Parent Dilemma

My children are starting to ask The Question. My wife and I are struggling with The Answer. Our rapidly coming of age family is soon to confront The Big Issue.

The kids are beginning to hear certain things in the playground, and as parents we want them to get good information about life from us and not some 12 year-old twisted pervert-in-training behind the school.

Speaking as a fully-grown twisted pervert myself, I recently started to explain to my kids how, when you are an adult, you start to experience certain urges. These urges are perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of, I said, but then I started to flounder. I got all embarrassed and asked myself “How and when do you explain to your kids all the ins and outs of pre-marital coffee?”

Is there a book you can read to help introduce the subject? What age is appropriate for them to learn what they’ll need to know about flat-bottomed or cone shaped filters, for example?

I fret that they’ll grow up drinking it black and will give me that condescending look so common to the coffee snob elite, and teenagers.

There are so many questions that need answering. Which coffee house will they choose to frequent when they start skipping high school classes so they can hang out with their juvenile delinquent friends we’ll hate so much? Will peer pressure lead to experimentation with biscotti?

I can’t remember when I started ‘doing it’ as a teenager. All I remember is paying a quarter for a cup of coffee and whiling away entire afternoons at the Wayfarer restaurant in my home town. It was here I was introduced to coffee culture – the atmosphere, the intellectual banter, the trying to feel up the teen waitress who we’d heard would let you for a dollar, and so forth.

So I ask myself – will my kids become addicted to street level coffee like Tim Hortons, or will they go for the high end, the ‘party’ coffees like mochas and lattes which suck you into their expensive lifestyle?

What petty crimes will they commit to get their next fix? How many coins will they pilfer from my nightstand in order to satisfy their cravings? Will they experience the powerful, gasping surge of relief when recovering from massive hangovers by downing a cup of hot joe like us mature grown-ups do?

None of the parenting books I’ve read answer these questions adequately.

When, for example, do you tell them it is okay to fondle their beans? I got caught doing that in the car the other day, rapturously sniffing my fresh bag of coffee. I was on my tenth inhalation when I remembered the kids were in the back seats watching my eyes glaze over.

I explained to them that this behaviour was commonplace and nothing to be embarrassed about. Snorting lines of finely ground Central American powder would be a little extreme, but again it is just coffee and not something habit-forming or anything.

I further explained it is okay to have feelings for their favourite mug. It is also normal to see people waiting in line at their local dealer, cross-eyed with caffeine withdrawal headaches which could register on the Richter scale.

These poor, disheveled wretches have been without caffeine for over twelve excruciating hours and many are experiencing headaches on par with a good brain aneurysm. Hands shaking, they thrust their stainless steel mug at the barista behind the counter and fork over ridiculous amounts of money to experience the rush of injecting fresh, hot heroin EXCUSE ME! coffee into their bodies.

Or so I’ve been told.

Developing a healthy and natural curiosity about coffee is what we hope to achieve with our kids.

We try not to think about them getting in with the wrong crowd, like tea drinkers, so we’ll just do what we can and hope for the best.

Once they get past the awkward stage of talking to their parents about these important issues, maybe I’ll tell them about sex. Over a cup of coffee perhaps.

Interesting Photograph

I think this is an interesting picture.

That is all.

Site "C" Muse

Hey, we should go sightsee Site “C” this summer!

Well okay – where should we go?

Site “C”

I already said I’d go sightseeing. Where?

Site “C”

WHAT are we sightseeing?

Site “C”

You keep repeating yourself. I know WHAT we’re going to do, I’m wondering WHERE we’re going to do it.

We’re going to Site “C” – apparently it’s beautiful up north and I’d like to see it before it’s all under water.

I’d be into sightseeing up North too but I still don’t understand what we’ll see. Start again. What region of the province are we going to?

Peace.

Well same to you but where are we going?

Peace!

I understand peace is important but that’s another conversation! I’m trying to determine where we are going to go. Now – we’re going sightseeing – got it. What are we going to see when we’re doing that?

