Davison Cheney - MEGA DAD

2011-08-05T12:11:00.000-06:00

This happens every time I say I'll pay for dinner

Fridge of my heart

2011-07-13T18:50:00.002-06:00

Based on the adage, “The messier the fridge door, the happier the family”, my kids ought to be ecstatic – blissful even. My house should be full of grinning cherubs doing little happy dances.

My gramma Ruby subscribed to this thought - always telling me to “leave it be, and things will fix themselves", but she never sat foot in our kitchen nor was she ever sucked-in by the black abyss that is my fridge.

And this was after a good cleaning

I do want my family to be content, but I would like them to be so with all their good grades and school notices in a three ring binder under their own tabs. I would like all the outstanding bills to be folded and subtly placed on my desk rather than on the freezer door under the world’s largest cow magnet that reads “Did You Forget To Do This?”.

The kids stuff from their school art class is lovely. I would be happy to find some old photography frames that we could hang in the basement stairway instead of duct taped to the fridge.

I would like my prescriptions caution notes to be tossed into the trash can or somewhere private, but, no. They are on the family announcement board so that my mother-in law has something to talk to me about.

“So, Davison, She says pushing her teeth back in, “ I see that you are taking Fluoxetineifluxzac. What a wonderful conglomeration of chemicals it has turned out to be for me, and it has been keeping me up and running for years now so if you have any questions you be sure to ask…Did you know that Davison was taking Fluoxetineifluxzac (she says to Aunt Ruth) for his…constipa-nation or something...what was it you were taking it for again…?"

It’s been a real ice breaker.

I left my tithing envelop out one day by the coupons for "Relax-lax" and now the neighbors
know how much money I don’t make a year.

I came home yesterday and found the neighbor kids reading our fridge like a bulletin board at church.

I have tried to clean off the fridge and peel off all the layers of tape. And put everything into its place with a notebook and three subtle bins. Everything is back within a week. All new stuff but the same old things.

I want my family to be happy. I really do. I love it that the kids bring home macaroni art home from school. I would love to feature each piece in a tasteful black frame under some directional light on a specific wall in the basement somewhere where they could walk past it every so often and say, “I created the salad…art…thing”.

I have read a few suggestions that are supposed to organize the fridge space and remain on speaking terms with my kids and wife. These helpful hints at first I thought were silly, but have helped a bit – like getting a few bins for storage. I gotta say, the fridge has greatly improved over the last week. Last week I went for broke. I brought the fridge door up in family meeting, a tradition that goes from my family back to my grandfathers to the pioneers and on back to Noah who created it because there was a dearth of good programming after the flood. In my family meeting I asked the family to take a good look at the refrigerator for several minutes and to then tell me what they thought.

My son said he thought we should buy a bigger fridge with a bigger freezer so that he could store his homework assignment. I am not sure what his homework assignment actually entails, but I think I am going to pretend I didn’t hear anything and leave this one to his mother, who, by the way, has a stronger stomach and who owes me as I won the last rock-off. My wife said that she would like to use next year’s tax money to go Alaska and see the northern lights. Of course she says that whenever I ask her an open-ended question.

I asked the same question to my daughter, Annie. She smiled shyly and said “I think that my Dad must think that I am a good artist because he keeps so much of my stuff displayed on the fridge to show off to all the relatives. And then she wiped a tear and gave me a hug.

The stuff stays on the refrigerator: the invitations, the taxes, the recipes, the “Congratulations Cousin Topher for Graduating College with Honors in Golf” card, the next door neighbors wedding announcement, grades, blood tests, the world’s ugliest photos of grand kids, and Annie’s Art.

A good dad "leaves some things be".

Not funny, new post about Mormons and Broadway. Again, not funny, not even a chuckle...

2011-06-13T22:12:00.001-06:00

There is something about “The Book of Mormon” musical that bugs me. (Again, this ain't funny. It's just important to me and I don't have a place to put it yet.)

In the first place, let me make it clear that I haven’t seen the latest heart-stopping submission currently the toast of Broadway. I am a poor Idaho boy living in Utah. If I were in New York City with a ticket and a pocket defibrillator, my patronage would be anyone’s guess.

I have researched the music and have read the reviews. As a former BYU musical theater major, this is something I would have done regardless of the subject matter — Mormons. I have interviewed friends who have visited Broadway, and those who are performing on Broadway and are living to tell the tale.

Truth be told, I giggled at some of the musicals gags. I laughed even as my wife grimaced, shaking her head and leaving the room. I suppose I have been around the Broadway musical/comedy channel block long enough that I am not offended easily by people poking fun at me and my religion. I am a blue-blooded, scripture toting, wear-a-white-shirt-to-meeting kind of a guy. One does not make it through two BYUs — Idaho and Provo — without some sense of humor.

As a former full-time missionary for the LDS Church — the very subject of the musical — I found that a little humor was a useful tool to weed out the inquisitive from those simply seeking entertainment. I used humor as a tool to broach serious subjects. I wanted to spend my time teaching those who were interested in more than a laugh. Self-deprecation is another tool from my arsenal. Let me reiterate that I am a poor Idaho boy in Utah. I have been fodder for many a joke — self-inflicted or otherwise.

I have always been able to laugh my way through a silly stereotype where I am the one being made fun of. I think I am world wise enough to look at a racial, cultural pigeon hole and understand it for what it is. I am also aware that people usually rely on stereotypes when relevant information of a more personal nature is not available. And Mormons in the United States, though 6 million strong, are still a relatively silent minority. Because they are the center of my world does not mean that they are at the heart of everyone’s.

What bugs me is not that this stereotype is poorly researched or shallow or incomplete. On the contrary. Nor is the problem that others will look at the stereotype and go no further in their pursuit to understand Mormons and Mormon beliefs. I know that, having been trivialized, there will be many who won’t be able to get past the caricature of rose-colored-glasses-wearing, naive and unsophisticated Latter-day Saint trying to save the world. That kind-a describes me.

Mormons are not the first group of people to be lampooned. But Mormons are the ones who won’t fight viciously in retaliation. There will be no picket lines. And other than folks like me commenting, the response will be decent and faith affirming. (http://newsroom.lds.org/)Mormons will weather that storm with a smile — not unlike the stereotype.

For me, the greater issue is the nature of the national media frenzy that came when I heard a song toward the end of the musical's soundtrack. A disheartened missionary was listing the things he believed in to self-motivate — much like Maria Von Trapp listing off her favorite things in “The Sound of Music,” only in a much weirder world. The elder rattles off his list, inventorying thing after ridiculous and funny thing. Each gag was punched up and burlesqued to great comedic effect.

And I found that, like the singing elder, and excepting the palpable silliness, I believed in what he said he believed as well.

My dilemma is not that these skilled comedians are making stuff up to laugh at. It is that they have hit my beliefs spot on. Aside from obvious exaggeration and comic devices, aside from truckloads of shock value vulgarities, mixed with charming songs and well-crafted storytelling, the heart of the matter is that they have taken what I believe in and then added a sitcom laugh track.

Many people are laughing — laughing themselves silly, in fact, at the lunacy, the double and triple entendres, the outrageous references and the irreverence of it all. I still catch myself mid-laugh thinking, “wait, that is not funny.” Not many — my wife being an obvious exception — will understand the true nature of the satire: They will laugh until I grin sheepishly and join them. After all, how could I really believe in something so…funny?

I suppose I am, in person, not naïve as the stereo type. I know that there are a lot of blanks to be filled in concerning my Mormon beliefs. I also know that as a people we have filled some of them in on our own. I know that there are cultural traits and behaviors that have kept the media distracted at the church's fringe elements.

I also know that I believe the whole Mormon thing.

Part of me smiles and winks at the smart lyrics and the sight gags, or the magazine covers
so clever and sharp. I see the television programs that garnish big ratings, and the news on the front pages of the papers or the Web. Part of me says, “Isn’t that witty and marvelous that we can have fun by poking fun!” Part of me doesn’t.

While they are collecting their awards and deservedly so, I will be at home with my family. I will probably be doing the same thing that other Mormon dads are doing with their Mormon families, only with out all that correct parenting stuff. Later, I’ll read about the acceptance speeches made and will check off the stereotypes that hit the side of the reality barn square on. I will remind myself that no publicity is bad publicity.

And I will be proud to be a Mormon.

Scientia potentia est: He who rules the six year olds...

2011-06-06T22:25:00.000-06:00

I am “Tithe Payer”. That is my broadcast name. My wife’s moniker is “The Mother of Jared”. We teach primary. If this was a military operation, we would be known as “The Popcorn Poppers” – out to rule the world!

May I see your hall pass?

I can’t say that I am out for world dominance, but if I was, I would definitely be on the fast track as ward director of the CTR’s. Identifying myself as director may be a bit over the top, but it looks better politically to those checking out my resume as a world player.

Glory is in intelligence, and information is power. The famous phrase scientia potentia est, which I always thought meant “science and math are really stupid”, is actually a Latin maxim meaning "knowledge is power", and those who control information are the “most powerful people on the planet”.

