This week our family traveled from Oregon to Utah and back – almost 2000 miles – to a family reunion. Wendy drove about 1800 of those miles, while I acted as co-pilot, checking distances and refilling her water bottle.
Obviously I have no Chauvinistic hang-up with having to be the driver on family outings “because I’m the man”. Wendy and I did have disagreements about this in the early years of our marriage. I like to drive and she likes to drive – nothing wrong there, it’s something we have in common. It’s just that there are some stylistic differences between her driving and mine.
Wendy’s driving style is to drive a safe speed, notice everything, put no excessive strain on the engine, and provide a smooth ride for her passengers. Mine is to get to the intended destination without physically making contact with other vehicles or embedding small animals of more than 50 lbs mass into the grill.
Wendy’s observation skills are amazing, to say the least. She notices wildlife near the road, such as deer, pheasants, and mice. She notices billboards and landmarks, and she notices wrecks and dangerous objects from miles away.
But mostly she notices police.
She notices police driving, or especially parked in sneaky locations behind shrubs or on overpasses. She sees them whether they are in patrol cars or unmarked cars, on a motorcycle or out of uniform watching their child play soccer. When Wendy sees the police while driving, everyone knows because she’ll stomp the brakes to slow down from five mph under the speed limit to ten mph under, and she’ll yell, “Everybody DOWN!”
This is because the kids might be doing absolutely anything illegal or dangerous, such as sitting in a seatbelt not approved for small children, or touching their sister.
Still, the reason I generally let Wendy drive is not because she’s the better driver, it’s because I’m the better passenger. If the car takes a sudden lurch or gets a little close to another vehicle while I’m the passenger, I just look at it like an amusement park ride. When it’s over, we’re all safe, and we can go get a corn dog.
As my passenger, Wendy’s take on the experience probably aligns nicely with her view of airplane crashes – I haven’t asked her, but I’m judging by the screaming, the hyperventilation, and the grip she places on the entry handle.
You know, if she would just close her eyes, it would probably be a lot more comfortable for her.
She also insists on giving me a lot of directions, such as “Stay within the lines, please!” or “Watch the road, would you!” Sometimes her directions are self-contradicting, like “turn right at the next light”, and “Do NOT turn right across three lanes of traffic!”
In the last few years I have had the opportunity to have my co-workers as passengers, and, as it turns out, Wendy’s view of my driving is not unique.
Mike told me “I can understand using the shoulder to go around a car turning left – and I can even understand doing that at 60 mph, but not when there is another car using the shoulder!”
Tom says, “Stop far enough behind the other vehicle that you can still see its tires, please!”
They both claim to get muscle strain from involuntary attempts to hit the brakes.
Officer Cummins of the OHP has a different view of my driving. He hasn’t seen me driving while thumbing through my notebook looking for phone numbers, or using both hands to scratch that itch under my left shoulder blade. He simply thinks I should slow down.
He and I chat about it every few weeks on Highway 99 between Rickreall and Amity. He’s a good man, in his 30’s, with a wife and two children. He loves his job, and recently bought a wood smoker.
I admit it, Wendy is a very good driver, and I'm needing improvement. So in the interest of marital harmony, and general laziness, I let Wendy drive about 28 hours of barren Western landscape.
In addition to my copilot duties I played Sudoku on my blackberry and learned how to solve the Rubiks cube. I also worked on my observation skills, so that I can one day become as good a driver as Wendy. I’m getting better! I even noticed a lady having a baby on the freeway – with three patrol cars, lights flashing, and feet up against the side windows.
. . . After Wendy pointed it out.
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Monday, July 5, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I rolled up a log
Saturday Wendy was driving home from Bend with the kids. Chad was in a silly mood, and was perhaps driving the driver a wee bit insane, so she called me and said, "Chad wants to talk to you. Here you go!"
I played along. "Howdy Chad!"
"Hi, Dad! What did you do today?"
I told him "I wrote a blog."
Cell phones are a little indistinct sometimes, and they were in a bad cell zone. He said, "I can't hear you. What?"
"I wrote a BLOG!" I yelled.
"You rolled up a log? What are you talking about?"
He must have laughed for five minutes. I waited patiently, and eventually he said, "OK - what else did you do today?"
"I rode my bike to the grocery store."
"Dad! You Rock! You rode your bike through the grocery store? That's awesome!"
This was becoming a fun game. In fact, we might be on the verge of patenting a new game for the hearing impaired.
Actually, someone made this into a game already. It's called "Mad Gab", and I am the champion at it. When someone verbalizes, "Stub Her Neigh Same Yule," I easily translate to, "Stubborn as a mule" and win the round. On the other hand, if they actually say "Stubborn as a mule", I am just as likely to hear, "It's a rubber vestibule." Chad may have this hereditary defect.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me often.
Once, when Wendy was not feeling well, she said, "My stomach hurts. My thighs are greasy." Only, the thighs weren't her own, they belonged to the chickens we ate for dinner an hour earlier.
On another occasion I asked, "Need anything from the store?"
She was happy I asked. "Bring me some Carmex."
"What kind of corn mix?"
Less happy now.
It happened quite frequently when I lived in Japan, where they have a national shortage of sylables. Once my host family was already in the middle of dinner when I arrived home, with only a few minutes until an appintment came. The host mother asked me, "kuru made tabetara?" meaning "why don't you eat until they come?" But I heard, "kuruma de tabetara?" meaning, "why don't you eat in the car?"
I was a little offended.
This (dis?) aility may have come to me as a child when my family begain reciting the story "Ladle Rat Rotten Hut."
Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull, hoe left wetter murder honor itch offer lodge, dock florist.
Ladies and gentlemen, don't adjust your sets. You read that correctly. It makes perfect sense when you know how to translate it. It is the story of "Little Red Riding Hood" and this is the first sentence: "Once upon a time, there was a little girl, who lived with her mother on the edge of a large, dark forest."
You're getting the hang of this now, arent you?
Here's what I think. Any future hearing loss I experience will be accompanied by an equally offsetting entertainment value, and kids will come from all over to talk with me.
"Hey, kid - I see you bought a new Toyota."
"That's right, Mister Boyack, and I hear you had a really amazing coupe."
"Yes, I did, after the Ex Lax took effect."
So after all, communication is a four part exercise. The intended message, the actual spoken words, the actual heard words, and the interpreted meaning.
If any one of those goes wrong, you can have a lot of fun.
I played along. "Howdy Chad!"
"Hi, Dad! What did you do today?"
I told him "I wrote a blog."
Cell phones are a little indistinct sometimes, and they were in a bad cell zone. He said, "I can't hear you. What?"
"I wrote a BLOG!" I yelled.
"You rolled up a log? What are you talking about?"
He must have laughed for five minutes. I waited patiently, and eventually he said, "OK - what else did you do today?"
"I rode my bike to the grocery store."
"Dad! You Rock! You rode your bike through the grocery store? That's awesome!"
This was becoming a fun game. In fact, we might be on the verge of patenting a new game for the hearing impaired.
