The Epiphany Of A ‘Cliffipe’
It occurred to me after my last “Cliffipe” entry that some people may be wondering which Steak and Meat Seasoning NukeDad uses in his mexi-meat. It also occurred to me that some people may be wondering “What the heck is Steak and Meat Seasoning?”, so I decided that I would share that information with you. It’s not like it’s a closely guarded secret, heck, I don’t even give measurements. But then, that’s kinda the point, isn’t it?
So here it is: a link to the greatest steak, chicken, ground beef, pork, turkey, soup, cookies seasoning ever. It comes from The Mexican Food Capital of the World, El Paso, Texas; my old stomping grounds. In addition to the best Mexican food on the planet, El Paso also has a plethora of fantastic Steak and BBQ restaurants. But that is fodder for another post. Go to the Great American Land and Cattle Company website to place your order.
To answer the question some may be asking, NO, I have absolutely no affiliation with this restaurant and will receive no monetary gain for plugging it. In fact, when I lived in EP, I actually worked for one of their competitors. It’s just great stuff, and people need to know about it. Happy Grilling!
Holy Molar!
After church today the Nuclear Family went out to eat. During the course of the meal I looked over at Nukeboy1 and saw the biggest OMG expression ever. In his hand he was holding one of his molars. It wasn’t a total surprise, the tooth had been doing the Macarena in his mouth for a few days, the surprise came when he chomped down on it. Ouch! Luckily, none of the other molars sustained any damage in the enamel pile-up. I asked him to let me see it, but he didn’t want to give it up. He was a little upset because last week Nukeboy2 lost a tooth, and Grandma and Grandpa were here. When Grandma and Grandpa visit, a lost tooth is worth 500% more than usual. They bring their tooth fairy with them.
Nukeboy2 was excited, as he has lost 4 teeth in the last 9 weeks and knows that there is a monetary reward involved. “I hope I lose some more teeth, Dad” he said, “Why?” I asked him. “Because I could use the money.” I told him that if you lose more than 6 teeth in a year that you have to pay taxes on them, but he wasn’t buying it. I also told him I had a friend who got audited by the tooth fairy once. Over the course of 4 years he had turned in 24 teeth for redemption, but since God only gave him 20, he had some explaining to do. He kinda bought that one. Note to self:go to the shop and hide the pliers.
When Nukegirl saw the tooth she became very excited as well, because her pre-school class had studied dental hygiene on Friday (I’m not making this up, it’s right there on the calendar next to “Meet the letter L”), and she was ready to make a contribution. “You can borrow my tooth pouch, Nukeboy1!” she said. They had made “tooth pouches” to put their teeth in once they start falling out, thus saving the Tooth Fairy the hassle of searching inside pillow cases or under beds. Dare I say, she was actually committed to this contribution? Time will tell.
Grand Opening
We are pleased to announce the grand opening of the NFW Diaper Disposal Facility.
With the Nurse hailing from New Orleans, the food in the chow hall sometimes gets a bit “flavorful”. This causes problems several hours later when little Beaker needs to be changed before hitting the cot. After trying several containment measures like leftover grocery bags, zip lock sandwich bags, and lead-lined 55 gallon drums, it was obvious that drastic action was needed.
Behold! A 43,000 acre state-of-the-art facility!
Trucks will begin arriving tomorrow. My highly trained and dedicated minions will then start the process of turning these previously useless pampers into a renewable energy source capable of powering the Lair and therefore removing us from the main power grid. All surplus energy will be sold at extortion rates to countries with the highest bids. To be placed on the pick up route, please phone us at 1-888-555-LAIR. A helpful, courteous henchman is waiting to handle your call.