Abraham desired great knowledge. So did Mussolini. The difference is that Mussolini may have, like me, been assigned to the primary.

I have learned more about members of my ward as a CTR teacher than I have ever known or wanted to know in any other ward position I have ever served in. These adorable little cherubs of candor are actually mini microphones that are plugged into the ward sound system. If parents knew that the leak in undisclosed information was coming from little Daniel or Darnel, they would be more careful in family home evening when describing the neighbor’s mediocre attempt at landscaping, or the first councilor’s dyed hair.

As teachers of the six to seven year olds, my wife and I inadvertently have a finger on the pulse of the ward and neighborhood as well - just my finger, really. My wife does not understand how the significant muscle of the primary can be a power wielded for the betterment of all.

Often I get information that curls my ears. The answer to a simple question, like “What do we do on Sunday?” more often than not turns out to be, “My brother eats fish from our aquarium”.

Or “My mom doesn’t like to wear hose to church unless grandma is around”.
Here’s one. “I have A.D.D. and psoriases - just like my grandpa (the stake president)”.

CTR’s have not developed a sense of decorum or social correctness, which is part of their charm. Their not knowing the meaning of “less is more” works for me if I am out to conquer the world.

I have used this unawareness in reverse to my advantage. I once deliberately primed my child with the information I needed to present, knowing it would then be on the front page of the ward bulletin by noon tomorrow.

“Okay honey” I said, coaching my child lovingly. “Who is it that needs the youth to come and weed his garden because he has a bad back?”

“You, daddy, you” she repeated from rote but without the air of sadness we had worked on. There was no need to panic. I had a whole hour for us to practice before the first strains of “Little Purple Pansy’s began.

Of course, our cute little microphones are multidirectional. I learned the hard way to watch what I say. Now I have the class repeat the moral of the lesson several times as we walk from the classroom to the big primary room. I do this because I once made a comment off the cuff and the Relief Society Presidents daughter told her family during Sunday dinner that I thought that Dr Seuss was better than Isaiah. This went over as well as the time I let out that the key to a happy primary class was sugar.

Complete world dominance via command of the CTR’s can be fortuitous in very real ways. One little girl told me that her mom didn’t wash the clothes with soap anymore because there was no money since daddy was gone. Silliness quickly gave way to serious, and a quick note to the bishop was all it took. So now I treat the information with less levity, and a little more wisdom. It has taken my all these ears to finely understand what my Gramma Ruby meant when she said “Keep it to yourself, please”.

If, as believed by poet Robin Morgan “The secreting or hoarding of knowledge or information may be an act of tyranny camouflaged as humility”, then I will gleefully trot my way to totalitarianism; I will restrain my way to rule. I can keep a secret, even if my CTR class can’t.

After all, some knowledge was meant to keep to one’s self. There are things I do and say that I would rather not be broadcast through any channel – primary included. And hopefully I will be able to someday forget that the kid across the street who shots hoops and mows the lawn like a normal person also eats goldfish.

For the time being, I will have to find out some other way to achieve world domination. I am busy sorting out the chaff from the wheat and the meaningful from the silly. I handle the information with care. I will be content to wield my social political influence by using the very same source I have been teaching my primary class about. Scripture power!

Except if Britney and Madelyn tell me again that my wife has bad breath today. With that juicy tidbit I will offer my wife a stick of gum, and chew one myself.

Please Don't Kill Me. I'm Just The Dad

2011-05-18T23:30:00.014-06:00

The kids Grandpa tells my children never to throw the first punch as he smacks them. He is a former marine; my kids are in grade school. Then he tells them never to lose a fight. And then he provokes them silly so that they get into trouble with their dad (me).

Most parents are concerned with violence in video games because it is having a negative impact in their children’s social, mental and emotional development. I am trying to keep them from throwing punches at the family reunion. Grandpa says he is just making men of my kids.

The problem is I don’t know if I want my kids to be men just yet.

I am not a fighter. I used to think that this was because I was a bit wimpy as a youngster, but I am now realizing that I was wimpy as a youngster because I abhor violence. I hide my eyes when someone takes a swing at someone else on TV. Car crashes make me sick. And I can’t even be in the same room with my kids when they play a video game.

Game; the word implies fun, goofing, candy eating, kool-aid drinking and civility. That does not begin to describe this DVD box in my hand that I had to wrestle my kids for just to read. Now I see why.

There is a seizure warning. The Nintendo manual says “Some people…may have seizures or blackouts triggered by light flashes or patterns, and this may occur while they are watching TV or playing video games, even if they have never had a seizure before.

The manual also instructs me to watch my child as he plays video games and to be on the lookout for “convulsions, eye or muscle twitching, loss of awareness, altered vision, involuntary movements, disorientation”. Of course, some of these I witness regularly when I ask my son to do his chores, - along with rocking back and forth and humming hymns, but “convulsions”?

I am also instructed to insure that he sits or stands as far from the screen as possible. This I did by making him a comfortable seat in the laundry room, which fascinated him for a minute or two because he had never seen the room before.

“Where’d this room come from?” He said, like he’d just had his first encounter with an alien.

Obviously I am going to have to do something I have been loath to. Inappropriate and violent video games are making it necessary, in fact forcing me to interact with my kids. I must do this in order to prevent muscle spasms and blindness and vitamin D deficiency. To curb their violent tendencies, I am going to have to sacrifice my valuable surfing time to play board games with my kids - real games, like “Risk” and “Clue”. I may even have to break out the big guns, or their non-violent/peaceful equivalent, and unwrap my carved maple wood chess and checkers set.

No more SUV-R-TV I am thinking. Have I really been under the impression that watching incredible violence on TV every night is not going to have a lasting impact on my family and make us all want to hit Grandpa? Violence, even on TV, is barely acceptable in our house unless the cousins are over. We are just going to have to learn to resolve conflicts peaceably, either with our brains, or with Rock, Paper Scissors.

I am probably going to have to find another way to get what I need without threatening to “beat them into a pulp” or “pound them into tomorrow”. Maybe I should incorporate a peaceable, less violent way of forcing them to submit to my will…I mean encouraging them to consent. No more fighting ire with ire.

I may have to bring the monitor and all the games upstairs so I can monitor. I will assign my wife to watch as they play to see how age appropriate the video is. I would but I will be busy watching the children for signs of fatigue and eyestrain and loss of color in their lips as per the instructions.

If you touch my horsey I will kill you.

Who would have thought I would have to spend so much time with the children just to keep them from hitting grandpa? A little duct tape and I can make real men out of them yet.

The King Is Dead; Long Live Rodney

2011-05-05T15:19:00.000-06:00

I have lost my status as “most favorite dad in the neighborhood”, a title I had held for a short but eventful two weeks since Mr. Quaker from next door lost his pet hedgehog. Those of us paying attention knew that he actually sat on it during the neighborhood block party and hadn’t noticed until he stood up to go. His wife found little Spanky, who had been pinned to Mr. Quakers quilted “sitting pillow” for two hours.
Frankly, it was about time his reined ended. Everyone assumes that the title is rightfully his because he is old and cute and lets the kids set up their slippery slides in his front yard. Pay for the neighborhood kid’s orthodontics, and suddenly he is everyone’s favorite. Blah, Blah. I have just about had enough of his ruling by benevolence and kindness. Spankys “death by donut” couldn’t not have come at a better time for me.

I made my move. The very next Saturday there were gallons of paint sitting at my house tantalizing the little pre-teens. We painted the lawn green. It beats fertilizing and watering. And to seal the deal, we used our hands. Like Tom Sawyer, just the mention of messy emerald and moss green latex-and a slight feign of concern from me that “they weren’t really old enough”- did the trick. In less than the time it took for me to laugh manically, twelve pairs of Velcro shoes-zees’ were flung onto the driveway and green children began dancing and rolling in/on the front yard lawn. Quick note-wife out of town.

The whole thing was too easy really. Anything that is slightly against the structure their parents have set up for their kids in their home is exactly what they don’t want to do. I don’t have to be a good parent, just the most popular one. I let them bark at the dog. I let the one child that is always talking about poo talk about poo, though I am careful not to ask him any questions. The one that screams at the drop of a little brother, I let scream to her heart’s content. In fact, I assign her the task of head screamer. Even His Royal Oldness, The Spanky Smasher wouldn’t allow screaming at the height of his time in power.

He's having fun. Really

The bossy child I paired up with the nose picker, who, I just discovered, has fingertips. It’s a two-fer. He gets to clear his nasal passages of floating bergs and bossy pants gets to tell him to stop and say “that’s discussing” over and over.

The one who talks nonstop I have invited to hang out with me as I now purchase my earplugs in bulk. She has not learned the difference between a “uh-huh” meaning “go on”, and an “uh-huh” meaning “I don’t care, my medication has just kicked in”.

So here I was, all set up to be the king-neighborhood-dad-dude. And then one of the minis asked to borrow my bike. My personal bike that I have childproofed and covered completely with reflective tape. The one I have named after my sainted mother, the one that has a plastic sleeve for my medical bracelet, my phone number etched on the handlebars for when I get lost. The one with the banana seat. I’m sorry; I don’t let anyone use my bike.

