Funny Guy Friday... A very Merry Christmas...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     One of the great things about the Christmas season is getting to spend time with my family.  Cheryl and I are excited about having Gracie home from college and just as excited that Matthew has no school or basketball practice until after the New Year.  And, of course, Noah enjoys hanging out with... and cooking for... his brother and sister.
     But the fact of the matter is that we see these three every Christmas season. They really don't change all that much... at least not anything worth mentioning. Once Grace realizes that we don't have a conveyor belt to take all of her dirty dishes from the kitchen, things will get back to normal around here.
     But we do like a challenge, so we decided to spice it up a bit this year and add my mother into the Christmas fray.
     My mother moved in with us in November, and so far, so good. We provide a roof over her head and and three square meals a day, and she does the laundry and the dishes... sans the conveyor belt.
     It is a win-win for all of us.
     This Christmas, I have had the awesome experience of spending some bonus time with my mother.
     Our fun started this past Monday, when just the two of us went Christmas shopping. I probably have not been out shopping with my mom since we went out to buy corduroys at the Pants Corral back when I was in seventh grade. My mother is now... and always has been... a bargain hunter... so price is definitely an object. This was never more evident than when, after she bought gifts for my kids, she went hunting for new shoes for herself.
     She established a pattern... try on the shoe, comment on how much she liked the shoe, ask me the cost of said shoe, and then adjust her opinion of the shoe based on the cost of the shoe. She tried on ten pair of shoes and, predictably, purchased the cheapest ones.  
     This reminded me of the time when I was playing basketball in Junior High School and wanted to buy a new pair of Converse Hook Star shoes. They were the bomb diggity of athletic shoes back in the day... and cost forty dollars. Each time I asked for them, I was reminded by my mother that she had played ten years of women's volleyball and wore the same Fruit of the Loom sneakers for all ten years. Why should I need a new pair of shoes every basketball season?
     Well, let's think about that... she played one hour a week for three months out of the year, and her shoes lasted ten seasons. I played basketball every day for two or three hours a day and wore the same shoes for every practice and game... as well as wearing them every day to school, to church, in the rain, snow or sleet. Uphill. Both ways. Oh, did I mention that my shoe size changed from month to month.
     Nike... NO! Adidas... NO! Reebok... NO! Converse... NO! Fruit of the Loom... YEAH BABY... Those are the shoes for me!
     Our recent little shopping spree was a blast and I am hoping we get the chance to go out together... just the two of us... every year. A new tradition. And who knows? Maybe next year, we will hit the Pants Corral.
     When Christmas Eve rolled around, Cheryl pulled up lame with a fake stomach bug!
     I believed it to be an elaborate effort by her to avoid helping with all of the wrapping that had to be done. This was a bit of an unusual tactic because in Christmas Eve's past, Cheryl would just pass out asleep after we got home from church and our yearly Christmas Eve dinner with our good friends, PJ and Geraldine, leaving the final preparations up to me.
     Apparently, this year Cheryl decided to cook up a convoluted ruse... complete with fake vomiting... to avoid the late night fun!
     Okay, she may not have been faking.
     I was convinced she was really sick when she decided to stay home from Christmas Eve Mass and skip this year's dinner with the friends. So it was just the kids, my mother and me... all alone to fend for ourselves.
     I am going to admit something that may get me a one way ticked to Hell, but... Christmas Mass is
 my least favorite Mass of the year. No matter what time we get there, there are never enough seats, or worse, there is some kid sitting in a row... sometimes two rows... with a bunch of people-less jackets. No people... just jackets taking up space. We always... always... have to stand in the back.
     Anyway, I was a bit concerned that my mother would not have a seat, and her biggest advocate was home sick in bed.
      We arrived at the small church near our house... not our usual parish... fifteen minutes early... and the parking lot was packed. We caught a break when a friend of mine was directing traffic. He sent me to drop off my mother and then scored me a spot close to the entrance of the church. I quickly parked the car and got into the church ten minutes before Mass started only to find my kids standing in the back... without Grandma.
     How did you lose Grandma in the little bit of time that I was parking the car?
     We didn't lose her... the priest just snagged her and escorted her down the aisle to the front row. 
     Looking around, I noticed there were not a lot of open seats... front row or otherwise.
     Well, where are we sitting?
     We're not... we are standing in the back. 
     I was thinking that this had to be some mistake. but just then the priest popped back into vestibule and asked if that were my mother.
     It sure is, Father!
     Oh, well I just told all the ushers that she was my mother, and that is why I walked her down the aisle. 
     As I wondered why he would do such a thing, I commented, Well, Father, "your mother" is not Catholic... and you just ushered the only Lutheran in the building into the best seat in the house! 
     Soon after that, I became concerned that my mom would get confused about all the particulars of the liturgy. I mean, a Catholic Mass can be like a high school cheer... Kneel to the left... Kneel to the right,.. Stand up, Sit down... Fight Fight Fight!  I was concerned that she might get confused and make some tragic mistake... right there... in the front row... for all of the congregation to see. I told the kids if she screws something up, we are going to stick with the priest's story that she is his 
mother!
     I kept a watchful eye on her, and she seemed to handle things like a pro.
     But as the Mass continued, I became more concerned about how we were going to get her out of there. We couldn't very well run up and get her before it was over, and once the priest left, the entire church would be pouring down the aisle against us. In addition, I thought I should go get the car, at the risk of fighting traffic, to get back to the front door to pick her up.
     After receiving the Eucharist, I skipped my normal prayer time and concocted an escape plan that would have made Seal Team 6 envious. I told Grace and Matthew that as soon as Mass was over, and the priest had exited the church, they were to swim upstream and grab Grandma. 
     Noah and I will leave to commandeer the transport vehicle while the two of you make a break for Grandma, and we will all rendezvous at the front entrance of the church.
     My final instructions were... if Grandma gives you a hard time or can't keep up, knock her out, throw her over your shoulder, and carry her out to our meeting point. Failure is not an option gentleman!
     Of course, I performed my duties flawlessly and got to my car with plenty of time to spare.
     Unfortunately, I was so good that I was sure that I'd be sitting at the front of the church blocking up traffic. But much to my surprise, as Noah and I pulled up, Grace and Matthew had Grandma ready to go. I was thinking that my plan ran like clockwork... they should have sent my kids and me out to get Bin Laden.
     As I commended my troops, I was interrupted by Matthew... Actually, General, er uh, Dad... the priest walked her back down the aisle. 
     Wait... you mean to tell me that as the priest walked down the aisle... as he recessed from the church at the end of Christmas Mass... he stopped and grabbed Grandma?
     Not only that, my mother chimed in, he asked if I had a ride home. I told him that I hoped that I had a ride... and that I hoped that my son did not leave without me. He told me if you had left me, he would have given me a ride home himself!
     I pictured her walking down the aisle, giving the Princess Di wave to the congregation, as if she were royalty.
     Funny I should mention her being a princess because once we got to PJ's house, he... and his wife... and their kids... and their other guests all treated my mother as if she were a princess. It was as if I weren't even there... until PJ was ordering me to get my mother a plate or a drink or some dessert.
     Despite the fact that my wife was home sick, my new date and I had a delightful evening.
     As an added bonus, Cheryl rallied while we were gone and got some wrapping done... right before passing out on the couch leaving the final preparations up to me.
     Every Christmas morning, we open our gifts before heading to visit, first my brother Jeff's home, and then to Cheryl's parents' home, for some very special time with extended family. Tradition. But then, late in the day, we make it a point to return home to prepare a fancy Christmas dinner. Also tradition.
     This year was no different. Noah and I collaborated on a delicious meal followed up with banana splits. Between dinner and dessert, we broke out a Christmas trivia game. We first asked everyone individual questions... guaranteeing everyone some success. And then we upped the competitive factor by adding some all-play rounds... and, finally, we enjoyed some heated one-on-one challenges. Unfortunately, Grandma considered every question an all-play and blurted out answers whenever one popped into her head.
     The whole game broke down when my mother faced off against Cheryl for a one-on-one challenge. The question was... Name the three reindeer that have a name that starts with the letter D! 
     Grandma was quick to respond... Donner, Doctor and Dentist! 
     Close, but not quite right!
     The game was a blast, but the lasting thought that I had was that this will be a memory that my kids will talk about every time we sit down for Christmas dinner.
     New roommate... new traditions!
     It was a great Christmas holiday for our family... made extra special by our new housemate... Queen Vonnie.
     But for the record, now that Christmas Day is over, we fully expect the princess to turn back into Cinderella and start using that brand new extra-large dish drying pad that we bought her for Christmas!
     I sure hope everyone enjoyed their time with their family as much as I did... and I hope that you all had a very blessed... and a very Merry Christmas!