Mexi-Meat Build-a-Meal Workshop ‘Cliffipe’
- Brown alot of Ground Beef
- Season with: Steak and Meat Seasoning, Chile Powder and Cumin
- Add potato (cubed) and diced green chiles
- Lay mexi-meat in small flour tortilla. Fold it in half and you have a soft taco
- Roll it up in big flour tortilla, you have a burrito
- Deep fry burrito, you have a chimichanga
- Place in store bought formed taco shell, you have a crappy taco
- Place in corn tortilla, fry in oil, you have a good taco
- Roll up in corn tortilla, fry in oil, you have a flauta
- Go far enough North and your flauta becomes a taquito
- I could be here all day
- Roll in corn tortilla, put cheese and red sauce on top and you have red enchiladas
- Roll in corn tortilla, put cheese and green sauce on top and you have green enchiladas
- Fry corn tortilla flat, place mexi-meat then lettuce, you have a chalupa
- Fry corn tortilla flat, place lettuce then mexi-meat, you have a tostada
- Try telling a 4 year old why beans have to be re-fried
- Try telling a 10 year old why all Mexican food comes with Spanish rice
- I did the math: you have 267,583 possible meal combinations
- Pitcher of Margaritas HIGHLY recommended during preparation
- Yes, Margartia Cliffipe to follow…later….my fingers hurt
Are You Committed, Or Just Contributing?
The kids and I differ on these two definitions. To clarify, lets recall the oft-told tale of the chicken, the pig and breakfast: If you’re having bacon, eggs and sausage for Breakfast, who made the contribution and who made the commitment? Well, they both contributed, but I think the pig is definitely committed.
This subject comes up during clean up time. The picture above is of a “pillow house”. They randomly appear in the den from time to time; sometimes with the knowledge and blessing of NukeDad and NukeMom, but usually not. Their construction requires the use of pillows (obviously) of all sizes and shapes, and depending on their size and scope, may require a trip upstairs. They need structure and support, so the use of “the little table” is often employed, as are end tables, rocking chairs, TV floor chairs and V-rockers.
Construction of these domiciles is generally fast and furious, much like Donald Trump’s development of the lower west side of Manhattan. Once the structure is complete and the “roof” (whichever blanket is left) has been installed, the habitation begins. There are secret doors, mailboxes, peek-a-boo floor level windows; you name it, it’s in there. The euphoria of living in a self built abode lasts all the way till dinner time, or whenever Spongebob is over, whichever comes first.
After dinner, when it comes time to clean-up, the conflict begins. They become squatters. We’d have better luck clearing the Gaza Strip of rocket launchers than getting our pillows returned to their beds. “Nukegirl! I told you that after dinner you and Nukeboy2 would have to clean this up!” “I know Daddy, but my legs hurt.” She did it. She played the ouchie card. I’d seen this tactic before, and if I survived the Great Disco Scare Of The Late 70’s, then I could make it through this. “Well, you can soak in the tub when you get done.” “But Daddy”, she said “they hurt right now! In real life!” She wrongly assumed that my line between reality and fantasy was as blurred as hers was. It wasn’t working. “Just do it, Nukegirl.” With a pouty lip and a feigned limp she hopped over to the couch and put one of the pillows back in it’s place. That was her contribution.
Nukeboy2 was committed. By the time Nukegirl and I had finished our verbal volley, he already had bed pillows returned upstairs, and most of the downstairs pillows and blankets in their proper places. The only thing left was 1 couch pillow. Nukegirl sauntered over, picked it up and with a look of disgust said to her brother: “How come I always have to do EVERYTHING? You NEVER help.” Nukeboy2 thought better of retaliation. He’d rather be a pig than be called chicken any day.
The Torture Of American Idol
Every year it happens. Every year the Lair is invaded by an insidious adversary know as American Idol. This attack is always an inside job. My lab assistant and her junior cohort simply open the fortress doors and invite it in, week after week. Then there they sit, staring at the television and cheering for the nobody du jour, and debating with each other over which one should be cast out of the inner circle. The current favorite is a wispy little blond that sings and plays the piano. Sure, she’s cute, but that’s about it for me.