Not even me? says the one with the toes that point both east and southwest at the same time with his back to the equator. No, not even you, Flipper. Sorry.

The deed was done. He quickly flapped over and informed bossy pants who came over and told me off. She told screamer who told mini screamer with penchant for lying, who told snot burg picker…

Now I sit here alone. I am enjoying the last of my green lawn as it grows out revealing the water starved brownish yellow color it is famous for and will remain for the rest of the summer unless Allred’s Ace has a paint sale. Two weeks was all I could have asked, and it was a good run. I couldn’t keep it up anyway, now that my wife is back.

Now, the man in power, the best-neighborhood-dude-ever is the single guy across the street who lets the mini people watch as he and his girlfriend get tan and listen to music. He allows them to wash his car. I sit on a lawn chair and listen to the mini’s mutter under their breath as they walk by my house on the way to his; “at least Rodney lets us use his cool stuff!”

Yes Rodney does. Rodney is spending time with his girl friend Tanella in the hot tub. Rodney still wears swim trunks in quaint sizes, like medium, and doesn’t scare the children when he takes his shirt off. Rodney couldn’t care less what leaves his garage as long as Tanella is giving him a cold drink and a back rub. Bully for him.

I might mosey on over there and see if King Rodney has any cool stuff that he’ll let me use, like a bike or a table saw.

Flying Twinkies and Other Experiments in Gravity

2011-03-10T22:28:00.002-07:00

It's Harder For Fat People

Local Police admit to still being in the dark concerning the complete and baffling anonymity of the two people who jumped off a downtown Salt Lake City high-rise months ago, parachuted down to a Quickie-Mart parking lot. authorities state that there isn't much more information available other than the fact that the jumpers were nicely dressed, smelled good, and said "please" and "thank you" as they pealed out of said parking lot into obscurity leaving behind only a partly eaten Hostess sponge cake and waving onlookers.

Security cameras posted in the buildings elevator recorded the two heading to the top floors observation tower slightly before noon. Both took time during the elevator ride to high five each other and take bites of a yellowish cream filled cake. They then wiped their hands on their pants and deposited the wrappers into a trash receptacle. There is no video of the couple from that point to the time they landed onto the northwest corner of North Temple and State Street, signed a few autographs and took off in a waiting mud colored 74 Ford Pinto. The people, not the Twinkies.

“Wrong! It was an olive green ford pinto with wood paneling, AM-FM radio and a bumper sticker for the Pioneer League favorite, the Pocatello Boring's baseball team”.

"There is a security station at the entrance and individuals going in or out have to check in. I don't know how this couple made it to the top or even made it in the building - unless they bribed someone" mumbled the chief security guard as he swallowed his third fruit pie in as many minutes from a stash in a plain brown paper bag. "The couple was generous, however, and they got my favorite right: boysenberry--for the record"

“Yeah, we knew that.”

Police say what the couple did was a complete disregard for the safety of others both in the building and on the street and sidewalk below. "I don't know the science of falling and stuff, but I think that even fresh and creamy Twinkies can maim and mangle at, like, a billion miles an hour.” Mumbled Officer Ted with his mouth full. “And people jumping off a building could have been bad, too."

From top to bottom, the building measures 420 feet tall. BASE jump experts, who coincidentally were on hand to applaud and cheer, said it was a safe distance to jump and deploy a chute from. Experts, seated at the hostess table in the parking lot next to the rented port-a-potty’s, say that given the office building's height, a BASE jumper would have about two seconds to pull their chute to land safely. These experts have also confirmed that the package of golden and delicious Twinkies was most likely opened shortly after the chute pull unless the Twinkies were being eaten pre-jump and just fell on their own – an unlikely supposition.

“And a silly one, too. Who would waste a good Twinkie? Nothing, including g forces or gravity or a grandchild can rip a Twinkie out of mine or my wife's hands and live to enjoy nap time”.

After photos of the jumpers were released, Weight Waiters came up with a new "free to jump" menu taking advantage of the free publicity as it was apparent that both jumpers were a bit pudgy.

“Okay, that's enough. Make fun of our car, ignore our obvious ploy for a Hostess sponsorship, but don’t call us pudgy. We don't want a year of free weight watchers meals. We want ho-ho's and ding-dongs”.

Yes, my wife and I are probably sorry, and yes, people may have had to deal with a little sponge cake on the brain. But in my own defense, I needed a little quality time with the wife and it’s been hard to come up with a decent activity since the dairy freeze went under. We never would have made the attempt if they weren't continually pushing the whole togetherness issue. And sponsorship from our favorite desert maker would certainly help us make ends meet.

Our next outing I promise will be a bit more tame. We will be standing in line for seven hours in the rain for David Archuletta tickets – and we hope to win sponsorship from Quickie-Mart and Chase lounges from RC Williy.

Nerds In Space

2011-02-21T23:54:00.003-07:00

Whz: Vowel Conservationist

I am concerned about reports of recent developments in interstellar travel as described by a sixth grader named Whz. Whz has a knack for identifying both leanings in galactic politics and trends in cafeteria food. My wife and I met him while judging the science fair at Newt Gringritch Elementary – home of the Fighting Salamanders.

Many would shrug off Whiz’s’ report and its detailed description of future planetary colonization and instead concentrate on avoiding the PTA when they call for volunteers to judge the science fair. My wife, however, has opted for a different path. She is readying herself for her astrophysical adventure on the red planet.

Now, I keep telling her to relax and have faith in the current political climate, that we as a country can find our way out of this financial/political mess. I assure her that the new health care program is not an indicator of the collapse of the world as we know it and even then wouldn’t require a mass exodus of planetary proportions. Like she listens to me.

It is with her not paying attention to me in mind, combined with her tendency to act somewhat rashly that I am creating a list which I will then laminate and attach to the medical ID necklace I now wear. This is in case I somehow become incapacitated and my wife chooses to leave the planet with me in tow instead of waiting for me to regain consciousness.

Here are the reasons I will not be signing up to colonize Mars.

First, a lady at the kiosk in the mall says that I am an “autumn” and that I should stick to browns and blues. My best colors on the pallet are sorely lacking on Mars if the set designers from Total Recall are to be trusted. The lack of breathable air is another thing one could focus on if the image of me wearing red wasn’t so horrifying.

My next worry is the appalling lack of information concerning the number and locations of convenience stores. I need refills every hour on the hour. I have a habit to feed, and apparently diet coke doesn’t grow on trees. Also, are there any trees?

I don’t believe I am being selfish in asking for more information. I have a family to care for. My youngest son is concerned that those on Mars would not be focused on important, status gaining measures like football. Are there any good teams on Mars, or would he be better off in Canada? He did the math (or at least paid Whz at school to do it for him) and he would have to gain eighty three pounds at the very least to stay on the offence line due to the difference in gravity. I can’t afford to feed him eighty three pounds worth. I can barely afford to pay my son to pay Whiz to do his math for him.

Unreliable Internet service is another real deal breaker. I am used to personal service here on Earth: I call; he comes over and fixes my IT problem immediately. And the wait time off-planet to speak to a live agent would be unbearable.

The only trepidation my wife has is that we not may be able to have visits from her folks or see the next two Kevin Costner movies when they are released. On the up side, we may not be able to have visits from her folks or see the next two Kevin Costner movies when they are released. Another positive: Rent-to-own, unlike on earth, would actually make since.

Additional benefits to calling Mars home would be not being asked to substitute teach in Sunday school, considerable fewer shark attacks, and I wouldn’t have to judge the science fair and make pleasant conversation with Whz. I try to keep it professional between him and me. I call, he comes over to fix my Internet connection, and I give him a blue ribbon – strictly professional.

If I could just get him to stop talking about Mars in front of my wife. She doesn't do well with moving.

Love And Other Plagues

2011-02-03T01:36:00.041-07:00

Just Add Honey

I don’t need the stress. This year I got such a late start that Valentine’s Day will be a complete bomb unless there is a cancellation with the skywriter. The only other viable option I thought would salvage the day was if the Green Bay cheerleaders, The Cheesettes, got my message in time and spelled out my wife’s name in giant crackers during half time of last Sundays super big game.

No crackers. Game over.

So, I have but days to pull off the ultimate in romantic demonstrations. Truth be told, I am not very good at figuring out the difference between, a) what will be romantic, and b) what will get me hospitalized or arrested. Moreover, and regardless of any sudden noticeable developments in wisdom or maturity, I am probably never going to be allowed back into the stadium. Suffice it to say that anything with a bungee is out; and no, I would rather not talk about it.

When I was young, all I had to do was trace my profile onto a paper heart shaped doilies. Then I would wax quixotic and instruct my teacher to write something charming and repetitive on the back like “You are Supper, Supper!” Not sure what I was going for but it was clear to everyone even at that young and tender age that I needed a spell check. I can’t get away with adorable and daft anymore like I did in grade school.

Generally, when it comes to grand gestures of romance I am passions equivalent of oil based paint – my efforts smell funny until enough time has passed.

