Subscribe via RSSValentine's Day Chart of Gifts
Wednesday, January 02, 2008 |
Gentlemen (and ladies), Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching. Or at least it’s closer than it was at Christmas Eve. The important thing is…..what should you get for your sweetie?
Here’s a few gift ideas depending on how long you’ve know your significant other:
Known her 0-3 months: Wash her car and maybe get her some Armorall for the tires. However—this is important—do not take her car without her knowledge or you could end up in jail.
Known her for 3 months-1 year: Anything that inflates and costs less than $10. Buying something that does not inflate could make you seem needy or creepy. Likewise, keeping the budget to $10 is crucial as to not scare her into thinking you have a shrine to her in your spare bedroom----even if you do.
Known her for 1-3 years: By this time, you will feel like you know her really well. You don’t. Listen to her. If she says things like “Man are my feet cold”, buy her some cute slippers or toe socks. If she says, “I am really craving lobster”, don’t take her out to eat lobster. It’s a trick. Instead, get her the toe socks.
Known her 3-7 years: By now, you feel like an old pro when it comes to this Valentine’s Day gift stuff. Don’t let your guard down for a second. This is a critical period. Buy her flowers. Not the cliché red roses, but something that says, “I really really like you and you have tolerated me for the last 3-7 years.” Perhaps carnations or some other spring flower as a way of saying, ”Our love has just begun.” Whatever you do----DO NOT write the words, “Our love has just begun” on the card. This will lead into a conversation involving the words, “Oh really? What in the $&^#@! Have we been doing for the past 3-7 years?” Just sign it “Love, (your name)”. Keep it simple. It’s the guys who try to show off that get into predicaments. Don’t be one of those guys.
Known her over 7 years: Go into Hallmark, find a cashier about the age of your wife/girlfriend and ask, “I need a good Valentine’s Day Card. Could you help me?” Regardless of what she picks out, just go with it. This is mystical forces you are dealing with. Don’t mess it up and don’t buy one that plays, “Baby Got Back”.
Go forward and purchase with confidence.
You Give Floors and bad stain
Monday, November 12, 2007 |
My wife and I fancy ourselves “Do-it yourselfers”, which means we get in over our heads quickly. Case in point—floor refinishing. My wife and I were watching one of those home improvements shows and they showed a guy refinishing old dilapidated-seen-their-better-days floors. We look to each other and then we looked at our old oak floors. The seed was planted.
Fast forward to me at the tool rental shop picking up the monster sander. It was heavy and shiny and looked exactly like the one from the home improvement show. So far so good.
I got the beast home, lugged into the house and plotted my conquest on the unsuspecting floors. Should I start in the breakfast nook? No, maybe in the dining room. Oh the possibilities!
It was time to fire up the sander. I flicked the switch and I was off.
Surprisingly, it seemed just like the home improvement show. I walked slow and from beneath the sander came magically smooth floors. The magic continued for six long hours or so through several grits of sandpaper and a trip to the eye doctor to get a glob of sawdust removed from my wife’s eyelid (I blame the sawdust).
When we returned, what laid out before us was a sea of freshly hewn oak ready for color. My wife and I were exhausted from the sanding and a little drunk with the ideas of new floors, began staining the wood. This is the part of the story where the clock spins rapidly and there’s a sped-up clip of two people applying stain to a huge floor. When we finished, we collapsed into bed. The next day, we awoke and saw what we had done. Our judgment was clouded with visions of “This Old House” and heavy petroleum fumes. The staining was….dreadful. I cursed Bob Villa’s name inaudibly and I prayed to the Patron Saint of woodwork mistakes. How can we live with such awful floors? Who has cursed me? My beautiful wife was visibly irritated with me. What could have been “Better Homes and Gardens” became “Mangled Wood Monthly”.
Unwisely, we decide to put a coat of polyurethane onto the floors cementing our horrendous staining forever. I wanted to use a brush, but the home improvement show showed how easy it was to use a sponge pad on a long stick to mop on the finish. “I can’t screw that up”, I thought. Boy was I wrong. I began slathering the poly onto the floor and any excess stain on the surface of the wood began to congeal giving the floor a muddy Missouri River look. It was like the floors were rejecting the poly like a mutated cell or something. I wanted to make a break for it, but the door was on the other side of the freshly coated floor. I was trapped. I couldn’t even gnaw off my own sawdust-covered foot to escape. DRAT!
The coating dried and I cried. I have never taken the name of Bob Villa in vain as many times as I did that day. There it was----a shiny gloppy floor stretching from the kitchen through he open dining room into the main living room. We can never have anyone in our house ever again. That was it. No family gatherings, no slumber parties. Nothing. We may as well just lock the doors and upgrade our cable TV package. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.
Finally, after hours of thought and regret, I concede. I begin resanding the floor. I get a do-over. Plus I got a few tidbits of wisdom from the experience:
1. Never believe anything you see on a home improvement show.
2. No matter how many times to call him, Bob Villa will not stop by to help you with the project.
3. Always keep rubber gloves near you while applying stain to a floor or you may end up using a grocery bag covered with your own socks.
4. Never begin a big project without having the proper marriage counseling sessions scheduled for the following weeks.
5. Crying on unsealed wood only causes stains you will need to sand away later.
6. There is no Patron Saint of woodwork blunders.
7. Did I mention that the home improvement shows lie? They do!
8. Thank goodness for big area rugs.
Camping Revisited
Monday, October 29, 2007 |
Recently, I wrote about my family and camping. Specifically how my wife loves camping, outdoors, the sun and everything therein. Whereas I, the keeper of the technology and the one who fends our computers from vicious computer viruses, am more apt to stay indoors out of all that “fresh air” and “sunshine”. It’s not that I don’t like sunshine, but I prefer to look at it via a webcam.
Shortly after the infamous “Camping column”, my beautiful wife, who also happens to be a Girl Scout leader, turns to me and says, “You make it sound like you have EVER gone camping.” She had a point. What harm could it do to try this “camping thing” once? Maybe we can make sure that it’s within walking distance from a Holiday Inn. It was a beautiful September afternoon when we arrived at the camp.
Some campers prefer sleeping in tents, but thankfully my wife had rented us a cabin. I think she knew in her heart that trying to construct a miniature-scale replica of the Epcot Center was far beyond the scope of a “Trial run” at camping. The cabin was clean and wooden. Those are the two things I remember most about the place. “Boy is this place clean!” and “I didn’t know they made those from timber” are phrases that ran through my mind. Wooden beds, wood-lined walls, hardwood floors, and even a wooden sidewalk up to the place. It was like this place was constructed on some double-dog dare between the ironworkers and the carpenters.
After we arrived, we started to unload. I say “unload” because it was far more involved than “unpacking”. Chairs, cooking pans, water jugs, tongs, skewers, sleeping bags, lights, and even our own firewood. This was a lot of stuff for “Roughing it.” I’m not complaining. I like my accoutrements. They make life easier and less…..traumatic..