The one that catches the most derision is a poser with a bad haircut and even worse sense of personal style. Each week he gets up and belts out some cheesy song that he’s re-worked to try and make himself look innovative and sings it like a man in dire need of a stool softener. This madness goes on for weeks, sometimes for 2 hours a night! After every performance a self-appointed jury gives their opinion to each offender. Almost without fail, it goes a little like this:
Randy Jackson: “Yo, yo dog. It was a little pitchy for me, a little pitchy. It was just okay for me, not that great.”
Paula Abdul: “You’re just wonderful, I love your voice, and you’re already a star.”
Simon Cowell: “That was just awful. I hated it.” (He’s usually right)
I guess if it keeps the minions entertained and distracted, how bad can it be? As for me, I climb up to the Crow’s Nest and work on projects for English 112.
The Demise Of The Chalk People
They roamed the hills and valleys of the driveway for days. Three days, to be exact. The tall pastel pink female was their leader. She kept them all in line. Fuchsia was her name. She ruled with an iron stick fist. She led her people through the windiest March 22nd they had ever seen. The only March 22nd they had ever seen, actually. And their last. For even though Fuchsia held them together through the long, windy night of the 22nd, and all the way through the balminess of the 23rd, there would be no 24th. In what would later be dubbed “The Great 20 Minute Drizzle Of March 23rd”, the Chalk People, like the Mayans before them, vanished from the face of the earth. Fuchsia, her first lieutenant Magenta, and the children; the poor children: Robins Egg Yellow and Columbia Blue all perished that evening. An event that will last in the memory of Nukegirl for hours. Minutes, even. May they rest in peace.
Ant Farm: The Lost In The Mail Gel Colony
They made it! They finally got here! Well, most of them; anyway. Nukeboy2 had his heart set on an ant farm, so with the $6,000 in Toys R Us gift cards he got at Christmas, we were off. The purchase was painless, the wait for the actual ants was excruciating. See, Uncle Milton (The Ant Farm Makers) failed to mention that on the outside of the box. I didn’t expect for there to be live ants in it, but I didn’t expect to have to wait almost 3 months for them either.
Nukeboy2 purchased his ant farm back at the end of December. We filled out the card for the ants (please enclose $6) and sent it off. Strangely, there was no option on the card to pay with a Toys R Us gift card. No matter. The card read: Allow 3 to 6 weeks for delivery. That’s quite the delivery window, isn’t it? Anyway, right after that the card read: Weather permitting. Hmmm. Upon further review of the e-mail we received, it seems that harvester ants have an aversion to trips through the U.S. Postal Service in sub-freezing temperatures. Makes sense. But there is this thing called full disclosure….
The day had finally arrived; the ants were here! Nukeboy2 came in the door after school and I immediately told him: “Go get your ant farm, the ants finally got here!” His reply? “What ant farm?” I had forgotten. Kids live in dog-time. 1 day seems like 7, so for Nukeboy2, ordering ants two and a half months ago may as well have been 2 years ago. I could see his Axon’s fluxing and he said “Oh, yeah! The ant farm! I’ll be right back!” It took him almost 5 minutes, but he finally found it under his bed. “Here it is Dad!” he said. Homework would just have to wait a few minutes, I was almost as excited as he was.
We had waited so long for the ants, that in our haste we didn’t read the instructions again. We knew we had to put them in the refrigerator (Not the freezer!) for 15 minutes to calm them and avoid flesh wounds; what we forgot was the “starter holes”. They sent a little jabby thingy to make starter holes in the gel, but it was still under the bed. Along with one of the hole plugs, but that’s another story. We poured in the “25 to 30″ harvester ants and put the lid on. What actually came out was 24 ants, several thoraxes, a few heads, some mandibles and lots and lots of legs.