Case in point. When I first started seeing someone I bought a gallon of fabric dye to color the fountain water in front of the courthouse a rosy red to show undying devotion to my girlfriend who I had been dating for five days. On paper it was dramatic, daring, and quirky. Practically, however, what looked like Hawaiian punch spurting out of an aquatic clam shell may have been a little too Old Testament. Hind sight being 20/20 I probably should have stuck with a balloon-o-gram instead of a failed plague on Egypt.

Next case: I heard in a Disney movie one of the characters being referred to as a diamond in the rough. Such a sweet and childlike thought! What could possibly express my love more than to acknowledge my partners untapped, undiscovered potential. I was determined to demonstrate to her that I, if no one else, knew her real value. And yes, I did this by presenting her with a hunk of coal.

Ever heard of creating helpful coupons for the object of one’s affection to cash in later? I thought it was a great idea, too. So I made cards with bright construction paper for a touch of homemade whimsy. I combined it with a promotion from a local business for a gift of self improvement that couldn’t go wrong – colorful vouchers for a terrific deal on laser hair removal. At least I wrapped it.

My greatest debacle was early this century in what my wife refers to as the time of deep shadow. That was the year I painted the front of our house a lovely if unexpected shade called “begonia”. My thought process was that I would shock my wife for a day by fooling her into thinking I was serious and then paint it over the next day. However, the weather turned cold and colder into an arctic nightmare, work sent me to Albuquerque, and the front of our house stayed flaming pink for two and a half months. The neighbors paid Google maps to blur out the image for the entire block and had traffic cones to divert traffic. My mother in law suggested we go with the flow and hang a velvet paint of Elvis on the garage door and put a couch on the lawn. Suddenly everyone’s a decorator.

Now there are only a few days left and I am fresh out of ideas. How will my wife know I love her without a hazardous and herculean stunt? I thought to make a scale replica of Devils tower with my mother’s fudge recipe and Spackle. I could then attach blinking Christmas lights like an incoming alien space ship, we could all hum the theme song from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and I could say something like Our love is out of this world.

My wife says to forget outer space. She says that if I really love her I will show her how much I care by staying out of the hospital and by being sweet to her--quietly.

I guess I could try a rose and a poem. It would give me another year to heal.

Dances With Iguanas

2011-01-19T21:59:00.045-07:00

My grandchild is spoiled. It’s true that in the past his grandmother and I have been guilty of a fair share of the indulging, but I have resolved to end my part of the pampering post haste.

I was never so praised when I made a doo (I cannot bring myself to say doo-doo), nor do I now receive acclaim for such even though it currently takes considerably more effort than it did then. Maybe if I had been so adored I wouldn’t be the angst ridden maniacal columnist you read before you.

One would think our grandson Toddd (Yes, there are three d’s. It’s an in-law thing), who is in his terrible two’s, had just cured cancer or discovered spam for the response he gets when he fills his incredibly elastic shorts.

We give Toddd nice things--as is our responsibility as grandparents. He doesn’t know they are nice. He dunks them into the toilet along with his dominoes, his hot wheels, and his collectible Iron man action figures.

Part of his youthful indiscretion is due to his--you guessed it--youth. Very young, he. And I can almost forgive him this when he does his post potty happy dance. However, a big part of his spoil-atude is because we don’t expect him to act any differently around nicer things.

If I let him play with my cell phone after he has been flushing, chewing, or banging on his rubber cell-phony facsimile, is he going to treat my real one any better? When I have to climb into the iguana habitat at the zoo to retrieve it, who gets the blame? Is it the cute two years old lamenting the lost phone he just hucked, or the forty year old with half his shirt dangling on the concertina wire above him coaxing the head iguana with the brass knuckles to give him back his phone.

If Toddd breaks the crystal lizard from the gift shop, we promptly buy him a new one so he can break that too. Okay, I shouldn’t be buying him crystal lizards to begin with. I just remember how fascinated I was with crystal when I was young, and so I expect that he will appreciate the same things I did. Nope.

In addition to the appalling appreciation factor, I should mention casually that Toddd pukes on my nice couch, draws on my leather ottoman with a black sharpie, and randomly paints stuff that came pre-painted.

So the issue I am presenting for myself and for the world at large is: at what age should kids start appreciating excellence? That is the evolved, mature query. My real question is: at what point can I stop using duct tape and a leash while babysitting, and how do I remove colorful finger paint from my ornamental Japanese Koi?

Another matter: at what point can I stop finding his mess making charming? His parents just smile and laugh and then strap him neatly into his car seat/throne bolted into their armored car and go home. This leaves me to glue the dog’s hair back on, and to peal my special anniversary Veal Parmesan from the guest room carpet.

Grandpas are supposed to take all this in stride--at least those Grandpas who are fortunate to have pharmacologist friends. I do not. My wife just smiles, looks all misty, and says “they grow up so fast”. I would like to know what bizarre, misguided, imaginary planet she’s living on. The child has been in his terrible two’s for the last four and a half years now. Four and a half years is not "time flying fast". At this rate I will be wearing a rug and gnawing on nitroglycerin tablets when it comes time for the youngster’s quinceañera--or whatever kind of party they give for non Hispanic blond boy children when they are presented to society (which in my day was called a booking/fingerprinting).

My dad doesn’t say anything when I call him to complain. He puts himself on mute and lets me rant while he laughs his bald little head off. It is clear that no one is going to rally round or even to commiserate with me. I have been abandoned like so many floating elasto-diapers on a sea of frightened but colorful Koi.

Consequently, I am thinking of renting a hotel room for the kid’s third birthday party which I plan on celebrating in, oh, five or so more years based on the snail paced passage of time. The party will not be at my house, however. Not even in my neighborhood.

“Help yourself to the hotels omelet bar, thanks for coming, and take a piece of birthday cake with you”.

So when he cuts holes in someone else’s sheers and spray paints his name on the rented linens I can walk away like a real grandpa and call it good because the joke is on him. There are three d’s in Toddd.

I’m Going To Disneyla… Chernobyl!

2011-01-14T00:32:00.001-07:00

And Now, Off To The Sandwich Shoppe!

The next in off-the-chart, fast tracking, jet setting tourist hot spots and adventure lands has turned out to be smack in the middle of the Ukraine which, for all of you who haven't played RISK, is somewhere around Scandinavia and Russia, but west-ish of Ural.

Frankly, I have never heard of Ural outside of the board game milieu. Ural always sounded like the answer to a sophomoric joke or the name of someone’s grandma from Idaho. Gratefully, there is no real reason to discuss Ural at length because no one lives there anymore except refugees from the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl. This mass departure of Ural’s natives inspired, by the way, their new National Anthem, the Hope-To-Get-Right-Out-Of-Here Blues soon to be recorded by Duran Duran for their comeback tour.

I know, I know, you all are thinking "Where can I get tickets for Duran Duran?" And you are also thinking "Nuclear disasters? Where can I go for more info, and by the way, where can I go for vacation this year?" Lucky for us, written on all Eastern Europe's travel brochures is the catchy phrase “Want a better understanding of the world's worst nuclear disaster? Come tour the Chernobyl nuclear power plant and gift shoppe."

The old Soviet Union's officials are planning to open the area around Chernobyl, home of the 1986 nuclear plant meltdown, to "extreme tourism." A flashing neon billboard from the area promises that you can bring home a lifetime of lasting memories--which was a lovely thought until I realized that the billboard had no apparent power source.

Beginning January of 2011, the zone around reactor number four which exploded and spewed radiation over a large path of northern Europe will be opened to interested parties. This area has been hermetically sealed for twenty years. "Tourists will be able to learn more about the event that occurred nearly a quarter of a century ago,” says a joint press release from the Emergency Situations Ministry and the Ministry-of-Quickly-Fleeing, “…and all will be able to spend time in the naturally heated spas and saunas.”

Personally I am so stoked that, at least mentally, I am packing my electric blue father’s day European Speedo that has been calling my name for months as well as the matching snorkel/personal flotation device.

Regarding tourism, the Ministry-of-Trying-to-Get-Folks-to-Spend-Money has recently said that it hopes to finish building a new safer shell for the exploded reactor. The new shelter will cover the original iron-and-concrete structure hastily built over the reactor that has been leaking radiation and threatening to collapse.

Incredibly, all visits to the site were prohibited until recently, but corporate America has been enthusiastic to defer some of the cost. A prosthetics company out of Pocatello is purchasing rights to sponsor a thrill ride which may or may not be attached to the new protective shell which may or may not be in place before 2015. Apparently there is not a ministry for being specific.

Today many employees (referred to as cast members according to the brochure) maintain what are now the remains of the closed nuclear plant, and they are tirelessly working in shifts to minimize their exposure to hair frying radiation. Meanwhile, several hundred evacuees have returned to their villages in the area despite a frowning international task force. Current support however, comes via corporate America’s sister city sponsorship through Three Mile Island Reality and by the hair removal product Nair.

Oh look honey! Our just born child has three eyes and an arm growing out of his patella; Reminds me of that treasured family trip to Chernobyl!