Dam.

What happened?

Nothing.

Why’d you say damn?

Because that’s why we’re going to Site “C”! Dam!

Stop cursing! I’m just as excited as you are about sightseeing but you don’t have to swear. I still don’t understand where we are going or what we are doing. We’re going to hop on a plane and fly to sightsee where?

Peace.

You keep saying that! Peace to you too! You sound like a hippie. And we’re going to sightsee?

Yes.

I still don’t get it. Now what damn thing are we going to look at when we are sightseeing?

Precisely!

I don’t know what you’re talking about!

We’re going to sightsee site “C” dam. It’s really quite simple.

Sightsee! Sightsee! Damn! Damn! Damn!! You’re driving me nuts! Can I just go slowly here and get you to explain everything? You and I are going to sightsee by flying north – correct?

Yes.

Good! Now – when we land, we’re going to get out of the airplane, and what region of the province will we be in?

Peace.

Stop changing subjects! I want to know where we are sightseeing and you keep saying “Peace!”

Well it’s true – that’s where we’ll be!

I’m glad we’ll be at peace! I asked a question about what we’re doing, and one piece of that question was where? So answer me that piece.

Yes – that’s where we’ll be. Peace.

You’re not making any sense! When we go sightseeing, while we’re at peace, what are we going to see?

Site “C”

Stop that! Let me rephrase the question. When we are sightseeing, we’ll be looking at something. What will we be looking at specifically?

Site “C”

Would you quit saying that? I don’t understand. We are both engineers. We do surveys and work with large earth moving machines and we build large things. So what are we going to go up there for?

Dam.

I’m getting frustrated too, believe me! I’m not sure I want to go sightseeing with you anymore. I don’t understand what the big deal is with you and your sightseeing anyway.

Go ahead.

What?

You asked what the big deal is. I said “Go ahead”. Site “C” is now officially under way – they got the go ahead. Maybe after it’s finished they’ll call all the water the Site “C” Sea. “Come and Sightsee the Site “C” Sea!”

I can’t take this any more. What’s on TV?

No, What’s on second base.

Oh shut up.

Under Pressure

My neighbour was having a garage sale, so I stopped by. We didn’t really need anything, which allowed me to talk myself into a few items without undue pressure.

I discovered a really great cordless drill set almost new for twenty bucks, and also a pressure washer for five.

“Imagine that,” I said “A two hundred dollar pressure washer for five bucks!” This is probably the sort of delusional thinking which leads deranged oddballs to think a lifetime of piling newspapers inside their homes, surrounded by cats, is a great idea.

Anyway, I told my wife all about the utility of a pressure washer, what an opportunity it was to save the family budget, and could I borrow some money to go pick it up? For some reason I did not tell her about the cordless drill package, which means I will now be forced to hide this edition of the newspaper so she doesn’t find out why she didn’t get her change back.

After some severe dickering with my neighbour (“I only got twenty bucks,” I said. “Just take both items then” he replied, filling me with boundless joy), I hurried home with my treasures.

I plugged in the drill’s charger unit and gently stroked the accessories, expressing my love for them quietly and tenderly, as guys do.

Since the washer did not come with instructions, I set about examining the thing. It plugged into the wall of course, and there were two hose attachments, but one of them looked funny. Not your average hose connector for some reason. No matter – I had a fifty/fifty chance of getting it right. In fact, I was certain of success since I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

I lugged it out to our patio and got the water hose connected to it, but the pressure wand hose was giving me trouble. There was your usual threaded hose bit on the end, but there was also a male part inside of it (Oh - this would be the pressure part...I get there eventually…) which I had never encountered before.

I couldn’t get this pressure fitting into the machine. It looked like it should fit, but it wouldn’t go.

I pushed and prodded to no avail. In a bid to save my back, I picked the infernal beast off the ground and put it on one of the deck chairs to better facilitate my efforts. Firmly grasping the hose in front of me I tried to push the infernal attachment into the hole using a series of partial knee bends and grunts.