Funny Guy Friday... The game that will live on in infamy...

     Funny Guy Friday is written by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     'Tis the season!
     Christmas is full of so many great events that will live forever in family infamy. Moments that nobody will ever forget.
     One such episode occurred in our first year of marriage.
     A few days past Christmas, we were visiting Cheryl's family, and they decided to play a brand new game called Humble.
     Humble is a board game where one person hums a tune and his/her teammates have to guess the song. Sometimes the hummer hums for a single teammate, and at other times he may hum for everybody in the game... Sort of like an ALL PLAY in Trivial Pursuit.
     Now, if you have never met my wife's family, I will try to give you a quick description: If the Von Trapps married the Partridge Family and had kids... those kids would be my in-laws. The hills are alive with the sound of... C'mon get happy!
     They love music and music has always been a big part of their lives.
     I, on the other hand, used to play Bread albums in an effort to impress girls... and I listened to the radio if, and only if, there was nothing on TV. The conventional wisdom had me overmatched in such a musically dedicated game. Ahhh, but I am a competitor and would surely rise to the lyrical occasion... or as it turned out... not.
     Things did not go well for me in Humble.  
     In fact they went badly... really, really badly.
     My wife and her sisters knew the names of every show tune, classic rock, pop, religious and folk music song that came up. Pick a decade... any decade. And they could all carry a tune.
     I only knew those few Bread songs, songs that played during the seventh inning stretch, and perhaps a few ditties by Michael Jackson, and of course the Tea for the Tillerman stuff. But even if I had known more songs, I would have still stunk at Humble. As the name of the game would suggest, you had to be able to hum a tune.
     The game took a turn for the worse when I got caught up in a challenge with one of Cheryl's sisters. Another sister was humming a tune that we had to guess. Neither of us were able to name the song. I was doing so poorly that I considered this a victory. Sure, my team didn't gain any ground... but it did not lose any either.
     Yay for me!
     Then the humming sister commented that she was surprised that the other sister did not get the song because we all used to sit around the campfire and sing that one right after we would all sing Kumbaya, my Lord. 
      My competing sister's reply was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back:
      I did know the song, but I really wanted Mark to get one... and I did not want him to feel bad about losing every round!
     I would like to tell you that what I am about to describe next is an exaggeration, but sadly, it is not! I got so mad that I could hardly think... although one could argue that I really wasn't thinking straight the whole night. I stood up and announced I am not going to sit here and be patronized... humiliated and pitied. If I lose, I will lose with dignity. Cheryl... get your shoes on... we are going home! 
     The words that my lovely wife then spoke are as clear to me today as they were some twenty-two Christmases ago: No! We are not going anywhere. If you don't want to play, then don't play... but we are not leaving because you are mad about losing some stupid game. 
     This exchange was followed by an awkward silence.
     A long awkward silence... a silence that was broken only when Cheryl ordered that someone roll the dice and play on! Time's a wastin'!
     You know, my eyes well up with tears every time I think of the "support" that Cheryl showed that night. Although, truthfully, I do get a little filled up thinking back on her competitive display that night.
     So, I ask you, what was I to do? I had been verbally castrated in front of Cheryl's entire family. Keep in mind that this was early on in our marriage, and I had not yet established myself as the coolest son-in-law in the family. I had little goodwill to rely on, so I was kind of naked on an island. Of course, and how can I say this without offending anybody... I must admit, the competition is slim for that coveted spot.
     So, anyway, I put on my shoes and walked out to the car... and with all the dignity that I cold muster, I walked back into the house and waited for Cheryl to finish her stupid game. But I showed them... they got nary a hum out of me!   
     Unfortunately, I was not kidding when I wrote that this was a moment that nobody in Cheryl's family will ever forget. In fact, I am sure that all of Cheryl's sisters are reading this and chuckling at the memory.
     So as Christmas rolls around... I send them glad tidings of joy and wish them all a very Merry Christmas. And I pass on the words that are uttered at every holiday family function...
     Cheryl, get your shoes on, we are going home!

Funny Guy Friday... You know Dasher and Dancer...

    Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
    It came once a year!
    The success of the entire kid Christmas season was dependent upon this event. I dare say that there was zero percent chance that you could have a truly merry Christmas without it... and if you missed it, there was no second chance.
    Talk about pressure!
    Your parents were always aware of it... but it was clear that they did not care about it as much as you. Sure, they would sit with you, but it did not have the same meaning to them.
    The smart kids planned for it a week in advance.
    Of course, I am talking about the annual viewing of the 1964 classic, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.
    When I was very young, there were no DVD's... no VCR's... no VHS or Beta.
    There was CBS... one showing per season... and I loved it. Every bit of it... with the notable exception of the song, There's Always Tomorrow, by Clarice, Rudolph's young girl friend. Just too slow. It brings the audience down.
    My, how times have changed.
    You can watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer 24/7 if you so wish.  DVR it or pop it in the VCR.  That's not all that has changed. As I have gotten older and have become a little more critical, I have come to the following conclusion... Santa Claus was a jerk!
    There... I said it.
    I realize that this may result in coal in my stocking, but the truth has set me free. In fact, I will go even further than that. Every character in that show... with the possible exception of Yukon Cornelius... was a jerk.     
     Don't believe me?... then let's review.
     A beautiful baby deer is born with a slight defect. Instead of a big black ball for a nose, he has a shiny red nose. Mom seems okay with it, but Dad... not so much. In fact, good old Comet, is so ashamed that he makes his son wear a prosthetic nose whenever he goes out in public. The prosthetic nose is not only too large for the poor buck, but it restricts his airway and causes a bit of a speech impediment.
     Comet's biggest fear is that his boss... Santa Claus... may see the young buck's red nose and not only reject young Rudolph, but the entire family. Comet's job was clearly on the line with the big red man!
     So off goes poor, pitifully disguised Rudolph to participate in youth sports and in the process, try out for the BIG SHOW.  That, of course, is the opportunity to lead Santa's sleigh. Rudolph was a stud. He was light years ahead of the others.
     In the midst of the big tryout, he manages to meet a young, attractive doe... the aforementioned show-killer, Clarice.
     As an aside... I learned this week what the deer rutting season was. I had never heard that expression before, and a friend mentioned that he was going hunting for a doe. I asked why specifically a doe, and he explained that the males are "rutting" and only have one thing on their mind. They tend to get skinny from neglecting to eat because they are on the move... wanting nothing but to... ahem... mmm... rutt!
    I commented that this explained why I was so skinny... just kidding!
    Anyway, back to the show...  Clarice's dad, Donner, who also happens to be Rudolph's coach, upon discovering Rudolph's red nose, forbids his daughter from seeing Rudolph. In fact, he takes it one step further. Donner actually encourages Rudolph's potential teammates as they make fun of Rudolph, laughing at him and calling him names. Ultimately, Donner bans Rudolph from participating in "any reindeer games."
    He actually uses those exact words, just like in the song.
    Santa comes upon the scene and throws fuel on the fire by confronting Rudolph's dad and telling him that he should be ashamed of himself, trying to pass this oddity off as a normal-nosed reindeer.
    If that were my son, Santa would have had to undergo a antlerrectomy. For those of you that are not trained in the medical field, an antlerrectomy is a medical procedure whereby trained surgeons remove antlers from being deeply buried in one's posterior.
    Rudolph is ashamed and is forced to leave town. On the way, he meets up with a wayward elf named Hermie and the happy-go-lucky prospector, Yukon Cornelius. What can I say about good old Hermie and Yukon?  Both kind of odd ducks... but harmless.
    Hermie was forced out of Santa's sweatshop by his supervisor, who can best be described as "an angry elf." My apologies to Buddy the Elf for stealing that line.
    We have no idea about Yukon's backstory, but he seems to be a good guy who looks after young Rudolph and Hermie.
    The three carry on together in search of a better life.
    Their journey is complicated by the existence of the Abominable Snowman. He is a hairy, hairy gent, who ran amok in Mayfair. No wait, that is the Werewolf of London. Good old Abominable just wants to eat everyone!  
    The three castaways ultimately find their way to the Land of Misfit Toys. Now I ask you, who banned these toys to this island? I have a theory, but I am not sure, so I won't speculate for fear of spreading rumors.
    IT WAS SANTA... IT HAD TO BE!  WHO ELSE WIELDS THAT KIND OF POWER AND WHO ELSE HAD THE MOTIVE TO KEEP THESE MISFIT TOYS OUT OF CIRCULATION! IT WAS SANTA CLAUS!
    Rudolph decides that his red nose makes the trio easy prey for Abominable, so he sets off on his own. In the process, Rudolph grows up and comes to the realization that he has to go home and make things right with his pop. Not sure why Rudolph feels as if he has anything to apologize for, but he returns home. To his pop's credit, he has also realized the error of his ways and had set out looking for Rudolph. But even in doing the right thing, Comet demeans all of the women out there when he orders his wife to stay put because this is "man's work."
   The wife ignores her husband's admonishments and sets out in a separate search party with Clarice, who happens to be in complete defiance of her own parents. At this point it was The Hunt for Red Rudolph.
    Alas, they all become caught up in the clutches of the Abominable Snowman with only one chance at survival. Rudolph and his friends arrive to save the day.
    Everybody, including Santa, realizes the error of his ways, and all is well.
    Except, of course, the big snowstorm.
    You would think that after years of doing this, the North Pole would have some contingency plan... but they don't. As a result, Santa is forced into canceling Christmas.
    As if.
    In the middle of Santa's big announcement, Rudolph's nose goes off. Despite our being advised by the narrating snowman that Santa had learned his lesson, Santa is noticeably annoyed at Rudolph and in the process of ordering Rudolph to turn that thing off, Santa gets an idea.
    Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?
    This guy has got some nerve... huh, don't you think? He chastises Rudolph's family. He humiliates Rudolph and runs him out of town. He promotes a hostile work environment for anybody that is the slight bit different. And now he wants Rudolph... and his red nose...to save the day.
     I may have had a different response... one that might have resulted in Santa undergoing a second antlerrectomy. Of course, Rudolph does save the day... and NOW... only NOW... do all the reindeer love him! 
     So now I am starting a campaign to combat the mistreatment and bullying that occurred to Rudolph. We can all agree that we don't want what happened to Rudolph to happen to anyone else. I am selling tee shirts to NBA all-stars that say R3too... or R Cubed Too... that they can wear in pre-game warm-ups. Of course, this means that Red-nosed Reindeers have Rights too! It's kinda catchy.
     So, if anyone out there knows any NBA stars... or any NBA scrubs... let me know.
     If not now, when? The time is right! I mean... as long as we're re-living the '60's.
     Do it for Rudolph! We, along with Rudolph, will all go down in Hiss... torr... eeeey!