Where was I? Oh yes, we arrived at camp and my wife starts gathering branches to build a fire. I was instructed to “Split some wood”. I was wearing flannel, so I must know how to do this. I grabbed a large heavy axe and set a log on end. I brought the axe down upon it (with great vengeance) and the former tree exploded into sections. Wow! This was easy!
One log after another I split into pieces until I came upon an irregular log. The top was not flat and the diameter was smaller than the rest, so I reached for the hatchet. I held the mini log firmly with one hand and began a swift and mighty swing. Before I go any further, I have to say that using the large axe had done two things: It falsely increased my level of confidence with large swinging sharp objects. It had calibrated my muscles to swing in a certain way. Back to the swinging hatchet. I grasped the little lumber and swung the hatchet at it. I missed the log, but found my hand quite easily. I dropped the hatchet immediately and silently began doing the “Owie owie owie, this really hurts” dance. I did this quietly so as to not draw any attention to my blunder. My wife, who is also a mother of three, noticed the telltale “Owie dance” immediately. My cover was blown. Thankfully it was only a minor flesh wound. Had I properly sharpened the hatchet before use, I would have been in much more trouble. My ignorance has paid off once again. Thank you blunt hatchet! Afterwards, my outdoorsy spouse was ready for fire. She had the twigs and kindling ready. With one match, the fire was blazing. I was seriously impressed with her “mad Girl Scout skills”. I would like to say this to my beautiful wife: Jennifer, camping was fun and despite the spotty WiFi connection it was totally successful. Also, thank you for not videotaping the “Owie dance”.
Turning 35
Tuesday, October 16, 2007 |
This Friday I will celebrate, nay jubilate, the 35th anniversary of my birth. Sure, this is not really a “Milestone” birthday. There are no proverbial hills to be “Over”. No crisis to have….right?
Now that I’m thinking about it, wasn’t the life expectancy of a “cave person” hunter-gatherer barely 30 years old? Wow! That’s harsh. Does that mean that cave people that loved to make “Old age” jabs at their fellow cave-dwellers, would be poking their fun in my direction?
Nah!
You know, 35 is the minimum age to become president. I have a hard time believing that someone in my age-range could lead the country….without some sort of “Being the U.S. President for Dummies” book. Based on presidential history, there has to be such a book.
If the country made a collective mistake and I some how not only made it onto the ballot, but stumbled into a victory, the first thing I would do as President of the United States (The best damn states ever united) would be to eliminate the Senate and the House of Representatives. Not just get rid of the politicians, but physically remove the building. This would do two things.
1. It would free up a nice area for a public ping pong court.
2. All major decisions would be submitted and presented on YouTube videos and decided based on how many “Friends” the videos would get. Two thirds majority and it passes.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. This is what happens when I start asking “What if?”
My question now is….what happens when I turn 40? My lovely wife just turned 29.95 (plus tax) and she looks great, but based on the trends, by the time I’m 40, my hair follicles will implode leaving a nice landing area for miniature alien hover vehicles. I will wear more argyle than legally allowed, and I will be banned from wearing baggy pants and puffy shoes.
Maybe turning 40 won’t be so bad after all. Bring it on, old man time! Maybe we could face off in a game of ping pong on the Capitol lawn?
Dentists
Monday, August 27, 2007 |
Recently, my stepson Mark had his "wisdom teeth" removed. Mark is 12, but according to the oral surgeon, he has the jaw of a 17-year-old.
This was just the information Mark needs to further boost his growing sense of being. I imagine Mark being in school bragging to a girl at lunch that his jaw is really old enough to be in high school. Girls like it when you talk about the relative skeletal ages you possess, right?
I wish I knew where he got the jaw of a 17-year-old. I have the toenails of a man three years post mortem and the teeth of someone 27 years older than me. This is why I finally made an appointment to go to the dentist.
I wasn't avoiding a visit to the dental professionals because I didn't like them. Dentists are clean people and seem nice if you like blue scrubs and latex gloves. I was avoiding the dentist because I'm not a huge fan of large needles in my pink gums. I'm quirky that way.
The day of the appointment arrived and I showed up at my appointment obviously nervous and jittery. The hygienist took me back to the exam area, which was full of sharp metal tools.
The outlook was not good. I sat down in the chair, and was given a TV remote. Since I almost never control the remote at home, I wasn't too sure what to do with it. This only added to my anxiety. The hygienist, who I will call "Dana" because that's her name, asked me what I was nervous about.
I explained that, knowing the history of dentistry, I was most nervous about the medicinal bleeding, cupping and leeches. The tray of medieval tools beside the dental chair wasn't helping either. I wasn't sure if they were going to clean my teeth or make me confess to being a witch.
Soon, I had a mask covering my nose pumping nitrous oxide, aka laughing gas. I was instructed to "just relax." I began to realize my legs losing feeling and an overwhelming sense of "squirreliness." The gas was obviously working.
The exam went swiftly, and the next thing I know, I was being propped up and asked when I wanted to come back for my next checkup. That was great! Can I come back tomorrow? Thanks to Dana, I no longer fear dentists. Of course, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't mind napping in a pit of venomous snakes if I had enough laughing gas.
Now I love my dentist. I was lucky to find a good one. Others have not been so lucky.
Dentists need to be chosen with a great amount of care. This is not merely the oral equivalent of a car wash. No, no, Spanky. This is the area of prime mastication. Losing the ability to chomp the choppers means you better like Jell-O.
That is why it is of the utmost importance to know what you are looking for. I have spent much time researching this and have determined that there is no central list of things to beware of when choosing a dentist; therefore, I have amassed my own. I call it: "You might want to get another dentist if -"
"You might want to get another dentist if the bib they put on you prior to cleaning has a picture of a lobster on it.
"The dental hygienist makes car revving noises when she cleans your teeth.
"There's a Shop Vac in the corner of the exam room.
"The 'hygiene kit' sent home with you contains a toothpick and grain alcohol.
"The dentist asks you if you are 'allergic to funk.'
"The dental chair has a cup holder and folds up.
"The dental hygienist just prays over your mouth for 30 minutes before sending you home.
"You have to reschedule your appointment because the dentist can't make bail.
"While the doctor is using a laser, he asks if you '- use that little punching bag thingy in the back of your throat?'
"The dentist keeps referring to it as a 'Toof Bruff.'"
Consider this my gift to you for better oral health. Now, please excuse me; Mark's jaw is here, and it wants a driver's license and a later curfew.
Vacationing Matthews' style
Monday, July 30, 2007 |
Summer is vacation season. This year, my wife and I sat down and determined that the borders of the Peace Garden State could not hold us in. Sometime after the summer solstice, my radiant wife, Jennifer, and our brood will clamber into the minivan and head off on a journey of excitement and traffic tickets.
The word "vacation" comes from two root words. "Vacus," meaning "travel," and "attrocionne," meaning "dad is crazy." This really shows you that dads have an integral part in the vacation experience.
