04/15/04
The office had a going-away pot-luck for someone who transferred to another office. While I was still working I had said I’d bring a desert. People like my apple pies, but I’ve gotten to where I just don’t care to roll out that many crusts. Therefore, they get an apple crisp and it works just fine.

Last night I peeled and cut five pounds of apples. Spiced them in a way that seemed pretty good. Put them in a large cake pan, topped them, and already sure of success I put them in the oven. Set the timer on the microwave for 30 minutes, not that I needed to, because it was on the hour and thirty minutes is easy to see. All you have to do is watch any TV program and wait for the half-hour break. That’s the way it should work.

In reality, I sat down and the medication put me right to sleep. Seven hours later I had two apple crisps that were way too crisp. They were- crispy. Such is life.

No word yet from the neurologist. He had offered Mayo or University of Iowa. The Supernurse said U of Ia because it’s closer. The kids are still in school so if we can get it done without affecting their schooling then that’s what we’re going to do. She has spoken.

Getting a little impatient, she called U of Ia. They are assessing my case and “will get back to you.” So we’ll see. I hope they get this resolved before I waste any more cooking efforts.

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We went to see the neurologist. He didn’t seem capable of uttering the words, “Mayo was wrong.” But he did agree with me that my eye problem wasn’t caused by a stroke. He wants to do a gamma knife. Again we were in agreement. It should stop the pain, but won’t restore my eyesight. I’ll talk to the neurologists at U of Ia about that.

After the kids got home from school it was decided we’d have Arby’s for supper. I also got a Jamocha shake. It seems I need the calories because on weighing myself before the doctor visit I found I’d lost 10 pounds from hardly eating. Had to cut up a small roast beef sandwich so I could eat it. I found that by dipping it in au jus you don’t have to chew. Due to this revelation it only took me 30 minutes to eat it. What fun- but it was calories.

After the kids headed upstairs to play games the Super Wife put Sea Biscuit on. She sat down in the middle of the couch, I sat on an end. Like a greedy miser I put my arms around her and pulled her next to me. She watched the movie and I laid my head on the couch back behind her. With my nose in her hair and my chin on her shoulder I felt like a rich man indeed.
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4/11/04
Went to church with the in-laws. We left early enough to go to Sunday School. I was having enough difficulty talking that I didn’t contribute a thing, not that I ever do. If a Sunday School teacher wants my opinion he can ask me to write him a paper. Let’s face it, I write better than I talk. Not being terribly quick-witted I need to edit, but tonight I won’t- for reasons that will be explained shortly.

After church all of us went to eat at a restaurant in downtown Clinton. From the looks of it it’s one of the few thriving businesses there. It’s a restaurant done in a style best described as “homey.” At least it’s homey if you have a lot of pictures of country-western singers on your walls. If you don’t, you’ve still got a good idea.

The food was plentiful. To my knowledge everybody was stuffed by the time we left- everybody but me. I’ve been taking lots of Tegretol but it isn’t making the pain go away. It’s certainly keeping the pain from running away to suicide inducing levels, but most bites are rewarded with what feels like a sharp slap on the right side of the face, sometimes they’re machinegun style slaps. Anybody who has taken Psyche 101 could guess that linking pain with a behavior will result in the suppression of that behavior.

I hadn't eaten anything Saturday. Even though I have a long way to go until I appear to be wasting away it only seems sensible to eat. So I tried. I had a big plate of scrambled eggs, ham, and hash browns. Those are easy to take in small bites. I was almost halfway through when I gave up.

I had resolved to eat slowly and carefully and accept any pain that came. About every other bite hurt. After two bites in a row resulted in machinegun pain I started to cry in the middle of a packed restaurant and in front of a long table full of family. That was enough for me. Skinner was at least right at the most basic level of behavior.

Then it was on to the in-law’s where the kids had an Easter egg hunt. The wife wanted me to take pictures. Okay. There was only one problem, well two actually. First- it was so cool it was threatening to trigger the facial pain. Secondly, the kids were running as fast as they could. The jarring of running can set off, one more time, the facial pain. It’s hard to get good photos when you’re looking at their backs. I tried to anticipate their directions, but kids are rarely predictable. Oh well.

When we got home Ms. Pikachu walked over to the pantry and asked, “Hey Dad, are you hungry?” She reached in, and pulling out a can exclaimed, “Green beans, everybody loves ’em!” The kid likes a running joke, another gene she got from me. Don’t ask me how that’s genetic; I’m just sure it is.

Since I’ve hardly had a caloric intake equal to what I’ve burned for the past week the Supernurse apparently felt it was time to try something else. So she had me take a few pills left over from other treatments. Don’t worry; they aren’t anti-biotic so we aren’t risking the development of super bugs. We are talking pain pills. It won’t be long and I’ll be fast asleep. So this isn’t going to be edited at all. You’re getting a post in its raw form. It is literarily vulgar. I know- you should have been warned so you could hide the children and avert your eyes. Maybe next time. In the mean time, pardon me; I’m going to go dream of food.
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4/10/04
Went to visit the in-laws. While getting ready I checked the van?s oil- needed a quart, checked the water- needed some. Yes, I certainly performed my manly duties. Then, seized with the fear of a faulty water pump, I looked underneath for dripping. Big surprise, there was dripping. Of course there was dripping, I?d probably spilled a little. Not just fear, paranoia, because the last thing I want is to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with my family because of a stinkin? water pump that failed.

So to be sure I start it up and let it run to operating temperature, we?ll see if it really leaks of not. It?s dripping faster. But?.. check the overflow tank. Sure enough, with my crappy vision I?d put too much in the water tank and it?s spitting out the excess. But I have to be sure. Who do I espy buy Tom, my friendly neighbor. That would be Tom who can tear a car down to it?s frame and rebuild it. Handy Tom. I call him over. He can see no fluid being thrown on the firewall (why didn?t I think of that). He thinks it?s fine. Then the van it is, I tell the kids to load ?er up. I thank Handy Tom, and tell him that we?ll be gone till late Sunday night, so if he see?s anybody going into or out of the house he is to shoot to kill. He seems amused.

I noticed one of the front steps was working loose, so I figure that before we leave I?ll put a couple screws in it. Before I can the Petite Wife comes out, and in going down the steps the step falls in. Fortunately she is not hurt. I tell her that no way are we leaving this invitation to a lawsuit this way.

She says she can take a couple things back to the library, but then WE'VE GOT TO LEAVE. Well alrighty. I get some tin sheet, a tin snips, and some screws and cut some brackets to hold it in place. Having two drills makes it fairly easy, one to drill holes in the tin, one to drive the screws. She?s back before I?m done though. Nearly done, but not done. And WE HAVE GOT TO LEAVE. I heard you.

It?s done. Stand on it. Solid. Not to be confused with pretty, but solid. The Impatient Wife is happy. Step down and the bottom step falls in. Good Lord. Making two more brackets will test the Impatient Wife?s pressure capacity, let?s not go there. What we need here is a fast fix that?s still solid. It?s the bottom step, so just fill it in. Grab a couple of boards and force them under the step, hammer them just to make sure they?re tight. Test them- another solid fix. The Impatient Wife is happy, and we?re on our way.

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Another journey to Wal-Mart. That would not be blog-worthy except for Ms. Pikachu.
While going down one of the amply stocked aisles she screamed, yes, screamed, “Lint rollers! Everybody loves lint rollers!” She ran to the lint roller display farther down the aisle, grabbed two, and with one in each hand flapped her arms like wings while running up and down the aisles while continuing to yell, “Lint rollers! Everybody loves lint rollers!”

It set a precedent of some sort. When we walked down the vegetable aisle she yelled, “Green beans, everybody loves green beans!” and put a can of them in the cart. Not long after it was “Baked beans! Everybody loves baked beans!” She walked back to the cart with a one-gallon can of baked beans. No fooling, one gallon of Bush’s Best.

I told her that was nuts, put them back and get a smaller can. If she resisted I could see a negotiation that ended up with a couple of smaller cans. She would not compromise, she took it to a higher authority. She took it to the Super Wife. Who said it was okay, because they’d all get eaten. Alright, fine, cuz everybody loves baked beans.

As we walked through the store there seemed to be two kinds of customers- those who found Ms. Pikachu’s antics funny, and those who thought she should be in a psyche ward. Fortunately we didn’t run into anybody we knew.

Knowing that some people weren’t amused, and her displays might be perceived as rude, I tried to calm her down. But there was no slowing her down. She was manic and loving it. While I find it a bit irritating sometimes, it doesn’t bother me too much because she gets it from me. Funny how having the same problem makes one more indulgent, especially when it’s your genes at fault.

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Having done our “official” Seder last night, the Holy Wife had no problems with starting a second one as soon as everybody was together. Instead of starting where we left off we did the whole thing over again. The Holy Wife was in her element, she was happy.

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I’m off work the rest of the week, the facial pain can’t be totally suppressed. I’m taking the limit of tegretol and it keeps me from having the worst pain, and I’m grateful for that. But it’s still too painful to talk much. There’s no way I can interview the public with the pain I’m having. The neurologist gave me an excuse good until my appointment with him on the 12th. On the one hand, I feel awful leaving my unit shorthanded, on the other hand I feel like a kid who got out of school. Which is to say- I’m conflicted, but dealing with it rather well.

I have around six months of sick leave built up. I shouldn’t say “oh boy”, but, oh boy.

Dai Dai Ainu, Dai Dai Ainu, Dai Dai Ainu, Dai Ainu, Dai Anu

This can only mean one thing. Our little Christian family is celebrating Passover. There’s a girl next door or Ms. Pikachu’s age that wants to partake. Okay, but you need your parents’ approval. She comes back and it’s okay, she just has to be home by 8:30. Passover Seder starts at sunset, no way is it going to be over by 8:30.