Funny Guy Friday... I'm an idiot...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     I am an idiot!
     I thought I was smart, but I am not. I'm an idiot!
     This was never more clear than when my sister and her two daughters, Katherine and Jennifer, came to visit this week. Her youngest is getting ready to go off to college and is preparing her college application essays.
      I never had to write any essays for college. I remember getting a call from the baseball coach at the University of Maryland asking me if I were going to attend their school.  I told him that I had not yet heard if I were accepted. He put me on hold and came back thirty seconds later, saying... You're in... are you coming? 
     That was it. No essays. No nothing. I loved it!
     Nowadays, after getting great grades and kicking butt on the SAT's... you have to write essays. Say it like Allen Iverson discussing practice... We talking essays.... essays!
     Katherine's topics include... Describe a conflict in your life and how you were able to overcome it.... Describe a setting where you interacted with people whose beliefs are different than your own... and Consider your lifetime goals and discuss how your current and future extra-curricular activities may help you achieve those goals.
     She was struggling with ideas... which was not surprising since she is only seventeen years old and really has not had much of an opportunity to get into any good fights with idiots she doesn't agree with.  And at seventeen, do you really have any lifetime goals... other than either being rich or marrying somebody rich?
     I, on the other hand, am a fifty-one year old man, so this assignment would be a piece of cake for me. Being the good uncle that I am, I volunteered my services. You see, I am married... I deal with conflict on a daily basis. For example, my wife wanted to paint our study red; I wanted to keep it the same off-white color that it had been. The room is red... I overcame the conflict by caving in.
    Mark is the name, conflict resolution is the game!
    I have children; therefore, I deal with people that have different beliefs than I on a daily basis. For example, I think that our bedroom floors should be free of wet towels and my kids think that bedroom floors are the perfect place for a couple... TEN... wet towels.
    And my lifetime goals are the same today as they were when I was six... I want to be rich or be married to someone who is rich. So my extra curricular activities include hanging out with rich people.  I suppose that if I ever did take up with some rich woman now, I would have more to write about regarding that first conflict in my life topic!
     That was it. That was all I had to offer.  You know why this is all I had to offer? Because I am an idiot!
     Then Jennifer rolled into town, riding on her dissertation. And get this, she had to write a 30-page prospectus explaining what she was really going to write about!
     Think about that for a second: thirty pages just to get to the two hundred pages you really are going to write. I don't know thirty pages worth of anything, much less 200 pages of stuff!
     Jennifer's topic is Paradigms of Knowledge in 20th Century British Theater. 
     She described it as follows... I used six British plays and reviewed the characters and how they acquired knowledge and blah blah blah blah blah blah, blah bladdy blah blah blah blah.... blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah and of course bladdy blah bladdy blah bladdy blah blah. So you see... Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.  Uncle Mark, please stop singing "paradigms equal 20 cents"... And  blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah!  
     In fact, at one point, Jennifer observed that the conversation was getting a bit deep and not everyone may have been interested in hearing the entire story. I interpreted that as Uncle Mark is starting to drool and nod off, maybe we should go back to discussing who had a better career, Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny! 
     I am not kidding... that is how she explained her dissertation topic, only it went on for what seemed like hours. I pretended to understand... I even mustered up the courage to ask a question. But it was clear to everyone that I was confused and bewildered.
     I had more glaze in my eyes than a Krispy Kreme donut. To paraphrase Renee Zellweger... You had me glazed at the word prospectus! 
     This happens often.
     For goodness sakes, there are people who have worked in my office for more than three years now, and I still have trouble recalling their names. What is wrong with me?
     Cheryl says I don't try. Sadly, I do try... I am just an idiot.
     In fact, I often think... How did I get through law school? How do I have any success in my law practice? How am I able to convince anybody to do anything? How was I able to get someone like Cheryl to marry me?
     I have thought about this for a long time... at least 45 seconds or so... and the only answer that I can come up with that will account for any of my success... and this should not surprise anyone that has ever met me... because I have heard people say: I am pretty funny!
     An idiot... Yes. But a funny idiot.
     Let's be honest, if every week, I sat at my computer and typed away at Deep Guy Friday, how many of you would read it? How many of you would read about The quantum physics involved in the propulsion of an air pellet through the barrell of an air soft gun versus How I shot my son in the rear with an air soft gun?
     Like any 12-step program, the first step is admitting there is a problem. I recognize my strengths and my weaknesses and I do what I can.
     I have no idea what the other 11 steps are, nor do I care... but I've got number one down, so I've got that going for me!
     Finally, although he may not have had the staying power of Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny was a way better actor. You know why? Because he was funny!

Funny Guy Friday... Who could ask for anything more?