Actually, someone made this into a game already. It's called "Mad Gab", and I am the champion at it. When someone verbalizes, "Stub Her Neigh Same Yule," I easily translate to, "Stubborn as a mule" and win the round. On the other hand, if they actually say "Stubborn as a mule", I am just as likely to hear, "It's a rubber vestibule." Chad may have this hereditary defect.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me often.
Once, when Wendy was not feeling well, she said, "My stomach hurts. My thighs are greasy." Only, the thighs weren't her own, they belonged to the chickens we ate for dinner an hour earlier.
On another occasion I asked, "Need anything from the store?"
She was happy I asked. "Bring me some Carmex."
"What kind of corn mix?"
Less happy now.
It happened quite frequently when I lived in Japan, where they have a national shortage of sylables. Once my host family was already in the middle of dinner when I arrived home, with only a few minutes until an appintment came. The host mother asked me, "kuru made tabetara?" meaning "why don't you eat until they come?" But I heard, "kuruma de tabetara?" meaning, "why don't you eat in the car?"
I was a little offended.
This (dis?) aility may have come to me as a child when my family begain reciting the story "Ladle Rat Rotten Hut."
Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull, hoe left wetter murder honor itch offer lodge, dock florist.
Ladies and gentlemen, don't adjust your sets. You read that correctly. It makes perfect sense when you know how to translate it. It is the story of "Little Red Riding Hood" and this is the first sentence: "Once upon a time, there was a little girl, who lived with her mother on the edge of a large, dark forest."
You're getting the hang of this now, arent you?
Here's what I think. Any future hearing loss I experience will be accompanied by an equally offsetting entertainment value, and kids will come from all over to talk with me.
"Hey, kid - I see you bought a new Toyota."
"That's right, Mister Boyack, and I hear you had a really amazing coupe."
"Yes, I did, after the Ex Lax took effect."
So after all, communication is a four part exercise. The intended message, the actual spoken words, the actual heard words, and the interpreted meaning.
If any one of those goes wrong, you can have a lot of fun.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fighting Evil in Sunday Primary
In my church there is no paid ministry, and we are asked to to a variety of jobs. Here's a few that I have done:
Today Sister Nelson used an object lesson that involved a whole garlic. When she told the kids what it was, one eight-year old girl pipes up, "Garlic scares away vampires!".
And then, in a completely unscripted moment, a ten-year old boy on the back row smiled, revealing two rows of platic green vampire teeth, complete with fangs.
I love primary!
- President of the Elder's Quorum (a men's group - actually the younger half of the congregation even though it's called Elder)
- Counselor to a Bishop - something like an assistant pastor
- Young Men's Advisor - working with 16 to 18 year old boys once, and 12-13 year olds another time.
- Choir director - self explanitory
Today Sister Nelson used an object lesson that involved a whole garlic. When she told the kids what it was, one eight-year old girl pipes up, "Garlic scares away vampires!".
And then, in a completely unscripted moment, a ten-year old boy on the back row smiled, revealing two rows of platic green vampire teeth, complete with fangs.
I love primary!
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Bicycling Adventure
Each year the Young Men’s organization in my LDS ward organizes the “high-adventure activity”, which is some extra-challenging expedition to a river, a beach, or a mountain. This is a speculative endeavor because we do things that normally only “fit” people do, like biking, canoeing or backpacking, but with our actual bodies, which are more suited to specialized functions such as punching keys on a keyboard or remote control, or for the young guys, a game controller thingy. But, for this one week each year, we scale mountains, ride rapids, or glide down highways wearing only Styrofoam.
The “High Adventure” is always adventurous, even though we are church-goers who attempt these feats without the aid of alcohol, because it involves males from ages 14 to 60, which is well before the age when the frontal lobe in human males matures and responsible judgment is possible.
Last August, for example, we canoed 100 miles of the treacherous Willamette River, which in the summer is not known for dangerous currents. However, two male priesthood brethren found, within sixty minutes of putting our boats in the water on the very first day, the only rapid anywhere on this river, and, given the choice of two forks in the river, naturally chose the one that would dump their bodies into the churning water and fold their canoe around a tree.
I thought this was pretty funny, and I confess I ribbed those guys a little. Meanwhile my son Chad and I carefully and responsibly piloted our canoe safely for the first day, until that got pretty boring. On the second day I paid attention to my fishing lines long enough to tip the canoe over. After that I was back to being responsible for the remainder of the journey, because I had lost my fishing poles and there was nothing better to do.
So here we are one year later, and the Adventure this year is a five-day, 150-mile bicycle trip on the San Juan islands, which are somewhere in the ocean of Washington state. It is a long-standing tradition, and the group has gone there every third year for the last fifteen years.
This will be my first time, however. I am told we will carry all our gear on the bikes, travelling mountainous coastal roads, ferrying from island to island, and camping in picturesque sites.
I’m also told I better get my fat old body in shape or I will suffer painfully and publicly.
I don’t want to put my son through that, so I bought a bike and have been doing a little cycling this spring. I will be much more prepared than I was when Wendy’s family did their first bike trip fifteen years ago, during which the bicycle seat willfully and repeatedly assaulted me in the most tender and sensitive places.
Last week my family camped at the coast and I brought the bike along so I could get a little more practice. Fifteen miles from the campground to the beach should be a good practice. The family went ahead in the Suburban. I passed up several “last call” opportunities where Wendy called, volunteering to come back and pick me up, saying things like “are you sure, this hill is two miles straight up?”
I bravely told her not to worry, and prepared to mount up. Apparently I forgot to pack my helmet, so I put on a hat to protect me from sunburn. Then my belly and I mounted the bike and headed out of the campground.
I was pretty much exhausted by the time I reached highway 101, less than one mile from the campground. It had been too many weeks. The road was hilly, and the wind was blowing against me.
When I reached the base of the first hill, it was time to pull off for a snack. This was going to be slow going. I surveyed the hill while I munched on unsalted nuts and dried fruits (very healthy, don’t you think? I won’t tell you how often I eat that way). Hmm. Steep hill, breezy day, narrow road, fast traffic, no helmet. What could possibly go wrong?
Then up I went. I was riding right into the wind, as well as uphill, which I thought was a little unfair. My hat was flipping around in the breeze and I thought I might lose it. It’s a manly chapeau in the style of “fishing hat”, with a brim that is identical all the way around all 360 degrees. Same hat I wore on last year’s canoe trip, actually. Good sun protection, but quite the sail in this wind.
So I pulled the hat down tight in front, and took on the challenge. I ascended that hill one inch at a time, one revolution at a time.
Occasionally I saw pairs of bicyclists in shiny Lycra suits, zipping down the hill southward. I had a sweatshirt, denim pants, and office shoes. They had rear-view mirrors mounted on the helmets. My bike has a rear-view mirror mounted on the handlebar, which is really cool. They had matching helmets and gloves. I had a fishing hat, and my right hand was going numb. They were carrying nothing, but I was carrying my belly.
They cast a glance my direction, and I’m sure gave me due respect as I lumbered up the hill in the lowest gear, with my big saddlebags, which they could not have known were totally empty.
Sissies.
Then, that blessed moment. After two miles of climbing, I reached the top of the first breezy hill with the hat safely secured. It was time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I pulled the hat down again, and upshifted as the road leveled out and began descending.
