Oh No He Didn’t!
There was an incident at NukeBoy2’s school the other day that has me upset. His class had a substitute teacher who thought it a wise idea to attach clothespins to the earlobes of the boys for acting up. Regardless of how badly the kids were acting up, this is certainly not the appropriate response. Why did he think this was an acceptable way to deal with an unruly class? Why did he just punish the boys? Why would he put himself in the position of dealing with large numbers of children when he obviously has no desire or patience to do it? I’ve had issues trying to get the response that I think is appropriate from the school principal and the school districts’ HR department and I’m pondering what my next step should be. I’ve been thinking of several options and I have a pretty good idea of what it will be, but my question to you is: What would you do if it was your kid?
What Fits Into Mother Russia?
KA-CHING!
NukeGirl lost her first tooth the other day. It was a long road to extraction, but when I noticed that it was laying back at a 45 degree angle in relation to the rest of her teeth, and that it was black, I told her maybe it was time to try another tug. She had been toying with it for days. At the dinner table: “Daddy! Look!” I’d glance up from my plate to see her tongue rotating the tooth back and forth, manipulating it like a NASCAR driver downshifting going into turn 3. “That’s nice, honey, but I’m trying to enjoy my dinner and that isn’t making it any easier.” Being that it was her first loose tooth, she was a little unclear on the concept. We went to dinner one night, and after a four and a half year precedent of ordering fries with her meal, she decides she wants corn on the cob. The next day she asked for an apple in her lunch. She hates apples. Maybe nature gives us that extra nudge to request things to eat that it knows will get that sucker out of there and take away the pain. I remember as a kid, I once lost a molar to an over exuberant Sugar Daddy. It got stuck back there and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled, and it wouldn’t come out. I twisted, I yanked, I twisted and yanked. It was…well, it was like pulling teeth, I guess. After about 5 minutes I finally got it out and immediately noticed that this particular Sugar Daddy tasted like crap. The taste, of course, was the 1/2 liter of blood that was now mixing with the chocolate and caramel of my candy. I looked at the Sugar Daddy and saw my molar sticking out of it. Cool, I thought; a dollar! I don’t think I’ve had a Sugar Daddy since.
The experience did teach me that caramel is good for getting out stubborn teeth. Later I used a box of Milk Duds to extract another molar, and a Brach’s caramel chew to eradicate an incisor. My dentist lost money on me that year. I also remember the weirdness of running your tongue in the gap where your tooth used to be. NukeGirl has discovered that as well. “Daddy! Look!” I look up to see a tiny piece of her tiny little tongue peeking through where her tooth used to be. Then she went and got a Capri Sun and realized that she could lock her jaw and still drink it; she just slides the straw in the hole where her tooth was. She thinks this is the coolest thing in the world. “DADDY! LOOK!” I look up to see her, jaw clenched tighter than a Rottweiler, with a straw stuck through the gap and can’t help but join her in uproarious laughter. She tried her pinkie finger, and while it can be wedged in there, she learned the painful lesson that she can’t clench her teeth. She also tried a pencil and almost lost the 2 neighbors. “Daddy! Ow!” Since then I’ve caught her with her toothbrush, a hair barrette, a bigger straw and a paper towel folded to various thicknesses. She just keeps folding until either she can’t fold anymore, or it won’t fit anymore. She’s doing all she can to find out exactly what will and will not fit where her tooth used to be. It made me think of an old skit from SCTV; the great Canadian show that gave us John Candy, Rick Moranis, Dave Thomas, Catherine O’Hara and many others, called; “What Fits In Mother Russia.” It was a recurring skit that featured Dave Thomas as a Russian who got great delight figuring out what countries could fit inside the footprint of the Soviet Union. The video is below. One of my first posts ever was a tooth post-you can click here if you want to read it. Enjoy.
Twittiness
I thought it would be fun to gather up some of my favorite tweets and put them on here in their own special place; kind of like a favorites column, but on the blog instead of the twitter feed. Little did I know that it would take me a month of Sundays and more patience than I was willing to give to get it up and running. It took FOREVER to go back and go through them, but the end result is the gems you see here and not some of the less funny ones. Of course, some of you may disagree and say that these should have been thrown out as well. I wish I had saved some of WeaselMomma’s tweets when we were doing the Ted Kennedy Pick up lines thread, they were golden. Going forward I will be adding my favorite tweets from others as well, and not just my own; you didn’t think I was that narcissistic, did you? Just click on the Philosophical Tweets button on the right, or click here. Hope you like them.
Who Are Those Guys?
PICK YOUR DIAPER!
I’ve noticed a trend recently in web ads. The days of the dancing cowboys are over. So are the days of the dancing alien. Actually, they’ve been over for a while, but the good folks at Lower My Bills dot com have changed tactics once again to continue to bring you ads that have absolutely nothing to do with the product they are selling. Oh, sure, we’ll always have the 50 states abbreviated in everything from snails, emoticons and baby diapers to keep us company, but the flash ads of dancing silhouettes on rooftops and gyrating robots may be gone for good. See, when they had those ads running back in 2007, they had reason to dance: they were making a killing getting people to refinance mortgages, consolidate debt, etc.; now, not so much. Now that the bubble they helped create has exploded, they are going a different route; the route of down-on-your-luckism.
CLEAN YOUR WINDOW FOR YOU?
Their ads now all feature pictures of men who look like homeless people. The message says; Contact us now before you end up looking like this! They seem upset too, like they can’t believe that YOU haven’t refinanced yet. They’re even starting to blame the government for forcing you to ignore the help that the government is offering you; or something like that. “…homeowners fail to refinance….government urges Americans to pay down credit card debt….you may qualify for auto insurance discounts…” aren’t you people listening? Did you know that only 85,000 of you have taken advantage of the governments housing relief program? What’s wrong with you idiots? Don’t you want to refinance the remaining 12 years of your mortgage into a more manageable 30 year adjustable rate mortgage that will lower your payment by $65 dollars a month? Come on! Get with the program!
MADAM TUSSAUDS ESCAPEE?
I’m having a hard time believing that one of these guys is even a real person at all. See the guy in glasses? He looks like one of those skulls that has had a facial reconstruction anthropologist go to town on it. I think I saw him on an episode of Forensic Files once. Either that, or he’s a dolled up version of Australopithecus with a forehead shave and Dame Edna glasses. One guy looks like a lumberjack serial killer and another looks like the guy that tries to spit-shine your windshield at traffic lights. Is the subliminal message supposed to be; “Look, we know that things are bad and you can barely pay your mortgage; hell, you can’t even afford a razor!”? I guess a picture of a family in respectable clothing and a golden retriever laying in front of them doesn’t sell a lot of mortgage re-fi’s. The key is to make people think; “I know I’ve got it bad, but look at that poor sap!”
HOBBIES? WELL, I DO LIKE TO RULE FRANCE, ON OCCASION
I thought I had seen it all until yesterday when a pop up ad shimmied it’s way underneath my Firefox firewall. There is a VERY generous man out there who wants to make me a millionaire! He is so worldly and has done so many good things in his life helping people that I just KNOW that I’m next! His name is Simon Zuckenberg; don’t bother googling him, because you’ll come up empty! Not only is he a totally selfless philanthropist, he also hates attention, so he makes sure that all of his good deeds go unnoticed. He invented ebay and Adobe, even though other people claim to have. The piece de resistance? He is also the PRESIDENT OF FRANCE! I KNOW! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!? Yeah, me neither. Unreal. Some joker puts out an ad with a picture of President Sarkozy, throws some ebay and Adobe logos on it and will probably make millions in the process. While I enjoy the entertainment aspect of it, I can’t help but feel a little sleazy every time I see one of those ads. At least I have the comfort of knowing that I’ve never been duped by one of them. Ooh, look at the time! Gotta go; I still have 8 more units to sell before my Acai Berry downline gets fully vested!
Andy Warhol Was Half Right
SERTS(2ND FROM RIGHT-TOP ROW) & STEVE THOMAS (KNEELING)
Andy Warhol famously once said; “In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.” He should have doubled it for my friend Sergio Grado. Sergio, or “Serts” as he was known when we were younger, will be featured for a 30 minute segment on tonight’s episode of Renovation Nation on the Discovery Channel’s “Planet Green” channel. The show is hosted by Steve Thomas, who some of you may remember as being Bob Vila’s replacement on This Old House. Steve and his crew document one of Serts’ building projects that centers around green building. I know what you’re thinking right now; “But NukeDad, aren’t you totally against all of that environmental crap?” No, I’m not. I’m against deceitful ex-politicians whose name starts with Al and ends with Gore living in an energy hog house while preaching to my kids that they’re killing the planet, all the while lining his pockets with millions and millions of dollars. Meanwhile, George W. Bush lives in one of the most “green” houses on the planet, but you don’t hear about that, do you? Maybe Al can head up a few field trips down to Crawford, Texas so he can see how it’s done. But I digress.
