Because I Always Do What My Wife Says

Something!

(So there! Now are you happy, Joyce?)

Breaking Tradition

Joyce and I have rituals -- probably because we’re both so brain-dead we can’t remember what we’re supposed to be doing if it isn’t what we always do. The only other possible explanation is we're Catholics and don't know it.

Anyway, one of our rituals is a conversation we have whenever I’m ready to leave the office. I call home and (thanks to caller ID) Joyce knows that I’m the one ringing her line, so she answers with her traditional liturgy.

You see, I usually take the train, but sometimes I'll drive, so (after one close call when I almost rode the train home -- thus abandoning my car in a downtown Dallas parking lot) we've mutually agreed to discuss my mode of transportation before I set out. Since I usually have a train to catch, we keep the conversation brief. Yesterday Joyce again answered with her usual one word question:
Joyce: "Train?"

But rather than replying as protocol dictates, "Train!" I spiced it up with:
Bob: "Hi, beautiful! How was your day?"

That stumped her:
Joyce: "Uhhhh ... Who is this? And How do you know I’m beautiful over the phone?"

Bob: "It's the guy you've been sleeping with. Your pretty face is the one thing I won't ever forget. By the way, I’m taking the train -- see you soon."

Joyce: {Sigh} "I love you, you know."

Bob: "Love you more."

The Roads Are Treacherous ... So They Say

No doubt you've heard that the Dallas-Fort Worth area got an all-time-record 12.5 inches of snow yesterday. And last night all the TV weathermen were warning us that the streets and highways in the area would be treacherous this morning, but I didn't believe them. In fact I'm still skeptical.

I mean, who would imagine that roadways are even capable of treachery? If any object is to be suspected of double-dealing, it would be my lawn. Just two weeks ago I fertilized it and lavished it with pre-emergent herbicide. In return, it brightened to a promising green and thickened to such an extent that this past weekend it enticed me to mow it. But now it mocks me beneath a thick blanket of snow. Considering that the lawn owes its very existence to me (not to mention the debt it's incurred from all the tender care I've given it lately), I'd say such conduct goes way beyond treacherous ... to treasonous.

So I say: "Nay! Don't believe all those televised meteorologist who accuse the roads of being treacherous. It's the lawns who'll stab you in the back!"



UPDATE: Thanks go to my bride for pointing out this video that makes the point about the hyperbole of TV weathermen and reporters so much better than I can.

The Day ObamaCare Died

That Paul Shanklin is a genius...

A Word from the Dimocrat National Committee

As one of those privileged to receive regular email updates from the Democratic National Committee, I was thrilled to see news in my in-box this morning:

I just got up to Martha Coakley's campaign HQ to help her win Tuesday's crucial special election. I have to tell you -- this isn't like anything Massachusetts has ever seen.

It's happening right after the holidays, so a lot of people haven't even heard about it. Meanwhile, the same guys behind the Swift Boat ads are taking over the airwaves to distort Martha's record, and the same far-right tea-party crowd that's attacking President Obama is funding her opponent.

The stakes in this race are incredibly high. If we don't hold this seat, a right-wing Republican will hold Sen. Ted Kennedy's old seat until at least 2012 -- and we'll lose a crucial vote in the Senate for health reform and the agenda we fought so hard for last year.

That's why we're going all out in Massachusetts with a massive effort to lock up a Democratic victory. But we can only afford to keep this battle up against the far right through Election Day if folks like you chip in.

Please donate $5 or more to help us make Martha Coakley the next senator from Massachusetts.

Our organizers are engaging volunteers by the thousands to make sure Obama voters make it back to the polls.

But we need your help to keep it going. Please donate $5 or more to the Democratic Party to support our work, including our efforts to elect Martha Coakley.

As luck would have it, I'm a bit short on $5 bills to send to dimocrats, but I do feel an obligation to do my part, so won't you join me in saying a prayer for the democrats of Massachusetts: "God of all mercy, we beseech Thee, make an exception to Thy tender mercy and grant those big-government power-grabbing statists the merciless whoopin' they so richly deserve."

Reptile Dysfunction

As a service to all my readers in South Florida who've been struggling with the question, "How can I be of assistance to all those comatose iguana's that are falling out of my trees?" Sherry L. Schlueter, Executive Director of the Wildlife Care Center in Fort Lauderdale FL, addresses that very problem.

Hat tip to Neat-O-Rama and Dave Barry.

Avatar

Hat tip to Natural Fake for this clip from the final battle scene in James Cameron's epic fantasy film Avatar.



