Dad Vs. Dad

Real Retirement

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Tue, 12 Dec 2006 18:12:00 +0000

Things happen to me everyday that I could write on this blog. I refuse to write anything serious or sad, as I find that to be a downer for me, and anyone that is reading. Serious and sad is for 60 minutes, or 20-20, not for a little blog that has an audience of 10. I can turn almost all situations into humor, which is the way I try to approach each day. I operate under the “If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry” theory. So Dad vs. Dad is strictly written with humor in mind.

I will not write about anything that is not somewhat funny. I will not write about my bad days, and I will not write about my negative happenings. I do not find any therapeutic value in writing about sad events, or fights and arguments. This particular approach of mine, limits what I can write about. I read, and have read many, many blogs. I find that most of them are decent, but are also very repetitive. Different events, and or experiences are written in the same way. Basically I am reading the same thing, over and over, and over again. My writing has become that same very thing. Different story, told the same way. I am repetitive in my writings. Funny stuff happens to me, and I tell the story. I tell the story the same way I told the last funny story. Rocky 6 comes to mind. Get over it Sylvester, move on to something else.

It was fun when it was fresh and new, but that was a long time ago. I can’t be just another blogger. I need to take my jokes to a new audience. I should go over to My Space, or whatever the hell it is called. I need to go be fresh and new again. No offense people, but the time has come to retire. I do not want to bore you with my meaningless rants any longer. I cannot be just another run of the mill blogger, and that is where I am heading.

Solo on Solo

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Wed, 29 Nov 2006 21:05:00 +0000

I knew that it would happen. I knew it would happen, but I did it anyway. I knew that some day I would have to explain myself, and that day has come. I told my son that Han Solo’s real name was Kyle Solo. I did this to avoid a major meltdown in the middle of the toy store. I did this a long time ago, and at the time it was a thing of beauty. I have posted about the event in the past, and was enamored with myself for my quick thinking and wisdom. I found my ability to improvise and adapt to be uncanny. Now I think, the jig may be up.

Kyle and Luke were just getting into Star Wars when I lied to him about Solo’s name. I never really thought that they would really get into Star Wars at the time; I just thought it was a fad. Now they play the Star Wars video games, and they watch the movies. They know more characters than I do. It is fun to watch how into it they get, but now I am caught. The other day Kyle walked up to me and said, “Dad, is Han Solo’s real name Kyle, or not?” I was a little puzzled at the question, but I looked up and said, “Yeah buddy, why do you ask?” He got a bit miffed, and put an angry look on his face and replied, “Well dad, you are the only person that I have ever heard call him Kyle. I have watched the movies and played the games, and nobody has ever called him Kyle. Did you make it up? Is his name Kyle Solo, or not?”

Now, I have been called on the carpet before. I have been pushed into a corner. I have been in these types of situations before, but never by a cute little 6 year old. He wanted an answer, and he wanted it at that very moment. I started thinking about telling him the truth. If I tell him the truth I can end this charade right now. He will be devastated, and he will hate me for a while, but he will get over it. He will ultimately come to terms with the fact that he does not have a namesake in the Star Wars saga. Or I can let the lie linger for a little while longer. I am sure that I can milk this for a few more months. He is not really talking to his friends about Star Wars yet. That is when the real problems will occur. Friends ruin everything, don’t they?

I was at a crossroads. I had to think, and I had to think fast. I had a decision to make that will impact me sometime in the near future. I decided that I have to do the right thing, so I let the lie linger. Yeah, and when his friends finally reveal that Han Solo’s real name is Han, I will tell Kyle that his friends are lying. “They don’t know what they are talking about.” I will say.

Copy Cat

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 17:10:00 +0000

Bill, from Poop and Boogies, started the day with a shameless ploy for attention. He claims to blog for the love of it, but basically he is just a comment-seeking whiner. He has been unhappy with his site lately, and needed a little pick me up. I can’t believe that he would stoop to such levels. I am even more in shock at the response from you readers. He has had more action in three hours than he has had in the past week.

This got me to thinking. I should copy Bill’s idea. Hey people, can you comment on my site and tell me where you are from, and stuff? I need attention, and I want you people to show me the love. Thanks in advance for your support.

Sticker Shock

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Mon, 20 Nov 2006 13:49:00 +0000

I didn’t even do anything. I swear I have been a perfect angel. Well, sure, there is the occasional wise-ass remark. Every once in a while I may leave some things out where they don’t belong. Now and again I may be in a grumpy mood, but nothing I have done deserved what happened this weekend.

I was getting ready for the day. The kids had already been dressed, and they were eating their breakfast. I went upstairs and got dressed. I didn’t think anything of it. I went through the normal routine. Underwear first, socks second, then pants then shirt. This is the same way that I always get dressed. As I was putting my socks on, I felt a little pull or irritant, or scratch in the underwear region. I stood up, and did a little wiggle, and then I made the proper adjustments. The discomfort went away, and I went back to getting dressed. Everything seemed fine.

I went down stairs, and poured my third cup of coffee, and started towards the family room. As I was walking, another pull in the underwear region got me dancing. I was shaking one leg at a time to try to get the pain to stop. I hopped around for a bit to try and get the situation under control. Then it hit me; the blinding pain of hair being ripped from the skin. It stopped me in my tracks. What the hell is in my underwear? I had to check it out. It must be a bug. I must have ants in my pants. I thought that was just an expression, but here I am with something in my pants.