My philosophy is that life is more than just a destination - it's a journey, so sit down and shut up.
This is why we have every sort of video equipment installed in the van to occupy the children and allow me to "navigate" in peace. DVD players, video game systems, popcorn makers, etc. Everything I wished I had when on long road trips with my family growing up.
Instead, my brother Paul and I would make hand puppets out of stocking caps and enjoy the complexities of making rude sounds with our arms.
Maybe we are robbing our children of that experience. That level of boredom that will cause them to find enjoyment in drawing on their corduroy pants with their fingers. What if a six-hour drive through boring landscapes won't bore them enough to reach deep within themselves to find a sense of imagination? They may never find the joys of "Roadkill Bingo." That would be a tragedy.
Thankfully, I have a natural gift for navigation. If I had traveled with the great explorer Ponce deLeon, we would have found the Fountain of Youth. Sure, we may have had to take a slight detour through what is now Iowa, but I know we would have found it. Nevertheless, my wife insists on bringing a map. If Ponce deLeon's wife came along, I'm sure they would have had a map and not landed in Florida, where they were attacked by the native tribes and later died from the wounds.
Maybe a map is a good thing, after all.
We could get a Global Positioning System gadget and have a satellite view of our location, but I think that takes the fun out of it. I like to imagine great explorers like Lewis and Clark would have turned down a GPS, too, if they had a chance. Of course, Lewis and Clark didn't have three youngsters kicking their canoe seats whining about the sun being in their eyes.
In my family, the role of "The Dad" is responsible for the following jobs:
1. Listen to my wife, who will have the map and actually knows how to read it and fold it.
2. Maintain the family vehicle. I know the same amount about internal-combustion engines as my wife does, but it just seems logical that somehow - maybe through osmosis with the mechanic bills - I will learn. My only stipulation to performing such tasks is that, before performing any automobile maintenance, like changing a tire, I insist on having a second vehicle available. This way, my beautiful wife can drive me to the emergency room if I have a freak air filter accident.
3. When we get to the hotel, I am responsible for at least one giant "cannonball" into the pool. This is non-negotiable.
4. I carry the camera and take hundreds of photos of my thumb visiting new and interesting locations.
5. Lastly, I must buy embarrassing T-shirts, like the one that says, "Near as I can tell, we're somewhere behind Mount Rushmore" with a cartoon of the back sides of four men carved into a mountain.
Being the dad on vacation is fun. Now sit down and buckle up ... I know a shortcut.
Roughing It is too Rough for me
Monday, July 02, 2007 |
Summer is here, and for many families this means one thing camping season. Time to load up the tents, slather on the bug spray, and commune with Mother Earth.
My wife and I have differing opinions on camping. She loves nature and animals and spending some quality time with a campfire. She loves to lie on a blanket in the middle of nowhere and gaze up into the night sky and listen to crickets and the snapping of the dying fire. She is truly a happy camper.
I, on the other hand, believe that camping is recreational homelessness, plus, I whine when I have to go more than a few hours without high-speed Internet access.
My idea of "roughing it" is to buy cheap bathroom tissue for a week. I don't do well outside.
I think air conditioning needs to be appreciated more. Staying inside is the only way to properly appreciate 65 degrees on a sweltering July 4th. Our forefathers fought hard in woolen knickers during the middle of summer so we can enjoy the freon-induced chills from artificial cooling.
If my wife could ever convince me to go camping, there would definitely be some differences in our techniques. For instance:
3 My wife would choose a camping location based on proximity to water and a clearing for a fire. I would base my camp location based solely on if I could get good wireless Internet signal.
3 My wife can set up a camp that will cook huge meals using nothing more than a camp fire, a skillet and a dutch oven. I will spend hours looking for the vending machines.
3 My wife will sleep soundly in a sleeping bag. I will not sleep at all without my night light.
3 My wife will get a golden tan and smell like Honeysuckle. I will look like a cooked lobster and be coated with mosquitoes chomping away at my skin.
3 My wife would keep us safe from wild animals and ensure we left no mark on nature when we left. I would run away screaming at the first branch that looked like a snake.
I'm sure some of you out there will say, "Brian, why not try using a camper?" To which I would respond, "That is a great idea. I don't have to sleep on the ground, I can hide inside away from the mosquitoes and have all the luxuries of home right there, only in miniature sizes." That's the problem. I'm not a small person. I shop at the "Big & Tall" stores on the racks labeled "Frankenstein." A miniature camper bathroom may seem adequate to most, but to me it's slightly better than a Dixie cup and a shower curtain. Not to mention the emergency room visits from the concussion I get from banging my head into everything in the camper.
Perhaps I can persuade my wife to go camping "Brian-style." We load up the car with comfortable clothes and enough Starbucks gift cards to last a week. We turn on the air conditioning and hit the road. Perhaps we drive slowly through an animal sanctuary while sipping on our frappuccinos.
Next, we live dangerously and eat at a local restaurant. We will order our steaks medium rare. Hello, nature! Let's ponder the parsley! Maybe, if we are really needing a sense of adventure, we can drink the local water!
Wait. Scratch that. Let's not get too crazy.
Maybe we can see the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota, followed by a visit to the man with the world's longest ear hair. Perhaps a stop at the hubcap museum. It's good to expose the children to culture.
At the end of every day, we can pull into a nice hotel, put our sheets on the bed and get a good night's sleep.
That is the great thing about marriage. It's a compromise. She gives a little, and I give a little. Now I need to find a place that will make a three-mile extension cord for me. The AC unit for the tent isn't going to run itself.
Adventures on a Girl's Bike
Monday, June 18, 2007 |
School is out for the summer, which made me think about my summer vacations.
We hardly ever did big vacations like traveling to big destinations. I remember spending most summers on my bike. The first real bike I ever had was a used bike we purchased from the neighbors. Unfortunately, the neighbors had two girls, so my bike was technically a girl's bike. Banana seat, the big handlebars with pink streamers and the graceful curving support bar that indicates that it was built for a girl in the 1920s who only wore skirts. The paint was a glittering green with stickers of flowers and other girly things, like bows and angry sayings about boys.
The first step in "Boy-i-fying" my new "vehicle" was to paint it. Black is a manly color. I settled for "Primer Black" so my bike had a nice matte finish.
Next up was the seat. Some heavy-duty electrical tape covered up the pristine whiteness.
Lastly, those little ribbon tassels. I painted them black too. That's manly, right?
I went everywhere on that bike, as long as it was on my block.
At our age, bikes represented new freedoms as well as new ways of injuring ourselves. Case in point: My brother Paul, our neighbor Mike and I decided to set up a ramp in the empty lot across from our house.
The three of us, although small in stature, had some big ideas like jumping off the roof of the neighbors' camper until our feet stung and eating dry orange Tang mix out of Dixie cups with our wet fingers. So it should have not been a surprise to anyone when we began rummaging around for plywood and bricks to build our "Super Ramp." It was a "Super Ramp" because ordinary ramps were modest by our standards.