She stays and enjoys herself. Normally I would read aloud from the Haggadah but the facial pain won’t permit it. The Holy Wife does a fine job. We send our neighbor home just before 8:30. Before leaving the Holy Wife tells her we can pick it up tomorrow after they get home from school. Dear God. Two Seders? That’s a lot of Seder. Is she a Holy Wife or what?

She must be since she got a six year-old to eat a hillel sandwich. A hillel sandwich is two small pieces of matzoh with horseradish on the front end, and a mixture of charoset, apples, honey, nuts, etc on the back end. Charoset is quite yummy.

Why this odd sandwich? The horseradish is like the taste of our sin in God’s mouth. The charoset is an antidote, his sweet grace, in ours.

Anyway, Ms. Pikachu had great fun teasing Trainboy about the horseradish. Using chopped horseradish will bring tears to your eyes, so it’s not a fun thing. However, we got creamy horseradish- considerably more bearable. Ms. Pikachu scared Trainboy right out of eating it. He refused, or so he thought. The Holy Wife’s powers of persuasion are powerful indeed. He ate the sandwich, and we finished the Seder.

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At work today a woman who works next door and reads my blog was feeling sympathetic after my last pitiful entry. Donna brought me some flowers to cheer me up. God bless her. It’s nice to look over occasionally and see them. It’s kind of amazing how a thoughtful gesture can affect you. Too bad it can’t stop my recurring facial pain.

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Woke up on the couch. Super Nurse must certainly be home. She certainly was. Not in kitchen, check fridge - sandwich not eaten, oh well, check bathroom- nothing, check bedroom- she's laying there looking at book orders for the kids. God she's beautiful. She said she just wasn't hungry because she ate that much for lunch. Okay. I told her I'd checked out the cranial nerves on the web and the ones involving the eyes were more complicated than I could understand. I couldn't figure out how to bang my head to fix my eye problem. She was glad. She rolls away from me and I snuggle up behind her. It's just bliss to be so close.

Can't go to sleep. Try to go to sleep. Can't go to sleep and a half-hour's gone. Must have been all the napping. I whisper "I'm sorry." She half-rolls back and says "huh?" Thought she was asleep, crap. Wanted to tell her, "I'm sorry I'm such a burden. You and the kids deserve so much better. I'm sorry you married me." Just too much of a coward to say it while she was awake. Can't sleep. Wait another half-hour and get out of bed, might as well blog.

I hate this tumor. I hate feeling like a burden. I hate wishing my kids had a better father. I hate wishing my wife had a better husband. I hate wishing I wasn't me. Dammit, I'm crying again. I've cried too much lately.

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Around 7:00 the kids decide they're hungry again. Well allrighty, and what will your order be. Big surprise, chicken nuggets for Trainboy, Cheeseburger for Ms. Pikachu. I'm sitting on the floor, Trainboy comes over to me, puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "Get it from the Wendys that's closest," My little micromanager. No problem.

In addition, I get Ms. Pikachu her own chili so we can avoid another chili war. And I get the wife a grilled chicken sandwich with veggies, because that would be low-fat and she would like that. I aim to please.

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4/4/04
Church, of course.

Lunch at Hy Vee. I ordered the fish just to keep the kids off balance. It was a mistake though. If you don’t have the right tartar sauce fish is hardly edible. I also got sweet potatoes because they are one of the Super Wife’s favorite foods and I just wanted to share them with her.

As we were seating ourselves because, oddly enough, the grocery store doesn’t have a maitre’d on Sundays, Trainboy riddled- “What do you call a sister with half a brain?” …. “gifted.” The Super Wife laughed. Ms. Pikachu said, “I don’t get it.” She of the straight A report card didn’t get it. Hah. What is this educational system coming to?

When we got home our neighbor Tom, the Super Fix-it Guy was trying to get his cat out of the tree across the street. It is a tall tree indeed. I told him my Dad always said a cat would come down when it got hungry enough. (Everyone nods at such wisdom.) I had no sympathy for the cat anyway. It was probably up there to kill birds. Let it starve.

Tom threw rocks at the cat to try to encourage it to retreat from the limb and come down. Even something as dumb as a cat that trees itself probably doesn’t want to come down a tree and get closer to somebody throwing rocks at it. More rocks, the cat retreats to the tree trunk. More rocks, the cat runs back out on the limb. You just can’t beat urban living.

Ms. Pikachu asked if she could volunteer my paintball gun. She has lost all contact with reality. “No.” She goes outside. She comes back inside. She asks again. “No.” Out. In. She’s going to nag till she gets what she wants. I am a weenie. Sadly, the system works. Okay, fine. Let’s be realistic here, does he really want to get paint all over his cat? Does he really want to risk knocking it right off of the tree? As if logic mattered. She just wants to shoot the cat. She comes back disheartened- he refused her offer.

I asked Trainboy if he wanted to help feed the birds. He thought it was a good idea. I grabbed the feed and a stepstool and away we went. I held the top of the feeder open, he climbed up and shoveled the feed in. I love those bonding moments.

Five hours later the cat is still up the tree making its pitiful mewling. But I have no pity for it. At least while it’s up there it isn’t threatening any other birds, and that’s what’s important, isn’t it?

The rest of the day looks to be laundry, TV, whatever home improvement I get around to doing, and I may not get around to doing any. Ah weekends.
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04/03/04
Pills had me napping again. When I woke up it was time to feed the critters supper. It was Steak & Shake again by the roar of the mob. So away we go. When the Super Wife is along Ms. Pikachu rides in the back seat. Since the Super One was at work Ms. Pikachu rode up front, keeping an eagle eye out for traffic problems. She knows I have eye problems, and it makes her nervous. It will only be a few years before she’s learning how to drive and it will be my turn to be nervous.

Regardless, we arrived at the restaurant with no unexpected events. Instead of ordering a kid’s meal like usual she ordered a single and two sides. My but she is growing. Then she got a shake with hot fudge topping and she went nuts over the fudge. She looked around and said, “Dad, people are looking at me.” Imagine that. I don’t suppose you noticed if there was any guilt by association?

Trainboy looked at her and asked, “What planet are you from?” I’ve often wondered myself. In blonde mode she sing-songed “Jupiter, because I couldn’t be stupider.” I was not going to look for the public’s reaction. There are times I don’t know why I don’t lock them up and feed them through a slot in the door. Must be their entertainment value, such as it were.

When we were about done I ordered a Frisco burger to go. I know the Super Nurse likes them, and sometimes she doesn’t get to eat all day. Then it was back home, where I did laundry, watched TV, and waited for Her return. When she got home she said, “Didn’t you get my message? I couldn’t eat because I had no money and I couldn’t charge it because I couldn’t find my ID before I left. I wanted you to bring it over.” Uh oh, big whoops .

Time to dance. “Why no I’m sorry I didn’t see your message but if I had you know I would have found it and brought it to you because nothing makes me happier than making you happy but when we went out to eat I got you a sandwich that you like would you like it now? Darling?” Fast waltz. She ate her sandwich and was grateful, I guess. There were no bodily injuries and that’s always a good sign.

The day was done.
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I left work early because Trainboy had his Spring Program at school. By the time I’d gotten home the Super Wife had already left, so I drove on to the school. I found her in the gym, already seated and about in the middle of a row. She had an empty seat beside her so I excused myself all the way to it.

She seemed happy to see me, but said she reserved rebuttal rights on last night’s blog posting. Everybody’s a critic. Shortly after exchanging pleasantries I looked for the camera bag. It was not there. I asked her if she wanted pictures. She thought the gear was in the back of my car. It was not. It was in the back of her van. But yes, she’d like some pictures.

I excused myself all the way out to the other end of the line. Then came a jog to the van. I’d parked across the street from it about a block away. Open the rear of the van and… there it is- one camera bag. It’s a fairly large one, and by the time you put in a fairly large video camera, 35 mm camera, zoom lens, and assorted accessories it’s a heavy thing. No matter, I need the exercise. I jog back to school with it.

Sweating, I excuse myself all the way back to her seat, carrying this big bag, trying not to bump people too badly. I unpack the 35 mm and put the zoom on, locked and loaded. Then I ask, “You want video too?” When will I learn? She says why yes. Unpack the video camera, etc.

I excuse myself out, grateful that it’s highly unlikely anybody would pack heat in a grade school, but wondering if it isn’t about time we installed metal detectors. I also wonder if my deodorant is working. It doesn’t matter. Just set up.and.we.are.LIVE!

Neither of my hearing aids is working. I haven’t a clue what they’re singing; apparently this is the Spring Program of the Obscure. (dramatically) Before we can go into the future, first we must understand the past. It is time… for a time warp {{{{{}}}}}

Last night the Super Mom put together a cowboy outfit for Trainboy. His teacher had sent a note home that all the boys should try to dress like cowboys. The ever-resourceful Super Mom put together a cowboy outfit including a cowboy hat and a vest made out of a fake wool last seen on the seat covers of a 1968 Dodge Dart. It was unconvincing fake wool and we would leave it at that, except. Except even a six year-old knew it wasn’t exactly cowboy gear, not unless the cowboy had shot a sheep herder, and was willing to wear the skin of a wooly gila monster. Not likely. Time to …time warp {{{{{}}}}}.

Trainboy, now Cowboy, is onstage. He is not wearing a vest. He is not wearing a hat. The Super Mom is surprised; I am not. Because I realize that Trainboy is more like me than I’d ever suspected. As a kid I would have refused to wear any vest that didn’t meet my expectation of authentic. And I would have refused to wear any hat. It was never so cold I had to wear a hat, never. Super Mom may be surprised, but I understand completely, and I’m happy.



When the program finished we went home. Ms. Pikachu was already home, honing her Nintendo skills. Tired from being up too late last night blogging, I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up the Super Nurse had already departed for work.