    Happy Thanksgiving!  We had quite a day.
    In fact, we had quite a week.
    Forget that... we have had quite a month.
    Several months ago, my family and I decided that it would be a good idea for my mother to move in with us. She had been living in a house that my sister Sheree built for her, but since my father passed away, she had begun to feel a little lonely.
    We have constant chaos at our house so it was perfect.
    I told her that the best thing about my house is that my wife and kids are there all the time... and the worst thing about my house is that my wife and kids are there all the time.
    The plan was for my mom to visit my brother, Paul, in Washington, for about a month in order to give us time to get everything ready. We had to clear out our basement, which like most basements, was full of junk. Then, we were to bring over her personal items and furniture and get things situated for her return.
    We had the perfect set up in our basement: a large bedroom... a full bath... a little kitchenette... and her very own spacious living room with a 54-inch TV. The only thing missing was a closet... so we had one built for her.
    Besides having the perfect set up, my mother was getting the opportunity to live with her favorite son!          
    Okay, maybe I am not her favorite son.
    This was made perfectly clear when my sister jokingly commented that Paul was her favorite. Without hesitating, my mother said, You would understand why if you ever spent any time with him out in Washington. Everybody out there loves him, too!
    I am going to chalk my mom's immediate response up to her being old... and crazy... and old. Because frankly, that woman is not that funny... and nobody likes Paul here on the east coast, so why would they like him out west?
    So, back to my perfect plan...
    Yes, it was perfect... until "he" called, in the beginning of October. That's right, "he" is west coast-favorite Paul. You see... he had been talking to Mom about the big move, and it turns out that my basement plan was only mostly perfect... there was one huge problem.
    Hey, Mark... this is Paul.
    Hello Paaaaul (and I said it in a weird, drawn out kinda disgusted way because I wanted to make him feel like I was disgusted that he called me). I know who you are... you're Mom's favorite. 
    Yeah, well funny you should mention Mom because I was talking to her, and she does not want to live in your basement. She feels like she is going to be separated from everyone.
    Whaaaat? (I said this in a weird, sorta panicked kind of way because in a weird sort of way... I was sorta panicked.) I continued, This is why we don't talk to Mom here on the east coast! You didn't tell her that we were going to put her down there and forget about her, did you?... like we did when we were kids... when our other sister Michel got married... and we put her parakeet out in the garage and forgot about it... until it was too late! Poor Petey! We promise to bring Mom up every day!
    No, that is only part of it... she does not want to go up and down steps.
    Paul... we have no bedroom on the first floor... we have no shower on the first floor... we only have 37-inch TV's on the first floor. Stairs are going to be a daily part of her routine, no matter where she sleeps. Did I mention that we had a closet built?  
    Well, she was hoping you could figure a way to work it all out!  
    Hey, wait a second. You're not trying to keep her, are you? You're not getting her. 
    No. I am not keeping her. She is just concerned about being in the basement. 
    Does everyone now understand why we don't talk to her on the east coast? ...And why we don't like Paul?   
    Cheryl and I came up with a second perfect plan... perfect plan B, if you will: shorten our living room and make that her bedroom... expand our bathroom to become a full bath... push our laundry room out into the garage... and create a hallway through the new space with easy access from the laundry room to the garage... and replace the former laundry room with a roomy walk-in closet.
    And one final detail... we would do all of this by Thanksgiving!  
    On a side note, the laundry room kind of intrigued me.
    My mom loves to do laundry. I felt that this bigger laundry room would not only appeal to her, but would satisfy me in ways that I cannot begin to describe.
    We called a couple of contractors to discuss our plan... including our time frame. After they chuckled... or downright laughed... they told us that, yes, it could be done. They made no promises but thought it would be possible.
    I called Paul back and advised him that mom would have stay out west for an extra month... but don't even think about keeping her. She is mine!  
    Remember our basement full of junk? We sort of had a whole house full of junk. We had a lot of work ahead of us before they could start tearing down our walls. This was not going to be easy, but it had to be done.
    The construction commenced on October 22nd.
    Funny thing about doing a construction project with my wife: the entire house looked like a snow globe that you just picked up and shook, and she was losing sleep over a door jam that was off by a quarter of an inch... or a tile joint that was not exactly straight... because she claims that she is a perfectionist. 
    At the time I said, confounded: Perfectionist! Our washer and dryer are in our kitchen... laundry is piling up everywhere... the entire house is full of dust... and our garage is full of tools and supplies... and you claim to be a perfectionist? Well, I am here to tell you that it looks just fine. The problem is that you are watching them make the sausage, and now you don't want to eat the sausage.
    That is not it. I am telling you... the door frame around the laundry room is not level... and the grout lines are off on two of the rows! I can tell!
    What is that... some kind of superpower that you have?... the ability to tell if things are level? I would prefer that you could fly... or make yourself invisible. Well... you tell the workers. I will back you all the way, Wonder Woman! 
    Turns out she was right... the door was uneven and the tiles were off. It was obvious. As the man of the house, I had them make the proper corrections... right after Cheryl asked them to do it!
    Once the work was done, we had to add the finishing touches.
    Throughout the project, Cheryl painstakingly looked for the right vanity and sink... the right bedding... the right curtains... the right paint colors. She hung the right pictures on the wall... perfectly level, by the way... and she had the right flowers on the dresser... ready to greet my mother. Cheryl joked that she was building my mother the room of her own dreams.
    Four days before Thanksgiving, my mother walked into her new bedroom for the first time... and cried. I must admit that it was perfect! All of our hard work and Cheryl's planning paid off.
    On a side note, when my mother walked into our new laundry room, I cried! My clothes are going to be so clean!
    So... she has been here for a few days, and it is as if she has been here for years. The only hiccup so far was on her first night here, Mom said she was going to go rest in her room... and promptly opened the door to the garage.
    Just a small learning curve.
    Right now it is three o'clock in the morning... the day after Thanksgiving. We just hosted dinner for my family, which included nearly fifty people. Everyone got to see the new digs and to visit with Grandma for a bit.
    It was perfect.
    We had had so much help with this project over the past few weeks because everyone wants my mom to be happy.
    There are many things that I am thankful for because God gives us so much. But there are two, in particular, that stand out this Thanksgiving.
    I am blessed to have the chance to provide a home for my mom. She has done so much for all of her children, and this is a great opportunity for me to give some of that back to her.
    I am also blessed to have a wife who cares for my mom so much that she opened our home for her. I would say that Cheryl willingly agreed to this arrangement, but that would not be accurate... she insisted that it be this way.
    So... in a nut shell... I am thankful for the two most important women in my life, and as a bonus, all of my laundry is going to get done... and everything in the house will be level.
    Who could ask for anything more?    

Funny Guy Friday... You never studied...

    Appear weak when you are strong... and strong when you are weak.
    The Art of War is an ancient Chinese military treatise attributed to Sun Tzu, a high ranking military general, strategist, and tactician. The text is compiled of thirteen chapters, each of which is devoted to one aspect of warfare. For the last 2000 years, it has remained the most influential military treatise in Asia and has had an influence on Eastern and Western military thinking, business tactics, legal strategies, and beyond.
     My man Sun Tzu was one tough dude. And I bet that he had the mental advantage in every single battle over every single opponent... except one.
     Mrs. Sun Tzu.  
     You see, I have come to the realization that women, of which my wife is one, can be... how can I say this without offending anyone... diabolical masters in the art of confusion.
     Sun Tzu would not last three rounds with Cheryl.
     Now to be clear, I am not talking about Cheryl's arguing skills, which by the way, are more than formidable.  Instead, I am talking about her pre-argument head games that put me at an immediate disadvantage once the arguing ensues.
     On the outside, Cheryl appears to be the kindest, nicest, mildest person that God has ever put on this earth. But in reality, she is a mind numbing ninja warrior. Unfortunately, it is my mind that is numbed. It is at those times that I have no idea what to say or what to think... and I am confused and helpless. Like a fly caught in a spider's web... knowing that at some point... I am going to get eaten. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow.
     But make no mistake; I am going to get eaten.
     This past Sunday, we pulled up in the church parking lot, and like on most Sundays, I dropped Cheryl and the kids off at the door. A woman, whom I had never met, was unloading her children. Cheryl commented that she is whosamajig's sister! 
     Who is whosamajig? 
     You know her... she's got the kids. 
     Lots of women have kids in our church. 
     Theresa... You know Theresa. 
     Ah yes, now I know. I didn't really know, but I was trapped... what was I supposed to say?
     You never studied, she added disgustedly, as she shut her door and headed into Mass.
This is a reference from the movie Ghostbusters. Bill Murray's character never understood anything his colleagues said because he... never studied.
     Cheryl says that a lot to me.
     I drove away to park the car and wondered, How could she possibly be irritated by the possibility that I did not know who that gal was or that she was whosamajig's sister. I mean, she did make a point of pointing her out to me so she assumed I was clueless as to her identity... and that woman certainly did not look like Theresa whosamajig... Whoever that is. My gosh, this is confusing. 
     So... fast forward to Tuesday evening... Matthew and I were moving a freezer from the basement into the garage. I was on the top part of the stairs pulling up on the dolly while Matthew was at the bottom pushing.  We were taking it one step at a time when we got to the top step. I was at a weird angle and could not get my feet under me. The dolly came to rest on on the top step. The problem, was that my finger was caught between the dolly and the step. It hurt. It hurt a lot. I was afraid to let go because, as much as my finger hurt, a freezer smashing my son at the bottom of the steps, would have hurt a lot more.
     Eventually, I extricated myself from the self-inflicted position, and that is when Cheryl, who witnessed the whole episode, asked, Is it heavy?  
     Yeah! Only I did not just say yeah.  I gave a sarcastic chuckle and said, Uh... yeah. 
     Conversation over! You see, she did not just hear me say yeah... She heard me say Hell yeah... duh... of course it was heavy. It is a freezer... Did you not just watch me nearly lose a digit... What kind of stupid question was that? Why are you even here? 
     In fairness, she was partially correct.... I did mean the first part!
     Eventually, I apologized. This is when she told me that she knew it was heavy. What she was really asking was Matthew, is it too heavy for you? Are you okay? 
     Matthew! I nearly lose a finger, and you are worried about Matthew? You're kidding, right?
Only I did not say that... I thought it but did not say it.
     What I did say was Yeah, as I once again chuckled! And with that chuckle, I started the whole thing all over again.
     But still, Cheryl had more Jedi mind tricks up her sleeve.
     On Saturday, we were getting ready to attend a charity dinner. As I was putting the finishing touches on my tux, I asked Cheryl for some help with my cuff links. As I prepared for her to slip the cuff links through the holes in my sleeves, Cheryl mistakenly assumed that I was just rolling my sleeves up. She inquired... What are you doing? 
     I said nothing. I looked at her and continued getting my sleeves ready for presentation for the final cuffing.
     Somehow, this was bothersome to Cheryl. I remind you, that I had said absolutely nothing!
     You could have just said that you were just rolling them up so the holes lined up... you didn't have to do that. 
     I................said..............nothing.
     Despite my silence, I felt bad for my actions.
     How does she do that?
     Clearly, I do not quite understand the Art of War. I appear weak when I am weak... and weak when I am strong!
     I don't think that is right.
     But who knows? Certainly not me.
     I never studied.