This good news has come in the nick of time if you ask me. My kids are now old enough to waste money on and have them remember the gesture. I was planning a trip to my favorite magical place on earth until I priced it. Who knew I was going to have to choose between money for their higher education or a family vacation? With these new developments we can fly to the Ukraine and spend two weeks enjoying the warmth and radiant heat for less than half what I would spend in sunny So-Cal.

Though my wife is somewhat circumspect, I am convinced. Emergency Situations Ministry spokesperson Yelena Y. Yershacovastain confirms that experts have developed travel routes that will be both medically safe as well as informative for foreign visitors. She did not give exact dates of when the tours were expected to begin nor, when asked to provide her credentials, did she leave any type of forwarding address.

"There are beautiful things to see there--if one follows the official route and doesn't stray away from the group," Yelena said as she sprinted back to her office with a face mask muffling her last words which we think were “Come see us! Bring a shovel, a smile, and haz mat suit if you’ve got one handy.”

And remember to visit the Gift Shoppe for a souvenir fuel assembly rod, a handy Dry-cask storage unit, and a gallon of fudge.

2011- Year Of The Simple

2010-12-21T01:14:00.029-07:00

I am simplifying my New Year’s resolutions. This year I will be taking the inadvertent advise offered by my kids when they looked at my last years list and said, "Huh?". I am shooting for something a bit more straight forward, consistent, clear, painless, uncomplicated, laid-back…and shorter.

Last year’s ambitious listing, while I am in the mood to own-up to past blunders, was somewhat more than I could handle. I had gone to the PG Library and I had researched the most effective documents on the Seven Most Formidable Resolutions and the Men Who Make Them website. I also read several biography’s of ambitious men from different and respected arenas including business politics and NASCR and then tried to adopt their productive habits.

Then, I categorized my 2010 resolution index into sections and sub headings, cross referenced them to my goal register (as suggested by the website). Later in the year I refocused the document and made several addendum's which I had printed onto a different colors of paper corresponding to update and topic.

I had heard that placing ones resolution list in full, constant view would help me to remember it daily, serve as a constant reminder of the commitments I had made in the same fashion as Lee Iaccoca, Newt Gingrich and Jeff Gordon (who will be sponsored by Giganto Mart soon, so he has to be doing something good). However, I couldn’t find a magnet big enough to hold the pages let alone it’s binding to the fridge. I ended up placing it on the kitchen table where it could double as a booster seat for height challenged visitors at dinner - an unexpected bonus that gave us easier access to the phone book.

As impressive as it was, my personalized goal catalogue proved too much for me. I didn't have the heart to trash it, so I returned it to the universe as fire fodder in a simple but elegant ceremony. I refused to cry. Gone are the categories of gregarious goals and aspirations. I said goodbye to the spreadsheets and pie chart targets as they fluttered up the chimney.

This year my goals are simpler. I found a much better idea on my own – with no help from any website. I am putting my goals on a single sheet of paper. A single sheet of paper that fits on the fridge right between my kid’s school grades and my dentist appointment card.

I have eliminated my plans for world domination and a six pack – abs, you know. And my wish for an English cottage garden for the back yard with a stone bridge has instead turned into buying a perennial or two and making the kids plant them.

So here’s my new list: Walk more, drink more water and buy some better teeth. Pray. Be nice to people and show my wife and family I love them. (The last one came from my kids.)

That’s it. That’s the list. And it takes almost no space, no giganto-magnets or duct tape. It just needs a glance a day and the guts to follow through. I'm sure Mr.'s Iaccoca and Gordon would approve.

Three Fluffy Towels, Two Talking Birds, And Some Tape Holding Down a Fake Tree

2010-12-15T01:20:00.004-07:00

A: Loving Grandchildren and Wonderful Memories.
Q: What are things I will continually pay for?

My parents have put a date on their bi-decade float into town to visit the grandchildren. Apparently, if I time it right and I am a good boy, I will be allowed in the room. and serve them drinks and set up the cabana.

I haven’t decided if I am going to pay my kids to focus on their personal hygiene, or slip them 20 dollar bills to say things like “I would go to my friends house to play, but there is always such a warm feeling here at home that I hate to leave even for a minute.”

I usually freak out a little when my parents come. Fortunately the last time they were here was the year of the Famous Pocatello tsunami (some time ago is the point) Last time I was so stressed that most of my hair fell right out – which ended up being a good thing as it meant that I didn’t have to have my back waxed for the summer. And the kids life is completely disrupted due to those things, you know... that have to happen when we have company…what is the word?...oh yeah, CHORES.

Let me not give the impression that our house is a mess normally. It's just that my parents are retired and have nothing to do when they visit but to look for "areas of growth".

And if I am right there waiting for their arrival they say “It must be nice to have all day to sit around”. If I am not here waiting and they have to sit in the living room for more that six minutes, they gather the kids and grill them on whither or not I have been going to church, if I have been swearing, or if they have had three meals a day– even going so far as to ask them what they had to eat yesterday for lunch.

This time I am going to be home and ready at the appointed time, but I'm going to lie and say that I just pulled in the driveway myself from having read to orphans from third world countries over the Internet at the local library, and to whom I donate a portion of my weekly paycheck. That outta do it.

But I am not going to go overboard this visit. Yes, I will clean the bathroom, but no, I won't embroider their names on sanitized fluffy hand towels. I will do the dishes, but I won't cover the windows in the kitchen with pretty opaque flowers so they can't see through to the neighbors couch swing hanging in the cottonwood tree out back and bubba who sleeps there in the afternoons. I will shovel the walks from snow, but I won't blow dry the steps or rake the kids boot prints off of the snow covered front lawn.

I will also be allowing our pet chickens to make chicken noise this time. Last time was a disaster with the rubber bands and the spray paint and the taped ambiance/African rain forest music that freaked out the neighbors. And I am leaving my tacky holiday lawn flamingos up even though I was supposed to grow up to be the educated/genteel one.

And rather that hire out and have the brunch catered, they may have to make their own special something from the omelet bar.

I am letting it, the whole perfection thing, go the way of the Buffalo. Visiting parent stress is a thing of the past. No more will I give myself hives at the very thought.

Now where the heck did we put the joyous apple humidifier spray and the portraiture of Ronald and Nancy Regan?

They Know That Santa's On His Way...He's Loaded

2010-12-11T22:25:00.034-07:00

At my house we are in the throes of the holidays – as evidenced by the half eaten candy canes stuck to the dog and the extension cord laden Christmas tree duct taped to the wall in the front room.

All my radio stations are tuned to the “All Christmas, All The Farging Time” stations -except for those playing twangy country music (as opposed to the one station playing good country music which now plays classic rock.)

Frankly, I would rather chew my leg off than listen to any more wining or hearing about that unfortunate boys reasoning for buying high-heeled shoes.

This brings me to my annual list of the worst songs of the holidays. Since we have already mentioned The Christmas Pumps, (or whatever it’s called) lets jump right to the next song– listing the horror in no particular order.

There are two kinds of people in this world; people who like Neil Diamond, and people who think he shouldn’t be allowed near a microphone from just after Halloween through to, and including Valentine’s Day – just to be safe. For that matter, nor should Johnny Mathis. Frankly, anytime I hear Johnny sing Sleigh Ride I am left with too many unanswered questions.

The Beetle’s founders are responsible for songs four and five. I understand their creative aversion to Jingle Bells or The Twelve Days Of Christmas– artistic individuality and all - but “So This is Christmas”, and Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” are John Lennon's and Sir Paul's most iffy offerings. No wonder suicide rates are highest during the holidays.

Last Christmas,
I gave you my heart,
The very next day
I hurled on my slacks.
This year,
To save me from tears...
I won’t listen to George Michaels.

The other song Mr. Wham contributed to is just as bad. With all due respect to honorable causes, “Don’t They Know Its Christmas Time” - alternative title “Pray for Another Song” featuring Boy George and other unemployed English lads (Sting being the exception to the rule) - makes me wish my ear wax would just seal off altogether. It is, however, a perfect song for drowning out the sound of the electric can opener.

The Trans-Siberian Orchestra version of Ring Christmas Bells/Christmas Eve makes the little voices in my head converse all at once on the topic of death and dismemberment - like when my in-laws come for dinner. Belinda Carlisle of "The Go-Go's" fame, recreating Judy's famous Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, sounds like she started the celebratory eggnog a little early - I'm thinking memorial day.

Rock’n Around The Christmas Tree would be considered garbage if not for the charming Brenda Lee, and John Denver singing as a seven-year old boy in Daddy, Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas leaves me fondly remembering cherished olden days of fingernails on a chalkboard.

Penultimately, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus should not be sung by anyone. Ever. Michael Jackson couldn’t do it. Celion Dion can’t do it. I don’t think Beverly Sills or even Sandi Patti accompanied by the Happy Jerusalem Synthized Ensemble employing seven key changes could save it.

Finally, I give you anything sung by Kathy Lee Gifford – especially Mary, Did You Know. Believe me; Mary was better off not knowing.

Kathy Lee just doesn't look the same...