The reasonable thing would be to ask the kids if they’re hungry. So I ask them. Ms. Pikachu says no, she’s already eaten. Trainboy says he’s not hungry either. Well I am. So I grabbed a TV dinner out of the freezer, popped it in the microwave, and really pitied my poor ancestors. How did they get by?

Properly heated, I sit down in front of the TV because where else should one eat a TV dinner? There’s pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy and the usual etc… Take a bite, not bad, not bad at all. Trainboy is sitting by me, I ask him if he’d like a bite. He points at a piece of meat, “That one.” Well alrighty then. For a kid who isn’t hungry he does very well. He eats everything except the green beans and celery. No problem with me, there’s more as close as a trip to the freezer and microwave.

We watched Spongebob; it was a good one. Ms. Pikachu came down stairs and said “I heard you laughing.” In the interest of saving energy we aren’t going to use the time warp, I’m just going to tell you- the last time the Schwan’s man came around I got a French silk pie figuring Ms. Chocoholic would like that. She did. So, before she headed back upstairs she told me she’d already eaten the pie, and would I please get another. I could, but technically, that would probably make me an enabler.

Eventually Trainboy decided it was time to pull the plug. We went upstairs and he asked me for a “big shirt” for bed. He likes to use one of my T-shirts for a nightshirt. I got him my Mensa T and told him that it’s a shirt for smart people and now that he can recite all the presidents he can wear it. He seemed pleased. Then we read ‘Harry and the Lady Next Door’ and he was done.



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When I got home Trainboy asked me if I wanted to play Hot and Cold. No way can you refuse a child's request like that, I told him I'd be happy to play Hot and Cold. So I walked in different directions and he told me if I was getting hotter or colder. It really didn't take long to arrive at 'hottest' and he was so excited he was practically percolating himself.

I was in front of the deacon's bench so there was only one thing to do. I opened the lid and he started hopping up and down, he WAS percolating. Inside was a box wrapped in blue paper with a white ribbon. As I lifted it out he told me he'd bought it at Awanas last night because it was a store night. He used the shares he'd earned to buy something for me. It was supposed to be for Father's Day, but he just couldn't wait. He had to give it to me now.

I am now the proud owner of a truck with a missile launcher on the back. He knew I liked missiles. He was so happy to give it to me. What a sweet boy. God I love him.

Later it was our night to do taxes. She did them earlier during the day on paper forms. That's right, the SuperNurse/SuperMom/SuperWife does taxes too. She's very versatile. It was up to me to then type them in using TaxAct. We used the program last year and generally speaking it was very easy, except, and there's always and exception, it took a long time to figure out how to enter the mortgage credit. It finally occurred to me to just click on 'forms' and choose the correct form instead of trying to just get it from the program's flow.

It took us four hours last year. This year, since we were experienced, it took an hour and a half. The problem, as I see it, is that it's hard to really get used to something you only use once per year. It's always something, but next year it'll probably only take about a half hour. We'll see.


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It looked like a free night, showing how delusional I am. The Thriftywife informed me that she’d bought a video game for Ms Pikachu and since then, horrors, it had gone on sale elsewhere. This can only mean one thing- we are going to get some money back.

So we take a poll of the kids. “We are going make a stop at the library and then go to Target and Toys R’ Us, do you want to go?” They don’t want to go. We’ve already eaten and they don’t want to bounce around between stores when then could stay at home and watch Cartoon Network. Kids grow up so early nowadays.

But I would go, yes me, Weenie Husband! Off we went and on the way she explained to me what needed to be done. It involved buying another, taking one back, and getting a price adjustment- at least that’s all I remember. The whole thing seemed so convoluted it would intimidate a venture capitalist. All that mattered was that she knew what she was doing, and wanted to do it..

During the drive I asked her how much money she was making on this little adventure. She said “$5.00.” I was a little incredulous. Driving to two different stores and dealing with customer service in both of them for $5.00? I asked her what her time was worth, and did not mention gas or wear on the van. She didn’t mind, for her $5.00 is $5.00. Right there you know she’ll never spend us poor, nor will she let me. Which is a good thing…within limits.

So I didn’t say anything else about it. It doesn’t do much good to get somebody angry over so little. Hey if it’s worth it to you to drive all over town for $5.00, if that makes you happy, well alrighty then. So I shut up and put up with it.

In return, I got about an hour and a half with just her, no kids. She drove so I got to just look at her face, squeeze her right leg, and hold hands. For $5.00 I’d be more than happy to do it again.

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I probably have nothing original to say regarding the Israeli killing of one of the founders of Hamas, Sheikh Yasmin. But that won't stop me, it never has. On the one hand the timing of his death seems odd, because they could have killed him any number of times before. On the other hand, maybe it was just their way of letting Hamas know that just because the people of Spain could be cowed with a bomb, Israel refuses to give in.

I don’t understand the protests of his killing- the man helped found a terrorist organization and was responsible for a lot of deaths. Protesters and the media repeatedly point out that he was old and wheelchair bound. As though that was an automatic Get Out Of Jail Free card. It was not, with a missile.

The Israelis should have scooped his remains into a trash barrel and thrown them, and his wheelchair, off the side of a cruise ship. Leon Klinghoffer’s family could do the dishonors. That idea would surely upset some people. It would upset them because Klinghoffer was an American and a Jew and therefore doubly deserving of his fate. Screw that.

Hamas is a death cult, it’s all they understand. How can you reason with a group that straps bombs to the bodies of their own boys? How do you have a meaningful dialogue with a group that kills babies? So you have to kill more of them so they understand, “The killing needs to end.” No more bombing busses and restaurants. No more killing innocent men, women and children. There will be no more bombing when they realize it’s to their advantage to stop.

Not that it’s going to happen in Israel. The Israelis don’t even exact an eye for an eye and as long as the Palestinians are showing a favorable balance sheet the killing will go on.

In contrast, right after the Sheikh was killed a Hamas spokesman declared they would exact revenge against Israel and the USA. Dubyah came out and said he took such a threat seriously. The next day Hamas said they would NOT exact revenge against the USA. It doesn’t take much to see why. Al Qaida took out two buildings in New York City. In response we knocked over two COUNTRIES. Dubya has made it clear to them, mess with us and we will hurt you more than you hurt us.

If Hamas starts revenge bombings it won’ t be until Dubya is out of office. God help us if we get an appeaser in the oval office. It won’t help to say “we’re sorry. Surely you only did that for valid reasons. We must have deserved it. What would make you happy?”. They’ll perceive it as a sign of weakness, and it will be. The madmen will run riot. The bombings won’t end.

I don’t grieve the death of a monster anymore than I grieve a monster being deposed. Want peace in the Middle East? It’s fairly easy. Tell the surrounding Islamic countries that continued assaults on our ally Israel will not be tolerated. None of their governments want to be the next Iraq. Somehow, I’m sure support for the Palestinian terrorists would dry up.

The Super Wife and I were discussing a few matters when we heard Ms. Pikachu let loose a cry of “Moooooom!” Only moments later Trainboy came running in and breathlessly declared, “Don’t believe a word she says. She’s lying.” Only six years-old and he’s already figured out you have to beat the bad news with spin. Maybe we should have named him Calvin.

In other news, Ms. Pikachu has informed her mother that this is the last year she wants to take flute. Ahem, that wouldn’t be the flute the Super Mom bought and paid for because the precocious child said she didn’t want to continue with piano lesson, but did want to take flute lessons, would it? Ladies and gentlemen let’s get ready to rumble!

In this corner- at 5 foot even, blonde haired, blue eyed, the poster child for ADHD, and puts the capital M in Mania- Ms. Pikachu!

And in this corner, standing at five foot and loose change, brunette, blue eyed and pinching pennies so tight Abe Lincoln screams “I surrender!”- Super Mom!

The bout will be refereed by Dad, from outside the ring, because Dad is a weenie.

Its going to be a good fight but the smart money will be on Super Mom.
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I haven’t done anything political in quite a while, so here goes. Let me restate that I’m a political independent, so it’s with no ax to grind when I ask, What in the world is going on with the Democratic Party?

They had nine candidates and after all the bloodletting the man left standing is J. F. Kerry? I don’t get it.

I realize that after Dubya kicked terrorist butt in Afghanistan, overthrew a truly evil dictator, and landed on an aircraft carrier the Democrats felt a need to come up with a candidate with some military credentials of his own. At first that seemed like Wesley Clark, but then his role in Waco came out, his decision making in Bosnia, and he kept sticking his foot in his mouth like he was craving a chew toy. Exit brass hat Clark.

But they had eight more to choose from. Most seemed to self-destruct, or just had a campaign life that wasn’t viable outside a smoke-filled room. While the candidates tried to gut each other they tried to smear Bush over his service in the Guard. They didn’t have the success they wanted so they still needed a war hero anyway to offset Dubya’s successes against the terrorists.

“Did you know I served in Viet Nam?” Kerry rose to the top. If Kerry actually wins the nomination it would have to be the Republican’s dream. Vets groups will savage him over his service in Viet Nam. His questionable war stories, his turncoat war protests will be explored with the same vigor they tried to smear Bush. What was supposed to be his biggest asset will turn into a terrific liability. Then it will all come down to, after all his lies about his record, after his inability to maintain a stand on any issue, is this really the guy you want in the oval office prosecuting the war on terrorism? Are you willing to turn over the fate of this country to a guy who’d bend to the will of the corrupt USA haters in the UN? An organization that puts a terrorist nation in charge of anti-terrorism efforts? A supposedly benevolent organization that runs programs like “Oil for Food” that are so corrupt no one knows where the money has gone?

