Two years ago, facing a diagnosis of “your internal organs are going to explode,” the Captain lost enough weight that he could send some to underdeveloped countries, such as Japan, where no one is ever overweight except Sumo wrestlers, the people who wear the least clothes.
Come to think of it, it’s that way at the beach, too. And, of course, Wal-Mart. Why is it that people with the most to show wear the least to cover it up? I’m certainly not the poster child for the “Feed the Runway Models” campaign, but I sure don’t want to have the seat behind the Sumo guy when he does his warm-up stretches.
Anyway, Cap also practically emptied his blood stream of triglycerides, a medical term that means “the fuse to the bomb that will make your internal organs explode.”
He did this all by himself. While he was very busy with the sort of advanced mathematics that deals with less than, greater than, and the sort of cholesterol level that voids whole sets of fat grams, I busied myself roasting turkeys, steaming vegetables, and skimming fat from by-products.
Eventually the Captain’s math resulted in the need for a belt to hold his pants up, and life returned to normal on the poop deck.
Until yesterday. One simple stretch and the button popped off his pants with enough force to put another hole in the ozone layer. Either his pancreas exploded or his body is rejecting artificial fasteners.
That little button also blew a hole in my holiday planning calendar for the next few months. I’m back to skimming, steaming, and roasting.
Luckily, my house is full of turkeys.
Laugh
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
50 Is Not A Speed Trap (It's My Birthday!)
Some of my friends are slowing down for 50. Not me. I'm hitting the gas and leaving three feet of tire marks and twenty dollars worth of fumes behind me. I'm not complaining about my life so far--I'm married to the man of my dreams who hardly ever looks at me like I've taken leave of my senses, and I have two sons who can play Guitar Hero like they were born with Stratocasters in their hands. I just don't want the next 50 years to be the second lap of the same race.
Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.
I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.
I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can can without throwing out a hip.
I can hunt my walking stick and liniment later. WalMart stays open all night.
Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.
Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.
I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.
I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can can without throwing out a hip.
I can hunt my walking stick and liniment later. WalMart stays open all night.
Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Teenage Heroes
I got tagged by Erika, my favorite editor, and hardworking and talented developer of The Wham Magazine, for a meme that's thought provoking enough to make me set down my jelly doughnut and think for several seconds at a time. Why do I like to work at home?
I have a part-time job away from home. So why do I worry and work and stay up so late that people think the racoon rings around my eyes are permanetly etched on, laboring to get my at-home writing base up to speed?
Just now there are four teenaged boys in my living room. Their names are Twinkie, Fatt, Mini, and Seth. I’m not sure why they don’t call Seth by a nickname unless it’s because A) he has one, but I’m too old and parently-impaired to be allowed to hear it, or B) there’s not one awesome enough for a boy who can play the guitar with more ease than the rest of us strain spaghetti.
At present these guys are profoundly affected by the actions of several multi-colored creatures cavorting in cartoon-like battle rage on the television screen. Although they will all be eligible to vote come November, right now the actions of a round pink fellow with large, engaging eyes is more important to them than the actions of any of the candidates engaged in the brawl that is this year’s race for President of the United States. If any of the candidates ran on the Wii platform, they would secure the vote of teenagers all across the nation, and probably a few write-ins from outlying territories.
Following is a conversation taken from these actual teenaged boys. (Teenaged girls take note—these are authentic sounds used for communication in the wild. Not once did the subject of hair, nails, or what to wear to the mall enter into the conversation.)
Psychologists might make much of the fact that these guys seem preoccupied with death. But it’s nothing that a Care Package consisting of sodas and pizza can’t cure. Toss a bag of bite-size candy bars in the mix and they’ll swarm like yellow jackets in a State Park picnic zone. And there’s at least one of them that I know is partial to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
“We’re all gonna die!”
“Stop shooting me!”
“Ow! Stop killing me!”
"Dude!"
Silence broken only by the bip boop bang of electronic battle noises backed by cartoon music.
“Run in fear!”
“Where am I? I found me! I lost me!”
“I killed myself off by accident!”
“I’m not dead yet!”
“We’re all gonna die!”
“Am I dead?”
“Run!” (Various colored creatures dash in different directions like a box of Crayolas kicked across the playroom floor. Think Pac Man on speed.)