As my speed built, the hat was talking to me: wippa wappa, flippa flappa. Wow – this is going to be fast. I’m not even to the steep part yet. I really don’t want to lose this hat.
I utilized my rear-view mirror to check out the traffic situation behind me. Going uphill, when the cars were passing me at 50 mph to my one mph, it was easy to stay at the edge of the road and cycle over pinecones and sticks. If I’m going to be going fast down this hill, I don’t want to be riding through that garbage.
All was clear, so I pulled out into the middle of the lane, where cars would be most likely to see me early and wait for a safe place to pass. Luckily the curvy road had warning signs keeping the cars to under 45 mph. I would slow the traffic down a little, but not much.
My speed was building, as was my adrenaline. These curves were a little daunting. I gripped the handles tightly, and felt all the muscles tightening from my fingertips to my eyebrows. This was scary in an exciting sort of way, like an amusement park ride or an intense thriller movie. I have no problems as long as the two wheels stay under me.
I was in top gear, but not applying any effort to the downhill ride.. The hat was now rattling like a flag in a hurricane: wippity wappity flippity flappity.
Here comes another pair of matching sissies southbound up the hill. And look at me, just relaxing. OK John, time to dig in and get some exercise along with the thrill ride. I hunker down to lower my wind profile and put some force on the pedals.
Wippity wappity FLAP!
Suddenly everything went dark. My hat was now silent. Instead of flapping in the breeze, its brim was now wrapped around my face like I’m a blindfolded kid getting ready to whack a piñata.
Straining my eyeballs downward, I could see through a slight opening next to my nose. I could only see the pavement directly below my bicycle.
At 40 miles per hour, cars in front and back, I had a death grip on the handlebars and no visibility to the front. However, I could, in my rear-view mirror, see the semi truck behind me.
I’m the piñata, actually. Did I mention I wasn’t wearing a helmet?
I peeled my left fingers off the handlebar and quickly pushed up my hat. Thank Heaven! The cars ahead of me were pulling away, and as a nice added benefit, I was still on the right side of the road. And I now had one eyeball free of the face-sucking hat.
Now I was John the Pirate Bicycler. The brim of my hat was down on the right, up on the left. Without any depth-perception, I carefully applied the brakes and pulled gently into the sticks and pinecones. The trucks and cars sped up and passed me by.
Wow!
I took off the hat and breathed for a moment. Two eyes are twice as good.
I looked at the remaining hill, and the traffic. I considered the breeze and the sun. I folded the front brim of the hat inside, pulled it back on my head, and my belly and me got back on the road.
I love that hat.
The “High Adventure” is always adventurous, even though we are church-goers who attempt these feats without the aid of alcohol, because it involves males from ages 14 to 60, which is well before the age when the frontal lobe in human males matures and responsible judgment is possible.
Last August, for example, we canoed 100 miles of the treacherous Willamette River, which in the summer is not known for dangerous currents. However, two male priesthood brethren found, within sixty minutes of putting our boats in the water on the very first day, the only rapid anywhere on this river, and, given the choice of two forks in the river, naturally chose the one that would dump their bodies into the churning water and fold their canoe around a tree.
I thought this was pretty funny, and I confess I ribbed those guys a little. Meanwhile my son Chad and I carefully and responsibly piloted our canoe safely for the first day, until that got pretty boring. On the second day I paid attention to my fishing lines long enough to tip the canoe over. After that I was back to being responsible for the remainder of the journey, because I had lost my fishing poles and there was nothing better to do.
So here we are one year later, and the Adventure this year is a five-day, 150-mile bicycle trip on the San Juan islands, which are somewhere in the ocean of Washington state. It is a long-standing tradition, and the group has gone there every third year for the last fifteen years.
This will be my first time, however. I am told we will carry all our gear on the bikes, travelling mountainous coastal roads, ferrying from island to island, and camping in picturesque sites.
I’m also told I better get my fat old body in shape or I will suffer painfully and publicly.
I don’t want to put my son through that, so I bought a bike and have been doing a little cycling this spring. I will be much more prepared than I was when Wendy’s family did their first bike trip fifteen years ago, during which the bicycle seat willfully and repeatedly assaulted me in the most tender and sensitive places.
Last week my family camped at the coast and I brought the bike along so I could get a little more practice. Fifteen miles from the campground to the beach should be a good practice. The family went ahead in the Suburban. I passed up several “last call” opportunities where Wendy called, volunteering to come back and pick me up, saying things like “are you sure, this hill is two miles straight up?”
I bravely told her not to worry, and prepared to mount up. Apparently I forgot to pack my helmet, so I put on a hat to protect me from sunburn. Then my belly and I mounted the bike and headed out of the campground.
I was pretty much exhausted by the time I reached highway 101, less than one mile from the campground. It had been too many weeks. The road was hilly, and the wind was blowing against me.
When I reached the base of the first hill, it was time to pull off for a snack. This was going to be slow going. I surveyed the hill while I munched on unsalted nuts and dried fruits (very healthy, don’t you think? I won’t tell you how often I eat that way). Hmm. Steep hill, breezy day, narrow road, fast traffic, no helmet. What could possibly go wrong?
Then up I went. I was riding right into the wind, as well as uphill, which I thought was a little unfair. My hat was flipping around in the breeze and I thought I might lose it. It’s a manly chapeau in the style of “fishing hat”, with a brim that is identical all the way around all 360 degrees. Same hat I wore on last year’s canoe trip, actually. Good sun protection, but quite the sail in this wind.
So I pulled the hat down tight in front, and took on the challenge. I ascended that hill one inch at a time, one revolution at a time.
Occasionally I saw pairs of bicyclists in shiny Lycra suits, zipping down the hill southward. I had a sweatshirt, denim pants, and office shoes. They had rear-view mirrors mounted on the helmets. My bike has a rear-view mirror mounted on the handlebar, which is really cool. They had matching helmets and gloves. I had a fishing hat, and my right hand was going numb. They were carrying nothing, but I was carrying my belly.
They cast a glance my direction, and I’m sure gave me due respect as I lumbered up the hill in the lowest gear, with my big saddlebags, which they could not have known were totally empty.
Sissies.
Then, that blessed moment. After two miles of climbing, I reached the top of the first breezy hill with the hat safely secured. It was time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I pulled the hat down again, and upshifted as the road leveled out and began descending.
As my speed built, the hat was talking to me: wippa wappa, flippa flappa. Wow – this is going to be fast. I’m not even to the steep part yet. I really don’t want to lose this hat.
I utilized my rear-view mirror to check out the traffic situation behind me. Going uphill, when the cars were passing me at 50 mph to my one mph, it was easy to stay at the edge of the road and cycle over pinecones and sticks. If I’m going to be going fast down this hill, I don’t want to be riding through that garbage.
All was clear, so I pulled out into the middle of the lane, where cars would be most likely to see me early and wait for a safe place to pass. Luckily the curvy road had warning signs keeping the cars to under 45 mph. I would slow the traffic down a little, but not much.
