My friends at RedEnvelope.com have made it easy for you to pick out a quality gift for your Dad and look like a hero while doing it.  Just visit their Father’s Day Gift Page and choose from a wide variety of gifts.  You can get everything from a Home brewery set to cuff links, valets, MLB coasters to every BBQ accessory you can think of.  Full disclosure requires me to inform you that I was compensated for this endorsement, so I’ll go you one better and show you my compensation.  I chose one of Red Envelopes valets.  I had a good reason for doing so.  Here is a picture of how I used to store all of the things that go in my pockets and then come out of my pockets on a daily basis.

THE BLACK HOLE

Pretty sad, huh?  Everything just tossed in the front of the catch-all drawer in the kitchen.  It took me almost 5 minutes to find my car keys one day because one of the NukeKids had been in the drawer looking for AA batteries.  They didn’t find any batteries, but they managed to “lose” my keys.  I found them in the back in an envelope for a time share offer that should have been tossed out years ago.  Everyone has a drawer like this in their home; the “Black Hole” or “Bermuda Triangle” drawer where things disappear for years on end whenever you need them, only to re-appear when you’re looking for something else.  Then you go back later for it and it’s disappeared once again.  Well, no more for the NukeDad-I’m organized now.  Check this out.

ORDER IS RESTORED

Same items neatly placed in my new personalized valet that will sit above the old catch-all drawer and allow me the piece of mind that my car keys will never be lost again.  Pop on over to RedEnvelope.com and pick out something for your Dad for Father’s Day; there’s still plenty of time to get your order in and bring a smile to Dad’s face on Father’s Day.  Let’s face it, there is such a thing as too many neckties.  Enter the code 10offred  (Ten off Red) at checkout and receive 10% off of your order.  Tell them NukeDad sent you.

JP HAYES

I had quite the full weekend.  I threw my back out on Thursday while I was in my crawl space installing electric and broadband lines for a computer relocation.  It was sort of like if John Wayne Gacy worked for AT&T or Comcast.  I didn’t wear my clown suit, though.  Then on Friday I drove to Charlotte to watch my brother in law; J.P. Hayes play in the PGA tournament.  It was a smart move; walk around a hilly golf course for 4 hours immediately after a back injury.  No amount of Motrin in the world could make me feel better on Saturday, and believe me, I tried.  I twisted my back pretty good getting in and out from under the house, but it didn’t feel too bad.  I had injured my lower back once before when I was younger and remember it being a painful injury with a slow heal time.  Can’t wait to see how the sequel turns out.  Walking around the golf course on Friday actually helped stretch my back out and made it feel better, or so I thought.  I’m fine while I’m mobile, but once I sit down to rest, or worse; lay down in bed to sleep for the night, my back seizes up tighter than a T-shirt vendor at a Taylor Swift concert.  The bad part is that I still have some crawling and bending left to do to finish the computer move.  Better go to Sam’s and buy the tub of Doan’s Pills.

I almost didn’t make it out of the house on Friday morning.  NukeMom was home because she had fallen on Thursday and fractured her hand and NukeGirl woke up sick to her stomach.  NukeMom forced me out of the house and said that they would be fine.  I’d tell you more about NukeMom’s fractured hand, but I don’t want my back injury to get any worse.  That splint could cause some damage.  I got to the course just in time to catch J.P. as he started his second nine holes.  His group played the back nine first, so I got to the 1st hole just in time.  He was already 3 under par for the day (1 under for the tournament).  “Whoa! He’s already 3 under?” I asked the sign bearer.  “Yep, but he had 4 birdies.  He bogeyed 18″ the sign bearer told me.  Great.  Right when I get off the bus he gets a bogey.  I haven’t always been good luck for J.P. when going to watch him play.  I thought that maybe I should just go get back on the bus right then.  Of course, I’m a lot more superstitious than he is.  He played lights-out the rest of the way and got 5 more birdies coming in.  He tied the course record with an 8 under 64, just barely missing a birdie putt on his final hole to score 63 and take the record outright.  Any of you who watched on Sunday know that it would have been a moot point anyway as a 20 year old Irish kid named Rory McIlroy broke the course record by 2 shots and shot a 10 under 62 to win the tournament by 4 shots.  It was amazing to watch.  He’s already ranked in the top 10 in the world and he’ll only turn 21 on Tuesday.  An Irish Tiger Woods?  Maybe.  Let’s just hope there aren’t a lot of Waffle House waitresses and porn stars in Ireland.  J.P. had a tougher weekend and ended up tying for 38th place.  I know he would have liked to finish higher, but he’s having one of the best years of his career and even got into The Players Championship next week; a tournament he’s performed well at and one that I know he’s happy to be in.  Over lunch he told me that he was happy that the early success this year will allow him to play less and be home with the family more.  Maybe Tiger could take some lessons from a PGA Tour pro who has his priorities right.