Now lets pause here and imagine approaching me from the rear as I was attempting these maneuvers.

A large grunting man, arms in front of him, crouched over a deck chair, repetitively bending his knees while mildly cursing as he attempts to insert a hose into a small opening.

I appeared to be participating in some form of kinky, hose-related copulation with a lawn chair.

This was the visual my wife saw as she approached from behind me.

“What are you DOING?” she asked, alarmed.

“I’m trying to get this hose into the pressure washer!” I exclaimed. “It looks like it should fit but it won’t go in!”

“Are you sure you’re putting it in the correct hole?” she asked. “Maybe you’ve got the blow hole mixed up with the water hole” she said, observing.

“No, that’s not the problem. There’s a rubber ring on the end that won’t go in,” I explained. “I’ve never done this before and I’m all excited about using it but I can’t hold steady or push hard enough and it just won’t go in!” I gasped.

“Maybe it needs some lubrication,” she said, helpfully. “It probably hasn’t been used in a while.”

I wet the tip in it went! “Yahoo!” I cried. I turned the threaded thing to keep it in place and off I charged, vigorously spraying everything in sight.

I have concluded that this is the perfect guy-type tool - always available, ready quickly, and a great way to while away a lazy afternoon.

Pressure washing. What did you think I was talking about?

Pervert.

Street Name Puns

Here in Kelowna, we have some interesting street names. I was ruminating about them the other day, in a business-like fashion.

I thought it would be amusing to open a shop selling scales - on Richter Street.

Or a pickle-lovers emporium on Dilmore. A colouful bird shop on Paret. You get the idea.

Then I started thinking of sentences like "Is Aga blind or can Agassiz?" and "Is your favourist pet a Cadder dog?"

I truly enjoy these sick bits of wit - so please send me yours. Thousands in prize money - trust me.

About those cookies...

We regret to inform you that the cookies we had every intention of baking today, using the Pillsbury Chocolate Chunk Store Bought Tube Of Gunk You Slice Up, will not be baked.

We are instead spooning the raw dough into the gaping maw that is my mouth. This act is producing vastly more pleasure than any cookie, even one fresh from the oven, is capable of.

No further regrets will be posted on this matter.

Earth Day

In honour of Earth Day I have decided to wear a cloth diaper today.

Thank you.

Another Winner!

I dusted this one off, re-worked it, and sent it in to America's Funniest Humor Writing Contest - and it won! The judges must be desperate again. You can check it out at www.humorpress.com.

Anyway - here it is, with thanks to my sister Susan for the true story about squirting lemon juice into my eyes as a kid.

Health Care Now and Then

The world of health care, which has inspired so much calm and thoughtful debate recently, will be much better off now that Americans have settled all their differences.

Oh sure, there may be a teensy weensy little argument over which government bureaucracy will decide when and how people will die, but for the most part, things are looking pretty rosy in the
health arena these days.

Things are not quite so clear in the over-the-counter medicine world however, where we have a problem with choices. Allow me to illustrate this lucid reasoning.

I recently went to the drugstore for some kid’s cold remedies. As I wandered around the pain medication aisle(s) I selected a box of Children’s Tylenol Cold, then I grabbed Tylenol Dry Cough and Runny Nose, then some Tylenol Cough, Sneezing, Whining, Sore Throat, Carbuncles and Runny Nose, and finally a bottle of Tylenol Extra Strength Mostly Phlegm.

I also got Tylenol Zits, Tylenol Smelly Pee after Eating Asparagus, and Tylenol Sweat, Boils and Tumors, just to be safe.

There were flavors too - Cherry, Bubble Gum, Grape, Peach, Pine, New Car Smell, Diesel, Napalm, and Grilled Cheese.

I could administer the medication via liquid, tablets, liquid filled tablets, capsules, round pills, coated pills, caplets, nose drops, eye drops, suppositories, skin patches, needle injections, .22 caliber rimfire cartridges, caulking gun, postal delivery, taxi-cab, Morse code or Federal Express.