In 24 to 48 hours our little guys were supposed to be digging up a storm, but all they had done is sit there with their faces plugged in the gel sucking in water and “nutrients”. “Why aren’t they doing anything, Dad?” Nukeboy2 asked. I didn’t have an answer for him. “Maybe they’re on strike” I said. Well, two nights ago, miracle of miracles happened. They had sucked so much water and “nutrients” from the gel that they actually sucked it away from the walls of the case. One or two of the poor saps fell into the crevasse, and had to eat their way back to the surface. Now they’re tunneling like crazy. Last night they completed their version of “The Chunnel”. If you look close, you can see from the bottom right the tunnel is skinny, but from the top down it is like an 8 lane interstate. I believe the English ants tunneled down, and the French ants were tunneling up. Just a theory.
Riggins or Andrews?
This evening my 8 year old daughter was watching The Sound Of Music. Sitting across from her was my 18 month old son, also watching the movie, but holding not 1, but 2 footballs. Does the presence of athletic equipment cancel out the fact that he was staring in rapt attention to a musical, or do I have something to worry about here?
Will he drag 300 lb NFL defensive linebackers down the field, or just dance in one, with an apron and a guitar case?
To her credit, my daughter did not make him play Rolfe to her Liesl.
Poor Man’s Fettucine Alfredo ‘Cliffipe’
- Boil Water
- Throw in fettucine noodles (”place noodles” if you don’t like splashes)
- In separate pan heat milk, Philly cream cheese & parmesan
- Toy with it a little, it’s not like I have this stuff written down somewhere
- Drain noodles-resting spoon on the edge of pan to hold back noodles method not recommended
- Write “strainer” on shopping list
- Pour alfredo sauce over fettucine
- I’m assuming you put fettucine back in pan
- Mix well
- Start another pot of water to boil
- Serve Fettucine Alfredo to family
- Yell “Bellissimo!” as you place it on the table
- After 3 bites ask kids why they aren’t eating
- By now the other pot of water should be boiling
- Take 4th (and last, for a while) bite of your Fettucine Alfredo
- Get up and go cook ramen/spaghetti/ravioli for kids
- Give kids their food
- Sit back down and enjoy your cold, clumpy Fettucine Alfredo
The Left Lane Is For Make-up Application Only
This is definitely a Peeve’s topic. I know I’m not alone in my disdain and general loathing of those drivers who seem to think that the left lane is their own personal HOV lane. I know the title suggests this is just about the ladies, but there are some men out there who need some re-edjukatin’ too. Say it with me now: The Left Lane Is The Fast Lane! I didn’t capitalize all of the letters, so technically I’m not yelling, I’m just raising my voice a little. I mean, come on people! If your goal is to go 67 miles per hour and stay front-bumper-matched with the car next to you, do it when there are 3 or more lanes! And make sure you’re in the middle one! If you’re trying to make a moral statement about speeding, and feel that by holding people up you’re “saving lives”, just remember that the guy behind you may be trying to get to the hospital to see a sick relative. Or, he could be trying to get to the ballgame, either way, Who Are You To Decide How Fast He Should Be Going?!
I’m not saying that you should get out of the way so that hot-rodders can blow past you at 100 miles per hour, I’m saying that if you’re going to go 67 miles per hour (you lawbreaker, you) you have no business being in the left lane period. Get out of the way, you’re going to get somebody hurt. Besides, if someone is doing 100 miles per hour, the last place you want to have your 67 mph butt is in front of them. Do you think he’s had his brakes looked at recently? Are you willing to take that chance? Maybe his power steering is about to go, or the accelerator is stuck. Wouldn’t you rather be out of harms way?
The worst case scenario pulled in front of me the other day: Woman driver (could have been a man in drag, I don’t know), steering with her knee, cell-phone in the crook of her neck, right hand applying eyeliner, and left hand waving about frantically. She was obviously making her point to the person on the other end of her cell phone. I really don’t think she even realized she was operating a motor vehicle. In her mind, I think she was seated comfortably behind her desk at work. “I don’t care if they’re beige, as long as they’re size 6!” Pulling in front of me wasn’t the issue, slowing down to 53 miles per hour and staying even with the 18 wheeler in the right lane was. We were going up a hill, mind you, and her awareness was fading by the moment. She was like an Allstate commercial on crack. All she needed to do was pull out her laptop, and she would have been crowned Queen of the Clueless.
