Hello, this is pain, I have a message for your daughter. Tell her to stop biting her fingers. On Christmas Eve Day we had a lovely breakfast made by Steve and Karen and boys that was outstanding - Dennis looked at my daughter's finger and said it should be taken care of immediately. So, we loaded her up and Debi and I went along.
On the way, Den called his friend Beth, hand specialist for the Phx Suns and asked her a few questions about the procedure. After a few minutes he began to back-pedal and say, "No, No, No, I don't want you to do that." She talked him into letting her do the procedure because in her words, "I pictures that TV commerical where the guy is on the phone with a doctor and the doctor is telling the guy, '...three centimeters to the left should be your appendix' to which the patient asks, '...shouldn't you be doing this...'
Great Lady!!! She put my daughter at ease and made the whole procedure seem like a hobby instead of the job she does everyday.
I got to look over Beth's shoulder. Dennis assisted which was kinda funny because he is usually in the surgeon's role. The procedure went perfectly. Her hand released about 3cc's of pus. For a finger, that was a bunch! The fingernail was removed about 1/3 the way in and then it was dressed. My daughter felt better already. The soreness related to the fluid under pressure in her finger was releaved and so was she.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
Christmas Letter 2005
It is as Merry as it can be around here. How approproate that I should blog our Christmas letter. Makes sense in this wild world of the busiest time of the year. Doesn't it? We lie in bed at night laughing about our kids, crying about our kids, happy for our kids, and worried about our kids. Then I fall asleep and she gets mad at me. "Oops, no, honey, you aren't boring, your voice is very, um, soothing to me. I find myself relaxed by it. It induces catatonic stasis. I dig it. I'm concerned too. I love them too. I love you too. So does this mean no...OUCH!" Sometimes pillows can hurt. Especially if you get a full-face shot with your eyes still open and your head bounces off the headboard. I hate that.
Our big news is that we got to go with all the cousins, aunts, uncles, grammies, and poppies to the 4 Disney parks and 1 Disney Wonder Cruise ship. Seven fun-filled days and nights with all the cousins. I have included all 306 digital pictures I took from this event in your envelop. Oh, wait, this is a blog, so I don't have anywhere to put the pictures. I'm not posting all of them so you will just have to use your imagination as I narrate our event.
Picture 1 - This is all of us as we were getting on the boat. I tried talking the girl into taking another picture because I wasn't ready and had my finger up my nose. I wasn't picking, I was scratching. Deeply.
Picture 2 - This is all of us at Epcot. No, Mark hadn't given blood, he is actually giving the friendly 'up yours' to one of the pesky Disney characters that was passing by. I think it was Micky and Minie's illigimate son 'Junkie'. He doesn't usually have a tail...
Picture 3 - This is us waiting in line. Because we went during the holidays the crowds were a larger than Nancy Reagan's head (proportionally).
Picture 4 - While waiting in line, the girls came up with several patty-cake-type hand games to pass the time.
Picture 5 - This is the patty-cake police kindly but sternly requesting that the girls stop playing these kind of games.
Picture 6 - This is Trent. Weird how his whole head is red but he was pretty mad at those patty-cake police guys. Something about 'jurisdiction' and 'injunctions' and 'speed-bag your face'. I really didn't catch much of the conversation. I couldn't hear over the patty-cake crowd that gathered in the background. Disney-5-0 my butt.
Picture 7 - This is a picture of my pocket. I kept the camera with me always and must have bumped up against something that set the camera off. For the record, I did not know my pocket had a whole in it.
Picture 8 - This is the blister that I opened up on my foot on, yes, the first day. I wish I had taken a picture of the blister that formed under this blister the second day. Incidentally, when I got home, I had to use my Dremel to grind the dead skin off. I wish I had a picture of that mound of flesh. Oh well.
Picture 9-19 - I let Caitie borrow the camera so these next pictures are of the mid-pubescent, pimple-headed, brain-free, testosterone-laiden pukes she hung around with. And that was just my family. I kid. No, I can't wait until she brings her first date home. "Hello young man, care to help me clean my home-amputation kit? I soiled it a bit on Caitie's last date...Yes, that is a rather nice trophy, isn't it. I preserved it with fermaldihide. I tried to get him to sign it but he was too busy screaming..."
Picture 20-30 - This is Abby. Each night we dressed up to go to dinner. On this occasion, I wanted to capture the moment so I took a picture of everyone with the dinner-wear on. Since Abby changed clothing, I had to take another picture. And another. And another. And another.
Picture 31 - This is a picture of all of us in our dinner-wear. I think if you look behind Abby you will see that she is holding another outfit she was unable to put on before I dragged her out. I kinda messed up her hair a little bit.
Picture 32 - Here is Max with his Gameboy. I was unaware of this but aparently it is far more fun to play a video game on a very expensive boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean than do anything else. Who knew?
Picture 33 - This is a picture of all of us out on the beach at Nassau. I'm fairly sure that those are not shark fins out there but I asked Max to swim out to the bouy and find out. Turns out they weren't sharks but rather swim-area-bouy police. Fortunately Max was coming off a great swim season where he went to state in the 200-freestyle so they were not able to catch the boy.
Picture 34 - This is me on the Nassau beach. No, I didn't get in the water. The locals called me the 'boss' which is a euphamism for someone who comes to the beach fully clothed never intending to take a dip. In the water, that is. When my blister's blister filled with sand, I filled with a longing for my quad.
Picture 35 - This is Debi in the photo gallery.
Picture 36 - The only picture of our kids that tells the whole story - Epcot ball in the background, cute pic of all 4 and suitable for display to all friends.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Give Me a Sea, a Bouncy Sea
The second part of our Thanksgiving trip was when we boarded the Disney Wonder, and set sail for the Bahamas. I've been on this boat two other times. Never with my kids. What a blast. We had all the cousins, aunts, uncles, and two grand parents. Cruising is so fun. The expressions on the faces of the kids as we neared
Friday, December 09, 2005
Sugar, Baby
A very strange thing has happened to me over the past 2 years. I think it happened to me when one day I was speaking with my dad. He told me that when he pulled his pants on that morning, he discovered that he had inadvertently caught a toenail on them and had PULLED IT OFF. He didn't know it until he started to put socks on. That's when he made the discovery. You see, my dad had advancing diabetes. His feet were numb. He didn't feel his toenail being pulled from his foot. I suppose that could come in handy if he were captured and they tried to torture him by shoving bamboo shoots up his toenails.
That I decided that day that that was that is all that. I decided I would never tell my son that I had inadvertently pulled anything off my body which should have been painful but was not. So, I started walking. I actually started walking or riding my bike depending on what was better for me that day. I also decided to reduce the sugar intake in my diet. I'm overweight so I hoped to change that too.
I'm an advocate of acting like you have been diagnosed. For example, my wife wanted to go to the cardiologist because she wondered if she was at risk for heart problems. My view is, yes, if you are worried about a condition you may have, act as if you have been diagnosed with the condition. Does it mean that if you have not been diagnosed with a condition that you are somehow safe from it. Would you only change your behavior AFTER you had the disease? Not logical.
This worked for me. I started exercising every day and avoiding sugar in my diet. Not Nazi-like, but just no sweets, no sugar, nothing known for sugar content. As a result, I eat very little sugar. I know this because one Sunday I was particularly hungry and my friend's wife had dropped off a 'coffee cake' for him for breakfast. He knew that I didn't eat sweets so he offered me some and I ate it. It was DELICIOUS. Soon after, I must have experienced an insulin storm because I got kinda dizzy and light headed. My heart was pounding. It was really funny. I either experienced an insulin-related episode or my friend's wife put some mighty-fine drugs in the batter. Any, it was great. I fell off the wagon for one piece of coffee cake. I won't do that again anytime soon.
Anyway, I said it worked for me because after 1 1/2 years of acting like I had the disease (in this case, diabetes) I decided to take a trip to the doctor and get a physical (a few months ago). Did I mention that during the 1 1/2 years my father died from diabetes. Heinous disease. I think I will write several blogs about my dad when I can stand to do so. The trouble is, I hadn't had a physical in some time and the results of the last one said that I had triglycerides that were through the roof -- 286 to be exact. They say over 200 is a bad number. My blood test revealed the following specifics: cholesterol 126, sugar normal (thank goodness, doc says no chance of diabetes currently), heart rate 60, blood pressure 120 over 76 and by triglycerides were a managable 141. The doctor was surprised because of my size. He congratulated me after he learned why my numbers were so good. He does, however, want me to lose weight. Doesn't everyone?