Eventually, these young men grow weary and tired of the trauma of death by colored laser blasts. Then they switch to a challenge that involves a miniature guitar and more colored notes onscreen than sprinkles on a sugar cookie. One of them wields the guitar like a superwizard wields a magic wand, and the powers of good and evil hang in the balance. The others watch in awe and I stop in the middle of my essay on grieving hearts to see this kid play a toy guitar like Clapton performing Cocaine. The song ends in onscreen applause and real life respectful silence broken only by a hushed, "Dude!"
So why do I like to work at home? Because I get interrupted mid-project by gangland activity fueled by carbonated beverages that I just brought home from the grocery store. Because food disappears from the refrigerator like I have an automatic Hoover installation in the door. Because it won’t be long before these young men have families and responsible jobs and haircuts that don’t touch the collar of their pinstriped suits.
So for now, I’ll plan to do a little extra work later on tonight so I can stop to cheer for a fifty note run in a song that was famous when I was in high school.
And maybe I’ll make a peanut butter sandwich and cut the crusts off.
I have a part-time job away from home. So why do I worry and work and stay up so late that people think the racoon rings around my eyes are permanetly etched on, laboring to get my at-home writing base up to speed?
Just now there are four teenaged boys in my living room. Their names are Twinkie, Fatt, Mini, and Seth. I’m not sure why they don’t call Seth by a nickname unless it’s because A) he has one, but I’m too old and parently-impaired to be allowed to hear it, or B) there’s not one awesome enough for a boy who can play the guitar with more ease than the rest of us strain spaghetti.
At present these guys are profoundly affected by the actions of several multi-colored creatures cavorting in cartoon-like battle rage on the television screen. Although they will all be eligible to vote come November, right now the actions of a round pink fellow with large, engaging eyes is more important to them than the actions of any of the candidates engaged in the brawl that is this year’s race for President of the United States. If any of the candidates ran on the Wii platform, they would secure the vote of teenagers all across the nation, and probably a few write-ins from outlying territories.
Following is a conversation taken from these actual teenaged boys. (Teenaged girls take note—these are authentic sounds used for communication in the wild. Not once did the subject of hair, nails, or what to wear to the mall enter into the conversation.)
Psychologists might make much of the fact that these guys seem preoccupied with death. But it’s nothing that a Care Package consisting of sodas and pizza can’t cure. Toss a bag of bite-size candy bars in the mix and they’ll swarm like yellow jackets in a State Park picnic zone. And there’s at least one of them that I know is partial to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
“We’re all gonna die!”
“Stop shooting me!”
“Ow! Stop killing me!”
"Dude!"
Silence broken only by the bip boop bang of electronic battle noises backed by cartoon music.
“Run in fear!”
“Where am I? I found me! I lost me!”
“I killed myself off by accident!”
“I’m not dead yet!”
“We’re all gonna die!”
“Am I dead?”
“Run!” (Various colored creatures dash in different directions like a box of Crayolas kicked across the playroom floor. Think Pac Man on speed.)
Eventually, these young men grow weary and tired of the trauma of death by colored laser blasts. Then they switch to a challenge that involves a miniature guitar and more colored notes onscreen than sprinkles on a sugar cookie. One of them wields the guitar like a superwizard wields a magic wand, and the powers of good and evil hang in the balance. The others watch in awe and I stop in the middle of my essay on grieving hearts to see this kid play a toy guitar like Clapton performing Cocaine. The song ends in onscreen applause and real life respectful silence broken only by a hushed, "Dude!"
So why do I like to work at home? Because I get interrupted mid-project by gangland activity fueled by carbonated beverages that I just brought home from the grocery store. Because food disappears from the refrigerator like I have an automatic Hoover installation in the door. Because it won’t be long before these young men have families and responsible jobs and haircuts that don’t touch the collar of their pinstriped suits.
So for now, I’ll plan to do a little extra work later on tonight so I can stop to cheer for a fifty note run in a song that was famous when I was in high school.
And maybe I’ll make a peanut butter sandwich and cut the crusts off.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Taking the Bait
“An outing with the children can be a pleasant and enjoyable event.” I smiled encouragingly.