SERGIO GRADO-NATIONAL GRADUATE MASTER BUILDER OF THE YEAR 2008
Serts’ family has been building homes in the Woodlands, outside of Houston, since the early 70’s. He used to spend his summers down there working his butt off for the family business. It paid off. Now? He IS the family business. His father retired a few years ago, and I’m pretty sure that his brother Gilbert is still down there running the old family business, but Serts started his own company that builds custom homes, commercial buildings and remodeling projects. He is the go to guy for “green” building in the Houston area. He was named the Graduate Master Builder Of The Year for 2008. That’s kind of like winning the Academy Award for your industry. He also won the Emerging Business of the Year award from the Houston Hispanic Chamber of Commerce. Things are good in SergioLand. So if you get a chance and you have access to the Planet Green channel, tune in tonight at 6pm eastern to see one of my best friends from childhood enjoy his 30 minutes of fame.
Head Trauma! In A Box!
There is a new product on the market sure to keep your insurance card busy. They’re called Fun Slide Carpet Skates, or, as I like to call them; “Suture City!” I’m not sure how long they’ve been around, but I saw the commercial for the first time tonight. Basically, what you have here is berber ice skates. Kids, or drunk adults, can place these things on their feet and enjoy countless hours of fun, compound fractures, blunt force trauma and possible arterial spray. Just strap these bad boys to your feet and go zooming across the carpet at breakneck speed. Well, breakneck may be an exaggeration, but speed isn’t exactly your biggest problem if you’re out of control and headed for the entertainment center or the coffee table. Oh, or the fireplace, can’t forget the fireplace. It’s usually made out of brick and it is notoriously unforgiving. There’s a reason the ice skating rink doesn’t line the outside of the rink with living and dining room suites; they use walls. Did you ever see Wayne Gretzky achieve a hat trick after negotiating an ottoman, a china hutch and an end table? I didn’t think so. I was the undisputed cranial catastrophe champion when I was little and I can tell you; furniture, kids and Scooby-Doo feet are a bad combination. The video on their site does tell kids to WALK down the stairs, but we’ve all seen Home Alone and know the probability of that happening. Besides, Kevin McCallister’s journey down the stairs and out the front door probably took at least 12 takes and 5 stunt doubles. The carnage was edited out. Before you accuse me of being an old fuddy-duddy who doesn’t want the kids to have any fun inside; understand that the above stated championship was for getting stitches in my head 8 times before I was 6 years old. I was 0 and 2 against the fireplace and the coffee table and I split a double header. I mean, I split my head open 2 times on the coffee table, or; well, you get my drift-I had a painful childhood. All of that being said; if the makers of the Fun Slides Carpet Skates happen to find this post-they’re welcome to try and change my mind. If they want to send a pair for testing, the NukeKids and I will be glad to oblige. I’ll even show you the video. Or my stitches. Or the video of how I came to need stitches; whatever the scenario, I can guarantee you it’ll be entertaining. At least for those without a mild concussion and scalp staples.
Things You Shouldn’t Get At The Dollar Store
This post is an encore presentation that I wrote for another site from last year. It’s still one of my favorites. Enjoy.
The kids love a trip to the Dollar Store. You know, those bastions of consumer nirvana that have you thanking your lucky stars that you popped in today. Who knew that they would be featuring Phil Simms’ latest book? For a dollar?! Give me two and I’ll scratch a name off of my Christmas gift list. Surely one of my gift receivers would love to read about Jim Nantz’s hair plugs.
Our last trip to the Dollar Store was going to be a quick grab and dash. We needed birthday cards and wrapping paper for two upcoming birthdays. The Hallmark people are great, but I’m not paying $4.00 for a card that will be read once (maybe) and then thrown away. Call me cheap, but at least it’s not a torn out piece of spiral notebook paper with your name written in pencil. It’s got an envelope and everything. Be thankful.
At the last second, NukeGirl reminded me that we were out of Dora the Explorer band-aids. Since we were near the Health and Beauty supplies, I figured; why not? I opted for the 110 count box (10 bonus bandages-FREE!) that had four different sizes. I figured that my yield from this box would be about 75%; or approximately 82 ½ band-aids. Not bad for a buck. After all; they were Dollar Store band-aids.
What I didn’t count on was the quality (or lack thereof) of the adhesive itself. I believe I’ve learned my lesson. Our yield from this box is presently at 14% and falling rapidly. It took 6 separate applications of 3 band-aids at a time to cover a cut on NukeBoy2 that was so small you would need a micrometer to measure it. It healed by itself in 18 minutes, but there was blood and tears, so band-aids for three days was mandatory. A post it note that has been rolled in a litter box has more staying power than these band-aids. He sneezed while watching TV and lost batch number 4. Never again. Ever.
This exercise led me to think about other items I need to avoid when visiting the Dollar Store. I don’t want to get caught up in another J Paul Getty moment and think that I’m being frugal. Here’s what I came up with:
· Picture Frames: The largest you can buy for a buck is 4 X 6, so why bother? The support on the back weakens by about 1 degree daily. 2 months down the road you’ll have a drink coaster.
· Seafood: Please don’t tell me you need an explanation. Seafood from Kansas isn’t good for you.
· Jewelry: Only for those who enjoy green ear lobes and open sores on your fingers.
· Batteries: They won’t even tickle your tongue in the store.
· Snack Cakes: Little Debbie’s a little stale.
· Flashlights: Each comes with a 2 week warranty.
· Make-Up: Comes in 3 shades: Haze, Soot and Dirt.
· Chocolate Syrup: Trust me on this one.
· Watches: Tells time in 3 time zones; none of them yours.
· Sunscreen: SPF 4.
· Flesh-Eating Virus Ointment: Not FDA approved, and who picked it up before you? Itchy?
These free tips should help you out the next time you think (incorrectly); “Wow! Only a dollar? What a great deal!” Shop wisely, my friends.
Nobody Puts THIS Baby In A Corner
STACEY (L), MOM AND LAURA
It’s birthday time again. I started this adventure last October when I forgot to call my sister, Leta, on her birthday. To make up for my indiscretion I wrote her a happy birthday post. I followed that with posts for my brother Steve and my sister Laura. Now it’s my youngest sister Stacey’s turn. I’m sure she’s thinking; “Once again, I have to go last-THIS IS SO NOT FAIR! WHY AM I ALWAYS THE LAST ONE! STOP THE PERSECUTION!” Well, sorry, Stace, but that’s what you get for having a birthday in August when I decide to start an honorarium in October. My siblings returned the favor by doing a guest post for me on my birthday. So without further ado, here is Stacey’s birthday post.
The youngest in the family is usually the one with the least amount of face time in family videos and in pictures. It’s never intentional, it’s just the way it is. The first born child in most families is the one who is prominently displayed in the first dozen or so extended length video tapes, and has 2 or 3 photo albums filled with every exploit from first step to first peanut butter wall mural. Each child thereafter has less and less time on videos and less pictures taken; the larger the family, the larger the discrepancy. The youngest of 3 children may find a dozen or so pictures in the bottom of a forgotten shoe box in a hall closet. Stacey, being the youngest of 5, likes to say that all of her childhood photos could be found in a Sucrets box in my Dad’s shop. I’m guilty of the same. My Mom laughed at me one day when I picked up NukeGirl’s binky, brushed it across my shirt a couple of times and put it back in her mouth. “What’s so funny?” I asked. “When NukeBoy1 used to lose his binky, you would practically put on latex gloves and boil a pot of water for sterilization!” First child overkill, to be sure. While the youngest feels like they are cheated out of what their older siblings got, the older siblings know that the baby of the family gets away with murder. I never got to juggle knives when I was little, but Stacey did. It’s one of the age old arguments that will never be resolved; who has it easier, the oldest or the youngest? It’s like the chicken and the egg question, but with people. I was the middle child, and everyone knows how badly we get screwed.