I remember many years ago when sugar wasn't the enemy to me, I used to make fun of Post Cereals for changing the name of Super Sugar Crisp to Super Golden Crisp. Sugar Smacks got changed as sugar became the forbidden substance. Stuff was just as sweet as ever but somehow changing the name made them more politically correct or socially acceptable. Oh, I can't wait to blog political correctness - another day. I didn't think much of sugar content when I was young so when people would point out my sugar intake I though it was ridiculous. "You know, Jeff, that monster cookie with fudge and ice cream with sprinkles and Sugar Babies wrapped in cotton candy and dipped in carmel really does contain a touch more sugar than the average 8-year-old consumes the entire time he is 8." I now point out my own sugar intake and everyone around me thinks I'm ridiculous. "No thank you, I don't want to eat the giant pie you brought me because I don't eat sugar." "But Jeff, you're enormous, I would think if you controlled your diet as you say you do, you would not automatically qualify for the heavyweight Sumo division." I can't win. I didn't say I stopped eating, I said I stopped eating sugar. And it is working.
So I now need to lose weight. Yikes. I have done this before but never for the amount of time of the sugar ban. I will need to eat less - and eat healthy. I need drugs. My wife is no help. She is supportive, but one time I was on Atkins and I was hating it and within a one-hour period of time she was angry with me for being on Atkins and for going off Atkins. Strange. One thing Atkins did for me is cure, and I mean CURE, my heartburn for years. I suffered chronic heartburn until I went on that diet. I was only on it for about a month but it did a great thing for me tummy-wise. Being off sugar has cured my desire for sweets. Now I just have to find a cure for wanting to eat. That should do it.
That I decided that day that that was that is all that. I decided I would never tell my son that I had inadvertently pulled anything off my body which should have been painful but was not. So, I started walking. I actually started walking or riding my bike depending on what was better for me that day. I also decided to reduce the sugar intake in my diet. I'm overweight so I hoped to change that too.
I'm an advocate of acting like you have been diagnosed. For example, my wife wanted to go to the cardiologist because she wondered if she was at risk for heart problems. My view is, yes, if you are worried about a condition you may have, act as if you have been diagnosed with the condition. Does it mean that if you have not been diagnosed with a condition that you are somehow safe from it. Would you only change your behavior AFTER you had the disease? Not logical.
This worked for me. I started exercising every day and avoiding sugar in my diet. Not Nazi-like, but just no sweets, no sugar, nothing known for sugar content. As a result, I eat very little sugar. I know this because one Sunday I was particularly hungry and my friend's wife had dropped off a 'coffee cake' for him for breakfast. He knew that I didn't eat sweets so he offered me some and I ate it. It was DELICIOUS. Soon after, I must have experienced an insulin storm because I got kinda dizzy and light headed. My heart was pounding. It was really funny. I either experienced an insulin-related episode or my friend's wife put some mighty-fine drugs in the batter. Any, it was great. I fell off the wagon for one piece of coffee cake. I won't do that again anytime soon.
Anyway, I said it worked for me because after 1 1/2 years of acting like I had the disease (in this case, diabetes) I decided to take a trip to the doctor and get a physical (a few months ago). Did I mention that during the 1 1/2 years my father died from diabetes. Heinous disease. I think I will write several blogs about my dad when I can stand to do so. The trouble is, I hadn't had a physical in some time and the results of the last one said that I had triglycerides that were through the roof -- 286 to be exact. They say over 200 is a bad number. My blood test revealed the following specifics: cholesterol 126, sugar normal (thank goodness, doc says no chance of diabetes currently), heart rate 60, blood pressure 120 over 76 and by triglycerides were a managable 141. The doctor was surprised because of my size. He congratulated me after he learned why my numbers were so good. He does, however, want me to lose weight. Doesn't everyone?
I remember many years ago when sugar wasn't the enemy to me, I used to make fun of Post Cereals for changing the name of Super Sugar Crisp to Super Golden Crisp. Sugar Smacks got changed as sugar became the forbidden substance. Stuff was just as sweet as ever but somehow changing the name made them more politically correct or socially acceptable. Oh, I can't wait to blog political correctness - another day. I didn't think much of sugar content when I was young so when people would point out my sugar intake I though it was ridiculous. "You know, Jeff, that monster cookie with fudge and ice cream with sprinkles and Sugar Babies wrapped in cotton candy and dipped in carmel really does contain a touch more sugar than the average 8-year-old consumes the entire time he is 8." I now point out my own sugar intake and everyone around me thinks I'm ridiculous. "No thank you, I don't want to eat the giant pie you brought me because I don't eat sugar." "But Jeff, you're enormous, I would think if you controlled your diet as you say you do, you would not automatically qualify for the heavyweight Sumo division." I can't win. I didn't say I stopped eating, I said I stopped eating sugar. And it is working.
So I now need to lose weight. Yikes. I have done this before but never for the amount of time of the sugar ban. I will need to eat less - and eat healthy. I need drugs. My wife is no help. She is supportive, but one time I was on Atkins and I was hating it and within a one-hour period of time she was angry with me for being on Atkins and for going off Atkins. Strange. One thing Atkins did for me is cure, and I mean CURE, my heartburn for years. I suffered chronic heartburn until I went on that diet. I was only on it for about a month but it did a great thing for me tummy-wise. Being off sugar has cured my desire for sweets. Now I just have to find a cure for wanting to eat. That should do it.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Criminals
This blog transmogrified into something I didn't intend. Sorry.
I have been accused of having a deviant mind. I confess that my mind is constantly active and imaginative. I think, though, that there is a huge difference between those who have deviant minds and those who are deviant. Sometime I will get around to writing about my dreams. A spectacular extravaganza, those. But that is for another blog. I mention dreams because sometimes I wonder what dreams are for or if my dreams are what I really think. As a man thinketh, so is he? Let's take criminals. As a friend said to me once, "...there are people who only rape." That's all they do. They wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and ask themselves who their victim will be today. They think and plan and wonder and imagine. Then they go and do. The same can be said for people who are criminals of various sorts. I don't think those who murder act spontaneously. They plan. The execute. No pun intended.
There are all sorts of crimes. The most despicable crime I can think of is abuse of children. There are dads who, while driving home from work, plan their encounter with their little daughters. To you monsters, I say, "I hate you." There is a special place carved out of hell prepared for you where you will wear a corn-filled turd suit and be forced to endure the Disneyland 'Stitch' attraction with periodic breaks for Jay Leno singing country music while giving Angela Lansbury a pedecure for eternity. (Maybe the Jay Leno thing was a little too harsh. Nobody should have to watch Jay Leno do anything for any reason.)
I was talking to a friend of mine who is a cop. He said that he dreads March because the weather improves and crime increases. What? Fair-weather felons? You have got to be kidding me. There are those who will put off their criminal needs because it's a bit nippy out? Fascinating. Perhaps if they stole a coat first...
My wife is fascinated with the criminal mind. Not mine, but those who act out against society. I can't really figure out what the allure is except to say that it intrigues her to the point that she buys serial-killer books and records any television show where the subject matter is gore. I may have to arrest her and put her in jail. She's been a naughty girl.
I have been accused of having a deviant mind. I confess that my mind is constantly active and imaginative. I think, though, that there is a huge difference between those who have deviant minds and those who are deviant. Sometime I will get around to writing about my dreams. A spectacular extravaganza, those. But that is for another blog. I mention dreams because sometimes I wonder what dreams are for or if my dreams are what I really think. As a man thinketh, so is he? Let's take criminals. As a friend said to me once, "...there are people who only rape." That's all they do. They wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and ask themselves who their victim will be today. They think and plan and wonder and imagine. Then they go and do. The same can be said for people who are criminals of various sorts. I don't think those who murder act spontaneously. They plan. The execute. No pun intended.
