up a couple of “Hot N Ready” pizzas which, in my case, was more of a “Warm N Wait” situation as there were no pepperoni pizzas on deck.

Taking a seat, I began to observe the well-oiled machine that was Little Caesars. I quickly surmised that the heavyset mustachioed gentlemen with the buzz cut (whose name had to be Mike) was the manager and he was running the drive-thru window.

On the other side of the kitchen resided two teenage pizza artisans mechanically churning out pies while wearing headphones. Mike was a beast. He inspected, sliced and boxed the product in what appeared to be one effortless motion before handing it to the customer. So, when Mike stopped and stared intently at a large pizza for several seconds, I knew somebody had just lost their chance at employee of the month.

I could almost hear Mike’s internal dialogue as he gesticulated his exasperation by raising his hands and exhaling loudly. It was clear he found himself in a conundrum. Does he let this culinary infraction stand and get the merchandise out the door or does he confront the issue head-on?

Eventually he turns toward the prep-station, abomination in hand, and taps the closest of his sous chefs on the shoulder. Both of them remove their headphones just in time for Mike to present the pizza and ask whatever everyone else in the room knew to be a rhetorical question: “What is this!!?”

Glancing at each other, one of them timidly offered, “A large supreme?”

Mike’s glare could have withered an artificial fern. “And what is all over it!!?”

Still not sensing an ambush, the same young man earnestly responded, “Toppings!!?”

Mike looked like he was going to burn that mother down. Through gritted teeth, he managed to get out, “And why are there so many of them!!?”

This was not what I, or his colleagues, expected to come out of his mouth. I was mentally prepared for any number of scenarios ranging from wrong toppings to contraband body hair, but I was not expecting a volume discrepancy.

Clearly as flummoxed as me, the duo’s spokesman elaborated by admitting that he had been generous with the toppings because he felt that the customer would appreciate a hearty pizza.

Mike, now looking to the heavens for strength and hitting every syllable as if it owed him money, said, “You don’t work at Papa Johns! Is there a Domino’s logo on your shirt!!? THIS. IS. LITTLE. CAESARS!!! We could have made 3 supreme pizzas with that many toppings! Don’t let it happen again!”

Without waiting for a response, Mike turned on his heel and returned to his staging area to contemplate the repercussions of not hitting his daily numbers.

The two employees shrugged at each other, repositioned their headphones and went back to prepping pizzas. I tried to imagining the conversation when they got home and their parents inquired about their day. Parents who had painstakingly taught their children about self-sufficiency, work ethic and taking pride in your craft. Then, in an instant, Mike the human demotivational poster brought the walls of excellence crashing down.

My pizza, which had not yet been prepped, became collateral damage from the ToppingsGate scandal. When we opened the boxes at the house, each slice contained a single, orphaned peperoni. My wife frowned and asked why there weren’t more toppings. She suggested that I should have said something at the store. I informed her that had I complained to management about the scarcity of my toppings, either Mike or myself was going to catch a charge.

The Epstein Files

2025-08-31T20:10:00.002-05:00

The Epstein criminal enterprise embodies a sobering truth. Specifically, that the justice system navigated by the rest of us bears little resemblance to the one encountered by the wealthy and powerful. Had Epstein been a mid-level trafficker catering to working-class Americans we would never be in this situation. Everyone involved would have been un-masked Scooby Doo style and subjected to criminal charges and the public scrutiny that accompanies them.

The irony is that the Trump administration has turned into its own wake. When they were on the other side of the presidential seal, the current FBI director, vice-president and even Trump himself alluded to a dark conspiracy perpetrated by the deep state protecting wealthy and influential clients of Epstein. The client list continues to be the political equivalent of Schrödinger's cat, somehow tangible enough to sit upon the Attorney General’s desk for review and yet never existing at all.

I am willing to bet that the list (if it does exist) is not populated by roofers, second generation farmers or shift-leaders at Dairy Queen. It contains CEOs, hedge-fund managers and political donors whose influence and reach would likely reverberate throughout the Federal government and both political parties. The only undisputed commonality of Epstein’s “clients” is that they continue to evade any repercussions for their crimes.

For every wealthy client who perpetrated a crime, there were countless others turning a blind eye to the most despicable form of commerce imaginable. They placed their own ambitions and influence over the safety and well-being of children. Whatever their political ideology, socio-economic status, or elected position; if they participated or enabled child trafficking they should be brought to justice. We can no longer claim to be a city on a hill while we continue to protect a shanty in the swamp.

Conspiracy Theories

2025-08-31T20:08:00.001-05:00

“You know dad, the moon landing was fake.” My eldest was around 8 years old when he came home from school and announced this to the family. To be clear, this information originated from playground banter rather than school curriculum. A classmate had informed some friends that his dad told him the truth about the moon landing after watching a video on YouTube. A few years later, my daughter would ask me why they had faked the sinking of the Titanic citing similar sources.

More recently, I had an experience with a gentleman who has been attending our church for several years and is of limited means. Occasionally I will take him to get some lunch after church and it was on one such Sunday that we found ourselves walking into a Subway whilst chatting about what he would want to drink.

He had been going on in some detail about how there was nothing better than an ice-cold Dr. Pepper so I suggested that he should have one with his sandwich. With only mild alarm, he looked at me and announced he had stopped drinking Dr. Pepper now that they “were putting AIDS in it.” It was at this point the Subway employee removed his AirPod and cast a reflexive glance at the drink fountain.

Certain that I had misheard him, I clarified and he was adamant that he had seen a video on the Internet that proved they had changed the formula a few years ago so that it included AIDS (in this scenario the release of Dr. Pepper Zero seems more ominous). Setting aside my burning desire to ask if the video in question had been uploaded by Mr. Pibb, I began what I believed to be comprehensive logical rebuttal to the Big K fear-mongering.

Most importantly, you cannot just add AIDS to something like it was aspartame. AIDS is the result of a virus not its cause, so the author of the video lacked a basic understanding of science (or beverages). This would be akin to infusing a Monster Energy drink with osteoporosis or selling apple juice with 20% less gonorrhea. Secondly, who would stand to gain? Perceiving that he remained unconvinced, we descended further down the rabbit hole. Turning my full attention to him, I began what I believed to be an unassailable case for AIDS-free Dr. Pepper:

Let’s pretend, for the sake of argument, that AIDS was something they could add into a drink. Why would a multinational beverage conglomerate, whose profits are contingent upon getting as many people as possible to consume Dr. Pepper as often as possible for as long as possible, follow a course of action diametrically opposed to their continued financial success and / or existence.

Feeling the intellectual wind at my back, I continued to assure him that there is no reason he cannot enjoy an ice-cold Dr. Pepper on a hot summer day. Guiding him toward the counter, I announced to the room at large that he should go get his Dr. Pepper while I speak to the resident sandwich artist who, although listening to our discussion, had so far refrained from comment.

When my lunch companion rejoined me, cup in hand sipping on a cold beverage, I smiled and asked how that Dr. Pepper was treating him. He informed me that he felt more comfortable getting a Pepsi whilst mumbling something about not taking any chances.

I was telling this story to a group of acquaintances who joined me in laughing at the absurdity. One individual, still chuckling along with the rest of us, said, “That is crazy….But those government clouds are no joke.” Despite my instincts to the contrary, I decided this was a thread worth unraveling.

They explained that all cloud formations we see today were manufactured by the Federal government in order to best control the populace. When I expressed skepticism that Washington, DC was in possession of a meteorological vending machine, they admitted that they too had harbored the same reservations before a YouTube video had opened their eyes.

The cornerstone of this argument was a simple statement, “Thunder just doesn’t sound the same as it did 20 or 30 years ago.” Encouraging me to think back, they asked if I could honestly say that the thunder I heard last week was the same as the thunder I heard in the 90’s.

I haven’t even memorized the names of all of my children’s teachers I met at open house that week, so I knew there was no way for me to objectively compare the volume, frequency, duration and tonal characteristics of a thunderstorm that occurred before 2Pac was shot.

I thought about reminding them that the composition of a thunderstorm varies wildly based on the atmospheric conditions that spawn it, but I was already on a losing streak and I did not want to tempt fate. Instead, I listened politely and wondered why no politician had ever run on an anti-tornado platform.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the government clouds / chem trail / cloud seeding scenario is that it often finds its audience with people who remain unconvinced that the actions of humanity have any effect on the climate or weather. Those Venn diagrams shouldn’t overlap. How does one believe that we have the capability to bend the forces of mother nature to our will and yet somehow humanity remains statistically insignificant regarding our environment?

What do I know? Maybe it is all connected. Maybe YouTube is right. Perhaps, during a routine recalibration in 1912, the GovWeather-O-Matic 4000 starting dropping icebergs in the North Atlantic. In order to distract the populace from the fact that President Taft was tinkering with the jet stream, the US government conspired with a British company to fabricate one of the greatest maritime disasters of the century. The secret was then handed down until it appeared that the Soviets were on the cusp of a sustained orbital presence above the earth which could provide irrefutable proof that America was exporting cumulus clouds and low-pressure systems.

The government then hired Stanley Kubrick to film a moon-landing on a studio backlot in the hopes of turning people’s attentions from the heavens to the Kremlin. Their plan worked until the widespread adaptation of cell phones allowed for the recording and scrutiny of GMO thunder against free-range organic thunder through social media platforms. Then, just as YouTube sleuths got wind of their plans, they started putting AIDS (also known as the 24th flavor) into a popular soft-drink.

Sometimes I want to fight the good fight and sometimes I realize that the best course of action is to stay quiet and let people enjoy their Pepsi.

The Facelicker

2025-04-21T11:23:00.002-05:00

While I have already written about my daughter’s involvement with competitive cheerleading, my oldest son has a passion for competitive robotics. If there was ever a total opposite to a competitive cheerleading tournament, it would be a competitive robotics event. The only commonality is my inability to comprehend how either event is scored.

My understanding is that when you get into higher levels it is more sudden death battle-bots than collaborative Amazon warehouse drills. While both cheerleading and robotics are full-day endeavors, the S.T.E.M. crowd is more of my scene. The emphasis on engineering, science, and programming is needed more now than ever and I sincerely hope that programs like this continue to expand.

While I was walking by two gentlemen at the Robotics state tournament, I overheard a conversation I was unlikely to hear at a competitive cheerleading event. They were each laying out a case for which one’s offspring exhibited autodidacticism at an earlier age. “He was reading before he could walk” was a common theme. I fought the urge to downplay the achievements of their kids by telling them that my son marked his gestation by tapping out the Fibonacci sequence on my wife’s uterus.

There were a large number of attendees wearing NASA gear and robot-themed puns on shirts, but one older gentleman’s attire caught my attention. It was a T-shirt styled like college alumni gear. In arced script, it said “Facelicker” and underneath that was “Est. 1979.” For a split second, I entertained the idea of asking about the meaning and origin of his garment, but other tasks needed to be completed before we could retire to the hotel for the evening. Perhaps it was a small liberal-arts college whose primary endowment came from someone with an unfortunate surname or an obscure psychedelic jam-band. Whatever it was it would just have to remain a mystery.

The next morning at the hotel, I just happened to wander onto the elevator with the very same gentleman wearing the same shirt. Since it was just the two of us and a softball coach engrossed in his phone, I decided that there was no time like the present. I motioned toward his shirt and said, “I have to ask.”

His face lit-up with an intensity that let me know that his entire life had been leading up to this moment. Day after day he wandered the earth just begging for someone to give him a reason to tell his story and I was just the moron he had been searching for.

He set the scene for me. It was a 1979 worship service at an undisclosed denomination and he described sitting on the pew sandwiched between his wife and her best friend. His arms were around both of them when, at some point during the service, his wife leaned over to him and challenged him to suddenly turn and lick her best friend’s face.

If he had entertained any reservations about tongue-bathing another woman during the scripture reading, it was not conveyed in his recounting of events. I was fuzzy on the details of the wager itself, but whatever was at stake, he smiled broadly while bragging that he “got her from chin-to-ear” smack dab in the middle of exalting the Almighty.