“If they’re sedated.” Dad thinks I can't hear him when he mumbles behind the newspaper. I couldn't help but notice that he'd circled all the advertisements for houses for sale over the state line.
“The thing to remember, Dad, is that with children, the theory “Less is More” definitely applies. "Just remember that you’re in control.”
Dad, a doting grandfather, was preparing to take the boys on a fishing trip to the lake. He is perfectly willing to do it again, he says, just as soon as the bandages come off.
“The thing to remember,” he said steadily, peering at me over the top of his glasses, “is that I was fishing thirty years before you could put a worm on the hook without doing the boogie woogie.”
“Well, this should be right up your alley, then”
“Last time I took them fishing, I spent six hours cutting my fishing tackle down out of trees. I have enough gear in that old pine tree to open up a tackle shop.” Dad shot me a “you owe me big” look and headed out the door behind the boys.
Later on, he whiled away the time in the Emergency Room jotting down notes to remember. I blame the painkillers for the noticeable lack of feeling. Here are his notes:
1. Baiting Your Hook
The thing to remember when taking young boys fishing is not to use live bait, unless it’s live corn. Whining and crying can be avoided by a bit of creative forethought. Besides, hysterics frighten the fish as well as the children.
There are any number of products that can be successfully used for bait if they actually make it as far as the water. Jerky strips, corn, cat chow, and peanut butter sandwiches all work well for pond fish as it is all quite easily recognizable with no “ooky” parts. They also go on the hook easily with minimum damage to small fingers or bare feet. A simple gold #8 Eagle Claw in the big toe will help to convince him to wear proper gear, such as shoes, at the lake. Shouting @#*^%! does little good except to get you in trouble when both boys sing out @#*^%! upon returning home to Mother.
2. Casting Your Line
The thing to remember about casting is that once you release the button, the line will actually leave the reel. If your rod is pointed toward the lake, the hook will drop neatly into water with a satisfying plop. Likewise, if you release the button as the rod tip aims pointedly at the tree directly overhead, your bob will direct the line around random twigs and branches and your hook will secure itself into hard wood at least ten feet out of your reach. Let me stress again that screaming @#*^%! will produce sentiment likely to be repeated in front of undesirable people, such your wife who will punish you by refusing to make supper in order to teach you a lesson.
3. Catching a Fish
No matter how hard you try to prevent it, one or more of the children may actually catch a fish. Be forewarned that the child will jerk the line wildly and reel the fish in frantically, responding to any well meaning advice with an air of defiance.
“Keep your rod tip down,” you offer calmly.
“If you don’t stop yelling at me, I’m telling Mom,” he bellows, rod tip pointing erratically at a flock of wild geese overhead.
Once the fish has survived the trip to shore, your little fisherman will refuse any contact. “Take it off the hook, Pop,” he’ll squeal.
If it’s a catfish, calmly show him how to hold the fish under the two needle-sharp pointy fins so as not to be lanced indiscriminately by an unthinking fish. Little Fisherman will disregard all advice and reach for the gaping mouth of the fish, impale himself on the point and jerk rapidly, flinging the fish in your general direction. Immediate action is required. Scream @#*^%!
Dad’s notes end at this point. I figure the ambulance arrived not long after. All I know is that when I visited him in the hospital, he requested a large meal before he went home, and his chart listed his given name as @#^%.
“If they’re sedated.” Dad thinks I can't hear him when he mumbles behind the newspaper. I couldn't help but notice that he'd circled all the advertisements for houses for sale over the state line.
“The thing to remember, Dad, is that with children, the theory “Less is More” definitely applies. "Just remember that you’re in control.”
Dad, a doting grandfather, was preparing to take the boys on a fishing trip to the lake. He is perfectly willing to do it again, he says, just as soon as the bandages come off.
“The thing to remember,” he said steadily, peering at me over the top of his glasses, “is that I was fishing thirty years before you could put a worm on the hook without doing the boogie woogie.”
“Well, this should be right up your alley, then”
“Last time I took them fishing, I spent six hours cutting my fishing tackle down out of trees. I have enough gear in that old pine tree to open up a tackle shop.” Dad shot me a “you owe me big” look and headed out the door behind the boys.