NOT EVERYONE WAS HAPPY TO SEE TIGER

Speaking of Tiger, I got to see him in the flesh.  It’s not like I sought him out, he just happened to be coming out to practice before his round shortly after J.P. had finished.  I was waiting near the clubhouse which was also near the practice green.  It was a real bottle neck and the growing crowd didn’t help matters.  The tournament volunteer trying to keep the area clear was losing his religion trying to keep people out of the way.  To make matters worse, Phil Mickelson was 2 groups behind J.P.’s group and would be coming in soon also, so you had Tiger fans and Phil fans all gathering in the same place at the same time.  It was kind of like West Side Story without the music.  Or The Crips and The Bloods if gangsters played golf.  Everything was fine, of course, as we all know that golf fans are much more civilized than, say; English soccer fans or Justin Beiber concert go-ers.  When Tiger finally appeared there was an army of police officers around him and Lord knows how many private plain-clothes private security in the crowd.  I’m pretty sure the guy who elbowed me in my injured back as he quickly brushed past me was private security.  I was fully expecting someone to yell out; “Text me, Big Boy!” or, “Let’s go get some waffles!” because I didn’t want to be the one to have to do it, but alas, no one did.  He actually got a very cordial reception; probably more than he deserved, and more than he was expecting, judging from the look on his face.  He looked apprehensive, almost terrified.  He was staring at the ground trying to be inconspicuous, but once the cheers started and he realized ti was all positive, he looked up and acknowledged the crowd.  Right before I lost sight of him, I saw him actually crack a smile.  He looked completely out of sorts on Friday, though, as he played terrible and missed the cut for only the 6th time in his career.  Ouch.  I did see one picture of a woman who was none too happy with him giving him a thumbs down sign and I heard that one fan was ejected for a lewd comment.  So it goes.  A few minutes after Tiger walked by, Phil Mickelsons group came in and the crowd went crazy.  Stewart Cink came by, Jim Furyk, Zack Johnson, Kenny Perry, Padraig Harrington and a host of other Tour pros walked by while I was there.  When J.P. finished up in the press tent we went to get his car to go eat lunch.  Fred Couples walked by and gave J.P. a hello nod and me a “Who the hell are you?” look.

Before I left town I was able to go and see my old friend Paul from El Paso.  He’s not the same Paul I wrote about here, he’s another Paul.  Let’s call him Ranger Paul since he was one of the first Army Rangers to hit the ground after parachuting into Panama during the invasion in 1989.  He’s cleaned up real nice for a kid who used to always smell like BBQ.  Well, I guess we all smelled like BBQ back then, you could just drive by The State Line (where we worked) and end up smelling like a brisket.  I remember the day he told me he was going to enlist thinking; “What is he thinking?”  But he had his plan all worked out, and he executed it flawlessly.  He served 4 years as a Ranger in the Army, used his GI bill to get an accounting degree from UTEP, got his law degree from SMU and retired as CEO and President from his company the very day I showed up at his doorstep.  At the age of 43.  Bastard.  Just kidding, Ranger Paul was always the one with the plan.  He’s going to take the summer off and then explore his options.  Sounds just like me, but with more options.  He told me about the 20th reunion he had attended to commemorate the Panama invasion and how one of his former squad mates was in Iraq with our friend Andy when he was killed in action.  Andy worked at the State Line with us as well.  I wrote about him here.  Ranger Paul says according to his squad mate  it was a 12 hour fire fight and that Andy was hit about 2 hours into it.  It was a one in a million shot that caught him on his side in the one spot where there was no armour.  He said that even if they could have gotten a helicopter in there immediately that Andy most likely would have died on the way.  Ranger Paul’s wife Stacy and I worked together at the Miller Beer distributorship in El Paso, but she was out of town for the weekend so I didn’t get to see her.