We didn't want to just get the bike off the ground, we wanted to simulate Evel Knievel's jump over the Grand Canyon. Instead of the Grand Canyon, we used an old plastic pool, and instead of a suped-up Star Spangled motorcycle, I preferred my matte black marvel.
We had several attempts at construction of our "Super Ramp." You would be amazed how difficult it is to build something without the use of nails or glue. Instead we decided mud would be a good alternative. It's cheap and easy to manufacture, plus we had just learned in school about how the ancient people lived in mud houses. If it was good enough for the ancient people, it was good enough for us.
Brick on top of brick slathered in mud until the perfect height was reached. The scrap plywood was placed on top of our vacant lot monolith and cemented in mud, of course.
We did "Rock, Paper, Scissors" to see who got to try it first. I won (Viva la Rock).
I got on my flat black wheeled-wonder and pedaled to the back of the lot. I started my acceleration. I pumped my legs as rapidly as my size 6 Converse All-Stars could go.
The "Super Ramp" got closer and closer. I went up the ramp. My black handlebar streamers waved stiffly in the wind. It was as if I was flying. I felt the cool summer breeze in my face and the smell of fresh mud in the air. I was awesome!
I landed hard and skidded to a stop at the end of the lot. Mike and Paul were there totally amazed at my awesomeness. Paul was the next to go.
I watched as he approached the ramp. The look of sheer determination in his eyes as he too hit the ramp.
*Just a quick side note. Mud is a horrible adhesive. Great for old houses, terrible for daredevil ramps.
Back to the action. Paul hit the ramp, but instead of ascending the ramp, the plywood slid forward, pushing the bricks down. Paul flew forward on his bike and landed directly on the support bar between the seat and the handlebars. Paul's bike was made for a boy. It had a very large solid bar straight from the handlebars to the seat, making it a less-than-comfortable landing place for a would-be daredevil. All I'm going to say is, I do believe Paul wished he had my "girl's" bike that day.
Father's Day
Tuesday, June 05, 2007 |
Father's Day is just around the corner. It's a time to tell your father how much you appreciate his wallet and how you cherish those uncomfortable silences together.
In our house, my role as "father" consists mainly of "fix this," "kill that" and "I thought we agreed to throw that away?" I would like to take this opportunity to set my family straight.
I am more than the guy who burns breakfast on Mother's Day.
I do not find joy in squishing spiders.
I choose not to ask for directions because it's one of life's few pure challenges.
The dog likes me because we understand each other, not because we smell alike.
Ordering pizza isn't a gourmet meal, but this is not a gourmet house.
Would you really believe me if I told you how long it takes me to do my hair every morning?
Having you pull my finger is part of my physical therapy -- honest.
I don't have the remote control because I don't feel the need to control every aspect of my life, not because I'm afraid of your mother. Don't tell your mother that.
I like to spend time in my shop because it's quiet and I like the smell of sawdust.
Don't judge me!
How do you know that I'm asleep on the couch? I could just be deep in thought. Deep snoring thought.
The only reason I barbecue is because I like to light things on fire.
Some people paint, others sing. Swearing at the lawnmower is my art form.
I am more than just the guy you hate to kiss because his cheeks are so prickly.
Yes, I am the dad.
I do enjoy ugly ties and teaching the kids how to make rude noises with their armpits.
I am the guy who nods at you while Mom is giving you a lecture about not putting your shoes away.
I smell like leather and Irish Spring.
I am the guy who told you once that the sky was orange and basketballs were blue. It was a social experiment. You can't fault me for trying.
I am the chief toy assembler.
I also always carry a pocket knife, so if you need something cut, I'm your guy.
I have stuff clipped onto my belt. The items are handier that way, plus I get to feel a little like Batman every day.
If the electricity goes off, I know how to turn it back on and I hold that piece of knowledge secret from everyone else.
My swimming trunks will never be as cool as yours.
I have hair in my ears.
I use to be edgy and dangerous. I was the bad boy. Now, I wear slippers.
I can cook more than grilled cheese sandwiches and potato chips. I just happen to really like grilled cheese sandwiches and potato chips.
When you leave home, I will be the guy you call when your car breaks down even though I know absolutely nothing about cars. However, I will arrange for the car to be fixed by a very knowledgeable mechanic and buy you a doughnut to make you feel better.
I can make a quarter appear from behind your ear.
I wear bright red sneakers. You don't have to understand why; I just ask that you don't laugh at me with your friends.
I've said my piece. Let this be a lesson to all of you out there who think their dad is just the guy who isn't very impressive. Be sure to call, e-mail or shout through the bathroom door at him to let him know how much you appreciate him. After all, he is a great guy ... with a little extra ear hair.
Fridge Bowling
Monday, May 07, 2007 |
I think I may have invented a new sport. I'm calling it "Refrigerator Bowling." Wait, maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself. I need to tell you a few things first. Let's start at the beginning.
My father-in-law, Henry, is a man of intelligence, logic and great dexterity (more on that in a bit). Henry and his beautiful wife, Rhonda, purchased a historic house that was in need of what I call "intensive restoration and re-old-ification."
When they bought the house over a year ago, it was split into two apartments. The plan was to live in the top half of the house and "re-old-ify" the main level. After that was complete, they would live on the rejuvenated main floor and rip into the upstairs. This will explain a few things later.
Henry, much like myself, likes to do much of the work himself. This accomplishes three major items:
1. It insures the job gets done correctly and in a timely manner.
2. It saves a little cash to spend on things like new flooring (This also will make sense in a bit).
3. It provides countless stories with which you can share when you run out of stories about the weather.
Refrigerator Bowling is quite the story.
It was the Saturday before the Bismarck spring cleanup week. This is the week when the city says, "Rules schmules! If you put anything on the curb on trash day, our courteous and sturdy garbage collection brigades will take it away, as if by magic."
I was asked to help my father-in-law haul an old fridge out to the curb. The appliance was approximately 50 years old, weighed more than some cars I've owned and smelled like my college roommate after spring break.
Henry and I inspected the fridge, then made a quick assessment to see what was the fastest route to the curb. Oh, did I forget to mention that this old clunker of a fridge was on the second floor? Well, it was.
After a few minutes of verbal navigating, we leaned the beast and began our trek. First out of the kitchen and into the living room. Then, it was a quick turn and we were at the stairs.
The stairs are in the midst of being "re-old-ified." The carpet has been stripped from their treads, the ornate railing and banisters are having their shells of paint stripped off exposing their "oakey" goodness.
Henry was leading our maneuvers and thus was walking backward down the stairs, and I walked forward. We had the fridge hauled to the first landing, where we needed to turn it 180 degrees and descend to the main floor and out the door. As he and I struggled with the antiquated cooler, it slipped.