This is my nightmare. That Kerry closes in on the nomination and then becomes an unviable candidate. The party will be in a dither, what to do, what to do? On the national stage without a candidate to clinch the nomination- they’ll be fearful that they look ineffectual and are losing their chance against Dubya. Out of the wings will step the Party’s Salvation- Hillary. Sure she has no war record, but at least she has no bad one, and half the voters are women, and there’s lots of minority voters that will go with any Democrat, and the South will vote for her since she’s Southern.

If I was certified paranoid I’d figure all this is being orchestrated by Bill Clinton, a guy who wants more White House time and can’t get enough interns. Go ahead, reserve the rubber room.

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10/08/03
Mother has been wallpapering the dining room while she visits. The old stuff was an eyesore that looked like cross-hatched bamboo. The new stuff looks like green leaves and big pink flowers with a metallic sheen. It looks quite lovely.

After calling it quits for the day we went out to eat at Ryans. Of course we were all stuffed by the time we left. The day’s routine plot took an unexpected twist when we got back to the van. We hadn’t even gotten into the van when a woman came out of the restaurant and started yelling at us that we’d hit her car.

That was news to me. When I pulled in I certainly hadn’t hit any other vehicle. We waited for her to cross the parking lot with her group. She claimed she’d seen us hit her daughter’s car that was parked next to us. I was sure I hadn’t hit the car. She clarified, she’d seen a passenger get out of my van and door her daughter’s car.

This still made no sense. I listen and watch to see if anybody is careless in opening a door, and there’s only one to pay attention to. I don’t door anyone. The slide door can’t door anyone, and that leaves only one other door. I was sure we hadn’t doored that car, but didn’t say anything. She was sure she needed the name of our insurance agent. She was very aggressive, so much for all Iowans being nice.

I told her I didn’t think it happened. She insisted she’d witnessed it. I told her I wanted to see the damage. She showed me a mark on the door caused by being doored. Alright, there was a dent. But the dent on her car was in front to the leading edge of the van door. This made no sense. The woman continued to rant while I slowly opened the door. The door stopped a good foot short of the dent. No way did anyone in my van dent that car.

That shut her up, for a second. Then she turned to her daughter and said, “I’m sorry honey, I tried.” Tried what? A false insurance claim? Perjury? She thought that maybe it was the vehicle parked in the spot before us after all. Well that explains everything. Thanks a lot and have a good night. We got in the van and left.

Encounters like that really bother me. There's the stress of the encounter. There's replaying it over and over in your head, wondering how it should have been handled better. There's wishing I could have been as aggressive right back at her because, in a way, she tried to lie about my liability and when it was over she got to walk away from it with nothing more than an oh sorry. It just drives me nuts.

On the upside, the kids got to see their father deal with a stressful situation in a controlled, logical manner. So it's just as well I didn't explode. It's just as well I didn't get nasty. Weenies uber alles!

3/22/04
Took the day off. Slept in. On the one hand sleeping in is a terrible waste of free time. On the other hand, I like it a lot. I feel downright… rested.

Didn’t do a thing. We ate lunch at Ryan’s. Ms. Pikachu hollowed out a dinner roll through a hole she made on an edge. Then she held it up to her lips and blew in and out. It expanded and contracted and the diagonal crease on it made it look like a pumping heart. That kid is just nuts, and never dull.

Ms. Pikachu had what I can only describe as a gymnastics class recital. Trainboy wanted to stay home so I stayed home with him. The Super Mom reports Ms. Pikachu did her best yet. Even Ms. Pikachu was happy.

The evening was pizza for everyone. The wife and I watched -The Talk of the Town It was made in 1942 and starred Cary Grant, Jean Arthur, and Ronald Colman. Even though he was third on the billing I liked Ronald Colman the most. There’s a reason Cary Grant was a huge star, but personally, I find his suaveness a little too affected. Ronald Colman came across as sophisticated yet genuine. Watching this movie I’d have expected Colman would be the bigger star. Obviously he wasn’t, and life isn’t fair. Maybe dying in 1958 had something to do with it.

It was a good movie- nominated for seven Academy Awards. The jacket calls it madcap and zany, I’d call it broad or light. Not that it matters. Cary Grant plays Dilg, a fellow accused of being a rabble-rouser, and falsely accused of being an arsonist that burned down the local factory. He doesn’t limit himself to facts; he goes by feelings. He’s a liberal. Colman plays a visiting law professor who has a strict “everything by the facts, everything by the rules” interpretation of the law. He’s obviously a conservative.

Eventually they both come to respect the other, justice is served, and one of them gets the girl, and only one. Because even though the professor respects the liberal position he is not a liberal. Near the end the professor makes an impassioned plea on behalf of our legal system and the need for everyone to do their part. That might seem corny if done today, but in 1942 it must have looked like the axis of Germany and Japan were closing in on all sides and people were in need of a little cheerleading.

It was a nice enough movie. But there are better ones to watch. It does make me want to check out movies by Ronald Colman (Academy Award winner 1948 for ‘A Double Life’)
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3/21/04
We went to church, of course.
Afterwards there was disagreement over where we’d eat lunch. Ms. Pikachu wanted Hy-Vee. Trainboy wanted Italian. Somehow the compromise was KFC. Don’t ask me how that happens; I just say “alrighty.”

Ms. Pikachu expressed concern that there would be nothing for me to eat since I don’t eat poultry. Dear child. I told her I could do just fine on the side orders of baked beans, cole slaw, and potato salad. So we pulled into KFC.

Lo and behold, proof that God still loves me, they were selling chicken potpies- the exception to my ‘no poultry’ rule. This may seem odd, and indeed it is, especially after I explain.

I’ve been queasy about eating chicken since I was a kid. Because as a kid I pulled some meat off a leg and right there were veins, arteries, ligaments- a whole freaking biology class. It made me queasy indeed.

And then I was watching 60 Minutes and they did an expose on poultry processing. They showed chicken processing conditions weren’t very nice. In fact, to pick up water weight chicken carcasses were soaked in what amounted to “fecal soup.” So much for chicken for me. I don’t think I’ve eaten a piece of chicken since. Only cheeseburgers and meatloaf have kept me from vegetarianism.


Don’t ask me why, but I can still eat chicken potpie. It is the exception to the rule, and a silly one at that. Because if anything looks like chicken in fecal soup it’s chicken potpie. It makes no sense. I can’t explain it. All I can say is that I like it. But I don’t eat the chicken.

3/21 Part II
The SuperWife is at work so I ask the kids what they’d like to eat for supper. Trainboy wants chicken nuggets- big surprise. So I tell Ms. Pikachu I’m getting food from Wendys and what does she want. Not surprisingly she says a cheeseburger. I asked her if she’d like a chili also. She smiles and says, “I don’t want A chili, I want YOUR chili.” Men are from Mars, women are from the IRS. Not that I can really complain. When I get them their kids’ meals I exercise a fry tax. They don’t know it. But while I’m on the way home they pay it. Which just goes to show that if you have your fries deducted before you get them it doesn't even hurt, it's just like the old savings bond commercial. The difference being they're saved in my gut, they don't draw interest, and you don't want them back. Other than that it's just like it.
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3/19/04
Journey to the Center of the Earth…bitch, kinda.
If you haven’t seen it- reading the following will probably ruin it for you.

The wife has another stack of DVD’s she checked out from the library. When she left for work my assignment, should I choose to accept it, was to watch ‘Journey to the Center of the Earth.’ I told her that I’d seen it as a kid and thought it was stupid. As a KID it was stupid. Admittedly, all I remembered about it was that there was a sky down there and it made no sense. If the pressures allowed any spaces they’d be small ones- it would be claustrophobic spelunking if you could spelunk at all. So having a sky would be stupid. Don’t argue with me, it would be stupid.

Being a good husband I agreed to watch it anyway. Having at least a small measure of integrity I did. Fortunately it had James Mason. I like James Mason, but what he was doing in this mystified me. It seems a cynical, yet safe, assumption the check was much better than the script.

The movie starts with a golly, gee whiz, Pat Boone giving his beloved professor a rock for a gift. No mention was made of his origin that I recall, but I suspect Pat was from Iowa, because he was so nice. On the other hand, there was that time he was seen wearing a kilt so maybe he was a Scot without an accent. Maybe I should have just turned up the sound. I dunno. Nor is it relevant. Let us move on with our (echoing) Journey to the Center of the Earth.

From the scribbling on a rock within his rock the professor discerns the way to the center of the earth is near a volcano in Iceland. Right there you know that whatever the university is paying him isn’t enough and society would be better served if he was in criminology. Except he isn’t bright enough to pick up that his daughter and Pat Boone like each other ‘real strong’ so maybe he isn’t another Sherlock after all.

The trusting, because he’s a pure Man of Science, professor sends his findings to another professor for confirmation. It isn’t long before skullduggery and plot developments are afoot. And if I may digress about that, at no time does Pat Boone wear white shoes, but he does sing. Now let us continue with our (over excitedly) Journey to the Center of the Earth.

Realizing they are being skullduggered by the other professor they head for Iceland as quickly as they can, because, (reverently) as long as there are questions Man must find the answers. Since the other professor is heading for The Answer and it’s causing panic we can safely assume that more important than the answer is getting there first. Pat Boone leaves his woman (Diane Baker) behind, go figure.

In Iceland there is more, yes more, skullduggery. This results in their picking up a local Icelandic guy for a beast of burden/guide, and if I may digress again, he’s a hunky blonde for the women in the audience. Because the movie producers knew that while men would heed the trailer’s siren call to answer the questions like men must, they could sell two tickets if they gave the women some eye candy. However, the women may be disappointed that Blonde Hunk is in deep like with his duck, or maybe not. They also pick up the wife of the other now-dead professor, because men have eyes too and what’s fair is fair. But now (In Cinemascope!) back to Journey to the Center of the Earth.

