Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Pee Champ

In the midst of my ultrasound adventure yesterday something strange was said to me. Something that I can honestly say was never said to me before. Something that many people have never heard before, I’m sure. It was a very odd comment, one that I could not really respond to. The only thing that I could really think of was the Ray Romano skit about giving himself an enema. For those of you who never heard Ray’s standup routine, it’s funny and I recommend the cd.

Midway through the ultrasound I have to empty my bladder so that they can check everything after it is empty. So you basically have before and after pictures of your kidney and such. I wrote about that yesterday. So after I empty out, I have to lie back down on the table. The technician re-applies the cold jelly and starts checking me out again. After a few moments she says this, “You did good emptying your bladder.” Now, it took me a moment to register what she had just said. She basically told me that I did a nice job peeing. What does that mean? “You did good emptying your bladder.”

I had a few things running through my head. First, was she watching me? Was she impressed with my pinpoint accuracy? Did I have good form while emptying out? Was this a contest and I was the fastest pee-er she has ever had. Then I started thinking, can you do a bad job of emptying out your bladder? Maybe some people are not good pee-ers. I was thinking it was a strange thing to say, so I said, “What the heck does that mean?” She said, “Well you emptied all the way out, so you did good.” I still did not get it, and 24 hours later, I am still confused by the comment.

So the technician thinks that I am a good pee-er. My wife is constantly harping at me about somebody missing the target at home. Should I get the technician to send a note home to my wife stating that I do a good job of emptying my bladder? This way my wife can focus her attention on the real culprits in the house. I am a good pee-er, the technician told me so. I’m feeling so confidant that I am willing to challenge anyone to a pee contest. How many other people have ever been told they are good at peeing?

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

No Voiding

I have been having some kidney issues lately. I finally went to the Dr. and they sent me for an ultrasound. Usually when I am sent for a test or an X-ray, I bail out and never go. This time I went because, well because, my wife made me go. I can only get by for so long complaining about pain without getting it checked out. So I went for the test.

Getting an ultrasound for your kidney and bladder is not a fun experience. They take you in the waiting room and give you about a gallon of water. They tell you to drink this gallon of water, and wait for approximately an hour. They will be back to do the ultrasound after that. Right before the nurse leaves she turns and says, “Bye the way, No voiding for the entire hour.” No Voiding? What the hell is that? Is that like no loitering?I had to ask for clarification. I called my wife and said, “What does it mean when the nurse tells me there is no voiding? Vicki explained to me that that means no peeing. They need a full bladder for the test. So I said OK. And went about my water consumption.

I was only 20 minutes into my hour when I felt the need to Void. 20 minutes, that’s all. I still had 40 minutes left of Void free water drinking. I was dying. Here’s the thing, I am in a room with 4 other non-voiding water drinkers. Can’t I get a private room to suffer the pain of the full bladder? I am sitting in that room, talking to myself. This stupid *&^($ &*^$#@ bitch says no voiding. I’ll show you no voiding, how about I no void all over the floor. This is surely a form of torture. I want to speak to the damn manager. Is there a voiding manager in this place? I have to void, and I have to void now. Finally I hear, “Mr. Whisperer, you can follow me.”

So I get to the room and lay down on the bed. This freaking technician pours some cold jelly on my gut and starts prodding at my kidneys and bladder. I have a gallon of water in there that just has to be voided and she is acting like it’s a Sunday stroll in the park. The pain! The Agony! Finally she says, “OK, the bathroom is right behind you, go ahead and empty your bladder, then we have to check everything out again.” Like a Ninja, I am out of that bed and in the bathroom. I get in there and I am ready. Nothing is happening. Shit, stage fright! The damn technician is standing three feet away from me behind what amounts to be a cardboard door. I have to void like I have never voided before, and I get stage fright. So I start talking to myself again. “Why don’t you just kick me in mother @$%#^& balls. Who invented this stupid test? I have to pee, and this tech is sitting right outside the mother $%^#@! Door. Can I get a moment of privacy in this stupid place?” Finally, I voided. The pain lingered for a while, but I voided. The technician actually had the nerve to say have a nice day when I was leaving. Have a nice day? Have a nice day? I started talking to myself again as I left.