Funny Guy Friday... Hey, good lookin'... whatcha got cookin'? How's about cookin' somethin' up for me...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     I called home a few weeks ago and informed the love of my life that I had some clients coming to the house but that I was running late. I advised that these folks are friends of mine, and it was safe to invite them into the dining room. I would be along shortly thereafter.
     When I got home, my clients were seated in the dining room, so I quickly greeted them and poked my head into the kitchen to say my hellos. On the counter was a tray containing some drinking glasses and a pretty, crystal pitcher of ice water topped with lemon slices. Not just any glasses... but our nice drinking glasses. You know the ones... they are so high up in the cabinet that you have to get a chair to get them down. They are much too good for us to ever use. My sweetie had gone to great efforts to make a beautiful presentation.
     Is this for us? I inquired.
     Yeah... I figured that you all may want something to drink, and we had some lemons, so I though it would be nice. 
     Wow! Thanks. 
     As I carried on with my meeting in the dining room, I noticed a flurry of activity in the kitchen... as well as the sweet smell of tomato sauce. Suddenly, the doors to the dining room were pulled shut and I was left to talk with my clients privately.
     After I concluded my meeting and my guests departed, I quickly made my way into the kitchen to see what all the action was about.
     It appears that ravioli and meatballs were in my immediate future, but evidently, there were some problems preparing the meatball part of the meal. The onions and garlic had been chopped, the eggs were waiting to be cracked, and the salt, pepper, bread crumbs, and Parmesan cheese were ready to go. The problem was that the ground beef was still frozen, and there appeared to be no ground veal anywhere.
     Typically, none of this would be a problem. Cheryl always knows the right microwave setting, and she remembers exactly where to find the ground veal... assuming that we have some.
     But you see... Cheryl was not home... she was spending the day at the hospital with her mom who had had hip surgery.
     Did you think Cheryl was doing all of this stuff? No, no, no... it was Noah.
     You see Noah is the new love of my life. He is my sweetie.
     He has taken up cooking, and get this... cooking is considered a class in home school. How great is that? Measuring the ingredients is part of math, nutrition satisfies the health requirement, and cooking involves chemistry... I guess.
     By the way, a ten-year-old cooking meals? Yeah... we are not talking burgers and dogs.
     So far, Noah's repertoire has included stuffed acorn squash, spaghetti and meatballs, steaks on the grill, scallops in a white wine sauce (speaking of scallops, how many dads have their ten-year-old call them and ask if he can pick up some scallops on the way home for a recipe I want to try out), bang bang coconut shrimp with mango salsa, meatball subs, and under the tutelage of his wonderful Aunt Annie, lasagna.
     Yes, Cheryl's sister Ann has fallen in love with Noah, as well. A couple of weeks ago, she drove three-and-a-half hours just to give him a goody bag full of cooking gadgets. Okay, maybe she was also stopping along the way to visit with Cheryl's mom, but given the way she feels about Noah, I think that Ann's visit with her mom was secondary.
     And my heart's desire doesn't make just dinners; Noah also makes some killer desserts. We have had pumpkin pie, apple crostata, baklava, and of course, the all-American milkshake.
     When Cheryl and I were first married, I made a little promise to myself that once a week, I would bring home flowers for her. We were young and thrilled to be together. I would rush home to see her and to find out what was waiting for me once I got there. I suppose it was the novelty of being married.
     So, I ask... is it weird that I now have that same feeling about Noah? I mean, I don't want to bring him flowers or anything, but still. To be completely honest, that flower thing only lasted for about a month, anyway.
     But with Noah, I am excited to get home and see what's cooking. When I call home, I can't get Cheryl off the phone fast enough; I want to talk to Noah and see what we are having for dinner.
     Noah watches all the cooking shows. Bobby Flay is akin to Peyton Manning in the cooking world. From what I can tell, Bobby Flay is on about eighty percent of the shows on the Food Network. There is Grill It with Bobby Flay... Cooking with Bobby Flay... Beat Bobby Flay... The Iron Chef with Bobby Flay... Throw Down with Bobby Flay... and Bobby Flay Can Play Croquet. Okay, I just made that last one up... but you get the picture.
      Noah watches the Food Network all the time, and I wouldn't dare stop him. Not only do I not stop him, I encourage him... and will physically hurt anybody that interferes with his marathon TV sessions. Giada... Ina... the crew from the Kitchen... They are all friends of his.
     Of course, unfortunately, he does have other interests. He recently asked about going out for basketball. I tried to discourage it.
     Wait... Noah if you play basketball, you will have to practice at least two or three nights a week.
     I know. I like to practice. Lots of running and exercise...
     Who needs that? You do understand that if you are out practicing, you won't be home cooking. We already miss you on Tuesdays because of CCD. Can we... I mean... can you really afford two more nights out of the kitchen?
     Mom can make dinner. 
     Yeah.. right... sure. Maybe you can skip practices... I checked out the rules, and they have to play you half the game no matter what. 
     Dad, I can make dinner the other nights. 
     Whatever. Go play your stupid little basketball game. You do realize you are only going to be about five-foot-ten. I have done some research, and that is the perfect height for a chef! 
     Here is the good news... Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Noah won't have any of those pesky little games or practices. He will be free to cook until my stomach... er uh... until his heart's content.
     Who knows, I may even bring him some flowers.