There are more skullduggeries that I don’t care to remember. There is more stupidity than I care to relate. They get to the (In Technicolor!) Center of the Earth. There are freaking dinosaurs. Huge things. It’s a little disappointing that the astute James Mason, Man of Science, doesn’t wonder aloud something like, “The bigger you are the more food you need to stay alive, where are these monsters getting their food?” And there’s a sea with the bright, aforementioned, sky.

Then they stumble onto Atlantis. Oh sure, right where I’d left it. They’re in the middle of Atlantis, now there are some questions to be asked demanding answers, but suddenly they’re in a rush to get out. Suddenly, they are set upon by the chameleon with the (widescreen!) twenty-foot tongue! Lava starts boiling in and the chameleon chamels! Well blind me with science.

Escape is managed by jumping into a blue cup-shaped pagan altarpiece that is then shot upwards through a chimney by a plume of red-hot lava. There is a shot from above of everybody laying back and kind of, uh, enjoying the ride. Anybody in the audience who wasn’t overwhelmed by the wonders they’d just experienced had to be suppressing a laugh, if they could. It’s almost disappointing you don’t get to seem them being, uh, ejected, from the volcano. Apparently that would have been too much Bad Science.

We then see that Pat Boone landed in a tree near a convent. Rather than be seen naked by the nuns he covers himself with a sheep, the smallest one at that, and runs away. There will be no shepherd jokes here. But he had been underground for a long time.

Scientifically, it’s a stupid movie. There are plot twists that defy logic. There are holes bigger than the caverns. The whole time they’re Journeying to the Center of the Earth, they’re following the trail of a guy who never got out. Unless he was carrying his own Guide Duck, don’t ask, wouldn’t he have had to do some backtracking. Wouldn’t he have needed a woman along to point out he was a stupid, sexist, man? Not that I care. It was a stupid movie made in 1959. And maybe that explains a little more about it.

Maybe the movie was a technological advance, a visual extravaganza. Maybe it was a “big effects movie” slyly intended as social and sexual commentary. There is a “bourgeiousie” exchange with a corrupt aristocrat. The professor accepts the widow as equipment. She makes him jettison some social conventions, and then he frees her of her corset, even if as a purely practical matter. The duck waddles off with the corset.

Pat Boone and the Icelander run around topless most of the time- that was probably pretty racy then. The working class Icelander was willing to kill the aristocrat over his beloved duck. Pat Boone and the aforementioned sheep and nuns. At the end the masses applaud their achievements because they believe too

. I am NOT going to watch it again to try to decipher it. I don’t care, even if I am suddenly a little curious. The wife wanted me to watch it. I watched it. I wrote this, now you won’t have to watch it yourself, unless you’re curious. Don’t thank me; I did it to answer the questions of future generations. Too bad I have no answers.

On the other hand- if you go -hereyou’ll see lots of reviews by people who liked it. Maybe I just didn’t get it. Maybe the problem was I just refused to suspend disbelief. Maybe I’m just too right-brained to to ignore crappy science. Maybe I'm just too spoiled by Lucas and Spielberg to understand how it was all supposed to work.

If you do watch it, and the duck makes sense, tell me about it. I want to know the answers.

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3/13/04
We try to visit my older brother’s on Saturdays, but it’s a 70 minute drive. Sometimes I’m just not up to it though. Trainboy wanted to visit his cousins so we loaded our stuff in the car and away we went. We went to the end of the block.

As soon as I tried to drive my right eye started to twitch. As if being cross-eyed wasn’t bad enough, having an eye twitch back and forth made driving impossible. Trainboy was not happy, I could tell. Ms. Pikachu is all for not getting killed at a young age so she thought turning around was a good idea.

Part of the usual journey is a stop at a fast-food place. We then eat it while sitting through a car wash, or I just pull into a parking lot, because driving cross-eyed is bad enough, but having an attack of pain due to eating is even worse. The kids never complain about making sure I can drive safely.

So the trip was off, but everybody was still hungry. Very carefully, I drove over to Wendys. The kids got their usuals, I got my usual plus chili. When we got home we prayed first. We always thank the Lord for what we’re about to eat, and we always pray for Mommy at work. It’s our routine and we’re comfortable with it.

The kids ate their food, and I ate mine. I have to eat more slowly so by the time I was done with my burger the kids were already about finished. Next came my chili, and as it was removed from the bag Ms. Pikachu got excited. “Chili! You ordered chili? I want the chili!” She’s usually better mannered than that. Normally she only gets that excited around chocolate. Irregardless, I could not reward such…. Childish behavior. I said, “No, the chili is mine. If you wanted some you could have ordered some.”

She would not take “no” for an answer. She’ll probably find that useful if she has a career in sales, but it was not going to get her my chili. She reached, I held it away. She got up, I stepped away. And so the great Chili Race of 3/13 was started.

Ms. Pikachu chased me around the downstairs a few times, backed me into a corner once, all the while yelling, “Give me the chil!” It’s hard to run when you’re laughing though. Eventually I made a break for the upstairs. I hadn’t made more than a few steps when she grabbed my back pocket and pulled. Off balance, going off balance, so I backed down the steps. I told her pulling 200 pounds backwards really wasn’t a good idea. As she processed that little instruction I took off again, chili held out like an Olympian torch bearer.

Once more around the downstairs and another bolt for the stairs- this time success. I don’t move too badly for an old man. Then into this room and closed the door. Leaning against the door it was hard to believe how childish we were acting, but it was amusing. Due to my aforementioned weight she could not get in. But she tried, all the while yelling, “Give me the chili!”

This WAS childish, so I decided to try something a little more adult. I offered to split the chili with her. She would have none of it. There is no reasoning with a manic blonde. Eventually her mania gave way to tantrum. She informed me she had barricaded me into the room. The door opens inward- she is blonde to the bone.

I tired of it. I guzzled the chili.

A rather abrupt ending, but I have to get to work for a staff meeting.

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Here’s additional proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Today the Superwife got a call from the school to come get Trainboy. So away she went with an appropriate amount of motherly concern. When she got there she was told that he’d picked something up off the floor and stuck it in his ear.
Taking a look in his ear she could see that there was definitely something black in it. This agreed with the teacher’s own observations. But what was it? Sometimes confession is good for the soul, sometimes there’s no alternative. The Supermom would not offer any alternatives.
Well…. he’d picked up a little rubber band and stuck it in his ear. It is to laugh and might I explain why with a little story about the little apple’s tree?
When I was about the same age, needless to say, something similar happened. I’ve been told by those who claim to love me I developed an intolerable stink, not that I ever noticed.
Consultation with medical professionals who received said payment for their services resulted in the removal of a perfectly fine set of tonsils… maybe. Regardless, it did not solve the problem. However, I did get all the ice cream I could eat.
Having run out of alternatives Dad took me to ‘Old Doc Rolfs.’ Apparently ‘Old Doc Rolfs’ continued to see a few patients after essentially retiring from his frontier days practice. I can’t say that I remember a thing about him. But I do remember him sticking something akin to pliers up my nose and pulling out a barely recognizable piece of paper. And then I remembered.
I had been talking on the phone with somebody at Grandma’s when I noticed a sheet of paper on the counter. I ripped off an edge, rolled it a little ball and thought, “Wouldn’t it be neat if you could stick it up your nose and shoot it like a cannon?” So I stuck it up my nose, was distracted, again, and forgot about it. But it all came back with that little piece of paper clenched in the jaws of the pliers. Oh that’s right, I shoved that up there.
Not that I was admitting to anything. Nope, had no idea how it happened. For all I knew I’d been victimized by a marauding tooth fairy, or one of my brothers or… yeah, that works. That’s good for a giggle, but in all honestly, I just shrugged my shoulders. Dad was grateful to have the problem solved, so was everyone else. Back to Trainboy.
Super Nurse could see a black thing in his ear, and it was pretty deep. She did not feel she could go in after it. To the doctor, who observed it was snug against the ear drum and said, “This really needs to go to an ear, nose throat specialist.” It must have been a small rubber band; he balled it up, stuck it in his ear, and when it sprang back open it made a perfect gasket for his ear drum. There you have it Handy Boy.
Super Mom made an appointment with the specialist. Stay tuned. For Trainboy the upside could be time out of school, except he LIKES school. He won’t get all the ice cream he can eat, not without a doctor’s order. What he will get is a lesson on not sticking things where they don’t belong and some memories to tell his own kids someday.

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03/09/04
The Superwife had her last Deaconess meeting tonight so it was just the kids and me. Trainboy had earlier found a wood bulldozer kit I’d gotten for him. It says ‘Tonka’ on it and that’s always popular with the Boy Builder.
I thought it would be an opportunity for one of those father/son bonding ‘things.’ Hardly. He’s six and he wanted to do it himself. Earlier than I ever thought would happen I found myself just lending moral support.
He got the bags out of the box and sorted the pieces by size and shape first, just like I’ve shown him. Since he can’t read much yet I determined which screws were intended for the different letters in the diagram. I wrote each letter on a piece of paper and set each bag of screws in front of the appropriate letter.
The Boy Builder grabbed his screwdriver and the “constructions” and went to work. He would count the number of screws in a diagram, get them out of the bag, and put them between a couple of wood pieces so they couldn’t roll away. I was impressed. He was doing fine until he couldn’t get two screws in because the holes didn’t line up. I showed him how loosening up the other two screws on the piece would give him enough play to get the fit. You could almost see the light turn on. That was the extent of my help.
When he was done I showed him how the box said it was for 8+. Being six he was quite please with himself. Eventually the Holy Wife returned home. He showed her his new bulldozer, “I made by myself.” Then he proudly showed her how the box said it was for 8+. The Super Mom was appropriately impressed and he was very proud of himself. It was one of those moments parents live for.