I am standing in the kitchen with my pants half down, and checking out my privates. Kyle and Luke are laughing at me and wondering why I am doing the jig, while being half naked. Then I find the culprit. Stickers. There are two stickers attached to my privates, and I have to get them off. I have only one question. What the hell are stickers doing in my underwear? I certainly did not put them there. Vicki! She sabotaged my underwear. She knew what the ramifications of putting stickers in my underwear would be. She claims she had nothing to do with it, but I have my eyes on her now. I will perform a thorough investigation of every pair of underwear, before I put them on.

It hurt like hell removing those stickers from my you-know-whats. My wife is clever, and she is out to get me. I will keep you all posted. She claims innocents in the entire devilish plan, but if not her, then Who?

Sticks and Stones

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Mon, 13 Nov 2006 18:31:00 +0000

We were sitting in the back yard enjoying the nice day. The boys were playing like boys do. They were rough, and rambunctious. Every once in a while Vicki or I would have to jump in and separate them from each other, but for the most part things were fine.

The game of tackle football had ended, and without me noticing at first, a rock-throwing contest broke out. First they were throwing our decorative rock for distance. At some point in the contest, accuracy was an added feature. Then, finally, like most of my boy’s games go, they were playing war with them. They were throwing rocks at each other. I stepped in, and broke up the rock battle. They were a little upset at me for stopping them, but I had to let them know it was not safe.

While I was trying to stop the rock war, Luke dropped all of his ammunition, and turned to walk away. Kyle was a little slower in giving up his weapons. He wanted to go back to throwing them for distance. As I was explaining to him that he had better drop the rocks, he looked at me, and dropped all but one. That last one went into the back of Luke’s head. So, Luke started crying, Kyle got sent to his room. Vicki went in to talk to Kyle about his left-handed fastball, and I was left to console Luke. I managed to get Luke to calm down, and he had a minor bump on his head, but was fine.

After a while, Kyle was allowed out of solitary confinement. When he did come out, I asked him what he had to say to his brother. I was expecting an apology. I wanted him to say he was sorry for using Luke’s noggin as target practice. I said, “Kyle, what you did was not nice. You should know better than to throw rocks at your little brother. Now what do you have to say to Luke?” He looked at me, then he looked at Luke and he said, “Luke, you’re slow, you should have ducked faster.”

Now, how do you parent that?

Blogger Governor

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 21:20:00 +0000

Poop and Boogies is fabrication and Deceit.

P&B only writes the cute, lovable stories.

He sucks in his voters with pictures and anecdotes that make all believe he is sweet.

William is afraid to divulge his dark side, for fear of losing readers.

William is funnier from the dark side, but hides behind a Knight in Shinning Armor façade.

William is a Comment Monger, nothing more, nothing less.

If you want a blog that gets to the details of all aspects of life, you want Dad Vs Dad. DVD does not lie, cheat, or steal. DVD tells it like it is, no questions asked. (Most times that is, if my wife is really mad at me for something, I avoid writing anything about her that may get her even madder. Cause if she gets more mad, I go further in the dog house, but for the most part I tell it how it is.)

DVD should be your Blog for the next four years. DVD! Where the truth is told, and sometimes hurts. LW is a blogger of the people, for the people.

I am the Lawnwhisperer, and I approve of this message.

Hi Lawnwhisperer!

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 16:33:00 +0000

Hi, my name is Lawnwhisperer, and I am a chipsanddipaholic. I have been clean for 12 days now. Let me tell you, it sucks.

This is not a self-imposed banning of my favorite snack; it is more of a joint venture between my wife and I. Somewhere about two or three weeks ago I had mentioned the possibility of the ban. It was a weak moment for me, and I said some things that I regret. I said, “If you don’t buy them, I won’t eat them!” I didn’t mean to say such things. I apologized a thousand times for making that remark. I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. My wife has stood her ground, and has kept our house chips free. All this time, I have thought that my wife doesn’t listen to a word I say, and here she is listening. Go figure.

My love affair with chips goes deeper than just the chips. It’s the chips and dip combo. Yes I will eat chips alone, but they are simply not as good that way. Also, I have three favorite brands of chips. I like Lays, the popular national brand. I like Herrs, which is also a popular national brand. My favorite brand is Goods, which I believe is a brand from around where I live. How can a guy not like chips when his favorite brands put in a sentence is Lay Herr Good? I may be reading into that a bit, but I think that this is part of my affection to chips. Anyway, I have been chip free, and hating it. I am a pretzel and cracker guy for the time being. Pretzels and crackers suck.

Fit for a King

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Tue, 31 Oct 2006 12:47:00 +0000

I have been married for 9 years. 9 years. For almost 7 of those years she has been lying to me. For seven years she has been deceitful, and hurtful. She has kept a secret from me for the better part of seven years, but last night, I caught her. I don’t know if I can forgive her, but I will try. I am not sure that I will ever be able to believe her again, but I am willing to give her another chance. Most people would just walk out in this situation, but I will try to keep things together. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, if at first we try to deceive.” It goes something like that. Now, my wife has some explaining to do, and I will be listening. I will be listening to every word to try and find out when this lie started.