Blogger Service Announcement

Recently it has been brought to the attention of the management here at Dad Vs. Dad and at Poop and Boogies that a member of our family has been perusing the Blog-o-sphere and leaving comments on various blogs Anonymously. He may sometimes leave a signature of “William’s Brother” or “LawnWhisperer’s Brother”.

Although we encourage this anonymous blog commenter to read other blogs and to enjoy the experience of blogging, we would like to state that the opinions and statements that he makes in NO WAY reflect the Opinons and Statements of either William or the Lawnwhisperer.

We would also encourage the Anonymous commenting brother to give himself a “handle” as he likes to call it (please note that the Anonymous brother was given a CB Radio by his godfather for his 12th birthday and he seems trapped in the 70’s). We in the computer age would like him to use the phrase User Name. We suggest the user name that he uses be one of the following: PEZ, The Bowler, Mix Master K, or Carson’s Roommate.

The Management

Monday, March 27, 2006

Bad Hair Weekend

It was a bad weekend for my wife and her hair. On two separate occasions, one of the boys pointed out that she needed to go to the hairdresser. They did not just come out and say it, no; kids have their own special way of letting you know things.

First was Luke. They were out to lunch on Friday. They were in a restaurant that is relatively busy at that time of day. This place also has some pretty close seating, so the other patrons are right on top of you. With the waitress at the table taking their order, Luke noticed something. He said, “Mom, your hair is dying brown!” This brought chuckles and laughs from different directions. My wife highlights her hair blonde. She has a brownish blonde natural color, but highlights it blonde. Basically Luke was saying, “Hey mom, your have dark roots, it’s time to go back to the hairdresser.”

Then on Sunday, it was Kyle’s turn. Vicki was holding Kyle and they were talking. They were having a cute mom and son moment. Then in mid sentence Kyle stopped. He got real close to Vicki’s hair and said, “Mom, you have some white hairs, did you know that?” This too bought on some chuckles and laughs. Basically Kyle was saying, “Hey mom, it’s time to go back to the hairdresser, and get your hair highlighted.”

There was not a third episode, because I am smarter than the boys. I wouldn’t dare say anything about her hair. I know better. The only thing I had to say was, “Honey, I think you look beautiful.” I am not crazy enough to touch the hair topic. I have been there too many times. I have learned long ago, that my opinion means little, and that I don’t know what the hell I am talking about. “Honey, I think you look beautiful”, kind of keeps me in the clear. So that is my statement, and I am sticking to it.

So, you can bet that sometime in the near future my wife will be going to the hairdresser and dropping $120. Thanks boys, thanks a lot.

Thursday, March 23, 2006


My wife called me at work the other day and said, “John, we have a problem with Kyle at school.” Now, my first thought was, just how much trouble can a kindergartener be in? I’m in that here we go mode when she starts spelling out the problem. This means that the kids are in the car, and she is trying to let me know the deal, so she is spelling out the situation. I am a very slow reader, and that is when I am actually looking at the words on paper. She does not just spell a word or two; she starts spelling an entire sentence. . K-Y-L-E H-A-S A C-R-U-S-H O-N A G-I-R-L A-N-D I-T I-S A-F-F-E-C-T-I-N-G H-I-S W-O-R-K. I have to stop her at this point and say, “Hon, I am still on Has, can you slow it down please?” So she slows down the pace, and I catch on.

This crush is concerning the teacher and in turn is concerning Victoria. Apparently he pays more attention to this girl than he does to the teacher. She is concerned that he may not be paying enough attention to his work. He talks to his crush during reading sessions. The teacher does not want Kyle to fall behind, so she voiced her concern to my wife. My wife voiced her concern to me. So I also had a concern, and voiced it to my wife. “Is she good looking?” This is a valid concern, isn’t it? I find this to be very important information. Is my concern any less valid than the concerns of the teacher? I want to have good-looking grand children. Two good-looking parents usually makes good-looking kids. Was I wrong to ask that question?