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3/8/04
I thought the pills were working well, but my face was so sensitive I could hardly eat. So it was more pills, eating slowly, then fell asleep. Wasted days and wasted nights. It’s a sad thing when your life resembles a country/western tune. Not that I have anything against country/western, I'm just more of an oldies rock kind of guy. Remind me to blog about that later.

Falling asleep early makes me wake up in the middle of the night. So here’s your entry, in fact there are also three new ones below this one because this is the fourth I’ve done tonight. It is now time to irritate the Superwife with my Supersnoring.

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Okay, I have to do at least two to make any headway.
3/6/04
We visited my brother. He lives in a small Iowa town where, naturally, they pride themselves on being nice. When we were leaving a side window of the car blew out. We were the victims of idyllic vandalism. The cop that came said it was the third case that evening.

It wouldn’t have been nice under any condition, but it was raining. It just took two trash bags and some duct-tape and we were ready to go. Duct-tape even sticks in water, it’s amazing stuff. It held together just fine on the way back, it was just noisy.

If the insurance company has a s—t list I’m probably on it. Regardless, the window gets fixed Wednesday. They even come to the house to do it. Is that service or what?

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3/704
Went to church then had to decide where to eat. You wouldn?t think that would be that big of a deal but it was. Usually we eat at Hy-Vee and that was Ms. Pikachu's choice. Trainboy wanted a change. Trainboy wanted Arby's. Eventually we settled on a little Italian place where both kids would be content to suck noodles. But I forgot.

Rewinding to church. The Holywife looked fantastic. She wore a black suit with a white blouse. I couldn't help but notice another woman who always dresses very nicely looking at the Superwife like, 'Are you just a little overdressed' No, she's just gorgeous.

On the way out of church the Holywife was ahead of me. As she started through a door, well there it was, and it was just reflex. I swatted her on the butt. Maybe my hand was cupped just right, maybe all the glass acted as an amplifier, but it was a loud swat. I didn't even think of it though. On the way to the van the Holywife informed me that swatting her on the butt was improper conduct in church.

While I could see her point, the problem was that I could also see her butt. It seems to me that unless she wants to wear a burqha it's just a risk we have to live with. I'm nuts about her, so stone me.

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For those of us who keep our radios set to oldie stations we must remark regarding two birthdays. Today’s is Mark Lindsay’s, he of Paul Revere and the Raiders Fame. Yesterday’s was Mickey Dolenz’ who is now 59. If you didn’t know he was drummer/singer for the Monkees, well now you know.

I know what you’re thinking, not because of any god-like powers, just because it’s reflex. You’re thinking, “Holy Jeebus, they’re almost ready for Social Security. Except they raised the retirement age, those Congressional SOB’s.” But you’ve only got about a third of that right.

Firstly, yes, they’re about Social Security age. Secondly, what Congress raised, by dare I say it, “notches,” is the age to get 100 percent thereby lowering the percentage you get at earlier ages. Retirees can still retire at 62. You can go to the SSA website and check it out here. Thirdly, yes, they are SOB’s.

"Fourthly, Dear God has it been that long since your last post? I thought you were going to catch up." Yeah, me too, but the pills put me right to sleep. But I'll try to do better. It always surprises me how much fun I have doing this when I'm not in a stupor. It's almost 2 in the morning though, and I'm doing this after falling asleep earlier.


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-2/23/04
Saw the doctor today. She renewed my prescriptions and encouraged my tinkering with how they’re taken. She’s a dear, very concerned with how I’m doing, and she believes that no one can determine what works best for me like I can.

Contrast that with the neurologist I’ve seen before who wanted to change what I was taking and was sure the pills had to be taken at the exactly prescribed intervals. It didn’t work and for a shy guy who doesn’t want to displease anyone I abandoned his plan with an amazing lack of guilt.

What the good doctor did find was that my blood pressure was somewhat high, higher than the readings I get at home. The Super Nurse tells me its normal to get a higher reading in a doctor’s office. Regardless, since she’s gotten a high reading before she’s putting me on a blood pressure medicine.

The Good Doctor informed me that blood pressure medicine can sometimes cause problems with, ahem, The Equipment. I turned to the wife and said…I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I turned to the Holy Wife and said “Maybe it would be an answer to prayer?” Do you take me for a fool? She’s still the woman who makes me happy. I just said I’d let her be the judge of equipment failure. Smiles. If such a problem occurs the Good Doctor is to be informed and she’ll prescribe something different.

She also ordered a battery of blood tests to check Tegretol and cholesterol levels. The fun just never ends. The Good Doctor is going to see if a Gamma Knife procedure is possible for my type of pain/tumor. The insurance company would probably send me hate mail if it was willing to waste another stamp on me.

My current bright idea is that to get away from the drugs I have to get this couch potato body back into something resembling decent shape. Prior efforts have failed and I’m blaming that on a lack of structure. So I’m thinking something like aerobic activity on odd days, weightlifting on even, and Sundays off. If anybody cares to comment on the wisdom of that I’d be glad to hear it.

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2/20/04
When I got home Train Boy and I warmed our toes in front of the living room TV. He turned it to Cartoon Network, and knowing what was coming on, asked me if I liked Hotwheels. "Hotwheels are fast, they drive like Mom does." In no time at all we saw Hotwheels being driven at 300 mph, wheelies, jumps, spins- the laws of physics and common sense were suspended. He equates that with his Mom's driving. So it isn't just me.

Lunch, Spit, and Butts
Okay, why wait. Here's one that's a little more fun. It's recounting lunch with the wife and kids recently.

We gave the kids a choice of where to eat lunch after church. As they've done so often lately they chose Hy-Vee. They have their reasons. Ms. Pikachu loves crab Rangoon and claims all of them for herself. Holy Wife and Train Boy don't want theirs anyway so it's an arrangement that really works.

Trainboy just wants something served with noodles. He thinks nothing is better than slurping up noodles. Superwife just likes Chinese anything so it works for her.

While everybody else got his or her food in the Chinese Express area, I got my conventional food in the conventional area. The woman behind the counter laughed and said she didn't even need the kids to tell her what I was getting anymore, she already knew. All right, I'm in a rut, but it's only because I like the rut- meatloaf, green beans, au gratin potatoes, and pea salad. Sorry, I just do.

While eating, Miss Pikachu made a great display of smelling her food. She declared, It smells like spit! Dear God. The Super Mom protested, Spit does not smell. With great enthusiasm, way too much for the subject matter, Ms. Pikachu explained, "Sure it does. Haven't you ever bit something, or licked something, and gone back to it later and noticed it smells?" I wasn't going to argue because I agreed with her. Not that I was going to admit it, because I know who can make me happy whether she can smell spit or not.

It wasn't long before the conversation got positively surreal. The SuperWife casually observed, "The butt holds both ends of a chicken together." What? I tried to understand it- this undecipherable wisdom. No fortune cookie had been opened, so it wasn't some bizarre Chinaman's idea of profound. But it couldn't have anything to do with the chicken almond they were eating could it? I couldn't see how. She was raised on a farm and helped raise and kill chickens, but good Lord how does anything like that apply? The kids looked like she'd just uttered words handed down from Mt. Sinai. The suspense was killing me; I had to know.

"Would you mind telling me what you mean by, "The butt holds two ends of a chicken together?"" She looked at me in wide-eyed amazement. All three of them started to laugh. I was obviously not in on the joke. When the laughter finally died down she explained, "What I said was, "A "but" holds two ends of a sentence together."" Oh. Having bad hearing can get you a laugh now and then. The kids are probably going to think I'm weird though.

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Apparently the audiologist did not fail completely. My older sister tells me she remembers our parents getting a call from the school informing them I might have problems but they should get a second opinion. The folks were distressed. And they did nothing, or at least they chose denial or wishful thinking.

Considering the number of times I had difficulty in class, it would have been a lot better if they just told me. As it was, I continued to make mistakes that made me feel inadequate academically and socially. Apparently my teachers were not informed. I don’t remember any teacher making any adjustment to accommodate me. We were always seated alphabetically and I always wound up in the back half of the class. Oh well. It’s over and done with.

Looking back at my childhood I have always remembered things that just didn’t seem quite right and told myself, “I am not going to do that to my kids.” I have managed to hold to it pretty well, and made my own mistakes instead. I’m sure the wife and kids could tell you all about them.

And I think “Sink or swim” is a fine philosophy as long as you’re not sinking.

Enough of self-absorbed stuff. Tomorrow will be fun again- Jello, movie reviews, the kids driving me nuts, maybe all of them.

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2/18
Warning- this is not a ‘happy’ post
As I neared the end of the workday, in the quiet after the public was gone, I couldn’t help noticing ear noises. I never gave them a second thought until a claimant called up a few weeks ago and complained his brain tumor was giving him ear noises. Having to listen to them made me wonder if my tumor had actually announced itself long before it was obvious.

Think. The first really unusual one was in tenth grade English class. From out of nowhere came the sound of a clarinet and I was pretty sure it was an F-flat for some reason. I would bet it was the brain tumor’s coy announcement though.

Since then there have been several instances of hearing a tone. They were always odd, but never particularly significant. Farther back…?

The strongest hearing-related memory was early primary school. Every couple of years a guy would come around and test all the kids hearing. He was probably early thirties, very business-like with a Marine buzz-cut. Prior years testing had been okay. But this year things changed.

Okay, just extend a finger when you hear a sound. Sometimes I thought I heard a sound, but wasn’t sure because it was lost in static. Depending on how sure I was I extended a finger. Other times I’d hear a sound and it just went on and on- the finger stayed up.
The tester only got more and more exasperated. He was sure I was messing with him and wanted me to stop. He said we were going to do it again.