Last night I got home from work, and went through my normal routine. I noticed that there was something in the dryer, so I checked it out. The sheets were in there. They were all balled up, so I separated them, and continued running the dryer. A little later, after dinner, my wife was helping the kids with homework and stuff, so I decided I would go make the bed. I took the sheets from the dryer, and went up to the room. Then it happened. I caught her in the trap. “Hah”, I yelled. “YOU CAN SO MAKE A KING SIZED BED BY YOURSELF. THIS IS NOT A TWO PERSON JOB.”

For seven years my wife has asked me to help her make the bed. She claims that the bed is too big, and it is too hard to put the fitted sheet on the bed. She claims that the corners don’t stay on, and that it takes two people to do this job. Now, I don’t mind helping, but she always calls me to help while I’m in the middle of something. Or she calls me to help her make the bed, just as the Eagles are about to score, or just when I sit down. I ask her every time why, and her response is always, “John, this bed is too big, it can not be made by one person. It’s a two person job.”

Well, well, well. Her gig is up now isn’t it? I will agree that it is easier to make with two people. I will agree that when you do it yourself, it is annoying. I do not; however, believe that it is a two-man job. My wife has been leading me on for years. She has flat out lied to me, and I believed her. You know what? I bet my wife can cook. She wouldn’t? Would she?

Day Four

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 11:53:00 +0000

Yesterday was so nice. I was at the highest comfort level at work. I was smiling and joking. I was happy and fun. Nothing was bothering me, or rubbing at me. It was just smooth sailing. I felt as though I was moving through the office, without ever taking a step. I was gliding. Do you want to know why I was this way? Cause yesterday was day four of the jeans.

I wore the same pair of jeans for four straight days, and let me just tell you, they don’t get any more comfortable than day four. On day Four, they just hang perfectly. There is no snags or grabs. There is no tightness or rubbing. On day four, the jeans just hang off of you. They are so loose. The crotch hangs lower, which lowers the chances of any chafing taking place. The waist is looser. If I didn’t wear a belt, they would fall down. Day four is a great jean day; there is absolutely no restrictiveness on day four.

The only problem with day four is that it is followed by day five. On day five, there is a very big decision to make. Wearing the same pair of jeans for five straight days is not unheard of, but could lead to people talking behind your back. A thorough inspection of the jeans is performed to make sure there are no coffee stains, or yesterday’s lunch stains, or grass stains. The jeans need to look clean, even though they have been worn for 4 straight days. The jeans will talk to you while you are getting ready too. Yeah, after four straight days, they are almost walking by themselves. “One more day, one more day. Think of the comfort level we are currently attaining. Think of how the next pair is going to feel. They are going to feel like you are sliding into a cardboard box. Wear me one more day.” Day five is very tempting, but I pretty much have stayed away from day five. Day one does suck; it is rough wearing clean stiff jeans.

Is there a way to get jeans to feel like day four, but be day one? Do I have to hire a stunt double? My stunt double would wear my jeans for the first three days, and then I take them on day four. Is there a way for me to do this? I don’t believe there is, but I know that every fourth day, I am as comfortable as I can get in a pair of jeans. I should start a jean company. Day Four Jean Co. Can someone lend me some money?

Where I've Been

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Thu, 26 Oct 2006 13:58:00 +0000

So I go out for a jog one morning in mid September. I was just trying to run off some steam, and get a little exercise. The morning jog turns into an all day jog. I ran clear across the county. I get to the county line, and I was not tired yet, so I kept running. The next thing you know, I am clear across the state. So, I decided to keep running. I ran for days, which turned into weeks. I grew a really long beard. I was running for so long, that people started to know me. They would run with me. Maybe you saw me go through your town. I was on the news in a couple of places. One time, one of the reporters that was running next to me stepped in a pile of dog shit, and he looked at me, and I said Shit Happens. They made a bumper sticker out of that saying I believe. Oh, you know what, I think I am confused. That wasn’t me, all of the above happened to Forest Gump. My bad. I have been busy though.

Actually, the reason I have not been blogging lately is that pirates abducted me. I was out in the ocean, rowing my boat. I was having a good old time. There I am, rowing my boat singing; “Row, Row, Row your boat, gently down the stream.” What? Why is that weird? What else would I be singing while rowing a boat? Hey, when you row your boat you sing what you want. When I am rowing my boat, I’ll sing what I want. I don’t make fun of your songs, whatever floats your boat is the way I see it.

Anyway, this pirate ship pulls up along side of my boat, and this one-eyed nut job tells me to give him all of my jewels. I’m like, “Dude, the only jewels I have are the Family Jewels, and actually you have to ask my wife for them. I am rowing a freaking dingy here. I have a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, and a half a bottle of Coke. You are more than welcome to have that, but I have to get back to shore soon.” He gets all crazy on me and tells me to walk a blank and some stuff. He keeps calling me Matey, and growling at me. I start getting a little bent, and I say “Dude, do you want my freaking sandwich or not. Stop calling me Matey, my name is John. You need a freaking haircut, and your breath smells. Hey, what is that in those barrels that I see.” He then tells me that it is some kind of whiskey. So I was like, “Dude, why didn’t you say so?”

So I jumped on board and hung out for a couple of weeks. We cruised the ocean for a while, robbing other boats. It was fun. We sang songs. Mostly Row, Row, Row your boat. Then they dropped me off, and now I am back to blogging.

