A List Scorned
I made another list today
I promptly threw that list away
As it fell I heard it say
“You couldn’t do it anyway.”
How rude, how brazen, how arrogant
To taunt me so, to claim I can’t
So what if that last shelf had a slant
A minor flaw, insignificant
My craft is proven, I have the skill
There’s hardly anything I can’t build
Or fix, or destroy to suit my will
It’s just at the moment, I’ve had my fill.
I’m taking a break from things to-do
A well deserved rest has long been due
So there, nasty list, you see what’s true
I have the skill, I just don’t like you.
So there…I’ll be on the couch if anyone needs me.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Ode to a To-Do List
A List
Oh list of things that I must do
Which long has grown past forty-two
Tasks of varying shapes and sizes
Quite daunting when one realizes
For every one you scratch you add
Twice as many which you had
Better attend to yesterday
Before the wife has a chance to say,
Oh list of things that I must do
Which long has grown past forty-two
Tasks of varying shapes and sizes
Quite daunting when one realizes
For every one you scratch you add
Twice as many which you had
Better attend to yesterday
Before the wife has a chance to say,
“Have you finished?”
Monday, October 13, 2008
Go Meat!
The first time I saw this commercial, I actually cheered.
Even my girls like it; they ask me to sing it for them.
Yup, not your ordinary girls...makes me proud.
Even my girls like it; they ask me to sing it for them.
Yup, not your ordinary girls...makes me proud.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Daddy's Constituents
One of the best parts of being a dad is that my girls don’t have the slightest concern over the Economic Bailou…er..Rescue Bill.
Their greatest concerns are making sure I don’t overlook any of them when handing out hugs and kisses when I walk through the door after work, can I guess what they did today, can I take them for a walk or to ride their bikes, do I like their latest artwork, and what’s for dessert.
Their smiles and hugs and kisses are precious treasures worth far more than $700 billion, and I wouldn’t risk those treasures for twice that amount.
Rich or poor, we’ve got faith in our God and love for one another, and that’s what matters most.
So, Congress…do your worst (as if they had to be told).
Their greatest concerns are making sure I don’t overlook any of them when handing out hugs and kisses when I walk through the door after work, can I guess what they did today, can I take them for a walk or to ride their bikes, do I like their latest artwork, and what’s for dessert.
Their smiles and hugs and kisses are precious treasures worth far more than $700 billion, and I wouldn’t risk those treasures for twice that amount.
Rich or poor, we’ve got faith in our God and love for one another, and that’s what matters most.
So, Congress…do your worst (as if they had to be told).
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Raisin Bran: A "How To" Guide to Marshmallow Cereal
Does your wife object to Captain Crunch and other fun cereals, even when they're on sale?
In our house, I do the grocery shopping because my wife has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from past grocery trips with the children. I'm not sure what happened, but whenever the subject of grocery shopping comes up she can usually be found under the dining room table in the fetal position, and in between sobs I’m pretty sure she’s mumbling something about wine bottles.
Anyway, I try to explain to her that if you go grocery shopping with a plan it's actually pretty easy to manage the children. I once took all four girls to the store without a plan; when I got out of traction, I vowed never to do that again. Those girls are cute…but deadly. So, I don’t really blame my wife.
Where was I? Oh yeah...
…and I try to mix it up when I can.
Finally, after weeks and weeks of the Raisin Bran genre of breakfast cereal…she broke. Where as normally I argue, I bargain, I finagle, I whine (that’s just between us)…all to no avail. Apparently, you get enough Raisin Bran in her and all it takes is, “Hey look, these are on sale.”
She stocked up…
…and I mix it up...
…when I can.
In our house, I do the grocery shopping because my wife has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from past grocery trips with the children. I'm not sure what happened, but whenever the subject of grocery shopping comes up she can usually be found under the dining room table in the fetal position, and in between sobs I’m pretty sure she’s mumbling something about wine bottles.