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Hypothetical Question

I do some pretty stupid things. Most men do. I also do some things that I do not feel are so stupid, but my wife does. I would say that 99.99% of the time I am not right. I am not saying that I am wrong, but I may not be right. So when I do these things that may not be right, I get in trouble. Sometimes getting in trouble comes with getting yelled at. Like most people, I don’t like to get yelled at. So this leads me to my hypothetical question.

There is a question that is asked all of the time that goes like this: If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it fall, does it make a sound? My answer would be no. With my answer being no, here is my question. When I get in trouble, should I drop my wife off at the nearest forest and then drive away?

Monday, March 20, 2006

Salad and Cupcakes

Sunday was a strange day. Something happened on Sunday that never happens. My wife baked cupcakes. Kyle’s class was having some type of event, so she had to bake the stuff. Usually we buy the items that are needed for these types of activities, but this time she baked them. I was a little shocked at this. Baking falls under the cooking category, and cooking is not something that my wife does. I do not know if my wife is a good cook or not, I just know she does not do it. Asking me if my wife is a good cook is like asking me if I am a good Astronaut. How can you be good or bad at something you do not do?

When Kristin was in third grade she had a homework assignment that had to do with meals. The kids had to draw a picture and write a sentence about their favorite thing that their parents made them to eat. Most of the kids were saying stuff like, “I love my mom’s lasagna.” “I love to have roast beef.” You want to know what Kristin said? She said, “My mom makes the best salad.” Yep. Salad she said. Now, I must say that my wife can put together a tasty little salad, but that is not cooking.

Don’t get me wrong, my wife does cook some things, but very few. She is a pretty sexy looking chef, when she does cook, but she rarely does. We have been married for 8 plus years and I still can’t tell if she is good at it or not. I now know this though, she makes the best salads, and she can make cupcakes. I don’t think NASA will be calling me any time soon, but we are moving in the right direction

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Fire Marshall

We did not play with matches growing up. We did not go camping and start a fire with two sticks. We never set the house on fire while cooking on the stove. Our mom may have done the stove thing once or twice, but the eight boys, we were fine. Fire was never an issue for any of us. Still, somehow, my sister became paranoid about fire. I don’t know how or why, but she is a fire guru. She is the official Fire Marshall of the family.

She is the type that has smoke alarms for her smoke alarms. She has escape routes mapped out I am sure, and knows the fire companies phone number by heart. She has a 1-year-old daughter who will know how to Stop, Drop, and Roll, before she will know how to walk. My sister makes Smokey The Bear look like a Pyromaniac. She gave us all our own fire safety kits as house-warming gifts. She really has issues with fire.

This weekend, my kit paid off. We are having work done on the house, and the guys left a propane heater on. This was on to help speed up the drying process of the joint compound (spackle). We were out most of the day, and when we returned we just went about our business. About an hour or so later our carbon monoxide detector started going off. I went out to the addition and noticed this thing was on, so I turned it off, and opened all of the windows. Everything was fine. But what if I did not have the carbon monoxide detector? Would my entire house have filled up, and none of us known. Could we have gone to bed, and never have woken up? I don’t know how much of that gas it takes to kill someone, but I know it does kill you. So my sister basically could have saved our lives with that thing, so, thanks sis. I still have not found a use for the Fire Retardant Jump suit you gave me, but I’ll keep it around.