At this point the third passenger, who had been absorbed in authoring a lengthy text message right up until the moment that “chin-to-ear” made its debut, looked up with what could only be described as involuntary revulsion. Unabated, Facelicker Jones chuckled as he said, “Boy, you should have seen the look on her face after I got done! At any rate, she went and had a T-shirt made to commemorate it soon after and here we are.”

There had been many scenarios floating around my head before hearing his tale, but tracing a woman’s jawline with your tongue in the name of the Lord had not been on my bingo card. As the door began opening and the softball coach all but threw himself from the elevator into the lobby, my mind swirled with questions:

How old was the shirt he was wearing and why did it not look worn at all? Did he have an entire wardrobe of these like the batsuit? What woman’s reaction to unwanted face-licking is to present the offender with a commemorative T-shirt? How did his wife feel that he continued to memorialize the moment he violated the sanctity of her friend’s neckline? Where was his wife now? Did he and the best friend get together and continue to regale strangers with their origin story? Can you imagine being out to dinner with them and stepping on that landmine? So, how did you two meet…..

Would she answer, “It was love the moment he turned away from his ex-wife during the fourth stanza of Shall We Gather at the River and baptized my jawline with his saliva. We have been inseparable ever since!”

After parting ways with him in the lobby, I found my wife and recounted the sordid tale as she valiantly attempted to continue consuming her waffle before ultimately giving up. She then made it clear that despite 22 years of marriage, when it came to Face-licking she did not think that we “were there yet.” Then, for what must have been the thousandth time in our lives, she gave me the, “This is why we do not talk to strangers” reprimand.

The Sandals Incident

2025-03-25T21:27:00.002-05:00

Last year, my wife and I decided to celebrate our anniversary and her birthday by taking our first trip to a Sandals Resort. With the invaluable assistance of a good friend and travel agent, we planned a getaway to the beautiful island of Antigua. Our flight to Miami was very early, so we found a park-and-fly deal at a hotel near the airport.

We woke up at 4 AM to pouring rain and the news that our flight was delayed due to a crew issue. This meant that we would miss our connecting flight in Miami and there was only one other flight to the island that day. Even if we could get seats on the remaining flight, we would only have about twenty minutes to make it to the terminal once we landed. I explained our situation to a gentleman at the airline service desk who proceeded to type furiously on his keyboard while assuring me that he had secured our seats on this final leg of our journey. He reminded me that we would need disembark quickly in order to make it to the gate. I thanked him for his tenacity and invaluable service.

As our flight touched down in Miami, I opened the overhead bin before we were even at the gate. Normally a conscientious traveler, I was knocking over women, children, and the infirm in equal measure just to give us a fighting chance to make our connection. We had paid to spend that evening at a tropical resort and I was not about to let someone’s bad hip get in the way.

When we breathlessly stumbled up to the departing gate, I informed the desk agent that arrangements had been made because we had missed the previous flight. After a few minutes of typing, he regretted to inform me that the prior desk agent never actually did anything and they had no record of our tickets being transferred. I half expected to be told that the individual I spoke to was not even an airline employee and that the keyboard he was typing on had been connected to Keurig machine under the desk.

Undeterred, I reached for my cell phone as I had taken meticulous notes of my interaction with the previous associate for just such an occasion. It was then I realized that in my haste to make the connecting flight we were never actually on, I had somehow left my phone on the plane. This was clearly karma for my willingness to Samsonite-whip fellow travelers.

My wife and I then ran back across the Miami Airport to our arrival terminal only to be advised that the phone could not be located. It was, of course, still in airplane mode so my tracking options were practically non-existent. Accepting that my phone might be a lost cause, we ran back to the airline customer service desk and found that it would be two days before they could get us on another flight. Not to worry through, for the inconvenience they had secured us lodging at one of Miami International Airport’s finest hotels. She even gave us some extra meal vouchers to make sure that we lived like high-rollers during our extended stay.

Dejected but with plenty of time to kill, we asked how we could contact lost and found to see if someone had turned in my phone. We were told that there were two agencies to check with (one specific to the airline and a general repository for the airport) and we should make contact with both. The airline’s lost a found was friendly enough and we completed the requisite forms. The airport lost and found was a different story.

We walked down abandoned corridors in parts of the airport that no one should have to see. When we finally found the split-door nestled in a dark corner, I felt like I was trying to gain access to a speakeasy. A gentleman opened the top-half of the door and brusquely informed me that I would need to complete a form and they would “be in touch if my iPhone turns up or whatever.” I did not get the impression that they facilitated many successful reunions. I suspected that the entire department had been disbanded years ago but no one in upper management had been able to locate the employees to tell them.

We decided to go back to the hotel to regroup. Upon entering the room, we were greeted by warm, moist air and the unmistakable scent of human waste. I made the front desk aware of the sewage sauna situation and began attempting to access to my Apple account so that I could at least mark the device as lost. Because I was attempting to login from an atypical device in an unusual location, Apple kept sending a text message to the lost iPhone in order to allow me the ability to mark said iPhone as lost. I called Apple customer service to share that I had discovered a flaw in the system and they suggested that I find a Verizon dealer and transfer my service to a new phone so that I could receive the messages to mark the original phone as lost.

Meanwhile, a very capable maintenance technician had determined that the shared AC / sewer drain was clogged and began loudly pumping the sewage into a chum bucket on the floor. The putrid smell combined with the slurping noises emanating from the hand-operated sump-pump served to create a slightly different atmosphere than we had expected on the first night of our romantic getaway.

I called back to the front desk and asked if we could be transferred out of the excrement suite. Unfortunately, the hotel (like the flights for the next 48 hours) had no vacancies. Amid the grunting and gurgling in the background, I called Verizon customer service and explained the situation. They informed me that I would need to pay almost $500 to satisfy the balance of the lost device and cover the upgrade and activation fees for the replacement. I begrudgingly agreed and was told that there was an affiliate retailer just 6 blocks from our current location and everything would be ready when we arrived.

The affiliate was a small, family run affair and as it was the Sunday before Memorial Day, we were the only customers. Relieved to see the device in a bag with my name on it, I informed the proprietor that I was here to retrieve the order and I would be on my way. He checked the screen on his computer and informed me that Verizon had not paid him yet, and until they do, the phone would remain where it was. I showed him the digital receipt on my wife’s phone and he patiently listened before explaining that he was not questioning whether or not Verizon got their money, he was only interested in when he was going to get his. It would appear that the trickle-down economics model was not held in high-esteem within the Miami wireless community.

Exasperated, I called Verizon customer service back and finally explained the entire situation over again while pacing the floor as an employee mopped around me. It was 4:58 PM by the time I got a manager and he informed me that I would be placed on a brief hold while he got to the bottom of this sordid business. He then promptly hung-up.

My lovely bride, whose face had been buried in her hands for the duration of the call, reminded me not to throw the only working phone we had through a window. My eye started twitching as I requested just a little more time from the manager to sort this out. He said I could have 10 minutes because he had plans to attend a cook-out (probably with the customer service rep that had just hung-up on me).

I immediately called the customer service number again only to be subjected a recording informing me that while call center was closed due to the holiday. They would be happy to assist me the following Tuesday.

I was now the proud owner of two Verizon iPhones and somehow was not in possession of either of them. On the plus side, the AC in our room was now functional and the poo-pail was gone. We were then told by the onsite restaurant that all of our meal vouchers combined would be just enough for one of us to be allowed into the buffet line. It was as if the airline had issued us currency from a Third World nation on the brink of economic collapse.

We briefly toyed with the idea of one of us getting a plate and slipping the other one rolls and mashed potatoes under the table while no one was looking but instead we DoorDashed some food and ate in our room as my wife and our travel agent worked furiously to find another flight.

Once she was off the phone, I winked seductively at my bride and told her that while it was not a beach-front resort, it would be a shame not to take advantage of the rapidly dissipating smell of feces and the questionable comforter. She politely declined my romantic overtures with an eye-roll. I made a mental note to check and make sure I had packed some supplemental rizz in my overnight bag.

Miraculously, we were able to find a flight out of Miami the next day and landed in beautiful Antigua. The resort was gorgeous and, after a short delay, we were being led to our room. After about ten minutes inside, we realized that the “windows” were simply plantation shutters with bug-screens open to the common area.
The lack of glass allowed sound to travel easily between the courtyard and the bedroom (along with demoting the air-conditioner from an appliance to a wall-decoration).

When I walked outside our door, I could clearly hear the woman in the room next to us showering and requesting a loofa from her companion. If either of them consumed some bad jerk-chicken, the entire unit would be forced to bear witness to the aftermath. It was clear that there were not going to be a lot of secrets at Sandals.

In addition to the immediate privacy issues posed by this configuration (both carnal and gastrointestinal) it was very humid in the room. I began opening the wardrobe to see if I could locate something to stuff the windows with and while reaching to the top shelf for the extra pillows and blankets, I discovered another man’s shorts.

Under different circumstances, this discovery would have been a powerful conversation starter at couple’s-only resort. Since we had only arrived, I sat aside the mystery drawers and continued stuffing the windows with decorative pillows until I achieved some semblance of privacy and climate control.

I then called the customer service desk and explained the situation. I expected the prospect of missing window panes and mystery garments to elicit something close to at least feigned indignation. Instead, my story was met with a long pause before the woman asked firmly, “Are we sure they are not your shorts?”

Did I give staff the impression of being so disconnected from reality that I would unable to identify the attire that had just recently adorned my no-no square? I jokingly assured her that she was more than welcome to come to our room and launch a full investigation. Before I realized it, she had hung up the phone and was at our door.

I displayed the enormous shorts in front of my waist in a pose that I imagine looked like an online ad for a weight-loss program. She nodded in acceptance and agreed to take possession of the linen man-trunks. We then discussed the window situation and she seemed genuinely surprised at my distaste for open-air bowel movements. She explained that this was an older section of the resort and they had not yet retrofitted it with modern windows.

I politely requested that we be moved to another room and was told the resort was full “what with it being a holiday and all.” Undeterred, I tried another employee who also echoed the same sentiment. Defeated, I fell back onto the mattress next to my glistening marital companion who had already discovered that the bed was carrying a lot of nocturnal trauma. If our bed was originally manufactured with springs and padding, they had both long since gone on to glory.

I called the front desk and requested a mattress-topper which generated a surprising bit of push-back. I suspected that word about us had made the rounds among the employees and they were worried that I was going to disembowel it and use the foam as window insulation. They said that they only had a few but they would see what they could do. I would later find out that, due to miscommunication, our pad was installed on Loofah Lisa’s mattress next door.

We walked out and enjoyed the immaculate grounds and the beautiful beach. We spent the next few days enjoying our time together and consuming delicious meals. It was about our third day there when I walked out onto our patio to discover several of the “resort cats” lounging on our chairs. While similar to the domestic cats we had back home, these semi-feral creatures possessed unique facial structures that made it clear there was a pronounced fork in the family tree. They were pointed out to us during orientation and their housing unit was visible from back of our room.

As I reached out for one of the towels we had left out to dry, the nearest resort cat bit my hand without warning before settling back into its nap as if performing an expected courtesy. It was deep enough to draw blood and I became concerned that an infection might set in, so we located the Sandals nurse station and made our way over to see if they had some Neosporin.

It was a small room packed with enough supplies to triage a small military offensive. There was an unadorned desk and a friendly woman emerged from the back to ask how she could be of assistance. While listening to my situation, she was very conspicuously searching for a paper form which she then handed to me on a clip-board. I explained that I was not requesting an invasive medical procedure, I simply had not packed an antiseptic and thought she would have some.

She again insisted that I complete the lengthy “incident report” and be as detailed as possible. After turning “A cat bit my hand” into a dramatic essay, she insisted that my wife sign as a witness to assure everyone that I had not invented the story with nefarious intent.

I was somewhat offended that they suspected that my wife and I had booked this trip as part of a master plan to defraud an international resort chain by fabricating an attack by an on-premise pack of animals I only learned about upon my arrival. If I was going to play the long con, I think I would have gotten more traction by alleging psychological damage hearing our next-door neighbors evacuate their colon shortly before rekindling that loving feeling.