Funny Guy Friday... (Don't) let me see some ID...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     I still remember the first time.
     I was eighteen years old. As I closed the curtains, I was standing there... vulnerable, nervous, and very apprehensive. At the same time, I was very excited to be in this position. I was asked to be there by the one that I loved and respected... who was I to say no?
     This person meant the world to me.
     In spite of my nervousness and apprehension, I performed my duty. And if I may say... I performed it well.
     At the age of eighteen, I cast my first vote ever... for Ronald Reagan... the greatest president of my lifetime... if not of all time.
     You knew I was talking about voting right? What else would you be thinking?
     Now that I think about it, in most instances, people get better with experience... but my first vote... and the same vote four years later... were the two best votes of my life. Of course, it is entirely possible that it may have more to do with the candidates than my voting skills... but they were definitely my best votes.
     Of course, all of this is relevant because this past Tuesday, I voted in the mid-term and gubernatorial elections. I love election day, and I take my duty to vote very seriously. Despite the fact that my preferred candidates have little chance of winning in the deep-blue, great state of Maryland, I still vote in every election.
     Up until two years ago, I voted at our local fire house.
     The person that signed me in every two years was a family friend and has known me since I was six years old. We would chat, and then he would give me my card, and away I would head off into the voting booth. Certainly no need for me to provide any identification under those circumstances.
     Two years ago, after the gerrymandering (I say this with great derision... see Maryland's congressional and legislative gerrymandering here and here) that resulted in my two-and-a-half square mile town being split into two separate voting districts, our polling place changed to a new location ten minutes away, and our friend is now nowhere to be seen.
     I understand that Maryland no longer requires proof of identification to vote.
     I think this is ridiculous, but as they say... Rules is rules! My mother used to get mad at me whenever I did not follow the normal routines that everyone else would follow. She would ask with disdain... What... you don't think that the rules apply to you?
     You know, sometimes they don't.
     As I entered my new polling place, I did not recognize any of the volunteers. And if I don't recognize them... my guess is that they don't recognize me.
     As a result, every time I vote, I whip out my driver's license to show that I am, in fact, me. The result of my sinister act of identifying myself has been met with the same reaction the last two voting cycles... the pollster throws his hands up in the air and pushes away from the table as if my driver's license has been stricken with the Ebola virus.
     We don't need that... we can't have that!
     But how do you know that I am who I say I am? 
     We are going to ask you a few questions to prove your identity. What is your name?
     Mark Palumbo.
     Mr. Calumbo... how do you spell that?
     With a P.  Let me show you... it is right here on my...
     No! That won't be necessary. What is your address? Month and date of  birth?
     All of that information is right on my driver's license, and those are not exactly secret questions that would prevent some other schmuck from coming in here and saying he is I. For example, I know my brother's name, his address, and his birth date. I could be he for all you know. Please, just take a second and look at my driver's license. 
     We can't do that Mike!
     Mark... My name is Mark Calumbo, er... uh... Palumbo. Now, even I am confused about who I am. 
     These folks were steadfast in their refusal to take my ID. They wanted no part of it. I honestly got the impression that had I wanted to, I could have pulled out my license and started taking hostages.
     Don't anybody make any sudden movements, or I swear, I will make this pollster hold my license in her hand and get information off of it. I swear... I will do it... don't test me! 
     After a few minutes of this clever banter, I finally gave them the information that they had requested. As an fyi... I was the only one in line, so my obnoxiousness was not intruding on anyone else's right to vote. I was eventually handed my voting card and sent off to vote.
     As I was leaving, I asked the poll workers what time their shift changed. One nervous pollster asked why I needed that information...
     Because I plan on coming back and voting as my brother, and I just want to make sure I don't run into any of you folks the second time around.  
     They hate me at my new polling place. But that doesn't faze me one bit. In fact, they better get used to me because I vote in every election... and since three of the folks that I voted for in this election emerged victorious... I consider this to be my lucky polling spot.
     Who knows? Maybe some day, I will be able to cast a vote for a president as good as Reagan. If he were still alive today, I am sure he would tell me...
     Well, there you go again... hoping for another president just like me. But there is only one Ronald Reagan. I can prove it to you. Just take a look at my driver's license!

Funny Guy Friday... The great pumpkin stapling contest?

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     Happy Halloween!
     Mine did not start out so well. Unfortunately, last night, an idiot ghost took over my body and I am currently typing with nine usable fingers.
     Like most of my stories, this one started a long time ago... about 25 years ago... when I used to invite my family over for a pumpkin carving contest. My family, of which I am a proud member, tends to be competitive about... well, just about everything. I have written about this contest before: here, here, and here.
     But just to review...
     I came up with the idea of having a family pumpkin carving contest back before I had even met Cheryl. For years, I organized and ran the Annual Palumbo Pumpkin Carving Competition.
     In the inaugural year, all my little loser nieces and nephews carved silly faces or worse yet, painted various colors that made no sense. Basically, some of them just colored their pumpkin a different color!
     Imagine that... they just colored their pumpkins! Seriously, even at the age of 3, did they think that that was the type of effort that would bring home the gold?
     Those silly little pumpkins did not even deserve the sympathy "Pap Pap vote" that every grandchild received.
     Ah... gotta love my dad.
     The Pap Pap vote was sort of a participation medal. I let the old guy stuff the ballot box because I knew that I had carved the winner. Plus, whenever I reached over to remove one of his illegal ballots and replace it with one of my illegal ballots, he would say something like... You touch that piece of paper, you are going to be picking up your teeth with a broken arm!  
     I did not think he'd actually do that... But I did think he was capable of doing that. I would think to myself... my pumpkin carving days would be over if he knocked out my teeth and broke my arm... so I'd let it go! Besides, I have always considered myself to be a benevolent dictator... let the old man have his fun.
     Anyway, that first year, I did blow away the competition with a haunted house that matched the napkins at our pumpkin carving party. It was ridiculously good, and, I might add, was done without a pattern.
     In subsequent years, my little bratty nieces and nephews raised their game.
     Their pumpkins became much more intricate, and my winning became more of a challenge. Of course, this meant that my carving became more challenging. But with the help of some friendly voting machines that changed Republican votes to Democratic votes... er uh... I mean... changed votes for other people's pumpkins to votes for my pumpkin, I still managed to win every year.
     So, what does all all of this have to do with my injury?
     Well, we no longer have the yearly competition, but I still like to carve cool pumpkins with my kids.
     Sort of continuing a family tradition in some small way, I was up late last night with Noah and we were putting the finishing touches on our pumpkins, when I had a little mishap.
     If you have ever carved a difficult pumpkin, you may know that there are times when you cut off an important piece by mistake. You don't start over, but, instead, you reconnect the important piece with a toothpick. That is, unless your wife has long since gone to bed, and you cannot find the toothpicks... or anything else for that matter... ever since she reorganized the kitchen.
     I started to look around for a suitable toothpick substitute when I saw it: an old staple gun that I have not used for years. I thought that I could remove one staple and straighten it out. As fast as you can say MacGyver... problem solved.
     Unfortunately, I could not break off just one staple from the tightly secured row of staples, so I had to get one staple out of the gun somehow.
     No problem. Just shoot the staple out of the gun into a cardboard box.
     I grabbed the staple gun and shot away.
     Did I mention that I had not used this staple gun in years? I forgot that the end of the staple gun, where it looks like the staples should come out, is the end you are supposed to hold... and vice versa.
     As I shot the staple gun, I felt a twinge of pain and immediately thought that I had pinched my finger in the shooting mechanism. When I looked at my ring finger, I saw one of the sharp staple prongs alongside my finger, just missing being plunged deep in.
     Wow, how lucky was I that I did not have a staple actually plunged deep into my finger?
     Then I started to think that the staple looked kind of weird because there was only one sharp prong... I honestly thought that the staple broke in half and that I had to find that other half so nobody would step on it.
     It didn't take long to find that other half. as the throbbing started shortly thereafter! Yes, you guessed it, the other sharp prong of the staple was plunged as deep as humanly possible... into my ring finger!
     MacGyver, my ass! I wanted to cry out like a little girl but remembered that poor Noah was still within ear shot.
     Have you ever had to pull a staple... a long staple gun staple... from your finger? Well, I am here to tell you... it hurts!
     It hurts a lot. But the games must go on.
     My finger was not severed; it was merely bleeding. In a show of defiance, I took that embedded staple out of my finger... straightened it out... and hammered that bad boy into my pumpkin... thereby saving the severed piece and showing that staple who is boss!
     Honestly, using that same staple was less a show of defiance and more of a show of fear. I was kind of afraid to use that staple gun for a second time. Who knows what that thing would have done to me if given a second chance!
     Having been an athlete, I know the difference between pain and injury. You can play with pain,
but you cannot play with injury. I am proud to say... I played with pain.
   As I look back at my Herculian efforts from Halloween eve, I wonder...
   Could I have carved a pumpkin while picking up my teeth with a broken arm?
   Upon further review... I dare say, Yes, I could.