Friday, March 17, 2006

6 year old Soccer

This is what I have to look forward to now that I will be Kyle’s coach. This is a live action shot of his team during one game from 2 seasons ago. Points of interest from this picture: Note the goalie not paying any attention to the game. Also note the coach tying one kids shoe, during the game. Yes, that is Kyle with his shirt pulled over his head. Does anyone see the ball in this picture? I’m going to have fun.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Triple D's

I am not the world’s biggest chicken, but I am definitely in the running. I am certainly not proud of the fact that things scare me, but I am not too proud to tell people about it. As evidenced by my last post, I am not the big tough dad that I am supposed to be. I get more scared at things than my kids do, and my wife has to be the strong one. In my house, if we hear a noise in the middle of the night, I am not the one checking it out. The only reason I would be getting out of the bed, would be to hide underneath it. So noises pretty much go un-investigated. There has been a few times where I actually pretended to go check out a noise. I would leave the bedroom, close the door behind me, and just stand there. I would wait a minute or two, and then come back in and say it was nothing.
That is like two solid minutes of Fear Factor right there.

The three things that scare me the most are dogs, the dark, and the dentist. I do not like any of them. I don’t like the thought of any of them, and I do not like being near any of them. When I die, and if I am sentenced to hell, you can bet that I will be sitting in a dark dentist office with dogs biting at my feet. The three things that scare me most are the Triple D’s. Now, most guys love triple D’s, but me, they have a totally different meaning. So my wife has to take on the tough guy persona, cause me; I don’t have the stomach for it.

We have nightlights throughout our house. There is one in almost every room. Most people would think that they were for the kids, but they are really for me. We can run out of a lot of things in our house. We can run out of milk, or bread, or just food in general. Hell, I don’t even mind running out of toilet paper. But nightlight bulbs, I have them stashed by the dozens. I am the electric companies dream. Whenever I am in my house alone at night, every light is on. It’s safer that way. Maybe when I grow up I will be tougher. Maybe my fears will dissipate with time. Maybe, just maybe I won’t have to have my kids go upstairs first at bedtime. What? Of course they go up the dark stairs first. They have to make sure the boogieman isn’t there. Then they give me the all-clear sign, and then I tuck them in.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Sixth Sense

I have said it a thousand times, but nobody believes me. My son Kyle sees dead people. His behavior is not exactly like the movie, but he gets pretty close. He does not have nightmares all of the time, but he does go through spurts of bad dreams. Last night was the tops. The poor kid was totally freaked, and in turn, I was totally freaked. I was so freaked that I don’t know if I can sleep in my house anymore. I may be calling my mom to see if she will take me in for a couple of days, just until I have the house exorcised.

This is how it went. He woke up calling for me. I went in and he was shaking uncontrollably and was speaking erratically. His words were not making any sense, but he was talking to me. He was in that sleeping, but awake mode. He was crying, and scared. So I picked him up, and tried to sooth him. He settled down, but was still visibly shaken. I laid down in bed with him and tried to calm him down. After a minute or two, he sat straight up and said, “We got to get out of here dad.” So I took him in to my room and tried to go to sleep. He fell off to sleep, and everything seemed fine. After he was sleeping for a while I carried him back to his room. I put him in bed, and hung out for a little just to be sure he was ok.

It only took two minutes for him to be back into the shaking and speaking in tongues or whatever it was. He started saying, “They’re on the floor dad, all over the floor.”
“What is on the floor bud, what?” I said. He turned and looked at me with glazed eyes and shouted, “The bad people.” I jumped into that bed so damn fast and pulled the covers up to my nose. “What are the bad people Kyle?” I questioned. He replied softly, “We have to get out of here dad, we have to get out of here.” I sat there for a second, and tried to gather myself, cause at this point, I am absolutely petrified. I am the grown-up, and I am shitting myself. He has me convinced that there is something on the floor.So I did what all great fathers do. I picked him up, and ran like hell to my wife. He spent the night with us, and I slept with one eye open, and the covers over my head. I can’t go back there. I can’t. Mom, if you read this, can I stay at your house for a while?