Upon inspecting the form, she the curtly informed me that I would have to purchase the requested first-aid supplies in the resort gift shop. I was sure I had misunderstood. I motioned toward the Grey’s Anatomy starter kits along the wall and requested some antibiotic cream and a band -aid. She again directed me to the resort gift shop. Upon arrival we found a “travel tube” of Neosporin for $14. I reminded my wife to stay close to shore because if this purchase was any indication, we would be financially unable to procure a shark-bite kit without collateral.

The beaches were public so there were several local vendors and most were friendly. There was one entrepreneur who approached me and cheerily asked if I needed some marijuana. I thanked him for his consideration, but assured him that I was not in the market. Taking my disinterest as something else, he leaned in closer and said, “I got you. I figured you were more of a cocaine guy anyway. How much you need?”

Beginning to wonder if my new beach attire was giving off the wrong vibe, I assured him that I was not a “cocaine guy” and after several more attempts and assuring me of his powder’s unmatched potency, he left.

We spent our days lounging along the shore and I was quickly reminded why I had fallen so hard for my amazing wife. A local tour-guide took us all over the island and we learned so much about the rich culture. We discovered that the people of Antigua love them some Shaggy. We heard “It Wasn’t Me” so often I just assumed it had been adopted as the national anthem. We also learned that it is illegal to wear camouflage in public. Our guide informed us that the law stemmed from a brazen armed robbery where three men presented themselves as military personnel and relieved motorists of their valuables for several hours before being arrested. I couldn’t help but feel that somehow Chompers the Resort Cat had masterminded the entire scheme.

We learned to never complain about the hardships of the pandemic to the resident of an island whose entire economy relies on tourism. When he told us that they became desperate and people did not have food, he meant it in a way that I am blessed never to have known. It was a needed reminder that when we visit these nations, our worst financial situations would often qualify as someone else’s aspirations.

Our flight back was fortunately non-eventful and we landed in Miami right on time. Having completed all of the customs paperwork during the flight, we expected to breeze through and get a bite to eat before our final flight. Passports in hand, my wife and I approached the customs official and he processed her first. We exchanged pleasantries, but his cheery manner faded as he looked at his screen and declared that my better-half was going to be held for further questioning.

Completely misreading the situation, I joked that if she was going to be detained then I was just kidding about being married for twenty-one years and we had just met on the plan while making-out during some turbulence. Taking my passport from my hand, he said, “You’re going too, funny boy” before another officer emerged to escort us into large waiting room with stainless-steel chairs bolted to the floor.

Unsure what to do next, we took inventory of the room around us. There was a Hispanic woman with an infant in the row in front of us and off to the right were several customs officers. It became clear that we were to wait until one of us was called up for further questioning. I watched as a Chinese national sat stone-face while the customs officials attempted to corroborate that he was indeed the regional sales manager for a manufacturing firm and in Miami on business. I wondered how many people they tripped up with the “business or pleasure” question. Have they ever had someone lean in and respond in a menacing voice, “Neither. I am here for carnage and insurrection”?

My wife thought we should request an attorney but I felt like we might be blowing things out of proportion so we waited. Finally, one of the agents called my name and when we both arose from our chairs, he indicated that he was only requesting me. My wife, undoubtedly terrified that our collective fate now rested in my ability to navigate a customs incident without making the situation worse, slid back down into her seat.

The officer was already holding my passport and asked me several questions, the answers to which I was certain he could have gotten from his computer screen. Where do you live? What is the zip code there? Where were we coming from? Why were you there? I got the impression that these were warm-up questions, so when he began asking if I had any declarations, I felt we had arrived at the heart of the matter.

I insisted that the only thing we had brought back from the island (other than the world’s most expensive tube of antibiotic ointment) was a gift for each of our three children: A hat for our youngest son, a dress for our daughter and a stuffed animal for my oldest son.

He eyed me warily before asking again if there was anything else I would like to declare while he was giving me the opportunity. Anything at all? When I again repeated my list of the three souvenirs, he then said, “To be absolutely clear, it is still your contention that there are no narcotics or controlled substances in your luggage?”

My first thought was that maybe I did look more like a cocaine guy than I realized. Then my mind wandered to the stuffed animal we had purchased from a beach vendor. What if it was full of uncut Caribbean powder? What if I had unwittingly become an international drug mule? Had they already found cocaine? Would my wife wait for me on the outside?

My anxiety began to grow and when I get nervous, I will often resort to poorly-timed humor. With a laugh I told him that we only bought the three items I had already disclosed and I did not know how he was raised, but where I come from kids had to get their own narcotics. His face remained stoic and he said “very funny” in a way that made me think he contemplating tasering me just to see if I would wet myself.

My mind then wandered to the cell phone I had left behind and a terrible thought occurred to me. What if it had been picked up by a mid-level distributer of illicit substances while my wife and I were away at the beach? What if my number had been used to facilitate enough shipments to trigger an investigation? I then blurted out that I had lost my cell phone at the airport on my way to Antigua which also sounded like something a cocaine guy would say.

Finally, he smiled and handed me back my passport. Without ever speaking to my wife, he motioned that I was free to go collect my luggage. As we approached the carousel, looked around half-expecting someone to arrest me the moment I touched the handle. I asked my wife if she would stick by me if things went down and she assured me that she would be in an Uber headed for a new life before they even got the cuffs on.

In what can only be described as a holiday miracle, the airline lost and found had my phone and I was able to prove ownership because my wife’s phone had the same wallpaper photo of our kids that appeared on mine. I was astounded by the amount of electronics left on planes. It looked like a Best Buy scratch-and-dent sale back there. I immediately began calling Verizon to get a refund on the replacement phone that I was never allowed to pick up. I almost lost it when the rep asked me, with a slightly-condescending tone, why I had placed an order and never bothered to take possession of it. For the second time that week, the phone in may hand was in danger of being propelled through the nearest window.

Perhaps for our next anniversary, we can up our game and get on INTERPOL’s radar (or at least actually make out during the turbulence).

The Cracker Barrel Incident

2025-03-10T10:55:00.002-05:00

It was a late Sunday morning in the fall of last year when my wife suggested that we visit our local Cracker Barrel for a lowkey brunch with the kids. So, we gathered the flock and spent the requisite amount of time browsing through the giftshop waiting for our name to be called. If you have never had the experience of a Cracker Barrel giftshop, just imagine a place that sells Pink Floyd vinyl, rooster crockery and cold-pressed soap in equal measure.

Everything began as you would expect, the kids fought over the single wooden-peg game allocated to our table. A franchise staple, the object of the triangle peg game is to take the golf tees and jump them over each other to reduce the remaining number to one. If any of them managed to reduce the number of pegs to three or less there were immediate accusations of cheating and malfeasance by their siblings. Eventually, their attention turned to the menus so that everyone could pretend to contemplate their choices while eventually ordering the exact same thing we knew they would.

As is our custom, as soon as the server left my children began complaining about what they perceived to be an inordinate amount of time to cook pancakes. I informed them that it has been only about 42 seconds and it is unlikely that our server has had enough time to convey our entire order to the cook unless the two of them have worked out a series of clicks and hand signals to communicate.

The food arrived in a reasonable amount of time and everyone began tucking into an artery-hardening array of eggs and gravy. Toward the end of the meal, I noticed that my wife was staring at our first-grader with mild concern. I glanced over and satisfied myself that he was not choking, but he certainly did not seem to be enjoying his folksy breakfast experience as much as the rest of us.

Apparently, my son had managed to lodge his elbow between the slats of his wooden chair. Scoffing at my wife and son’s growing alarm, I pivoted and verbally instructed him to wiggle it a little bit whilst I continued stuffing my face with French toast. My son, looking at me with disappointment for what would not be the first or last time in his life, told me that he had already tried that.

Exasperated, I got up out of my chair and walked over behind his. In all fairness, his folded arm was firmly wedged in the widest part of the chair spindle. Upon further investigation, it appeared that his wind-breaker (which had been draped across the back of the chair) had reduced the friction against his skin allowing his extremity to protrude much farther than it normally would have.

He had already extracted the wind-breaker in an unsuccessful attempt to free himself and was now growing desperate. Still chewing my food, I leaned down and attempted to force apart the slats as he pulled his arm toward his body. It was clear that either my muscles were far more atrophied than I had feared or the chair was far better built than I suspected. Either way, it was clear that my tendons had less structural integrity than their furniture.

My feeble efforts were noticed by a rather muscular server who caught on to the situation much faster than I had. Breathing a sigh of relief that this was now in the hands of a four-star Cracker Barrel veteran who looked like he was putting up three hundy at the gym, I took a step back and watched (with some satisfaction) as he was unable to make any more progress than I had.

He and I regrouped momentarily and decided that the best course of action would be for us each to sit on the floor, place our feet on the bottom rung of the chair and then pull-on opposite sides of the same slat. As you can imagine, seeing Swole McApron and myself sitting on the floor playing tug-o-war with a child was started to draw the interest of the other patrons who had now stopped eating. Within a few moments of our latest futile attempt to end the standoff, the manager had appeared to ascertain why one of his servers was on the floor attempting to demolish company property instead of slinging gravy.

The three of us then attempted – again in vain – to create enough space for my son to free his arm. At this point, all restaurant business had ceased and even the hostess had moved closer to bear witness to my son’s plight. As is often the case in any public crisis, people began offering unsolicited advice “try lotion!” “wiggle his arm more!” “raise children with better spatial-awareness!”

The manager began lamenting that they had recently changed chair manufacturers due the sub-par quality of past items and how easily they broke. I responded that it would appear the newest model had been constructed by the Amish on a direct commission from our Lord and Savior. The manager was very kind and I verbalized my desire to avoid any damage to the chair. I then offered to pay if it had to be dismantled (an offer which he politely declined). I assured him that we would do our best not to bring any harm to the chair forged in the heart of a dying star.

During all of this, my son had remained stoic but was clearly concerned the longer the ordeal went on. My wife was comforting him amid the sideline coaching and my other children continued eating their meal as if this sort of predicament was a common occurrence anytime our family was served an entrée. Had the jaws of life been involved, my oldest would have simply tapped the nearest firefighter and requested they pass the syrup.

Child with arm stuck in chair at Cracker Barrel - A.I. (oil on canvas)

It was around this time that a gentleman appeared and offered to retrieve his cordless Sawzall from his truck. I was thankful for his offer but was reluctant to place a reciprocating metal blade that close to my child’s body. We agreed that would be a last resort and he stood at the ready.

Suddenly, my son’s stoicism broke and tears began to stream down his face. Concerned that our efforts had further pinched his arm, I leaned in and tried to comfort him. It took several minutes before I understood his heightened level of concern. He had overheard both my conversation with the manager and the gentleman with the power-tools. From those two conversations, he had inferred the following:

Dad has assured the manager that we would not break the chair.
A man had offered use of his Sawzall.
The only logical conclusion was that the Sawzall was going to be used to amputate his arm so that, other than the bone fragments and blood, the chair could be spared any trauma.

Once I reassured him that I would sooner set fire to the building than cut off his elbow, he calmed down and someone emerged from the kitchen with a claw hammer and pry-bar. After several spirited attempts, the chair finally gave way with a loud crack and the ordeal was over.

The crowd dispersed just as quickly as it had gathered and the manager kindly offered my son a complimentary dessert. Normally we would have taken the offer, but he was still understandably upset and my wife whisked him out to the car while I waited for the check. She said that as they moved through the gift shop, she overheard one female patron whisper to the other one, “That’s the kid with the arm!!”

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. We are all seated around the table eating when my wife and I began talking about all of us going out to dinner over the weekend. I thoughtlessly mentioned Cracker Barrel and my wife echoed the sentiment and wondered aloud why it had been so long since we had eaten there.

As she was saying this, we both remembered that there was a very specific reason we had not been in awhile and immediately turned our attention to youngest son. His face was stricken, he had dropped his fork and was saying, “No! No! Cracker Barrel” while holding his arm.

With the promise of a quilt or coat between his body and the chair, we were successfully able to get him over his fear of Cracker Barrel (or just subjected him to further childhood trauma). If I find him seated in a wooden rocking chair facing the corner of his room muttering “ya’ll come back real soon!” we will just add a little more crypto to the therapy fund.