Island

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Wed, 25 Oct 2006 12:12:00 +0000

We have all heard the question, and thought about the answer. Well, recently at work the question came up again. “If you were to be stranded on a deserted island, but got to take one person with you, who would it be?” The question is something to that affect. It was funny to listen to some of the answers, but most were celebrities. Some of the guys were saying that they would want it to be the likes of Pamela Anderson, and Angelina Jolie, and whatever other famous hot chicks are out there. The women in the office were picking their idea of sexy men. They were leaning towards the Brad Pitts and Kenny Chesney types. Now, there was a clause thrown out on the Kenny Chesney pick, and it had to do with his cowboy hat. Without that hat, he loses some of his sexiness I guess, so they only want him if his hat is with him.

So, you understand the concept here. Someone asked me the question, and I answered pretty quickly, and confidently. I answered almost like I had thought this through before, but I never had. I said, “My brother Dan.” I got some funny looks, and laughter. “Yeah, make that, my brother Dan and a volleyball.” I had some explaining to do, so I did.

It goes like this, I don’t live in a fantasy world, so picking the hot celebrities is a waste of time. I would not take my wife, cause I would never want her to be stranded on a deserted island, she deserves better than that. If I am going to be stranded on an Island, I need to be with someone that can do stuff, like build huts, and make a boat. Dan’s the man. Dan is a handy son-of-a-gun. I could make a case for any one of my 7 brothers, but Dan wins, cause he can build shit. He can build shit, and he is not afraid of animals.

I can’t build anything, and the monkeys and lizards on the island would freak me out, so I need someone that can take care of all of that stuff. Dan is my choice for the one person I would be stranded on an island with. The volleyball would be there for me to talk to when Dan gets mad at me. Yeah, Dan gets mad when he is doing projects. At some point in the middle of building our bamboo hut, I would mess something up. He would call me an F-ing idiot, and tell me to get the hell away from the vines that we are using to tie the beams together. He would curse at me some more, and I would walk away. I would walk away from the building site and sit down next to Wilson, and say, “You know Wilson, Dan can be an asshole at times, but that sure is a nice hut we have there.”

Funerals Are Funny.

batmeaks@verizon.net (WILLIAM) — Tue, 24 Oct 2006 13:02:00 +0000

Guest Post by Momo 9. Mother of the Lawnwhisperer and William (and others but they don't count).

I love my Mom and Dad. I know they are both enjoying each other in their heavenly paradise. They both lived long happy lives. Mother outlived Daddy by 4 years. Those four years were difficult for her and for us. Most of us have families and friends to help us get through the sad times. Mom’s grief was so deep, we couldn’t help her. Her health was not the best. She was wheelchair bound for about 25 years (Arthritis, hip and knee replacements 4 times over). She was not a complainer. She was truly a happy person till Daddy died. Depression consumed a lot of her days. She struggled through it. This past August she died suddenly. It was quick for her, sad for us. When we were making funeral arrangements with the local undertaker, who was a friend of the family, one of my sisters commented that Mom was very self conscious of her rolls. Those little fat deposits that form under the bra and go all the way around the back. When my sister asked why, now at 85 years old, these bothered her, my Mom said she didn’t want Harry to see her like this. Dad’s name wasn’t Harry.

My sister of course was shocked. “Harry who?” she asked. My Mother replied with the last name of the funeral director. “Harry will see me naked. I wish I didn’t have these rolls on my body.” My sister laughed and said,”You’ll be dead, so you won’t be embarrassed”. And Harry won’t care. We did naturally share this with Harry. He did laugh!

Another funny thing happened. After we all left the hospital (when Mom had passed away). We met at her house to discuss particulars. Someone asked, “Where are her teeth?” Her teeth? She still had most of her own teeth, but there was a plate that she wore to fill in some upper blank spots. Why do we want her teeth? Well maybe the funeral person will have a tough time getting her jaw to look normal. Some of us actually started to look for her teeth. We didn’t find them. She wasn’t going to need them where she was going anyway. Then we figured, if they weren’t in the normal cup where she kept them overnight, they must be in her mouth. We actually LOOKED for her teeth!

My mother had several canes, 2 wheelchairs, and an electric scooter. At her viewing, one of her children and a son-in-law showed up with canes, Neither of them had used a cane before. My one son commented to me that Mom-Mom wasn’t even in the ground yet, and folks were taking her stuff (meaning the canes). It happened they were not my mother’s canes, but both people needed them for health reasons that day. Just looked odd to my son.

I can remember, at a funeral of a friend, a long time ago, our family was lined up in pews in back of the church. During the service someone got a fit of laughing, and we all started to laugh. It was one of those contagious things. One person to the next. We all lost control. We had to leave, it was so bad. To this day, I don’t know what we were laughing about.

Guess the funny little things, help us get through the gut –wrenching pain that we feel when losing a loved one. Thank God for humor.

Why do people always say at a viewing that the dead look good? Dead people look dead. They do not look GOOD! Why do people always say that?

Guest Post by Momo 9

batmeaks@verizon.net (WILLIAM) — Fri, 06 Oct 2006 15:08:00 +0000

Like the rest of you, I’m tired of looking up this blog and being “Shit On” everyday. The “Whisperer” has been slacking with his posting. Time to get rid of that title.