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Hell in Disguise

I don’t win many things. I have never hit the lottery. I have never won at bingo. Triple Sevens have never come across my slot machine. But now, today, I am a winner. A winner of what you may ask? I am the proud winner of a 5-6 year old soccer team. Can you f-ing believe that? Soccer is big where we live. The kids start when they are like 2 and they play all year round. They have a spring season, a fall season, and indoor season, a rainy season, and a sunny season. They have seasons within the seasons. It’s ridiculous actually. Anyway, I never in a million years thought that they would need me to coach. There is a million dads that want to coach, but I told my wife to sign me up, just to make her feel better. I wanted her to see that I was willing to do good things for my kids. I didn’t really want to do it. I was basically throwing my name into the pool, knowing that the odds were against me. Shit, they picked me. I won. I won hell in disguise.

Here’s the thing, I want to coach my kids in sports, just not soccer. I hate soccer. Talk about boring. Did you ever watch paint dry? I don’t even know the rules of soccer. I know you can’t use your hands, and that is it. 5-6 year old soccer is cute to watch, but to coach it is an entirely different animal. I have trouble handling my two little guys let alone 13 other little guys. Kyle is entering his fifth season of soccer. I have been to most of his practices, and all of his games. 6 year olds do not grasp the sport. They kick each other. They fall down a lot. They all hover around the ball. They move down the field like one big amoeba. They change the subject on you when you are trying to explain something to them. They are more interested in what the snack at half-time will be than they are in what you are telling them.

Now that I have been blessed with getting to coach Kyle, I will have to do it again for Luke. This means that I will never be able to get out of it. It’s like the mob. Once you’re in, you can never get out. I want to coach baseball and basketball, not soccer. In soccer, a 1 to 0 game is considered a good game. How much fun is that? Did you ever sit and watch the washing machine go through the rinse cycle? That’s what we’re talking about here. I have zero luck, and now I get picked for something. I get picked to coach 5-6 year old soccer. My luck has just gotten worse.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Family Snapshot

This is a family photo that was taken a little bit ago. We are a family of super heroes. In some circles I am known as Mr. Incredible. I can’t tell you where those circles are, but I am pretty incredible. That’s my wife on the left, she is Elastigirl. She was an All-American gymnast back in the day. Kristin is in the middle, she is not in costume in this picture, but her Super Hero name is The Money Pit. She has an uncanny ability to make money disappear at an alarming rate. Kyle is the one in glasses. His name is The Professor. He is the smartest one of the bunch. Then there is Luke. Yeah he looks cute in still frames like this one, but he is a bad one. His name is The Tormentor. He is all about tormenting others, especially the Professor.

Friday, March 10, 2006


My father-in-law is a pretty good dude. Him and I get along very well. We have similar interests. We both like to golf. We both like to work, and we are both wise-asses. He is much more of a wise-ass than I am. As a matter of fact, I think the only things he says are wise cracks. It does not matter the time or place, he has something smart to say about anything.

Here is an example. I was going to his house to ask for his blessing to marry his daughter. I get there, and it is only he and I in the family room. He offers me a beer, and we sit down and watch golf. I am a nervous wreck. I am trying to build up the courage to ask him, but am too much of a chicken. He absolutely knows why I am there, cause I had never just sat there and watched golf with him before. He does nothing to ease my mind. He just keeps getting me another beer. It takes nearly a six-pack for me to muster up the courage to ask the question.

I go through this big speech about how I love Vicki and Kristin. I use every possible cliché, and catch phrase to get his attention and support. And then I go into this:
“Ummm, I don’t know if I am supposed to ask you for your blessing, or if I am supposed to ask you for your permission, but I would like to marry Vicki.”
He says, “ How about you ask me for my condolences.”

