The other day I entered my son’s bedroom on some errand or another, and realized something important. It had to do with the olfactory impact of enclosing an adolescent and his Axe body spray in a small space with a fish tank and an only halfway clean lizard terrarium.
I realized my gag reflex has returned.
I’m not sure why this surprises me, but it does and I’m kind of sad. I used to have an iron stomach when it came to unpleasantness. But my once desensitized sniffer must have been part of a latent superpower that surfaces when I need it most; like back in the day when I’d decide whether a toddler needed a change by putting his diapered butt right up to my face. When this superpower is fully engaged, I can scrape dried poo off my shirtsleeve with the aplomb of a Ludlum CIA operative pitching a Molotov cocktail at a Russian mafia stronghold and then taking a slow-motion saunter toward the camera with a wink and a hair flip.
I have to tell you, that thought made me do a Google search for something like this:
Photo by Film Frame – © DreamWorks II Distribution Co., LLC. All Rights Reserved.
But then I stumbled upon this … and it made my day.
(and, well, let’s be honest, it probably more accurately resembles me leaving the scene of an explosion). (more…)
Our house. But back in the day, before this stuff started to accumulate.
First, regardless of the title, let’s just get this out of the way: there are too many made up words with which one can describe what’s been going on around here, but probably shouldn’t. To wit:
Snowpocalypse, Snowtastrophe, Snowstruction, Snowmageddon, Snowlamity, Snowlocaust, Snowfandango.
Maybe some of those were cute after the snow started coming. But then it kept coming and then started breaking off gutters and marooning cars. Now we’ve had three days of no school, and yesterday there was five more inches of the white stuff and then freezing rain, and there’s no way any of that’s cute any more. None of it.
I actually love the snow. I do. Sure it’s inconvenient and messy, but this year it came right before Christmas and you’d have to be a sour pit of misery not to notice when your neighborhood looks like it’s auditioning for a Hallmark Hall of Fame special about do-gooders and miracles and fa-la-la-la-la.
But, now it’s January, and we’re socked in and preparing for power outages and trees falling and ice dams, and wondering whether we’re insured for flooding. Okay, we’re weather lightweights, but whatever. I’m getting antsy. (more…)
It’s that time when we’re supposed to reflect and set goals for the New Year. Or if you’re a member of the more cynical set, it’s time to ridicule resolution-makers and people who take up all the parking spots at the gym until February. Depending on the year, I could go either way.
I was looking through some old posts this morning, thinking about what I’ve put out there (more or less publicly, depending upon how much traffic you think this little blog gets) and I’ve realized a couple of things:
- I’m really good at setting goals that I never think about, ever again.
- … Nope, that’s it. There’s just the one thing. I like bullet points.
My efforts for the holiday were acknowledged and rewarded #BeMoreMerry
We had a rather interesting weekend, after an exhausting but ultimately satisfying month wherein I deliberately set my sights on NOT resenting all of the holiday fuss and expense and impositions on my time and waistline. Turns out I can generate all kinds of good, yule-tide ju-ju when I set my mind to it, even though I’m predisposed to Grinch-ism. (more…)
A little trivia about this blog:
- It started as family travel journal. Turns out, when you take a couple of kids around the world, you may leave grandparents skittish about the lack of daily contact, even if they weren’t terribly helicopter-y before you talked about getting on a plane.
- It morphed into a sort of therapeutic confession of my parental shortcomings.
- It may have been envisioned, at one time, as a book platform.
- Most days it’s just me, procrastinating. Because sometimes more substantial writing projects are hard and kind of a drag and there’s a lot of self-doubt and introspection and who needs that kind of garbage, anyway?
Me. I need that kind of garbage. I’ve been neglecting this blog because I’m working on something else. I’ll bet you haven’t guessed, either, but it rhymes with …. with look and …. and hook.
… And that ‘something else’ may never see the light of day, which is hard for a blogger who’s used to immediate feedback regardless of how much whatever I’ve written stinks to high heaven.
So today, I’m back on the blog, taking a breather from 74,000 words of what could be the worst crap ever typed on a keyboard, to hold forth on this thing I’ve now done exactly one time, and not entirely to completion, and on which I am nevertheless an expert.
Ahem … blog versus book: a comparison. (more…)
“Don’t you just get more and more excited as it gets closer to Christmas?”
This was the start of a conversation over scrambled eggs yesterday, December-the-very-first, with our exchange student, Anna. Since I don’t talk much before 8 am, my only reply was to stare at her over my coffee mug, contemplating her sobriety.
Then I thought about the relationship I have the holidays, and how likely it is I’m gonna let this girl way down sometime in the coming weeks.
If you’ve been here for any length of time, you know I’m kind of a Scrooge. Want a refresher? Well there’s that tale about our amazing city lights tour – aka the Vomit Trolley Ride of 2004, or the one about how I only do Christmas crafts as an act of revenge, or there was that time I almost came to blows with Santa.
I haven’t any excuse for this hostility. It’s not that Christmas is a particularly dark time of year for me. I don’t get seasonal depression. There’s no trauma in my past. I’m just one of those people who really doesn’t go in for schmaltz. Or shopping. Or crafts, clutter, or empty calories for that matter (except beer, that is. And I do kinda dig spiked eggnog). I’m mostly just lazy. And a cynic. And schmaltz is way less funny than cynicism.