I eventually got by her, 2 counties later. The line of cars behind me reminiscent of the closing scene from “Field of Dreams”. Now it was like Daytona. The CRX behind me was drafting, so a quick tap of the brakes sent him 3 car lengths back. But it cost me. I didn’t see the Acura coming up on my right until it was too late (how did he get around Estee Lauder so fast?), and he passed me in a flash. Begrudgingly I put on my right blinker and yielded the fast lane to those with a higher purpose than I. Besides, I was already doing 80, these people were just nuts! As I checked the review mirror, I could see headlights weaving, darting, jockeying for position. Brothers in arms, all. Oh, I made it to the game in time. Hurricanes won 5-1.
The Heel Print On My Forehead
The sounds coming out of exam room 4 at the ear, nose & throat Doctor’s office were enough to send chills down the spine of the most battle hardened nurse. The inner office data-tech was seen cowering under her workstation, rocking back and forth in a fetal position chanting: “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!” The outer office receptionist, in an attempt to deaden the noise, had to close her sliding window in between co-pay extortion transactions. One man was seen leaving the waiting area with tears in his eyes, and a look of utter terror etched on his face. He told the receptionist that a couple of aspirin at home should help his ruptured eardrum. Was the horrible din coming from exam room 4 Nukeboy1 or Nukeboy2? You might think that, but you would be wrong. The childlike screams were coming from me.
To put this in perspective, let’s go back in time. At the age of eight my eustachian tubes stopped growing. What is a eustachian tube? It is the narrow (In my case, VERY narrow) tube that runs from your ear to the back of your throat, right about where your nasal passages enter the throat. Think of it as the ultimate freeway cloverleaf for a germ or virus, they can take any exit they wish! “How about the middle ear honey, we had so much fun last year.” “I told you Gladys, we’re going to sinus-land and that’s final! I should have left you back at the Uvula with your mother.” It might have had something to do with the 758 inner ear infections I had endured up till then, but my tubes decided they would take their ball and go home.
Why all the screaming in exam room 4? Because I was getting “tubes” put in my ears. Yes, those tubes. The ones they give infants and toddlers who have chronic ear infections. I may not be a toddler, but my wife will argue that at times, I can behave like an infant. This was one of those times. Too bad she wasn’t there to witness it. It had taken me 3 years of badgering, whining and bribery to get my Doctor to agree to this. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. I got it, alright.
My problem is that my “cloverleaf” is kind of like Boston’s freeway system before the Big Dig. Lots of traffic, and none of it was moving. It didn’t matter where the problem started (ear, nose or throat), within a couple of days my entire skull would be packed tighter than Don Pablo’s on Mariachi night. Antibiotics would take care of most everything, but, invariably, my ears would stay clogged. You know what it sounds like when you are under water at the pool, and you hear people talking above the surface? That toneless garble that sounds like an arguing couple through the paper thin walls of a Motel 6? (Not that I’ve ever stayed at one, I’m just sayin’….) That’s what I heard all day. Every day. For 6 months now. I think the Doctor knew that if he didn’t give me the tubes today, that it might get ugly. “Let’s do it” he said. Yee-ha.
The first tube went in with no problems. It was over in 5 minutes. Now, don’t get me wrong, there was nothing remotely pleasing about this. In those 5 minutes he had lacerated my eardrum with a scalpel, and then inserted a vacuum to remove the “liquid” behind my eardrum. Only, after 6 months, liquid wasn’t properly descriptive. Try “muddy”, or “thickened”. The word my Doctor used was “molasses”. Wonderful. Things weren’t any better in my other ear. Same procedure, but thicker “molasses”. That’s when the trouble started.