Contrast this confusing variety with the health substances we had growing up in the 60’s – Aspirin, Phenergan, and a thick red liquid we were told was Penicillin.

I have no idea what Phenergan was but we got it all the time. It may have just been rum in a medicine bottle for all we knew (hey…it was the sixties…have another brownie).

Here is how medical care used to work – it was simple:

Kid has fever so high Mom is cooking fried eggs on kid’s tummy? Aspirin.

Kid wakes up with spots everywhere and urps all over the kitchen? Phenergan.

Kid comes home covered in hideous scabs from ‘riding’ bike all day with no helmet? Nothing.
“Stop oozing all over the floor, I just waxed it!” Mom would say. “Now go wash up for supper”

Mom would reluctantly spoon penicillin into us only after our feverish, yellow eyeballs rolled up into our blotchy foreheads as we drifted into unconsciousness on our way to the hospital, and not a minute sooner because that stuff was expensive.

So you see, we didn’t have a health care in the world back then. Medicine was simple, yet effective. Everyone died by age 40 of course, but I’d like to ignore that point right now.

The nice thing about medicine is the human body is very resilient. You can do almost anything to it and it will usually recover, amputations excepted.

For example, my sister and her evil companion once squirted lemon juice into my eyes during a rousing game of “Let’s Torture the Little Brother We Promise It Won’t Hurt, Honest!”

Medical authorities today claim my poor eyesight is a result of astigma-something and not ‘Shrivelling of the eyeballs as caused by lemon juice infusion at age 5.’

The fact my spectacles today are as thick as a glass coffee table bears no relation whatsoever to this small act of sibling playfulness I am sure.

I forget what I was talking about.

Ah yes – health care.

In closing, here is a parting medical gift:

When a Spiderman Band-Aid does not staunch the flow of spurting arterial blood from
somewhere, remember what the guys from the TV show “Emergency!” used to do, and start an IV of Ringers Lactate.

I have no idea what that is but it usually worked, and the handsome Doctor at the hospital
always called for it.

If that doesn’t work, then I suggest a dose of Phenergan and transport immediately.

If Kids Ran Business

President: “And now our Vice President of Finance will bring us up to speed on the financials for the past year…”

Joe: “Ladies and gentlemen of the board, it is my pleasure to report that our financial position has increased, like, a whole bunch since last year. It’s like, “Whoa! Dude! How’d that happen so fast!” You know? So we’re planning on getting iPods with some of that money, and then we’ll get some cool jeans and stuff. Maybe some new ring tones.”

President: “Cool. Is there any way to attach laser rocket boosters to our third quarter earnings Joe?”

Joe: “Yeah – that would be so cool! Just like in Transformers! Awesome!”

“Excellent – carry on then. Next on the agenda is the Marketing team with a presentation to clue us in on this year’s plans.”

Executive #1: “I think we should start with this slide.”

Executive #2: “You said we could start with my slide first!”

#1: “The President said I could start with mine! Mine has more stuff on it! Mr. President, can we start with my slide first – cause it’s, like, bigger?”

President: “All right, just go with it.”

#1: “Kay. So this year we think it would be cool to, you know, make a commercial with a video camera and put it on TV and stuff.”

#2: “Yeah! We could have alien droids blast our products from outer space with epic missiles that make huge clouds of flames!”

#1: “And their heads get blown off with guts spurting out and everything! Yeah – cool!”

#2: “And maybe we could upload it to YouTube!”

#1: “Awesome!”

President: “Well! Thank you for those really gnarly brainstorms.”

Board Member: “Mr. President? You know those roller blades that have the sparks flying out from the wheels on the side? Yeah. Those are really cool.”

President: “Did you have a question at all Ma’am? Something relevant to the current discussion perhaps?”

Board Member: “No. I just think they are really cool roller blades. Do we have any snacks? I’m bored. How long is this meeting going to be?”

President: “That about wraps it up for another profitable year. You’ll note in your minutes that we are increasing our allowances thirty percent this year, which is in line with our competition and neighbours and other kids so that’s cool.”