Now I like Kathy Lee as much as the next guy – unless the next guy has invested his kids college funds in plastic or silicone in which case he would like her more. Want the scuffle in Afghanistan to be over? Ship her to Kabul for a series of humanitarian holiday freebies and those poor rebels will be crawling out of the hills begging to be cauterized at the neck. War over.

The best of the best? Try Frank Sinatra, Karen Carpenter, Doris Day, Natalie and Nat King, Bing, Amy, Harry Conic, Mel Torme, and lastly, the Muppets.

Merry Christmas, darling.

Lithium, Listerine and Lucky Charms

2010-12-04T23:42:00.064-07:00

Fun In A Box!

I heard today that a new product targeting high school students has been released onto the market. It apparently is a powder that will convert regular fruit juices into an
alcoholic beverage containing 6 percent alcohol.

For about $10, or the cost of a good used Hanna Montana back-pack, one can perchace a kit which comes loaded with everything a young adolescent needs to turn 64oz’s of fruit juice into a knarly alcoholic drink guaranteed to get them through 5th period math. The process uses rapidly fermenting yeast and takes about two days - perfect for a weekend science project.

Being that I am not an imbiber (imbibage has never been my thing) I asked my wife what she thought of the 6% alcohol content. All she knew or would admit to knowing is that Clorox and Comet should never be used together to clean a bathroom. Then her eyes went glossy and she sat at the kitchen table gently rocking.

Great. What a help she turned out to be. Now I will have to make my own brunch. With a sizable gaping hole still in my knowledge I tracked down my 16 year old daughter Annie who was, surprise, in front of the TV watching Suite i-Wizards of the Square Pants. She told me that this proportion of alcohol created by the powder was more than contained in regular beer, but less that whisky; greater that malt whisky but less that wine.

I was happy to have the information, and in my joy I grounded her for the weekend – which as a happy by product, makes meal planning easier being that my wife is also incapacitated for the moment.

(Annie can’t remember to do her chores or to close the refrigerator door but she can, without turning the volume down on her IPOD recite the standard measure of ethanol contained in an alcoholic beverage expressed in a percentage of total volume as per the Gay-Lussac scale?)

So, as I now understand it, 6% alcohol is good for cleaning toilets, bad for swallowing a pill and swinging by the elementary school to car pool. A swig and a quick jaunt before
driving machinery – bad: as a sedative to make it through the Twilight films – good.

A quick question: Why would cooperate America market these products to high schoolers when there are more vulnerable and fragile market demographics we could be focusing on, such as paraplegics, leper's, or pregnant mothers?

And why are we polluting wonderful and healthy fruit drinks? Wouldn't it be more efficient to combine one mind altering substance with another - such as mouth wash or cold
cereal with a shot of the strong stuff? Fruity-Wedges have never been good for a body anyway so where is the loss? And they already come in brightly packaged containers with cute and cuddly cartoon characters to attract the kiddies.

I can hear the Saturday morning commercial now. “Make Rainbow Chewies and pint a part of your morning!”

I know! Let’s offer this powered alcohol, this handy IQ diffuser as a prize in breakfast cereal packages, or mail it out to our children in exchange for three box tops.

After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

The Ships Will Sail At Midnight

2010-11-29T23:18:00.006-07:00

Politicians and political affectionate are stunned today due to the recent uncovering of a quarter of a million secret state department cables and mailings from around the world. These here-to-fore private communications have been put on the open market and will shortly be made privy to all. (I love using the word "privy")

Politicians and their mothers are having fits knowing that personal thoughts and opinions that were not intended for wide release will actually be, you know, released...and wide.

I feel their pain. Once in Junior High I had a note confiscated by a teachers assistant with a mullet who then turned and read it out loud in front of the class. Unfortunately it was a love letter I had written about the teachers assistant with the mullet with whom I was madly in love. Reading the note over the loud speaker to all of second period did nothing to in dear her to me as I referred to her as "hermana kissy face". She later gave me a wedgie in the hall which was preserved for posterity in the class yearbook. I was surprised and both her strength, and at how stretchy the elastic on my green lantern underwear ended up being
.
If there is any good to come out of this weeks event in espionage and bad taste, it is the reaffirmation that no one is safe - something we knew in Junior High, but politicians have to be reminded of every so often in a scandal of a salacious moment which is quickly forgotten until another note is confiscated and read over the loud speaker or the modern times equivalent.

It it with the current sensitive situation in mind that I have, with considerable thought, decided to re-password my facebook account.

There are some things just too sensitive for general viewing.

It's true that no one would loose their job or have a relationship in jeopardy if my personnel musings were to be breached, and there are no overtly secrete documents of information that could be accessed through my face book except the whole "do we really need a secretary of state thing", for my lack of love for Miss Hilary is well known and previously documented and would move no earths, nor cause to tsunami any water upon which she thinks she walks - so all would still be well.

I did say something about my wife's cooking when she tried a new recipe for pie crusts (Bleck) or when she used paprika in the chili. And what I said about my sister still being waaaayy too short to be considered as real family still goes. (Did she think nobody would notice?)

Like Mr Obama, I generally try to maintain an attitude of transparency when it comes to talking bad about others. My motto has always been, to only talk about unlucky others behind their back because its safer that way.

As far as fools putting their classified and documented options of each other as well as matters of US security on the line, or inadvertent whistles being blown - I have only this advise I learned in Junior High.

Don clean underwear, be cause you will be wearing it over your head until someone taller that the class assistant with the mullet lets you off the hook.

Change is Bad

2010-11-22T01:04:00.007-07:00

Sometimes it was nice just doing things as a family

Change is bad. Ask anyone.

Someone in my church group approached me in the hallway after a meeting to have me confirm the news that we were, indeed, moving.

I reluctantly confirmed it. I have hated to say it out loud and have avoided making it known for several weeks now. But we are down to the wire so I problem should mention it to my neighbors for no other reason than I am going to need the men's help moving my wife's refrigerator collection.

He then asked me where we were going. Honestly, my giving him that information sort of negates any benefit we derive from slipping out of town to begin with.

I am not thrilled with moving. On the stress scale it ranks up there with death of a loved one, divorce, getting fired from ones job and men's cancer exam's. (I would add having to speaking in church and being asked to teach the 16 year olds in Sunday school, which is the largest and meatiest of reasons to get the heck out of dodge.)

I just can’t take sassy kids anymore. If one more child pulls out a phone to text in the middle of a lecture about Jonah and the whale or the walls of Jericho I am going to spew verbally and projectile-ly. As everyone knows, the Old Testament is way more important and interesting than twittering your boredom away. Which leads me to my point: Who's bright idea was it to do away with corporal punishment?

In my petty and pathetic life, growing up with common sense seemed to be far more certain than for the kids of today. There used to be growth experiences that could be counted upon as a pre-teen that have faded into the woodwork, like having to ingest cod-liver oil, ill fitting athletic supporters forced upon us for mandatory PE in combination with short shorts, sharing a single phone per household and getting smacked when responding sass -a laraly with an adult. Where are the good ol days of insta-discipline?

I don’t think we, as a society are so much better off for gummy vitamins, adding Lycra to our cotton, on-line high school health credits, baggies, cell phones and verbal coercion. There was a certain grace and charm when every teen knew the suffering was universal and had to be endured. Character was built. I am a better man for hanging out at the gym of yor than my baggygymshorted loving child will ever be.

And what’s up with not being able to hit a child? Social norms of the 21st century have effectively eliminated my opportunity for revenge...I mean revision. New and sensitive guidelines for rearing children your own as well as someone else’s, have put a damper on a sure thing. The "do this or I’ll swat you!" – A staple of formatting youngsters for years, has lost its place. Instead we have "Please put your phones and Ipods away or you will be sternly warned, and you initials may appear on a list for dial-up Internet for tomorrow.

Heavy. If parents really wanted us to teach their children in a timely fashion, they would reinstate the leather belt as a wall decoration/fear inducer. Homework gets done. Phones are left in lockers. Please and thank yous are the melodies of the day, not having to compete with Lady Gagging and her cohorts.

Its time for change to be changed back, which is also change. I vote for that.

Please Pass The Tassels

2010-11-09T22:06:00.008-07:00

"W" is for
What a Weally Wotten Colwor

I love to decorate. Stand still for long enough and I will gold leaf you where you stand.

I change the color scheme in our living room at least twice a year. I spring forward and fall behind and stipple with glaze in-between. It’s like living on a movie set, only without as many extension cords or craft service.

The good news is that our home can certifiably double as a bomb shelter due to all the layers of paint. It should keep us radiation free for up to three months. There is no bad news. Its a win/win.

I have always believed that interior decorating was more advanced, more evolved than the average activity/profession/life waster. There is a reason that it is a time honored amuser of the elderly and experienced. If you can’t change you position in life, if you have been dealt a sever hand and your castle is made of sand, paint the heck out of it and add another bathroom.

Decorating with money is fun. I read that in a book once. I myself have never had the privilege of that experience firsthand. I don’t choose a color – it chooses to be miss-tinted and placed on sale at Giganto-Mart where I purchase it for ten cents on the dollar and combine it into a five gallon bin of other misfits – never the same color twice.

