Skipping a Step

You married in a family
Of kids all cries and whinies
Became an ace at wiping tears
And cleaning little hinies.

You helped them read and
Tutored math, both adding and dividing
And later on to drive a car
When I went into hiding.

Knots, and rhymes, and music notes
All came along the way.
Then college, jobs, adventure quests,
Made them men today.

One little thing I’ve got to say
I’ll jump in without prep.
Happy Father’s Day my dear
It's time to skip the Step.

From the Ground Up

Sure I was spoiled. The youngest is supposed to be. But when Daddy tried to teach me to garden, he didn't realize that one day my picture would be up on the wall of shame in Home & Garden Stores everywhere. He gave up teaching me to garden. But he never gave up on me.
Join me at Stage of Life to see how his garden grows.
Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Summer Shorts

It's thunderstorm season in the South. I’m afraid if it rains much more, BP will send a representative to dump a quart of 10W40 in my yard.

They don’t play Pomp and Circumstance when you graduate from the school of hard knocks. But they don't play Another One Bites the Dust, either.

Is half a mind a zombie snack?

For Mother’s Day, I was at a restaurant where a stranger was handing out roses to all the women. I wonder if he’s going to give out power tools for Father’s Day.

I’m at the age where my packaging label should read, “Some Settling May Occur.” On the back it would say, “Things in the mirror are larger than they appear.”

Now that I’ve turned 50, offering to slip into something more comfortable isn’t really a promise. It’s a threat.

Why is it that a kid who can memorize a 37 key code to wipe out a zombie apocalypse on a video game is puzzled by the Start button on the washer?

Different age people like different kinds of cars. My boys like the kind that get from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. I like the ones that can remember where I was going.

My teenage son asked me, “How long does it take for wood to become petrified?” I answered, “As long as it takes it to teach the twigs how to drive.”

The last time I tried on swimsuits in front of a dressing room mirror, I realized something. I’d have to use Google Earth to get a panoramic picture of my butt.

Never wear a dangly charm bracelet when you have diarrhea.

If I can shop for everyone in my family without taking them along to try on clothes, why do I never come home with the right size underwear for me?

My dentist put my last crown in place with a nail. I didn’t know whether to write him a check or charge it to my Home Depot account.

Mother's Day Out(Law)

My birds can’t sing. It's not so much that they're not motivated, as much as that they're gifted in other areas, such as recreational violence. They while away their time scarfing up purple berries to use later in a revenge-fueled attack on my car.

Why is it that everybody else gets a symphony of nature’s sounds outside their window in the morning, and I get what sounds like a bunch of Saturday night revelers tooting the best of Milli Vanilli on empty whiskey bottles? Just my luck to get the only birds in the world who hate morning.

I suspect they drink.

And although the idea of installing a wet bar outside loaded with enough goodwill to bring peace to the entire neighborhood is appealing, I don’t want to make the Audubon Society’s top ten “Enemies of Nature” list.

So, in honor of Mother’s Day and in an effort to instill pleasant and healthy morning habits in our bird population, the Captain of our Aviary, the man who vowed to love, honor, and rid the world of household pests, decided to install a bird feeder outside beside the combination dogwood tree, kudzu vine, and rose bush. I realize now that he’s had it in for me all along.

I’m not much of a gardener, so when the only thing that grows in my yard is a twisted smorgasbord of flora, I tend to leave it alone and pretend I don't hear the smacking sounds echoing from its depths. I’m pretty sure the cat is in there somewhere. And the barbecue grill. And my last car.

It ate my birdfeeder.

The next morning all that was left of the new birdie buffet was a trail of scattered sunflower seeds.

The bird population was seriously ticked.

About that time the family scavengers, Sam and Bo, Labradors from the planet We Are Starving came to investigate the possibility of sharing a picnic with the birds. Both are well versed in the language of international cuisine and begin snuffling through the birdseed like they’re tracking T-Bone flavored truffles.

As the sun rose to find me standing in the tall, wet grass with sunflower seeds stuck to my shoes like beetles on the screen door, with screeching swallows pelting me with pinfeathers, and pellet hounds shinnying up my shins, I could only think of one thing.

Never mind the stupid birds. I can’t wait for Father’s Day. It’s payback time.