Stacey had the unfortunate task of being the youngest of five children growing up in West Texas in the 1970’s; innocent enough back then, but these days, it could be the subject of a Lifetime Movie. We didn’t have cable, or Nintendo DS, or cell phones; and thank God for that! What we did have was the whole day to go out and play; use our imagination a little. I’ll bet the Lifetime producers would shed a tear over our poor “existence”, but we loved it. Stacey was the youngest, but she and Laura were only about 20 months apart. The summers we spent in Santa Fe, New Mexico (is there another one?) were spent at the neighborhood park two houses down from the house we rented. We spent most of our time there. I remember Stacey and Laura used to beg me to spin them faster! faster! on the merry-go-round. As Stacey got older, she got braver. Some of the neighborhood kids would hang on the bars and let their feet fly out. It was fun, but if you were the “pusher”, you had about 2 seconds to spin the merry-go-round and then get out of the way before you got clobbered by a tennis shoe. Or, a tibia, if you were too slow. Stacey sent me into the dirt on more than one occasion. Her shin bone was deadly. Some of my fondest memories revolve around our summers in Santa Fe; one of my worst does as well.
THE SLIPPERY SIDEWALK OF DOOM
As I told you, Stacey loved the feeling of hanging on the outside of the merry-go-round and having her feet fly out as it spun around. The problem, though, is that the merry-go-round would stop fairly quickly, causing your feet to meet the ground and fill your shoes with about 8 pounds of sand and dirt. I figured out a way to make the trip last longer; I’d just grab Stacey by the hands and swing her around myself! What could go wrong with an 11 year old swinging his 5 year old sister around? Plenty, as I was about to find out. The sidewalks in the neighborhood we lived in were terrible. The surface would come off from constant freezing and thawing cycles in the winter time; they call it “scaling.” Here’s a picture to give you an idea. The top of the sidewalks would come off in sheets, and always when you least expected it. I’m sure you know what is coming, but I’ll tell you anyway: I was swinging Stacey around and around when I stepped on a section of sidewalk that gave way when I stepped on it. It came right out from under me. The natural human reaction when you’re about to fall on your ass is to put your hands down to break your fall, which I did; the problem was, in order to do that I had to first let go of Stacey’s hands, which I did. It wasn’t intentional, mind you, I just freaked out and did what my body told me to do. The rest of it went in slow motion, like some Bruce Willis action movie. I could see Stacey flying away from me, and saw her smile suddenly turn to fright. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I fell on my ass, Stacey landed on her face and forehead. I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse in my life. I ran to her, rolled her over, saw the blood and then ran in the house to get my Mom. We spent the rest of the afternoon at the hospital. Her injuries (thankfully) were mostly superficial. She had a scrape under her nose, which caused the bleeding, and a HUGE bump on her forehead. I mean, it was Antarctica big. It covered her whole forehead. They did all the tests and everything was fine, but it sure scared the crap out of me; and poor Stacey as well. Needless to say, we didn’t play that game ever again.
NUKEDAD AND SISTER STACEY
Through the years I’ve seen Stacey learn how to fly without anymore assistance from me; she put herself through college to become a teacher and is now putting herself through graduate school to become an administrator. She has shown more resilience and determination in her life than anyone I know. I know that most siblings think that the “baby” of the family gets away with murder, but the truth is, they have to fight and claw harder just to get what they’re due. She never once complained about it, she just put her head down and did the work. I’ve always admired her for that; her ability to get the job done regardless of the obstacles. And so, sister Stacey, with that I wish you a very belated Happy Birthday. I know this should have been posted on August 28th, and I’m sorry that it wasn’t. Know that I love you and will always be here for you. Just don’t ask me to swing you again.
This Is Not A Drill
Don’t the hours grow shorter as the days go by
You never get to stop and open your eyes
One day you’re waiting for the sky to fall
And next you’re dazzled by the beauty of it all
-Bruce Cockburn-
A third Boston album. Season six of The Sopranos. The Arizona Cardinals in a Super Bowl. A new post from NukeDad. These are all things you thought you’d never see in your lifetime, yet they happened. I guess the best way to end this sabbatical is to just jump back in with both feet; so here I go. It’s been awhile, so bear with me as WordPress and I become reacquainted. I still need to finish my sister Stacey’s birthday post, which is now almost 4 months overdue. I’ve been concentrating on family, faith and frustration during my absence and I’ve made headway on all fronts; I just haven’t been writing about it. I should clarify and say that my frustration is not with my family, just the situation that NukeBoy2 is in. He’s doing much better, by the way and I think that we finally have a handle on his illness and will be able to move on with our lives in spite of it.
During my time away I was encouraged to get back in the game by Melisa with 1 s and shamed and ridiculed to get back in the game by WeaselMomma. Last night on twitter there was a shame and ridicule tweet from Melisa, so I knew I had to act fast before they both went all Mainstream Media on me. I think this must be the way Tiger Woods felt on Thanksgiving; I’m looking for the keys to the Escalade while Melisa and WeaselMomma are looking for a 4 iron.
Far be it from me to ridicule the world’s first billionaire athlete, but he made it really easy, didn’t he? What the hell was he thinking? It’s not like he’s married to Joy Behar, I mean; Come on, Tiger! Your wife was on the Swedish Bikini Team for crying out loud! Maybe she’s a total wench behind closed doors, I don’t know; but I highly doubt it. I think it’s a case of someone thinking they are above it all and getting hit upside the head with a dose of reality. Or a lob wedge. Enough of that tangent; let’s get back to our story.
After months of badgering taunts, harassing tweet messages, peanut gallery heckling, name calling and general tormenting; WeaselMomma and Melisa with 1 s have succeeded in doing what even I thought was impossible; they’ve got me behind the keyboard again. Be careful what you wish for, ladies. I would be remiss if I didn’t add one more thing: Thank you.
Spirits open to the thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste
-Bruce Cockburn-
Resolve-Redux
While I’ve been noticeably absent around here lately, I felt that today was too important to not post anything. I said about all I wanted to say last year. Here it is again. Please take a moment today to remember the 9/11 victims and their families.
I had a different post ready to go for today, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. I usually like to keep it light-hearted and funny, but today isn’t a day for light-heartedness. I have a problem. I have a problem with those that would be happier if this day would pass as any other day; mundane, and without consequence. With those that say; “Don’t show those horrible pictures, they’re too hard to watch”. They are wrong. Those images may be hard to watch, but that is precisely why they need to be seen. Sticking your head in the sand and hoping it goes away doesn’t work. Pretending that by ignoring the reality of that day will lessen it’s impact is the act of a cowardly soul. There are children standing on a stage at Ground Zero at this very moment reading the names of their parents and other victims. At the same time, there are people in offices and kitchens wallowing in ignorance and the false idea that diplomacy and love will take care of everything. That’s a wonderful idea, if only a foolish one. The barbarians that flew 4 airplanes into buildings and a field in Pennsylvania have no interest in diplomacy or love. Their sole reason for living is to see to it that you die. Why is it that some people can’t understand that concept? Why would someone who would surely fight to the death to protect their children believe that their country should practice pacifism in the face of Radical Islam? Why would someone who lives in the longest sustained democracy in human history turn a complacent blind eye to a movement that seeks to enslave them? The goal of Radical Islam is to convert the infidels (us); if conversion fails, the alternative is death. Those are your options. Agree with their religious ideology, or be killed. I think the right option is easy to choose; others don’t see it as clearly.
For the people that are in their offices or kitchens today wondering how the world got this screwed up; I have a question for you: Do you fully understand the sacrifice that has been laid at your feet that allows you to be so narcissistic? Can you even fathom the thought of walking off of a boat on the beaches of Normandy, knowing that you were probably going to die? Would you have been part of the rebellion on Flight 93 knowing that even if you took over the plane that you were most likely going to perish in a horrific plane crash? Could you stare out of a gaping hole in the side of your WTC office and have the courage to look for other survivors before trying to find your way out? Would you walk away from a 4 million dollar NFL contract to enlist in the Army to defend your country? I didn’t think so.
Complacency is the cancer that kills free thinking people. You don’t turn away from these images because they are too hard to look at; you turn towards them explicitly because they are.