Anyway, I try to explain to her that if you go grocery shopping with a plan it's actually pretty easy to manage the children. I once took all four girls to the store without a plan; when I got out of traction, I vowed never to do that again. Those girls are cute…but deadly. So, I don’t really blame my wife.
Where was I? Oh yeah...
While I do the shopping, I recognize that the only shopping software I have installed is Grocery Bachelor ’95. It’s a bit outdated, and I never got the service pack upgrade either, so if left to my own devices the closest thing to a vegetable that would ever reach our pantry is microwave popcorn. Consequently, when shopping for food, I’m always on the line with Tech Support (that’s my wife) to make sure I don’t stray too far from the list, go crazy over budget, or get brands that are unacceptable.
Whenever I come to the cereal aisle, the kids want nifty stuff, but mom shuns everything with “no nutritional value.” Now, we have to have breakfast cereal, otherwise every morning is a major production trying to get food on the table for our ever growing family (and we need those eggs and sausage for dinner, but that’s another story). So, I look across the limited selection of bland, expensive alternatives and settle on the cheapest cereal without cardboard listed as an ingredient.
Now, it’s hard to find a box of cereal that’s healthy, inexpensive, and has enough flavor to tempt you to break the fast, so when I see a sale on something decent, I stock up...
Whenever I come to the cereal aisle, the kids want nifty stuff, but mom shuns everything with “no nutritional value.” Now, we have to have breakfast cereal, otherwise every morning is a major production trying to get food on the table for our ever growing family (and we need those eggs and sausage for dinner, but that’s another story). So, I look across the limited selection of bland, expensive alternatives and settle on the cheapest cereal without cardboard listed as an ingredient.
Now, it’s hard to find a box of cereal that’s healthy, inexpensive, and has enough flavor to tempt you to break the fast, so when I see a sale on something decent, I stock up...
…and I try to mix it up when I can.
Finally, after weeks and weeks of the Raisin Bran genre of breakfast cereal…she broke. Where as normally I argue, I bargain, I finagle, I whine (that’s just between us)…all to no avail. Apparently, you get enough Raisin Bran in her and all it takes is, “Hey look, these are on sale.”
She stocked up…
…and I mix it up...
…when I can.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Picture...
... is worth a thousand words!
I’m sure right now only one word comes to mind:
Alcoholic.
I assure you I am not an alcoholic. Seriously. I’m not just in denial either; I promise. My wife and kids can vouch for me.
I am not an alcoholic. I am, however, cheap.
The beer was on sale, and since I rarely buy beer, I thought it would be prudent to take advantage of the sale, so I bought two twelve packs.
What? You can stockpile canned goods and breakfast cereals, but you can’t stockpile beer?
Cheers!
I’m sure right now only one word comes to mind:
Alcoholic.
I assure you I am not an alcoholic. Seriously. I’m not just in denial either; I promise. My wife and kids can vouch for me.
I am not an alcoholic. I am, however, cheap.
The beer was on sale, and since I rarely buy beer, I thought it would be prudent to take advantage of the sale, so I bought two twelve packs.
What? You can stockpile canned goods and breakfast cereals, but you can’t stockpile beer?
Cheers!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Ants In My...Van?
We opened the mini-van door today as we were preparing to set off on a family venture and discovered an ant infestation.
Apparently, the ants had smelled the insect promised-land and set out purposefully to claim it. The droppings of pintsized travelers have always provided sustenance to the animals and crawling creatures of the earth; I think it was a provision in the covenant God made with the wildlife as they exited the ark. So, every ant within twenty city blocks had come to pitch in and partake of the plentiful bounty.
As you can imagine, this sort of stopped us in our tracks. I say “sort of,” because we didn’t just drop the landing gear, taxi into the tarmac, and call it a day; there was now work to do. Where once we were going to frivolously burn some gas and some cash jetting around town to craft stores and the like (a complete rebellion against the latest political revelries), now we had purpose.
Did I say “we?”