See, wise ass. I am sitting there sweating this thing out, and I am half drunk by the time the question comes out of me, and he says that. He’s funny like that. Anyway, he is having surgery on Monday, and I was thinking about him, so I wrote my favorite story about him. He is still a wise ass though.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

We'll See

I get asked a lot of questions from the boys. They always want to do something. As soon as I walk in the door I am barraged by their requests. I don’t even have my coat off, and they are shooting me with the list of what they want to do. My most common response is “We’ll see.” I say it a thousand times a day. I know it is not the answer that they want to hear, but it is a stall tactic on my part. I rarely just come out and say no, because it is hard to say no to those two guys. No comes with whining. No comes with grumpiness, and sometimes no leads to tears. I don’t like the three of those things, so I rarely just say no. I lead them on, that’s what I do.

The other day I come home from work and get the same type of thing. They are shooting requests at me at a rate that I can’t keep up with. So I hit them with a couple of ‘We’ll Sees’ and move on through the kitchen. Luke stops me. He moves right in my path and goes on a little tangent. “We’ll see, we’ll see, we’ll see. All you ever say is we’ll see. And do you know what we’ll see means dad? It means no. So why don’t you just say no instead of we’ll see?” So I said “Ok, no, we can’t play video games tonight.” He looked up at me and said, “That’s better.” And walked away.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

The Shop

The Shop has been good to me. The Shop was there for me in my biggest times of need. The Shop was holding back tear after tear for many years at my house. I am afraid to say now, that The Shop has lost its ability to work for me anymore. I loved The Shop, but it is over. We had a nice run, The Shop and I, but they caught on. The gig is up, and I am left dealing with the pain. I’ll miss you Shop, and thank you, but I must come up with something new.

Every now and then Victoria and I will clean out the playroom. We will take the toys that the kids do not use anymore, and give them to people we know that have younger kids. This allows us to have room for their new toys, and keep the place in order. Without fail, after we cleaned the place, one of the kids would be looking for one of the removed toys. They would come calling, “Mom, Dad, where is my truck with the blue motorcycle on it?” My wife and I would look at each other with that ‘oh, shit’ look, and think here comes a meltdown. But me, I’m quick with this type of stuff. My response would be, “Luke, we took it to the Shop to get fixed.” He would look at me funny, but be happy that we were getting it fixed. He did not know that the thing wasn’t really broken. He would go and tell his brother, “Kyle, daddy took the toy to the shop to get fixed.” Off they would go, playing with something else. Another beautifully told lie to the kids.

I can’t even tell you how many different things went to The Shop. We have had everything from baseballs to board games at the shop. Action figure upon action figure have been at the shop. The beauty of the shop was that they would forget about it after a while, and never ask again. We were getting rid of their stuff, but they thought we were fixing it. It got to the point where they would say, “hey dad, did you take my army tank to the shop?” I would reply, “ Yeah, it had to get fixed.” “OK”, they would say, and keep on playing. No tears, no complaining, it was nice.

The Shop thing doesn’t work anymore. Someone must have told them that the Shop doesn’t exist. They are onto me, and I need a new answer. I can’t tell them that I threw the stuff out. Now what? I’m screwed. Maybe I will switch and say that I sent them out to get cleaned. Yeah, The Cleaners.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Words of Wisdom

The following is 100% true. The conversation that I am about to describe happened last night during dinner. I am not embellishing this story one single bit, and my wife was there to witness it. I did not even start the conversation; it seemed to pop out of nowhere, much like most conversations with a 6 year old do. I am very proud of my son for his beautiful words. He is wise beyond his years.

Me: “ Hey buddy, how was school today?”
Kyle: “Good.”
Me: “What did you do in school?”
K: “Nothing, just work.”
Me: “ How was the rest of your day?”

Out of nowhere, the following came out of his mouth.

Kyle: “ Dad, when I get bigger, I am not going to get married.”
Me chuckling: “why not?”
Kyle: “ Cause then I will be able to do what ever I want. I will be able to eat candy whenever I want. I will be able to play games like golf and stuff. I won’t have to worry about my electricity. I will be able to have all the soda I want. I won’t have to come right home from work and go to bed. I will be able to stay up and watch TV. I will be able to do everything.”