50th Reunion

I attended the reunion of my 8th grade class last weekend. It has been 50 years since we graduated. It was so fun! We didn’t know each other. Why? Most of us have not kept in touch over the years. We are strangers to each other. But we had fun!

One of the guys mentioned how tall he thought I was in eighth grade. Duh! He was one of the shortest boys in the class. I had reached my adult height in 8th grade. He was still growing. Now he is taller than me. He couldn’t figure that out. Girls mature so much sooner than boys.
One of the guys who had a full head of curly hair in eighth grade is BALD as can be now!
Some of us have added a few pounds to our bodies.(well, okay, a lot of pounds). Most of us have gray hair now (all of us, but some hide the color with Clairol).

If we didn’t have nametags, we would all have been in the dark, as to who was who.
We attended a Catholic grade school. It was fun to remember each other and think about the good times together. We all have fond memories. Some of us had a bad experience or two, but the good outweighed the bad. Some of us remember nothing (Alzheimers setting in?).

Catching up on the last 50 years was the best. Talking about kids and grandkids and work and retirement was the highlight of the day. The thick bond of elementary school brought these strangers back to friendship again! Now we have a whole new group to meet with and chat with and grow old together with. How nice is that? Awesome! I’m having lunch next week with a woman that I’m renewing a friendship with, after 40 years. We are both excited about this.

Advice: Go to all your reunions! Don’t wait 50 years! They can fun and rewarding!

Shit On

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Thu, 14 Sep 2006 16:20:00 +0000

It’s a common phrase, and it is used in many different situations. When the workday does not go as planned, and the customers are beating you up. You go home and the wife asked how your day was, you reply, “It sucked, I got shit on all day.” You go out with the boys for a day of golf, and you get killed. You shoot a bad round, and the other guys tear it up. You go home and the wife asks how you did, “I was horrible, the other guys shit on me.”

You get the gist, to be shit on, is a negative. It sucks. It means it was a bad day, or experience. It means that others treated you badly, and it was not a good experience. In other words, you do not want to be shit on. So I take Kyle to his soccer practice last night. It was a nice breezy evening and I was winding down from my miserable workday. The last few have been bad, and I was finally enjoying the down time. I was sitting alone, enjoying the air, and the calmness. Kyle was practicing with his team, and I was clearing my head of all negatives. It was nice, I was unwinding.

Off in the distance I noticed a flock of geese coming my way. It is obviously the beginning of the migrating south thing. There had to be 50 of them in the silly V shape that they fly in. They were making that annoying honking sound, as they got closer. Now, I learned a long time ago that you do not look up when there is a flock of birds flying overhead. So I looked down toward the ground as they passed my location. Don’t you know one of those bastards shit on me! It hit me right on the shoe. Some people believe that it is good luck to be shit on by a bird. I think it is gross. I hate geese, go south already!

Green Beans, yuk.

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 16:39:00 +0000

Dinnertime at my house is a bit of a chore. It is not a chore that I have to cook most nights; cause I have come to grips with that aspect of my wife, I mean my life. It is a chore to get the boys to both eat at the same time, and in a timely manner. Kyle is a slow eater. When I say slow, I would want everyone to picture a worm sliding across the driveway after a heavy rainstorm. Luke is a very fast eater. By fast, I would want everyone to picture how quick my wife could fake sleeping when I am trying to get some action. Kyle doesn’t like anything, and Luke likes everything. So it is a pain in the ass.

The other night Vicki had to run out to the store. The boys and I were eating, and she decided to go then. Right before she walked out the door, she hesitated and said, “Maybe I should wait until they are done eating, cause you won’t make them finish their dinner.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “I will make them finish.” She shook her head and said, “No you won’t, they will wear you down, and you will throw it away, and then tell me that they finished. I will come home and you guys will be eating cookies and watching TV, and the dinner will be in the trash can.”

I denied such shenanigans, and waited for her to leave. After she left, I had to do a sweep for hidden cameras. How the hell did she know that I do that? I can’t sit there and force my kids to eat green beans. You’re damn right that they go down the garbage disposal, when she is not looking, but how does she know that? The kids and I have a code of silence on such topics, or so I thought. Cause when Vicki walked in from the store, and we were sitting on the couch, eating popsicles, and watching TV, the first thing she said was, “Luke did you eat all of your dinner?” He looked at her, then he looked at me, and he said, “No, dad took it.”

That damn Luke. From here on out, he has to finish his green beans. Kyle and I will watch TV and eat cookies by ourselves.

Surprise Attack

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 20:27:00 +0000

I am a little embarrassed. I feel a tad bit ashamed right at this moment. I am having trouble looking people in the eye today. This is not my normal behavior, as I am a relatively happy person with a hint of cynicism and grumpiness. But all in all, I am an OK guy. Today, I am not myself. I feel a bit betrayed, with a touch of humiliation.

I had a doctor appointment today. It was a basic check-up. I had not been there for a while, so I was just following up on my ailments and aches. My doctor has known me for a while, and she knows that most of these ailments are of the mental variety, but she plays along pretty well. Yes, my doctor is a lady. Well, she is a female. She hardly acted like a Lady today.

We started the appointment with the typical pleasantries. The Hello’s and the how are you’s. She did some blood pressure stuff and some listening to the lungs stuff. Things were going along fine, and she was giving me a speech about something, when in the middle she mentioned something about a rectal exam. “Whoa, what was that you just said?” I interrupted. She went through her reasoning again, and I said, “I’m only 37, you don’t have to do that until I’m 40!!!” “John” she said, “It is not just for 40 year olds, and I want to be sure everything is fine.”