“Also, please note that we plan on having more sleepovers in the rumpus room downstairs and we won’t need anyone coming down anymore to tuck us in because we aren’t up to any mischief or eating hidden candy or anything like that. And we’d like to merge with Nintendo since they have all these cool games for the DSi, and I heard they have an even bigger screen coming so that would be awesome.”

“As we expand into the American and Asian markets, I’m sure you’ll agree that to remain competitive in these trying times, we have got to, you know, hey can I have some of that juice? And where did you get that shirt? I like that a lot.”

“Oh yeah – so anyway, we need to go to, like, Los Angeles and New York and stuff soon. I’m so excited. We might see the Jonas Brothers in concert, but they are getting sort of lame now, so we might go see something else. I don’t know. We’ll need to sell a bunch of stuff first to get money and then we’ll just, like, cruise around you know?”

It was during a meeting like this that credit default swaps and high-risk mortgages were created.

The New Math

My business is in the finance field so naturally I was keen to assist my daughter with her grade four math homework.

“OK Dad, we’re doing Geometry now. I know you said you are good at math, but I’m not so sure after seeing you work out the tip at the restaurant tonight. You either can’t do math or you’re really cheap. Let’s do a quick review before you help me. So! What do you call any multi-sided shape?”

“Er, Polyfilla? Polly wanna? Polly something.”

“Polygon, Dad. What is a shape where all four sides are the same length but it is not a square?”

“A Rhambo!” I said.

“Rhombus – close enough. Next, what is a triangle called when all its sides are the same length?”

“An isolated triangle.” I answered.

“Isosceles Dad. Sheesh. This could take a while. What about one where all three sides are of equal length?”

“That’s your equatorial triangle,” I said. This was a piece of cake, I thought.

“Ten sided shape?”

“Decadent!”

“Eight sides?”

“Octothorpe!”

“Six sided shape?”

“Hexorrhoid or hexoplast or something. Phisohex. Hex something. I’m a little rusty on those.”

“Hexagon Dad. It’s a stop sign.”

“I knew that,” I said.

“Five sides? You should know this – you like military stuff.”

“Five sides… Five sides. Military. Hmmm. Sherman tank? Wait! Pentathlon!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to help me in glee club or gym or something Dad?

“I can get this – trust me,” I said. “All I need is a little review time. How about some Al Jazeera – I used to be good at that.”

“It’s called Algebra now Dad. Did they have Algebra back in the old days when you were in school?”

“Don’t be lippy, kid, of course they did. I’m pretty sure us old guys invented it. I remember it well. I used to copy off the smart kid in front of me…”

“DAD!! Cheating is so wrong! Don’t ever do that again – you’re supposed to be setting an example for me! OK now, pay attention! Here’s some algebra. 5 minus (x + 2) = 5x. Solve for ‘x’,” my daughter said.

“I said algebra, not nuclear physics. Give me an easy one.”

“It’s the first problem in the algebra text book.”

“Oh. Wait! I think I hear your mother calling you. Must be bed time. Goodnight!”

“It’s only seven o’clock Dad. By the way, I worked out the new mortgage financing on our house and I think you’ve blown it again. Historically, a variable rate mortgage will save you a considerable amount of interest, so you really shouldn’t have locked into a 5 year term.”

“Thanks dear, that’s very interesting. Run along now…” I said, shoving her out the door.

“And your dividend re-investment plan is not beating the S&P 500 like you said it would Dad!” she called over her shoulder. “You’ve got to diversify your portfolio like I told you!!”

“Thank you sweetheart! Go play in traffic! Don’t forget your helmet! Bye bye!”

I’m going to get a computer for that kid. Good trade I figure.

Passing the Time

My son and I regularly watch the most awesome program on television.

It consists of guys racing their really cool cars down a drag strip. It’s called Pass Lane or Pass the Time. Pass something. Pass Over maybe. I don’t know. It’s a game show where guys bet on how fast a car will go down a drag strip.