Funny Guy Friday... Details, details...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     When Matthew asked us if he could ask a girl to his homecoming dance, Cheryl asked, You mean like a date? Then she joked, What are you going to do, ride your bike over to her house and pick her up? 
     Of course he wasn't going to do that.
     I mean, he wasn't sure what he was going to do for transportation, but he did know that he wasn't going to pick her up on his bike. In fact, I am convinced that, somewhere in his mind, he may have thought that he wouldn't see her until they both arrived at the dance. A quick exchange of flowers and in they'd go. Well... maybe pictures, somewhere, ahead of time.
     As the big day approached, I kept asking him if he knew where she lived.
     I dunno.
     Well, when are you going to find out?
     I dunno! Why does it matter? 
     You have to pick her up... and then get her to the dance.
     I think she lives like twenty minutes from the school. 
     That narrows it down for us. Do you know in what direction... north, east, south, or west? 
     I dunno.
     And that was as much information as we had until Friday.
     Did you ever find out where she lives?    
     I dunno... but we are meeting for pictures in Arnold.
     That is kind of in the opposite direction of the school.
     I dunno.
     I am not asking you... I am telling you... it is in the opposite direction. Do you have an address?
     Uh, no. Hey... can I go to a party after the dance?
     Where?
     I dunno. Millersville, I think. 
     That's good... that is near the school. What time?
     I dunno. 
     Do you have an address?
     I dunno.
     What time does it end?
     Not sure.
     Are the parents going to be home?
     YES... I know this one.... YES! I asked because I knew you would ask me that.
     Is your date going?
     I dunno. Why?
     If she is not going to the party and you are, you need to take her home first.
     Dad... this isn't like a real date-date. I think her mom can pick her up.
     Matthew... it is a real date. You asked her out on a date! You take her on the date, and you take her home after the date!
     Oh, by the way, she lives in Severna Park.
     Great... that's not that close to Millersville.  So, you're telling me that I have to take you to Arnold for photos... then take you both to your school in Millersville a half-hour away... then we take her home to Severna Park... and then take you to the party back in Millersville and then I have to hang out for a couple hours and then pick you up and drive you home?
     Uh, I dunno.  But I do know that you also need to take me to my baseball game at the school at 2:00 p.m. and have me home by 4:15 p.m.  
     Guess what... that wasn't all the driving I did that night.
     After we dropped Matthew and his date off at the dance, we had to go back to our house to get Grace and Noah, who were babysitting at my nephew's house... near the high school. And Matthew's date's mother invited us to dinner with them at a restaurant... near our house.    
     I was discussing my chauffeuring experience to a friend when he explained that these dances are not really dates but instead, they are photo opportunities.  I have no idea if this is true or not but I do know that if all they wanted to do was take some good photos... Mission Accomplished.
     The young lady that Matthew took to the dance was a very pretty girl who loves art and likes to play piano and bake. Cheryl and I both agreed... she is perfect for Noah. Oh, did I mention that she may just be the most photogenic person that I have ever met?
     And the old saying that... The rising tide floats all boats... was never more evident. Matthew actually looked good standing next to her. Dare I say... he looked handsome!
     Cheryl is very hesitant to allow Matthew to date... in the traditional sense. But I think that we all learned something this weekend. Cheryl learned that an occasional dance isn't so bad. Matthew learned that there are responsibilities that a young man has when he is out with a young lady.
     And I learned that if Matthew is going to go on more dates like these... I'd better have a full tank of gas!

Funny Guy Friday... If I knew then what I know now...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each Friday by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
      I often have the stupid desire to either live vicariously through my kids... or to go back in time and relive parts of my childhood but with the same skills and knowledge that I have today.
      For instance, when I watch my son's ten-year-old baseball team getting crushed by a team of bullies (they aren't really bullies, I just call them that because they are better than we are), I have the burning desire to grab a bat and go up to the plate and take a few swings or to line up deep at short and gun down those little brats as they sprint down the sixty foot base path. Chicks dig it when you gun down little punks. Of course, a fifty-year-old guy would look kind of silly out there doing all of that with a bunch of ten-year-olds.
     Buuuuut... if I could do that in a ten-year-old's body... then, we'd be in business.
     Or how about Grace... off in college.
     Let's see... sleep, eat, walk five minutes to class, eat, and study. No bills... no clients... friends around 24/7. That would be the life.
     Similar thoughts have crossed my mind as Matthew regales us with high school tales.
     He is having a great time. He seems to be doing well in his classes. He seems to be making friends.  He seems to be completely at ease with all the new people he has met... including the gals.
     I am going to let everyone in on a little self-revelation. I may not have been as cool back in high school as I thought I was.
     I know what you are thinking: Wow... he is way cool now. How is it possible he wasn't cool in high school? 
     Well, let me be clear, I may have been cool, but I did not know it.
     I was a nice guy but sort of shy and insecure. Don't get me wrong, had I gone to all those parties that I did not get invited to, people would have spoken to me... I think.
     Upon reflection, nobody actually got invited to those parties anyway; everyone just kind of showed up and ruined the houses of kids whose parents weren't home. But that was really not for me. There was no way I was going to go to somebody's house for a party if their parents weren't home.
     Okay, in high school, I was definitely not as cool as I thought.
     In my defense, bad things happened at those parties.
     I recall going to the store with my dad when I was a junior and driving past a house that had the gutters falling off the roof, the front door was off the hinges, and the shingles were dangling from the house. My dad stopped and wondered aloud what had happened. I told him that the kid who lived there had had a party and kids ransacked the house.
     He asked for names and I told him that I didn't know exactly who had done it because there were more than a hundred kids there... so I had heard. His exact words were I would find out which of those hundred kids did that to my house, and I would hunt them down and would beat the hell out of them. 
     I chuckled nervously... because he wasn't smiling... and commented that it was probably some kids that he knew that were friends of mine and/or my brother. He demanded names and I obliged. After all, I wouldn't want him to beat the hell out of me. Then he said...
     Those kids would never do that to my house.
     How do you know that those kids wouldn't do that to your house?
     Because those kids know me well enough to know that I would... hunt them down... and beat the hell out of them!
     My dad was correct with his analysis of the situation. Those kids did know... and they wouldn't have messed with his stuff! 
     My dad was cool!
     I wish that I had been as cool as he was. He was a bad ass.
     I, on the other hand... I stayed home on Friday nights and watched Dallas.
     JR was a bad ass, but I soon learned that the goings on in Dallas were only make believe. Did they seriously expect us to believe that Bobby could come back from the dead? Seriously, his wife dreamt all that? C'mon!
     I digress.
     So now Matthew has me thinking that I would like to go back to my high school days... but with the same skills and knowledge that I have today.
     I would have been a better student. I would have had way more friends. I would have gone to all the cool parties. I may have even smashed a door or something cool like that. And I would have been way smoother with the gals. My life would be way different than it is today.
     Don't let Cheryl know this, but if I had it all to do over again, I would go back and date a cheerleader or a pom pom. Back in the day, I felt that those girls were out of my league. They went to all the parties... they had all the friends... they went to all the pep rallies and games.
     But now, in a do-over, if you will, I would approach them with all the wisdom of a fifty-year-old. How could they resist me?
     What's that? Cheryl was a pom pom? But she didn't go to the cool parties... Did she? She didn't have a bunch of cool friends... Did she? She didn't go to all the pep rallies and the games... Did she? She didn't smash any doors. At least I don't think she smashed any doors... I mean I wasn't at the parties or anything, but I can only assume.
     No way.
     I am not going back in time with all of my current skills and knowledge only to date Cheryl. Cheryl was one of those girls that stayed home on Friday nights and... watched... uh... watched... uh... Dallas... right?
     Oh my gosh... Cheryl was cooler than I was back in high school. This is humiliating.
     Okay, maybe I could go back and at least look her up.
     This might not be such a bad idea... to approach her with all my fifty years' worth of knowledge because my life isn't so bad. In fact, it is pretty good, so there is no reason for it to be all that different.
     Although, I wonder what Cheryl was like when she was ten.
     Maybe if I go back in time as a fifty-year-old guy in a ten-year-old's body, she'd come and watch me play baseball and take a few cuts and line up deep at short and gun down little brats as they sprint down the 60 foot base path.
    She would love it!
    You see, over the years, I have learned that chicks dig that kind of stuff.

Funny Guy Friday... Clearing out...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     As we prepare for my mother's arrival, we have decided to purge our house of all of our junk.
     And when I say "all of our junk," what I really mean is all of the stuff that Cheryl will let me throw away. Clearly, Cheryl's definition of junk is different than mine, but by any definition, we have a ton of junk. So much junk that we rented a dumpster... or can, as those of us in the dumpster business call them... that has been sitting in our driveway for more than three weeks.
     It's kind of trashy looking... pardon the pun... but it is necessary.
     I realized we had a problem about ten years ago when we finished our basement.
     The basement used to be the dumping ground for all of our junk. It was out of sight and out of mind.  I was the only one that ever went down there, and I never let on about how bad it was. In fact, I made a game of going down to the basement without letting my feet touch the floor as I hopped from junk to junk.
     Then we decided to have the basement finished and needed to do something with all that stuff.
     We rented a small can... as we in the dumpster biz like to call them... and filled it to capacity. Despite our best efforts, we still had heaps of junk. There was only one thing to do with it all.
     At this point, I would like to take a moment of silence for my garage.
 