So, two minutes later, she stuck her finger up my ass. There is no real way to describe a finger being stuck up your ass. It is not pleasant. My elbows are on the bench, my pants are around my knees, and the doctor’s finger is up my ass, and she says, “You should be thankful that you have a female doctor, cause my fingers are thinner.”

My doctor surprise attacked me. There is no way in hell that I would have gone to that appointment if I knew she was going to stick her finger up my ass. I was violated. I have to change doctors now. I can never look her in the eye again. Not after what she did, and how she did it. I was just starting to like her too.

Rough Night

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Tue, 05 Sep 2006 15:16:00 +0000

The prettiest tree that I have at my house is a Southern Magnolia Tree. This thing is absolutely beautiful. I apparently planted it in a perfect place for it to withstand wind and weather. I have been complimented on its beauty many times. I take care of my trees and shrubs, and this one is by far the best.

This past weekend, we had the remnants of Ernesto hit us in Pa. It was a windy, and rainy miserable couple of days. Friday night into Saturday was the worst. The kids and I do not like sleeping in such conditions, and I knew it was going to be a long night. I decided to take the kids into my room, and let Vicki sleep in one of the other beds. This way, she could get a good night of sleep, and I would tend to the scared little boys. So the wind is howling and the rain is pelting the house, and the boys and me are just staring at the ceiling. We were huddled up in the middle of the bed with our stuffed animals and blankets. We were braving the storm, when the noise started. It was a scratching, clawing noise. It was spooky.

“What is that?” asked a scared Luke. “I don’t know buddy, why don’t you go check it out?” I replied. He wouldn’t do it. So I turned to Kyle and begged him to go check it out. He wanted no parts of it. The noise was eerie, and I was not about to get out from under the blankets. My kids were way to scared to move, and I was too chicken to move. I tried calling for my wife. She was resting comfortably in Luke’s room. She could not hear my calls for help. She is the checker-outer in our house. She was not there to comfort us boys. I finally mustered up some courage to go check the noise. I told the boys that they were grounded for a week, for making me do it, but I did. I went over to the window, and looked outside. My Southern Magnolia Tree was scratching against the siding of the house, and banging on the window.

In one swift cat-like motion I dove back into bed, and under my pillow. I made the boys hold me, and we all fell off to sleep. Well, I slept with one eye open. On Monday, the weather was better. So I went out in the front yard and made some changes. I now have a Southern Magnolia Twig in my front yard. I Charlie Browned that Magnolia. There will be no more scratching on my window. My boys are banned from any fun for a week. They need to toughen up. They can be such scaredy-cats sometimes. They need to grow up.

First Grade Trouble

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 14:56:00 +0000

Would Superman be ok with his son going to first grade, and the teachers name being Mrs. Kryptonite? No!

Do you think that Elliot Ness would like it if his kid’s first grade teacher were named, Mrs. Capone? I don’t think so.

Batman would probably pull his kid out of school if the teachers name was Mrs. Riddler.

Phil Mickelson would not be too keen on one of his kids having a teacher named Mrs. Woods, or Mrs. Tiger.

I am the Lawnwhisperer. I spend most of my free time taking care of the lawn. I do everything in my super powers to rid my lawn of crabgrass and weeds. Weeds are my archenemy. Why then, is Kyle’s first grade teacher named Mrs. Weed? There is no way in hell that this is going to work. She seems like a nice woman, and Kyle seemed to like her, but I couldn’t even look at her. All I can picture is dandelions and stuff. She can’t teach my kid. I can’t have it. I want him moved to a different class. My wife thinks I am crazy, but I just can’t see the son of the Lawnwhisperer, being lead by a weed. Am I wrong to feel this way?

Wishful Thinking

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Thu, 24 Aug 2006 11:23:00 +0000

While on vacation last week, we went to a place for lunch. Kyle and Luke were a bit antsy, and my nerves were fraying. Vicki’s nerves were already shot, so I had to do something to calm the kids down. We were sitting out on the deck of the restaurant, and over the rail was a well with a little pond. I had a bunch of change in my pocket, so I got the boys to come over and make some wishes.

I gave them both a handful of change so that they could throw the money into the well and make a wish. Kyle was not happy about it. He said, “Dad, this doesn’t work. Wishes don’t come true.” I talked him into making a few wishes and explained that he had to be a believer. Luke was all fired up about being able to make some wishes, and told me multiple times that he is indeed a believer. I finally convinced Kyle to just make some wishes, and see what happens.

So the boys start tossing the change in and making some wishes. I overheard one of Kyle’s wishes. He wished that we had two kinds of ice cream in the freezer when we got home from vacation. I called Kristin later on that day and asked her to go buy this ice cream and make sure it was there when we got back. I was going to make a believer out of Kyle. Sometimes I am so smart that it kills me. This was easily one of my brightest parenting moves to date. It was so easy.

We get home from vacation and after a while, we show Kyle the freezer. He saw the ice cream and got all excited. “Oh my god, one of my wishes came true. Luke, Luke, wishes do come true. I wished for ice cream, and we have it in the freezer.” With this Luke jumps up and starts running down the basement. I say, “Hey, where are you running off to?” He is going so fast that he is tripping over his own feet and he says, “I wished for a pinball machine, I want to go see it.”