There are all sorts of crimes. The most despicable crime I can think of is abuse of children. There are dads who, while driving home from work, plan their encounter with their little daughters. To you monsters, I say, "I hate you." There is a special place carved out of hell prepared for you where you will wear a corn-filled turd suit and be forced to endure the Disneyland 'Stitch' attraction with periodic breaks for Jay Leno singing country music while giving Angela Lansbury a pedecure for eternity. (Maybe the Jay Leno thing was a little too harsh. Nobody should have to watch Jay Leno do anything for any reason.)
I was talking to a friend of mine who is a cop. He said that he dreads March because the weather improves and crime increases. What? Fair-weather felons? You have got to be kidding me. There are those who will put off their criminal needs because it's a bit nippy out? Fascinating. Perhaps if they stole a coat first...
My wife is fascinated with the criminal mind. Not mine, but those who act out against society. I can't really figure out what the allure is except to say that it intrigues her to the point that she buys serial-killer books and records any television show where the subject matter is gore. I may have to arrest her and put her in jail. She's been a naughty girl.
"Criminals and the Chicks Who Dig Them" next Oprah.
I have always been put off by the criminal insanity defense. I don't understand the notion that someone can be criminal enough to perpetrate atrocities and insane enough to get a reduced sentence or be acquitted. Can this really happen? How can we find an excuse for this type of behavior. How can we excuse the behavior for no other reason than the guy was crazy when he did it. How are we supposed to be able to sleep at night knowing that this happens? I guess that's what dreams are for.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
What's in a name?
"I have a very good friend in Rome called Biggus Dickus." This is a line from the Monty Python movie "Life of Brian" and is one of the funnier concepts which seems to be commonly understood. I doesn't matter where you go or to whom you speak, names are a good way to break the ice. I remember liking my name. I remember hating my name. I remember hating my middle name. Weird, isn't it?
I have often joined conversations already in progress where the participants are talking about names. It seems to start with, "I knew a kid in school once whose name was Austin Healey." That leads to, "...I went to Doctor Bottoms for my hemorrhoids," or "...we could never get Harry Knuckles out of the bathroom and we never knew why." Episodes of The Simpsons featured Bart calling Moe's and having a certain funny-named fictitious customer paged. Michael Hunt, Al Kahalic, etc. My dad's personal favorite was Herbie Hynde (or perhaps Lavica Trickleson). It seems we all get the humor of this.
Visit http://www.namehumor.com for more fun.
My contribution to this was a brother/sister combination in high school whose names were C0c0 and P@nda Head. (I obfuscated their names so they wouldn't be searchable.) I didn't actually know them but they were the best I could do when joining in the conversations on funny names. My sister dated a kid whose last name was Woodcock. (perhaps she will list them in a comment to this blog) He had a string of replacement names for his last name that he had collected over the years. My wife has a cousin who married a Dick. He is a dentist. Dr. Dick. So, her last name is Dick, and she has a bunch of little Dicks around her house now. My brother's partner is Dr. Slaughter. He is a great surgeon. A great guy too, but an unfortunate name for a surgeon.
From the sexual or derogatory names, the conversation usually moves to a mutation entitled "I Can't Believe They Named Their Kid That." This one is great sport. From fictitious lore of Orangello and Lemongello (the story is told of a woman who was shopping and came upon Orange Jell-o and Lemon Jell-o and thought those would be suitable names for twin boys) to a great girl I knew in college named Heavenly Hutchins, names are great conversation seed.
I know naming kids is difficult. Bad name association, name mutation possibilities, and name combinations all filter the name universe down to 2-3 possible names for a kid. Mom says, "No, you can't name him Jerry because I dated a jerk name Jerry and I still spit when I hear his name," then she spits and curls up in a corner sucking her thumb. That's bad name association. You can't name him Buck or Bart because of obvious rhyming words, and you can't name her Delores because of Seinfeld. That's name mutation possibilities. As for name combinations, you can't name your kid Simon Simpson. It just doesn't work.
Celebrities are trying to out-do each other by naming their kids bizarre things. It's not enough that the kid has to be born out-of-wedlock and to a celebrity, but to then bear the name Rumor, Apple, December, or Dweasle. Sure, they'll be well adjusted.
My son has recently started assigning nicknames to all his friends. Their given names are not sufficient so he is quick to rename them something fresh, new, alive. I love that about him. It cracks me up. He has become the namer. Nice. He even did it to himself. He calls himself Gerard Wagstaff.
Finally, the strangest names to me aren't the most peculiar, but the most mundane. I like creativity, I like mainstream, and I like ancient. Contrary to opinion, Domineau is a great name for a girl. What I don't like is: Peter Peterson, Mike Michaels, Tom Thompson, Bill Williams, John Johnson, Bret Bretterson.
Well, that's about all. This is me, Jeff Jefferson, signing off.
I have often joined conversations already in progress where the participants are talking about names. It seems to start with, "I knew a kid in school once whose name was Austin Healey." That leads to, "...I went to Doctor Bottoms for my hemorrhoids," or "...we could never get Harry Knuckles out of the bathroom and we never knew why." Episodes of The Simpsons featured Bart calling Moe's and having a certain funny-named fictitious customer paged. Michael Hunt, Al Kahalic, etc. My dad's personal favorite was Herbie Hynde (or perhaps Lavica Trickleson). It seems we all get the humor of this.
Visit http://www.namehumor.com for more fun.
My contribution to this was a brother/sister combination in high school whose names were C0c0 and P@nda Head. (I obfuscated their names so they wouldn't be searchable.) I didn't actually know them but they were the best I could do when joining in the conversations on funny names. My sister dated a kid whose last name was Woodcock. (perhaps she will list them in a comment to this blog) He had a string of replacement names for his last name that he had collected over the years. My wife has a cousin who married a Dick. He is a dentist. Dr. Dick. So, her last name is Dick, and she has a bunch of little Dicks around her house now. My brother's partner is Dr. Slaughter. He is a great surgeon. A great guy too, but an unfortunate name for a surgeon.
From the sexual or derogatory names, the conversation usually moves to a mutation entitled "I Can't Believe They Named Their Kid That." This one is great sport. From fictitious lore of Orangello and Lemongello (the story is told of a woman who was shopping and came upon Orange Jell-o and Lemon Jell-o and thought those would be suitable names for twin boys) to a great girl I knew in college named Heavenly Hutchins, names are great conversation seed.
I know naming kids is difficult. Bad name association, name mutation possibilities, and name combinations all filter the name universe down to 2-3 possible names for a kid. Mom says, "No, you can't name him Jerry because I dated a jerk name Jerry and I still spit when I hear his name," then she spits and curls up in a corner sucking her thumb. That's bad name association. You can't name him Buck or Bart because of obvious rhyming words, and you can't name her Delores because of Seinfeld. That's name mutation possibilities. As for name combinations, you can't name your kid Simon Simpson. It just doesn't work.
Celebrities are trying to out-do each other by naming their kids bizarre things. It's not enough that the kid has to be born out-of-wedlock and to a celebrity, but to then bear the name Rumor, Apple, December, or Dweasle. Sure, they'll be well adjusted.
My son has recently started assigning nicknames to all his friends. Their given names are not sufficient so he is quick to rename them something fresh, new, alive. I love that about him. It cracks me up. He has become the namer. Nice. He even did it to himself. He calls himself Gerard Wagstaff.
Finally, the strangest names to me aren't the most peculiar, but the most mundane. I like creativity, I like mainstream, and I like ancient. Contrary to opinion, Domineau is a great name for a girl. What I don't like is: Peter Peterson, Mike Michaels, Tom Thompson, Bill Williams, John Johnson, Bret Bretterson.
Well, that's about all. This is me, Jeff Jefferson, signing off.
Monday, December 05, 2005
My Youngest
Funny, isn't it. Everyone says they will grow up too fast but when it happens to you it is somehow not as amusing as when it happens to others. My wife has been recently saddled with reading glasses. She has graduated to #2 strength. This is still funny to me because I'm not there yet. Won't be long, though. I have signs that this is surely coming. I'm going blind. I knew it would catch up to me. She has had gray hair since I can remember but since she colors it, she doesn't have gray hair. She is, however, the only woman I know that lies about her age. Up, that is. She says she is older than she is. She claims that it prepares her for when she actually turns that age. I say it is a lot like setting a clock 5 minutes ahead to be on time or daylight savings time to make a day longer. You're not foolin' anyone, you know...