The Lollipop Incident

2025-03-01T21:25:00.007-06:00

As any parent knows, the school drop-off line is fraught with perils. The societal pressure for an efficient launch is suffocating, especially when you are coming in on two wheels because your children have already accumulated enough tardies to generate a truancy form-letter.

Nothing elicits more scorn from your fellow commuters than sitting behind you for an eternity only to find our that your passengers waited until zero hour to unbuckle themselves, locate their school-bags and finish reading the King James Bible.

Sometimes one of your children will scrub the launch at the last second. Two kids will be out of the vehicle while the third insists that disembarking before the front fender is aligned with gym door is utter madness. You are now bargaining with the third child while half-heartedly goosing the engine to give the appearance of getting out of the other parent's way without actually doing so. In the heat of the moment, you will also hastily agree to some ridiculous request that you will forget the moment you drive off because you just wanted them out of the car.

The reckoning for this verbal contract will come 9 hours later when you get them from after-care. There will be a tense discussion and somehow the same child that can't remember the location of their own shoes has become the family stenographer. I am then informed that, according to the transcript, I agreed that he could spend the afternoon micro-dosing FunDip and watching ASMR Roblox videos in lieu of homework.

A few years ago, I was chauffeuring my eldest two children to school and running late as usual. As we were on final approach to the drop-zone, I loudly instructed my offspring to prepare themselves for deployment. During this process, my son reached down to grab his bag from the floorboard and made an unpleasant discovery. There was a partially consumed lollipop stuck to the side of his bag.

My son had several options at the point:

1. Quietly alert me to the presence of said sucker so that I could dispose of it in a dignified manner.

2. Say nothing and return the item from whence it came.

3. Surreptitiously move it to his sister’s area and then blame her.

Never being one to conform, he decided that the path forward was to yell in disgust and indiscriminately launch the BlowPop into the air where it came to rest in his sister’s freshly-brushed hair. At that moment, we were a single car-length from disembarking and all Hell broke loose. My daughter began screaming as she gripped the handle and began pulling her hair out by the roots attempting extricate the scalp-missile.

When I confronted my son as to why he threw the sucker into his sister’s hair, his response did little to diffuse the situation. “I didn’t throw it into her hair on purpose! I just threw it and because she has a giant head there was no where else it could go!!”

By now, I have flawlessly executed the I-swear-on-all-that-is-holy-if-I-have-to-come-back-there rotation in my seat and I am loudly demanding that he issue her an apology. Amid her wails and tears, he grumbled something akin to, “I very sorry that you have a gigantic head" whilst shrugging as if he had left nothing out on the field.

It was at this moment that an upbeat teacher assisting with drop-off began opening the door to facilitate my progeny’s exit. She pulled on the handle while cheerily intoning “Good Morning!!” If she expected this to be reciprocated, she had selected the wrong family.

Ignoring both the optimistic greeting and the person who issued it, my daughter threw the hairball-on-a-stick to the ground and slid out of the car with tears running down her face. She certainly could have just moved toward the school and tried to salvage this dumpster-fire of a morning. Instead, she waited until her brother’s legs had emerged from the vehicle before slamming the door as hard as she could behind her.

The teacher, concerned that my son was gravely injured, looked at my daughter and gently scolded that she must have forgotten her brother was in the car. Without hesitation, she replied, “No, I remembered” before breezily skipping off toward the entrance.

We had been stationary for what feels like an eternity and somehow all my children have not yet cleared the vehicle. I sympathized with my son's plight also understood that there are only so many times a person could be teased about their head circumference without some repercussions.

My son, defiant to the end and shins afire, managed to croak another scathing observation of his sister’s cranial proportions while she was still in earshot before he hobbled away.

Her smile and encouraging countenance all but gone, the teacher looked at me and mumbled something about having a pleasant day to which I answered, “good luck” before squealing off like I had just pulled a bank heist.

Competitive Cheerleading

2025-02-24T23:05:00.001-06:00

It all begins innocently enough. Your child talks about going to the local gym to take some tumbling classes. Before long, she takes notice of the group of cheerleaders running through their routines on the other side of the facility. Their skill and coordination make such an impression on her that she expresses interest in how one might go about joining their ranks.

Before you know it, you or your spouse find yourselves at a parent meeting, surrounded by championship banners, and it dawns on you that the tumbling classes were just a gateway drug. What started with a casual back-handspring tutorial will ultimately lead to a moment where you, along with your spouse and daughter, are walking through a railway in downtown Atlanta at 5:30 AM in the pouring rain because you are too cheap to pay $35 for an Uber to take you three-quarters of a mile to the Georgia World Congress Center.

If you are as fortunate as we were, your guide to this brave new world is a highly-organized veteran of the competitive cheer scene patient enough to answer the questions of people whose only experience is with swim meets and robotics tournaments.

Commitment is emphasized, high-pony tutorials are given and overly bedazzled clothing and accessories are acquired. It is explained that your child will be participating in hours of practice several days each week. Their attendance (barring a well-documented industrial accident) is mandatory which makes sense as your child will be responsible for catching someone else’s.

Like any competitive pursuit, cheerleading has its own lexicon and traditions.

At our first competition (known as “comps” on the street), I had placed our cheer backpack on the ground next to me. Ostensibly, the cheer backpack allows the athlete to carry their aesthetic arsenal of makeup, hair products, bow container, snacks and tactical-grade caboodles. In reality, the backpack will spend most of the time being schlepped around by the parent. Which is why, on this particular occasion, it also contained my Kindle.

So when a group of young ladies began casing the bag as they walked by, I continually moved the bag closer and closer to me. Those entry fees are no joke and I wasn’t taking a chance on felony sparkles and the gang fencing my gear. Only later was it explained to me that one of the traditions is for the athletes to decorate clothes pins and clandestinely attach them to the backpack, hair, coat or portable oxygen tank of other attendees. Getting “pinned” was a right of passage and a bonding experience.

Then, while the three of us were sitting at a table waiting for her team to begin warmups, a competitor looked at my daughter and said “I hope you hit zero!” before smiling as she walked away. Unbelievable. Our first competition and this little glitter-hussy is throwing shade at my baby girl. I stopped just shy of yelling “Your mom hit zero….developmental milestones!!” before it was explained to me that this was sincere encouragement. To “hit zero” is to have no deductions for mistakes during your performance.

This spirit of comradery permeated all of our interactions with other teams, parents and coaches. This was a welcome change from other kid’s sports where parental frustration can lead to verbal or even physical altercations. Not once did I witness an enraged parent yelling comically-specific cheer insults like, “Your kid wouldn’t recognize a pike if she pulled one from the lake!” or “That ponytail has more flyaways than a pilot’s resume!”

The atmosphere was incredibly supportive and most parents wore “cheer gear” in solidarity with their team. One glaring exception was the gentleman in front of us at a Nashville event whose hoodie identified him as a card-carrying “Panty Dropper” complete with a crude illustration. I marveled at the thought process that led to this moment. Perhaps this was the least offensive garment he possessed?

This brings me to the scoring. I have attended multiple cheer events produced by several organizations and I still have no idea how the scoring works.

From what I can gather, there is an arbitrary base score which appears to be unrelated to the difficulty of the routine elements. For instance, at the nationals each team was given 46 base points on a 100-point scale. Points could then be added or deducted by the judges at the high table based on crowd interaction, synchronization, execution, sportsmanship or any other number of subjective factors. There may have even been an undisclosed “rizz-multiplier” involved.

Furthermore, each team is classified by level, division, size and a few other characteristics to the point that I rarely knew who we were competing against. I would find myself trying to mentally parse “Level 2.1 Division 3 Mini Prep Co-ed Anemic All Stars” and decide whether or not I should hope someone tripped. This would also lead to large events where you might be the only team in your particular sub-genus.

The intonation of the event announcers ranged from beauty pageant to tractor pull (the latter making it delightful when a team like the Carolina Cuddle-Sparks was announced). Several of the events even had their own mascots. One looked like result of an unholy union between the Phillies mascot and a decommissioned Fraggle Rock character while another appeared to be inspired by the Abominable snowman despite the event taking place in Florida.

Security and ticketing also varied wildly from venue to venue. Some events featured metal detectors and TSA bag-searches while others were lax enough that you could roll in a cooler of human organs and weapons-grade plutonium without scrutiny. Tickets could be as high as $75 per adult for two-day competitions. Which, as it turned out, was the cheapest aspect of this enterprise.

Many of the overnight competitions required a booking at a hotel chosen by the event and each and every one of them was well-aware they had a captive audience. Most were valet-only and one charged up to $60 per day just to park. Suffice it to say that my Hampton Inn rewards points remain unused.

There were always merch tables with the expected fare of overpriced t-shirts, but it was the ducks that really caught me off guard. Multi-colored stuffed ducks (known as “good-luck ducks”) were selling at exorbitant prices. Even the smallest versions were $40 - $50 and the entire setup looked like a Temu rags-to-riches story.

The food was also a crap-shoot. Most featured the usual culinary fare of $13 hot dogs, but one innovative venue utilized a Hunger Games / cafeteria approach.

They had a menu listed, but when I approached the food counter there seemed to be an inordinate number of people milling around. I eventually caught a gentleman’s attention and politely requested chicken tenders.

He scoffed and informed me that I could have whatever I wanted as long as I was the first one to retrieve it from “the chute” once they dropped it. He nodded toward the assembled crowd as if to imply that only the strongest among us would be consuming poultry that day.

So, we all stood around pretending to be engrossed in our phone screens while secretly formulating our strategy. Every time the concession-coaster made noise, societal norms were dropped and choices were made. Eventually I got out with three tenders, a cookie, and not a shred of my dignity.

The routines themselves were always impressive and indicative of the sheer amount of work put into them. As best I can discern, the music must contain intermittent lasers sounds, triangle hits, a pulsating bassline, unintelligible lyrics (with the exception of a mid-song voice-over announcing the team’s name) and just enough recognizable melodic elements to remind you of a song without being familiar enough to necessitate royalty payments.

The overall audio landscape gives the impression of a rave with a cat walking across the buttons of a sound effects control board. I could not help but wonder what would happen if a team showed up and performed a somber interpretative dance to Go Rest High On That Mountain just to keep the energy in check.

The entire enterprise is brought to a close with the awards ceremony. It is here, that the true currency of competitive cheer is distributed: the banner.

The banner will be added to the gym’s collection and serve as a testament to the effectiveness of their program. In addition to the banner, select teams received a “golden ticket” which waived their entry fee for another (more expensive) upcoming competition. There were usually medals distributed to all participants as well.

We were constantly informed that events we attended were “officially sanctioned” by the USAF to ensure the safety of the participants. A voice intoned that the judges and staff were rigorously screened and held to the highest standard. The implication being that at that very moment, somewhere in America, there was an unsanctioned cheer event taking place in a burnt-out warehouse amid a doping scandal.

My daughter learned collaboration and discipline while I learned that sometimes it is worth it to spring for the Uber.

The Cookie

2018-09-29T21:43:00.000-05:00

It all began with a plastic replica of a chocolate chip cookie. I believe it came into our home via a Melissa & Doug play-food set. My 11 month-old son has become fond of crawling around the house while toting it in his hand. He was doing just that one particular evening as he made his way into the guest bathroom.

It just so happened that my 3 year-old was completing her business around the time he wandered in. Finding her little brother’s presence disconcerting, she called for our assistance in removing him. Just as my wife grabbed him, he managed to toss the cookie into the bowl mid-flush. In defiance of each and every one of God’s natural laws, the cookie disappeared down the rabbit-hole.

Its journey was short-lived, as the bowl immediately began filling with excessive amounts of water. Thankfully, it stopped just before overrunning the rim. I gave everyone stern instructions not to use the toilet in my absence (I had to run and pick up a grocery order within the next 15 minutes) and I would address it when I returned.

I tucked my firstborn son and daughter into bed while my wife disappeared into the nursery to put our youngest to bed. Quickly grabbing my keys, I ran out the door to get the groceries. On my way home, I received a text from my wife indicating that my daughter had come back to the nursery concerned that there was “lots of water in the toilet.”