Later on, he whiled away the time in the Emergency Room jotting down notes to remember. I blame the painkillers for the noticeable lack of feeling. Here are his notes:
1. Baiting Your Hook
The thing to remember when taking young boys fishing is not to use live bait, unless it’s live corn. Whining and crying can be avoided by a bit of creative forethought. Besides, hysterics frighten the fish as well as the children.
There are any number of products that can be successfully used for bait if they actually make it as far as the water. Jerky strips, corn, cat chow, and peanut butter sandwiches all work well for pond fish as it is all quite easily recognizable with no “ooky” parts. They also go on the hook easily with minimum damage to small fingers or bare feet. A simple gold #8 Eagle Claw in the big toe will help to convince him to wear proper gear, such as shoes, at the lake. Shouting @#*^%! does little good except to get you in trouble when both boys sing out @#*^%! upon returning home to Mother.
2. Casting Your Line
The thing to remember about casting is that once you release the button, the line will actually leave the reel. If your rod is pointed toward the lake, the hook will drop neatly into water with a satisfying plop. Likewise, if you release the button as the rod tip aims pointedly at the tree directly overhead, your bob will direct the line around random twigs and branches and your hook will secure itself into hard wood at least ten feet out of your reach. Let me stress again that screaming @#*^%! will produce sentiment likely to be repeated in front of undesirable people, such your wife who will punish you by refusing to make supper in order to teach you a lesson.
3. Catching a Fish
No matter how hard you try to prevent it, one or more of the children may actually catch a fish. Be forewarned that the child will jerk the line wildly and reel the fish in frantically, responding to any well meaning advice with an air of defiance.
“Keep your rod tip down,” you offer calmly.
“If you don’t stop yelling at me, I’m telling Mom,” he bellows, rod tip pointing erratically at a flock of wild geese overhead.
Once the fish has survived the trip to shore, your little fisherman will refuse any contact. “Take it off the hook, Pop,” he’ll squeal.
If it’s a catfish, calmly show him how to hold the fish under the two needle-sharp pointy fins so as not to be lanced indiscriminately by an unthinking fish. Little Fisherman will disregard all advice and reach for the gaping mouth of the fish, impale himself on the point and jerk rapidly, flinging the fish in your general direction. Immediate action is required. Scream @#*^%!
Dad’s notes end at this point. I figure the ambulance arrived not long after. All I know is that when I visited him in the hospital, he requested a large meal before he went home, and his chart listed his given name as @#^%.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Cough Drop--A Thanksgiving Miracle
Bill and I were sitting in that special kind of traffic jam that comes just before the holidays and is the result of a small town growing like an overdose victim of Jack’s magic beans, leaving mundane things like convenience and city planning behind. The roads were packed like the straw in a peach milkshake. Fruit gets stuck in the end, all movement stops, and nobody gets any relief. With a milkshake you can pull out the straw and suck out the peach pulp. With overburdened roads, the obvious answer is to block off one lane with orange cones and commit to a ten-year construction project.
We'd dropped our kids off at a mega-bookstore at what seemed like a short time earlier, doling out the last bite-sized candy bars from Halloween left in the bottom of my pocketbook to hold them until we got back and could hit a nearby buffet extravaganza. Sometimes eating out, even with two teenaged mouths to feed, is a better idea than a sound investment plan.
In the meantime, the Highway Patrol issued an all-points-bulletin to every mall-bound traveler in the area, describing our location, destination, and current state of irritability. That’s the only reasonable explanation for the fact that our car began to attract morons like a pan of biscuits attracts men named Bubba. Traffic stalled and Christmas shoppers begin to share the joy of the season with their fellow travelers one finger at a time. I attempted to retain my normal good nature even though Bill was getting testy. He always gets that way when he misses snack time.
Bill: Do you have any more candy in your pocketbook?
Me: Why? Are you hungry?
Bill: No, I thought I would toss some out the window to lure people out of our lane.
Me: You’re being sarcastic because you’re too hungry. (Pointing across six lanes of stationary traffic.) There’s a Wendy’s. And a Chinese buffet. And a pizza place. I'll bet that gas station has candy bars.
Bill: Are you hungry?
Me: (Fumbling through my pocketbook.) No. Why do you keep bringing it up? Look--there’s that place with the wonderful barbecue ribs. I could walk there and back before you got to the red light.