Decorating with nothing is even more fun. This I have done. Often. It seems that when there is an extra five dollars, my wife would rather spend it on rice or potatoes than on a new knob or a tassel. Silly her. She says that you can’t eat a tassel, which I suppose is true. Neither, however, can you hang a potato on a curtain rod – except in Ireland.

Her trouble is that she can’t picture my style choice or the colors as I explain them to her. Words like chartreuse-ie and taupe/mauve-ish have no meaning to her. I blame this on her mother who decorated my wife's childhood home with rosters and black and white cow print curtains and who, fortunately for me, stopped reading years ago.

I have taken her on field trips. I have pantomimed. I have drawn maps and cut out photos from Field and Stream and Modern Handgun Today, but my wife still doesn’t seem to understand the direction I want to take for the master bedroom.

I have stopped trying to explain my artistic vision to her. I figure that if I can get the entire room painted before she gets up in the morning then it gets to stay that way until Giganto-mart has another Opps! sale.

Long Live Ihoma

2010-10-06T20:45:00.005-06:00

Its all about control.

My brothers kids are prime targets for being bullied. Part of it has to do with their parenting as my brother is the King Nerd and his wife is His Queen. That fact can't be changed, though I have suggested he take the Amway sign out of his front window and that he stop celebrating International Bermuda Shorts Day so adamantly.

My nieces and nephews, whom I call affectionately the niecephews, attract bullies like I attract Multi Level Marketeers.

Honestly, and I will be to the point, their being bullied around chaps my nethers. There. I said it. I just want to go to the school my niecephews had to vacate to escape the mini-butt heads and do a little punking of my own - which shows, I guess, that anyone can be a bully if the circumstances are right.

I keep telling them to just tell the bullies to shut up or put a sock in it, or take a flying leap, none of which really worked for me, but I don't know exactly what to tell them. In Lu of wisdom I have been teaching them both how to make a righteous fist. I have my son, Ihoma - who is becoming a butch offense linesman, practice the interactive smacktalking and crude language skills he has learned playing x-box on line with a guy from the French Foreign Legion.

I tell the niecephews that bullies come from a place where they lack parental and family support and these poor souls use bullying as a way to get control or attention. I make sure they understand that these children/bullies do not know the correct form of asking for attention, love and support from others, including their peers and that they lack any control in their lives except for the control they place on others.

The niecephews look at me with glassy eyes and glazed expressions and nod their head. They are too kind to say out loud to me what would have been my response had I been in their sneakers. "So what? I still don't want to be punked on."

And they shouldn't have to be.

I understand all about the peer pressure adolescents face on a day-to-day basis, and that when placed in a school setting the need for some control grows like the stench of death in Ihoma's football pads. And when anyone looses control they will do what it takes to get it back. Adolescents feel peer pressure to bully, especially in educational settings, in order to obtain control in a complex social environment.

Blah, blah, blah and whoopee snot. Don't care. Leave my family alone.

I don't care that my family walks funny, or has small feet, or that my niece is overweight or that my nephew can't say his r's. I don't care that their father, my brother, is the king o'nerds and wears ankle weights over his pants to church and school board meetings. Get over it. I have.

Until, however, I can instill more of a self preservation instinct in the niecephews, I may have to resort to a little control of my own. This simply means that I am going to have invest in some saran wrap, a gallon of methylene blue, a few buckets of eggs and then excuse Ihoma from football practice at the High School for an hour one day this week so I can take the niecephews on a...field trip.

Why, I Otta...!

2010-09-30T22:45:00.004-06:00

Yes, Officer. It was one of these Cads, these Ner-do-well's who threw the... Oh, never mind!

I was beaned by a tennis ball at my church today.

Some kid who smelled like feet with braces and poor aim nailed me as I walked into the gym to grab tables. I slowly turned and politely asked them to leave the room because frankly, I didn’t want to have a bunch of unsupervised kids I didn’t know throwing stuff at me and, possibly seeing me cry.

Actually I am used to lumps on the back of my head – usually acquired during my stint as a young ballroom dancer. But a lump is a lump, left either by a tennis ball in the lord’s house or from an elbow from Vanessa, the tallest girl in the world who was assigned to be my dancing partner - who I was supposed to lift over my head and twirl like a tree trunk lighter than air (plus ten pounds of rhinestones and a sharp and pointy thing in her hair).

But back to the beaning, the pointing & laughing. And, of course, the crying.

Truth be told, I may have freaked out just a tinnsey. Of coerce the kids laughed at the old guy with the lump, tripping over their size 13 honkers when I asked them to leave. To make matters worse, as I loaded the tables into my mini-van not one of the church dudes standing around not supervising asked if they could help me - as I am sure any kind church dude should when an old man with a lump on the back of his head is alone loading tables. And I think, out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the men give me an evil eye.

There is no doubt in my feeble little mind that this guy was the parent of big foot – who was not being supervised in the gym when some poor man was attacked! Assailed, probably by the prince of headgear and his friend super orthodonture boy as they hurled a…a softball at me deliberately to get me to leave them alone. Or maybe it was to enforce some gang territory of which I was unaware (not having received my copy of the Big -Footed -Teen- With -Braces- Basketball Throwers Weekly in the mail.

Maybe if the evil eyeing man had been attending to his son’s completely antisocial behavior his senses as a parent/sentinel/warden would have been properly engaged and there would have been a proper lack of time and ability to harass the old & lumpy man touting tables. In fact, rather than bullying poor almost-senior citizens, perhaps one of the throbbing, gathering mob could have seen fit to extent a hand of Christian-like help-y-ness to the meek and gentle VICTIM with a goiter and a hunch on his back, so that the sweet old man that I am wouldn’t have to mutter to himself and make a mountain out of a tennis ball.

Someone needs to teach this kids a lesson, and I am just the man to...

Excuse me? ...Well, I'm sure it was an accident... Oh, no thank you young fellow, this is the last table I need moved.

But aren’t you sweet for asking?

Growth Spurts, and Other Bank Busters.

2010-09-27T23:45:00.007-06:00

This belly represents a significant parental financial investment in this boys future that he will never fully appreciate.

I just purchased two dozen eggs, several pounds of bacon, gallons of spaghetti sauce pounds of noodles, various and sundry carts of groceries. That will take care of lunch.

Dinner may be a little sparse unless my check clears, or the blood bank will start letting me donate plasma more that three times a week.

My youngest son has decided to spend his football season growing and talking back. The sarcasm and the mouthiness I can handle. The growth spurt is what most concerns me as the man who pays the bills. The groceries are killer.

And then there are the clothes. By the time he has unwrapped the new boxer briefs I bought for him he has out grown them. I hear seems bursting from the other room. Fortunately he only changes his clothes every other week so the fact that his socks are stretched to the max is not as much of a problem as the fact that they are trying to make a break for it – a feeble attempt to crawl out of his basement room on their own - which would not be a problem excepts it spooks the neighbors.

Laundry scared spit-less is not my concern anymore. My wife lost a bet and so the laundry is now her responsibility until the end of football season. It did require that I buy her her own gas mask and respirator as I tailored mine to fit only my bulbous cranium - which had to be done anyway as the end of the world is at hand and I promised everyone their own gas mask and protective wear.

She insisted that before she take over the laundry responsibilities I also install a has mat shower in case the hamper decides to to spew forth like mount st Helen's. I also have stocked each room with a chemical spill/burn units for when anyone has to enter his bed room or bathroom.

While laundry is happily my wife's headache, groceries and all other things edible are my responsibility, and I take my responsibility seriously. My youngest son will shrivel up and die if I do not have a twelve pack of Gatorade, between six to nine jack-links, a pan of fried rice and a super sized icee read for him when he is through with his homework – which he can only do in front of the TV with his ipod blaring loudly enough that I can hear it through his own headset in the living room from where I am at the stove preparing round two.

The good thing is that he will eat almost anything. The bad news is that he will eat almost anything. I am having to hide the dog food or he will fill a bowl as an after dinner before snack snack. At least I can feed anything left over to our pet – on those rare occasions when there are leftovers.

So, my sons life depends on whether or not I can come up with money for a 24 pack of premium creamies. I am going to sit here by the phone and wait for the plasma center to return my phone call. Maybe I throw on some pasta while I am waiting.

I suppose I have time for a batch of laundry, but I am to tired to don my has-mat suit.

Bewildering, Beguiling, Bejeweling...

2010-09-08T22:59:00.011-06:00

Sometimes my brain takes a while to shut down due to excessive and exhausting use during the day. It could happen.

I find that a quick 50 minute or three hour game of Pretty and Colorful Gemstones Falling and Lining up in Threes (I call it that because I never remember its name. I have a mental block from all the exhaustive stuff I do during the day) does me good for calming down and sliding into something that resembles brain-neutral. The problem that I have is that my wife is not able to sleep due to the flashing colored lights that are part of my new found evening relaxation. The spectacular array in my game of Cascading Gems Of Many Colors and Shapes that puts me to sleep keeps her awake.