Surmising that our daughter was utilizing this unnecessary observation as an excuse to get out of bed, my wife sent her back to her room with a stern warning. I informed my wife that I was on my way home and would make sure that she was still in bed when I arrived.

Three minutes later, my phone rang. When I answered it, I was greeted by my wife shouting “There’s water everywhere! How do I turn this off?” Her questions were in danger of being drowned out by multiple weeping children and someone lamenting, “The cookie! The cookie!”

It appeared that my daughter had been experiencing some intestinal discomfort while I was at the grocery, and had used the toilet again. She then apparently held the flush lever down until she was in danger of being swept into the den by the current.

At the time of my arrival, the hall carpet was soaked and there must have been a half-inch of standing water on the bathroom floor. Quickly grabbing a shop-vac and an adjustable wrench, I waded into the fray. After getting up as much of the standing water as possible, I set about disconnecting the toilet.

If you have never done so, I can assure you that there is no graceful way to solo-lift an installed toilet in a confined space. I closed the door so that my family wouldn’t have to witness me attempt to dead-lift the equivalent of a porcelain birthing-ball.

Once the commode was clear of the bolts and flange, I quickly glanced down the sewer pipe to confirm that the cookie was not lodged. In this brief moment, several of my neighbors must have tandem-flushed the remnants of an ill-advised meal because I felt the air move just before the dry-heaves kicked in. I instantly though of the scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark where the guy’s face melts off. It smelled like weaponized shame launched from a diaper-genie.

Convinced that the cookie’s journey had ended prior to the pipe, I stuffed some plastic bags into the sewer connection and continued my investigation. I tipped the toilet forward before probing the trap for contraband. Meeting some resistance early on, I continued in this way until the cookie emerged. My victory was to be short lived.

Within a few moments, a reverse suctioning noise emanated from the S-bend as a rather sizable bowel-movement was liberated from its perch and found its way onto my shoes. It was here that I paused, turds still precariously balanced on my feet, and contemplated the interesting places that life takes us. Parenting is a perpetual series of humbling events, and there are few things as humbling as contemplating whether to shake poo off your shoes or abandon them and submit yourselves to a back-flow foot-bath.

Around this time, my daughter emerged and asked if I “saved” the cookie. In exasperation, I told her that the cookie had “seen things” and had to be put down. She would emerge requesting progress reports every quarter hour for the remainder of the process.

I mopped up all of the water left in the bathroom and then proceeded to tackle the carpet with a Hoover Steamvac. It is a wonderful machine to have, but sounds like a jet engine when powered on. I thought about waiting until the next day to tackle the carpet (since everyone in the house appeared to be asleep) but I really wished to avoid subjecting our flooring to an overnight fecal marinade.

So I fired up the carpet cleaner, and after a few moments, my daughter tapped on my shoulder and motioned for me to turn it off. Nearing the end of my patience, I turned off the carpet cleaner and gave her my full attention.

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“I just wanted to tell you that the carpet cleaner is loud.”

I advised her that, in the interest of self-preservation, she should refrain from further commentary and stay in her room.

Melissa and Doug better hope I never gain access to their corporate restroom facilities….

Talking About Mortality With Kids

2018-08-17T17:06:00.000-05:00

On a recent gloomy morning, my son and I were sitting in my car waiting to turn left onto a main thoroughfare. Across from us was a large cemetery and, as we waited to turn, we witnessed an elderly couple placing a floral arrangement on a headstone.

We pass this particular cemetery every day, but none of our children had ever asked about its function and we were understandably reluctant to be drawn in to a conversation about the internment of human corpses. However, the couple caught my five-year old son’s attention and, for the first time in his life, he asked “What is that place?’

Taking a deep breath, I replied that it was a cemetery and foolishly hoped that this would be the end of this line of inquiry. It was not. Then came the inevitable follow up question, “What’s a cemetery?” I delicately tried to explain that when people die, they would be buried in a cemetery. He then wanted to know how they died, so I responded that sometimes people get sick and do not get better.

He then wanted to know if the couple we had seen was about to bury someone who was sick. Doing my best to abstain from any references to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I explained that they were probably visiting the grave of someone who had already died. It might have been a relative or friend of theirs and this was how they remembered them.

He then asked about the purpose of the concrete markers coming out of the ground. I explained that these were called headstones and usually contained information about the person who was buried there. At this point, I began to speed up in the hope that we would arrive at his school before our conversation progressed to embalming techniques.

Then, as if processing the weight of this information and the implications of his own mortality, he furrowed his brow and looked out of the window before asking, “Are there kids there?”

I was certainly not prepared for this line of inquiry, but I also did not want to mislead him if he was asking an honest question. So, I hesitantly admitted that it was certainly possible that there were kids there because sometimes (although it is rare) kids get sick and cannot get better. This was met with silence as he looked out the window. Concerned that I had upset him, I tried to gently steer the subject away from kids. I told him that there was even a section for dogs.

Upon hearing this, he turned away from the window and asked, “Why would they have sick kids and dogs at a daycare?”

Confused, I responded that I was not talking about a daycare but rather the graveyard we had passed. He then - visibly taken aback - exclaimed “There are kids in the cemetery!?”

It was at this point, I realized that he had wordlessly changed the subject mid-conversation and I was a varsity-level moron. Furthermore, when I had seen him looking out the window (and assumed that he was pondering the breadth of human frailty) he was looking at a daycare along the same road and simply wanted to know if they were open.

About this time, we pulled up to the school and he jumped out of the car. I immediately called my wife and tried to explain what had transpired (in case he came home from the library with a copy of Pet Cemetery). She listened in silence before responding in her flawless “you had one job to do” voice:

So let me get this straight. While driving our nervous son to school on his second day of Kindergarten, you managed to get into a conversation about dead children buried near our house. Is that correct?

It was a rather damning (though not inaccurate) summation and I feebly replied that it was never my intention to discuss the burial of deceased children; that is just where the conversation went.

Well, when the school sends home a note wondering why our son keeps telling people, “My daddy says that when children do not get better, they bury them by our house” I am going to let you handle that.

You can imagine my trepidation as I went to retrieve my son after school and half-expected Haley Joel Osment to wander out mumbling about “the things none one else could see.”

Fortunately, he seemed no worse for the wear and made no mention of cadavers or graveyards. I am sure this, like many of our conversations, will make valuable therapy fodder later in life.

Toilet-Seat Justice

2018-06-29T18:05:00.000-05:00

Several weeks ago, I sat down in our bathroom to conduct some intestinal business. Upon settling in, I felt a rather sharp pain in my dominant buttock and quickly dismounted the toilet. What I found was that the wooden toilet seat had been cracked completely in half. The fissure was almost consistent enough to have been the result of a power tool.

I immediately set about solving this mystery and I knew just where to begin. I went to my five-year-old son and casually asked if he recalled witnessing any structural trauma related to the toilet seat. He got a strange look on his face and categorically denied all responsibility. This, in and of itself, was not unusual; what did surprise me is that he did not immediately suggest his sister as a suspect. He once blamed her for making him fall out of his chair when she was in a different room, so it was odd that he did not wish to speculate upon her culpability.

Undeterred, I found my three-year-old daughter playing in her room and breezily wondered aloud if she knew anything about the broken toilet seat. Assuming the same look of forced nonchalance displayed by my son, she denied any knowledge but also declined to incriminate her brother.

While I found my children hurling around baseless accusations to be annoying, I found their silent collaboration terrifying. Over the next few days, I went back and forth trying to get one of them to cave with no success. I suggested plausible scenarios, “Maybe you guys were trying to get something from the cabinet and it fell….” and even stopped to offering bribes, “there might be some Sour Patch Kids in it for whoever can help daddy solve the mystery….”

After a week I had nothing. Out of sheer stubbornness, I left the seat in place as a reminder that daddy would have his justice. I assumed that it would keep pinching them just as it did me and eventually someone would turn state’s evidence. This was a terrible miscalculation on my part since their tiny little bodies did not separate the halves of the seat enough to cause discomfort. They barely noticed.

Dejected and unwilling to subject myself to further discomfort, I went to Lowes one evening to procure a replacement toilet seat. I was unprepared for how many different colors there were. When I indicated that it was more of a “tan” color I was given options like “biscuit” “bone” sandbar” and “dune”. Kohler even has a color called “Thunder Grey” which might be apropos in some situations we have had in our restroom.

Even narrowing it down to quiet-close hinge models - which are worth the extra price if you have ever been jolted from slumber by a preschooler dropping the entire lid apparatus at 3AM – I was left with too many options. I agonized in the isle for a half-hour trying to take into account environmental variables like the color temperature of the store’s fluorescent lighting system before deciding to go with “biscuit.”

By the time I had paid for my purchase, it was pouring rain and I had forgotten where my car was. After several minutes of running through the parking lot while brandishing a toilet seat, I located my car and stuffed my drenched frame into the front seat.

Soaked and already regretting my decision to choose “biscuit”, I walked into the front bathroom and began the process of swapping out the toilet seat. Midway through this endeavor my daughter wanders in, glances at the broken toilet seat now resting on the floor and – without a hint of irony – asks what happened to the old toilet seat.

If I am fortunate enough to get to Heaven and find myself at the throne of the Almighty, the toilet seat mystery has now surpassed the JFK assassination as my most pressing supplication.

I Believe

2018-06-29T18:00:00.002-05:00

I believe immigration laws and enforcement to be necessary, but the cruel or inhumane application of them is beneath us.

I believe that people should not be refused service simply because of who they are or what their political affiliation may be.

I believe that the terms pro-life or pro-choice dramatically oversimplify an issue important enough to merit nuanced consideration.

I believe that the reflexive canonization of every police officer or the suspects they interact with does both groups a disservice and undermines objective justice.

I believe that we should completely exhaust diplomacy before we ever consider sacrificing the lives of those who serve.

I believe we can honor the second amendment while simultaneously refusing to succumb to a self-imposed paralysis when it comes to mitigating acts of senseless violence.

I believe that not everything that is immoral is illegal and not everything that is illegal is immoral.

I believe that the term “pro-family” is one of the most insultingly vague and asinine declarations to ever emerge from a political marketing conglomerate.

I believe that those who insist the Earth and all creatures contained therein were crafted by God should be leading the way to conserve His handiwork.

I believe that legislation rooted in fear tends to be the antithesis of good governance.

I believe that two consenting adults have every right to have their relationship legally recognized by a secular government.

I believe that incarceration without meaningful rehabilitation often becomes hopelessly cyclical.

I believe that God has no political affiliation or nationality.

I believe that depth of character and wisdom are the result of being willing to build relationships with people whose experiences you cannot duplicate.

Genius Children

2018-05-14T21:38:00.000-05:00

All parents have had those moments. The moments where, against your better judgement, you come to believe that your child is “extraordinarily gifted.” They say or do something that you convince yourself is unparalleled in the entire history of human development. You are cautious, and even preface your declarations with, “I know I am not entirely unbiased, but…..” and then you proceed to lay out your case for intellectual sainthood.

A week ago, my five-year-old son and I were reading his exhaustive encyclopedia of Marvel Superheroes. We were discussing the origin story of The Incredible Hulk and when we got to the section about anger being the catalyst for transformation, my son seemed to retreat into deep self-reflection. He asked me to re-read the passage again, with special emphasis on the part where Hulk returns to Bruce Banner once his anger subsides.

Without a word, he rose from the couch and disappeared into his room. After several minutes of searching, he emerged with a Little Golden Book about The Avengers. After manically flipping through the pages, he finally stops and turns the book toward me. Pointing accusatorily toward the illustration of The Avengers, he observes that The Hulk is pictured with a smile on his face. How, he demanded, could Hulk’s anger have subsided to the point that he was smiling and yet he still had not returned to Bruce Banner? This book stood in clear defiance of the parameters outlined by the Marvel Encyclopedia.

As he stared at me expectantly, I mumbled something about there probably being a time-delay since The Hulk might be momentarily pleased with something without fully being devoid of anger. This seemed to temporarily pacify him and we were able to move on, but I could tell that he wanted to dig deeper into it.