My daughter, 10 years of age currently, cut the food on her plate by herself in a restaurant the other day. Wait a minute, that's the parent's job. When your youngest starts to be self-sufficient the season in your life is about to change. I watched her do that and wondered when she learned to do that. Had she been able to do that for a while and just milked the ceremonial parental food cutting for a while? I don't think I will ever know the answer to that. Last night I was reassured that the transformation was complete. She farted and blamed me. Time for you to leave grasshopper.
My daughter, 10 years of age currently, cut the food on her plate by herself in a restaurant the other day. Wait a minute, that's the parent's job. When your youngest starts to be self-sufficient the season in your life is about to change. I watched her do that and wondered when she learned to do that. Had she been able to do that for a while and just milked the ceremonial parental food cutting for a while? I don't think I will ever know the answer to that. Last night I was reassured that the transformation was complete. She farted and blamed me. Time for you to leave grasshopper.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
We have your navel
We arrived in B, retrieved our luggage, met the rest of our family, then headed over to A to be greeted by the giant-hand people. These sexagenarians directed us to a counter, shuffled us onto a bus, and secretly delighted in the fact that they were no longer in our season of life. We arrived more or less at the same time. We all felt the strange sensation of anticipation and dread frosted with a creamy jetlag topping. The thought of taking a week off of school and work. The thought of spending Thanksgiving away from known realms. The thought of being dipped in Disney for a week. Four parks in three days, then a giant ship to a foreign country only to prove that it's a small world after all? Bring it on.
Our hotel was splendid. Maze-like. Very clean, full of happy, Aqua-Velva-smelling people, and conveniently placed 5 minutes from EPCOT (Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow), and leave it to Disney to come up with an acronym using the 'of' as one of the letters. Usually when I try to assign a clever acronym I have to skip over the 'the, for, and, to, of, etc.' articles just to make it seem like I know what I am doing. We were at the Beach Club hotel and the first day we took a boat ride to EPCOT. That was fun until we were faced with a 12 year old boy who mined and ate several boogers while we tried not to watch and tried harder not to puke. While relating this story to others in our group, however, we discovered a fun fact I should share: there was a study done in let's say Norway where booger-eating children's health was compared to non-booger-eating children. The booger-eaters were healthier. This proves the theory that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. The study forgot to point out that the physical and emotional well-being of the booger-eaters was threatened because of the other children whose booger-eating tolerance rivals my own. On one team we had the non-booger-eating-butt-kickers and on the other team we had the healthy-booger-eating-psych-patient punching bags. Healthy, but bloody. Enough of the fun fact.
The visit to the parks was great. Each park (Magic Kingdom, EPCOT, MGM, and Animal Park) offered its own unique attractions and challenges. I think the winner-ride for the parks was the Aerosmith Rock-N-Roller Coaster. This was a masterpiece of fun, speed, gravity, neon, darkness, and "Walk This Way". Academy award nominations to all the boys in the band for their stellar, balsa, cedar, oak, alder, mahogany, and pine performances. No longer does Paul Rubens hold the record for the most times looking into the camera in a single scene.
The worst ride was the Test Track at EPCOT. I think I am still waiting in line for this ride. Lines are part of the Disney experience, especially during a holiday week like Thanksgiving. However, when a line is rated at a 50-minute wait and it actually takes twice that long, something spectacular better happen on the ride. Well, it did! Imagine driving a car up a hill half as steep and half as long as the hill in Laguna Beach. WOW! Then, drive cautiously between some cones, accelerating to 30 miles per hour and slam on the brakes. Now repeat that, only this time re-activate your anti-lock brakes. Feel the excitement? Oh, and then accelerate to a whopping 65mph while driving around a banked corner - for about 8 seconds. I don't think I have ever driven 65mph in a car before. What a rush. The best part of the ride was the adrenaline rush and subsequent restraint required not to punch every orange-jump-suit wearing 'cast member' as the wait grew to twice the stated time. I think they call this Track-Rage.
The Magic Kindgom day was particularly eventful. Strangely enough, it was our last full day in the parks when we finally made it to the Magic Kingdom. Our best efforts had gotten us there with only half a day to discover the magic. When we arrived we sent a contingent to secure 'fast passes' to Space Mountain. They were for 7pm. There was a parade going on in the streets which made it difficult to move the 20+ members of our group around cohesively. A strange game of survival of the fittest ensued and at one point I was the weakest link -- because I had to pee. Once I left the bathroom, not only had I been carved away from the pack but I was unable to rejoin them or make my way to Thunder Mountain (the first ride destination) because of Snow White and company parading down the street. The group tried to keep in contact via cell phone and inform me of their progress up the 'stand-by' line.
It didn't take long for Mike to coin the moniker 'Fast Passtards'. This designation is assigned to those who obtained a 'fast pass' 3-4 hours previous to your arrival to an attraction. They then wait patiently for 3-4 hours before they can go on the ride at their scheduled time. They are provided a special line which bypasses all of America's family waiting in the hour-long stand=by line. As they move along this express line, they are ever-so-cognizant of their progress vis-a-vis those impacted in stand-by. This is evident in their smug-passtard faces as they sneer scornfully and seem to imply that they are superior when we all know good and well that they aren't and we can't wait to use our fast passes so we can experience the euphoria of being a self-important fast passtard ourselves to dominate the wait-weenies. Our chance was at 7:00pm. Or so we thought.
I made the ride, Thunder Mountain, with only minutes to spare, climbing over those waiting patiently to ride and excusing myself along the way. (Trent described a similar experience but the ridicule was more cruel because he was hitting those he passed with his oversized, swinging backpack.) Just as we arrived at the line-gate staging area immediately prior to ride embarkation, or in other words, just before we got on, our ride manager came on the PA and informed us that somehow Thunder Mountain had lost its thunder and needed some sort of viagra-like repair to bring Ol' Thundy back to life. Or something like that. So, we stepped through the roller coaster cars and out the other side. We were handed a General Pass good for fast pass privileges on any ride at any time. Cool.
Finding ourselves in the mountainous region of Disney World, we decided to transfer from Thunder Mountain to Splash Mountain (Not to be confused with Space Mountain or Cash Mountain --the accounting offices of Disney) armed with a small ticket that gave us Pastard Powers. We bypassed a MASSIVE line to get on Splash Mountain. As we rounded the first turn and began to ascend to the upper regions of Splash Mountain we suddenly stopped. Our log/car/boat/vessel/vehicle had started up an incline and we were facing up a 45 degree angle. After a few minutes a woman ran down the stairs adjacent the incline and informed us that the computer controlling the ride had ‘frozen’ and that the whole thing had to be rebooted. Well, since I know a bunch about computers, I was a little perplexed by this. Mike and I made light of the computer explanation and waited for them to reboot Splash Mountain. As they brought each portion of the ride back online we became hysterical at the funny PA announcements declaring each part of the ride fit for restart. What we heard: “Boat 4 has been conformed. Yes, boat 4 has been conformed. We have your navel.” I’m sure it was probably something about being ‘enabled’ and not ‘your navel’ but in the echoey cave with water running down the track on which we sat it sounded like they really had our navel. Trixy from Disney told us not to stand up because there were about 400 passengers trapped on the ride and if anyone stood up it would delay the restart of the ride. We complied, but apparently someone in one of the other car/boat/log thingies was not so patient or didn’t get that message. They doomed us to the equivalent of making the whole class stay after school. I wish when the ride resumed they would have told us which group of passengers had done this so we could host a little game of payback slapjack.
We were finally off and running/floating/riding/sailing and when the ride finished we were given another fun pass to yet another attraction in the park. We were unaware at the time, but this would be the second of a series of rides that stopped while we were riding it. We were honorary fast pastards for most of the day. 75% of the rides we chose broke down and we were rewarded for our patience with another pass. We finally ran out of passes around the time we were scheduled to ride Space Mountain. With a few minutes to kill, we went on two rides – both of which were, um, unique in their own way.