Me laughing: “What does all of that have to do with getting married?”
Kyle: “Cause when you get married, you don’t get to do anything”

With those last few words I looked at my wife, and she looked at me, and we started laughing again. I have spoken about my boy genius before, but I did not know how much of a genius he was. Now I know. He is the smartest man on the planet.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Pee Lessons

Most things that happen at my house are my fault. Whether it is a direct fault, or an indirect fault, it usually comes back to me. The most recent fault of mine is the poor job I have done at teaching the boys how to pee. That’s right, I said pee. We have a bit of a pee problem at our house, and I am the reason for it. That is how my wife feels anyway. Someone in the house is doing a whole lot of missing, while they are pissing, and Vicki has had enough.

Since I am the dad, it is natural to be the boy pee teacher. I think I have done a fine job considering that they both don’t wet their pants. They both make it to the bathroom, and pee in the toilet. Apparently we have a loose cannon in the house, and I have been instructed to launch an investigation. I must find the culprit, and put them back in basic training. They will have to go back to Peeing 101. The problem is that I am not standing there watching them pee, so how would I know? I’ll figure something out, as far as the recon mission goes, but we have an inconsistent pee man on our hands. My wife has informed me that they don’t miss the same all the time. Sometimes it’s the wall, sometimes it’s the floor, and sometimes it’s the back of the toilet. So it is an aiming issue I am sure, but I don’t like her insinuation that I may be involved.

I am a fine pee-er. I have dead aim. I have the ability to pee in the middle of the night without ever turning a light on. I know every step to that bathroom. I get out of the bed and steady myself. I then take three normal strides toward the door, and make a 45- degree turn. After that, it’s two and a half strides, then a hard right, and another hard right. I’m there; I do my thing, right down the middle, flush, and then retrace my steps back to bed. A man with those kinds of skills does not have aiming problems. I will catch the Misser-Pisser, and will deal with him in the proper manner. My investigation starts today.

Kyle Solo

The follwoing is a Re-Run post which was orignally done as a guest post for Poop and Boogies. The LawnWhisperer is still on vacation and should be back tomorrow.

I have three kids. My daughter is 21 and in college. My sons are 5 and 4. I am currently parenting at two separate ends of the spectrum. I am not sure which end of the spectrum is more difficult, but I can say that the 5 and 4 year old require a more acute sense of catastrophe stopping skills. That is my position in the family. I stop potential catastrophes. I will let you in on my most recent one.

Occasionally, I get the two boys to myself for a day or two. I do not like when my wife gets free time, but apparently I get more than my share, and have to give her some space.So my days alone with the boys usually start with a trip to the toy store. I find that buying them a new toy in the morning hours saves me at least a half a day of aggravation. This particular day is going to be a Star Wars day. They have just gotten into the first 3 movies, well the second three, but the first three filmed. You know what I’m talking about, the 25 year old movies.

My younger sons name is Luke. My older son is Kyle. So, we get to the store and start looking at guys. You got the Storm Troopers. You got Darth Vader. You got Chewbacca. If they were in the movie, they have a guy for it. Naturally, Luke wants a Luke Skywalker guy. He likes that it is his name and he says it a hundred times. “Dad, he has the same name as me, I want him.” I say that is fine and grab a Luke Skywalker.

With this I notice, with my keen sense of Catastrophe stopping skills, that Kyle is teary eyed and ready to have a meltdown. “He has a guy with his name, I don’t have a guy with my name. I don’t want a guy. Star Wars is stupid.” This conversation is getting louder, and more animated with every sobbing word. I need to do something. So I do what every great parent does, I lie. I tell him that Han Solo’s real name is Kyle. I tell him that his nickname is Han. Kyle falls for it. Luke buys Luke Skywalker, and Kyle buys Kyle Solo. I get a half a day of happiness. Catastrophe averted. I sold that lie so well, that when we watch the movie, my entire family refers to Han Solo as Kyle. It was a thing of beauty.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Why I Lawn Whisper

The Lawnwhisperer is away for a few days. So this is a Re-run post from a guest post done over at Poop and Boogies.

