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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Saturday, March 20, 2004
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Friday, March 19, 2004
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Thursday, March 11, 2004
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
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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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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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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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Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
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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Monday, March 08, 2004
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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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Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
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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Monday, February 23, 2004
-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.
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.
Friday, February 20, 2004
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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.
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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.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
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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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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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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Wednesday, February 18, 2004
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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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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Tuesday, February 17, 2004
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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-
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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Monday, February 16, 2004
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
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!"
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
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!"
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
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.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
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.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
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.