The ‘Stitch’ attraction (not a ride) was maybe the biggest waste of time and energy I have ever experienced. Because it was evening, I had only one requirement of this ‘ride’ and that was that I get to sit down. I didn’t care where or how but if I got to sit, all would be OK – or so I thought. We went into the inner chamber and then went to the main event where we did get to sit. However, we were forced to suffer indignities reserved for 12-year-old younger brothers on Saturday night when the parents aren’t home. The audio in the attraction mentioned something about Stitch eating a chilidog with onions and then he burped and the most foul gas was blasted in our faces like a stinging face-fart from the butt cheeks of older brother who like refrieds. (Booger-eater probably enjoyed this ride the most) Trapped. Unable to move our heads, the foul stench and spit doused us for a few minutes. I could not have been more uncomfortable and disgusted at the same time. As I was accosted I wanted to projectile vomit to add to the atmosphere. Putrid.
TTA was a good enough ride that the boys (Max and Zack) actually made fun of it and tried to hip it up. Tomorrowland Transit Authority is a segmented car ride providing bench seats and an elevated view of Tomorrowland. This ride was so benign that no seatbelts were provided. Imagine our thrill. I was going slowly enough on this ride that I was able to take a time-laps digital photo of Cinderella’s castle at night without blurring the picture. Shinkansen it ain’t.
The other parks and land adventures were great. The weather was great as well – for the most part. We ate the first night at the Earl of Sandwich restaurant. That was good enough. While many of us were in the restaurant, it rained so hard that nowhere was safe. I heard reports that it rained INSIDE the bus carrying part of our party. They weathered the storm and joined us for the meal. After we were all done, the wet ones and the dry ones went home back to the great hotel we all enjoyed.
Our hotel was splendid. Maze-like. Very clean, full of happy, Aqua-Velva-smelling people, and conveniently placed 5 minutes from EPCOT (Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow), and leave it to Disney to come up with an acronym using the 'of' as one of the letters. Usually when I try to assign a clever acronym I have to skip over the 'the, for, and, to, of, etc.' articles just to make it seem like I know what I am doing. We were at the Beach Club hotel and the first day we took a boat ride to EPCOT. That was fun until we were faced with a 12 year old boy who mined and ate several boogers while we tried not to watch and tried harder not to puke. While relating this story to others in our group, however, we discovered a fun fact I should share: there was a study done in let's say Norway where booger-eating children's health was compared to non-booger-eating children. The booger-eaters were healthier. This proves the theory that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. The study forgot to point out that the physical and emotional well-being of the booger-eaters was threatened because of the other children whose booger-eating tolerance rivals my own. On one team we had the non-booger-eating-butt-kickers and on the other team we had the healthy-booger-eating-psych-patient punching bags. Healthy, but bloody. Enough of the fun fact.
The visit to the parks was great. Each park (Magic Kingdom, EPCOT, MGM, and Animal Park) offered its own unique attractions and challenges. I think the winner-ride for the parks was the Aerosmith Rock-N-Roller Coaster. This was a masterpiece of fun, speed, gravity, neon, darkness, and "Walk This Way". Academy award nominations to all the boys in the band for their stellar, balsa, cedar, oak, alder, mahogany, and pine performances. No longer does Paul Rubens hold the record for the most times looking into the camera in a single scene.
The worst ride was the Test Track at EPCOT. I think I am still waiting in line for this ride. Lines are part of the Disney experience, especially during a holiday week like Thanksgiving. However, when a line is rated at a 50-minute wait and it actually takes twice that long, something spectacular better happen on the ride. Well, it did! Imagine driving a car up a hill half as steep and half as long as the hill in Laguna Beach. WOW! Then, drive cautiously between some cones, accelerating to 30 miles per hour and slam on the brakes. Now repeat that, only this time re-activate your anti-lock brakes. Feel the excitement? Oh, and then accelerate to a whopping 65mph while driving around a banked corner - for about 8 seconds. I don't think I have ever driven 65mph in a car before. What a rush. The best part of the ride was the adrenaline rush and subsequent restraint required not to punch every orange-jump-suit wearing 'cast member' as the wait grew to twice the stated time. I think they call this Track-Rage.
The Magic Kindgom day was particularly eventful. Strangely enough, it was our last full day in the parks when we finally made it to the Magic Kingdom. Our best efforts had gotten us there with only half a day to discover the magic. When we arrived we sent a contingent to secure 'fast passes' to Space Mountain. They were for 7pm. There was a parade going on in the streets which made it difficult to move the 20+ members of our group around cohesively. A strange game of survival of the fittest ensued and at one point I was the weakest link -- because I had to pee. Once I left the bathroom, not only had I been carved away from the pack but I was unable to rejoin them or make my way to Thunder Mountain (the first ride destination) because of Snow White and company parading down the street. The group tried to keep in contact via cell phone and inform me of their progress up the 'stand-by' line.
It didn't take long for Mike to coin the moniker 'Fast Passtards'. This designation is assigned to those who obtained a 'fast pass' 3-4 hours previous to your arrival to an attraction. They then wait patiently for 3-4 hours before they can go on the ride at their scheduled time. They are provided a special line which bypasses all of America's family waiting in the hour-long stand=by line. As they move along this express line, they are ever-so-cognizant of their progress vis-a-vis those impacted in stand-by. This is evident in their smug-passtard faces as they sneer scornfully and seem to imply that they are superior when we all know good and well that they aren't and we can't wait to use our fast passes so we can experience the euphoria of being a self-important fast passtard ourselves to dominate the wait-weenies. Our chance was at 7:00pm. Or so we thought.
I made the ride, Thunder Mountain, with only minutes to spare, climbing over those waiting patiently to ride and excusing myself along the way. (Trent described a similar experience but the ridicule was more cruel because he was hitting those he passed with his oversized, swinging backpack.) Just as we arrived at the line-gate staging area immediately prior to ride embarkation, or in other words, just before we got on, our ride manager came on the PA and informed us that somehow Thunder Mountain had lost its thunder and needed some sort of viagra-like repair to bring Ol' Thundy back to life. Or something like that. So, we stepped through the roller coaster cars and out the other side. We were handed a General Pass good for fast pass privileges on any ride at any time. Cool.
Finding ourselves in the mountainous region of Disney World, we decided to transfer from Thunder Mountain to Splash Mountain (Not to be confused with Space Mountain or Cash Mountain --the accounting offices of Disney) armed with a small ticket that gave us Pastard Powers. We bypassed a MASSIVE line to get on Splash Mountain. As we rounded the first turn and began to ascend to the upper regions of Splash Mountain we suddenly stopped. Our log/car/boat/vessel/vehicle had started up an incline and we were facing up a 45 degree angle. After a few minutes a woman ran down the stairs adjacent the incline and informed us that the computer controlling the ride had ‘frozen’ and that the whole thing had to be rebooted. Well, since I know a bunch about computers, I was a little perplexed by this. Mike and I made light of the computer explanation and waited for them to reboot Splash Mountain. As they brought each portion of the ride back online we became hysterical at the funny PA announcements declaring each part of the ride fit for restart. What we heard: “Boat 4 has been conformed. Yes, boat 4 has been conformed. We have your navel.” I’m sure it was probably something about being ‘enabled’ and not ‘your navel’ but in the echoey cave with water running down the track on which we sat it sounded like they really had our navel. Trixy from Disney told us not to stand up because there were about 400 passengers trapped on the ride and if anyone stood up it would delay the restart of the ride. We complied, but apparently someone in one of the other car/boat/log thingies was not so patient or didn’t get that message. They doomed us to the equivalent of making the whole class stay after school. I wish when the ride resumed they would have told us which group of passengers had done this so we could host a little game of payback slapjack.
We were finally off and running/floating/riding/sailing and when the ride finished we were given another fun pass to yet another attraction in the park. We were unaware at the time, but this would be the second of a series of rides that stopped while we were riding it. We were honorary fast pastards for most of the day. 75% of the rides we chose broke down and we were rewarded for our patience with another pass. We finally ran out of passes around the time we were scheduled to ride Space Mountain. With a few minutes to kill, we went on two rides – both of which were, um, unique in their own way.