“Let’s take it up to 7″ he told the nurse. Now, rather than it sounding like a really bad windstorm in my head, it sounded more like what Dorothy heard before the window shutter rendered her unconscious. Still nothing. “Better move it up 4 more” Doc said. 11! His brain-extracting sucker-thingy went to 11? I could have miscounted, who knows, all I know is that the next thing I experienced must be what a migratory bird hears before it gets sucked into the business end of a Pratt and Whitney engine on a 747. Time stood still. My left eyelid twitched uncontrollably. My life was flashing through my mind, only in reverse. He was rewinding my brain! What else could it be? And then, it was over. “Whew!” Doc said, “That was rough!” Yea, hope it didn’t hurt you too much, Doc.
Now, I had endured the pain and aggravation of plugged up ears for so long, that I was prepared to stick it out, no matter what. At least, that’s what I told myself as I lay on the chair, gingerly extracting my fingernails from the once plush padded arm rails. I think I bent them a little too, I was leaning to the left. “Now comes the easy part” said Doc. Little did we know. After the 10 minutes it took him for “liquid extraction” of my second ear, double the time it took for cleaning and placing the tube in my first ear, the rest should have been easy. But alas, it wasn’t to be.
The incision he made in my eardrum for the second tube was a tad low. Now, to his credit, he never once said “Oh, oh” or “oops”, but I could tell there was a problem. The amount of noise for the tube insertion was nothing compared to the TWA flight that took off inside my head minutes before, but it was still loud. Think of the noise your children make when they commandeer a karaoke machine, turn it up to “11″, stick the microphone all the way in their mouths and make burping noises. That’s what this was like. After the third attempt I could hear the frustration in his voice. “It’s not supposed to be this hard” he said. I enquired as to what the problem was, and that was when he fessed up to the cut that was a little too far south. “So it’s just going take a little longer, is all”. Fair enough, he was a great Doctor, and I had come this far, might as well gut it out. After the fourth attempt I suggested that perhaps leverage was the issue, and would he like to put his foot on my head to expedite the process? I got a courtesy laugh from the Doc and a “Don’t say another word” look from the nurse. I think she was in more pain than I was. The fifth attempt was the charm. The kid burping noises stopped, and the Doc was obviously relieved. “I’m sorry about that” he said, “I’ve never run into that situation before.” We chatted for a few more minutes, and he actually walked me all the way out. I think maybe he had a medical malpractice lawyer as his next appointment, and didn’t want us to see each other. “Take care of yourself!” he said as I walked out the front door. “I hear Ya!” I said. And for the first time in 6 months, I actually DID hear.
The finished product is pictured above. Although this isn’t MY ear, I’m sure mine looks very similar. Who knew such a small thing could be such a big pain?
This IS NOT the Doctor portrayed in the story.
Photo courtesy of: http://www.entusa.com/ear_tubes.htm
Copyright 1999, 2000, 2001 Kevin T Kavanagh, All Rights Reserved
A Virus Named Bob
We have named our virus. His name is Bob. He lives in my chest, my daughters ear and my sons nose. He moved in 8 weeks ago and refuses to leave. I’m hospitable by nature, but this is getting ridiculous. He comes and goes as he pleases, as if HE was making the mortgage payments.
It all started 8 weeks ago when he met my daughter at school. I know what you’re thinking, and no, he is not a pedo-viral. He’s just “Down on his luck” as he describes it. She brought him home and he took one look at my chest and said “That looks cozy.” I said “No problem”, just for a couple of days, right? Got him out of my daughters ear at least. So in he goes without so much as a thank you.
Come to find out, Bob’s a nomad, likes to move around. He told my cochlea he was “Between opportunities” and was “Looking for steady work.” Seems summer’s coming and his job prospects are starting to diminish. He said he wanted to end the season with a bang. Well, Cochlea, in all her infinite wisdom tells Bob that she heard they were hiring at Tonsil Town. Seems like she’s always getting information first. So off he goes to hang out with Sal Iva and Hal Itosis. Like those two need any encouragement.