My speed was building, as was my adrenaline. These curves were a little daunting. I gripped the handles tightly, and felt all the muscles tightening from my fingertips to my eyebrows. This was scary in an exciting sort of way, like an amusement park ride or an intense thriller movie. I have no problems as long as the two wheels stay under me.
I was in top gear, but not applying any effort to the downhill ride.. The hat was now rattling like a flag in a hurricane: wippity wappity flippity flappity.
Here comes another pair of matching sissies southbound up the hill. And look at me, just relaxing. OK John, time to dig in and get some exercise along with the thrill ride. I hunker down to lower my wind profile and put some force on the pedals.
Wippity wappity FLAP!
Suddenly everything went dark. My hat was now silent. Instead of flapping in the breeze, its brim was now wrapped around my face like I’m a blindfolded kid getting ready to whack a piñata.
Straining my eyeballs downward, I could see through a slight opening next to my nose. I could only see the pavement directly below my bicycle.
At 40 miles per hour, cars in front and back, I had a death grip on the handlebars and no visibility to the front. However, I could, in my rear-view mirror, see the semi truck behind me.
I’m the piñata, actually. Did I mention I wasn’t wearing a helmet?
I peeled my left fingers off the handlebar and quickly pushed up my hat. Thank Heaven! The cars ahead of me were pulling away, and as a nice added benefit, I was still on the right side of the road. And I now had one eyeball free of the face-sucking hat.
Now I was John the Pirate Bicycler. The brim of my hat was down on the right, up on the left. Without any depth-perception, I carefully applied the brakes and pulled gently into the sticks and pinecones. The trucks and cars sped up and passed me by.
Wow!
I took off the hat and breathed for a moment. Two eyes are twice as good.
I looked at the remaining hill, and the traffic. I considered the breeze and the sun. I folded the front brim of the hat inside, pulled it back on my head, and my belly and me got back on the road.
I love that hat.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Bedtime Story. I wrote this two years ago and a few things have changed since then, but I don't think this ever saw the light of day after I wrote it
I am a dad. That’s how I think of myself. I know I am a husband first, and a child of God foremost – not to mention a member of the Common Family of Man, but none of these aspects has quite the same impact as being a dad. Daddiness (n: The condition of being surrounded by a large flock of children) drives my days and permeates my dreams. Every morning I try to wake them. Every night I try to get them to go to sleep. Most nights my twelve-year old son Chad is trying to talk to me half an hour after I went to sleep, or Lillian – currently age four and President of the local Boyack Children’s Association – crawls in bed with me sometime during the night, to snuggle me with her bony elbows and knees, moved betimes with sharpness.
I talk to them on the phone as I commute home. When I’m traveling I write to them via email and stay in touch with them via chat in the evening. They prescribe all my social outings – which is OK considering otherwise I wouldn’t go anywhere there are people – and they monopolize the time of my sweetheart, with whom I last had a date in 1997, when we were the parents of three. We have since added two to the collection, and all five are screwed up in their own little ways. Juuuussst kidding . . . (mostly). What are the chances they’ll read this, anyway?
I worry and fret and think and plan . . . because I have no other skills. But, also, because I love them. Want proof? I get out of bed and leave them for twelve hours a day! You men are connecting with this, right? Children are great because they bring out all the good qualities that were latent inside us until we became daddies. Hmm – actually, the wife brings those good qualities out of us by explaining the needs of the children using a vocal pitch that causes the bones of our skull to vibrate and threatening us with the Icy Stare. Children need things like beds: “No, she can’t just sleep doubled up on the baby bed. She’s twelve, dear.” Or clothes: “well, I don’t know, are you still wearing the clothes your mother received at your baby shower?”
Anyway, as you know, if it weren’t for all these other people, Wendy and I would be living comfortably in a small apartment with a big-screen TV and a grill on the balcony. And I could work part time! Well, Wendy would have to work too, but I assure you, she’d be doing about one tenth the work she does now as the Mom and Queen of the home.
So when I say that I think of myself as a dad, it is because it’s my occupation. It’s not how I earn my living, but it definitely occupies my life. For an example, let’s examine the process of “tucking in” President Lillian. This is how I handled it last night:
Wendy, Kimber (16), & McKay (13) were already in bed. Chad(12), Hannah (9) & Lilly form the “Bedtime Resistance Force”. Last night, per usual as of late, Hannah & Chad flanked me while Lillian took the offensive.
She wandered in and tried to get in bed by Wendy. I told her to go to her bed. She left the room briefly and returned with my digital camera, and pointed it at me. “Can I use your camera Daddy?” I gave her the one-two punch: “No! Put the camera on Mom’s desk, and go get in your bed!” to which she responded by turning her back on me and leaving with the camera and a smile on her face. One Hundred Percent Pure Insolence, from Concentrate. This cannot be tolerated, right? If she proves at age four that I have no authority here, we’re all doomed. So I chased her down, took the camera, and tossed her into bed. (I think that was pretty reasonable and restrained, but she saw it differently). She cried and kicked until I got her giggling – by tucking her in with her feet on her pillow and her head buried in the blankets. Then I helped her with her prayer, including the request “Help me to have happy dreams. And if I have a bad dream I can come to mommy’s bed.” I threw this in for two reasons: A) if she’s thinking of coming to Mommy’s bed, as opposed to Daddy’s, then she’ll squirm in by Wendy and not by me, saving me many aches and pains in the morning. B) Because if she actually sleeps long enough to have any sort of dream before getting into our bed . . . well, then that’s progress.
She calmed down, but she wouldn’t let me turn off the light until I found her several stuffed animals, which I obediently procured. But oh, what fickle promises! She still wouldn’t let me turn off the light without her screaming. I would have left the room with the light on, except big sister Hannah won’t stand for that. I can fix this! I gave Hannah a blindfold. Cool idea, right? I thought the bed-time gods had accepted my sacrifice and I could go to my bed, but just then Hannah made a wonderful sisterly suggestion. She told Lillian to find the Big Tigger with the candle in his hand, which, of course, could be absolutely anywhere in the house. Lilly and I searched the primary toy boxes for five minutes until I said “Enough. I’m done. You’re history, sister. Get in your bed!”
So then Lilly’s mad because she’s got to have just that toy, and then I’m yelling and telling her she has to go to sleep without it, and in the nick of time I see it – on her bed. Hannah tells us how to turn on Tigger’s light: push his tummy. I tuck her in for the second time, this time with a book to read. Now she’s mad because the Tigger Light turns off after ten seconds. I tell her he turns it off because he likes his tummy scratched and eventually she is OK with that.
(I have to interrupt for an editorial note. Please remember that while I apparently command no respect, I am motivated by a survival force not to allow her into my bed.)
Success! I turn off the light and return toward my room. En route, Chad – he’s twelve, remember – heads me off at my door. He has decided he wants to be tucked in – just for old time’s sake. I unclench my jaw and hands, and take a deep breath . . . I can do this. He climbs in the top bunk and I throw his blankets on. I can’t reach him to kiss him, so I kiss my hand and slap his forehead. And turn out the light. Free at last! In my room I don my pajamas and brush my teeth. My blankets are calling me, and I gratefully answer by tucking myself in next to my sleeping wife.