All in all it was a great weekend, if you take out the sprains and fractures.  I got to see family and friends and relive a few memories from my ever fading youth.  It’s good to get out like this every once in a while.  I’ll be doing it again soon.

IGNORE THE NEED FOR A PEDICURE

NukeMom noticed a bump on my right foot the other day.  I hadn’t paid much heed to the pain down there because I always have pain in my feet, it’s the norm for me.  When I looked at it and realized that she wasn’t joking, I reached down to touch it, thinking it was a cyst, but it wasn’t.  It’s hard as a rock, just like bone.  An internet self diagnosis brought me to conclude that it’s a dorsal bunion.  I knew that bunions formed mainly on the side of the foot, and since my toes weren’t pointing east and I haven’t worn heels since my tragic broken heel spill in 1995, I figured I was OK, but a dorsal bunion?  This thing came out of nowhere, and over the last few days has started to become more painful.  I have an appointment with a podiatrist (seemed logical) next week, so we’ll see what he has to say.  I’m not so much worried about what he is going to say as opposed to what the X-rays are going to say.  You see, there’s a reason my feet hurt all of the time, and it’s mostly my fault.

I was born with high arches and a high instep.  A double whammy if you ever want to find a comfortable pair of shoes.  The reason for my toe pain is a little less genetic, and a little more behavioral.  I broke the big toe on my right foot when I was in the 6th grade.  It healed nicely and I didn’t have anymore problems until 1993.  In that year, a friend and I rented a house from a kindly, wealthy gentleman who owned 2 apartment complexes and 4 or 5 houses.  He was a retired lawyer who didn’t need the money, he just liked interacting with his tenants (house tenants, not apartment).  The house sat on 3 acres, had it’s own irrigation system and our landlord did the yard.  Seriously.  Rent was $375 a month.  Not each; total.  It was awesome.  We were finally able to convince him that 2 healthy young men having their 70+ year old landlord doing their yard could be detrimental to our reputations.  He finally relented, and that afternoon came by our house and delivered a brand new lawnmower.  The man was a saint.  My roommate and I had quite a time at the house, as I’m sure you can imagine-I believe I’ve mentioned it before but I’m too lazy to go back and link it.  Anyway, one fateful night in 1993, our house had become the gathering spot once again for an impromptu gathering.  That night, at that gathering, my foot troubles began-I broke every toe on both feet.

How does one manage to break every toe on both feet at the same time you ask?  Simple, just play barefoot soccer on a field that is bordered by cement porches and cars.  Yeah.  I think I finished 3rd that year in the Darwin Awards: Survivor Category.  Driving for a score, I drove my left foot into my friend Mario’s Nissan.  I didn’t notice the pain right away, copious amounts of Coors Light ensured that.  After a few minutes I realized that I’d definitely done something to my left foot, so I hobbled off of the front lawn to check it out and refresh my beverage.  “It’s not that bad, you wus-get back out there! Besides, Mario can bang that dent out, no problem”  my roommate said.  So I did.  A few minutes later I was on defense and went for a sliding block, leading with my right foot.  A slight depth perception problem (my glasses were on the porch) revealed that the foundation forming, immovable cement porch was a lot closer than I thought it was.  All of the toes on my right foot folded nicely underneath my foot.  I felt this one.  I hobbled up to the porch and sat down knowing my time in the game was over.  I moved my toes around the rest of the night until I finally went to bed.  Bruised, but not battered; or so I thought.  Boy, was I wrong.