Well, I sneezed in the kitchen 2 days ago, and Bob decided it was time for him to go. Sal left for a minute, but then came right back. Hal stayed put. We had garlic bread that night, and he LOVES garlic bread. My son came in from outside, panting after a game of basketball. Bob saw the opening and took it. Now Bob’s looking to move back in with me! Says my son has “Too many white cells.” If I’d know he was a racist, he would have been gone long before now. He has until tomorrow to clean out my lung and go. I don’t think he’ll put up much of a fight this time. He saw me unpacking the groceries today and saw the gallon of orange juice and the albuterol. He won’t be back. At least not this year.
Handicap Tags
Why do people with handicap tags feel it necessary to have them hanging from the rear view mirror when they are driving? All it does is create a huge blind spot which may cause them to hit me, and possibly make me handicapped.
Braised Lamb Chops with Balsamic Reduction ‘Cliffipe’
- Who are you kidding?
- Go get the phone book
- Domino’s delivers
- Choose closest location
- Call and place order
- Wait 30 minutes
- Pay Driver
- Serve with chilled soda or juice box
If Your Friend Jumped Off A Building, Would You?
Dad-isms have been around since the beginning of time. Ever since Adam told Seth: “Just because your brother killed your brother doesn’t mean you have to.”, the art of the Dad-ism has been elusive for some, and standard practice for others. This started me thinking on how I would have answered differently if I had the knowledge then that I have now.
For instance, I believe I would have asked a lot more questions. How tall is the building? Is there a pool at the bottom? Will ESPN be there? Who owns the building, and are they insured? Actually, that probably would have been one of my Dad’s questions, but either way, we would’ve both benefited from the exercise. Did my friend have a good reason for doing it? Did he survive? Did it get him a date? Was it a screaming plunge, a graceful swan-dive or a double gainer with a 1/2 twist? Suffice it to say that if my friends’ leap of faith had been off of his sisters playhouse into a pile of 100 dollar bills, I would have been there quicker than an asthmatic to his inhaler. Save the hate mail, I’m sucking on mine as we speak. I love the spring. If, however, my friend went headlong off of the Sears Tower into a grove of honeylocust trees, then I believe I’ll pass.
The point is, when Dad was asking these hypotheticals, he already knew the answer, he was just looking for validation. Answer wrong and he may be looking for the nearest bar, but I knew the answer as well. And I still do. I use a lot of my Father’s Dad-ism’s today, and if I do it correctly, then my kids will use them as well.
I’m trying to modernize though. “If your friend ran up an extra 30 dollars in text messages, would you?”, “That computer isn’t going to re-boot itself!”, “Get your i-pod’s off the table.”, “Credit cards don’t grow on trees, you know.” I do have in my arsenal, though, the one Dad-ism that will always get you out of a jam. The one that no child can refute, and no Dad should be without. Use it sparingly and use it with caution. “Go ask your Mother.”
Little White Socks
Is it just me or are these things everywhere, like Captain Kirk’s Tribbles?
If every little white sock that I have picked up in the last 8 years had a nickle in the bottom of it I could have long since bought that 40′ Chris Craft I want and headed off to Trinidad and Tobago.
At first it was just a minor irritation, but as the years have worn on, I am now convinced that they are responsible for my shattered L7 disc, occasional migraines, and the fall of the dollar. Sometimes you find them behind the recliner, or under the couch, maybe even stuffed next to the T.V. That’s normal. Finding them in the dishwasher, the toilet, or the pantry, lead me to believe that there was something more sinister at work.