A moment later the light came on. . . . “Guess Who” was at my elbow with a bright smile on her face whispering to me (She doesn’t want to wake up Mom). She gave me two critical pieces of information: First, she accidentally tore a page out of her book. Second, her pajamas are too small because she keeps growing. Then just to make sure I was listening, she then demanded that I tuck her in again.
I am Daddy! Hear me roar!
I talk to them on the phone as I commute home. When I’m traveling I write to them via email and stay in touch with them via chat in the evening. They prescribe all my social outings – which is OK considering otherwise I wouldn’t go anywhere there are people – and they monopolize the time of my sweetheart, with whom I last had a date in 1997, when we were the parents of three. We have since added two to the collection, and all five are screwed up in their own little ways. Juuuussst kidding . . . (mostly). What are the chances they’ll read this, anyway?
I worry and fret and think and plan . . . because I have no other skills. But, also, because I love them. Want proof? I get out of bed and leave them for twelve hours a day! You men are connecting with this, right? Children are great because they bring out all the good qualities that were latent inside us until we became daddies. Hmm – actually, the wife brings those good qualities out of us by explaining the needs of the children using a vocal pitch that causes the bones of our skull to vibrate and threatening us with the Icy Stare. Children need things like beds: “No, she can’t just sleep doubled up on the baby bed. She’s twelve, dear.” Or clothes: “well, I don’t know, are you still wearing the clothes your mother received at your baby shower?”
Anyway, as you know, if it weren’t for all these other people, Wendy and I would be living comfortably in a small apartment with a big-screen TV and a grill on the balcony. And I could work part time! Well, Wendy would have to work too, but I assure you, she’d be doing about one tenth the work she does now as the Mom and Queen of the home.
So when I say that I think of myself as a dad, it is because it’s my occupation. It’s not how I earn my living, but it definitely occupies my life. For an example, let’s examine the process of “tucking in” President Lillian. This is how I handled it last night:
Wendy, Kimber (16), & McKay (13) were already in bed. Chad(12), Hannah (9) & Lilly form the “Bedtime Resistance Force”. Last night, per usual as of late, Hannah & Chad flanked me while Lillian took the offensive.
She wandered in and tried to get in bed by Wendy. I told her to go to her bed. She left the room briefly and returned with my digital camera, and pointed it at me. “Can I use your camera Daddy?” I gave her the one-two punch: “No! Put the camera on Mom’s desk, and go get in your bed!” to which she responded by turning her back on me and leaving with the camera and a smile on her face. One Hundred Percent Pure Insolence, from Concentrate. This cannot be tolerated, right? If she proves at age four that I have no authority here, we’re all doomed. So I chased her down, took the camera, and tossed her into bed. (I think that was pretty reasonable and restrained, but she saw it differently). She cried and kicked until I got her giggling – by tucking her in with her feet on her pillow and her head buried in the blankets. Then I helped her with her prayer, including the request “Help me to have happy dreams. And if I have a bad dream I can come to mommy’s bed.” I threw this in for two reasons: A) if she’s thinking of coming to Mommy’s bed, as opposed to Daddy’s, then she’ll squirm in by Wendy and not by me, saving me many aches and pains in the morning. B) Because if she actually sleeps long enough to have any sort of dream before getting into our bed . . . well, then that’s progress.
She calmed down, but she wouldn’t let me turn off the light until I found her several stuffed animals, which I obediently procured. But oh, what fickle promises! She still wouldn’t let me turn off the light without her screaming. I would have left the room with the light on, except big sister Hannah won’t stand for that. I can fix this! I gave Hannah a blindfold. Cool idea, right? I thought the bed-time gods had accepted my sacrifice and I could go to my bed, but just then Hannah made a wonderful sisterly suggestion. She told Lillian to find the Big Tigger with the candle in his hand, which, of course, could be absolutely anywhere in the house. Lilly and I searched the primary toy boxes for five minutes until I said “Enough. I’m done. You’re history, sister. Get in your bed!”
So then Lilly’s mad because she’s got to have just that toy, and then I’m yelling and telling her she has to go to sleep without it, and in the nick of time I see it – on her bed. Hannah tells us how to turn on Tigger’s light: push his tummy. I tuck her in for the second time, this time with a book to read. Now she’s mad because the Tigger Light turns off after ten seconds. I tell her he turns it off because he likes his tummy scratched and eventually she is OK with that.
(I have to interrupt for an editorial note. Please remember that while I apparently command no respect, I am motivated by a survival force not to allow her into my bed.)
Success! I turn off the light and return toward my room. En route, Chad – he’s twelve, remember – heads me off at my door. He has decided he wants to be tucked in – just for old time’s sake. I unclench my jaw and hands, and take a deep breath . . . I can do this. He climbs in the top bunk and I throw his blankets on. I can’t reach him to kiss him, so I kiss my hand and slap his forehead. And turn out the light. Free at last! In my room I don my pajamas and brush my teeth. My blankets are calling me, and I gratefully answer by tucking myself in next to my sleeping wife.
A moment later the light came on. . . . “Guess Who” was at my elbow with a bright smile on her face whispering to me (She doesn’t want to wake up Mom). She gave me two critical pieces of information: First, she accidentally tore a page out of her book. Second, her pajamas are too small because she keeps growing. Then just to make sure I was listening, she then demanded that I tuck her in again.
I am Daddy! Hear me roar!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
To the Church On Time, Awake, and In Style!
When a man becomes a father, great transformations take place: First, he sheds his rough and careless exterior like a snake sheds its insensitive, inconsiderate, scaly skin, and becomes a new man: tender and thoughtful, but still scaly if you rub him the wrong way. Second, he learns to control the gag reflex. Third, he learns to put clothing on an infant imitating a ten-pound Raggedy Ann doll.
In my case, even more amazingly, I learned and the ability to coach my children on their daily fashion choices. Now mind you, there is room to improve. I'm no Calvin Klein, but I have been able to steer my kids away from potentially hazardous clashing, such as a pink tutu with brown cowboy boots; or simply impractical choices for the event, such as an 18-month old going to church wearing her mother's brazier like a hat: one cup on top and the other, Rapunzel-like, trailing down the back. This would be totally embarrassing, because hats are not worn to church anymore.
Lately the stakes have increased as I help my 14-year old son get ready for Seminary. For those of you not familiar with Mormon Seminary, which is, I assume, both of you, this is a religious education class held at six in the morning on school days. The primary function of this class is to stretch the faith of Mormon high school students by encouraging them to accomplish something difficult - for instance to attend a class at six in the morning on school days.
Chad loves Seminary. I can tell, because he gets there less than thirty-minutes late every day with only five or ten minutes of threats required, and does the assigned reading two out of three days, when Mom has time to threaten him. Sarcasm aside, this is actually a big accomplishment for a kid who has been home-schooled through eighth grade, and is used to sleeping ten hours a day and getting up after 9:00 am.