Night In The Ruts
Got a message today from an old friend who was asking why it’s been so quiet around here lately. It got me thinking; I don’t really know why I’ve been so quiet; I’m not exactly know for being the church mouse. It’s been much busier around here lately; I’m helping coach NukeBoy1’s football team 3 nights a week and we’ve had a full slate of extra-cirriculars as summer winds down, but I’m not sure if that’s what’s causing my mutedness. NukeBoy2 had another episode yesterday when he fainted and fell right on the back of his head. He said he felt pain across the back of his head before he fainted, but, once again, the Doctors can tell us nothing. Maybe that’s what it is; I’ve been trying to come to terms with this whole situation, and I thought I was doing OK with it, but now I’m not so sure. I’m not one to live life from a position of fear or weakness, yet fear and weakness is all that I feel lately. I kept telling myself; “He’s fine, back to normal, it was a fluke”, and it very well may have been all of that, it’s just; I can’t be sure. And neither can the Doctors. And that’s what scares me shit-less. What if he had fainted while on his bike? While a car was coming? What if he had been in the middle of the deep end of the pool? What if…what if. I don’t do well with “what if’s”, but I’m forced to live that way right now. I’ll see you soon….
Until I Get Over Myself
I’m sorry, but I’m just a wee bit livid right now. Excuse me while I work something out real quick.
Do I know how WordPress works? Yes. Did I see the little Microsoft Update tab show up down bottom on my task-bar? Briefly. Did I click on it to see what was up? Ka-duh, no. Did I think it would be a problem? Obviously Not. Have I configured my new laptop so that when potential issues arise I’ll be ready? Not completely. Does Microsoft believe that no one in their right mind would be trying to write a post at 3 o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday night Wednesday morning? Apparently. Did I take the time to hit “save draft” after I had typed my 567th word? no. Did Bill Gates give his staff permission to shut down my computer ALL THE WAY FROM REDMOND, WASHINGTON WHENEVER THEY FEEL LIKE IT!!!! Damn straight. Do I have anybody to blame but myself? I wish. Will I blame it on Bill Gates and the continuing effects of the ever increasing Military Industrial Complex anyway? Hell yes!
I guess you’ll have to wait a couple of more days to hear about my bad haircut.
Coming To Terms
NUKEBOY2 ON THE MEND
I have a post in my draft box right now from 5 days ago. It’s about NukeBoy2’s seizure last week. It’s 1200 words and I’m only about 2/3 done with it. I don’t know that I will ever post it. I may, but for right now, it just seemed to me to be a bit much. Most of you know the basics: NB2 suffered a seizure last Tuesday and spent that day and most of the next in the hospital being poked and prodded. I posted an update Wednesday morning when the initial MRI results came in and said I would inform you of the final results when they came in that afternoon. I did that, to an extent, on twitter and through email. For those that didn’t see it I can tell you that the MRI showed that he did in fact have a seizure; confirming what the Pediatric Neurologist was reluctant to. It didn’t show what caused it and they really don’t have any idea. Which leaves us worse off than when we climbed into the ambulance last Tuesday. I’ve thought endlessly about this over the last few days, and I imagine that I will think about it for many more. How many more? I don’t know, maybe all of them; or until we get some kind of answer as to what caused it. Then there is always the worst case scenario; he has another seizure. Then they can poke a little lighter and prod a little less and still come up with no answers. That’s the crux of this whole thing; there is just so much about the human body that we still don’t know.
AT LEAST HE HAD A VIEW OF THE HELI-PAD
I’ve done a good job of poking fun at myself over my medical issues on this blog, but it will be impossible for me to do that with this. At the same time, those of you that frequent this blog know that on occasion I can be humorous, and on the rarest of occasions, almost giggle-inducing. I like sharing tidbits about my life and my family, and I will continue to do so; we can be a pretty entertaining bunch at times. So for that reason, we’ve decided that we will do our absolute best to not be held hostage by this “diagnosis.” I put it in quotes because there hasn’t really been a diagnosis. We will do our best to live each day normally, and with minimal worry and what-if’s. I am currently trying to think of a nickname for “he who must not be named.” Well damn, there it is; henceforth, the “next (if there is one) possible seizure”, formerly known as “he who must not be named” will be known as “VOLDEMORT.” That way we can casually ask NB2 about it without it becoming too stressful. I can say things like; “Voldemort hasn’t been sneaking around, has he?” or “If you see Voldemort lurking about, sock him in the nose.” Much like an old friends little sister used to announce the arrival of her lunar cycle by simply stating: “Helen’s here.” I wrote a post about it, actually; you can click on the link to read it if you want. I wrote in when I first started the blog so I know most of you have never read it. I thought it was actually pretty clever, and I know it was somewhat effective as the only one who commented on it was Joeprah and he thought I was talking about my mother in law. I love my mother in law, she’s great! I don’t know why I’m linking to him, the guy hasn’t posted since April. It’s like he’s got another gig or something. I think it will also help NB2 to not have his parents walking up to him every 2 minutes to muss his hair and ask; “How are you feeling? Everything alright? How are you doing?” I don’t want him to feel like he’s any different, but I need to make sure that he understands the situation. I certainly don’t want him walking around in fear all of the time. We’ll take it day by day and do the best we can because, well; that’s about all we can do. Melodramatic? Probably. Realistic? Unfortunately.
Insomniobesity
Is it possible for jet lag to last for a week? Maybe the better question is; can you get jet lag from only 2 time zones away? Is there a minimum, say, 3 time zones at least? I mean, it’s not like I flew to Hawaii and back in 5 days, I went from eastern standard time to mountain time and back; that’s it. Still, I feel like Tyler Durden-the Edward Norton side. Time is irrelevant for me right now. I go to sleep at 4 or 5 in the morning and rationalize that it’s only 2 or 3 in El Paso. Problem is, I haven’t been in El Paso for 6 days, and my body is starting to notice. I’ve had these cycles before, brought on by an irregular work schedule for the 20+ years that I spent in the restaurant industry; but I can’t use that as an excuse this time. I hope to be out of this cycle by Tuesday or Wednesday, which is why I thought I would blog about it at 3 am on Monday morning.
Random Tangent Moment: sorry, this is why I never write with the television on but this new laptop is holding me captive on the bed as it sits in my lap. TLC has a show on right now called “I Eat 33,000 Calories A Day” documenting the struggle of the morbidly obese. Being overweight myself I can empathize, however; how does one who weighs 672 pounds and is bed-ridden get access to 33,000 calories a day? They just showed a caretaker bringing in a tray full of food that had a salad, large bagel, bottle of salad dressing (Italian, I think) and a JAR of mayonnaise. First off, I think I’d give him a small cup of dressing on the side. Next, the bagel shouldn’t even be on the tray, let alone accompanied by a JAR of mayonnaise; I mean, the guy weighs SIX HUNDRED AND SEVENTY TWO POUNDS! I’m not saying you chop him off at the knees and make him drink Slim-Fast shakes all day, but good gravy, HE’S STUCK IN BED!, bring him a diet coke and a salad with NO dressing. Trust me, if it sits there long enough, he’ll eat it. My daughter asks for Doritos for breakfast every morning, but I certainly don’t give them to her. Well, there was that one day…. My point is; this guy is being enabled to the point of ridiculousness. They’ve offered him stomach reduction surgery if he’ll lose 112 pounds, and he can’t, or won’t, do it. 112 pounds? Skip afternoon snack #4 one day. Forget the mayo slathered bagel. Burp. OK, that’s it; I can’t take this anymore, they’re getting ready to change his diaper and I’m sure it’ll be 3 times as hard to watch as it was to hear.