I am the self proclaimed Lawn Whisperer. I take great pride in having the nicest lawn in the neighborhood. I love when my neighbors ask for advice, and I won’t give it to them. I recently told my one neighbor this, “Bob, I’ll give you a few secrets, but only if you promise to move.” “What?” he said, looking confused. I said, “ Listen, if I give you advice, and your lawn takes off, then I won’t have the nicest lawn anymore. So you agree to move out of the neighborhood, and I will give you some pointers.” Needless to say, Bob didn’t move, and his lawn still looks like shit.

The real beauty of taking care of the lawn is that I get to do it all by myself. Well, me and Monster. Monster is my mower. It’s short for the Green Monster, named after the famed left field fence at Fenway Park. Monster is a 36-inch, Bunton Walk Behind. I have the rider Velkee attachment that I stand on to ride. My wife got that for me, best damn present I ever got. Me and Monster, twice a week, that’s 3 hours of freedom. Count them guys, three hours of peacefulness in one week. You can’t beat it. This is the real reason that I whisper to the lawn.

My lawn is my fourth kid. I treat her the same as my other three kids. I give her all the TLC she deserves. And you know what? She appreciates me. My lawn has never talked back to me. My lawn has never poured her dinner on the floor. My lawn has never borrowed the car. My lawn has never left the playroom a mess, then yelled at me for making her clean up. My lawn has never hit her brother, just because. My lawn has never given me a headache. My lawn has never called me stupid. My Lawn has never thrown up all over the bed at two in the morning. My lawn has never thrown up all over the bed at three in the morning, after I changed the sheets at two in the morning. My lawn never used the coffee table as a launching pad, and the couch as a landing pad. My lawn listens to me. I whisper to my lawn, and she says nothing back. Did you hear that…nothing. I love my lawn. I take care of my lawn. I whisper to my lawn, and she listens. I can’t tell you what I say to my lawn, cause if my wife found out, I’d be divorced

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Lost Chance

I am a Doug Flutie fan. I will pause a few seconds for all of you people to laugh…………………………. I played a little football in high school, and Flutie was lighting up the college ranks at the time. He was a quarterback, and so was I. He was short for the position, and so was I. All of that added up to him being my favorite player, and I have followed him since.

I had a chance to meet Doug Flutie once. It was a small chance, but the moment was there. We were in Disney World. My wife and I took Kristin when she was 11 or so. We were walking through the park, and my wife had to go to the ladies room, so I took Kris over to get some ice cream. We were standing in line, when I looked over, and there was my sports hero. He was getting ice cream as well. There were no other people around. This was my chance. I asked Kris for her autograph book. You know the one where all the characters sign. “ Kris, give me your book and a pen.” She said, “why who do you see?” I said, “just give it to me, and stay right here.” She said a little more forcefully, “John, who do you see, is it Goofy or Mickey?” I was getting a little nervous about him leaving so I said, “Kristin, it is Doug Flutie, and I want to get his autograph.” And this is where my chance disappeared. She yelled, “DOUG FLUTIE, Who is DOUG FLUTIE?”

He turned and looked me right in the eyes, with that, Oh Shit; I’ve been recognized look. As I am fumbling to find a pen, a crowd of people starts forming around Doug. He signs some autographs, and is chatting it up with the people. I can’t get in close enough. I was ten feet away, with no obstructions, until Kris spoke up, and now I can’t get near him. He politely says that he has to go, and just wants to enjoy the day with his family. The crowd lets him leave, and off he goes. I spotted him out, and yet I got nothing.

So my wife comes out and I am distraught. She laughs when I tell her that Kristin ruined my chance to meet my sports hero. I took a picture of Doug as he walked away. I still have it in our photo album. There are pictures of Goofy, and Cinderella, and Mickey, and Doug Flutie’s back. Here we are, some 11 years later, and I still hear those words. “Doug Flutie? Who is Doug Flutie?”
Who Links Here