The once vertical white monster was now lying belly down on the wooden stair treads, and we were paid a visit by Mr. Gravity. In a matter of seconds, I saw my father-in-law take the brunt of the beast as he quickly descended the stairway solo.
From my point of view (which I have to admit was the best vantage point for an event such as this), it appeared in slow motion. At the moment Henry realized the fridge was slipping, I saw more of his eyes than I have ever seen before. There were white parts way off to the sides that may have never seen the daylight before.
Then his head turns and looks back as he deftly maneuvers his feet down the stairs in reverse. It was like watching a world-champion clogger being fast-forwarded.
The fridge came to a rest at the bottom of the stairs by gouging into the old maple floor. Henry continued with the momentum and ended up sitting against the wall by the front door.
After a quick triage, it was determined that his only injury was a tweaked ankle. He rose from the mayhem with a smile on his face and a limp in his walk. It was at that moment Fridge Bowling was born.
Next weekend, I'll be back for the second fridge and the chest freezer. If we're lucky, we also may invent freezer surfing.
I've Got Junk in My Trunk
Monday, April 09, 2007 |
Just between you and me, I've put on a few pounds. Between the diet of junk food and the fact that my pedometer rarely passes the triple digit mark, I seemed to have packed on a few extra ounces.
It's more than my pants not fitting anymore. It's more like my sleeping bag doesn't fit anymore.
I'm sure my doctor will chastise me and warn me to eat healthier and get some exercise. This is why I don't see him anymore. All that negativity bottled up. I need something positive to help me focus on my weight loss goals. Something like doughnuts. The powdered-sugar kind so my black sweatpants will look like a reverse Rorschach test. That will get me into weight loss mode!
As with all semi-serious projects I tackle, I headed down to the local bookstore to buy a book detailing how I too can succeed in regaining the awkward yet gangly body I had in high school.
After just one venti vanilla bean steamer and a cookie from the coffee bar, I scanned the bookshelves until I found the books. Not just one book, but it appeared to be the weight loss wing of the store.
"Thinner = Winner" and "I Lost 325 pounds by Eating Tic-Tacs; So Can You" are a few of the titles that jumped out at me.
There are hundreds of books in this aisle, all dedicated to reducing the number of inches we pinches (I had to rhyme it, please forgive me). One of the reasons I've got "junk in my trunk" is that I don't move very much. So it seems perfectly logical to sit and read a few dozen books. Where's my beverage?
Then, it occurred to me as I hauled my purchases into my car: These books are huge. I'm not supposed to read them. I'm supposed to bench-press them. Thank you, Dr. Phil. Once again, you are a step ahead of me. I can guarantee the Cliff's Notes version of these books would have been lighter; I would have only needed one Little Debbie break.
That's efficiency.
I got my cement-filled library home and hauled it into the house (which took three hours and 14 rest breaks). I began reading. The more I read, the more I saw some similarities. "Eat less, exercise more."
I guess this weight-loss game puts emphasis on doing things the hard way. Why drive to the grocery store, when you can walk, run or Thighmaster your way there?
Don't eat prepackaged food. Buy and prepare all these really hard-to-find foods that taste like grass mixed with ... different grass. Grass must have some magical powers. You rarely ever see a rabbit complaining that he can't get his pants on anymore.
Use the stairs and not the elevator. The elevators are prone to malfunctioning, trapping the people inside. You don't want to be in there when you can be passed out on the platform between the sixth and seventh floor.
Another thing I've noticed is that getting rid of my excess kilograms is expensive. After buying the books I bought a membership to a gym, but found out that it only gets me the ability to "use" the machines. Since the gym machines look like an H.R. Geiger creation, I am afraid to touch them. Now, I have to hire a personal trainer to help me approach these mechanized beasts and overcome my fear of sweaty chrome.
Did I mention I can't exercise without a cute outfit? Something in a striped-leg motif and matching headband. This standing in one place getting healthy can be quite boring. Maybe I need a new MP3 player. Portable TV? What if there's nothing on or bad reception? I'll need some sort of portable DVD player and an assortment of movies (I never know if I'm up for a tear-jerker or a movie where a guy in rugby gear slaughters a tribe of cheerleaders).
This is beginning to seem like way more work than I envisioned.
Perhaps I should just buy a bigger sleeping bag.
Fatherhood
Sunday, March 11, 2007 |
When I first found out I was going to become a father, I panicked. I got light- headed, dry mouthed, and became disoriented for a short period. That was the last time my instincts didn’t lie to me. Since then, I’ve been completely oblivious to the miracle that is children. See, there it is. The lying.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. Without them, I would be way too rested and have to take up a hobby like whittling snakes from driftwood or wrestling wild ground squirrels for spectators.
I like to think fatherhood is like owning a pack of wild dogs. The first dog is exciting. You think you can make a real difference with patience and love in making the pup docile. The second wild dog comes along and you feel a little more out of control, but still fairly safe knowing that you can separate the two dogs if needed. Once you add that third wild dog to the pack, they outnumber you and your wife. Just lock the doors and feed them really well. It’s the only way you are going to survive.
Discipline is a key piece of fatherhood. Some go with spanking, other’s with “Time Out”. I subscribe to the “Dirt method” discipline.
If one of the kids gets in trouble, I smile and then lead them out back where I have a ton of road gravel in a pile. I hand them a shovel and instruct them to move the pile to a designated spot across the yard.
That technique works really well our son, Mark. I give him his orders, he may not like it, but he does it. The girls, however, are a complete mystery. I try to discipline the girls and it’s like a “Bridges of Madison County” marathon with all the crying. I think I’d rather go DO the punishment than have to listen to the blubbering.
I thought I had this discipline thing all figured out. Mark is the oldest, so I had time to hone my discipline skills on him. I would tell him to clean his room. When I checked on the progress an hour later, of course I immediately looked under the bed. That’s where I would have shoved everything too.
I seemed to always be a step ahead. Then we had daughters.
When I tell one of the girls to clean her room and I come back an hour later, nothing is done. At least she could have tried to shove everything under the bed or pile it all in the closet! Even just pushing all the toys towards the walls to make the floor seem cleaner would have made complete sense to me. How did she think she was going to fool me by doing nothing?
Then before I can say anything, she looks up to me with her big brown eyes and starts crying. Do I look like Clint Eastwood in an old pickup truck?
Where’s your mother?
Often I don’t even have time to assign a punishment. I may happen upon one of the girls putting lipstick on the dog and when they realize I’m there, they burst into a fit of tears.
Mark would never do that. He would say something like “I saw that the dog got into mom’s lipstick, so I was trying to clean him up” or “We were playing cops and robbers and I shot Scooby (the dog) in the mouth. I was just pretending it was blood.” That I understand!
I do take comfort in knowing that some day the girls’ behavior will all make complete sense.
There’s that lying again.
Valentine's Day
Monday, February 12, 2007 |
Valentine’s Day and I have had a love/hate relationship. It began in elementary school. We cut up construction paper, smeared on some glue and then affixed it all to the shoebox we brought from home. My shoebox still smelled of sneakers.