You Can Go Home Again
You arrive full of expectations and preconceived notions of what people will say. “He has gained weight”, “God, is he going bald?”, “He’s just like I remember him.” The span of 7 years hasn’t been long enough to erase some of the unease you harbor of your time here; or, moreover, the heartache accrued since you left. Nor does it give justice to the flood of good memories that make you realize that you miss your home more than you care to admit. The drive in is uneventful; the star on the mountain still shines, the train yard downtown is still an eyesore, but the college has a new parking garage. The river still runs along the freeway separating the 3rd world from your world; looking like a scar on a child’s knee. You wonder how different things will look in the light of day, but now, shortly after nightfall, you realize that things are the same as they’ve always been. You enter the house; the house that you grew up in, and are instantly stunned by how small it seems; the sink closer than you remember, the den not as big as on your 10th Christmas. You look at the bookcase and remember where certain book titles are stored; placed there when they were bought decades ago, having moved not an inch since. You go out with friends and relive some old memories, then relate the new ones that you’ve collected. When you return home you enter quietly so as not to wake the woman who raised you all those years; the woman you know is awake in her bed, doing her best to be just as quiet as you are. You enter the bathroom to brush your teeth and remember that the top drawer sticks a little, that the floor was replaced in 1988 and that you feel right at home. You return to the bedroom that you occupied as a teenager, taking in the decorations while at the same time you’re picturing where your stereo sat, where your bulletin board was, what was on it and wonder where those long lost pictures are today. You see a baptismal certificate for your great-great grandmother hanging where you once hung a poster and ponder the dichotomy. You reach for your glasses and realize that one arm has come off; the screw still in the case. You wonder why after 4 years your glasses would choose this moment to fall apart, and then your question is answered when you find yourself in your fathers workshop; knowing the exact location of the screwdriver that you need. You look in the spot that you’ve seen it a million times before and gain a sense of accomplishment for having known where it would be. You grasp it and hold it in your hand; remembering whose hands held it so many times before you. The hands belonging to the man that showed you how that screwdriver, and all of the other tools in that shop worked, and you’re thankful for having been blessed with such a knowledgeable teacher. You wonder if you’re reciprocating with your own children and think that maybe you could do a better job. You fix the glasses and return to your childhood bedroom intent on sleep, but know that the power of these memories must be documented now; they’ll be lost if you wait until tomorrow. You grab your new laptop and jot down your memories before the battery dies. When you are done, you close the lid content in the fact that despite what the naysayers espouse; you can go home again.
Remembering Claire
Our thoughts and prayers go out to the Weasel Family today as they cope with the loss of one of their own. Claire Elizabeth Elaine passed away 2 weeks after her birth in 2002. Please take a moment today to remember WeaselMomma and her family.
(Update) What a doofus I am. Apologies to the WeaselFamily for getting Claire’s middle name wrong. I’m still working on the badge not being visible issue. Sorry for the mistake, WeaselMomma; although, I know you don’t mind too much; I’ve just given you gig ammunition for the next few years.
Anticipation Is…Making Me Wonder Why Carly Simon Didn’t Wear A Bra On The Cover Of Her Album Titled “No Secrets.” Wait, I Think I Just Answered My Own Question
TIME FOR A SWIM
I feel like Snerdley McDweeble pacing his mother’s basement waiting for his Ukrainian mail-order bride. Or Ralphie waiting for Christmas morning so he could unwrap his Official Red Ryder carbine-action 200 shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time. I’m as anxious as an emaciated piranha lurking downriver from a swim camp for the morbidly obese just before adult swim. I’m a little excited (can you tell?), and now; I’m out of metaphors. Damn, I was rollin’ there for a minute. I have a surprise coming tomorrow.
My father’s day present came in a bag that was way too big. You could have easily fit 2 or 3 bowling balls in there and still had room for shoes. Hiding at the bottom was a wireless mouse. Great, I thought; the old one is about to give out any day now and we already have a spare. I’m thick as a brick and didn’t realize that my months of begging, pleading, bribing and blubbering had paid off: I was getting a laptop! My plan was to extoll the benefits of adding a second computer to the NukeHousehold over the months from Christmas ‘08 until my birthday in July. I figured by then NukeMom would either agree with me, or be driven over the edge and buy me one just to shut me up. She trumped me by getting it early; for father’s day. Now, there are some conditions that come with this laptop; namely, that in addition to being my father’s day present, it is also my birthday present, my arbor day gift and my stocking stuffer for Christmas. And I’m totally cool with that. I mean, hey, I’m getting my own laptop! Whoo Hoo! No more drudging my carcass the four and a half feet from the bed to the computer desk; I can blog from under the covers! We already have a wireless router for NukeMom’s work computer, so I’ll be able to pontificate from both the front and back patios! The possibilities are endless, really. The newspaper, Readers Digest, telephone, cell phone and DayRunner won’t be the only things I haul to the bathroom anymore. The pool! I’ve got to call the board members of our pool; I think it’s time we go WiFi under the canopy. In fact, I’ll demand it. I’m a member, dammit! I hope they appropriated funds in the budget for extra outlets.
Setting The Bar Reeeally High
Greensboro Flight Attendant Flight 93
The kids got out of school on Friday. Their weekend was packed full of fun and excitement. Now I’m fearing that we’ve painted ourselves into a corner; what do we do for an encore? Friday night we went to a baseball game in Greensboro. It’s a downtown stadium that’s only a few years old. There is a monument out in front of the gate honoring one of Greensboro’s bravest citizens; Sandy Bradshaw. We, of course, sat in a luxury suite. As you know, the NukeFamily has become accustomed to a certain level of affluence when we venture out into the realm of family entertainment amongst the great unwashed. Yeah, right; we were just lucky enough to get these tickets for a Friday night. Friday night is fireworks night; everybody wants tickets for fireworks night. Thankfully, NukeMom was able to get them. Oh, it also happened to be our 14th wedding anniversary. Romantic dinner for just the 2 of us? Nah, hot dogs and beer on the balcony with an outdoor ceiling fan. It was great, though.
Yogi snares a bat
The Greensboro Grasshoppers have 2 black labs that act as bat boys (bat-dogs?) for their games. Yogi Berra and his girlfriend; Babe Ruth. They also bring out a bucket of baseballs to the home plate ump every other inning so that he can re-stock. The ump didn’t look too happy about the arrangement. Babe dropped and spilled the bucket at his feet while he was facing the other way and then barked at him because he was a little tardy with the kibble treat. Two innings later Yogi left a meadow muffin behind home plate. Hey, when a bat-boys gotta go, he’s gotta go! I noticed that nobody slid into home plate face first after that. A 3 run triple in the 10th inning ended the night for our team. No pitchers mound pow wow could fix the problems they were having. I think I saw the 2nd baseman and the right fielder both filling out Home Depot applications after the game. They both committed errors that allowed the winning run and the 2 insurance runs to score. Such is life in Minor League ball-at least they don’t have to listen to Susan Sarandon quote poetry to them.
NukeBoy2 and NukeGirl Lookin' To Land A Monster
Saturday morning we were up early for a fishing derby for NukeBoy2’s cub scout troop. This was a “family” event (not all of them are), meaning NukeBoy2 could bring his brother and sister; and he did. Friday afternoon we owned 2 fishing rods, Friday night, after a trip to Wal-Mart, we owned 5 fishing rods and Saturday afternoon after the derby, we owned 7 fishing rods. Great. Information I could have used Friday night at Wal-Mart. NukeBoy1 and NukeGirl each won a fishing rod and a plethora of other fishing gear. NukeBoy2 came away with his fair share too, so don’t worry about him. The North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission put it on as part of a Statewide campaign to get kids interested in fishing. EVERY KID LEFT WITH SOMETHING, which was awesome. The park rangers and volunteers did a great job with this event; I was very impressed. The creek was small, so fishing on it with 50 scouts, including some who had never even seen a fishing pole before, was an adventure to say the least. I looked like Muhammad Ali the way I was bobbin and weavin to avoid getting hooked.
Believe it or not, this DID NOT win the smallest fish prize
The "Horny Head"-Ugliest fish on the planet
I thought it was diseased
NukeBoy2 had the misfortune of being right across the creek from a girl that lives near the creek. The Park Rangers all knew her by name, but I never found out what her name was. We’ll just call her; “The One.” She’s like a local legend up there, and I can see why. She pulled 3 fish out of the creek in the first 30 minutes; one of them a 15 inch Catfish. NukeBoy2 thought it was going to be easy pickins. Guess again. He did finally catch one, and I thought he was a shoe-in for the smallest fish caught prize, but, alas; it wasn’t to be. NukeBoy2 caught the ugliest fish of the day; a “Horny Head.” Just like its name implies, it has horns on its head right between the eyes: about 8 of them. Ugliest fish I’ve ever seen; hands down. The only one who didn’t catch anything was NukeGirl, bless her heart, but she tried her darnedest. She was anything but shy. She was sticking her fingers down into that cup of dirt and pulling out night-crawlers like she was Babe Winkelman. She was getting bites like you wouldn’t believe, but the crafty old fish (I’m sure he was a monster; fish don’t get big by being dumb) would take her worm every time. I suggested that we break the worms in half and really get them on the hook good so that we’d have a better chance of hooking that bad boy. When I turned around to grab the cup and get a worm I saw NukeGirl tearing this worm into 3 or 4 pieces. Just like that. No “Ewww!” or “Gross!” or any of that nonsense, she wanted a fish! We didn’t catch him, but I have a feeling that we will be dueling with him again soon. Sunday was spent poolside at the neighborhood pool we belong to, and then the weekend was over. But the stories. Oh, the stories. NukeGirl cried when we left the creek. She wanted to stay. On the way home she said; “Daddy, can we go fishing tomorrow?” The girl is hooked. Wow. That was punny. NukeBoy2 and I are off to the mountains for cub scout camp this week, so I promised her a date with destiny the following week. This little girl has got to catch a fish. We also talked about setting up more fishing trips this summer, camping trips, rafting trips; hell, we even went out and looked at a camper yesterday. Our van won’t pull it, so NukeMom is looking for a used truck. Seriously. I’ve never seen her like this. It’s like my whole family has turned into the gang from Deliverance. I just hope I don’t have to play Ned Beatty’s character.