(I find a cellophane-wrapped object which I pull surreptitiously from my bag. I wince as a tiny crinkling sound gives me away.)
Bill: What’s that?
Me: Nothing.
Bill: What is it?
Me: Nothing. Leave me alone, willya?
Bill: You have food.
Me: No I don’t. It’s a cough drop. (Here I wave the cough drop with a flourish. It’s of a nondescript color somewhere in between magenta and pink eye.)
Bill: I want half.
Me: It’s mine. I found it. (I fondle the cough drop like it was the One Ring.)
Bill: We can take turns licking it.
Me: (Pensively) I don’t think I’ve bought any cough drops this season. . .not since I had the flu that year we had the big snow.
Bill: You can have it.
Me: No you. I can wait.
Bill: I can wait, too.
We laughed together, the warm laughter of two people coming together over misfortune.
Under cover of laughter, I shucked the paper off the cough drop like it was a peel and eat shrimp and popped it in my mouth.
Just then, in a holiday miracle moment, traffic parted like the men’s restroom line for a father-daughter combination. Nothing clears the tracks like a man doing daddy-duty with a lace-clad toddler in tow. We picked up the boys, and wheeled into a nearby restaurant.
Bill: See, it all turned out okay because we made sacrifices and worked together. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about.
We all smiled at each other like the Brady Bunch on the 29th minute of a 30 minute show. Secretly, I gave thanks for a cough drop appetizer that kept me from acting like a turkey.
We'd dropped our kids off at a mega-bookstore at what seemed like a short time earlier, doling out the last bite-sized candy bars from Halloween left in the bottom of my pocketbook to hold them until we got back and could hit a nearby buffet extravaganza. Sometimes eating out, even with two teenaged mouths to feed, is a better idea than a sound investment plan.
In the meantime, the Highway Patrol issued an all-points-bulletin to every mall-bound traveler in the area, describing our location, destination, and current state of irritability. That’s the only reasonable explanation for the fact that our car began to attract morons like a pan of biscuits attracts men named Bubba. Traffic stalled and Christmas shoppers begin to share the joy of the season with their fellow travelers one finger at a time. I attempted to retain my normal good nature even though Bill was getting testy. He always gets that way when he misses snack time.
Bill: Do you have any more candy in your pocketbook?
Me: Why? Are you hungry?
Bill: No, I thought I would toss some out the window to lure people out of our lane.
Me: You’re being sarcastic because you’re too hungry. (Pointing across six lanes of stationary traffic.) There’s a Wendy’s. And a Chinese buffet. And a pizza place. I'll bet that gas station has candy bars.
Bill: Are you hungry?
Me: (Fumbling through my pocketbook.) No. Why do you keep bringing it up? Look--there’s that place with the wonderful barbecue ribs. I could walk there and back before you got to the red light.
(I find a cellophane-wrapped object which I pull surreptitiously from my bag. I wince as a tiny crinkling sound gives me away.)
Bill: What’s that?
Me: Nothing.
Bill: What is it?
Me: Nothing. Leave me alone, willya?
Bill: You have food.
Me: No I don’t. It’s a cough drop. (Here I wave the cough drop with a flourish. It’s of a nondescript color somewhere in between magenta and pink eye.)
Bill: I want half.
Me: It’s mine. I found it. (I fondle the cough drop like it was the One Ring.)
Bill: We can take turns licking it.
Me: (Pensively) I don’t think I’ve bought any cough drops this season. . .not since I had the flu that year we had the big snow.
Bill: You can have it.
Me: No you. I can wait.
Bill: I can wait, too.
We laughed together, the warm laughter of two people coming together over misfortune.
Under cover of laughter, I shucked the paper off the cough drop like it was a peel and eat shrimp and popped it in my mouth.
Just then, in a holiday miracle moment, traffic parted like the men’s restroom line for a father-daughter combination. Nothing clears the tracks like a man doing daddy-duty with a lace-clad toddler in tow. We picked up the boys, and wheeled into a nearby restaurant.
Bill: See, it all turned out okay because we made sacrifices and worked together. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about.
We all smiled at each other like the Brady Bunch on the 29th minute of a 30 minute show. Secretly, I gave thanks for a cough drop appetizer that kept me from acting like a turkey.
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