The ‘Stitch’ attraction (not a ride) was maybe the biggest waste of time and energy I have ever experienced. Because it was evening, I had only one requirement of this ‘ride’ and that was that I get to sit down. I didn’t care where or how but if I got to sit, all would be OK – or so I thought. We went into the inner chamber and then went to the main event where we did get to sit. However, we were forced to suffer indignities reserved for 12-year-old younger brothers on Saturday night when the parents aren’t home. The audio in the attraction mentioned something about Stitch eating a chilidog with onions and then he burped and the most foul gas was blasted in our faces like a stinging face-fart from the butt cheeks of older brother who like refrieds. (Booger-eater probably enjoyed this ride the most) Trapped. Unable to move our heads, the foul stench and spit doused us for a few minutes. I could not have been more uncomfortable and disgusted at the same time. As I was accosted I wanted to projectile vomit to add to the atmosphere. Putrid.
TTA was a good enough ride that the boys (Max and Zack) actually made fun of it and tried to hip it up. Tomorrowland Transit Authority is a segmented car ride providing bench seats and an elevated view of Tomorrowland. This ride was so benign that no seatbelts were provided. Imagine our thrill. I was going slowly enough on this ride that I was able to take a time-laps digital photo of Cinderella’s castle at night without blurring the picture. Shinkansen it ain’t.
The other parks and land adventures were great. The weather was great as well – for the most part. We ate the first night at the Earl of Sandwich restaurant. That was good enough. While many of us were in the restaurant, it rained so hard that nowhere was safe. I heard reports that it rained INSIDE the bus carrying part of our party. They weathered the storm and joined us for the meal. After we were all done, the wet ones and the dry ones went home back to the great hotel we all enjoyed.
Max Poems
He did these for school but they are brilliant:
Copyright 2005 All rights reserved
Work
“Another day, another dollar,” I try to tell myself.
I just wish I could quit.
Irate, unpredictable boss.
Arrogant, self-important hostesses.
Demanding, ungrateful waiters.
My blood boils as I pull into the parking lot.
She is the first person I see.
My anger vanishes completely.
Her eyes twinkle as she greets me.Maybe I’ll quit next week….
Grandpa’s Magic
As I hurriedly devour my burrito, beans find a place on my cheek with ease.
Reaching for my napkin, I unsuccessfully snatch at the air.
Confusion creeps across my face as I turn towards you.
I wonder what you are up to as you clear your throat.
With a wave of one of your hands, my napkin appears from behind the other.
Before I have time to speak, it vanishes again into your palm.
Out of my ear, through your nose and into thin air, the napkin evades my eyes.
Convinced my napkin is gone forever, I decide to steal yours instead.
Anger
It always starts the exact same way;
A meaningless debate
Of no considerable value or merit.
We both know the answer will not change the world,
But we each fight desperately
Craving to be right this time.
We fight for our own vain security,
Assuming we are all-knowing,
Instead of trying to understand one another.
Bitter thoughts enter our minds,
Spawned by the frustration in our hearts.
I feel so empty as I stare at the hole I punched in the wall.
I don’t want to be angry anymore.
My Dream
I awake peacefully to the chirping of birds, one brilliant Saturday morning,
Eager and excited to start the day.
I soar down the hallway and into the kitchen.
The sunlight forces me to squint as I peer through the open back door.
I wander towards the light to find my dad.
He is accompanied by a strange metallic beast.
“What is that?” I shout towards my father.
He can’t hear me…the beast is roaring too loudly.
They move up and down the yard, gobbling up the rebellious blades of grass.
Oh, to wield such a power!
Father commands it with such ease, steering it mightily with a content smile on his face.
This abhorrent monster does not protest against such a dominant leader.
When Dad sees his work is done, he tells the fiend to sleep and leaves him in the back of the shed.
“Dad, can I have a try?” I beg.
“You are still a little too young,” My dad advises me.
I suppose he is wise, but I cannot wait for the day when I may command the beast.
Untitled (Romance Poem)
I often see her
chatting with her girlfriends across the hall.
Thoughts and feelings, begging to be expressed,
enter my mind.
I long to hold her near to my heart,
and tell her how I truly feel.
Her eyes tell stories of happiness and charm.
Her appeal, much deeper than beauty.
Her laugh, like a symphony,
Her gaze, like a sunset.
Is love defined or simply infatuation?
Gifts
I watch
The crisp morning air gently persuade
the dandelions to wave in my direction.
The towering oak trees stand firm, unwilling
to share their great stories.
Robins converse and mock my inability to soar
above the earth.
The king sun smiles down on my brow
and then hides behind the clouds to
give me tender relief.
A bushy-tailed squirrel, suspicious of my intrusion,
guards his well-kept treasures.
Blades of grass, desperate to grow tall
and grand like their admired relatives,
plead for attention from even the tiniest child.
Fallen leaves weep to be so close
yet so desperately distant from
their livelihood.
A cocoon, splitting, gives new life
to one of God’s most beautiful creatures.
I watch Mother Nature’s gifts and thank her for humbling my arrogant heart.
Copyright 2005 All rights reserved
Work
“Another day, another dollar,” I try to tell myself.
I just wish I could quit.
Irate, unpredictable boss.
Arrogant, self-important hostesses.
Demanding, ungrateful waiters.
My blood boils as I pull into the parking lot.
She is the first person I see.
My anger vanishes completely.
Her eyes twinkle as she greets me.Maybe I’ll quit next week….
Grandpa’s Magic
As I hurriedly devour my burrito, beans find a place on my cheek with ease.
Reaching for my napkin, I unsuccessfully snatch at the air.
Confusion creeps across my face as I turn towards you.
I wonder what you are up to as you clear your throat.
With a wave of one of your hands, my napkin appears from behind the other.
Before I have time to speak, it vanishes again into your palm.
Out of my ear, through your nose and into thin air, the napkin evades my eyes.
Convinced my napkin is gone forever, I decide to steal yours instead.
Anger
It always starts the exact same way;
A meaningless debate
Of no considerable value or merit.
We both know the answer will not change the world,
But we each fight desperately
Craving to be right this time.
We fight for our own vain security,
Assuming we are all-knowing,
Instead of trying to understand one another.
Bitter thoughts enter our minds,
Spawned by the frustration in our hearts.
I feel so empty as I stare at the hole I punched in the wall.
I don’t want to be angry anymore.
My Dream
I awake peacefully to the chirping of birds, one brilliant Saturday morning,
Eager and excited to start the day.
I soar down the hallway and into the kitchen.
The sunlight forces me to squint as I peer through the open back door.
I wander towards the light to find my dad.
He is accompanied by a strange metallic beast.
“What is that?” I shout towards my father.
He can’t hear me…the beast is roaring too loudly.
They move up and down the yard, gobbling up the rebellious blades of grass.
Oh, to wield such a power!
Father commands it with such ease, steering it mightily with a content smile on his face.
This abhorrent monster does not protest against such a dominant leader.
When Dad sees his work is done, he tells the fiend to sleep and leaves him in the back of the shed.
“Dad, can I have a try?” I beg.
“You are still a little too young,” My dad advises me.
I suppose he is wise, but I cannot wait for the day when I may command the beast.
Untitled (Romance Poem)
I often see her
chatting with her girlfriends across the hall.
Thoughts and feelings, begging to be expressed,
enter my mind.
I long to hold her near to my heart,
and tell her how I truly feel.
Her eyes tell stories of happiness and charm.
Her appeal, much deeper than beauty.
Her laugh, like a symphony,
Her gaze, like a sunset.
Is love defined or simply infatuation?
Gifts
I watch
The crisp morning air gently persuade
the dandelions to wave in my direction.
The towering oak trees stand firm, unwilling
to share their great stories.
Robins converse and mock my inability to soar
above the earth.
The king sun smiles down on my brow
and then hides behind the clouds to
give me tender relief.
A bushy-tailed squirrel, suspicious of my intrusion,
guards his well-kept treasures.
Blades of grass, desperate to grow tall
and grand like their admired relatives,
plead for attention from even the tiniest child.
Fallen leaves weep to be so close
yet so desperately distant from
their livelihood.
A cocoon, splitting, gives new life
to one of God’s most beautiful creatures.
I watch Mother Nature’s gifts and thank her for humbling my arrogant heart.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Golf Rules
Rules for golfing
Golf Course Restaurant
The restaurant at your golf course shall be named either Mulligans or The 19th Hole. There are no other acceptable names. If there is a bar, it must be named Tavern on/at/by the Green.