Finality
NukeBoy2 and Phoebe-May 09
The weekend started out good. I accompanied NukeBoy2 to an overnight camp out with his scout den. NukeBoy1 tagged along and we had a great time. It was the first time I had been camping in over 20 years, and a first for the NukeBoys. They loved it. NukeBoy1 and I will be heading to the mountains later this month with his entire scout troop for a 3 night camp out that should make your Irish Spring stock go up. I’m taking an extra bar just to stick in my sleeping bag, that way I can shower while I sweat. We got to christen our new tent and that helped us appreciate the benefits of waterproofing. It sprinkled over night, and the oversight of not venting our tent resulted in a rainstorm inside the tent in the morning. Three human bodies in a closed tent mixed with the rising sun and 60% humidity equals wet walls. We left it up to let it dry out and came back for it later. So did 2 or 3 other “veteran” camping families, so I didn’t feel too bad.
The scouts performed a flag retirement ceremony over the campfire and I was taken by the words that were spoken. Here stood 12 eager 8 and 9 year olds reading the words off of the cards they were holding, each of them clutching a stripe from a flag. As each of the Original 13 states were named, another stripe went on the fire. The scout would salute, then back away to allow the next scout to step forward with his stripe. You can find the script they used here. Towards the bottom there is an Optional Opening that gives a different perspective of the flag and what it means; or, used to mean. It left me feeling a little pensive and lost in thought. Just one day earlier I had recounted a story about one of my favorite teachers who, unbeknownst to me, had passed away last summer, so I guess the feeling of melancholy was to be expected, right?
When we got home Saturday I went and picked up a pallet of sod to repair our backyard. This was pallet number 2. Pallet number one was moved, laid and completed on Thursday; my body barely had time to recover before the second onslaught. I had help on Thursday, but I was solo on Saturday; and boy, did my muscles feel it. While I was laying the sod, I noticed that our 13 year old lab Phoebe was struggling more than usual to get around. Her hips are bad and she had been slowly deteriorating over the last year or so. By late afternoon, she could barely make it up the steps. That night I heard her bark from the den, and when I went out to see what was the matter, I saw her trying to drag herself to the back door. She couldn’t even stand up on her own. I helped her up and she made it outside, but balked at the steps off of the deck. I picked her up and carried her to the grass to do her business, but her hips couldn’t even hold her up to do that. Things didn’t get any better on Sunday, in fact, they got worse, so when I took her to the Vet early Monday morning I was prepared for the worst. Or at least I thought I was. She was obviously in pain and there was nothing they could do for her. NukeMom and I had talked it over the night before, and I told the Vet that we needed to put her down. I sat with her for a while and did my best to make her last moments good ones. The Vet asked me if I wanted to leave the room and I told him no. I owed Phoebe that much. I can honestly say that it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. When they asked me what I wanted to do with her body I was taken aback; I hadn’t even thought about it. The Vet explained that all animals are cremated, and would I like to have the ashes? I almost said no, but then decided yes. I didn’t know why I said yes, I just said it. When the kids got home from school I got to live it all over again. NukeBoy1 took it well, but I knew that he would. NukeBoy2 loves animals, especially his. He was devastated. NukeGirl was the same. I held them and tried to comfort them, and when I told them about the ashes and that we could do something special for Phoebe, NukeBoy2 suggested putting them in the garden they are about to plant. I knew then why I had said yes when they asked me if I wanted the ashes.
To top it all off I came across something else today. Don’t they say that bad things come in threes? Through a series of events that would take too long to explain (you all know that I’m a stickler for brevity-cough, cough), I discovered that an old school mate of mine was killed in 2002. That isn’t what threw me, though; the story his sister told about it did. We had played football together. He was a crazy wild man who was wickedly intelligent, but he sometimes talked and acted like a loon. His father is fairly infamous as well; he was the first Abortionist ever convicted of murdering a fetus. (THIS LINK CONTAINS GRAPHIC CONTENT) While he was out on bail awaiting appeal, he performed and botched another abortion that killed the mother. Not a lot of positive things happening in that family. I guess it just hit me that while I thought that Regan could go either way in life, I never imagined him choosing the path that he did. I just know that I’ve been beat over the head with unhappy endings and finality the last week or so and I’m ready for a Spongebob marathon. Or will that change the saying to bad things come in fours?
It’s Not What You Teach, It’s How You Teach It
Photo courtesy of Ken Keller
The first moment of my High School experience was a memorable one. I reported to my classroom that first day filled with apprehension and a flock of butterflies in my stomach. Those fears quickly abated when I saw him walk in the room. He entered the room whistling some obscure WWII song. He had shoulders that slumped forward and a smile on his face that went from ear to ear. He walked to the front of the classroom, turned to face us, giggled and then wrote; “Welcome to Hell” on the chalkboard. I knew then and there that he and I were going to get along just fine.
Mr. Jim Sibert was my Algebra 1A teacher, my aviation teacher and a mentor and role model to many. I got one of those Classmates emails yesterday that tells you that 45 people are looking for you, and wouldn’t you like to know who? Just $4.95 a month and you can find out WHO is trying to find YOU! I think they already found me on Facebook, thanks. And it didn’t cost them a dime. Anyway, for whatever reason, I clicked on it and saw a thread from last summer from Mr. Sibert’s daughter letting everyone know that he had passed away. I read through the 40 or 50 comments and it reminded me of the impact he had on my life, and on so many others’ lives. See, the thing about Mr. Sibert was that he truly cared about his students. By that, I mean that he made sure you learned the material. He did that by actually teaching the material, and he did it in a fun, engaging way that made learning interesting. He also held you accountable; a rarity today when kids are treated with kid gloves and “nurtured” for 9 months so that they pass the EOG test and ensure that the state gets their funding for the following year. It’s not about learning anymore, it’s about money. Education has become a business….whoa; did you see that? I almost got all the way up onto the soapbox. Back to our story.
That first day in Mr. Sibert’s class was a Godsend for me and 22 other terrified Freshmen. Our High School had a tradition of the upperclassmen harassing, intimidating, and generally just making life miserable for the Freshmen and some of the un-initiated Sophomores; but always in a good natured, fun way. There was nothing malicious about it, it was just the way it was. I mean, come on, you’re a FRESHMAN, you’ve got to earn the respect and the title of BMOC, nobody is going to hand it to you. Besides, when you got to be a Junior or Senior, it would be your turn to harass the young ones. If you’ve seen the movie Dazed and Confused then you get the picture. There were things like: the selling of Pool passes. They were $5 if I recall. We didn’t have a pool. You could also buy elevator passes. 4 for $1, 25 for $5 or a yearly pass for $20. None of the buildings on campus had elevators. The Juniors and Seniors would get lunch money, and the Freshmen (and gullible Sophomores) would get a valuable lesson; trust no one, stay on your toes and dang-it, Mom and Dad, why couldn’t you have given me an older brother or sister to warn me about this stuff? I was lucky; I had an older brother and sister who; like Mr. Sibert, warned me about the money scams, but they didn’t give away all of the secrets; what fun would that be?
They didn’t tell us that as we were walking back to school from lunch (we were able to go off-campus, not like the gestapo run closed campuses of today) we could expect to be showered with sodas, milkshakes and unfinished food. One upperclassman made his Mom pack him a liverwurst sandwich everyday, but he never ate it. He’d go to McDonalds or Charcoaler for lunch and save the sandwich for the poor, un-drivers-licensed Freshmen. He knew that if the wind was right he could make that liverwurst sandwich actually stick to the Freshmen. Sometimes he’d throw the whole sandwich, other days he’d cut it in halves or quarters to increase his ammunition. He was an artist, really. Mr. Sibert and my siblings also failed to warn me about the trash can “rides” that the upperclassmen were eager to give, and at no cost to you; this was a freebie. More than one of my friends was sent rolling down a hill headfirst in a metal drum for the amusement of the Juniors and Seniors. I’m just glad that I could run fast. One day my buddy Randy said; “Do you think we can out run them?” I told him; “WE don’t have to out run them, Randy; I just have to out run YOU!”