We love the show because it is very noisy, and we haven’t a clue what they are talking about. Everyone speaks Enginese, a language I have never learned.

The panel of car nuts asks contestants things like “Do you blow nitrous?” or some other technical question. If it was me I’d answer with a burrito joke at that point, but what comes back is some kind of mechano-dialect, unknown to us auto-illiterates. “We’re burnin’ STS-112 with Holley carbohydrates and a deferential of 3.14 on the rear end.”

Something like that.

“What size pistols you got in the engine?” is the next question.

“It’s got flat-head aluminum Schindlers with torque-aligned wobble cams and a 120 offset small block nitro…”

I have no idea what they are saying but it sure sounds impressive.

After questioning, the driver goes to his car and spins his tires in a manly, smoke-producing display of pure testosterone. The panel of experts analyze the smoke, grunt, nod knowingly, then jot down their guess as to how fast the car will go down the drag strip. No Monty Hall Door Number Three intellectual distractions here.

After some more masculine banter the car noisily departs down the strip, nothing falls off the car (unlike my reality), a time is recorded, and someone wins a hundred bucks.

Like I said – it’s a great, simple, show. Simple enough for even us guys to understand.

Naturally, I rehearse what I’ll say when I make my appearance.

Big Announcer Host Guy: “With me now is David Crawford from Kelowna, BC, Canada. You’re looking slim and masculine I must say, Dave (Hey – it’s my fantasy). Tell us about your car, you big brute.”

Me: “Well, it’s a classic 1992 Toyota Camry sedan, stock, four wheels usually, engine, dipstick, sunroof, and it’s got a trunk the kids can climb into from the back seat.”

Expert #1: “How long you been racin’ that thang?”

Me: “I’ve been racing since school started, about twice a week when the kids sleep in, I figure.”

Expert #2: “Any modifications to the chassis we should know about?”

Me: “Well, the drivers door kind of sticks after that unfortunate cyclist incident. And there are some funny dents in the passenger side door from the BB gun which was not fired by me. Honest. You can’t prove anything. Apart from that it’s stock.”

Expert #3: “What kind of carbonation you got in there?”

Me: “10w-30.”

Host: “Well let’s see how Dave does in the quarter mile, panel. Enter your guesses and we’ll watch the excitement.”

A blond hottie approaches my car and pours what smells like bleach onto the tires – “For your burnout!” she says helpfully.

“I can only squeal my tires going around corners in parkades!” I shout. “Thanks anyway! Oh, and don’t tell my wife I was anywhere near bleach! It’s a long story to do with laundry!”

I put my powerful racing transmission into “D”, drive up to the line, the light turns green, and I stomp on the gas pedal in typical gas/brake Toyota confusion.

My head lurches back from the power of the g-forces. And from driving over the guy checking a leak under my engine.

The car accelerates with bum-numbing velocity until I cross the finish line, having attained a top speed usually limited to school zones. I don’t think I even registered on the radar gun. A postage meter might work better for tracking me, I think.

You know, much as I’d like to, I don’t think I’ll be racing one of those big long cars anytime soon.

There’s just not enough trunk space for the kids to play in, so it’s not practical at all.

New Airport Screening

The line of passengers at the new airport screening machines was long but moving quickly. I was here to interview Bill, a security guard and scanner operator.

“Bill, do people have any privacy issues with these new full-body scanners?” I asked.

“No,” Bill said. “They really seem to like the combination of airline safety and body imaging. It saves everybody time.”

Bill continued as he worked. “We thought people would really take issue with us being able to see through clothing and such, but so far so good. Whoa – look at the body on this lady! I’ll save that one and put it up on YouTube later. Nice!”

“YouTube?!” I exclaimed. “I thought these scans were confidential and destroyed right away!” I asked.

“Well, they’re supposed to be but someone messed up the legislation so we keep and share them. Confidently. Not confidentially. Big difference.”