I haven't seen the flick yet, so I really don't know if this made it into the theater release of the film or will be on the DVD's director's cut. Just don't blame me if you're disappointed to find that this scene was cut to keep the movie under five hours.

Family Gathering

Last night a super-majority of my siblings coagulated at Roy's house to gorge on tamales and sundries. With that many folks assembled, its seemed like no fewer than two active conversations were in progress at any given time -- and generally one could move freely from one stream of effluvium to another without disturbance. I tapped into the flow of one conversation just as Roy was holding forth about one of his students during his days as a B52 instructor navigator at Castle AFB: "... Hildebrandt was just a dumb Swede from Maine. One day we were sitting around shootin' the breeze, when he shared the fact that his ambition was to go back to goat farming after he retired from the Air Force, 'There's nuthin' like the feel of warm goat teat on a cold morning.' To which one of the other instructors (who happened to be from New York) replied, 'And the best part is, you don't even have to get out of bed.'"

We, of course, roared with laughter, but what really carried that punchline was the look of complete mortification on the face of Joel's oldest daughter, a genuinely charming and gentle lady whom God has obviously misplaced in such a crude family.

Post of Christmas Past

Joyce and I went to Walmart this morning to restock on a few items we'd depleted over Christmas. As we drove home from the store, talking about what a wonderful Christmas we had with our sons (and their charming brides and our granddaughter, of course), I mentioned that I'd once had a very disappointing Christmas. Upon hearing my woeful tale, my darling told me, "You really ought to blog that story." And since I always do whatever my wife tells me ...

It's probably the Christmas of 1956 -- I'm on the brink of turning five. Mom has taken us to the Sears store at Five Points (you know -- where Piedras, Pershing and Elm converge) and we (my two big brothers and I) are anxiously waiting to sit on Santa's lap. Now understand, I've never been fooled by the velour duds and that ridiculous fake beard... (Well, perhaps I should say, "My oldest brother has never allowed me to be fooled by the velour duds and ridiculous fake beard" -- at least, not since he himself once broke a gift from Santa and Mom let slip, "I didn't buy that just for you to break it first chance you get!" So Joel (seeking to spare Roy and me the trauma of having to jut out our lower lips and tearfully answer Mom, "But Santa gave me that...") had taken upon himself that heavy cross of making sure other innocents were never suckered by those lying parents of ours. But I digress.

Mom has taken us to Sears to sit on the lap of this so-called "Santa" (a Santa who bears a striking resemblance in both voice and face to Red Brown, the host of Channel Four's local "Saturday Circus" children's program). We know Red isn't Santa, and Mom knows we know, but we all go along with the charade since we all get something useful out of this quid pro quo: Mom gets actionable intelligence and we get the opportunity to offer helpful pointers on the most desirable Christmas booty.

But as I was saying, Mom has taken us to Sears to talk to Santa, and after the most boring five minutes of my entire life, Red Brown (er ... Santa) hoists me up and plops me down on his left knee with the question, "And what's your name?"

As if the real Santa wouldn't know that! I think to myself. But to the guy in the flashy suit I mumble: "Bobby..."

"So tell me, Bobby, what do you want for Christmas?"

Without a moment's hesitation I shout: "A TRUCK!!!"

"Have you been a good boy?"

To myself I think: Gee, that's such an open-ended question. It just begs for clarification of terms. But to Santa I fib: "Uh hunh..."

Santa buys it. A second later I'm standing next to Mom while Roy proceeds to tell Santa that same whopper about his deportment. Mom inquires, "So what did you tell Santa you want for Christmas?"

Again, without the slightest hesitation, I shout: "A TRUCK!!!"

Mom doesn't flinch or make any of those "Well-I'm-not-sure-if-Santa-can..." noises, so I'm very encouraged.

Long story short, by the time the big day comes, I'm absolutely convinced Mom has bought me the truck I so desperately want. When the time comes to receive my big present, I'm surprised that Mom directs my attention to a rather small package under the tree.

In tearing off the wrappings I confirm the worst. Aw crap! Mom has completely misunderstood -- she's bought me a fricking TOY truck! Oh well, it'll do for now. Maybe I'll get what I want next year ... when I'm big enough to reach the pedals.

The Bad Baby Sitters

As Jack Handy famously said: "The face of a child can say it all ... especially the mouth part."

On our snowy Christmas Eve, Joyce and I were given the most wonderful Christmas present, an afternoon with the granddaughter. Over and over and over and over, the young lady sang:

"Row-row-row your boat
Jenty doubt the stweam.
If you see Jonah,
Don't forget to scweam!"