The next morning I woke up and was sore from head to toe.  That probably explains why I didn’t notice the pain in my feet like I should have before attempting to get out of bed.  I swung my feet out of bed and stood up-and immediately fell back on the bed.  My toes screamed at me to; Retreat! Retreat!  I sat on the bed and took a first look at my toes-it was ugly.  I had purple slash marks at the base of each of my toes.  One on each side, like an inverted “V” sitting below each toe.  The big toes were worse.  My left big toe had the purple slashes at the base and a solid purple line going all the way up to the toenail.  The right big tow was completely purple.  The same big toe that has a large dorsal bunion growing on it right now.  Being a young man with no health insurance, I did the only thing I could do; I toughed it out and wore sandals for a couple of weeks.  My friends told me that I walked like I had a corn cob placed somewhere that it shouldn’t be, and I’m sure I did.  Any pressure on the toes was excruciating, so I walked flat-footed for bout 2 weeks.  I think at that point I looked like a penguin that had a corn cob placed somewhere that it shouldn’t be.  From that day forward, my feet have been toast.  I always knew this day was coming, I just didn’t like to think about it.  My right big toe, rather than being a normal 3 bone, flexible appendage is basically one fused bone from toenail to about where you see the bunion.  The left big toe isn’t much better.  Everytime I walk you can hear the cracks and pops of the bones in my feet.  It’s like I’m wearing Rice Krispies for shoes.  So, I venture to the Podiatrist next week hoping that it’s a simple case of bunion discomfort, but I know, deep in my heart, that I may end up being this Doctor’s career reconstruction achievement.  And this is the year we switch to a high deductible health insurance plan.  Thanks, Karma!

SHOCKING, I KNOW

I was out running errands when I saw it.  It was too late to swerve, and besides, on a 2 lane highway, one never swerves.  We learned that on day 1.  I followed my training; I grabbed the wheel firmly at 10 and 2 o’clock, let my foot off of the gas, lightly tapped the brakes and prepared for the worst.  Nothing.  Not even a bump.  I looked up into the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of white, green, tan and a tiny bit of red.  Not enough red to be a femoral bleeder, but enough to notice.  I also noticed the lack of anything that looked body-ish.  Thankfully, there was no one behind me and I was able to peruse the image in the mirror a little more closely.  That’s when more details began to emerge.  Details like; the victim(s) were more round than I would have expected.  They also had obviously not been wearing their seat belts, which would explain the debris field that now littered the road.  There were parts all over the road, in the grass along the shoulder and probably on the tires and undercarriage of many a car.  My last look at their vehicle confirmed what I already knew, I had done it; I had killed a box of Krispy Kreme donuts.

JUST SEEING THIS MAKES ME TEAR UP...AGAIN

About a quarter of a mile further up, I took a right headed towards my house.  Up ahead I could see something in the road, something eerily familiar; a rectangular white, green and red box with the souls of 12 more poor donuts smashed underneath it.  It was at this point that I felt the first tear fall upon my cheek.  I looked further still, another hundred feet down the road there were 2 more boxes, both of them torn apart like so much busted plumbing.  Donut bodies were strewn across the road, a few survivors lingered in the grass.  I pulled over and did what I could, but without a glass of milk my efforts would only go so far.  I just thank the lord that these were all glazed donuts, I don’t know if I could have held down my breakfast if there had been any jelly-filled in those boxes.  Imagining the horror of a box of eclairs scattered across the blacktop was enough to get me back into the car.  I came upon 3 more accident scenes before turning on my street.  Who could do this sort of thing?  What kind of animal leaves the backdoor to his Krispy Kreme donut delivery truck open while flying down the road?  When they find the perpetrator, I hope they throw the book at him.  He obviously bears no remorse for his actions; hell, he didn’t even stop, people!  He could have saved some of those poor donuts; maybe not for the front row of the display case, but he could have dusted them off and handed them out as free samples to customers around the coffee machine at his next stop.  No, probation is too lenient for this animal; he deserves to be dragged behind his panel truck, like that poor dog in Vacation.  And I know, as surely as night follows day, that somewhere, right now, in a convenience store near me: a policeman silently weeps next to an empty donut display case.

It’s a great movie, and if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it.  I think you can even watch the whole thing on You Tube if you don’t mind watching it in 11 different parts and x’ing out all of those annoying ads that pop up down bottom.  The main character; George Malley, finds himself in a strange situation: He’s gone from Average Joe to Stephen Hawking in the blink of an eye.  After seeing something in the sky, he wakes up with incredible mental capabilities.  How cool would that be; I mean, before the CIA busts your door down and sticks you in an Eastern European Research Facility?  I think it would be stupendous.  Well, after a while I guess it would get pretty lonely.  It’d be like you were a 4.0 student in a Pre-K world.  Yeah, scratch that; maybe being the smartest guy in the world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  There are plenty of these guys walking the streets of major cities with tinfoil under their stocking caps who will tell you as much.  The black helicopters are everywhere, and they’re trying to steal our thoughts.  What’s the frequency, Kenneth? With that being said, here’s a list of some of my random tinfoil thoughts.  Some of them you may have seen before, others, maybe not.