     Thank you. Now I would like to say a few words about my old friend.
     You were always there for me. You kept my car warm and safe and dry. I'd like to say that I loved my wife more, but I never like to lie. You're gone now... just a storage bin for the basement junk. It's not your fault though... we did it to you. We should be ashamed of ourselves. We can't pull the trigger and throw away our junk, so we just used you. We stuffed you and rendered you useless. Your doors were always open... inviting me into your bosom... even during the most horrible weather conditions. You asked for nothing in return. You were my friend... and I miss you.  

     So for a long time, the garage was our main junk holder... but certainly not the only junk holder in the house.
     The junk seemed to magically expand.
     It includes... but is not limited to... ungiven gifts, Christmas decorations, unopened mail, Grace and Matthew's diddly drawings and school projects, tax returns, Noah's very cool drawings and school projects, decade-old receipts, clothes, toys, games with missing pieces, and photos... lots and lots of photos.
     And there is no rhyme or reason to what we find in each bin.
     You would think that the tax returns would be with the tax papers, but you'd be wrong. I am not kidding when I say, I found tax returns, in the garage, in the same box as unused Labor Day Festival tickets and Nerf guns. The only explanation for the variety junk packs is that whenever we quickly clean up for a party, we come across various items that we don't quite have a place for. So we throw them in a bin and then stash that bin in the garage... so we can review it at a later date when we have more time! 
     We never have more time, so that date never comes.
     And a byproduct of all the mismatched junk bins... you cannot comfortably toss anything without a full-out review. Unfortunately, I am completely incapable of this type of review due to a condition I describe as junk ADD. After three minutes, I am done!
     Having said that... some bins are fun to go through... like the photo bins.
     I just want to make an observation... I look good in a tux.
     I mean, I look really good in a tux. I found two or three pictures of Cheryl and me at various formal functions over the years and was very happy with how good I looked. I looked so good that I made Noah run upstairs with the photos to show his mother and tell her that, as good as she looked in the photo... I looked better! Specifically, I told him to go tell his mother that she out-kicked her coverage!
     There weren't many of those kinds of photos so I just wanted to revel in the fact that I looked better than she.
     Some bins were not fun to go through, tho'... like... oh... let's see... the photo bins.
     For a guy that looks so good in a tux, I generally don't look good in most other photos. And I found the worst school picture ever taken in the history of school pictures. I still remember that day. It was seventh grade, and I wore a blue turtleneck kind of shirt that was too tight. I was uncomfortable and apparently, unaware it was picture day. I must not have washed and/or combed my hair. I didn't smile, nor did I frown. The look on my face was kind of in between... a smown, if you will. You can't tell from the photo, but my lips were even chapped.
     What a train wreck!
     The only thing that could have made the photo worse was if I were wearing wire-framed glasses that were too big for my face. Oh, wait a second, I was wearing wire-framed glasses that were too big for my face!
     And get this... that was the photo that was used for my Benjamin Tasker Tiger Junior High School ID card. Three years of staring at that stupid photo.
     I kept that photo ID card. I cannot imagine why I kept it... but I did. Much like all of the other stupid things that we have kept over the years. Stuff that we acquired for some good reason... but never used. And then, prepping for parties time and again, we couldn't quite figure out where it went, much less why we ever acquired it in the first place... only to toss it in a bin and throw it into our garage!
     So, the time has come.
     The can, as we in the dumpster biz like to call them, is nearly full. We are going through the final bins and are days away from a clutter-free home.
     We are almost ready for my mother to move in. In just a couple of weeks, she is coming... the house has to be prepared for her.
     You know what else is coming with her? That's right, eighty-three years worth of her junk!
     No problem, our garage will be clear.

~ All dressed up... not a bad pic! ~

~ Not too shabby, if I do say so myself ~

~ Who put these two in charge of a household anyway? ~

Funny Guy Friday... A sign of the times?

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     Soooo, sometimes I get it right.
     I don't want to gloat or anything, but I was right. Right as all get out! That is not gloating, is it? Because I wouldn't want to gloat.
     I really don't even want to tell this story, but there are two reason why it must be told. First, there are some dads that might find themselves in a similar situation with their sons. They need to know how to handle it.
     And second: I was right!  
     So, it all started with Matthew asking if he could take a date to the Homecoming Dance.
     The answer, of course, was no.
     In an interesting turn of events, I was the gentle no, and Cheryl was more of the Hell no... no way... not in this lifetime... you are only fourteen... you have got to be kidding me! 
     Now if you know Cheryl, you know she did not really say that... but she wanted to! What she really said was how are you gonna go on a date? What, are you going to go pick her up on your bike? That is silly!
     As I mentioned, I took a gentler approach. Look, I am saving you from yourself. If you had to go on an actual date, the girl would figure out that you were a chucklehead in the first fifteen minutes. I go on dates with your mother, and even we have nothing to talk about after appetizers. Talking with a girl for any period of time is awful! 
     Okay, maybe I was not as gentle as I had thought.
     As the weeks passed, we began to have a slight change of heart.
     We... and by we, I really mean I... thought it would not be such a bad thing if he took a girl to the dance, but if... and only if... he were to go with a group of friends. Not so much a date as an outing with friends... an outing where you don't really have to give the person you go with exclusive one-on-one attention for an entire evening.
     As I think about it... I wish I could go on one of these types of dates.
     I digress.
     Cheryl was still pretty steadfast... no dating under any circumstance. Too young... too much drama! But she agreed that going in a group is okay.
     When Matthew decided on the girl he wanted to ask, he obediently sought the final blessing. I arrived home last Friday, and he once again asked if he could go to the Homecoming dance. I spelled out the "group of friends" rule once again. I told him that the girl had to understand this or he would not be going. He said he understood, so I inquired as to when he was planning to ask her.
     I was going to ask her at lunch, but a friend of hers said I should wait until she comes into the stadium at the football game. 
     Have you figured out what you are going to say?
     This is when he dropped the bomb.
     I am going to make her a sign.
     Say what?
     A sign; everyone does it. It is kind of a big deal for the girl, so she can have some memento to keep. 
     Stupid. Why do these girls need a memento? What do these girls expect in a few years when it comes time for the prom? Better yet, what is a guy supposed to do when he asks a girl to marry him? No... no signs. Are you sure she is going to say yes? And what if she wants to say no? Then she has the pressure from the sign. No. No signs. 
     This brought me back to last spring when I learned about the sweeping phenomenon called the "promposal."
     A promposal is an elaborate plan for boys to ask girls to the prom. It is crazy. I youtubed "best promposals" so I could show my secretary the lunacy, and I found about eight videos. I would start each one and then have to stop it before the big finish because I was embarrassed for these kids.
     After about the fifth time of starting and stopping a video... before the kid could pop the question... my secretary laughed at how I would torture myself by starting each one, cutting it off right before the big finish. I told her it was similar to when you have a sore in your mouth, and you keep touching it to make sure it is still sore.     
     Apparently, the boys use these elaborate schemes for homecoming dances as well.
     Matthew persisted that this is what the girls want. I said no!
     Finally, I relented with this caveat... you can use the sign, but you have to ask her face to face and use the sign as a back up prop that you can give her afterward.
     Agreed. And he was off.
     Well, when he returned home from the game, I was upstairs with Noah, who advised me that she had said no. All I could think of was poor Matthew standing there with that stupid sign. Well, as it turns out, she did not actually say no. Remember the kid who told him to ask her once she came into the stadium at the football game? Well, he asked her in the parking lot.
     All I could think about was poor Matthew standing there with that stupid sign.
     I was kind of obsessed with that stupid sign.
     So there you have it... I was right and I should have stuck by my guns. Wish that I were wrong, but I was right. Right as you can be.
     Matthew still disagrees. You see he gave his sign... along with the roses he purchased on the way... to three different dudes who successfully snagged dates to the dance. I still stand by my assessment of the situation... poor Matthew standing there with that stupid sign. 
     Well, it turns out that there is a happy ending to this story for Matthew.
     The young lady had a change of heart and decided that she would not go with that kid from the parking lot. Matthew got a second chance and simply walked up to her at her locker after school and asked her... the good old fashioned way. The way it should have been done in the first place.
     So there you have it.
     And the moral of the story... Dad is always right!
     But if you think about it, Cheryl was even more right.
     Perhaps, Matthew should not be going on any dates... under any circumstance. Cheryl should have... somehow... someway... made her position a little bit clearer.
     Oh, I dunno, maybe she could have made me a sign!
     Sure would have saved us all a bunch of drama if she had.