As daddy…being solely responsible for vanquishing spiders, hunting down and triumphing over cockroaches, and handling just about any event that requires the ability to gently catch and release one of God’s creatures, or turn on a dime and systematically, thoroughly, and unsympathetically accomplish the complete annihilation of whatever might be threatening to rain on the parade of the world’s four prettiest little girls…I had purpose (and my helpmate backed me up).
I dove right in, and as I contemplated the best strategy for the mission…soap and water, bug spray, flamethrower…my wife suggested I just take it to the Car Wash and pay them to do it. It seemed like a great idea, but in the end, in addition to being sweaty, dirty, and tired, I was also short $25.32, and I hadn’t even put the seats back in yet.
When the bug spray settled and all the little ant carcasses had stopped twitching, all my efforts were rewarded by the smiles of three little girls who knew their daddy, the best daddy in the universe, had made their little corner of paradise safe from crawling critters.
Apparently, the ants had smelled the insect promised-land and set out purposefully to claim it. The droppings of pintsized travelers have always provided sustenance to the animals and crawling creatures of the earth; I think it was a provision in the covenant God made with the wildlife as they exited the ark. So, every ant within twenty city blocks had come to pitch in and partake of the plentiful bounty.
As you can imagine, this sort of stopped us in our tracks. I say “sort of,” because we didn’t just drop the landing gear, taxi into the tarmac, and call it a day; there was now work to do. Where once we were going to frivolously burn some gas and some cash jetting around town to craft stores and the like (a complete rebellion against the latest political revelries), now we had purpose.
Did I say “we?”
As daddy…being solely responsible for vanquishing spiders, hunting down and triumphing over cockroaches, and handling just about any event that requires the ability to gently catch and release one of God’s creatures, or turn on a dime and systematically, thoroughly, and unsympathetically accomplish the complete annihilation of whatever might be threatening to rain on the parade of the world’s four prettiest little girls…I had purpose (and my helpmate backed me up).
I dove right in, and as I contemplated the best strategy for the mission…soap and water, bug spray, flamethrower…my wife suggested I just take it to the Car Wash and pay them to do it. It seemed like a great idea, but in the end, in addition to being sweaty, dirty, and tired, I was also short $25.32, and I hadn’t even put the seats back in yet.
When the bug spray settled and all the little ant carcasses had stopped twitching, all my efforts were rewarded by the smiles of three little girls who knew their daddy, the best daddy in the universe, had made their little corner of paradise safe from crawling critters.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Common Sight Picture
I took my family photos to work and posted them in my cubicle (yes, I am a fat desk monkey). Everyone oohed and ahhed and gushed over them.
Now, I’m not talking about just the ladies. We assume women will fall all over baby pictures and stuff like that.
My children have the power to bring grown men to their knees. The toughest, harshest, most disagreeable men at work found themselves smiling from ear to ear, holding this 2x3 inch photo 6 inches from their nose, babbling at these photos at octaves thought unreachable by testosterone laden, teeth gritting, scowl wearing, salty, lumberjack wannabes.
It’s genuinely pathetic.
Then, as they come back to their senses, realizing that everyone is in shock at such an emotionally soft-hearted display; before they fully recover, they look me in the eye, steel me with their gaze, and utter those three little words…
…those three little words that make me realize that they are indeed real men…
…those three little words that fully explain why they reacted to the photos the way they did, because they understand my pride in my family…
…those three little words demonstrating an almost imperceptible empathy with depths so infinite as to establish an intimate and lasting fraternal bound amongst men, amongst fathers, that cannot be broken…
…those three little words that tell me plainly that they are always there if I need them to help me hunt down, kill, dismember, and dispose of any scum that even supposes to cause my daughters harm…
those three little words:
I can’t help it; I begin to sob like a school girl, every single time.
See…there I go again…I think I need more ammunition.
Now, I’m not talking about just the ladies. We assume women will fall all over baby pictures and stuff like that.
My children have the power to bring grown men to their knees. The toughest, harshest, most disagreeable men at work found themselves smiling from ear to ear, holding this 2x3 inch photo 6 inches from their nose, babbling at these photos at octaves thought unreachable by testosterone laden, teeth gritting, scowl wearing, salty, lumberjack wannabes.