This is how the routine goes:
First, Mom puts breakfast on the table for Chad. This could be corn flakes, eggs, leftover tomato soup, or cat food; the menu doesn't matter at all because he will not be conscious. The important thing is to have FOOD. Then she goes to his room every minute for seven minutes and says motherly things like: "Chad, it's time to get up." "Breakfast is ready." "Let's go! Lets go!" And the heavy artillery: "If you miss Seminary you won’t get a ride to football.”
One time my wife put me in charge of getting Chad out of bed. It took me only about ten seconds, but there was a problem: I forgot about gravity. Now I had a 190-lb Raggedy Andy doll sitting on the floor against the bed; head flopped to the left; golden retriever licking his face. Yipes. How could I have been so stupid?! I yelled for help. “Wendy! Bring the camera, quick!”
She came in, looked at me with her hands on her hips and that special wrinkle between her eyebrows. Then she turned her attention to our son and said, “Chad! You wanna walk to football?”
Eventually the dead will arise and stagger to the table. You remember those cute pictures of your little boy asleep in his ice cream on his first birthday? We do that every morning, in super-size. After breakfast, we guard all the beds in the house, because, with his eyes closed, he can sense an empty bed. “m jus lie down fr one min . . .” and he will slip into a bed and back into slumber. This is the only point where people will start to lose patience, because as he gets into your bed he’ll get tomato soup on your pillow.
If Chad is particularly late getting started, I get my chance to employ my fashion sense, working without a net (no Garanimals). While he’s in the shower, I will go get him some clothes to wear for the day. I will choose something “sassy” (a shirt) and something “classic” (jeans). I may get them from his closet, or, if the path is hazardous, I will pick something off the floor and give it the sniff test. It matters not what I bring because this is the stage that he actually wakes up.
Chad was never fashion conscious before this school year started. I think somehow at high school he must have discovered Girls. Because before Girls existed, he would wear his pajamas 24/7, and comb his hair once a week. Now, he showers twice a day, takes ten minutes on his hair, and is extremely choosy about his wardrobe. “Dad, that doesn’t match!” And off he will go to sort through the choices himself. If he asks for my contribution, it will not be my opinion, but something concrete. “Dad, I need a clean white undershirt.” I tried once to fudge on the cleanliness, but was rejected because the other shirt he would be wearing was going to be open, not buttoned.
David, my brother-in-law, went through a phase like this – and he’s still going through it. When he was a kid and his mom told him to go put on a clean shirt, he would do just that – but not remove the dirty one. One spring when they went swimming and he took off his clothes they found shirts that had been missing since Christmas. At family gatherings they’ll tell his wife all about this, and she thinks those stories are “Cute!” because she has never seen a hair out of place on his head. He became a duke of fashion, landed the girl, and kept impressing her from then on. Smart guy.
So Chad is way ahead of me on this, and I’m sure Wendy is pleased. As for myself, there was a time I straightened up and got a good wardrobe. But it only lasted for one day, because after the wedding I had to return the tux.
Some snake skins shed more quickly than others.
In my case, even more amazingly, I learned and the ability to coach my children on their daily fashion choices. Now mind you, there is room to improve. I'm no Calvin Klein, but I have been able to steer my kids away from potentially hazardous clashing, such as a pink tutu with brown cowboy boots; or simply impractical choices for the event, such as an 18-month old going to church wearing her mother's brazier like a hat: one cup on top and the other, Rapunzel-like, trailing down the back. This would be totally embarrassing, because hats are not worn to church anymore.
Lately the stakes have increased as I help my 14-year old son get ready for Seminary. For those of you not familiar with Mormon Seminary, which is, I assume, both of you, this is a religious education class held at six in the morning on school days. The primary function of this class is to stretch the faith of Mormon high school students by encouraging them to accomplish something difficult - for instance to attend a class at six in the morning on school days.
Chad loves Seminary. I can tell, because he gets there less than thirty-minutes late every day with only five or ten minutes of threats required, and does the assigned reading two out of three days, when Mom has time to threaten him. Sarcasm aside, this is actually a big accomplishment for a kid who has been home-schooled through eighth grade, and is used to sleeping ten hours a day and getting up after 9:00 am.
This is how the routine goes:
First, Mom puts breakfast on the table for Chad. This could be corn flakes, eggs, leftover tomato soup, or cat food; the menu doesn't matter at all because he will not be conscious. The important thing is to have FOOD. Then she goes to his room every minute for seven minutes and says motherly things like: "Chad, it's time to get up." "Breakfast is ready." "Let's go! Lets go!" And the heavy artillery: "If you miss Seminary you won’t get a ride to football.”
One time my wife put me in charge of getting Chad out of bed. It took me only about ten seconds, but there was a problem: I forgot about gravity. Now I had a 190-lb Raggedy Andy doll sitting on the floor against the bed; head flopped to the left; golden retriever licking his face. Yipes. How could I have been so stupid?! I yelled for help. “Wendy! Bring the camera, quick!”
She came in, looked at me with her hands on her hips and that special wrinkle between her eyebrows. Then she turned her attention to our son and said, “Chad! You wanna walk to football?”
Eventually the dead will arise and stagger to the table. You remember those cute pictures of your little boy asleep in his ice cream on his first birthday? We do that every morning, in super-size. After breakfast, we guard all the beds in the house, because, with his eyes closed, he can sense an empty bed. “m jus lie down fr one min . . .” and he will slip into a bed and back into slumber. This is the only point where people will start to lose patience, because as he gets into your bed he’ll get tomato soup on your pillow.
If Chad is particularly late getting started, I get my chance to employ my fashion sense, working without a net (no Garanimals). While he’s in the shower, I will go get him some clothes to wear for the day. I will choose something “sassy” (a shirt) and something “classic” (jeans). I may get them from his closet, or, if the path is hazardous, I will pick something off the floor and give it the sniff test. It matters not what I bring because this is the stage that he actually wakes up.
Chad was never fashion conscious before this school year started. I think somehow at high school he must have discovered Girls. Because before Girls existed, he would wear his pajamas 24/7, and comb his hair once a week. Now, he showers twice a day, takes ten minutes on his hair, and is extremely choosy about his wardrobe. “Dad, that doesn’t match!” And off he will go to sort through the choices himself. If he asks for my contribution, it will not be my opinion, but something concrete. “Dad, I need a clean white undershirt.” I tried once to fudge on the cleanliness, but was rejected because the other shirt he would be wearing was going to be open, not buttoned.
David, my brother-in-law, went through a phase like this – and he’s still going through it. When he was a kid and his mom told him to go put on a clean shirt, he would do just that – but not remove the dirty one. One spring when they went swimming and he took off his clothes they found shirts that had been missing since Christmas. At family gatherings they’ll tell his wife all about this, and she thinks those stories are “Cute!” because she has never seen a hair out of place on his head. He became a duke of fashion, landed the girl, and kept impressing her from then on. Smart guy.
So Chad is way ahead of me on this, and I’m sure Wendy is pleased. As for myself, there was a time I straightened up and got a good wardrobe. But it only lasted for one day, because after the wedding I had to return the tux.