1. My Roomba accidentally docked with my Tom Tom charger.  Now I have dirty floors and my GPS gives me 87 routes that all lead back to my driveway.
2. If I get Mono and it gets worse, will I have Stereo?
3. Once their divorce is final, will Tiger Woods’ wife be the top money winner on the PGA Tour?
4. What do you use to hang a mime; imaginary rope?
5. If a man named William can also be called Will, Willy, Bill and Billy, why can’t you call him Billiam?
6. What does a solo synchronized swimmer synchronize with?
7. When Mariah Carey sings “I’ll Be There” is she talking about the all you can eat buffet?

Food for thought.

I read an article recently that said the number one cause of divorce is no longer money problems; it’s a red tortoise shell bank shot that knocks ones spouse out of first place.  I can see where that can happen, based on the change in the family dynamic these last 4 days.  The Nuke Family is competitive by nature; Mario Kart just may make us militant too.  Fangs gnash, claws come out, audible growls are the norm; we’re hooked!  Just yesterday I was told by one Nuke Child (who will remain nameless) that the throwing of a steering wheel at a sibling was “an accident.”  “I was just passing it to them, gosh!”  Airborne Wii remotes that hit your sibling in the head are now classified as “your turn” in my house.

I’m getting used to some of it; I understand now that while getting “The Bullet” is cool because you get to go fast and you don’t have to steer, it really isn’t that cool because what it means is that you are either in last place or pretty darn close.  I already knew that if you hit a cow in the road that it would be painful, I just never realized that it would make your car do a back flip and make you yell; “Yoo-Hoo!”  Squid squirt ink, knew that; dodging moving  cars in the middle of the road makes your adrenaline escalate, check; and driving through mud or neck-deep snow is hard, gotcha.  I know that I’m a total Mario Kart newbie, and that this may bore those of you that already have a Wii, but it’s so darn addicting that I just had to share!  Here’s a short video for those of you who have no clue what I’m talking about.  Look for “The Bullet” near the end.  It’ll have white arms and a menacing smile.  I know.  Work with me here.

IF YOU THINK HE'S SMALL, YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE APPLE

As some of you may already know, the bravest person in our house when it comes to bugs and such is NukeGirl.  She is fearless when it comes to all creeepy-crawlies except for spiders and bees; but then, who does like spiders and bees?  We went to a Childrens’ museum once when they were having an “Insectopia” show or something, and they had this millipede that….well, here; just look at the picture.  Read the whole story HERE.

THAT THING WAS LONGER THAN PUBERTY

It wasn’t like I had to coerce her to go up and look at the thing, she made a bee-line (that’s punny) for the table shouting; “Ooh! Ooh! I want to hold it! I want to hold it! Can I Daddy? Please, please, please?”  Who was I to argue?  A few days ago I heard an ear-shattering shriek coming from the kitchen. NukeMom had happened upon some sort of monster, I was sure.  I rushed in with the only weapon I could find (a bath towel), ready to face the enormous, deadly, man-eating beast that I was surely about to encounter.  What I saw was the little guy you see on NukeGirls finger.  “Seriously?” I said to NukeMom.  “It startled me!  I didn’t know what it was!”, NukeMom offered.  Just then, NukeGirl walked in to see what all the fuss was about.  “Awwwww!  He’s soooo cute!”  With that, NukeGirl swept up Wormy and they watched Phineas and Ferb together before we told her it was time for Wormy to go outside.  She placed him on the deck railing, said; “Goodbye, Wormy! I’ll miss you!”  and went back inside.  About 2 seconds later a Robin swooped down and picked up Wormy and flew away.  Maybe we’ll wait another year or two before we really get into “The Circle of Life” with NukeGirl; the Lion King version is working fine right now.

From Leta:

HEADKNOCKER

July 23rd, 1964. Envision a small family standing in front of an elevator smiling and waving goodbye to their mom. She was seated in a wheelchair, smiling back. The father informed the small boy and slightly older girl that the next time they saw mommy they would have a new brother or sister. The girl was overheard saying woohoo! OK, now let’s get to Aunt Bonnies house so we can go swimming!!! Such are the feelings of a self-absorbed eight year old.