The song, of course, ends with a blood-curdling (but gleeful) squeal, one that would certainly cause permanent hearing loss ... were it but at a frequency Joyce and I can still hear.

T'was the Night Before Christmas

Joyce asked, "I wonder what we did for Christmas last year?" Then she answered her own question with, "Oh, I know -- I'll just check what I was blogging." It seems (from Joyce's recording of events) last year we celebrated the Lord's birth by trimming shrubbery and watching James dash off to see his new-found love every chance he got.

Despite my having never been one to doubt the completeness of Joyce's journal, I thought to myself, I wonder what I wrote this time last year? A couple of keystrokes later, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but ... this post from last Christmas Eve:

'Tis the night before Christmas and up at the table,
Little Ben is a-scribbling as best as he's able,
The kids at the school have been dissin' the man,
So Ben's little mind is devising a plan.

Ben should be nestled all snug in his bed,
But questions of truthfulness buzz in his head;
He scrawls on his card stock; I bring the ink pad.
He's cleverly testing if he has been had.

The milk and the cookies have always been downed,
But now he needs proof a little more sound.
His marker, it moves with a flair and a flash,
"Lev your tum print Santa---" he ends with a dash.

Our little wise guy, so cunning so slick,
Has baited his trap for alleged Saint Nick.
Then carefully sets out the ink pad and note,
So Santa will use it (like Iraqi's all vote).

"Ben's dashing, now dancing, now prancing, and fixin'
to check if old Santa rides a sleigh that he sits in!
I say, "To bed with ya now!" [down the end of the hall]
"Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
So Ben mounts to the bunk, his bed way up high.
Then Mom and I wait for the whispers to quiet,
We've got us a ploy, but not sure if he'll buy it.

Next morning Ben's thrilled by the handsome ink blot,
But checks out each hand, looking for spots.
With nary a stain on the parenting mitts,
He exultantly cries, "There is a Saint Nick!"

Mom and I stifle our dance in the zone,
(lest high-fives now possibly make our sin known:
With a wink of my eye and a nod of her head,
Without overt lying, we've once more misled).

A year then has past and (kids getting pubescent)
I figure it's high time that I get confessant.
I lay out the truth as plain as you come,
Answers Ben back: "How 'bout the print of the thumb?"

"Didn't check my toes, didja?" I humbly admit.
Ben looks at me hard, then utters, "Aw ... shux!"
But he heard me exclaim, ere he walked out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to y'all, and to y'all a good-night."

This little stab at poetic parody would be complete ... if that were all there is to the story. But alas (as you may note) the poem makes a one-year leap. Amid that year betwixt my deception and my confession, I had a conversation with Ben's oldest sibling, who at that time was a strapping sixteen-year-old.

Dad: Andy, I'm really proud of you for playing along with the Santa thing for the sake of your little brothers.

Andy: But Dad, I still believe in Santa, too.

Dad: Really?

Andy: Yup!

Dad: But don't kids at school make fun of you for believing in Santa?

Andy: Sure ... but I still get presents from Santa and they don't.

Dad: Ahhhh! So it's a mercenary thing?

Andy: Of course.

Dad: In that case: Andy, I'm really proud of you for playing along with the Santa thing for the sake of money.

Women!

We've lent the Alaskan contingent of the family Joyce's car while they're here in Texas visiting with friends and family, so Joyce is using my car and has been dropping me off at the train. This morning we pulled up to the station and, as we were sitting there, Joyce asked, "Are we waiting for your train?"

I answered, "Of course, why would we wait for a train I'm not taking?"

Joyce: Okay, so how would you answer if I asked, "Are the people on the platform the same people you ride with?"

Bob: Some are, some aren't. I recognize a few folks from my train.

Joyce: Okay, so how should I word it?

Bob: I'm not sure. Are you trying to ask if my train is the next one?

Joyce: Yes.

Bob: Okay, then why don't you say, "Is your train the next one?"

Joyce: Is your train the next one?

Bob: No, the next train is west-bound for Fort Worth. It should be here in a minute or two. My train comes as soon as that one leaves, about three minutes later.

Joyce: Does it have to be this difficult?

Bob: It's easy. The west-bound train comes by first, then ...

Joyce: No, do you have to be so irritating?

Bob: Sorry, I'm just trying to figure out what you want to know, and your questions aren't helping.

Joyce: {{big sigh}}

So here I sit, wondering to myself: Where did I go wrong?