Charging Green Fees:
Green fees will be charged each golfer regardless of skill level. Golfers who take more strokes will get more for their money. Green fees in excess of $200 per golf round are deemed expensive but are not against green fee charge rules. High green fees are a source of bragging rights.
The following formula may be used to determine green fee charges:
# of trees on the course + # of groundskeepers + part of town the course is in + cool-name factor + beauty of the drink cart drivers
Equipment
All that science and aerospace technology has achieved to date is in the latest set of golf clubs and golf balls. No science or aerospace technological advances will help you correct your slice.
The bigger the head of your 1 wood, the better the club.
The bigger the head of your 1 wood, the dumber you look when you miss the ball.
Obnoxious phrases
The following phrases must be used at least once per game:
Does your husband play? – This phrase is to be spoken to a male golfer who leaves a putt dramatically short.
Drive for show, putt for dough! – This phrase is to be used when you someone hits a drive longer than your drive.
That’s one – this phrase is used when a golfer tees up a ball, aligns the shot, and inadvertently knocks the ball off the tee. The golfer is then allowed to sheepishly reset the ball back atop the tee.
This shot will land on the green like a butterfly with sore feet – This phrase is used to demonstrate that any golfer can sound wimpy.
Off the tee
If it becomes necessary to wait for the golfers ahead of you, a game of tee-box shall be played at least once per round. This game is a cross between croquet and marbles and has no official rules. Such rules are made up on the spot. The main object of the game is to kill time waiting for the golfers who are getting their money’s worth ahead of you. All other stated goals or objectives of the game are fabricated to achieve the main objective.
A golfer may tee the ball up anywhere in the tee box provided the other golfers are allowed to do the same.
Golfers are required to use the jar of sand and grass seed to fill in divots. Substantial divots should be replaced but not before being placed atop the embarrassed divot-taking golfer’s head and making a lame toupee joke.
If a male golfer hits his driver and the ball does not travel beyond the women’s tee, the male golfer shall play the rest of that hole with his pants around his ankles. This has always been an unspoken rule. This rule is always spoken when a drive of this nature occurs. This rule is seldom enforce. NOTE: There is a 10-second rule in connection with rule that states that if a golfer is able to retrieve his ball within ten (10) seconds of hitting the ball and reset it on the tee, he shall not incur a stroke penalty, he shall not be required to play the hole trouser-free, and he may, in some circles, retain his dignity.
The more pompous the golfer, the more iridescent the pants. This rule is not followed – it is lived.
Golf Course Restaurant
The restaurant at your golf course shall be named either Mulligans or The 19th Hole. There are no other acceptable names. If there is a bar, it must be named Tavern on/at/by the Green.
Charging Green Fees:
Green fees will be charged each golfer regardless of skill level. Golfers who take more strokes will get more for their money. Green fees in excess of $200 per golf round are deemed expensive but are not against green fee charge rules. High green fees are a source of bragging rights.
The following formula may be used to determine green fee charges:
# of trees on the course + # of groundskeepers + part of town the course is in + cool-name factor + beauty of the drink cart drivers
Equipment
All that science and aerospace technology has achieved to date is in the latest set of golf clubs and golf balls. No science or aerospace technological advances will help you correct your slice.
The bigger the head of your 1 wood, the better the club.
The bigger the head of your 1 wood, the dumber you look when you miss the ball.
Obnoxious phrases
The following phrases must be used at least once per game:
Does your husband play? – This phrase is to be spoken to a male golfer who leaves a putt dramatically short.
Drive for show, putt for dough! – This phrase is to be used when you someone hits a drive longer than your drive.
That’s one – this phrase is used when a golfer tees up a ball, aligns the shot, and inadvertently knocks the ball off the tee. The golfer is then allowed to sheepishly reset the ball back atop the tee.
This shot will land on the green like a butterfly with sore feet – This phrase is used to demonstrate that any golfer can sound wimpy.
Off the tee
If it becomes necessary to wait for the golfers ahead of you, a game of tee-box shall be played at least once per round. This game is a cross between croquet and marbles and has no official rules. Such rules are made up on the spot. The main object of the game is to kill time waiting for the golfers who are getting their money’s worth ahead of you. All other stated goals or objectives of the game are fabricated to achieve the main objective.
A golfer may tee the ball up anywhere in the tee box provided the other golfers are allowed to do the same.
Golfers are required to use the jar of sand and grass seed to fill in divots. Substantial divots should be replaced but not before being placed atop the embarrassed divot-taking golfer’s head and making a lame toupee joke.
If a male golfer hits his driver and the ball does not travel beyond the women’s tee, the male golfer shall play the rest of that hole with his pants around his ankles. This has always been an unspoken rule. This rule is always spoken when a drive of this nature occurs. This rule is seldom enforce. NOTE: There is a 10-second rule in connection with rule that states that if a golfer is able to retrieve his ball within ten (10) seconds of hitting the ball and reset it on the tee, he shall not incur a stroke penalty, he shall not be required to play the hole trouser-free, and he may, in some circles, retain his dignity.
The more pompous the golfer, the more iridescent the pants. This rule is not followed – it is lived.
Morning Blog
I have found that most bloggers don't really have anything to say. This is particularly evident in my blog. I have also noticed that all bloggers start off by giving their opinion of blogging. I think this is lame so I will avoid doing that. The morning seems to be the best time to blog. This ensures that the content is filled with incomplete thoughts and ill conceived ideas. Morning attitudes are fresh. How is it that each day can be a fresh start? Why is morning such a great cure for the night before? For the day before? Who knows?
I think some people try to superimpose the morning by eating pancakes at night. Denny's has built a business on people who try to synthesize morning optimism by eating breakfast at night. 24-hours a day, Denny's gives those willing to attempt to defraud the day the ability to try to recapture the morning. Can't be done, shouldn't be done. Morning is more than breakfast but those who seek afternoon or evening rejuvenation aren't fooling anyone. Including themselves. And don't give me this crap about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. There are breakfast foods designated for morning consumption. Eating these during other parts of the day somehow upsets the balance of cuisinature. That is simply not part of the grand design.
Morning people? Yes, there are those who have designated themselves as morning people. The problem with that statement is that morning people aren’t usually night people. Night people are typically bothered by morning people. Can’t we all just get along and be afternoon people? I think my son is an afternoon people. His record for sleeping is 4:00pm. Alarming.
Because I will be blogging in the morning, I hereby discount everything written here. I know people who put a pen and paper next to their bed and write ideas they have during the night so that they can act on them in the morning. It is usual, though, that they awaken to find the scribble they attempted while half-asleep is illegible and indecipherable. I want to take this formula for success one stop further and post those thoughts on my blog. Wave-ohs.
So ends the morning blog. The first of many I hope. I will try to get it done but who knows? See you in the morning.
I think some people try to superimpose the morning by eating pancakes at night. Denny's has built a business on people who try to synthesize morning optimism by eating breakfast at night. 24-hours a day, Denny's gives those willing to attempt to defraud the day the ability to try to recapture the morning. Can't be done, shouldn't be done. Morning is more than breakfast but those who seek afternoon or evening rejuvenation aren't fooling anyone. Including themselves. And don't give me this crap about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. There are breakfast foods designated for morning consumption. Eating these during other parts of the day somehow upsets the balance of cuisinature. That is simply not part of the grand design.
Morning people? Yes, there are those who have designated themselves as morning people. The problem with that statement is that morning people aren’t usually night people. Night people are typically bothered by morning people. Can’t we all just get along and be afternoon people? I think my son is an afternoon people. His record for sleeping is 4:00pm. Alarming.
Because I will be blogging in the morning, I hereby discount everything written here. I know people who put a pen and paper next to their bed and write ideas they have during the night so that they can act on them in the morning. It is usual, though, that they awaken to find the scribble they attempted while half-asleep is illegible and indecipherable. I want to take this formula for success one stop further and post those thoughts on my blog. Wave-ohs.