“Oh my gosh, they are adorable.” “Look at that hair.” “Oh they’re so cute.” “They’re going to be such heart breakers.”
It’s genuinely pathetic.
Then, as they come back to their senses, realizing that everyone is in shock at such an emotionally soft-hearted display; before they fully recover, they look me in the eye, steel me with their gaze, and utter those three little words…
…those three little words that make me realize that they are indeed real men…
…those three little words that fully explain why they reacted to the photos the way they did, because they understand my pride in my family…
…those three little words demonstrating an almost imperceptible empathy with depths so infinite as to establish an intimate and lasting fraternal bound amongst men, amongst fathers, that cannot be broken…
…those three little words that tell me plainly that they are always there if I need them to help me hunt down, kill, dismember, and dispose of any scum that even supposes to cause my daughters harm…
those three little words:
"Get a gun."
I can’t help it; I begin to sob like a school girl, every single time.
See…there I go again…I think I need more ammunition.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Three Cute Little Thumbs Up
I took our midgets to see Wall-E.
I thought the movie was great, but the shameless marketing barrage and the inappropriate previews chocked full of sexual innuendo really chapped my hide.
The movie was rated G, and though the meat of the plot and character interaction was well above most “General” audiences, there was something for everyone and nothing that I would deem inappropriate (unless the political suggestion was intentional). Some of the previews, however, were not rated G and were quite inappropriate; discerning parent’s efforts were thrown right out the window…score another one for Hollywood.
My girls suggested that next time we should wait until the movie is about to play before we take our seats, that way they don’t have to endure Hollywood’s marketing wrath.
I have always enjoyed watching movies on the big screen, but the volume is unnecessarily loud (especially for small children), the cost has gotten ridiculous ($29 for one adult and three children), and Hollywood seldom has any pure or genuine virtue to offer. Consequently, I (we) have avoided going to the movies except on rare, proven occasion.
Wall-E proved to be such an occasion.
Considering all that Wall-E had to offer, the fact that the environment interjected negatively enough to detract from the film, has us reconsidering the value of such outings.
I thought the movie was great, but the shameless marketing barrage and the inappropriate previews chocked full of sexual innuendo really chapped my hide.
The movie was rated G, and though the meat of the plot and character interaction was well above most “General” audiences, there was something for everyone and nothing that I would deem inappropriate (unless the political suggestion was intentional). Some of the previews, however, were not rated G and were quite inappropriate; discerning parent’s efforts were thrown right out the window…score another one for Hollywood.
My girls suggested that next time we should wait until the movie is about to play before we take our seats, that way they don’t have to endure Hollywood’s marketing wrath.
I have always enjoyed watching movies on the big screen, but the volume is unnecessarily loud (especially for small children), the cost has gotten ridiculous ($29 for one adult and three children), and Hollywood seldom has any pure or genuine virtue to offer. Consequently, I (we) have avoided going to the movies except on rare, proven occasion.
Wall-E proved to be such an occasion.
Considering all that Wall-E had to offer, the fact that the environment interjected negatively enough to detract from the film, has us reconsidering the value of such outings.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Photo Rip
I picked up our family photos from Sears today.
“Here’s all the pictures of your family…oh, look at the cute baby…oh my, isn’t she adorable…what a lovely fami…for an additional $20.”
What a racket?
They charge an arm and a leg for those photos in the first place, and then if they didn’t waste so much paper and ink trying to sell you those cheesy theme packages, they could probably chop half the price for crying out loud.
“…for an additional $20.”
Then, on your way out the door, after you’ve paid the big bucks at the previous sitting, they show you the finished works and then try to hang a few more out in front of you, just to sort of blackmail you, give you the idea that you can’t leave unless you plop down another twenty bucks.
“…for an additional $20.”
It’s worse than taxes.
Even more, they try and pull a total mind game on you. They use the best pose and toss in some wallets. It’s super annoying, because when you walk out of the store, they’re going to throw those pictures away anyway.
“…for an additional $20.”