Swallowed hard, sat very still, closed my eyes, and alright, I’ll try to do better. I strain to hear better- nothing changes. I’m listening just as hard as I can. I’m still struggling with the tones, but I can hear him getting angrier. Do better, have to do better. Just listen, just listen. It never gets any better. He’s sure I’m playing games, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve gotten an adult angry with me and I just don’t know what to do.

He told me to sit in the corner and watch the next kid get tested. He worked his machine, the girl raised her finger to his satisfaction and she was out of there in a couple of minutes. It was amazing, it was so easy for her. Perhaps assuming I was properly instructed by example, or properly embarrassed, he had me sit down again. It was the same thing all over again.

Furious, but apparently unable to think of any other way to deal with me, he sent me back to class. Everyone in class looked at me like there must be something wrong with me to come back out of order.

Recalling this made me cry. I was back on the chair, desperately trying to hear, unable to do it. Making that guy angry again. And I wanted to hold that scared little boy and tell him even if it was never all okay it wasn’t his fault and he was still a good boy. It's hard to read and type when you're crying. It was time to go home.

And I’m crying again.



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2/17/04 First Post
Oddly enough, there was a reaction to the Jell-O piece. Donna, a lady who works next-door to our office came by. As she walked by where I was stationed she slapped ‘The Joy of Jell-O’ on the counter. What a surprise. She reads my stuff and still talks to me. Thank you Donna.

A quick flip through the book and I was impressed. I am ready to do Jell-O now. There are eighty-six pages to do. It looks like the only thing you can’t do with Jell-O is fry it. You can cream it, drink it, cake it, pie it, mold it, flake it. Jell-O is only limited by our imaginations. It wouldn’t be surprising if there is a bizarre sect that devotes itself to better life through Jell-O. Be one with the Jell-O. Be the Jell-O. My gut doesn’t count.

No fooling, in my possession is the Jell-O Bible as brought to us by the prophet General Foods. We are ready. Bring on the funerals. We will show everyone the Way of the True Jell-O.

2/17/04 Second Post
Well this is kind of morbid. The wife told me there’s been another death- she’s already signed us up for Jell-O. Let me be clear here- I did not pray for anyone’s death, specifically or generally. As surely as “There’s always room for Jell-O” there is also always time for it. I am not the Grim Reaper swinging a jiggler.

Come Friday though, I expect to impress the little old ladies again.

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2/15 First Post
Somebody died. That’s not surprising- obituaries are printed every day. The difference is that somebody died who was a member of our church. The difference is because the Holy Wife is a Deaconess who is in charge of putting together any luncheons, or whatever, at the church after the funeral. The family wants a luncheon.

She called the other Deaconesses to arms, or ovens, whatever the case may be. Most quickly volunteered to bring a cake. Some volunteered to bring a Jell-O salad- but not enough. She asked one woman to bring Jell-O and was told, “I do cakes, I don’t do Jell-O.” Did Nancy Reagan have a “Just Say No To Jell-O” campaign? It was kind of silly to refuse on those grounds, but that’s okay, it’s all-volunteer, nobody is encouraged to do anything that’s illegal or offensive to their sensibilities.


So the Holy Wife looks at me and says, “I’m short one Jell-O salad. Could you make one for me tonight?” Panic. The pulse races. The adrenaline pumps. No. I have never made Jell-O in my life. No I can’t. I don’t do Jell-O I do pie. But can I refuse the Super-Wife? I cannot. Sure, no problem. I love her more than Nancy Reagan, and it won’t do the kids any good to see their Dad cower from Jell-O. It’s time to start sweating over Jell-O.

2/15 Second Post
I fell asleep again and feel pretty good after a five-hour nap. Unfortunately I had no insightful dreams about Jell-O. Too much time was spent looking through cookbooks and the Internet. Surely there must be a Jell-O recipe like I want. But I cannot find one. Then comes a realization like the brightest dawn- I can call my sister. This would be the most elementary problem for her.

She doesn’t get too artsy. She says I basically have two options. Just make the Jell-O, add the fruit cocktail, and after it jells put a layer of whipped cream over it. Or wait till it becomes thick and beat the whipped cream into it. Ever the straight shooter she basically tells me to quit screwing around and get it done. The easiest way is the first.

I decided that no matter how I did the Jell-O I'd do it wrong- that's just the way it is. So I waited till she was scheduled to be off and started boiling water. If she got home late, like usual, she'd get the Jell-O, and whipped cream in layers. If she got home on time, she'd get to make a choice. She got home on schedule.

I told her I was going to make the Jell-o, add the fruit and she could put the whipped cream on top in the morning after it had cooled. Of course, that was wrong. She wanted the whipped cream and Jell-O mixed together. I told her we'd have to wait until it had at least cooled somewhat. She knew better. That’s what she gets for reading the instructions.

After dissolving the Jell-O I added the juice from the fruit cocktail. She asked me what else I was going to use for fluid, I told her 7-Up. She said there was some chilled in the fridge, got it, and I added a cup. She knew from the instructions we could use ice cubes to speed the cooling. She got some ice cubes in the measuring cup and I topped it off with more 7-up.

It wasn't long that it started to thicken. She wanted to add the whipped cream but I protested. It seemed to me that it wasn't nearly thick enough to take a beating and stay beaten- it would just dissolve into a milky-Jell-O-fruit mass. But we were not waiting. In went the whipped cream, still frozen. It floated like an iceberg. A glimmer of hope- maybe it would help cool it more. Nah, the mass of whipped cream is marginal compared to the pot of Jell-O. I went from hopeful to doubter to Thomas-had-nothing-on-me.

I held the creamberg down and shaved off its sides till it looked like pack ice on a red sea. Then the wife went to work with the electric beater. Apparently in touch with her male side- she really likes to play with her kitchen power tools. In no time at all it was beaten into dense foam.

We poured it out into a large pan and added the fruit. It seemed to me that the fruit and remaining syrup would just settle to the bottom. The bottom fruit layer wouldn't be gelled at all. It would be a runny mess. It would not be good. No matter, it's out of my hands and into the refrigerator.

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2/16/04 First
This morning I took a peek. It certainly had settled somewhat. It appeared to be about as dense as a sponge. From now on whenever I see a dessert like that I will only think of it as Impatient Jell-O. But maybe some people intend it that way. Maybe some people like it that way. Maybe some people just haven't a clue.

When Holy Wife comes home in a few hours, if there's any left, we'll see how it turned out. Regardless, I think using 7-Up for the remaining fluid was a good idea. It would make it kind of 'punchy.'
2/16/04 second

Her Grace is back. She's all smiles. All the little old ladies loved it. Some of them had heard of using pop, but apparently none of them had done it. I am a wild man. I am a wild man growing popular with little old ladies. Almost none of it was left. It was the 'most gone' Jell-O dessert. Looking at the pan it was apparent that the fruit had sunk to the bottom and melted some of the foam- making a red, fruit layer that actually jelled. The top half was still the red foam. Oh, so THAT'S how they do that! I had always assumed it was some laborious layering, chilling, process. I’m going to be much harder to impress with Jell-O from now on.

We shared the last couple bites and it wasn't bad. Could have used more 7-Up though, it was not exactly what I wanted. It was the price of impatience.

Here's the dirt- this was for a funeral, 55 people attended. Our Blessed Lady of Funerals made 96 ham sandwiches. Some of the people took three at a time. Sure, some of them probably got sandwiches for others, but you do the math. From her description they ate like the Dohlmans.

I don’t expect anybody outside of immediate family to understand that reference. Let me explain. The Dohlmans were a large family of large people. There’s a reason there were no all-you-can-eat buffets in our county. They were the reason. They weren’t allowed to enter county fair pie eating contests because they were professionals. Do I exaggerate? Of course, but that’s never stopped me before.

Back to the funeral. Nobody wanted to take the last sandwich. Her Holiness said some poor guy who'd kept himself busy feeding his kids hadn't had a bite for himself. She gave him the sandwich. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if the others fought him for it.

In the end, everybody liked the Jell-O. I have lost my fear of Jell-O. The Super Wife is grateful that I made Jell-O. If you’re having a funeral or some such give me a call, I’ll bring the Jell-O.

It's hard to believe I just took a shot at a bunch of people at a funeral. No, sometimes I don't think I have any shame. At any rate, when I die you can fast or famine- I won't care. Just remember what my Dad always said, "No leftovers!"