A little research and a consultation with our own kid who’s currently living among Anna’s people, confirmed that Danes do Christmas like they mean it, and Anna appears to be keeping pace with her homeboys. Before December was even upon us, she’d been to two tree-lighting ceremonies and a couple holiday concerts, and had a stack of homemade Christmas cards ready to send. The girl is ready for the holiday. (more…)
Early last week, Anna, our Danish daughter, asked how it feels to know, as a nation, that the whole world is paying close attention to your every move.
To be honest, right now it feels rather like getting caught by the neighbors, having passed out on the lawn in a puddle of … well of something not left there by the sprinklers, lets say.
And for the record, no, I haven’t ever been caught passed out on the lawn. I’m just guessing how that might feel, you guys. Jeez.
I was working last week on a post I’ve since scrapped because I’m still trying to figure out how screaming into my pillow could be a productive part of any discussion. I’ll admit it was cathartic to give folks a piece of my mind though, even if that piece never leaves my desktop, or is only witnessed by those who happen to pass as I’m having a very heated discussion in my empty car.
One thing’s for sure: for a humor blogger, I have precious little to say that’s very funny right now. Hence the gap in my regular posts.
There was one thing recently that felt productive, though.
Last weekend, I was on a team of more than three-dozen volunteers who screened applicants for Rotary youth exchange. If all goes well, by this time next year, many of those teenagers will be on foreign soil, completely out of their element, struggling to understand and make themselves understood, and hopefully having the times of their lives. We’ll accept a few others just like them, here.
I’m not much into the country music scene, and by not much, I mean not the teensiest bit. So when told my trip to Nashville would be on the eve of the 50th Annual Country Music Awards, with a lot of celebrity sighting potential, I had to confess I wouldn’t know a country star unless he bit me right in the face.
This statement did not get the laughs I expected in Tennessee, so I’m wondering if people there were just (a) too aghast at my ignorance to respond as expected, or (b) there’s actually more face biting going on than I realize.
It can’t possibly be (c) that I’m not as funny as I think. (more…)
There had been an argument down the hall. Raised voices, a thump, then silence. Martha harrumphed and reached over Larry’s head. He flinched as she grabbed the key off the pegboard. She turned and pushed through the swinging door, disappearing around the corner before it could swing back.
Larry closed his binder after laying a pencil across the spreadsheet to save his place. He stood, pulling himself up at the counter. He propped a sign near the edge of the counter to face the lobby. It was a dog-eared, peeling from its cardboard backing. A cartoon bird was wearing a watch on one wing, pointing to it with the other, its beak open in a wide smile. “Be Back Soon!” in letters that always reminded Larry of that pig and his “That’s all Folks!” at the end of the cartoon.
Larry bent to collect items he’d stowed near his feet. He shuffled after Martha at half her pace. He could hear her before he turned down the hall and saw her, both feet planted at the second door down. She was knocking, her knuckles stern on the wood.
“Manager,” she said, her lips tight.
“Martha, there’s no one,” Larry said.
Four more doors down, there was the sound of a latch. Light threw itself against the opposite wall. Larry saw the shadow of a head. Right. They weren’t completely empty. Never completely. (more…)
I got into a little argument on Facebook recently.
Someone said (and I’m paraphrasing here):
Oh, it’s so sad. A child was hit in a crosswalk this morning on his way to school. Please be careful everyone.
Then another person, whom I’m just going to call the “Douche Bag of the Day” responded (again … paraphrasing):
Ahem, not to seem insensitive, but who is really at fault here? Shouldn’t kids watch where they’re going? And shouldn’t parents blah ditty blah, hell-in-a-hand-basket, when-I-was-a-kid blah blah?
Again, you know, paraphrasing.
And I saw red, because some kid that very morning was rushed to the hospital as his bike lay crumpled on the sidewalk and a whole bunch of other kids and probably a crossing guard were doomed to relive the exact moment over and over again in their heads for a number of days if not weeks.
And some parent was pacing in a room with outdated magazines wondering if she should call all the relatives and feeling like she was going to throw up at the same time her throat was constricting and so jumpy that if someone tapped her on the shoulder right then they’d have to peel her off the ceiling.
And here’s this Facebook commenter positing on the state of parenting and kids today and wondering who was at fault? (more…)
Last month, Grant Feller of The Telegraph published an article admonishing parents to wait to travel with their children until they’re teens. To do otherwise, he says, is a waste of money, and the only reason anyone would do so is to assuage guilt about expensive vacations, and rack up bragging chits about their little ones’ ability to tick countries off lists before any of their friends.
Feller points his own childhood travels as “supreme indulgences” on the part of his parents, who dragged him along when he was too young to appreciate or remember anything of significance.
If all that wasn’t enough, he says, traveling with kids is distinctly no fun.
“Children are always inconveniently tired, have very little interest in culture, can’t walk longer than 45 minutes without needing sustenance and moan if burgers aren’t on the menu.”
As part of a parenting team that has brought one or more young children along on a number of regional and international trips, I have a different perspective.
No, more than that. I completely disagree. (more…)