So ends the morning blog. The first of many I hope. I will try to get it done but who knows? See you in the morning.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Spring Family Letter
Well, (sung in the two-octave shaky scoop of Chris Guest in A Mighty Wind) we don’t have a puppy in the parlor and a skillet on the stove or a smelly old blanket that a Navajowove – although we do have a 16-year-old boy living in our basement. So sometimes it smells like a smelly old Navajo cow lives down there. Potty trained of course, it doesn’t really smell like poo – more like musty, rain-soaked bovine flesh. Somehow, however, when he emerges from the depths, he always smells fresh and manly. And isn’t that appropriate as he has quite a social calendar to attend to. He hasn’t missed a prom/formal/Hawkins yet. He has a great group of friends that really are good kids and manage to keep each other occupied until midnight each night. I’m sure they read scriptures and raise money for the poor and volunteer at the local orphanage. I just can’t believe how late those orphans stay up. Max recently finished the swim season with the local high school. When he went to regionals he shaved his entire body-almost-and yes, even his hobbit feet, and shaved 5 SECONDS off his qualifying time. For those of you who follow swimming, hundredths of a second often separate first place from second. The strange ability to reduce your time by 5 seconds is simply impossible. I guarantee you that he did not have 5 seconds worth of drag on his body but shaving somehow made him super-human – kinda like Sampson in reverse. That’s the only way I can explain it.
Caitlin, master thespian, broke her leg recently. Acting! Genius! Thank you! Not so much an actual injury but the figurative kind where just before you take the stage some loose-lipped well-wisher implores you to ‘break a leg’. Caitie was in the junior high school production of Twinderella, a disjointed and poorly constructed double-overlapping fairytale involving many self-conscious, acne-ridden adolescents with cracky voices delivering lines with not a modicum of joy or dynamic (I pause here to point out the obvious parallel between that last sentence and Woody Allen’s classic, “…I hate this restaurant. Such bad food and such small portions."). Caitie, however, was STELLAR. She was--and I’m not saying this as a parent who has no objectivity--so fun to watch. She was over-the-top, bigger-than-life in her performance. She was funny. She was fluid in her dancing. And all this before I even dropped her off for the play. I kid. Really, though, she was a stand-out and the production really was delightful. Debi camcorded the event and copies of the DVD are available for a nominal service charge. Caitie lives in the basement but the smell in her room is much different than neighbor Max. I don’t know the nasal equivalent of the word cacophony but I’m going to have to make one up because the mixture of that many perfume odors produces a smell that is nothing short of nosiferous. Caitie continues to love softball, and plays like Cal Ripkin Jr. only younger and un-retired, and she made the junior high softball team this spring.
Abby grows ever taller. In fact, she is catching Caitie. As a result, her orchestra teacher has asked her to move from the viola to the bass. Not the singing bass As Seen On TV, but more like a violin with elephantitis. Her teacher stated that many others had asked if they could move to the bass but she told them “no” because she felt Abby was the only 5th grader in the school smart enough to not only change instruments but learn a whole new music clef. Recently, Abby participated in a Bass Jam music camp. This is an all-day event where children from all over the valley who have been told they play the bass gather at a local high school and pay out dad’s hard-earned American dollars. They divide up into 5 different skill levels, and learn techniques, tricks, tips, and Nee-Sackey-slap-jam-African rhythms at the hands of many emaciated, bespectacled, goatee-wearing hip cats with translucent skin who look like they see very little sunlight. (sort of like most of the citizens of Portland, right Richard?) She said she had fun and learned a lot. I was fortunate to be able to attend the concert at the end of the day. Mind you, this was a bass symphony. Imagine a concerto being played on just the lowest 12 notes of a piano. When I say lower register, what I mean is the vibrating sound produced on that stage would be better suited for a ghetto-thumping sub-woofer in South Phoenix (or Dennis Grant’s pimped ride). Abby continues to excel at school and loves to read, sing, play soccer, rollerblade, and play hockey.
Olivia, or the Rosebud, as she is known, is a cutie-face. Olivia just finished her soccer season and is now engaged in an intense training camp for softball. She has also taken up the cello. Being shorter than Abby, this is a more appropriate sized instrument for her. Recently, she performed in the elementary school orchestra concert. This is an annual event (thankfully) that involves the first line of many great Christmas carols. That, in itself, is sort of frustrating because I just get into the lyric of “Jingle bells, batman smells, robin laid an egg,” and they stop and move on to the next song. Olivia sat in the front and the other kids filed in around her. She was the star of the show – or you would think so if you saw the footage I took of the event. Olivia also sang with the school choir. Budding, young vocal talent eagerly blending their voices into melodious harmony it wasn’t, but she had a blast none the less. Olivia, a thespian in her own right, starred in the Room 5 production of Defeat the Dump Monster. She played a rat.
Last summer, we packed up the family and went to Hawaii – Maui to be exact – Kihei to be more exact – Maui Banyan to be even more exact. What a fun trip. It was our kid’s first time there and we had fun biking the crater, parasailing, beach-going and other such activities.
Caitlin, master thespian, broke her leg recently. Acting! Genius! Thank you! Not so much an actual injury but the figurative kind where just before you take the stage some loose-lipped well-wisher implores you to ‘break a leg’. Caitie was in the junior high school production of Twinderella, a disjointed and poorly constructed double-overlapping fairytale involving many self-conscious, acne-ridden adolescents with cracky voices delivering lines with not a modicum of joy or dynamic (I pause here to point out the obvious parallel between that last sentence and Woody Allen’s classic, “…I hate this restaurant. Such bad food and such small portions."). Caitie, however, was STELLAR. She was--and I’m not saying this as a parent who has no objectivity--so fun to watch. She was over-the-top, bigger-than-life in her performance. She was funny. She was fluid in her dancing. And all this before I even dropped her off for the play. I kid. Really, though, she was a stand-out and the production really was delightful. Debi camcorded the event and copies of the DVD are available for a nominal service charge. Caitie lives in the basement but the smell in her room is much different than neighbor Max. I don’t know the nasal equivalent of the word cacophony but I’m going to have to make one up because the mixture of that many perfume odors produces a smell that is nothing short of nosiferous. Caitie continues to love softball, and plays like Cal Ripkin Jr. only younger and un-retired, and she made the junior high softball team this spring.
Abby grows ever taller. In fact, she is catching Caitie. As a result, her orchestra teacher has asked her to move from the viola to the bass. Not the singing bass As Seen On TV, but more like a violin with elephantitis. Her teacher stated that many others had asked if they could move to the bass but she told them “no” because she felt Abby was the only 5th grader in the school smart enough to not only change instruments but learn a whole new music clef. Recently, Abby participated in a Bass Jam music camp. This is an all-day event where children from all over the valley who have been told they play the bass gather at a local high school and pay out dad’s hard-earned American dollars. They divide up into 5 different skill levels, and learn techniques, tricks, tips, and Nee-Sackey-slap-jam-African rhythms at the hands of many emaciated, bespectacled, goatee-wearing hip cats with translucent skin who look like they see very little sunlight. (sort of like most of the citizens of Portland, right Richard?) She said she had fun and learned a lot. I was fortunate to be able to attend the concert at the end of the day. Mind you, this was a bass symphony. Imagine a concerto being played on just the lowest 12 notes of a piano. When I say lower register, what I mean is the vibrating sound produced on that stage would be better suited for a ghetto-thumping sub-woofer in South Phoenix (or Dennis Grant’s pimped ride). Abby continues to excel at school and loves to read, sing, play soccer, rollerblade, and play hockey.
Olivia, or the Rosebud, as she is known, is a cutie-face. Olivia just finished her soccer season and is now engaged in an intense training camp for softball. She has also taken up the cello. Being shorter than Abby, this is a more appropriate sized instrument for her. Recently, she performed in the elementary school orchestra concert. This is an annual event (thankfully) that involves the first line of many great Christmas carols. That, in itself, is sort of frustrating because I just get into the lyric of “Jingle bells, batman smells, robin laid an egg,” and they stop and move on to the next song. Olivia sat in the front and the other kids filed in around her. She was the star of the show – or you would think so if you saw the footage I took of the event. Olivia also sang with the school choir. Budding, young vocal talent eagerly blending their voices into melodious harmony it wasn’t, but she had a blast none the less. Olivia, a thespian in her own right, starred in the Room 5 production of Defeat the Dump Monster. She played a rat.
Last summer, we packed up the family and went to Hawaii – Maui to be exact – Kihei to be more exact – Maui Banyan to be even more exact. What a fun trip. It was our kid’s first time there and we had fun biking the crater, parasailing, beach-going and other such activities.
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