Mr. Sibert and students
One of the highlights of Mr. Sibert’s class was The Chair. He was retired Air Force and loved all things having to do with flying. One of his favorite stories to tell was how his shoulders got slumped forward. He fell off the outside ladder of an air control tower. “I followed my training, pulled my arms in, bent at the knee and looked at my feet for the ground. But I didn’t see the ground, I saw clouds.” He landed upside down on his head and broke his back and both shoulders. They set them wrong and he lived the rest of his life in constant shrug. It didn’t change his outlook at all, he was always happy and a smile never left his face. The Chair was a “Vertigo chair” and was used to train fighter pilots. It had a large square base and a sturdy back, which was essential. The way it worked was; you would sit in the chair and Mr. Sibert would blindfold you. You sat up straight, then he would lean your head either left or right. You had to hold your head in that position while he spun you right round baby, right round, like a record baby….sorry, for about 15 seconds or so. THEN, he would grab and stop the chair instantly and at the same time yell; “SIT UP!” When you did, life as you knew it was over, because what you were doing was front flips, or back flips (depending on which way he spun you) at an alarming rate. Have you ever had one of those nightmares where you are falling and falling and tumbling and tumbling? Yeah, this was like that, only at 78 speed (there’s an old turntable phrase for ya). The person in the chair usually resembled a kitten being thrown out of a tree. Their hands would grip the arms of the chair and hang on for dear life, the legs were usually flailing about in random fashion. The effect lasted for about 30 seconds, and in all the times I saw Mr. Sibert subject someone to The Chair, not once did I see someone puke. Unbelievable, I know, but true. That first day of class Mr. Sibert clued the unknowing into the money scams that the upperclassmen would try to pull, he didn’t dig that, but all other gags were fine. There would be times when, right in the middle of class, the door would fly open and there would be 2 or 3 Seniors smiling, saying “We got one!” and they would drag some poor hapless Freshman to Mr. Sibert’s chair. He always made sure the Freshman was cool with it first; of course, what Freshman would be dumb enough to say no?
Mr. Sibert started and taught the aviation classes at my High School. It was awesome, and it was hard! Some people took it thinking it was going to be some blow-off class, but it was anything but. It wasn’t Quantum Physics hard, but it was still a challenge. We learned the 3 letter abbreviation of every airport in the United States, radio lingo, wind currents, weather patterns, cloud names and formations, it was like geography, geology, physics, calculus and geometry all in one. And it was a blast. We turned plastic dry cleaning bags into hot air balloons, flew rockets, Cox airplanes, you name it. As I was reading through the comments on his daughters thread yesterday, I was taken by all of the people who were now working in the aviation field. Some are pilots, some are air traffic controllers, some build airplanes and some just love being passengers. Every comment talked about what a profound impact Mr. Sibert had had on their lives. To me, that is the ultimate testimony of his life; the sheer number of people he touched in his lifetime. His goal was to teach and expand young minds, and he succeeded famously. Although, he wasn’t above scrambling a few minds in his Chair every now and then either. Godspeed, Mr. Sibert.
I Wonder How Many Cup Holders The F-22 Has?
The NukeFamily was back in DC this weekend for the Andrews Air Force Base Joint Services Open House. That’s a great Washington DC generated name for the event, but I think most civilians would call it what it is: showing you where all of those tax dollars went. I can tell you it was money well spent. Admission was free; they weren’t going to charge you to see where you’re money went, and the show was awesome. I’ve been to a gazillion Airsho’s, but as soon as they’re over I’m ready for the next one. I love watching the military jets fly. The older planes are cool too, but there’s nothing like hearing a jet engine screaming as the pilot takes it through its paces. We got to see the FA-22 Raptor fly. This is the plane that is replacing the F-117 Stealth Fighter. All I had was my little Kodak camera and I had to use the video option on it, so this video isn’t the greatest, but it’s the sound I want you to hear. This thing is awesome!
Now, if you want to see it up close doing that turn, then click on this link. The video is much better than mine, but it doesn’t sound as cool. The pilot is pulling 9G’s when he makes that turn; that’s the equivalent of 9 times the force of gravity, so if he weighs 165lbs, he’s going to feel like he weighs 1,485lbs. Put yet another way; it would feel like eating 17 Big Mac combo meals then sitting down to watch Season 3 of Seinfeld all in under 20 seconds. Ouch. My best time ever is 3 minutes 20 seconds and only 2 combo meals. I, of course, didn’t remember about the video capability of my camera until AFTER the Thunderbirds had flown, so I borrowed this video for you. It’s called; “The Sneak Pass” because the 4 Thunderbirds flying in formation take your attention up high and then off to the right and then #5 comes screaming over your head from the left. It’s usually good for some extra sales for the guys working the Kleenex tissue booth.
I’ve seen them do this many times and it still catches me off guard. I couldn’t wait to see the look on NukeBoy2’s face. I didn’t catch it right at the moment that it happened, but here is a pretty good re-enactment.
He and NukeGirl actually had their fingers in their ears more than they had them out. When the Raptor flew, everyone in our group had their ears plugged except me. Wussies! I love the sound, feeling the vibration in my chest, having the fillings dislodged from my teeth. We had taken NukeBoy1 to an Airsho years ago in El Paso, but he was only 4 or 5 and wasn’t old enough to appreciate it. He thought the coolest thing he saw that day was Robosaurus; the only thing that didn’t fly. Well, the jet powered truck didn’t either, but it could if it wanted to. It has 3 jet engines on it with 3G’s of thrust; that’s the same ratio as the Space Shuttle. In other words, if he could stand his truck on end and point it towards Mars with a reasonable amount of certainty that it would fly straight, he could launch himself into space.
At the end of the day, we had 3 NukeKids who had a blast. NukeBoy2 and I walked around and looked at the C-5, the B-52, the M1-Abrams tank and too many helicopters to count. He got to talk to pilots and sailors. He got the autographs of 3 of the Thunderbird pilots and when it was all said and done, he had a whole new slew of heroes to look up to. That’s a successful family excursion in my book.
A Mother Of A Day
I’m not naive enough to think that I can adequately describe motherhood; writers and poets better than I have been trying for centuries. Shakespeare obviously had some Mommy issues, which is probably why he wrote in that hard to understand babble. If he had just said; “Mom, where did you put the haggis?” instead of; “Oh, Mumsy dearest! Wherest hast thou displaced the medley of sheep innards? I must know, forthwith!”, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten spanked as much. Dr. Freud spent his lifeswork trying to blame everything on dear old Mom, but that’s just because she gave him his middle name of Schlomo. Swear to God, go look it up. I bet she called him that, too. “Schlomo! Time for your tick bath!” Yeah, I’ll bet little Siggy got beat up a lot when he was little; why wouldn’t he blame Mom?
Motherhood isn’t for the faint hearted. Sure, the mother instinct is strong in most women, but not all. Almost any woman can give birth, but not all of them can be a Mother. Motherhood isn’t a course that you study or a skill that is learned by reading; it is learned by doing. I have always been amazed at how easily first time Moms fall into the role. It’s like they know it all already; the handling of the baby, the delicacy of the diaper changing, the feeding and bathing. The first time NukeMom tried to give me NukeBoy1, you’d have thought she was handing me a live grenade. I’m sure I looked like Bill Gates trying to win the Seattle Pop & Lock dance competition. It wasn’t pretty. I caught on quickly enough, but NukeMom had it from the get go. New Moms glow, too. It’s true. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain and discomfort that NukeMom must have experienced after the birth of each of our children, but I can’t remember a time when she’s ever looked more beautiful. Watching her instantly turn from a wife into a mother was awe-inspiring and has made me a better husband and father.
Happy Mother’s Day to all of you Moms out there. May you have a wonderful, restful day where your every wish is granted and every desire is met. Because come tomorrow morning; you’re back on duty.