Fast forward a few years to a bright sunny day. Picture a shopping cart and seventeen kids running around playing. Now picture one of those kids (the birthday boy) climbing into the shopping cart while the skinny neighbor shoves it off the curb and into the street. Lastly, picture older sister running into house screaming to mother that youngest brother had cracked his head WIDE open. (A footnote should be added at this point that states sister is a very big exaggerator). A quick trip to the emergency room, 4 or 5 stitches and all was well.

Circa 1985. Same birthday boy, same emergency room. The doctor looks at the patient and asks just how he received his injuries. Well the back injury occurred when the wedge he used at work, to split wood to cook bbq, slipped and flew up into the air and hit him in the shoulder blade. Second injury was later in the day. Same wedge slipped and hit him in the leg. Doctor told him it was a good thing he didn’t work all day or he may have ended up killing himself with that wedge. Patient chuckled and told the doctor not to worry. He was a little accident prone….had his head sewed up seven times before he was 3, the first time happened when this neighbor kid with a shopping cart…

Jump ahead quite a few years and read something called a blog written by none other than birthday boy. What’s this? A picture of a van….and it is surrounded by……shopping carts.

Happy Birthday Geoff!! Thanks for the opportunity to share with your readers a few little tidbits about you. One day soon I hope to have pictures of the Hoppity Hop Hill of Doom and a few others that you have mentioned along the way. I Love You, Leta.

From Steve:

YEE HAW!

So the year/years are somewhere between the late 60′s to maybe mid-very early 70′s; time slips my mind; maybe early fall, and all the guys in the neighborhood decide to go to the Circle K at the cross roads. Somehow after leaving the store all had acquired many cans of tobacco…raspberry, mint, etc. Geoff, as I recall at the time, might have been 8-9 at best. So that afternoon brought all of us back to Marwood Park and delving into the fruits of our labor. Late the next afternoon would find both me and Geoff out in Dad’s shop being confronted by Dad and wondering how on earth we had acquired so many cans of tobacco without a dime to our name. Long story short, both of us were threatened within an inch of our lives that we would never dip tobacco again or we would suffer the consequences. Jump ahead a few years to high school and big brother picking up the habit of dipping on a regular basis. Wasn’t long before little brother (maybe with a little help from me) decided that if he wanted to be cool and have all the girls after him he had to carry a can of tobacco in his back pocket. So began the family legacy of Skoal cans on the bedroom shelf. Plans were that if we could get enough cans saved possibly we might get U.S. Tobacco to send us a couple of rolls or maybe even a case if we could amass enough cans. All we had to do was spell out “SKOAL” on the football field at Zach White. As the years passed the cans grew by leaps and bounds and shortly after I moved out we had saved over 5000 cans. Unfortunately neither me nor Geoff ever did anything with those cans other than leave them as we moved on to be cleaned out by a wonderful woman; our Mother.

My brother hopefully today will be a pleasurable day for you as you celebrate your Birthday with family and friends. Here’s hoping that you experience the same joy in this day that you bring to others. I love you….Steve

From Laura:

SUNSET OVER THE STATE LINE

I could spend pages writing about my brother, what he has meant to me, how I idolized him growing up, how I longed to be included in anything he deemed worthy of his time, how I used to sneak into his closet and abscond with his favorite concert t-shirt, as if the wearing of it would somehow transport me to his level of coolness, how much I appreciated his protective shield when it came to my first forays into dating, how his musical influence on me continues to this day - but the attempt would only serve as a fruitless effort to describe him fully. I will share but one important insight into what kind of brother he was, is, and what kind of man he remains.  Keep in mind that he was just 21 when he imparted the following pearl of wisdom upon me.