Shit, the plan backfired. Now I have to explain to Luke why his wish did not come true, but Kyle’s did. Trying to explain such nonsense to a five year old is impossible. I managed to turn Kyle into a believer, but also managed to turn Luke into a nonbeliever. Luke is not only mad that his wish did not come true, but he wants his money back. He wants me to take him back to the well so that he can get his dimes. Me, I wish I never took them to the damn wishing well in the first place, but I am enjoying having the ice cream in the house.

Puzzling

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Wed, 23 Aug 2006 12:03:00 +0000

I have seen it a ton of times. Every TV show with an investigation goes through it. You know, the ‘who done it’ shows. In every episode they are all looking for the same thing. The guy and girl investigative team is torn. (Apparently you can’t have a cop show anymore unless you cast a guy-girl partner tandem.) They go sit in the captain’s office and are bringing him up to speed. Somewhere along the line, somebody says this “Sir, we’re getting close, we just need to find that last piece of the puzzle.”

So all of these people are frustrated and agitated that they can’t find that last piece of the puzzle. They are working day and night to find that puzzle piece. It is an all-consuming life that takes on a meaning of its own, when that puzzle piece is missing. Everybody involved is out to find that puzzle piece. Well, I know how they feel. I could be on one of those shows, cause I have real life experience on this topic.

Luke and I were at home alone, and we put a puzzle together. We put the entire thing together, and there is a piece missing. The piece is smack in the middle of the puzzle. Luke made me look everywhere. It became an all-consuming project. I was prepared to work through the night. I was turning the room upside down, when Vicki walked in. She asked what we were doing and I had to tell her. I said, “Hon, We have been looking everywhere, we need to find the last piece of the puzzle.” So, my wife started to help us look. Here we were, a guy-girl partner investigative team, looking for the last piece of the puzzle. We could be on TV.

We have not found the piece yet. The puzzle still rests on the coffee table, finished, except for that piece. It is disturbing to me that we have not found it. But someday I will find it. I will find the missing piece of the puzzle.

The Birds and the Bees

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Mon, 14 Aug 2006 01:33:00 +0000

I know it is a little bit early. I know that it is hard for most people to even attempt to bring up the subject. It has only been six and a half years, and most people say you should wait until 12 or 13 years to have the talk. I was absolutely tired of waiting, and decided that now was as good a time as ever. I needed to get this stuff off of my chest, so I gathered everyone involved, and we met out on the patio. I had the talk on Sunday morning, and it was pretty straight forward, and to the point.

I started with the birds. I said, “Birds, what the hell is your deal? Why do you go around shitting on all of my stuff, at every chance you get? You don’t see me shitting in your nest, so why do you shit on my house? I know damn well that you are sitting up in a tree watching me wash my car, and you wait exactly until the car dries to come and make a mess. I know you think that that is funny, but guess what, it’s not. And you know what else? The grass seed that I spread is for the damn lawn, it is not for you to snack on. It is not for you and all of your kind to eat all up, before it ever germinates. That is why people put birdfeeders out in their lawn. If I wanted to feed you, I would do that. Also, when I am out cutting the grass, leave me the hell alone. I do not find it to be cute for you guys to dive bomb me while I am working. If you guys are just playing that is fine, but go to a freaking playground to play. We can certainly coexist, but you will have to live by my rules.”

The birds seemed ok with the conversation, so I then turned towards the bees. I said, “Guys, listen up. If I am weed whacking around a tree, and just so happen to get close to your nest, you do not need to get all angry and upset. There is no need to come out all buzzing and nasty, and chase me all around my yard. Do you know how silly I look, when I am running around in circles waving my arms and screaming obscenities? My neighbors do not need to see that. I have no desire to get your honey. I don’t even like honey. You can keep it. I will only be around the tree for a second or two, and then I am gone. Chill the hell out will you? Also, my shed is for my tools and things. Stop finding every nook and cranny, and starting one of your little honey comb things. There are plenty of places on my neighbor’s yards for you to set up shop for your precious little queen. What is the deal with that whole queen thing anyway? Is she a real queen or one of those figurehead queens like England has? Cause if she is just a figurehead; tell her to get her own pollen. She can’t have you beheaded or anything. You guys don’t even have heads, do you? We can all get along just fine, but you have to live by my rules, screw your queen.”

The conversations went pretty good. I think we are all on the same page now. I don’t understand why people make such a fuss about the Birds and The bees conversation. It was pretty easy. You just have to open up, and explain the truth. It’s not that hard, really. It is apparently one of the most awkward times for a parent, but trust me, it’s not that bad.

Choosing My Religion

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Fri, 11 Aug 2006 13:23:00 +0000

At the time when we were deciding on where to get married things were a bit goofy. I was raised Catholic. My wife was raised Episcopalian. My soon to be stepdaughter was being raised catholic, and even attending catholic school. My wife is Episcopal but raising her kid to be catholic. This may sound strange to you, but it is apparently a tradition in my wife’s family. See, my mother-in-law is catholic, but raised my wife Episcopalian. So we had to have some debates over which church to use as our church. The Catholic Church had some issues, cause they always do. The Episcopal Church that my wife went to was too small. So we said fuck–it, and got married in a Presbyterian church.