Some snake skins shed more quickly than others.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Calories Count
I have been reading labels lately. It's all the rage now, and soon to be required by the government. There will be a form that you have to sign as you leave the grocery store, indicating that you read each and every label, and you accept the responsibility of knowing exactly how many grams of poly un-saturated LDL Carbohydrates are in each and every Little-Debbie’s Donut Stick, and you further waive all rights to obesity-related health care benefits.
But that's not why I'm reading labels. Not because of all the government hype, but because I am in tune with my body, and conscious of the affects that the things I take in can have on this beautiful machine God has given me. Occasionally that means I am looking to reduce my calories and balance the protein, fiber and sugar that are in my snacks and meals. This kind of behavior in me usually occurs in the midst of a sugar coma - when I (not diabetic) have consumed so many calories in such a short period of time that my body and mind enter a kind of hyper awareness, in which I am aware of each and every sugar molecule, which blood cell it has climbed aboard, and which organ it arrives at. It's like I can hear the festive sugar molecules in, say, my left lung, greeting the arrival of each new buss-load of little sugar partiers, "Hey DUUUUDES! Come on in! We can fit another ten thousand of you! OK everyone, let's do the Twitch!!! Make this thing ROCK!"
Meanwhile, my left lung is trading places with my large intestine 24 times per second.
Yes, THIS is when I start to think of new calories as a bad thing, when I already have my buzz. But otherwise, I find the labels very useful to GETTING my buzz. "Hmm - the King size Hershey Chocolate with Almonds is 240 calories, but the Kit Kat is 280. I'm going to get cool with the Kit Kat!"
Now, I know some of you by now think I'm an idiot, and some of you are right. But before casting judgment, you have to know this is actually only one part of a much more sophisticated calculation. Another factor that must be considered is craving. A craving is a spiritual connection with the food. You need a quiet moment to perceive it, but it is real. For me, I can usually achieve this by staring through the glass of the vending machine for several minutes. By focusing on and imagining the taste of each and every candy bar, one at a time, you start to hear their little voices. They call out tiny cries of affection - well, or anger - most of them are rather passive-aggressive. The one that says how much it misses you is the one you are craving.
This isn't just me, . . . Is it? It happens to other people too, . . . right?
The third factor is economic. You have to calculate the Calories per Dollar (CPD). Candy with a high CPD is to be preferred above others - regardless of the total calories. For example, if you're needing a 300-calorie fix, and you have the choice of one bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, for $1.50, or two bags of Mother's Giant Cookies, for $1.20, you have to take the responsible approach and save the thirty cents for the next binge. A CPD rating below 2 hurts a food's chance of becoming my next snack.
For those of you working in a cubical farm like myself, one important way to keep your average CPD high is to browse the desks and offices for treats and snacks. You can call it “Candy Stalking”, which has a nice, Holiday ring to it – and that is precisely the time of year this technique will be most successful. These calories are absolutely free, so dive in!
Of course you would never leave your workspace on company time just to hunt for snacks, but you will, in your normal course of business, come across various individuals who keep a candy jar, or get gifts from vendors, or who love baking and bringing things to work.
People who have snacks at their desk are very important people while their supplies hold out. These people are your Friends. They are your Most Significant Colleagues. They are Interested in You, your Needs and Ideas. They Love to have you Visit because you make them Successful. Your presence at their desk is the actual definition of “Synergy”.
Keeping these small suggestions in mind, visit them ONLY as needed throughout the day, and don’t talk to them or even look at them after their snacks are gone. Saving money, getting your fix, and making the company more efficient! You are Super Effective!
In summary, you can mock the government bureaucrats, live life on a natural high, and become God’s gift to your company simply by consuming as many calories as your are physically able. I will leave discussion of the health effects of such a food plan to others who are more qualified.
Now: can anyone tell me a good brand of stretchable clothing?
But that's not why I'm reading labels. Not because of all the government hype, but because I am in tune with my body, and conscious of the affects that the things I take in can have on this beautiful machine God has given me. Occasionally that means I am looking to reduce my calories and balance the protein, fiber and sugar that are in my snacks and meals. This kind of behavior in me usually occurs in the midst of a sugar coma - when I (not diabetic) have consumed so many calories in such a short period of time that my body and mind enter a kind of hyper awareness, in which I am aware of each and every sugar molecule, which blood cell it has climbed aboard, and which organ it arrives at. It's like I can hear the festive sugar molecules in, say, my left lung, greeting the arrival of each new buss-load of little sugar partiers, "Hey DUUUUDES! Come on in! We can fit another ten thousand of you! OK everyone, let's do the Twitch!!! Make this thing ROCK!"
Meanwhile, my left lung is trading places with my large intestine 24 times per second.
Yes, THIS is when I start to think of new calories as a bad thing, when I already have my buzz. But otherwise, I find the labels very useful to GETTING my buzz. "Hmm - the King size Hershey Chocolate with Almonds is 240 calories, but the Kit Kat is 280. I'm going to get cool with the Kit Kat!"
Now, I know some of you by now think I'm an idiot, and some of you are right. But before casting judgment, you have to know this is actually only one part of a much more sophisticated calculation. Another factor that must be considered is craving. A craving is a spiritual connection with the food. You need a quiet moment to perceive it, but it is real. For me, I can usually achieve this by staring through the glass of the vending machine for several minutes. By focusing on and imagining the taste of each and every candy bar, one at a time, you start to hear their little voices. They call out tiny cries of affection - well, or anger - most of them are rather passive-aggressive. The one that says how much it misses you is the one you are craving.
This isn't just me, . . . Is it? It happens to other people too, . . . right?
The third factor is economic. You have to calculate the Calories per Dollar (CPD). Candy with a high CPD is to be preferred above others - regardless of the total calories. For example, if you're needing a 300-calorie fix, and you have the choice of one bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, for $1.50, or two bags of Mother's Giant Cookies, for $1.20, you have to take the responsible approach and save the thirty cents for the next binge. A CPD rating below 2 hurts a food's chance of becoming my next snack.
For those of you working in a cubical farm like myself, one important way to keep your average CPD high is to browse the desks and offices for treats and snacks. You can call it “Candy Stalking”, which has a nice, Holiday ring to it – and that is precisely the time of year this technique will be most successful. These calories are absolutely free, so dive in!
Of course you would never leave your workspace on company time just to hunt for snacks, but you will, in your normal course of business, come across various individuals who keep a candy jar, or get gifts from vendors, or who love baking and bringing things to work.
People who have snacks at their desk are very important people while their supplies hold out. These people are your Friends. They are your Most Significant Colleagues. They are Interested in You, your Needs and Ideas. They Love to have you Visit because you make them Successful. Your presence at their desk is the actual definition of “Synergy”.
Keeping these small suggestions in mind, visit them ONLY as needed throughout the day, and don’t talk to them or even look at them after their snacks are gone. Saving money, getting your fix, and making the company more efficient! You are Super Effective!
In summary, you can mock the government bureaucrats, live life on a natural high, and become God’s gift to your company simply by consuming as many calories as your are physically able. I will leave discussion of the health effects of such a food plan to others who are more qualified.
Now: can anyone tell me a good brand of stretchable clothing?