That evening, as I was relating the scene to my wife, I could barely contain my glee. After all, think of the cognitive horsepower necessary to discover and questions such a seemingly insignificant discrepancy. I began to worry that the specialists may want to start him at Princeton before he is ready. How would he handle being away from home at such a tender age? One of us would have to quit our jobs to accompany him to the inevitable television interviews and TED talks.

When I woke up the next day, I got my future Macarthur Genius Grant recipient a cup of milk and went back to take a shower. Still glowing from the forthcoming accolades from the academic community, I walked back into the living room and heard the sound of laughter.

Following the source, I found myself in our guest bathroom. What I found was my son and his younger sister knelt over the toilet bowl with their heads barely visible. I immediately demanded to know what was going on, but both of them had become incapacitated by giggles. Certainly, given my son’s recently demonstrated cerebral acumen, this was the gleeful conclusion to some sort of breakthrough experiment.

When the laughter finally subsided, he explained to me that when he “went pee-pee really hard” into the toilet it made bubbles. Upon discovering this, he had invited his sister into the restroom to see which one could pop the most “pee-pee bubbles” by blowing on them within a given span of time. He indicated that the “pee-pee bubble game” was already one of his favorite things.

Somewhat dejected, I made a mental note to cancel the calls to Good Morning America. When I rejoined my wife in the bathroom, she asked what the noise was and I barely had the heart to explain that our son had invented a game that revolved around the creation and popping of urine bubbles.

In hindsight, I obviously fell into the trap that all parents are subject to. Certainly there had been warning signs that “Pee-Bubble-Pop” was on the horizon. Just a few weeks prior, I had received a note from his teacher asking us to address the fact that our son had repeatedly referred to another young man as “fart-poop.” I had managed to keep a straight face the following morning while looking a grown woman in the eye and assuring her that we have “addressed the fart-poop.”

I cannot help but think that God had some hand in the juxtaposition of my son’s Hulk revelation and the toilet-bowel incident. Several years ago, he had exhibited a trait (which I cannot recall the exact nature of) that I had interpreted as a sign of his accelerated intellect only to have it canceled out within the hour as I had to implore him to stop licking dried paint from the sidewalk.

The truth is: I am thankful to be his father. He is every ounce a 5-year-old boy, capable of both great leaps of cognition and prodigious use of bodily-function terminology. If he is ultimately categorized as extraordinary, I hope it is for his courage in the face of injustice, his integrity in a world seemingly devoid of it and his kindness to those who have no reason to expect it. In the meantime, I will work tirelessly to perfect my ability to say "fart-poop" with as much gravity as such a situation requires.

The High Chair Fiasco

2018-05-01T16:46:00.000-05:00

After the birth of our 3^rd child, my wife and I found ourselves in need of a stand-alone high-chair. She found a well-reviewed model from Amazon and soon it was on its way. I was about 10 minutes into assembly before I realized that a crucial structural component of the item had been damaged in transit.

The prospect of attempting to repackage this monstrosity was daunting to say the least, and it seemed silly for one broken part. Fortunately, the manufacturer had included a flyer meant to address the very conundrum I found myself in. It implored me:

DO NOT RETURN TO THE STORE!!!! PLEASE CALL US FIRST AND WE CAN ASSIST YOU WITH ANY BROKEN OR MISSING PARTS!!!

So I gathered all of the pertinent model information and called the number. At first, things were looking up. I was told that they would get that part out to me and in short order my first-world crisis would be averted. Then, they informed me that they no longer sold that model and could not get me the part, but they were willing to offer me a comparable replacement model.

My wife selected a replacement from the list that they sent me, and I called back in to get the ball rolling. The representative told me that all I would have to do is comply with their warranty destruction policy. It would be easy they said. Just takes a few minutes. They promised to e-mail me the details.

Several days passed without word, so I called back in and it was explained to me that I would need to go to a website to schedule a “video-chat destruction.” This was to ensure that the high-chair was no longer functional and couldn’t be sold. I pointed out that if the item was functional, our entire correspondence would be unnecessary. Be that as it may, they were adamant that I go to this website and schedule a time.

When I got the link, I was presented with an option for a 20-minute session or a 30-minute session. When I clicked the 20-minute session, it was booked out for the next few months; so I backed up and selected the 30-minute. Now I was given an option for a 2:30 PM weekday slot almost two weeks out. Because the exact nature high-chair desecration process could not be revealed ahead of time, I was left with two options:

1. Take time off work in order to sit at home and further disable an already worthless high chair.

2. Transport the entire contents of the box to work and explain to my supervisor why I needed a half-hour break to video chat with a complete stranger while defacing children’s furniture.

Furthermore, I did not understand why this process would take 30 minutes. Was there a sacred blood-oath involved? Would the company provide a proctor? I countered that if they wanted complete and total obliteration, I could simply write “fragile” on it and give it back to UPS. This comment did not play well with the home office.

I asked if there was a fast-pass option for people whose children were being forced to sit on the floor like an animal while the rest of their biological family dined at the table like civilized humans. (There was not.) Finally, they agreed that at a predetermined time they would text me and I could immediately send back detailed photos. While the process was still shrouded in mystery, they did tell me that I would need the seat cushion, the safety straps, and the chair-back. I was also asked to have a sharpie and scissors on hand. My inquiry as to whether or not explosives would be used went unremarked upon.

So, on the fateful day, I was contacted by an unidentified number via text and asked to cut a 1-inch square hole into the seat cushion and submit a photo. Then, I was instructed to take the sharpie and “draw over” the sticker with the model number and submit that picture. Finally, I was asked to cut the straps so that they could no longer properly restrain an infant. I placed a Michael Bolton CD jewel case in each of these photos for scale.

It should be noted that none of these actions would render the high-chair unusable, just less safe for a child unfortunate enough to be placed into it. The entire ordeal wreaked of spycraft. It was as if John Le Carre had been hired as a warranty compliance manager.

Then I got to wondering; who was supervising these people on the other end of the video chat? What if one of them goes broken arrow and starts making outrageous or inappropriate demands?

Customer – I guess I do not understand why I would need to remove my shirt and refer to you as “Big Daddy Cornbread” for the remainder of this process……

Warranty Rep – Look, I have two crib annihilations and a sit-n-spin bonfire after you so do you want a functional high-chair or do you want to spend the rest of our allocated time together arguing about semantics?

Once I had provided proof-of-death, I was told that they would begin processing my order and I should expect the new high chair next month. Trying to be as diplomatic as possible, I explained that one of the compelling reasons that I ordered the item from Amazon in the first place was that I would receive it within two business days. I lamented that by the time I got the replacement high-chair, there was a good chance that it would no longer be developmentally appropriate for my child. They placed me on hold to confer with their “team.” In my mind, this involved the president of the company being choppered in from his summer home for an emergency meeting.

In the end, they relented and agreed to “put a rush on it” and my child was able to join us at the table. In hindsight, I suppose I owe “Big Daddy Cornbread” an apology.

Random Thoughts 14

2018-04-18T17:04:00.000-05:00

I have come up with a number of indie band names for free use:

Sneeze-guard Attrition

Redacted Betrayal Fellowship

2Faced Triathletes

Hamstrung Collateral Veganism

Freudian Video-Gamesmanship

Love Triangle Squared

Serpentine Axis Theory

Neverthejest

Intimacy Subpoena

Cookie CRISPR

Relational Foghorn Collective

LifeChoate

Handlebar Balderdash

Bruce’s Waning

Point-of-Sale Hedonism

Snark Week

Solitary Consignment

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I have always suspected that the wide discrepancy in my Netflix DVD return times is attributable to the postal employee that services my mailbox. Perhaps they open the red-envelope to see what I watched, and based on the synopsis, take it by the house and watch it before allowing it to continue its journey.
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This was the first item I encountered upon opening the box of infant furniture for my son. I knew that if the grammar was reflective of the overall craftsmanship, I was in for a real treat.

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My wife recently purchased a jar of ranch salad dressing that touted the new formula only included “real ingredients.” Legally speaking, any non-metaphorical element or component of a consumable product qualifies as a “real ingredient.” Artificial colors, toenail clippings and anthrax would all fall under this umbrella. I can’t wait until their “Now Completely Edible” Thousand Island makes its debut.

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The true measure of a polite society is how long a complete stranger will observe you trying to insert a credit card into the Redbox disc-return slot before intervening.

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My son attends a wonderful Christian Pre-K program and, in addition to the secular curriculum, they complete scriptural worksheets. Most of these are fairly straightforward, but he recently came home with one that presented quite a challenge. It was based upon Mathew 21:12-13 in which Jesus overturned the tables of the money-changers in the temple.

The students were asked to read this passage and then decide (in the context of the verse) if the scenes illustrated on the worksheet would “make Jesus happy or sad.” The first row of illustration was easy to decipher (the forlorn look of the children holding the Bible non-withstanding) However, the second row raises the stakes.

The very last image depicts what appears to be the same young lady from the Bible illustration except she seems to be happy. She is staffing an innocuous-looking Bake Sale table and, as any good Protestant knows, the bake sale / chili supper is the fiscal cornerstone of all youth activities. Mission trips and outreach all depend somewhat on the revenue from these events. With that in mind, this scene of a joyful young disciple selflessly raising money would clearly get a thumbs-up from JC.

Or would it?

Let’s look again. Suzie’s innocent little “bake sale” is not positioned in the fellowship hall or recreational center, but right in the front of the pulpit in the sanctuary. Not only is she standing on “holy ground”; her very presence could pose an altar-call safety hazard. Furthermore, the conspicuous absence of a cash box would indicate that Bake-Sale Suze is pocketing the proceeds (why else do you think that her left hand is outside of our view?) Even worse, there is no evidence of fiscal oversight to balance the books.

So which is it? My interpretation of the original verse is that Jesus is not against temple commerce in principle, but rather he is denouncing those who would knowingly prey upon worshipers to dishonestly enrich themselves. Under this assumption, the only way to determine Christ’s approval of the image is to be privy to whether or not Suzie is pricing her wares at fair market value and not cutting the product. I felt it would at least to be necessary to ascertain whether or not the bear-claw icing is 100% pure. My son chose to leave it blank. I hope it does not affect his GPA.

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When a movie touts that it was helmed by a “visionary director” this is code for “we are giving them one last chance to produce a commercially viable film before we move on”

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Just a few days ago, I was ordering a Marpac White Noise Machine for my son’s room. These are the wonderful cylindrical devices that emit the sound of a fan to block out other noises to promote sleeping or privacy of conversation. As is Amazon’s custom, their algorithm suggested “related” items that other customers bought along with their Marpac White Noise Machines. I was not prepared for the suggested companion items.

Perhaps I am reading too much into things, but if the apparently substantial number of people acquiring the noise machine / cooking spray / “Do You Have A Secret?” trifecta aren’t planning a surprise dinner for mommy; this might be worth law enforcement looking into.

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I have been seeing a lot of marketing for the horror / thriller “A Quiet Place” which follows a family forced to exist in silence because they are being hunted by creatures drawn by noise. One trailer even shows the parents and children sitting around in a living room in silence as the parents read and the children play a board game. As a parent of multiple young children, I can tell you that watching that scene evoked as much longing as it did dread.

Sure, the idea of being constantly threatened by malevolent creatures is not best case scenario, but the absence of one child loudly accusing the other one of being a “big doo-doo baby head” is not the most disproportionate trade-off I can imagine.

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There is no better irony to be found on the Internet than being forced to watch a YouTube Ad purporting to show me how to theoretically build my wealth while coming to the realization that by watching their promo, I am actually building theirs.

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We exist in a world where commercially-available smartphones can instantly recognize the unique facial contours of a human-being, but the grocery self-checkout kiosk still requires my assistance to identify fruit.

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I got the following letter in the mail. I simply wrote them a response that I was turning them in for violation of Child Labor Laws.

Baby #3

2017-12-08T15:52:00.000-06:00

My wife had been dilated, effaced, and experiencing contractions for almost 6 weeks before the birth of our son. Our weekly ritual was as follows:

1. Wife has painful contractions at a frequency normally necessitating hospital admission.

2. We would go for a checkup and the doctor would inform her “you are still a 3.”

3. I would immediately interject that I disagreed with his assessment and told her that she has "always been a 10 in my book."