We would cut a rectangular hole in the top along and paint something “Valentiney” like “Happy Valentine’s Day” or “Stick your Candy here, Bubba” on the top. Once the boxes were ready for prime time, they were set on a long bookshelf under the big windows. Each student would systematically deliver their “personalized” Valentines to the other students. Of course you always gave the best Valentine to the cutest girl in class along with an extra sucker to show exactly what a great catch you were.
After many years of unreciprocated lollipops came junior high school. There were no shoeboxes there. In Fact, Valentine's Day meant nothing to anyone except one overly-mature couple who openly held hands at lunch. I could never do that. Proper tater tot etiquette dictates the use of both hands.
In high school, more of the kids began pairing off and holding hands at lunch. Maybe I was a bit too faithful to the tater tots. Whatever the case, Valentine’s Day there included a single carnation or an extra note during Algebra. I wasn’t too clear on the protocol. I was busy organizing my cassette collection and preparing for college.
With college came a whole new set of rules. There were roses being delivered and people sporting their “Good” sweatpants. It was a time of rebirth and dorm living. Maybe the couple would have a big night. Rent a movie, order a deluxe pizza, and tell the roommate to “Scram” for an hour or three. I typically took those few hours to reflect upon my “girlfriendlessness” and how some day I was going to have to sacrifice my “Star Wars book club” time for time with the opposite sex. Valentine’s Day was not my friend.
Through some miracle, my wife Jennifer and I have celebrated a few Valentine’s days together. The one I remember the most was our wedding day. Yes, we were married on Valentine’s day (George Lucas’s Birthday was already booked).
It was a small ceremony in Jen’s parent’s house. As the brief ceremony began, Mark, my stepson, joined us at the front of the room. Mark was 3 years old and very well behaved. While Jennifer and I exchanged our vows, Mark quickly left and ran down the hallway adjacent to the ceremony. By the sound of the toilet lid opening and the sounds to follow, he was obviously busy. After the ceremony Mark and I had a quick discussion about the importance of closing the bathroom door especially when family are around and are seated at the other end of the hallway.
Our Valentine’s Day celebrations now are raucous bouts of debauchery that include romantic comedies and perhaps a meal from a restaurant that doesn’t have an option to “Super Size” the meal. Then later in the evening, we put the kids to bed and fall asleep on the couch.
I imagine that as Jennifer and I get older, our Valentine’s Day celebrations will change. Once the kids move away and start their families, I may surprise my wife with a cruise. We will renew our vows and Jennifer will enjoy long walks gazing out into the ocean. Meanwhile I will be back in our cabin enjoying the serene wallpaper in the lavatory.
I imagine even later in our lives as we are in the assisted living facility and Valentine’s Day rolls around, the cafeteria will serve red Jell-o shaped as hearts and I will wheel my way over to my beautiful wife, gaze deep into her eyes and say, “You know, I’ve always loved you, Janyce.”
The right tool for the job
Monday, January 15, 2007 |
Some people golf. Some people crochet doilies shaped like flowers. And some people, like me, fire up the table saw to sharpen a pencil. The only thing I like better than using a tool to complete a job is using a power tool to complete a job.
My shop is full of them. Power saws, power drills, power sanders, and even a tool than I’m not entirely sure what it does, but it sure looks dangerous! It’s called a Sawzall (prounounced “Saws All”). Imagine one of the electric knives some folks use to carve the Thanksgiving turkey. Now super size it so it can cut through the walls of your house, nails and all. That’s a Sawzall.
It isn’t “SawzMost” or “SawzALot” or even “SawzAFew”.
It claims to Saw ALL!
Wood? Yep. Sawz wood.
Metal? Yep. Sawz Metal.
A 1972 Doublewide mobile home? Yep. Saws that too.
After running through a long list of things I could find, I can now determine that, for the most part……it holds up to its name. I now owe my kids new bikes and my neighbor a new wheelbarrow due to all my testing. This is the price I pay for research.
Home remodeling is like a hobby for my wife and me. Often, my beautiful bride and I will have home improvement conversations similar to this:
My Beautiful Bride: “I wonder what this room would be like if the closet were in the other corner?”
Me: (With a crazy look in my eyes and just a little drool on the side of my mouth), I don’t know, but I’ll go get my Sawzall and find out.”
That is how most of our projects get started. A simple “What if” question. For example, one weekend we were cleaning the windows in the sun porch and my wife said "What if this was an open porch?” She went inside to get a beverage and when she came back out I had already started the impromptu "remodeling". Two weeks and a courtesy call from the credit card company later, we had a new open front porch. It really is like a miracle, with a minimum monthly payment.
I am like a little kid when it comes to power tools. If I got a sander as a gift, there won’t be a coarse piece of wood in the house. Give me a framing nail gun as a gift and someone in the neighborhood is getting an addition to their house whether they want it or not. Don’t give me a toy unless I can use it.
Sometimes I get a little carried away with the tools. Now that I look back, I really didn’t need to install an oak bookshelf in the shower. Our water heater can’t handle that! It should have been a magazine rack.
My wife and I find our inspiration by watching lots of “DIY” (Do it Yer Sef) shows on television. Did you know that since the premier of “This Old House” in 1979, traffic at emergency rooms has dramatically increased? Men and women much like my wife and I have watched the episodes and then said to themselves, “I can DO that!” Then they fire up the belt sander and promptly sand off their fingerprints.
What if “This Old House” had never been created?
Would there be a “Do-it-yourself” movement with popular television shows like “Trading Spaces” and “Holy Cow, that’s an Ugly Kitchen”?
Would there be a boom in the home improvement industry that would eventually bring three of the biggest chains to Bismarck?
Would I wake up at night with the cold sweats because I just realized the miracle of wood putty? I don’t know, but I’ll go get my Sawzall and find out.
New Year, new diet
Monday, January 01, 2007 |
Every year, people like to go through the rituals of making New Year's resolutions only to break them in the months, days or even minutes to come.
Why bother even making a resolution, right? The way I see it, resolutions are really just a good way to bide time until it is warm enough to go outside and forget that we tried to become better people. Volleyball, anyone?
Over the years, I've made many New Year's resolutions. Some good and some not so good. To help you decide on your resolution (because I am a "giver"), I came up with my top 10 New Year's resolutions from years past:
1. Continue working toward my goal of becoming a curmudgeon. Take up whittling.
2. Become more in touch with my inner Elmo and only refer to myself in third person. (Brian wants to color. That makes Brian very happy).