What a waste; it is such a racket.
Since I totally knew what they were trying to pull, I didn’t feel bad about giving her the twenty bucks. Yeah, nobody pulls a fast one on me. I bought those pictures because it was a good deal. It was just $5 per sheet at that point, who wouldn’t buy them. You’d have to be crazy to pass up a deal like that. And we can always find takers for those pictures. For Pete’s sake, they’re adorable. It was the best family photo we’ve ever taken, and…
…
They totally worked me.
“Here’s all the pictures of your family…oh, look at the cute baby…oh my, isn’t she adorable…what a lovely fami…for an additional $20.”
What a racket?
They charge an arm and a leg for those photos in the first place, and then if they didn’t waste so much paper and ink trying to sell you those cheesy theme packages, they could probably chop half the price for crying out loud.
“…for an additional $20.”
Then, on your way out the door, after you’ve paid the big bucks at the previous sitting, they show you the finished works and then try to hang a few more out in front of you, just to sort of blackmail you, give you the idea that you can’t leave unless you plop down another twenty bucks.
“…for an additional $20.”
It’s worse than taxes.
Even more, they try and pull a total mind game on you. They use the best pose and toss in some wallets. It’s super annoying, because when you walk out of the store, they’re going to throw those pictures away anyway.
“…for an additional $20.”
What a waste; it is such a racket.
Since I totally knew what they were trying to pull, I didn’t feel bad about giving her the twenty bucks. Yeah, nobody pulls a fast one on me. I bought those pictures because it was a good deal. It was just $5 per sheet at that point, who wouldn’t buy them. You’d have to be crazy to pass up a deal like that. And we can always find takers for those pictures. For Pete’s sake, they’re adorable. It was the best family photo we’ve ever taken, and…
…
They totally worked me.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Dad, Their Biggest Fan
Today, my eldest daughter made me so proud.
Did she win the national spelling bee? Did she recite the constitution backwards while riding a unicycle and playing the Star Spangled Banner on a kazoo? Did she whip up a perfect plate of cheese fries with bits of real bacon and just the right amount of jalapeños?
None of the above, though we’re working on that last one.
She impressed her papa, the simple man that I am, by earning a gold trophy during a licensing segment of GT3.
BOOM BABY!!
Don’t pretend; you know you’re jealous. She’s cuter than your kid, she’s smarter than your kid, she makes better cheese fries than your kid, AND she totally rocks at GT3. That’s it, I’m getting one of those goofy bumper stickers that says all manner of generic stuff about my kid…except instead of being the best hall monitor at South Wiffletonville County Elementary, it’ll say she kicks butt at GT3.
For you less than plugged-in parents out there, that’s Gran Turismo 3. Yes, I encourage my children to play video games and computer games. More accurately, I play with them, and it’s boat loads of fun. I’m not going to try to argue for hand to eye coordination, motor skills, or anything else. I just think it’s fun, and they agree.
Of course, no matter what game they’re playing, if the front door opens or if they so much as hear the door keys rattle, they drop the video game controller (versus storing it away responsibly) and bolt for the door like cocker spaniels with one too many espressos building up in their bladders.
That makes me even prouder than the gold trophy.
No matter what computer or video game they’re playing or if they’re watching a movie or cartoons, if you offer to go play, they’re out the door…leaving every computer, television, light, and electrical device within reach of their grubby little fingers running at its highest setting (we’re working on this one, too). Actually, if you offer them a book or a board game, you get the same reaction.
Come to think of it, if you run a bath, they drop everything and head for the water.
MAN, MY KIDS ROCK!!!
I’m gonna go get a big foam finger, paint half my face what ever our family colors are, paint the other half of my face whatever the rest of the family colors are (actually, at least one half would have to be pink since I have all daughters…oh well), and run around the house chanting:
WE’RE #1!
WE’RE #1!
WE’RE #1!
…wait…
THEY’RE #1!
THEY’RE #1!
THEY’RE #1!
Yeah, that should do it.