4. She would strongly suggest that I refrain from further commentary.

So, at 39 weeks, our doctor agreed to induce. A few hours before the scheduled time, my wife began having intense contractions. Finally, around 3 AM we decided that we might as well go to the hospital because they weren’t likely to send us home 6 hours before a scheduled induction.

Upon arrival, my wife was having very intense, painful contractions. She was loaded in a wheelchair and taken to the front desk where a receptionist prepared a hospital arm band. The receptionist calmly asked my wife (who was doubled over in the wheelchair at the moment) to put her arm on the counter so that she could attach the band. When my wife did not respond, the receptionist asked me if I could kindly have my wife place her hand on the counter. I offered to attach it myself and was told this was against protocol. I was on the verge of asking if walking out from around the counter to help a patient was against protocol when my wife raised her hand and we were on our way.

Once upstairs we immediately requested to be placed on the “epidural list.” Heads were nodded and noncommittal language was used. In short order, we were taken to another room and another set of nurses heard the epidural request. Finally, during an extremely-painful contraction my wife demanded a status on the epidural only to be told, “We are working on it.” The same nurse then looked into my eyes and mouthed, “She’s not getting one.”

We had been through birth twice before, but never Little House on the Prairie style. If the hospital staff thought I was going to break that news to her, they were sadly mistaken.

Eventually, one of the nurses gave her the “pull yourself together” tough-love act which my wife reciprocated in both volume and intensity. At this point I realized two things:

1. My wife is far stronger than I could ever hope to be.

2. If men were responsible for the business-end of reproduction; overpopulation would never be a concern.

Within an hour of arriving at the hospital, our son was born. It was shortly thereafter that we realized most of our previous knowledge of newborns was hopelessly outdated. Cleaning the umbilical cord with rubbing alcohol? Barbaric. Inserting the bulb syringe into an infant’s nasal passage? Inconceivable! It had been less than three years since our last child’s birth and I felt as if I was stockpiling paregoric and asking about twilight sleep.

The hospital had made some procedural changes since our last birth as well. Some were welcome (they give you extra time in Labor & Delivery) and others were unintentionally ironic (my wife’s breastfeeding was interrupted on multiple occasions by a woman tasked with ensuring the hospital retained its “breastfeeding friendly” accreditation).

In keeping with new policy, the hospital attempts to keep the newborn in the mother’s room as much as possible. At one point, a staff member asked if we wished for our child to receive their bath in the room or not. My wife and I agonized over this as if it was destined to reappear at his future parole hearing.

Then came the paperwork. Even though we had already decided on a name, there is some natural trepidation when committing it to paper. Is this the right name? What if the Japanese translation is vulgar and it becomes an issue one day? And, although we had never experienced it, there was the face/name mismatch contingency. I firmly believe that there are precious few instances where it is appropriate to bring this up:

- When naming a child

- During the planning stages of an undercover narcotics operation

- Deciding to launch a career in show-business

I have never understood the phenomenon of meeting someone, hearing their name, and challenging the name’s validity based on appearance.

Hi. I’m George and this is my wife Susan

You don’t really strike me as a George. More like a Roderick or a Hershel.

What is the recipient of this comment supposed to do with this information? Apologize? Agree for the sake of continued small-talk? I wish that I could witness someone seizing this opportunity to turn the tables:

George - *begins to violently sob* I have always felt uncomfortable in my own skin. For years I have lived life as a George would. Buying George cars. Eating George food. Susan and I even named our firstborn after me; but until I heard you verbalize it so eloquently, I never realized that my entire existence was predicated upon a lie. Thanks to you, I have been endowed with the courage and strength to begin life anew as a Hershel. As of this moment, I am an avid cigar enthusiast who fabricates Civil War dioramas from discarded toiletries.

I would also like to point out that the official birth certificate application treats paternity as an afterthought. I am paraphrasing, but the idea is something like, “you can name the father but until results are Povich-validated the state assumes this was a virgin-birth.” I realize that there are legal considerations, but it is disheartening nonetheless.

Once we got him home, our other children took to him immediately. They would gather round and attempt to hold and kiss him. My son, having recently viewed The Boss Baby, was convinced that the whole I-am-a-helpless-newborn thing was an act. The first time I dropped him off at daycare after his younger brother was born, he requested that I make sure that the family’s new addition did not mess with stuff in his room.

When I jokingly responded that I did not foresee that being an issue, his eyes and tone got more serious and he repeated his request. This went on until after the first full days we were all home together. In short order, our oldest son’s reaction changed from suspicion to disappointment. He watched the newborn sleeping in my wife’s lap and asked, “Is this really all that he does?” He sounded truly crestfallen as if someone had pulled the bait-and-switch on him at a car dealership (I thought this was the model with the interactive whimsy….)

Like all stages in life, the third child gives you better perspective on the stages that precede it. Before kids, my wife and I used to talk about how tired / busy we were. Once we became parents, we laughed at our previous naivety. Once our second child came along, we saw how foolish it was to ever complain about how difficult it was when we outnumbered our offspring. Now, we scoff at how we foolishly laughed about our naivety concerning how tired we were.

Fun With Facebook Status

2017-11-22T16:41:00.000-06:00

NRA Pen Pals

2017-11-16T12:24:00.000-06:00

On November 1, 2017, a letter signed by Wayne LaPierre was sent to lifetime N.R.A. members. Like most, it was a fundraising letter asking lifetime members to “take the next big step” and upgrade to a Patriot Life Membership at the Endowment Level. This is the fundraising equivalent of rounding third base.

What struck me is not the ask (all political organizations regardless of ideology need money to operate) it was the tone. Some highlights.

I suppose it is hard to quantify the NRA’s claim that they did “more than any other organization in America” (insert Russian meddling joke here) to get Trump elected, so if we take that at face value the NRA is the most powerful lobbying organization in the United States.

This establishes that those whose opinions differ from the NRA’s on a specific issue are not just wrong, they actually “hate freedom” and are responsible for unspecified “anger, hatred, and violence” unprecedented in a half-century. Americans are never going to agree on everything, but perhaps it is a little disingenuous to suggest their opinion is derived from a hatred of freedom. That is like trying to discredit a differing opinion on farm subsidies because they “despise liberty or happiness.”

Here we have Mr. LaPierre strongly denouncing the “denigration and slandering” of police officers. This is particularly ironic given Mr. LaPierre’s previous comments in another NRA fundraising letter (sent in the direct aftermath of the 1995 Oklahoma City Bombing) where he referred to federal law-enforcement agents as “armed terrorists dressed in Ninja black … jack-booted thugs armed to the teeth who break down doors, open fire with automatic weapons and kill law-abiding citizens.”

It was Mr. LaPierre’s words that caused former President George H.W. Bush to publicly resign his lifetime NRA membership. Some would argue that Federal law enforcement officers are not the same as police officers employed by a municipality, but a sizable number of Federal law enforcement positions are filled by those with previous experience as police officers, military or both. In these cases, it would appear that the wardrobe change is the primary target of Mr. LaPierre’s ire.

The “twisted madman” of the last sentence refers to the June 14, 2017 shooting at the Congressional Baseball Game for Charity perpetrated by 66 year-old James Hodgkinson. Mr. Hodgkinson utilized several legally-purchased firearms to injure Republican representative Steve Scalise, police officer Crystal Griner, congressional aide Zack Barth, and a lobbyist for Tyson Foods named Matt Mika before being ultimately killed by police.

He appeared to have a dislike of Republicans and had worked on the campaign of Bernie Sanders. What struck me was the idea that the NRA – an organization that prides itself on personal accountability with regards to gun ownership – would blame unspecified “leftist rhetoric” for actions of Mr. Hodgkinson rather that his own choices. Also conspicuously absent from the letter is the mention of any other “twisted madmen” despite the fact our nation’s deadliest mass shooting had occurred just weeks prior in Las Vegas.

After the Sandy Hook shooting, Mr. LaPierre dramatically unmasked a “callous, corrupt and corrupting shadow industry that sells and sows violence against its own people.” The culprit? The video game industry. Titles like Grand Theft Auto and Mortal Kombat were specifically singled out as contributing factors to this unspeakable tragedy and those like it. The implication that if Adam Lanza had stuck to a Nintendo Wii, perhaps none of this would have happened.

However, if we accept his idea that “rhetoric” bears some responsibility for turning a legal gun-owner into a homicidal madman; the rest of Mr. LaPierre’s letter might be considered dangerous indeed. The very next paragraph paints a dire portrait:

Just to be clear. At no point in the history of America has there been a greater threat to the “fabric that binds our nation together.” Not even the Civil War. Furthermore, anyone who disagrees with the NRA is “destroying America.” There is no possibility that disagreeing with the NRA on gun policy has anything to do with gun policy. They are selling the idea that if another American does not see eye to eye with you on guns, it is because they hate the Constitution and want to destroy their country. Guns serve only as a proxy.

This is somewhat unique even in public policy. Rarely will you hear people on opposite sides of abortion or homosexuality accuse the others of hating “America, The Constitution and freedom in general.” In addition to that, the 6 page letter contains a proportionally-large volume of combative language. Some variations of “fight” “battle” “enemies” “destroy” and “war” appear 16 times. There is talk of “fortifying our lines” and “sacrifice.” Hopefully “inflammatory rhetoric” isn’t as potent when it originates from the other side of the ideological spectrum.

Then we get the heartstrings…

Millions of people are safe thanks to your willingness to write a check to the NRA. In fact, at the very moment you are reading this letter, there are mothers and fathers who owe (not just their freedom) but their continued existence to your financial benevolence (it would appear those without children must fend for themselves). Just think, if everyone reading this letter would pony-up for the Eternal Patriot Membership with a Double-Valor Enhancement we might end crime entirely.

My issue with the NRA (and many of those on the extreme side of gun ideology) is not that we cannot agree on an issue, it is that my willingness to have the conversation is deemed anti-American. And for all of the patriotism-steeped vernacular, almost every argument for the unfettered application of the second Ammendment seems to end in the ultimate anti-patriotism.

Let me give you an example of an actual conversation I had with a young man and fierce defender of the 2nd Amendment:

Me – Would you at least agree that we should restrict the ability of everyday citizens to own nuclear weapons?

Him – No, because the 2^nd Amendment protects our ability to have access to any and all weaponry available to the United States Military.

Me – Why?

Him – Because we must be able to defend ourselves against enemies foreign or domestic.

Me – You believe that the US Military is going to turn on the citizenry?

Him – They will just do what they are told.

Me – By whom?

Him – Whoever they take orders from.

We continued in this vein for some time with him insisting that any limitations or context placed on the 2nd amendment amounted to an infringement and would end in himself and likeminded patriots facing down a rogue US military armed with nothing but punji sticks. I do not believe he was being facetious. This was a visceral fear he lived with. And this is how he felt with the Republican party in control of all three branches of the Federal government.

Just because we think it is okay to have an honest conversation about guns does not mean we “hate America.” I dare say that the majority of us are rather fond of our country and weary of seeing its flag at half-mast to honor the victims of mass-shootings. We have never been a country that looks at a tragedy and resign ourselves to its perpetual repetition. We change procedures, we shift tactics and we do our best to balance individual freedom with sound governance.

I have never understood why this issue causes such legislative paralysis. I realize that we cannot totally prevent mass murder, but is that a valid reason for us to give up on trying to reduce its frequency or scope? Last month I attempted to purchase a box of Sudafed for a head cold. In my state, this requires a government ID and a long talk with the pharmacist who attempts to dissuade you from your purchase in favor of an alternative. As a law-abiding citizen, I am even limited (both monthly and annually) on the amount of ephedrine or pseudoephedrine I can buy.

All of this was enacted to reduce the amount of methamphetamine being manufactured and distributed in our communities. It is frustrating and inconvenient, but I will subject myself to it if it can be demonstrably shown to reduce the negative impact of misuse on our community. Even when these draconian laws were enacted, I got not fliers from big pharma and was not subjected to a single Facebook meme of “Claritan D! Don’t Tread on Me!”