The most important lesson I ever learned from Geoff came to me at the age of sixteen. It was my first night working at the State Line restaurant, a place that became for Geoff, myself, and my sister, Stacey, a home away from home as we racked up almost thirty years there collectively. Geoff had been working there for over five years when he scored a job as a hostess for his little sis. I was in awe that first night. Not only was I making real money that I would have to pay taxes on, but I was able to hang out with my brother and all of his cool friends. People I had known and admired from afar, and some I had only heard about as we sat and made our mixed cassette tapes together. At the end of the shift, he drove me home. We pulled up to the house and sat in his car before going in. “So what’d you think?” he asked me, knowing full well I was about to pop with excitement. I went on and on about the evening, asking him about so and so, and what he or she was like, and were they as nice as they seemed or really secret jerks who shorted the busboys on tips when they checked out? I got nothing. No gossip, no stories, no pent up resentment for the waiter or waitress who might have rubbed him the wrong way. Absolutely nothing. Instead, he said this to me: “You know, Laura, I’m not going to say one word about anyone. I want you to meet these people and make your own judgments about them. Whether you like them or not shouldn’t have anything to do with whether or not I do. You’ll have to make up your own mind.” I remember even as he was saying it, realizing the profundity of his words, that I would carry that with me the rest of my life. And I have. Happy Birthday, Geoff. I love you mucho. Thanks for always treating me with love, kindness, and generosity.

From Stacey:

BACK IN THE DAY BEFORE THE DAY

My brother Geoff has always been the life of the party and the comedian in the family.  He has a knack for making friends and making people feel comfortable.  He is a loving, devoted father and husband, the likes of which I have rarely seen.  When it comes to his sisters, he is fiercely protective and known not to budge when it comes to demanding respect of them from others.  I am lucky enough to be one of those sisters and have always loved having my big brother looking after me.  Our family is very close and always has been.  We have been referred to as, “the Walton’s” by those who are not as fortunate.  To us, this has always been a compliment.

Growing up, Geoff was a “cool” big brother.  He was a handsome, Tom Cruise look alike that all the girls had a crush on.  He was an athlete as well and played on the Coronado football team.  This was a very cool thing to do.  Because he was on the football team, he would have to sell “spirit ribbons” each week before a game.  Of course, he hired his little sisters to help him with the task.  I was in junior -high at the time and would gladly take his spirit ribbons to school with me in an attempt to help him out.  Believe it or not (I’m not making this up) girls would buy these ribbons from me because my brother had TOUCHED them.  That’s right, because his hands had once held them.  Can you imagine?

Even with such adoration from females and a genuine respect from every male in school, Geoff never let it go to his head.  He has always been a sensible, down to earth guy.  In his 20’s, Geoff became the manager at a very popular restaurant in town.  He got me my first job there.  My first night of work, someone made the mistake of commenting on “the cute new girl” to my brother.  It was quickly made very clear that this person would in no way be allowed to get close to me.  About five years later, this person and I had begun dating.  We had to call an emergency meeting with my sister Laura to figure out how we were going to tell Geoff.  After much discussion and a few cups of “liquid courage,” Geoff came in.  We explained to him that we had been dating for a while and that we were serious about each other.  We waited with apprehension to get “approval.”  Geoff gave us his blessing (what is this, the Godfather?) and we were together for a very long time.  It still brings a smile to my face to think about that night.  It wasn’t that I needed his approval, but I wanted it.  C’mon, he’s my big brother!

I have so many great memories of you Geoff, that I could go on forever.  I remember playing “socks off” and “trip” when we were little.  We didn’t need to buy games, we made them up.  Remember 52 card pick up? I remember you  teasing me with the promise of giving me your “Beth” 45 in order to get me to do just about anything. I remember being in Santa Fe and that you and Laura were the only friends I had—and that was GREAT! I remember sitting on the back porch playing Yahtzee while we listened to the “new” Fleetwood Mac album.  I think back to having you home with us and seeing your beautiful children and I smile.

I am so blessed to have you for a brother.  I love you more than you know and I know that I don’t say it enough.  I also know that I am the worst at staying in touch, but I hope you know that I think about you always.  I hope that this birthday is the best one yet and that you are truly happy.  I love you big brother, for all that you have taught me, given me and protected me from.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!  Stace

From NukeDad:

Thanks guys! Wow! This beats expensive presents or cards filled with cash anyday! (mostly)  Here are links to my posts on Leta, Steve and Laura; Stacey, yours will be up in about a month.  Leta, I even linked the Hipptiy-Hop story for you.  I love you all.