Did she win the national spelling bee? Did she recite the constitution backwards while riding a unicycle and playing the Star Spangled Banner on a kazoo? Did she whip up a perfect plate of cheese fries with bits of real bacon and just the right amount of jalapeños?
None of the above, though we’re working on that last one.
She impressed her papa, the simple man that I am, by earning a gold trophy during a licensing segment of GT3.
BOOM BABY!!
Don’t pretend; you know you’re jealous. She’s cuter than your kid, she’s smarter than your kid, she makes better cheese fries than your kid, AND she totally rocks at GT3. That’s it, I’m getting one of those goofy bumper stickers that says all manner of generic stuff about my kid…except instead of being the best hall monitor at South Wiffletonville County Elementary, it’ll say she kicks butt at GT3.
For you less than plugged-in parents out there, that’s Gran Turismo 3. Yes, I encourage my children to play video games and computer games. More accurately, I play with them, and it’s boat loads of fun. I’m not going to try to argue for hand to eye coordination, motor skills, or anything else. I just think it’s fun, and they agree.
Of course, no matter what game they’re playing, if the front door opens or if they so much as hear the door keys rattle, they drop the video game controller (versus storing it away responsibly) and bolt for the door like cocker spaniels with one too many espressos building up in their bladders.
That makes me even prouder than the gold trophy.
No matter what computer or video game they’re playing or if they’re watching a movie or cartoons, if you offer to go play, they’re out the door…leaving every computer, television, light, and electrical device within reach of their grubby little fingers running at its highest setting (we’re working on this one, too). Actually, if you offer them a book or a board game, you get the same reaction.
Come to think of it, if you run a bath, they drop everything and head for the water.
MAN, MY KIDS ROCK!!!
I’m gonna go get a big foam finger, paint half my face what ever our family colors are, paint the other half of my face whatever the rest of the family colors are (actually, at least one half would have to be pink since I have all daughters…oh well), and run around the house chanting:
WE’RE #1!
WE’RE #1!
WE’RE #1!
…wait…
THEY’RE #1!
THEY’RE #1!
THEY’RE #1!
Yeah, that should do it.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Blog For Joy
I’ve always envied my wife the carefree manner in which she blogs. It’s the equivalent of throwing open the kitchen window and bellowing wistful highlights at passersby…and they stop appreciatively to converse.
My blogs tend to be more like soapboxes, lectures, or maybe eulogies. They so often require (or hopefully inspire) deep thought or conviction. Heck, sometimes it even leaves me a bit melancholy.
I think that’s why I often neglect my blogs: it’s tough to watch helplessly as the hand-basket wisps purposefully (and all too speedily) toward oblivion; and blogging about it doesn’t help much, even if 2 or 3 of the other 6,000,000,000 people on the planet do happen to express their agreement.
My wife, however, blogs joyfully and often several times a day, because she “blogs for joy.” She loves God, she loves the children, she loves being a wife and mother, she loves life, and she loves me. She is happy, and by gosh she’s gonna tell…well, everybody.
Well, let’s face it, you can’t be married to a woman like that and not have a little of that joy and love rub off on you, and by gosh I’m gonna tell…well, everybody.
…brace yourselves…
My blogs tend to be more like soapboxes, lectures, or maybe eulogies. They so often require (or hopefully inspire) deep thought or conviction. Heck, sometimes it even leaves me a bit melancholy.
I think that’s why I often neglect my blogs: it’s tough to watch helplessly as the hand-basket wisps purposefully (and all too speedily) toward oblivion; and blogging about it doesn’t help much, even if 2 or 3 of the other 6,000,000,000 people on the planet do happen to express their agreement.
My wife, however, blogs joyfully and often several times a day, because she “blogs for joy.” She loves God, she loves the children, she loves being a wife and mother, she loves life, and she loves me. She is happy, and by gosh she’s gonna tell…well, everybody.
Well, let’s face it, you can’t be married to a woman like that and not have a little of that joy and love rub off on you, and by gosh I’m gonna tell…well, everybody.
…brace yourselves…
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