3. Take up any hobby that doesn't violate federal, state or local law.
4. Rename our children "Minnie, Manny and Moe."
5. Stop laughing every time someone calls me "Mr. Matthews."
6. Lose enough weight so I can fit into footed pajamas again. Fuzzy purple footed pajamas.
7. Refer to people using their real names, not ones I gave them. (You can thank me later, Bucket Boy!)
8. Stop using my horrible British accent. (Throw another chip on the ... uh ... top o' the morning ... uh ... see!)
9. Cancel my subscription to "Weird Places to get Tattoos Monthly."(My favorite place was Poughkeepsie.)
10. Stop trying to get people to refer to me as Czar Brian. (I think Kaiser Matthews has a better ring to it.)
As you can see, I've set the bar pretty high, so this year's resolution has to be more spectacular than Madonna's pajamas (I've heard rumors that they are pretty snazzy).
My first idea was going on a diet! That's always a great resolution. Now I needed to decide which one to follow.
The diet where all you eat is meat?
The diet where all you eat is slightly warm noodle-free soup?
The diet where the food shows up in your mailbox every month? (I call it the FedEx diet.)
The diet to make me look more like Dr. Phil? (He is a true specimen, isn't he?)
Oh, the decisions.
Like all major decisions I make, I took time and consulted my trusted friend, the Magic 8-ball. I shook it with fervor and asked the question aloud. "Oh wise and omnipotent over-sized billiard ball, what diet should I follow?"
Turns out I needed to ask again later. It must have been a lunch break.
While I waited for the Magic 8-ball people to return from Starbucks, I had an idea.
With the fitness industry booming after the holidays and the advent of personal trainers to hold you accountable for your actions and help you attain your fitness goals, how about "personal resolutionaries?" Hired people to ensure you do not falter on your resolution.
For example, you resolve to quit eating potatoes. When you meet with your "personal resolutionary" and they smell au gratin on your breath, they would push you to give up the spuds cold turkey, or more fittingly, cold taters. Sometimes we all need help getting that starchy tuber monkey off our backs.
A few more minutes have passed, so I hoist the soothsaying sphere into the air, jiggle and jostle. I flip it up and gaze into the wisdom.
My official New Year's resolution for 2007 will be to start the "concentrate and ask again" diet.
As far as I can tell, I will be eating a lot of concentrated orange juice and prunes. Crisis averted once again.
Thank you, Magic 8-Ball.
Merry toy assembly period
Monday, December 04, 2006 |
This time of year reminds me of that feeling ... that magical feeling of when you are a kid and anything is possible.
Have you ever wanted something so badly, it was like a mob of teenage girls outside a teenage girls stuff store bustling to get in? Perhaps teenage girls weren't the best analogy. After all, teenage girls are a mystery wrapped in an enigma covered with glitter.
Let me try again.
Have you ever wanted something so badly, it was like a rabid Suzanne Somers trying to get to a Thighmaster?
I am surprisingly bad at analogies.
Let's try this.
I remember back to my childhood, flipping through glossy catalogs dreaming of toys, but there was only one thing that I really wanted.
The one thing that made my preteenage pulse race like two mice on steroids in a straight-a-way was the Armatron. The Armatron was a robotic arm that stood about 16 inches tall and was controlled by a set of joysticks and plastic buttons.
It was truly preteen geek nirvana. I envisioned handling tiny crucibles of Silly Putty Uranium with the robotic arm in my quest for the perfect nuclear bottle rocket.
Of course, I was practical, in a 9-year-old sort of way. I could brush my teeth with it, eat cereal or even pinch the cat.
True, I could do none of those things without rapidly moving my head back and forth in front of the toothbrush or bribing my brother with a Darth Vader action figure to hold the cat down, but it's a robotic arm!
As impractical as it seems, there is only pure joy in the three hours it will take to move three pencils 12 inches. Alas, the Armatron eludes me to this day.
It is now time to get serious about this Christmas season, or as I like to call it, "The 2006 Toy Assembly Period."
Having three children, I typically spend from Dec. 24 through the New Year's Day televised parade putting together the booty our kids have plundered.
By Kwanzaa, my knuckles are swollen from the plastic-covered twisty-ties. I reserve "Boxing Day" as the day to deal with the boxes that have piled up in the house, and it's also the day I bid farewell to my Christmas fort.
The next day, I will continue my vigil of assembly armed with a smattering of weird tools that I have accumulated from previous Christmas gifts. These specialized tools are the weird uncle of the tool family.
The open-end wrench with a screwdriver on the other side or the Allen wrench connected to what appears to be a wood chisel and a stuffed weasel or some other nonergonomic tool-wannabe.
It was different when I was younger. I remember getting gifts at Christmas and then needing perhaps a dollop of glue or a rubber band to hold them together.
No metric torque wrenches or combination level-hand mixer. How did we survive? The Armatron needed no assembly at all! It could unpack itself if you could get your arms in the box.
How did our toys ever arrive undamaged without being adhered to a thick piece of foam core with 13,568 plastic-covered wires? No industrial clear tape, heavy-duty crate staples or enough molded clear plastic to reconstruct Cher. It's truly amazing that our toys ever worked at all!
This year, I am preparing for the onslaught of assembly. My power tools are charged, my tool belt is full, and I purchased a few extra rolls of duct tape for those toys that need to be assembled in a "nontraditional" method.
All I have left to do is move that roll of duct tape 10 inches to the right and I will be ready. Armatron, where are you?
Do as I intend, not as I say.
Monday, November 06, 2006 |
I once took a class where the instructor said that 85% of all business problems can be traced back to an error in communication. Maybe he said 80%, I wasn’t really listening that day. Anyway, the point is that communication is so vital to just about everything we do. When you go through a drive thru and only use hand gestures, you can’t complain when you walk away with 5 packets of ketchup and a warm orange soda. You weren’t communicating effectively.
Growing up, I asked my mom if there was anything I could help with while she was cleaning. She said I could do the dishes. I washed and dried all the dishes by hand. When I finished, I found my mom and I declared proudly, “Done”. She looked in and said, “You didn’t wipe down the counters, cabinets or the stove.”
Whuh? She said “Do the dishes” not “Do the dishes and wipe off the counter, cabinets and stove”, or did I miss something. OK, so I did the job. I returned back to my mom and ask if there is anything else I could assist on. She asked me to start a load of laundry for her. OK. So I started the laundry. Just as I thought I was done, I remembered the “You’re not done” statement. There is other work implied now. So I wiped off the washer and dryer and the laundry table. While I was in the middle of this, my mom popped in and inquired, ”What are you doing?” “I’m wiping down the related surfaces….isn’t that right?” According to the look she gave me, it was not. This was now a very intriguing pattern. One that I wasn’t sure if I could decode easily, so I persisted.
I get my next task—fix my bed. I’m now in unchartered waters. Unsure what exactly it is I am suppose to do. So I fix my bed, complete with hospital corners and sheets taut enough to bounce a coin, and then wash down the kitchen counters, cabinets and stove.
Nope. That wasn’t right either.
I was then asked to sweep the floors so I watered the lawn and deloused the cat.
Boy was that wrong. I don’t remember seeing my mom’s face turn that color before.