It was a fabulous time and I’m sure you’ll be hearing plenty more about it in the near future.  I was glad to get home to NukeMom and the NukeKids On The Block; I missed them terribly.  We are already planning a trip back for next summer so they can all enjoy the best Mexican food in the world just like I did.  And BBQ.  And Michelob  Ultra.  Well, maybe no Ultra for the kids, but NukeMom would probably enjoy one or two.  Or thirty; like I did.  OK, OK; it wasn’t thirty, it just felt like it.  I learned a couple of things about Michelob Ultra while I was home: 1) Ultra sounds very similar to ‘otra’ ; which means; ‘another’ in Spanish.  The bartender; Moises, spoke limited English, so my journeys to his domain turned comical (I thought I was being funny) when I would say; “Otra Ultra, Moises!” and would walk away with one, or sometimes two beers.  This became problematic later in the evening when I was trying to remember how many beers I had had and whether or not I should order ‘otra’ one.  I lost count when I had to take a shoe and sock off and decided that one more wouldn’t hurt anybody, which brings me to realization number two.  2) Michelob Ultra presents itself as a ‘light’ beer that can be consumed while playing a round of golf, working in the garden, or even running a marathon.  Put a six-pack in your pockets during your next Triathlon.  Being that I haven’t partied like it’s 1999 since, well, 1989; I was a bit rusty on the execution.  My math dilemma notwithstanding, Ultra can pack a punch if it is consumed in even numbers or small groups.  I don’t drink beer anymore; well, not in any quantity at least.  An occasional beer or two on the porch every couple of months is about the extent of it for me.  That being said, I guess you could classify me as one of those ‘social drinkers’; one who only consumes alcohol (in limited quantities, mind you) at office parties, dinner parties or the occasional neighborhood get together.  With that in mind, understand that I will not allow you to say that I was “drunk” at my sisters wedding no matter what WeaselMomma tells you (Click on my favorites).  If you’re going to accuse me of anything, accuse me of being too social.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.  Try and reply to a tweet at 1:30am after consuming copious amounts of Michelob Ultra and your fingers will swell to the size of Johnsonville Bratwursts and the keyboard keys will look like Pez candies.  Nope, typing after that many Michelob Ultras isn’t recommended.  Realization number 3)  If you go to a party and the bartender only speaks Spanish and they have a choice between Ultra and Bud Light; I’d go with the Bud Light.  The math is so much easier.  Trust me on this one.

NUKEMOM & NUKEBOY1

One camping trip last week coupled with a trip to the New River in Foster Falls, Virginia today has led me to my present state: banging out this post while listening to John Denver.  I know, I know, Dr. Isaid No is laughing hysterically right now, and that’s to be expected, but I’m secure enough in my musical manhood to type that out loud; JOHN FREAKIN’ DENVER!  Yeah!  Dan Fogelberg is cued up after that, so there.  Where was I?  Oh yea, 1975; so anyway, I’ve been on this whole granola-back to nature-mother earth thing lately.  Don’t worry, I’m not turning into a cap and trade tree-hugging hippie, I’m just appreciating and enjoying the outdoors a little more these days.  NukeMom isn’t as impressed, but that’s probably due to the fact that I haven’t bathed in a week.  My argument that “The pioneers sometimes didn’t bathe for WEEKS!” isn’t working; which would explain the open suitcase sitting next to the unopened bar of Dial soap.  The ball is clearly in my court.  Maybe I’ll just pick up the NukeBeagles and we can all three jump in the tub tomorrow and make everyone happy.  I don’t know what they’ve been rolling around in out in the yard, but at this point, I could probably use it and call it cologne.

It hasn’t really been a week since my last bath encounter; we went to the water-park yesterday, and then there was that rainstorm I got caught up in last week…I guess a little soap never hurt anyone.  Maybe those “Cute, but he’s scratching his head” looks will abate as well.  I hope you don’t really think I’m that slovenly, I’m not, it’s just that summer is here, and, well; bathing is more of a choice now than a mandate.  Some days I take a shower, some days I don’t; some days I take 2 or 3 showers, it all depends.  Wake up at the crack of noon and stay inside watching TV all day?  No shower required.  Have your sewer line break while you’re standing over it?  You may need to just fill your pockets with quarters and hop in the back of your buddy’s truck and head on down to the carwash.  This post had a point before the smell sidetracked me towards John Denver and personal hygiene, I just can’t remember what it was.  Oh well, just know that John Denver’s music is still relevant if you’re a stinking mess and want to sing his songs in the shower.  Calypso always works for me during the rinse cycle.  I can hit those high notes like no body’s business.