Friday, August 28, 2009
Targeting my allergies
I was taking this little white pill - loratadine - for hay fever. I started sometime in 2006, and just kept taking it. I'm pretty close to a drug company's dream - even though I don't go to the doctor often - because if I find something that works, I stick with it. Anyway over the years I found I'm alergic to this and that - and in Monmouth, Oregon I'm surrounded by grass seed farms and wheat fields. A stunningly beautiful agricultural area, actually. I think that's why I can tolerate my 50-mile commute.
We cycle from pollenation to harvest to mold and back again. I thought I needed that pill to keep the allergies at bay, but a few weeks ago I got lazy and stopped taking that little pill. No, Noooo - for the record let's say I was testing my resistance. And . . . Ta Daa! All was well! The grass fields were all cut, baled, and most of them hauled off to the barns. It would be several weeks before the combines were out again. I could take a few weeks off and save some money for the candy machine.
I went more than a week with no problems - and just imagine, right outside my bedroom window is a stack of ten bales of hay! Ha ha - what was I thinking, you say? Does this little pile of grass not pose a giant problem? Nope, not one bit! Maybe I probably don't even have allergies! Let me try to remember when was the last problem I had . . . Well - I don't know! Maybe I imagined it and now I'm addicted to a little white pill for no good reason. Good riddance!
That haystack is there for my daughter, McKay's, archery practice. She wants to go deer hunting on the bow hunt, so I built her a covert archery range so she can practice up. We're keeping it covert because a bow and arrow is treated like a firearm, and I assume it's illegal inside city limits.
"Assuming" is about all the effort I'm going to put into that question, because I'm not a very sneeky person, and if I ask someone down at city hall they're going to look it up in the city code book and give me the official answer. If they tell me it's not legal to shoot a bow in town, I would likely get all shifty and say "dangit! . . . well - hmm - can you tell me how anyone here would know if I made a discrete little place to shoot? um - hmm there aren't any exceptions to this rule are there? . . . We're at 705 West Church and I'm sure I can make it safe there . . . well - ummm - nevermind! G'bye!" I would trot away and then they would write a little something on a sticky note, and patrol cars would be coming by on a regular basis, to keep the neighborhood safe.
Neighborhood cats, to be more specific.
Juuust kidding! - I don't have my own bow. McKay's shooting has been going very well. The range here is only 20 yards long, but she's got tight grouping and when we went out to a longer range she held it tight at 30. At 40-yards she's a little shaky, and Bambi's Daddy has a fighting chance. I think she's pulling about 55 lbs, but its an older adjustable bow, so I don't really know.
On Monday one of her arrows missed the foam block, found a gap in the hay, and hit the plywood backstop. The plywood was a good touch, don't you think? I am Mr. Safety Himself! Any Monmouth law enforcement officer would have to be impressed. I put up a sliding plywood backstop, eight feet tall and just as wide, framed using mostly pieces of a romantic garden swing.
That's another story.
The arrow was stuck in the plywood. I mean STUCK! And these are round-tip target tips, not the razor blades you use for game. Her arrows pack some punch! I got a hammer and nail and punched it loose from the backside. And then . . . and then . . . oh that little white pill.
. . . I re-stacked the hay tighter to close up any gaps. Set your timer to T minus 30 minutes until major hay fever attack. My throat itched so badly it ached. My eyes were on fire. My nose was a faucet (needed the weight loss, but it won't last) and my ear tubes were burning! I could actually feel every millimeter of my Eustachian tubes!
It’s 96 hours later, and I’m still shaking it off. That little pill went right back in my regimen, and my memory is starting to clear up. Guess what I remembered! I used to have hay fever attacks all the time when I wasn't taking that pill! I once came back from San Jose, got off the plane and had an attack, only to find that I was out at home and all the stores were out. Everyone loves loratadine.
Now I keep a supply, and I have a pill organizer, just for that little white pill.
We cycle from pollenation to harvest to mold and back again. I thought I needed that pill to keep the allergies at bay, but a few weeks ago I got lazy and stopped taking that little pill. No, Noooo - for the record let's say I was testing my resistance. And . . . Ta Daa! All was well! The grass fields were all cut, baled, and most of them hauled off to the barns. It would be several weeks before the combines were out again. I could take a few weeks off and save some money for the candy machine.
I went more than a week with no problems - and just imagine, right outside my bedroom window is a stack of ten bales of hay! Ha ha - what was I thinking, you say? Does this little pile of grass not pose a giant problem? Nope, not one bit! Maybe I probably don't even have allergies! Let me try to remember when was the last problem I had . . . Well - I don't know! Maybe I imagined it and now I'm addicted to a little white pill for no good reason. Good riddance!
That haystack is there for my daughter, McKay's, archery practice. She wants to go deer hunting on the bow hunt, so I built her a covert archery range so she can practice up. We're keeping it covert because a bow and arrow is treated like a firearm, and I assume it's illegal inside city limits.
"Assuming" is about all the effort I'm going to put into that question, because I'm not a very sneeky person, and if I ask someone down at city hall they're going to look it up in the city code book and give me the official answer. If they tell me it's not legal to shoot a bow in town, I would likely get all shifty and say "dangit! . . . well - hmm - can you tell me how anyone here would know if I made a discrete little place to shoot? um - hmm there aren't any exceptions to this rule are there? . . . We're at 705 West Church and I'm sure I can make it safe there . . . well - ummm - nevermind! G'bye!" I would trot away and then they would write a little something on a sticky note, and patrol cars would be coming by on a regular basis, to keep the neighborhood safe.
Neighborhood cats, to be more specific.
Juuust kidding! - I don't have my own bow. McKay's shooting has been going very well. The range here is only 20 yards long, but she's got tight grouping and when we went out to a longer range she held it tight at 30. At 40-yards she's a little shaky, and Bambi's Daddy has a fighting chance. I think she's pulling about 55 lbs, but its an older adjustable bow, so I don't really know.
On Monday one of her arrows missed the foam block, found a gap in the hay, and hit the plywood backstop. The plywood was a good touch, don't you think? I am Mr. Safety Himself! Any Monmouth law enforcement officer would have to be impressed. I put up a sliding plywood backstop, eight feet tall and just as wide, framed using mostly pieces of a romantic garden swing.
That's another story.
The arrow was stuck in the plywood. I mean STUCK! And these are round-tip target tips, not the razor blades you use for game. Her arrows pack some punch! I got a hammer and nail and punched it loose from the backside. And then . . . and then . . . oh that little white pill.
. . . I re-stacked the hay tighter to close up any gaps. Set your timer to T minus 30 minutes until major hay fever attack. My throat itched so badly it ached. My eyes were on fire. My nose was a faucet (needed the weight loss, but it won't last) and my ear tubes were burning! I could actually feel every millimeter of my Eustachian tubes!
It’s 96 hours later, and I’m still shaking it off. That little pill went right back in my regimen, and my memory is starting to clear up. Guess what I remembered! I used to have hay fever attacks all the time when I wasn't taking that pill! I once came back from San Jose, got off the plane and had an attack, only to find that I was out at home and all the stores were out. Everyone loves loratadine.
Now I keep a supply, and I have a pill organizer, just for that little white pill.
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