So a Catholic and an Episcopalian got married Presbyterian. What’s wrong with that? It’s normal, isn’t it? Not only did we get married Presbyterian, but we had a female minister. Not only was she a female minister, I think quite possibly that she was a lesbian. (Not that there is anything wrong with that) So we have a bunch of Catholics coming to a Presbyterian church, where the head of the service is a female who quite possibly is a lesbian. The Catholics were probably having a fit. My wedding service was awesome. The minister was awesome. The little church with no AC was awesome.

My brothers were all groomsmen, and they got real ballsy in the Presbyterian Church. If I got married in a catholic church, not one of them would have the balls to behave the way they did. They all felt that they could get away with more, because they did not have that catholic guilt thing going. They did not have the fear of god in them that day. So they did things, like have our rings delivered by a UPS man. There is a story behind that, but I can’t get into it right now. That was some funny stuff.

So, my wife and I got married by a neutral party. I now have three separate religions that I am a part of. For me it is easy to understand, but my kids are a bit confused. Yeah, keeping up with my wife and her family tradition we are raising our kids opposite of what we are. Actually, we took this to a new level. Kristin is Catholic, Kyle is Episcopalian, and Luke is Presbyterian. It gets a bit confusing on Sunday’s but so far we are doing O.K.

What a Day

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 14:23:00 +0000

9 years ago yesterday, was one of the happiest, most fun days of my life. The entire family got together on my behalf. Everyone was there. All of my brothers were there. My cousin Mike V was there. My buddies, Greg and Jerry were there. They were all there for me. We were just hanging out, doing guy stuff. The memories of this day are still some of the most vivid that I have. There is nothing better than being the center of attention on a fun filled day.

We started this day semi-hung over. The night before was one of partying, and drinks. When we all came out of our fogs, we went over to the golf course. It was a hot day, but it is never too hot to golf. We were only playing chip and putt, but we were all enjoying ourselves. I got to witness my brother Kevin get a hole in one. To this day, it is the only good golf shot that he has ever had. I’m pretty sure that I won that day too. They were letting me win, cause this was my day.

After the golf we were all a bit parched. We needed something to drink, so we all went back to my house. We had beer there, and we had a ping-pong table. So the natural thing to do when those two things cross paths is to play beer-pong. We played this for hours. There are really no winners or losers in beer-pong, cause everyone gets to drink. Some just drink more than others. Some of the guys were having a bit too much fun, but it was my day, and I was OK with it. We kind of trashed the house that day. We made quite a mess.

Oh yeah, I also got married on this day. So we all had to scurry about and get dressed when the Limo’s showed up. I had a bunch of semi-drunk groomsmen trying to get into their tuxes. It was kind of like a Chinese fire drill in the house. We made it to the church, everyone sucking on mints and chewing gum. I don’t think it worked though, I think some people were on to us. My wife was freaking smoking hot, of course, and she actually went through with the service. No, I was not crying. It was hot in there. There was no AC in the church, and it was August for god sake. The sweat was dripping into my eyes. That is why they were watering. My voice was cracking because I had been hooting and hollering during the beer-pong marathon, and was a little horse in the throat. I wasn’t crying, seriously. Anyway it was a great day. Any day you get to get all the guys together for golf and then beer-pong is a good day. Oh yeah, and a wedding.

Karate Kids

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 11:46:00 +0000

My wife signed the boys up for Karate. My first thought when she told me this, was, “why the hell would you sign too little maniacs up for something like that?” All I could think of was their sparring matches. I could see the stitches. I could hear the bones breaking. I could see the blood, and I could see the trips to the emergency room. My kids already do their share of fighting with each other, and now we are going to have them taught on the proper techniques. This just seemed crazy to me.

After I let the information settle in, I started to look on the bright side. I will never have to wax my car again. The boys will do that, they teach it in Karate. I will never have to paint anything again either. The kids will be taught how to paint the fence in Karate. If they know how to paint a fence, they will certainly know how to paint a house. I will not have to pay someone to re-do my kitchen floor. Nope, the kids will do it. They teach kids how to sand the floor in Karate too. I will save money on bug spray too. The kids will be able to catch flies with chopsticks; so, I will have them stand next to me when the mosquitos are bad. So, Karate could end up being a positive. My kids will learn how to do household chores, and I will have more time for golf. That’s not so bad.

Full Moon and Thunderstorms

noreply@blogger.com (lawnwhisperer) — Tue, 08 Aug 2006 17:19:00 +0000

On one side of the sky the Moon was full,
It was shining high and shining bright.
On the other side the Thunder was clapping,
With sporadic bolts of light.

From my vantage point, from the where I stood.
This was a pretty amazing sight.
But I didn’t stay long, to view this sky,
Cause I knew I was in for a long night.

A full moon by itself is enough to spook me,
A kind of strangeness comes through the air.
It brings out the worst in all kinds of people.
And of course I know the werewolves will be there.

When you add in a thunderstorm to the mix,
It brings on a whole new meaning to Scare.
The kids get nervous and start to cry,
But I don’t have the time to care.

I can’t console them, when I need some consoling,
Soothing words from me won’t be said.
I can’t be worried about what they need,
I have to get the pillows up over my head.

Don’t come to me in times of fright.
You better go to your mother instead.
I need my flashlight and survival kit,
If you care to join me, I’ll be under the bed.