It was a cross between the goldenrod of our shag carpeting and the rust color of the kitchen linoleum
What it all boils down to is specificity (yes that’s actually a word). If the requests were more specific, I wouldn’t have swept the chimney after being asked to wash the windows (our house didn’t have a chimney, so it was harder than it sounds).
I also have found that I am very guilty of omitting items when I make requests to my family.
The other evening, it was time for our girls to go to bed. Keep in mind that they are 3 and 6 years old and have been going to bed for a sizable chunk of that time. This was nothing new. I ask them to “Get ready for bed”, to which the 6 year old replies, “I’m ready.” She is noticeably still in her normal clothes, so I know she isn’t entirely ready. “How about pajamas?” I reply. “Oh, I’ll go change”. She wasn’t lying. She probably was totally ready in her mind to drift into slumber, but her clothing situation was not.
So now I employ specificity.
“Sabrina, have you prepared for bedtime by brushing your teeth, taking your day clothes off, placing them into the hamper and putting your pajamas on?”
Sure I usually lose her attention by the time I mention “Day clothes” but to be honest I’m just covering all my bases. Now when she says she’s ready for bed and isn’t in her pajamas, I know it isn’t because I wasn’t clear about the tasks at hand, but it’s because she was thinking about Sponge Bob or Fruit roll-ups.
That I can live with.
Adventures in Shaving
Monday, October 23, 2006 |
I was just thinking back to when my father had decided it was time to give me a lesson in using a “Safety” razor. I’m not entirely sure who deemed it “Safe” but it was obviously someone who had either never seen a “Safety” razor or had just chugged a bottle of Old Spice.
My dad showed me with effortless glides how this sheering utensil made quick work of his seasoned whiskers. It looked so easy and fun!
I sprayed a bubble of Barbasol shaving cream into my hand and applied it as if I actually had facial hair. With each carefully-placed stroke, I eased off my six months worth of what I called a “moustache”, but even with my best effort, I still managed to nick my face. My father quickly grabbed a little white pencil-like substance (which I later figured out was Brimstone). He pressed this pencil on my tiny nick and instantly a bolt of pain shot through me. It was apparent I was going to die and I probably only had minutes to make peace with the world. Just as I was about to confess about whom really pushed cousin Eddie down the stairs last Christmas, the pain subsided along with my dad’s chortles. Wow! That was a close call!
I wiped the rest of the foam from my face and gave my dad my best evil eye. My dad then grabbed the Aqua Velva and motioned for me to open up my hands. “Here. This will make it feel better” he said.
I don’t remember anything after that.
Since that time I have come to realize there are two major groups of shavers. The electric razor and the “Safety” razor, and I use that term loosely. I was an electric razor user for many years. Any chore could be made easier by adding electricity, right? That was until I realized that the electric razor had dozens of little knives whirring around just beneath a very thin piece of metal. The razor manufacturers expect me to place these rapidly flinging knives near my jugular? I’m sorry. I just can’t. So I switched to the “Safety” razor. They call it the “Safety” razor because it’s much safer than the first incarnation which was basically a razor blade tied to a stick. I believe that the invention of the “Safety” razor is the single reason why life expectancy of humans shot up 20 years in a short period. People weren’t lopping off limbs and ears any more.
Initially I switched because I thought it would be safer. Two or three blades under my semi-steady control just seemed less dangerous plus I could use shaving cream. Shaving cream is so much more fun. I still give myself Santa Claus beards when I shave. My wife knows it too because she can hear me “ho-ho-ho-ing” in the next room.
I recently got to show my step-son Mark, who is now sprouting peach fuzz, how to shave. He was very excited as I gave him his brand new razor. We lathered up with shaving cream and I showed him my best St. Nick impression. I then showed him how to avoid shaving his lips off. Patiently I watched and explained shaving technique like the subtle nuances of knowing where your whiskers stop and your hairline starts. I then introduced him to the nose hair trimmer and explained how important it was to keep “The bats in the cave”. Afterwards, we toweled off and admired our work. With a tiny smirk on my face, I reached for the Aqua Velva…
Starting at the Beginning
Monday, September 11, 2006 |
New beginnings can start with the bang of a starting pistol or the quiet ticking of a clock rolling over to a new day. Each of these new beginnings has some significance, no matter how small. This is my first column, so I want it to start with the big bam boom of a marching band (any Sousa march will do), perhaps some fireworks (pending a safe fire index) and a “Yahooey” or three. The fact is that it will be a fairly quiet affair, much like when I got my first job at the silence factory or Katie Holmes giving birth.
Welcoming a new baby into the world is a great new beginning. My wife and I have three beautiful children all in various stages of cleanliness depending on the percentage of mud to grass ratio in our backyard. The biggest impact was really the third child. Most folks would think that the first child is the most difficult, but in my opinion, once the kids out number the parents, the balance shifts. The small country that is our family turned from a democracy to a puppet dictatorship. This is due to the fact that:
A) We, the parents must maintain veto power at all times to ensure the mortgage money isn’t squandered on several tons of green Jell-o due to a 3 to 2 vote.
B) I like puppets.
I like to think of our little family/country as “Matthewslovakia”. We could have our own mascot--the dirty sock, and our own national anthem-- ”Are we there yet?” Maybe even see if the kids want to learn how to luge so we could possibly get into the next winter Olympics?
I’m afraid I’ve veered way off track. Back to the topic at hand…new beginnings.
This year will mark the first time two of our children will be in school full days. From my vantage point, I am proud that we managed to keep them alive this long. After the infamous “Grilled Cheese incident of 2001”, it was touch and go, but that is another column for another time.
Since my wife, Jennifer is a “stay-at-home” mom, I would have thought this new beginning would be one to make her grin from ear to ear and perhaps utter a “Yahooey” or two. To my surprise, she is not filled with the mirth and merriment I had anticipated. I am just having a difficult time understanding this feeling, or lack thereof. The last time a child started full days, we decided to have another baby. If that conversation happens again, I think it might go something like this:
Jennifer: “I never thought I would say this again, but what do you think about having another baby?”
Me: “A human baby? Can we just get puppy? You can even make it wear diapers if you want.”
Jennifer: “I am just having a hard time with the older two kids in school all day.”
Me: “Modern medicine has some wonderful drugs …..”
Sometimes new beginnings are the start of other new beginnings. Sort of a domino effect.
When I started college, I was the atypical student with atypical clothes and a mini fridge to keep my soda cold. By the end of my 5-6 years of matriculation, I had bright blue hair down to the middle of my back, enough tattoos to make both Harley and Davidson proud, and a mini fridge to keep my soda cold. That was quite some domino effect over those few years and once you dye your hair blue, there’s no turning back……or so I thought.
As you can maybe tell from the photo at the top of this column, I’m more “Alex P. Keaton” than “Punky Brewster” now, which is good thing since I never really needed breast reduction surgery. I’m a straight-laced kinda guy--a new beginning, if you will. One that has proved as challenging as it has amusing. This inaugural column now marks the newest of my new beginnings. Let the games begin. Yahooey!