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Okay, I’ve been a lousy blogger, again. I could bitch and moan about my health but that’s not what you’re here for. No you’re here hoping for a little humor, hoping for a little ray of sunshine in an otherwise dark day. Fair enough. Here it is, true story, swear to God. (Will that get me into Vegas?)
Last Friday a guy calls me up at the office. He tells me I need to take some information down and send it on to the people making his disability decision because this is going to speed it up. (But it won’t speed up a run-on sentence.) He tells me, hold your collective breaths, his brain tumor is making his ears ring. I wanted to laugh and say, ”Yours too? If that’s the best you’ve got let me tell you about mine. Then you can get a job.”
I didn’t say anything of the sort though. I took it down and sent it on. For all I know his is malignant and he’s watching the calendar. Mine is benign. It’s almost unbelievable that anything that causes so much pain is “benign.” The difference is that one will kill you, the other can just occasionally make you wish you were dead. Well that killed the fun right there. Sorry.
Okay, try again. Oh forget that, indulge me. Let me just get it over with. As you may have guessed, the benign tumor has been giving me fits lately. Last Saturday night it hurt me badly enough that I just sat on the bed and cried for about an hour. But it didn’t hurt me to the level I knew it could. It was kind of weird to be in that much pain, fearful of it getting worse, but still grateful it wasn’t any worse.
Ms. Pikachu was a trooper. As soon as it hit she got me my pills, opened them up, and asked how many I wanted. Then she left me alone because there was nothing else she could do except make it hurt more. She acted very well, very quickly. She has probably learned how to do that by watching her mom the Supernurse in action.
Today my knees started to hurt more than normal. A couple times my left one couldn’t bear my weight as I sat down and I just dropped the last few inches to the chair. I am not that old. I shouldn’t be acting this old. But that’s probably a pretty good sign I’m getting that old.
Earlier on that same Saturday I noticed the temperature was not rising on the car’s gauge. Stopped it, looked underneath and saw antifreeze running off the front of the engine. Gotta be the waterpump. Maybe a hose, but probably the waterpump. Put more anti-freeze in, got more anti-freeze.
We brought it to the mechanic to take a look at it. Eventually the wife got the call and it was one of those good news-bad news situations. The good news was that it wasn’t the waterpump. The bad news was that it was the headgasket. This is going to be Expensive, with a capital E and that rhymes with T and that stands for Trouble.
Our usual mechanic doesn’t do headgaskets. It turned out that the place that is going to do the body work for Ms. Nascar’s last adventure has a mechanic that does them. So we drove it over to hear what he had to say. He consulted his Mechanic’s Book of Wisdom and lowly muttered, “This will be expensive.” Well yeah, we kind of figured. Please cut to the specifics oh wizened one. “It has two heads. No use taking it apart and only doing one, then having the other soon fail, and having to take it apart again. $850”
Well alrighty then, when can we get it in? Monday? Well, alrighty then.
He called the wife later and said that upon consultation with the machine shop it would be $1200 instead. Did we say “Alrighty then” too quickly? Did we fail to grumble and grouse? Before calling my wife did he call his own and say, “JACKPOT!”
We will never know, but life is like that.
What I do know is that the CheapWife, excuse me, Frugal Wife will be calling the mechanic that our usual mechanic recommends and see if she gets the same price. Don’t look at me, I’ll be at work. I’ll be interviewing people who probably think my jaw has been wired shut and that I gimp around from some terrible injury. For any that inquire I’ll tell the husbands wide-eyed not to get their wives mad. I’ll tell the women it’s old pirate injuries, and growl “would ya like to look at me scars?”
What I also think is that the headgasket is probably failing because the engine overheated this past summer when the thermostat failed. I caught it pretty quickly, but overheated is overheated. When I changed the thermostat I paid a few bucks more for a thermostat that fails open. So when it fails, and they all do eventually, instead of the engine overheating it will just take a few more minutes to heat up. Considering the expense of a headgasket it would be money well-spent to pre-emptively put such a thermostat on your vehicle. That's my humble opinion.
I have a lot of stories to catch up on and I’ve run out of time tonight. I’ll post them to the blog in groups, leave them until I update again, and then move them to the correct day.


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01/13/04
Okay, I’m the lowest of the low.
The Holy Wife had a deaconess meeting this evening. I noticed the guinea pigs were out of timothy hay. So… I asked the kids if they’d like to grab a bite at Steak & Shake. That would be Steak & Shake- the restaurant across the parking lot from the Wal-Mart that has the Thunderbolts. The kids like Steak & Shake. They were agreeable. So off we went on a little journey to satisfy my obsession.
All the T-bolts were accounted for. They still cost $35. The only difference was that somehow they got a Cobra gunship too. Cool. But we’ll have to wait and see.
While there the kids found stuff they wanted. Everybody falls under the spell of Sam Walton. Trainboy saw a box of Transformers he wanted. He asked how much they were. “$12” was my reply. “Is that a lot?” “Well, kind of. But you have $30 in your allowance account so you can buy it if you want to. That would leave you $18.” Sold.
Ms. Pikachu found more Pokemon cards. She selected a couple decks, then, “Can I buy a big box?” “Sure, you’ve got enough money in your account.” When it was clear she’d be paying for them she settled on what she’d chosen and gave up on the box. Economics can be brutal.
By way of explanation- the kids get a weekly allowance of $1/year. Currency doesn’t actually change hands; we just keep track of their balances. It’s kind of like direct deposit into the 1st Parents Bank.
We checked out and headed across the lot to Steak & Shake. While we waited for our order Ms. Pikachu decided to work on one of the paper table mats with the supplied colors. One of the projects was to complete a picture of a person. She gave it purple Japanese anime-type eyes and an open purple mouth with green teeth. On its blouse she wrote ‘Kiss the Cook.’
Another project was to complete a story by filling in the blanks with adjectives, nouns, and verbs. In her story the customer asked for 73 bowls of fish and chips, and the cook… farted. I told her she did weird stuff. She acted like she’d just received the highest compliment.
I couldn’t eat my sandwich because the facial pain kept threatening to trigger. Ms. Pikachu went up to the counter and got a box to take it home. She’s very self-confident and that makes me happy.
Then we headed for home. It seemed the prudent thing to do since the Holy Wife would be home shortly. The Holy Wife was already home. Is this an ‘uh oh?’ No, because 1. She’s a wonderful woman, and 2. She got my sandwich.
She took the kids up to bed and I fell asleep watching… something on TV, can’t remember what it was. The smart money would be on the History channel though. Then I woke up, and figured I dash this off. It took more than a dash, but I’m off to bed.

01/10
Visited the brother’s. While I was there we hit Wal-Mart for a P-47 Thunderbolt model. They’re pre-assembled, pre-finished, in 1:18 scale, which is rather huge.
List is $50, Wally World had been selling them for $40- not bad. But in their post-Christmas get-it-out-of-here frenzy they’d marked them down to $10- unbelievable.

Older Brother picked one up. I did not. I figured when I got home I’d check both Wal-Marts here, and maybe they’d have a selection of other planes too. It turns out one of the Wal-Marts here has nine P-47’s left, but they still want $35 for one. It also turns out that the P-47 is the only model Wal-Mart carried. It’s silly that it’s a $50 model on sale for $35 and I should be happy to buy one for that, but no, I want one for $10 now. This fool may not be parted with his money soon, but neither am I likely to get a T-bolt for $10. But I’ll keep checking. Since they have nine of them I ought to be able to at least get one for a better price.

If you know anybody who likes World War Two airplanes you could consider getting them one of these. They’re big models though. So big you may have to hang one from the ceiling. Just check Wal-Mart’s toy clearance aisle- long red box, with an airplane in the window.

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Have to get up and go to church. I do not fear God’s wrath half as much as I fear the Holy Wife’s. Besides, God has never pulled the blankets off of me and said, “Come on, get dressed.” I do not feel like it is all my fault. A cold room isn’t much of a motivator for getting out of a warm bed.

You see, it bothers the Cheap Wife to hear the furnace run. It seems that every time it turns on she resets it lower. Sometimes we can’t be very far away from appearing to be the Blue Man Family. But at least we aren’t wasting gas on something as unimportant as heat. http://www.blueman.com/ Of course, I’m exaggerating, hardly the first time, won’t be the last.

Anyway, the roads were quite slick from the five inches of snow we’d gotten. The NASCAR wife drove, because she sees better than I do, and she can get us there quicker because she is the, ahem, NASCAR WIFE. She made the two rights and left necessary to get to the main road a little faster than I would have but then she is who she is.

As we approached the intersection for the main road we had a red light. I need not remind you, it was slick. I’d apply the brakes about here, but then, I’m a careful driver like my Dad. Okay, if you’re not going to apply brakes how about at least getting off the gas pedal? Really, the intersection is coming up pretty quick, you have to be at least thinking of the increased braking distance here. You have years of experience, better make the decision about now.

Foot is still on gas. No way on God’s Green Earth are you going to stop a two-ton van on a slick road this fast. Oh Sh-t this is going to be interesting. It’s a slow morning for traffic, maybe we’ll just slide through and hit the median.

Foot is on brake. Like it matters now.

I’ve got news for you- ABS means Anti-lock Braking System, it does not mean Absolute Braking System. We brake in a perfectly straight line that does not stop. Look left, maybe nobody is coming. God is laughing.

It’s an old, beater of a station wagon coming around the curve. Slower, slower, but you can’t violate the laws of physics unless God tells you to. Crunch.

You know, the best places to hit a car are on the front fender, or a door, because those are easy to replace. The rear fenders are bodywork. We hit the rear fender behind the tire and creased it all the way to the bumper.

The other driver loses control and winds up straddling the median facing back in our direction. That must have been an interesting ride.

I get out. He gets out and seems amiable enough. In fact, he seems downright happy. It would seem a reasonable guess that he was concerned about what he was going to do with his beat up car and right there we put him in a situation where an insurance company will probably cash him out. He wasn’t angry at all. He probably thought God had smiled on him. I hope he was going to church.

After a quick exchange of information we’re off again for church. Only now we have time to make up. Dear God, when will it end?

We approach another intersection. We have another red light screaming “Come on, hit me with your best shot! Bring it on!” There’s a Caddie slowly pulling into the intersection from the right. We’re too damn fast. You can’t make the corner at this speed. That Caddie is toast. It’s Sunday Twofers. Our insurance agent is going to pass a brick.
Here it comes. Here it comes. Hard on the brakes, but it’s just a little late don’t you think? The old lady with hair as blue as her Caddy seems completely oblivious to the significant emotional event bearing down on her. Already I can imagine her bawling that she’s driven 70 years without an accident and hoped to die with a perfect record but not after today. No not after today, and NOW SHE’S EVEN GOING TO MISS CHURCH.

Straight line. Like an unerring arrow. We are the Scourge of God. Kawhump! We apparently hit a dry patch and we all fly forward like one of those drunk driving commercials. Sudden, instantaneous, Absolute Braking System. Apparently God just forgot to set his alarm. The Holy Wife looks beatific.

We make church on time. We make church because we left early. So why were we driving like we were trying to qualify for Daytona? I dunno. I don’t ask. Given a choice between blissful ignorance and very unblissful knowledge I’ll take blissful ignorance. I think it’s a seldom-appreciated key to a happy marriage. Or I’m just a weenie riding shotgun.


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