Nuclear Family Warhead

The Nuclear Family took on more children around Christmas when we adopted 2 beagle puppies from a local Humane Society.  We already had a lab, so putting 2 more dogs in the backyard was, without question, going to increase our volume of “meadow muffins”.  I knew this going in, yet adopted anyway.  I feel now that I don’t grocery shop to feed the family, I shop to have enough grocery bags to clean up all of the “road apples”. 

Cleaning up the yard isn’t happening as often as it should (my fault), and so occasionally the kids step on an apple or squish a muffin.  Clean up the shoes, and we’re good to go, no problem.  But last week, Nukegirl stepped in a pile that wasn’t quite aged yet, and went down.  It could have been much worse.  A tissue for her eyes, a twig for the bottom of the shoe and some Shout for her shirt sleeve and everything was back to normal.  Except for me.  Her little slip had triggered a flashback in me that shakes me to my core to this day. 

I was 6 years old when I experienced “trauma” for the first time.  My family traveled in the summers because of my Fathers job, so each summer we would be in a rental home.  Since we only rented for 3 months, the houses needed to be furnished and often times the houses would come with a little more than we were expecting.  In the summer of my 6th year the house was a duplex, and the “extra” was the owners dog; Hobo.  He was a grumpy, long-haired mutt of the first order.  His breed was a mix of Sheepdog, Airedale and Wolverine.  He didn’t like me one bit, which was fine, because I didn’t particularly care for him either.  We kept our distance, and everything was fine.  Until that one day.  I can’t say for sure if Hobo planned it or not, but the end result was that I went down.  Down hard.

This had to be late July or early August, as my birthday is at the end of July.   I had gotten exactly what I wanted for my birthday: a “Hippity-Hop”.  Some of you may remember them, some of you may not, but just imagine a core training ball with a handle.  Here, I’ll show you a picture.  Anyway, on the day in question, I was in the yard enjoying my new toy.  I was hippity-ing and hoppity-ing to my hearts content.  The yard had a hill that cut right through the middle of it.  I’m sure it was just a little swale, but back then, to me, it was Everest.  I was at the top of the hill, and having “mastered” the Hippity Hop, I was ready for this new challenge; I would conquer the hill. 

Unbeknownst to me, Hobo had made his morning deposit at the crest of the hill.  I was too caught up in my joy to see it.  You already know what’s coming next, but I’m going to have to type it out anyway, aren’t I?  You guessed it.  On hop number two I hit “Hobo’s Revenge”.  It sent me backwards, directly into the heart of meadow muffin hell.  I had to roll over to try and get up, which only succeeded in evening out the coating.  The first attempt to stand resulted in a slip and fall, as did the second and third.  I finally crawled out of the danger zone like a soldier on the beach at Normandy.   I got to my feet, and ran, screaming all the way to the house. 

When I got to the house, I opened up the screen door to the porch while screaming “MOM! MOM! MOM!” My mother opened the back door and almost fainted.  Then she started making sounds I’d never heard before.  All I remember hearing is “DON’T COME IN THE HOUSE!  GET OUTSIDE!”  As I went back outside I could hear my Mother yelling for my sister.  Big sisters get all the fun jobs: dishes, take out the trash and de-poopify little brothers.  The end result was my loving sister standing on the driveway with a spray nozzle hosing off her little brother.  God Bless Her.  I caught a glimpse of Hobo out in the yard.  He had his tongue out, panting with delight and wagging his tail.  I got him back later that summer.  Lets just say it involved a flirtatious poodle and some dogs from Jersey.

The Mother-In-Law arrives tomorrow…

…need I say more?

As one who came of age during the 80’s, I am proud that I survived the era without owning parachute pants, or wearing a Member’s Only jacket with the sleeves pushed up.  I am even more proud of the fact that I avoided the use of the word “awesome” as my main adjective.

I thought I was free and clear, until a few months ago.   Awesome has returned to the national vernacular, only it has disguised itself as ”Amazing”.

It’s everywhere, used to describe everything.  It’s especially prevalent among the twenty-somethings.  They must be like the Eloi from the Time Machine, being shown the wheel for the first time in their lives.  Everything they describe is “amazing”.  Start listening for it, you’ll be, well, you’ll be amazed quite frankly.

Let’s teach these people what a thesaurus is for.  As for those of you reading this that are guilty of abusing this word, here are some alternatives:

1. Stunning

2. Unbelievable

3. Fascinating

No thanks is necessary.  Just take these new words and use them to supplant amazing,  for a change.  Together, we can break the cycle.

This happened a while back, so hopefully right-minded companies have corrected their menu script.  We were at a concert, a rodeo, WWF On Ice or something along those lines; at a venue that uses Aramark, Sodexo or a company like that to manage their concessions.  These are the good people that negotiate contracts with local and state governments to run the snack bars at huge arenas and stadiums, so that you can have the luxury of chomping down on $7.00 buckets of popcorn and sipping $6.00 cokes.  The venue and the event aren’t the issue, the offending company and the incident are. 

Nukeboy1 and I went to the concession stand at this event that I can’t recall, to get something to drink, and bring back some popcorn for NukeMom and Nukeboy2.  As we were standing in line I was reading the beautiful menu board, sponsored by Pepsi or Coke or whoever it was; and felt my wallet retreat further into my back pocket with each price I read.  I know I’m going to be ravaged at a place like this when I’m thirsty, but in some states, this could be considered assault.  $6.00 for a Coke?  Are you kidding me?  That was for the large size.  They had a small size for $4.50.  It’s the old “bait and switch” brought to a new level.  The small is like 12 ounces, and the large is aquarium size.  Nothing like an opportunity to “up sell” your customer.

When we finally got to the front of the line, the girl behind the counter couldn’t have looked more disinterested.  “Can I help you?” she managed.  “I’d like one small Sprite and one Large Coke, please.”  She looked at me like I had just gotten off the short bus.  “Sir, we only have Medium and Large!”  As she said this, she slowly turned her head towards the menu board, keeping her eyes on mine as if to say: “Look, it says so right here dummy”, and sure enough, on the board they were listed as Medium-$4.50 and Large-$6.00.

Now, I’m not a Rocket Surgeon, but don’t you need 3 sizes in order to have a “Medium”?  “Don’t you need 3 sizes in order to have a Medium?” I asked her.  “No, Sir.  It’s right there on the board.”  Somebody trained this girl?  Either I was irritating her, or she had heard this before.  Or, the omniscient board knew all.  I wasn’t going to give in.  “Just give me one SMALL” and I spread my hands apart in the general size of the “Medium” cup, “and a LARGE” and I made the universal gesture of “Hey! Look at me! I’m carrying a keg of beer!”.  She wasn’t very happy with me, which was obvious when we got our sodas with cracked lids and bent straws.  I signed the second mortgage to pay for them and off we went back to our seats.  This was an older arena, so they only had two seat sizes: Medium and Extra Small.