Underdogs
Horse racing fans are abuzz about the Kentucky Derby last Saturday. Sports fans in general are enthralled by the Rocky-esque storyline of Mine That Bird, the little horse that could. But the story goes deeper than that. There is a whole list of underdogs in this story. You see, some of the most successful jockeys in history started out as “underdogs” at this southern New Mexico track. The idea that a 50-1 shot in the Kentucky Derby could come from dead last 1/2 way through the race to win by 8 lengths is something you’d expect to only see in a Disney movie; it sounds cute and nice, but it’s just a movie, after all. Well, not on Saturday it wasn’t. It’s one of those stories you have to see to believe. If someone told it to you, you’d call them a liar.
Mine That Bird came to the Kentucky Derby via Sunland Park Racetrack. I have a little history with that horse-track. It’s less than 2 miles from the house I grew up in; the house my Mother still lives in. It’s a stones throw from The State Line Restaurant were I worked for over 10 years. Almost everyone in my family worked at that racetrack at some point in time. My father worked for a company that supplied the pari-mutual betting equipment needed to run a racetrack; the ticket machines, odds board, etc.. His job took us all over the Southwest when we were kids. El Paso was home-base, but when the meet ended in May, we were off to other New Mexico racetack towns like; Raton, Santa Fe and the State Fair in Albuquerque. Our neighborhood was filled with families with ties to the track; the Johnsons, the Knotts, the Luthers, the Spensers, the Shores, the Lidbergs; most of them summer transients, just like us. Some went to Raton, Santa Fe or Ruidoso in New Mexico, others went to Arizona or California. Some were administrators, money room managers, ticket machine operators, horse trainers or jockeys. We all had one thing in common: life between Memorial Day and Labor Day was always spent far from home.
Sunland Park opened in 1959 and my father worked there until 1986 when the track was sold. The man who bought it owned a company that was the main competition for my fathers company. That meant Dad had to find a new home base. His company sent him to Phoenix, Arizona, but with 2 kids in High School and a house already paid for, the family stayed in El Paso. I got out to see him at least once a month and he’d come home every other week via Southwest Airlines’ $39 Fun Fares. He spent 6 years there by himself before he retired.
There was plenty of adventure for a young kid growing up around a racetrack. I remember one time the track photographer came into the Tote room (that’s what my father’s “office” was called) with a picture for my Dad. After each race the winning horse is photographed in the Winners Circle with a banner, the jockey, the trainer, sponsors, the owner and whoever else the owner wants in the picture. “What’s this?” my father asked. “I think that’s your boy in the picture, isn’t it?” said the photographer. My Dad looked at it and saw my brother Steve, who was about 8 or 9 at the time, standing right in front with the horse owner. “That’s him, alright”, said my Dad, “but what’s he doing in this picture? He doesn’t know any of these people.” “I don’t know”, laughed the photographer, “but he’s been in every picture today.” Seems that Steve was a little ham and was sneaking under the railing of the Winners Circle after each race to get in the pictures. He still has that picture, somewhere; it hung in our room for years.
We met lots of interesting people through the years. One of my father’s good friends was Tom White Jr., an FBI agent who worked security for the racetrack. Mr. White’s father was a former FBI agent as well and also served as Warden at Leavenworth prison and La Tuna prison just up the road from El Paso. I’d sit for hours and listen to him tell stories of the bad guys he and his father would track down. I don’t recall his full involvement, but I know that Tom White Sr. helped bring in John Dillinger. Well, bring in is a relative term, I guess; he was dead in a box after all. Mr. White would give my brother and I Wanted posters like those that hung in post offices. I seem to remember some bad guy named Clarence something that had bad teeth and hung on my bulletin board for a few years. Don’t know if they ever caught him or not. George Maloof Sr. was a friend of my fathers too. You may have heard of his son’s; George and Gavin. They do alright for themselves. Owning the Sacramento Kings and The Palms in Las Vegas looks good on any resume. My Dad’s favorite George Maloof story involves Mr. Maloof walking into the Tote room one day with Jerry Apodaca, the then Governor of New Mexico right behind him. “Hello, George!” Mr. Maloof said to my father, “You know the Governor, right?” he said as he motioned his thumb over his shoulder. After a few minutes of conversation Mr. Maloof left with his Governor in tow; there were no arguments over who ran the state of New Mexico in those days. Chope Benavides worked at Sunland Park for years also, but that wasn’t his only vocation. Chope did a little of everything. He had a farm, a restaurant, a bar, all kinds of things. His restaurant is an institution in El Paso and the surrounding area. My favorite memory of Chope is when the chile harvest came in October. Every year Chope would stop by our house with one or two big burlap sacks of chiles from his farm. We’d all sit on the back porch roasting chiles while Chope and my father would talk. Here is a great link that will tell you all about him. If you scroll down to the bottom you’ll see a picture of him.
Seeing that underdog long-shot from my home turf pulling away at the end brought forth a flood of memories. There’s just something about the triumph of lowered expectations over the perceived superiority of the know-it-all’s. That’s why we love Rocky Balboa, Hoosiers, Rudy and the Jamaican Bobsled team; because a lot of times they remind us of ourselves.
Remember Those Negatives You Sold Me?….
I re-joined Facebook. I tried it a year ago and didn’t have much incentive to stay on; there weren’t that many people on there that I knew. Then about 3 weeks ago I got a phone call from an old friend. He had called my Mom in El Paso and she gave him my phone number. This may be a good time to review security protocol with her. He mentioned Facebook and how he was re-connecting with a lot of people from our younger years. He mentioned a lot of mutual friends who were on there that hadn’t been on a year ago when I first signed up. I decided to give it a go; what could it hurt? I mean, it’s not like anything we did back then was that bad; and besides, I’ve got just as much dirt on them as they have on me. I also had the foresight to purchase all of the photographic evidence, negatives included. They are safely put away in a secure, undisclosed location. Along with the pictures that I have of them. (Insert evil laugh here)
It’s been a little over 3 weeks for Facebook 2.0, and I have a few observations and questions:
- I’ve learned that there are a lot of old friends who are now using the adult version of their names. Tommy’s are now Tom’s; Robby’s are now Rob, or Robert, or Bob or Bobert.
- Is the person you knew in grade school that you haven’t talked to in 30 years really interested in being your friend, or are they just interested in rifling through your photos to see if you’ve gained as much weight as they have? Maybe they just want to see if your bald; as they suspected you would be; or maybe they want to see if you’re married to that person you were dating back then. Maybe you’re single now and they can pursue your ex. Poor man’s Craigslist?
- I’ve learned that you can take a Top 5 quiz for anything. I’ve done Top 5 movies, albums, cartoons and famous people you’ve met. I have 4 requests to take more on my sidebar. See; after you take the quiz, you can tag some (or all) of your friends to take it also. This is fine, to a point. I’m not interested in naming my Top 5 flowers, Top 5 soap operas or Top 5 gastrointestinal infections. Some things are sacred.
- What do you do when you get a friend suggestion from someone and you have no idea who the suggested person is? I have that dilemma right now. The suggested friend and I share 9 mutual friends, but I have no idea who she is. If she’s married, she didn’t use her maiden name like most ladies do, so I’m sunk. She didn’t post a profile picture either. Come to think of it; it doesn’t sound like she really wants to be on Facebook. Face being the operative word here.
- I’ve got a friend request from the daughter of a friend. This creeps me out a little. If it’s a niece, nephew or the child of a close friend, that’s one thing, but if I never knew of your existence until you sent me your request? Sorry. I’m not here to pad your friend numbers. She has like, 255,000 friends already, why does she need me? I’m not a number; to quote Gary Myrick.
- I’ve got a few friends that use their wife’s profile. It’s like double secret probation stalking. They can search through their friends’ profiles without being seen and never have to worry about that picture of them dressed like Fank-N-Furter from 1984 getting tagged and putting them in the dog house.
So far, it’s been an interesting journey. After the aforementioned friend tracked me down through my Mom, we subsequently have tracked down another friend who lives near both of us. We’re planning a reunion of sorts in Atlanta where the 3 of us will be together again for the first time in over 25 years. We’ll meet each others’ families and swap stories from the glory days. Once the wives and kids go to sleep we’ll be able to tell them again, only this time, it will be closer to the truth. I’ve re-connected with friends who are now pilots, physicists, rock school owners (just like Jack Black in School Of Rock!), CEO’s, artists, rock stars turned farmers, photographers, executive chef’s, editors of national magazines, police officers, coaches, teachers and lawyers. Oh, and stay at home Dads.