I don’t care about that. What I care about is that my eyesight is not what it was when I was young and not flabby, and by that I mean more youthful and firm, and by that I mean… oh, never mind. My eyes are not what they used to be back when I had hips. To deal with this I back the screen up a bit.

The good news is that I can then see the whole screen. The bad news is that I am going to have to hire one of my kids to hold it far enough away - which may in turn be good news because they both could use a summer job.

Funny thing is that when I pull it back I get to see the big picture and I am unable to focus on small or insignificant individual peaces or concentrate on one small area excessively. Seeing the whole screen from a distance gives me a perspective I didn’t have, and I find that I get the job done with more skill and that all important better score.

Cool.

There seems to be a message in this somewhere for me and for my family. Something about keeping ones perspective when times get tough, and remembering that even though we are running around like chickens feebly attempting to make the day to day fit or match-up, someone above has the big picture and it will all work out in His time in the end.

That and I had better recharge the screen before my wife sees that I was up to three a.m. playing Happy Jewels Cascading in Beauty.

There Is One In Every Family, ...Three In Mine

2010-08-31T21:40:00.011-06:00

Oh My Heck!

That is what I said the other day. I said “Oh, my heck”.

I said it in church.

The following blank space has been purposely left to indicate a period of uncomfortable silence.

I know, I know, what a stupid thing to do. To make matters worse, I said it in the hall so there were several who heard my offensive and distasteful remark and would gladly witness to such. For my effort, I received several crusty looks, two uncomfortable chuckles and one stare at the ceiling/roll of the eyes. It was a banner day for me.

To top it all off, like the maraschino cherry in a dry martini that I of course have never sipped, I was wearing a light blue shirt. No, I reply, it was not merly off-white, and no I hadn’t just washed a proper white Sunday dress shirt with my new jeans. I have made this general type of mistake before, only with a red sweatshirt amid spanking white underwear – another story altogether.

No, my shirt was created in Honduras to be a manly light blue and I wore it with little deliberation. I have been wearing the same two white dress shirts for several years, and recently, due to my discovery of frozen chocolate cream puffs at my local Giganto Mart, there is more of me to love than I care to admit. The top buttons fit a little snug, so I deliberately choose a different dress shirt.

I did this of my own volition. No one was there to force me or coerce me. I was not under any undo peer pressure like the time I deliberately spelled my name wrong on my tithing envelope in seventh grade just to be cool.

I alone am to blame.

What’s worse is that I was just starting to clean up my iffy image from singing a Sandy Patty song in sacrament meeting several years ago. Sandy Patty, a Christian songwriter is, how do I put this delicately,... southern. She says unconscionable things like, Praise the Lord, and I heard from a friend of her hairdressers that she once muttered under her breath, Hallelujah.

You see the problem.

Hind sight being what it is, I can see that the song I selected was all wrong for church. There were way too many key changes and more words that began with the letter "C" than are usually allowed. And I read in the notes instructions to hold the peddle down way too long - an action that I nipped in the bud fortunately in time before the choir director caught wind. Small favors.

As you can see, I am on socio-political shaky ground even without this latest blue-shirt thing. Let alone the Oh My Heck.

I am grateful that my religious beliefs are strong and are not to be swayed by the tides of sighs and frowns that roll my way when I am culturally inept. But maturity and understanding are little comfort when your family is left alone on the pew.

But I have a plan, a contingency in case of foul-ups - which I have discovered are only life threatening if unplanned for. I am going to hand out money. Simple and elegant. I am going to go to the bank and buy several hundred dollars worth of gold coins and hand them out like Angelina Jolie at a leper colony or the Academy Awards. I am not proud. You have no idea how these church people can mess with your life. I consider it an investment with eternal rewards.

I suppose I could have alleviated this whole mess by using some of my gold coin money to buy me a white shirt with a bigger neck and then I may not be in this predicament. As it is, I will never ask me to speak in church.

Oh.

Cool.

Ding, Dong

2010-08-19T12:19:00.005-06:00

She is quiting. Dr Laura apparently no longer finds the deep satisfaction she once did flagellating for three hours each day on the radio.

I have been following her for years - if getting nauseous and having to turn to another station is considered following. She is shrill, rude, unfeeling, megalomaniac, can't use spell check and drinks too much caffeine - a perfect fit for me.

And I am going to have her old job. All I have to do is forget to style my hair and grimace a lot while making public appearances and we'll be like twiners. Well, everyonce in a while I will have to give out some good common sence advice, but then I will even the score by telling someone to just be quiet.

There is the problem in that I am not a woman, but look at Sean Hannity? He's been able to overcome this well enough that we almost, when listening to him, can't remember if he is he is a woman or just incredibly whiny. And if he foster this types of confusion and use of a smokescreen to his benefit, so can I! Its about time some other Mormon conservative closet liberal than Glen Beck can make it in the big world of daytime radio.

Look at it this way. What we really want is Oprah. Oprah is perfect. Really. I cant say anything except that the dress on the cover of people, the blue thing, was exactly what my wife wanted for her birthday when I got her a new fly fishing reel. We need Oprah, only without the lovely fashion and all the class - cause as much as Lower America thinks it likes its classy people, we find a lot of these O magazines used as insulation in common trailer parks north of the mason Dixon line. Opera is too mild mannered for the job. And besides, I hear she is moving to the white house for Obamas second term for some new television show called are you smarter that the president. Its a win/win.

I thought I would start out my show after reading off the Pledge of Allegiance both in English and in Spanish, and depending how close we get to the northern border, in Idahoan - by blessing all the troops out in the fields of whichever countries they are in the fields of. It will be tearful and patriotic. Then I thought to have Dan Sills and Marie Osmond reprise their 90's hit - Meet Me In Montana to remind us that there are some places where no gays want to get married and no illegals want to live yet - which makes America great.

Then I will talk about my family that is spread cross over three different trailer parks that is having the same problem with porno on the Internet, but we'll have to abbreviate it down to "po po" because there will be kids listening - and even though she said the big N word ten times last ween, she cant bring herself to say Porn, so "po po" it is.

Ya see, its relevance that makes the Davison Cheney from Pocatello Idaho show so popular from noon to three on your radio Dial. Now all I have to do is belittle people calling for help and advise, cut people off when they are wrong and tell them to shut up if I haven't gotten my point across yet. Done and Done, and will soon be.

I'm gonna be a star!

The Mighty, Mighty Visqueens

2010-08-16T23:17:00.003-06:00

It is that time of year, the hottest scorch-y-est, sun-blistering time when all the stupid…I mean supportive parents of the world put on their Favorite High School Football Sweatshirt and roast what little brains they still have left in the name of Sport.

And yes I am talking Football, baby!

My son is a high school footballer, and he has asked me not to call him that in front of his friends. But none of his friends can read so I think I am safe. Frankly I can’t remember what it was he wanted me to call him. Last year he wanted to go by Tyler because his friend at school was named Tyler and he thought it was cool. All I can say is, thank heaven he does not hang out with that Pincock kid anymore. I think it's something like the sporting dudes – what he wants me to call him and his friends on the team, but it just ain't gonna happen. I, myself, would like to be known as buff rich dude, but no one is obliging me so far.

So, the sporting dudes are in two-a-days, which means that I am in two-a-days also. Apparently ones loyalty to the team is measured by how many fans you have attending every little function and function-ette the team sponsors. I have been to breakfasts and dinners and camp outs and parades and nooners and fun runs and fundraisers and one sleep-over because I fell asleep while I was supposed to be the parent-in-charge and they left me in the weight room overnight.

I have painted helmets and blown up balloons and hidden in boxes for half-time and created life sized portraiture of the team captains, and fought with an old lady who tried to gank the seats I had been saving since two o’clock the previous day - all in the name of Tyler, or whatever he is being called these days.

This year, my booster club (aka the flying felons) has assigned me the creation of legs for the platform that serves as a moving base for the paper-mach' and diamond encrusted giganto helmet for the players to run through at the beginning of the game after they have been on the field for a half an hour anyway warming up and waving at the cameras of the poor people who were rich once who spent all their money on cameras.

We boosters are not allowed to manually move the thing on and off the field because of last year’s fight between the “Gloria's” - two old women with the same name from opposing teams who got in a fight that set off the fireworks during the halftime show that burnt the hair off all the cheerleaders dancing in center field - a bout of bad luck if you ask me. These poor girls milked it however, and spent the rest of the season cheering from the handicapped section – the only area of the stadium where they could be rolled while still in traction.

Ladies and gentleman, this is serious stuff. We spent all our vacation money buying coupon books. We skipped Aunt Ednas viewing (may she rest in peace) for the team car wash at the mall. We buy all our clothes at football yard sales, and donated all our furniture to assure that the home game souvenir programs were printed in color - a must have for any team that wants to place higher that fifth in region.

Some people think we take this whole High School football thing to far, but I say to them that such is the talk from boosters of high schools of the super wussy where they don’t have the wherewithal to fill the gold leaf, monogrammed mink lined athletic supporters that our honest home owners tax dollars purchased.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go make sure that the tiny water fountains placed in the end zone are synchronized well enough to spell out The Phlaming Visqueens during the national anthem.

After all - Winners do what losers wont!