“Hey, Gulwinder! Look at this guy!” he said to the guard next to him. “No spleen! Check it out! Looks like he’s had his gall bladder out too.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What was more shocking was that people didn’t object at all. They even seemed to appreciate the system.

“This screening at the airport is very convenient,” said one female passenger. “It sure beats waiting at the doctor’s office, then going to the x-ray place, then back to the doctor’s. Here, we get everything done at one time. And you get airline points,” she said.

“Can I see your boarding pass please, Ma’am?” said the guard. “I see that appendix surgery is healing nicely.

We’ll get those stitches out on your return flight.”

Other comments followed. “Yes Sir, just put your watch and loose change in the bin with your jacket. Oh, and you might want to get that polyp checked. Here’s a referral card for a proctologist. Have a nice flight.”

“When entering the scanner, please hold your arms like this, take a deep breath, hold it until you hear the whir and click, good! Please step forward.”

“Sir? When you bend over to put on your shoes, could you cough please? Good! Everything appears to be normal. See you next flight.”

“Congratulations Ma’am – it’s a girl. No, it’s a boy - look at that! Next?”

“Good morning. Can I see your boarding pass please? Thank you. You’re beeping because of a coin in your stomach. See? Did you swallow that recently or when you were a child?”

“Good morning Ma’am! Just drink this barium, or ‘airline coffee’ as we call it, and we’ll be done in a jiffy. Next!”

“No sir, it appears that pain in your tummy is just gas – quite normal. Have a nice flight.”

“Sir, we have reason to believe you are carrying contraband. Lucky for you, you are also scheduled for your annual colonoscopy so you get the 2 for 1 cavity search special today. Just go with these officers…”

Not only were these people fast, they were good too. “Did you go to medical school to learn all this stuff?” I asked.

“I took a semester at the community college, but I realized I could learn more out here at the airport. After I write my exams this week I’ll move into internal medicine like the baggage guys.”

I must say it is comforting to know our health and airline safety are in such good, usually gloved, hands.

The Boys

With only 8 boys over for a sleepover, compared to 12 girls, this was a piece of cake. The fumes emerging from downstairs were a bit caustic, but overall the guys did really well.

It started with pizza and a root beer fueled belching contest in the dining room. Ears ringing, they then proceeded downstairs to do some full contact wii'ing, then I herded them outside for capture the flag, hide and seek, and other efforts at exhaustion.

Back inside it was present time, followed by more root beer and belching, then chips, Cheezies, and gummy bears. About 20 pounds of each, roughly.

With no open flame source the farting was discontinued, so it was movie time, then bouncing on the beds in their underwear time, then more snacks, then get into their fart sacks with attendant giggling time, then pillow hurling time, then I think they fell asleep. I think - I can't say for sure since I was upstairs opening windows to vent out the fumes.

This morning we discovered how many pancakes (2) and strawberries (12) could be stuffed into one mouth without bursting.

A splinter cell has developed which is exploring the outer limits of wrestling while on the trampoline. Full body slams with attendant shouting seems to be the order of the day for that activity.

The butchers bill thus far is relatively mild: one nosebleed, several scratches, some slivers from the weeds in the park that one kid wiped out upon, one asthma attack, and a disgusting splat toy lodged onto the ceiling of the rumpus room downstairs.

Not bad.

Happy Birthday!

First Report: The Girls Party

I'd have to describe it as Lord of the Flies - with cake.

The sound of 12 nine year old girls in our basement was a combination of giggles, yells, shrieks, screams, singing, loud music, loud TV, and more shrieks. It was quite deafening.

After pizza, doing hair tinsel and fake nail applications, it was downstairs for a movie on the big screen.

I'm not quite sure what happened after that since I couldn't see much beyond the flying pillows. It got to the point where I would just toss in more food, bolt the door to the basement, and let nature take it s course.

I'm a coward - I admit it.

The din kept up until well after midnight. I feel hung over without the benefit of being drunk first. What a ripoff.

Now my wife and I are cleaning the house for a repeat - for the boys (8 of 'em) tonight.

Pity me.