Perhaps if we took Mr. Lapierre seriously, we should have a quota on the number of hours we are allowed play Call of Duty each month and have our browsing history checked for “inflammatory leftist-rhetoric.”

The letter winds down with a promise “to be relentless every time another New York media elite tells a straight-faced lie on national T.V.” I feel safer already.

Dollar General Coversations

2017-10-24T15:12:00.003-05:00

Please note that each of these encounters involved a different employee and patron.

Transaction # 1- I am standing behind a middle-aged woman attempting to purchase several “staple” items (milk, bread, pasta). She inserts her card and enters a PIN number. This is what follows:

Cashier – "It says that ain’t the right number."

Customer – "Sorry, I must have typed it in wrong." (re-enters number)

Cashier - slightly annoyed “That still ain’t working”

Customer – glances apologetically to the line behind her “I am sure I put it in right that time”

Cashier – “You wanna try again?”

Customer – “Yes”

Cashier presses a button on her keypad and crosses her arms in expectation of what we all believe will be another failed attempt

Cashier – “You got another card?”

Customer – “I know that is the right number”

Cashier – ‘What can I tell you lady, it ain’t my card”

The customer, clearly flustered, grabs her purchases and attempts to leave

Cashier – "Hey! Where you think you’re going!?"

Customer – snaps back “Fine try this card!”

It was at this point I became concerned that the customer and the cashier were headed for a physical altercation. If appearances were any indicator, the odds favored the house.

Cashier – “IT STILL AIN’T WORKING!”

Customer storms out without her purchases

Cashier – “Maybe next time you can come back when you’re not smelling like BOOOOOOOOOOZZZZZEEEE!”

This last word was drawn out until the automatic doors had closed behind the customer for at least 5 seconds.

Transaction #2 - There is a woman in front of me wearing medical scrubs and having a phone conversation. She is purchasing a large can of Monster Energy Drink.

Cashier – admiring the can – “Energy huh!?”

Customer – “Yeah”

Cashier (still admiring the can) “How long does it last?”

Customer (now turning her attention from the phone conversation) “Hopefully my entire night shift.”

Cashier – “Ooo, I sure could’ve used some of this when I used to be out all night doing the wild thang!!!”

It was here that the cashier raised both hands above her head and pantomimed “raising the roof” while slightly swaying her hips.

Customer – “Yeah, I suppose it would work for that too….” (clearly eager to conclude the transaction)

Cashier (looking into the distance and reliving an evening of merriment and debauchery) “I sure used to do the wild thang all the time.....”

Customer (still on phone, reduced to nodding) "Uh-huh…."

Cashier (getting a second wind) “I’m talking bout the wild thang!” (repeats earlier gyrations then turns suddenly serious) “I don’t do that anymore because I found Jesus and I am pure inside now. Have a nice day!”

Here she turns to me (I am purchasing a single can of Reddi Wip for my kid’s Pie in the Face game) and I fully expect her to hold the can in her hand as she recalls the hedonistic role dairy toppings played in the days of the “wild thang.” Instead she completes the transaction with unimpeachable professionalism and no commentary.

Transaction #3 - It is around 9:00 PM and I am picking up some decongestant. There is a woman who has somewhat sheepishly approached the counter and asked an inaudible question to the cashier.

Cashier – (responding much louder than necessary) “Yeah! We got condoms! Good ones too. Trojan.”

Here again, the customer responds inaudibly

Cashier - “Trojans are the ones you want. You want thin, ribbed, or regular?”

This catches my attention because I had been on a condom search myself some months prior at this very establishment and was given a much different answer.

Customer (slightly bolder now that everyone in the store has become aware of her prophylactic quest) “Thin.”

Cashier (visibly delighted) – “I know that’s right girl! You know I gotsta feel mine!! I gotsta!!”

Customer (moving toward register in a futile attempt to speed the process along) “Uh-huh”

Cashier (looks toward other cashier) “I said I gotsta feel mine!!! You know that’s how my second son came about.”

At this point I am the next person in line and desperately hoping that the cashier abandons her son’s origin story before we reach a point of no return.

Cashier (turning her attention to customer again) – “You know what I’m talking about with them thin ones girl!”

Customer pays, leaves store and likely vows celibacy. I approach the counter and briefly entertained the notion of informing the cashier that I wanted two of whatever she sold that lady plus a clear shower curtain, 64 oz of canola oil and a sympathy card to see if I could faze her.

Sibling Class

2017-10-10T17:36:00.002-05:00

My wife and I decided to sign our children up for one of the big-sibling classes offered by the local hospital. For a nominal fee, you and your children could attend a two-hour session designed to make everyone more comfortable with the impending addition to the family. The children would be given a tour of the nursery area and watch an informative video about how the dynamics of their home life could change.

So, on the appointed Saturday, we all arrived at the conference room. I checked in with the session leader and paid her the $20 for our participation. Each expectant mother in the class wore the official uniform of the final trimester (black maternity shirt and jeans) and all were eagerly awaiting the start of the class.

Slightly after the designated start time, a woman came in with her two daughters and asked the session leader what time she should “be back to pick them up.” Somewhat taken aback at the question, the facilitator responded that the parents actually need to stay with the children for the two hours. Unfazed, the mother replied that she would be “in and out” but should still be around the hospital. The facilitator gently indicated again that it was not a drop-off class. I would be more judgmental, but the truth is that her unsupervised children were much less disruptive than mine.

Eventually we began with the tour. Everyone was led into one of the labor and delivery rooms and given a brief explanation of the apparatus. The session leader kept alluding to the children visiting their mommy during this time. This prompted my wife to lean over and inform me that she felt little need to have our other children in the room with her once stirrups became involved.

We were then led back to the classroom where we all watched a pirate-themed video about fetal development. The video was hosted by a buccaneer who had been marooned on an island with only a poorly-constructed puppet named “Carrots” for companionship. At frequent intervals during the fetus animation, he would pop-up to interject commentary. For instance, when the video was explaining the umbilical cord, his face appeared on screen and he exclaimed, “Arggghh! That’s what I call room service matey!”

It was after this section of the video that the couple seated across from us began explaining to their son about the umbilical cord’s function. The father explained that when mommy was uncomfortable, it was because “nugget is yanking on his dinner bell to get more baby juice” from her. I could tell by the nurse’s face that she was torn between respecting this couple’s right to raise their children and the guilt she would feel by allowing a 5 year-old continue to believe that mommy’s womb functioned like the pull-bell on Downton Abbey.

Next, the children were invited to choose a baby-doll from the box so that they could practice the proper handling of their new sibling. My daughter selected a cute little girl and handled her with expert care. She even made sure that the head and neck were properly supported in the crook of her elbow. My son, on the other hand, returned from the box with what I can only assume was the doll utilized by night-shift employees to frighten co-workers into soiling their scrubs. Only one of its eyes functioned and its limbs were contorted at unnatural angles.

Nevertheless, while the other children went about properly swaddling their newborn, my son was treating his as if it owed him money. Despite my protestations, he would violently shake the doll and then hang it upside down. It was around this time that my daughter got her doll swaddled on the table but became enraged when it would not open its eyes in response to her vocal commands. She started yelling, “WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” in the doll’s face like she was treating an overdose victim.

Finally, it was time for each of the kids to design a bib to be given to their new sibling. White fabric bibs and paint markers were distributed to all of the children. After several minutes, some of the children began sharing with everyone what they drew. One little boy drew a picture of his new expanded family holding hands. Another little girl was making a rainbow because she loved them and was sure that her new sibling would too. My son drew an elongated brown cylinder on his bib and announced that it was “poo-poo.” Unsure how to respond to the turd-bib, the facilitator smiled politely and probably began questioning how badly she really needed the extra income from this class.

Ready to get our complimentary t-shirts and make an exit, my wife and I were relieved when the teacher began distributing the certificates on the opposite side of the room. This quickly ground to a halt when the second family she came to insisted that they had been informed the class was free. The nurse responded that there was always a fee associated with the class to which they responded that they “had seen something on the Internet” about it being free. This went back and forth several times until the teacher agreed that if they could find some official documentation on the website to back this up she would let it slide.

The couple waved their phones around and complained that they can’t because they were unable to get cell service. A discussion about the availability of WiFi ensued and the facilitator told them that she would come back to them. When she gets to the next couple, they sheepishly explained that the grandparents had signed up for the course and thought that it was free as well. Unwilling to see how her conversation with the next couple would end, my wife and I decided to abandon ship and forgo the complimentary t-shirt.

She noticed us leaving and kindly wanted to give us the shirts (since it appeared that we were the only people who had paid) and thanked us. I cannot speak to what happened after we left, but in my mind she locked the doors, turned the pirate video back on and informed everyone that if she did not see some dead presidents soon, “Carrots” was going in beak-first.

Dad Skills

2017-09-26T17:00:00.000-05:00

Gender Identification Technician – On multiple occasions, my son has leaned over to my ear and then stated (at normal conversational volume) “Is that a boy or a girl? while pointing at someone. Depending on my mood, answers range from the profound “They are a person…” to the not so profound “I believe they are registered as an independent” See also, redirection.

Field Dressing a Car Seat – This skill becomes necessary when there is a spill or unsanctioned egress of bodily fluids. May also be initiated after a round of “What’s That Smell?” Motor-Vehicle Edition.

Snap Judgment – Summoned by tears and distress, you are faced with a crime scene and you must dispense justice despite conflicting witness statements and outright perjury.

Contextual Dictionary – Just the other day, my four-year-old son asked me if I knew what “liquor” was. I stemmed the rising panic and after a few clarifying questions realized that it was someone who spilled food on their arm and “licked” themselves clean.

Hostage Negotiation Specialist – A Cabbage Patch doll is being held against its will and release is contingent upon a swap for a stuffed cheetah and the offending party ceasing to be a “poo-poo snake.” There are no easy answers here.

Wounded Reassurance – About a week ago my daughter accidentally head-butted me in the bridge of my nose. My son, having heard my cry of pain, steps on my man-tenders while rushing to my aid. My discomfort upsets my daughter and my wife prompts me to reassure my daughter that I am OK. I assure her between dry-heaves that “Daddy’s Fine Sweetheart.”

Stain Removal – Children’s Motrin, marinara sauce, and wayward Crunch Berries mixed with tears of betrayal all leave a lasting impression on carpet. Just buy whatever carpet cleaner uses the most urgent language in the “If swallowed” subsection of the first aid label.

Redirection – Daddy, why don’t I have a penis? Because I just remembered that it was time for Oreo Cookies and another screening of Moana! Who likes songs about magical Tigers!?

Recreational Apparatus – One of my kids’ favorite activities is to throw themselves on top of me while I lay in the floor in the fetal position. This bears an uncanny resemblance to being jumped into a pre-school street gang.

Translator – My two year-old will (without context) approach strangers and make the following statements:

I get big cookie! – I recently received a Double Stuf Oreo for defecating in the toilet.
I pump my legs! – I have acquired the ability to swing without assistance.
Daddy boat-snack! – Moana reference, unclear whether this is derogatory.

I not in trouble! – My brother has committed an infraction and I am gleefully contrasting his behavior with mine.

They got stuck in gum! – I thoroughly enjoyed my screening of Despicable Me 3 and found the antagonist quite amusing.

Economist – “Daddy, why do you and mommy have to go to work?” Because son, we live in a capitalistic society and in order to secure food and shelter your mother and I must generate income proportional to our expenses. “Is that how Netflix works?” ……..Yes

Armchair Theologian

(passing a Waffle House renovation)

“Daddy, did Jesus build that?”

“No. It is being built by people whose jobs are to build things” (here I pat myself on the back and attempt to tie this back into the economist discussion) “So just like mommy and daddy go to work and do certain jobs these people’s job is to build things for other people to use and that is how they get Netflix.”

“But you said Jesus made everything. How come he did not make that?”

(under my breath:” because if Jesus ran that operation the silverware wouldn’t have that weird film on it…”)

Well, He created the universe and then a group of people got together and decided to utilize the resources they had access to on this planet in order to facilitate the sale of food to other people but Jesus himself did not descend from the skies and …..

“We went outside at school today.”

“Hallelujah!”