I recently decided to indulge my suspicions. After doing the normal evening routine of setting the coffee, locking the doors and turning off most of the lights, I ducked behind the couch and kept and eye on one of the larger white socks in the herd. He’s been around the block; a little thread-bare in the heel, with a few grass stains that won’t come out anymore. After about 20 minutes, he moved. Just a little, but he moved for sure. I held my position. Then like an inch worm he began to make for the kitchen, pausing occasionally to listen for predators, like a cautious jack rabbit. He made better time across the smooth tile until he made it to the laundry room where he proceeded to climb the ironing board with all the dexterity of a Navy Seal. He wasted no time in making his way to the lint trap and pulling the screen out. That’s when I saw them; 13 white socks of all sizes pouring out of the lint trap. Not a matching pair among them. I hit the lights! They scattered like roaches and dove for cover under the washing machine, the broom closet, any place they could find. I managed to get a few of them, maybe 4 or 5. I took them to the boy’s room and opened the drawer, hoping against hope to mate them up with their partner, but it was not to be. Just another drawer of single mis-matched little white socks.
Now I know their secret. I am no longer safe here. I sleep with a loaded bottle of Febreze, safety off.
BBQ Chicken ‘Cliffipe’
- Have wife pick up chicken from store on the way home from work
- Cuss at built-in BBQ grill ignitor that hasn’t worked since the day you bought it
- Go in house and get BBQ ignitor (Or throw matches through grill)
- Unpack chicken and say “Ewwwww” when you see chicken tray maxi-pad
- Put chicken on grill
- Put out raging fires caused by accumulated grease from the last 3 years
- IMPORTANT! Put BBQ sauce on last unless you want to battle a sugar fire in addition to the grease fires you just brought under control
- Take cooked chicken into house and place on table
- Ask wife why the table isn’t set yet
- Dodge plate thrown by wife
- Tell wife you were just kidding
- When asked by son say: “Yes, it IS supposed to look like that”
- Go outside to BBQ Grill and lift lid. If fires are out, leave lid open. If fires are still burning, close lid and check back in 1 hour
- Go to medicine cabinet and apply aloe-vera to forearms
- Tell daughter you don’t know where your eyebrows went
- Sleep contented, knowing the family didn’t go hungry
Redeployment Is Not An Option
Ask some people what a “Nuclear Family” is, and the responses will vary from a family that lives entirely too close to the cooling towers, to a family of really smart scientist-like folk. Ask most anybody what a “Nuclear Warhead” is, and 99% will be able to tell you that it’s the thingy on the end of a missle that makes things go “KABOOM”. No one, however, will be able to tell you what a Nuclear Family Warhead is.
For the record, here is how dictionary.com defines them: Nuclear Family: “A social unit composed of father, mother and children.”
Nuclear family. (n.d.). Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Retrieved March 15, 2008, from Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Nuclear family
and: Nuclear Warhead: “A warhead containing a fission or fusion bomb.”
Nuclear warhead. (n.d.). Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Retrieved March 16, 2008, from Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Nuclear warhead
For our purposes, we will define a Nuclear Family Warhead as: “The bombs that are unleashed when detente fails between Father and child, resulting in mutually assured destruction.”
This is the story of two Stay at Home Dads on a mission: raise the kids while Mom is off earning the big bucks while simultaneously doing all of the cleaning, cooking, bathing, laundry, shopping, etc. You know, all of the things that Dad’s are wired for. It is a big mission, one that we don’t enter into lightly. We understand that diplomacy, while effective, is usually lost on terrorists and those under the age of 8, but we are always willing to try it first. When negotiation fails, however, we are fully prepared to unleash the Wrath of Dad and turn the playroom into a parking lot.
Strategy is important. Sometimes all that is required is a low yield NFW to quell an uprising between brother and sister. Other times call for a pre-emptive NFW strike in the 1 kiloton range strategically exploded above the heads of the advancing troops. There are times, however, when both sides are pushed to the brink, and there is no red phone to pick up. These are the times that Parent and child realize they can’t even pronounce “Glasnost” and both sides unleash a torrent of NFW’s that shatter the landscape. Or at least the living room.
This journey will prove to you that the cold war isn’t over. You’ll find out what really happens behind The Juice Box Curtain, what motivates the Secretary of Allowance to behave the way he does and that Redeployment is not an option. So if you’re ready, lace up your boots and enlist in The Army of Dad. The only way to sustained peace is through overwhelming strength. Oh, and nap time helps too.
